World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  THE UNMAKING ENGINE

  Ian W. Sainsbury

  For Anya

  Copyright © 2016 Ian W.Sainsbury

  All rights reserved.

  Visit the author at

  https://ianwsainsbury.com/

  Cover design by Hristo Kovatliev

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Previously in The World Walker...

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Author's note

  Previously in The World Walker…

  IMPORTANT NOTE: The Unmaking Engine is Book 2 of a series. The following contains spoilers relating to the first book in the series. If you haven’t read The World Walker and would prefer to read the books in order, please go read it first.

  If you don’t care about the order or you’ve just dying to get reading, skip the following.

  However, if you would like a quick reminder of what happened in The World Walker before you read The Unmaking Engine, this section is for you. You could always re-read The World Walker before starting The Unmaking Engine, of course. I did ;)

  If not, here’s the quick version of what happened…

  Terminally ill musician Seb Varden decides to end his life rather than let his brain tumor do the job for him. An alien that’s been waiting since the Roswell incident of 1947 has other ideas and gives him his life back, along with a body full of advanced alien technology he has no idea how to use.

  Seb finds he has superhuman powers, seemingly can’t die, and situations involving extreme stress trigger an automatic vanishing act, taking him miles away from where he started.

  Different factions are interested in Seb’s progress. There’s Westlake, who appears to be a government secret service agent with no qualms about taking any measures necessary to capture Seb. There’s the Order, a quasi-religious organization which thinks Seb may be the messiah. And then there’s Walt Ford, somewhat of a mentor for Seb, who takes him to Las Vegas and shows him a very good time indeed. He also teaches him about Manna - a source of power buried at many locations around the world and wielded by various individuals and groups. Manna may seem like magic, at first, but in reality is nanotechnology. Manna users have to ‘refill’ their Manna reserves regularly, but Walt is amazed to find Seb doesn’t need to do this.

  Mason is the villain of the piece. No one - even those highest in his organization - knows his identity. As the strongest Manna user in America, he rules by fear and controls a network that, in effect, holds more power than any other group in the country. He sees Seb as a threat that must be controlled or removed.

  Meera Patel, a singer in Seb’s old band and his ex-girlfriend, teams up with Bob Geller, Seb’s friend, to find the missing musician. They are helped by members of the Order who bring them to the outskirts of Las Vegas to hide them from Westlake while they continue their search.

  As the story progresses, we learn that Westlake is Mason’s man, and Mason can see that his best bet of getting to Seb is by kidnapping Meera. Westlake does so, killing the members of the Order protecting her, and murdering Seb’s friend, Bob Geller. Walt Ford helps in this operation. He is also in Mason’s organization, although he hates what he has become.

  Meanwhile, Seb has come to distrust Walt and has left Las Vegas. He is gradually learning some control over the nanotechnology in his body. This has been helped by his personality splitting into three parts. Seb2 is learning how to communicate with and control the nanotech - or Manna - and Seb3 is a silent partner in constant agony: a constant reminder that Seb was not ready to absorb the alien technology and is still struggling to do so.

  While Meera is being kidnapped, Seb has gone to Roswell, absorbing the Manna there. No other Manna user has ever been able to do this. His power and control increases massively as a result. On his return, now able to consciously use his instant-traveling power, he ‘Walks’ to Vegas to meet Meera. She’s gone. Walt reveals his treachery and tells Seb Mason has taken Meera.

  Seb meets Mason’s representatives, who show him a live feed of Meera having her pinkie cut off by Westlake. Mason intends keeping Meera prisoner for the rest of her life to control Seb. He tests Seb by sending him to battle his closest rival - Sonia Svetlana and her followers. Seb’s victory impresses Mason still further, but Seb refuses to be controlled. He says he will give his own life instead - on the condition that Meera is released. Mason agrees and the arrangements are made.

  Seb meets Westlake and Walt at a New York building site, where Seb is beheaded and his body reduced to bones and ashes by a flamethrower. His remains are thrown into the foundations of the parking lot before being covered with concrete.

  Mason has underestimated Seb. The body his henchmen killed was, in fact, a homunculus - an artificial creature made by Manna users. Seb’s homunculus was more sophisticated than Mason or anyone else thought possible. The real Seb changes his - and Meera’s - appearance. They escape.

  His enemies think he’s dead. He got the girl. He is just beginning to explore the incredible power he has been given. What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter 1

  Dover, Delaware

  There were five of them and only one of him, which was the first problem. One of them—the biggest, ugliest one—had just unloaded both barrels of a shotgun into his chest from a distance of five feet. That was the second problem. The third, most serious problem was the presence of nineteen witnesses. This was causing Seb Varden a real headache.

  He was in a bank in Dover. He was there because he knew the police weren’t going to show, the armed gang had already carried out similar robberies in the last six months, and the death toll attributed to them had hit double figures. The ugly guy was trying to kill him because Seb had asked whether his mother had had sex with a genetically-modified pig to produce him. Or if he’d got his good looks by running into a wall. Twice.

  The alarm in the bank wasn’t ringing because the gang was backed by a sophisticated syndicate which had disabled all security systems, including cameras. This was one of the two ways the syndicate earned its fifty percent of the haul. The other was its handling of the Delaware police department which, even Seb had to admit, was inspired. Right now, the city’s finest were racing to a bank twelve miles west of the one currently being robbed, due to seven 911 calls apparently made from that location. Some remotely triggered explosions and a lockdown of the premises in question meant police resources were looking in the entirely wrong dir
ection when the actual robbery took place. When the security system had gone down at the exact moment the cops were hauling ass in the opposite direction, Seb2 had nudged Seb into action. The gang thought they had everyone in the building covered until Seb walked out of an office near the main door.

  Seb knew Ugly was going to shoot him 0.37 seconds before he pulled the trigger. The man’s eyes had dropped from Seb’s face to his chest at the same time as he’d raised the weapon and held his breath.

  “Here we go,” said Seb2. Seb was used to his consciousness being split into three parts—although Seb3 was pretty much a silent partner. It was one of the consequences of having a body full of advanced alien nanotechnology, eight-seven percent of which, according to Seb2, he still had little idea how to use. He twisted to his left just before the flash of light at the end of the barrels let him know two cartridges of lead shot were heading his way.

  A shotgun cartridge is designed to spread its payload of hundreds of lead pellets as it travels toward a target some distance away. Close up, as long as you’re facing the right direction, you can’t miss. No one gets up and walks away from a close-up encounter with a shotgun. Which was unfortunate for the two members of the gang directly behind Seb.

  As he twisted, 57 of the 410 tiny lead balls tore across Seb’s ribs and stomach, ripping widening channels through his flesh. By the time the shot had passed through him, his body was unmarked again, blood vessels, muscles and skin knitting together so fast as to be virtually instantaneous. Since sound travels at a significantly slower speed than light, he only heard the near-deafening blast of the shotgun just after the two men behind him were blown off their feet.

  The two gang members covering the hostages at the far end of the bank started to turn as Seb considered his options. The way he had twisted meant that the hostages would assume the shotgun blast had missed him completely. Today, his appearance was that of a fit, Asian man in his mid-twenties, which meant any witnesses would be likely to ascribe his speed and fighting skills to knowledge of some mysterious martial art. It was lucky, really—he’d only chosen this face after watching an old movie the previous night. If he’d decided on an overweight sixty-year-old, he might be in real danger of attracting attention. And, for Meera’s safety and his own sanity, attention was something he was determined to avoid.

  It would take Ugly about four seconds to reload, under normal circumstances. Under abnormal circumstances such as, for instance, having just accidentally killed two of your colleagues during a robbery, Seb thought he might have seven or eight seconds to take him out. If it wasn’t for the hostages watching the action unfold, he could have easily sent tendrils of Manna directly toward Ugly and his two friends and cut off their oxygen supply briefly. Couldn’t do that with eight bank employees and eleven terrified customers watching.

  The two men guarding the hostages had nearly completed their turns, but only one of them had swept his gun around. The other, a short, bald, older man—possibly the leader, turned his head but kept his weapon trained on the terrified men and women on the floor in front of him.

  Seb hit the floor and rolled, fast. Ugly had no time to react before his feet were swept out from underneath him. His head hit the marble floor hard, he grunted once, then lay still.

  “He’ll live,” said Seb2 as Seb picked up the shotgun and, with an enhanced flick of his arm, sent it sailing toward the taller man. It was an ungainly object to throw accurately and Seb had to give it some height to allow it to reach its target. That gave the tall man plenty of time to dodge to the side before it hit him. Which meant he was an easy target for the pistol Seb had thrown after it. There was a solid smack as metal hit flesh and the tall man crumpled.

  The leader’s eyes narrowed as he began to evaluate the changed situation. All his men were out of commission, it didn’t look like he’d be walking out with any money. But there was only one crazy Asian guy between him and freedom. There were other banks, there would be other days. And he had hostages. He might have to shoot a couple of them to slow this idiot down.

  Seb knew the older man would likely consider the hostages his best chance of retaining the advantage, so he did the most counter-intuitive thing he could think of. He ran directly toward the armed man, waving his arms and shouting.

  The leader’s eyebrows shot up as the crazy man sprinted toward him. Perhaps it wasn’t going to be too complicated after all. He raised his gun.

  As Seb ran, he watched the man’s arm come up toward him, the dark hole of the barrel slowly turning into a perfect circle.

  “Now!” said Seb2. Seb threw himself onto the marble floor head-first. The molecular structure of the outward-most layer of his sweat pants and top changed to minimize friction as they made contact, so his slide was much faster than physics would otherwise have allowed. The leader had excellent reactions, and the bullet that ricocheted off the floor and shattered the front window would have hit Seb if he had been where he should have been. The man didn’t get the chance to fire again, as Seb plowed into his shins, disarmed him as he fell and jabbed him in the neck with three fingers. His body went limp. Twenty-nine seconds had passed since Seb had insulted Ugly.

  The hostages broke into applause and cheers. A few of them brought out their phones and started to film. Seb moved quickly and tried to avoid anyone getting a clear picture. For the most part, he succeeded, but a kid, his face puffy from crying, managed to get a reasonable photo as Seb turned back to the other hostages. That was the one the media used.

  Seb pulled up his hood, his face now in shadow. He raised his hands for quiet.

  “They may have brought explosives,” he said, indicating a couple of heavy bags near the gang members. There was a moment of renewed panic, and Seb raised his voice to be heard. “Let’s just get out quickly,” he said. He helped a couple of people up and they all headed toward the doors. As he followed the group out, Seb sent short bursts of Manna toward the three unconscious men. They would sleep for a few more hours and wake up in custody.

  Reports of shots fired meant the sound of sirens was finally audible as they left the bank and made their way across the parking lot, some crying, some laughing, a few slack-jawed and silent, stumbling as they made their way to safety. Seb caught up with an old, grizzled man in a checkered shirt.

  “Sir? Do me a favor?”

  The man looked at Seb, grinned and shook his hand.

  “Helluva thing you pulled off back there,” he said. “Wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t see it with my own damn eyes.” He gave Seb a playful punch on the shoulder. “Always thought that kung-fu stuff was bullshit, myself. Guess I was wrong. What d’ya need?”

  “You got a car?”

  The old man nodded toward a battered Chevy truck. “Will that do?”

  Seb nodded. “Can I borrow it?” he asked. “I, er, don’t really want to be here when the cops get here, if you catch my drift.”

  The man pressed the truck’s keys into Seb’s hand. “It’s stick,” he said. “You ok with that?”

  “No problem,” said Seb. “I’ll leave it at the bus station. Keys on the front tire. If you could just delay telling the police that for an hour or so.”

  “Far as I’m concerned, you can keep it,” said the man as Seb jogged across the lot and got into the Chevy. It started with a cough and a plume of blue smoke. “Good luck!”

  Seb waved his acknowledgment and pulled away. By the time the other hostages realized their rescuer was missing, he was a mile away. The pickup truck now looked like a Hyundai Elantra and Seb was caucasian, middle-aged and half a foot taller, with a full beard. He drove to the bus station and found a parking garage where no one would see the saloon transform back into a pickup. As soon as it was done, he Walked and was thousands of miles away before the Chevy’s engine had even started to cool.

  Chapter 2

  Soledad Hotel

  La Moskitia Region, Honduras

  Harvey Foster shifted uneasily in his bed and glanced at the clock. 3:37am. T
he heat still got to him, despite years spent trekking through the humid rainforests of South America, and the sound of rain battering the shuttered windows made sleep impossible. He sat up, eased the mosquito net aside and made his way to the door. Sally was still sleeping soundly as he quickly pulled on his pants and grabbed his cigarettes from his jacket. Apparently, heavy rainfall and howling wind were as effective as sleeping pills for his wife.

  Outside the hotel, he offered a cigarette to Carlos, the hotel owner, who waved him toward an empty chair. Carlos was also the chef, bellboy, cleaner and taxi driver, sharing his duties with his wife, Juanita. They smoked in silence for a while, Carlos passing him a glass of surprisingly good rum, considering the cheap looking pint bottle he poured it from. He put the rum on the table between them and indicated that Harvey should help himself.

  After about ten minutes, Carlos spoke. He kept his voice low, as the hotel was full of families who were staying over after celebrating Children’s Day with a concert that afternoon.

  “You think you find Monkey God templo tomorrow?”

  Harvey chuckled self-consciously and took another sip. The legend of the Monkey God had just enough anecdotal evidence to make him want to take a look. Ten years of treasure hunting in South America every vacation had brought him little reward. Two broken ribs, eight cases of dysentery, a malaria scare, two snake bites, one scorpion sting and a close call with some heavily armed bandits, but very little actual treasure to show for it. A conservative estimate put him over $30,000 down over the last decade of hacking through jungles, climbing trees, kayaking deserted stretches of river, and hiking snowcapped mountains. His income as a history teacher hardly began to cover his expenditure. Lucky, then, that his movie producer wife thought his expeditions were the best vacations she’d ever taken. It was how they’d met, Sally vetting locations for a movie about drug smuggling, Harvey about to go home after a fruitless search for a legendary diamond. She’d been the first woman he’d ever met who didn’t mention Indiana Jones when he told her why he was there. He told her later that was the moment he’d fallen in love.