The Last Mayor Box Set 3

by Michael John Grist

  Someone vomited to Joran's right. Sandbrooke. Joran felt the same urge, but nothing was working as it should. He was frozen in position by a flood of cold and heat, of interference in his head, like someone had programmed an impossible thought into his own parameters and dialed it up to dangerous levels.

  "We have to," somebody said nearby, and Joran caught the stench of fresh vomit as Sandbrooke staggered forward against one of the archway pillars. Perhaps he didn't realize how close he was to-

  Another break hit him.

  The giant red thing was spinning in the middle, lashing at its data spine and others nearby. There was more than one like it now, batting smaller bodies around like weeds. There was a black and white thing nearby, whose very presence burned against his skin like an electrostatic shock. There was a gray thing with eyes like white halogens, crystalizing the storm outside, reaching out at the full extent of its data spine leash. Someone was laughing, and now Joran's eyes came back and he saw it was Sandbrooke, as a flimsy black thing several rows into the Array pressed its fingers into his head.

  Joran felt his jaw drop. Sandbrooke with his bright blue eyes and easy blonde hair was on his knees in the thick of the Array. The other creatures had peeled to the side to let this insubstantial black wraith thing have Sandbrooke to itself; standing over him, pushing its hands deeper into his head.

  Sandbrooke laughed but his eyes were terrified. Joran felt his own bladder release, and hot liquid streamed down his thighs and the stink of urine filled the air. The black thing barely seemed real, some kind of evil ghost from a nightmare, but it was right here. There was no blood though, no cracks in Sandbrooke's skull where its hands entered, only another fleshy weld on his forehead where the wraith's wrists merged into his skin.

  "Joran!" Sandbrooke called out, his voice half his usual merry self, half utterly terrified. "Joran, I think we should leave now."

  The hands sank deeper. Joran thought he saw the shadow of them pass across the inside of Sandbrooke's eyes. Sandbrooke shuddered and laughed and his mouth twitched violently, as if he was talking when he wasn't saying a word.

  "Help," he managed, a wet gulp, as the shade pressed its arms deeper in through his head, pushing impossibly into solid meat and bone, until it was elbow deep, then shoulder deep, and Sandbrooke shook from above like a puppet on a string. He stopped making any human sounds at all and only began to squelch. His mouth opened and sucking wet noises came out.

  Sound rushed back in, and Joran became aware of the chaos and confusion all around, with bodies shifting and snatching, yanking at their data spine shackles and transforming, though he only had eyes for Sandbrooke. Now his stomach swelled as the wraith poured more of itself in, stretching outward through his sleek shirt, then his throat bulged and he coughed up something black and lumpy, which ran down his chest, and which Joran dimly recognized as a kidney. A second lump followed, along with a trail of thick black juice. Sandbrooke's eyes jerked and he gave a long loud burp, and-

  The pressure in Joran's head tightened and he was yanked forward by invisible hands. Now there was something gray and furious holding onto him, working his arm over with its teeth. In a bloody moment Joran realized he'd been sucked in to the fringe of the Array. Had he stepped in? His left arm was held out like a foreign object, while the gray thing took bites out of it. He felt the pain of each gulp, but distantly.

  "I-" he began, then Sandbrooke's body appeared beside him, his shirt marked with a grotesque trail of internal matter, while the black shade moved behind his eyes. It was inside him now, wearing him like a second skin. It opened Sandbrooke's mouth so hard his jaw cracked, then leaned in to clamp down on Joran's left arm too.

  It came back with a chunk of skin and muscle. Joran screamed and panicked as the pain finally hit and his blood pumped out. He couldn't move, could barely think for the thickness of cold and heat in his head, electric static and screaming and all he wanted was to die, until-

  RATATATATATATAT

  Sandbrooke was blown backward, stitched across the torso with a line of bright red stars. The red giant in the middle toppled backward, as did the gray thing holding Joran's arm.

  RATATATATATATAT

  One of the black and white ones collapsed in a puddle of fizzing static, like a puddle of gooey cola. The yellow thing that had been paddling the paramedic around rolled and sucked itself sideways away from the lines of fire.

  RATATATATATATAT

  Machine gun fire, he realized. One of their protocols? He veered dizzily, looking for a place to put his bloody arm, something to do. They'd never drilled for this. A circle cleared around him, and overhead on the railing there were stick figures leaning over and shouting.

  He wandered deeper into the cleared circle, not knowing why. Perhaps he could get the chunks of his arm back, sew them back into place. He kicked at the gray thing that had bitten him; it lay on the floor like a body bag.

  "Hey," he muttered.

  He looked at his bitten left arm, like a bloody stick or a movie prop. Someone was shouting, and he turned again.

  "What?" he called to the figures up there, uncertain. "Me?"

  A rope lashed down and hit him on the head. He watched it snake back upward as another RATATATATATATAT pealed out and scored divots into the cement floor around him, ricocheting out through his Array.

  "Don't hurt them," he said, though he didn't know why. They weren't young men any more, their prospects no longer so bright, but-

  "I think-" he started to say, but the rope came again, this time looping round his neck and savaged arm like a lasso, which tightened in a second. A second later it swept him up as more bullets strafed the crowd, and he dangled above them with a panoramic view of the chaos.

  Sandbrooke was long gone, blasted by bullets. The paramedic was a withered canoe-skin on the floor somewhere, being dragged around by the yellow thing in his chest. The Array was an ocean of multi-hued flesh, writhing amongst itself, lapping with a confluence of different tides.

  His Array.

  They hauled him up. His shoulder hit the upper railing and they dragged him over. He felt momentarily ashamed that he'd pissed himself and let half of his arm be bitten away, but surely the blood loss was killing him already.

  "Jesus, Joran!" said a familiar voice, and he saw skinny Sovoy there, face pale and disbelieving. "What the hell did we do?"

  He gave a little, apologetic laugh. Sandbrooke was gone. No more SEAL oversight. His head sagged on his neck and he collapsed in strong arms.

  "Get us out!" Sovoy barked, not waiting for him to answer. "Out, out, out!"

  They ran with Joran down the gantry, his body juggling in their arms, so he could no longer see the bloody arena of the Array, but instead saw through the glass wall to the parking lot outside. Already a flood of people ill-dressed for the Siberian weather were streaming for the cars, coaches, and helicopters. One was taking off. The snow swirled over it all.

  So this was the message, he wondered, before unconsciousness took him. This was God's message to humanity, his greatest creation, his holy Word.

  5. INCHCOMBE

  It was quieter and darker when Anna came round. Her head throbbed and her throat stung, her eyes were gummed together and didn't want to open, but she forced them to, though the world was bleary. Voices spoke nearby, then for a moment went silent.

  "She's waking up."

  "Send for Inchcombe."

  Anna took stock of her position, trying to be ready for what was coming. Her arms were bound at her sides, but she didn't have the strength to fight anyway. She blinked furiously, cleared her throat with a cough that hurt deep inside. She remembered where she was and what she'd been doing.

  Where were Peters and the others?

  Inchcombe, they'd said. Anna remembered the name; she'd come to know many of Istanbul bunker's personnel while hashing out the finer points of the treaty with them. Inchcombe was in the upper tier of management, in charge of bunker logistics, as best she could discern their hierarchical st
ructure. Her authority lay beneath both Geoffrey Marshall and Steven Reddich, in military and command, and probably on a par with Tanya Morse in their equivalent of HR.

  That it was Inchcombe coming led Anna to believe that the others were dead. She'd seen Geoffrey Marshall's body in Istanbul. She tried to summon everything that she knew about Inchcombe, but it was hardly worth it; there was nothing.

  Inchcombe came. At first Anna felt her as a presence at her side, like the skinless man in the dark lab, obscured by the grit in her eyes. She twisted her neck and saw the pink oval of a face, dark blurry currants for eyes, and a sharp slash of mouth. Pretty, perhaps.

  "Give me one good reason I don't kill you right now, Anna," Inchcombe said. There wasn't an inch of give in her voice. "You and all your people."

  Anna tried to speak, but only managed to cough up black phlegm that burned and trickled slimily down her cheek.

  "Give her some water, dammit," Inchcombe said. "I haven't got time for this. Clean her up."

  Rough hands rubbed her eyes with an alcohol wipe. A bottle appeared at her lips and she managed to swallow a little. It helped. She could see a little; Inchcombe was an angry face.

  "I'm waiting."

  Anna swallowed back a cough and managed a few croaking words. "You need me."

  Inchcombe laughed with no humor. "Prove it."

  "I know things," Anna added weakly. "I can-"

  "She's a terrorist," said another voice, an angry man that Anna couldn't see. "We don't have time for it. Look at her, she set the bomb. We need to kill her and move on."

  Inchcombe inclined her head, then leaned closer in so her dark eyes resolved through the fog. She had short-cropped black hair. "Last chance, Anna. I'm dealing with a humanitarian crisis here, hundreds dead, hundreds sick and getting sicker up here with the signal gone, and it's because of you. Think of this as a negotiation. Have you got something to offer me or not? What's your life worth?"

  Anna cleared her throat and tried again. "I've got the cure. I can save your people. I know where your monsters are."

  That gave Inchcombe pause, while in back some of her people scoffed. "Monsters?"

  "The black and white ones," Anna said, then paused to gasp a breath. "That blew up Istanbul."

  Inchcombe waved a hand. "The lepers? We know about that. They're the least of our concerns. Where's Amo, that's what I want to know. He blew up our shield. We need to secure him."

  "I have the cure," Anna repeated, feeling the moment slipping away. "I'm pregnant, I have-"

  Somebody laughed, somebody repeated "Pregnant?", somebody slapped her face. Not Inchcombe. She just sighed.

  "Amo, Anna. That's the deal, that's what I need. Give him over and you have a chance, because he's the threat. Your people may survive. I can't promise you will."

  Anna gulped, while stinging tears rose from the slap. So be it. This was plainly not a negotiation, but a final confession; there was no mercy here for her or the others. These people had dropped a bomb on New LA, after all. They'd taken out Lucas' team in the midst of treaty negotiations. When the questions were done she was almost certainly going to die.

  Her mind raced ahead. The cure would die in her belly, and so would Peters and the others. Ravi's death would mean nothing. These people respected strength only, but where was her strength now?

  There was a click; a pistol slide being cocked.

  "I see you heard that, Anna. Show me what you're worth."

  What was she worth? What was Amo worth? The answer came back easily. He'd made his decision when he slaughtered Gap.

  "I can give you Amo."

  "Better," said Inchcombe approvingly. "I'm waiting."

  Anna closed her eyes, and listened. Not to the sounds in the hangar; the bustle of people moving in the background, and soft voices offering reassurance, but to the place the line should have been. It was still gone, blown away after whatever happened in central Istanbul, and her sense of it was frazzled anyway after wearing the helmet and taking on Amo, but residual images remained.

  The people nearby, thousands of them, showed up as new signals in the air, making their own unfamiliar stippled pattern. In a cluster nearby was a group of her people. Peters' signal was strong amongst them. She cast her thoughts wider, feeling for the dark storm of anger that had surrounded Amo when she last saw him, and found it.

  It was clear. It was powerful. It was already far to the North.

  She opened her eyes again. Now the gun was in her face.

  "What the hell was that?" Inchcombe asked. "Communing with your God?"

  "Listening to the line," Anna said.

  Somebody laughed.

  "You're this close, Anna," Inchcombe said. "Pull it round or that's it."

  Anna snorted. Bullshit. Here was her strength, and feeling it rise up, she knew she wasn't even close to death. She took a deep breath and cranked up the aggression, grinding words out of her throat like a broken gearbox.

  "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know anything about life out here, in the line. So listen." She took a breath, moistening her dry mouth. "Shoot me, shoot my people, and I promise you'll be dead in months. All of you. Your shield's gone and the line's gone too, poisoned by your 'lepers'." She took a rattling breath and pressed on, using anger as her crutch. "The other bunkers won't take you in, and I know you can't make another shield big enough to cover even half of you all. If you don't do exactly as I say, when I say it, you are going to die. It's a fact." She managed to crane her neck and look around. The hangar was dark, there were five shadowy figures circled around her, holding weapons, looking angry. She redoubled her aggression. "You want to know where Amo is? I can tell you, because I know the line in ways you never will. I can feel him, just like I can feel you, and your people, and mine. You won't believe that, so I can prove it. You're holding my people in Hangar outbuilding 11. Go confirm it. Send that shit who just slapped me. As for Amo, he's gone to the North. Already he's a hundred miles away, out of your range. There's nothing you can do."

  She let a pause hang while she swallowed again. Shit, that was a lot of talking. It hurt in her lungs, in her throat. Still she pressed on, forcing the last bitter pill down.

  "Amo is bullshit, anyway. You need me, and you need a cure. I'm pregnant with it. For that, I need Lucas alive. I need my team alive. Hurt any one of them, and you are dead." She looked at the blur of Inchcombe, then round at the rest of them one by one. "Every single one of you is dead, and I'll be left laughing over your graves."

  Her throat felt rubbed raw with sandpaper. She took heavy, panting breaths in the aftermath, while the rest of them took all that in.

  Somebody laughed.

  "I say we toast the cheeky little bitch right now," somebody said.

  Inchcombe raised a hand, addressing her people without turning her head

  "Did you tell her where her people were being held?"

  Anna saw the outline of somebody shrugging.

  "Use your words, Montcliffe," Inchcombe snapped, steel stabbing into her voice. "Tell me, did one of you tell her, or mention it front of her?"

  "No," Montcliffe answered, angry but obedient. The same guy from before, she remembered his name too. "Maybe someone on the floor said it? She might have overheard."

  "That's enough."

  He fell silent. Inchcombe leaned in.

  "Anna, you'll understand there is no condition under which I'll make the promises you're asking for. Not after everything you've done, not after Gap and Brezno, after this."

  Anna laughed, a painful hacking sound. "Then you're an idiot. That was Amo who destroyed the bunkers. You need to learn to distinguish between us. I'm here to help you. I always was. If it wasn't for me no one from your Command would still be alive."

  Inchcombe's eyebrows beetled together. "That remains to be seen. I'll be interviewing the Command survivors. We're also going to move your people, and I want you to play your little trick again." She gave a gesture to that effect, and somebody moved
away. "In the meantime, you're going to tell me what this cure is. You're going to tell me every word of what you know. And after all that, I still might have you shot."

  Anna couldn't stop a smile creeping onto her face. Perhaps it made her look guilty. She hoped it made her look confident. This was progress. This was something she could deal with.

  "Water," she croaked. "Do my eyes again. Let me sit up, like a proper human."

  Inchcombe sighed, but gave a sign. Concessions. They fiddled with the ropes tying her to the crate for a time, clearly unaccustomed to the task, until Anna stepped in and directed them, showing them a clove's hoof knot that she'd often used on her catamaran. They held up a bottle and water went down her throat and cooled the burn. Her eyes cleaned up better as they dabbed away more gunk, until she could pick out Inchcombe's eyes, more curious now than they were angry.

  "Make this good," Inchcombe said. The anger was burning there still, tied up tightly with shock and grief. She'd just lost everything; her home, her leaders and hundreds of her people, maybe people she'd loved and cared for. She was looking for somewhere to pin the blame and take revenge, just as much as she was seeking a way to make it right.

  Just like Anna.

  So she licked her lips and began the story of the skinless man, Ravi and her impregnation.

  * * *

  After the story, there were questions. Many of them Anna didn't know the answers to. Many she withheld. Some areas she feigned knowledge of, like the 'lepers'. How had one of them blown up in Istanbul? What had happened to the line? How had Amo beaten General Marshall so many times?

  She didn't know, so gave vague answers about 'the power of the line', while trying to figure out the truth herself. She hadn't had time to even think about it yet. The things Amo had done? They defied explanation. And the Amo she'd encountered in the bunker's Command had been nothing like the man she'd known, wrapped up in his burning black storm. His eyes had been so wild; like a feral animal, like he hadn't even recognized her. How could she explain any of that?