Seb2 reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper bag full of breadcrumbs. As he threw some toward the pond, half a dozen ducks winked into existence and swam toward the bread, quacking excitedly.
“I do,” he said. “I think Seb3 has gone for good. I think he’s been absorbed, although a better word is ‘understood’. I think he’s been understood.”
“Understood? In what sense?”
“It’s the best way I can explain what I think has happened,” said Seb2. “As I spend more time with the technology, I make breakthroughs here and there. But each time it happens, it’s not like any kind of learning we’ve ever experienced. It’s not as if I’ve understood something. It’s more like something has understood me.”
Seb sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Go on,” he said.
“This stuff is alive, intelligent, but—as far as I can tell—not conscious. The nanotech has bonded with you at an atomic level. At least, that’s the only way I can picture it. The actual bonds are totally beyond my comprehension—every explanation I come up with is not much better than a metaphor. But the tech is designed—again, bad word—to become inseparable from the host, to merge utterly on every level eventually. You’re human, but you’re not human.”
“Argh,” thought Seb. Sometimes these explanations made little sense. Other times, he didn’t think he wanted them to make sense.
“Not a riddle. Just the best I can do. But I think the agony of Seb3 has been understood. I think, as a result of being understood, he has become something else.”
“You said Seb3 was the most authentic part of me. The real Person.”
“Yeah, well this is more Father O’s realm than ours,” said Seb2. Seb nodded. Maybe a Catholic priest with more than fifty years of daily contemplation would be able to shed some light on what Seb2 was struggling to explain. Then again, maybe not. What would he make of the idea that there were three Sebs? A trinity? Even a liberal Catholic like Father O might struggle accepting that one.
“I think Seb3 may now be engaging with the nanotech at a deeper level we can’t yet understand,” said Seb2. “I don’t think there’s any separation. At the very deepest level,—which is what Seb3 represents—you are the nanotech. You are the Manna.”
“Is this supposed to be comforting in some way?” said Seb, slightly alarmed now. “I mean why stop at Seb3? It could be you next, then me. I’m not sure I want to be understood.”
“I don’t think there’s any way to stop us from changing,” said Seb2. “All I can say is, I still feel like me. Well, us.”
The two identical men looked at each other, then out at the ducks, the pond, Richmond Park and the high rise buildings of the city, dark and somber against the bruised Fall sky. None of it was real.
“Yeah,” said Seb, “everything is still completely normal.”
8
Upstate New York
Thirty-four years previously
School had been Boy’s favorite place ever since that first day when he’d found the library. He quickly realized he was more intelligent than his peers, but he knew how to hide it. His classmates thought he was a little odd, but sometimes he could say something to make them laugh, or help them with their work by nudging them in the right direction.
Boy would never be popular, but that wasn’t his intention. He wanted to be invisible, lost in the crowd. Most of the time, he could do just that and it filled him with a strange sensation he wanted more and more of. Despite his intelligence, he could never settle on the right word for how he felt at school. Happy? Contented? Peaceful? Fulfilled? None of the words seemed right, none of them truly fit. Safe. That was probably the closest to the truth. Mom was safe at home while Pop was working. Boy was safe at school.
Then, one morning, it all went wrong. It was two days after he’d buried the cat. He’d gently laid her body in the soil, covered her over and stuck a piece of bark above to mark the spot. He’d said, “I’m sorry, Miss Honey”. Afterwards, he ran to catch the school bus. He didn’t want to think about it.
At school, his headache came back. Lately, it always seemed to be there, mostly bearable, like a fuzziness at the front of his head. Sometimes, it would flare up for a couple minutes and he would clench his fists, dig his nails into his palms and ride out the pain. He could tell when it was going to happen, so he could find a quiet spot—usually the bathroom, if he could get there in time.
That morning, there was no way he was going to get to the bathroom. It was lunch break, and Davy Johanssen had decided Boy needed to be taught a lesson. Davy was big for his age and even dumber than his three older brothers, who had left school and were now in prison. The story of how they’d got there had become a local legend. They’d robbed a liquor store downstate, then had called 911 themselves because someone had rear-ended their getaway car in the parking lot. Davy, as yet, had displayed no wish other than to follow the same path as his clueless siblings. At fourteen years old, he was over a year older than anyone else in the class. Physically, he looked like he should be in college, if any college would lower their standards sufficiently to accept him. He was six feet tall and weighed over two hundred pounds. Initially, the school football coach had hoped Davy might be a future star. By the time Davy had put his helmet on the wrong way round for the third time and repeatedly thrown the ball into the bleachers, because, “someone was looking at me funny”, Coach Clement had significantly adjusted his ambitions. Davy ended up as the water boy.
If Davy had one good quality, it was persistence. On the rare occasions that his brain was troubled by the onset of a question, he would pursue it doggedly until he was satisfied he’d found an answer. Unless someone handed him a burger or sat him down in front of a cartoon. Boy currently didn’t have access to either, and Davy, plus his usual gang of minions, had cornered him in the school yard. A third grader had fallen out of a tree and broken an arm on the far side of the yard, so no teacher was likely to notice the small crowd gathering around Boy. He had seven minutes and twenty seconds until the bell rang. Too long.
“My old man says your daddy knocked up your momma on purpose,” said Davy, flecks of spittle landing on Boy’s face. “And you know what?”
Boy didn’t answer, just looked at Davy’s red face. Davy pushed him with the flat of his hand, and he fell, landing on his ass in the dirt.
“Asked you a question, dickweed.”
Boy squinted up at the huge figure. He saw the others standing back a few feet, some of them smirking, a couple of the girls wide-eyed but saying nothing. Everyone knew Davy was going to beat the crap out of him. Well, that was ok. Boy knew how to take a beating.
“No,” he said quietly, the headache becoming more insistent.
“What’d you say?”
“I said ‘no’,” repeated Boy. “I don’t know ‘what’. I couldn’t possibly know ‘what’. It’s not a proper question. You’re either mistakenly assuming a common frame of reference that might allow me to answer such an elliptical query, or the pea-sized object masquerading as your brain is unable to observe basic grammar rules because all of its energy goes into keeping you upright and preventing drooling.”
Davy froze for a few seconds, not sure whether he’d just been insulted and, assuming he had, how badly.
“I’m guessing the latter,” said Boy. He groaned as the headache started to spike again. A few of Davy’s gang started to giggle. None of them understood what Boy had just said, but it was the most any of them had ever heard him say, and the novelty itself made it funny.
Hearing his cronies start to laugh was enough to spur Davy into action. No one laughed at Davy Johanssen. This kid had made them laugh. He leaned over and grabbed a fistful of Boy’s shirt, jerking him to his feet. He gave Boy a light slap across his face.
“Funny guy, right? Well, let me tell you about your mom and dad.” His face clouded briefly as he struggled to remember what he was going to say. He looked over his shoulder. “Donny?”
A scrawny kid behind hi
m spat on the floor. “Your daddy knocked your momma up before they were married. So you’re a bastard,” he said. Davy nodded. “And he only did it cause her old man owns the logging company. Only way that loser would ever get a job, cause he’s just a drunk, right?” Davy nodded some more. Boy was tuning out, but the headache was making it harder than normal. He could tell them far worse things about Pop, anyhow. Then a rare expression appeared on Davy’s face. He’d had an idea.
“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.
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 ba
ck 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.
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 41
