World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  “And what did the men think about it?”

  “Oh, there were male Marthas too. Gender had nothing to do with it.”

  “Male Marthas?” said Mee. “I think that would take some getting used to.”

  Kate laughed. “You’d be surprised how quickly you forget about it. Anyway, it works. The community is always there, and for those of us who were drawn to it, it has become home. No messiahs, no goals, just the rhythm of the seasons and Being itself.”

  “You make it sound perfect,” said Mee.

  “No such thing,” said Kate. “ But it will still be there long after we are gone, I believe. The rest of the Order is in decline. Perhaps, in time, our numbers will grow again, but it will be based on the reality offered by Innisfarne and other communities, not reliant on a future day of reckoning when some god-like force will transform the world.”

  “Well, I know Seb will be glad to hear that,” said Mee. “Wait.” She screwed the top back onto the tequila bottle and eyed the older woman for a moment. “And anyone can go there?”

  “Yes,” said Kate. “You said you wanted my help. You know Seb can take care of himself. It’s you who is vulnerable when he disappears this way. Come to Innisfarne with me. Until Seb finds out what’s really going on.”

  Mee stood up and paced the small room while Kate sat silently, her hands folded on her lap.

  “I can’t think of anywhere you’d be safer,” said Kate. “I’ll go ahead, tell them a young woman will be joining the community for a while. It’s not the kind of place where people ask questions. There’s no internet, no telephones, very little contact with the mainland. You won’t be found there—and Seb will know you’re safe.”

  “Bugger it,” said Mee, finally. “I’ve lied to you all this time and you come back with nothing but kindness. And when you make a suggestion, I don’t want to hear it. I know you’re right. And you know I know you’re right.” She looked at Kate. “And you’re not smug, which annoys me.”

  Kate said nothing. Meera paced some more.

  “Going with you feels like running away,” said Mee, “and I never run away.” She looked out at the lights of the city spreading out like a blanket and climbing the hill opposite. “But—as much as I hate the idea—while I’m here without Seb, I can’t protect myself. If they find me, I’ll have some warning. When they get close. I’ll sense it—Manna has given me that gift. But if they’re close enough for me to sense and they’re Mason’s people, it’ll probably be too late.”

  Kate looked at her and let her complete her reasoning.

  “So, like I said, you’re right. While I’m here without him, I’m vulnerable, Seb is vulnerable. Mason only ever wanted me as leverage—to get to Seb. It nearly worked. I won’t let it happen again. When Seb comes back, I’ll tell him.”

  Kate nodded.

  “I’ll go tomorrow. When you come, take the train up from London. Pay cash. Get a bus to the coast. To Logos Bay. There’s a fishing boat, name of Penelope, you’ll find her there at 5:30 every morning.”

  “Christ on a stick,” said Mee, “what is it with religions and unsociable hours?”

  Kate continued with her strategy of saying nothing and letting Meera do the work.

  “Ok, you go,” said Mee. “I’ll follow once I’ve spoken to Seb. Just don’t be freaked out when he suddenly appears on your island to see me.”

  “You going to be ok? Want me to wait and travel with you?”

  Mee smiled at her and shook her head. “Nah. If Mason’s been looking for me for the last eighteen months without any joy, how likely is it he’ll get lucky in the next week or so?”

  Chapter 24

  London

  Walt stared at Seb. There was no doubt. The man he had seen killed was now sitting in his London hotel room, smiling at him, looking for all the world as if he’d just dropped in for a friendly chat.

  Walt fell into the other chair, opened the minibar and took out two miniature bottles of whisky, filling a glass and draining it in under five seconds.

  “Sorry about burning your body,” he said. “You’d just had your head cut off, so you wouldn’t have felt it. And it meant Meera went free. But, for what it’s worth, I am sorry. And I’m sorry about Bob. I didn’t know Westlake was going to murder your friend, I didn’t realize he was going to slaughter the Order back there in Vegas, I just—,”

  Seb held up a hand and Walt fell silent.

  “No need to explain anything,” said Seb. “And no need to apologize. It might make you feel a bit better, but it’s not going to bring anyone back. Besides, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t know you’d changed. I know you’ve run. I know you’re trying to make amends. I know you want to warn Meera.”

  Walt reached back into the minibar. There was no more whisky. He tried mixing gin and vodka. The resulting cocktail wouldn’t win any prizes, but it burned his throat and made his eyes sting, so he was satisfied.

  “It was a homunculus?” he said. “That’s what Westlake killed?”

  “Yes,” said Seb.

  Walt thought back to that morning. Remembered the way the man they had thought was Seb Varden moved, spoke and reacted like a human being. The difference between his power and Seb’s was like comparing a Buster Keaton movie to the latest sci-fi epic.

  “Ok,” he said, “ok.” He had half-guessed Seb was alive, so it could only have been a homunculus he’d seen die that day, but knowing that fact didn’t stop his mind from reeling at the ability Seb had displayed.

  “How did you find me?” he said.

  “I’ve been with you since we last met in Las Vegas,” said Seb. “I didn’t go anywhere. And, for the sake of accuracy, you should stop calling me Seb.”

  “What?” said Walt. “Why?”

  “I’m just a program,” said Seb. “An app. A sub-routine. A virus—that might be the closest analogy. Seb2 transferred me to you back in Vegas. I’ve been dormant ever since, a tiny coil of genetic material at the top of your spine.”

  Walt shivered. “Seb2?” he said.

  “Too long a story.”

  “I’ve been carrying you around?” said Walt. “You’ve seen everything I’ve seen, heard my thoughts? All my thoughts?”

  “Relax,” said Seb, “I haven’t been spying on you. Like I said, I was dormant. It took a combination of triggers to activate me. And here I am.”

  “Triggers?” said Walt.

  “Yeah. First trigger, you had to leave Mason, go on the lam. You’ve always chosen the easy way, the path of least resistance. But Seb thought you could change. Some might call it naivety, but since you’ve proved his hunch right, maybe not.”

  “You said there was more than one trigger,” said Walt. He leaned over to the minibar, unscrewed a small white wine and started drinking it out of the bottle.

  “I’d slow down, if I were you,” said Seb. “It’s not as if you’re going to be able to use Manna to get rid of the hangover.”

  “The second trigger?” said Walt.

  “Right,” said Seb. “You’ve actually gone cold turkey. Given up Manna. Even under duress, when you had the chance for one last fix. You know you’re gonna get sick, age and die just like regular folk, but you’ve done it anyway. Kudos.”

  Walt stopped drinking. Seb was probably right about the hangover.

  “You don’t talk like Seb did,” he said, replacing the wine with a bottle of water, pouring it into a glass. He caught sight of the minibar prices. Central London hotel prices. Might be time to cash in another $10,000 of bearer bonds.

  “Yeah—I don’t have his memories, just a kind of cut-down, abridged version,” said Seb. “I’m the same person, but without the unnecessary baggage. I can use Manna, but I’m far more limited. More like you were.”

  He pointed and the sheets on the bed reared up like a terrified horse, its head brushing against the light fitting on the ceiling. When he dropped his finger, the sheets fell back in an untidy heap.

  “Well, I don’t use Manna, as such,” h
e said. “I’m made of the stuff.”

  “Made of it?” said Walt. “What do you mean?”

  “Like I said, I’m like a virus. But I do have a physical presence, it’s just sub-atomic. A few molecules of your body is roomy enough for me to stretch my legs around in. If I need more room—like I did just now, so I could get your attention—I can just expand, grow. I’m a lump about the size of a California raisin on your brainstem right now.”

  Walt’s hand went involuntarily to the back of his head.

  “It won’t do any damage,” said Seb. “It just means I can access your aural and visual centers. Much easier to communicate with you if you think you’re seeing and hearing me.”

  “You mean, I’m not hearing or seeing you for real?” said Walt.

  “Put it this way. If the hotel maid is standing outside your room, she’ll think the poor old American guy in 114 has lost the plot. She’ll hear you, but only you can hear me. Let’s hope she’s not listening, otherwise you’ll be getting a visit from a very sympathetic doctor soon.”

  “Maybe I am losing my mind,” said Walt. He suddenly threw the contents of his glass over the other man. Seb remained completely dry, but he stood up and showed Walt the stain on the chair.

  “Maybe,” said Seb. He sat down again. “You wanted to help Meera, you wanted to warn her about Mason.”

  “But now I don’t need to,” said Walt. “You’re here—I guess the real Seb knows what you know, right?”

  “In theory,” said Seb. “I should just be able to drop a packet of information online, get a message to him almost instantly. But there’s a problem.”

  The younger man looked lost for a moment. Suddenly, he lost some of his resemblance to Seb, looking younger, with a teenager’s mixture of confidence and barely disguised terror.

  “What’s the matter?” said Walt. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s Seb,” said the other man. “He’s missing. I’ve checked and double-checked. He’s not here.”

  “Here?” said Walt. “London?”

  “No,” said the other Seb. “He’s not here. Not on this planet.”

  Walt looked steadily at the other man and saw genuine, barely disguised fear in his eyes. He was telling the truth. Walt stood up, closed his case and put on his coat.

  “Where does he live?” he said. “I mean where should we start looking?”

  “Mexico City.” The younger man stood.

  The thought of getting straight onto another plane and heading back west was hardly an attractive one, but Walt had to help if he could. He started pushing clothes into his bag.

  “Let’s go there, then. You coming? How does this work?”

  “Yeah, I’m coming. I’ll ride with you. Just remember no one else can see me, ok? Or would you rather I just stayed in your head.”

  “No, thanks, Seb,” said Walt. “Call me old-school, but I’d prefer to have you somewhere I can see you, rather than think of you as some kind of growth on my brain.”

  “Ok. One thing, though?”

  “What?”

  “You can’t call me Seb. I’m not him. I’m just not. You need to think of something else.”

  Walt opened the hotel room door and looked back, thinking. “How about Parasite?” he said.

  The young man winced in mock-offense.

  “Ouch,” he said, “I’m hurt, Walt. And I’m certainly not a parasite. I can help you—I am helping you. Our relationship isn’t parasitic, it’s symbiotic.”

  “Ok,” said Walt. “How about I call you Sym?”

  “I like it,” he said. “Sym it is.”

  Chapter 25

  Upstate New York

  Thirty-four years previously

  It was the giggling that woke Boy. He still couldn’t open his eyes, but he felt awake and alert. The headache had become a slow throbbing background to his every conscious moment. He was getting used to it. He guessed that was the painkillers. A few more days, and it would be gone for good anyhow. Along with him.

  The giggling, as unlikely as it seemed at first, was Mom. Mom and the churchy woman he’d heard before. Underneath the giggling was a deep, loud rumbling which lasted a few seconds, building dramatically in volume, stopped for another few seconds, then repeated the process. The noisiest part of the rumble seemed to set off the gigglers again, followed by the pair of women shushing each other just as loudly.

  A few minutes listening provided an explanation. The cop on night shift outside his room had been given a few crumbled sleeping pills in his coffee, resulting in a comically loud snore.

  “Loretta—quiet—you’ll wake him,” he heard.

  “Ma’am, I think we could bring a marching band in here and he’d snore right through it.”

  As they lifted him carefully and lowered him into a wheelchair, Boy realized the tube down his throat had gone, as had the one up his nose. No needles in his arm, and no noisy machines. For a moment, he wondered if he had begun to recover. Then, he understood the real reason: they had withdrawn life support. These were his last few hours. He knew his conclusion was right: the handcuffs had been removed. Handcuffs on a dead kid wouldn’t look good.

  There were no footsteps or voices in the corridor as Mom and Loretta wheeled him through a few corridors and out through the back, where they lifted him into a car, putting the wheelchair in the trunk. There was a slight lightening behind his eyelids as they left the building. Boy guessed it must be sometime before dawn. It was a small town hospital, no security, probably one nurse on duty and a doctor on call, dozing in one of the smaller rooms.

  Boy must have fallen asleep again during the journey, because the next time he became aware, there was the sound of someone hammering on a door. His periods of consciousness were getting shorter and shorter.

  “Reverend Jesse! Reverend Jesse! Please, it’s an emergency.”

  Boy heard the sound of chains being unhooked and bolts being drawn back.

  “Loretta, it’s five in the morning and despite years of fervent prayers to change the fact, I am still very much not at my best in the morning. Now, what’s so important that it brings you to my door at—what on earth? Loretta, let go of my sleeve, what’s got into you. Why are—? Oh.”

  The voice had got closer and, now that it had stopped, Boy could hear its owner taking a deep breath, then letting it out in a long sigh.

  “Is that who I think it is?”

  Mom spoke up.

  “Reverend Jesse, this is my son. Now, I know you’ve read about him in the papers, but let me tell you, he’s the sweetest, gentlest, cleverest boy you’ll ever meet. The doctor said it was the cancer made him…do what he did. The tumor, pressing on his brain.”

  Another sigh.

  “The devil is inside the boy.”

  “Well, I guess—allegorically—you could say—,”

  “The devil is inside him,” said Reverend Jesse, warming to his theme, “and you want me to cast him out.” The familiar, almost sing-song tones of the preacher rose in volume as he spoke.

  “You want me to rid this child of the unclean spirit, the demon that drove him to do unspeakable things, commit terrible sins, turn away from the Lord and embrace evil.”

  “Hallelujah, hallelujah,” muttered Loretta. She sounded suspiciously like she was enjoying herself.

  Mom was silent for a few seconds. Boy knew—in her mind—that this was his last chance. She wasn’t going to ruin it now.

  “Yes, Reverend Jesse. You’re right. That’s why we came to you. Only you can save him.”

  “Only the power of Jesus can save him,” said Reverend Jesse, although Boy could hear the pride in his voice. “Bring him to the church, bring him to the altar. Let us present this sick child to God in humility and pray for His mercy. Let us cast out this demon and—”

  There was talk of smiting. Boy faded out again.

  When he next became aware, he knew they must be in the church. There was a feeling of vast space around him. Reverend Jesse was mumbling softly and h
is muffled words bounced back from the distant walls and ceiling. Boy could hear Mom whispering prayers too, and the louder voice of Loretta, adding occasional amens and hallelujahs. She had dropped all pretense now and was obviously having a fantastic time.

  Boy felt his strength ebbing away. He fully expected to die very soon, right there in church. He wondered what that would do for Mom’s newly-restored faith, Jesse’s reputation and Loretta’s entire life. Then, something entirely unexpected happened.

  Jesse went very quiet. The two women were still praying, but something started happening of which they seemed utterly unaware. A powerful hum began underground, but Boy knew he wasn’t hearing it with his ears. It was as if a new sense had opened up and begun feeding information to his brain. He knew—somehow—that this hum had split itself into fine lines, each carrying some kind of intense, white-hot energy from below them. These lines were now racing upward, toward them.

  Boy made a huge effort, knowing—as he did so—that he was now very near death. He opened his eyes.

  Ahead, at the modern, massive, blond wood altar, lit by dawn’s first rays coming through the huge window behind them, Reverend Jesse knelt, his arms thrust skyward, his head back. Boy could see the lines of energy now, like lightning arcing through the rock beneath the church, heading straight for the preacher’s body.

  Boy knew—suddenly, and with absolute certainty—that Reverend Jesse was waiting for that energy, that he had summoned it somehow. That it was in this place, waiting. That was why he hadn’t offered to help Boy at his home. That was why he had built his mega church in such an unpromising location. He had built the church over this source of power.