Steelheart

by William C. Dietz

  Eager to build a prototype, and thus verify that his idea would work, Solly emptied his flask into the snow. With that accomplished, it was a simple matter to secure the canteen between some stones and guide the bladder into the proper position.

  Dara returned, lowered the water bottles into the snow, and crouched next to him. She watched her friend pour fish oil into his flask, cut a length of cord, and stuff it through the hole. Then, in an act that made no sense whatsoever, Solly withdrew a hand-dipped fire-starter from his pocket and struck it on a rock. Fire blossomed, wobbled, and held. He touched it to the makeshift wick and groaned as the wind put it out.

  Dara saw a look of frustration appear on Solly's face. Frustration and something else—fear—and determination. He fiddled with the cord, checked to ensure that oil had wicked all the way to the top, and tried again. A second fire-starter burst into flame. It lasted long enough for the cord to catch. It flared, started to smoke, and continued to burn. And burn and burn.

  The whole thing was magic, black magic, and Dara looked fearful. The oil belonged to God—and the device smacked of the Devil. Solly, who felt exultation mixed with a deep sense of guilt, tried to comfort her. "Don't worry, Dara— God will punish me, not you."

  Dara thought about the demon growing within her belly and knew it wasn't true. God had condemned her already— so there was nothing left to lose. She looked Solly in the eye. "If God sends you to hell, then I shall be by your side."

  And it was then, crouched before the tiniest of flames, that a lifelong partnership was forged. A partnership stronger than the rock beneath their feet. Solly nodded. "Thank you, Dara. Pull everyone together. Bring them to the shelter. I'll carry the flasks."

  Though far less sturdy than Ranko would have liked, the waist-high pile of rocks broke the incoming wind. Dara and Solly herded everyone inside, made places for those who were injured, and went to work on the group's morale.

  It didn't take long to make more fish oil lamps and get them going. Though unable to produce much warmth for those huddled around them, clusters of lamp/stoves were sufficient to boil snowmelt, which quickly became tea. Cheered by the hot liquid, as well as the golden lamplight, the survivors settled in for the night. No one had questioned Solly's invention, not yet anyway, and there was a chance they wouldn't.

  The next morning dawned cold and bright. Crono opened his eye, couldn't remember where he was, and looked around. Exhausted by the previous day, and reluctant to separate themselves from each other's warmth, the pilgrims lay in a circle. It was what lay at the center of the circle that drew and held the priest's attention.

  Water flasks, some nine in all, stood grouped together. Most had run out of fuel, but three continued to burn, their flames jumping in the breeze. It made no sense. Water won't burn ... so how could that be?

  That's when Crono saw Solly and the bladder of fish oil and drew the logical conclusion. Perhaps water wouldn't burn ... but it seemed that fish oil would—knowledge that the youngster had no doubt acquired via his illicit experiments. It was a sacrilege, an affront to God, yet what of the results?

  The priest took yet another look around, counted those who had survived, and remembered what Solly had accomplished. For it was he more than anyone else who had saved these lives. That was good, wasn't it? Yes, of course it was, especially since he, the one into whose care the pilgrims had been entrusted, had failed to read the weather, failed to take the proper precautions, and failed to react in a professional manner.

  It was insane to think that God would murder innocent beings to punish one self-centered, egotistical priest! No, the blame was his and his alone. Solly's folly stemmed from a lack of priestly supervision, not an evil heart, and had saved numerous lives. Some things should be punished and others ignored. Knowing that, and knowing the difference, was the mark of the truly competent priest.

  Careful not to disturb those around him, Crono struggled to his feet, cursed his many aches, and entered the circle. It took but a moment to extinguish the still-burning flames, collect the lamps, and carry them outside. A fist-sized rock made short work of the clay vessels, which would return to the soil whence they came.

  Crono felt reenergized as he entered the shelter. Someone had recovered his staff and left it leaning on the hastily built wall. The priest seized the implement and poked the nearest body. "All right, slackers—that's enough sleep for one night! It's a long way to Sacrifice—so get on your feet."

  Solly felt something thump against the sole of his boot, opened his eye, and saw the priest looming above. "You did a fine job, lad... a truly fine job. Thank you."

  It was all that was said, or needed to be said, except that the flasks were missing—and Solly knew why.

  The trip into Sacrifice was long and arduous. The weather was good, by current standards anyway, but the trail lay buried under the avalanche. It took hours of backbreaking work to traverse the slide.

  The same young males who had managed to outrun the avalanche helped by working their way back. The trail they broke took a drol off the process. Cheers went up when it turned out that two of the missing pilgrims were with them.

  A brief memorial service was held, food was shared, and the march resumed.

  It was a long, hard day, relieved only by the fact that they were going downhill rather than up, and the relatively mild weather.

  The trail wound down the mountainside between clumps of wind-twisted vegetation, across half-frozen creeks, and out onto a farm road. The road, which was in desperate need of repair, joined company with a river and meandered through recendy deserted farmland. Huts, many of which had collapsed under the weight of the ice and snow, functioned as monuments to families who had been forced to retreat.

  It was mid-afternoon when the pilgrims topped a rise and caught a glimpse of Sacrifice off in the distance. No less than three pyramid-shaped churches thrust lordly spires up through a layer of dirty brown smog.

  Everyone knew about Sacrifice, for this was the spot where the Zid master race had put the believers down, where the deportees had been awakened from their artificially induced sleep and been forced onto the planet's surface.

  Some of the elders, horrified by the manner in which the flock had been exposed to the evils of technology during the voyage, called for death, praying that God would strike them down, or, failing that, pondered the merits of killing the membership themselves.

  That's when the Founder, who now lay beneath the city's largest pyramid, had a vision in which the entire planet would surrender to the plow, and a new civilization would be born.

  Assuming the stories were correct, the master race had provided the outcasts with a mountain of supplies, including food, machinery, and demons that looked like Zid but were made of metal. Once that was accomplished, the shuttles lifted and the colonists were left to fend for themselves.

  That was the moment when the more conservative elders, those who favored suicide, called for the destruction of the supplies, fearing that contact with such materials would pollute the membership and open their minds to the Devil.

  Others, less certain of God's intent and encouraged by the Founder's mercy, waffled, and advocated a middle course in which they would destroy the demons, but keep everything else. The Founder spoke, and the moderates were put to death.

  It was said that the fire, and the explosions that followed, darkened the sky and poisoned the soil immediately below it. The demons, some of whom had names and claimed to have souls, were ordered to march into the holocaust, where their bodies were consumed.

  The stories, particularly the parts that referred to demons, had long been a source of fascination for Solly, who would have given anything to see the machines that walked and talked, even if it led to damnation. He sighed, took Dara's arm, and helped her toward the city.

  The farm road merged with a four-rut highway just as the clouds moved in and the sky grew darker.

  Solly had never seen a two-lane thoroughfare before, but noted the manner in which
logs had been used to reinforce the surface. That at least was familiar.

  The carts were few and far between at first, but became more numerous as the pilgrims approached the city. Gaunt hordu hauled most of them, but some, too many in Solly's opinion, were pulled by the farmers themselves. A sure sign that the missing animals had been slaughtered and subsequently eaten.

  There were pilgrims too, in groups ranging from little more than a handful all the way up to larger contingents numbering a hundred or more. Most had suffered more than Crono's group. They marched with a profound weariness, as if too exhausted to note their surroundings, or to care who passed them by.

  They had overtaken one such group, and were approaching another, when Dara put a hand on Solly's arm. "Look! Up ahead!"

  Prayer poles lined both sides of the road. Most of the fanatics who had tied themselves into place during the festival eight days before had frozen to death, but one continued to live, croaking incoherent words toward the sky, waiting for release.

  Solly had heard of such things, but never actually witnessed them. Harmony had such a pole, as most villages did, but no one had died on it.

  Dara stumbled, took Solly's arm, and resumed the march. She seemed weaker of late, as if the malady that plagued her had worsened and eroded her strength. He had attempted to broach the subject, hoping to help, but she wouldn't allow it.

  The sun began to set, slowly, as if reluctant to go. Sacrifice crowded the road, squeezed the thoroughfare to half its previous size and forced it over a series of stone bridges, each of which crossed the same sewage-filled river and led deeper into the center of the city. The logs were gone now, replaced by cobblestones that made traveling easier in some ways, harder in others.

  The pilgrims started to slow, rubbernecking at the sights around them, but Crono urged them on, striking the more recalcitrant with his staff, and exhorting the rest.

  Candles appeared in windows to either side of the road, doors slammed, voices gabbled and prayer callers could be heard. The air was thick with smoke, the stench of untreated sewage, and something Solly couldn't quite put a name to. Rot? Decay? He didn't like it, whatever it was.

  There was a commotion up ahead. Torches flared, voices yelled, and sparks flew from metal-shod hooves. It was too dark to see with any surety, but Solly pulled Dara into a doorway and shouted for the rest to take cover. Most did— and not a moment too early.

  Blood seeped from deep lacerations on the human's neck and shoulders. She ran as fast as she could, stumbling when a cobblestone tripped her up, then running once more.

  The mutimals, which were larger than the Zid-bred hordu, thundered behind. The riders stood in their stirrups, whips raised, ready to strike. They wore metal things, slung across their backs, that caught Solly's eye. Machines of some sort— authorized by the Church.

  It became clear that the pursuers could apprehend the alien anytime they chose to—but preferred to draw the process out and prolong the chase. For fun? Or as an example? There was no way to know.

  One of Crono's flock, a female named Prulla, moved too slowly. A mutimal tried to stop, failed, and shouldered her aside. The force of the blow hurled the poor thing into a stone wall. Stunned, she lost her balance and toppled into the street. A second animal ran her down. The rider jerked on the reins, but it was too late. Her skull had been crushed.

  Crono, who had sidestepped the oncoming riders, made a sound unlike anything Solly had heard. It was part shout, part scream. The priest forced his way between the mutimals, grabbed the rider's cloak, and pulled him down. The soldier hit the pavement with a loud grunt, attempted to stand, and fell as the metal-shod staff connected with the side of his head.

  The riders had turned by now, and their leader pointed at Crono. "Arrest that male! Bring him to me!"

  Mutimals collided and grunted as they encircled the priest. Their eyes rolled and their breath fogged the air. Solly pushed between them, staggered as a whip fell across his shoulders, and made it to Crono's side. "Don't hurt him! He's a priest!"

  The leader held a torch. It lit one side of a horribly scarred face. He held something shiny in his hand. A weapon of some sort. "Is this true?"

  Crono reached into his robes, found the disk that functioned as a badge, and hauled it out. Light winked off metal, and the riders stirred uneasily.

  The leader bolstered his weapon. "Sorry, Father, we didn't know. The human possessed a tube that generated light. We had orders to purge her."

  A machine that made light? Solly thought about the oil-fueled lamps and felt a knot form in his belly.

  Crono, his voice stiff with anger, scanned the faces around him. "Who are you that ride God-fearing parishioners down in the streets? I will have your names."

  The leader spoke for the rest. "Proctor Lud, Father. Commander of Hand Company, Fourth Holy Reapers." The tone was respectful.. . but there was no apology.

  Crono had never heard of the Reapers, much less Hand Company, but was too savvy to admit it. Things had changed, that much was clear, and in ways he didn't understand. "Thank you, Proctor Lud. I understand the need for religious discipline—but not at the cost of innocent lives. I urge you and your subordinates to carry out your duties with more restraint in the future."

  If Lud was worried, there was no sign of it on his face. He bowed formally, pulled his mount around, and cantered away. The soldiers followed. Their torches bobbed up and down.

  Crono watched the Reapers leave, murmured something under his breath, and knelt by Prulla's body. His lips formed a prayer, but his mind was elsewhere. The Devil was on the loose, all right—and working for the Church.

  A substantial amount of time passed while the pilgrims took their companion's body to the city morgue and arranged for burial. It was a disturbing place, where the stench of death permeated the air, and the coffin-makers worked day and night.

  Then, with snow falling all around, they made their way to the vast encampment where pilgrims from all over the Holy Empire were quartered. Unlike the cluster of guest huts common to villages such as Harmony, Grid, as it was known, was the size of a small city. True to its name, Grid had been plotted with geometric exactitude. Streets had numbers, and avenues had names.

  So, in spite of the fact that Crono and his flock were so exhausted they could hardly see straight, they had no difficulty finding their respective huts. It was pleasant inside, thanks to the small army of juvenile fire-tenders charged with keeping them warm, and they were quick to unpack.

  Solly squeezed Dara's hand, wished he could do something to allay the misery that haunted her face, and promised to visit in the morning. She nodded, forced a smile, and walked away.

  The sleep that Solly yearned for came with surprising slowness. What was wrong with Dara, anyway? And what could he do? The answers were hidden in the darkness.

  Dara rose early, shared in the group chores, and went to the morning service. It was a special occasion, one of four times a year when gender-specific sermons were heard and the faithful were reminded of their roles and responsibilities. Not something that Dara wanted to think about on that particular day.

  Still, the very size of the gigantic pyramid, and the art that decorated the interior walls, couldn't help but claim her attention. She drank it in, and memorized as many details as she could, knowing her family would ask. If she ever saw them again. The pilgrims filed in, spent a brief moment in front of the Devil's altar, and were shown to their seats.

  As with most of his kind, the priest had a lot to say— especially where motherhood was concerned—but Dara turned it off. Today was a free day, perhaps the only one that Crono would grant them, which left no possibility of delay. She could deal with the demon within—or die in the flames of purification. Her gills started to flutter, and she struggled to conceal it.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of listening, chanting, and praying, Dara rose and followed the rest outside.

  She half expected to see Solly there, dear sweet Solly, waiting fo
r her to emerge. Still in church probably, which was just as well, since the sight of his face could bring the truth, causing him to reject her, or even worse, making him a party to her sin.

  Voices called, urged Dara to join them, but she waved and turned away.

  In contrast to Grid's carefully laid-out right angles, the rest of Sacrifice was an exercise in happenstance. The streets, many of which had been laid down during the colony's first chaotic year, twisted and turned as if determined to escape. Dark alleyways and mysterious passages branched right and left. Many of the structures were two stories high and stood shoulder to shoulder along both sides of the street.

  Pedestrians passed, Zid mostly, but with a scattering of humans. Dara tried not to stare, but found it was difficult, since the aliens were so different. They had two eyes instead of one, a lot of head filaments, and strange horizontal mouths.

  The address her mother had given was Number Six River Front Road. Dara stopped one of the less foreboding citizens to ask directions. The moment the local heard the address, her face softened and she took Dara's hand. "Poor dear... my prayers will be with you. Follow this street to 6th Avenue, take a right, and continue to River Front Road."

  Dara thanked the stranger and followed the directions. The interchange had been frightening and reassuring at the same time.

  The youngster soon found herself on the street that flanked the river. The smell was unlike that produced by any river she had encountered before.

  Perhaps that explained why the prosperous citizens of Sacrifice had put as much distance between themselves and the tributary as possible, leaving the poor and establishments like the one she sought to claim the historically beautiful waterfront.

  The once-proud dwellings were some of the oldest in the city. Though freestanding back when they'd been built, many had been joined over the years, or expanded so that it was difficult to tell where one started and another left off.