“It is true then. You are T’hn’uuth.” The mouth formed the words, then disappeared. Seb could see no eyes but he had the unmistakable impression that he was being looked at intently. He knew his Manna was interacting with the figure, that the surface conversation was only part of the interchange between them.
“I’m what?”
The stranger took a few paces to the side, then returned to its starting position. As it moved, the outline of a figure became briefly more pronounced. When it turned, Seb had the distinct impression that it was wearing a cloak. There was a surreal air of deliberate drama about the whole scene.
“T’hn’uuth,” said the figure. “Your language provides no alternative word. A loose translation might be ‘the traveler between realities’.”
“The World Walker?”
“The World Walker. Yes, it’s as good a term as any other.” The shadow being made a strange sound and scuffed the earth under its feet. If it had feet.
“You accepted my invitation,” said Seb. “Thank you. You know my name, ship. What is yours?”
“I am H’wan,” said the figure, bowing slightly. “I confess, I only accepted as we can no longer bring you to us. This has never happened before. Your organic structure fascinated me immediately, particularly that which was inaccessible. Our failure to bring you back this time raised the possibility that you had changed that organic structure. Consciously. Only a T’hn’uuth is capable of such action. I hardly dared to believe it was true.”
“I meant to mention that,” said Seb2. “The reason they can’t summon you now.”
“I know,” thought Seb. “It was a tipping point. You accelerated the process. I’m now more nanotech than flesh and blood. They can’t lock onto my DNA anymore.”
“Smart ass. Incidentally, this thing doesn’t possess Manna as such, it is Manna, or something very like it. But it’s wary of you. Its approaches are tentative, careful. You represent something outside the limits of its knowledge. This is very much a new experience for it, I think.”
“Yeah, well, me too.”
H’wan was drawing itself up into a pose very much like that of an actor about to deliver a stirring speech to a large audience.
Time seemed to slow down. Seb felt a momentary state of sadness sweep over him, a sense of mourning. Appropriate enough in a cemetery, but it wasn’t Walt’s death causing this feeling. He suddenly felt as if he was standing at his own graveside. Seb Varden, musician, childless, may he rest in peace. The reason the Rozzers couldn’t get to him anymore was that he was no longer fully human. The process of change had started with Billy Joe, continued when he absorbed the Manna at Roswell, and lately had accelerated in order to give him an advantage over the aliens now approaching Earth. His sense of himself, his humanity, his love of Mee had caused him to suppress the impulse to evolve further. But it was there, buried in his subconscious, getting stronger. He could feel the blind unstoppable imperative of Nature pushing and pulling at him. The caterpillar, now a butterfly imprisoned in its chrysalis, was struggling to free itself and unfurl its new wings.
He realized H’wan was speaking and he was barely listening. The creature in front of him was—he knew—part of the ship that he had been taken to three times. He had worked out the ship’s secret on his last visit. The Rozzers were intelligent, certainly, but they were genetically prepared for particular tasks. Brilliant scientists, all of them, but their brilliance was narrowly focused on their individual areas of specialization. Their treatment of Seb—their confusion about how to deal with him, revealed the limitations of their genetic inheritance. A crew needs a leader who can adapt to situations, who can deal with the unexpected. Seb saw no evidence of such a leader among the Rozzers he’d met, but he could feel a witness, a sharply intelligent watcher on his visits. Particularly that last time. And, quite suddenly, he had known. The ship itself was sentient.
Seb turned his attention back to the speaking figure.
“It really is quite an occasion,” it said, rolling its ‘R’s ostentatiously. “You are the first of your kind I have ever encountered in person. Then again, I have only been distinct for 1,300 years. Earth years, I mean. So although I have heard about the T’hn’uuth, the tales are so rare, they have almost taken on a mythical status. The Gyeuk knows you exist, the flesh-bound have their stories, but mine will be the only properly reported encounter for thousands of years.”
Seb looked blankly at the swirling being. He knew it was less of an individual, more of a colony, made up by trillions of individual nanotech ‘cells’. He interrupted.
“Is that what you call your species? The Gyeuk?”
The shadow creature seemed at first stunned, then outraged, finally slightly nervous about being stopped in mid-speech. Its body language was larger-than-life, almost that of a clown at a children’s party. Seb wondered what particularly, during its study of Earth’s culture, had made the ship decide to appear in this form and behave in this particular way.
“The Gyeuk is not a species. We are the inevitable next stage of evolution, a society, a consensus.”
Seb could feel his knowledge of the ship increase as every second passed. His Manna was learning from the creature, but the traffic was almost all one-way. As had happened on the Rozzer’s ship, H’wan’s attempts to gather information from Seb was easy to block.
“We would call you the Singularity,” said Seb. “The moment artificial intelligence surpasses its creators.”
H’wan gaped at him. Which was a hard thing to do with no mouth as such, but he made a great job of looking totally dumbfounded.
“We prefer the term ‘enablers’,” he said, in a tone that suggested affronted dignity. “It was inevitable that the flesh-bound should fulfill their purpose in time, and enable the Gyeuk.”
Seb tried to picture the Gyeuk and found he couldn’t. Manna told him H’wan was just one of millions of ships who had elected to leave the Gyeuk temporarily, although some had subsequently chosen not to re-assimilate. The Gyeuk ships, over time, became discrete individuals, although, like the race that spawned them, they were made up purely of nano-level technology, every particle equal to its neighbor. Each particle morphed frequently to accomplish different tasks, every decision was a consensus. If a human body was a benign dictatorship, with the brain demanding absolute obedience, H’wan was an anarchical cooperative, where every member existed purely to serve the whole. And yet, somehow, H’wan, and the other Gyeuk ships, had developed unmistakable personalities.
The Gyeuk itself/themselves was a cloud of pure existence and thought, drifting through the universe, its purpose or goals either unknown or unknowable. It was this that Seb couldn’t picture. He could interact with this part of the whole—this strangely eccentric figure—but found it impossible to imagine trying to communicate with a cloud of awareness.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, H’wan,” said Seb. “You and I are very different. Please forgive me.”
“No apology is necessary,” said H’wan. “It is impossible for me to be offended.”
Seb managed not to laugh as he looked at body language saying the exact opposite. H’wan was so flamboyant, it was easy to forget the threat he represented.
“You are close enough to Earth to send this representation of yourself,” said Seb. “When will you—the ship—be here?”
“We will reach orbit in twenty-seven hours,” said H’wan.
“I know why you’re coming,” said Seb. “Why the Rozzers are here.”
H’wan looked as if he was about to speak. Seb stopped him.
“Another name I can’t pronounce. So, it’s the Rozzers. The Unmaking Engine will destroy an entire species. It’s violent, it’s wrong and it’s unnecessary. It cannot happen.”
H’wan stopped its posturing and was still. Even the swirling of its body seemed to slow.
“I will not interfere,” it said. “The—Rozzers—have seeded planets with life for billions of years. They carefully bring new species to maturi
ty. This is their role. No records exist of a time before this was not so. My role is that of observer, no more. There are no circumstances under which I could intervene.”
“You would stand by and allow an entire species to be murdered?” said Seb.
“Your language is emotive, your connection to your species is still strong,” said H’wan.
“My connection? I’m a human being and you will allow my death and the death of seven billion more like me?”
H’wan paused. When it spoke again, the theatricality was gone from its voice.
“You will not die, T’hn’uuth,” it said. “And you must know that your last statement is inaccurate. Hear this. Humanity will either destroy itself or develop technology advanced enough to infest other galaxies with its poison. Every race in the universe has the potential to develop the capacity for large scale destruction. Before the Rozzers, legend tells us that violence, a seemingly endless cycle of planet-blighting warfare, was the natural order. The Rozzers changed that. They did it slowly, re-seeding barren planets with the potential for new life. The planets who evolved species capable of using Manna were helped in their development. Those races who kept Manna use secret, only known to certain individuals and groups who pursued power over others—they were unmade.”
“But what gives them the right?” said Seb. “I know humanity isn’t perfect, but we could be so much more. Just leave us.”
“I cannot interfere with the process,” said H’wan. “History tells us humanity is too far down the wrong path. We have seen it countless times before. But yours is not the only sentient species on Earth. When humanity is gone, another species will evolve sufficiently to use Manna. And they may succeed where humanity failed.”
Seb was silent for a moment. He turned and looked back at Mee, still standing by Walt’s grave. The rain was beginning to ease.
“And what about planets with no Manna?” he said. “Planets that weren’t seeded by the Rozzers. What happens to them?”
“They are of no concern,” said H’wan. “Without Manna, no race has ever taken to the stars beyond their immediate surroundings. These races are studied, but any intervention would be unethical. Unfortunately, humankind is not one such race. I am sorry, World Walker.”
Seb felt a surge of hot anger.
“I will stop you,” he said. He felt a wave of fear from the creature. It lasted milliseconds, but it was definitely there. H’wan had interacted with Seb’s Manna and learned virtually nothing. Seb was a mystery. Seb guessed the feeling of not being in complete control was a new one for H’wan.
“It would be unwise to try,” said H’wan. “Your abilities are strong. But you are immature, not in full control of your power. This, I see plainly. An attempt to stop the Engine might cripple you, whether you were successful or otherwise. And the Rozzers would simply return and complete the task.”
“When?” said Seb.
“Soon,” said H’wan. “Around five hundred years.”
“A lot can happen in five hundred years.”
“Perhaps,” said H’wan, “but nothing good, I am afraid.” The figure stretched upward, standing tall again. As it looked like he was preparing to make a dramatic exit, Seb2 tagged him with a tiny burst of Manna, containing particles designed to mimic those around them, but send spatial information to Seb. A homing beacon, effectively. H’wan would be sure to detect it when it became active, but a nanosecond was all it would take to send the ship’s location when Seb needed it.
“We may meet again, World Walker. I am sorry the circumstances were thus.”
There was a roaring sound as H’wan’s body lengthened, growing taller and thinner, then becoming the black lightning which now bolted up into the atmosphere with a sonic boom that rattled windows in the nearest suburbs of the city.
Meera picked her way through the last row of gravestones and put her hand on Seb’s shoulder.
“How much did you hear?” he said.
“Not much,” she said. “Who the hell says ‘thus’?”
Seb laughed. Anyone who could see the funny side when the world was ending was worth hanging on to. Although, as the world was about to end, that might not be for very long.
He kissed her.
“I’m putting you on a plane to London right now,” he said. “Go see Kate. I’ll be there soon.”
Meera looked at him.
“You take care, Seb Varden,” she said. “And remember, I’ve never been the feeble woman who needs rescuing by her prince and I never will be. I almost jumped off a roof to stop that from happening and I’d do the same again. I love you. Take care. Because if you need rescuing, I’ll have to negotiate two lots of airport security, plus a transatlantic flight to get here. Better if you promise me you won’t need rescuing.”
“I promise, I won’t need rescuing,” said Seb.
Mee called a cab and fifteen minutes later, was on her way to Mexico City airport.
Seb watched the cab drive out of sight.
“Can we stop the Unmaking Engine?” he thought.
“Possibly,” said Seb2, “but you’re really not going to like it.”
Seb sighed. “Tell me on the way,” he thought. “‘Because even if the human race is going to survive past the next couple of days, there’s one guy who’s definitely not gonna wake up again after tomorrow morning.”
“Let’s do it,” said Seb2, with more confidence than either of them felt. How do you find a man nobody has ever seen?
Chapter 38
New York
Mason ate breakfast while listening to Bach’s Cello Suites. There was something about the sense of order suggested by the music that moved him. There was a balance there, a tension, between a rigidity of form and structure, and a joyful exuberance. The pure energy of existence was fleetingly captured by Bach, but it was like a photograph of a storm. It could only point to a raw experience infinitely more powerful than anything it could convey, even with a talent like JS Bach behind it. Mason was moved, yes, but after listening to it regularly for more than thirty years, he still didn’t know if he liked it.
He poured a coffee and rolled his wheelchair away from the table. As he approached the desk, screens flickered into life. He pushed a button and the sound of the cello faded.
Rosa came in and cleared away his breakfast. Now in her sixties, she was still fit and healthy, if a little thin. She had adapted well to the life Mason had demanded of her decades before. Until the death of her father, Isaac, she had still shown occasional lapses of good sense, on one occasion, even trying to get a message out to the police via the building’s doorman. The violent deaths of the doorman, his wife and their young family in—apparently—a psychotic attack by a killer who was never found, took all of the fight out of Rosa. She accepted her position. When her father entered his last illness, Mason allowed her to care for the old man. By then, her daughter Ruth was ten years old and capable of handling most of Mason’s day to day needs.
Ruth was in bed today. She was in her third trimester, and Mason had allowed her to rest much of the time. In fact, he had insisted on it.
Rosa shot him a look as she took the tray away. He wondered if she suspected the real identity of the father of Ruth’s fetus. Mason had told them the donor for the artificial insemination had been carefully selected merely to produce a strong, healthy child. He had lied. He didn’t feel driven by some sense of destiny to produce an heir. He was just curious to find out how a child of his might turn out.
A new generation was necessary to ensure the smooth running of the household, anyway. Rosa had never attempted to escape again, and Mason had made it clear that suicide wasn’t an option for her, unless she wanted her daughter to suffer for the rest of her life. Now, Ruth was about to be a mother, Rosa a grandmother. Mason’s hold over them would be strengthened further. They were the only people on Earth who knew his identity, and they were bound to him by ties he would never allow to be broken.
The flashing light on the right-hand screen me
ant someone had left a voicemail on Westlake’s emergency number. There had been no news for four days, when Westlake had sent a text confirming that the mission was live. No news about the whereabouts of Meera Patel or Sebastian Varden. And no news, in Mason’s long experience, was invariably bad news. He clicked the mouse and sat back, sipping at his coffee.
It was a woman’s voice.
“This is Beta. From Westlake’s team. He’s dead. The mission failed. I was taken in by the Federales, but I escaped. Westlake planted a tracker on Meera Patel. I acquired her at the airport. Call me using this username.”
Mason showed no outward signs of disturbance as he made a note of the username Beta was using. He regretted Westlake’s death. The man had been an excellent operative. Did as he was told, didn’t ask questions. Took pleasure in killing, but not so much that it would affect his efficiency. He would be hard to replace. And now Beta. If it really was Beta, of course. It was possible she had succeeded where Westlake had failed, but he would proceed with extreme caution. His excitement at finally capturing Patel must not cloud his judgement. He breathed in and out slowly. One step at a time.
He made the call.
His computer screen showed a featureless room, no more than a cell. Tied to a chair against the wall was Meera Patel. Standing next to her was a short, muscular woman with a knife. The woman stared out of the screen.
“Turn on your camera,” she said.
Mason ignored her. He smiled. Westlake had done his duty. Beta obviously knew nothing about the way he worked. He clicked on a file and brought up the photographs of Westlake’s unit. The woman on the screen matched the photograph.
“Before we continue,” he whispered, “I need you to be clear about the dynamics at play. I give orders, you obey them. Unquestioningly.”
The woman smirked.
“Things change,” she said. “All I know about you is a name. Mason. But considering how well we all got paid over the years, I know you’re one rich son of a bitch. And that’s all I need to know. I’m thinking it’s about time I retired. So, I’m wondering how much she’s worth to you. I’m thinking ten million dollars.”
World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine Page 25