World Walker 1: The World Walker (39 page)

"Yeah, actually, I do," said Seb. "Now, come on, I want to buy her a falafel kebab before we go back."

Chapter 40

Taking Seb2's advice, Seb decided to choose a less conspicuous spot to Walk to this time. He didn't close his eyes, just decided to Walk and his options opened up like someone riffling through a deck of playing cards, each card representing a different geographical location. As he looked for somewhere on the Las Vegas city limits where he was unlikely to be seen arriving, Seb became aware of other possibilities opening up. He paused the process, his options slowly revolving in front of him like tabs on an internet browser.
 

"What are these?" said Seb, his attention turning to a group of tabs showing potential arrival points containing inexplicable images. Some showed buildings that weren't there in others. Many had no buildings at all. A whole trench of possibilities looked like the surface of the moon, bearing no signs of life at all. Some just showed the star-filled vacuum of deep space.
 

"Each of these is a doorway," said Seb2. "They all lead to the same place."

"No, they don't," said Seb. "Look at them."

"The same place, but not the same universe," said Seb2.

"What?" said Seb. "You mean those Scientific America articles I read were-,"

"- onto something? Yeah. Parallel universes, different dimensions, the role of consciousness in holding together the fabric of reality. Just don't get too caught up in it. Humans currently have as much chance of understanding this as a newborn being asked to read, absorb, then write a thesis on the Theory Of Relativity, but yeah, this stuff is true."

"Humans? Last time I looked, that was me, too."

"Yeah, whatever," said Seb2. "Thing is, you could spend the rest of your life trying to understand the theory behind what's happening, but you'd get absolutely nowhere. Remember when music recording software used to drive you crazy?"

Seb thought back to the wasted hours spent installing and trying to use studio software on what was - at the time - the fastest computer he could afford. After weeks of frustration, he had eventually given up and wrenched the plug out of the wall, pushing the whole setup into a corner and throwing a sheet over it. That's how it stayed for five years, by which time the value of his entire rig was about half that of the average cell phone.
 

"I remember," he said.

"And remember the first time you tried a piece of software that worked?"

That had been a beautiful day. Processing power had moved on to the point when someone not particularly tech-savvy could put a laptop next to their music keyboard, plug in a mic and a guitar and make music easily, the software helping the process rather than obstructing it. In a weirdly masochistic way, Seb was glad he'd lived through the period of history when software evolved from expensive self-torture devices to affordable solutions that enabled, rather than hindered, creativity.

"Of course. Don't think I left the apartment for seven days."

"It was ten days. But you don't have a clue how that software works, right? You don't know what's going on under the hood."

"I don't want to know," said Seb.

"Same deal here," said Seb2. "I can use this software but I can't understand it. And let's be accurate, it's not software, it's wetware. Your body is alive with nanotechnology. Every human process is now automated and optimized. As your cells die, they are replaced with better, more effective, stronger cells with capabilities genetically impossible for the rest of our species. Part of your brain now allows me to do my thing alongside the usual human level of consciousness. But I, we, can never expect to understand
how
we can do what we do. At the moment, I feel like a trained monkey with a game console. I can play, I can learn. I can make some guesses about what's going on. But, ultimately..."

"You're a monkey."

"Yes. The split in your consciousness is the only way a human could use this software. Humanity has the potential - every few thousand years or so - of throwing up a genetic wildcard that can cope with it."

"At last, I truly know myself. I'm a genetic wildcard. Thank you."

"Again with the sarcasm."

"Allow me my coping mechanism."

"Of course, said Seb2. "It's either that or insanity. In fact, without Seb3, it would be insanity, followed closely by death."

Seb shuddered. He didn't like to think about the part of himself in constant agony. He didn't understand it, but he wondered what price would eventually have to be paid for fencing off part of himself. He was able to live a day-to-day existence without collapsing, solely because something prevented the pain at his core from touching any other aspect of his consciousness. Sounded like a Faustian deal - and that had hardly worked out well for Faust.

"So the doorways I can see," said Seb, "some of them lead to universes where Vegas never got built?"

"And some where Earth never developed human life" said Seb2. "Others where Neanderthals became the dominant strain of humanity. Others where the Earth never formed at all. Infinite universes."

"Infinite?" repeated Seb. "Truly infinite?"

"Truly," said Seb2. "Every time you make a decision, the universe splits into two and continues. Skip brushing your teeth this morning? New universe. Stay for one more beer? New universe. Assassinate Kennedy? New universe. Multiplied by every being in the universe capable of making a decision. Infinite."

"Ow," said Seb, finally. "My brain hurts."

"Like I said, don't get hung up on the software. We're a monkey with a game console. Let's play."

"Can I bring this kebab?" said Seb, holding the wrapped package from Mee's favorite Moroccan takeaway.

"You can bring the kebab."

Seb picked a Doorway showing a skatepark that had been half-built, then abandoned. As fast as he thought it, he Walked.

Chapter 41

Las Vegas

As he rounded the corner on the dirt track a few miles from where he arrived, Seb detected a faint smell of burning. More accurately, it smelled like the charred remains of a big barbecue after a party. He increased his pace, desperate to see Mee again, but slightly nervous about what they would have to say to each other. It was going to take a while to even start to explain what had happened since that night on the rooftop in LA.

The source of the smell was a small trailer park - it must have comprised half a dozen or so dwellings arranged in a semicircle in front of a hill. The only evidence they'd ever existed - other than the slight smell - were rectangles of dark scorched earth showing the location of each trailer. Inside the semicircle was evidence of more fire amid small shoots of greenery, a flower or two, surely not indigenous. Seb stopped and looked, knowing he was in the right place, but not able to take in the implications of what he was seeing. His throat was suddenly dry.

"Seb?"
 

Seb's head snapped around to identify the owner of the voice. Sitting on a large rock beneath a stunted tree that provided the only shade in sight, was Walter Ford, wearing a white linen suit, panama hat and sunglasses. The huge Lincoln was parked about ten feet behind him. He had a cool-box at the foot of the rock and was drinking from a brown glass bottle. "Come and join me," he said. "A cold beer's sometimes the only thing that hits the spot."

Seb felt his hands curl into fists. The falafel kebab, having survived an instantaneous journey of thousands of miles without mishap, was now torn in half and dropped to the floor.

"Where's Mee?!" shouted Seb. "What have you done to her?!" He could feel the anger building fast. Years of daily contemplation practice had brought the benefit of being able to identify inappropriate anger and stop it poisoning his experience, but this anger felt
completely
appropriate as it swelled righteously within him.
 

Walt slid from his perch as the ground started to shake. Rocks, stones, tiny shards of gravel began jumping from the ground, hammering a tattoo of ever-increasing intensity. It was as if the biggest storm in history was breaking around him in the arid wilderness, the thunder provided by drumming rocks. It built into a physically painful sensation and Walt looked fearfully at the hill behind Seb as the ground seemed to roil and shift like an angry animal spotting its prey. He shouted as loud as he could over the racket.

"Seb! Seb, listen to me! I know where Meera is. She's ok! Please, stop this! We have to talk." For a frighteningly long moment, Walt thought Seb wasn't listening. He knew his Manna defenses would be be useless against power like this. Then the rumbling stopped. Walt's ears popped in the sudden silence and he looked over at Seb as his hands relaxed and his eyes stopped blazing. Walt remembered reading that metaphor in a cheap novel once and snorting. Surely 'blazing eyes' belonged in badly written romances along with 'manly torsos' and 'heaving bosoms'. But he had seen Seb's eyes, and he couldn't think of any other way of describing them. Mason's instructions had been to make Seb face facts, show him the lay of the land, intimidate him a little. Now Walt wondered who was the mark here. Was he supposed to walk away from this? Seb had changed. He could sense that flame of extraordinary talent, but it was flickering and nebulous, lost in something far more tangible, powerful and incomprehensible. His hand shook as he raised the beer bottle to his lips.

"Where is she?" said Seb. "What happened here? Where's Bob? And how the hell do you even know who she is? You said I could trust you."

"And you can, Seb, you can. Meera's fine, she's in no danger whatsoever. But listen, I don't enjoy the whole dramatic spaghetti western vibe, ok? I promise I'll tell you everything, but let's go grab a drink."
 

Seb had brought his breathing under control and was looking steadily at Walt. The older man couldn't read that expression, and something in the eyes made him feel like he was Seb's junior by a long, long stretch. He looked away quickly and gestured toward the car. The driver's door opened and Steve stepped out, holding open the rear door and waiting. Seb waited for Walt to get inside, then joined him. Steve drove slowly away, the big car's suspension wallowing over the uneven ground. The security glass between driver and passengers slid slowly into place.
 

Seb turned to Walt. "Start talking," he said.

"I never told you how Sid Bernbaum died," said Walt. Seb shifted in his seat and Walt held up a placating hand. "Look, I'm a story teller. What I need to say isn't easy - I need to tell you in my own way. And that means you need to know a little more about what brought me here. Meera is in no immediate danger. I swear she isn't, Seb. "
 

Seb said nothing, so Walt reached into the cool-box and opened two beers, handing one to Seb.

"I got comfortable as Sid's apprentice. He kept the bosses and the bent politicians as honest as he could and I watched and learned. Not just about using Manna, but about what makes people tick. Including myself. I found out everyone has a weakness they don't want exposed. You find it and you own them. Sex, drugs, booze, gambling, whatever. Some guys had no fear at all. That kind, you threaten their family. Or you threaten whatever it is they love. Usually money. Then they play ball. I just watched this, laid low and got better and better at controlling Manna.

"Then, suddenly, there was a new guy in Chicago. Seemed to come out of nowhere. Buying up cops and politicians, taking chunks out of Marty the Bear's extortion racket. We knew there was trouble brewing when they found Marty's head nailed to the door of the Mayor's house. The Bear had owned the Mayor for years. Sid knew he had to find this new guy. And he didn't take much finding. In fact, he came to us. Just walked into the florists one Friday morning, picked out a funeral arrangement and laid them on the counter. I was minding the store, Sid out back somewhere. This young guy, on the short side, expensive suit and overcoat, thinning blonde hair, he didn't look like anything, but he had an atmosphere about him. Like he was used to getting what he wanted. I felt something straight away, but wasn't experienced enough to realize what it was.

"'Go tell your boss I want to see him, kid,' he said. He put a business card on the counter. Tell him Michael Hamilton is here.'

"'I know who you are,' said Sid. He had this way of just appearing, always made me jump. 'What do you want?'"

"'Oh," said this Michael Hamilton character, acting like he knew something we didn't, 'it's just a courtesy call, Mr. Bernbaum. I'm introducing myself to potential business associates all over Chicago.'

"'You and I both know I have no interest in doing business with you, Mr. Hamilton. Please leave.' Hamilton just smiled. Now, remember, by this time I'd seen dozens of hard guys underestimate Sid and live to regret it. So I wasn't worried at all. Until I glanced over at Sid and saw straight away that he was scared. I'd never seen him scared before, but it was written large in the way he was pressing his lips together to stop them shaking. He looked like a frail old man. Then I worked out what was different, what had made me feel on edge since Hamilton had walked in. It was Manna. He was a User. And if Sid was scared, he must be powerful.

"Hamilton never raised his voice or got upset. 'It's just business, Mr. Bernbaum. Your way of running things has come to a end. The world is changing, but that doesn't mean there's nothing left for you. On the contrary, I'd love to have you on the team. You and your young friend here.' He winked at me. 'Often the younger ones see change coming first and adapt. It's a quality I admire, but it doesn't have to be solely the province of the young, does it?'

"'Leave him out of it,' said Sid. 'You've said your piece, now get out.' Hamilton put his hat back on and nodded at both of us.
 

"'I'll come back in 24 hours,' he said. 'I could build my organization without you, Mr. Bernbaum, but it would take a little longer. Your contacts, the nefarious way you gather information, the pressure points you've put in place...I admire your work. I admire it very much. But, make no mistake, if you do not accept my offer, I will shut you down.' He looked over Sid's floral displays, seemed to choose a wall at random and pointed a finger. Every bloom wilted simultaneously, petals floating to the ground like snow.