The Last Mayor Box Set 3

by Michael John Grist

  It scared her even now. When she blinked she saw Amo again, looking down and making his decision.

  Kill her? Not kill her?

  It had been a long moment. There'd been nothing she could do.

  "What is it?" Inchcombe asked.

  Anna realized she'd shuddered. She had to get better control. They'd made progress together, but needed more. The gun had been put away after she'd done her trick twice more, locating her people in spite of them trying to trick her by once splitting them into separate groups. Yet still she was sitting here tied up. Still her people were being kept from her, and they weren't telling her anything.

  Yet Inchcombe had shifted a little with each answer. Not exactly shrinking, or growing weaker, but retreating slightly into herself. Anna had said the world up here was different, that Inchcombe didn't belong, and here was the proof. Anna had powers they didn't share. What else was she capable of?

  That was a gap she had to close.

  "Salle Coram," she said starkly. "I was thinking about Salle Coram."

  Inchcombe's eyes narrowed. Deon Inchcombe, to give her full name; that much Anna remembered now from the treaty negotiations. Australian, green-eyed, exhausted and overwhelmed but holding it together. With her were Montcliffe and two others, a man and a woman, both armed. The rest of her team, those who could still walk after whatever Amo did to them, were helping the sick, clearing dead bodies before they started to rot in the heat, scavenging down into the bunker to collect food and gear.

  "What about Salle Coram?"

  "You remind me of her," Anna said, slowly. Inchcombe stiffened. "Perhaps you knew her?"

  "She was the head of the Maine bunker," Inchcombe said flatly, insulated by the aftermath of shock. "We were in contact. You killed her."

  Anna nodded. "We did."

  Inchcombe pinched the bridge of her nose. She was losing patience. "So tell me, Anna, why do I remind you of her?"

  "You look lost, like she was. She got the role when everyone above her died, just like you. She didn't know what to do. She ended up dead, with all her people."

  She let that hang. Inchcombe looked at her, then blinked, as if rousing herself from a reverie. "I think we're finished here."

  She started away.

  "Did you ever wonder why?" Anna called after her. "I know you must be curious, how we beat your bunker." Inchcombe stopped. Montcliffe nearby squeezed his fists tightly. "Why Salle Coram surrendered to Amo."

  Inchcombe didn't turn, but she didn't walk any further away. "I'm sure you want to tell me. It won't change anything here."

  "Maybe not," Anna pressed, "but why not listen, you may learn something." Long seconds passed, until Inchcombe turned back. Her face was a mask that hid anger inside. Good. Emotion was something Anna could use.

  "Are you hoping for a quick death, here? Trying to antagonize me?"

  Anna glared at her. It was cruel, perhaps, but it was going to get more cruel. There was only one way forward now, and it was through this woman. The alternative was to stay tied up, and she'd seen the look in Montcliffe's eye. She knew what he would do if given the chance.

  Just an accident, he would say. Who would speak up for her and her people then?

  The ropes had to come off now.

  "Salle Coram underestimated us," Anna said. "She underestimated a man named Cerulean, my father. A cripple in a wheelchair, but he turned the tide against her, because he understood the line. Salle tried to make him a demon, but she couldn't, not fast enough. He got a warning to us, and that warning sealed her fate. Her ignorance killed her."

  Inchcombe stared, the anger animating her face now, pulling her lips toward a snarl. "Do you feel better? Unburdening yourself like this?"

  Anna let her lips curl into a matching snarl. She'd barely gotten started. "We killed Salle Coram, Deon. We killed her demons, we crushed her plan, and when we came to take Maine, and she climbed up to surrender, do you know what she said?"

  Inchcombe stared stony-eyed.

  "She said she'd been rooting for Amo for years. Praying for him. Hoping somehow he might figure out a way to save both his people and her own. She dreamed, Deon, but she didn't do a damn thing. She wasn't ready when Lars Mecklarin died, and she wasn't ready when we came knocking on her door, so all her people died. That's why she reminds me of you. Because you are not ready for what's coming your way. You're going to lead your people to the same fate as Salle Coram."

  Inchcombe's eyes burned. Anna saw the truth in them, and that's why the fire burned so hot. Inchcombe knew she wasn't ready.

  "Let me frag the little bitch now," Montcliffe spat, taking a step toward Anna, dropping his hand to his gun. "I can't listen to one more word of her bullshit."

  Anna didn't look at him. She stared only at Inchcombe.

  "Walk away now with these ropes on my wrists, and I'll be dead by the morning. You know I'm right. And you'll be making excuses like Salle Coram when the end comes."

  Inchcombe stared at her, the anger becoming confusion. "You're a killer. I can't trust you."

  "You can't trust the bunkers. They're not your allies anymore. The old world is dead, Inchcombe, and you need me if you want to survive. It's that simple." She looked pointedly at the ropes.

  Inchcombe was weakening. She was angry and exhausted. The moment broke.

  "Untie her. Let her go."

  Montcliffe gasped. Then he drew his gun.

  He didn't get any shots off. Inchcombe drew her own weapon and pointed it at his head.

  "Stand down, soldier."

  He turned slowly. Anna got a good look at his face. He was handsome enough, with broad red cheeks, short dark hair, a five o'clock shadow. His eyes were blue and disbelieving.

  "Are you serious?"

  "Holster your gun and get out," said Inchcombe. "There's a hierarchy here."

  He stared at her. He stared a little too long. Then he smiled, and holstered it.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  He left.

  Inchcombe gazed at Anna for a long moment. Taking her measure. Making her decision.

  "Let her go," she said again, then turned and left.

  They cut her loose. They left Anna sitting on the crate alone.

  The enormity of the task ahead settled heavily on her shoulders. Her eyes closed. She pushed against the weariness, but there was no strength left.

  INTERLUDE 3

  The chopper blades slashed the white air, while Joran passed in and out of consciousness. People were shouting and someone was tugging on his arm. They rose up into the air. He pulled back weakly, and was greeted with more darkness.

  When he roused next Sovoy was sitting by his head, his eyes haunted, his face pale. The dull thump of blades filled the dark space. It was cold.

  "What did we do, Joran?" Sovoy asked. His gaze was far away. "What was that signal we sent up?"

  Joran tried to speak. "I-"

  "You said it was just one word. Hello. The SEAL's saying it was bigger though, something genetic, some fusion of the line with a virus trigger. The whole world just rocked, Joran, not just here! All twelve stations in the Array erupted. What was in that message?"

  Joran floundered for a firm grip on reality. His left arm felt strangely light. "Hello," he managed.

  "It can't have only been that! They had to bomb the Zeta Array in Siberian China; a nuclear bomb, Joran! Some of those things got out, but we weren't even synced with Zeta Array, so how the hell did that happen? 'Hello' can't have done all that. They may even have to bomb our Array too, nobody knows. Those things, they were…" He tailed off. "The SEAL wants answers. They've been talking to me, waiting for you to wake up, but I don't know." He took a shuddery breath. "They've recalled us, we're heading for Istanbul right now. The inquisition is coming for you, and you need to have some answers. Just tell me you didn't sabotage us, that's what I need to know. I've heard reports of impacts on the wider populace…" He tailed off again, gazing past Joran's face.

  "I just-" Joran tried, but there was a m
ismatch between his voice and his thoughts. A bomb?

  "They almost took your arm, you know," Sovoy said flatly. "Sawed off at the shoulder. I told them to stop. I don't know why. Look."

  He pushed Joran's head to the side, so he could see the stick of bitten flesh that lay there, suspended in a traction cradle. It was almost funny. There'd always been a normal arm there, and now there was this partially bandaged, iodine-slathered, partially savaged lump. It looked more like a half-carved piece of pork than anything that belonged to him.

  "They're using words like zombies," Sovoy said. "They asked for Sandbrooke, but of course he's dead, isn't he? I saw enough of that. And you walked right out into them, like they were calling you in? Jesus." He shook his head. "I wish I'd never seen that. It's a curse, you know? Whatever we did, we were messing with forces we never should have touched. We got burned, Joran. You got burned. Billions of dollars in investments lost, for what? So you could jump the research queue and get your name up in brighter lights? I feel sick."

  He leaned to the side, gagging briefly.

  Joran stopped staring at his chewed arm. It wasn't real, that was the only way to deal with it. If he looked any longer, if he accepted it, he would burst inside. He lifted his head and looked around the bare bones interior of the gunship instead. It looked familiar; they'd brought him in on one of these, on the first day. Now they were taking him out the same way. Lining the walls were a few pale-faced security personnel, rifles on their laps. Sandbrooke's teams. On the floor before them were a few bodies and body parts wrapped in white plastic. The air smelled of fuel and ice.

  "Hello," he said again. "That's all."

  Sovoy looked sideways at him and shuddered. A tear welled in his left eye.

  "I believed in you," he said. "You lied to me."

  "I-"

  Sovoy slapped his face. The sting came before the sense of impact. Then Sovoy was on his feet. "They should have taken your arm. You're a traitor to us all. It was more than 'Hello'. The whole damn world's in chaos, Joran! A nuclear bomb! I joined you to help people, not do this. Oh, God. Our lives are over."

  He wandered away. Somewhere out of Joran's sight, he took a seat.

  Moments later, not long enough for Joran to get to grips with what was happening, another man came to his side. It was one of Sandbrooke's men, with the same kind of easy, professional confidence, despite the circumstances. He wore a headset. On a stool he set several boxes, atop which he placed a slim silver computer, clicked a few keys, then swiveled it so the screen faced Joran.

  There was a man's face there in close-up, square-jawed and handsome with bright brown eyes. He wore an expensive suit and stood in an impressive office space, where narrow, angled walls set with tall windows revealed a dappled blue sky and hints of high-rise buildings.

  The Sandbrooke-like assistant fished a headset from a bag and pressed it down over Joran's head, slipping the ear pads into position so they cut out the loud chopping of the rotor blades. Joran lay still while it happened, manipulated like a piece of meat. Reeling.

  Had he done what Sovoy was claiming?

  The brown-eyed man on the screen waited, then spoke.

  "Joran Helkegarde, you are now under arrest." His voice came through the headset in a calm, strong baritone. "As mandated by the SEAL council, in accordance with Article 33 of the Geneva Testament. The charges laid against you are Crimes against Humanity, and the punishment if you are found guilty of these crimes will be summary execution or lifetime imprisonment, whichever serves our purposes more fully. Your only chance in this matter is full, frank, complete disclosure of your crimes. Am I understood?"

  Joran stared at the screen. He didn't know this man. He hadn't heard of the Geneva Testament. He knew about the SEAL, the research conglomerate that funded his research, but summary execution?

  "Who are you?"

  There was a momentary delay. "I'm the head of your project, of all the projects in the SEAL. My name is James While. You haven't met me because I never deemed it necessary, but you should know that I'm the one who championed your research grant. I've been watching over your operation since it began, assessing risks with an independent team, but somehow you slipped your transmission past all of us. I don't know how you did it, but I'm going to find out. If it takes your arm, a leg, your eyes, believe me, I am going to find out."

  Joran tried to keep up. "My other arm?"

  "I believe Deputy Richard Sovoy said as much to you. Helkegarde, you need to close your mouth and understand your situation. Your actions have put a very great deal at risk, and I can advise you that your personal human rights have been put on hold until the threat is fully understood and placed under control. Now is the time to tell me who you were working with and to what end, or it's very unlikely any of the vehicles currently leaving the facility will make it out of the snow. More bombs will fall to ensure this sabotage goes no further. Am I clear?"

  Joran felt like he was gasping at the air. He'd barely come to grips with what Sovoy had said, and before that the Array, and now this? "More bombs?"

  "I would rather kill all your staff than allow a terrorist in league with you to escape," While said calmly. "These are the realities. Now, I need you to speak. Everything you say will be recorded as evidence against you, but there is nothing you can do to control that now. The chances of you even surviving this flight are very low. Your one and only hope is to tell me everything. How did you engineer a T4 retrovirus to respond to a signal sent out across the hydrogen line? How did you slip that signal past all of our detection protocols? Who else is in your network, particularly in the Logchain Group, and how did you contact them? How did they propagate this altered T4 into the broader DNA stream? What is your endgame beyond this point, and to what end did you trigger the signal now?"

  Joran could only jaw at the air. His bitten arm was forgotten.

  "I d-don't-" he stammered, "I d-don't know..."

  James While turned slightly and nodded to the side. Joran followed his gaze, and saw the Sandbrooke-clone reaching into his breast pocket, to pull out a large folding Bowie knife. He straightened it and held the blade so it hovered over Joran's face.

  "Left eye or right?" James While asked.

  Joran squeaked. He tried to thrash away, but found he was strapped down on his gurney, unable to move. "I don't-, I…"

  "Try," said the man on the screen, as the knife drew in.

  Joran racked his brain, and caught upon the one thing he'd thought he'd never have to share. The place that the idea had come from. And spilled it.

  He told James While about the email he'd received one snowy night three months earlier. He stared at the knife as if mesmerized, and kept talking even though he knew nothing more than that; explaining his dream of greatness, the low morale of his team, the spoofing procedure he'd put into place, the simple message he'd programmed to transmit, the safety cutouts he'd instituted himself. The knife remained hovering above him throughout.

  * * *

  James While shut the connection and paced away from the center of his tower office. The video feed of Joran Helkegarde's terrified face faded from wall screen seven, and While strode round the office's perimeter, letting the new facts percolate in his head.

  His office filled the top floor of a spire atop the Marmara Hotel in central Istanbul, an empty octahedron with no desks, chairs or furniture of any kind. On each of the eight sides was a tall, broad window, flanked with two full-length wall screens. Each window showed a different view of the city, some overlooking the bland, cement Taksim Square where his efforts had helped put down the Arab Spring in 2010, some overlooking Gezi Park, some the Levent financial district, some the Bosphorus bridges and one perfectly framing the Golden Horn where the Hagia Sophia and Blue Mosque sat so beautifully. It was an office he'd selected and designed himself, allowing him complete sightlines across the city, and with the sixteen wall screens added on, complete sightlines across the world.

  They provided a flood of data, but it stil
l wasn't enough. The truth of what had happened four hours ago was still very much in flux, with reports flashing up constantly across his screens. As he paced by each of them he took on board the new information; aftermath and containment of radiation in the Far East, updates on the evacuation on the eleven remaining stations from the Multicameral Array, updates on analysis from the Logchain, results of speedy interrogations he'd ordered the world over.

  It was chaos. Three hours ago he'd recommended that the SEAL board drop a nuclear weapon or face imminent destruction, and they had done it. Now the destruction may be less imminent, but there was no way to know when a second attack might land. The world was spinning out of control at a rate he'd never seen before, but within the chaos there had to be a kernel, a human actor who was responsible for driving events so far out of alignment, and as with any operations management situation, he just had to isolate that kernel and cut it out. It seemed clear already that it wasn't Joran Helkegarde.

  While paced and thought and worked.

  Helkegarde's terror and confusion had seemed genuine. He'd nearly lost his arm. He'd nearly died trying to help the creatures in his Array, and would he have done that if he'd known it was going to happen? Yet the blast on the hydrogen line had almost certainly emanated from Alpha Array, and Helkegarde was research head of the entire Multicameral Array. It required much deeper investigation.

  He stopped at wall screen eleven and replayed choppy footage of the evacuation from Station Gamma. The creatures in the Array were disturbing, but he was able to put emotion aside and study them. Of course he'd seen them before, as prototypes theorized through the Logchain experiments. Helkegarde hadn't.

  It was only because of that, the genuine shock at what he'd seen in the Array, that While hadn't taken his eye. He walked on. It was unlikely the man would ever use the two he had left to see the light of day again, but perhaps. If he was loyal, if he hadn't initiated this crisis but merely been a tool of another hand, then perhaps he could be of use. No one knew the hydrogen line better than him.