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Conversations with Dead People.
Nov. 5th, 2012 12:16 am“I suppose you’re going to accuse me of being a dream.”
Moriarty’s eyes snap open. The voice is French-accented, with hints of Italian (a parent, perhaps, who never lost their accent) and he recognises it immediately. Catarina, he knows, the last of the Viceroy’s wives, now dead from the noose.
“No,” he says, looking at the ceiling, “my dreams are not commonly haunted by figures from the past.”
He sees her shift. She’s wearing a deep blue dress with the arms exposed (it’s a very daring look, from Moriarty’s understanding of fashion), and he can’t see her face. Or her neck. He considers it of the utmost importance that he not see her neck.
“And what do you dream of, James?” Moriarty doesn’t flinch at the sound of his name, even though he wants to. There’s a rustle of fabric as she settles at the foot of the bed.
“I run scenarios. Calculations. A sleeping state is better for the process, it removes outside interference. The world is – very noisy when you’re awake,” Moriarty says, peering at the ceiling. There’s a crack in it. That seems unusual for this place. “And what do you dream of, ma’am?”
“I dreamt,” the word is emphasised sharply, “of a better world. My dreams, I fear, were larger than yours.”
“You act,” Moriarty says quietly, “as if I killed you. I did nothing but expose your crime. I performed the duty required of me.”
Catarina makes a sound of distaste. She pushes off the bed, pacing restlessly about the room. Moriarty swings himself up into a sitting position, reaching for the bedside table. There is a hypodermic needle within, and a bottle of opium.
Moriarty sets himself to the task of filling it up. It is a distraction from the conversation.
“My objection was never a moral one, or a philosophical one,” he says, and wonders why he’s trying to placate some spirit who has naught better to do than visit him in his sleep, “it was mathematical. A calculation of damages against gains. A war against the royals is not one we could have won.”
“I succeeded.”
“The Viceroy was third-generation, and you had the element of surprise. In the years since, more impressive assassinations have been completed.”
“And your calculations?”
“Unchanged,” briskly, “it doesn’t matter if one dies. An ant may, striking lucky, fell a soldier; a million ants may fell ten. But all the ants in the world will never bring down an army. You – and Rache, and his doctor friend, and every other seditionist – would convince me that the cost of this era is too high. I say that the cost of ending it would be higher.”
Catarina turns. He keeps his eyes squarely away from her face, on the hypodermic needle. He finishes filling it. He will not look at her neck.
“Is that how you rank us, then? The royals are soldiers, and humans are ants?”
“No. The gap in power and intelligence is far too grand for that analogy,” Moriarty says. He turns his arm over and searches for a vein. He can tell that Catarina is watching. “Might I ask a question?”
Catarina doesn’t reply. He takes that as an affirmative.
“What is the aftermath of death like?”
“Cold,” she says immediately, “cold and caged. The Old Ones’ servants rule there too. Even when we think we might escape, we just stumble into another one of their kingdoms. Servitude in eternity.” She doesn’t sound bitter. She doesn’t sound much of anything.
“I see.”
“I suppose you’re going to say you’re sorry.”
“No,” Moriarty says. “I’m not sorry. I – regret what happened, but I’m not sorry for it. There would’ve been open war again.”
Catarina laughs. “You’re an amoral bastard, Professor Moriarty.”
Moriarty grins. “I know.”
He injects the opium. As the fog descends, Catarina vanishes into it, and Moriarty can’t help but feel a little sad about it.
Moriarty’s eyes snap open. The voice is French-accented, with hints of Italian (a parent, perhaps, who never lost their accent) and he recognises it immediately. Catarina, he knows, the last of the Viceroy’s wives, now dead from the noose.
“No,” he says, looking at the ceiling, “my dreams are not commonly haunted by figures from the past.”
He sees her shift. She’s wearing a deep blue dress with the arms exposed (it’s a very daring look, from Moriarty’s understanding of fashion), and he can’t see her face. Or her neck. He considers it of the utmost importance that he not see her neck.
“And what do you dream of, James?” Moriarty doesn’t flinch at the sound of his name, even though he wants to. There’s a rustle of fabric as she settles at the foot of the bed.
“I run scenarios. Calculations. A sleeping state is better for the process, it removes outside interference. The world is – very noisy when you’re awake,” Moriarty says, peering at the ceiling. There’s a crack in it. That seems unusual for this place. “And what do you dream of, ma’am?”
“I dreamt,” the word is emphasised sharply, “of a better world. My dreams, I fear, were larger than yours.”
“You act,” Moriarty says quietly, “as if I killed you. I did nothing but expose your crime. I performed the duty required of me.”
Catarina makes a sound of distaste. She pushes off the bed, pacing restlessly about the room. Moriarty swings himself up into a sitting position, reaching for the bedside table. There is a hypodermic needle within, and a bottle of opium.
Moriarty sets himself to the task of filling it up. It is a distraction from the conversation.
“My objection was never a moral one, or a philosophical one,” he says, and wonders why he’s trying to placate some spirit who has naught better to do than visit him in his sleep, “it was mathematical. A calculation of damages against gains. A war against the royals is not one we could have won.”
“I succeeded.”
“The Viceroy was third-generation, and you had the element of surprise. In the years since, more impressive assassinations have been completed.”
“And your calculations?”
“Unchanged,” briskly, “it doesn’t matter if one dies. An ant may, striking lucky, fell a soldier; a million ants may fell ten. But all the ants in the world will never bring down an army. You – and Rache, and his doctor friend, and every other seditionist – would convince me that the cost of this era is too high. I say that the cost of ending it would be higher.”
Catarina turns. He keeps his eyes squarely away from her face, on the hypodermic needle. He finishes filling it. He will not look at her neck.
“Is that how you rank us, then? The royals are soldiers, and humans are ants?”
“No. The gap in power and intelligence is far too grand for that analogy,” Moriarty says. He turns his arm over and searches for a vein. He can tell that Catarina is watching. “Might I ask a question?”
Catarina doesn’t reply. He takes that as an affirmative.
“What is the aftermath of death like?”
“Cold,” she says immediately, “cold and caged. The Old Ones’ servants rule there too. Even when we think we might escape, we just stumble into another one of their kingdoms. Servitude in eternity.” She doesn’t sound bitter. She doesn’t sound much of anything.
“I see.”
“I suppose you’re going to say you’re sorry.”
“No,” Moriarty says. “I’m not sorry. I – regret what happened, but I’m not sorry for it. There would’ve been open war again.”
Catarina laughs. “You’re an amoral bastard, Professor Moriarty.”
Moriarty grins. “I know.”
He injects the opium. As the fog descends, Catarina vanishes into it, and Moriarty can’t help but feel a little sad about it.
