Ch.102Ch.7 – Elegy for Reason (9)

We headed towards “between Water Street and Main Street” as Catherine Scully had mentioned. There were no taxis in Innsmouth, so we had to walk quite a distance. To avoid potential tracking and exposure, Crayfield insisted on taking alleyways. Occasionally we heard dogs barking and voices from beyond the fences, but at least no one was watching us.

“A player’s objective is simple. Just receive quests and complete them. Finding it difficult to clear alone? Then find companions to help. But you don’t share ‘all’ information or goals with those companions. And politicians excel at utilizing multiple such companions.”

According to Crayfield, politician players lack their own capabilities. Instead, they can persuade others to do their work for them. The success rate is lower than doing it themselves, but they can undertake many tasks at once.

Breaking down a big problem into smaller, solvable ones and then tackling them individually—that’s political play. And playing politically means you’re a player familiar with the game.

“I think this guy is deliberately not raising his progress meter. He wants to collect all the necessary pieces first and then get reports all at once. Since he knows the game gets progressively harder as progress increases, he plans to do everything possible at a low risk level. Cunning bastard.”

Planning and improvisation. The way to handle these two opposing elements well is to separate the divided tasks so they don’t affect each other.

That means our protagonist’s true purpose doesn’t end with simply obtaining Salem trial records or hearing Innsmouth residents’ grievances. I asked Crayfield what plan he had.

“We need to combine the problems he’s split apart. Conversely, if you combine small solvable problems into one, it becomes too complicated to handle, right?”

It sounded plausible, but I couldn’t quite grasp what he meant to do based on theory alone. Crayfield offered an analogy.

“Sweetfish are territorial creatures, I’m told. When another sweetfish enters its territory, it bites off the intruder’s tail. Do you know what fishermen do? They somehow get a sweetfish for bait, hook one through its mouth and place another near its tail. When they cast the line, the resident sweetfish approaches to chase away the intruder, and then… it becomes the new bait fish. They call this ‘sweetfish teasing fishing.'”

As we approached our destination, Crayfield lowered his voice.

“Our first target is Moriarty. Catch Moriarty to catch Holmes. Catch Holmes to catch the Federal Security Bureau.”

I didn’t understand. Weren’t Moriarty and Holmes hindering our protagonist? Why catch them?

“Our player has crafted a perfect plan. Notice how neither the progress meter nor the doom meter is rising? He knows this game’s structure well. We can’t clear all the spider webs he’s laid. But one thing’s certain—what he needs most is time. Holmes and Moriarty’s bomb games are buying him time. If we give our protagonist a hard push here, he’ll lose his pace and fall.”

Crayfield turned up his coat collar. Water Street and Main Street were adjacent, lined with dilapidated houses. Most had loosely hanging front doors, suggesting they’d been abandoned for some time. Yet the alleys were full of recently discarded garbage.

“Seems our civic group members have settled here, haven’t they?”

We walked along a brick wall. As we walked, human voices grew louder—singing, talking, noisy chatter. Peering over the low wall, I saw the anti-racist group from Boston and their crowd.

“The far-right folks got hit, so these friends are next in line.”

Crayfield gathered stones, broken bricks, and trash. He wrote on the wall next to the entrance: “Outsiders get out. The night is long and the day is short,” along with some obscene graffiti.

“Now, assistant. We have work to do. Let’s throw these somewhere that won’t hurt those people, but will make a loud noise. Let’s see… see that wooden blind? Good. Let’s throw and run. One, two, now!”

Though I threw gently, the wooden blind broke with a loud crash. The singing stopped abruptly. We immediately fled down the alley. Crayfield shouted:

“Get out now, you bastards! Innsmouth is my land!”

Then he threw the remaining stones over the wall. Footsteps thundered down the alley. We hid in a suitable house to catch our breath. After some cursing and grumbling, the sounds faded. Crayfield winked.

“Since there seem to be quite a few civic group people, we should do this some more. How about it? Let’s go back to those mischievous childhood days.”

There were many squatters. Crayfield and I changed our tactics, pitting hostile civic groups against each other. We managed to create confrontations between the KKK and the Black Rights Committee, the Christian Liberty Party and atheist groups, the “Equal Rights Organization” and “Southern Alliance” people. These already antagonistic groups began slandering each other and arguing, eventually leading the police to expel them en masse.

Meanwhile, we hid in a three-story building on Main Street. The building was empty, and judging by the last calendar being from 1928, its occupants were likely arrested during last year’s mass arrests.

“Good. To pass through Main Street and Water Street, we need to cross this road ahead. If we watch carefully, we should be able to spot Moriarty approaching. It would be nice if he comes unaware of this commotion, but it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t. Let’s consider it saving lives.”

The house reeked of rotting fish. But Crayfield actually welcomed the smell, reasoning that whether it was Moriarty or Holmes, the stench would sufficiently mask our traces.

Eventually, darkness fell. We silently watched Innsmouth as night descended. It was a different view from what we’d seen at the hotel, but similar in that we could barely see ahead. Perhaps we should appreciate the darkness for concealing the shabby gloom. Crayfield, leaning his head against the wall, blinked his tired eyes. As I was thinking of making some joke to him,

Creak. Creak. Creak.

Someone was coming up the stairs. The sound was soft and quiet, but the wooden stairs were so old and decrepit that it couldn’t be concealed. Crayfield and I retreated to a corner of the large room. Fortunately, having retrieved all bullets when leaving the Dagon chapel, the revolver was ready to fire.

A human figure passed through the door crack. Gray hair pulled up. Confident gait. Black gloves reaching up to the elbows. It was unmistakably Clarice Holmes. The footsteps stopped, but she seemed to have taken position by the window where we had just been. The sound of a chair being pulled up was vivid.

Crayfield silently put down his revolver and carefully removed his coat. There was a rustling sound, but this apartment was already full of random noises—windows complaining with every breeze, crows and seagulls calling outside. Crayfield, with his coat tightly wrapped around his left arm, pointed alternately at me and his revolver, indicating I should use both guns. Meanwhile, the night grew deeper.

Squeak. Finally, Clarice Holmes rose from her chair. Simultaneously, Crayfield rushed forward. I followed. Clarice Holmes’s emotionless eyes caught us.

Her arms crossed.

Crayfield extended his left arm wrapped in the coat.

Swish.

Pieces of the coat were sliced off, but Crayfield paid no mind. He rammed straight into Holmes. The impact made even Holmes lose balance and fall. I pointed both guns at her.

“Damn it. That was expensive.”

Crayfield complained. Holmes looked back and forth between Crayfield and me.

“Rude vermin hiding like rats.”

“Aren’t we a bit big for rats, Clarice Holmes? Hey, don’t move. Even for a modified human, if both optic nerve circuits get smashed, motion analysis would be difficult.”

Clarice didn’t respond. Crayfield smiled.

“Honestly, I’m surprised. I thought Moriarty would take the bait, but what an unexpected catch.”

“You know nothing, John Crayfield.”

“Oh? You know me?”

“I have no interest in things like you.”

Holmes’s emotionless eyes stared intensely at me.

“I’m more interested in that ‘thing’ there. Always appearing at crucial moments to interfere, like a stumbling block.”

“Bold words for someone who keeps coming up empty-handed.”

“You two garbage flies have ruined everything. It was a perfect cake, and now it’s like having half a dead rat on top.”

“Why is the Federal Security Bureau covering for you?”

For the first time, Holmes burst into laughter.

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Who? Who’s covering for whom? I can tolerate rudeness to a degree, but ignorance is beyond bearable. It’s not me your fat-land-fattened country is backing—it’s Moriarty.”

“Ah, that sounds very credible, Miss Tin Robot.”

Crayfield rubbed his arm.

“You think I’d believe that? Clarice Holmes, you beheaded someone in the Capitol to prevent a human bomb from exploding. In the underground chapel, you cut down Moriarty’s puppet and a shoggoth. If anything, you seem to be protecting this country more than anyone.”

Clarice, who had been sitting, stretched her arms behind her and leaned her upper body back slightly—a posture that might suggest sunbathing, or rather moonbathing, to an uninformed observer. Crayfield continued:

“Now, lady from London. Though we differ in everything from constitution to tea culture, and it’s been hard to even speak with you, I know your intention isn’t just to catch Moriarty. You too are moving nimbly for something. Aren’t you? Someone of your skill wouldn’t be playing house with Moriarty for no reason.”

“You don’t know even a bolt’s worth about Moriarty.”

“I know he did some fucked-up things. That’s reason enough to shoot him and hang him out to dry in the Potomac. So tell me. What are you doing? Why not capture Moriarty right away?”

Clarice Holmes crossed her legs seductively. The tip of her brown boots gleamed in the moonlight.

“Moriarty has created many automatons to carry on his will. They may not be improvements, but they have enough intelligence to produce machines of similar capability. As you know, they were manufacturing human bombs. Moriarty is like a cockroach. Kill him, and another Moriarty pops up somewhere else. To exterminate vermin, you must hunt them down one by one.”

“And the Security Bureau backing Moriarty?”

“Having to teach factorization to an idiot who can’t even do basic arithmetic! Listen, stinking cowboy. Nobody cares about this fishing village. This damned fish won’t die and keeps flopping around! But when this marlin finally breathes its last, when it bleeds from its side, then the sharks will smell the blood and come. And they’ll devour it completely, leaving not even a skull bone.”

Crayfield cursed.

“Fucking hell, are you writing a sonnet? Speak plainly!”

Holmes flopped down. I fired, but it was too late. Holmes’s body slid like on a sled and kicked Crayfield’s legs out from under him. Quickly regaining her posture, Holmes reached behind her back and pulled out a round, flat disc.

“Shoot her!”

But Holmes roughly tore at her clothes. Between her snow-white breasts was a circular hollow. She attached the disc there.

Click-whirr!

Instantly, the disc began spinning at high speed, and Holmes’s movements became dizzyingly fast. I fired wildly, but Clarice twisted her body like a gymnast. Before I knew it, she had escaped into the corridor. I chased after her.

“Ah. Good. Something a bit more reasonable has appeared.”

Clarice stood still with her arms raised. The high-speed spinning disc hurt my ears, but I could still fire a couple more shots.

“Finding Penny was lucky. I couldn’t remove the other bombs. No one will be able to completely remove those bombs. And some bombs might be better left alone for everyone’s sake.”

I asked what nonsense she was talking about. Instead of answering, Clarice violently swung her arm. Part of the floor I was standing on collapsed. I threw myself backward. Fortunately, I didn’t fall, but I had to drop my gun. Holmes, who had quickly run up the wall with a tap, pinned my chest with her foot. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t move it—like a building pillar had been driven into me.

“Still, it’s commendable you’ve come this far. Little one. You have much to learn, but since you’re a quick learner, I’ll give you another gift. Only four people don’t want this fishing village’s destruction: me, you, that cowboy with admirable courage but rumored to be premature, and the Security Bureau woman. When everyone else is dancing without reason, I’m truly curious what choice you’ll make.”

Crack.

Clarice’s other foot kicked my jaw. Though I knew I shouldn’t, my eyes closed. The lady from England descended the building, kicking off both walls. Crayfield, who had come out of the room, caught me. I closed my eyes.