Father O had been an exception, and the reason Seb couldn’t entirely jettison his childhood faith. He had taught Seb contemplation, the spiritual technique which had—he still believed—saved his life. And when pushed on theological matters, the old priest had always answered in the same way:
“Love God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.”
Then he would chuckle and raise a bushy white eyebrow.
“You could always start at the end and work backward, of course. Know yourself, so you can have compassion for yourself. Then you might love yourself and be able to do the same for your neighbor. Whether you know it or not, you will be loving God at the same time.”
Conversations like this had always made Seb uncomfortable. He flinched every time he heard the word ‘God’. He had once challenged Father O to define it.
“Far wiser heads than mine have defined God,” said the priest, his face solemn, “and I can make you one promise about those definitions: they’re all wrong.” Then he’d burst out laughing.
Seb smiled at the memory. He wondered what Father O would have made of Mee. He probably would have liked her. Certainly, being in a relationship had given Seb an occasional practical demonstration of how it felt not being the center of his own existence. It had always been a theoretical concept before, now he was living it. It hadn’t been easy at first. His self-image as fairly selfless, open and giving had quickly been exposed as just that: an image. The reality was a little harder to come to terms with, at first. Seb realized he was selfish, proud, judgmental, unable to truly see life through the eyes of another. It was a shock, particularly when he could see that Mee—self-contained, forthright, loud Mee—was actually far more loving, accepting and selfless than he was. When the shock had worn off a little, he’d found himself letting go of some of his certainties. He’d taken the knowledge of his newly discovered flaws into his practice of contemplation and had let them wither in the light. If he hadn’t nearly lost Mee, he might have taken her a little more for granted. But seeing her threatened had woken him up to the fragility—and importance—of human relationships. He might never feel that same sense of belonging that Father O, or the faithful who paraded during Semana Santa did. He could accept that now. But he had finally let another person in—and that was more than he had thought possible just over a year ago.
He stopped. The light was stronger now and there were signs that the city was waking. Not that Iztapalapa ever truly slept, but he had walked for an hour without having to dodge a cart, or move out of the way of a truck. He turned to go home.
Two men blocked his way. Both were armed—the one to his left with a machete, the other with a gun. Seb looked at their faces. They showed signs of heavy drug use—probably cheap cocaine. Narcomenudeo was the street trade that supplied coke and meth to residents of Mexico City. When it was difficult to shift product over the border in America, where the market was far more lucrative, dealers simply cut the drugs with roach poison, flour, laundry powder, and sold it to the poor in their own city. The cartels would sometimes clash in their pursuit of trade, and it was often the poorest neighborhood that took the brunt of the ensuing violence.
Seb slowly reached into his pants pocket and took out his wallet. The men were young—late teens, early twenties, perhaps—scared, and hurting for their next fix. He held the wallet out toward them. The two men looked confused. They expected fear, or resistance, not passive acquiescence. The one with the gun nodded at his friend to grab the wallet. Holding the machete threateningly in front of him, the man inched forward and grabbed the wallet. At the same moment, Seb stepped sideways and grabbed his arm.
The machete flashed down with an instinctive jerk of the man’s arm and severed Seb’s hand. It fell—still holding the wallet—to the ground. Panicked, the man with gun fired four shots into Seb’s chest, then bent down to retrieve the money. As he did so, Seb’s severed hand let go of the wallet and wagged a finger at the thief as if admonishing him. The man gasped and crossed himself.
“Oh, now you call on God,” said Seb. Still holding the arm of the first man, who had now dropped the machete and started babbling, he grabbed the arm of the second man. Both men took a split second to process the impossibility of this, then stared at Seb’s wrist. Instead of a wound gushing blood, a perfectly healthy hand projected from Seb’s sleeve. With unconsciously comic timing, both men then looked at the floor, where the third hand was now running in circles around the wallet like a spider.
Seb used Manna to reach out and drain the last remnants of cocaine from their systems and turn off the addictive centers of their brains. The men felt it happening, looked at each other and back at Seb. The extra hand climbed up his leg, replaced the wallet in his pants pocket, then turned into an albino rat which ran up the street. As it rounded the corner, Seb heard the yelping of the scaffolding dogs as they spied a tasty snack.
“You’re sick, you know that?” said Seb2. Ignoring him, Seb looked at the men. Now drug-free, they looked exhausted, terrified and under-nourished. Seb sighed and let go of them. He slowly reached into his pocket again and withdrew two one hundred-dollar bills, handing one to each man.
“Go get something to eat,” said Seb. He walked back the way he had come, leaving his attackers staring at each other and shaking. Where were those men in all the other universes? Who might they kill or injure there? What was their life expectancy as drug-addicted thieves? He couldn’t know, and he couldn’t change it. He headed back to home, and Mee.
He made it less than a hundred yards before his head began to throb and he felt himself falling.
“Shit,” he thought, then consciousness was sucked out of him like a spider up a vacuum cleaner.
21
This time, the alien—Mic—wasn’t alone. And the surroundings were a good deal more opulent than the Social Security office of his last visit. Although the constant background hum was still present.
Seb was sitting in a tan leather office chair at one end of a large, oval, highly polished mahogany table. The chair was oversized, very comfortable and smelled of fresh leather. A series of buttons under the fingers of his right hand tipped it backward, forward, side-to-side and even inflated a lumbar support which pushed reassuringly into the small of his back. This was obviously a CEO-level office chair, announcing its superiority to other office chairs in every carefully crafted detail. This was a chair that had made it to the top and had no qualms about letting inferior chairs know about it. This was one smug chair.
“Are you finished?” said Seb2.
Seb spun the chair 360 degrees while tilting it as far back as he could.
“What?” he thought. “I mean, have you ever sat in anything this comfortable?”
“This is not a dream,” said Seb2, “and we have company.”
Seb pushed and held a button and the chair slowly and quietly tilted him into an upright position. Between his feet, three long glowing faces appeared at the other end of the table. As the chair reached the end of its movement, the faces were followed by the upper half of bodies.
The three aliens were wearing business suits. Two of them were 80s style, shoulder-padded, ‘Dynasty’-era power suits, the other a quiet pinstripe that was beautifully made. Probably hand-tailored. Which prompted the question: where did eight-foot tall aliens go for their suits?
“You’re not quite fully conscious yet,” said Seb2. “Being summoned like this has an effect that takes me a minute or two to counter. So don’t say anything stupid.”
The pinstriped alien in the middle spoke. This time, the voice came out of speakers discreetly mounted in the ceiling.
“This one is appointed to induce formalities,” it said. “Remembrance. This one is Mic. Seeing you fortuitous and grateful, Seb Varden.”
“It’s like talking to someone through google translate,” thought Seb.
“Introductions commence,” said Mic. “This one takes n
ame of Louise, this one Thelma.” As he spoke, first the figure to his left, then the one to his right glowed more brightly for a fraction of a second.
“Mee’s favorite film,” thought Seb. “Interesting.” Then he noticed the aliens’ chairs. If his chair was at CEO level, theirs were designed for royalty. About two feet wider than his, they also towered above him, giving the already tall creatures even more of a height advantage. His own chair’s air of smugness had dissolved and been replaced by an inferiority complex.
“Clear to see the power dynamic here, then,” thought Seb. “Who are they? What do they want?”
“Bad news on that score,” said Seb2. “I only just worked some of it out while you were getting yourself shot back there. Hang on.”
The scene seemed to freeze as Seb2 closed down all parts of Seb’s brain and body not immediately needed, meaning they could have a conversation in under a second, that otherwise might have lasted minutes.
“I analyzed every packet of data they sent during our last visit, but none of it makes sense. A great deal of information came across through Mic’s Manna, but it was as if it were prepared for someone else.”
“What do you mean?” thought Seb.
“The first data packet was a formal greeting, that was clear enough. They were expecting you. Only, they weren’t. Not really. They were expecting someone else, but you were the only candidate remotely similar to what they were looking for, so they summoned you.”
“Don’t particularly like being summoned,” thought Seb.
“Yeah. I’m working on stopping that, but I’m not there yet. And we need to find out what they want. The data that came through after the introductions contained no information.”
“What, then?”
“It was like a handshake, well, a billion handshakes. Like tab A trying to connect with slot A, only to find there was no slot A, only button Z.”
“Oh, here we go.”
“The Manna bursts were designed to be met with something reciprocal from you. Then—I think—they were primed to exchange information at the same time as upgrading us in some way. To facilitate communication, I think.”
“Not sure I want to be upgraded right now,” thought Seb.
“Well, that’s the interesting part,” said Seb2. “It’s clear to me that the upgrade they were offering would actually be a huge step backward for you. It was as if they were offering you the chance to move from roller skates to a bicycle, but you were already flying a jet.”
“So who were they expecting? Someone needing the upgrade?”
“I think so. I think it’s the Roswell Manna again. Their Manna is old-school. Walt, Mason, the Order, it’s operating just above that level. Your Manna is incompatible with theirs.”
“Like trying to download vinyl,” thought Seb.
“Good metaphor,” said Seb2. “You’re getting better at this. Anyway, this all means we need to try harder to communicate verbally. So let’s try. I’ll contribute if I have anything useful to say.”
“I won’t hold my breath, then,” thought Seb.
“You realize—since I’m you—you’re just insulting yourself, right?”
“Yeah, I know,” thought Seb, “but somehow, that still doesn’t make it any less fun.”
His sense of time returned to normal. The alien introduced as Thelma tilted her head slightly toward Mic. When she returned to an upright position, Mic spoke again. Seb wondered if the tilting of the head was probably just for his benefit, as it was such a human mannerism. Their method of communication with each other was still a mystery. Possibly via Manna, or even color changes on their skin too subtle for Seb to pick up.
“Investigation. Hypotheses. Inconclusive. What status of species, Seb Varden? Human primary, yet other possibility through evolution. Primary most likely in this case to take next step. Yet your wrongness noted. What status?”
Seb took a deep breath. Communication was still going to be hit and miss.
“I’m human, yes. I share something with you—I also use Manna.”
Both Thelma and Louise tilted their heads this time. Seb waited politely.
“Manna designation for process, subject/object manipulation, conscious evolution, yes?”
Seb tried to pick apart the sentence.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I think so. But what is conscious evolution?”
No tilting of heads this time. The three of them just looked blankly at him. Well, their expressions might have been full of meaning to each other, but to Seb they were utterly blank.
“Guess you don’t get to ask questions, then,” said Seb2. “This might look like a meeting, but they brought you here, they’re asking the questions and, until they’ve decided who you are, they seem to be treating you as an inferior.”
“That seems kind of fair to me,” thought Seb.
“Yes, on one level. But it implies a degree of inflexibility in their thinking. They were expecting Manna use of a far lower level than you possess, and so far, they’ve been unable, or unwilling, to adjust their expectations. The good news is, I’ve managed to hack their mainframe.”
“You’ve WHAT?”
“Don’t worry, they won’t know a thing about it. Let’s talk about it when we’re home.”
“Which is when, exactly? And how long will it have been for Mee?”
“I have a theory about that, won’t be able to confirm it until we’re home. But you’re not going to like it.”
The alien voice had spoken again, but Seb hadn’t been listening. Seb2 replayed the sentence.
“Apology sub greeting previous inappropriate. Possibility experiment parameters altered. Request exchange now with Thelma, specialism advanced culture. Contamination suspected.”
It was Seb’s turn to stare blankly. The alien designated as Thelma slid off her leather throne and walked down the length of the table toward him.
“Another Manna approach,” said Seb2. “Tentative, this time, cautious. I think you’re supposed to let them in, allow them to have a good look around at our Manna, investigate how it differs to what they were expecting.”
“They know my Manna is more advanced than theirs?” thought Seb.
“They suspect it. But they’re not sure. That’s why they want a closer look.”
“I don’t like the sound of the word ‘contamination’,” thought Seb.
“I hear you. I intend blocking them from seeing much at all, but I’ll make my blocking look as though it’s an automatic defense mechanism, out of our feeble human control.”
“You can do that?”
“I hope so.”
Thelma stood in front of him. Seb suddenly had an intense feeling that they were being watched.
“You feel that?” he thought.
“Yep,” said Seb2. “Something else. Someone else. There’s something weird going on here.”
Seb looked at the 1980s-style power-dressed alien standing next to the boardroom table in front of him and decided not to comment.
Thelma reached out a long slender arm. Her wrist ended up about three feet clear of her jacket. Fingers longer than chopsticks stretched toward his hand.
Seb had a flashback to the moment when Billy Joe had found him dying in the Verdugo mountains. Then, he had thought the alien was just a hallucination brought on by blood loss. That was until the hallucination in question healed his wounds, took away his brain tumor and gave him superhuman powers. Now, he calmly let his own comparatively tiny hand be lightly gripped between those blue-gray fingers.
Whereas his encounter with Billy Joe had felt like an explosion of electricity detonating in his heart, reaching out in a split second to every extremity, this time, he felt nothing.
“I’m, er, showing them around,” said Seb2. “It’s working.”
“What is?”
“Oh, you know, it’s like that tour of Abbey Road studios we took in London. They showed us some of the Beatles recording equipment from 1967 and sold us a really overpriced mug, but we never
got to see what we wanted to see—the control room in their most advanced studio at work, recording a current band.”
“You’ve sold them a mug?”
“In essence, yes, that’s exactly what I’ve done.”
Thelma stepped away from Seb, dropping his hand. She half-turned to her colleagues. All of them tilted their heads. The silence went on for nearly a minute before Mic broke it.
“Data insufficient. Conclusion insecure. But Seb Varden came here.”
“Like I had a choice,” thought Seb.
“Seb Varden therefore species representative, although irregularities. Mic, Thelma, Louise discuss status, findings. Next meeting 427. Autopsy.”
“Autopsy!” said Seb, half getting out of the chair.
Mic steepled his long fingers in that incongruously human fashion again before speaking.
“Syntax error,” he said eventually. “Vocabulary novel and insufficient. Correct word, examination. Yes, examination. Have you right as rain in no time an apple a day.”
“Is it just me?” thought Seb, “or do you think ‘autopsy’ was the right word for what they want to do to me?”
“I’d like to say you’re just being paranoid,” said Seb2, “but I have a bad feeling about all of this. I’ve retrieved some information back from the mainframe and I’ve left a—,”
Seb spluttered, his mouth full of water. Instinctively, he rolled sideways, bringing his face out of the dirty puddle. He coughed convulsively and pushed himself first to his knees, then to his feet.
He was standing on the street in Iztapalapa where he’d felt the sudden headache come on and been ‘summoned’ to see Mic and his friends. It was, he guessed, about half an hour before full dawn. His body ached.
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 50
