Conversation · Joyce Messier

"Oh, we humans just like to discuss things -- it's absolutely normal. I won't pry further. If anything regarding the Union has come up..." She raises a brow. "They won't talk to me."

"She didn't do it. She was framed."

"Unfortunate." She shakes her head. "I won't pry further into the details of your investigation, but let me just say -- I have full trust in your competence."

There's turmoil in there now -- but still she keeps it in check.

"And you too, lieutenant," she turns to him and stresses: "The situation is perilous, but I am sure you're dedicated to avoiding further loss of life. Unlike the Union, who won't even let me talk to them."

A barely perceptible nod.

"It's... not good. I did not do good there."

"This thing is what you call a..." she pronounces the word with sudden carelessness: "clusterfuck. I am saddened to hear the news, of course. But we must continue. Lest the situation worsens."

"That's really all I can say about that."

"Naturally. I completely understand. But... you mentioned something about Mr. Claire? Or something in conjunction with the Union even? I might have gotten the wrong idea, but..."

Curiosity for the Union burns brighter in her than curiosity for the case...

"It didn't go too well. She got away -- and it doesn't look like she did it."

"A she..." She raises a brow. "I hope she wasn't too serious a suspect. If she got away..."

"But -- I won't pry further about the case. You mentioned something about Mr. Claire, I believe? Or something in conjunction with the Union? I might have gotten the wrong idea, but..."

"We're not at liberty to discuss that ma'am."

Now say it: "Ma'am, this whole thing is a takeover."

"A takeover?"

"He has told me so in his own words -- he's taking it. He'll also use the drug trade to finance the harbour."

"Taking it..." She looks toward the colourful mountain of crates, like toy blocks rising above Martinaise.

Green livery changing into red, blot by blot.

Like a cancer of the blood, metastasising...

"Then we're talking about a war. Evrart needs to let me into the harbour at once. We need to talk about this."

"The war is their goal. I told you before -- Evrart has always wanted this to escalate."

"An insane goal." Her eyes return to you. "Krenel has a thousand men on their payroll. The next batch will be a platoon of twenty men and a gunship, the one after that, a hundred."

"I've seen the Union's forces. They're better organized than these mercenaries. They also have the support of the people of Revachol West."

"It will take more than Krenel to wipe them out. Wild Pines will need to send more and better-equipped men. Make no mistake, ma'am..."

"I am sure you have the money. The question is how many years and how many lives are you willing to sacrifice?"

"What do you suggest I do?"

Does it matter? Her mind's made up. It has been for some time. The choice was whether to tell her this. And you've already made it.

All that's left is the denouement.

(Look at your wrist.) "It's apocalypse o' clock. Time to commence the Gloaming."

The lieutenant looks at his own watch and sighs. "Maybe so, detective, but that doesn't mean we're not obliged to try and stop it."

"He's right. There will be slow, simmering, hideous civil war. The beginnings of a failed state. No apocalyptic rapture, just ugliness."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"What will I do..." she says slowly looking around.

Her arms fall to her sides, her spine relaxes.

The wind blows, waves crash in the distance. She crosses her arms and asks: "Did I ever tell you how they discovered this isola? During our talks?"

"No, ma'am."

"It may be the only break we've ever caught as a species. The last one for four hundred years."

"Why?"

"The nations who colonized this isola called theirs Mundi. The World. It was all they knew, all they thought would be. That there would be something more was a gamble. Akin to another world -- or life after death."

"The pale was thought to be impregnable, perpetual." She points northwest. "Irene La Navigateur, the Queen of Suresne, sent eight expeditions, one after the other, into the mass at the edge of the world. Five of the crews did not return. Two did, but had lost their minds."

Each of those expeditions would have been led by an admiral. Sounds like a purge. Like she was purging her political rivals.

"Sounds cruel."

She nods. "There was no precedent for such an undertaking. People thought she was punishing the admirals, or had gone mad, or both..."

"Until after years of trial and error -- and the development of a strict psychological regime imitating the creation process of poetry..."

Called Volta do Mar, or Return from the Sea.

"The eighth expedition returned, sane and intact. They told of a new continent of matter. They told the queen and her councillor, Dolores Dei, that the pale had begun to condense, day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute."

"Slowly raining down until it formed a vast ocean."

The air is cold and scented with petrichor.

There are rain circles on water all around, humidity crawls up your back like a piano trill.

Put your hand in the rain.

So does the lieutenant. His mouth is slightly open as he looks to the sky.

The droplets feel warm. Like spring rain.

"This ocean?"

She nods. "The phenomenon has never again been encountered. For a time the crew thought they were experiencing a hallucination. The mast-hand proclaimed 'L´Insulinde! L´Insulinde!' -- the signal to wake up."

"But they could not. They were sane and conscious, as islands began to appear on the horizon... There are 78,000 uninhabited islands in the Insulindian archipelago, officer. The freckled face of god," she smiles.

You've thought it a million times.

"'After life, death -- after death, life again. After the world, the pale -- after the pale, the world again.'"

"A total shift," she nods. "In human comprehension of reality. On the second day, a great skua was shot down, above the flagship Lysergique. The bird was preserved and brought back. Along with pollen."