Arnie had a new friend. This one was just as ugly, but it differed slightly in that it had a clump of sandy hair on top of its misshapen skull.
“Wow,” said Walt, “did you think it might get invited on more dates with some hair?”
“I think I know what happened. Just as I was finishing, I thought of someone I’d seen on the news and it affected what I was doing.”
“Who were you-?” Walt broke off, put his head on one side and examined Seb’s homunculus a little more closely. Then he started laughing. He laughed long and loud, slapping his thigh, his eyes watering, until Seb had to start laughing too. The creature looking at them didn’t move, its semi-human features unsmiling under its incongruous thatch of hair. “What are you going to call him,” said Walt, gasping, as the laughter finally started to subside. “Donald?”
“That’s Mr. Trump to you,” said Seb, which started them both off again, wheezing and crying with laughter for at least five minutes. Eventually, they gained a semblance of control.
“Come on,” said Walt, “let’s see what he’s got. Give him some instructions.”
“Take a walk, Don,” said Seb, and immediately the short stocky figure began plodding in a slow circle around the yard. The sensation was very different, as Seb wasn’t using Manna now. The creature was genuinely able to exist on its own. It was a disconcerting feeling, watching it walk, its long arms hanging limply by its sides.
“Hey, Arnie, come and join us,” called Walt. Arnie turned away from the punchbag and came back to the spot where he had originally been created. There was a slight depression in the ground, and that’s where Arnie planted his huge feet. “Arnie, meet Mr. Trump. Shake hands, fellas.” The homunculi raised their arms, put out their slab-like hands and solemnly shook. It was a bizarre sight.
“He doesn’t talk much, unlike his namesake,” said Seb.
“Yeah, I kinda like that about him,” said Walt. “Ok, you’ve impressed me again. I guess I’m going to have to get used to that. It took me months to produce anything that looked even remotely human. Took the best part of a year to get it to move in any useful way.” He gave Seb a long, speculative look. “You’re a real talent, kid. How are you feeling? Drained, tired?”
Seb shook his head. “I feel fantastic, Walt,” he said. “Not sure I’ve ever felt this good before. Which is weird considering the situation.”
“Well, don’t knock it. If you feel good it’s for a reason. And no need to worry about those guys on the train. Whoever they were, there’s very little chance they could trace you to Vegas. And even if they did, change your face when you go out, change your whole body if you like. It’s child’s play compared to what you’ve done so far. A bit of practice, no one will ever find you if you don’t want to be found.”
“What about people who use Manna?” said Seb. “I thought they could tell where other Users were?”
“Yeah,” said Walt, “there’s no hiding from them, son, but the majority of us don’t wish each other any harm, and you dealt with last night’s threat pretty efficiently. I doubt she’ll be back after that display.” Walt took another sip from his beer and looked at Seb evenly. “Look,” he said, “you’re gonna have to trust someone eventually. You’re in my home. Want to tell me your story?”
Seb paused for a beat. No reason not to trust him. But no reason to trust him, either. He took a decision. Told Walt about his illness, his trip into the mountains with a bottle of fine whisky and a sharp blade. He skipped the part about the alien…something he still needed to process and didn’t want to share. He left in the part about the shooting and his superhuman speed.
“So you were unconscious—near death—and when you woke up, you were healed?” said Walt. Seb nodded.
“Only one explanation possible, as I see it,” said Walt. “You must have sat your ass down on some Manna. A filling station, like Red Rock, though I’ve never heard of one up there. And you’re a natural. A late starter, but a natural. Guess you just soaked up everything that was there.” He shook his head slowly, thinking. “How the hell did you end up on that train, though?”
Seb paused again, felt cautious about saying much more. He felt bad lying to Walt, but he just didn’t feel right telling anyone about Seb2, about the way he had somehow moved from one place to another. From certain death under the wheels of a van to a Superliner bedroom on the Albuquerque train. “The guy with the soldiers kidnapped me, sprayed some kind of drug into my face. I passed out. When I woke up, I was on the train. Guess someone must have helped me.” Walt just looked at him
“Guess so,” he said. “Well, that’s some story.” He looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but decided against it. He turned away from Seb and pointed at the waiting homunculi. “Now come on,” he said, “let’s fight.”
“What?” said Seb.
“That’s what these things are good for, if they’re good for anything,” said Walt. “So, come on, let’s see what Donald has got. Put ‘em up, Arnie.”
Walt’s homunculus raised its giant hands and curled them into huge, meaty fists. Seb’s creature just stared at him.
“Ok, Mr. Trump,” said Seb, “time to see what you’re made of. Get ready to rumble!”
The second homunculus raised its own hands and mirrored Arnie’s stance. There was none of the ducking, bobbing, or mutual sizing up that characterized the beginning of most fights. Both beings stood perfectly still, just a breath of wind lifting the edge of Seb’s creature’s incongruous hair, which set Walt off into another few seconds of snorting and wheezing with laughter.
“Arnie?” said Walt, “in five seconds you’re going to attack Mr. Trump here. Make it good, don’t want to look stupid in front of Seb.”
“When he attacks,” said Seb to his creature, “defend yourself. Win the fight if you can.”
There was a brief pause before the fight began. Again, the atmosphere was very different to any other fight. Both of them were absolutely still. The seconds ticked down. Then, with no warning, Arnie’s right arm snapped forward toward Donald’s head. Donald moved backward, but still caught some of the impact on the left side of his forehead. He swayed slightly, and when he regained his balance, there was a small crater on the side of his head half the size of Arnie’s massive fist. Donald clamped both hands together and swung them in a heavy roundhouse toward Arnie’s neck, but Arnie was wise to the move and flexed his upper body backward, letting the blow fall short by six inches. While his opponent was still moving with the swing of his missed punch, he countered with a viscous head-butt that would have finished the fight there and then with a human opponent.
“Are you sure it was boxing you’ve been watching?” said Seb.
Donald took a step backward. His face looked like a lump of dough someone had pushed a fist into. His nose was gone, his mouth thrust forward, giving him a more neanderthal appearance than before, if that was possible. Sickeningly, his eye sockets no longer looked forward, but seemed to stare at each other across the chasm where his nose used to be. It didn’t slow him down, though. He simply stepped forward again and kicked Arnie as hard as he could in the groin.
“Ah, that’s a far more honorable way to fight, is it?” said Walt, chuckling. “Actually, that would work well against you or I, but Arnie’s lack of testicles may prove to be to his advantage.”
As if to prove his point, Arnie didn’t even flinch, but reached down and dislodged Donald’s foot, yanking it upwards. Donald dropped on the ground like a felled tree. Then Arnie stepped heavily onto Donald’s pelvis—if he had one—and pulled on the foot in his hand with all his strength. There was a horrible squelch as the leg stretched, tore and finally popped out of its socket. Arnie hefted the severed limb in his hand like a club. Donald managed to get into a kind of kneeling position on one leg, supported by his arms. Arnie simply swung the leg back over his shoulder and, with the kind of swing golfers spend their lives trying to perfect, brought the limb whistling back toward his opponent. As the meaty thigh met Donal
d’s ruined face, his head was ripped briskly from his shoulders and sent flying into the air. It sailed across the yard, hit the house wall and shattered, exploding in a shower of dirt. Simultaneously, the rest of the homunculus, including the leg in Arnie’s hand, changed back into earth and fell in a shower to the ground. Arnie raised his hands in triumph. “Aaarrrrr….nnniiiiieeeee,” he yelled, “Aaarrrrr….nnnii-”.
Without warning, Walt’s homunculus became earth, dropping to the yard floor just as Donald’s body had seconds earlier. All that remained were scattered piles of dirt and a splatter of soil on the wall.
There was silence for a few seconds. “Well,” said Walt, “I’m glad there’s something I can do better than you.”
Seb just stared into the yard, stunned by the physical violence, yet aware none of it was real. It was a strange feeling.
“Ok, you got the basics down,” said Walt, “but your fighting technique sucks. Let’s see if we can do something about that. You never know when you might need someone to get your back. And these guys never ask questions, don’t need feeding and are absolutely loyal. Downside is, they drain Manna. Two or three more today, then I’m gonna need a trip back to Red Rock tonight. We’ll see if you need to come with me.” He gave Seb that quizzical look he’d flashed him a few times since they met. “Ok, let’s get to work.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent working on Seb’s skills. First, he needed to make sure his homunculi lasted more than a few minutes. This turned out to be achievable by working a greater amount of originality into the music he used in the creation process. Second, he needed to work on his fighting skills - and this was a more telling weakness. He just couldn’t match Walt’s moves.
“Guess I didn’t watch enough martial arts movies,” said Seb. If he was going to win any of these bouts, he needed to think laterally. After a few beatings at the hands of Walt’s superior fighters, he vaguely remembered watching a movie where a boxer was up against a huge wrestler. As long as the wrestler got in close, the boxer couldn’t do a thing - it was down to bulk, physical heft.
Donalds MkII, III and IV showed some progress. MkIV was the one that turned things around. Although he didn’t have the fighting skills to match Walt’s homunculi, MkIV was unstoppable, however much punishment he was given. He just waded forward into the punches until he could wrap his arms around his opponent and start squeezing. Seb’s homunculus didn’t go for the death blow, just lifted his opposite number clear of the ground and waited, unmoved by the thrashing attempts at escape. Walt's creation eventually collapsed into dirt while Seb's stood for another half an hour. Walt glanced at his watch when he saw how much longer this particular Donald had lasted, then nodded, impressed.
“One more, Seb, one more,” said Walt, fashioning his last beast before heading into the house to get more beer.
Seb started to create MkV, his mind already adapting quickly to the new skill, the shape spinning quickly into human form in the yard. This time, it was taller, slimmer, much more human-looking. Its body was well-proportioned, more muscle-bound man than orc. Its face was more realistic too, looking like an ugly guy who’d walked into a wall. Twice. But a man, not a monster. Seb heard Walt coming back and, with a snap decision, darted a last burst of energy toward his creation, squashing its features and forcing its body into a hunched, crouching figure. He couldn’t justify why he didn’t want Walt to see the improvement, he just knew he wasn’t ready yet. He had never been quick to make friends, always holding back from intimacy until the time felt right. Mee had always said he’d wait so long, he’d miss every opportunity to be happy. She was annoyingly good at seeing, and stating, the obvious. It was just rarely so obvious to Seb until Mee had pointed it out.
“Wow, I actually think you’ve surpassed yourself on looks this time,” said Walt, carrying two beers in one hand and carefully holding something metal in the other. “This guy looks like he fell out of the top of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.”
Seb shrugged. “Well, like you said, I can’t be good at everything.”
“Well, you’re a prodigy whichever way you look at it. Not sure there’s much more I’ll be able to teach you.” Walt sat down, handed Seb a beer, then tossed two kitchen knives out into the yard. “Let’s make things a little more interesting,” he said. “See how they get on with these.”
Before he consciously knew he had moved, Seb was on his feet, white and shaking. As he stood, staring in front of him, both newly created homunculi were thrown backward as if picked up and flicked away by giant hands. In mid-air, they exploded, dirt, earth and stones pushed outwards at high speed from the center of each figure, smacking against walls and fences, breaking two windows - one in a upper story. Some of the blast headed back toward Walt and Seb, and both were left scratched and bleeding as well as covered in dirt. Walt picked himself up from the floor and began to brush himself off, looking up at Seb, who was still shaking, his lips pressed together in a tight line.
“No knives,” said Seb, quietly. Walt nodded slowly. “I don’t like knives,” said Seb.
Walt walked to the other side of the yard and looked at the fence. Both knives were buried up to the hilt in the wooden panels.
“Yeah,” said Walt, “I think I got that.” He looked down at his ruined clothes and brushed some dirt from his hands. It was dusk, and the dirt looked like dried blood in the glow of the setting sun. “Something you want to talk about?”
“No,” said Seb, “not really.” He made an effort to recover some equilibrium and walked over to Walt. “Sorry about your clothes.”
“No problem,” said Walt, glancing down as his shirt began to repair itself, the material reaching out tiny threads, re-binding and repairing. In a few seconds, it looked new. “Look, no need to apologize. I don’t know anything about you. You’re under an incredible amount of stress, however well you think you’re dealing with it. Let’s get something to eat. I suggest you get an early night. I really have to get over to Red Rock, though. I’ll go later - Steve will be here if you need anything.” He turned to walk back into the house.
“Thanks,” said Seb, “I think I’ll do that. And Walt?” The older man stopped and looked back. “I was in a fight once. With a knife. I -,” he stopped. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” said Walt. “I was pushing you too hard. Come on, let me show you something you’ll never beat me at. You cook?”
“Not well,” said Seb.
“Good. You like Asian food?” Seb nodded. Excellent. Then you have to try my Pad Thai. Worth coming to Las Vegas just for that.”
32
Dinner was great, the conversation easy. Seb admired Walt’s ability to keep the conversation flowing, to move Seb quickly away from the dark mood he was ready to sink into. Within a few minutes, he felt better, in a half hour he was laughing at a story about a gangster mistakenly putting his wife and mistress in the same hotel room. Walt had plenty of charm, no two ways about it. He was likable, roguish, self-deprecating and funny. But Seb was slow to call someone a friend and a truckload of charm wasn’t going to change that any time soon.
Walt had to make some calls after dinner and suggested Seb take in a movie. Seb wasn’t surprised to discover Walt had a small movie theatre with surround sound installed in the basement. The computer system seemed able to call up any movie or TV show Seb could think of. He tested it by asking for Tom and Jerry, filtering it only to include those episodes produced by Fred Quimby with music by Scott Bradley. It still made him laugh, despite the fact he must have watched every episode hundreds of times.
Later, he sat in front of the mirror in his room, practicing changing his appearance. Walt was right, it was easy. Either he was getting better at this stuff, or this was the equivalent of first grade. Maybe a little of both. He only had to create an intermediate state of consciousness, a nudge toward the ‘one pointed’ mind he had needed to make homunculi. The interior music could be as simple as a single sustained bass note. Then he only had to thin
k of someone’s face, real or imagined, to see it replicated in the mirror. It was a fascinating exercise, looking into a stranger’s eyes in the mirror and knowing them to be his own. Just changing the face was almost instantaneous as he pictured what he wanted. Changing the body was slower, more of a challenge, but he soon got used to it. He became famous actors and musicians, historical figures. Albert Einstein was fun, but when he managed to reproduce the current pope, he made himself feel like a ten-year old again by blowing raspberries and giving himself the finger. He experimented with a few women, but found the feeling disconcerting, particularly when he chose one of his favorite actors, undid his shirt and started admiring the magnificent breasts he’d imagined many times but never seen.
Ok, this is getting seriously out of whack now. Time for bed.
Seb woke suddenly, convinced he had heard his name spoken. He sat up in bed, grabbed his glass of water and checked the clock. 4:11am. He had been asleep for a little under three hours, but felt rested and alert. It was a clear night and a strip of moonlight divided his room in half with a clear, straight silver line. He sighed and swung his feet onto the polished wooden floor. He had been dreaming about Meera. He was playing a new song to her and she was listening in that intense way she had. Music was one thing she was never cynical or flippant about.
Seb stood up and paced around the room, the floorboards cool under his bare feet. He remembered Mee talking to him about music in bed one night after a gig.
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 25
