“Yeah, and you know what else?” he said. “Your old man is the worst logger in the crew. My uncle Pete told me that. He says the only reason the crew boss keeps him on is cause your momma does him favors, know what I mean?”
Boy peered up, the throb of the headache feeling like someone was pounding on the inside of his skull, wanting to get out.
“My mom?” he said.
“Sure,” said Davy, grinning. “Your daddy’s a loser and your momma’s a whore.” He pulled back his arm, getting ready to unload his trademark roundhouse, which inevitably produced a huge black eye within minutes of landing. But as he got ready to unleash the punch, he felt his left hand erupt in agony.
Boy didn’t pass out this time. The headache seemed to fill his brain, his whole world was pain, but he was still capable of quick, rational thought. As Davy drew his arm back, Boy pushed his head down and fastened his teeth on the back of Davy’s other hand. He bit down with all his strength, then pulled his head backward and up, using his chin as a pivot to tear the skin, veins and muscles away.
Davy screamed, a shrill, high-pitched shriek that made everyone near him back away. It was loud enough that a teacher finally looked across and started walking toward them. One of the kids in the group caught sight of Davy’s bloody hand, his fingers flopping where the tendons had been ripped. He turned away and vomited.
That might have been the end of it, but some deep, reptile part of Davy’s brain knew that he had to prove his dominance, even in the face of this atrocity. He couldn’t let this puny kid win. He threw himself at Boy.
Boy had seen Davy jerk backward and look disbelievingly at his ruined hand. As he spat out bits of the other boy’s flesh, he saw Davy make his decision to attack. Boy knew he had a pencil in his pants pocket. Taking it out, he stepped nimbly to one side as the larger youth came forward. Boy held the pencil, point-forward, in his left fist. Davy was strong, heavy and unbalanced. Boy simply held the pencil in the optimum position, braced against the heel of his right hand. About three inches of the pencil quickly disappeared into Davy’s neck. Boy twisted his hand and pulled forcefully to one side. The pencil snapped, Davy fell to his knees, and there was about 2.5 seconds of stunned silence when the only sound other than Davy’s ragged breathing, was the rhythmic splatter of blood as it pulsed out of his neck and hit the hard dirt.
Boy sat down and rubbed his head. Dimly, he was aware of someone else throwing up, some screams and an adult voice sounding at first angry, then shocked, panicked and fearful. He lay down, feeling the edges of awareness cloud up. He passed out.
***
The drive back from school was made in silence. Mom was pale and her hands shook slightly when she opened the door. They had been in with the principal for forty-three minutes as Boy had waited with the nurse. She was kind to him, but Boy figured she knew what happened, because once she’d given him some Tylenol and a glass of water, she’d left and locked the door behind her. When it opened again, it was Mr. Jeckells standing there with his parents. The principal wouldn’t meet Boy’s eye. Pop just said, “You’re coming home now. Got yerself a week’s vacation.”
Mr. Jeckells blinked at that and started to say something.
“Now, sir, what happened today is a serious matter, and your son’s suspension is-”. Then he caught Pop’s eye and shut his mouth in a hurry, backing out of the door.
When they got home, Pop went straight to the kitchen. Boy heard him open the fridge, the chink of bottles loud and clear. Mom turned to Boy, squeezed his hand and whispered, “You weren’t yourself, you were pushed too hard by that bully. I know what his family is like. Everyone knows. But what you did was wrong. Very wrong. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. It’ll be ok.” She looked at Boy, and for the first time in his life, he saw a slight wariness in her eyes. He felt sick.
Pop came through with the kitchen with two opened bottles of beer. He handed one to Boy. “Sit your ass down, boy,” he said. “Have a drink.”
He paced around the kitchen before saying anything else. After a while, he seemed to notice Mom standing there. “No washing that needs doing, woman? Food gonna cook itself tonight?”
Mom went to the kitchen. Pop smirked at Boy. “Drink, I said.” Boy tried a sip of the beer. He pulled a face at the sour taste. Pop laughed. Boy flinched at the sound.
“Well, well,” said Pop. He stopped pacing and pulled up a chair opposite Boy. He looked closely at his son’s face, as if seeing it for the first time. Finally, he spoke. “That Johanssen kid, I know his daddy. I know his brothers. They talk big, always have, they reckon they’re all kinds of mean.” Pop poured a glass of bourbon to chase down the beer. He looked pointedly at the beer bottle in Boy’s hand. Reluctantly, Boy took another swallow, grimacing again.
“Guess you showed ‘em a thing or two today,” he said. “That chicken shit Jeckells said they put three pints of fresh blood in him at the hospital. Said he’s lucky to be alive. If they didn’t all know what that family’s like, if they didn’t all think it was self-defense, you’d be heading off to some crap hole of a juvenile detention center right now.” The bourbon was half-gone already.
“But your teacher spoke up for you. So did that commie librarian. Said you were a good student. That true, Boy? You grown yerself half a brain when I wasn’t looking?”
Boy knew better than to reply. He took another swallow of the rancid liquid to avoid saying anything. Pop just looked steadily across at him.
“Well, they don’t know you like I do,” he said. “You’re not smart. Not book smart, anyhow. That’s good. Don’t want you growing up to be a useless piece of shit like your momma. Maybe there’s hope for you. Maybe the apple didn’t fall so far from the tree after all.”
Boy looked at his father for a long moment. He thought of the books hidden upstairs. He thought of his dreams of escape. Then he remembered the cat dying in his hands. He remembered the feeling of joy that had flashed through him when he’d stabbed the pencil into Davy’s neck. He put the beer bottle down, crossed the room and opened the screen door, heading out into the trees. He was running before he knew it.
Chapter 9
Mexico City
Present Day
Depending on your point of view, Seb Varden’s first blackout after becoming superhuman lasted either nine minutes or twelve days. Later, he discovered it was something to do with relativity, and he’d never really understood that theory. The only clear memory he had from a distant physics class was trying to comb his hair into the style Einstein sported. He loved that mess of hair. Like it was in a state of constant shock at the activity going on in the freakish brain below. Coming round from the blackout, Seb’s own hair was flat and sticky, due to the blood seeping from a gash under his temple.
He pushed his back up against the kitchen counter carefully, sitting up.
“Did that just happen?” said Seb2.
“Honestly?” thought Seb, “I really don’t know.”
The memory of what had just happened seemed indistinguishable in its quality, its heft, from any other part of the last few days. But the content of the memory was so bizarre, so surreal, that Seb automatically questioned its reality.
“You weren’t dreaming, I’m sure of that,” said Seb2. “Fully conscious throughout.”
“Where was I? How did it happen? Could it happen again?”
“Don’t know, don’t know, probably,” said Seb2.
“Big help, thanks.”
“I’m working on it,” said Seb2. “When I find something, you’ll be the first to know.”
Seb thought back to the moment he’d lost consciousness. It had felt as if he’d suddenly been engulfed by a violent storm—as if a raging wind was tearing at him, pushing, pulling, unstoppable. That feeling had lasted a split second as he fell, then suddenly—
***
-he was sitting on a blue plastic chair. He was hunched over, staring at an old, dirty tiled floor, the surface an indiscriminate beige color. For a moment, he didn’t
register the sudden change of location. It seemed entirely natural that he was on this chair, looking at this floor, instead of standing, holding a beer and talking to Mee.
Seb sat up and looked around. His chair was third in a line of twelve exact replicas fastened together. Behind him was another row of twelve chairs. There were six windows above a waist-high counter ten feet in front of him. Through five of the windows, Seb could see a computer, an empty chair and little else. On the other side of the glass, details seemed to be blurred—literally impossible to bring into focus. The last window, furthest away, was harder to see through as the fluorescent tube above it flickered weakly, providing little useful light. There was a background hum. It seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Getting to his feet, Seb checked the rest of the room. It was virtually featureless. It looked almost exactly like the Social Security office where Seb had picked up a replacement card in New York. There was only one difference, as far as he could tell. Not a feature so much as a lack of one. There was no door.
A bell rang and Seb looked up. A digital board above the window was displaying a flashing message in red:
387—window 6
Seb became aware that there was a piece of paper in his left hand. He looked down. It was a ticket. 387.
Window 6 was the one under the flickering light.
“Well, I’m here, might as well find out what this is all about,” thought Seb.
“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 stroll?
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.
World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine Page 6