Steelheart

by William C. Dietz

  The problem was to tempt the remaining pushers out of their nearly impregnable machines. Not an easy thing to do ... without the right kind of leverage. The bandit leader turned to an assistant. "Bring the woman. The rise looks good. Do it there."

  The android crouched next to a massive track, used his sensors to scan for danger, and battled the rider. Sojo, or what remained of him, was adamant. "Your actions are inconsistent with our mission! Stop at once!"

  “Your mission," Doon said, stalling for time. "You know—the one you refuse to tell me about." Three infrared blobs were visible, all headed for the rise.

  "The mission is important," the rider replied sternly. "The future of the planet depends on it."

  "Okay," the synthetic replied reasonably. "We'll save the planet in the morning... after I deal with the bandits." Doon sprinted from one shadow to the next, weapon out, sensors on max.

  "No," the ghost replied. "The mission will fail if you are injured or terminated. Return to the crawler at once." The rider clamped down on Doon's motor functions—and the android fought back. His basic and therefore overriding programming was that of a law enforcement officer in an emergency situation. The other entity resisted but was forced to capitulate.

  At first Doon assumed the blobs were on the run ... but soon realized his mistake. They were going somewhere for the purpose of doing something. But what? Nothing good— that was for sure. He hurried to close the gap.

  Casey was frightened, very frightened, and with good reason. Unit three's pusher had reported an intermittent warning light for the right rear power bearing. It could signal a worn bearing or a bad sensor. The technician, who had no desire to spend the next two days rolling around in the slush, was hoping for the latter, and was peering through an inspection hatch when the bandits shoved a gun into her back.

  Now, with her boots slamming the ground, they were transporting her up a slope toward some sort of pole. It stood chest-high, and the upper end had been sharpened. Casey swiveled her head and looked for help. Most of the crawlers remained where they'd been, while others had been moved. Their lights glowed amber, their weapons probed the air, and bodies lay in drifts around them. At least some of her friends were safe—but what about the rest? What was happening?

  The men came to a halt and lowered the tech to the ground. She jerked an arm free, tried to run, and was cuffed into place. A woman approached. She carried a drum-fed auto thrower in the crook of her arm. Her voice was calm. "Strip her naked. Hold her in place."

  Casey struggled as they tore at her clothes. It made no difference. The men enjoyed their work.

  Bolano jumped as the unexpected voice came over his radio. It was female and matter-of-fact. "My compliments to the Guild—and any of you who are still alive. There's no need to die. I respect valor and am willing to let you go. Take whatever supplies you need, and exit the crawlers. Refuse, and the woman dies."

  The words "What woman?" had already formed on Bolano' s lips when a battery-powered spot came on. Light splashed the top of a rise. The main onboard computer "saw" the light and zoomed in. The guild boss felt his stomach flip-flop. Casey!

  The technician was naked. Her nipples were hard, and she couldn't stop shivering. The light was blinding, and fingers hurt her arms. Four men held her over the stake. The technician whimpered as the point touched the inside surface of a thigh. She imagined how it would feel as the piece of wood pushed its way through her anus and into her intestines. The bandits knew what she was thinking and laughed.

  Salls brought the radio up to her lips. "That's the offer— take it or leave it. You have sixty seconds to decide."

  Bolano sighed. If the choice was between Casey and the Guild, he'd take Casey any day of the week. Would the bandit keep her word, though? That was the problem.

  Doon had debated the best method of approach. Straight ahead, and take the leader first? Or—and the second possibility seemed best—rescue Casey before the bandits could drop her. He moved with the slow, carefully calculated movements of a machine.

  Casey was unaware that a sixth person was present until an arm slipped around her waist and people began to die. Two slugs apiece; that's what Doon's programming called for, so that's what they got. The noise was deafening.

  Salls heard the first shot, turned, and saw a man fall. Where were the shots coming from? It took a moment to see the arm, realize its significance, and react.

  The fourth man was dead, but still in the process of falling, when Doon threw Casey away. He didn't care where she landed as long as it was out of the line of fire. The woman had an auto thrower—and it was on the way.

  With the surety of a computer, the synthetic knew he had missed the window. The bandit's weapon would come into alignment a fraction of a second before his did. Death would follow.

  Sojo knew what would happen, and his screams were still ripping through Doon's mind when Kev stepped out of the darkness. The shotgun was short and ugly.

  Salls caught the movement out of the comer of her eye and tried to respond. The teenager smiled and shook his head. The smoothbore roared, sparks stabbed the bandit's eyes, and she rode them away.

  Doon helped Casey to her feet, found her parka, and draped it over her shoulders. Kev toed the woman's body and looked up. "Thought I told you to stay aboard," the android said mildly.

  "Sorry," Kev said apologetically. "Guess I forgot."

  It took the better part of three days to bury the dead, capture the murderous children, and send them west in company with a pack train. They wore chains and made a pitiful sight as they marched away. Most were orphans, and, if their stories were true, they had been trained by Salls.

  The convoy had lost seventeen members of its crew, but Vent lay sixty miles ahead. It boasted the Guild's easternmost maintenance facility. Should they continue, or turn back?

  Bolano decided to go for it. Kev and a second scout were promoted to pusher status, given some minimal training, and assigned to crawlers. The balance of the empty slots went to gunners and techs.

  The crawlers rumbled toward the east. Snow drifted from the sky, filled their tracks, and threw a dirty gray shroud over the mass grave. Bullet Eater had been assigned to doze it... and Doon was proud of his work.

  The synthetic had paid for the killings of the night before. Paid and paid and paid. Afterimages of their deaths still stuttered through his processor. Not a pleasant process. Still, given the fact that the violent images had driven Sojo's ghost into hiding, it was worth it.

  The road turned downward and zigzagged back and forth as if reluctant to leave the mountains. Mary had a crawler of her own, which left Doon by himself—a condition he once regarded as normal... but not any more. Why? Because he missed her, that was why. Was that a sign of weakness? Or the sort of interdependence that humans took such perverse pride in? The hours unwound, the crawler followed the road, and machine rode machine.

  Though not especially important prior to the Cleansing, the community of Vent had since come into its own, mainly because it marked the spot where the HZ stopped and the holy lands began. A rather profitable place to be.

  Which was why the community was so well guarded. The convoy passed through no less than three different checkpoints prior to entering the actual city.

  Centered around the volcanic vent from which it took its name, the community was a warren of tightly twisting streets, interconnected lava tubes, and free-form caverns.

  The largest of these caverns was known as "Big Mama." The entrance had been carved to resemble a pair of human lips. It belonged to the Guild and served as a combination terminal, garage, and warehouse. Bolano passed Bullet Eater and led the convoy through the entrance. The guildsman veered to the right, led the convoy into a gently curving lane, and came to a halt.

  The convoy, and its arrival, were something of an event. Hundreds of people drifted into the cavern until a crowd had formed. They were a motley-looking lot—human mostly with a scattering of heavily disguised synthetics and Zid renegades
.

  Doon lowered himself to the ground, looked for Mary, and sidled over. "So, here we are."

  The roboticist nodded. She looked around, verified that no one was listening, and met his sensors. "How long must we stay? I'd like to leave as soon as possible."

  The ghost had already started to whine about unnecessary delays when Doon shut him down. "Tomorrow. As early as possible. Assuming we get what we need."

  Mary nodded, and the conversation ended as Bolano shouldered his way through the crowd. "Hey, you two! Good job. Secure your rigs and take the rest of the day off. We unload in the morning, load in the afternoon, and leave the next day. Here's a couple of vouchers. You can exchange them for Guild scrip. Have a good time."

  They said thank you, checked their rigs, and went shopping. Crude signs pointed the way, but Mary figured the other pushers would lead them in the right direction, and she was right. They cut across Big Mama, detoured around a pile of heavily guarded cargo modules, and headed for a lava tube. Pushers were rich, by current standards anyway, so the group was besieged by every manner of vendor, pimp, and runner, all competing to be heard.

  The synthetic remained unmoved, but Mary fell for a girl about Corley's age, purchased a meat-filled pastry, and ate it as they walked. She liked the taste, and that, plus the relatively balmy air, served to raise her spirits.

  Doon smiled. "There's no telling what you're eating. Hope it didn't have a name."

  Mary made a face. "Look who's talking. I'll bet you'd suck static electricity out of a Zid's armpit if your power was low."

  Doon laughed. "You win! Bon appétit."

  The vendors melted away as the pushers entered a lava tube, followed it for a while, and arrived in the Vent equivalent of an indoor .shopping mall.

  Stores lined both sides of what the residents jokingly referred to as "the Scavenue," which consisted of a long, narrow gallery. Shops, bars, eateries, and worse stood shoulder to shoulder and vied for customers.

  Doon perceived the business district as a combat range, complete with flashing threat icons, a target grid, and, in one case, a woman with an outstanding arrest warrant. His law enforcement programming urged the android to take the female into custody while Sojo threw a tantrum in the background. Doon managed to ignore both distractions.

  Mary experienced her surroundings in a completely different way. Her eyes wallowed in color, her nose feasted on a rich mixture of smells, and sound filled her ears. It was horribly wonderful.

  The rest of the pushers formed up in front of a bar called the Crawler's Rest and urged the twosome to join them. Both Doon and Mary were popular, but Doon was regarded with something approaching awe, especially after his heroism.

  They made excuses, grinned at the intentionally crude jokes, and waved good-bye. "So?" Mary inquired. "What now?"

  "Now we go shopping," the android replied seriously. "Consider your purchases carefully, because you won't get another chance. I recommend food, freeze-dried if we can find it, ammo for your pump gun, medical supplies if you're low, and two sets of cold-weather gear. The best available. Watch total weight though—and remember trade goods. We'll bribe 'em first and shoot 'em second."

  Mary raised an eyebrow. "And what about you?"

  Doon shrugged. "I don't need food, nor much of a wardrobe, but I'll take as much ammo as I can get, plus the tools and parts from your lab. If you'll let me, that is."

  Mary nodded. She needed him... and he needed her. It was the best bargain either one of them was likely to get.

  They located a place that sold expedition equipment, bought backpacks into which their belongings could be consolidated, and went to work. Their Guild pay, plus what they already had, would more than cover their needs. It was fun, and similar to a shopping spree, except for one thing: Their lives would depend on the things they purchased—and there would be little opportunity to buy anything more.

  They rose early, checked their packs one last time, and left a note on Bullet-Eater's control panel:

  Dear Pete,

  Sorry to do this to you—but we're bailing out. Thanks for the ride.

  Best Always,

  Harley & Mary

  People with parkas, packs, and weapons were a common sight in Vent, and no one noticed as they left through Big Mama's mouth and entered the predawn darkness. No one except a ragged-looking Zid beggar, that is. He watched the couple go, thanked them for the crudely cut coin that rattled into the bottom of his cup, and made a mental note. Two heretics, both armed with Satan's tools, were headed into the holy lands? Why?

  The monks had a well-known appetite for information— and would welcome a tidbit such as this.

  16

  fa na' tic / n / one showing excessive enthusiasm or zeal

  The news that Dr. Gene Garrison had not only survived his artificially induced illness, but was planning to hold a staff meeting, shocked Abby Ahl. Especially since she had been assigned to kill the scientist—and thought the job was essentially done. Jantz would be angry.

  Ahl remembered the way he made love to her, stabbing her vagina as if his penis was a knife and he wanted to hurt her.

  Ahl felt the blood rush to her face, looked to find out if anyone had seen, and was thankful that no one had. The spy checked her wrist chron, rose from her desk, and left the office. She had a pistol in her quarters, and plenty of supplies. Enough to reach the Cathedral of the Rocks. The mission was over—or would be by the time the sun went down.

  After months of uncertainty, fear, and doubt, Flat Top was coming back to life. The announcement that Garrison had ended his self-imposed isolation had reenergized most of the members of the organization. Bana Modo was no exception.

  Though impressed by the quality of Garrison's mind, the biologist was well aware of the other man's failings, especially where leadership was concerned. Having ruled by strength of personality, and having undermined every person named to succeed him, the director had subverted his own creation.

  Fiefdoms had been created during his absence, intrigue had flourished, and resources systematically misappropriated.

  Now Garrison was back, much to the disgust of those who had profited, or hoped to profit.

  Not Modo, though—he was the first person to enter the spartan auditorium, and he sat down front. Something good would happen. He could feel it.

  Ahl's plan was simple: station herself outside Garrison's door, wait for the roboticist to emerge, and shoot him in the head. The very seat of the Devil's power—and the area most vulnerable. Where nano had failed, a bullet would succeed.

  Agents such as herself, and the troops known as God's Reapers, were allowed to use firearms by special dispensation. But how to justify her presence? There were numerous possibilities, but Ahl chose the most ironic.

  By placing her back to the wall, and standing at ease, she looked like a sentry. There to guard her leader against attack. The roboticist had refused such protection in the past—but that was the old Garrison, and the new one could have changed. Ahl nodded to passersby, and they nodded in return.

  Garrison examined himself in the mirror. He still looked like hell... but what could someone of his advanced years expect? Even with a body full of hard-working nano. He laughed and turned away. He was what he was—and his staff would have to accept it.

  Ahl felt her stomach somersault as a series of locks snicked open and the door swung inward. She pulled the weapon out from under her jacket and held it down along her leg.

  Garrison appeared and stepped out into the hall. He smiled and nodded. Ahl was amazed. The roboticist looked wonderful! Much better than the last time he had appeared in public. How? But there was no time to consider unimportant things, so she raised the weapon, screamed, "Glory to God!" and squeezed the trigger. Not just once—but three times in quick succession. The weapon jumped, and the noise was deafening.

  The scientist staggered under the impact of the bullets. His head came apart, and he hit the wall. Something was wrong though—something having to do
with a lack of blood. That's when someone shouted, "Hold it right there!" and Ahl knew bad things were about to happen.

  The Zid agent was turning, pulling the weapon around, when the bullets hit her. One clipped the woman's skull, another punctured her right lung, and a third cracked a shoulder blade. She fell across the roboticist's legs.

  Voices shouted, hands rolled Ahl onto her back, and the assassin opened her eyes. The world was gray and filled with pain. She felt for the cross and found it slick with blood. Something loomed above. Garrison! Not the pretty version she had killed—but a haggard old man. The first Garrison had been a robot!

  Garrison shook his head. "Nice try, honey ... but people were trying to kill me before you were born. Must be my personality or something."

  The face disappeared, but Ahl heard the words "Take her to the infirmary," and knew she wouldn't make it. This life was over—and the next hadn't started yet. Darkness rose all around. She waited for the light.

  The auditorium was packed by the time Garrison arrived. Security beings and members of the senior team formed a wall around the scientist. The reason became apparent as Dr. Barbara Omita opened the meeting. She was a tiny woman with a pageboy haircut and an earnest expression.

  "Good morning, everyone ... .Thank you for coming. I'm thrilled to announce that our director, Dr. Gene Garrison, has recovered from his debilitating illness and returned to work. Pardon our late arrival—but there was an attempt on his life."

  There was a hiss of indrawn air followed by expressions of disbelief and concern.

  Omita was about to say more when Garrison took the mike. His smile would have been more reassuring had his face been a little less gaunt. "It would seem that our current grievance process leaves something to be desired."