Steelheart

by William C. Dietz

  Crono knew the humility was genuine and smiled. "It is written that 'familiarity hides virtue' and that 'novelty conceals truth.' Who's to say which illuminates our way? Can the family pay?"

  Parly shook his head. "No, they are too poor."

  Crono shrugged. ' 'Merit pays its own way. Send for Solly ... we leave within the drol."

  Parly stood and lumbered toward the door. That particular day's messenger, a ten-year-old female, sat huddled outside. He was halfway across the room when the priest spoke again. "And, Brother Parly..."

  "Yes?"

  "When the column is gone ... destroy the plow."

  6

  de' mon / n / a person or thing regarded as evil

  Two micro sats, both created by the Eye of God's onboard nano, started to close in. There was no way to know what to expect, whether they were armed with lasers, stylus-sized missiles, or contact mines.

  The sentient spy sat known as Michael had successfully defended himself against such threats before, but still felt afraid. Or did he? Was his fear equivalent to what humans experienced? Or was their fear, which flowed from biological imperatives, somehow superior?

  No, Michael cautioned himself, mortal combat is not the time for self-doubt.

  The micro sats were far too stupid to worry about such matters. They locked onto the designated target and fired their steering jets.

  Michael checked to ensure that his defensive weaponry was ready, verified that it was, and waited for the distance to close.

  The micro sats parted company, chose separate vectors, and armed their onboard mines.

  Michael, who had the capacity to perceive external reality in dozens of different ways, had chosen to center his being within a gridwork globe. The micro sats appeared as horned devil icons with pitchforks and pointy tails. Green lines flashed as the targets came in range. Michael forced himself to wait, then fired his latest invention.

  Like his archenemy, the Eye of God, Michael was equipped with onboard nano. Though originally intended for maintenance purposes, they could be reprogrammed. That was relatively simple. The more complex problem was to capture the raw materials required to manufacture what he needed. There were three choices available to him: capture some of the micrometeors that whacked him on a regular basis, cannibalize his own body, or salvage the metal from his dead comrades.

  The last of these options was not only the most practical but the most symbolically satisfying, since it enabled his former companions to fight from their metaphorical graves. Which explained why he adopted all of their nano, carved chunks from their orbiting bodies, and used them to build weapons. The latest, which he called "the shotgun," was not only practical but aesthetically pleasing as well.

  On Michael's command the ball turret-mounted tube spit highly concentrated streams of custom-designed nano at the incoming targets. He cheered as the micromachines hit the killer sats, clung to their exterior casings, and went to work. It took the tiny robots less than three seconds to disassemble the attackers, reconfigure their component parts, and completely rebuild them. The result was four miniature weapons platforms, each orbiting Michael's body, protecting him from harm.

  The outcome pleased Michael so much that he generated peals of artificial laughter, beamed the sound toward the Eye of God, and waited for a reaction. None came. The Mothribuilt machine had been built for aliens by aliens and was impervious to humanlike head games. Too bad—since the Angel sat felt sure that he could beat the other AI in satelliteto-satellite combat, and thereby end the matter.

  An alarm reminded Michael of the scheduled surveillance scan. He brought his optical imaging system on-line, scanned the area around Flat Top for any sign of intruders, repeated the process via both radar and infrared, and made his report. Doing so involved human contact and was one of the most pleasurable moments of his day. Abby Ahl was waiting— and her voice made him happy.

  "Hey, Michael, how's it hanging?"

  "If I had one, it would be floating," the satellite replied.

  Ahl laughed. "Roger that—how's our three-sixty?"

  "You've got a couple of Mothri surveillance units hanging around, and Zid spies in all the usual places, but nothing to get excited about."

  "Good," Ahl replied. "Keep us advised."

  "As always," the satellite replied. How's your love life?"

  "Completely nonexistent," Ahl lied. "But what else is new?"

  "Those guys don't know what they're missing," Michael said, without having any idea himself. "Take care."

  "You too," Ahl replied. "Catch you next shift."

  "Roger that," the machine said. "Over and out."

  Abby Ahl was thirty-three years old. She had short brown hair, a crooked nose, and large, inquiring eyes. A Zid cross hung between her breasts, down where no one could see it, but she could feel its comforting presence.

  The satellite was evil incarnate, and despite the fact that she had been given a dispensation to deal with it, left her feeling dirty. She hated to deal with the thing, but didn't have much choice—not if Flat Top was to fall. She hurried toward the shower. The water would feel good.

  7

  rid' er / n / something used to overlie another

  Mary Maras awoke to the sound of a long, drawn out scream. She fought her way out of the sleeping bag, rolled off the work bench, and grabbed the riot gun. The floor was cold under her feet as she headed toward the front room. That's when the roboticist heard the android shout, "No! No! No!" and felt the building shake as something heavy hit a wall.

  Mary brought the weapon up and stepped through the doorway. She had expected invaders, a lot of them, but there were none to be seen. Just the android. He held his head, rocked from side to side, and spoke to someone she couldn't see. "No! I won't do it! Go away!"

  She backed into the lab, exchanged the riot gun for a fully charged robostunner, and went back. Part rejections were not that unusual. About four percent of synthetics experienced them, and about one percent had violent reactions. The problem often stemmed from the interaction between programming and individual psychology.

  Dr. Garrison, and the roboticists who had preceded him, had imbued their creations with prohibitions against unauthorized modifications, including the installation of parts that hadn't been properly "conditioned" for use by that particular individual. Overriding those prohibitions was a process well beyond the capabilities of Mary's makeshift lab.

  The intent of such safeguards was to prevent the creation of homicidal monsters—a much-exaggerated threat that scientists had been forced to address in order to build public acceptance for android-related applications.

  Later, with the advent of sentient machines, the phenomenon of parts rejection took on added dimensions as androids developed personalities as complex as the ones their creators had, and started to worry about whether they were truly alive and possessed of souls. All of which meant that some androids had little to no difficulty accepting "recycled" parts, while others rejected them. It seemed that Doon belonged in the second classification.

  The android looked at Mary, saw the stunner, and charged. The weapon had been created for the purpose of subduing robots, and the effects were rather unpleasant. Mary gritted her teeth, squeezed the trigger, and jumped backwards. Doon staggered, fell on his face, and just missed her feet. Hairball, cheerful as always, chose that moment to pogo into the room. “Corley play? Me ready.''

  Mary ignored the smaller machine and struggled to roll Doon onto his back. There was no way to lift him, not by herself, so she went after some tools. The security monitor was on, and Clamface had company. Heat signatures were clustered all around him. Some belonged to Zid, the rest to humans. "Security ... last three hours, please."

  "There was one class one intrusion attempt. The being designated as 'Clamface' continues to maintain surveillance with help from six individuals who arrived in the last half hour. One of them bears a 96.3% resemblance to the subject called 'Gimpy.' "

  Mary swore. Tonight was the
night—it didn't take a genius to figure that out—and she was playing nursemaid to a 250-pound machine when she should have been packing.

  Temptation tickled the back of the roboticist's mind. Doon was down for the count. She could pack enough things to get by and exit through the back. The mob would find the android and forget about her. Tempting though the thought was, however, the knowledge that Doon was a thinking, feeling being made it impossible for her to follow through.

  "Keep me informed," Mary instructed. "I want updates every ten minutes ... or more if appropriate."

  "Understood," the security system acknowledged. "The next report will be issued nine minutes and fifty-six seconds from now."

  Mary grabbed a handheld diagnostic scanner and returned to the front room. Doon lay where she had left him, his eyelids fluttering as his CPU went through the externally imposed restart, and brought the subs up one at a time.

  There wasn't much time, so the roboticist ran macros on the theory that Doon's problem was sufficiently well defined to show up as a gross anomaly. A quick scan of the android's power grid, electronic nervous system, and locomotor functions came up negative, and it wasn't until Mary went down a level and focused on the newly installed limb that she found the problem.

  Her initial diagnosis had been correct in that Doon's body was trying to reject the arm, but there was something more as well, something she'd never seen before. Assuming her scanner was functioning correctly, and assuming her mental faculties were intact, it appeared as if the arm was fighting the rejection process] Almost as if it had a mind of its own ... and wanted to be linked to the android's body.

  The thought sent ice water trickling through Mary's veins. Could it be? Had someone or something planted a rider in the arm?

  "Three individuals, one Zid, and two humans, have joined the group on the other side of the street," the security system reported calmly. ' "That brings the total number of potential intruders to ten. The next report is due nine minutes and forty-nine seconds from now."

  Mary felt her heart beat a little faster, probed for the standard access point along the inside surface of the newly installed arm, and pried the skin apart. A pair of terminals appeared. By connecting her diagnostic unit directly to them, the roboticist could eliminate any possibility of radio interference.

  The leads made a whirring sound as she pulled them out of the scanner, made the necessary connections, and touched a series of buttons. Her eyes narrowed as Mary watched the tiny screen. It was a rider, all right... hidden in a nonspec biceps-mounted subprocessor. Not only that, but the spook boasted a whole lot of memory, a self-extending operating system that had colonized Doon's CPU and seized control of his higher thought processes. Whoever had designed and planted the rider was someone she wanted to meet.

  Then it occurred to her that the original owner had been scrapped, and no longer existed. Or did he? What if he were the rider?

  Intrigued, and desperate to finish the task before Doon became fully functional again, Mary launched a deeper probe. The response was immediate. Doon's eyes popped open, focused on her face, and squinted into the light. The voice was his—but the timbre was different. "There's no reason for alarm. A supporting program, sometimes referred to as a 'rider,' a 'spook,' or a 'ghost,' has been activated. Any attempt to modify the rider, or to delete it from the subject systems, will result in a full and unrecoverable crash. In order to free itself of the rider, and the imperatives that flow from it, the host must make his way to the facility called 'Flat Top' and deliver onboard files to Dr. Gene Garrison. The files are encrypted. Any attempt to access them will result in full system shutdown."

  Dr. Garrison? Mary had been one of his students, though not a member of the android-dominated personality cult that catered to his every wish, and worshiped him like a god. No, she'd been too independent for that, even though it meant less access to his teaching labs.

  "The crowd on the other side of the street has grown by four," the security system interjected, "and are holding a meeting. The next report will arrive in nine minutes and fifty seconds."

  How long would it take Clamface to brief the mob, exhort them to do the Lord's work, and trigger the attack? Not very long.

  Mary fed an antirejection program into Doon's electronic nervous system, unhooked the leads, and stood back. She would give him only one chance. If the android went bonkers, the roboticist would put him down, grab what she could, and scoot out through the back.

  Doon felt the rider retreat into the background, experienced a momentary sense of elation, and took control of his body. He sat up, worked his jaw, and attempted to speak.

  The roboticist backed away and raised the stunner.

  Doon knew she was afraid and felt the same way. "Don't do it—once was enough."

  Mary looked doubtful. "You won't go crazy on me?"

  The android shook his head. "It's tempting, but no, I won't."

  Mary allowed her arm to drop. The stunner was pointed at the floor. "Good. The rider came in the arm, and no, I don't have the gear to evict it. Of equal interest is the fact that a mob has formed—we don't have a lot of time."

  As if to confirm Mary's statement, the security system chose that particular moment to interrupt. "Condition Red, I repeat, Condition Red. Fifteen individuals armed with incendiary devices are crossing the street. This system projects a 99% certainty of a class one intrusion approximately forty-five seconds from now."

  Alternatives raced each other through Doon's CPU as he struggled to his feet. They all boiled down to three main strategies: Run like hell, fight to win, or stall for time. The first possibility would leave the roboticist begging on the streets—and the second would result in a pointless bloodbath. The Church would send another mob, and another, until victory was achieved. The android turned to Mary. "Do you trust me?"

  "Within limits."

  "That will suffice ... now listen carefully. You must prepare two packs, one filled with food, ammo, and whatever medical supplies you may have. And don't forget trade items. Once that pack is ready, load a second one. There aren't a lot of droid docs left, so I'd suggest the scanner, microtools, and some spares. Nothing big or heavy. Don't worry about carrying it, 'cause I'll give you a hand. Now get going— while I slow 'em down."

  The advice had a self-serving quality, especially where the second pack was concerned, but still made sense. Mary decided that she would carry anything having to do with robotics, and let him handle the personal stuff. Something bumped into her foot. "Two plus two equals four."

  "Yeah, I know it does," Mary said patiently and scooped the robot into her hand. "We have to leave, so when I place you in the pack, be sure to stay there."

  "Me stay," the machine agreed cheerfully. "Play with Corley?"

  "Later," Mary said, and was surprised to find that she meant it. "After we cross the mountains and walk for a long time."

  "Later," Hairball agreed, "after my nap."

  Doon released the safety strap that kept the weapon in its holster, brushed the duster back, and opened the door. It was snowing, and each flake registered on the microscopic sensors packed between the photovoltaic cells that covered his skin. A single streetlight produced what illumination there was. It flickered and held.

  Clamface was halfway across the street by then, his staff in one hand and a torch in the other. The snow crunched under his thick-soled boots, his breath fogged the air, and his hearts beat like a brog flail. He felt powerful, very powerful, until the door opened and a rectangle of light shot out onto the street. The human looked huge, and the feeling of omnipotence melted away.

  Clamface stopped, one of his followers ran into him, and the rest paused. The voice seemed unnaturally loud and echoed between the buildings. The words might have been in-comprehensible to the Zid, but the tone was clear. "Hold it right there. . . . Drop the torches and run like hell."

  Clamface was well aware that there were some undesirables among his flock, individuals who wanted food more than salvation.
He had even considered purging them, driving them out into the wintry night, until an underpriest had offered some advice. "Take that which God offers and apply it to the work. Those of questionable sincerity belong in front, where they can shield the pious from harm and earn the redemption they unconsciously seek."

  Always one to seize on good advice, Clamface had immediately seen the wisdom in the elder's words and organized the mob accordingly. Which explained why the human known as Aho had been assigned to the first rank—a position from which he could "lead" the others into battle. Eager to translate his status into an even higher rank, Aho made his move. A homemade dart gun had appeared in his hand. It gleamed under the light. "Screw you, asshole—prepare to meet your maker!''

  Firing orders were still in the process of traveling toward the human's relatively uncluttered brain when the .44-caliber slug tunneled through his chest, knocked a Zid off his feet, and flattened itself against a brick wall.

  The android backed into the store and closed the door. The mob scattered, Clamface gave chase, and the bodies lay where they had fallen. Aho looked surprised.

  Doon closed the bolts and went looking for Mary. She shoved the last of her personal items into a pack and turned in his direction. She looked concerned. "I heard a gunshot."

  The android nodded soberly. "A human drew on me. I shot him, and the rest ran. They'll be back, though ... and sooner rather than later."

  Mary secured the flap and handed the pack to Doon. He took it and watched while she shouldered a second and clearly heavier container. The roboticist had delegated her undies to him and kept the spares for herself. Smart. He took one last look around. The packs contained less than a tenth of what she had accumulated. "You going to leave this stuff for the scavs? Or burn the place down?"

  Mary frowned. "I feel like burning the place down—but what about the neighbors? They might lose their homes too .... Besides, most of this stuff is irreplaceable. Maybe a scav will get her hands on it and sell it to someone else."