The Last Mayor Box Set 3

by Michael John Grist

  While stared. "I've just ordered the interrogation of his every known acquaintance and family member. If there's anything there we'll find it. What else can you tell me?"

  Sovoy tapped the white board urgently.

  Joran remembered. "Yes, brain waves. I'm willing to bet you're seeing subdued brain wave readings in all staff who were evacuated from the Arrays? Nothing massive, just rounded peaks and troughs, but a clear pattern with the shift localized from the pre-frontal cortex to the spine, where there's new activity."

  Now While's expression showed a faint ripple of surprise. "How did you know that?"

  Joran's heart leapt. "I didn't, it's a mathematical guess based on several theories we've just invented. That the line could have that kind of instantaneous genetic effect, it suggests deep, automated change. I think you're going to see more of that; the movement of consciousness into the spine." He was almost babbling now. "Those things in the arena were not thinking creatures, they were a regression. Get me some skull-caps and I can start measuring the changes in thought; that'll be a beginning to knowing what's happening on the line, and from there we can build up to prevention. I just need data."

  While looked at him for a moment, weighing his request. Then he tapped more keys.

  "Prove that theory. I'm sending you all the data I have. You'll be moved to a lab; you'll have staff and equipment. Get me hard answers and a solution before the second strike comes, and you'll turn your legacy around."

  He shut the connection. Joran looked at Sovoy and saw the excitement mixing with shame on his face. He understood it. It was selfish to be glad that their careers would be saved when thousands had just died.

  But it wasn't functional. Like a faucet, Joran turned the shame off. It wouldn't help him survive the days and weeks to come.

  LARA

  7. JANINE

  Lara didn't see Witzgenstein for three days.

  In that time they kept her locked alone in a sealed-off cube in the back of a semi-truck trailer with metal panel walls. There was a narrow cot with a thin mattress on the floor, a toilet that ran straight through a hole in the chassis, a skylight in the ceiling that was locked an inch open, and a single copy of the Bible.

  The trailer drove and Lara rode. They pushed food and bottled water at regular intervals through a sealed metal flap in the door. They pushed a damp towel through the flap once a day, which she used to mop herself down. At times she caught the sound of the convoy around her; other engines, other voices, but not many.

  Her jailers didn't talk to her. Nobody answered when she called out or banged on the walls.

  This was it.

  The prison rolled on, and she lay on the cot and gazed up through the skylight at blue and white skies, with her hands on her swelling stomach, thinking and not thinking. Sometimes long periods passed where she could have sworn she'd been asleep, but could remember no moment where she'd opened her eyes or closed them. Time became a seamless stream of consciousness, broken by the one circling question she couldn't let go of.

  Who was she, now?

  It was an old favorite. There was no answer. A prisoner, a leader, now a prisoner again.

  She'd stopped thinking about things that were too real, like her children, because they hurt too much. The stress of those thoughts left her anxious and drained, and she could not afford that. She had another child inside her now, and had to protect it. So she ate the food they gave her, and rested, and let her thoughts run in pointless circles about herself.

  Sometimes she looked at the Bible. She didn't read it, but looked carefully at the cracked leather spine, ran her fingers over the worn front, embossed with gold, and sounded out the lists of exotic names at the back, savoring each strange combination of letters like a rare fruit. She held it like an idol against Witzgenstein, even though that made no sense. Not reading it, but holding it close, was the only meaningful rebellion she could make.

  Finally, the convoy stopped.

  Voices called up and down past her, and for a long time there were grating sounds, and rasping sounds, and shutters grinding open, and voices cursing. After that there was a long, long silence, until her door was opened for the first time in three days and three nights.

  It was dawn outside, and the heavenly scent of fresh air overwhelmed her. Flowers, grassy sap, dew, so many things. She saw black iron railings and pavement and a towering figure in the narrow doorway that she recognized.

  Crow.

  For a moment she felt she might be rescued. Even as she felt it, she knew it wasn't true, and that hopes like that would break her faster than despair.

  "She's ready for you," he said.

  "Crow?" Lara asked. Her voice was rough from lack of use. "What are you doing?"

  "Collecting you. I can't say more."

  Lara rolled onto her side, looking at his broad, tanned face. There was something different about him. Perhaps he was beaten. Maybe it was something on the line. He seemed flatter somehow, like a carbon copy of himself.

  "Can't or won't?"

  At that he smiled, though it faded fast. "Can't. There's things I can't say. Witzgenstein, Lara." He paused a moment, seemingly trying to find the words for some complex thought, and failing. A hint of panic crept through his gentle features, then was squashed beneath smooth coppery skin. "You'll see. Come."

  He held out a hand, and she took it. His touch was cold, sending a shudder through her, but he didn't seem to notice. He stepped backward so she could slide through the open door. Her feet dangled over the edge, and she peered out. The sight beyond came like a physical blow. It took long seconds for her to fully grasp what she was seeing.

  "Oh no," she whispered.

  Her stomach lurched. She felt she might be sick.

  "Yes," was all Crow answered. "It is."

  She looked. It hurt physically, like a blade knifing inside her heart. It was wrong, and a sign of how defeated she really was.

  It was the White House.

  The lawns of President's Park were forested now, thick with looming shrubs and leafy saplings. The iron railings were interwoven with ivy through which an array of wild roses sprang. Through that and above it, the south, semi-circular portico of the White House bulged outward, all neo-classical white columns and tall windows, a symbol if there ever was one.

  Her eyes misted. The urge to vomit grew. She hadn't been to Washington since a childhood trip with her parents, when she'd held their hands in front of the railings and gazed in, feeling a deep sense of awe like nothing she'd felt before. Even as a child she'd understood that it was a special place, a sacred place, and just standing there before it made her special and sacred too. It was important and so was she.

  As she'd grown older, watching from afar as politics grew dirty and scandals rocked the People's House, she'd still held onto that sense of hope, that there really was a shining city on the hill, that ideals mattered, that there would be liberty and justice for all. Seeing a black man occupy its highest office as a young woman had fueled her toward the law, keen to make her own contribution. She'd had such plans back then, of tearing down walls and bringing people together, until one day in New York she saw one of the white men who'd lynched a boy in her hometown, walking free, and the panic attacks had struck.

  Her dreams were left in tatters. She wasn't able to answer the call, let down by her weak brain, but that feeling of awe never left her. That was real, or at least it seemed to be, and perhaps that was the reason she'd never wanted to come back. Shame, for letting the dream down. Fear, that it would no longer have the same effect on the woman she'd become. She'd already let that young, breathless Lara down enough.

  When Amo had sent a team to Washington DC to set up a cairn, she'd asked them not to paint on the White House itself. That would be a kind of sacrilege. She didn't really believe in God, but she did believe in the dream of America, with the White House as its most potent symbol, standing for everything good and pure.

  Now that symbol belonged to Witzgenstein.
/>
  Crow placed his hands gently under her arms and lifted her down. He led her along the sidewalk on unsteady legs, while she could scarcely think. She hadn't thought any more could be taken from her; perhaps her children, which was a terrible thought, but she had imagined it many times. She'd had nightmares about losing Amo ever since her coma in Pittsburgh, and they'd already lost his legacy under Drake, when New LA erupted. But this was something much deeper. It was wrong, and her skin crawled and her body shivered as Crow led her through the iron gates and up the long white drive.

  It wasn't supposed to be like this. She felt herself reverting to a childlike state of denial, more terrified than she'd been since the demon outside Pittsburgh gripped her in its fist.

  "No," she cried, and yanked at her hand in Crow's fist, but he just held her more firmly and kept walking. As they drew closer there were people standing on the overgrown verges flanking the path, lined up to watch her. "No," she cried again, trying to pull away, but Crow advanced without breaking stride.

  She began to sob hysterically. She couldn't help it. She pulled and pulled but still they advanced. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Someone had to stop it, but there was no one left to appeal to, no God to intervene, no Amo or Anna to swoop in. Beside the door she saw her beautiful children, standing with Alan's hands on their shoulders, gazing blankly at her.

  She screamed. She jerked and pulled, but Crow kept on. This was defeat like she'd never felt and she was not prepared for it. Her legs collapsed and she fell, but Crow caught her and carried her up. She could barely see for the tears.

  "Crow, please, stop," she sobbed. "I can't do this, I can't."

  "You can," was all he answered, and kept walking.

  They passed under the portico and entered the entrance lobby. Pictures of Presidents past lined the walls. The Stars and Stripes hung everywhere, silent and still for thirteen years. She beat weakly at Crow's chest and face.

  More blank faces lined the route through stately rooms, Drake's people and her own, empty-eyed children, hollow adults, gathered to witness this final humiliation. Along the West Colonnade she managed to get the sobs under control, though her breathing was still ragged. At the end of the overgrown walkway the final door was opened, and together they passed into the light-filled expanse of the Oval Office.

  There Janine Witzgenstein sat behind the President's desk. Lara felt any shred of herself that remained melt away, leaving her empty inside. She wasn't Lara anymore, that was clear. She wasn't the little girl her parents had been so proud of, nor a mother, nor Amo's wife or an aspiring lawyer or a barista or a leader of her people, or anything, she was just defeat.

  It filled her. It emptied her. She sagged in Crow's arms like a dead animal.

  "Welcome, Lara," said Witzgenstein, standing and spreading her arms generously, her voice ringing resonantly round that awesome space. "Welcome to the New United States."

  * * *

  Janine Witzgenstein was talking.

  Lara was slumped on one of the couches in the Oval Office, Crow beside her, holding her up. The color of the couch was royal blue. Janine was opposite her, positively glowing, on a stately pink couch decorated with embroidered roses.

  The details helped. Lara poured herself into them, while trying not to gulp too heavily at the air.

  "This is indeed quite the show," Witzgenstein said. "I didn't expect it."

  Lara tried to look at her eyes, but she couldn't lift her head. The whipped dog didn't challenge its master, and that was who she was now.

  "Let her go, Crow," Janine said. "I think she can handle herself."

  Crow let go.

  "Leave us."

  He stood and left. The door closed behind him. Lara stared at Witzgenstein's knees and tried to breathe normally.

  "Look at me, Lara," Janine said.

  Lara shivered. Just the sound of this woman's voice made her tremble. Shame came hot with the fear.

  "Look at me."

  She didn't.

  Then Janine was there, leaning before her and pushing her hand under Lara's chin, lifting her face so that their eyes were only inches away. Lara looked immediately to the side, but Witzgenstein cupped her hands firmly around Lara's temples, breathing perfumed air delicately across her cheeks.

  "Look at me, child," she said softly. "Now."

  Upon the command, Lara did. It wasn't bravery now, or defiance, but naked fear. Obedience. Witzgenstein's eyes were a beautiful, terrible blue. Looking into them started Lara shaking uncontrollably.

  Witzgenstein held her like that for a moment, then released her, and sat down by her side.

  Lara curled away from her at once, huddling into the arm of the sofa and covering her eyes, clutching her arms about her and shaking. She couldn't help it.

  "Yes," Janine said softly, leaning over and stroking Lara's hair. "I see what I've done to you. Poor Lara. There."

  Each touch sent a shudder through her. But Witzgenstein didn't stop. She kept stroking, and saying soothing things, until gradually the shuddering eased and the tears ceased, and despite herself, despite knowing what was happening perfectly well, she found herself beginning to lean into each stroke.

  Witzgenstein caressed her like an animal, and like an animal she yearned for it. Rather than terror, it began to feel like comfort. All other things were forgotten, any hint of defiance was gone, and the touch of this golden woman became a balm.

  When the stroking finally stopped, she found she missed it. Yet she was able to sit upright. Witzgenstein shifted, returning to her seat facing Lara. Lara went back to studying her shapely knees.

  "You don't need to look at me, child," Witzgenstein said, her rich voice filling the space confidently. "Perhaps that will come in time. For now, I hope there can be an understanding between us. I didn't want this cruelty, this parade, though I hope you understand why it had to happen. Call it an exorcism, if you wish to. It's been such a long time coming."

  Lara found herself nodding numbly along. Her eyes drifted over the pink couch and tracked the stitching on the roses.

  "I know you see now the error of your ways. Amo's dream of New LA, there was such great appeal to it. And his love for you, I do believe that was real. He loved the children he fathered too, in his own way; they can be good citizens still, and the child you are yet to bear. Nothing is beyond forgiveness, Lara, if the contrition is genuine. You will find I am a kind leader. All I ask for is honesty, and faith. What else can a mother seek?" She reached across the gap and took one of Lara's hands, began to gently knead the fingers. "Lara, my child, I promise you will flourish in my care, as you've never done before. Together we will rebuild this country as it should be, under the flag it was born to. I hope you understand why this is necessary."

  Lara gulped. She didn't understand, but the sound of Witzgenstein's voice had become hypnotic, lulling her. She nodded.

  "I hope also that you will see why a statement from you, recanting all your crimes, is necessary. We must have contrition, if there can be firm foundations in truth. Drake began the work, but he too was a flawed man. Rape, Lara. He raped women, and that I will never stand for. That will never happen in my time. He was a false prophet, but there are others yet to come who are not false. Perhaps you will become one, a second Saul on the Damascus Road. Would you like that, child?"

  Lara nodded. She didn't know any more what she was nodding to. She just wanted to please this great, powerful woman. She wanted to be away, even as she wanted to be held close.

  "I had hoped so. It will begin with an address, given tomorrow. Others will help you, but the words must be your own. The crimes. The lies. The demon inside."

  At that, a fragment of the old Lara surfaced. She looked up and met Witzgenstein's sharp blue eyes for a moment, before flicking rapidly away.

  Janine laughed. "Ah, there you are. Lara. My dear. I'm no monster. The things I've done that were cruel, that seemed evil to you, or petty, were just my ways of shaking off my own shackles. I'm purer now, with my
own demon finally gone. I rejoice every day that he left the borders of our country."

  Lara shook her head, looking at her hands in her lap, fidgeting with her nails.

  "Of course, I'm speaking of Amo," Witzgenstein went on. "The devil speaks to us in subtle guises, child. In time you will see all the ways in which he led us astray. You will see the cult of idolatry he built around himself, and the inner circle of the lost who defended his many sins to the hilt. You will take responsibility for your role at the side of this Antichrist, and pay amends, and so with atonement you will be forgiven."

  Lara froze. It was suddenly hard to breathe. Again a piece of her old self rose up, and she found the nerve to speak. "Antichrist?"

  She felt Witzgenstein beaming at her. No more needed to be said, but still she went on.

  "All of it, Lara. Every gulp of that man's poisoned chalice, from the moment you were seduced by his fair white skin to his last murder at your side. Every one of us must shake off his depraved legacy. Only then will we enter a new time of peace and prosperity. Only then will the others come to us, and hold us in their arms, and sing Hosannas on the National Mall."

  Once more Lara found the momentary strength to look up. This time Witzgenstein winked.

  "Only then will we be safe from the fires of hell that consumed New LA. It fell for its moral turpitude, Lara. Racial disharmony. Gross iniquity. An abandonment of God's laws. With your help I will repair those cracks in our national character. America will rule the world once more, and you will stand by my side when that happens, with your children in my care. Love, really, is what I mean to preach. Beginning with your speech, Lara. They will provide you with pen and paper. The speech is scheduled for tomorrow, at midday, on the South Lawn. Everyone will be there. That is all."

  Witzgenstein stood and went to her desk.

  A chill came into the air. Lara felt that she'd been dismissed, and forgotten. The glow of Witzgenstein's attention had moved away, and left her as less. She rose like a guilty child, not daring to look again at where Janine sat, signing documents. The warmth rising off her still was palpable, like a demon on the line.