a file or two. These weren’t official files, from what he
could tell, but instead were full of handwritten notes, scraps of newspaper, and other
secondary materials. He caught glimpses of words that alarmed him, let the pages fall
back into place.
The effect was oddly as if the director had been creating a compost pile for the plant.
One full of eccentric intel. Or some ridiculous science project: “mouse-powered irrigation
system for data relay and biosphere maintenance.” He’d seen weirder things at high-school
science fairs, although his own lack of science acumen meant that when extra credit
had been dangled in front of him, he’d stuck to time-honored classics, like miniature
volcanoes or growing potatoes from other potatoes.
Perhaps, Control conceded as he rummaged a bit more, the assistant director had been
correct. Perhaps he would have been better off taking a different office. Sidling
out from behind his desk, he looked for something to put the plant in, found a pot
behind a stack of books. Maybe the director had been searching for it, too.
Using a few random pages from the piles stacked around his desk—if they held the secret
to Area X, so be it—Control carefully removed the mouse from the dirt and tossed it
in the garbage. Then he lifted the plant into the pot and set it on the edge of his
desk, as far away from him as possible.
Now what? He’d de-bugged and de-moused the office. All that was left beyond the herculean
task of cleaning up the stacks and going through them was the closed second door that
led nowhere.
Fortifying himself with a sip of bitter coffee, Control went over to the door. It
took a few minutes to clear the books and other detritus from in front of it.
Right. Last mystery about to be revealed. He hesitated for a moment, irritated by
the thought that all of these little peculiarities would have to be reported to the
Voice.
He opened the door.
He stared for several minutes.
After a while, he closed it again.
006: TYPOGRAPHICAL ANOMALIES
Same interrogation room. Same worn chairs. Same uncertain light. Same Ghost Bird.
Or was it? The residue of an unfamiliar gleam or glint in her eyes or her expression,
he couldn’t figure out which. Something he hadn’t caught during their first session.
She seemed both softer and harder-edged than before. “If someone seems to have changed
from one session to another, make sure you haven’t changed instead.” A warning from
his mother, once upon a time, delivered as if she’d upended a box of spy-advice fortune
cookies and chosen one at random.
Control casually set the pot on the table to his left, placed her file between them
as the ever-present carrot. Was that a slightly raised eyebrow in response to the
pot? He couldn’t be sure. But she said nothing, even though a normal person might
have been curious. On a whim, Control had retrieved the mouse from the trash and placed
it in the pot with the plant. In that depressing place it looked like trash.
Control sat. He favored her with a thin smile, but still received no response. He
had already decided not to pick up where they had left off, with the drowning, even
though that meant he had to fight off his own sudden need to be direct. The words
Control had found scrawled on the wall beyond the door kept curling through his head
in an unpleasant way. Where lies the strangling fruit that came from the hand of the sinner I shall bring
forth the seeds of the dead … A plant. A dead mouse. Some kind of insane rant. Or some kind of prank or joke. Or
continued evidence of a downward spiral, a leap off the cliff into an ocean filled
with monsters. Maybe at the end, before she shoehorned herself into the twelfth expedition,
the director had been practicing for some perverse form of Scrabble.
Nor could the assistant director be entirely innocent of this devolution. Another
reason Control was happy she wouldn’t
could tell, but instead were full of handwritten notes, scraps of newspaper, and other
secondary materials. He caught glimpses of words that alarmed him, let the pages fall
back into place.
The effect was oddly as if the director had been creating a compost pile for the plant.
One full of eccentric intel. Or some ridiculous science project: “mouse-powered irrigation
system for data relay and biosphere maintenance.” He’d seen weirder things at high-school
science fairs, although his own lack of science acumen meant that when extra credit
had been dangled in front of him, he’d stuck to time-honored classics, like miniature
volcanoes or growing potatoes from other potatoes.
Perhaps, Control conceded as he rummaged a bit more, the assistant director had been
correct. Perhaps he would have been better off taking a different office. Sidling
out from behind his desk, he looked for something to put the plant in, found a pot
behind a stack of books. Maybe the director had been searching for it, too.
Using a few random pages from the piles stacked around his desk—if they held the secret
to Area X, so be it—Control carefully removed the mouse from the dirt and tossed it
in the garbage. Then he lifted the plant into the pot and set it on the edge of his
desk, as far away from him as possible.
Now what? He’d de-bugged and de-moused the office. All that was left beyond the herculean
task of cleaning up the stacks and going through them was the closed second door that
led nowhere.
Fortifying himself with a sip of bitter coffee, Control went over to the door. It
took a few minutes to clear the books and other detritus from in front of it.
Right. Last mystery about to be revealed. He hesitated for a moment, irritated by
the thought that all of these little peculiarities would have to be reported to the
Voice.
He opened the door.
He stared for several minutes.
After a while, he closed it again.
006: TYPOGRAPHICAL ANOMALIES
Same interrogation room. Same worn chairs. Same uncertain light. Same Ghost Bird.
Or was it? The residue of an unfamiliar gleam or glint in her eyes or her expression,
he couldn’t figure out which. Something he hadn’t caught during their first session.
She seemed both softer and harder-edged than before. “If someone seems to have changed
from one session to another, make sure you haven’t changed instead.” A warning from
his mother, once upon a time, delivered as if she’d upended a box of spy-advice fortune
cookies and chosen one at random.
Control casually set the pot on the table to his left, placed her file between them
as the ever-present carrot. Was that a slightly raised eyebrow in response to the
pot? He couldn’t be sure. But she said nothing, even though a normal person might
have been curious. On a whim, Control had retrieved the mouse from the trash and placed
it in the pot with the plant. In that depressing place it looked like trash.
Control sat. He favored her with a thin smile, but still received no response. He
had already decided not to pick up where they had left off, with the drowning, even
though that meant he had to fight off his own sudden need to be direct. The words
Control had found scrawled on the wall beyond the door kept curling through his head
in an unpleasant way. Where lies the strangling fruit that came from the hand of the sinner I shall bring
forth the seeds of the dead … A plant. A dead mouse. Some kind of insane rant. Or some kind of prank or joke. Or
continued evidence of a downward spiral, a leap off the cliff into an ocean filled
with monsters. Maybe at the end, before she shoehorned herself into the twelfth expedition,
the director had been practicing for some perverse form of Scrabble.
Nor could the assistant director be entirely innocent of this devolution. Another
reason Control was happy she wouldn’t
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