World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  Seb had just grunted and looked at the counter top. A plate appeared, seemingly growing directly out of the formica. It was topped with a gyro sandwich dripping in chili sauce.

  “That’s more like it,” said Meera, taking a huge bite, juices running down her chin. She’d grinned. “You go ahead and make your sauce. Just so long as you magic up proper food for your girlfriend.”

  Girlfriend. Seb still hadn’t got used to that. Faking his own death to help him and Mee escape from Mason—the most powerful Manna user in America—was scary enough, but finally telling Mee how he felt about her was truly terrifying. Finding out she was finally ready to admit she felt the same had been the best moment of his life. Better than writing a great song. Better than spontaneously healing from apparently fatal injuries. Better than being able to cross any distance on (or, possibly, off) the planet, instantaneously.

  The morning light crept up the smog-shrouded hillsides opposite, slowly revealing what looked, at first, like an unlikely dusting of snow. As the smog began to burn away and the light strengthened, the abstract whiteness resolved itself into vague shapes. In the space of ten minutes, the shapes became houses. Tens, hundreds of thousands of houses, some no more than shacks, crammed into every available space on the hillside.

  Seb ate his eggs and sipped hot coffee. He had sat in contemplation for thirty minutes after waking, and his mind was calm. He was aware of thoughts beginning to surface. Reluctantly at first, he turned his attention toward them.

  Being a superhero had worn slightly thin after about six months. After watching Batman in his teens, Seb had walked out of the movie theater with a short-lived, intense desire to combat crime in an honorable, but—regrettably—violent, manner. If his initial burst of enthusiasm had lasted much longer than a five-block walk, New York City may have witnessed the birth of a new masked vigilante. Ok, Seb may have been lacking the weaponry, martial-arts training, incredible wealth and borderline psychotic personality of Bruce Wayne, but they were both orphans. That had to count for something, right? Luckily for the city’s criminal fraternity and Seb Varden’s physical well-being, it had been raining hard as he made his way back, and the desire to crack skulls in the name of justice had dissolved faster than the marshmallows he melted into his hot chocolate back in St Benet’s orphanage.

  Now of course, everything was different. He had powers beyond any he could have dreamed of all those years ago. And, as an avid reader of science fiction and a lifelong fan of comic book superheroes, his dreams had been ambitious. But they’d never stretched this far. With his body full of nanotechnology from an alien race, to whom Earth’s proudest achievements were probably as impressive (if not quite as cute) as a toddler’s first, faltering steps, Seb had spent the first few months testing his limits. He had found few. And he still had no idea what price the extra-terrestrial donor of these powers might demand from him. If any. Billy Joe, the prosaically nicknamed alien who had given him the nanotech, had omitted to include an instruction manual with his gift. Seb’s encounter with the alien had left him with an intense impression of a fundamentally benign, incredibly intelligent, but utterly unknowable being. He had sensed immense compassion, but there was no meeting of minds, no sharing of knowledge, no empathy. Seb often dreamed of that night, and was always left with a powerful impression of aloneness. Not loneliness, just a sensation of being, in some sense, absolutely alone. When he woke, he wasn’t sure who felt that way—the alien, or him.

  Mee came up behind him, an orange sarong wrapped around her. She stroked the side of his face with the back of her hand and sat down beside him. Seb looked at the table, visualizing blueberry pancakes, a glass of cold freshly squeezed orange juice.

  “You read my mind,” said Meera, taking a sip of the orange juice. “Pancakes with a perfect blend of protein and nutrients and about as many calories as a couple of apples. You could make a fortune in the diet industry.”

  When he didn’t respond immediately, she nudged him gently in the ribs.

  “What’s up, big boy?” she said. “Existential angst?”

  “Something like that,” Seb said, taking her hand. He stroked her fingers, then lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the stump where her little finger had been. He had offered to grow it back for her, but Mee had refused. She didn’t want to forget how close they had come to losing each other. More than that, she wanted Seb to have a constant reminder that some people were irredeemably bad. Seb’s forgiving nature and willingness to see the good in everyone was all very well, but sometimes he needed a reminder about the real world. Even Seb would find it hard to feel much compassion for someone who had cut off his girlfriend’s pinky while he watched, helplessly, at the other end of a video call.

  “How was Honduras?” she asked, before taking a huge bite of pancake, smiling at him with cheeks stuffed with food.

  “No casualties,” he said, “and a shot in the arm for the local tourism industry.”

  “Earthquakes usually have the opposite effect on tourism,” said Mee.

  “True,” said Seb, “but, well, look it up and you’ll see.”

  Mee tapped at the laptop keyboard and burst out laughing as she read about the families saved from the collapsed hotel by hundreds of monkeys. She spun the screen around for Seb to see. He nodded as he glanced at the story with eyewitnesses crediting the Monkey God for their miraculous rescue.

  “Come on, cheer up,” she said. “Nobody likes a miserable git in the morning.”

  Seb smiled. He loved Mee’s British expressions, even when he didn’t understand them. They’d once spent a long weekend in the north of the UK, where a succession of women had insisted on referring to him as “Duck”. Bizarre.

  “I need to talk with Seb2,” said Seb. Meera rolled her eyes. The concept of Seb’s consciousness splitting into different parts to cope with the alien power was hard enough for him to understand, let alone explain. Mee made it plain that she found it bewildering.

  “I know what you need first,” said Mee, grabbing the waistband of his pants, pulling him off the stool and backing away toward the bedroom. “I guarantee it’ll make you feel better.”

  She was right. It did.

  ***

  The two men walked slowly around the edge of Penn Pond in London’s Richmond Park. A casual observer might have thought them twins. Closer inspection would have confirmed an exact likeness, but they were more than twins. Not that a casual observer was present, of course, as the entire scene was a construct inside Seb’s consciousness, the location a perfectly replicated piece of his personal history.

  Seb and Seb2 walked along a path through trees whose leaves were streaked with color.

  “I was never here in the fall,” said Seb.

  “But it’s your favorite time of year. I thought you’d enjoy it,” said Seb2.

  “Your attention to detail is appreciated,” said Seb, admiring the huge ancient oaks towering above them.

  Seb2 led the way into a small copse, where all of the trees had kept their foliage, making it darker as they walked. Seb hesitated, stopping at the edge of the old, twisted oaks. Seb2 held out his hands in a placatory gesture.

  “It’s ok,” he said. “I wouldn’t bring you back here if there wasn’t a good reason.”

  Seb swallowed and moved forward. Last time he was here, Seb2 had shown him the third part of his splintered consciousness: Seb3. This third figure may well have been identical too, but it was impossible to tell as he had appeared as a hideously tortured man, stretched across a stone, hairless, skinless, in constant agony. Knowing he was looking at part of himself had been a profoundly disturbing experience.

  “We had no choice in any of this,” said Seb2, as if reading his mind. Which, of course, was exactly what he was doing. “Seb3’s function in helping you adapt to the nanotech is still a mystery to me. But without him, you would have died.”

  “I’m not sure I can bear seeing…him…again,” said Seb. Knowing they were only seconds away from the center of t
he copse.

  “Trust me,” said Seb2, and walked into the clearing. Reluctantly, Seb took a few more steps, his view mercifully obscured by Seb2’s back. Then his twin stepped aside and Seb saw immediately why he had brought him there.

  “What the hell? What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know. But I have some thoughts.”

  The clearing was as Seb remembered it, the large stone still in place, covered now in dark stains he knew could only be blood. There was one big difference this time. Seb3 had gone.

  They walked back to the pond and sat on the bench where Seb2 had first broken the news of their split personality. Seb and Seb2’s roles had become clearer since then. Seb2 was effectively a savant, with access to every memory, no need for sleep, and the ability to access the entire internet faster than any computer. Yet, despite Seb2’s abilities, it was still Seb who ran the show, who preserved his sense of self. It was Seb who lived in the world, who interacted with other people, who had fallen in love, who had cried at the news that a friend had died. Seb was human, whatever that meant. But he was more than that now.

  “Seb3 was still there while you were in Honduras,” said Seb2. “But when you Walked home, I felt something change. I looked for him.”

  “But didn’t find him?”

  “No.”

  “Good change or bad change?” said Seb.

  “Good,” said Seb2, then immediately qualified it, “I think. My awareness of his pain has dimmed. You?”

  Seb thought for a moment.

  “There is something different,” he said. “Hard to explain. Like a…broadening. As if something’s opened up. You said you had some thoughts?”

  Seb2 reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper bag full of breadcrumbs. As he threw some toward the pond, half a dozen ducks winked into existence and swam toward the bread, quacking excitedly.

  “I do,” he said. “I think Seb3 has gone for good. I think he’s been absorbed, although a better word is ‘understood’. I think he’s been understood.”

  “Understood? In what sense?”

  “It’s the best way I can explain what I think has happened,” said Seb2. “As I spend more time with the technology, I make breakthroughs here and there. But each time it happens, it’s not like any kind of learning we’ve ever experienced. It’s not as if I’ve understood something. It’s more like something has understood me.”

  Seb sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Go on,” he said.

  “This stuff is alive, intelligent, but—as far as I can tell—not conscious. The nanotech has bonded with you at an atomic level. At least, that’s the only way I can picture it. The actual bonds are totally beyond my comprehension—every explanation I come up with is not much better than a metaphor. But the tech is designed—again, bad word—to become inseparable from the host, to merge utterly on every level eventually. You’re human, but you’re not human.”

  “Argh,” thought Seb. Sometimes these explanations made little sense. Other times, he didn’t think he wanted them to make sense.

  “Not a riddle. Just the best I can do. But I think the agony of Seb3 has been understood. I think, as a result of being understood, he has become something else.”

  “You said Seb3 was the most authentic part of me. The real Person.”

  “Yeah, well this is more Father O’s realm than ours,” said Seb2. Seb nodded. Maybe a Catholic priest with more than fifty years of daily contemplation would be able to shed some light on what Seb2 was struggling to explain. Then again, maybe not. What would he make of the idea that there were three Sebs? A trinity? Even a liberal Catholic like Father O might struggle accepting that one.

  “I think Seb3 may now be engaging with the nanotech at a deeper level we can’t yet understand,” said Seb2. “I don’t think there’s any separation. At the very deepest level,—which is what Seb3 represents—you are the nanotech. You are the Manna.”

  “Is this supposed to be comforting in some way?” said Seb, slightly alarmed now. “I mean why stop at Seb3? It could be you next, then me. I’m not sure I want to be understood.”

  “I don’t think there’s any way to stop us from changing,” said Seb2. “All I can say is, I still feel like me. Well, us.”

  The two identical men looked at each other, then out at the ducks, the pond, Richmond Park and the high rise buildings of the city, dark and somber against the bruised Fall sky. None of it was real.

  “Yeah,” said Seb, “everything is still completely normal.”

  Chapter 8

  Upstate New York

  Thirty-four years previously

  School had been Boy’s favorite place ever since that first day when he’d found the library. He quickly realized he was more intelligent than his peers, but he knew how to hide it. His classmates thought he was a little odd, but sometimes he could say something to make them laugh, or help them with their work by nudging them in the right direction.

  Boy would never be popular, but that wasn’t his intention. He wanted to be invisible, lost in the crowd. Most of the time, he could do just that and it filled him with a strange sensation he wanted more and more of. Despite his intelligence, he could never settle on the right word for how he felt at school. Happy? Contented? Peaceful? Fulfilled? None of the words seemed right, none of them truly fit. Safe. That was probably the closest to the truth. Mom was safe at home while Pop was working. Boy was safe at school.

  Then, one morning, it all went wrong. It was two days after he’d buried the cat. He’d gently laid her body in the soil, covered her over and stuck a piece of bark above to mark the spot. He’d said, “I’m sorry, Miss Honey”. Afterwards, he ran to catch the school bus. He didn’t want to think about it.

  At school, his headache came back. Lately, it always seemed to be there, mostly bearable, like a fuzziness at the front of his head. Sometimes, it would flare up for a couple minutes and he would clench his fists, dig his nails into his palms and ride out the pain. He could tell when it was going to happen, so he could find a quiet spot—usually the bathroom, if he could get there in time.

  That morning, there was no way he was going to get to the bathroom. It was lunch break, and Davy Johanssen had decided Boy needed to be taught a lesson. Davy was big for his age and even dumber than his three older brothers, who had left school and were now in prison. The story of how they’d got there had become a local legend. They’d robbed a liquor store downstate, then had called 911 themselves because someone had rear-ended their getaway car in the parking lot. Davy, as yet, had displayed no wish other than to follow the same path as his clueless siblings. At fourteen years old, he was over a year older than anyone else in the class. Physically, he looked like he should be in college, if any college would lower their standards sufficiently to accept him. He was six feet tall and weighed over two hundred pounds. Initially, the school football coach had hoped Davy might be a future star. By the time Davy had put his helmet on the wrong way round for the third time and repeatedly thrown the ball into the bleachers, because, “someone was looking at me funny”, Coach Clement had significantly adjusted his ambitions. Davy ended up as the water boy.

  If Davy had one good quality, it was persistence. On the rare occasions that his brain was troubled by the onset of a question, he would pursue it doggedly until he was satisfied he’d found an answer. Unless someone handed him a burger or sat him down in front of a cartoon. Boy currently didn’t have access to either, and Davy, plus his usual gang of minions, had cornered him in the school yard. A third grader had fallen out of a tree and broken an arm on the far side of the yard, so no teacher was likely to notice the small crowd gathering around Boy. He had seven minutes and twenty seconds until the bell rang. Too long.

  “My old man says your daddy knocked up your momma on purpose,” said Davy, flecks of spittle landing on Boy’s face. “And you know what?”

  Boy didn’t answer, just looked at Davy’s red face. Davy pushed him with the flat of his hand, and he fell, landing on his as
s in the dirt.

  “Asked you a question, dickweed.”

  Boy squinted up at the huge figure. He saw the others standing back a few feet, some of them smirking, a couple of the girls wide-eyed but saying nothing. Everyone knew Davy was going to beat the crap out of him. Well, that was ok. Boy knew how to take a beating.

  “No,” he said quietly, the headache becoming more insistent.

  “What’d you say?”

  “I said ‘no’,” repeated Boy. “I don’t know ‘what’. I couldn’t possibly know ‘what’. It’s not a proper question. You’re either mistakenly assuming a common frame of reference that might allow me to answer such an elliptical query, or the pea-sized object masquerading as your brain is unable to observe basic grammar rules because all of its energy goes into keeping you upright and preventing drooling.”

  Davy froze for a few seconds, not sure whether he’d just been insulted and, assuming he had, how badly.

  “I’m guessing the latter,” said Boy. He groaned as the headache started to spike again. A few of Davy’s gang started to giggle. None of them understood what Boy had just said, but it was the most any of them had ever heard him say, and the novelty itself made it funny.

  Hearing his cronies start to laugh was enough to spur Davy into action. No one laughed at Davy Johanssen. This kid had made them laugh. He leaned over and grabbed a fistful of Boy’s shirt, jerking him to his feet. He gave Boy a light slap across his face.

  “Funny guy, right? Well, let me tell you about your mom and dad.” His face clouded briefly as he struggled to remember what he was going to say. He looked over his shoulder. “Donny?”

  A scrawny kid behind him spat on the floor. “Your daddy knocked your momma up before they were married. So you’re a bastard,” he said. Davy nodded. “And he only did it cause her old man owns the logging company. Only way that loser would ever get a job, cause he’s just a drunk, right?” Davy nodded some more. Boy was tuning out, but the headache was making it harder than normal. He could tell them far worse things about Pop, anyhow. Then a rare expression appeared on Davy’s face. He’d had an idea.