Etherwalker (13 page)

Rictus nodded and gestured towards Cal with another sweeping bow.

Enoch leaned forward nervously.

Do I really want to know this?

He glanced down at the shadowcat, which was nosing around at his feet. Rictus noticed Cal’s discomfiture and shook his head.

“Don’t worry—she’s housebroken. Made sure to do her business on Enoch’s shoulder.”

Enoch jumped at this, frantically pulling his vest around to investigate. Rictus laughed.

“Wow, you are easy to take—that was a joke, kid. Good thing you don’t duel with that brain.”

He turned back to Cal.

“The lil’ shadowcat hybrid is as manicured as one of Nyraud’s courtesans. She won’t mess on your spotless floor, don’t worry. Hurry and get on with the tale before you pop a vein, Cal. I know how you geezers love to talk about the good old days.”

Cal ignored the jibe and began to speak.

“Ok, first and foremost—this world didn’t used to be the half-bred schizophrenic wreck it is now. You know, the other day I saw a man selling Unit parts out of a murwagon. A murwagon! Can you believe it?”

Rictus chuckled along with Cal. Enoch stared at them. He didn’t get the joke. Cal noticed and cleared his throat again.

“No . . . no, I guess that wouldn’t seem strange to you. You’ve grown up in this world, after all. You wouldn’t think it funny to see giant rats bridled as beasts of burden now that the horses are gone. Or to see their smaller cousins—I still laugh at what happened to the mice, Ric—filling the niche left empty by wolves. Mickey, I hardly knew ye.

“Anyway, as I was saying, this used to be a very different place. We owned the world. Do you know what I mean by owned, Enoch? I mean that it was clay in our hands. We could do anything with it, go anywhere, and see anything. Our cities stretched from sea to shining sea, as the old ditty goes—but this time, it was literally
every
sea. And even underneath them. We had cities on Mars and some of the Jovian moons. Colonies on other systems—circling other stars—were planned.”

Here Rictus pointed up in the direction of the Ark and shrugged. Cal continued.

“There was nothing out of reach for us. Oh, it was a grand time. We had learned to control the smallest of things, the tiny codes in our bodies that make up what we are. We gave animals speech, read dreams from stone, and had every miracle of the imagination at our fingertips. Tireless machines waited upon our every need. They grew our food, fixed our bodies, and entertained us. Your folk,” here he nodded towards Enoch. “Your folk, the Pensanden, made it all work. They’d made it happen—they were the first to connect the dots, oil the gears, and light the lights. It was a golden time, the pinnacle of humanity . . .”

“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.”