Conversation · Joyce Messier

"Four years later the queen’s councillor was proclaimed Her Innocence Dolores Dei, the elected world spirit. The age of humanism, internationalism, and parliamentary rule followed. We were high..."

"It's raining."

"It is." She pulls the hood over her head. "Soon it will be spring and everything will blossom."

"The gangs will run wild." The lieutenant keeps his hand in the rain. "Jacking motor carriages, ferrying amphetamines through Coal City. Spring is tough in Revachol."

"The great skua was the first bird they saw?"

"The first living, autonomous organism. Proof of reality. It's the symbol of Insulinde, detective, the coat-of-arms of the Suzerain and the wings on the crest of the Commune."

"I seem to have it in for it. Or it for me. I broke one."

"In your defence -- it is a nasty creature, who plucks food from the throats of lesser birds. Yet much like Revachol, it is also magnificent. And rare. Imagine the suzerain of seagulls."

There was a sting in your heart at the mention... before. When she said its name.

"And this was the last break we got?"

"The nations of Mundi proceeded to discover five more isolae -- or they discovered us -- all in the rush of the great interisolary reconnection..."

"But these others weren't uninhabited. We had to kill people there, wipe out indigenous populations, gunboat economies. Or they came to do the same for us. Or had done to each other. But here..." she spreads her arms.

"There was no one but the skua. The Liliacea. And the blood beech and the River Esperance. It was the New New World. The Mondials used it to amass the greatest concentration of wealth mankind has ever seen -- Revachol the Suzerain."

"Well done, Suzerain!" (Nod.)

"But what was done exactly? Revolution, the rise and crash of capital, international intervention..."

"What happened?" (Look around.)

"Revolution, poverty, and the mercurial rise of capitalism," she nods.

"Leaving us here."

"On Caillou..." She studies your reaction. "The Pebble, the largest of the fertile, uninhabited islands of the northeast Insulindian archipelago. Four centuries and two revolutions later."

"What will you do?" (Proceed.)

"I will take your advice, detective. I will surrender Terminal B to the Union."

"Is that within your means?"

She puts her hand in the rain. She's silent for a second.

"We will see."

"Ma'am... This may well unravel property law this side of the river. If that occurs, we may never see the end of this kind of confrontation. The next time there will be two strikes..." He looks toward the harbour. "Then four, then a hundred."

"What happens will happen." She takes the end in her rain-slick hand and starts untying the knot.

"The age of capital has only begun. I will talk to my employers in person. We will amputate and cauterize Martinaise -- if you handle the situation on the ground."

"Understood." (Let her go.)

"Keep the peace -- and I will keep my end of the bargain."

"How far along is Krenel's investigation?"

"A confrontation is imminent. They have followed in your footsteps..."

"As your investigation reaches a climax, so does theirs. They are your shadow. Arm yourselves. Armour yourselves..."

"Protect their targets. Violence may be unavoidable, but we can limit the casualties."

"When will they make their move? Where?"

"Soon. I do not know precisely. They have cut off all communication, you see. They know I've been feeding you information."

"One last thing, Lieutenant Du Bois." She starts the engine. "I've given the matter much thought and come to this conclusion: You're not an amnesiac. You're insane."

"I know -- because I, too, am insane. I just hide my illness better. And I'm rich."

"Goodbye, Rejoyce Leyton." (Conclude.)

Another woman gone.

She smiles. "Watch out for yourselves. They will strike soon."

The lieutenant watches her boat grow smaller on the bay, its white sails fluttering.

With worry in his eyes. He does not know if it was the right thing to do. But he doesn't say anything.

You wonder what Evrart has to say about this...

Slowly, the sails turn a grey blue as more oxygen gets between you.

Your stomach gurgles... something tells you that your chance to track down the reality rhizome has left. Better return to Measurehead, see what he has to say.

She smiles. "Watch out for yourself. They will strike soon."

"Goodbye, Joyce L. Messier." (Conclude.)

"Isn't everybody a little insane?"

"No, detective -- no one's as insane as you."

"Don't worry madam. I am very sane."

"Goodbye, nether creature of the forbidden swamp." (Conclude.)

"What do you have?"

"I'm over-exposed, baby. My travels take me through the pale dozens of times a year. I've got the longing -- and I've got it bad." She points to her heart.

She would die to return to it. The pale. The past. Anything one can return to.

"How do you keep it together?"

"The same strict psychological regimen the eighth admiral developed when he crossed the pale and discovered this isola -- the Volta do Mar. It's used by interisolary travellers and other troubled souls even to this day."

You could use a little of it yourself.

"How do you keep your shit together?"

"One last thing, nameless detective." She starts the engine. "I've given the matter much thought and come to this conclusion: You're not an amnesiac. You're insane."

"How far along are they? The tribunal?"