World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine (29 page)

Rosa swallowed, tears in her eyes.

“He—he died last month.”

Jesse sat up straight.

“What?” he said. “George is dead? I didn’t know. What happened?”

Boy gestured and Jesse was quiet, a trickle of blood appearing where he had bitten his lip.

“What kind of brother doesn’t know his sister’s husband died?” Boy looked at Isaac again. “Guess he must be a huge disappointment to you, right?”. He looked at Mom. “Well, I know all about that. Anyway, like I said, no time to waste. You heard of sudden cardiac arrest?”

The question was directed at Isaac, who just shook his head blankly, suddenly sick with fear.

“Well, I’ve read a lot of medical journals and my retention of information is first-rate.
Sudden cardiac death causes over 300,000 adult fatalities in the United States each year.”

Boy smiled at Rosa.
 

“I’m a walking encyclopedia,” he said. “Sudden cardiac arrest occurs most frequently in adults in their mid-thirties to mid-forties. It’s usually men who are affected, I’m afraid.” He looked at Jesse. “You’re—what? Thirty-three? Thirty-four?”

Jesse found he could speak. “Thirty-six,” he said. Then he half-stood, his hands moving from his nose to his chest.
 

“First thing happens, the heart beats very fast. Dangerously fast,” said Boy, looking directly at Isaac now. “The biggest danger is that blood flow will be disrupted to the brain, leading to unconsciousness.” There was a crash as Jesse fell sideways, knocking a small table over so that a vase of roses broke into pieces. Water began to spread across the Persian rug.

“Death is inevitable without immediate CPR,” said Boy.
 

Rosa and Isaac both tried to stand at the same moment, but Boy waved his hand and they were thrown onto their seats, the chairs themselves sliding a few feet backward.

Jesse moaned a few times, a horrible desperate sound. Then he was quiet.

“I don’t think he suffered much,” said Boy. “Wouldn’t want you thinking I’m some kind of sadist. Now, call 911, let’s get this mess cleared up, then I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.” He looked at the ashen faces of Rosa and Isaac.

“I didn’t want to insult your intelligence by warning you not to try anything rash,” he said, “but I fear I may have to. Rosa, I will kill your father and your unborn baby, if you try anything. Isaac, Rosa and the baby will die if you are tempted to be foolish. Just let the paramedics do their job. In the meantime, do you have any lemonade?”

Chapter 34

Mexico City

Present Day

Mee opened her eyes and looked at the clock on the wall. It was 2:15am. She tried to sit up a little, but the ensuing sharp stab of pain almost caused her to scream. She bit down on her lip and pushed the button to release some morphine. The warm wash of comfort followed seconds later. She sighed. Much better than dope. No wonder people got addicted to the stuff. She closed her eyes again.

 
The damage to Mee’s leg was extensive. The bullet had shattered her femur and the resulting splinters of bone had been driven downward and backward. Her knee now had tiny pieces of her femur wedged into the cartilage. It was splinted very carefully. The bullet had been slowed significantly by the impact with Mee’s bone and hadn’t had enough momentum left to sever her femoral artery. Which was just as well, as death from blood loss usually followed that particular injury. After a trip to the OR, where the bullet was removed and the wound cleaned, she was moved to a private room. Private because the Federales—the local police—had made it clear they had some questions to ask her before she would be allowed to speak to anyone else. They had stationed a guard outside her room. Any visitors were to be turned away until a detective arrived to interview her.

Gun crime wasn’t uncommon in Mexico City. Gun crime involving foreign nationals was unusual, though. Gun crime involving foreign nationals with no paperwork, no identity, no bank account, and seemingly, no personal history older than twelve months was rarer still. And the tranquilizers they’d pulled out of the back of one of the dead men had been fired by high velocity sniper rifles from neighboring buildings. Rifles that cost a small fortune, and operated with the kind of accuracy that was unheard of outside specialist military units. So the guards on Meera’s door, that changed every eight hours, were not rookies but proven officers. The Federales assumed a drug-connection was the most likely explanation, but everything about this case was giving a headache to everyone assigned to it.
 

Mee was currently the Federales’ best hope for information. They’d had one other lucky break, capturing one of the snipers. She’d almost got away from them on the way back to headquarters, as she tried to escape from a police car. It had taken eight of Mexico City’s finest to finally bring her down. One of them was now in the morgue, and four of them were in the same hospital as Mee. The sniper had no ID and seemed completely impervious to any attempts at interrogation. She was a cop killer, so some of the attempts had been a little outside of the law. She hadn’t said a word. The sniper had showed no fear, despite the mound of evidence against her. The Federales’ chief had taken no chances—she was in solitary confinement in the most secure compound in the city. Still she said nothing. So they were hoping for some solid leads from the gunshot victim they’d found on the roof.

Mee’s private room was on the fifth floor. Inaccessible from the outside, but a cop had been posted on the roof. Someone with access to professional snipers might think of abseiling down the roof, but a locked access door with an armed police officer behind it would slow them down long enough to call in a chopper.

All in all, it was a mysterious case, but the key witness was safe and locked up tight. The Federales had done a thorough job. They were confident the witness’s statement would give them a breakthrough, and the doctors had assured them she would be well enough to be interviewed after her operation, currently scheduled for 6am.

Seb Walked directly to Mee’s room. He had forced himself to wait until he could guarantee no witnesses. A nurse was due to check on her at 3:30am. The previous check had finished at 2:06am.

Seb put his hand on Mee’s. She stirred, but didn’t wake. The morphine was the last thing Seb dealt with. First he re-made her femur, extracting the splinters from her knee at the same time. He closed up the entrance and exit wounds as the muscles and tissue knitted back together underneath the surface of the now unblemished skin. Then he stopped the morphine having any effect by making Mee’s body’s opioid receptors reject the drug.
 

At that point, she opened her eyes.

“Spoilsport,” she said, her voice low. “I was actually enjoying that.”

Seb just looked at her for a long moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally.

“Oh, shut up,” said Mee. “Come here and kiss me. Then tell me how we’re supposed to get out of here when I can’t do your clever walkie trick.”

Seb did as he was told, then went over to the window and put both palms against it. Windows on any floor higher than the first story were designed to open no more than three inches, but as Seb moved his hands away, the entire pane of glass came too. He leaned it carefully against the wall. Mee was out of bed and looking for clothes. The sight of her bare ass in the hospital gown distracted Seb for a moment. He smiled, then a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt appeared and removed the temptation to let his mind wander. Mee looked down at the new clothes.

“You have no fashion sense,” she said.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Mee joined him at the window. They were at the back of the building. Five floors below was a small unlit yard with a dumpster in one corner.

“Ok, smart guy,” she said, “how do we—oh!”

Seb picked her up in one swift movement.

“I know you’re not a screamer,” he said, “but bite your lip.”

“You’ve made me scream before, Seb Varden, “ she said, eyeing him. He laughed.

“There’s a time and a place, Meera Patel,” he said. “Now, hold on tight.”

He stepped onto the window sill, paused briefly, then jumped.

Physics is a rigid science, particularly when it relates to Isaac Newton’s laws of motion. The mass that was Seb and Mee’s bodies was now accelerating due to the force of gravity. They would reach just under fifty miles per hour before hitting the ground. Seb held Mee in his arms, so his legs would bear the brunt of the combined mass when they made contact with the hospital concrete, at which point they would be subject to the third of Newton’s laws. The third law was the one that ensured people who jumped out of fifth floor windows rarely lived to regret it. A force (Meera and Seb’s fall) was about to act on an object (the ground) which would respond with an equal and opposite force. An elegant theory, taught in schools for hundreds of years. The theory was certainly more elegant than the practice, which involved bones shattering, internal organs puncturing, quick and heavy blood loss and, often, death.
 

So when Seb’s feet hit the concrete and the concrete responded by yielding like sponge, then firming again quickly, so that Seb ended up waist deep in what looked like thick oatmeal, any theoretical physicist observing it would have been horrified. Fortunately, none were present to express their objections.

The ground moved again and lifted Seb upward, becoming solid concrete once more. Seb lowered Mee to the floor.

“You’re just trying to impress me, aren’t you?” she said. “If you’re trying to get into my pants, I feel it’s only fair to warn you that it’s probably going to work.”

“Come on,” said Seb, “Let’s go check into a hotel.”

“One condition,” said Mee. “We don’t talk about it till the morning.”

“Deal,” said Seb.

***

Seb woke in a pile of tangled sheets. He slipped quietly out of bed and stood by the hotel window. It was dawn, but they were very high up and the windows were triple glazed, so all he could hear was the whisper of the AC and Mee’s long, deep breaths. He looked back at her, her brown body topped by untamable hair. Against the white sheets, she looked like an exclamation mark.

He was struggling to shake off a dream. Dreams often had meanings worth teasing out, particularly now that he shared his consciousness with two other versions of himself.
Well, one version now. But for how much longer?

In the dream, he had been back in Richmond Park, exactly like the first time he had met Seb2. It was winter again, the branches of the ancient trees groaning with snow. He’d walked toward Penn Pond, just as he had before. The figure had been waiting for him, sitting on the bench. But this time, as he approached, Seb2 stood and walked into the pond. The water wasn’t frozen, but Seb expected his double to walk across the surface. This time, it didn’t happen. With every step Seb2 took, he sank a little deeper. Seb broke into a run, but stopped short at the edge of the water. Then, he saw clearly what he had begun to suspect from a distance. Seb2 wasn’t sinking, he was dissolving. His hands, outstretched as he walked, had drifted outward, becoming thinner and more translucent as they floated away. His arms did the same. Now waist high, Seb2 half-turned toward Seb so he had a clear view of the transformation, the liquid creeping up the body, claiming clothes, hair, flesh and bones. All becoming water, a slowly expanding set of ripples taking five or six seconds to gently lap at the stony ground where Seb was standing.
 

As dreams went, the meaning was probably plenty clear enough, but Seb didn’t want to think too hard about it.

He shivered and put on the thick white toweling robe that the hotel supplied. He wasn’t cold—his body always maintained a comfortable temperature without any conscious input from him. The shiver itself had been deliberate. He’d noticed he was losing certain common human gestures and—when he remembered to pay attention to what was happening—it worried him.
 

He never coughed, never sneezed. He breathed twice a minute and his heart rate was so slow as to be barely perceptible. His blood didn’t need to be pumped organically and inefficiently when it could propel itself around his body unaided. He never scratched himself, never yawned, never rubbed his eyes, never stretched after sitting for a long period. He never farted. A few weeks ago, he had stood in front of the bathroom mirror for ten minutes to make sure his suspicions were correct. They were. He didn’t need to blink.

He could stand completely still for hours. He could run all day without a break. Sleep was unnecessary. He could use Manna to produce food, but even that was starting to look like an affectation. He’d once spent forty-seven hours straight extinguishing a forest fire in Australia, re-homing animals, repairing scorched trees and making the soil fertile so that the damage wouldn’t have a long-term effect. It was only when he’d got home that he’d realized he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything the entire time. Seb2 explained his body could absorb nutrients constantly, like a solar farm harvesting the energy of the sun. He was even more efficient though, extracting humidity, solar energy, and protein from the rich airborne supply constantly available. Seb2 also explained that even this would become unnecessary as his body’s cells, as they died, were replaced by Roswell Manna cells. Self-replicating. Inexhaustible.

Immortal, probably. But would he still be human?

“I’d kill for a cup of tea.” Mee was pulling herself into a sitting position. Seb walked toward her, the cup appearing in his right hand, steam curling from the hot liquid.

“Assam?” he said.

“Actually, I could really go for Earl Grey,” she said. The color of the tea lightened as she raised it to her lips and sipped. “Perfect.”

There was silence for a few minutes. Seb stood by the window again. Seb2 faded into being outside, seemingly floating above the city below.

“How long?” thought Seb.

“Not long,” said Seb2. “Days, perhaps.”