Steelheart

by William C. Dietz

  Aoki had been a life-support specialist once, back when technology meant something, but not any more. Now he was the trail boss, a job he had survived into, and would hold till it killed him. A fate he would welcome if it cured his hangover.

  Though short, there was a considerable amount of power in Aoki's barrel chest, chunky thighs, and well-developed biceps. His taste ran to the flamboyant, and the trail boss favored a cap with a foot-long tassel. It, like the heavily quilted parka and the windproof pants, was an eye-searing blue.

  He wore two pistols, an ugly-looking semiauto with a fourteen-shot clip, and a custom-designed long-barrel that held only one cartridge but packed plenty of reach. The first weapon rode in a shoulder rig, the second in a cross-draw holster belted to his waist. The rifle slung across his back wore a thirty-round drum and was shiny from use.

  Bright brown eyes peered out from beneath bushy black eyebrows. They didn't miss much, as those who worked for him had reason to know. Snow crunched under his boots as the boss man walked the length of the caravan. His voice was loud and carried a long way. "Hey, Monolo, what's the problem with Blue? There's drainage from his left eye. Ask Bones to check it out."

  "You'd better tighten that cinch, Wheezer—unless you feel like chasin' gear all day."

  "Well, I'll be damned—Shogi has his shit together

  Will wonders never cease? Whoa! What have we got here?"

  Caravans were the only semisafe way for people to travel, and they attracted lots of riffraff. Though unwilling to feed or otherwise care for them, most packers would tolerate a certain number of "tail-biters," as long as they met certain criteria.

  An acceptable tail-biter would be armed, but not too well armed, since that was reason for suspicion. They would have an animal of their own, a reasonable amount of supplies, and would pass the "sniff test," which had nothing to do with the way the candidate actually smelled. Those who came across as coherent, friendly, and cooperative were generally approved. Thieves, gamblers, and prostitutes were generally left behind.

  This couple fell into none of those categories, not so far as the trail boss could tell anyway, but still triggered his alarms.

  The man was a big, strapping fellow, with an aura of competence, and a sizeable hand-cannon. The woman was both small and pretty. No problem there. What troubled the trail boss was their pack mutimal, the travois to which the animal was hitched, and the coffin that rode it. Aoki pointed a stubby finger at the object in question. "What the hell is that?"

  "A coffin," Doon answered expressionlessly.

  "I know that," the trail boss replied impatiently. "What's in it?"

  "My sister," the android replied somberly. "She took sick and died."

  Aoki, who was in charge of a caravan loaded with illicit weapons, knew something about contraband. "Your sister, huh? We'll see about that. . . . Open it up."

  The synthetic looked resentful, opened the catches that secured the lid, and hoped the human wouldn't notice. Most coffins were nailed shut... and for good reason.

  The trail boss kept the biters where he could watch them as he stepped up onto the travois. There was a body, all right—and a looker too! What a waste. He reached down to touch the side of the woman's neck. There was no pulse. The body was ice cold.

  The packer stepped down and raised an eyebrow. "So what gives? No offense—but shouldn't she be buried?"

  Doon shrugged. "I promised to bury her next to a church. Gotta find one first."

  Aoki studied the man for a moment. The story was crazy enough to be true. "All right, seal her up. You can come. Don't fall behind, though—we don't wait for anybody."

  The trail boss finished his inspection, Mary watched Doon, and Reno slept.

  Becka surfaced in time to see the caravan depart. She watched till the last mutimal faded from sight. The next caravan would be hers. The thought felt warm, and she took it to bed.

  The first day was the worst. Doon and Mary spent the majority of it struggling with the travois. It foundered on rocks, stalled in the snow, and caught on bushes.

  Then, as if that weren't bad enough, there was the fact that with the exception of a brief lunch break the caravan never stopped moving. That forced them to play catch-up, or try to, since most of the other tail-biters had passed them by.

  Eventually, the trail boss, who shaved her head and went by the inevitable nick name of Curly, plus a ragtag bunch of camp followers, were the only ones farther back. It looked bad for a while, as if they would fall behind, but conditions improved. The tie-downs held, the terrain grew smoother, and their speed increased. They even managed to pass a few people—a significant accomplishment, all things considered.

  The pack mutimal was an enormous beast that Mary named Flathead. It fairly lunged ahead, rolled its eyes, and blew columns of vapor out through its nostrils.

  Doon's mount, a scruffy beast with a personality to match, earned the title Leadbutt, for his slow, reluctant ways.

  Mary's animal, a diminutive steed that she called Princess, snorted delicately, and pranced rather than walked. The roboticist liked that, and Doon thought it looked silly.

  The sky hung like a backdrop, gray on gray, stitched to the horizon by low-lying peaks. Dots, Mary thought to herself. All we are is dots.

  But other eyes roamed the wastelands, eyes that watched from carefully chosen hiding places and took note of everything they saw. The size of me caravan, the heavily laden animals, and the packers who led them. Here was wealth, the kind that could be squandered on a two-week drunk or stretched into years of comparative luxury.

  Plans were made, orders were given, and forces were deployed. In a day, two at most, the caravan would die.

  The cargo, supplies, and the mutimals required to move them, occupied the center of the nightly encampment. The packers slept all around, ready to intercept tail-biters who tried to steal things, or to deal with an attack by bandits. Bandits who would have to wade through a ring of camp followers before they could reach the cargo.

  Knowing they were expendable, Doon chose a campsite next to some rocks, with access to a creek bed. Some exit was better than none.

  But the night passed peacefully, not counting the occasional fistfights, the sounds generated by a pair of horny mutimals, and the wail of an itinerant prayer caller. Someone shouted, and the prayers stopped.

  Doon rose as early as he could credibly do so, checked to ensure that Mary was asleep, and made his way to the coffin. After finding the synthetic in Annie's cabin, Mary had made three attempts to revive her. All of them failed. That being the case, Mary favored putting the poor thing out of its misery, or, assuming that appropriate arrangements could be made, shipping the android to Shipdown. The discussion led to the first and only fight she and Doon had ever had.

  Doon, speaking with a vehemence that surprised even him, argued for taking the synthetic along. Maybe they would find a lab with the right equipment—or maybe the folks at Flat Top would help. Eventually, after a fifteen-minute argument, Mary gave in. The coffin, and the story about his sister, were afterthoughts.

  The lid opened smoothly. Doon marveled at the other android's beauty. Not just the outer layer, which conformed to human notions of attractiveness, but the rest of her as well.

  After blanking his vid cams and switching to infrared, Doon saw what looked like a three-dimensional green fog. There were flashes of orange-yellow lightning as signals raced along the synthetic's electronic nervous system. A bright neon-blue grid flashed on as her CPU ran a routine systems check—and pink blobs radiated up the length of her alloy spine. Everything about her was beautiful—or so it seemed to Doon. But why? Why this synthetic and none other?

  "A very interesting question," the ghost interjected. "Can androids fall in love? And if they can, would it be random? Or programmed? Along with the other so-called 'predispositions' we were given?"

  "You should know," Doon replied sourly. "You were a roboticist yourself."

  "True," the rider replied thoughtf
ully. "But what, if anything, did Garrison keep to himself? Barely enough information to ensure his own superiority? Or more? Stuff he wanted to keep from us?"

  "You don't know?"

  "I know it's foolish to fall in love with someone you've never even spoken with,'' Sojo replied.

  "But I do know her," the synthetic insisted. "About her, anyway. I have a file on her. Her name is Amy Reno. She was arrested for painting a political slogan on one of the Pilgrim's bulkheads, has a tendency toward idealism, and a passionate interest in biology."

  "Oh, fabulous," the rider responded sarcastically. "The cop has a dossier on his sweetheart. How romantic."

  Doon slammed the door on his alter ego, secured the coffin, and checked the tie-downs. Voices argued, cookware clattered, and the day began.

  Michael was depressed. So depressed that he had given serious consideration to suicide. Not his first choice by any means, but far more pleasant than the prospect of battling the Eye of God, or living in his present state of dissonance.

  Though sentient and possessed of free will, Michael, as well as the other AIs he knew of, were "born" with a strong sense of preordained purpose. His was to watch over the planet's surface ... and protect people from harm.

  Some claimed this was a good thing, an improvement on the human condition, in which most people were born without the foggiest idea of what they should do with their lives.

  Others, including some human intellectuals, and a group of cantankerous androids, held a different view. It was their position that preprogrammed "tendencies" were tantamount to slavery.

  "Then why build sentient machines in the first place?" the pragmatists asked. "We have enough problems already."

  "Ah, but if machines are equal, then they have the right to procreate as humans do, reproducing whenever they choose to do so," came the immediate reply.

  Not that such discussions took place any more—not on Zuul, where machines were hunted like animals.

  Although Michael was sympathetic to the Machinist point of view, he believed that it was good to have a sense of purpose, so long as there was a chance to fulfill it. How frustrating to be a musician minus an instrument, a dancer with no legs, or an angel in which no one believed.

  All of which explained why he had completed preparations to break orbit and drift away. It was the most he could hope for, given the fact that his nano lacked the specs and raw materials required to build a ship.

  But drifting was okay, suggesting as it did a long period of peaceful meditation prior to a distant death. Something dramatic would be nice, like falling into a sun, or...

  "Hey, Mike, you awake?"

  The question jarred the satellite out of his reverie. Five days had passed since he'd heard from Doon. Here at least was someone who needed him. "Harley—nice to hear from you. What's up?"

  "Still heading for Flat Top. How's the cloud cover? Can you check the area ahead?"

  Even as Doon transmitted, Michael backtracked the signal to a location well within the holy lands. "I see solid cloud cover, but it's not very thick. I'll scan on infrared."

  Doon said, "Thanks," and turned his attention to the landscape around him. The caravan looked like a long, black snake as it wound its way across a blank canvas. Their surroundings seemed empty of life—but were they?

  They'd been on the move for the better part of three hours now, and the android wasn't so sure. He had detected movement at the far end of his detector range, a heat blip thirty minutes later, and an unexplained burst of static shortly after that. They might mean nothing—or everything.

  "Harley..."

  "Yeah?"

  ''You were right. I have what looks like an ambush. Five miles ahead of your present position. At least a hundred heat signatures—two hundred if you count all the mutimals."

  "What sort of cover do they have?"

  "Sorry, infrared is the best I can do."

  "No problem," Doon answered. "You're a life saver... a real life saver. Stand by if you can. Knowing is one thing— convincing the guy in charge is something else."

  The satellite felt his depression drop away. "You bet, Harley. I'll be here."

  It had been a good day so far, and Aoki hoped it would continue that way. He stood in his stirrups and scanned the horizon. The caravan looked good and tight—just the way he liked it.

  A rider was making his way up the column. Great gouts of snow shot up from the mutimal's hooves. A tail-biter, most likely—eager to complain or secure a favor. A quick and definitive no would put an end to that.

  Aoki lowered himself into the saddle and turned away. It would be a full five minutes before the idiot arrived, and there was no point in monitoring his progress.

  Time passed, a mutimal snorted, and the rider pulled alongside. The trail boss turned. It was a tail-biter, all right— the one with the coffin. He rode well, however, as if born to the saddle. Something was wrong, though... something Aoki couldn't put his finger on. He summoned an all-purpose scowl. "Yes? What do you want?"

  The brusque manner might have deterred other supplicants, but not this one. The rider pulled a scarf away from his face and yelled into the wind. "We're being tracked ... by bandits."

  Aoki's frown grew deeper. "Says who?"

  "Says I," Doon responded. "I've seen them."

  "Oh, really," the trail boss said sarcastically. "My scouts say the way is clear... but a tail-biter sees bandits. Who shall I believe?"

  Doon knew how to convince the trail boss, or thought he did, but hesitated to take the risk. Could Aoki keep his mouth shut? Mary's life, not to mention his own, would hang in the balance. He took the chance. "I'm the one you should believe ... because I'm an android."

  Aoki was startled. An android? It seemed hard to believe. Especially in light of how many had perished since the Cleansing. He squinted into the wind. "Prove it."

  Doon retrieved the packer's file. He read it aloud. "Your name is Noah James Aoki. You are the son of Ras and Jasmine Aoki—both of whom were killed during the landing. Though trained as a life support specialist, you—"

  The trail boss held up his hand. "Enough! I believe you. What were you? A cop?"

  "Exactly," Doon replied. "Something I don't often disclose."

  "Nor should you," Aoki agreed soberly. "You can trust me. I owe you. Which brings us to the bandits. They're real?"

  "Very real," Doon assured him. "There's an ambush up ahead—about a hundred of them."

  Aoki raised an eyebrow at that. No one, not even an android, could see past the horizon. Doon had some sort of help... but who? Or, more specifically, what? He let the questions go. "There's a place, a pass between low-lying hills, that we call the Notch. Is that where they are?"

  The synthetic shrugged. "Sorry, I don't know."

  Something had bothered Aoki. Now he knew what it was. His breath fogged the air—everybody's did, except for Doon's! It was a small thing—the kind that gets you killed. The synthetic seemed like the genuine article—but what if he wasn't? What if the bandits had sent him? The trail boss blanked his face. "Well, thanks for the warning. I'll tell my scouts to keep an eye out."

  Doon looked, decided the little man was serious, and nodded. The reaction was disappointing but understandable. He pulled Leadbutt around, kicked the animal's flanks, and galloped toward the rear.

  Aoki watched the android leave, stood in his stirrups, transferred most of his weight to the saddle horn, and lifted his legs. Not all the packers could stand on their saddles, but the boss man could, which was part of his mystique.

  Aoki brought the binoculars up, compensated for the movement, and watched Doon turn into a dot. The dot joined more dots, paused, and broke from the caravan. Doon had voted with his feet. The story was true.

  The trail boss turned, dropped into his saddle, and blew the whistle that hung around his neck. A rider came to join him. Aoki shouted his orders. "I want to avoid the Notch. I'll lead the front half of the caravan, and you take the rest. Go south and fort early. The re
st of us will join you just before sunset."

  The outrider, a woman named Harmon, took note of the certainty with which the orders were given, guessed that Aoki knew more than he had disclosed, and gave the expected response. "Got it, boss ... south and camp early."

  "Good. And, Harmon..."

  "Yeah, boss?"

  "See those two heading off on their own?" Harmon squinted into the glare. "Yeah? What about 'em?"

  "Send a rider. Tell 'em what we're going to do."

  Harmon nodded, wondered why Aoki cared, and kicked her animal into motion.

  The snake broke itself in two. The head continued toward the east while the tail turned south. Although scouts did see some riders leave the column, it was through steadily falling snow, and they didn't realize the extent of the defection. Riders came and riders went. So what else was new?

  Michael watched, kept his friend informed, and put his plan on hold. That's the nice thing about suicide—there's no particular hurry.

  The combination of a six-hour snowstorm and the fact that the caravan veered to the south was sufficient to prevent an attack. The task of binding three groups of bandits into a single cohesive force was difficult under the best of circumstances, and nearly impossible when things went awry.

  Angry at the manner in which the caravan had seemingly disappeared into thin air, and jealous of their independence, the bandit chieftains disbanded the alliance.

  Then, when one such group ambushed another, all chances of success were lost. Doon heard about the clash from Michael and felt a sense of relief.

  The next day dawned dark and gray. The process of breaking camp had become second nature by then, and Mary completed her chores without conscious thought. The farther they went, and the longer the journey took, the more hopeless it seemed. Even if Corley was alive, what were the odds of finding her? A thousand to one? A million to one? Yet what else could she do? Nothing. She had to try. The roboticist placed the last of her belongings into the saddlebags that straddled Flathead's back.