Veniss Underground by Jeff VanderMeer Page A

aquarium.
    â€œYes, Nicola.”
    â€œTell me everything you know about Quin.”
    Salvador inclines his head slightly, says, “Why do you wish to know?”
    Ah, a deviation. A stumble. A revelation. It has a sense of curiosity, or it is trying to protect its creator. How does it view its creator?
    â€œIs it improper for me to ask about Quin?” you say, wondering how far Salvador will take this evasion. Your blood pulses quick and hard. Your heartbeat is suddenly fast.
    Salvador looks straight at, straight into you: an unblinking stare.
    â€œNo, Nicola. It is not. You may ask me any question you wish. I am your servant in all things.”
    Now you are afraid—and yet nothing has changed. The meerkat is no different, your apartment is no different. Your resolve stiffens as you remember Nicholas, somewhere in the city, lost, alone, possibly hurt.
    â€œI'm just curious, Salvador. Who is Quin?”
    â€œQuin is my creator,” Salvador says, hesitantly. Suspicion? Awe? Some other quality has entered his voice. “Quin is a child in the dark, a boy alone in the park, a man who teased the weave and warp of flesh into the medium of his desire. He is the kiss from the dark.”
    That you should hear, halfway across the city, the words you found written in Nicholas's hand in the Tolstoi District where the animals hide and will not show their faces to the light . . . What does it mean? This is your tortured cry. What does it mean? You are tired of questions.
    The meerkat stares at you with an expectant quality. You can see the small, sharp fangs in its open mouth.
    â€œIs there more?” you say.
    â€œI don't know anything else, ma'am.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œYesss . . .”
    A kiss in the dark.
You don't believe in coincidences. Every sprinkler in the city runs on a fixed schedule. Every train is programmed to return at a certain time. If these words come from the meerkat, then it is no coincidence. Someone programmed them to fall from his mouth into your ears.
    Someone knows that you went to Nicholas's apartment. Someone knows a lot more than you do. And you wonder: Is this the moment to disengage, to allow your brother to drift off into his fate? More and more you are convinced there can be no half measures.
    As you leave to run errands, Salvador stands in front of the sail-bellies, an absurd look of wonderment spread across his features. Upon your return in the late afternoon, you find that Salvador has cleaned the entire apartment. It is spotless; he has dusted behind the holovision, the chairs, the table, the couch. The smell of lilac and vanilla permeates the apartment. He has even seeded the grass carpet and watered it early enough that it is springy, not moist, under your feet as you walk toward your bedroom.
    In your bedroom, you open your purse, pull out the laser gun you bought on your way home. It is dark gray and blunt. It can take someone's head off at 150 meters. It will not answer any of your questions, but its immutability pleases you. It is not composed of shadows and half-teasing clues. More important, you feel safe with it around. You start to put it under your pillow, but that's no good—Salvador will find it while making the bed. So you leave it in your purse.
Just aim and fire
, the seller told you.
    When you return to the living room, Salvador awaits you, a comical chef's hat perched atop his head, a spoon held precariously in one paw. You smell heat, seafood, melting cheese.
    â€œDinner is ready,” he says, and motions for you to sit down at the dinner table.
    â€œI'm not sure I like you taking over the dinner duties.” You remove your red jacket and set it over the back of your chair. “I
know
I don't like it.”
    â€œBut Nicola,” Salvador says, obviously hurt, “this is my function: to serve you.”
    â€œI won't argue about it right now. I'm hungry.”
    Salvador has made a seaweed casserole garnished with