You can take your shiny tek and ride it back to Tenocht, sir. I spent two years potty training Sal, and another teaching him the difference between a whiskey sour and a Rob Roy. I can deal with the fleas.
—Calvin Jie, disgruntled bartender
The tavern, if it could be called that, seemed to be a halfhearted attempt at copulation by three or four run-down buildings of various styles and compositions—an architectural orgy of splintered beams, pockmarked columns, and drooping lintels. Its sign hung crookedly from a rusted iron ring over the front porch, swinging in the slow breeze. At some distant point in the tavern’s history, the sign had been painted with festive colors, colors now bruised with the pale marks of age. Enoch could just make out the crudely drawn logo: a naked man sitting on some sort of a rounded chair, his head draped in black cloth, a comically large axe across his knees.
Rictus spread his long, spidery arms expansively in a scarecrow embrace. “This, my young friend, is the Headsman’s Hole. There is no finer tavern in all of Babel, excluding, of course, the ones which use plates.”
With a laugh, Rictus pulled the dusty shrouds from his shoulders. Already tattered from the journey, they practically disintegrated at his touch and fell to the damp pavement in a cloud of dust. Enoch didn’t follow suit—even if they were now entering safe territory where disguise was no longer necessary, he felt safer incognito. He wasn’t sure he wanted anybody noticing his swords until he was ready to use them.
Entering the tavern was much like walking into a den of sleepy nerwolves. The low-pitched murmuring was occasionally punctuated by mad laughter, slurred cursing, and the clanging of tin mugs; the heady smell of an overcooked roast struggled to dampen the less palatable odors of unwashed men and stagnant pinebeer. A pair of frazzled youth—gender entirely indistinguishable—trudged back and forth from the kitchen carrying trays piled high with mugs and steaming piles of meat. Thick, vermilion clouds jetted from the brass pipes of bleary-eyed coral smokers, hiding anyone or anything from scrutiny in the flickering orange lamplight.
Feeling conspicuous, Enoch rushed to catch up with Rictus, who strode through the gaggle of drunkards, thieves, and worse as though he had just arrived home. Few people looked up at the gangly apparition, and those who did so showed only casual interest. This frightened Enoch, for what could be more dangerous than a place where specters were a common sight?
This train of thought was interrupted by a strange sound coming from the back of the tavern. It was oddly out of place in this din—the odd part being that something could actually sound so uniquely incompatible in this boiling stew of sounds. Enoch was reminded of a pan flute, common enough in sheep country, but this was something different—more complex in tone, yet beguiling in its melody. Wistful and elegant, the music swam untouched through the heavy air, weaving in and out of the mumblings of the crowd in melodious counterpoint.
It was a music that, for a few sweet moments, brought Enoch out of the harshness of his immediate surroundings. He would have been content to stand there listening forever, but Rictus had almost disappeared into the crowd, heading straight for the source of the music. Enoch scurried after him.
“Cal, you dried out piece of fly candy, how’s it hangin’?” Rictus’s voice rose in raucous greeting.
The music stopped just as Enoch reached the front of a small stage. At first, he had to look around to see who Rictus was addressing. There was an ape on the stage, connected to some weird apparatus, but he could see no one else.
Just then the ape crouched, bringing the apparatus on its back into the light. Enoch gasped. A wrinkled human head was strapped to the animal, wrapped in dusty skin almost as leathery as Rictus’s. And, like Rictus, a snakelike metal tube emerged from the withered neck stump and connected to a steel box which was adorned with a dull red light. It blinked in syncopation to the one nested in his companion’s chest. As the ape scratched itself, the head turned to glare at the tall specter and then lifted an eyebrow.
“It is ‘hanging,’ my crude friend, just as it always has. In the antique store across the street on a very large stand.”
Enoch jumped back as both of the apparitions burst into sandpaper laughter. He didn’t know what surprised him more, that Rictus was friends with an animated head, or the fact that the head spoke with a cultured, high-society accent. Strapped to one of the ape’s shoulders was a thin metal stand which held in its branching arms an odd assortment of whistles, flutes, and reeds.
Is this the musician I heard earlier?
As if in response to Enoch’s thought, the head leaned down and blew a short staccato melody on one of the pipes. The ape cocked its head in attention and then leapt up to the crossbeams above the stage, swinging from one hairy arm. The head blew into another pipe, this time a short copper tube. A piercing whistle rang through the crowd, and all eyes turned toward him.
“Attention, ladies and gentlemen, all esteemed clientele of this most hospitable of drink-houses!”
Laughter rang out from all corners of the room, both for the genuine pride in the speaker’s voice and for the insinuation that ladies, gentlemen, or even anything as banal as “clientele” would ever frequent this tavern. Another whistle quieted them.
“It is my honor as proprietor of the Headsman’s Hole to announce the long-awaited return of the most despicable villain ever to survive the Schism, my drinking chum for the past three centuries or so, and the one-time lead guitarist for the extremely overrated Dogfish Knights. Drinks are on the house.”
As drunk and buzzed as they were, the crowd understood the last sentence, and a lusty cheer went up. Several entirely drunk fellows actually walked up to Rictus and patted him on the tattered shoulder in warm congratulations for something or another.
Rictus looked up at the simian-mounted head with a boney grin. “Cal, you unrequited ham, come down from there and talk with us.” He unstrapped the monstrous sword from his shoulder and leaned it against the little stage. “And the Dogfish Knights had three platinum albums, unlike your woefully undersold little recordings.”
The head, which Enoch guessed was Cal, whistled another short blast and was soon back on the stage in front of them. Cal’s parchment skin pulled into a dramatic scowl, exposing a yellow patch of skull above his wrinkled brows.
“I played to sold-out crowds in San Vegas for fifty years, Ric,” growled the animated head. “The Knights were a lucky flash in the pan right before it all went dark, and you know it.”
Rictus grinned as he tapped the pulsing red light at his chest. “At least I could afford to get the latest LifeBeat tek, Cal. Full body preservation, they called it. She be a marvelous thang.” He stretched his long arms in a mock yawn. Enoch thought the gesture oddly vain in such a hideous character, but he couldn’t repress a smile.
I guess it’s all relative.
“The preservation being what it is,” smirked Cal, eyeing Rictus up and down, “I’m glad I opted for the economy model. You look more like the Grim Reaper every century.”
“Look who’s talking, monkey-boil!” retorted the specter. “The biggest tragedy of the Schism was that it failed to remove modern man’s most annoying creation—the self-righteous musician.”
Rictus winked at Cal as he reached down to scratch the ape behind the ears. “The second-biggest tragedy is that out of all the dubiously serviceable parts of your lackluster body, you had to preserve this one.” He rapped Cal on the pate with a bony knuckle.
The grumbling head broke into laughter and invited Rictus to have a seat over in the corner. “So who is your short companion?”
Rictus pulled some of the shroud away from Enoch’s face. “This is Enoch Gershom, Shepherd Extraordinaire.” Enoch wasn’t sure, but he thought he was being insulted. He pulled the shroud to one side, careful not to disrupt the shadowcat while letting Cal see the derech at his belt.
“Enoch Gershom of Midian, charge of Master Levi, at your service, sir.” He tried to remember formal speech from his lessons, but he wasn’t sure it was coming out right. “We seek safe haven.”
For some reason, Rictus was grimacing and making slicing motions with his hands. For some other reason, Cal wasn’t impressed. He turned toward Rictus, catching him in mid-gesture.
“What is this? A refugee kid with illegal blades? I know better than to ask this, but are you mad?” Enoch could see that Cal was angry, judging by the red light at his neck pulsing faster. Even the ape looked agitated.
Rictus winced, leaning close to his furious friend and whispering. “You know me, Cal. I would never bring danger to your doorstep if I had any other options. There is something important going on, and I knew you were the only one I could trust to help me out. This is big stuff.”
Cal laughed bitterly at this. “You’ll notice,” he remarked, addressing Enoch, “that he says that as though I’m at the top of the list of his dearest chums. He still thinks he can run around with that big sword of his and change the world. He still thinks he matters, that he’s a star.”
He blew three quick notes into a tiny silver flute, and the ape responded by pointing a long, hairy finger at Rictus. “You, my skeletal friend, have become the stuff of nightmares. The few of us sad, sorry remnants of the old world are now mythology. We’re out of style, Ric. The curtain is down. Show’s over.”
Enoch jumped as Rictus slammed his fist down on the table.
“You think I don’t know that!”
Several people in the bar were now staring at them. Rictus noticed and lowered his voice.
“Cal, it was only a few months ago that I came across the remains of one of ‘our kind’ in the ruins. I think he had been a comedian—remember those?—from down in your neck of the woods. He had purposefully pulled a boulder on top of himself, crushing every bone into splinters. But this damn thing”—he gestured angrily at the box at his chest—“this miracle of immortality was still flashing. I could hear the poor bastard talking to himself under the rock, telling jokes about airplane food and taxes.”
Cal closed his eyes and sighed. Rictus continued.
“I could see the red light through a crack underneath, but I couldn’t do anything. The rock was too heavy. He’ll be there forever, Cal, and you know what? I think he prefers that to being here. At least he’s not scaring people, not being called a monster—a specter! And it hasn’t been so long that I’ve forgotten about Robyn.”
Cal twisted his mouth in distaste at the mention of the name.
“You think I could forget how that mob tore her apart?” said Rictus, voice lowering. “You think I could forget how we found her few remaining pieces, still twitching in anguish? You, who hide from the world in this dark hole, you dare accuse me of being out of touch?”
Cal had his tired eyes cast down, his jaw set. He blew softly into the silver flute and the ape pulled a rag from its belt and proceeded to polish the surface of the wooden table. Enoch hardly dared to breathe.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Ric,” Cal said. “Times have been tough with this new king in the tower. He wants places like mine cleared out of the city. His guards have been roughing up my customers. The other day they tried to take Sal—claimed I needed a license for him.” The ape looked up in recognition of its name, and then returned to polishing the table. “I have a lot on my mind. And it is worrisome not seeing you for so long. Fifty years, Ric. Fifty. That’s a long time, even if you’re immortal.”
Rictus reached out, touched Cal’s furrowed cheek. “I forget that time moves slower for you here in the city with all these people,” he said, raspy voice almost gentle. “Out in the ruins, the years fly by, just . . . just invisible. Empty like old ghosts.”
Cal chuckled. “You always did write dreadful lyrics.”
Rictus just shrugged. “You’re right. That’s why the kids loved me, you know. Cheesy lyrics appeal to them. That’s why your fans were all blue-haired old biddies.”
Enoch sighed with relief as the two broke out laughing again. He didn’t understand exactly what had been communicated between these two ancient creatures, but he had a feeling it was something deep and centuries beyond him.
Cal blew a few notes, and the ape leaned forward, simultaneously tucking the rag into its belt. “Now, what is this trouble you mentioned? I’ve got a feeling in my long-absent gut that your little Nahuatito friend is only the tip of the iceberg.”
Rictus glanced around to see if anyone was listening, his dry eyes rolling like ivory marbles. “Do you have someplace we can go to talk?” he whispered. “There be snakes in the walls . . .”
Cal jerked his head back at this, and then, regaining his composure, blew into the flute. The ape turned and shuffled toward a stairway in the back. “This way,” he said, then he turned to address one of the drab youths at the bar. “Kris, you’re in charge ’til I get back. No fighting and no more free drinks.”
Amid the chorus of groans from around the bar, Rictus grabbed his weapon and stood. With a questioning glance, Enoch stood as well, then turned and followed the ape as it bounded up the steep wooden stairs behind the bar.
At the top was a narrow hallway lined with doors on both sides. It was lit by a long, slender lamp on the ceiling, which flickered with an odd blue light. Cal turned and gestured up with a caterpillar eyebrow as the ape continued to the end of the hall.
“The city still provides a meager amount of juice for taxpayers. Meaning, of course, that they shut me off months ago, but I have my connections. Having a real incandescent light adds a touch of class to the joint, eh?”
Rictus chuckled at that. Cal pretended not to hear.
“Yeah, I know a guy down in Scrapfield who makes the bulbs. Of course, decorative lighting isn’t the only reason for my illicit sipping of the city’s power.”
The ape reached the door at the end, and after fumbling with a key ring at its belt, managed to open it. With an enigmatic glance, Cal motioned them into the dark room with his head.
“This is my own private luxury suite, gentlemen, so please remove your shrouds at the door.” Cal glared at Enoch.
Enoch set the shadowcat on the floor, and then pulled the dusty shroud from his head, ripping it down the front in his haste. The ancient cloth fell into threads on the floor. Cal rolled his eyes as the ape shuffled to a corner of the room and flipped a switch. A bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered to life.
The room was relatively simple compared to what Enoch had imagined a “private luxury suite” would be. A hammock hung from the low ceiling over a pillow in one corner. An oblong woven rug adorned the floor, leading up to a simple table holding a hammered metal basin. A door in the back led to what Enoch assumed was the closet, although what Cal would need an entire closet for was beyond his guess.
A large collection of hats?
A short tune caught his attention, and he turned to see the ape unbuckling Cal from its back and placing him gently on a pillow before leaping up to the hammock, where he sat quietly, regarding the shadowcat with deep-set eyes.
“Now,” said Cal, wiggling himself deeper into the pillow, “What is all this about snakes in the walls, Ric? There haven’t been coldmen in this part of the world for years.”
Rictus leaned his sword against the table, and, motioning for Enoch to sit on the rug next to him, folded his scarecrow figure to the ground. “This should explain everything,” he said, grabbing Enoch’s scarred wrist and raising it to the light.
Cal gasped. “Is that what I think it is?”
Rictus nodded.
“But the Pensanden are all supposed to be dead! Scales, Ric, you know how to find trouble!”
The specter motioned for Cal to lower his voice. “I found him in the southern ruins making friends with a band of cutthroats. They were being led by that mek witch we caught wind of in Uxmal—remember Kai? Well, she had sniffed me down to the Emim Reaches and was waiting for my next move when she caught this little surprise instead. He completely wrenched a silverwitch, Cal. I’m talking full paralytic reformat.”
At this, Cal swallowed and glanced down at the steadily blinking light buried in his pillow. “Go on.”
“It gets worse. He’s been chased from Midian by coldmen, and from how he tells it, they rode draconfly and hunted with arakid. We’re talking a full-scale Hunt. It’s a miracle he’s still alive.”
“But how? And in Midian? There were never any Pensanden in that little barony.”
Rictus shrugged his bony shoulders. “His master wore these,” he ventured, gesturing toward Enoch’s swords. “Perhaps he was sent down from Cuitla or Tenocht, one of the big northern cities. He seems to have trained him in the Nahuat style, and the boy can do the mindtrance as though born to do it. He’s an odd kid.”
Enoch was getting more than a little angry at being called a kid; in fact, he was downright incensed at being labeled “odd” by these two fleshless specters.
Cal furrowed his brow in thought. “Question is,” he mumbled, “what to do with him?”
Enoch thought it about time that he had a say in all this. “What I will do is go north to Tenocht and find the blademasters. That is what I was instructed to do by my master. Whether you wish to help me or not is your own concern.”
The shadowcat at his feet hissed in assent. While part of Enoch was angry at being left out of the planning by his undead allies, part of him dreaded heading out alone again. But he would do as his master had said, alone or not.
Rictus and Cal looked at each other and chuckled.
“Oh, there’s no doubt about it now,” grinned Cal. “He’s Pensanden.”
Placing a spidery hand on Enoch’s arm, Rictus shook his head. “We are not going to kidnap you away from your holy mission, Enoch,” he said, still paternal, but with a touch of something Enoch guessed was apology. “But I’m starting to think that north is the most dangerous direction for you to be heading right now. No offense, but after watching you in Babel, I think our best plan is to lay low. If anything, we should be heading east into the Akkadian hills. The caves there would offer a perfect hiding place until you grow into your powers and the Hunt dies down.”
Rictus shook his head. “North . . .” he said bleakly, “. . . lie the last remnants of the Serpent’s power on this side of the world. It would be like walking into your own grave.”
Enoch felt . . . confused. This was new information that didn’t fit with what he knew. Why would Master Gershom want me to go to Tenocht? Did he know how dangerous it would be?
The forest at night, his master bleeding out into the dead leaves. Those final words, weaker with every breath.
Enoch’s trust in Master Gershom had been a constant. It was something that had always held true, in spite of the noise and confusion from Rewn’s Fork. From anywhere.
“Nevertheless,” said Enoch, “I go north.”
Rictus rubbed his temples in exasperation.
Cal suddenly spoke up. “Tenocht. I don’t know. Apart from the Nahuat, there are several powerful factions in that city with a reputation for dodging the Forked Tongue.”
Shaking his head, voice bridled with what sounded like frustration, Rictus protested. “Cal! To get there we would have to pass between the Sister Seas. Garron is nestled right between the two, and need I remind you of the hospitality of the Swampmen?” Rictus ground his yellow teeth.
“So we either risk the western coast and manticore hives or the Gray Wastes to the east. And the Rookbane still patrols the dunes to the north, my friend, and he looks less gently upon our kind than he does Enoch’s. The idea of us passing safely through such lands is preposterous. Enoch may be the last of his kind, and if so, we need to protect him from danger, not thrust him into it.”
Cal scoffed. “What? You think this boy is any better than his forbearers? You think he could be the one to finally seal earth and sky and save this cracked world? Get off the stage, Ric. That show has been over for years.”
Enoch had frozen, his mind filled with the memory of that beautiful, starlit face. Seal earth and sky. Remembered fire swam along his wrists, and Enoch shivered. Both Rictus and Cal were staring at him now. Even Sal cocked his furry head.
“Those words, ‘seal earth and sky,’” said Enoch. “I . . . heard them. Just before we were attacked, before my master was killed. A face appeared in the monitor of our Unit . . . it said that I needed to do this.”
Cal rolled his eyes. Rictus leaned closer to Enoch, disbelief written across his brow in wrinkled cursive.
“I know you’ve been through a lot, kid, but really . . .” Here Rictus struggled to find the right way to say this. “I mean, how would a shepherd own a functioning Unit, much less find power to run it in the middle of sheep country? What you are saying is . . . it’s just . . .”
Enoch fumbled with the front of his vest, finally pulling out the silvery disk strung with a cord. He held it up to the light, and it cast aqueous reflections on the walls. Even Rictus was stunned.
“That looks like a core memory disc to me, Cal. It looks like Papa Nahuat may have brought some swag down from Tenocht.”
Cal cleared his throat—obviously a force of habit—and looked Enoch straight in the eye. “Are you trying to tell us you received a communication from God? That the Winged One herself logged on to your Unit and asked you a favor? That’s . . . that’s . . .” Cal moved his head from side to side, sputtering as he searched for the word large enough to encompass the concept. Rictus cast him an exasperated glance.
“Man, Cal, you have been with the mortals too long. What do you mean ‘God’ and ‘Winged One’? You remember how it all happened. Just because humanity has forgotten and lost its head about all of this mess doesn’t mean that you have to . . . figuratively speaking, of course.”
“I never said it was the Winged One,” protested Enoch, using the commonspeech name for the Great Unnamable. “Just a face, that’s all. This has nothing to do with religion.”
Rictus burst out laughing while Cal continued to shake his head.
Wiping imaginary tears from dry eyes, Rictus leaned over and put a hand on Enoch’s knee. “No, Enoch. You misunderstand. It has everything to do with religion.” His voice grew somber so quickly it was almost comical. “Everything. Now listen, ’cause what I’m going to tell you has a lot to do with you, religion, and what has happened to this crazy world. Most of the human race has forgotten what it once was and how it got here. It is a twisted tale, kid, as convoluted as the Serpent’s guts—”
“Give it up, Ric,” interrupted Cal. “Your lyrics are going to ruin a relatively simple story. Let me tell him.”
Rictus nodded and gestured toward 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. “Okay, first and foremost: this world didn’t use 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 toward Enoch—“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,” said Rictus, “that you are getting this all from the mouth of a sheltered celebrity who lived in 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 Rictus 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.
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 lifeblood 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 the memory of their humble origins that eventually gave them pause—certainly nobody else could. The wisest among them, Sage-Cardinal 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 toward humanity. I don’t know the details of this accord—”
Enoch cleared his throat and Cal stopped, puzzled by the intent look on the boy’s 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 the 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 asked. “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 hurts. 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 shoulderless 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 led 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 called it Quetzalcoatl, the name of God in an ancient tongue. Nowadays, you’ll probably hear ‘Ketzelkol,’ which is just the current slang. Age is never kind to fancy syllables.”
Enoch remembered a 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 adorn it in robes foreordained unto themselves.’”
Rictus chuckled, breaking the reverent silence jarringly. “Looks like you know the rest, kid. The Ketzelkol 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 toward any and all things tek. Scientists, teachers, anyone with learning of any kind were killed or forced into hiding. Libraries were burned, factories destroyed, and”—he waved his hand expansively—“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 toward 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 warily 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 those private Gardens 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 almost 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 creature’s 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 the coldmen 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 shrugged. “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 take 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 toward 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 is 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 a 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.”