“Touchy!” said Seb2. “Sorry, go on.”
Seb kissed the back of Mee’s hand and smiled at her.
“I thought it was a dream. Seb2 says it wasn’t. Before I tell you, I want you to know that there’s nothing to worry about,” said Seb.
“And you’re basing that statement on what, exactly?” said Seb2. Seb ignored him.
Mee waited, unconvinced by his reassurance.
He told her about the Social Security office, the ticket, and Mic. When he’d finished, there was a very long silence.
“Well, then,” said Meera, who had carefully rolled up a joint while listening. “That’s clear as mud, then. Excellent. Any clue what’s going on?”
“Nope,” said Seb. “Any thoughts?”
Mee inhaled, drawing the sweet smoke deep down into her lungs. She had a feeling this was going to be a three-joint day.
“Yes. I think I’m going to finish this, then I think you’re going to take all of my clothes off and remind me why I still put up with you.”
“That’s a deal,” said Seb.
11
New York
Present Day
Mason poured himself a lemonade and looked out of the huge picture window that dominated the room. The sky was black now, the city illuminated by millions of tiny lights. He sipped as his mind teased at the problem, approaching it first one way, then another.
Before the freak case of Sebastian Varden, Mason had undoubtedly been the most powerful Manna user in America. His unique situation had given him the perfect opportunity to hothouse his Manna skills without distraction for decades, and he knew his level of natural ability was extremely rare. He had always been able to defeat any other Manna user without breaking a sweat.
Building his organization had taken many years, but, as technology had matured and the computer industry had grown, he had been able to stretch his virtual net wider. The internet had given him access to more people and information than he had ever conceived of being possible, even two decades ago. His personal interest in new technology, cutting-edge software and the Worldwide Web had become a financial interest early on, meaning his personal fortune now dwarfed all but a very select few.
All of this money, all of this power, yet one individual could bring it all crashing down. Mason realized he was considering—for the first time in his existence—walking away from a fight. Avoiding a confrontation. It was an option. Possibly the best option. There was a real chance of defeat if he went ahead. If anything went wrong, Seb Varden could be the end of everything.
Mason had steered politics, industry and media carefully for years, making sure to keep things interesting. And that, perhaps, was the secret no one had ever come close to guessing: his motive for accruing power and influence.
People assumed he was a megalomaniac, an evil genius with some sort of masterplan. Even those ‘closest’ to him—Westlake, Barrington, Walter Ford (he could hardly include his domestic servants in the list)—probably believed he had an endgame in mind. The truth was, he didn’t. He had discovered Manna, found he was uncommonly talented at wielding it, and started doing so. At first, he assumed someone would stop him. By the time they tried, he was too powerful to be stopped. So he continued. It was a game. A game he was good at. And he enjoyed winning. As simple as that.
He continued looking out as the sky darkened and lights began to turn off across the city. The complex problem had been reduced to a simple decision, and—if he chose the more dangerous path—it could mean defeat. Choosing the safer path was surely the logical thing to do. The sensible thing.
The problem he faced could be summed up in four words: Sebastian Varden is alive.
Mason had suspected it, even after reviewing the footage of his death and receiving reports from Westlake and Ford. Varden’s sacrifice to save Meera Patel had been noble but—ultimately—questionable. Would he really have thrown his life away without being absolutely sure he could guarantee her safety after his death? And, considering he was the repository of the Roswell Manna—demonstrably more powerful than the Manna that had existed for centuries—why take the risk? Better surely, to find a way he could protect her himself. By surviving. By faking his death. And, after searching the foundations of the parking garage where Varden’s remains should have been rotting, Mason had finally confirmed his suspicions. No remains. No body. His men had killed a homunculus. A flesh-puppet, no more alive than a child’s toy. The most sophisticated, life-like homunculus in history, but a homunculus none the less. That as shrewd an operator as Westlake had been fooled was surprising enough, but Walter Ford had been Using for eighty years or more and had suspected nothing. Or had he?
Mason turned to the three giant screens on one wall of the apartment. A couple of keystrokes and he was looking at Walt’s home in Las Vegas, multiple views showing every room. Ford was evidently asleep. Mason considered calling and waking him, summoning him to explain exactly what had happened that day. He picked up the cellphone, then hesitated.
Ford claimed to have sensed Varden’s Manna signal before they’d executed him. There were two possible explanations for this. The simplest was that Ford lied to him. Mason considered it for a moment, then disregarded it. Ford would never risk lying to him. Mason’s ability to detect a lie was legendary. Those who had tested it hadn’t lived long enough to regret their decision.
Mason put the phone down again.
The second explanation was more likely, unpalatable as it was to admit. Varden must have been able to create a copy of himself so sophisticated that it not only looked, moved, and conversed like a regular human being, but it produced—or released, somehow—enough Manna to fool a Sensitive like Ford. Which meant that Mason needed, once again, to re-assess the power, and potential threat of his opponent.
All of which brought Mason back to a simple decision. The decision he’d given all his attention to for the last few hours. Knowing what he did about Sebastian Varden’s abilities, and accepting this knowledge was partial at best, should he leave him alone, hoping that Varden would do him the same courtesy? Or should he find a way to neutralize him and—this time—take care of it himself?
Mason had no doubt that Varden would be the victor in a fair fight. Naturally, he had no intention of being fair. Varden’s weakness was still the same. If Mason controlled Meera Patel, he controlled Sebastian Varden.
Decision made, Mason turned his attention to the practicalities of finding—and extracting—Patel, without alerting Varden. No doubt they would have taken precautions, after nearly eighteen months, if Varden believed his faked death had fooled Mason, he might have stopped looking over his shoulder by now.
Mason smiled thinly. This was a fight he might lose, but he couldn’t leave Varden out there. Eventually, the man would come after him. Mason had killed his friend and had had an entire outpost of the Order slaughtered in order to kidnap Patel. One day, he’d come looking. Mason needed to act first.
“Ruth,” he said. He heard the woman walk in, but didn’t turn around. “I need protein—eggs, fish, some carbs. Then go to bed.” It was 3:32am. Another hour and lights would start coming on in the bakery at the base of the building opposite. Mixed with sounds of traffic, bird song and occasional shouts would be the thump of flour sacks being delivered ready to make bread, bagels, pretzels. Soon the smells would start rising into the dawn. Mason, fifteen floors up behind triple-glazed windows would hear nothing, smell nothing.
His food arrived. He started researching online while he ate mechanically, barely tasting what he put into his mouth. He had an idea of what he required to find Patel, but the technical challenge was a specialized one. He would need help.
Using a program of his own design that piggybacked proxy servers linked to other proxy servers accessing deeply buried government sites via the dark web, Mason took just under an hour to find a name. Sub-contracting tasks, bringing someone new in, an unknown, was a risk Mason never took lightly. Certain criteria had to be met before he would even contact someone for the firs
t time. He looked at the files he had uncovered from a variety of sources, including the Pentagon.
The man whose entire life was laid out in a series of folders and files on Mason’s screens, had proved himself invaluable to the US government in the field of software development, particularly cellphone apps. His name was Hal Wickerman.
Two years ago, Wickerman had written a lean, but complex piece of code which was built into an update of a free messaging app. Since its launch, the ‘anonymous’ feature offered within the app had proved very popular with terrorists, as well as teenagers and cheating spouses. Wickerman’s code alerted Homeland Security every time certain key words were mentioned in chats, sending the conversation thread, all history and the current location of the cellphone. Many terrorist threats had subsequently been eliminated before getting past the planning stage, but the government knew if anyone ever found out about the hidden code in the app, their tactical advantage would be lost. And it was more than likely that the American people would have a thing or two to say to their leaders once they discovered their right to privacy had been so blatantly undermined.
The US Government had nothing to fear from the designer they’d used. Wickerman was never going to talk about his patriotic piece of coding. His liking for long walks during the day, often stopping to sit on benches in parks, sometimes enjoying an ice-cream, had been meticulously documented and photographed by Homeland Security for months before they’d approached him. The photographers had been briefed to capture as many images as possible with children in the frame. Of the thousands of photographs taken, a few dozen showed the subject looking in the direction of the children. When they recruited him, they didn’t waste time appealing to his patriotism. They just showed him the photographs, along with some signed statements from children, attesting to the inappropriate games he had played with them in his home. His angry protests had been understandable, but a call from a prominent judge who had assured him his guilt would be established beyond reasonable doubt in any courtroom had produced the desired effect. All the fight went out of him. Wickerman took the job—and generous settlement—offered by his government, and bottled up his horror and bitterness at the betrayal of justice he had unwittingly brought down on himself.
Mason’s offer to Wickerman was accepted quickly, with very little protest. Wickerman still wanted his freedom. Mason simply showed him all of the evidence he had accumulated about his work for the government, and assured him it would be made public if he refused.
“You will write the code for me and I will leave you alone,” whispered Mason. “I have no interest in making your life more difficult. I just need you to do this. And I need it done quickly.”
“What exactly do you need?” said Wickerman. His words weren’t slurred, but his speech was slow and careful and he’d sounded awake when he picked up the phone. Mason despised the weakness of those who used alcohol to numb themselves to pain. Pain had been Mason’s constant companion for a very long time. He could have anesthetized himself to it with Manna, but he’d accepted it as part of what made him who he was. Embraced it, even. And here was this man, whose pain was purely emotional, drinking alone at 4am. Pathetic.
Carefully, thoroughly, his emotionless whisper betraying none of the contempt he felt, he described the coding project to the software designer.
“You want what?” said Wickerman.
12
Upstate New York
Thirty-four years previously
Eliza Breckland sat in her car, thinking. She was worried about one of her students. The violent episode a few weeks ago had been out of character and frightening. Since then, he had been even quieter than he had before, barely engaging in classroom discussions, his face pale, his eyes downcast. The other students kept clear. They had every right to be scared, Davy Johanssen had spent nearly a week in hospital. He wouldn’t be coming back to class any time soon. Eliza heard he was transferring to another school.
She watched the small figure walk out of the school gates. She’d noticed he didn’t take the bus any more. He was apparently as keen to avoid his classmates as they were to avoid him. Eliza wasn’t one for gossip, but she had heard that the boy’s father had been missing this past week, the consensus being he was either on an extended drinking session or was chasing some woman. It wouldn’t be the first time, according to the whispers.
Eliza sat in her car for another few minutes before making her decision. She’d never experienced anything quite like this in her fifteen years of teaching. She’d long suspected some trouble at home with the young man in question. That, sadly, wasn’t uncommon. But there were other factors at work here, she was sure of it. Firstly, she knew this student was deliberately turning in work that under-represented his level of intelligence. She had observed his boredom in class as he grasped fairly complex concepts immediately, then had to wait for the rest of the class to catch up. He hid his boredom well, but Eliza was a shrewd woman and a talented teacher. Twice now in Math class, she had gone further than the class could be expected to handle, then dropped in a deliberate mistake. Each time, she’d watched the young man carefully as he flinched at her error. The second time, his eyes flicked immediately to hers and she knew he had worked out what she was doing, and why. He had avoided anything other than essential communication with her ever since. Sometimes, she’d seen him frown, as if in pain, once even excusing himself and disappearing to the bathroom for ten minutes. Something was going on.
Eliza made her decision and started the car, leaving the school and turning the same direction her student had taken. She would talk to him. Not at school, not at home. On neutral ground. Maybe she could get through to him. She suspected he was the most gifted individual she would ever teach. She couldn’t just turn away from him when he might need her.
After driving for a couple of minutes, she saw him in the distance, rounding a bend in the road. As she got closer, he darted a quick look left and right, then scrambled into the trees and out of sight. Without thinking, she accelerated and pulled onto the shoulder near where he’d disappeared. Getting out of the car, she scanned the tree line, but saw nothing. Then, at some distance, she heard the crack of a twig. She clambered up to the point she’d lost sight of him and, walking along the undergrowth, soon found a narrow track, almost completely hidden. She hesitated for a moment, then walked into the forest.
The incline was steeper than she’d anticipated and Eliza wasn’t as fit as she’d like to be, but she was a determined woman, and rarely, if ever, gave up. Her husband Mike often joked that when it came to stubborn, Eliza made mules look positively obliging. Not that this was a complaint—he loved her for her headstrong nature, for the way she utterly refused to be deflected from doing the right thing. He’d always said she would have made a hell of a cop, but her first love had always been to teach, to pass on knowledge. And anyway, as she’d told Mike as she’d squeezed his ass, he looked far sexier in the uniform than she ever would.
The afternoon was clear and a little cold, but Eliza soon broke a sweat as she tried to catch up with her student. He’d obviously been up here before, judging from the sets of footprints now clearly visible on the forest floor. She stopped for a minute to catch her breath. She realized he could even get home this way, although it would add more than a mile to his journey and would be much harder going. Perhaps he just needed solitude, she reflected. He was growing up, the challenges of adolescence were just ahead, and his home life might be far from supportive when it came to nourishing his precocious intelligence. Might be she was just sticking her nose in where it wasn’t needed. She shook her head. No, her gut told her the child was suffering, and she couldn’t let that go on without trying to help. She wiped her brow and walked on.
Another ten minutes went by before she realized she’d lost the trail. Fortunately, her own footsteps were clear enough for her to retrace her path. She stopped where the floor became more rock than dirt. This must have been where she’d lost him. She walked on a little more until
she found the path both of them had taken to arrive at this point. The rocks made it hard—impossible, really—to tell which direction he’d taken. Eliza had carried on up the slope, but he must have turned away. The logical direction would be east, toward his home, so Eliza headed that way and, after a few minutes’ search, found another path with more footsteps.
She heard the sound just as she began to follow the new path. It sounded like a distant shriek, abruptly silenced. It had an eerie, echoey quality that brought her skin up in goosebumps.
“What on earth?”
Eliza stood absolutely still, holding her breath, but the sound wasn’t repeated. She knew she hadn’t imagined it. As a young girl, she had once heard a deer make a similar noise, brought down by an inexperienced hunter. It had shrieked unbearably for five minutes, trying to drag itself away on a broken leg until the hunting party had caught up with it and ended its misery. Eliza had woken up every night for a week, crying at the memory.
It might have been a deer. It must have been a deer. Eliza shivered.
The sound had come from behind her. She swallowed hard, squared her shoulders and walked directly toward where she thought the sound had originated.
She came back to the rocky patch and looked around her carefully, listening hard. After a few minutes, she moved slightly uphill toward a huge rock half-hidden by trees. Reaching it, she followed its contours until it suddenly stopped, the rock cut away at right angles. For a second or two, she wondered what was going on, then she realized and followed the smooth surface until her suspicions were confirmed. Nearly invisible from any distance greater than ten yards, was the entrance to a mine.
Abandoned mines weren’t uncommon. She knew they had been active until the early part of the 20th century in the region, but this was the first time Eliza had actually seen one. The doorway she’d discovered was cut into the rock before her, a rusted iron gate blocking any further progress into the darkness beyond. She walked forward and inspected the barrier more closely. The iron was ancient but still strong. She listened in absolute silence for five minutes, but could hear nothing. She had no idea how far down the path on the other side of the gate might lead.
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 43
