World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  The rain had woken him. For a moment, he was glad he had been wise enough to buy the winter coat, then he realized it had gone. Along with all of his cash. Well, not quite all, he realized as he felt in his pocket for a handkerchief. There was a £10 note in his otherwise empty wallet. He dimly remembered a shout as he was rolled out of the car into the gutter.

  “There’s enough cab fare to get you home, Patrick. Now don’t be a naughty boy and call the filth, or we’ll have to come back and stick a big knife in you.”

  The ‘filth’ was slang for the police, Walt remembered that much from previous visits to London. Not that he could go to the authorities anyway, with his fake ID, no visa, and a cover story that would crumble under any serious scrutiny.

  He used a nearby trash can to steady himself as he stood. It took all of his willpower not to shout in pain as he straightened out his bruised body. His ribs felt as if they’d been played like a xylophone by someone using steak mallets. Walt remembered lying on the floor after he’d been punched in the head. The city boys took turns kicking him in the ribs. He ran his fingers along his chest, pushing each rib carefully. Two of them made him cry out, causing a passing cyclist to speed up and cast a nervous look in his direction.

  Walt limped to the nearest bathroom. He would never understand the Brits. They called bathrooms ‘toilets’, ‘lavatories’ or ‘loos’, then advertised them with the letters ‘WC’. Then again, he mused as he washed the blood away from his nose and inspected his swollen eye, he had to admit he had yet to find a public bathroom in America which actually contained a bath.

  The £10 they had left him would have covered the taxi fare, but Walt elected to walk. He knew it wasn’t far to the hotel, and he felt like he needed to clear his head as well as check that his body was capable of moving effectively. His anonymity needed to be preserved, so a trip to hospital was off the table. He wanted his trail to end here in London. A new passport in the name of Nicholas Sherman meant the short life of Patrick Henson would be over when he checked out of the hotel in a few hours’ time.

  As he walked, he was glad of the rain. It would help explain his disheveled appearance when he got back to the five-star hotel. A story about getting lost and tripping down some steps in the ‘underground’ or subway would be sufficient to allay the insincere concern of the concierge. The rain also hid the fact that Walt, to his horror, was crying. The tears were partly of pain and self-pity, but mostly of rage. Never a violent man by choice, Walt had, nonetheless, participated in some violence over the years. He was hardly new to it. It was just that this was the first time he had been fully—and helplessly—on the receiving end. He was shaking with shock, pain and white-hot anger. Every other thought was a fantasy, whereby he laid about those smug bastards with a baseball bat.

  They’d cheated him. He’d outplayed them at every turn, but they consistently got lucky, defied the odds, and taken more and more money from him. It took him nearly two hours to work out how—to see the slight crimps put in certain cards by the dealer, the signals concerning hand-strength sent by the angle at which a glass was positioned on a coaster. He should have just shut up and left. That would have been the sensible route. But, having spent thirty years confronting cheats in Las Vegas, he’d called them out on it before he’d had time to reconsider. The next thing he knew, it was him against five young, fit guys. No problem, usually. Not anymore.

  Walt glanced up at a sign. Wardour Street. The edge of Chinatown. Another ten minutes and he could soak in the tub, clean up, plan his next move and leave this ugly night behind him.

  Then he felt it. Just a hint at first. He knew what it was instantly, but pretended to himself that he didn’t. Thought he might take a slight detour. Because he felt like it. Nothing more than that.

  Walt took the next side street. Halfway down it was a small green area, mostly in shadow, incongruous among the glass and concrete buildings it punctuated. As Walt drew closer, he could see it was some sort of memorial. There was a large stone with Chinese characters engraved on it. The grass around it was well-tended. Walt couldn’t read it, but he knew—whatever it said—there was another reason this area had been kept clear. What he had felt nearly a block away was obvious now. It was if an ex-smoker had got a tiny scent of smoke, followed it and found a smoke shop full of free cigarettes. Walt stood in front of the patch of grass, feeling the massive buried storehouse of Manna just a few feet away.

  “Jesus,” he muttered. He went to walk away, but his feet disobeyed the signals from his brain. The Manna was having a huge physical effect on him. He knew it would mend his bruised ribs and battered face, take away every ache and pain. It would fill him with energy and power. Most of all, it would enable him to pay a visit to the city boys and show them why crossing him had been a bad idea. His fists clenched and unclenched as he pictured himself cracking small bones in their feet as he forced them to stand and face him. Barrington, Mason’s enforcer, had discovered after a great deal of research, that certain foot bones produced almost unbearable pain when snapped, particularly if any weight was put on them. Walt pictured their faces, heard their screams.

  He suddenly snapped his attention back to the moment. He wasn’t standing any more. Somehow, he had unconsciously moved forward and knelt on the wet grass. He gasped as he felt the massive pull of the waiting Manna. All he had to do was place his palms on the ground. Just open himself up and let the Manna in. This would be the last time. He would just clean himself up, get his revenge, then he would never Use again. Just this one last time.

  ***

  Walt opened the door to his hotel room and shuffled in, before collapsing against it and sliding down to the carpet. He was soaked through. His body ached. His face was numb. He was an old man. An old man with no Manna. He’d half-walked, half-crawled away from Chinatown and the easy fix waiting under his fingertips. What help could he possibly be to Meera Patel? What could he offer Seb—if he was still alive—that would be of any use to him? At least he was free, he reminded himself. Free to age, get sick, get beaten up, feel his faculties gradually weaken and then desert him. Free to die.

  He gave in at last and sobbed like a child for a few minutes. Afterwards, he cleaned himself up and packed his small bag.

  He splashed some water on his face and checked the damage to his eye in the bathroom mirror. Nothing a pair of sunglasses wouldn’t hide. He’d buy a pair first thing. Then he’d take the tube to East London. That was where Meera had grown up. He knew it was a long shot, but he had to try to get a message to her somehow. Had to tell her Mason was coming after her again.

  He walked back into the bedroom and stopped dead. Sitting in the shadows was a man who hadn’t been there five minutes earlier.

  Walt froze. How could he have been so naive to think he could escape someone as powerful as Mason? How could he have allowed himself to dream of a life of his own?

  The figure leaned forward and switched on the desk light. Walt stared, unable to speak.

  “Hello, Walt,” said the man. “It’s been a while.”

  It was Seb Varden.

  Chapter 23

  Mexico City

  On the third day after Seb had disappeared, Mee decided she needed to stop pretending she could cope on her own. She invited Kate over to the apartment. Mee hesitated at the doorway, turning to the older woman.

  “I know you’re used to strange stuff, with all that Manna you chuck about, but you still might be a bit freaked out now, so keep your shit together, ok?”

  Kate nodded, calmly.

  “Duly noted, Stephanie,” she said.

  “Ok,” said Mee. “After you.”

  Kate walked into the apartment. Small, tidy, anonymous, other than the piano and the musical equipment she could see through a half-open door.

  Mee walked in. As she crossed the threshold, she gained about two inches in height, getting slightly slimmer as she did so. Her face lengthened slightly, the eyes, nose and mouth altering at the same time. Her hair became an unkemp
t wiry explosion. Mee stopped and looked at Kate quizzically.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” she said.

  “I’m not,” said Kate. “Back at Casa Negra, the first time you Used, I saw you like this. Just for an instant. I couldn’t work out how someone who said they’d never used Manna before could have such an effective disguise without it. And without me sensing anything. So, who are you, actually, Stephanie?”

  “Well, first off,” said Mee, walking over to the small table and pulling out a chair, “it’s Meera, not Stephanie. Although I prefer Mee. I’m in trouble, Kate.”

  Kate looked at the young woman opposite. She had known her for nearly a year and, although she had hidden her identity, Kate was confident she knew the real woman beneath. There was no malice, no threat here, just a remarkable woman who needed her help.

  “Ok, Mee,” she said. “I think you’d better tell me everything,”

  “In that case,” said Mee, grabbing a bottle of Tequila, “I’m going to need a drink. And you are definitely going to want to sit down.”

  ***

  Three hours later, the tequila bottle was half empty, Mee was on her third joint, and Kate was still sitting quietly, her dark eyes unreadable. She had just learned that the messiah many of the Order had believed in—Seb Varden—was not dead, but living with Meera a few streets away from her. That twelve members of the Order had been killed trying to keep Meera out of Mason’s grasp. And that Seb was now missing, for the second time in the past couple of weeks. Mee described the blackouts, but omitted any details about aliens, Social Security offices and power dressing.

  “It’s a lot to take in,” said Mee. She reached forward and held Kate’s hands. “I’m so sorry about Diane, Lo and the others who helped us in Las Vegas. They were good to us.”

  Kate nodded. Her skin was so dark that, as the evening had gone on, her features had blurred into the shadows around her. The only light came from a candle behind Mee, and it reflected the two lines on Kate’s face where she hadn’t wiped away her silent tears.

  “I spent nearly a year with Diane,” she said, finally. “She was a brave and holy woman. Holy in its original sense—whole, genuine, grounded. We chose slightly different paths, but we had much in common.”

  “Different paths?” said Meera. “I thought the Order hadn’t split the way most religions seem to.”

  “I wish that were true,” said Kate. “Unfortunately, any group of humans, however noble its intentions, seems—inevitably—to find reasons to splinter into new factions. The Order doesn’t have as many sects as Christianity or Buddhism. Partly because the Order isn’t really a religion. No book, no rules other than the golden rule—to treat others as you would wish to be treated. Just daily practice and a supportive community. But we’ve been around for nearly two millennia, and people often struggle with the apparent austerity of what we offer. The lack of religious trappings is attractive at first, but after a while, many start to yearn for them. It does no harm, so some branches of the Order look a little more like traditional religion. They use elements of ritual in group meditation, dress up on occasion, have a hierarchy with someone a little like a minister in charge. Diane’s group was like that. They kept their practice simple, but Diane was very much the senior figure. You know the three words, don’t you?”

  Mee was confused for a moment, then remembered the words spelled out by stones in the garden of the Las Vegas Order.

  “Yes,” she said. “In Greek: Learn, teach, wait.”

  Kate smiled. “Right. Diane firmly believed that our founder was referring to a messiah figure with that final word. He or she would come along and show us our destiny, the goal of our organization. They weren’t alone in thinking Seb was about to change everything.”

  “You didn’t feel the same way?” said Mee.

  “No,” said Kate. She looked at Meera. “You don’t want to hear this,” she said. “We should be talking about what I can do to help.”

  Meera sighed and shook her head.

  “You’re helping already,” she said. “There’s nothing you can do about Seb right now. But you can be here with me and stop me from going crazy wondering what’s happening to him. When he came back before, he said he’d been speaking to an alien, but it sounded more like he’d dropped acid and had a bad trip. Whatever it was, he had no idea he’d been away for longer than a few minutes, and he wasn’t in control when he left—he wasn’t Walking.”

  “Walking?” said Kate.

  “With a capital ‘W’,” said Meera. “It’s how he can get from one side of the planet to the other. It’s instantaneous. Something to do with moving through the multiverse. Please don’t ask. It was explained to me with pictures and my head still hurts.”

  “His use of Manna is like nothing I’ve ever heard of,” said Kate, quietly. “Such power in one individual. It’s no wonder most of the Order thought he was here to change the world. But you’re more concerned about him than you are about yourself.”

  Meera laughed.

  “I know. It’s funny. He’s been shot so many times I’ve lost count, burnt to a crisp at least once. He can take care of himself. But I still worry about him. I can’t help it. I’m with you, by the way. I don’t want him to be the messiah, I just want him to be my boyfriend. At heart, I’m a selfish numpty.”

  Mee swallowed hard. Kate—wondering what on Earth a numpty was—took the younger woman’s hand.

  “He came back before,” she said, “he’ll come back this time.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Meera. “He’d bloody better.”

  Mee insisted she felt better just listening, so Kate told her about the Order’s dramatic drop in numbers after Seb had ‘died’. Across the world, the majority of the Order’s members had believed Seb’s arrival meant their founder’s words were about to be made relevant to the entire planet. Seb would bring Manna use out of the shadows, would show that it was a force for good, not evil, and the Order would teach the world how to Use in such a way that the self was put aside in favor of community. The world would enter a new era of cooperation and peace. When Seb was lost to them, thousands of men and women left the Order. Their belief system had been so reliant on Seb, it had shattered dramatically when his role had been abruptly removed.

  Kate herself had once been part of a group whose numbers generally stayed between twenty and thirty people. They had all drifted away after the news that Seb had been killed by Mason. Kate had stayed, kept the building running, had carried on with her daily practice. Eventually, Meera/Stephanie had shown up asking to learn.

  “I was surprised when you came,” said Kate. “I feel as if the Order is finally finished as a global community, so I didn’t expect anyone to seek me out.”

  “Finished? Why?”

  “We’ve kept our use of Manna hidden over the centuries because of the way it has been abused by others—Mason and his ilk. But our hope was always to come out into the open and share our knowledge with the world. When the time was right. When history, spiritual growth and evolution finally rid us of people like Mason. When humanity had finally reached the point that no one needed to use power to exert control over others. That was our interpretation of the third word: ‘wait’. But the predominant belief in a messiah meant that most of us thought he would bring about the right conditions for the next stage of the human race. When he fell, the Order began to crumble. I was about to leave when you showed up, go back to Innisfarne.”

  “Go back to where?”

  “It’s a small island off the coast of Northumbria. In Great Britain.”

  “I know where Northumbria is,” said Mee. “My family may not have got out of London much when I was growing up, but we did own a map. You’re not from there originally, though?”

  “No,” said Kate. “I come from Trinidad. But I moved to Britain in the 1960s. I had met someone in the Order and she had spoken of Innisfarne and of Martha, the woman who had founded a community there. I hitchhiked, walked about sixty miles, sleeping i
n fields or barns, then a fishing boat gave me a ride for the final few miles. What I found there changed my life forever. And I’ve been going back ever since.”

  “What makes it so special?”

  Kate smiled.

  “You’d have to go there, really. It’s hard to explain. The size of the community varies. Sometimes there would only be a dozen of us, other times nearly two hundred. There are a few large buildings on the west side of the island, used for accommodation, a dining hall and a meditation hall. The rest of Innisfarne is quite barren, wild, and beautiful. The life is simple. We meditate together for an hour at 6am and an hour at 6pm. We don’t use Manna to feed ourselves, we grow vegetables and cook them just as anyone else would.

  “Innisfarne is small, but there is always the opportunity for solitude. Apart from coming together for meals and meditation, members of the Order spend most of their time alone, in silence.”

  Mee thought of her Aunt Anita, a nun who had chosen a similar life. The thought of deliberately seeking silence, day after day seemed frightening to Mee, although she had to admit, there was a tiny part of her that craved it.

  “Martha encourages people to do as she does—spend six months to a year on Innisfarne, then go out into the world, travel, meet people, witness what is happening. Come back when you’re ready. Stay another half year, then go out again. I’ve done exactly that for more than forty years now, and each cycle is different Each time I return I am different, yet the community is the same, the peace, the acceptance, the sense of timelessness underneath the unstoppable flow of time…”

  There was a long pause. Meera didn’t want to break the silence, but she found her thoughts going back to Seb.

  “What’s Martha’s story?”

  “Oh, no one knows who Martha is.”

  “What?” said Mee. “How?”

  “It’s a title, really,” said Kate. “I had been visiting for eight years when the woman I had known as Martha introduced herself as Sarah. And another woman was calling herself Martha, organizing and inspiring the community in exactly the way Sarah once had. Three years later, Martha was another woman. I was Martha for five years. It meant no one ever got attached to a leadership position. All were followers.”