The World Walker Series Box Set

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  “Sometimes it’s pretty hard to remember this is all just a metaphor I’m constructing in real time,” he said as Bok placed a huge hand on a panel which rose up in front of him. There was a brief hum and a series of small flashes of blue and orange light, then the panel sank back out of sight. Seb kept talking, in part to distract himself from a growing feeling of panic - a feeling which had now become so unfamiliar to him that it took a few seconds to identify it.

  “I mean, I’m constructing some kind of futuristic scene for myself, right? It’s the closest I can get to interpreting exactly what it is that you’re really doing to me. I remember seeing a movie when I was a kid. They shrank this guy and injected him into someone else’s body. This feels a bit like that. I know I don’t literally have to shrink to get into the Egg, that it’s all something to do with chained wormholes and quantum linguine, but, for some reason, that’s not making me feel any better about things.”

  Seb listened to his own voice babbling with an increasing sense of detachment. Was that of his own doing, or the intravenous fluids taking effect? He stopped talking and allowed the chaos of his mind to begin to settle.

  Bok had said he could use any words he liked to mark a place where the Gyeuk Egg and the outside world met. Seb’s occasional video game binges had provided the perfect inspiration.

  “Pause,” he said.

  For a moment it seemed that nothing had changed, then Seb realized all sound had stopped - even the steady background chirp and whirr of thousands of nocturnal insects had faded to nothing. Even though he had initiated it, he was shocked by the sudden change. He had chosen to use familiar commands from gaming, but watching a scene pause on a monitor was a totally different experience to witnessing a whole world doing the same thing. There was something unnerving about it. Bok had told him the world wouldn’t actually pause, it was his own perception of time shifting.

  A doorway ascended from the sand and rock floor like an elevator. As it came to a stop, it was revealed as an empty frame. Where the door itself would normally be found, it had a liquid appearance. Despite the fact that it stood in front of him, the sensation Seb felt was as if he was looking down into a pool of water.

  He looked at his face for a few moments in the reflection before realizing what was strange about it. It was him. A human being. With a start, he looked down at his actual body for a moment and saw tough, dark skin. His hand was long, the palm muscular. Three fingers and a thumb. The pads of the fingers and thumb were like those of a dog - they had tough nails which extended and retracted as Seb flexed his fingers. He brought them up to his face and looked closer. The nails were strong and very sharp. Certainly an evolutionary weapon, possibly for hunting, he speculated. Then he looked at the blade hanging from a belt around his waist. His new species obviously didn’t rely completely on their claws.

  He glanced away from his unfamiliar new body and back at the reflection in the doorway. A human figure looked back, the hand in the reflection quite definitely belonging to the Seb Varden who was now waving at his new body in the cave.

  “Show Home.”

  His reflection disappeared and a scene appeared on the far side of the door, as if the door now led to a new place. Seb felt his stomach lurch a little when he saw it. He knew it was just his subconscious picking the place he had the most powerful associations with, but it shook him, nonetheless.

  It was Richmond Park. London.

  He was looking through the doorway as if it was at the top of the path leading down to Penn Ponds and the bench where he and Meera had had their first, drunken date. Also, of course, the virtual landscape where he had spent “time” with Seb2, when his personality had split to cope with the change from human to World Walker. He still thought of himself as a World Walker, rather than a T’hn’uuth, partly because it sounded cooler, but mostly because he couldn’t pronounce T’hn’uuth.

  Seb knew why he was seeing this. It was a way of remembering. Bok had advised him to summon Home at least once a month, to remember who he really was, why he was there. If he could remind himself of his true identity, he could protect himself from being lost in the new reality of the Gyeuk Egg. In theory.

  He stepped through the door.

  The weather was warm, a light breeze causing the leaves in the dense clumps of trees on either side of the path to rustle like subtle, arrhythmic percussion. He walked far enough along the path to see the bench. Two people sat there, their backs toward him. They were passing a bottle between them and laughing.

  With a distant, muted pang of recognition, Seb recognized himself and Mee. This wasn’t a construct in the same way the Richmond Park where he met Seb2 had been. This version of the London park was a memory, the strongest one he had. The day when he realized Mee felt something for him too. The day he felt life open up to possibilities he had never really considered before. As they had gotten drunk together, he had found his senses sharpening instead of softening, every word they had spoken hooking into his memory, every glance remembered, the smell of every flower, leaf, blade of grass, or Mee’s skin and breath, filed away. Every kiss experienced with every sense available.

  Halfway down the path, he stopped short, unable to go any closer. Experiencing his own memory this way had done the job it was designed to do. He knew who he was, he knew the Gyeuk Egg was—however real it seemed—just a simulation. But being here was oddly uncomfortable, too. It was the contrast between the intensity of the afternoon that was being replayed in front of him—plus the lingering intensity of the memories associated with it—compared to his current emotional state. He knew he wasn’t feeling what he had once felt. He knew he wasn’t engaging with this memory in the way he used to. The changes in his body and brain had distanced him from his own emotions. It wasn’t just that he had changed. It was that he couldn’t quite remember what he once was. Who the boy on that bench was, kissing the laughing girl.

  He turned and said, “Resume.” The doorway appeared, a shadowed scene beyond it.

  As he re-entered the cave, the door slid out of sight behind him.

  Seb turned and walked out of the cave. He sat on the narrow ledge, dangling his legs over the precipice. Feeling as alone as he’d ever felt in his life, Seb followed an instinct born of years of habit. He allowed his mind to enter his heart as he turned to his lifelong practice of contemplation. Father O had always warned him that there was no destination in contemplation, no goal, no waypoints, no possibility of success. And yet he had claimed it was worth dedicating his whole life to it. In his mid-teens at the time, Seb had felt let-down by such seemingly vague statements from his normally precise and thoughtful teacher. Years later, he had begun to understand that there was nothing vague about what Father O had said. Just the opposite, in fact. The priest had shown him a hard path and been ruthlessly honest about the difficulties and darkness ahead. Seb still couldn’t articulate what it was that drew a resolute non-churchgoer like him back to this seemingly fruitless practice day after day.

  Seb wondered what Father O would make of him right now - a short, strong, three-toed, four-fingered bald creature watching its breath in silence. Seb guessed the old priest would probably be delighted.

  About twenty minutes passed. Seb watched his thoughts. They crowded into the mental space and denied him peace. All these years of sitting and still his thoughts vied for attention like a roomful of demanding toddlers. No wonder the Desert Fathers and Mothers had referred to their thoughts as demons. Seb stood up, stretched and looked across the land toward the distant firelight of the settlement.

  He turned his gaze inward briefly and looked at the jumble of images and memories inside Cley’s mind. Nothing added up, it was still confusing and incomplete. But one face stood out, along with a name. Sopharndi. And a label: mother. He would start with her.

  Before entering the simulation, Seb, his mind now clouded and slow, looked up to see Bok holding a big, glowing, red button, his massive palm poised about an inch above it. Bok raised his slab-like head an
d looked at the new World Walker lying on the chair. The first new T’hn’uuth for millennia.

  “I voted against Baiyaan,” he said, “but such a binary choice does not accurately reflect my thoughts on the issue. I regret we have been forced to convene in this way. I also regret that the onus of putting forward Baiyaan’s case has fallen on you. I wish you good luck, Sebastian Varden. Are you ready?”

  Seb swallowed. Was he ready? He was about to become part of a different species on a planet that only existed as some kind of simulation. Once there, he had to start a new religion or tweak an existing one to steer an entire civilization in a direction it might never follow, whatever he did. If he failed, Baiyaan was exiled, and the Rozzers would continue directing the course of sentient life. How could he ever be ready for that?

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  Bok pushed the button. Seb felt himself freed from the constraints of his body, floating like a wisp. He felt himself being drawn in a definite direction and he allowed himself to follow. It was time to become someone new.

  Seb half-ran, half-leaped down the side of the Last Mountain. He estimated the edge of the desert to be about an eighteen-hour hike. Cley’s species—the word in Cley’s mind for them was, simply, the People—were shorter in stature than humans, but had greater stamina. Seb started jogging, slowly at first, experimenting with re-routing oxygen intake and adding muscle mass to his legs, lengthening them as he did so. He picked up speed. Soon a small dust cloud followed him, and he smiled, thinking of the Roadrunner cartoons he used to watch.

  At this pace, he estimated he would reach the settlement in ninety-eight minutes.

  22

  Sopharndi stood naked in the clearing, a cold fury churning in her stomach. The old scar on her chin began to itch, as it always did when she was angry.

  The fire had been lit, the People were assembled. They sat in a rough horseshoe surrounding the fire pit and the hard-packed earth around it. The Elder’s meeting circle bisected the bloodspace and Sopharndi stood just a few yards from where her appeal to the Elders had been dismissed. Now her son was dead and her challenger would soon know the force of the anger she felt.

  She knew the timing of this challenge was designed to catch her at her weakest, but the fighter now walking from the other edge of the horseshoe into the bloodspace had misjudged Sopharndi. Or—more likely—she had been misinformed. Sopharndi looked over at the group of women who had prepared the challenger. She found Cochta’s tall, wiry form and kept looking until the other female’s eyes met hers. Then Sopharndi spat deliberately on the hard earth.

  Cochta was slippery, unreliable, self-centered. But clever. Very clever. Sending in her strongest lieutenant as challenger was a smart play. Cochta would be able to observe Sopharndi carefully, look for her weaknesses, gage her strength and stamina. Never mind that her comrade would die supplying the information she wanted so badly. Any other challenge was fought with talons sheathed, but a challenge to be First was always fought to the death. Cochta had her eye on the long game and was willing to make sacrifices. No doubt, Sku’ord even believed it was her own idea to take on Sopharndi. Cochta had probably convinced her she would win, told her she would make an excellent First.

  Sku’ord was thickset, heavily muscled and almost certainly barren. Firsts often emerged from among those unable to bear children. They channeled their disappointment into training, took the tragedy of a severed bloodline and turned it into focused aggression. By missing the seven months of gestation and subsequent weeks of recovery, they also had additional time to develop their skills as fighters.

  Sopharndi had thought herself barren, and it had been as much a shock to her as to everyone else when, a few months after she had become First, she had fattened with child. It was an unprecedented situation, and the Elders ruled that Sopharndi could choose another to take on her duties until she was ready to return as First. Sopharndi had chosen Keku, a young, level-headed, generous-spirited warrior who showed real aptitude for the role. Sopharndi would have considered it an honor to have fallen to the challenge of Keku. Not to tonight’s lumbering, ignorant oaf, though. If Keku had lived, she would have been embarrassed to witness this sorry display.

  Sku’ord sank to her knees, then prostrated herself, listening to the Singer. Such demonstrative piety was rare among the People. You could hear the song just as easily standing up. Sopharndi imagined it was a deliberate ploy to impress the Elders. She doubted they’d be so easily appeased. They had already made it known they were dismayed by the timing of the challenge, just one night after Cley had taken his Journey. Everyone knew the boy must be dead by now, but by challenging tonight, Sku’ord—or, more accurately, Cochta—hoped to catch Sopharndi at her most vulnerable, her mind undoubtedly circling constantly around the fate of her son.

  Getting slowly to her feet, Sku’ord allowed herself a little smirk back at Cochta and her cronies before turning to face her opponent. Her eyes were open wide and bright, her body language exuding absolute confidence. There were those among the People who thought she would win. Everyone knew no one trained harder than Sku’ord, no one punished her body more relentlessly in the pursuit of strength, speed, and stamina.

  There were only two of them gathered that night who had no doubts that it would be Sku’ord who would fall. One of them was Sopharndi. The other was Cochta. The younger woman was sacrificing her friend to better know her enemy. She knew brute strength alone could never overcome Sopharndi. Cochta was a cold one, all right.

  Sku’ord took two quick steps forward and adopted a fighting stance. Her feet were planted wide apart, her heavily muscled arms were close to her body, ready to strike. Her claws were unsheathed. They glinted in the light of the moons.

  Sopharndi stood absolutely still: listening, feeling, sensing, aware of her body and the dirt under her feet. Aware of the stilling of her mind and the breath of the wind. Aware of the unreachable past and the unknowable future.

  Laak stepped forward onto the bloodspace, her old features hidden by the hooded cloak the Elders wore on ceremonial occasions.

  “Begin,” she said and stepped back into the crowd.

  Sopharndi felt the rush of bloodlust like a storm breaking inside her. She placed herself at the silent eye of the storm and nodded at Sku’ord.

  “For the Singer,” she said, following her words with a whisper. “And for Cley.”

  The young female moved fast, but her intention to charge was so obviously signposted that Sopharndi had time to consider her options. Should she dodge left, then strike? Dodge right and trip her? Meet the charge with a well-placed kick and knock the knee bone out of its joint? The fight would be as good as over then. Too quickly, though. Cochta thought losing Cley would unbalance her. Let her see the truth.

  Sopharndi moved to the left and watched her opponent swipe a clawed hand uselessly through the air at the spot where she had been standing a moment before.

  She took a step backward and waited.

  Sku’ord recovered fast, using the momentum of her strike to spin her body and face her opponent again. Sopharndi nodded at the unexpected agility of the move, acknowledging a certain level of skill in her opponent. She saw nothing but rage in the other female’s expression. Rage was useful, certainly. More than useful - essential. Without it, the fight was often already lost. But a true fighter must be the master of rage, not the other way around. Sku’ord was driven purely by the bloodlust and was relying on her physical advantage to bring victory.

  She did, at least, have enough intelligence to change strategy when her first approach failed. Sku’ord came forward more cautiously this time, looking for an opportunity to get in close, where her sheer bulk would give her the upper hand.

  “Nothing to say, Sophi?” she whispered as she advanced. ‘Sophi’ was the contraction Sopharndi had been known by as a child. No one among the People would ever show such little respect. As attempts to goad went, it was fairly lame. Sopharndi said nothing. She started to dance on the balls of
her feet, staying out of reach of the powerful arms and looking for indications that her opponent was about to attack.

  “Maybe that’s where Cley got it from, Sophi. You think so? Maybe you’re just too stupid, and Cley couldn’t learn from you. You were too old to bond with him. Too old to be a mother.”

  This was a better approach. If Sopharndi hadn’t been watching from the eye of the storm, she might have reacted to personal taunts about her fitness to be a mother. There was some truth in it, after all.

  “Either that,” whispered Sku’ord, as her shoulder muscles tightened almost—but not quite—imperceptibly, “or the Singer is punishing you for something. I wonder what that could be. Eh, Sophi?”

  With that, she feigned a stumble and launched herself at Sopharndi. The tightening of the shoulder muscles indicated she was attempting to grab her opponent by the waist or upper legs and force her to the ground, where her bulk would give her a huge advantage. But her arms closed on air again, as Sopharndi jumped in perfectly-timed anticipation of the move. She landed on top of the younger woman, expelling all the air from her lungs in one painful, huff.

  Sopharndi thought of Cochta watching.

  No more free lessons tonight.

  She slashed her unsheathed claws across Sku’ord’s legs, just above the back of her knees. She cut both legs as a kindness. The challenger would be unconscious in three minutes, rather than six. Dead in eight minutes, rather than sixteen.

  Sopharndi withdrew to the edge of the bloodspace and waited silently with the rest of the People while Sku’ord’s body twitched in its death throes. Then she turned to the Elders and nodded. All three nodded back. Only Laak spoke, as tradition dictated.