World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  Mason chuckled. It was a sound with no humor in it.

  “Really?” he whispered. “Only ten million? Not twenty, or fifty? Why such a small amount?”

  Beta’s brows furrowed into a frown. She walked over to Meera, lifting the knife. Slowly and deliberately, she pressed the tip of the blade against the woman’s shoulder. After a couple of seconds, blood started to stain the white shirt she was wearing. Meera’s face was pale, her lips pushed firmly together. Then, as Beta drew the knife down her arm, opening up a wound six inches long, she started to scream with pain.

  Beta smiled at the camera, picked up a roll of duct tape and stopped the scream, reducing the sound to a muffled whimper. Patel looked at her with impotent fury and hatred.

  “Keep messing around with me, I’ll just kill her and disappear,” said Beta. “She’s a liability right now. Wire me the money and I’ll send you this address.”

  She reeled off details of a Cayman Island bank account. Mason began to wonder if this had been her plan for a while.

  “Westlake’s report said Miss Patel looked very different these days,” whispered Mason.

  “She did,” said Beta. “When Westlake shot her, she changed. She’s looked like this ever since. Westlake said her protection had gone. That was why he okayed the operation. Said Varden was out of the picture.”

  Mason looked at the screen for a long moment. He knew it was just as likely that this was a trap as it was that Beta had genuinely managed to acquire Patel. But ten million dollars to find out either way was a bargain. If Sebastian Varden was behind this, he still had no idea who he was dealing with. Just a voice on a screen, protected by a labyrinth of proxy servers, dead ends and blind alleys. Untraceable.

  He clicked some keys.

  “It’s done,” he whispered. “The money is in your account.” He watched the screen as Beta sat down in front of it and clicked through to check. She smiled.

  “I’ll send you the address in ten minutes,” she said. “I have no idea how big your organization is, but I would have to be pretty stupid to give up my location while I’m still sitting here. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Oh, I do,” whispered Mason. “But you should know one thing before you walk away.”

  “What?”

  “The daughter you think no one knows about? The one your parents helped put up for adoption while you were still in high school?”

  Beta’s face had paled but she showed no other sign at being affected by the knowledge that the biggest secret of her life was, apparently, no secret at all. Mason admired her self-control.

  “She is growing up to be a charming young lady,” he whispered.

  In the room on the screen, Beta stood up, sheathed her knife and took out a cellphone.

  “I’ll leave the laptop open so you can keep an eye on her,” she said, her voice only slightly shakier than it had been before. “I’ll text the address in ten minutes. Number?”

  Mason opened a drawer and took out a burner phone, turning it on. He read the number to her. Single use, then he would use Manna to reduce it to ash.

  The woman on the screen tilted the laptop slightly so that it centered on Meera Patel, now silent and glaring at the camera. Beta pulled the duct tape from her captive’s mouth and walked out of shot. Mason heard a door open and close, then the only sound was Patel’s ragged breathing. The blood was running freely down her arm and dripping onto the stone floor, but she seemed completely unconcerned. She just stared into the camera as if she could see him sitting there. And the look on her face was one of utter contempt.

  Mason did nothing during the ten-minute wait. He just stared at the screen. He no longer thought it was possible that this was some sort of trap. Westlake’s last message had said Sebastian Varden wasn’t with her, that she was unprotected. All the facts had subsequently borne this out. Losing Westlake and gaining Patel was a trade he would make any day.

  The phone buzzed on his desk. He thumbed the screen into life and clicked on messages. Paseo de la Reforma 305, Colonia Cuauhtémoc, Mexico, 06500 D.F.

  He looked away from the live feed and typed the address into the search engine, zooming in to get a clear view. As he did so, a golden spider climbed out of the phone’s screen, darted across the desk and jumped into the mass of cables behind Mason’s screens. The movement caught his eye and he glanced over, just catching a glimpse of the tiny insect as it disappeared. He looked back at the screen, at first unsure, then registering what he was looking at. It was Mexico City, all right. He was looking at the American Embassy.

  “I’ll take your little girl, then I’ll kill you, you stupid bitch,” he said as he closed one window and opened another program. This was tracking software he had exclusively commissioned; sophisticated and, technologically, well beyond anything used by the US government. Beta had scrambled the signal from her laptop, using proxy servers, but her trail was nowhere near as well concealed as Mason’s own, and he knew his program would find Patel’s location in three to four hours. All he had to do was wait. He could deal with Beta later.

  “Rosa,” he said, “another pot of coffee.”

  On the screen, Mee was now sitting absolutely still. She didn’t look panicked, in pain, fearful or angry any more. She glanced to her left. To Mason’s surprise, Beta walked back into shot and smiled at the camera.

  “You just made the biggest mistake of your life, Beta” whispered Mason. “You’ll beg me to kill you in the end. Any last words?”

  Beta didn’t reply. Meera Patel did. But first she stood up, the ropes binding her evaporating like smoke. Beside her, Beta collapsed, her face caving in, her muscular shoulders sliding away from her neck, her torso folding over and toppling forward, leaving a mound of dirt.

  Mason looked back at Patel. She had gone. Sebastian Varden was standing there. The computer screens flickered, then, one by one, they went blank, leaving just the image of Varden, who had now walked up to the camera and was looking straight at him.

  “I know where you live,” said Varden, before that screen, too, went dark.

  Chapter 39

  Sym saw the whole thing happen by using the camera in Mason’s burner cellphone. It was a cheap phone, so the quality wasn’t great, but it was the only camera in the entire apartment. Mason was obviously paranoid about having his image captured.

  Sym watched Mason wheel himself over to the huge picture window that dominated the room. Sym had opened up the mic on the burner so he could hear what was going on. When Seb appeared in the middle of the room, he made no sound whatever, but Mason somehow sensed he was there.

  “I knew this day would come eventually,” he said, without turning. “You don’t have to be a student of history to recognize the temporary nature of human power structures. I have held all of the cards for such a long time, I might be forgiven for getting a little complacent. But that hasn’t happened. I’ve always been prepared for every eventuality, always planned carefully, always been at least two moves ahead of my opponents. Even ruling by fear was a deliberate choice. I’m no sadist, Mr Varden.”

  Seb was standing absolutely still in the center of the room. He looked at the slight figure in the wheelchair. Finally, he was in the same room as the man responsible for murdering his friend, and countless others. A man willing to take Meera’s freedom forever, just to try to control Seb. A man who was the perfect example of how humans had perverted Manna use, turning it into a way of gaining power over others. Using it to hurt, maim, and kill. Men and women like Mason were the reason an alien species was prepared to wipe the human race from the face of the planet and start again. Knowing what he did about Mason, Seb couldn’t entirely blame them.

  “Those who maintain their power through respect, tradition or love all fail. As—eventually—do those who rule by fear. The difference is, fear is more effective. Until you came along, I was the most powerful Manna user on Earth. At least, that’s how I was perceived. My anonymity has gone a long way to making my reputation still more intimidati
ng to those who might consider taking me on. My organization has a primitive power structure at its heart. The strongest rules the tribe until a stronger challenger comes along. And here you are.”

  Mason turned around and faced Seb for the first time. Seb said nothing, just stared at the conscienceless killer in front of him.

  At first glance, Mason still looked very much like the thirteen-year old boy who had discovered Manna in the Proclaimerz church nearly four decades previously. His legs were withered and the rest of his body was thin. His complexion was pale, his eyes a faded cornflower blue. His hair was sandy in color. It was only after the first few seconds that it became obvious that Mason was no child. The lines around his eyes were clear and deep-set. His neck was wrinkled, his Adam’s apple prominent. His hands, delicate, the skin almost translucent, looked like those of an old woman.

  Seb wondered for a moment why such a powerful Manna user would choose to remain in a wheelchair. If you could have any body you wished, why this one?

  Mason laughed.

  “I can see what you’re thinking, Sebastian,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t make much of a poker player. I see hate, of course. Can’t blame you for that. I see anger, determination. You’re here to kill me, that much is plain. But I’m not exactly what you were expecting, am I? And you’re wondering why I chose—this.” He indicated the wheelchair.

  “I don’t care,” said Seb. “And you’re right, I am going to kill you.” He took a couple of paces toward Mason. Mason held up a thin hand.

  “Oh, Sebastian,” he whispered, “this doesn’t come naturally at all, does it? Even when you know you’ll be doing the world a favor. Some people just don’t have it in them to be killers. You’ll probably wrestle with your conscience for years after murdering me. Would have been easier if I’d been built like a linebacker, right? In answer to your unspoken question, I chose not to change my physical limitations simply because they mean nothing to me. Mine is the life of the mind. I was born when this body was thirteen years old.”

  Seb frowned. What was he talking about? And that line about not caring about his limitations was an obvious lie. What was the real reason?

  “At that age, I realized my potential and began playing the game. A game that Manna enabled me to excel at. And, by not using Manna to satisfy my own vanity, I freed up even more power. I was unstoppable.”

  “But why?” said Seb. “It’s no game. Why do this? You could have been rich without hurting people, without killing people. Why do it?”

  “Money means nothing,” said Mason, looking across the luxurious apartment and turning back briefly to admire the incredible view. “It’s just a way of keeping score. I like to be in control and I like winning. I started small, then kept going. I decided to see how far I could take control before someone stopped me. And violence was often the quickest way to get things done. If you think our glorious government is full of folk who got into power without either using violence, or at the very least, by looking the other way, tacitly condoning it, you’re being hopelessly naive. But we’re never going to agree about this. And what does it matter, anyway?”

  Mason rolled his wheelchair toward Seb, stopping about three feet away. He looked up at the man who had come to kill him.

  “I know it’s over,” he whispered, “and I’m ready to die. I was ready thirty-seven years ago. But I would be remiss if I didn’t at least try.”

  His eyes narrowed and Seb felt a powerful burst of focused Manna pierce his skull faster than he could have believed possible. A ball of energy reached the center of his brain in under fifty milliseconds and immediately expanded in all directions simultaneously, driving every cell in Seb’s skull outward at over four times the speed of sound. Some of the resulting splatter hit Mason’s face with the force of a slap. The rest of it hit the desk, the computer screens, the walls and the ceiling.

  The headless body stayed upright. Mason looked at it steadily.

  “Well, I had to try,” he whispered. He put a hand to his face to wipe away the mess, only to find there was nothing there. The droplets of flesh, bone, and blood had sunk into his own skin. Into his face. Into his brain. His eyes opened wide and he gripped the arms of the wheelchair, hissing with pain.

  In the kitchen, Rosa stopped preparing food. She had heard Mason’s voice, but over the years, had trained herself to tune out the actual words. It was better for her mental health, and better for her daughter and grandchild, that she wasn’t aware of Mason’s plans. But the sound that stopped her in her tracks now was new. She had never heard it before. It was the sound of Mason in pain. She hesitated for a moment, then went to the doorway.

  The sight before her was so shocking at first that her brain didn’t process it properly. She closed her eyes and took a couple of breaths before opening them again. The scene remained the same. She steadied herself with one hand on the doorframe and accepted what was in front of her, knowing that everything was—finally—about to change.

  Mason’s eyes had rolled into the back of his head and his breathing was shallow and intermittent. He was dying. A few yards in front of him stood a man with no head. As she watched, a mass of tiny writhing tentacles, many thousands of them, drove upward out of the man’s neck. They moved with astonishing speed and, as they did, a shape began to form. It was very much like watching someone drawing a 3D picture, but drawing it at a pace that was inhumanly fast. The only color in use at first was a deep red, the lines—both thin and thick—quickly revealing something familiar. Rosa realized she was looking at something she had seen on a medical program once. It was a diagram of the arteries supplying blood to the neck and head. As she continued watching, dark liquid began pulsing through the network of tubes.

  The brain grew first, fed by blood from the new arteries. It seemed to float in mid-air for a few seconds, then it became harder to see. It was as if Rosa was looking at it through mist, or a thin piece of white muslin. Her view was progressively obscured over the next few seconds, then, with an involuntary gasp, she realized solid bone was forming in front of her. As the brain disappeared behind the bones of the skull, a jawbone grew below. Musculature and ligaments followed, glistening with the blood flowing into them. Teeth were next, and before the fast-appearing skin obscured them completely, Rosa had time to count three fillings, which—she noted in an oddly calm fashion—was surely a pretty strange occurrence in a freshly grown mouth. Although she was at the wrong angle to know if she was correct, Rosa guessed the faint plopping sounds she heard next signaled the arrival of a pair of fresh eyeballs.

  By the time it was finished, there was a healthy young man standing in the middle of the room. Most women would have described him as handsome, but it wasn’t the first word that leapt into Rosa’s mind having just seen him grow his own face back. She looked at Mason. His head had lolled back on his neck. His skin was gray. He was completely still.

  The man turned and looked at her.

  “Are you ok?” he said. She nodded, mutely. She couldn’t look away from the slumped figure in the wheelchair. Eventually, she managed to turn her head and look at the stranger. She was shaking. She had lived in fear for too long to dare to think that it might be over. She felt her knees buckle. Before she could hit the floor, Seb Walked and caught her, picking her up and laying her on the nearest couch.

  When Rosa opened her eyes, she was being offered a glass of water. She took a few sips. He supported her trembling hands, steadying them with his own. For a few seconds, she wasn’t quite sure what was happening, then she remembered and began to shake, her body going into mild shock.

  The man smiled gently.

  “My name is Seb,” he said. “What’s yours?”

  “Ro- Rosa,” she said, trying—and failing—not to picture the young man’s head growing out of his neck minutes earlier.

  “Rosa, who else lives here? Is it just you?”

  She shook her head. “My daughter.” She sat up fully. Her eyes flicked over to the shape in the wheelchair. “Is he�
��?”

  “Dead? Yes, he is. It’s all over.”

  “Oh my god, my god.” She sobbed for a few minutes, then stood up. “I must tell my daughter. We can leave, we can finally leave.”

  Seb followed Rosa to a small bedroom. A pregnant woman was asleep on top of the covers. Rosa gently shut the door.

  “She needs her sleep,” she said. “I’ll tell her when she wakes. Oh, what a day, what a day.”

  Seb listened while Rosa told him about her brother Jesse, her father Isaac, her daughter Ruth, and the next generation of the family Mason used as his servants.

  When she had finished telling her story, Rosa checked on Ruth again and found her awake. Seb made a call while the two women wept and hugged each other. When they emerged, dry-eyed, but holding onto each other as if they were afraid they would fall, he told them a taxi was waiting to take them to a suite in a hotel on the other side of the city.

  “The suite is available for as long as you need it,” he said. “Please leave me your bank details. Mason had quite a fortune. I think it’s only right that you decide how best to dispose of it from this point forward.”

  Rosa still couldn’t bring herself to get much closer to Seb, who seemed to draw on the same power Mason had used to enslave, hurt and murder for over thirty years. Ruth, who hadn’t witnessed the battle, hugged Seb long and hard, kissed his face and thanked him. She held a silver-framed photograph of an old man.

  “My grandfather Isaac,” she said. “It’s the only possession I ever want to keep. The rest can be burnt.”

  After the two women had gone, Seb walked back into the main room, and picking up a chair, placed it opposite of the slumped body in the wheelchair. Sitting down, he leaned forward and looked at his defeated enemy. There was still a pulse fluttering in Mason’s neck. His chest was moving so slowly it was almost indiscernible. All of his Manna had gone, but the tumor was still there.