World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine (9 page)

On day four, she finally left the apartment. The few items of canned food on the shelves had gone, and Meera’s Manna abilities didn’t yet include manipulating earth to produce her own food.
 

She shopped quickly at the nearest market, barely looking at the items she placed in the cart. For once, she didn’t sing as she walked.

After a week, she made an effort to get back to some kind of routine. She knew Seb’s unique supply of Manna made him a survivor. To her knowledge, he’d been shot, run over and barbecued since his encounter with the alien he insisted on calling Billy Joe, with no ill-effects she could discern.

She’d questioned him about that night on the mountains outside Los Angeles, but the answers were crazy and she always ended up laughing. Well, they both did, as Seb could never resist her infectious giggling for long. Even he had to admit how ridiculous it sounded. He’d been bleeding to death (his suicide attempt was still hard for Mee to forgive, even when she knew about the brain tumor that had led him there that night). A glowing alien that—from his description—sounded an awful lot like the tall figures at the end of Close Encounters Of The Third Kind, had cured him of the tumor, healed his wounds, and replenished his blood supply. Only his blood wasn’t just blood any more, it was filled with particle-sized machines (computers? beings?) making him un-killable, faster than any normal human and—apparently—with some kind of three-part personality. It was pretty weird stuff for sure, but there were compensations. He was better in bed, for instance. He could do things with his…well, he could
do things.

“So what do you think?” Seb had said when he’d finally had the chance to tell her the whole story, including his trip to Roswell to absorb a different kind of Manna no one else had ever been able to access.
Naturally.

Mee had taken a long sip of her margarita, her eyes never leaving his. Seb had always been completely honest with her. Irritating? Occasionally. Distant? More often than she liked, Troubled? No question, but a liar? Never. She sighed loudly, shaking her head.

“No way you could be making any of that shit up,” she said. “I mean, a glowing gray alien? Give me a break. It’s like something from a comic book. And Roswell, the source of every lunatic alien conspiracy theory? Come on, you’re a walking cliché. I don’t
like
science fiction, but even I could make up a better story than that.”

Mee smiled at the memory, then choked back tears as she remembered she was alone. She opened the door to the tiny study they’d soundproofed to make a recording studio. Seb’s keyboard was on one side, her makeshift vocal booth on the other. Between them were two flat-screens on the wall and a computer running various pieces of music software. Mee booted it up and put on her headphones. Just like the man she loved, making music was her response to the worst—as well as the best—experiences. She started to tap out a beat and was soon lost in her creation.

A few hours later, she emerged feeling drained and slightly elated. It was a great start to the song—it just needed Seb to do his thing to complete it. “Like you complete me, you bastard,” she muttered. “Don’t you dare leave me, Seb Varden.”

 
She stuck to a rigid routine for the next five days. She went to the store in the mornings, had a walk around the city for an hour, forced herself not to spend every hour in the apartment. She recorded in the afternoons. In the evening, she allowed herself a beer and one spliff. She slept badly and her dreams were horrible, cruel and unrelenting. She called Kate and told her she’d be out of town for a while. She stuck to the routine and forced her mind away from the possibility that Seb might not be coming back today. Or tomorrow. Or ever.

Then, on the twelfth day, she’d walked back from the store and found him sitting at the battered old upright piano they’d found in a garage sale. He looked slightly confused, and happy to see her. She had prepared for this moment, of course. She was a self-assured, self-possessed, intelligent woman who knew her own worth, had plenty to give, and always had something to say. The last thing anyone would ever expect Meera Patel to do was to choke on her words, lose control of her legs and dissolve into uncontrollable tears. So, naturally, that’s exactly what she did. At least she could still be unpredictable, she told herself as she dropped the bag she’d been carrying and slid down the wall.

***

Seb and Meera sat at the table, the spilled groceries strewn across the floor. Mee was shaking, still in shock. Seb produced a mug of strong Assam tea and watched while she drank it. She gradually brought her breathing back under control. He held her hand while she told him about the previous twelve days. His face was pale. She saw confusion in his eyes as she spoke.

“What is it?” she said.

“What’s the date?” he said. She told him. “And what time is it?”

He shook his head when she told him.
 

“Show me your phone,” he said. He held it up against his wristwatch. Her phone’s display showed 9:28am. His watch was set at 12:18am.

“I remember looking at my watch just before I passed out,” he said. “It was quarter to midnight. I know I was only out—gone—whatever—about ten minutes.”

“What the hell’s going on?” said Meera. “Did you think you were still here, passed out on the floor? You Walked. But I saw you faint
before
it happened. What’s going on?”

Seb hesitated. “I didn’t Walk. This was something different. I remember suddenly feeling light-headed. Then I woke up in the kitchen.”

Seb2 interrupted him before he spoke again. “You going to mention what happened while you were out?”

“Give me a chance,” thought Seb. He cleared his throat. Mee raised an eyebrow and looked at him quizzically.

“Seb2?” she said.

Seb nodded. “How did you know?”

“You get a slightly unfocused look when it happens. You’re getting better at hiding it, but I still see it. So what’s his contribution?”

Seb smiled at her. “He thinks I should tell you what happened while I was unconscious. Or missing. I think he sometimes forgets he’s
me,
so I was about to tell you anyway.”

“Touchy!” said Seb2. “Sorry, go on.”

Seb kissed the back of Mee’s hand and smiled at her.

“I thought it was a dream. Seb2 says it wasn’t. Before I tell you, I want you to know that there’s nothing to worry about,” said Seb.

“And you’re basing that statement on what, exactly?” said Seb2. Seb ignored him.

Mee waited, unconvinced by his reassurance.

He told her about the Social Security office, the ticket, and Mic. When he’d finished, there was a very long silence.

“Well, then,” said Meera, who had carefully rolled up a joint while listening. “That’s clear as mud, then. Excellent. Any clue what’s going on?”

“Nope,” said Seb. “Any thoughts?”

Mee inhaled, drawing the sweet smoke deep down into her lungs. She had a feeling this was going to be a three-joint day.

“Yes. I think I’m going to finish this, then I think you’re going to take all of my clothes off and remind me why I still put up with you.”

“That’s a deal,” said Seb.

Chapter 11

New York

Present Day

Mason poured himself a lemonade and looked out of the huge picture window that dominated the room. The sky was black now, the city illuminated by millions of tiny lights. He sipped as his mind teased at the problem, approaching it first one way, then another.
 

Before the freak case of Sebastian Varden, Mason had undoubtedly been the most powerful Manna user in America. His unique situation had given him the perfect opportunity to hothouse his Manna skills without distraction for decades, and he knew his level of natural ability was extremely rare. He had always been able to defeat any other Manna user without breaking a sweat.
 

Building his organization had taken many years, but, as technology had matured and the computer industry had grown, he had been able to stretch his virtual net wider. The internet had given him access to more people and information than he had ever conceived of being possible, even two decades ago. His personal interest in new technology, cutting-edge software and the Worldwide Web had become a financial interest early on, meaning his personal fortune now dwarfed all but a very select few.
 

All of this money, all of this power, yet one individual could bring it all crashing down. Mason realized he was considering—for the first time in his existence—walking away from a fight. Avoiding a confrontation. It was an option. Possibly the best option. There was a real chance of defeat if he went ahead. If anything went wrong, Seb Varden could be the end of everything.

Mason had steered politics, industry and media carefully for years, making sure to keep things interesting. And that, perhaps, was the secret no one had ever come close to guessing: his motive for accruing power and influence.

People assumed he was a megalomaniac, an evil genius with some sort of masterplan. Even those ‘closest’ to him—Westlake, Barrington, Walter Ford (he could hardly include his
domestic
servants in the list)—probably believed he had an endgame in mind. The truth was, he didn’t. He had discovered Manna, found he was uncommonly talented at wielding it, and started doing so. At first, he assumed someone would stop him. By the time they tried, he was too powerful to be stopped. So he continued. It was a game. A game he was good at. And he enjoyed winning. As simple as that.
 

He continued looking out as the sky darkened and lights began to turn off across the city. The complex problem had been reduced to a simple decision, and—if he chose the more dangerous path—it could mean defeat. Choosing the safer path was surely the logical thing to do. The sensible thing.
 

The problem he faced could be summed up in four words: Sebastian Varden is alive.

Mason had suspected it, even after reviewing the footage of his death and receiving reports from Westlake and Ford. Varden’s sacrifice to save Meera Patel had been noble but—ultimately—questionable. Would he really have thrown his life away without being absolutely sure he could guarantee her safety after his death? And, considering he was the repository of the Roswell Manna—demonstrably more powerful than the Manna that had existed for centuries—why take the risk? Better surely, to find a way he could protect her himself. By surviving. By faking his death. And, after searching the foundations of the parking garage where Varden’s remains should have been rotting, Mason had finally confirmed his suspicions. No remains. No body. His men had killed a homunculus. A flesh-puppet, no more alive than a child’s toy. The most sophisticated, life-like homunculus in history, but a homunculus none the less. That as shrewd an operator as Westlake had been fooled was surprising enough, but Walter Ford had been Using for eighty years or more and had suspected nothing. Or had he?

 
Mason turned to the three giant screens on one wall of the apartment. A couple of keystrokes and he was looking at Walt’s home in Las Vegas, multiple views showing every room. Ford was evidently asleep. Mason considered calling and waking him, summoning him to explain exactly what had happened that day. He picked up the cellphone, then hesitated.

Ford claimed to have sensed Varden’s Manna signal before they’d executed him. There were two possible explanations for this. The simplest was that Ford lied to him. Mason considered it for a moment, then disregarded it. Ford would never risk lying to him. Mason’s ability to detect a lie was legendary. Those who had tested it hadn’t lived long enough to regret their decision.

Mason put the phone down again.
 

The second explanation was more likely, unpalatable as it was to admit. Varden must have been able to create a copy of himself so sophisticated that it not only looked, moved, and conversed like a regular human being, but it produced—or released, somehow—enough Manna to fool a Sensitive like Ford. Which meant that Mason needed, once again, to re-assess the power, and potential threat of his opponent.
 

All of which brought Mason back to a simple decision. The decision he’d given all his attention to for the last few hours. Knowing what he did about Sebastian Varden’s abilities, and accepting this knowledge was partial at best, should he leave him alone, hoping that Varden would do him the same courtesy? Or should he find a way to neutralize him and—this time—take care of it himself?

Mason had no doubt that Varden would be the victor in a fair fight. Naturally, he had no intention of being fair. Varden’s weakness was still the same. If Mason controlled Meera Patel, he controlled Sebastian Varden.

Decision made, Mason turned his attention to the practicalities of finding—and extracting—Patel, without alerting Varden. No doubt they would have taken precautions, after nearly eighteen months, if Varden believed his faked death had fooled Mason, he might have stopped looking over his shoulder by now.
 

Mason smiled thinly. This was a fight he might lose, but he couldn’t leave Varden out there. Eventually, the man would come after him. Mason had killed his friend and had had an entire outpost of the Order slaughtered in order to kidnap Patel. One day, he’d come looking. Mason needed to act first.

“Ruth,” he said. He heard the woman walk in, but didn’t turn around. “I need protein—eggs, fish, some carbs. Then go to bed.” It was 3:32am. Another hour and lights would start coming on in the bakery at the base of the building opposite. Mixed with sounds of traffic, bird song and occasional shouts would be the thump of flour sacks being delivered ready to make bread, bagels, pretzels. Soon the smells would start rising into the dawn. Mason, fifteen floors up behind triple-glazed windows would hear nothing, smell nothing.

His food arrived. He started researching online while he ate mechanically, barely tasting what he put into his mouth. He had an idea of what he required to find Patel, but the technical challenge was a specialized one. He would need help.