“Wherever ‘here’ is,” said Seb2.
Seb felt no fear despite the situation. One of the consequences of his encounter with Billy Joe had been a diminishing of the more extreme emotions. His instincts were of little use now that his senses had been upgraded. During the three hundred milliseconds it might have once taken his brain to react to a threat, his enhanced consciousness had already explored actual, possible and perceived threats, considered different ways of dealing with them and instantly implemented the most effective strategy. Fear still featured in his emotional range, but it only applied to others—specifically, Meera, and his fear that she could still be hurt despite his powers. So when Seb got to window 6 and found an alien sitting on the other side of the glass, he felt many things, but fear wasn’t one of them.
At first, Seb thought it was Billy Joe. Even as the thought entered his mind, Seb2 dismissed it.
“Nope,” he said, “not him. Old-style Manna, for a start.”
Seb could be forgiven for his mistake, since the figure before him—sitting in a cheap-looking office chair—was Billy Joe’s double. Gray, glowing slightly, large expressionless black eyes, long fingers. The only difference in appearance seemed to be that this alien was wearing clothes. Specifically, he had black polyester pants and a white short-sleeved shirt with a name badge on the chest. The shirt pocket held two pens—one blue, one red. One pen was leaking and a dark blue stain was slowly spreading from a corner of the pocket.
“It might be rude to laugh,” said Seb2, as Seb choked off the urge to do just that.
The alien took the blue pen out of its pocket, seemingly oblivious to the leak. He opened a folder on the desk, turned a page, tapped the pen on it, then looked up at Seb.
“Communication begins now.” The voice, when it came, was disconcerting for two reasons. First, the sound came not from the creature’s mouth—just like Billy Joe, it didn’t have one—but from a speaker mounted halfway up the window on Seb’s left. Second, it was a very familiar voice. At first, he couldn’t place it, it was so incongruous. Then he had it.
“The guy from the male incontinence commercials!” Seb and Seb2 got there at the same moment. It was a voiceover that had always amused Seb—a voice that projected the suave professional reassurance of an airline pilot, combined with the unctuous formality of a funeral director. Seb had been so amused by the voice, he’d sampled it and used it for a track on Clockwatcher’s first album.
“Someone’s been doing their research,” said Seb2. “Who else knew you were slightly obsessed with that guy’s voice? Mee, the guys in the band—,”
“-The twenty-seven people who bought the album,” thought Seb.
“Whoa, hang on a second,” said Seb2. “We have an attempt at communication.”
“That’s what he just said,” thought Seb.
“No, not the clumsy, human moving-airwaves-about-and-hoping-your-message-gets-through kind,” said Seb2, “this guy’s using his Manna and he’s hailing us on all frequencies.”
“What do we do?” thought Seb.
“Well, we’re here. In his office. Or her office. Or its office. I guess we talk to it.”
Seb suddenly became aware that the alien had spoken again in that disconcerting voice. He looked up into its unblinking eyes.
“I’m sorry?” he said. “What was that?”
“Name?” repeated the alien, a long finger extending and pointing toward a box at the top of the form he was holding.
“You go ahead,” said Seb2. “I’ll keep you updated with my progress.”
Seb cleared his throat. “Seb,” he said. “Seb Varden.”
The creature scribbled on the paper. Seb looked closer. Even upside-down through the glass, he could see that the alien had drawn a meaningless squiggle on the paper, the sort of doodle a four-year-old might make if they were playing the ‘I work in a government office’ game. Which no four-year-old had played, ever.
“Um, what’s your name?” said Seb. If he was in some kind of dream, or alternate reality, or extremely sophisticated hidden-camera show, he decided he may as well play along for a while.
The alien seemed to consider the question. It actually steepled its fingers and put its head slightly on one side. The sight was completely bizarre and a little unnerving.
“Names are not given, or taken,” it said. “We are and we know others, the symmetry is maintained.”
After a brief silence, it seemed to decide its previous statement might need a little clarification.
“Societal analogy ill-defined, yet individuality preserved, brought forward generationally, the circle cannot be the center, yes?”
“Yes,” said Seb, instinctively, without thinking. “Er, what?”
“Social identifiers, history and current purview?” said the alien.
“Look,” said Seb. “This is all very well, but I have to call you something.” He looked closer at the name badge. It said ‘Vice President’ and had a smiley face next to it. “Vice President of what?” he said.
“Research reveals close analogy. Vice President of corporate identity. They are many, each different but none permitted to make decisions, the melding will do that for them.”
“I think he’s starting to make sense,” thought Seb.
“Busy,” said Seb2. “Leave a message. You’re on your own.”
Seb thought for a moment.
“Are you male or female?”
“Closest analogy currently male cycle.”
It was odd looking into those expressionless black eyes. The 90% or more of communication that was supposed to happen through body language and micro expressions was completely unavailable to him. It was unnerving. He wondered if it felt the same from the alien’s point of view.
Seb scanned the room, ending by focusing on the ink-stained pocket and decided, on balance, that he’d probably passed out, hit his head, and was now having a lucid dream.
“Ok, then, I’m going to call you Mic,” said Seb. “That all right with you?” He thought it best not to add why: Male Incontinence Commercial. Seb2 snorted.
“Thought you were busy?” thought Seb.
“I am, kinda—back to it, back to it,” said Seb2.
“I am Mic to this one contextually,” said Mic.
“Great,” said Seb. “What do you want to know?”
The alien stood up. It was—at about seven feet tall—slightly shorter than Billy Joe, but not much less imposing. It—he—had to stoop so that its face came back into view through the small window.
“Initial contact complete,” said Mic. “Meetings made, details now and report evaluate. My beaver is as busy as I am.”
Seb made a small high-pitched noise as he dealt with his reaction to that statement.
“You mean, you’re as busy as a beaver?” he said, smiling.
“Correction noted, syntax problem, language long disposed but assignment permits in this regard. Please another appointment on your way out.”
Mic stepped back into the shadows and was gone.
“The bad news is, my session made about as much sense as yours,” said Seb2. “Less sense, actually.”
“The good news?” said Seb.
“They-he-it—is sending us home now.”
Even as he thought it, the ground suddenly tipped on one side and -
-Seb reached up and touched the side of his head. Blood. Seb hadn’t seen his own blood for over a year. He pushed himself up from the floor, feeling the skin tightening around the wound. By the time he made it to the mirror, there was no trace of a cut, no blood in his hair. Nothing. Where the hell is Mee? Seb checked his watch, which confirmed he’d been unconscious for nearly ten minutes. Which tallied up perfectly with the experience he’d had while—apparently—lying on the kitchen floor. He remembered something suddenly, and walked back into the kitchen. He frowned. Cans of food and empty bottles surrounded the space where he’d been laying. Seb shook his head. She surrounded my unconscious body with that stuff, then went for a s
troll?
He walked into the front room and sat at the piano. It was daytime outside. Seb frowned. When he’d felt his consciousness start to blur, his vision suddenly darkening, it had been nearly midnight. No doubt at all—he remembered the whistle of the tamale man, selling his pungent and fiery chicken tamales wrapped in corn husks from a cart outside their window. Meera had been about to grab her purse and go buy some when Seb’s body seemed suddenly to disconnect from his brain. He had fallen heavily, the tamale guy’s whistle the last thing he’d heard. Now, apparently, it was morning, the tamale man’s whistle replaced by the recorded shriek of a girl offering to buy mattresses: “Se compran colchones, tambores, refrigeradores, estufas, lavadoras, microondas!” Mexico City was rarely quiet. But their apartment was still and Meera was nowhere to be seen.
He could find her, of course. Seb2 could pinpoint her position in milliseconds. But Mee had made it clear how she felt about her privacy. Seb respected that. Still, surely this qualified as an emergency? He hesitated, then decided he’d risk incurring her displeasure, which was not a choice he made lightly.
Just then the door opened and Meera walked in backward, the door key between her teeth, holding two bags of groceries. Unusually for her, she wasn’t singing. She turned and slammed the door in her customary fashion, flicking it with a solid thrust from the hips. She took two steps into the room, saw Seb and stopped.
“Hi, Mee,” said Seb. “What’s going on?”
She tried to say his name, burst into tears, dropped the groceries, then sank to the floor sobbing as a tide of beer flowed from the broken bottles toward Seb’s feet.
10
Mexico City
Twelve days earlier
Mee watched Seb pass out and fall to the floor—but he never hit it. Just as his body was about to make contact with the linoleum, he vanished. Meera had watched Seb Walk many times and had eventually become accustomed to the bizarre, frightening sight of him disappearing in front of her. This looked the same—as simple as moving from one room to another. No flash, no puff of smoke, he just…left. The difference this time—the horrible, scary difference—was that Seb wasn’t in control. His eyes rolled back in his head, he fell, and then he was gone.
For a few seconds, Mee just stood there, frozen. Then, she carefully put her drink on the counter and knelt where Seb should have been laying. She put her hands flat on the floor. There was nothing to see. The floor wasn’t hotter or colder than any other part of the kitchen. She hadn’t really expected any answers, but it felt useless to be doing nothing, and she didn’t want to think too hard about the implications of Seb suddenly Walking while unconscious.
Not really thinking about what she was doing, Mee took some tins of food from a cupboard and marked out the area where Seb would have fallen. When he came back, he might appear there.
When he came back. It wasn’t until she’d passed two sleepless nights, propped up on a cushion in the corner of the kitchen that she first considered the alternative: if he came back.
Other than bathroom breaks, she didn’t leave the kitchen for a full twenty-four hours.
The next few days passed in a blur of confusion, fear, loneliness and anger. Sleep-deprived and frustrated at her lack of options, Meera would suddenly find herself snapping back to full wakefulness to find she’d been staring at the floor for two hours. She couldn’t speak to anyone about what was going on, as no one knew her true identity. When Mason had come for her before, his mercenaries had left behind a dozen corpses, including Bob, whom she’d come to like and trust. Kate was the only person she’d got close to since moving to Mexico, and Mee felt certain a woman so wise and powerful must have some suspicions about her mysterious student. But Mason’s people had killed the members of the Order in Las Vegas as if they were swatting flies. She couldn’t risk exposing Kate to danger. Not until she was absolutely desperate.
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.”
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 42