“Oh god.”

“If a subject over four feet tall were to bend over, or sit down, as you are doing—”

“And how did that come to your attention, just now?” Jill asked, her voice sounding slightly hysterical.

“I received a transmission. One of the sentries shot the male.”

20.4. Forty-Sixty Calder Farris

The apartment door was easy. Pol’s monitor key worked without a hitch. The hall lights were blaring in the corridor, but it was well before dawn and there was no one awake to see him as he slipped inside.

The apartment was dark and quiet. Pol stood for a moment, listening to hear if he’d wakened the residents. He heard nothing. He turned on a torch.

The apartment was tiny but more dignified than either Marcus’s abode or the little box that had belonged to the Bronze with the banned books. It was an older building and had some substance to it—tall ceilings, moldings. A kitchenette was visible off the living/dining room, and there was a short hallway and an open door beyond. Pol entered the bedroom, silent as a snake, and shone the torch on the figure in the bed. The man was asleep, a light wheeze issuing from his throat. He was a singularly unattractive Bronze, Mestido 1123. Pol stepped closer, trained the torchlight on his face, leaned in to look.

No eyebrows, not the slightest hint of stubble. No stubble on the face anywhere, just the rough, flat-nosed, ruddy face of a Bronze. His breath stank of orin, a pungent meat. The wheezing in his throat sounded like a leaky pipe.

Pol let him sleep. He wanted confirmation. He searched the kitchenette and found a can of black construction paint and an industrial-sized paintbrush under the sink. He sank back on his heels and looked at it. Gyde would have been so pleased.

Back inside the bedroom, Pol placed a plain chair at the side of the bed and withdrew his gun. He covered Mestido’s mouth with his hand. The brown eyes flew open.

“Don’t move,” Pol said, bringing the eye of the gun into view. “You have a book, Heavenly Mysteries.”

Mestido’s head moved under Pol’s hand in a negative. The feeling was most unpleasant, that fleshy mouth. Pol removed his hand slowly, prepared to put it back if Mestido screamed. He didn’t.

Pol wiped his hand on his wool uniform trousers. “Yes, you do. Don’t lie.”

“I’ve read it, but I don’t have it.”

Pol waited. The Bronze was a nervous talker and he was petrified. He pushed himself to sitting.

“In Madamar, when I worked at the Department of Surveys. A Bronze I worked with had it. I can give you his name.”

“Are you an alien?”

“Me? No! No, of course not!”

“But you’ve met aliens?”

Mestido looked around, craning his head to peer into the hall. From the fear and bafflement on his face it was clear he didn’t know what to think. Pol was obviously a monitor, but was he alone? How much did he know? Pol could feel him working through it in his mind.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mestido answered innocently.

Pol sent a fist crashing into his face. The blow, coming from behind the torchlight, struck the Bronze without warning, battering his nose. Blood sprang out, blood that was too dark and too runny. It flowed onto Mestido’s sour underclothes. Mestido gasped with shock and inhaled it, choking.

“Don’t scarp me. Answer me or I’ll put a bullet in your head.” But Pol was already regretting the blow. There were things he wanted from this scag, things he wanted desperately. He waited while Mestido stuffed sheets against his face, writhing with pain.

“Be good,” Pol said, as much to calm himself as Mestido. “Be good.”

“I will. I’ll tell you anything.” Mestido’s tone was groveling, but his eyes were hateful.

Pol was glad. He’d been starting to doubt this was the same man who defied the state and risked his life painting graffiti. “You’ve met aliens?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been to their planet?”

“Many times.”

“Could you get there again?”

Mestido’s brow clouded. His skin appeared dark brown over the bloodied white of the sheet stuffed against his face. He seemed to weigh his answer. “Maybe.” He withdrew the sheet and smiled, his teeth stained with blood. “You don’t believe me.”

“Maybe I do.”

Pol took a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped at his temples, spit on the cloth, wiped again. Mestido, who could not see him very well behind the light of the torch, watched warily.

Pol turned the torch onto his own face, lighting it from below. His other hand trained the gun quite deliberately at Mestido’s stomach.

“Am… Am I an alien?” Pol asked, voice thick.

Mestido’s eyes widened. He looked at Pol for a long time, examining his face very carefully.

“I’ve done surgery on the eyes. They used to be rounder. And if I don’t remove it I have thick hair above the eyes and on my cheeks and chin.”

There ought to be stubble by now. When was the last time he’d shaved? Late afternoon? This morning? He couldn’t even remember. Scarp, he’d gone out to a nightclub and he couldn’t remember when he last shaved.

Mestido leaned forward, his face slack with astonishment. “You are an alien! I knew it! I told them!”

Pol felt elation and terror. In his hand, the gun wavered and pointed off toward nothing. If Mestido had been sharp, he could have taken him. But he was smiling crazily.

“How do you know?” Pol asked, when he could trust his voice.

“I can tell.”

“How do you know?” Pol screamed.

“Well… look at you!” Mestido’s eyes wandered up and down. “Turn on the light.”

“Shut up,” Pol said, but he rose to his feet. There was no window in the bedroom, so he shut the door and turned on the light. There was more blood than he’d thought; the bed was gaudy with it, and Mestido looked like a walking infirmary. But his expression was devious. His wide-set eyes danced crazily.

“I told them you were here, but they didn’t believe me. Now they’ll see!”

“Have you ever seen anyone who looked like me?”

Mestido was grinning, his head going from side to side.

“Answer me! Hair on the face, fair-skinned, blue-eyed. Oh—and my hair, my hair is actually dark, like yours.”

“Certainly.”

“You’ve seen others like me?”

Mestido put a finger alongside his bloodied mouth. “When they come,” he said, hushing now as though this were a secret, “they can take any form.”

“What? But what do they look like on their planet? You said you’ve been there.”

“Some of them maybe look like that.”

Pol felt the urge to throttle the Bronze. “Do you know any of their language?”

“No.”

“Not even one word?”

“No. I—”

“What about their planet? What’s it like? Do you know the names of any of their cities?”

“I’ve been telling them. This whole world will be destroyed. Except for me. They promised I’d be safe.”

Pol pinched his eyes shut with his fingers. Rage was rising inside of him that was so foul and so overpowering that his body shook with the force of it. “You’re a scarping liar,” he said blackly.

What was on his face must have been terrifying, for Mestido scrambled farther back on the bed, yelping.

“You’re a scarping liar!”

“No!”

He had been fooled. This Bronze knew nothing, knew no real aliens. He was just a raving lunatic, another piece of shit with a damaged brain. A sob of rage and frustration broke from Pol, and before he knew it he was across the bed. He had Mestido’s neck in his hands, choking, choking him. There was a fury in him, a fury that had helped him kill the Silver months ago in Saradena. Lately it had been cowered by fear, but now it was back with terrible abandon. It fused his fingers into the shape of a garrote. He felt as though he could pop the worm’s head clean off his neck. Tomorrow didn’t exist. Yesterday didn’t exist. Only this moment, this revenge. Only his hands and this throat.