The Infinite Bk 04 Ch 07

The Wandering Spirit

Deeper and deeper, Noah delved into the sea of his memories, losing all sense of identity and time. Random moments from his experience in the multiverse flashed across his mind's eye with crystal clarity, hypnotizing his senses with experiences of thousands of years in the past. Pleasure, pain, laughter, tears, exhilaration, fear, intoxication, love, loss, they washed over him, with moments stretching across centuries and lifetimes passing by in flash. With what shred of awareness he retained, he searched for solutions to solve the elven epidemic and dug ever further into the past, reaching for his origin and the truth of his existence.

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"Incoming!"

Explosions blanketed the landscape, further leveling the city that was once Philadelphia. Debris was hurled into the air to mix with the smoke of burning wood and flesh. Noah ducked down to avoid the raining rubble, feeling every piece of concrete and metal bouncing off his helmet. Neither they nor the explosions could drown out the radio chatter in his ear.

"Hernandez is down!" one man squawked, followed by swears from several different voices.

"Well someone get his ass back up, he still owes me 500 credits," Noah said.

Looking across the vast field of devastation, his helmet detected movement before his eyes even saw it. One of his enemies stepped out from behind a junked car, a slade. Taller than a human, the slade's armored body moved on three legs and had three double-jointed arms, operating in any direction with a 360º view. The alien spotted Noah and aimed with the small missile launcher in one of its hands.

Noah was faster, shouldering his rifle, while a glowing set of crosshairs appeared on his helmet's visor. He planted four glowing rounds in the invader's chest, disintegrating its armor with liquid flames. Regular bullets just bounced off slade metal, so plasma rounds were developed that could burn through. The alien shrieked in agony and collapsed, but Noah shot it in the brain to be sure.

Behind him, he heard the gnarled warbling of the slade's alien language and sensed another two moving into his blind spot. He bolted to the side, dodging twin laser beams that sliced through metal and stone, and disappeared in the ruins of a destroyed building. It offered some small cover, allowing him to counterattack. Noah managed to blow the head off one, but the second wasn't making it easy. It launched several missiles, forcing him to run before a line of explosions knocked him off his feet.

He hit the ground rolling and got back up, locking onto the slade with his helmet. He fired a missile from his rifle's sub-barrel launcher, and as it flew, the small rocket-propelled dart adjusted its trajectory per his helmet's tracking system. It missed the slade, but distracted it long enough for Noah to end its life with a burst of gunfire. He didn't bother waiting around and continued through the rubble-strewn streets.

Up ahead, he saw a group of his comrades, each soldier wearing the black BDUs of the rebellion. "Sgt. Rothel, this is Cpl. Tiller. I'm two hundred meters north of your position." John Tiller, that was Noah's name at the time, just another to add to the long list. He had no true name, only what was given to him in each life.

The sergeant spotted him and signaled him over with hand gestures. Noah moved quickly and quietly over to the group. "Cpl. Tiller, where is the rest of your squad?" the sergeant asked.

"We got split up when our transport went down. The slades were on us immediately, and we couldn't regroup. I counted five guys dead on arrival, saw another three wounded, and the rest were in the wind."

"No one is where their supposed to be! We're totally fucked!" one soldier cursed.

"Shut it, Smith," the sergeant barked. "Long-range communication is down, so we can't get air support or reinforcements."

"We're not out of luck just yet," said Noah. "I saw a downed primer drone a klick to the west. If we can retrieve its power cell and a GALV missile, I can maybe rig up an EMP to take out one of their towers. That'll be our way through their defenses."

"I sure would like to see at least one of them go down today, Sgt.," said a soldier.

"All right. Lead the way, Tiller."

With Noah taking point, they navigated the ruined streets, gunning down slades as they appeared. This was the fifth alien invasion Noah had lived through, and it was pretty entertaining. Though their enemies were more powerful and technologically advanced, the war had stretched out long enough for the human resistance to acclimate to the threat and begin to turn the tide.

They arrived at the drone, a combination of human and stolen slade technology capable of flying remotely or with a human pilot. Though downed by a slade rocket, it was still relatively intact. As Noah went to work removing the power cell, the rest of the squad kept their eyes peeled and weapons raised.

An inhuman scream was heard from the wreckage of a nearby building, with a slade revealing itself and laying down a storm of automatic fire. One of the soldiers was ripped to shreds by the alien rounds, turning his blood purple. More slades appeared from all directions, slicing through the soldiers' cover with their lasers and bombarding them with missiles. Noah succeeded in retrieving the power cell and then went to work cutting off one of the drone's wings, with a missile still attached.

"Cpl. Tiller, haul ass!"

"I got it! Let's move!"

Five soldiers slung their rifles and hoisted the wing onto their shoulders. While they carried it, Noah and the rest of the squad covered their escape, gunning down the slades with reckless abandon. They left the area and ducked into a smashed parking garage, where Noah could work freely.

Following his instructions, a few soldiers helped remove the missile's casing and replace the exploding warhead with the drone's power cell. While they worked, he rewrote the missile's coding with a small computer on his wrist. Neither the missile nor the power cell was designed for this kind of use, but this was a theory that Noah wanted to test.

"That should just about do it."

"Just in time, too!" a soldier shouted. "Incoming siege tower at 4:00!"

All the soldiers looked up at the approaching craft. These metal siege towers, nicknamed after their medieval counterparts, floated over the battlefield while raining death from above from various artillery turrets. Their primary weapon was a laser cannon at the bottom, able to wipe out entire city blocks.

"Point the wing at the tower and draw its fire."

They hoisted the heavy slab of metal atop two blocks of concrete, aiming the missile with its exposed components at the approaching tower. The soldiers scattered while shooting the alien craft with everything they had. Explosions and bursts of plasma erupted across its surface, but its armor was far more powerful than what the slades wore. It returned the volley ten-fold, raining deadly artillery that leveled ruins and shredded bodies.

With his wrist computer, Noah fired the missile, producing a jet of flame that propelled it across the sky. The exploding soldiers managed to draw the tower's full attention, and the missile struck the side. There was no flash of light or explosion, but a mechanical groan bellowed as the onboard mechanics fried, and the tower fell out of the sky. Unfortunately, it was falling right toward Noah.

"Damn, this would earned me my promotion," he muttered.

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The bell rang with painful intensity, signaling the end of class. Students filled the hallways, heading off to their next destination like livestock. Noah was leaving history class on his way to lunch. One of his acquaintances in a matching letterman jacket followed him, complaining, as usual, that his brain wasn't made for studying.

"I swear, man, every time I have to remember another date or some ancient fag's name, I want to blow my fucking brains out."

He was expecting a response, so Noah got into character. "I know, dude. Seriously, who cares about this bullshit? It's all on the internet, so what's the point?"

Up ahead, he spotted a few other members of the football team gathered around a locker, talking and joking. Seeing him, one of the guys threw up his arms. "Yo, Scott! That last throw you did at the game blew my mind!"

"What can I say, I was in the zone! Man, you should have seen Julie after the game. She gave me a hummer the whole ride home."

The guys grunted and laughed, exchanging their sophomoric high-fives. Noah, or 'Scott,' as he was called, was the school quarterback, best in state history. In this life, he had decided playing in the NFL would be interesting and thought he'd use it as an opportunity to live out every cliché and stereotype of the high school jock lifestyle. It was just another crafted persona.

Though these lowbrows thought of him as their friend, to Noah, they were like chimps in the wild, and he had spent years earning their trust so he could observe the intricacies of their hierarchy and culture. He even got bad grades to blend in, but had a football scholarship that would take him to any school he wanted.

Slender arms wrapped around Noah's neck, and he felt a kiss on the back of his ear. "You aren't talking about me, are you?" a sultry brunette asked.

Julie was his cheerleader girlfriend. She was gorgeous and popular, the prom queen every boy dreamed of dancing with. She was also as shallow as a puddle and had the personality of a lottery ticket, but she completed the ensemble, and he had her trained in the bedroom to his liking, so he'd keep her around until graduation, same with his "friends."

"Nah, babe, you know I'd never do that," he said as he reached around and grabbed her ass.

As one guy started talking about a kegger planned for next weekend, another groaned from hunger. "Fuck, I'm starving. What are they serving today?" He was Travis, a guy whom Noah was sure had date-raped a girl at a previous party.

"You don't want to know," another said. "Come on, let's bail and go get some real food."

Everyone agreed, and they went out to the parking lot. He said "bail" instead of "sneak out" because there was no shortage of audacity as they left. The school wouldn't interrupt their fun if they kept filling in seats at games. Noah hopped into his car, an expensive convertible his parents bought him. His father was a wealthy lawyer who loved football, making him easy to manipulate, part of why Noah decided to focus this lifetime on football.

He peeled out of the parking lot with a screech, making Julie squeal in delight. His was a reckless, stupid life, but within 30 years, he was one of the most famous football players in the country and retired with more trophies and Super Bowl rings than he knew what to do with. As for what happened to Julie and the others, he didn't know or care.

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Endless tears poured down countless cheeks, the listeners hypnotized within their seats as the music washed over them. Here in Carnegie Hall, in the expansive gold-colored performance room, tickets had been sold out for months, with the most dedicated lovers of music coming to hear the masterful keystrokes of Michael Welbrin, regarded as one of the greatest piano players ever known.

He first graced this stage as a child, immediately regarded as a genius of the generation. Now, fifty years later, he still drew in crowds that few modern bands and singers could match. His music, be they covers or originals, played with people's emotions like puppets on strings, with zealot fans of all ages.

Strangers believed that his obsession with playing and fanatical practice schedule resulted from some mental illness, even going so far as to assume him an idiot savant. Those who met him were shocked and even intimidated by how intelligent and well-socialized he was. No one, not even his family, was aware that much of his unparalleled talent resulted from over a thousand years of life experience and accumulated hand-eye coordination. They didn't know that his devotion to the piano was not a life calling, more like an item on a to-do list.

Michael Welbrin was just one of Noah's lives focused entirely on the mastery of one instrument. In his previous life, it was the guitar, and in his next life, he planned to focus on the violin. This lifestyle had affected his body, changing the shape of his hands to improve dexterity and strengthening his wrists to withstand even the most severe carpal tunnel syndrome. Unfortunately, it came at a price, leaving him with tinnitus, back problems, and heart issues. His doctors warned him of the danger of his obsession, but these alterations just stirred his interest.

He was driven not by love, but by curiosity as to what the absolute pinnacle of piano mastery would be like, and how close musical talent could bring him to deification. He swore off friendship, hobbies, and anything else that might interfere with his ascension.

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The water around Noah was clear, letting him see the labyrinth of tree roots trying to colonize the river bottom. A turtle swam past him, first taking a moment to bite his goggles. Noah kept swimming, following the tails of the pink river dolphins. Here in the Amazon Rainforest, they swam through channels and flooded sections of forest, continuously searching for food and stimulation.

At first, they were wary of Noah and stayed out of his reach, but with patience and persistence, he continued his pursuit until curiosity overcame them. They doubled back and began swimming laps around him, crackling and squealing in excitement. Though not as social as their bottlenose cousins, they were far less fearful. Noah mimicked their movements, joining along in their games as they played with rocks and sticks. Their bodies, greater than his in size and weight, had exceptional flexibility and maneuverability, and their pink skin gleamed from the sunlight.

Looking up, Noah spotted a branch with a low-hanging fruit over the water. He surfaced and plucked it, sinking his teeth into it with relish. It wasn't fully ripe, but there was nothing fresher. As he ate, the dolphins swam up to him, curious about what he was eating.

He tossed the core to them, and they began knocking it back and forth with their noses. Noah was cold, wrinkled as a prune, covered in fish and bug bites, smelled like a muddy dog, and was beginning to think something had slithered up his urethra, but swimming with the dolphins of the Amazon River was an experience that made it all worth it.

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The techno music of the club echoed out into the alley, with Noah matching his thrusts to the beat. He was in St. Petersburg, balls-deep in some girl he had picked up from inside. She was bent over a trashcan, drunkenly moaning as she was caught between the pain of his rough indifference and the pleasure of his skill. When her voice dropped, a smack on the ass would get her going again. The night sky was overcast, drizzling onto the two of them with rain running off her tramp stamp.

"Come on, throw that ass back a little. Don't make me do all the damn work," he said in Russian.

He eventually pulled out, with his full condom loosely hanging off. As he removed it, he pulled her head back, with her mouth open like a gasping fish. She didn't object as he poured its foamy white contents onto her tongue, just picked up her half-empty vodka bottle and washed it down. Still not done, Noah pulled on another condom and resumed fucking her, even harder and faster than before. He paid no attention to her complaints.

Nearby, a homeless man lay in a cardboard box with a syringe sticking out of his arm. Though he was looking straight at them, it was hard to tell if he was actually watching. He gazed with dead eyes as he mumbled a song from his childhood in the countryside.

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The line of cars and trucks surged down the desert road, kicking up dust clouds, none of which seemed to deter the pursuing marauders. Here, in this land scorched by nuclear fire, the remains of mankind tried to make a living from the blood, sand, and metal. That's all that was left, after all. The convoy in front was full of refugees searching for a better life. Their cars had been retrofitted to handle the rough terrain and the broken roads, with only the most resilient vehicles surviving the chaos.

Behind them, a screaming horde on their war machines. Every car, truck, and vehicular amalgam was painted with flames and blood and decorated with spikes, skulls, and anything else that might invoke terror in their prey. The ravagers similarly adorned their bodies with tattoos, piercings, and war paint. Their teeth were filed down to points, all the easier to tear into human flesh. Rapists, cannibals, blood-drunk killers; they were the scum of the earth, and Noah was staring them down from atop an oil tanker. Here in the wasteland, his mission was to oppose these people, while in another lifetime, he had led them.

The gap between the two groups was closing, the last car in the convoy dangling in front of the marauders like a piece of meat. Behind it, a firetruck remade into a killing machine. Its ladder was reaching out, carrying several combatants armed with weapons forged in the fires of the apocalypse. Their target wasn't the car in the very back; no, that little sedan was flipped off the road by the cowcatcher installed on the firetruck. Their real target was the flatbed truck loaded with supplies.

Noah ran down the convoy, jumping from car to car. He approached the end of the line as the first marauder inched over the end of the ladder. Before he could drop down, Noah raised his weapon, a semi-auto shotgun with an extended magazine tube. The trigger's pull launched the first shell, blasting the attacker's heart out through his back. His corpse flopped down onto the road and was mashed into a bloody paste.

The next man on the ladder aimed a pistol, forcing Noah to duck down behind a spare parts crate. The fool wasted all his ammo, and Noah got back to his feet and ripped his head off with a deer slug. He then turned his aim to the firetruck driver, but a steel grate protected the windshield.

Noah leaned over the edge of the flatbed with the dusty wind blowing through his hair, all to get a good shot at the front-left tire. The shell ripped through the frayed rubber, and the firetruck went out of control. The driver tried to keep it straight, but he swerved off the road and flipped the truck over, killing all the other marauders onboard.

With the firetruck out of the way, other cars and trucks tried to close the gap while motorcycles rode up alongside the convoy. Noah took aim at one rider on a motorcycle and fired, splattering his corpse across the desert sands and sending his bike skipping across the ground. Next, he turned to a pickup truck pulling ahead off-road, and a shotgun blast ended the driver's life and sprayed the inside of the cab with his brains.

The flatbed began to swerve before Noah could take care of the next car. The driver had been shot through the neck with a crossbow bolt, and he would be dead in seconds. Among the crates and mountains of supplies, there was a dirt bike. Noah slung his shotgun, hopped on, and kicked it to life, riding off the truck before it veered off the road.

He sped away from the road, giving himself enough time to put some more rounds in his weapon, then slipped into the center of the horde. Using the handlebars to level his shotgun, he moved back and forth through dust clouds, blasting tires and sending cars smashing into each other.

A bullet winged Noah's shoulder, and he looked back to see the rest of the marauders closing in. Noah pulled a grenade out of his pocket, removed the pin, and threw it at a bus full of reinforcements, where it detonated right next to the gas tank. The resulting explosion lifted the bus off the ground and filled the interior with flames, burning the marauders alive and darkening the windows with smoke and bloody handprints. Still, the two-legged beasts kept coming, and Noah kept putting them down.