The World Walker Series Box Set

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  Seb had always found the electoral college system confusing. He wasn’t about to take on the nuances of inter-species politics. He took a deep breath.

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  Fypp rubbed her hands together.

  “Simple. Get in there and start a religion. If they buy it, you win.”

  16

  When he reached the foot of the mountain, it was still light, although the first of the moons was already visible and the sun was painting the sky pink and orange. Cley breathed more deeply as the land lost its flatness and began rising, but he kept his pace steady. When Sopharndi had pointed at the mountain, he had fixed his gaze on a dark spot about two-thirds of the way up. He would stop when he got there.

  The Last Mountain was somewhat misleadingly named. It wasn’t the only hill in sight, just the nearest. It only rose about four hundred feet above the desert, but, as no other landmarks were visible for miles, it had found itself promoted from a hill to a mountain. On the horizon, far higher peaks could be seen on the clearest days, but—with hundreds of miles of desert lying between the Last Mountain and these distant slopes—only a few adventurers had ever risked making the trek. The People were a pragmatic race. The land on which they lived sustained them. The wasteland to the south showed less vegetation than Cley had passed on his trek to the mountain. Even the hardy blacktrees became less numerous, eventually giving way to a vast dry yellow-gray expanse of nothingness. The only contrast was provided by the occasional piles of bleached white bones belonging to those who had tried, and failed, to satisfy their curiosity about the distant mountains.

  Cley’s breathing deepened as the incline grew steeper. His lips were dry, and his throat craved the soothing qualities of water, but Sopharndi was not there to provide it. He knew of no other way his thirst could be slaked. Sopharndi had pointed this way, and he had walked. Every day she had given him food and water. Today he had received neither. He would go where he had been told to go. Somewhere in his mind was the certainty that food and drink would be waiting, as would be Sopharndi.

  He found the entrance to the cave just as the light of the first and second moons took over illumination duties from the sinking sun. The third moon would only be visible as midnight approached.

  As Cley shuffled toward the black mouth of the cave, and finally sat, peering into the darkness, he heard a rustling and hissing as snakes and lizards found new cover away from the intruder. The fact that the moons were in the phase where they were aligned gave every rock crisp, sharp-edged shadows, and plunged the interior of the cave into impenetrable darkness. Cley could make out a few scattered twigs and some darker patches on the ground, but no more. There was a strong animal smell, but part of Cley’s brain registered that as familiar; he had often spent hours watching the other children milk the gandreals, feed them, clean out their pens or cut their long, glossy coats when the summer came. The smell in the cave was different to the domestic animals he knew, but similar enough to allow him to settle.

  His feet hurt, his legs ached, and his tongue felt furred and thick for lack of water. Cley could see nothing in the cave, so he turned and looked back toward the settlement and home. It was the first time he had looked behind him since setting off the previous night, and everything seemed unfamiliar. He could see the abrupt change in the landscape where, about twenty miles north, the dust of the Parched Lands made way to the greenery of the settlement. The sight made no sense to him. He did not know he was looking at his home. Cley still expected his mother to appear at any moment, and he had no capacity to come up with a plan if she didn’t. He waited.

  His head was just beginning to nod with sleep when he heard a noise behind him. Cley opened his eyes and listened. The noise came again, a swish of sound as if someone were sweeping the cave. Sopharndi swept their hut every night before sleep. He knew this sound. He got to his feet, surprised and confused by the shooting pain in his legs as he stood. He turned and faced the cave mouth.

  The moons were higher now, and the third moon was beginning to rise so Cley could see a few feet further into the cave mouth. What he had taken for twigs were revealed to be the discarded bones of lizards and small rodents. The dark patches were dried blood. The animal smell was stronger now.

  As the swishing sound came closer, Cley leaned forward, expecting to see Sopharndi sweeping the cave. He had no other association with the sound he was hearing. His life had followed a simple, reliable, repetitive pattern, and his few autonomous actions were triggered by responses to familiar stimuli. Sopharndi was sweeping the cave, so he must go to her.

  He stepped forward into the darkness.

  As he walked, the smell grew stronger, but the sound stopped. Cley stopped too, confused. He started humming, then stopped abruptly when he heard something come closer. The smell was almost overpowering now, and was different enough to the familiar gandreal odors that Cley felt suddenly disorientated. He turned and walked back toward the moonlight.

  Something moved behind him.

  The next swish was loud and close. Cley’s feet were knocked from under him by something heavy and strong and he fell on his side, grunting with pain. For a second he lay there, then instinct took over and he began to crawl the last few feet to the cave’s exit.

  He sensed sudden movement near his right foot and drew it rapidly up to his body. He was nearly at the cave mouth now, his eyes adapting to the gloom. The light of the moons was reflected by rows of savage, sharp teeth which closed over the air where—a split second earlier—his foot had been. Cley scrambled out of the cave and got to his feet. Then he stopped for a second, unable to decide what to do next. He did not know where he was, but this was the place his mother had pointed toward. This was where he was supposed to be.

  When the skimtail emerged from the cave, it was with such a burst of speed that even a warrior, knife drawn, would have been unlikely to be able to strike in time. As it was, Cley’s arms hung by his sides, his knife—an unfamiliar item Sopharndi had attached to his belt the previous day—was still sheathed. Cley took one half-step to the side as the giant lizard sank its barbed teeth into the flesh just above his left wrist.

  Had Sopharndi been there, she would, at least, have finally had the satisfaction of knowing that her son could make a noise other than the tuneless humming he was known for. The scream that came from his lips broke through as a high-pitched wail of agony. With an animal instinct for escape from the terrible, searing pain in his arm, Cley did the worst thing he could do under the circumstances, and pulled back against the savage bite of the creature. The foremost teeth of a skimtail are small and hooked, used to grip prey. The more the victim struggles, the further they work themselves on to the initial bite.

  When the creature suddenly released him, Cley stared at the ragged mess of blood, skin and bone above his hand. He drew breath for another scream, then stopped, a strange sensation coursing through his body. Had he been able to understand the warnings Sopharndi had given him, he would have known what every child of the People was taught on their parents’ laps. The poisonous bite of a skimtail could kill rodents and lizards outright, but it was also potent enough to render a fully grown person unconscious for a few minutes. It was the reason why none of the People ever ventured outside the settlement alone. If you were bitten and there was no one nearby to help you, your only chance was to bury your knife in the thing’s throat before the poison took effect. Otherwise, you were as good as dead.

  Cley swayed a little, took one faltering step backward, then fell heavily to the floor. The skimtail’s long powerful tail coiled around his feet like a giant snake and he was pulled back into the cave, his head bumping across rocks as the last spark of consciousness disappeared.

  There was enough meat on an adolescent male like Cley to feed the skimtail’s mate and three young for nearly a month.

  17

  Seb looked at the Egg. Although it was on the table, it seemed as if it wasn’t there at all. It was physically difficult to look
at for long. It was as if the visual information it provided didn’t tally in any real sense with the physical essence of the thing. Seb reminded himself that nothing around him, including his own body, was “real” in any commonly accepted sense of the word, and yet he had been able to act as if it was. The Egg gave the lie to all of it. It was an impossible object, and his mind couldn’t accept its presence in any way that was remotely comfortable. He looked away again. He was beginning to feel as if all this was happening to someone else.

  “If you agree, you will enter the simulation, become a part of it.” Fypp was, seemingly, being serious and direct now, although it was hard to tell. “It’s your decision, Seb. There are dangers.”

  “Dangers. But, hold on. What? Even if I could, how can starting a religion in a simulation change anything? How will it help Baiyaan?”

  “It’s simple,” said Fypp. “They have a primitive form of religion already. Go shake them up. Mysticism 101, that’s what they need. Prove to us that whatever it is Baiyaan sees in humans can truly change an entire species. Teach them what you know. Then I’ll vote for you.”

  “You need a priest, or a monk, not me. I don’t even go to church. I’m the wrong person to do this.”

  “I think the fact you have stayed away from organized religion makes you a stronger candidate, not a weaker one. You won’t ask them to believe that a two thousand-year-old middle-eastern alien is the only one who can save them. Will you?”

  “No. I guess not. But even if I agreed to try…it’ll take years! And mystical traditions evolve over centuries! I mean, just to get started…I can’t, you can’t expect me to…”

  Bok nodded his huge, dark head. “You have six months. Any shorter would be unfair. Any longer and the risk of losing your identity would be too great.”

  “Six months? I can’t—”

  Seb felt like sitting down, before remembering that he was already sitting down. He wondered if sitting on the floor of the cabin itself might make him feel more grounded. Then he reminded himself that the chair, the floor, the cabin itself and everything he could “see” didn’t exist in any meaningful sense. After that, he just felt a bit sick.

  “Time moves differently inside a Gyeuk Egg,” said Fypp. “Try to imagine time happening almost all at once, rather than one event after another. An ocean, not a river. You will have to adjust when you rejoin us here.”

  “Really? Great. Sounds like a bunch of fun.”

  They all stared at him. He turned to Fypp.

  “Even if I agree, how will you know if what I do has any effect? If I manage to influence a group of people, it might not last. You say they have a primitive form of religion. Is their society pre-technological?”

  Fypp nodded. “Pre-almost anything useful, actually. Sorry. No mass-communication. No record-keeping of any kind, either. Oral tradition. Nice and simple.”

  “Nice and simple? So, unless their oral tradition preserves the essential message of whatever it is I hope to achieve, within a generation or two, no one will even know I was there?”

  Kaani leaned forward. “Yes. In which case you will have failed, and we can all go back to our lives.”

  Seb laughed. “It’s impossible.”

  “Maybe,” said Fypp, “maybe not. There’s a saying I like from one of your Russian Orthodox saints - Seraphim of Sarov.”

  Seb started wondering exactly how much time this incredibly old being had spent studying his home. She certainly seemed to have a better knowledge of religious traditions than he did. Which, to be fair, wasn’t all that difficult.

  “He said, Acquire the spirit of peace, and a thousand souls around you will be saved.”

  Seb stared at her. That mischievous smile was starting to annoy him.

  “I’m starting to think you’ve got the wrong guy. Maybe Baiyaan got the wrong guy.” He turned to Billy Joe. Not for the first time, Seb wondered if Steven Spielberg hadn’t had a visit from Baiyaan when he was coming up with Close Encounters Of The Third Kind. The resemblance to the aliens at the end of the movie was uncanny. Billy Joe made no response, but his Manna radiated its usual peaceful, calm reassurance. Even that was starting to irritate Seb now.

  “Seriously - not only am I not a saint, I’m pretty near the other end of the spectrum. I’ve screwed around, taken drugs. That whole business about turning the other cheek? I don’t do that, I just get pissy and waste hours hoping I’ll get my revenge. I’m petty, I’m shallow. Just because I sit down and contemplate twice a day, don’t think that makes me holy.” Seb realized he had raised his voice, but he couldn’t stop himself. He clenched his fist, ready to bang it on the table for emphasis, then saw the Egg—felt the sudden shock from the other T’hn’uuth—and managed to stop himself, waving his hand feebly in the air instead. The gesture was awkward. He suddenly felt like a child having a tantrum in front of elderly, disapproving, and slightly patronizing, relatives. Instead of stopping him short, the feeling made him angrier still.

  “I meditate because if I didn’t, I would be a complete and utter dick. That’s why. Acquire the spirit of peace? Are you fucking nuts? Why don’t you go? You obviously have some kind of mini-Buddha complex. Or how about Baiyaan? He’s the real deal. You see that, right?”

  Fypp got up, followed him for a few paces as he stamped around the cabin, then grabbed his hand. He turned, and she reached out for his other hand and took it. He looked down at her, ready to vent some more anger. It felt good—right, somehow—to let this frustration show, to rail against the unfairness of the situation in which he found himself. But when he looked at her face, the open, trusting face of a child, even the fact that he knew it wasn’t real didn’t stop the rage evaporating like rain after a tropical storm. He tried to cling to the remnants of his anger, but they eluded his grasp. His voice, when he finally spoke, was full of fear, loss and plain bewilderment.

  “I didn’t ask for any of this.” His voice shook slightly, and Fypp gently squeezed his hands.

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “I’m not even close to being a saint, Fypp. I’ll fail. If I try to do this, I’ll fail.”

  She smiled again, but she seemed to allow a little of her true age and experience to inform the expression on her face. “Spoken like a true prophet. If you felt up to the task, if you believed you were capable of leading a single person, let alone a whole society, onto a new spiritual path where they might encounter Reality, you would be—at best—hopelessly deluded. At worst, you would be dangerous. No one ever feels ready when called.”

  He shook his head. “But I—”

  She squeezed his hands again, and he fell silent. “No one,” she repeated. “But this is your moment. Yours.”

  Seb remembered his childhood, reading comics about superheroes, seeing Batman at the local movie theater. He’d always thought of men and women with super powers as being heroic, free - something to aspire to. Now, he realized they were, in a sense, trapped by their abilities. Usually, they hadn’t asked for their power. Bitten by a spider, escaped from a dying planet, violently orphaned, experimented on by power-crazy scientists. Then they were doomed to spend their lives reacting to shit thrown at them, or at others, by the bad guys. They were forever cleaning up the mess. Where was their choice? And where was his choice now?

  He let himself be led back to the table and sat down. Fypp continued to hold one of his hands.

  “You just have to act like you are a prophet. Keep acting like it and you might surprise yourself. Plus, you’ll have an unfair advantage. You are a T’hn’uuth, after all.”

  Seb shrugged and tried to be flippant in the face of the relentless monster truck of fate currently bearing down on him. “Well, I guess it’s just a simulation,” he said. At that, Fypp’s smile became broad.

  “What’s the difference?”

  Seb took a deep breath. “Well, I mean, no one really exists there in any meaningful sense, so…” His voice tried off.

  “Depends how you define meaningful,” said Fypp. Seb k
new she was playing with him. She looked him sidelong, her expression sly and knowing.

  “Um,” said Seb, eloquently expressing his inner thoughts.

  “Do you need a biological body to exist in a meaningful sense? That excludes me, you, the Gyeuk and a few thousand species which you aren’t yet able to perceive. Don’t be such a dimensionalist. Ignorance is no excuse.”

  “Er,” said Seb, expanding his argument somewhat unconvincingly. Fypp pressed her advantage.

  “Does consciousness and free will count toward meaningful existence by your definition? Because they experience both where you’re going. If you’re going. Are you going? You’re gonna go, right?”

  Fypp’s expression changed from academic lecturer to small child pleading in a millisecond. It was as if she had flicked a switch. She looked crestfallen, her big eyes fixed on his, innocent and imploring in equal measure. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Seb found himself laughing.

  “And if I say no? It’s still two votes for Baiyaan, two against. What will you do if I refuse?”

  Fypp smiled mischievously.

  “Well, in that case, I will probably have to vote. We need a decision. And there’s only one fair way.” She pulled a shiny object out of the folds of her robes. “I’ll toss a coin for it.”

  Seb didn’t answer for a few moments. He looked at Baiyaan, whose passivity in the face of the decision Seb was being asked to make on his behalf would have been upsetting, if he hadn’t been radiating his usual aura of peaceful acceptance. Bok and Kaani waited for Seb’s answer. Fypp made a shooing gesture at Seb with one hand.

  “It’s a serious decision. I wouldn’t expect you to give us an answer right away. That would be cruel. Go for a walk. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

  18