Etherwalker

by Cameron Dayton

  I know it was Koatul. I guess I was expecting fangs and scales and a forked tongue, even after having seen Ketzel. It’s hard to see past all of the stories and beliefs of the community I was raised in. I wonder if Koatul benefits from the Serpent image?

  The answer seemed obvious after a moment’s thought.

  Of course he does. It means that his name is paired with fear and revulsion. The Serpent doesn’t care to unite people, or to inspire them like father does. He seems to be devoted to isolating mankind, like molecules in a gas.

  Enoch was proud to have used his new understanding of physics in a simile. He smiled, but quickly became uncomfortable with the sensation. Something about this new feeling of pride, about this constant self-satisfaction, seemed contrary to him. Master Gershom had never been this way. But King Nyraud—my father—encouraged it. Said it was a prince’s right to recognize his own nobility. His duty. Enoch liked that. Or . . . he felt like he should. Frowning, he plucked a blade of grass and started to tie it into a knot.

  I need to learn from Mesha. There is nothing wrong with enjoying what I can do, nothing wrong with feeling that I deserve it.

  He pushed the worry out of his head. Tried to focus on the Serpent, on a question that had been nagging him for some time. It felt important.

  What does Koatul have to gain by keeping the world dark? If this tower—this Ark—is any indication of what people can do when they are organized and educated, then why wouldn’t any leader, evil or otherwise, want to utilize that power?

  I wonder if it has anything to do with the Pensanden? With the Silicon Covenant?

  Enoch’s thoughts were interrupted by a sound that he felt more than heard. It was pitched low, almost beneath what his ears could register. Enoch lifted the knotted blade of grass up to his eyes and watched it vibrate. The sound ended, and the grass went still.

  What was that?

  It started again, this time a little bit stronger. The sound rose in tone, held, and then fell. Enoch leaned over to put his ear to the ground.

  It’s music!

  Mesha heard it, too, had come over to sniff at the grass in front of Enoch. She looked up at him and purred, her fur shifting from black to honeyed yellow to grass green. If Enoch wasn’t mistaken, she was enjoying the music. And it seemed to be coming from underneath the grass.

  This was no surprise; Enoch was aware of the chambers underneath the Gardens. On his first secret trip up here he had sent his mind out to see if there were any mechanical elements in the area—it was something he did out of habit now. He had been surprised to find that the Gardens were merely an extension of what had originally been intended as a self-sustaining forest, something the crew could visit and spend time in as the Ark traveled. Nyraud had taken the irrigation system and expanded it across the entire top level of the tower—at least, the top accessible level. This was the top of King Nyraud’s domain. Naked girders framed the sides of the Gardens and extended in a broken web up towards the distant and unfinished tip.

  I still need to figure out what is drawing all the power up there.

  The music rumbled under his feet.

  But first, let’s find out what is hiding under the grass.

  Shutting his eyes, Enoch tried to clear his mind of the guilt he felt for this sneaking. He tried to clear his worry of being seen by the Huntsmen posted at the entrance. And he tried to clear the simmering excitement he still felt for having discovered the hidden elevator that brought him up here. He tried. It wasn’t working.

  This is how I treat my new father? With disobedience?

  Okay, this is the last time. I find out what’s underneath here and then I never come back. King Nyraud deserves a son who obeys him.

  Lips moving silently, Enoch began the litania eteria. He didn’t need to use it anymore, but he found the chant helped him to move into a deeper trance than just pausing could.

  His mind turned over, and Enoch could see the lines of force—the streams of electrons moving along live electrical wires and circuits—running underneath the grass. He quickly recognized a simple piston system, unlocked the coded latch, and pushed. A large square of grass began to lift away from the surrounding ground. It was a powered door, and when the pistons came to a stop, Enoch could see a metal ramp leading down into darkness. A dank smell wafted up from the opening, a smell that reminded Enoch of the sheep pens after a long cold winter. It smelled of animals. Mesha hissed and then leapt up on his shoulder.

  Perhaps this is where father breeds the manticores he lets loose in the Gardens. They’ll be in cages, but I’d best be careful.

  Enoch sent his mind ahead into the darkness, and sure enough, he found rows of cages with electrical hatches set to release upon the king’s command. Enoch checked to make sure they were all locked securely and then routed power to the familiar blue light-tube in the ceiling. He squinted as the chamber flickered into azure visibility.

  These aren’t manticores!

  The cages held people.

  A short, muscular man lay sleeping—or unconscious—in the nearest cage. His yellow hair and bristly beard reminded Enoch of Master Gershom. The cage next to this held a tall, dark-skinned woman. She was crouched warily, holding on to the bars with scarred hands and whispering in a language Enoch didn’t recognize. Like the man, she was dressed in a simple green tunic. It bore the arrow-sun mark of Nyraud.

  Are these prisoners? I assumed they were all kept down in the municipal building west of the tower—the place that looks like a big gray box. Maybe these prisoners are too dangerous for the shared jail grounds?

  Then why would they be kept here in the Gardens?

  Enoch craned his neck to look between the two rows, counted maybe a dozen cages.

  So many down here and I never heard a thing—well, until this music started. Why are they so quiet?

  As if in answer to his question, the music started again. The bars on the cages rattled in time with the low-pitched rumbling. The tall woman released her hold on the bars and flinched. Her eyes flashed towards the far end of the room. When she noticed Enoch’s stare, she stopped whispering and stepped back to the rear of her cage. Enoch caught a glimpse of a fresh scar at her throat. It was stitched with green thread.

  Have their voices been taken?

  He started walking down the row towards the large cage in the back. It seemed to be the source of the music.

  He tried to keep his eyes straight forward, tried to keep his attention away from these people. They reminded him of the poor men he had seen pulling the cart on that muddy trail in Midian—Rictus had told him about slaves. That sort of helplessness, that sort of exposure, bothered Enoch deeply. He passed another man, a red-haired adolescent who could have easily have been from Midian, and two more women. All of them were silent, all of them with scars on their throats. Enoch could smell sweat and urine mixed in with the fresh hay that covered the floor of their cages. The chamber stunk of fear.

  In the next couple of cages, he saw why. The enclosures didn’t all hold people. Some held monsters.

  I guess I was partially right about the manticores.

  A mated pair of the beasts crouched at the front of their cage, pressed against the bars with muscles quivering. Having never come so close to one before, Enoch couldn’t help but stare at the horrible things. Thin and feline at first glance, the creatures moved with a silent deadliness that reminded him of Mesha. That similarity stopped at the movement. A closer look revealed that these creatures were covered in thick, scab-colored scales and—Enoch gasped.

  Those faces!

  Their faces were those of babies. Round and rosy-cheeked, topped with a downy thatch of hair. One of the manticores stared up at him with soft blue eyes—not the fiery embers that Enoch had heard of in the stories. It cooed sweetly.

  The illusion was broken as the manticore opened those small pink lips and snarled. The creature’s actual mouth extended in a jagged line from those lips around to the edges of its head. Sharp white teeth were visi
ble from ear to ear.

  Repressing a shudder, Enoch walked on. The next cage was no better, even though Enoch recognized the inhabitant. Crouched in the darkest corner of his cage, the troll gave a bubbling groan. It was chewing on a mouthful of straw and staring hungrily at the manticores. Those terrifyingly familiar eyes, black and wet and set closely above a veined nose, blinked painfully in the overhead light. But Enoch saw something apart from hunger in those ebony buttons, something unexpected. Fear.

  What can scare a troll?

  Another rumble came from the final cage, and the troll pulled back further into his enclosure. Enoch squared his shoulders and rested his hands on the pommels of his swords.

  It’s in a cage. It’s in a cage.

  It was twice as large as any of the other cages and was partially covered by a canvas sheet. Mesha curled her tail tightly around Enoch’s neck. He could feel her muscles tense, ready to spring.

  Even behind bars, that thing can scare a troll.

  And then Enoch recognized the cage. It was the same one he had seen as he hid in the bushes! The same cage that had been pulled by all of those slaves! The rumbling music had stopped.

  He took a step forward.

  “You probably want to stop there. He took the arm of the last guard who interrupted his song.”

  Enoch spun to face the voice. It was young. And female.

  “Take a step back. That stain at your feet isn’t mud.”

  The smaller cage had escaped his notice, hanging from the ceiling next to the manticores. Enoch struggled to see who—or what—was inside. He could barely make out a frail form, the glimmer of metal.

  What stain—?

  Looking down, he could see the umber stain at his feet, and he took a quick step backwards.

  And just in time. A massive paw, tipped with ragged claws, struck out from the large cage and tore into the metal at Enoch’s feet. The largest claw ripped a gash mere inches from his toes. He shouted and leapt backwards, colliding with the troll cage.

  The troll lumbered forward, fear forgotten as it smelled warm food. Enoch recognized the sounds of a hungry troll. He sprung away from the bars and drew his swords. Mesha leapt to the ground.

  “Put those away, Shepherd Boy. You’re safe as long as you stay in the middle there, under the light.”

  The voice was right—the troll had already stopped and was rubbing at its eyes angrily. It gave another drooling moan, cast a glance at the big cage, and then shuffled back to its shadowed corner. Enoch was frantically looking back and forth between the troll, the suspended cage, and the enormous paw, which had retracted its claws from the five jagged holes it left in the metal. His mind spun.

  Focus! The troll is contained, and I’m beyond the reach of whatever is in that big . . . wait, ‘Shepherd Boy’?

  Enoch paused and looked into the hanging cage again. He recognized the pattern immediately. Metal woven into bone, graceful alloys of steel and brass and complex crystal.

  Not crystal. Piezoelectric ceramics.

  Enoch had recently been studying Alaphim bio-constructs in his obligatory Core Unit time. The artistry of their forms was a welcome relief from the monotonous weapon systems he’d been calibrating on the Ark. Enoch had hoped to escape into Babel and find an Alaphim . . . well, he wanted to find her. He sent more power into the light above the hanging cage, and it was fully illuminated. The troll groaned.

  And . . . I found her.

  The angel was just as beautiful as he remembered. Her cerulean hair was shorter, and it looked like her wings had been damaged, but she still had those vibrant eyes. The graceful neck that arched from sculpted shoulders. She raised an eyebrow and smiled.

  Unexpectedly, he smiled back.

  Focus!

  “What are you doing here? Why are you in that cage?”

  A horrible realization struck him.

  “Are you an enemy of my father?”

  The angel was taken back.

  “Your father? You mean that tall man wrapped in old sheets?”

  Enoch had no idea what she was—oh, she means Rictus.

  “No. I’ve been adopted by King Nyraud. I live here now.”

  For some reason, those words sounded silly to Enoch. As though he were bragging. The Alaphim was staring at him with her mouth open. He changed the subject.

  “Why are you here? With all these prisoners—and all these monsters?”

  The angel gathered herself and moved to sit at the front of her cage, dangling her feet over the edge. One of the manticores leapt towards her, colliding into the bars with a dull clang. She didn’t flinch.

  “Prisoners? Shepherd Boy, do you know why the king—your ‘father’—is called the Hunter King?”

  Enoch’s stomach tightened. He’d heard the stories. But after his time here with Nyraud, he had decided that they were ignorant fables born of the commoner’s envy. Imagined stories to decorate their evenings. Just like Old Noach Kohn’s Serpent Wives and their non-existent fangs. Enoch had first-hand experience with that fiction.

  “He is called the Hunter King because of his tireless pursuit of fallen technology. His quarry is the restoration of Babel to her former glory.”

  She was looking at him with pity.

  “. . . also, he really enjoys hunting.”

  His last sentence trailed into silence. King Nyraud was the perfect father, as far as Enoch could tell. He was smart, noble, and passionate about protecting his people. He was going to change the world, and he was going to do so with Enoch at his side!

  She must be an enemy of Babel. Of course she spreads lies about the king . . .

  “Your father does enjoy hunting, Shepherd Boy.”

  “Enoch. My name is Enoch.”

  “Very well, Enoch. I am Sera.”

  She gave as much of a bow as was possible from her confined space. Somehow, it still seemed graceful.

  “The tales of your father’s hunts are true, Enoch. I have witnessed many of them. He is an exceptional hunter, never losing his prey and never tiring of the chase. He tired of hunting the simple beasts years ago.”

  A rumbling song came from the big cage. Enoch looked down at the claw-marks on the ground and took another step back. He wasn’t going to let this go.

  “You are lying. You are being kept up here as an enemy to the throne, probably for spreading the same sort of lies you’ve been telling me.”

  Enoch turned and started walking back towards the ramp. He wanted to run.

  “I’m not lying, Enoch. Why would he keep ‘political prisoners’ caged next to trolls and manticores? You know that he loves to challenge himself. Loves the pursuit.”

  She’s lying! She’s trying to make me doubt my father, to doubt the man who has given me everything!

  Enoch stopped at the foot of the ramp, sent his mind out to cut power to the lights. As the chamber went black, Sera’s voice rang out desperately.

  “He hunts men, Enoch! He hunts men and women as well as monsters! You’ve got to let us free! Enoch! Enoch!”

  Enoch walked out and lowered the ramp. He could still hear Sera’s muffled shouting from under the grass.

  I guess they haven’t had time to cut out that traitor’s voice yet.

  Mesha leapt from his shoulder to chase after another bird.

  How long will father keep her down there with those monsters? How long until she’s learned her lesson?

  Enoch dropped to his hands and knees. Sera had stopped shouting, and the Gardens were silent.

  He is called . . . he . . . his tireless pursuit of . . .

  A low rumbling song echoed up from the ground, punctuated by sobs as Enoch drove his fist into the grass again and again.

  Chapter 18

  “Tenocht was the first of the Eastern Colonies, the first place considered safe by refugees from Pan Americana. There the people who had lifted the world and broken it chose to circle their wagons and lay low. The meager remnants of their tek were turned to protection and to survival.”


  —A Broken World, by Diego Thompson

  Mosk swung his claw through the door, shattering the fine wood and sending splinters through the air in an explosion of mahogany. The man stumbled backwards, barely catching himself against the balcony rail. He shook a piece of wood from his shoulder and returned to the senpelisto stance. A drop of blood fell from his right hand.

  Mosk circled to that side, pressing the attack. The man parried a lunge with his derech, then followed through with a downward slash from his curved iskeyar. The sword cut through the Hiveking’s left pri-arm spurs, severing two of them. With a rattling hiss, Mosk took a step backwards.

  The Nahuati, encouraged by the feint, drove forward with his straight blade. Against any other man, this thrust would have gone straight through the chest. Against a creature who had killed more blademasters than were alive today, it was a tiredly predictable move. Mosk snapped his barbed sub-arms up to catch the blade, then spun and pulled the man to his left. The man exhaled sharply and released the sword. Too late.

  The Hiveking brought both of his heavy upper arms down on the man’s unprotected back. Thick spurs pierced the skin and muscle, and the blademaster hit the ground with a groan. Mosk was surprised to see the man roll to the side and then stagger to his feet. This was a strong one!

  Before the man could raise his remaining blade, Mosk was on top of him. Pri-arms pushing the Nahuati’s head back, the Hiveking drove him to the floor. With a roar, he spread his toothed mandibles wide and then bit into the man’s chest, snapping through the sternum. Mosk felt hot red air burst from ruptured lungs.

  He ate as the man shuddered his last.

  Proximate Keq arrived several minutes later, his spurs also wet. They glittered darkly in the moonlight.

  The coldman waited until his Swarmlord finished, and then bowed.

  “My blood to your tongue, Sire. Command me.”

  Mosk waved the Clot Primal up.

  “Report, Keq. How many more in this building?”

  “We found three others trying to escape through the sub-levels. One was a blademaster, and our losses were commensurate. We lost seven of the battle caste and fifteen arakids. The remaining Clot is still searching the top floors, but I suspect we will find no more.”