The Last Mayor Box Set

by Michael John Grist

  Rachel took another step back, disbelief etched into her features. "What are you talking about?"

  "I had a baby," Anna explained. "It disappeared, but it didn't die. At first I didn't know what that meant, but then I figured it out. It added itself to me. It means I can go back. I get another shot, without getting shredded from my time up here."

  Rachel's jaw hung open.

  "All I need's a ride. So here I am."

  Rachel frowned. "Where's the ride?"

  Anna grinned, and pointed at the television. "Right there. You've got a body waiting. Do you mind?"

  "I don't-"

  "I'll take that as a yes. I won't need a tongue for what I've got in mind. Stay tuned. This is going to be epic."

  "What's going to be epic?"

  "The rout of Olan Harrison. Go to James While. Together you can write a ballad about it."

  "A ballad?"

  She was stunned. Anna enjoyed it while she could. "Now, I'll just take these."

  She reached up and worked some actions across the invisible line, twisting the Lazarus strings so that they came undone. She then tied them around her own legs, round her arms, round her waist and neck. Already the pull was growing stronger.

  "He'll know it isn't me," Rachel said, trying to outpace the bafflement as the strings came off. "We've done this before. We hooked the wrong one and we let it go."

  Anna had an answer for that. "Give me your clothes."

  Rachel Heron looked aghast. "What?"

  "The stupid black suit. I've always wanted to wear one. Hand it over."

  "You think a suit's going to make a difference?"

  "Every bit makes a difference. Listen, Rachel. Nothing here is nothing. Everything means something. Your clothes are part of you. Your hair is part of you. Cut me some pieces off."

  "What, my hair? You're not even getting my clothes."

  Anna inclined her head. "I could just take them. You know that, right? I'd rather not; it'll be a bad experience for us both. But don't worry, I won't leave you naked on the line. Here, you can have this."

  She held out a grimy Alice in Wonderland outfit. Rachel Heron eyed it snootily.

  "I'm not wearing that."

  "I think you better. Unless you want to get sucked down with me and compressed into a single mind together." She pointed at the TV. "Which won't be pleasant, 'cos I'll win, and you'll be boxed, with all the jagged edges of the line screaming in there with you. There's only one ride waiting." She shook the filthy rags. "Put this on, and you'll stink of me, the best camouflage I can rustle up. And this too." She held out the silver necklace. "But keep it safe. I want that back."

  Rachel Heron stared as if she'd never been so insulted. Anna just began to strip. Off came her gray slacks and her snug white blouse, the frictionless casual wear of a yachtswoman. She folded them neatly on an icy rock to the side, then held the blue and white dress out again, naked in the afterlife.

  "Rachel, it's no big deal. I don't have cooties."

  "Cooties?"

  Anna laughed. "Tug's getting stronger. Take your shot, sister."

  At last, Rachel Heron's face firmed up. The shock and fear faded, replaced with a new conviction. She didn't believe it, that was clear, but Anna could see what she was thinking. Perhaps if she just acted as if there was hope, then there might be hope. That was faith right there, perhaps the most important lesson Anna had learned from Cerulean. Belief was everything.

  She unzipped her black suit, pulled her arms and legs out of it, and handed it over. She took the Alice in Wonderland outfit, and together the two changed.

  Anna felt the shift come over her as she dressed. Memories took shape as the zip came up. Fourteen years of drudgery under a hungry god; of hope under fire, of clinging to the slightest glimmer. She looked at Rachel with a newfound respect.

  "You did well."

  Rachel Heron had tears in her eyes. Dressed in the dirty costume she looked about twelve years old. "And you."

  "Good good," Anna said, "now a hug."

  They hugged, and she slipped the necklace over Rachel's head. "That'll give you someone to talk to on the line, while you're waiting. He's a great man."

  Rachel laughed. "He's famous."

  "We're all famous now. Wish me luck. The pull's coming."

  "Kill him, Anna," Rachel said, suddenly intense. She stepped closer. "Kill him completely. Don't give him any chance. Don't let him come back."

  Now Anna laughed. "You've seen who I am. He's not coming back from what I've got planned."

  Then the strings tightened. The line spiraled, and something yanked Anna up and sideways at the same time. The past whistled by like the waves of the Atlantic with a spinnaker sail accelerating her ahead, so fast that at any minute the whole yacht would pitch-pole and cast her into the water, but she leaned right out, forcing the tug into perfect alignment with the weight of her body.

  She flew. The line hummed. She hit.

  And opened her eyes in a new body.

  23. ISHTAR

  It wasn't what she'd expected.

  It was quieter.

  The body on the slab was empty; empty of memories, of emotions, of the line. Raw and un-programmed, it was truly a blank slate. As Olan Harrison stalked around her pulled the rest of herself in like a damp towel squeezed through a wringer, dripping in to the arms and legs, into the eyes and the ears, down the spinal column and deep into the brain.

  Yes, it was a good fit. Being white was no different to being black. On the inside color didn't matter a bit.

  With a rebounding snip she cut the trails linking her back to the line, sealing her into this body. It was a nauseating and heady experience, to come back. Who'd ever done this before? She couldn't wait to tell Ravi about it.

  1up.

  She blinked, taking control of her clone body, and watched Olan Harrison looking down eagerly. He was waiting for something. Perhaps he'd been speaking. Anna just looked back at him. She could see into him plainly, this close. Until this point he'd been just a photograph in Joran Helkegarde's notes, a feeling on the line, a fear in Rachel Heron's mind.

  Like this he looked at once enormously powerful, but also small and tattered, a ripped flag trodden into the dirt, patched and repaired so many times it didn't look at all like the original. She almost felt sorry for him. He hadn't re-absorbed a floater baby, hadn't protected himself in any way from the ravages of the line, so his hollow head was full of only maddened half-voices, bitter schemes and pain.

  The pain defined him. His edges were built out of agony, matured like whiskey in a keg for decades to leave only the rawest, brightest urge toward dominance. He was a mouth gnashing in the darkness, not a person, and there was nothing left to do but put him out of his misery.

  "Rachel," he said. There was uncertainty in his glowing white eyes. Anna saw through them to the fear lurking within. "Aren't you going to scream?"

  He'd expected something different. He thought he'd hooked a helpless woman like a baby by the toe, dropping her into a pain to match his own, where only an endless cycle of self-mutilation could alleviate the suffering.

  But Anna didn't feel that. The line wasn't jagged in her mind, because of Ravi's sacrifice, and Helkegarde's sacrifice, and Jake's sacrifice, and so many sacrifices piled up like a mountain for her to climb.

  Instead she looked into Olan's eyes and saw the fear curdle. It wouldn't take much. One blow on the line and he'd be gone, though she knew she wouldn't survive beyond that moment. In dying he'd drag her with him, with no second extra life to help her on a second return. He'd be sucked down by the Lazarus protocol and when her chance came around again, it would be as a slave into one of his cells.

  Her death wouldn't mean anything.

  Instead she smiled at him. His brows beetled. She couldn't speak, but if she'd had a tongue she might have said something kind. Not forgiveness, but sympathy, for the extent to which he'd mutilated himself. What was coming now couldn't be stopped by anyone; it was too big, bigger than
Anna herself, bigger than Amo, as big and expansive as the line.

  She'd seen what he'd done. The billions he'd banished; trapped in bodies turned to stone, frozen into stardust, locked out in the cold while he drained the line into silence.

  It was too much to forgive, but there could be sympathy, still.

  "You're not Rachel," he whispered, finally seeing the light. Other people came rushing in then, brandishing syringes and frantically working electrical and magnetic signals through the wires and the walls, but that was nothing to her now. Every second drew out like an age before her, offering so much promise. She waited through their bumbling efforts, urging Olan on to deeper understanding.

  At last, realization dawned. "You're the girl," he said, tinted with disbelief. "Anna."

  It was good for him to know. She gave a slow, sad nod. And then she jumped.

  * * *

  Five miles away, she flashed into existence at the inner edge of the massive black wall, where the rolling hills of ocean bodies stretched away in every direction. They were white as bones, all pigment bleached by the sun, rising and falling in frozen waves.

  Millions, perhaps a billion just here. Images of her father lodged within a body pile in the high plains of Mongolia flashed before her, and a seamount in the ocean of Japan, and all the tumbled heaps she'd seen on her long voyage west. It brought prickling tears to her eyes, that she'd always been so totally blind.

  These were all people. They still were people. Trapped within every one of them, crammed down deep by the massive boot of Olan Harrison's corrupted line, was a person screaming to be let out.

  It was time.

  Now tears sped down her cheeks; she'd never really known it before, never seen them so thoroughly, never felt what the loss truly was. She'd seen her father in his pile and felt something even then, but never put the pieces together. Perhaps as a child, away from the touch and voices of civilization, she'd understood it best. Those days leading the ocean to the ocean, opening doors that imprisoned them, setting them free from cellars and locked houses, had been some of the most beautiful and rewarding of her life.

  What was this, she thought, but a grander version of that? Ishtar come to smash the doors of hell and set the dead free; a story Peters had told her once. It was time to throw the shackles off, to lift the boot and change the line forever. It had taken dying to see it; but now she saw and had the power to make a change, fuelled by all the people she'd seen above; her family, her friends, her lover. Those things meant something. Those connections had value. That was something Olan Harrison could never understand.

  She flexed her powers, and felt reality ripple outward like a stone dropped in the water. Up ahead she saw the man who all this would come down to. He was staring back at her; he'd felt her arrival despite the thick black wall between them, and perhaps he'd recognized her. He looked so old it made her want to sob; broken and battered, dressed in rags with wild hair and wild eyes, raving on the edge of defeat and still pushing forward.

  Amo, the Last Mayor of America.

  He'd fought her in Istanbul and almost killed her. They'd taken separate routes to this place, but they were both here now, and that had to mean something. He had to be a good man still, despite all the horrors he'd done, because if he wasn't then all of this was for nothing. In her heart she forgave him, because how could she not? For all the things he'd done, for all she'd done, nothing mattered more than the link between them now. She longed to call to him, to promise that everything would be OK and they'd see each other again soon, but of course she could not.

  Instead she only smiled. It was all right that he wouldn't recognize her yet. He soon would.

  She reached down into the depths of the line; deeper than she'd known it existed before, down through the bodies and into the roots of the world, to the bottom of Olan Harrison's slippery corruption, where she grasped hold and took the strain.

  Her face turned red. Her presence on the line expanded, pumping up into a giant version of herself, with immense arms and legs, a back as broad as the Chinese Theater, fingers as big as semi trailers, great muscles bunching hard as she strained with all her strength to lift up the line itself.

  The weight of it was enormous, crippling, heavier than the hurt had been while she'd hunkered down in bed as a girl, heavier than Ravi's loss or Cerulean's sadness, but she had so many sources of strength now; not only Alice and her father but all the extended family of New LA.

  With that strength she hoisted, and heaved, and lifted the whole of the line to her waist like she was hauling up a whale from the ocean depths. Amo's eyes widened as he felt the epic shift of it. He didn't understand it, but then how could he, because he hadn't died and come back. Only someone who'd tasted the purity of the line on the solar winds could recognize this for what it was; the lifting of Olan Harrison's boot stamped across the world.

  She cried out a giant's wordless cry, and blood poured from her giant palms where the line cut in, washing a river down the vales of the dead as she drove it higher still, scraping to her chest. Now in rushed the frozen millions with it; fragments of their thoughts, their hopes, their dreams set free. Fourteen years ago their lives had ended, but still they hadn't died. Their bodies had come here seeking to erase the dagger stabbed into the line, but they had failed, and in the long years that followed they'd turned to stone.

  With the weight of their strength thickening her bulk, firming up her trembling legs and quivering back, Anna let out an enormous roar and lifted yet again, this time pressing the line to her shoulders. Finally Amo saw what she was doing. Relief played across his face, and disbelief, and awe. He'd never imagined this. What changes this would bring!

  Then the first blow landed.

  Anna saw it emerge through her chest before she felt it; a diamond blade as thick as a fist, punching out of her sternum and carrying with it a gush of blood and splintered bone.

  Jabberwock, she thought, from a distant place high in the clouds, rising still with the line at her shoulders, channeling the powerful surge of her own death into lifting this immense slave's shackle up, up, until a second blow slammed in beside the first, hefting her body into the air.

  The line fell.

  Into the black wall before her Amo came charging and roaring, though what could he do now? She was dying on her feet, but then she'd always known this moment would come. There was so little strength left, and she couldn't hold back the flood as the blood poured from her like it had flowed from Ravi's chest. Poor Ravi in the corn. A third and fourth blade slammed through her, pinning her to the air like a butterfly in a case, off her feet while the line dropped…

  But she wasn't a butterfly in a case. She wasn't the T4 twisting beneath the light of the electron microscope, wasn't a slave beneath Olan Harrison's global yoke and she would not die a slave.

  With a final roar into the wind and draining every glimmer of strength, she caught the falling line and thrust it up, up into the light, up over her head and soaring higher still, until the rising swell of tiny lights from the frozen ocean achieved its own momentum, and rocketed Olan's corruption up further, and up, until the world could breathe clean again.

  The giant body collapsed around her, its work done, and Anna sagged onto the diamond blades, watching the beautiful colors and shapes of an old world unfurling like a rainbow sail; a wonderful and terrible vision from another time, swirling up from the bodies in the ground and spreading. As her vision failed and her limbs drooped lifelessly, she saw the new surge of defiance race over the body hills like a tidal wave.

  Its breath loosened the fastnesses of time set upon frozen stone limbs, and smoothed out the rough, cracking contours of minds long-surrendered to corruption. In her final seconds before Olan flared his blades and ripped her body to pieces, she glimpsed the first hand raise up, and the first head lift, and the first eyes open a burning, pitiless white.

  The doors of hell opened at her command, and the dead rose to her call.

  24. RISE
r />   Amo hit the shield wall like a man on fire and ripped a path in, tearing out gouges of black static as the rage boiled up within.

  That was Anna!

  Somehow it was Anna, in a different body in a place he'd never expected, inside Olan's impenetrable wall, and the bastard had just torn her to pieces. Rage splintered out of him like the blast over New LA, chewing deep into the shield and erupting afresh with every step forward; as the final look on her face played again through his head, as the blades shredded her body in quarters, as he stood by helpless one more time watching another person he loved fall down to the dust, because he just wasn't strong enough.

  The fury was agonizing and absolute; stronger than smashing his fists into the brain pulp of Drake in front of his children, deeper than lashing Arnst at the side of the road and trying to enjoy it, wider than crushing living bodies beneath the wheels of his Jeep in Istanbul. It became a living, screaming beast inside him that had to be let out.

  He let it out in screams and lashes into the meat of the wall, ripping away shreds that tore back through his own skin in turn, burning through the rage. Slits opened down his cheeks and chest with the black eye's overheated fury, spilling blood down his thighs as he lurched further into the wall's crushing static.

  He'd done so many terrible things, he'd hurt so many people, so why couldn't it be him, why did Anna have to die? He'd sent her to kill bunkers and she'd written a treaty to keep them alive. He'd sent her to Witzgenstein and she'd come back with peace. In the earliest days of the apocalypse when he'd been out massacring the dead, she'd spent her days setting them free. It should have been him!

  He roared into the wall as it dropped him to one knee, the weight so immense. Through the furious fog of the eye and the wall in crackling combat around him he saw Olan Harrison just ahead, splattered with blood and watching with a cool, dispassionate interest, and felt hatred like he never had before.

  If nothing else happened today, this man had to die. It didn't matter if the death was long or hard, if the pain matched the tortures he'd forced onto others, he just had to die. It was the only way to make things right, to pay for the loss of seven billion people and finally begin to heal this tremendous wound.