In time, a knock came at the door, and she opened it to see Crow, flanked by three others, who looked at her with smug satisfaction. Alan was there. George was there. Frances was there. The men wore elegant black dinner suits, sweltering already in the morning heat, while Frances wore a bright silk dress. Dressed for a coronation.
They smirked when they saw her, dressed in her bunches of gold and torn white inner liner. That was all right, mockery was for lesser creatures. None of them would ever be holier than her, not in Witzgenstein's eyes.
"Good morning," Lara said, bowing her head and opening the door to admit them.
"You weren't lying, Crow," Frances said, looking her up and down. "Jesus, she's really cracked."
"Let me review your speech," Crow said. She handed it over, then Alan brushed past her, strolling into her room as if he owned it.
"We'll have this done up for you nicely, Lara," he said over his shoulder. "You shouldn't be staying in a dump like this. A little more gold, perhaps?"
Frances laughed, following him in. "Bedroom of honor for the defeated Queen. Though I think she'll be happier in one of the basement rooms, don't you think? Closer to her Kingdom. Windows are so passé."
"You've changed this," Crow said, holding the paper out, anger in his eyes. "You can't read it like this."
Lara hung her head lower. "So strike the words. You can't strike them from my heart."
He frowned. "What?"
"Did she just say 'strike them from my heart'?" Frances asked, and cackled. She'd always been unpleasant, even in New LA, ready to throw a cruel barb at the first sign of weakness. In the past Lara had dismissed it as poor attempts at humor, but now it was clear it was more than that. Lara didn't answer, just hung her head, which she knew would only antagonize her further.
It did. Frances stepped closer. "Listen, bitch. You'll read what we tell you to read. You'll believe what we tell you to believe."
Lara took a breath, then raised her head and looked into Frances' eyes. Frances had always been a follower of Witzgenstein's. In the trial of Amo back in Maine she'd been one of the first to stand up and cheer for his exile.
"I'll read whatever my President tells me to read," Lara said slowly, carefully. "I'll believe in her first above all. Don't you agree?"
Frances's face froze in mid-snarl. Perhaps she'd expected a broken woman, easy to taunt, easy to crush, and this was not it. Instead there was this angry, burning pride, and Frances stared, feeling the moment simmer as the others watched.
"You c-" she started, and swung a hand up to slap Lara, but Crow caught her by the wrist.
"It was a mistake to bring you here," he said sharply. "Go, all of you."
Frances jerked her hand away, then snapped at him, seething. "Who are you to order me? I've followed Witzgenstein for over a decade, and what are you, a disciple of but a few days? I'll do exactly as I want."
Crow stood there impassively.
"How dare you lay a hand on me!" Frances went on, pumping herself up, looking to the others for support. Alan stood at her back, stiffer than Lara had seen him before, while George just watched impassively. "I'll have you put in the stocks for a week! You'll see what that gets you."
"So put me in the stocks," Crow said easily. "Take it to Witzgenstein. Tell her I stopped you striking her prisoner, moments before the inauguration."
Frances faltered at that. Lara dropped her head humbly, looking back to the ground. Alan bustled over and took Frances by the arm before she could say any more.
"Come on now, we'll deal with her later."
Frances let herself be led. "Did you hear that, little slut?" she called over her shoulder as they went through the door. "We'll deal with you later."
Crow closed the door behind them.
"Making trouble already, Lara," he said, showing a tight smile. It was almost a piece of the old Crow, but filtered through some new directive. "Be careful."
"I'm faithful," Lara said. "That will have to be enough."
Crow took her by the arm firmly. "Let's hope so. President Witzgenstein can see your speech. She can decide."
* * *
Lara waited meekly in the Chief of Staff's Office in the West Wing, while Crow took her speech in to Witzgenstein in the Oval Office. She crossed her palms sweetly across her thighs. Her legs were together. She sat stiff-backed and alert. There was nothing sexual about her intent at all, though she could feel the dress doing its work.
With each breath her breasts heaved up and down. The hourglass shape of her figure was there plainly, if hidden by the ruffs and furls of fraying, badly cut fabric. Flashes of her skin showed through in tiny crease-like lines.
The door opened.
"You may read this," Crow said, handing her back the paper. She immediately clutched it close to her chest as if it were sacred. Crow passed back into the Oval Office and his discussion with Witzgenstein continued, in low tones Lara could not make out. People came in and out of the room through the side door to the colonnade, behind her.
Pilgrims, come to pay their respects.
In her head Lara prepared. Crow had been elevated quickly, to something like Witzgenstein's Chief of Staff. It wasn't surprising; he'd always been one of the most competent in New LA, and most under-used. Amo had taken Keeshom and Feargal with him, plus Drake's doctor and engineer, while Anna before him had taken their scientists and fighters. What had that left?
The cyclists. The knitting circle. The people who'd helped her with the harvest, helped her build the John Harrison coffee shop, helped her run water pickups. Helpers, followers, without a leader or instigator amongst them. Witzgenstein's closest followers were perhaps even worse, following her edicts to the letter. Anna had reported as much from her trip up to the Willamette Valley a year back. Maybe only Cynthia had any spark in her, but she was getting very old. Drake's people were likely the same; the followers of a dictator who'd been crushed by his cruelty and his whims.
A clock on the desk ticked, and she watched as it counted up to noon. Sweat beaded down her cheeks.
There was a procession, when the time came, led by Witzgenstein. She passed by the window up the West Colonnade and did not look in to the Chief of Staff's office, but Lara felt her glowing presence and bottled lust even from where she sat. She was dressed in a snug navy power dress with bold white piping. Her golden hair had been worked up atop her head like a kind of halo. Just seeing her gave Lara shivers of anticipation.
Crow came then and led her out, like a father walking down the aisle with his daughter. The carpet was red in the Colonnade, then veiny cream marble in the Cross Hall, blue and gold up the stairs. Through the Blue Room and the open South Portico doors she caught a glimpse of the crowd gathered out on the path and the South Lawn, dressed in all their finery, with Drake's children to the fore.
Crow led her through the Yellow Oval Room on the first floor, where Witzgenstein's retinue were waiting. Frances gave Lara a sharp glare. Others just stared at her outlandish dress. The doors to the Truman Balcony were open and Witzgenstein was already out there, speaking to her people. Crow shuffled Lara into place beside a pillar, largely out of sight from the crowd below, then took up position beside her. She kept her eyes downcast, her legs close together, her hands crossed in front of her, clutching her speech.
Witzgenstein was speaking.
"… in this New World of ours, we must forge a common purpose, united in a greater sense of responsibility, both to ourselves, to each other, and to the Lord. No longer can we hew to the selfish days of the past, where our individual desires dictated the paths we as a community took. Now is the time for us to give our bodies and our minds over to Him, that He might better use them than we ever could. Only in that surrender can we find eternal truth."
Lara tuned out the dogma; the same bullshit Witzgenstein had been spewing for years, altered perhaps by her time at Drake's side. She snuck a glance out through the balcony, over the South Lawn. A small space had been cleared in front of the Truman Balc
ony; saplings rudely hacked back and low vegetation slashed, in which their hundred or so remaining people were gathered. Lara tried to pick out her children, but couldn't see them.
It was a sad affair, in that space fit for thousands, hemmed in by overgrowth. Still, flashbulbs popped as photographers commemorated the occasion for posterity. The day their new President took the Oath of Office, sworn into service for all.
Witzgenstein continued on, outlining a time of faith and security ahead, of unfettered growth. There were hints of Drake in her promises, and Lara glimpsed the beginnings of a eugenics program that would break existing couples apart, that would split the genders into separate roles, that would segregate the races as much as was feasible, and roll back social policies to the 19th Century.
She kept her head down like a slave. She waited until a silence fell, and Crow touched her arm gently. "It's time," he said.
He led her out. She kept her eyes down. Yesterday they'd seen her frantic, as if a woman possessed. She could use that now. The demon was gone, and this woman dressed in a poorly made curtain was what remained. She would be piteous, but virtuous; a whole new Lara purged of Amo.
On the balcony, slowly she lifted her head. There were some 'boo's and some gasps, but Witzgenstein beside her held out her arms and they quieted. Lara looked out over the people and saw faces she'd known for years, who she'd helped, who'd helped her build her coffee shop and cried as they ate her banana cake, now glaring glass-eyed up at her.
Of course they were angry. People always were when they were lied to. They'd been angry when it was Drake whipping them up, and now they were angry when it was Witzgenstein. The only thing that had changed was Lara.
She raised her arms slowly, spread wide as if she were ready to invoke the heavens. Witzgenstein's breath quickened as her arms lifted, revealing a slice of brown skin down her ribs, lifting her tightly bound breasts. Then she spoke.
First she annulled herself from Amo, as the speech dictated, speaking from memory. Next she annulled New LA, and took responsibility for her role in its fall. Finally she annulled her children, and signed them over to the people, and asked for forgiveness for leading them astray.
Silence met her, and she gazed out over these lost people, feeling Witzgenstein's bridle swollen over them all like a slow-moving current. It had the tinge of red on the line, and maybe it had been there all the time, she wondered. Stealing over the gentler minds. Perhaps Amo had been doing the same thing, without realizing it. Only the blast when she touched Drake on the stage had opened her eyes.
Just as Witzgenstein was about to speak, Lara turned bodily to face her and resumed speaking in a loud, clear voice, adding the words she'd written the night before.
"I beg most of all, that My President find it within her heart to forgive me. My trespasses are countless, and I do not deserve her generosity. But I beg it. I ask for the good, Christian forgiveness I never showed to her."
At that, she knelt. A slight gasp came from the crowd. Kneeling hadn't been in the speech, and she felt Crow at her side stiffen, ready at any moment to step in and haul her away. She tilted her head forward, and parted her hair with her hands, revealing her forehead.
"Anoint me with your touch. I beg it. Please, my President. Release me from this burning shame, as Judas was released by his Lord and Master. Show mercy in my hour of need."
Long seconds passed, in silence. She kept her eyes down on the floor, as beads of sweat trickled down the nape of her neck. The rough curtain material scratched at her underarms. She waited, barely daring to breathe, until finally Witzgenstein moved. Two steps, and her hands came down, framing Lara's face. She bent over slowly, bringing her face down to place a forgiving kiss on Lara's forehead.
At the last moment Lara lifted her face, catching the kiss full on her lips. Witzgenstein's eyes widened, but the moment lingered. Lara felt the lust pouring off her. A second gasp rose from the audience.
Then Lara pulled away, first to break the contact, tilting her head back down to the floor, totally penitent, abject, leaving Witzgenstein reeling above her.
Long seconds passed before their new President acted. She gave a dazzling smile. She strode to the edge of the balcony, and held out her hands.
"You see our mercy?" she called to them. Now they cheered. This, after all, was a show of her strength. A show of their strength, of such utter vanquishment of their foes that they could afford such unconditional forgiveness. They cheered and cheered.
But Lara knew it was something else, as the heat of Witzgenstein's touch lingered on her lips. On the line she felt that Witzgenstein knew it too. A kiss was a keyhole, through which secrets could pour.
More slaps might follow tonight. But after the slaps, more kisses.
HUNT
10. CAIRN
The chaotic assault on the line lessens as I circle the upper gantry, focusing on the metal lockbox in the center of the white 'f' in its blue square. This is real, and it anchors me in a past and a future, pushing back the madness.
Their signal still causes me pain, still threatens to flood me under the tide, but perhaps I'm getting used to it. I thumb the trickling wound on my thigh and the pain sharpens my focus. I glance into their eyes as I go around, acclimatizing, wordlessly asking them who is master here, who slave. I've killed a leper and survived. I've killed thousands of grays and dozens of demons, but I'm still here, still doing this shit, so what have I got to fear?
They sway after me like seaweed. They tilt from side to side of their hall like water in a bowl, like the ocean as the moon pulls it with the power of its gravity.
So I'm the moon. I own it.
Red demons stamp over the box, unseeing. Black and white ones spark and jump around it. Blue ones and yellow ones roll by, all these guardians of the cairn. But they can't stop me.
It's a small box. It doesn't belong here, just like the f doesn't, just like I don't. But we're all here, aren't we?
I circle, letting my thoughts drift on the chaotic line. I watch them as they follow me. They don't fight each other. As I move around the walkway, one hand trailing on the railing, one touching the frozen glass, I try to imagine what happened here, and what's happening now.
Out in the world the ocean and the demons always fought. Out in the world they're all dead or comatose now, flattened by whatever blast happened with Drake, but here they're not fighting.
It's obvious what I have to do. I need to open that lockbox.
I watch the interweaving flow of their bodies like I'm scoping the pattern of traffic in a game of Frogger. There has to be a route down and through. I pick out multiple paths. Here, here, then here.
I rub my head where it aches. I shot myself again, like I'm going back in time. History repeats itself, they say, first as tragedy then as farce. So this is my farce. I touch the scar where I blew my brains out in New York, and wonder what is left now of the man I once was.
On my third revolution beneath the Arctic sky, I decide.
First, I'll explore. There may not be a chance later.
I climb down the elevator shaft to the lowest floor, where I find a cavernous expanse of dead tech in a great, dark underhall. A jungle of scattered office equipment rests silently beneath a dangling canopy of thick cables. I roam alone in the darkness, cutting through the black with the scalpel of my flashlight, remembering days in the Yangtze darkness back in Iowa, back when this new path began and I made my first cairn for others to follow.
I float on the understanding that this is a cairn, that there's a message for me here like supply dumps left by early Polar explorers like Shackleton and Amundsen, each cairn driving them another toehold further into the unknown.
I boot computers but there's no power. I push thick cables aside and weave a path, flashing my light on scattered papers, studying some, discarding others. I see graphs of brainwaves and pages of data points, memos sent between departments whose names make no sense, lists of men's names with photos and strings of data.
&nbs
p; Gradually I put together some idea of what this place was for; some kind of experimental psychology research. They had one hundred young men in the arena up above, monitored by brain wave scanners. I compare their photos to the monsters, but fail to see the resemblance. Still, they were living people once, before the world changed.
Computer towers bulge like square mushrooms in the darkness, but there's no way to access their secrets. Maybe it would mean nothing to me. I stroke surfaces and dust ruffles in little heaps. I feel like the first sailor to step aboard the ghost ship Marie Celeste, all her crew gone, to find warm meals half-eaten on the tables.
Except I'm not the first. That 'f' was not there before this happened. It was left here for me.
I start compiling a list from the papers, scratching out my notes in the darkness. I find the name 'Joran Helkegarde' in a printed email next to the designation of 'Director'. I find reference to a Piers Sandbrooke, Oversight, and Garibaldi Sovoy, Deputy Director, and many more. It seems there were more stations in this 'Multicameral Array', twelve in total, and that makes me laugh.
Twelve bunkers. Twelve Arrays. Just what in the hell were these people doing?
The latest date I can find reference to, in printed mails or crossed off on desk calendars, is the very day I entered my coma. When I first make that connection it floors me. I stand there for minutes, working the calculations in my head, checking if it's true; but it's just a date, there's no real calculations to do. Perhaps this is the place my condition began, when the fuse was set on everything that was to follow. Or maybe it was just another casualty from another shared cause.
Still, it gives a certain perspective.
I emerge from the under-jungle after hours, with my head throbbing from the pressure on the line. I find a different elevator bank and climb up, into a part of the building with bedrooms and bunkrooms, offices, a canteen, a gym, a comms room. At the northernmost point of the structure I find the office of Joran Helkegarde, Director, overlooking stretching tundra and ice through large windows.
The Last Mayor Box Set Page 178