The house was cool. No one lived without AC in Las Vegas, and August had been hot, with highs of 118F causing roads to bubble and tourists to dehydrate and end up in hospital at the rate of dozens a day.
Westlake opened the fridge. Fresh salad and lots of beer.
“Ford?” he called. “Ford? It’s Westlake. Come down, you have work to do.” Mason had called ahead, but apparently the old fool wasn’t answering his phone. Westlake had been told to shoot him in the kneecaps once he was done, as punishment for his lack of communication. Ford was to be instructed that he wasn’t allowed to use Manna to fix it for twelve hours. That was gonna hurt. Westlake smiled.
“Ok, I’m coming up. If you’ve been drinking, time to get sober.”
Still no response. Westlake started to consider the possibility that Ford was sick. This worried him a little. Not that he gave a soft shit whether the man died in a pool of his own vomit. Just as long as he wasn’t infectious. Any illness that Manna couldn’t deal with would have to be very serious. Westlake had certainly never heard of one.
He nudged open the door of the master bedroom with the toe of one steel-capped shoe. He flicked on the light. Ford was asleep, his satin sheets covering his lazy, privileged, pampered body. Westlake snorted in contempt.
“Get up, Ford, and stop wasting my time.”
The sheet continued to rise and fall in a maddeningly constant rhythm that denoted deep sleep. Westlake walked over and pulled the sheet away, ready to fire a round into the pillow, just to scare the crap out of the time-wasting fraud.
The body turned as the sheet came away and Westlake found himself looking at something close enough to Walt to give him pause, yet strange enough that he immediately thumbed the safety off on the Glock.
The thing on the bed—a homunculus, it must be, although probably the best Westlake had ever seen—turned onto its back and grinned at the intruder. The grin revealed a line of small stones and pebbles arranged in a symmetrical way to approximate teeth. Uncharacteristically, Westlake hesitated, thrown off-balance by that grin.
The creature’s hand shot out and grabbed his genitals, squeezing with inhuman strength. Westlake fired and the homunculus collapsed into a pile of dirt that ruined the sheets and the Persian rug beside the bed. Westlake stood for a second longer, seemingly considering what to do next. Then, satisfied that his only option—considering one of his testicles was sliding down his leg while the other was just a flattened lump of gristle—was to pass out, he did so.
From New York, Mason watched the homunculus fall apart and Westlake hit the floor. He said nothing, but his right eyebrow twitched slightly. He picked up his phone and dialed another Las Vegas number.
“Barrington,” he whispered. “Go to Walter Ford’s house. Make sure your Manna reserves are topped up. You’ll find Westlake there. He needs some medical attention, then he needs a new face. It would seem Ford is unavailable.”
He listened for a moment while watching Westlake as he showed signs of regaining consciousness. The man was obviously in absolute agony, barely moving as he tried to sit up. That’s what came of insufficient preparation.
“What’s that?” he whispered. “Oh, no hurry. Give it an hour.” An hour would be long enough for Westlake to remember to prepare better in future.
Mason couldn’t remember the last time someone had left his organization and lived. When he thought about it, he realized that was because it was yet to happen. Uncharacteristically brave of Walter Ford. He would turn his attention to tracking him down, once they’d found Meera Patel.
Westlake was two hours late meeting his team. He said nothing other than the code sentence and response and they knew better than to ask. There was no pain after Barrington had used Manna to treat his injuries and he had betrayed no anger at being made to wait before being healed. Westlake’s face was now that of Seb Varden’s, but his people had been very carefully picked and extensively trained. Not one of the five men or three women said anything or betrayed any surprise at their leader’s appearance. They just followed him to the waiting helicopter and awaited instructions.
Westlake briefed the unit during the flight to Mexico City. The chopper displayed no livery or numbers giving away its identity, but its cruising speed of over two hundred miles per hour put it in a small but elite group. The fuel tank was slightly bigger than standard, meaning they wouldn’t have to stop en route, but the payoff was a slower flight. In all, they were in the air for eight hours. Six hours sleep—all of them used it, as regular sleep was a rare luxury while on a mission—thirty minutes for food, then a comprehensive briefing before landing.
By the time the chopper came to rest at a little-used military facility just outside Mexico City, all members of the unit were clear as to their roles and objective. Meera Patel was to be captured alive, and Westlake—with Varden’s face—was the best chance of achieving that objective. Every team member had a cellphone which doubled as a walkie-talkie, with the unit’s channel constantly open, relaying information to the invisible earpieces they all wore. All were armed with silenced weapons, three of them also carried briefcases containing quick-to-assemble sniper guns, equipped with fast-acting tranquilizer darts.
Changed into civilian clothes, and arriving in separate taxis, some alone, others paired up, Westlake’s elite unit of killers checked into hotels, guesthouses and hostels picked out in advance. Their locations circled the area where Meera Patel’s singing voice had been detected. On both occasions, the alarm had been triggered in the morning. Each of them went to bed early.
Dawn next day saw the team take their places, loosely covering an area of three square miles. Mason’s program would instantly notify each of them when triggered, so they could move into place, keeping their distance, ready to act if Westlake’s approach should fail. He had warned them that the actual Sebastian Varden might be in play. If so, three team members were to engage Varden while the rest extracted Patel. If they got very lucky indeed, Varden wouldn’t be involved. Westlake resented relying on luck, but he knew this part of the equation was out of his hands.
The first three days passed without incident.
On day four, they got very lucky indeed.
27
Mexico City
An hour after Kate left, the door opened and Seb walked in. Mee threw her arms around him and they stood like that for a few minutes, saying nothing.
Finally, Seb pulled away, looked at Mee and kissed her.
“Tequila?” he said, tasting it on her.
“Bit early for that,” she said. “I’ll make some coffee.”
“Yeah, you’re funny,” he said.
“Seven days,” she said, as she opened the cupboard and got the beans.
“I know,” he said. “Seemed like an hour or so to me.”
He looked at the table as Mee went through the calming ritual of grinding beans, boiling water, warming the pot and letting it steep for a few minutes before pouring. He could have just used Manna and saved the time, but he appreciated the importance of maintaining some activities regular humans indulged in.
There were two glasses on the table.
“Company?” he said.
“Kate,” said Mee, pouring two mugfuls and sitting down. Seb sat where Kate had been sitting for most of the night. He held the mug to his nose and savored the smell of the freshly ground beans. Somehow, knowing that some genuine effort had gone into making it, knowing the beans had been grown on nearby hills, picked, dried, roasted, then ground and brewed in a process repeated millions of times every day…well, it made it taste better. Seb knew it couldn’t taste better in reality, but that didn’t stop him from believing it did.
Mee sat opposite and sipped her coffee.
“She knows,” she said. “I told her everything. It can’t just be you and me against the world anymore. If you can’t stop yourself disappearing, we need to talk about Mason.”
Seb looked at her. She was never afraid of confronting problems. Being held captive by Ma
son’s people, having her finger cut off, thinking she would never see Seb again—and would live the rest of her life as the prisoner of the coldest bastard she’d ever come across—it had all added up to the most terrifying experience of her life. But she had no hesitation in bringing up his name, no thought of avoiding thinking about the man who had caused her such pain. Seb loved her for that.
“I understand why you told her,” he said, “but the Order—,”
“She doesn’t think you’re here to save the world,” said Mee. “Don’t panic. She never bought into the whole messiah deal. She doesn’t know what you are, why your abilities are different, how you managed to access the Roswell Manna. She’s curious, sure, who wouldn’t be? But she does want to help.”
Mee told him about Innisfarne, about Kate’s offer of refuge. Seb listened in silence until she had told him everything.
“No phones?” he said. “No internet?”
Mee nodded.
Seb stood up and topped up both of their coffees. He sighed.
“Then she’s right,” he said. “You’re right. I can’t protect you if I’m not here and that sounds like the safest place on earth to be if you want to hide from someone with Mason’s control of technology.” He hid the worry and sadness in his voice fairly well, but he wasn’t fooling Mee. He knew it and she knew it. They both decided to ignore it. “When will you go?” he said.
“When you next pull your vanishing act,” she said. “If you do. If not, I won’t have to leave, will I?”
Seb bowed to her logic. He knew better than to argue with her when her mind was made up.
“So, what happened this time?” she said. “You been filling in forms with ET again?”
“Something like that.”
“I have some information,” said Seb2.
Seb looked at Mee, who had caught his slightly unfocused look when Seb2 had spoken.
“Yeah, it’s him,” he said. “I think you should hear this, too.”
He reached forward to take her hands, but she sat back.
“Wait,” she said. “As lovely as it was going back to Richmond Park, can’t he just come here?”
“Can you?” thought Seb.
“Yeah. Sure,” said Seb 2. “Grab her hand, I’ll have to mess with her brain a little, so she can see me.”
“I wish you’d use a better expression than ‘messing with her brain’,” thought Seb, but took Mee’s hand anyway.
A fraction of a second after their fingers had touched, Seb2 was sitting on a third chair between them.
“Hi, Mee,” he said.
“Hi, you,” she said. “Why couldn’t you do this the first time, instead of all the drama?”
“It wasn’t really for your benefit,” said Seb2. “The Richmond Park scene was pulled out of Seb’s memory the first time we communicated. I needed somewhere with specific qualities. A venue I—he—had spent a lot of time thinking about. You made an impression on that first date.”
“Soft git,” said Mee and lightly punched Seb’s arm.
“I can construct any scene Seb can picture,” said Seb2, “but as that one was already fully formed, it was the default template when we needed it under pressure. What’s happening now is a little different. I’m communicating directly with your brain, and you’re projecting the image you choose to associate with me. The disadvantage is the speed of communication. It’s real-time, which is painfully slow.”
“Oh, well, excuse me,” said Mee.
“I can deal with it,” said Seb2, “but our last meeting lasted less than twenty seconds in real time. We’ve already spent double that just saying hello.”
Mee raised an eyebrow at Seb.
“Ok, here’s the skinny on the aliens,” said Seb2. “I don’t have everything yet, but I’ve left a program interrogating their mainframe. We should have more details next time. If there is a next time,” he added, looking at Mee.
“Let me tell her what happened first,” said Seb. “Then you can explain to me why it was a good idea to hack an alien computer.”
Seb told Mee about Mic, Thelma and Louise. About Seb2 hiding the extent of his Manna ability until they could find out what was going on. Mee made more coffee. Her Manna use meant she felt no ill-effects from the night’s tequila consumption, but her head still felt foggy as she tried to comprehend what the two Sebs were telling her.
“So, what do they want?” she said.
Seb shrugged. He was no closer to unpicking the garbled syntax that passed for communication with Mic than he had been the first time.
“First things first,” said Seb2. “I know why we were away for so long. And why it was shorter this time. Some of what I’ll get from the mainframe will confirm it. The Manna interaction with Thelma also helps to explain a little of who they are and what they want. Although I haven’t completely solved that mystery yet.”
Seb2 stood up and pointed at the table. A scale model of Mexico City appeared. When Mee looked closer, she could see tiny cars moving, smoke rising. She even made out a jet the size of a mosquito flying over the credit card-shaped Nabor Carillo Lake on its final approach into the airport. Next, Seb2 backed away to the window. The numeral ‘1’ appeared next to him, floating in mid-air. Seb2 took a couple of paces back toward them and ‘2’ appeared alongside him.
“Ok,” said Seb2. “How long does it take to Walk from one place to another?”
Seb considered the question for a moment.
“It’s instantaneous,” he said. “I see where we’re going, I make the decision, then we’re there.”
“And when we met Mic? Any different?”
“You know it wasn’t. I was here, then I was there.”
“Yes, it seems the same way to me,” said Seb2. “but the keyword there is seems.”
“It isn’t instantaneous?” said Mee.
“Walking is, pretty much,” said Seb2. “Although I don’t know how. You’re the one with a science background—,”
“Hardly,” said Mee.
“Well, you’re better educated than me, so you understand the laws of physics. I can’t be in one place, then immediately in another with no travel time, right?”
“Well,” said Mee, “I’m just playing Devil’s advocate here, but at the subatomic level, experiments have shown that certain particles seemingly affect one another instantly—with distance playing no part in the process.”
“Oh,” said Seb2. “So it is possible, then.”
“Not necessarily,” said Mee. “Subatomic behavior appears to follow completely different laws to those of everyday reality. The microscopic rulebook is different to the macroscopic, if you like. If Walking is instantaneous—or as close to it as makes no difference, I can only think you’re using wormholes somehow. But I don’t know enough about the theory to see how.”
“More than we do, though,” said Seb2. “And it fits with my hypothesis. Much of what goes on in my—his—our body is automatic. Even if I managed to see what was happening when we Walk, or Use, I still wouldn’t be able to understand it. But I have a theory about the blackouts that makes sense to me.”
“Go ahead,” said Seb.
“Right. Imagine the distance between Mexico City—,” he pointed at the table, “—and Mic’s crib is six million miles.”
“Crib?” said Mee. Seb2 ignored her.
“Why six million?” said Seb.
“It just makes the math easier, ok? And I need all the help I can get.”
“Point taken,” said Seb. He was the same person, after all, and mental calculations had never been his strong suit.
“Now, what if we weren’t Walking there? When we were summoned. You made no conscious decision, you didn’t go through the usual process, right?”
“Right,” said Seb. “I had no say in it at all. I was just pulled away—like being grabbed.”
“Exactly,” said Seb2. “I don’t think we Walked at all. I’ve been looking at our memory of what happened between blacking out and meeting Mic. There’
s a gap there. Our mental state just stopped. We didn’t think or feel. It’s as if we were in a state of suspended animation, everything frozen until we arrived at our destination. And milliseconds before blackout, something surrounded our body. You were right to say it felt like being grabbed. It was like one of those games where you pick up a soft toy with a claw.”
“Except, I never do pick it up,” said Seb.
“Yeah, well, I think their claw is designed for accuracy, rather than conning tourists at Coney Island. They got close enough to use it, and it homed in on the most powerful Manna user in the species. I think they grabbed you and reeled you in. We were traveling incredibly fast by any normal standards, but excruciatingly slowly compared to Walking. Like taking a bus instead of a jet. You just made two interstellar journeys longer than any human being before you. We were away so long purely because of the travel time involved”
Seb was glad he was already sitting down.
“Interstellar,” he said, his throat suddenly dry.
“Yes,” said Seb2. He walked from the table to the floating number 1 at the window. “Our first trip took six days there and six days back. Well, not quite, but I’ll explain that in a moment.”
Mee had gone pale.
“You were on another planet?” she said.
“No,” said Seb2. “Not quite.” He walked toward them and stopped at the floating 2. “This time, we were away seven days total, which is three and a half days’ travel time each way. And, when we go again, I doubt we’ll be away more than a day or two.”
Seb rubbed his forehead with both thumbs.
“Different planet?” he said.
Mee stood up, her chair clattering to the floor behind her. She walked over to the window, then walked slowly between ‘1’ and ‘2’, looking at the tiny Mexico City on the table as she did it.
“Oh, shit,” she said.
Seb spread his hands wide.
“What?” he said. “You two geniuses have got it? What am I missing?”
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 54
