"Who filmed this?" Nash asked.
"A Green who returned to Berlin after the Spire stopped singing. She’s been documenting Blue activities."
"Damn. Above and beyond." Pan shook his head respectfully. "What’ve you been saying?"
Fisher paged down the comments, where his new net identity, Theo, had been making suggestions about fighting Rovers. "I don’t dare outright say what worked for us," he explained. "Too big a flag. But I tell enough. Important, since the Rovers do appear to be tracking Blues."
"I’m not sure we could fight one that big," Madeleine said.
"There’s every chance we won’t have to." Fisher flipped through the mixture of photographs and drawings he’d collected in the short time before and after urgent rest. "The first sighting of a Rover is soon after the Manila challenge, and if we look at the progression of sightings, each larger than the previous, it’s not unreasonable to conclude that the Rovers were some form of prize. That suggests a scarcity."
"With Nash, we have a chance against these glowing things," Noi said. "I’m more worried about what we do if Blues come after us. Greens we can shield paralyse and run. Blues – Mothed Blues fight far better than we can, and if Nash drains them, well, from what we’ve seen that will probably kill the host as well as the Moth. Are we all willing to do that to people? Are we willing to do that to Gavin?"
Silence.
"Ho-ly shit!"
Pan almost catapulted himself into Fisher’s lap, gaping at the muted television, though by the time Madeleine looked there was only an image of three fighter jets, moving into formation as they streaked away over a tree-dotted city.
"They shot a Spire! They shot a Spire!" Pan said. "Turn on the sound!"
Min dived for the remote and a woman’s gasping voice said: "…there an impact?"
"Get higher," a second woman said. "In case they’re coming back."
The image dipped and bounced as whoever was filming ran, and there followed a confused jumble of stairs and biohazard suits.
"I didn’t see any explosion," Pan said.
Noi had an iron grip on Madeleine’s shoulder. "Let it work," she breathed.
"But why would they think–?" Madeleine paused. "Of course. The Moths bring the shields down to go through for the challenges."
The camerawoman had reached a roof and provided a shot of a placidly unperturbed Spire standing in the middle of a very long, straight park.
"The Spire which rose under the Washington Monument," Fisher said.
His tone and expression were no more than thoughtful, but sitting beside him Madeleine could feel the tension behind the relaxed appearance. She touched the back of his hand, and he looked at her blankly, then managed a semblance of a smile. "The most likely result is that they just bombed Rio de Janeiro."
"Damn, Fish is right," Pan said. "No sign of any damage on the Spire, anyway. Does anyone have the Moth transmission still up? Any explosions?"
"Wherever those missiles went, it wasn’t to Rio," Min said, holding up a tablet. "The Moths aren’t acting like they’ve even noticed."
"Here they come!" gasped one of the rooftop women.
The image jumped sideways, then focused on the three jets, approaching in a tight triangular formation. A giant tower made an easy target, and each jet fired and peeled off in rapid succession.
"Shield’s back."
Noi, voice flat, let go of Madeleine’s shoulder as the blooms of fire died.
"And now we find out if they meant it about reprimands," Min said, trying for his usual caustically delighted tone, but lacking the enthusiasm for it.
Madeleine drew her feet up, wishing she’d brought a blanket down, and then murmured gratefully as Nash handed her a bowl of steaming pasta shells. The television divided its time between the video uploaded by the two uninfected women, and the challenge in Rio de Janeiro, which seemed to involve several hundred people scrambling for the nearest vehicle and racing off. A full stomach and not enough sleep combined to make this a lullaby, until Fisher woke her to a room darkened and emptying.
"We’re going to finish the night in the study," he said. "Now that the challenge is over, it’s possible the local Moths will pick up any search for their Rover."
She sat up, neck stiff, rubbing at her eyes and glancing at Pan and Nash tidying in the kitchen. Fisher gauged her winces as she straightened.
"I’ll get you an icepack," he said. "We shouldn’t have left your back untreated."
Ice was no less revolting a concept than when Noi had suggested it, and so Madeleine had to smile at herself obediently taking off her jacket, turning it to cover her front and slipping her arms back through the sleeves. She was sore, but more interested in an opportunity for another small step forward into something new. She felt increasingly certain, too, that Fisher was finding chances to take them as well.
"Shoulder blades primarily?" He’d brought two folded tea towels, and prodded her gently to lean forward so he could rest them both against her back. Cold seeped through her Singlet, and she shivered.
"Not that giving you a chill is ideal," he said, lifting and turning the packs. "After a couple of days you’re at least able to switch to hot packs."
"What happened with the challenge?"
"It was a straightforward race. The base of the statue was simply the end point."
"It all seems so petty." Races and competitions – played with a distinct lack of care for the possessed hosts, but still games which hardly seemed worth the immensity of death which preceded them. "And the attack in Washington?"
"No sign of any immediate response." Fisher’s voice was composed, but the pressure on her back momentarily increased, and she knew that if their positions were reversed she would feel the roil of frustrated energy in him.
"You and Noi are so alike."
"Noi?" he repeated, startled, then stopped and gave the idea some thought before saying: "I don’t see it."
"You’re both always trying to hide how really worried or upset you are. All stressed and pressured, as if you were responsible for looking after the rest of us, and so can’t show when you’re overwhelmed. You must know we’re not so unfair as to expect you to produce some miraculous solution."
She couldn’t catch any response. The icepacks remained steady, and the only sound was Pan and Nash putting dishes away.
"I expect that of me, though," Fisher said finally, voice almost too low for her to hear. "Call it ego, or…I had so much I wanted to do, and it’s been taken away from me, and I seethe and grind my teeth and shake with this need to sow vengeance and regret."
He paused, took an audible breath, then said: "For that we need to bring down the Spires. I have ideas on how to find a way to do that, but I keep coming up against what it will take to gain the information we need. And my courage fails me."
It was an admission, weary and subdued. Madeleine wished she could see his expression, but resisted the impulse to turn, instead asking: "Did you feel that way in the first days after the dust, when you were trying to identify the best way to treat Greens?"
He turned the icepacks again. "I knew I would kill people." A simple statement of fact. "Dividing up boys of about the same condition, and giving one group sugar water and one saline sounds innocuous, but what if the Conversion was more efficient with an infusion of electrolytes? What amount of energy did their bodies need to survive? Raise their temperature or lower it? Keep them active, keep them still? When one option appeared more promising, I couldn’t just switch them all to it immediately, had to keep a control group in case it was a false positive. I had constant nightmares about the data I was accumulating, this logic puzzle of life and death written in permanent ink, with no option to erase it all and start over. I will never forget the faces of those in the groups where treatment clearly wasn’t helping. Never. But the knowledge that that was just the first wave, those exposed in the first hours, drove me on. Doing nothing was the worst option.