Seb appeared in his apartment in Mexico City a few hours before dawn. He sat at the breakfast counter and put out his hand. As the tv flickered into life, a glass full of orange juice and a bagel covered in peanut butter appeared in front of him—or seemed to. They were actually made up of particles borrowed from the kitchen counter plus bits of dirt and dead skin floating in the air, changed to duplicate the particles found in glass, china, freshly squeezed oranges, bagel and peanut butter. At first, Seb had needed soil to produce physical items, but as Seb2 learned more about the alien operating system now coded into every part of his body, he had been able to expand his use of Manna in new ways.
“Loose end from Dover still needs our attention,” said Seb2. Seb drained the juice and nodded. He had taken care of the gang at the bank, but the syndicate behind the attempted crime would just find some other hired muscle to do their dirty work. And innocent people would continue to die as a result of their crimes.
“Who are they?” thought Seb.
“Most are financiers, but the main player is a programmer, MIT graduate. Tyler Gray. He doesn’t even need to meet his partners, it’s all done online. He’s behind all of it. He finds the muscle. Doesn’t seem to care about the people who die while he pursues his riches. Remove him and there’s no more syndicate. He’s based in LA.”
“Show me,” thought Seb. Suddenly, he wasn’t just looking at the kitchen, his view was overlaid with an image of a room full of computer hardware and a bank of monitors. A young man sat in front of them in a big leather chair. He was wearing boxer shorts and eating cereal, while shouting into a headset.
“How? How is that possible? It took weeks to set up that diversion. Jesus!” He took some deep breaths, scratched his balls and spoke again. “Ok, give me until the weekend and I’ll set up a new target. Find me a team who actually know what the fuck they’re doing this time, ok?”
He took off the headset and tossed it onto the desk. Two of the four huge screens showed real-time stock market information. The other two were full of code that made no sense to Seb.
“He was hard to find,” said Seb2. “He’d set up dozens of dead ends, blind alleys. He thinks there’s no way anyone could ever track the crimes back to him.”
“How hard to find?” thought Seb.
“3.43 seconds,” said Seb2.
“Stop showing off,” thought Seb, “and show me another room. I’ll Walk there.” A few other rooms appeared in Seb’s vision, including the master bedroom, which led out to a balcony and an ocean view. The walls were lined with books.
“Wasn’t showing off,” said Seb2. “He’s a prodigy. I would have had him in under a second otherwise.”
Seb Walked.
The balcony doors were open and the sound of the waves was the only noise apart from the rhythmic tapping of computer keys from the next room. Seb walked across to the nearest bookcase. Stephen King, HP Lovecraft, Edgar Allen Poe, HR James, Peter Strauss, Clive Barker.
“Tyler likes his horror literature,” thought Seb.
“Yep,” said Seb2. “Oh. Ok, that’s funny. I get it. Great idea. Just don’t spoil it by laughing.”
“I’ll do my best,” thought Seb. He closed his eyes briefly and felt the by-now familiar rippling of his skin and muscle as he changed, his body morphing into a new shape. He stepped across to the foot of the bed to look in the full length mirror. He still had to duck to see himself fully, as he was now seven feet tall.
“Shit!” he said quietly as he saw what he’d become. He was the perfect, nightmarish circus clown. His face was white and smeared, as if the makeup had been hurriedly applied. The wig was supposed to be green, but was matted with blood and hung limply on his shoulders. The areas of skin visible beneath the white were crusty, dark red, pustulant. His eyes were yellow and bloodshot, his nose obscured by a red sphere that, on closer inspection, looked like some bloated throbbing blood vessel. His mouth was just a little bigger than seemed humanly possible, and his smile revealed blackened teeth filed into vicious points, the tongue a mass of old wounds and newly made gouges, where the teeth were constantly ripping the flesh. Blood seeped from the corners of his mouth.
“Sure this won’t scare him to death?”
“He’s young and healthy,” said Seb2. “Look on the bright side. He’ll definitely spend less time indoors after this, so his health will actually improve.”
“Hmm,” thought Seb and walked out of the bedroom. The door to the room he wanted was closed, so he knocked slowly, three times, for dramatic effect.
Behind the door, Tyler froze for half a second, then threw himself off of the chair, opened a drawer, removed a handgun and checked it, while backing slowly into a corner. Seb still had an overlay of the room open, and he watched the young man sweat as he clicked the safety off.
“You just made a huge mistake, asshole!” Tyler yelled. Then he frowned and scanned one of the screens, leaning forward to jab at a couple of keys. His expression changed briefly to one of utter bewilderment as he checked the data.
“He designed his own security system,” said Seb2. “It’s probably the best I’ve ever seen. As far as he’s concerned, you’re not here. It’s physically impossible. He was looking for traces of carbon dioxide from your breath, as well as a heat signature from your body. He found nothing. Now he’s going to start thinking he just imagined it. Time to convince him otherwise.”
Stepping close to the closed door, Seb opened his mouth. His chest was now fifty-two inches wide, and his internal organs had been shifted to the sides in order to produce a resonant chamber bigger than any human in history. The result, when he spoke, was so deep, rich and loud, it made Darth Vader sound like Mickey Mouse in comparison.
“Ty…ler,” said Seb, his voice rumbling like the idling engine of a monster truck. Behind the door, Tyler let out an involuntary shriek and backed hurriedly all the way into the corner.
“I’ll shoot!” he screamed, his voice cracking with fear. “I mean it! You’re gonna die unless you leave. Right now!”
Seb was silent for a count of ten. Just long enough for Tyler to start to believe his threats may have had the desired effect. Just long enough for his heart rate to stop climbing. Just long enough for him to start breathing again. Then Seb threw the door open so hard it flew off its hinges, ducked under the doorframe, took two quick paces into the room, and drew himself up to his full height.
Tyler Gray was an intelligent man. He may have directed this intelligence in a direction that benefitted only himself, but there was no denying his capacity for solid, rational thought. To his credit, when faced with a creature seemingly straight out of his worst nightmares, he didn’t collapse immediately. Logic told him this was some kind of trick, his security system—impossible as it seemed—had been beaten, and the creature now dripping blood onto his Persian rug was, undoubtedly, human. So, bullets would put an end to it. Consequently, he emptied ten rounds into the clown, all of them into his chest.
“Good shooting,” thought Seb as the wounds closed, cauterized and disappeared. The fact that his heart, lungs and spleen were currently out of harm’s way meant there was little damage to repair.
“He has some skill, certainly,” said Seb2.
Seb stepped forward again. He was two feet away from the cowering young man, who, after looking at his gun in disbelief, was now sliding down the wall and beginning to cry. Seb opened his mouth as wide as it would go—which was horribly wide—and roared in Tyler’s face. He roared for a full half-minute. As he did so, flecks of blood and tiny pieces of flesh from his ruined tongue hit Tyler on the forehead, cheeks, lips and eyes, until the sobbing man’s view of the clown was momentarily obscured by a film of red. He blinked frantically, rubbed it away and moaned. The clown was still there. This was really happening.
“I COME FROM IN THERE,” said Seb, pointing at the nearest screen. The bass profundo effect of his new voice was so pronounced that the beer bottle and car keys on the desk rattled and moved as he spoke.
Tyler’
s mouth opened and closed a few times but no sound emerged.
“I’VE BEEN WATCHING YOU, TYLER. YOU ARE NO LONGER WELCOME IN MY DOMAIN.”
“Wha-? Wh-?” Tyler swallowed and managed a single word. “Where?”
Seb leaned forward even closer and smiled. Tyler whimpered and quietly soiled himself.
“IF I EVER SEE YOU AGAIN, I WILL COME FOR YOU, TYLER GRAY.”
Seb turned toward the desk. He lifted a giant foot, complete with a blood-caked clown shoe about twenty-five inches long, and stepped directly into the nearest computer screen. Tyler watched, sobbing as the impossible happened right in front of him. The clown’s foot was followed by his leg, then he sat on the desk and put his other leg inside. Nothing came out of the back of the screen. It was as if this monster was climbing through a window. Next, he hoisted the rest of his body through, until only his nightmarish head remained. Then the neck twisted and the face looked toward Tyler, its cold, dead, yellow eyes fixed on his.
“I’LL BE WAITING FOR YOU.” One more smile, then the head followed the body through and was gone.
Tyler sat there for nearly half an hour, before daring to believe the nightmare was over and the creature had really gone. He pushed himself back up into an upright position, wincing at the smell coming from his shit-caked boxer shorts. He looked at the computer screens. All the regular data were gone, replaced by a simple message: I’ll be waiting for you, Tyler.
Tyler screamed, yanked all the plugs out of the wall and ran from the room. He never went in again. He never touched another computer in his life. He also avoided circuses.
Chapter 6
New York
Mason looked out of the window across at the city skyline. He had been sitting in exactly the same position, unmoving, for over three hours. Sharp-edged shadows moved across nearby buildings, some of which hadn’t been built when he’d first arrived in New York. He barely registered the scene, despite it being one of the best—and, consequently, expensive—views in Manhattan.
He was working at a problem, a puzzle; teasing out possibilities, analyzing options, considering consequences. Mason would never have described himself as happy, but the calm satisfaction gained by finding a solution—often counter-intuitive—to complex problems was the closest he came to that apparently common human emotion.
Mason’s most powerful weapon was his intellect. His second most powerful weapon was anonymity. Many people knew of his existence, but only three people had ever known where, and who, he really was. He had preserved that situation for most of his life. One of the three was long dead. Soon, another would share the secret, but only because Mason had instigated the process.
He closed his eyes and stretched his arms above his head. Dusk had begun leeching colors from the scene before him.
“Ruth,” he said.
A pregnant woman in her mid-thirties entered the room. She waited a few feet away without speaking.
“I want to go out,” he said. “Tell your mother to get the van ready.”
Ruth turned to leave.
“We’re not going to the cemetery. We’ll be gone for a few hours.”
If Ruth was shocked by this request, she didn’t show it, just nodded and left the room.
Mason tried to recall the last time he’d been outside the apartment, other than his monthly visit to the Manna-rich cemetery a mile away. After a few seconds, he remembered. Nearly seven years ago. When he had needed to deal personally with an escalating problem: a mayoral candidate who had attempted to outmaneuver him by surrounding herself with ambitious Manna-users.
Elizabeth Harper, a native New Yorker whose political rise had been rapid and, Mason acknowledged, unexpected, had more than a little Manna ability herself. She’d thought it was time New York—and the country—were free of the light-but-firm grip Mason kept on political leaders. Mason admired her ambition, but was unimpressed by her choice of advisors. They may have been sharp politically, but not one of them would have had a clue what they were up against in Mason.
He didn’t show himself, of course. He merely got close enough in the van for his Manna to reach them. Then he’d called her.
“Elizabeth Harper?” he’d whispered. Mason always whispered. Impossible to tell much about a person when they whisper. Even as technology had improved, voice recognition was still fooled by something as simple as a whisper.
“Who is this?” said Harper. “This is a private number.”
“I think you’re already perfectly aware of my identity, Mrs Harper,” he’d whispered. “Let’s not play games.”
Elizabeth went quiet for a few seconds. Mason imagined her frantically signaling to her people to trace the call.
“No need to do that,” he’d whispered. “I’ll tell you where I am. Then I’ll hang up. I will call back in a few minutes.” He’d paused. For dramatic effect. He had once imagined the dramatic pause to be a literary conceit but, after some experimentation, he had found it to be extremely effective in inducing fear. Also, it slightly diminished a person’s short-term ability to make rational decisions. A useful device. Once the optimum amount of time had passed, he’d whispered again.
“I’m outside your house.” Then he’d hung up.
When he’d called back, a very different Elizabeth had answered the phone and he knew he had won. Some people only needed to be threatened, others needed proof they were in a fight they couldn’t win. Elizabeth Harper was in the latter category.
Mason pictured the scene. Elizabeth was in a room with six corpses. He had reached out, found the Manna users and cut off the oxygen supply to their brains. Because nothing was known about him, other Manna users tended to take a guess at Mason’s abilities based on their own. They thought he would need to be able to see them. They thought he would be able to manipulate his surroundings, but not their own bodies, nervous systems, or blood supply. They thought six of them would be sufficient to neutralize any threat he might make. They were woefully under-informed, which was how Mason liked it. His method of disposing of them was quick, efficient, and didn’t significantly drain his Manna supply.
“Are we clear about your allegiances, Mrs Harper?” he’d whispered. “Your success in the election is assured, I understand. Tonight’s tragedy occurred due to a carbon monoxide leak from the furnace. The coroner who’ll be assigned to this case will reflect this in his report.”
“My daughter.” Harper’s voice was faint. She had taught her eleven-year-old daughter to use Manna. Unfortunately, her daughter had been in the room when Mason had called.
“I doubt I will require your services often, but when I do, I expect unquestioning obedience. Do we have an understanding?”
“My daughter,” she’d repeated, her voice dull and flat.
“Mrs Harper, you have another daughter and a son. It’s time you start thinking about them. I will ask you one more time. Do we have an understanding?”
Her pause before answering wasn’t for dramatic effect. It sounded like she was trying to get enough strength into her voice to be able to respond at all.
“Yes,” she’d said.
Mason hung up.
The van drove to its destination, arriving in a little over an hour. Traffic in Manhattan was something even Mason couldn’t change. The journey was made in silence. Mason wasn’t much of a talker.
When the GPS announced they had arrived, the intercom buzzed.
“We’re here, sir.”
“Park at the lowest level.”
“Sir.”
Tiny cameras mounted outside the van showed Mason the view he would otherwise have been denied. The parking garage was new, as was the mall it served. The basement level was only half full. The van came to a stop and the intercom buzzed again.
“Are we getting out, sir?”
Mason turned off the cameras and dimmed the lights in the back of the van. He wanted to be absolutely sure.
“No,” he said. “This is perfect. I will let you know when I’m ready to leave.”
/> He closed his eyes, deepened his breathing and brought his attention into a needle-sharp point. When he was completely focused, he drove the point through the floor of the van and down into the cement below. When he reached the limit of the building’s foundations, he stopped and drew back a few feet. Then he let the point of his attention expand. It opened outward in all directions like a balloon being filled with air, quickly growing to a few feet, then a few meters. His sensitivity was such, he was aware of every insect, the corpse of every rodent, the old cigarette stubs, pennies, discarded subway stubs and pieces of garbage that had ended up being mixed with the cement as the foundations had been laid.
Although three minutes of concentration gave him his answer, Mason sat there for another ten, making completely sure his findings were accurate. When no doubt at all remained, he buzzed the intercom.
“Take me back,” he said.
Chapter 7
Mexico City
Seb cracked two eggs into the hot oil and ground the coffee beans. The noise elicited a groan from the bedroom. Thirty seconds later the snoring resumed. Meera had never been an early riser but it was around the time when the early morning sunlight etched honeyed lines of yellow onto the wall that the noise she produced most closely resembled that of a rutting elephant seal. Seb raised an eyebrow as the next snore physically rattled the glasses on the shelf. He flipped the eggs onto wheat toast and carried the plate through to the front porch. He loved watching Mexico City wake up.
Meera had stopped teasing him about the way he insisted on making breakfast every morning. Although she couldn’t accept that the coffee tasted any better than its Manna-produced alternative (which was a fair point, as it didn’t), she conceded that trying to keep a semblance of normality was good for him. She even let him cook dinner a couple of times a week.
“I think I get it now,” she had said one night as he’d tried, unsuccessfully, to whisk up an edible hollandaise sauce. “You don’t want to feel like a freak the whole time. You want to do normal stuff. Even though you don’t have to.”
World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine Page 4