Steelheart

by William C. Dietz

  Mary went right as the androids went left. The Reapers spotted the human, fired in her direction, and shouted in men-own language. The roboticist stopped, allowed the riot gun to fall, and turned toward her attackers. They would kill her, she knew that, but she preferred to see it coming.

  A Zid raised his assault rifle, eyed his ammo indicator, and took his finger off the trigger. Ammunition was scarce, and his was running low.

  A group of prisoners appeared. Their eyes darted from side to side as the guards pushed them up the street. The humans needed a miracle—something, anything, that would turn the situation around. A Reaper, the one who had spared Mary's life, shouted in her direction. Over there! With the others!"

  The words meant nothing to the roboticist, but the gesture was clear, and she turned in that direction.

  It wasn't until Mary had been absorbed into the group that she realized that the synthetics had vanished. She felt safer by herself, knew how cowardly that was, and cursed her own weakness.

  The prisoners were herded out onto the main street and forced to march toward the north. That's when the riders approached, when their eyes met, and when Mary found her husband.

  Doon was frightened, more frightened than he'd ever been before, not for himself but for Amy. It was strange how that worked, how you were strong one moment and weak the next. All because of someone else. The android had read about such things .. . but never understood what they meant.

  He swore as Mary ducked to the right, took Amy's hand, and forced her to run. If they could reach the stable, if the mutimals were there, they could flee.

  A Zid loomed out of the smoke, raised his weapon, and staggered as bullets struck his chest.

  The androids pushed through the smoke, dodged a runaway mutimal, and dashed up an alley.

  A man stepped out through a door, caught a glimpse of Doon, and stepped back in.

  The stable belonged to a man named Crasty, who, against the urgings of both his wife and good old common sense, had decided to defend his property. Like everything Crasty owned, his auto thrower was in good repair—as two rapidly cooling bodies proved.

  The businessman saw Doon, recognized a customer, and nodded. "Howdy. 'Spect you and the missus will be wantin' them mutes. . . . Comes to twenty-five guilders ... plus five for feed."

  Doon felt for the money, slapped three tens onto the out-thrust palm, and nodded his thanks. "I admire your courage ... but this would be a good time to run."

  Crasty mustered some saliva, directed a stream toward one of the bodies, and shook his head. "There ain't no good time to run. Not now—not ever."

  Amy started to object, but Doon pulled her away. ''Sorry, hon, but there isn't enough time."

  The synthetic heard the "hon," knew she liked it, and wondered if that was okay. Didn't he need her permission or something? A human would know. Not that it made much difference, since neither one of them was likely to be around for very much longer.

  There was no time for saddles. Doon boosted Amy onto Princess, took hold of the mutimal's halter, and vaulted onto Leadbutt's back. The mutimal complained loudly as the android kicked him in the ribs, tried to dislodge the source of his discomfort, and was jerked into compliance.

  Leadbutt advanced at a trot, Doon pulled on the halter, and Princess followed behind. Given the fact that the entire city had fallen into enemy hands, the next decision was somewhat difficult. North? South? East? West? Any could lead to disaster.

  A bullet whined by Doon's head. He fired in return, missed, and urged Leadbutt into a gallop. The android turned a corner, saw his mistake, and knew it was over.

  Prisoners scattered in front of Leadbutt's hooves, a Zid shouted a warning, and bullets started to fly. A window shattered, splinters flew, and casings arced through the air.

  Doon shot one of the Reapers, saw him fall, and thundered up the street. There were more of the bastards up ahead, complete with gaily colored banners and a pint-sized drummer. He resolved to shoot some of them.

  A shot rang out. Leadbutt stumbled. Doon flew over the mutimal's head and hit the street. He skidded for a while, felt something happen to his face, and coasted to a stop.

  One Reaper put a gun to the synthetic's head, while another rolled the synthetic onto his back.

  They would have killed Doon then, shot him where he lay, except for one thing: An entire section of his face had come loose... and hung to one side. Rather than the blood and bone the Zid expected to see, there were wires, actuators, and sensors. Sparks crackled, and nano swarmed through the wound.

  Someone screamed, a priest fainted, and Maras raised a hand. "Seize the machine! I want it alive!"

  Bodies blocked the sky, Doon heard Amy call his name, and blows rained around his head.

  Sojo screamed, tried to get up, and was beaten down. Defensive software was triggered, an operating system went offline, and Doon went with it.

  Maras waited to make sure the android was under control, saw his bodyguards seize a second rider, and remembered his wife. He turned, saw her break free of the crowd, and start to run. Not away, as one might expect, but toward the android.

  The human had taken no more than three steps before a guard blocked the way. She tried to circle him, but the Zid was fast—and knocked the roboticist to the ground. The Reaper was about to kick her when Maras pushed his mount into the gap. The language lessons paid off: "Enough that is! Take the female plus four more. Interrogate them I will."

  Mary and four humans who had been standing around her were hustled into a warehouse. The administrator followed them in. Thousands of flat mutimal patties were drying on specially designed racks. Maras wrinkled his nose, spotted a high-walled enclosure, and gestured in that direction. "Interview the heretics I will. No talking lest they conspire."

  The human's syntax was poor, but the Reapers understood.

  Maras had no interest in the other prisoners, but needed them for cover. They were dregs mostly, a mix of pre-Cleansing townsfolk and postcataclysm trail trash. He hoped Mary had been secretive about her occupation, but that seemed doubtful, especially after her support for the android.

  The administrator sighed, brushed some junk off a table, and nodded to an aide. "The first one bring. Busy here the Devil was ... the details we must have."

  Maras was forced to interview three frightened, desperate people before they brought his wife in. Blood caked the side of her face. She looked tired, worried, and defiant—an expression he had come to know rather well. The door closed and their eyes met. Maras was first to speak. "Are you all right?"

  "Sure," Mary lied. "I couldn't be better. Where's Corley?"

  "Safe, at the Cathedral of the Rocks."

  Mary frowned. "Safe? You call that safe?"

  Maras shrugged. "Safety is relative these days. Take a look around. Would you rather she was here?''

  Mary ran her eyes over his Zid-style clothing, the cross that hung from his neck, and the pistol holstered at his side. "What's with the outfit? What have you done?"

  "I did what I had to do," Maras answered patiently, "to protect Corley."

  Mary's mouth made a hard, straight line. "To protect Corley? Or to protect yourself?"

  Maras felt a surge of anger—the kind she had elicited many times before. The kind that led him to say stupid things, and left the moral high ground to her. He forced it back.

  "Think what you will... but here are the facts: The Zid will kill you, me, and Corley if they discover who and what you are. I suggest you keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.

  "There will be a call for converts once we reach the cathedral. Offer yourself, and I will ensure that you are chosen. The rest will take care of itself."

  Maras paused for a moment. His wife was an idealist, and a willful one at that, which meant he should choose his words with care. ''I have some power... but not enough to help the androids. They are beyond our reach. Understood?''

  Mary knew the man before her, and knew he was sincere. Wrong—but sincere. She n
odded. "Understood."

  "Good. Do what you can for that cut. I'm sorry I can't clean it myself."

  It was then, during that brief moment of tenderness, that Mary remembered why she had agreed to marry him.

  Maras pushed the door open, and Mary left. A man was next, and he looked scared. All things considered, the roboticist couldn't blame him.

  Three days had passed while Riftwall was pacified, burned to the ground, and cleansed with prayer. The column had been on the road for an hour. The drummer came first. The slow, deliberate boom of his instrument brought an element of solemnity to the procession.

  A pair of living altars came next. They stood side by side on a cart looted from Riftwall. It bounded over rocks, tilted into ruts, and swept through the slush.

  Doon, who stood immobile in a prison of carefully dampened clay, was helpless. His head, arms, and legs were clamped in place.

  Considerable care had gone into the altar and the decorations that adorned it. In addition to his crudely repaired face, which served as the focus for the display, artifacts from Riftwall had been pressed into the clay around him. There were circuit boards, scraps of wire, springs, nuts, bolts, and countless other objects all positioned to please and amaze.

  The worst part was knowing that Amy was there, only inches away, but beyond the reach of his pickups.

  Things could have been worse, however, since, unbeknownst to their captors, the androids could communicate via radio—a fact that made an otherwise intolerable situation a little more bearable.

  "Amy? Can you hear me?"

  "Yes. Is it safe to talk like this?"

  "No, nothing's safe. Not any more."

  Amy liked the sound of his voice. She knew the answer but asked the question anyway. "What will they do with us?"

  "Stash us in a church and charge admission. Nothing like a freak show to bring in the rubes."

  Sojo wanted to talk, to whine about his mission, but Doon wouldn't let him. Strange though the situation was, this was only his fourth or fifth opportunity to speak with Amy, and he was jealous of each and every one. "I'm sorry you were captured. First the coffin... now this."

  Amy remembered the darkness, the long, lonely days, and the sound of his voice. "I hated the coffin ... but liked what you said."

  Doon was mortified. "You heard what I said?"

  Amy chuckled. "Every word."

  Doon groaned. "You must think I'm crazy! Please forgive me.

  "Yes," Amy agreed, "I do think you're crazy, but there's nothing to forgive. Not if you meant the things you said."

  Doon, hardly able to believe what he had heard, tried to turn his head. Nothing happened. "Yes! I meant every word! Do mean every word."

  "Good," the other synthetic said lightly, "because I'd hate to think you whisper sweet nothings to every corpse you happen across."

  It was then, as Doon was reveling in her words, that Michael interrupted. "Harley? Is that you? What's happening?"

  "Nothing good," Doon replied dryly. "When the Zid took Riftwall they took us as well."

  Michael had assumed as much, but didn't want to say so. "I'm sorry, Harley... I really am. But where there's life there's hope."

  It was a nice thing to say—especially in light of the depression that had claimed Michael for the past week or so. Had Doon known that he might have responded differently.

  "Can you see us through the cloud cover? We're on a cart headed east."

  "We?" the satellite inquired.

  "Yeah. Mary, Amy, and myself. Amy is one of us. Say hello, Amy, and I'll play relay station."

  "Hello," Amy said uncertainly. "Who am I talking to?"

  "Mike's a satellite," Doon replied, "in orbit around Zuul. He sees all and knows all."

  "I see lots of things," Michael said modestly, "but not everything."

  "How 'bout Flat Top?" Amy asked, as she analyzed the possibilities. "Can you see it?"

  "Of course," the satellite responded confidently. "I provide reports to the staff. Who's spying on them, who's coming their way, that sort of thing. You should have seen the latest—when they moved a hill from one place to another!"

  Doon was completely unprepared for what happened next. The words functioned like a trigger. Sojo exploded out of virtual prison, blasted his way through Doon's defenses, and took control of his body. "This is Luis Garcia Sojo. Describe what you saw! Leave nothing out!"

  The voice sounded different—but the transmission characteristics were identical to Doon's. Same frequency, same encryption software, and same coordinates. A trick of some sort? Michael brought his defenses on-line. "Harley? Who the hell is Sojo?"

  My question exactly, Amy thought to herself. Who the hell is Sojo?

  Doon felt the rider let up—just enough for him to speak. "He's a spook, Mike—I have a replacement arm, and he came with it. He has a mission, or believes he has. Go ahead—tell him what he wants to know."

  Amy, who had just learned that her one-time savior was possessed by the robotic equivalent of a disembodied spirit, listened with interest as the satellite described what he'd seen. The synthetic had no idea why her scientific colleagues had conducted the experiment, or what they hoped to prove, but was proud nonetheless. Imagine! Moving an entire hill!

  Sojo, on the other hand, knew exactly what they were doing and what the experiment implied. His thesis had been correct! Zuul had been constructed by Forerunner nano! Some of which were extinct. And Garrison had built prototypes. Nano that could move mountains. Or build planets! But what about the communication problem? Had it been solved? Did they need him? There was no way to know.

  The rider fought to control his angst. Calm, logical, dispassionate. Those were the qualities his host prided himself on—and that's what he would respond to. "Doon?"

  "Yes?"

  "Am I screaming?"

  "No," Doon answered hesitantly, "you aren't."

  "And that's good?"

  "That's very good."

  "And you will listen to me?"

  "I don't seem to have much choice."

  ''They need me at Flat Top—and that means you. Please escape and go there."

  "Just like that."

  "I couldn't—but you can."

  "Got it," Doon said carefully. "Escape and go there. I'll leave as soon as I can."

  "Good," Sojo said simply. "Thank you."

  Doon felt the rider retreat, slammed the door behind him, and wondered what Amy would think. "Sorry about that— but Sojo gets somewhat agitated at times. What else is going on? Besides hills that creep around?"

  "Quite a bit, actually," Michael responded. "The Zid are on the move. Tens of thousands of them. All headed for the same place."

  "And what place is that?"

  "Why, the same place you're headed," the satellite replied sadly. "The Cathedral of the Rocks."

  The Cathedral of the Rocks had become the epicenter of what amounted to a huge metropolis. The city below the cathedral had enough guest huts to accommodate two thousand pilgrims, and those huts had been filled for weeks.

  However, thanks to the excellent work carried out by Administrator General Maras and his staff, two tent cities, each capable of housing ten thousand souls, had been erected to the north and the south.

  Thousands of tents, each of which had been hand-sewn in specially created "cooperatives," were the least of the preparations. Ditches were dug to improve drainage. Rations were assembled and stored. Privies were built. Prayer poles were erected. Medical facilities were established. Wells were dug. Spies were assigned. Special church services were devised. In short, everything that could be done had been done.

  The preparations had reduced what might have been a high rate of morbidity to something more acceptable, helped to allay the visitors' fears, and made them feel welcome.

  That was the theory, anyway, although Crono didn't feel especially welcome as he led his flock into the maze of tents that comprised the northern encampment, and struggled through the ankle-deep mud. It was thick,
glutinous stuff that stuck to his sandals and threatened to pull them off.

  Of much concern, however, was the knowledge that Bishop Hontz had been correct. The faithful were gathered for a purpose—to take part in Lictor's crusade, about which the priest had serious doubts. Doubts he could vocalize to no one but himself—but that ate at him nonetheless.

  The heretics were a problem, yes, but nothing compared to the increasingly harsh weather, the never-ending quakes, and the growing threat of starvation. Which came first? The glory of God? Or the welfare of his flock? Such were the questions on which seminarians spent years of contemplation. A waste of time, in Crono's opinion, since the answer was self-evident. The primary function of the Church was to serve its members.

  But many would disagree with him. The priest knew that, and made allowance for the possibility that they were correct. He had battled what one superior described as "intellectual arrogance" for years now, and the struggle continued.

  Solly, who continued in his role as Crono's assistant, had spent the entire day marching the length of the column, urging the laggards to greater speed and dealing with larger groups that threatened to absorb them—something the priest refused to countenance. Because he saw the group as his, or for other less obvious reasons? There was no way to tell.

  Whatever the reason, one thing was for sure: The youngster had walked three times the distance that the other pilgrims had, and was bone tired. Mud sucked at the soles of his boots, faces blurred around him, and smoke assailed his eyes. The camp stretched on and on. Was this the destination they had worked so hard to reach? It hardly seemed worth it.

  A guide, two or three years younger than Solly, met the group at an intersection, checked Crono off his list, and led them into a maze of tents.

  It took every bit of the youngster's remaining store of energy to reach the shelter to which he had been assigned, mumble something to Dara, and collapse on a cot. Sleep rolled him under.

  Solly had just entered his parents' hut, and was about to introduce Dara, when a hand shook his shoulder. "Time to get up, son—or miss the processional."