They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.
—Isaiah 40:31, New International Version
Even days later, the memory gave Enoch chills. Frozen, panicked, terrified, Enoch had scrambled to his feet when the face emerged. He remembered Huntsmen pounding on the door, bright sparks against the darkness of the room, and a face staring midnight into his heart. The face was gone by the time they had burst through the door. By then, the room was dead.
The surprising thing was that King Nyraud hadn’t been worried when Enoch told him about the face. About the betrayal of the Core Unit. If anything, the Hunter King was excited.
That excitement had condensed into a frenetic and unceasing energy. The king’s ability to inspire his followers, to imbue them with a shared sense of ambition, continued to astound Enoch—in a matter of hours, Nyraud had transformed the tower into a hive of military preparation. Night and day, the halls were crossed with running Huntsmen and alchemists with their arms full of parts, plans, and newly forged weaponry.
Enoch had been tasked with the revitalization of the Ark’s tek, from the defensive cannons to the perimeter cameras to . . . the Core Unit. He had been surprised that the king wanted that to function again—after all, hadn’t the Core Unit alerted the Vestigarchy to Enoch’s location? Wasn’t that the reason why Babel was now locked down, with frustrated caravans camped out in the plains beyond the city walls?
Again, King Nyraud wasn’t angry about the machine’s betrayal—he acted as though this message from the Vestigarchy had somehow freed him into action. It made no sense to Enoch. Not that his movements were heedless—the king was still being careful. But he was being careful at a breakneck speed.
He knows that he doesn’t have much time, but he knows that he can be ready. He’s been preparing for this his entire life.
Nyraud and a small army of his black-robed alchemists had descended on the Core Unit room with carts of tools, searching for any signs of intrusion or sabotage. Even with all of these supposed “experts” at work, Enoch had still found it necessary to point out the location of the treasonous circuitry that had broadcast his pattern to the sky.
These alchemists were sometimes hard to work with. The strange, pale men and women treated him with an odd mixture of reverence and ill-disguised hatred. They took orders from him with swift and unquestioning determination, but Enoch felt a bitter tint of hostility in every “Yes, milord.” Maybe they knew the king wanted to adopt him, and they envied the favor an outsider like him was shown. But then Enoch remembered his encounter with the alchemists upon first entering Babel: the angry looks of the crowd, the thrown fruit.
I suppose they see me as a symbol for all of the persecution they’ve suffered.
In the end, even Enoch had to agree that the room was safe. The defensive cables were broadcasting their interference, and the damage he had caused trying to stop the signals was quickly repaired. Regardless, Enoch avoided that room; he only spoke to the Core Unit when Nyraud requested it, usually after encountering something completely baffling in the tower circuitry.
Something that is happening with less and less frequency.
When he grew restless, Enoch had been spending more and more time in the Gardens, though the king did not know it. The trees, the greenery, all of it reminded him of home. He felt . . . emptiness . . . when he thought of the cottage he had grown up in. Sure, Babel was incredible; the ancient tek structures the king had him bringing back to life filled his dreams with electrons and circuitry. Enoch finally felt like his mind and talents were being put to use instead of merely put to practice. It kept this emptiness, these memories of his life before, at bay. When he thought of his life before, Enoch felt a void. There was no other way to describe it. He wasn’t sure if that meant he missed Master Gershom, or if that meant he was incapable of the feeling. Did this mean he was a bad person? Should he care?
I don’t know if a Pensanden can miss somebody, not really. I think a shepherd is supposed to.
But I’m not quite a shepherd at this point, either.
Enoch sighed and leaned back against the trunk behind him. The work the king had tasked him with was fascinating and exciting. But it was also tiring. The boy looked forward to these evening walks in the Gardens with Mesha as times when he could step away from his afila nubla, away from the circuitry and microscopic busyness of Babel. Even if King Nyraud forbade it.
If I get caught, I’ll tell him that I was practicing my abilities with the Ark camera network. Testing their range, seeing if it was possible to move through the tower—all the way up to the Gardens—without being seen. He doesn’t need to know about the hidden elevator I found . . .
Enoch smiled, finally exulting in his powers. I am getting better at this. I’m understanding what my powers can do. But this new feeling of pride, this constant self-satisfaction, seemed contrary to him. Master Gershom had never been this way. But King Nyraud encouraged it. Said that even if Enoch refused the crown of Babel, he should embrace his heritage as an etherwalker. He said that a Pensanden was like a prince, and it was a prince’s right to recognize his own nobility. His duty. Enoch liked that. Or . . . he felt like he should.
Mesha leapt from his shoulder to chase after a redjay that had landed on the grass in front of them.
At least she’s feeling at home. Smallfish from the Huntsmen, a warm cushion in front of the fire, and occasional covert trips through the Gardens. I’ve never seen an animal so content. Or one that looked like she deserved to be so content.
I need to learn from her. There is nothing wrong with enjoying what I can do, nothing wrong with feeling that I deserve it.
He plucked a blade of grass and started to tie it into a knot, thoughts heavy on his mind. With all the treatment he had received . . . Enoch was finally feeling ready to tell King Nyraud he was ready to join his family. To be his son. The entire reason he was heading to Tenocht was to find allies, but it turned out he only needed to find Babel. To find someone who believed in what he could become instead of fearing his gifts.
Even Rictus had shown this fear. Rictus! As much as he hated to think ill of his lost friend, Enoch had to admit that this had stung. Rictus had a centuries-deep hatred for the Pensanden, and as fond as the old specter was of Enoch, he had wanted to be clear about the boy’s ancestors. Often it felt like Rictus was trying to convince Enoch he descended from monsters. Enoch didn’t feel like a monster. Especially not now with everything he could do, everything the king had shown him was possible.
I will become a prince and a Pensanden. I will earn my birthright my own way.
The thought made him cringe. Master Gershom would never approve of that kind of thinking.
But Master Gershom is dead. He raised me blind to who I was, to who I can be, and then left me to figure it out all by myself.
Thoughts like that had been troubling Enoch lately. He remembered being happy back in Midian, remembered long sunny afternoons free from the chaos, energy, and noise buzzing through the tower. But how could he have been happy as a shepherd? A commoner?
Well, at least a commoner wouldn’t have to worry about the Serpent hunting for him. Hunting . . . and then finding him.
Frustration welled up again, frustration and anger. Enoch flicked a beetle off his sleeve.
Too bad I’ll never get to actually use these powers anywhere but inside the Ark’s dusty guts.
King Nyraud had forbidden Enoch not only from visiting the Gardens, but from leaving the gates of the city. Enoch understood—the king couldn’t risk losing the greatest asset he had against the Vestigarchy. But these trips to the Gardens helped the boy to feel a little less trapped. And maybe once he told Nyraud he would become his son, his new father would allow him more freedom.
The king had said that the Hiveking and his coldmen would be at their gates soon. Enoch wasn’t so sure—two weeks had passed already without a sign of coldmen. He asked the king how he was so sure that the face he had seen was from the Vestigarchy. It certainly hadn’t said anything to identify itself—just those few chilling words of recognition before disappearing into the blackness of the monitor. Instead of answering, the king had gone quiet, staring Enoch straight in the eyes.
He knows it was the Serpent. I do, too. He is impatient with self-deception.
Who else would have the power to respond so quickly to the pattern—no, the word was code—the code identifying a Pensanden, which couldn’t have been broadcast for more than a few minutes? Who else could have generated enough power to send a return signal back to Enoch’s exact location?
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 people into ignorant, disconnected tribes, like molecules in a gas.
Enoch was proud to have used his new understanding of physics in a simile. He smiled, but again became uncomfortable with the sensation. 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 still felt a pit in his stomach when he remembered the conversation with Rictus and Cal, deep underneath the city. It felt like it had happened ages ago, in another time, but the pain was still sharp. The pain of losing his first real friends. The fear in the cold, in the dark. The trolls. He shivered reflexively.
And that’s when I learned about the trolls. About what the . . . what my people did. They have so much blood on their hands.
Enoch looked down at his own hands. They were clean, manicured, growing soft around the edges of his dueling callouses. For some reason this embarrassed him, and he folded his arms.
It’s just . . . here I am learning that I can change things. That I am important. The king treats me like I can make a difference.
Can I?
Can I make up for the crimes of my people?
The idea felt important. So important that he held his breath as his mind tried to encompass what it meant.
The death. The horror. Is that my responsibility?
In the stunned silence of the moment, 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. King 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 toward 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 the king—where Father—breeds the manticores he hunts. 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 he walked down the ramp, and the chamber flickered to light.
These aren’t manticores!
The cages held people.
A 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 toward 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.
What is this?
He started walking down the row toward 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, two more women, and a red-haired adolescent who could have easily been from Midian. 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 animals. And worse.
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. The similarities 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 visible 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 farther 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 backward.
And just in time. A massive paw, tipped with 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 backward, 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 marks 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 sheets?”
Enoch had no idea what she was—
Oh, she means Rictus.
“No. I’m to be 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 things?”
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 toward 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, of course. But after his time here with Nyraud, he had realized that they were ignorant fables born of envy, imagined stories to decorate the commonfolk evenings. Just like Old Noach Kohn’s Serpent Wives and their nonexistent fangs. Enoch had firsthand 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.” Enoch hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.
She was looking at him with pity.
“. . . And, well, he truly is a masterful hunter.”
His last sentence trailed into silence. King Nyraud was . . . was intelligent, 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 looked 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 toward 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 confidence, a home—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 like beasts! You’ve got to set 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 . . . the Hunter King . . . for his tireless pursuit of . . .
Enoch couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He knew. And the earlier question took on a sharper, more painful edge:
The death. The horror. Is that my responsibility?
A low rumbling song echoed up from the ground, punctuated by the muffled beat of Enoch driving his fist into the grass again and again.