World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  “It’s like talking to someone through google translate,” thought Seb.

  “Introductions commence,” said Mic. “This one takes name of Louise, this one Thelma.” As he spoke, first the figure to his left, then the one to his right glowed more brightly for a fraction of a second.

  “Mee’s favorite film,” thought Seb. “Interesting.” Then he noticed the aliens’ chairs. If his chair was at CEO level, theirs were designed for royalty. About two feet wider than his, they also towered above him, giving the already tall creatures even more of a height advantage. His own chair’s air of smugness had dissolved and been replaced by an inferiority complex.

  “Clear to see the power dynamic here, then,” thought Seb. “Who are they? What do they want?”

  “Bad news on that score,” said Seb2. “I only just worked some of it out while you were getting yourself shot back there. Hang on.”

  The scene seemed to freeze as Seb2 closed down all parts of Seb’s brain and body not immediately needed, meaning they could have a conversation in under a second, that otherwise might have lasted minutes.

  “I analyzed every packet of data they sent during our last visit, but none of it makes sense. A great deal of information came across through Mic’s Manna, but it was as if it were prepared for someone else.”

  “What do you mean?” thought Seb.

  “The first data packet was a formal greeting, that was clear enough. They were expecting you. Only, they weren’t. Not really. They were expecting someone else, but you were the only candidate remotely similar to what they were looking for, so they summoned you.”

  “Don’t particularly like being summoned,” thought Seb.

  “Yeah. I’m working on stopping that, but I’m not there yet. And we need to find out what they want. The data that came through after the introductions contained no information.”

  “What, then?”

  “It was like a handshake, well, a billion handshakes. Like tab A trying to connect with slot A, only to find there was no slot A, only button Z.”

  “Oh, here we go.”

  “The Manna bursts were designed to be met with something reciprocal from you. Then—I think—they were primed to exchange information at the same time as upgrading us in some way. To facilitate communication, I think.”

  “Not sure I want to be upgraded right now,” thought Seb.

  “Well, that’s the interesting part,” said Seb2. “It’s clear to me that the upgrade they were offering would actually be a huge step backward for you. It was as if they were offering you the chance to move from roller skates to a bicycle, but you were already flying a jet.”

  “So who were they expecting? Someone needing the upgrade?”

  “I think so. I think it’s the Roswell Manna again. Their Manna is old-school. Walt, Mason, the Order, it’s operating just above that level. Your Manna is incompatible with theirs.”

  “Like trying to download vinyl,” thought Seb.

  “Good metaphor,” said Seb2. “You’re getting better at this. Anyway, this all means we need to try harder to communicate verbally. So let’s try. I’ll contribute if I have anything useful to say.”

  “I won’t hold my breath, then,” thought Seb.

  “You realize—since I’m you—you’re just insulting yourself, right?”

  “Yeah, I know,” thought Seb, “but somehow, that still doesn’t make it any less fun.”

  His sense of time returned to normal. The alien introduced as Thelma tilted her head slightly toward Mic. When she returned to an upright position, Mic spoke again. Seb wondered if the tilting of the head was probably just for his benefit, as it was such a human mannerism. Their method of communication with each other was still a mystery. Possibly via Manna, or even color changes on their skin too subtle for Seb to pick up.

  “Investigation. Hypotheses. Inconclusive. What status of species, Seb Varden? Human primary, yet other possibility through evolution. Primary most likely in this case to take next step. Yet your wrongness noted. What status?”

  Seb took a deep breath. Communication was still going to be hit and miss.

  “I’m human, yes. I share something with you—I also use Manna.”

  Both Thelma and Louise tilted their heads this time. Seb waited politely.

  “Manna designation for process, subject/object manipulation, conscious evolution, yes?”

  Seb tried to pick apart the sentence.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “I think so. But what is conscious evolution?”

  No tilting of heads this time. The three of them just looked blankly at him. Well, their expressions might have been full of meaning to each other, but to Seb they were utterly blank.

  “Guess you don’t get to ask questions, then,” said Seb2. “This might look like a meeting, but they brought you here, they’re asking the questions and, until they’ve decided who you are, they seem to be treating you as an inferior.”

  “That seems kind of fair to me,” thought Seb.

  “Yes, on one level. But it implies a degree of inflexibility in their thinking. They were expecting Manna use of a far lower level than you possess, and so far, they’ve been unable, or unwilling, to adjust their expectations. The good news is, I’ve managed to hack their mainframe.”

  “You’ve WHAT?”

  “Don’t worry, they won’t know a thing about it. Let’s talk about it when we’re home.”

  “Which is when, exactly? And how long will it have been for Mee?”

  “I have a theory about that, won’t be able to confirm it until we’re home. But you’re not going to like it.”

  The alien voice had spoken again, but Seb hadn’t been listening. Seb2 replayed the sentence.

  “Apology sub greeting previous inappropriate. Possibility experiment parameters altered. Request exchange now with Thelma, specialism advanced culture. Contamination suspected.”

  It was Seb’s turn to stare blankly. The alien designated as Thelma slid off her leather throne and walked down the length of the table toward him.

  “Another Manna approach,” said Seb2. “Tentative, this time, cautious. I think you’re supposed to let them in, allow them to have a good look around at our Manna, investigate how it differs to what they were expecting.”

  “They know my Manna is more advanced than theirs?” thought Seb.

  “They suspect it. But they’re not sure. That’s why they want a closer look.”

  “I don’t like the sound of the word ‘contamination’,” thought Seb.

  “I hear you. I intend blocking them from seeing much at all, but I’ll make my blocking look as though it’s an automatic defense mechanism, out of our feeble human control.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I hope so.”

  Thelma stood in front of him. Seb suddenly had an intense feeling that they were being watched.

  “You feel that?” he thought.

  “Yep,” said Seb2. “Something else. Someone else. There’s something weird going on here.”

  Seb looked at the 1980s-style power-dressed alien standing next to the boardroom table in front of him and decided not to comment.

  Thelma reached out a long slender arm. Her wrist ended up about three feet clear of her jacket. Fingers longer than chopsticks stretched toward his hand.

  Seb had a flashback to the moment when Billy Joe had found him dying in the Verdugo mountains. Then, he had thought the alien was just a hallucination brought on by blood loss. That was until the hallucination in question healed his wounds, took away his brain tumor and gave him superhuman powers. Now, he calmly let his own comparatively tiny hand be lightly gripped between those blue-gray fingers.

  Whereas his encounter with Billy Joe had felt like an explosion of electricity detonating in his heart, reaching out in a split second to every extremity, this time, he felt nothing.

  “I’m, er, showing them around,” said Seb2. “It’s working.”

  “What is?”

  “Oh, you know, it�
��s like that tour of Abbey Road studios we took in London. They showed us some of the Beatles recording equipment from 1967 and sold us a really overpriced mug, but we never got to see what we wanted to see—the control room in their most advanced studio at work, recording a current band.”

  “You’ve sold them a mug?”

  “In essence, yes, that’s exactly what I’ve done.”

  Thelma stepped away from Seb, dropping his hand. She half-turned to her colleagues. All of them tilted their heads. The silence went on for nearly a minute before Mic broke it.

  “Data insufficient. Conclusion insecure. But Seb Varden came here.”

  “Like I had a choice,” thought Seb.

  “Seb Varden therefore species representative, although irregularities. Mic, Thelma, Louise discuss status, findings. Next meeting 427. Autopsy.”

  “Autopsy!” said Seb, half getting out of the chair.

  Mic steepled his long fingers in that incongruously human fashion again before speaking.

  “Syntax error,” he said eventually. “Vocabulary novel and insufficient. Correct word, examination. Yes, examination. Have you right as rain in no time an apple a day.”

  “Is it just me?” thought Seb, “or do you think ‘autopsy’ was the right word for what they want to do to me?”

  “I’d like to say you’re just being paranoid,” said Seb2, “but I have a bad feeling about all of this. I’ve retrieved some information back from the mainframe and I’ve left a—,”

  ***

  Seb spluttered, his mouth full of water. Instinctively, he rolled sideways, bringing his face out of the dirty puddle. He coughed convulsively and pushed himself first to his knees, then to his feet.

  He was standing on the street in Iztapalapa where he’d felt the sudden headache come on and been ‘summoned’ to see Mic and his friends. It was, he guessed, about half an hour before full dawn. His body ached.

  Seb looked around him. Initially he thought he was alone, but then he noticed two small children, five or six years old, squatting in the shadows of a doorway opposite, their wide eyes following his every movement.

  “Hi,” he said, smiling. “Do you know what day it is—qué día es hoy?”

  The two children, who had just witnessed a man appear from nowhere, six inches above the ground, before falling into a puddle, jumped to their feet and ran off down the street, wailing for their parents.

  As Seb left the district and made his way up the hill leading for home, he passed a newsstand and checked the date. He’d been gone a week.

  Chapter 22

  London

  The stewardess nudged Walt to wake him as the 747-400 began its final descent into London Heathrow. Pressing the button to bring his seat upright, he groaned aloud as his muscles complained. There was a twinge in the small of his back which clicked softly as he sat up. He was going to have to make a lot of adjustments to get used to living without Manna. Accepting muscular aches and pains, not being able to function effectively without proper rest. He was just beginning to appreciate the constant adjustments he would have to make.

  Walt had, eventually, managed to get just over two hours’ fitful sleep. His body ached from being cramped up in his seat, which appeared to be expressly designed to subtly torture the human body. He’d flown economy to avoid attracting attention, but as he kneaded his knotted neck between his fingers, he decided that if he was going to be tracked down and murdered while traveling, from now on it would be in the relative comfort afforded by first class.

  As the wheels thumped down onto the tarmac, Walt peered across from his aisle seat, trying to glimpse his destination through the fog he assumed would obscure his view. It was 10am, early September, and London, contrary to his preconceptions, was bathed in glorious sunlight. If Walt had been a believer in portents, signs and a greater power, he might have decided this unexpectedly wonderful weather signified a change for the better in his own life. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t. He got off the plane and bought a winter coat, unsure how long he would be staying, but confident Great Britain would soon reassume normal service and attempt to freeze his balls off.

  ***

  Having found a newly opened hotel which boasted the most comfortable beds in Europe, Walt hung the Do Not Disturb sign outside his door and slept for a solid four hours. Afterwards, he ate lunch at the deli next door, then found a bank, changed $10,000 and bought himself some new clothes.

  By the time the evening rolled around, he knew jet lag—another new horror he had to deal with—was going to keep him awake until the early hours. He wondered if his homunculus was still functioning back home, then found to his surprise, that his previous life had already started to take on a slightly dream-like quality. The decision to break away from Mason was one of the only times in his adult life he’d made a decision with no clue as to how it might work out. For the first time he could remember, he wasn’t reliant on or beholden to another human being. He was free. It scared the crap out of him.

  He thought he was wandering the streets of central London with no real purpose, but as the bars began to empty out, he realized he was only a few streets away from his favorite casino. And he hadn’t played poker for months. It had been years since he’d been there—he noticed the carpet was definitely new for one thing—but he still felt a little rush of pleasure as he walked into the Edwardian Casino, known locally as ‘The Ed’.

  The dealer gave him a curt nod as he sat down with his pile of chips. No effusive greeting as if he were an old friend. He definitely wasn’t in Vegas any more. Walt was playing for fun, so he hadn’t spent any time studying the tables and the players, just grabbed the first seat available. Texas Hold’em, probably the most successful export ever from the Lone Star state. No limit, the most popular variant, where you could bet your entire stack on the turn of a card if you chose to do so. Not a game for the faint-hearted.

  The table was made up of a mixture of The Ed’s regulars and some tourists. It only took about forty-five minutes’ play to discern which was which. The glamorous, gregarious blonde to Walt’s right talked as if she was a trophy wife spending her shopping budget, but her play so far had been calculating and effective. There were three players in their twenties who’d obviously had learnt the game online. They hid behind sunglasses and hoodies and screened out distractions with earbuds. Despite their similar appearance, two of them were nervous rookies, giving away far too much information with their bet-sizing. The third may have been professional. His play was loose and aggressive, getting involved with nearly every hand, but knowing when to lay it down and when to bet for maximum value. Two older Chinese men made up the rest of the table. Probably regulars too, but recreational players—willing to gamble, seemingly not worried about losing.

  Walt’s strategy involved playing at a sub-optimal level at first while he scoped the other players and, hopefully, gave them the impression that his own play was weak and predictable. After the first hour, during which he lost about fifteen percent of his initial £2000 starting stack, Walt started to play properly, while simultaneously trying to look as if he was just getting lucky. He stayed out of most hands with the blonde woman, and only played against the internet kid when he had the advantage of position, meaning he was the last to make a decision in each round of betting. He took several small pots, then an £800 pot, mostly from the Chinese guys.

  At around midnight, the woman on Walt’s right got up and went off to cash in. She was slightly up on the night, but had seen through Walt’s efforts to appear to be a lucky tourist. A hustler knew another hustler when she saw one. As she left, she bent down to whisper in his ear.

  “The guys at the next table,” she said.

  Walt looked over. A table of six—raucous, lots of laughter, lots of drinking.

  “I see ‘em,” said Walt.

  “They might invite you to a home game. They like to invite tourists with plenty of cash.”

  “Sounds like fun,” said Walt.

  “Maybe,” she s
aid, “but I’d pass if I were you. Just a bit of friendly advice.”

  As she left, Walt took a closer look at the next table. It looked like most of them knew each other. They were laughing at the biggest loser at the table, who seemed to be taking his losses in fairly good spirits. Judging from the cut of his suit and the Rolex on his wrist, a few thousand here or there wouldn’t hurt him any.

  After another hour, Walt had more than doubled his stack, and the internet kid had realized there might be easier pickings elsewhere. The table started to thin out, and Walt went to the cashier’s cage to get his money.

  As he turned to leave, the guys from the next table were putting on their coats and making their way outside. The one who’d been losing turned to Walt with a smile.

  “Hi, I’m Danny,” he said.

  “Patrick,” said Walt, shaking his hand.

  “We’re going to keep the action going at home,” he said. “It’s a ten-minute walk from here. Do you fancy a game?”

  Walt started to shake his head and excuse himself, but Danny interrupted him, laughing.

  “I saw Nikki whispering to you,” he said. “She thought she could outplay us. She lost big. Now she warns everyone.”

  “I have nothing to prove,” said Walt.

  “Fine, no problem,” said Danny. “No pressure. I mean, we like to fancy we’re the best players in town right now, so no one would blame you for taking a raincheck. Nice to meet you anyway, Patrick.”

  As he turned to walk away, Walt felt that little buzz of excitement he used to get when pitting himself against another mature Manna user. He was a far better poker player than these guys could possibly know, and he was running good. What would be the harm? He called after the group as they pushed through the casino’s revolving door.

  “Hey, hold up,” he said. “I guess a couple hours won’t hurt.”

  Danny punched him playfully on the arm.

  “Good man,” he said.

  ***

  Walt opened his eyes gingerly and sat up. He was curled up at the bottom of a hedge next to a half-eaten piece of pizza. His face was hurting, his eye throbbed and there was a line of dried blood under one nostril.