Etherwalker

by Cameron Dayton

  “For some,” interrupted Rictus, causing Cal to pause, then purse his lips and look away. “You have to realize, Enoch, that you are getting this all from the mouth of a sheltered celebrity who lived the lap of luxury all his life. For many, it was a dark time. Those machines Cal refers to were not entirely mechanical, you see.”

  “And there were some who felt that the Pensanden had gotten drunk with their power. Imagine, Enoch, having the power that you do in a world of machines.”

  Enoch nodded, felt a chill rush along his skin. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or perhaps . . . pride? Excitement? Shaking the thought from his head, he leaned forward and tried to regain his focus on what Cal was saying.

  “It happened so fast that your folk never had time to learn wisdom with their power. They went from being a freakish little cult of drugged-out shamans and rogue mathematicians, to an omnipotent race of tribal technocrats.” Cal whistled low, and Rictus threw his hands in the air.

  “I know, I know, lame alliteration. Bad lyrics, I got it. It’s just how I talk, Cal. You’ve had centuries to get used to it.”

  Cal was grinning and shaking his head from side to side.

  “Ha—you know, this self-analysis may do you some good, Ric. I was actually responding to your aspersion of the Pensanden founders—what did you call them? Drugged-out shamans? Deny it all you might, my friend, but you’ve still got a touch of the old neo-luddite hatred. Still pointing a blame finger at the etherwalkers, eh?”

  Rictus was annoyed now and stared up at the ceiling, deliberately avoiding Enoch’s eyes.

  Cal took a long breath and continued. “Your ancestors combined Quiché Mayan Mysticism, parametric computer languages, Neo-Santería, and vigesimal geometry into a programmatic art-form that was . . . it was spiritual. And amazingly adaptable. Their innovations became the life blood of the Mexican Renaissance.

  “From Calistados barrio slums to ruling the world. All of it, Enoch. Many suffered at their hands before your folk finally grew into their power, if such a thing is possible.”

  Enoch looked down at his scarred wrists.

  “Maybe it was their humble origins, their mortal conscience which eventually stopped them—certainly nobody else could. The wisest amongst them, a sage who called himself Tepeu, finally called together the thirteen members of the ruling Tzolkin Core and drew up an accord—a pact, if you will. Something which would help the Pensanden to remember their responsibility towards humanity. I don’t know the details of this accord—”

  Enoch cleared his throat, and Cal stopped. The shepherd had a strange look on his face. He climbed to his feet and folded his hands behind his back, eyes fixed to the wall in front of him.

  “With minds blessed to enter the marrow of the world, with the vision which pierces, the thoughts which command, we shall keep one eye drawn to heaven, the other drawn to earth. Thus we bear the marks of feather and the scale, the talon and the fang. We are Ketzel and Koatul, above, below, beginning, end.”

  Rictus and Cal were staring at him oddly. Enoch touched the curling white scar at his wrist, the other on his hand. In the ensuing silence, he spoke reverently.

  “It is the Silicon Covenant, opening stanza to the Book of Tepeu. A revelation fulfilling promises made in the Popol Vuh. It was my first Reciting.”

  He lowered his hands in disbelief. All this time, the prophecies his master had made him learn, the endless hours of lessons.

  They were for me. For me and about me. He wanted me to know this history, the story of my lineage. He didn’t know if I would have the talent, but he knew my family. Now I understand.

  “What about the Schism, then?” asked Enoch. “I thought it was the time of Creation, when the land was divided from the sea. When the world was born.”

  Rictus nodded.

  “In a way it was, Enoch. We’ll get to that. The Pensanden, having grown into their power, now no longer desired to rule. They realized that this power which had given them free reign over humanity also chained them to lives of stewardship—to some it seemed slavery. Their ability to go within the machines is what made our comfortable little world possible. Without the constant, expert touch of their trained minds, the random and minuscule elements of chaos would have eventually ground the great network of mankind to a screeching halt.”

  Enoch frowned at this. It didn’t seem right.

  “But if they truly did not want to rule, why not just let it all wind down?” he replied. “That would have solved the problem for them.”

  Cal spoke up, somewhat irked that the story had been stolen from him.

  “You see, Enoch, for your kind, the more these powers are used, the stronger they become. Practicing the art heightened their senses, increased the sensitivity of the nervous system, and produced a general endorphin rush. They were addicted to it—quite literally so. Electron junkies.”

  But I’ve felt the power, and it hurt. It burns. Why would I choose to . . . ?

  With a start, Enoch realized that Cal was wrong. The Pensanden weren’t addicted to their power.

  “No, don’t you see? The Silicon Covenant. They couldn’t just let the world fall apart because they didn’t want to rule. They had already sworn themselves to the stewardship of mankind. They wore the marks of their oath.” Enoch held up his hands.

  Rictus looked at him with eyebrows raised. Cal gave the shoulder-less equivalent of a shrug.

  “Well, whatever the reason, they decided they didn’t want to be gods anymore. And that is where the real problem started. Now we’re getting to the Schism.

  “You see, while the Pensanden had suddenly been struck by a bout of conscience, it didn’t necessarily mean that they had been humbled. They assumed that with their peerless control of all things tek, it should be easily within their ability to create an artificial intelligence powerful enough to perform their responsibilities for them.

  “A small number of your folk were actually against the idea. They believed that a mechanical intelligence would never be able to deal with the myriad complexities of humanity with any sort of compassion. The majority of the etherwalkers disagreed, however.”

  “Xolotl,” interrupted Rictus.

  “Yes,” said Cal. “He lead the group. Xolotl Gabriel Villa. A brilliant man and he claimed to have the solution. By combining and digitizing the personalities of the ruling Pensanden, he would create a group-mind which would oversee the governance of the world’s greasy gears with proven efficiency—and there would be no need for the exhaustive trials and testing any ‘synthetic intelligence’ would require. Already weary of the burden, the majority of the Pensanden agreed to Xolotl’s plan and set to work making it a reality. They named it Quetzalcoatl—the name of God in an ancient tongue.”

  Enoch remembered the verse in chapter twelve of Tepeu’s book.

  “And in their pride did they spin the world to ash. In their folly did they cast a graven image and adorned it in robes foreordained unto themselves.”

  Rictus chuckled, breaking the reverent silence jarringly.

  “Looks like you know the rest, kid. The tek went nuts for some reason—the complexities and foibles of the human minds it was patterned after didn’t jive with its perfect structure, I suppose. The duality of human existence and all that. Just split it apart. Whatever was left in the ashes suddenly decided that your ancestors needed to die for the crime of siring it. That’s when the Hunt was kindled. The world wound down. The colonies on Mars, Venus, and the Jovian moons were cut off. War and factionalism had apparently not been forgotten in the years of peace, and humanity ended up destroying whatever the machine left when it was done.

  “There was a manic hatred towards any and all things tek. Scientists, teachers, anyone with learning of any kind were killed or forced into hiding. Libraries were burned, factories destroyed—” he waved his hand expansively, “—and this world was born. The coldmen, who, ironically enough, had been created by the Pensanden for entertainment in their arenas, became their hunters. Koatul,
as the remnant machine named itself, converted the entire western hemisphere into its warren and then sank into myth. I believe the smallfolk refer to Koatul now as the Serpent.

  “So the only scraps of what the world once was are a few crumbled buildings, some malfunctioning Units, and a couple of tired, long-forgotten entertainers.” He gave a bony grin to Cal and then folded his hands over the steady red pulse at his chest.

  “The religions of this day are all loosely based on those happenings. The Winged One, the popular god of our age, is based on the hope for another surviving remnant of the original master machine. Something as powerful as Koatul yet benevolent and wise. Maybe Ketzel? Cal thinks you may have heard from it. I think you got a screwy Unit, but unless we want to risk our lives being traced on a public machine, I guess it’s all up in the air . . .”

  “Not necessarily,” interjected Cal, a sly grin creeping across his dried apple face. He motioned towards the closet door behind Rictus with his eyebrows.

  “Open that door, boy. I’ve got a present for you.”

  As Rictus gave Cal a questioning glance, Enoch climbed wearily to his feet and walked to the rear of the room. The shadowcat was suddenly visible at the door, sniffing under the crack.

  “Looks like your little friend wants to ruin the surprise for you,” chuckled Cal. “Have you named your mate yet?”

  Enoch froze mid-step.

  “Mate?”

  “Of course,” said Cal, mock-surprise on his face. “I ought to know when I see a shadowcat—even a Garronian mix-up like this—protecting her mate. The King himself used to trap them up in the Akkadian Woods, before they became too rare. He’d parade his trophies around town in wire cages before taking them up to that private garden of his. Sometimes he’d even line up battles in the coliseum—shows for the commoners when he grew bored of his pets. By themselves, shadowcats can hold their own, but usually they will just try to escape. That chameleon pelt of theirs makes it damn near impossible to find them. But once you throw a mated pair into the ring . . .” Cal whistled, eyebrows peaking. “I once saw a she-cat tear the eyes out of a young manticore when it gobbled her mate. You got yourself quite a commitment there, boy.”

  Enoch blushed. The shadowcat, as if in response to the conversation, turned from the door, hissed, and then proceeded to wind her way up Enoch’s legs to perch on his shoulder. Both Cal and Rictus laughed.

  “So what have you named her, boy?” said Cal, grinning. “Can’t have a girlfriend without a proper name.”

  Enoch decided to ignore their teasing and instead scratched thoughtfully at the creatures’ pointed ears. Her eyes waned into slits.

  “There was a statue in the commons at Rewn’s Fork. I . . . I don’t know if it even stands anymore, now that those monsters have passed through. It was nothing so grand as any of the monuments I have seen here in Babel, but I remember looking at it often as my master did business with the townsfolk. It was cut from the native stone—rough and blocky—but it was beautiful. I used to think it was an angel, but now I know it was an Alaphim, kind of like the one I just saw over in the market. But scarier. All dressed in armor, with a sword in one hand and a man’s head in the other. She was holding the head high in the air like a trophy.”

  Rictus nodded his head in recognition, raising a finger in the air.

  “Sounds like the Alaphim Princess Mesha Frost, also known as the Blue Valkyrie. She was the first to uncover the treachery of the Arkángels, and she killed the traitor who started it. He was her lover.”

  “Master Gershom said that the statue was called ‘Mesha Triumphant’—and that it should remind me to always treat women with respect. Or else.” Rictus chuckled at that. Enoch cupped the shadowcat’s pointed face in his hand and looked into the deep, moonlight eyes.

  “I’ll call you Mesha.”

  “Alright,” remarked Cal, rolling his eyes, “let us move on to what is behind door number three!”

  Enoch could see no other doors in the room other than the one they had come in through, but he decided to open the closet door anyway. A cool draft welcomed him as the door creaked open to reveal—nothing. The cluttered darkness of a forgotten closet. Enoch turned to face Cal, hands on his hips.

  “Okay, I get it. More fun with the shepherd. There’s nothing here.”

  Cal turned to Rictus, an impatient look on his face.

  “Does he always jump to conclusions so fast?” He shot Enoch an irritated glance. “Pull the cord, foolish boy. Of course you can’t see with the light off.”

  Enoch narrowed his eyes suspiciously, then turned back to the closet. He reached around until encountering a piece of twine dangling from the ceiling. With a click, yellow light filled the space.

  Strange objects—broken odds and ends, refuse from the tavern, and some dust-covered shapes which Enoch suspected were abandoned prosthetics—were stacked against the walls reaching up to the ceiling. Enoch’s hair stood on end as another chill draft passed over him. It came with a metallic odor, oil-blue and tangy. At the back of the room was a staircase leading down into more shadow. This was where the draft had originated. Cal’s voice came from the other room.

  “See that staircase, boy? Leads right down to the roots of the city. Who knows what we might find amidst Babel’s twisted toes, eh?”

  Enoch turned excitedly around, almost dislodging a surprised Mesha.

  “Is there a passage to the north?”

  Infected by the excitement, Sal started jumping up and down in his hammock, hooting.

  Rictus was shaking his head, arms crossed. Cal noticed and smiled.

  “Slow down there, etherwalker. Don’t go jumping ahead of yourself again. We are going to have to wait until nightfall—I got business to take care of now. And don’t you think of taking off without old Cal. You’ll get lost after your first ten steps down there without me.”

  Enoch slumped to the floor. “Well, what will we do until then?”

  Cal’s smile broadened, the dry wrinkles on his face webbing up like shattered glass.

  “Go back into that closet and bring out the long, black case marked ‘Fender.’ I think it’s about time Rictus made it up to me for bringing trouble to my doorstop.”

  Rictus tilted his head as Enoch went to retrieve the case.

  “It’s been a long time, Cal. I’m sure you can pipe rings around me with that flute of yours.” Rictus nodded towards the odd-angled conglomeration of flutes and whistles bolted to Cal’s harness. Cal rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  “You think that the fine clientele of the Headsman’s Hole are going to pass up a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see the return performance of the Dogfish Knights?”

  Enoch set the oddly shaped case in front of the specter, watching with fascination as the bony hands caressed the black leather case and the bronze lettering. The clips holding the case closed flipped up smartly with little puffs of dust. Rictus let out a low whistle as he raised the lid.

  “Now that is a fine axe, my friend.”

  The cherry red guitar gleamed silkily in the electric light, casting molten reflections up into the specter’s grin. Rictus lifted it gently, carefully, cautiously—as though it were babe in his arms. Or a scorpion.

  Enoch had seen simple wooden guitars before, carried around by wandering minstrels that passed through Rewn’s Fork. But this instrument! It almost seemed a living creature, curved and gleaming. There was a slight popping noise as Rictus plugged the long black cord that hung from the guitar into his LifeBeat. A low, sinister hum filled the room.

  Rictus looked up from the guitar, the strange grin on his red-lit face sending chills up Enoch’s spine.

  “Show me to the stage, Cal. I’m gonna break this baby in.”

  Chapter 10

  “Then was Gucumatz filled with joy.

  Thou art welcome,

  Oh Heart of the Sky,

  Oh Hurakan,

  Oh Streak of Lightning,

  Oh Thunderbolt!”

  —Popol Vuh 1:
15, Maya-Quiché Genesis, New Century Revised Edition

  The war-drones were uncomfortable in these lofty passageways, betraying their nervousness with an absentminded clicking of mouthparts. Mosk gave them the claw sign of Death for Cowardice and the sound stopped immediately. The Silverwitch who followed him nodded in approval. Kai had been a wonderful and unexpected find, appearing at the end of their fruitless search with news of the Pensanden.

  The entourage had been slowly winding up through the belly of this famed Tower for over an hour now, and the King regaled them with a seemingly endless supply of anecdotes and historical background for each branch and tunnel they passed through. The exotic tapestries and carpets which lined the walls and floor, signs of Babel’s position as the crossroads of this primitive land, did an admirable job of disguising the true nature of the Tower. As the group rose higher and higher up, evidences of the incomplete and decrepit nature of the edifice became more apparent. Entire walls were open to the sky. The King called them balconies, acting as though they were deliberate acts of architecture, and took advantage of each of these openings to admire the view of the sparkling city sprawled out below them in the darkness.

  Kai finally spoke.

  “King Nyraud, I begin to suspect that we are taking a less-than-direct path towards your council room. While we are not unsympathetic toward your concepts of hospitality and exhibitionism, our patience does have its limits.”

  Several of the more foolish of the King’s courtiers gasped at the creature’s tone—that one would talk so to the Hunter King! Nyraud covered their sounds with laughter, and bowed to the Silverwitch and the Swarmlord with a flourish. The torches had gone out in this most recent section of “balcony,” and the gesture would have been lost in the wan moonlight if not for the King’s cape. The garment flowed over his shoulders in a cascade of pelts from a dozen rare and deadly beasts, scintillating indigo, silver, and cream.