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.
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.
Joran Helkegarde.
I hunt his office for clues, but there's not much here; no degree certificates on the walls, no pictures of wife and kids on his desk, just a few sketches, one of a global map with twelve Array locations roughly marked with stars: all in northern latitudes, mostly in Russia, a few in Canada.
It's sad, perhaps. Helkegarde's work was his life, and he didn't have anything else, at least nothing he wanted to remind himself of.
I sit at his desk and go through his desk drawers, but there's nothing I haven't seen already. The bottom drawer is locked, so I force it with a screwdriver from my pack, and find inside more sketches and plans that I can't really understand. Talk of the hydrogen line, frequency bars, future expansions.
Perhaps Anna or Lucas would understand them. I fold them into my bag, not really thinking about the reason why. Maybe they'll be useful in the future.
I turn in the chair and look out of the window, trying to get into the mindset of this long-ago, lonely scientist. Several of his memos talked about the mind of God. In a restroom I found graffiti carved into a toilet door, reading-
Michelangelo's dead, and so is God.
I can appreciate the reference. I can imagine what they were doing here; hunting for the hydrogen line before anyone knew it was real, using an array of receptive minds. They reached into the unknown with their bare hands, like fishing in a dark pool, but what they caught was darker than anything they'd expected. It sucked them in and swallowed them whole, along with the rest of us.
I can't muster much anger at Mr. Helkegarde for that. If anything it makes me sad. Scientists making mistakes is a sad story, but it's not why I'm here. It's not why there's a lockbox marked out in the arena. That is something just for me, and I wonder, was Helkegarde responsible for that too?
His office is depressing, so I leave. I go in and out of other rooms, not expecting anything anymore, more out of a strange sense of duty than anything. Some have a view, some don't. Parts of it remind me of footage of Bordeaux, sent back by Anna; the same era, the same tech, the same footlockers, bunk beds, sheets and pillows.
I find my way to the lighthouse tower.
There's a separate elevator shaft from the lobby which leads to a viewing slot halfway up the tower, where I stand and look out at the brittle, icy world through the warping blue ice. Beyond that there's a ladder, and I take it. Two more floors up, I stand before a large light bulb set behind a large Fresnel lens. It captures the light and focuses it out to the south, a clear beacon for anyone who hadn't already picked up the chaos on the line.
It's hot and bright. There's a line of bulbs on a kind of mechanized train feeding into it. Six on the far side look to be burnt out, the filaments broken, with three yet to go. I touch them. The mechanism hums with a silent power. Perhaps this could have been here for thirteen years, functioning all that time, given a steady power source or some minimal maintenance. Perhaps it served a purpose even back when hundreds of people worked here, t
aking walks out in the snow and storms.
A lighthouse to guide them back. Perhaps. Who cares?
I smash the bulb, not for any real reason other than a momentary whim, and pale blue Arctic light rushes in to replace the white. Seconds after that the train hums into life and the next bulb along lights up, sliding into position before the lens like I've ordered a Coke from an automatic vending machine.
"You think so?" I ask it, and smash that bulb too. It's strange to find such life out here. But I'm never coming back, and neither is anyone else.
The next two bulbs scroll into position, like lining up the T-ball, and I knock them both out of the park. Only then does the mechanism go silent. The light is forever gone, and I take a deep breath. It's a sad achievement.
I exit, and from my sled outside I gather the necessary supplies. I can always scavenge more. I carry them with me to the second floor walkway above the arena, and set them down in a neat line, in the places where I'll need them. A lot of this is supposition. Perhaps it's for pizzazz. Maybe I'm just a completionist. Every bunker so far, I've wrecked. Why not add another?
I pick my line of approach, woven in between the demons with their long reach. I have no idea what the others are capable of. It's all a risk.
It feels familiar, pouring thick gasoline down onto their bodies, across the grooved squares below, etching out the walls of a maze. I've done this before. Left, right, straight ahead. I may make it. I feel like Mario lining up his jumps. I gear up with all my Siberian clothes, doused and heavy with water.
Before I drop a lit match, I summon the black eye. It comes fairly easily, growing out of me like a rose bud, well rooted now. I firm it up around me like a shield, then move to the far side so the ocean tilts toward me, and drop the match.
My maze lines below whuff to flame. Many of the ocean are caught in the inferno. The gray ones stagger after me still, like they did thirteen years ago, as I circle back around. The lepers also catch fire, and the yellow ones melt faster, but the others seem unaffected.
I watch them burn, and it's odd how it doesn't touch me. I wonder how much time I have, with this fuse set. The leper I killed in Istanbul blew hard, and I don't think I can take more than one of them popping in a row. I need to move fast.
I climb over the railing, encumbered by the weight of my dripping wet clothes. The heat is already oppressive. I lower myself down the rope ladder I tied to the railing, then drop into the middle of my maze of flames. Walls of fire rise on either side of me, bringing pain, dizziness and a slick of sweat. This isn't a good idea.
Snapping, barking sounds come from within the flames, and through the orange licks I pick out demons lashing to the extent of their leashes, straining toward me. Not all at once, fellas, I think. I catch glimpses of the ocean tumbling over, walking sticks of fire that leave fragments of their burning bodies behind. I push out the shielding black eye a few feet further, and run forward at a soggy wobble.
Black and white ones pass before me, fizzing like popping candies. Yellow waxy ones lumber aimlessly, melting. I reach a corner in my burning maze and take it sharply. By my feet there's a great blue head lying half through the flames, and I jump. Its big mouth snaps up at me, I clear it, but I land badly.
Thrown off balance by the weight of my soaking clothes, my left ankle gives out and I drop, rolling awkwardly, shooting my right leg out through one of the walls.
I shout, snap it back in then slap at it, melting my gloves. Bitter smoke rises in my face and now I feel the heat growing on my back and shuffle away before I see that, of course, the fire is spreading.
I forget my scalded leg and scrabble on all fours away from the trickling fire as it leaks along the groove lines. I feel the heat in my lower back, twist and see the flames, then roll onto my back patting at my sides. In the wall to the left there's a leper just standing there and fizzing happily. I yelp and get to my feet as it leans closer, then I punch it in the face. I don't wait to see the effect, but dash on and take another sharp corner, one more in a tight chicane, then there's one last creature standing in front of me, blocking my path.
It's a translucent black wraith-like thing, drifting in the air like smoke. Through it I can see the big 'f' and the lockbox. It's not burning, not moving, just watching me.
Shit. But I've come too far to stop now. I advance on it, one step, two, pushing the black eye ahead as well as I can, but my armor ebbs as I get close, and sweat pours into my eyes. I barely dodge a demon's outstretched hand, arcing through the fire wall from the left. I set my hood on fire in the wall on the right, and hurry on.
The black wraith seems to dance backward with my each step forward, like a sprite overlaid atop a set of VR glasses, until it's standing immediately above the box.
Shit.
"Come on," I say, panting with the heat now, trying for reason. "Out of the way, like the rest."
It only hovers, watching me. I take another step closer, light-headed now with the tangled mix of the line and the heat, and now it takes a step closer to me, like a mirror. This is not what I planned.
"My brains, is that it?" I ask. "Is that what you want?"
Its strange, feathery mouth opens as if in mimicry of me, and a low mumbling comes out that might be speech. Perhaps it's making fun of me.
"I'm coming to that box," I warn it. "I'll be there in three seconds, and you better not be there too."
I take a step. It takes a step. I stab the black eye at it, but there's no strength left, and nothing to hit anyway, like this thing is really a ghost. I take another step and it steps up to face me, barely a foot apart. I look into its eyes, and there I see…
Its face changes. Its mouth changes, and its eyes, and it becomes someone I know well.
"Feargal?" I ask.
Feargal's face looks back at me, emerging from that wispy black thing. Ginger hair, patchy beard, serious eyes like the moment he lay on the floor of that roadside store, looking up and judging me.
"Why are you doing this again, Amo?" he asks. "Why are you killing us again?"
I stop flat, while monsters burn and thrash around us, and the heat steadily shuts me down. I'm not getting enough oxygen, that's clear. I'm overheating. It feels like a slow roast in hell.
"I need this box," I tell it, Feargal, the only thing I can think to say when talking to a wraith. I point. "Right here."
"I can't let you," says Feargal's voice, coming out of Feargal's face. "I'll kill you."
I laugh a little, because everybody knows that's not really a thing. Lots of people have tried to kill me and failed. "You can't kill me."
"Or change you," Feargal says. "Forever. Make you mine."
That seems fairer. I nod, because I'm hardly in charge of myself now anyway. A deal, then. "Go ahead," I say. "I'm bought and paid for already."
I stride on, and the wraith thing rears up as I step in, and sticks both its hands right into my head, like I'm as insubstantial as fog. For a second I'm blind, and it feels like cold daggers are plunging through my eyes, then I can see again and I'm staggering. The wraith thing has risen up like it's diving from on high into my head, flailing in the air above like a maddened kite. I shake my head and its black body and legs flap.
It doesn't feel good. It feels cold, sliding down my spine. I scream a little, and pull the black eye back in on me, and for a second stick my head sideways into the wall of fire.
The wraith severs at the middle and I pull back violently, smacking myself in the head. Its legs drift down like autumn leaves, and the last trails of its body suck down into my head and settle cold in my middle. I drop to my knees, and blink, and in the darkness behind my eyes I see its strange face grinning wickedly.
"You know me now," it whispers. "I know you."
And I do know it. I remember a man called Sandbrooke. He worked here, and betrayed his team. I see things I shouldn't know, and he doesn't like that. On my knees I turn the black eye inward, no longer needing overwhelming strength, only precision. I sharpen the edg
es and snip into him like a pair of surgical scissors.
The black wisps of him slit and start to dissolve. He screams, and I cut him to confetti, and he melts.
Then I'm leaning forward; sweat pouring off me, smoke rising from my hood. The finger of another demon hits my arm and nudges it into one of the fire walls. A leper staggers before me, its chest burning from the inside with long white ribbons of flesh sparkling like fuses, and I shove it away. My palm fizzes with static.
I lurch ahead, then I'm on my knees on the f, looking at the lockbox. Dumbly I paw at it with my smoking gloves, but they're useless. I pry at the lid pointlessly before remembering I have a key in my pack; the screwdriver. I dig it into the hairline opening, heave two, three times and the lid cranks back.
I laugh when I see what's inside.
A small bundle of white paper wrapped up with an elastic band. I peel it back and look at the solid black USB key bundled within; easily a terabyte of storage right there.
For me.
I tuck it down in a pocket then turn to the crazy, heat-maddened dash back.
Over the fragile legs of the wraith I trample, wilting now like rotten flowers. I punch a burning yellow thing in the back of the head, my hand gets stuck, and I have to use the screwdriver to pry it out. My hand burns and I lose the tool, I almost get pulled into a melting hug but manage to jog away. A leper stands in front of me and I give it a smack with what's left of the black eye, probably reducing its countdown timer by a few minutes at least.
At the edge I barely climb the rope ladder back up to the railing. My shoulders are not what they used to be, and the clothes are heavy, but desperation gets me up. I lurch round the walkway and away from the fires, slipping down the elevator shaft, and out through the lobby back to my sled in the freezing cold, all in a kind of stuttering dream. The water in my clothes is not going to serve me well now, but there's no choice, and cold is better than fire and a fried brain when the lepers pop.
I'm half a mile away when the first of them blows. It knocks me down, confuses me for minutes, as the line in this part of the world is erased. The chaotic signal goes silent briefly in the aftermath, and as soon as I remember to move, I do so.
The Last Mayor Box Set 3 Page 37
