It was an uncomfortable feeling—and one that reminded the roboticist of the extent to which she relied on Doon to protect her. Nobody messed with the android because of the way he looked. Armed and dangerous.
She remembered Dobe, the personality Doon had established for her there, and scanned her surroundings. The red on black sign was faded, but still read "Cafe," and creaked under pressure from the wind. The shotgun roared, the panel came apart, and splinters flew in every direction.
Mary could almost feel the eyes turn away. The riot gun was for real... and the woman was crazy.
Most of the street signs were gone, but some remained, and that, plus the directions received at the hotel, enabled the roboticist to find the campus. Or what remained of the campus... since the buildings had been damaged in the quakes, looted, burned, and looted again.
Mary checked her back trail, marveled at the habits she had formed, and wandered through the rubble. This was the place where George had been stationed. Where he had written long, self-centered letters, jockeyed for position in a meaningless hierarchy, and preyed on whatever women were available.
It was also the place to which Corley had come, eager to spend time with her father, never suspecting what would happen. Had they been killed? Forced into the badlands? Taken by the Zid? She hoped not—but knowing would be better than not knowing.
The path ended in front of some broken duracrete. It was all that remained of an arch. One chunk bore the fragment "Univer," while another read "sity Station."
Mary closed her eyes and fought back the tears. Tears were a sign of weakness—an invitation to attack. Doon arrived a few minutes later, put his arm around her shoulders, and led the roboticist away. That's when she cried—and the android understood.
It took the better part of three hours to return to the hotel, retrieve the coffin, and haul it to the lab.
Flathead, who had enjoyed the time off, complained incessantly as Doon led him through the streets.
There were people, lots of them, all on the move. They wore packs stuffed with supplies, pulled carts loaded with belongings, and rode sturdy-looking mutimals. Some wanted Flathead, and offered a lot of money for him; others swore when the animal got in their way.
The word was out: The Reapers were coming, though no one knew when. Was it rumor, with no basis in truth? Or fact, based on actual sightings?
There was no way to be sure, but Sojo felt a sense of urgency, and never stopped nagging. "What the hell are you doing? Deal with what's her name later when it's safe. Let's get out of here!"
Doon grew tired of the rider, shoved him down out of the way, and continued as before.
Mary, still depressed by her failure to find any trace of her family, felt numb. It took a great deal of discipline to follow Doon into the lab, connect the various leads, and run the diagnostics. Why should she be the one to bring Reno back? Especially when it meant she'd be replaced? It didn't seem fair.
The roboticist pushed the correct buttons, watched readouts flicker to life, and felt temptation nibble at the edges of her mind. What if she lied? Told Doon it was hopeless? He at least would be hers.
But one glance at his face, at the way he looked down into the coffin, and Mary knew she couldn't do it. Not now— not ever.
The roboticist pushed her personal concerns aside and focused on the patient. The readouts confirmed her assumption. The synthetic had been struck by a full-force stunner blast. One of twelve suboperating systems had crashed—and two were scrambled.
A check confirmed that the necessary software was available, and the download began.
The process was barely underway when the building shook, plaster fell from above, and a tool crashed to the floor. Mary looked up. "A quake?"
Doon shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Felt like a demolition charge to me. Perhaps our friend was right."
Sojo had been lying low for a while, inviting his host to relax, waiting for the right opportunity. He struck without warning.
Doon went rigid as the rider launched a simultaneous attack on his higher thought processes and motor controls. It was the worst assault yet—and he felt himself slipping.
Mary saw the synthetic's expression, guessed what had occurred, and took immediate action. She grabbed two leads, shoved the tips through the outer layer of his "skin," and flipped a series of switches. "Into your cage, Sojo—or kiss your butt good-bye."
Doon felt his lips form the words: "DON'T-DO-IT. I-CAN-SAVE-ZUUL."
"So you claim," Mary said calmly. "And I can erase your ass."
"YOU-COULDN'T-BEFORE."
"This lab has better equipment than mine did. You have five seconds: five, four, three ..."
Doon felt the rider back away and slammed the door behind him. "You had him, Mary! Why let him go?"
The roboticist shrugged. "I lied. Besides, what if he can save Zuul?"
The android was about to reply when Reno sat up in her coffin. "Hello! Where the heck am I?"
The other two rushed to the synthetic's side. Doon wanted to speak, wanted to say all sorts of things, but couldn't get them out. For the first time in his life, the android knew what humans meant by the term "tongue-tied."
That being the case, Mary did all the talking, asked a battery of questions, and checked the results. The synthetic was fully functional. There was the possibility of long-term damage—but a full-fledged psych profile would take more time than they had.
Reno was freed from the leads and helped out of the coffin. Though a human would have been weak, and barely able to walk, the android was strong as ever.
Doon had recovered his powers of speech by then, and gave the biologist a briefing.
Reno listened, signaled her understanding, and followed him outside. The encounter was anticlimatic, especially in light of the things he'd said, but Reno was glad. Saying things was one thing—meaning them was something else. Time would tell if Doon meant what he had said.
The corridor opened onto a path. Flathead was gone— stolen by one of the townspeople. A rider blurred past, fired, and someone screamed. The wall had been breached, the Reapers had entered, and Riftwall had fallen.
26
ex per' i ment / n / a test or trial
The day dawned just the way Michael had predicted that it would—cold, clear and perfect for playing God.
An awning had been erected on the southernmost edge of Flat Top's mesalike surface. That, plus a table loaded with refreshments, lent the occasion a festive air. Hundreds of staff members milled around, struggled to stay warm, and traded gossip.
Modo disapproved. If science wasn't a serious business in and of itself, then world-saving certainly was. The biologist stamped his feet, shoved his hands more deeply into his pockets, and wished the brass would get on with it.
There was a delay while the Mothri lumbered up a specially made ramp, sampled the air, and emerged onto the surface. The beetie had an extremely sharp mind and the benefit of an excellent education. It was amazing how quickly she had adjusted to her surroundings and become an integral member of the team.
The alien spotted Modo, waved an antenna by way of greeting, and ambled his way. Her voice rumbled through his translator. "And how is Bana Modo? Student of tiny bugs?"
The biologist laughed. "I study them... not the other way around. How is Mallaca Horbo Drula Enore the 5,223rd— the biggest bug I'm ever likely to meet?"
Static crackled as the Mothri laughed. "That depends on the experiment, little one... and whether it goes as expected."
Modo waved an arm in agreement.
A sizeable crowd had assembled by then. There was a stir as an elevator surfaced and Garrison stepped out. He looked stronger now, and more resilient. A robot sought to take the scientist's arm, but he jerked it away. He felt better and needed to let people know. Just part of the never-ending play-acting associated with leadership—an obligation that started with the way he looked, and extended to morale builders like the one they were scheduled to watch. Importa
nt in its own way—but far less significant than most of the staff might suspect.
Thanks to the Mothri, and the Forerunner nano collected during her journey south, the lab had been able to replicate hundreds, soon to be thousands, of highly specialized micro-machines. Machines that could repair the planet.
That was the good news. The bad news flowed from the fact that there were holes in the nano structure, gaps left by extinct machines, which the scientists planned to fill with human-Mothri prototypes. Prototypes mat needed to communicate with their Forerunner kin—but would be unable to do so. That was a problem Sojo had identified, and might have solved, had Garrison allowed him to do so.
The roboticist felt himself sag under the weight of his guilt. Omita touched his arm. "Gene? Are you okay?"
The scientist forced a smile. ''Yes, sorry about that. Which one is it? The knoll? With the rock on top?"
Omita shook her head and pointed. ''No, the bigger one, just off to the west."
Garrison eyed the hill, raised his eyebrows, and smiled. "Really? He's a big one. I'm impressed. All right, then— turn the little beggars loose."
Dr. Omita nodded to an assistant, who tapped some code into a handheld computer. Nothing happened. Nothing they could see, anyway... because the action took place under the hill. Five minutes passed, followed by ten, followed by fifteen, followed by twenty. Garrison began to worry. What if they had missed something? What if it didn't work? The possibility frightened him.
Others must have felt the same way, because no one spoke, and the crowd had grown silent.
Bana Modo saw it first. The hill's outline seemed to soften, as if all its rigidity had been lost, and it was made of gelatin. "Look! It's coming apart!"
And it was coming apart. Millions upon millions of nano were dismantling the hill, reducing earth and rock to their component molecules and hauling them away.
The hill shivered and collapsed inward as what looked like a reddish-brown pseudopod oozed toward the east.
The scientists watched for more than four hours as the nano reconstructed the hill—molecule by molecule, rock by rock, until it stood a half mile to the east.
Finally, when the hill was whole once more, a cheer went up. Garrison smiled, waited while Omita filled his mug with something akin to a hot toddy, and raised it high. There was a second cheer, louder than the first, but Garrison knew the horrible truth: Amazing though their feat was, it wouldn't be enough. Programmers were working day and night to create the necessary communications protocols, but Zuul was dying, and time was running out.
Though not truly sentient, the Eye of God could learn via experience, and one of the things the satellite had learned was that the slightest activity drew an attack.
That being the case, the Mothri-made machine scanned the surrounding volume of space for any sign of a threat, compressed the video into a half-second burst, and fired it off.
Retaliation was nearly instantaneous as Michael launched a flight of nano-built missiles in the direction of his longtime foe.
The Eye of God wanted to move, wanted to escape, but as luck would have it, Jantz had seen the video. Video in which a hill shifted from one place to another. Impossible! Or was it? And why would the eggheads do it even if they could? Unless it was some sort of weapon ... which would be very interesting indeed.
An override went out, and the Eye of God was ordered to remain on station. The satellite took issue with the order— but did so in the Mothri language.
The tech was new. She winced as static filled her headset, turned the interference down, and nodded toward Jantz.
The Eye of God established its shot, and was about to send, when the missiles hit.
Michael was on the other side of Zuul at the time, and couldn't see the missiles hit, but sensed that they had. Not electronically, because the alien machine was off-line at the moment of impact^ but on some other level, as if a more ethereal link had been severed.
It might be a trick, however, which was why Michael approached the area with caution, his sensors on maximum sensitivity.
But it wasn't a trick-—the Eye of God had been destroyed. The debris field occupied a large volume of space and continued to expand. Thousands of fragments glittered in the sun as what remained of the alien satellite circled Zuul.
Michael's first reaction was one of triumph, of joy stemming from his victory, but the emotion was short-lived.
Stupid though the other machine had been, the satellite had been company of a sort, and Michael knew he'd miss it. Then there was the fact that the never-ending attacks had served to validate his existence. After all, why destroy something that has no value?
Michael was safe now, safe but lonely, spinning through space all by himself. The Angel sat drifted through the other satellite's remains—and wished that they were his.
27
cleanse / vt / to make clean, to purify
Heavily weathered Forerunner ruins broke the otherwise smooth symmetry of the horizon and made the perfect vantage point from which to view the city of Riftwall. Identifying such locations, and taking advantage of them, was something Maras did well.
The administrator had remained in the saddle so that he could see—and be seen by his mostly Zid troops. The fact that the mutimal made him look even larger and more impressive was a bonus.
Had the great Khan troubled himself with such matters? Maras felt sure that he had, which explained why the standard-bearers were positioned just so, and his bodyguards were arrayed behind him. And, for anyone who somehow managed to miss the carefully arranged tableau, the slow, deliberate boom, boom, boom of the drum served to draw their attention.
Though annoying at first, such matters had become second nature to Maras—and knowing that made him uncomfortable. Which was the real him? The academic who joined the Church to protect his daughter? Or the warrior priest who rode to the drum and sacked heretic cities? He wasn't sure any more.
The smell of smoke and the sound of gunfire sharpened the human's senses. He knew he would never forget the sight before him.
The cliff, or wall, from which the city took its name ran north to south and formed a mighty backdrop for the drama now unfolding. The battle was essentially over.
With no real government to hold them together, the citizens of Riftwall had responded to the attack like the mindless rabble they were.
The walls had been manned, but the defenders, who consisted of packers, bandits, and a ratty assortment of townsfolk, preferred to cluster around their various leaders rather than spread out and submit to the discipline of a centralized command—a tendency that left entire sections of the perimeter open to attack.
The Reapers had little to no training, but didn't require any to seek out the places where the defensive fire was the weakest and open fire.
Once the wall had been breached and riders had broken through, the defensive effort collapsed. The townsfolk fled toward their homes, the Reapers rode them down, and more than a hundred were slaughtered.
Maras had chosen to remain at the outskirts of the battle, where he could see the big picture and maintain a clear head. That's what he told himself, anyway—in spite of the voice that suggested otherwise.
Safety, to the extent that such a thing existed, lay in surrender. Maras watched more than two hundred prisoners march out through the gate, fall to their knees, and await their various fates. Priests moved among them, urging the faithful to say the rotes, freeing those who could.
The administrator wondered how many of the captives were like him, people who had studied Antitechnic theology as a form of insurance, and now used it to purchase their freedom.
Finally, after the battle had died down to little more than an occasional gunshot, and the crackle of fiercely burning wood, Maras entered the town. The drum announced his coming. The mutimal walked with a dignified cadence, as if it had been trained for such occasions rather than stolen from a homestead.
Smoke billowed into the sky as a watchtower burned.
/> Bodies, some human and some Zid, lay heaped by the gate.
A child, tears streaming down her face, clung to her mother's body.
A Reaper, his face contorted in agony, lay impaled on a stake.
A mutimal, eyes rolling in pain, collapsed in the street.
A dead android, his hands still wrapped around a Reaper's throat, jerked as one of his systems shorted and sent electricity jolting through his nervous system.
Maras found such images distasteful and directed his eyes elsewhere. There was movement at the far end of the street. A group of prisoners appeared, some twenty-five or thirty of them, walking, limping, and in one case hopping toward him. Reapers, their weapons ready, followed behind. Smoke drifted across the way, eddied through the crowd, and vanished beyond.
That's when Maras recognized one of the prisoners, or thought he did, even while knowing it couldn't be true. The human squinted into the smoke, urged his mount forward, and discovered that he was right. Mary! It was her! Head high, hands behind her neck, eyes bright with anger. Something had nicked her scalp, and blood trickled down her temple. Their eyes met. Mary's face registered surprise, hope, and disgust, all in quick succession.
Maras was surprised by the extent to which the last expression hurt. He jerked his mutimal to a halt and raised his arm. All movement stopped. The administrator was about to say something when a shot rang out.
A Reaper tumbled out of his saddle, and Leadbutt thundered out onto the street.
Doon, Amy, and Mary emerged from the lab to discover that the battle for Riftwall was essentially over.
Smoke made it difficult to see.
Mutimals thundered back and forth.
Gunshots rattled in the distance.
A woman screamed, a child dashed across their path, and a drum thumped in the distance.
The threesome started to run. They hadn't gone far before a man ran out of a side street followed by a group of heavily armed Zid. He turned, threw up his hands, and backpedaled as bullets ripped through his chest.
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