“We can’t keep calling them ‘the species’,” said Mee. “Don’t they have a name?”
“They do,” said Seb2, “but the human voice box can’t pronounce it.”
“Well, we have to call them something.” She thought for a moment. “Everyone’s heard of Roswell. Let’s call ‘em Rozzers.”
“Rozzers?”
“Yeah. Why not? Now, carry on.”
“Ok. So, the, er, Rozzers that we met are, in fact, the descendants of the original twelve who set off from one of their planets.”
“One of their planets?” said Seb.
“They’ve colonized hundreds,” said Seb2. “Look, the information I brought back is the equivalent of a school book. Elementary school. I think the new bodies go through an accelerated learning program when they are born—if that’s the right word—and join the crew. It’s the only thing I’ve been able to effectively translate, because it’s aimed at the equivalent of a six-year-old. So don’t ask any complicated questions. I’ll tell you what I can.”
“Bullet points,” repeated Mee.
“Yes. Their attitude to death is important. Not just their attitude to their own deaths, but also to others. When they die, they know they will be back in a different body, their own experience mixed with others. It’s happened countless times in the past, it will happen countless more in the future. The concept of ‘death’, in the sense of an ending, has no real meaning to them. Even if all of them were lost and their ship destroyed, their DNA from generations ago is still at home and will be used again. They will lose the memories of this mission, nothing more. There’s no fear of death at all. They don’t attach much importance to killing, either. I’ve found evidence that they’ve wiped out civilizations without a qualm.”
“How can a species so advanced be so cruel?” said Mee.
“You a vegetarian?” said Seb2.
“You know I’m not.”
“So you’ll happily eat a conscious being, so long as it’s stupid. Well, stupid enough to satisfy your conscience that it’s barely ‘conscious’ in a meaningful way.”
“That’s completely different,” said Mee.
“Is it?”
Mee stood up and looked out of the window.
Seb looked at Seb2.
“Are they here to declare war, then?” he said. “You said they were scientists, not soldiers. Should we be worried?”
“I don’t know,” said Seb2. “There’s no hint of aggression in the information I’ve found. Humanity gets no mention in the school book I’ve been reading. Their mission seems primarily concerned with contacting other species which have evolved sufficiently.”
“Sufficiently? Sufficiently how?”
“I’m not sure yet. But I know this is just one of thousands of similar missions to other galaxies. And it’s not their first visit. But this trip is significant, more important than the others. I found some kind of ship’s inventory. I know they brought something with them. Two of them, in fact—identical. Whatever they are, they’re big—they take up about a third of the space on the ship.”
“What are they?” said Seb. Mee walked back from the window. They both looked at Seb2.
“As far as I can make out, they’re transport for a device of some sort. The device is the important bit—it’s heavily featured in some of their written material. Its name is difficult to translate, but it’s all I can find for now.”
“So, what’s the translation?” said Mee, at the same time as Seb said, “What’s the device called?”
Seb2 looked back at both of them.
“The Unmaking Engine,” he said.
Chapter 28
Three uneventful days went by. Mee and Seb stuck to the usual routine. Mee went to the market in the morning. Seb stayed home and wrote music, or Walked elsewhere and did his superhero thing. They’d talked about the multiverse, about the nihilistic urge to stop trying to help, since helping in one universe just meant failing to help in another. In the end, they’d agreed that nothing had changed, really. You helped people because you could. In the final reckoning, Seb would never know if it made the slightest bit of difference to anything or anyone, but he knew it was the right thing to do. So he did it. Mee put it best.
“If you couldn’t swim and you were standing next to a river watching ten people drowning, would you throw a life ring to one of them? Or not bother?”
“You know I would,” said Seb. “Anyone would.”
“And which one would you throw it to?”
Seb thought for a second, then shrugged. “The nearest one,” he said.
“There you go, then.”
Mee’s afternoons were less busy. She no longer had meditation with Kate to look forward to. Kate had left for Innisfarne, so the building that had once housed the Order was full of new tenants. None of them were paying rent—Kate had just quietly let it be known that it would be unoccupied. The families she had told moved gratefully from the slums to something a whole lot better.
Mee spent most afternoons meditating alone, or with Seb if he was there. Her ability with Manna was becoming stronger and more natural. On days when she’d filled up her reserves at Casa Negra, she felt as if she was walking at the center of an invisible circle with a diameter of about sixty yards. She could feel the presence of anyone within the circle, and—if anyone noticed her—she felt them light up in her mind, as their intentions became clear to her. She and Seb had discussed her ability and guessed it was something to do with human pheromones being released and detected by a cloud of nano-tech. It still felt like witchcraft to Mee when it happened, but it made her feel better about walking around alone.
All things considered, Mee felt pretty safe. Mason was still out there somewhere, but it looked increasingly likely she wasn’t a priority for him now that he thought Seb was dead. She looked like a different person and she was in one of the most densely populated cities on the entire continent, living in a three-room apartment. She knew if Mason ever did find her, her Manna ability would give her a good chance to run. As long as she could get to Seb, she would be safe. And she’d always been lucky.
It’s one of the universe’s immutable laws that luck averages out over time. And people who’ve always been lucky are always the most surprised when that law finally takes effect.
***
Seb watched Mee walk to the market. Her step was light and she swung a basket by her side as she went. Even from his high vantage point, he could tell she was singing. He smiled.
He turned and walked toward the piano. There was an idea that had been bouncing around inside his head recently—mostly in those moments just before sleep. The fact it was becoming clearer now meant that it was probably worth exploring. Seb sat down and lifted his hands above the keys, feeling that old familiar sense of time drifting away as music filled his mind. Whatever else was going on, whatever was coming their way in that alien ship, he could still bring himself back to this moment. He was about to create something. It might be worth listening to, or it could be mediocre. Either way, it would be unique and captured for the first time in the following few minutes. And, in a little while, the woman he loved would be back.
He dropped his right hand toward the keys, ready to play an F major 7th. His fingers never reached the keyboard. He felt his awareness shrinking to a pinprick and a roaring sounding in his brain, like a huge wave washing him away. Then he was gone.
***
It was just after 8am. Mee’s favorite market—La Central de Abasto in Iztapalapa—was open for business and already beginning to buzz with activity. It was probably the biggest market in the city. Mee loved the way it looked from above—she and Seb had often gone walking in the hills and looked down on it. To Mee, the high white metal shelters under which the merchants displayed their wares looked like the pages of a giant book, laid open across more than three hundred hectares.
Under those pages, La Central de Abasto reminded Mee more of the markets in East London where she’d grown up. The fruit
stalls in particular were bright, fresh and heaving with watermelons, kiwis, apples, lemons, oranges and bananas. The noise level was terrific, each vendor’s cry merging into the next as she walked. In her mind, she could hear the sing-song tones of the stall holders in New Spitalfields Market back home. “Come on, love, lovely pound of bananas ‘ere, now ah’m not arsking two, or even one-seventy ‘ere. One-fifty, that’s all ah’m arsking, any less and ah may as well take the food out the marths of me own children and send ‘em out as beggars. You won’t find ‘em any cheaper, guaranteed, me darlin’, guaranteed.”
Mee stopped to look at the display of piñatas hanging above the next stall. Rainbow colors, filled with cheap candy and in every shape imaginable: mules, cows, dogs, horses, bulls, mice, cats, spiders, lobsters. She was amused to see an alien hanging there, ready to tempt a youngster to take a swing at it.
Suddenly she stopped short, sure that someone had said her name. She looked around sharply and scanned the crowds, but no one was looking her way. There was a brief flicker of awareness, a prickling on the back of her neck. She knew she was overdue for filling up with Manna and cursed her complacency. Moving out of the flow of foot traffic and standing completely still for a few minutes, she let her awareness flow out of her, her senses reaching as far as they could to the edges of that invisible circle.
She shivered and pulled her cardigan more tightly around her shoulders. She had felt something, but it was weak, ambiguous. Even so, no point in taking chances. She decided to cut her shopping trip short and head home.
Chapter 29
Walt looked out of the taxi window as they made their way from the airport to Mexico City. He was impressed by how well-maintained the roads were. The blacktop was smooth, six lanes broken up by a line of mature trees. The airport itself had been a surprise—all concrete and glass, clean and modern. He felt a little abashed as he recognized his own prejudice. He’d expected dirt, humidity, ancient wooden ceiling fans moving droplets of sweat across unshaven faces. He was glad no one knew about the lazy bigotry he had displayed.
“Hey, I know,” said Sym, from the seat alongside him. Walt looked across and raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. On the flight, he had made the mistake of speaking to his invisible companion. The businessman in the aisle seat had turned away slightly, the first time he’d done it. Then, when Walt had continued talking to Sym, the man had gone to the bathroom and had never come back. When they got off the plane, Walt realized the man had moved to a seat in coach, rather than sit near him.
They went straight to Seb and Meera’s apartment. Walt had been about to get out of the car when Sym stopped him, holding up his hand.
“You have a hat?”
Walt shook his head. Sym nodded toward the driver, who had an oil-stained baseball cap jammed on his skull. Walt sighed and negotiated in broken Spanish. Thirty seconds later, he was fifteen dollars down and one dirty piece of headgear up.
“Keep your head down and go straight in,” said Sym. “Sixth floor. Elevator’s always breaking down—you’re better off taking the stairs.”
Walt got out of the cab and walked straight into the relative darkness of the lobby. No one was around. He shifted his bag into a more comfortable position on his shoulder, wincing as it pushed on his bruised ribs. He started climbing the stairs.
He was slightly out of breath by the time he got to Seb and Meera’s door. Manna had kept his body fit and healthy, but even a few days without had left its toll. He could almost feel the muscle tone slackening, and his injuries were a constant reminder that being ‘normal’ again was going to be far from easy.
He knocked and waited. Sym disappeared from beside him, appearing again after half a minute.
“No one home,” he said. “No sign of a struggle either. I could let you in, but it might be more polite to wait out here. After all, last time Mee saw you, you’d just helped kill a dozen friends of hers.”
Walt physically flinched at the memory.
“I didn’t help kill anyone,” he said. “I was there because I had no choice.”
Sym held up both hands.
“Hey, I’m not judging,” he said, “just warning you Mee might not be ready for a hug right away.”
Walt looked at his companion.
“You’re not much like Seb,” he said. “He’d never make light of something like that.”
“You’re right—I told you I wasn’t him,” said Sym. “Don’t let appearances fool you. I know a little of what Seb knows, I have a basic personality framework based on his, but I’ve only been alive since he stuck me in your head last year.”
“No offense, but I don’t much like the thought of you being there all that time,” said Walt.
“Oh, it wasn’t all fun and games for me, believe me. But if you don’t like my personality, you should blame yourself. You’re the only person I’ve had access to—I’m as much a product of your consciousness as of Seb’s. Anyhow, I’ll get right out of your way once we find him.”
Walt eased the bag carefully away from his bruised ribs and set it on the floor.
“I’ll wait here,” he said. He slid down the wall and sat as comfortably as he could, trying not to gasp at the pain in his ribs and stomach.
***
From a rooftop four hundred yards away from La Central de Abasto market, a woman watched Mee moving from stall to stall. The woman was lying flat, the long barrel of her rifle resting on a small beanbag she carried for the purpose. Without moving her eye away from the telescopic scope pushed up against her cheek, she spoke into a cellphone.
“Charlie to Leader. She’s the one who was singing. She doesn’t match the description. I don’t have a clear shot. Instructions?”
The voice in her ear was clear and calm. Westlake was well known for the way his heart rate rarely shifted above sixty beats per minute, even during a firefight.
“Description.”
“Around five foot six or seven, long straight black hair. Chinese, I think.”
“She may have changed her appearance. Track her. Relay her position. All ground ops close in on Charlie’s location and take positions outside the market. Alpha and Beta, move to your south-west positions and maintain tracking when Charlie loses her.”
Westlake put a ten-spot on the table, under his espresso cup and walked out of the shadows of the cafe. He stopped briefly at a store and pretended to try on sunglasses while checking the Manna-made face he was wearing had maintained its integrity. He scowled at Seb Varden’s reflection in the mirror, then tried a smile. The result made him scowl again.
“If Mason is right and you really are alive,” he said quietly, “I’m going to enjoy killing you all over again.”
He put the sunglasses in his pocket and walked away. The shopkeeper called out and hurried after him, but when Westlake stopped and looked back, he had a sudden change of heart and shuffled back to his store.
Westlake headed straight for the address Mason had supplied in the early hours of the morning. It was an apartment building. The software had been triggered multiple times in and around the building. Westlake knew where she lived. And now, she was out in the open. Alone, vulnerable, and tracked by the best team in the business. Westlake felt the familiar glow of satisfaction begin. The only possible way she could escape was if Seb Varden was in play. Westlake never wasted time dwelling on elements of a mission over which he had no control. He had his orders.
Chapter 30
Mee headed home, her pace a little quicker than her normal relaxed stroll. It may have been Manna warning her, or intuition, but she decided caution was the best policy. Maybe she should move the trip to Innisfarne forward after all. Kate would be there soon, and Seb could Walk to and from a small island off the coast of Britain, just as easily as he could an apartment in the middle of Mexico City.
As she hurried away from the market, a light rain began to fall. Rainy season was just starting. Mee normally enjoyed the showers, the smell of the water as it fell, the sound of fat drop
s hitting the awnings over the stores before sliding down and splashing onto the sidewalk below.
Today, Mee hardly noticed the rain. She kept her pace up, dodging between children, dogs, adults, and the tamale carts being wheeled from pitch to pitch. She felt suddenly conspicuous, although—as Stephanie—she knew she didn’t particularly stand out from a crowd. Still, she kept her head down as she made her way back to the apartment, trying to make herself as small as possible.
The prickling sensation at the nape of her neck didn’t go away. If anything, it got more pronounced as she got closer to home. She tried to calm her mind as she walked, but her ability to focus all attention on her breathing wasn’t well-developed enough to override more primal instincts. She felt her breath begin to quicken, along with her pulse.
In front of their apartment building was a small square. As Mee approached the end of the narrow street leading to it, the prickling in her neck moved up into her skull, her Manna lit up and she knew beyond a doubt that she was being followed. They were close. Worse still, she could feel at least five distinct entities, all of whom were focused on her. Three of them were above her. Mee resisted a strong temptation to look up and scan the roofs of the buildings around her.
She reached the entrance to the square. Their apartment was in the building opposite. The morning rush had died away. Half a dozen people were visible, none of them interested in her. But someone nearby was watching her. Someone concealed in the entranceway of a building across the square on her right. She used what was left of her Manna to reach toward the stranger. She made contact, and the sheer darkness that came back—the implacable resolve and murderous intent—was so strong, she stumbled and nearly fell.
Stopping for a moment, taking a few ragged breaths, Mee tried to rationalize what she had just felt. Her thoughts whirled in every direction and her chest began to feel like a belt was slowly being tightened across it.
World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine Page 20