Yes, the odds that invaders were waiting just outside were virtually nil, but security was of the utmost importance. Especially since the Mothri would be gone for weeks if not months—leaving tenders to protect her eggs. A situation that generated feelings of guilt. Guilt which the Mothri countered by remembering that if the humans were correct, if the planet was falling apart, every single egg was at risk.
The security bots gave the all clear, Enore issued some last-minute instructions, and attacked the slope. Dirt avalanched, the ramp accepted her weight, and the Mothri moved upward.
Ned had responsibilities, or believed that he did, and took them seriously. That's why he left the comparative comfort of his cave every eighth day to conduct his tour.
There were ruins to visit, where voices spoke from within solid walls; the cache, where Annie left food; and what he thought of as the bug farm, where his daughter appeared to him. Not every time he went there, but often enough that he continued to go back, listening should she care to speak.
The hermit scanned the clearing ahead, saw no reason for concern, and moved to the right. By staying with the trees and following them around, he would avoid the open space.
"It takes longer that way—but the long way is the safe way—and the safe way is the best way—and the best way is my way." The words made a ditty, a nice little ditty, and the hermit hummed it under his breath.
Ned was tall and thin. Each time he acquired a new set of clothes, he put them next to his eternally filthy skin, moved the next garments to the middle position, and allowed the outer layer to rot. The effect was to leave him dressed in layers of dark gray rags, which, though something less than attractive, made for excellent camouflage.
Moving carefully, like mist in human form, the hermit ghosted along the edge of the forest, found the robots' trail, and followed it toward their subterranean complex. They knew him by now, and never interfered. Not unless he ventured onto the flat area. That's when the machines would turn Ned back. Annie swore she'd been there, and Becka too, but he didn't believe them.
No one made use of the footpath except Ned, so it was hard to see, especially when covered by newly fallen snow, but the hermit had acquainted himself with each rock and tree, and knew when to turn.
The slope led to the top of a small knoll that offered a view of the area below. It was unnaturally flat and punctuated by cylindrical air shafts. Ned had no more than arrived, and settled onto his favorite rock, when the ground started to boil. That's the way it looked, anyway, as Mothri robots ate their way up and out of the repository. It was an amazing sight— and the human watched with slack-jawed fascination as an enormous hole appeared.
There was a pause as three insectoid heads appeared and scanned the area for anything that could threaten their five-ton mistress. Then, with servos whining and antennae waving, an entire squad of the creatures scuttled up out of the tunnel and assumed defensive postures.
Ned blinked and wondered if the machines were real or one of the dreams that were woven into his days. He was still watching, still wondering, when a pearly gray head appeared at the exact center of the newly created hole. It was huge, easily as large as the machines assigned to protect it, and equipped with equally massive mandibles. The head turned from side to side, paused, and withdrew.
Thirty seconds passed, enough time for Ned to conclude that the show was over, and ready himself to leave. He had stood, and was backing away, when the ground seemed to explode.
The tunnel had been kept intentionally narrow so that invaders if any would be forced to attack in columns of twos or threes. Rather than wait for the diggers to enlarge the passageway, Enore elected to charge up the ramp and force her way through. Dirt crumbled under the weight of her assault, exploded outward, and sprayed across the snow. It was still settling as she emerged.
Ned was transfixed. He watched in open mouthed amazement as the behemoth lumbered out onto the flat area followed by a steady stream of robots. Most had eight legs, but four looked like centipedes and were laden with heavy packs. Most of the machines formed a column of twos and marched toward the south.
It was then, after most of her escorts were gone, and the diggers were closing the hole, that Enore issued last-minute instructions, and hoped that her decision had been the correct one. The egg tenders knew what to do, and would do it— for years if necessary.
But what if something went wrong? Something the robots weren't equipped to handle? Then I wouldn't have been able to handle it either, Enore told herself, remembering other Mothri who had been crushed to death within their own tunnels. Still, it took an act of will to turn her back and lumber away. The rear guard, which consisted of twelve heavily armed robots, followed.
Ned, who had no idea what to make of the sudden exodus, shook his head in amazement as he watched them leave. This was the most amazing batch of hallucinations he'd ever had. The hermit chuckled, skidded down the slope, and resumed his rounds. The ruins lay a few miles to the north—and the voices were waiting.
With scouts crisscrossing the country ahead, flankers protecting her sides, and a rapid-response force bringing up the rear, Enore set forth on her journey.
Given the need for speed, the size of her body, and the nature of her escort, there was no way to go unnoticed. That being the case, the Mothri ordered her scouts to pursue a route that would allow her to stop at select locations while using the least amount of time.
In spite of the fact that thousands of Forerunner nano types had apparently been driven to extinction by their alien counterparts, the humans offered one last hope.
A scientist named Bana Modo theorized that at least some of the seemingly dead species might continue to exist within tech-free Zid villages. If so, they were likely to be intact, since there was nothing there to harm them.
If Enore could capture samples of such nano, and if she could transport them south, efforts would be made to duplicate them. A vital first step toward manufacturing strains mat could not only survive alien attack, but reverse Zuul's deterioration. That was why certain kinds of equipment had been loaded onto the centipedelike freight bots, and why the column suddenly veered away from its natural path and headed toward the east.
Father Haslo called for a moment of individual reflection and looked out on the congregation. Something bothered him about the village of Piety, but he couldn't decide what. Or could he?
What with the weather, the ever-dwindling food stocks, and the ever increasing tithes, most of his parishioners were increasingly thin. He had witnessed the phenomenon in the communities of Charity, Truth, and Hope.
Now, as he visited the fourth and final town on his circuit, the elders looked plump, verging on fat. Pomo was an excellent example. How could that be? Unless the Devil was about—which was all too likely. Yes, despite the congregation's ragged clothes and seemingly pious ways, something was amiss. He would say as much in his next report. There was nothing like a visit from the inquisition to put a village back on the path.
Haslo murmured the usual prayer. Heads came up, and eyes met his. The priest could practically see their hypocrisy and felt his gills start to flutter. He brought the reaction under control and launched his sermon.
Not the one he had originally planned—but the one they needed to hear. As with any truly fine sermon, it focused on the Devil, his demons, and the pits of hell. Haslo took particular pleasure in describing the pits, complete with roasting sinners, the stench of scorched flesh, and eternal screams of agony. One of the best parts was when a demon ate the farmer's prideful daughter—and Haslo had just laid the necessary groundwork for the story when the door slammed open.
The congregation turned as one. Some made gasping noises, others screamed, and one fainted.
The demon, for that's what it must certainly be, had multifaceted eyes, strange appendages, and a shiny black body. Haslo heard whirring sounds as the horror pushed its way into the church. Was he responsible? Had his sermon summoned this creature straight from the bowels of he
ll?
It was a terrible thought, yet strangely pleasing, since it stood to reason that only the most potent of presentations would have sufficient power to elicit such a response.
Hands trembling, gills fluttering, the priest lifted the cross out of its holder, held the device aloft, and marched down the aisle. A target laser kissed the priest's forehead, and a voice was heard. It spoke flawless Zid. "Stay where you are. Make no attempt to leave. None of you will be harmed. Our work will be completed soon."
So saying, the demon backed out through the door. Haslo, certain mat God had listened to his prayers, fell to his knees. The story of how the priest confronted the demon, and forced it to leave, would be told for as long there were evenings to tell it in.
A full twelve hours passed before the residents of Piety gathered enough courage to venture outside. Nothing had been damaged, and there were no signs of demons, other than tracks in the snow. There were plenty of those, so many that it didn't seem possible, and the entire village fell to their knees yet again. It was clear that an entire legion of demons had invaded Piety—a fact that made their survival all the more miraculous.
It wasn't too much later that the elders, led by a newly reformed Pomo, confessed their many sins, revealed their fully packed storerooms, and begged Haslo's forgiveness. Their tithe, which they subsequently carried on their backs, was generous in the extreme.
Eventually, as a reward for their openhanded virtue, Pomo and the rest of the elders were allowed to become part of the Grand Crusade's foremost rank, a position from which they could witness God's work, and hurry their impending martyrdom.
Enore lacked both the time and the means to assess the samples collected in Piety and the seven additional villages that she and her force of robots had visited. All she could do was take them and hope for the best.
The Mothri topped a rise, looked out over a slightly undulating plain, and felt horribly exposed. To a creature who had spent most of her life snug within a warren of tunnels, chambers, and passageways, the plain, horizon, and impossibly open sky felt more than a little threatening.
Enore struggled to control her panic, put her head down, and pushed ahead. It helped to look at the ground, to focus on what she knew, and avoid other stimuli.
And so it was that a five-ton beetle and her escort of insectoid robots passed within rifle shot of the packer station known as Git Up—and continued toward the south.
The complex, which consisted of a sod house, guest huts, and a maze of mutimal kraals, was momentarily empty. The manager and her husband watched from the roof of their dwelling. "What the hell is that thing?" the woman wondered out loud. "The big one."
"It's a Mothri, like as not," her husband answered. "That's what they're supposed to look like, anyway."
"Where's it going?"
The man shook his head. "Don't rightly know, dear... but I wouldn't want to get in its way."
"No," the woman allowed. "Neither would I."
19
grudge / n / sullen malice; a cherished dislike
A combination of snow and rain, which Mary referred to as "snain," slanted in from the west. The cold, wet substance accumulated on the roboticist's shoulders, seeped into her clothes, and chilled her skin.
The road east stretched long and hard. Step followed step, curve followed curve, and hill followed hill in mind-numbing succession. Using the trade route was dangerous—but not using the road was even more dangerous, which left very little choice. Doon kept a sharp eye out and made frequent use of Michael's orbital sensors.
By placing himself in a geostationary orbit over the holy lands, the spy sat could provide the synthetic with reports on the surrounding area. That's why Doon nudged Mary off the road and led her up through a ravine. The stream hid their tracks, and a cluster of weatherworn rocks offered shelter.
Mary looked around. A circle of fire-blackened stones indicated that others had used the spot before them. She shrugged her way out from under the pack. "I don't want to seem ungrateful or anything—but why take a break? Don't tell me you're running out of steam."
"Steam-powered synthetics," Doon said thoughtfully. "Why didn't I think of that? No, I'm not 'running out of steam,' as you put it. Watch the road. Company's on the way."
Mary lit a smoke-free fuel tablet, put some relatively clean slush on to boil, and sat on her heels. Ten minutes passed, and when they came, the sound arrived first.
The chanting had a mournful quality, like the keening of the wind, and sent a chill up her spine. A standard appeared—gold on light blue—and flapped like a captive bird. A teenager held it aloft, the butt supported by some sort of sling, his face invisible behind white-encrusted rags.
A Zid came next. Snow rode his shoulders like a vestment of gray. The priest was short and stocky. He gave off energy the way a stove radiates heat. Mary could feel his personality v from a hundred feet away. The newly converted faithful' shuffled along behind.
The women came first, some with tightly wrapped bundles in their arms, closely followed by older children and the men. Most wore packs and reasonably good boots. They looked tired, as if the rigors of their religion, combined with the journey through God's Teeth, had sapped their energy.
That didn't prevent them from singing, however—if the wailing qualified as such. Mary watched until the last pilgrims had passed and been absorbed by the sleet.
A deep ache filled the woman's heart as she thought about Corley and wondered where she was. Safe? Or living through God knows what? The other possibility, the one she couldn't quite admit to, was completely unacceptable. A hand touched her arm.
"Here," Doon said as he offered a hot cup of tea. "This will fix you up."
"Thank you," Mary said gratefully. "I'll hurry."
The android shrugged. "The road will wait. Take your time."
But Corley was waiting, or so Mary hoped, and time was of the essence. She gulped the tea, got to her feet, and stepped on the fuel tab. It hissed and died. "How did you know? About the column, I mean?"
"A bird told me," the synthetic said lightly. "Here, let me help with that pack."
They were on the road ten minutes later. The pilgrims made a path through the slush. The heretics followed behind.
Serving as Harley Doon's eyes was a somewhat tedious job—but one that Michael welcomed because of the human contact involved. Well, not human exactly, but close enough. And who was he to complain? A glorified tin can with delusions of grandeur? No, some purpose was better than none, and the satellite would do what he could.
The twosome was forced off the road again that day.
The westward-bound caravan was heavily laden and accompanied by heavily armed outriders. Most appeared to be human, though the scarfs made it difficult to tell.
Doon watched with weapon drawn and refused to leave the relative safety of the trees until Michael gave the all clear.
Mary wondered how Doon knew the caravan was coming before it arrived, but the android refused to explain. Perhaps it was the fact that he was a cop, or had been, and secrets came naturally. Or maybe, and this seemed more likely, it was his desire to have some sort of power over her. Men, it seemed even mechanical ones, were all alike.
Sojo, or the entity who thought of himself as Sojo, was different in that regard. He would have told Mary about the satellite, his favorite kind of music, or anything else that came to mind, had he been given a chance to do so. But Doon kept the clamps on, which left the rider to fuss, fume, and fret. A process that took its toll on the android's patience and emotional energy.
The sleet continued to fall, the hours wore away, and darkness gathered around.
The ruins were the obvious choice, so obvious that Doon would have opted for other less comfortable quarters, had it not been for Michael's repeated reassurances. There were no travelers in the immediate vicinity, and the nearest group, a party of three who were camped more than three miles to the east, had settled in for the night.
Thus reassured, the and
roid led his human companion in among ancient walls. The light had started to fade, but there was enough to see where campfires had scorched the walls, and to read the graffiti that others had left behind. ''All glory to God," "Lars was here," and some ancient hieroglyphics were all mixed together like some sort of puzzle.
A quick check confirmed that the satellite was correct. The place was vacant, for the moment anyway, which met their needs.
A slab of something that resembled duracrete stood on six weatherworn columns. Tool marks showed where previous campers had attempted to topple the supports, short lengths of cord testified to long-vanished shelters, and a cluster of pockmarks spoke to a night of drunken target practice.
"Home sweet home," Mary said dryly, dropping her pack onto a crudely improvised table. "What could be better?"
"Damned near anything," Doon said cynically. "Still, it beats the alternatives, like pitching our tent in the open. You take that corner, I'll take this one."
There was plenty of accumulated trash. Doon piled some against a blackened wall and set the heap ablaze. The garbage burned in fits and starts, but eventually produced enough heat to cook on, and a glow that warmed the walls.
The roboticist finished her meal, washed the mess kit with slush, and sat on her pack. The riot gun was near at hand, and Doon was silent. The fire felt good. Very good. So good that she was asleep when the rider broke the silence. The voice had a much different timbre than Doon's. "How can you stand it? Doon is so predictable. Not a creative circuit in his body."
Mary's eyes snapped open. "Where is Doon?"
"Oh, he's here—taking a rest. He could control me if he really wanted to."
Mary frowned. The synthetic looked the same, yet different somehow. "Why allow you to speak, then?"
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