Steelheart

by William C. Dietz

  That, plus the fact that almost all of them were in desperate need of maintenance, had transformed the block into what looked like a dirty gray embankment.

  Number Six looked slightly less prosperous than its neighbors, and smaller somehow, as if trying to blend in. Thousands of stains pointed down from ancient vent plugs, cracks zigzagged across the plaster veneer, and smoke dribbled from blackened holes.

  Dara looked around, saw no signs of surveillance, and waited for a heavily laden offal cart to pass. Assuming the place functioned the way it was supposed to, the Church had to know about it. That's what her father said, anyway... and she believed it. Though unwilling to confront the problem directly, the hierarchy had decided to let females like herself take their chances.

  The cart moved on, and Dara crossed the street. The door was solid but badly worn. Her knock was weak and tentative. Blood pounded in the youngster's ears, her gills fluttered spasmodically, and her knees felt weak. She wished her mother was present and missed her terribly. The door opened, and Dara stepped through.

  The church service passed with the slowness of a thrice-told tale. Though part of the same structure the females had been sent to, the chapel was separate from the main nave.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of sitting, the males were released out into the street. Solly, hoping to intercept Dara as she left the church, raced to the other side of the enormous pyramid only to discover that she had already left. There were other females, however, still lingering on the steps, and they answered his questions.

  It seemed that Dara left immediately after church let out. One of the females, who thought the handsome young Solly could do better than a bit from a second-rate fishing village, smiled fetchingly. “Dara set out on her own, a reckless decision if you ask me, especially after last night's tragedy."

  Solly sought to hide his impatience but failed. "Did you see which way she went?"

  "Yes," another female obliged. "She went that way, down the street."

  Solly thanked the females and set a brisk pace.

  The citizenry, most of whom walked as if carrying enormous weights on their backs, kept their eyes on the slush in front of them and were rarely seen to laugh.

  Most took no notice of the youth who dashed by, skidded around corners, and splashed through intervening puddles. Those who did contented themselves with a few well-polished curses, or Church-approved sayings such as "He who runs leaves merit at home."

  Solly started to pant, saw what he thought was Dara's back disappear around a distant corner, and ran even faster. A female jerked her son out of the way as the lunatic hurtled past, leapt a puddle, and yelled his apology.

  Solly rounded the corner, found himself on River Front Road, and spotted his quarry. Dara had mounted a short flight of stairs, knocked on a door, and was waiting to be admitted. He shouted her name, saw a figure outlined in the entrance-way, and started to run.

  Their breath fogged the air as the clerics left the margins of the city and marched into fields beyond. Father Crono had known Bishop Hontz for a long time. They were roughly the same age, had attended seminary together, and enjoyed a hard-fought game of stones.

  There were differences, however, starting with the extra twenty kol that the bishop had accumulated around his waist, and extending to the lives they had chosen. Crono preferred the life of a village priest, reluctantly acceding to a single promotion, while Hontz pursued a more ambitious path, rising steadily until his career had stalled. Not because he couldn 't go farther—but because he chose not to.

  There was no place to talk, not in the city's churches, which accounted for the walk. The path, dusted with a light covering of freshly fallen snow, was unmarked. They had the area to themselves. Crono took comfort from that and shared his innermost concerns.

  "I find conditions much changed, old friend.... Who commissioned the Reapers? And why do they exist?"

  Hontz glanced back over his shoulder as if to assure himself of their privacy. "Many things have changed over the last year—and few for the better. The weather grows worse, the crops continue to fail, and our food stores dwindle. "Then, as if that were not enough, the Devil plagues us with human converts."

  "Surely you jest," Crono replied seriously. "It is written that all must come to the glory of God."

  The bishop nodded. "Yes, that's what I believed as well, until the human came to power. It was Jantz who filled Lietor's head with notions of conquest and created the Reapers."

  "So, Lictor is nothing more than a tool?"

  "No," Hontz replied wearily. "The heretics have established a fortress to the south. A place of evil where they traffic with the Devil. Lictor plans a Grand Crusade, an attack that will sweep the godless away and leave the Church in control. A plan which sounds good—but threatens our continued existence.

  "The villages are being stripped of both parishioners and supplies. Who will grow the food? The oldsters left behind? And as the winter continues to deepen, how will it be grown? Such are the questions that go unanswered."

  Crono was silent for a moment. "So, what can we do?"

  Hontz paused. His breath jetted back along his cheeks. Their eyes met. "Do what you always do. Follow the word of God, guide your flock, and pray that the Chosen One is correct. The alternative is too horrible to contemplate."

  The inside of the structure was dark and gloomy, lit more by candles than overhead vents. The door opened into a makeshift waiting room that was empty except for a female too old to share Dara's predicament. She looked worried, and fingered a well-worn prayer cube.

  The attendant who claimed Dara was as impersonal as the process she administered. "Provide fifty percent of the fee in advance, strip to the skin, and wait for Mother Juma."

  Dara did as she was told, shivered in the partially heated examining room, and crossed her arms over her chest.

  That's when Dara heard the blood-chilling scream, and knew the abortionist was nearby. The Devil had been busy— and there were victims other than herself. She remembered the older female, the one in the waiting room, and knew who she was. A mother waiting for her daughter.

  Silence followed the scream, which left Dara to wonder what had occurred. Was the patient all right? Freed from the thing that grew within her? Or dead, lying in a pool of blood? There was no way to know. Dara shivered, and time seemed to slow.

  The door had closed by the time Solly arrived. He started to knock, thought better of it, and returned to the street. There was no way to know whom the dwelling belonged to, or why Dara had gone there. He might be welcome, but then again he might not, and the results could be disastrous. What if she wouldn't talk to him any more? That would be horrible.

  A street vendor, steam rising from the front of his pushcart, clattered up the road. He saw Solly, analyzed his clothes, and came to the logical conclusion. A pilgrim, just in from the country, with hardly a coin to his name. Not an especially good prospect—but the only opportunity in sight.

  "Piping hot tea! Just the thing to warm hands and stomach."

  Though reluctant to part with any of his remaining money, Solly recognized the vendor for what he was, a potentially valuable source of information, and fished a coin from his purse. "That sounds good ... I'll take one."

  Surprised, but pleasantly so, the vendor opened his cart, removed the pot from the charcoal-fed fire, and poured water into a badly chipped cup. The leaves had been secured within a ceramic strainer. It entered the liquid exactly eight times before being put to rest.

  Solly accepted the heavily stained mug, expressed his appreciation, and nodded toward Number Six. "What can you tell me about the building over there?"

  "It needs a coat of paint," the vendor said unhelpfully. Who was this youth anyway? An informant? Possibly, but only if the Church had fallen even further than appearances would suggest. "Why do you ask?"

  "I saw an acquaintance of mine go in there," Solly replied cautiously. "Will she be okay?"

  "Well, that depends,
" the vendor answered thoughtfully. "Mother Juma does a pretty good job, but some demons are stronger than others, and that's what kills them."

  Solly waved the cup. Hot tea slopped over the side. "Kills them? What are you talking about?''

  "I'll take my mug now," the vendor said, his breath filtering out through the scarf's loose weave. "Unless you wish to buy a second cup, that is."

  Solly felt for a coin, found one, and handed it over. ' 'Tell me—what happens in there?"

  The vendor told him. It all made sense. Suddenly Solly understood why Dara had been ill, why she lagged behind the others, and why she looked so haunted. He handed the cup to the vendor, ran up the stairs, and pounded on the door.

  Dara had waited so long that she was startled when the curtain flew to one side and an energetic, middle-aged female stumped in. Her clan mark was blue, her apron was smeared with blood, and her voice was cheery. "Good morning, dear. Sorry to keep you waiting, but it couldn't be avoided. I'm Mother Juma, and you are? Dara. Well, Dara, tell me what's troubling you."

  Haltingly at first, then with increasing confidence, Dara told her story. The initial symptoms, her mother's diagnosis, and the plan to secure help.

  Mother Juma nodded understandingly, assured the youngster that she was in the best of hands, and turned to the sound of voices. "Just relax, dear ... I'll be back in a moment."

  Dara felt fear grip her heart as Juma left the room. Was this a raid? Would Reapers chase her through the streets? She grabbed her shift and pulled it on.

  The commotion died away. Mother Juma stuck her head in.

  "You have clothes on? Good! A rather insistent young male wants to speak with you. Quickly, now... we have work to do."

  The head was withdrawn, and Solly appeared. He looked shy but defiant. "I'm sorry, Dara ... but I wanted to be here. In case you need someone."

  Dara felt her heart melt as she heard the words and saw him standing there, awkward but determined. "Thank you, Solly. You're the one I need."

  His face brightened, and Solly felt warm inside. He was just about to respond, to tell her how he felt, when Mother Juma took his arm. "You had your say ... wait outside. I'll inform you when the procedure is over."

  Dara drank some foul-tasting liquid, was ordered onto a table, and subjected to a rather painful examination.

  Mother Juma apologized for the lack of effective painkillers, laid out the tools of her trade, and went to work. The trick was to recover the unquickened fetus without causing excessive blood loss or damaging Dara's reproductive organs. Never easy—but best accomplished with a healthy youngster such as Dara. The skills, diluted by now, had been passed down the female side of her family from a convert who, in spite of her belief in the Church, had been unable to let young females suffer. Juma invoked her spirit and hoped for the best.

  Solly paced back and forth across the waiting room, winced each time that Dara cried out, and willed the operation to end successfully. He would have prayed if it hadn't seemed so hopeless. After all, why would God listen to him or intercede for Dara, both of whom were destined for hell? No, all he could do was hope, and visualize the future. A hut, some land, and youngsters of their own. . . .

  Dara screamed. It went on and on. Solly threw the curtain aside and rushed into the room. Dara lay there, her legs on supports, blood pooling on the table.

  Juma turned, delivered a disapproving stare, and dropped the fetus into a specially prepared sack. It would be buried that night, not in the graveyard, but in a place prepared by a sympathetic priest. A place where the Devil would be unable to quicken it.

  Solly took one of Dara's hands, winced at the strength of her grip, and started to whisper. He told her about his dreams, about their life together, and how good it would be. He told her that she was beautiful, that he liked to watch her move, and that he loved her. He told her that he would stay with her, even through the gates of hell, and that nothing could tear them apart.

  And then, when everything had been said, he would have begun again, except that Juma touched his shoulder, indicated that everything was fine, and Dara should rest.

  They were the most welcome words that Solly had ever heard. He watched her eye close, took pleasure in her breathing, and watched her sleep. He was determined that somehow, some way, his promises would come true.

  22

  em' is sa ry / n / a person or agent sent on a specific mission

  It had been a long time since the roboticist's health had allowed him to leave the lab, but the nano had worked wonders, and he looked much, much better. Only "half dead," in the words of one wag.

  Still, it wasn't every day that an emissary from a barely known alien race arrived at Flat Top, and Garrison had insisted that he be present.

  In spite of the fact that the roboticist knew the Mothri was on the way, and had seen video taken from orbit, the sight was amazing nonetheless. He and his party waited at the foot of the mesa as alien robots swept over the rise before them.

  They were black, or nearly so, with eight legs, flexible antennae, and bulging eye modules. Most were in good condition, but a few showed signs of wear, including at least one missing limb, a carapace riddled with bullet holes, and a half-slagged head unit. Damage that the hard-pressed nano had been unable to repair in the field.

  The robots spotted the humans, stopped, and formed a protective semicircle. Garrison felt the ground shake, wondered if it was a tremor, and soon learned differently.

  The pearly gray head appeared first—followed by a five-ton body. The roboticist, who thought he'd seen everything, stood transfixed as the enormous being lumbered into sight. Though alien, it was beautiful in its own way. That such a creature could exist, much less invent robots and master the intricacies of space travel, was a true testimonial to the diversity of intelligent life.

  Garrison fingered the makeshift translator that hung around his neck. "This thing will work?"

  Dr. Barbara Omita shrugged. "It has so far. We've been in radio communication for weeks now."

  The scientist knew she was right, but still found the notion of communicating with something so different to be more than a little strange—in spite of the fact that he held conversations with machines each and every day.

  How strange the alien was became even more apparent as the Mothri loomed above them. Her voice rumbled like static through a thunderstorm. ''I am known to my sisters as Mallaca Horbo Drula Enore the 5,223rd. I greet you on behalf of the Graal... and ask a blessing on your eggs."

  The roboticist looked up, searched for something to focus on, and chose one enormous eye. It gleamed with intelligence. "My name is Garrison. Dr. Gene Garrison. My staff and I are honored by your presence—and hope that your eggs sleep peacefully."

  Enore, pleased with the polite response, clacked her mandibles. A human, she wasn't sure which sex, jumped in alarm. "The reports are propitious. All is well."

  "Excellent," Garrison replied. "Please forgive my directness—but how are the samples? Are they okay?"

  Enore thought back to the enormous distance she had traveled, the hardships endured along the way, and the villages she had visited. Villages without the slightest vestige of technology. If native nano were anywhere, that's where they'd be. But there had been no time to stop and examine the samples. Her voice rumbled like wind over a mike. "That's the critical question, isn't it, my friend? Have the facilities been prepared?"

  Garrison nodded, remembered that human nonverbal communication wouldn't mean anything to his guest, and gave a verbal response as well. "A cave has been excavated, a work trench has been dug, and the electronics are in place."

  "Good," the Mothri replied. "Please lead the way. I am eager to begin."

  23

  free will / n / the human, extraterrestrial, or machine will regarded

  as free from restraints, compulsions, or antecedent conditions

  Dobe was defined by a grid of muddy streets, languid columns of wood smoke, and softly rounded roofs. Becka watched from the
hill above. It wasn't safe down there, not for young girls, and she knew better than to go. It was lonely, though, now that Annie was gone, and the view made her feel better. Especially at night when the lights came on. They were like beacons that connected Becka with the townsfolk. Not now, though, since it was daylight, and had been for some time.

  The caravan had pulled in three days before. It took the better part of four hours to sort the mutimals into their various pens, supply the feeders, and secure the trade goods.

  Then, just as the light started to fade, the party began. There was drinking, yelling, shooting, dancing, and more drinking clear till dawn. Becka took comfort from the noise and preferred it to the silence of the woods.

  Things had moderated during the next couple of days, so that little more than the occasional pistol shot or snatch of drunken song wafted its way up to her lofty perch. And now, having rested for three days, the packers were about to leave. Mutimals brayed as packs were strapped to their packs, metal clanged as hooves were shod, and there were wild packer yells as the scouts thundered away.

  Becka knew she would miss them, especially at night, but that was the way of things. The minute you get comfortable, whammo! Things change. It happens every time.

  There will be other caravans, Becka thought, consoling herself—and one of them would take her west. There was an aunt in Shipdown, had been anyway, which gave her a reason to go. Annie's pistol, pack, and purse would see her through.

  It felt good to have a plan... and the ability to carry it out. Becka backed away from the skyline, swept her tracks with a branch, and entered the burrow. The tunnel angled down, then up—a trap to keep the heat in.

  The passageway opened into the space around a tree trunk. Her gear was stacked next to a miniscule fire pit. A skirt of low-hanging branches formed the roof. Snow covered it over. Becka was snug in among the roots, and as safe as she was likely to be. "Home," as Annie liked to say, "is a state of mind."