Authority (Southern Reach, #2)(27)

“I don’t have a computer,” she said. “I don’t have any of the books I requested. I’m being kept in a cell that has a tiny window high up on the wall. It only shows the sky. If I’m lucky, I see a hawk wheel by every few hours.”

“It’s a room, not a cell.” It was both.

“I can’t leave, so it’s a cell. Give me books at least.”

But he couldn’t give her the books she wanted on memory loss. Not until he knew more about the nature of her memory loss. She had also asked for all kinds of texts about mimicry and camouflage—he’d have to question her about that at some point.

“Does this mean anything to you?” he asked to deflect her attention, pushing the potted plant–mouse across the table to her.

She sat straight in her chair, seemed to become not just taller but wider, more imposing, as she leaned in toward him.

“A plant and a dead mouse? It’s a sign you should give me my f*cking books and a computer.” Perhaps it wasn’t amusement that made her different today. Maybe it was a sense of recklessness.

“I can’t.”

“Then you know what you can do with your plant and your mouse.”

“All right then.”

Her contemptuous laughter followed him out into the hall. She had a nice laugh, even when she was using it as a weapon against him.





007: SUPERSTITION

Twenty minutes later, Control had contrived to cram Whitby, Grace, and the staff linguist, Jessica Hsyu, into cramped quarters in front of the revealed section of wall with the director’s peculiar handwritten words scrawled across it. Control hadn’t bothered to move books or much of anything else. He wanted them to have to sit in close, uncomfortable proximity—let us bond in this phone booth, with our knees shoved up against one another’s. Little fabric sounds, mouth-breathing, shoe-squeaks, unexpected smells, all would be magnified. He thought of it as a bonding experience. Perhaps.

Only the assistant director had gotten a regular-size chair. That way she could hold on to the illusion that she was in charge; or, rather, he hoped he could forestall any complaint from her later that he was being petty. He had already ignored Grace’s pointed “I am so thankful that this is correct on the schedule,” which meant she already knew he’d moved up his interrogation of the biologist. She’d kept him waiting while she joked with someone in the hall, which he took as a micro-retaliation.

They were huddled around the world’s smallest conference table/stool, on which Control had placed the pot with the plant and mouse. Everything in its time and place, although the director’s cell phone would not be part of the conversation—Grace had already confiscated it.

“What is this,” he said, pointing to the wall of words, “in my office?” Not quite willing to concede the unspoken point that continued to radiate from Grace like a force field: It was still the former director’s office.

“This” included not just the words but the crude map of Area X drawn beneath the words, in green, red, and black, showing the usual landmarks: lighthouse, topographical anomaly, base camp … and also, farther up the coast, the island. A few stray words had been scribbled with a ball-point pen out to the sides—incomprehensible—and there were two rather daunting slash marks about half a foot above Control’s head, with dates about three years apart. One red. One green. With the director’s initials beside them, too. Had the director been checking her height? Of all of the strange things on the wall, that seemed the strangest.

“I thought you said you had read all the files,” Grace replied.

Nothing in the files had mentioned a door’s worth of peculiar text, but he wouldn’t argue the point. He knew it was unlikely he had uncovered something unknown to them.

“Humor me.”

“The director wrote it,” Grace said. “These are words found written on the walls of the tunnel.”

Control took a moment to digest that information.

“But why did you leave it there?” For an intense moment the words and the rotting honey smell combined to make him feel physically ill.

“A memorial,” Whitby said quickly, as if to provide an excuse for the assistant director. “It seemed too disrespectful to take it down.” Control had noticed Whitby kept giving the mouse strange glances.

“Not a memorial,” Grace said. “It’s not a memorial because the director isn’t dead. I don’t believe she’s dead.” She said this in a quiet but assured way, causing a hush from Whitby and Hsyu, as if Grace had shared an opinion that was an embarrassment to her. Control’s careful manipulation of the thermostat meant they were sweating and squirming a bit anyway.

“What does it mean?” Control asked, to move past the moment. Beyond Grace’s obstructionism, he could see a kind of pain growing in her that he had no wish to exploit.

“That’s why we brought the linguist,” Whitby said charitably, even though it was clear that Hsyu’s presence had surprised the assistant director. But Hsyu had ever more influence as the Southern Reach shrank; soon enough, they might have a situation where subdepartments consisted of one person writing themselves up for offenses, giving themselves raises and bonuses, celebrating their own birthdays with custom-made Southern Reach–shaped carrot cakes.