The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(95)

“Return to a state of calm!” The second stranger leaned forward and placed a hand on his companion’s cane. It was an extremely swift, imperceptible movement. “The end is near,” he reminded him in an expressionless voice. “What does it matter how many of them you have slain? They are all going to die. What does it matter what the Scientists think of us? We are all going to die.”

With those words, both men sat up straight in their chairs again and remained silent. The one who had rapped the floor with his cane several times seemed gradually to regain his composure. After a while, he spoke again.

“I’m sorry. It’s the effects of the remorse. If I don’t get hold of a guilt neutralizer soon it will be the death of me. But as you so rightly said, what does it matter? What does anything matter now? Chaos is inevitable.”

“Chaos is inevitable,” the other man repeated. “And so is our mission, my friend. That is why we were created, and we must go on accomplishing it until the bitter end. Otherwise, what is the point of our existence?”

“If only one more death were needed. A single death that would put a stop to it all . . .”

“And if that one death were the death of an old woman or a child?”

The Executioner who suffered from guilt closed his eyes and smiled.

“I feel what you say is truth. And if it’s true that I need a guilt neutralizer”—he looked at his companion—“you could do with one for sarcasm, my friend.”

Perhaps what made both men shake gently for a few moments was another fit of laughter. Or perhaps not.

“Go on until the bitter end . . .” The one whom guilt was destroying shrugged slowly. “Why not? After all, it won’t be long now. The fabric of the universe is as riddled with holes as a moth-eaten sweater. The molecular traces of the carriers have become as jumbled as the roads on a crumpled map; their trails are growing so faint that it’s almost impossible to distinguish between the terminal molecules of a Destructor of whatever rank and those of a natural Jumper. Our tunnels are no longer infallible; our searches have become random, intuitive . . . This world is coming apart at the seams. Any day could be the last. And when that day comes, men will get out of bed and look out of the window on a world inhabited by horrific, unimaginable phenomena, a world invaded by their worst nightmares. And I promise you that all those we haven’t killed will wish they were dead.”

“The background molecular nebula has increased a hundredfold in the past few months,” his companion remarked. “Only today, on the moor, I sensed a very high concentration of it. I suspect that in one of the nearby houses a window onto another world must have opened momentarily, but I was unable to detect whether anyone had jumped through it or not. And yet, only four or five years ago, catching our prey was a daily event, do you remember? What rich pickings we found in this sector! Almost as valuable as the ones at that famous haunted house in Berkeley Square. Not a day went by in one of those hyperproximity points where whoever was on duty didn’t capture a couple of level 6 Destructors at least. But those days are over. All I managed to detect today—more by accident than anything else, I suspect—was a potential aura. My cane picked it up. It was an old level 3 Destructor whom I had trailed before; the last time was two years ago, at the entrance to the Royal Opera House. That evening I almost caught him, but he was lucky, I let him go because I came across a level 6 plus Destructor. Luck was on his side again today, for as soon as I perceived him I lost him again. His aura simply dissolved into the background mist.”

“Their aura is very faint when they haven’t jumped for a while,” his companion sympathized. “In any case, a Latent isn’t such a big haul . . .”

“It is better than nothing.”

“I feel what you say is truth. But tell me . . . that level six plus detector you just mentioned, it wasn’t . . . ?”

There was a fresh silence. The Executioner who had lost the trail of the quarry he had let go two years before followed a drop of moisture trickling slowly down the side of his beer tankard, until he saw it merge with a small pool forming on the table. A few seconds later, he spoke.

“No, it was not the legendary M. That night I caught a big one, it is true, but it was not M. M’s trail is unmistakable and was still being detected until relatively recently. It seems the legendary M is still jumping.”

“I feel astonishment. I don’t understand why he hasn’t already disintegrated. Other far less active Destructors than he have already lost all their molecules . . . He should have been classified as terminal a long time ago.”

“A six plus is never classified as terminal, my friend. They are considered Destructors down to their last surviving molecule. And M is the most powerful and fearsome Destructor of any we have ever come across since we started fighting this epidemic. His talents are as astonishing and formidable as his lunacy. Indeed, if M has become invisible, which I am sure he has, he is still as powerful as a hundred level 6 Destructors.”

“I was on his trail for a while; there was even a time when I thought I might actually be able to catch him,” said the man who felt guilty about his terrible task.

“And who has not? We have all dreamt of catching him. We have all tried to fish that legendary fifteen-pound salmon that snatches all our bait and avoids all our hooks. Oh, yes, dear friend, whenever I go to Lake Windermere, I pray the legendary fish is still alive and kicking and will end up dangling from my rod.”