What Lies Beneath (The Wanderer: Chapter Six)

Chapter Six

What Lies Beneath

Somewhere deep inside the belly of the catacombs which crawled and twisted beneath the city proper, Doctor Michael Raz’ildon sat at his workspace consumed by his practice. His hand, not as steady as it had once been, scraped away with his tool in nearly infinitesimal strokes. The scalpel in his hand- one of innumerable technological contributions that he had made to the city-state of Teles since his arrival nearly thirty-five years ago- glided along the smooth metallic surface of his thin golden canvas. A round, golden bracelet rested in the grip of a tight bipod. He poked, prodded, and slashed away at the wristlet.

            The Mother, a friend to all travelers, waiting where the first seeds were sown; At the center she rests, while the Garden grows.

            He carved the words carefully into the bracelet. They were words he knew well. After all, they were the words of his people. He began by scrying this call to action in its proper place, betwixt the seven-character glyphs on either side. The mission statement of the Wanderers was now finished, and he had since been working tirelessly to recreate each necessary glyph that traced along the surface of the bracelet. It was a vexing task, as all matters of high science tended to be. The tedium, so severe, could kill a man. But not Michael. He lived for such work. Such tests of endurance, precision, and dedication. Such was the way of life for men like himself. Men of science, of exploration. Ambition and scientific merit were the unforgiving tenants which governed all members of his creed, even after they had nearly disappeared entirely.

It was the only way he knew, the only way his people ever knew, the way of the Mappers.           

            Build. Create. Destroy. Rebuild.

            That was their dance, their idea of balance in the world, the unavoidable cycle of his people. Rendering Chaos controlled for mere moments only to have it wriggle free again. Of course, one day there was nothing left to rebuild. They had been scattered to the wind, lost in the untamable void of chaos. The Mother, and her guidance, had finally abandoned them, but only after they had long ago abandoned her. With every gentle twitch of his hand and flick of his wrist, the bracelet took shape. A near flawless facsimile of the real thing. Near flawless. As he sat back in his seat with a haggard sigh, his trained eyes told him it was not quite right. What it was missing, he couldn’t be sure. He was only sure that this bracelet was yet another in a long line of failures. He stared at it, the shaved away bits still strewn about at the base of the bipod, shimmering gold dust for which he had no use. He brushed the gold dust to the floor and stared more severely at the bracelet in one final attempt to rouse a necessary change from his work. Maybe if he stared hard enough and long enough, it would become proper in its proportions which he now believed were off by the faintest degree.

            In the old days, days long ago forgotten by anyone but himself, he would have had the aid of his kin. Thousands of voices in his head, each offering their equally valid criticism and aid. But those voices had dwindled over the millennia, and now the only voice remaining in his head was his own.

            The Mappers were gone and their voices had left with them.

            The bracelet did not change. Its imperfection proved impervious to both his most dedicated and most futile efforts. He pulled the spectacles from his face, folding them carefully and placing them delicately on the work desk in front of him. With frustration spinning like a storm in his head, he buried his face in his hands. It began as a whimper, then a whine, and finally a snarl. He lashed out at the workspace, sweeping the contents of his desk onto the rocky floor beside him. The many tools, stands, and the bracelet itself scattered about the floor in a clambering raucous.

            A pair of armed guards came hurriedly from around the corner. Each made their way into his workstation from behind a thick curtain hanging to the Doctor’s right. He did not look up at them when they asked if he was alright. He just waved halfheartedly with his head hanging low. The guards each looked at one another before sheathing their swords and returning their original posts.

They left, closing the curtain behind them.

            “Simple-minded fools…” Michael muttered under his breath. “Where would they be without you? What would they be? Just a pack of apes playing in the mud.”

             This single self-aggrandizing remark left Michael feeling much better. It was his traditional means of self-soothing, one which proved effective among most of his people as the only thing larger than a Mapper’s intellect was their ego. And it was especially useful now that he no longer had their many voices here to support him.

He reached down below his work desk and picked up the little golden failure. To anyone else, the difference between this bracelet and the ones carried by the Wanderers would be imperceptible, but to Michael’s eternally scrutinous eye, the miscalculation was almost blinding in its clarity. Made imperfectly as it was, it was useless, just another shiny trinket for the apes of this world to grant illusory value. They would say it was its rarity, its beauty, that made it precious, but Michael knew that they simply couldn’t help themselves. Those clothed monkeys, under whose city he operated, simply couldn’t deny their primal programming.

Monkeys liked shiny things. He assured himself.

            He tossed the bracelet aside. It bounced along the stone floor, then rolled on its side before colliding with another identical bracelet in the corner of the room. A pile of these exact replicas was stacked haphazardly in the corner. Just a garbage heap to Michael but a fortune to anyone else. The heap was Compiled of fifty or sixty rejected golden wristlets. The Doctor had lost count somewhere in the mid-thirties, no longer believing that the number of failures mattered. They were simply steps on the way to success. Necessary casualties in leu of something truly spectacular. Their discarded corpses glimmered faintly in the failing lantern light.

            Michael ignored them, leaving failure in the past where it belonged. It was essential, as a man of science, to live by the two most important rules of scientific exploration. It was the belief of Mappers, when they were still bridging the gaps between stars, that there were only two types of failure in matters of discovery; The Cost of Creation and The Price of Progress. Neither was unexpected or even unwelcome, and both had their own definitions.

The Cost of Creation has always been and always would be destruction. Something new, truly original, could not be brought about without the expense of something old meeting its end. Whether that sacrifice be a person, a people, or a long-accepted truth, it was entirely dependent upon the goal at hand.

Meanwhile, The Price of Progress was often more difficult to define, and the unpredictable nature of progress itself often accrued a great deal more volatility in the outcome. Though, it was often demonstrated through mathematical equation, that the worst-case scenario often begot the best possible outcome. In other words, Michael believed, as did many of his kin, that the road to true progress was paved in death. A steep price, but one which any rational mind would be willing to pay once wise enough to see that the only true value of any life is in its contribution to progress. Ultimately, those who die in the name of science are granted a more noble death than any that die in the name of principle or tradition. It was the belief of Mappers, that to die in service to stagnation is the only true sin of this world or any other. Thus, it was Michael’s conclusion that not only was it the logical choice to press forward with bloody hands and a heavy heart, but the moral one as well.

              Not all of his creed saw the world this way. Not all of them held these beliefs as unerring truths. That is, after all, why so many of them were barred from the Garden. Even among his people- a people who had largely left morality back on whatever rock they had first began their journey once devoting themselves entirely to the rational and the logical- it was ultimately a moral choice that had doomed them. The irony was far from lost on Michael, he had often found himself laughing, crying, and deeply contemplating this terrible fact over the millennia. Though his memory of his people and their demise was less than unreliable, he did recall that it had all culminated in a single differing opinion. A single choice that divided them and ultimately destroyed them. He remembered only the shouting in his head as their people took sides. It had been the first time in their long history they had disagreed and not found a logical conclusion to settle matters. Sides were taken, half of them chose to seal the Garden, and the others desperately tried to break their way in. Between this war and the encroaching Decay that they had unwittingly released on reality, the Mappers swiftly disappeared in the centuries that followed.

            Now, Michael sat alone in the quiet.

            What that disagreement had been and who had taken what side was all lost to him now. Details that felt too trivial at the time to bother retaining and, if he was honest, too painful. All that remained were images, dreams of a place he wasn’t sure he had ever actually seen himself. The Garden, it was real. If not with his own eyes, then he had seen it through the eyes of his more fortunate kin. But how to get there? That was the question.

            Feeling a presence watching him, Michael was pulled from his daydreams. Thorin Albrite, dressed in his all-white and gold-trimmed formal military dress, stood in the doorway observing him with a friendly smirk.

            “Am I interrupting?” He asked.

            “One can only interrupt a Thinking Man.” Michael proclaimed. “What do you want Thorin?”

            Thorin looked to the scattered mess of scientific sundry. Mostly, he noted the pile of discarded bracelets in the corner. A fortune’s worth of precious metal cast away like used rags.

            “I see that your research is coming along nicely.” He jested, but Michael ignored him. Thorin reached for one of the wristlets and held it close to his eyes as to read the scripture written on it. “You’re amassing quite the fortune in failure, Michael. Have you considered opening a second practice? These trinkets would sell like mad at the Public Market. All kinds of mystics and superstitious commoners would pay all they had to get their hands on them. Or through them, I suppose.”

            “Sell them if you wish. They’re worthless to me. Just a bunch of useless junk.”

            Thorin smiled, “You know something, Michael. I think you would do quite well for yourself in the Market. Among all those thieves and low-life charlatans. You’d fit right in.”

            Michael stared intently at Thorin, “I should hope so. I’ve lived long enough in their company.”

            With an intentional disinterest, Thorin met his gaze and dropped the bracelet back into the pile.

            “Careful, Doctor. Let’s not forget which of us has been conning this poor city for decades. Long before I ever came to power.” Thorin warned.

            Michael stifled a laugh, “This city has been conning itself since the beginning. Knowing nothing but conmen in all its history. Politicians who promise the masses one magical cure-all after another. All of them racing to do away with the opposing party, their only true business competitors. Your policy is only a reactionary pitch based on whatever snake oil the other side is selling. Whatever they sell, you sell the opposite. If they say to lower taxes, you say to raise them. If they say to go to war, you say to broker peace. If they say unity is the answer, you call for segregation. All the while believing none of it, not a word, and ever prepared to flip the argument should those clever cunts on the other side choose to do the unexpected and actually agree with you.”

            Michael knew it was unwise to prod Thorin, but he couldn’t ignore the rage that had built up inside of him. His pompous benefactor was just an immediate target.

He continued, “I would bet all that I have, that the only thing both sides can truly agree on is to keep those walls around the city tall and firm. At least that way, there will be fewer fools to suffer and fewer bright minds asking questions. The only honest members of parliament are forced to hide their beliefs behind “aye” and “neigh” lest they be done away with. And those who dare to speak the truth are seldom heard. A few honest whispers drowned out by the ravings of carnival brokers. Your parliament is the Market, just a loud avaricious assembly of thieves and charlatans. No different. Your politics are a fucking farce.”

            The Doctor felt his adrenaline dropping, becoming all too aware of how hard his heart was beating and the sweat wetting his brow. Apparently, the work had enraged him more than he realized. Thorin eyed him blankly for a time. Michael awaited a scolding, perhaps a beating at the hands of Thorin’s guards, which watched over him like a prized mongrel or preferred concubine. Either outcome was bearable, the outburst more than worth it. Michael would endure the beating or the petty insults and then get one with his work with a clear head. A moment of degradation might not be such a bad thing; he had failed after all. Punishment was a natural part of the process.

            Instead, Thorin’s face shifted. His eyes lightened, and his nose curled back as if suspended on hooks. He was laughing heartily.

            “Well said, Doctor! Well said! I must admit, I’m impressed! Even locked away in this dreadful place you’ve managed to learn more about our great city than most will in a lifetime.” Thorin wiped a single tear from his eye, the last bit of mercy in Thorin Albrite’s whole body wrung out in one cynical laugh. “Thank you, Doctor. I needed that. It’s been a stressful day. Seems things have become far more complicated than we previously anticipated. Your work, and the expediency of it, has become more imperative than ever.”

            In Michael’s experience, Thorin Albrite was never one to exaggerate anyone’s importance other than his own. It was an ill-omen when the Prime Minister was desperate enough to acknowledge your significance or talent. It meant, without fail, that times were dire, and should things prove catastrophic; it would be your head that rolled for it, not his.

            “What’s the situation?” Michael asked.

            The Mapper’s mind racked with every possible threat severe enough to bring Thorin Albrite himself down into the catacombs as opposed to Arwin or any of his other loyal beasts. In the fraction of time it took for Thorin to reply, Michael had already placed each of these potential outcomes in proper order from most to least likely. 

            “Arwin informed me of an unforeseen irregularity.” Thorin began, his voice ever stately and refined. Michael said nothing. Only feeling inexplicable anxiety gripping him. His body felt giddy, his skin crawling somewhat as though someone had spiked his drink. “Vivien Porier took the bait as expected. Our trap was sprung and would have been successful if not for the intervention of a single individual. An odd-looking traveler, wearing strange clothing unlike anything in these parts. Evidently, he was also quite skillful in battle. I believe the way Arwin put it was ‘he cut through our best like the wind through a field’ or something colorful like that. Arwin is the excitable sort, as you well know.”

            Michael felt the tension building in his joints, his blood thickened in his veins.

            “Who is this individual?” He asked impatiently, dreading the answer. “What does he have to do with our work?”

            Thorin stared at him, allowing the Doctor to look past his fear and address the truth which already hung from his lips. The Prime Minister made a deliberate gesture to the pile of golden rejects in the corner of the room.

            The Mapper snarled, “A Wanderer…”

            “In the flesh!” Thorin affirmed, “And if Arwin is to be believed; he’s quite spry, even lively, for someone as old as legend.”

            “Yes. I’m sure that’s true.” Michael said, his eyes distant and contemplative. “This does… complicate matters.”

            Thorin shrugged, “Or does it simplify them?” He asked, Michael looked at his patron as though he were completely mad, or at least out of his depth. “The way I see it, his arrival opens a slew of new opportunities for us, Doctor. We need a key to continue your research, and despite your best efforts, it’s becoming abundantly clear that you lack the capability to solve this problem alone.”

            Michael went to object, but Thorin silenced him with a gesture.

            “You’re an exceptional man, Michael, but it took the collective power of your once great race to construct the keys, portals, and the temples of old. Without that infrastructure, you’re left shorthanded. I can hardly hold that against you, now can I? But now, in steps a walking, breathing second chance. Possibilities abound, Doctor. He has what we need and, if the casualties sustained in your work are anything to go off of, he might very well be who we need.” Thorin dropped his voice an octave or two. “We both know that our men were far from jumping at opportunities to go through that Gate themselves. Not with that sickness spreading so rapidly, and certainly not after what happened to that poor boy who lost his leg. Tell me, Doctor, is this beast I’ve heard so much about as dreadful as they say? Large, hairy, and full of teeth? Sounds like the sort of thing only a Wanderer could slay?”

            The answer was yes, it was. And worse was that it had learned to guard the Gate. Each of the last three times they ventured through, it had been waiting for them. Ready to snatch them as they entered through the gate as a brown bear might pluck fish from a stream. Fortunately, only one of the men was ever wounded. Fatally, of course, but still. The Decay was still the primary concern, but the beast deterred likely volunteers. Michael said none of this aloud. It would do little to help him, especially now that plans had changed.

            Despite himself, Michael was ashamed to find that his desperation and hunger were overriding his logic. Part of himself, a lesser ill-conceived portion that was gaining ground by the day, was willing to take this chance.

            “Wanderers are a complicated breed, Thorin. They’re stubborn, dogmatic, and self-righteous.”

            “Sounds like someone else I know.”

            “Maybe so, but you don’t know them like I do. You didn’t create them. We did. I know what I’m talking about when I say that he won’t be easily convinced, nor will he be easy to stop if he should decide to turn his sights on us.”

            “What do you suggest we do, Michael?”

            Michael was fidgeting, rubbing his hands together like a nervous rodent.

            “He’s little more than a lost child, Thorin. Scared, alone, ready to lash out. Either we accommodate him and help him on his way to whichever gate he plans to travel through, allowing him the glory of starting yet another lap around the Cypher, or…” Michael did not consider the alternative lightly, the weight rattling his bones, his legs physically shaking. “We kill him and take the key off his corpse. I see no other course of action.” 

            “You don’t believe we can barter with him?” Thorin asked skeptically.

            “No.”

            Grinding his teeth, Thorin stared daggers into the Doctor’s back who refused to turn and meet his gaze. Michael knew it wasn’t the answer Thorin wanted, but it was the truth. After a moment, the Prime Minister tapped his bulbous ring on the work desk twice and spoke in a tone far more serious.

            “You will try anyway. When we find him, I will send soldiers to broker a deal with him. I expect you to lead those negotiations.”

            “With all due respect, Thorin. You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

            Thorin snapped, “And with all due respect, of which there remains very little Doctor, you are not in a position to barter with me! The solid footing on which you stood with my predecessors has thinned considerably! If you do not give me something promising soon, you will fall through the ice. Am I clear?!”

            Michael did not react; his voice was calm and calculated. Perhaps the first time in their tenuous relationship that Thorin had lost his composure in front of him.

            “Crystal clear. If you want to make a deal with the Wanderer, so be it. I can’t stop you. But they are not so impressive as you might think. They’re cold, singularly focused predators. Nothing more. We tried, me and my people, to build something truly special when we left the blueprints for such a race of travelers throughout reality, but the results were underwhelming at best. Mixed. And without our active participation, the results were inconsistent.”

            Thorin found calm listening to the Mapper’s confession. In all the years they had worked together, Michael had rarely mentioned anything about his past.

            Michael continued, “The Wanderers were meant to be a fail-safe. A last resort should things prove disastrous for us. Which, of course, they did. Our people cared little for our own well-being, or that of anyone else, frankly. But we cared greatly for our research. Thus, the Wanderers were mobilized. Meant to pick up the pieces of our people and salvage what they could. But the only thing matching the profundity of my people’s failure, was that of the Wanderers’. At least we accomplished what we set out to do, even if it destroyed us.” He sighed heavily as though reliving the events behind open eyes. “I will do what I can, Thorin. But the Wanderers are not the answer, they never were.”

            “But you’ll try?” Thorin asked eagerly, “If we can bring him to you peacefully that is? Who knows, maybe he’ll be different from the rest of them.”

            Michael’s attention shifted to the pile of discarded gold in the corner, burning hate enveloped his whole body. He was far away, sinking into memory, but he cast a baleful gaze upon the many would-be keys.

            “No, he won’t be. They’re all the same. Cowards. But don’t worry, Thorin. There’ll be no need to go hunting for him.”

            “Why’s that?”

            “Because he’ll come to us. To me. I imagine he’s already felt it calling to him.”

            “Felt what?” Thorin asked.

            Michael turned toward him and the grotesque smile on the Mapper’s face, pulsing like a festering wound, repelled Thorin Albrite.

            “Allow me to show you.” Michael purred.