Free Legion and the Emperor's Soul by Brandon Sanderson

appreciatively from where he leaned against the wall. “It’s getting better.”
    “If you would look at the camera . . .” Monica said.
    “When I saw it last, it was in at least sixteen pieces,” I said. “There’s just not anything to work with.”
    She narrowed her eyes at me. She still suspected I’d dropped it on purpose as the explosion hit. It didn’t help that Razon’s body had been burned to near unrecognizability in the subsequent explosions and fire that had consumed the building. Any items he’d had on him—secrets that explained how the camera really worked—had been destroyed.
    “I’ll admit,” I said, leaning forward, “that I’m not terribly sorry to discover you can’t fix the thing. I’m not certain the world is prepared for the information it could provide.” Or, at least, I’m not certain the world is prepared for people like you controlling that information.
    “But—”
    “Monica, I don’t know what I could do that your engineers haven’t. We’re simply going to have to accept the fact that this technology died with Razon. If what he did was anything other than a hoax. To be honest, I’m increasingly certain it was one. Razon was tortured beyond what a simple scientist could have endured, yet did not give the terrorists what they wanted. It was because he couldn’t. It was all a sham.”
    She sighed and stood up. “You are passing up on greatness, Mister Leeds.”
    “My dear,” I said, standing, “you should know by now that I’ve already had greatness. I traded it for mediocrity and some measure of sanity.”
    “You should ask for a refund,” she said. “Because I’m not certain I have found either in you.” She took something from her pocket and dropped it on the table. A large envelope.
    “And this is?” I asked, taking it.
    “We found film in the camera,” she said. “Only one image was recoverable.”
    I hesitated, then slipped the picture out. It was in black and white, like the others. It depicted a man, bearded and robed, sitting—though on what, I couldn’t see. His face was striking. Not because of its shape, but because it was looking directly at the camera. A camera that wouldn’t be there for two thousand years.
    “We think it comes from the Triumphal Entry,” she said. “The background, at least, looks to be the Beautiful Gate. It’s hard to tell.”
    “My God,” Ivy whispered, stepping up beside me.
    Those eyes . . . I stared at the photo. Those eyes .
    “Hey, I thought we weren’t supposed to swear around you,” J.C. called to Ivy.
    “It wasn’t a curse,” she said, resting her fingers reverently on the photo. “It was an identification.”
    “It’s meaningless, unfortunately,” Monica said. “There’s no way to prove who that is. Even if we could, it wouldn’t do anything toward proving or disproving Christianity. This was before the man was killed. Of all the shots for Razon to get . . .” She shook her head.
    “It doesn’t change my mind,” I said, slipping the photo back into the envelope.
    “I didn’t think it would,” Monica said. “Consider it as payment.”
    “I didn’t end up accomplishing much for you.”
    “Nor we for you,” she said, walking from the room. “Good evening, Mister Leeds.”
    I rubbed my finger on the envelope, listening as Wilson showed Monica to the door, then shut it. I left Ivy and J.C. having a conversation about his cursing, then walked into the entryway and up the stairs. I wound around them, hand on the banister, before reaching the upper hallway.
    My study was at the end. The room was lit by a single lamp on the desk, the shades drawn against the night. I walked to my desk and sat down. Tobias sat in one of the two other chairs beside it.
    I picked up a book—the last in what had been a huge stack—and began leafing through. The picture of Sandra, the one recovered from the train station, hung tacked to the wall beside me.
    “Have they figured it out?” Tobias