Steelheart

by William C. Dietz

  Canova felt a sudden surge of hope. Jantz needed something! Something she could give. "A deal, Bishop Jantz? A deal with the Devil?"

  The human looked over his shoulder. "Don't talk like that. Not even in jest."

  "I'm sorry," the synthetic said quickly. "It won't happen again. Medical history first—symptoms second."

  Jantz looked surprised, and Canova smiled. "What else would bring you here?"

  The human nodded, provided the necessary information, and answered her questions.

  Later, when the door squeaked closed, a candle burned in the sconce.

  Maras heard the sound of chanting and detected the scent of incense long before he arrived at the chapel. Corley was waiting for him. She was annoyed and let it show. "Where have you been, Daddy? We should be halfway through the ceremony by now."

  The tone was both spoiled and petulant. A lack of discipline, or something more? His daughter had changed during his absence—and not for the better. Where was the sweet little girl he'd known just months before?

  Maras knelt next to Corley, straightened her gown, and looked into her eyes. Mary looked back.

  The counselor flinched as if struck across the face. Corley looked curious, and Maras forced a smile. "Sorry about being late, honey. I got hung up, that's all. Are you ready?"

  "Sure," the little girl said confidently. "I'll make you proud."

  The words echoed through the counselor's mind as he took his seat. The initiation involved a long series of ritual questions. Corley had memorized the answers, and now she reeled them off. What amazed Maras was the extent to which she sounded sincere. Did Corley really believe this stuff? Or did she pretend to believe, the same way he did? It had been a long time since they had talked about such matters. Too long.

  Suddenly, as his daughter traced triangles in the air, and bound herself to the Church, Maras felt a wave of nausea. What the hell was he doing? Had he done? Corley didn't belong here, joined to something built on hatred.

  It was all the counselor could do to resist the impulse to snatch his daughter off the platform and run away. However due to the fact that the ceremony functioned as a source of entertainment within smaller villages, it was intentionally long, and lasted more than an hour.

  By the time the last "dola" had been said, Maras knew what he must do. The knowledge both pleased and frightened him. He took Corley by the hand. "Come on, honey—there's someone I want you to see."

  There were more than a thousand prisoners, most of whom were human, all shivering in the cold night air. There were no shelters, no blankets, nothing beyond the two dozen fires to provide them with warmth. Some slept, or tried to sleep, huddled in groups. The rest, Mary included, stood around the fires. Their faces, lit from below, floated ghostlike in the air.

  "Why wait?" one man asked, his face anonymous behind a tightly wrapped scarf. "They'll kill us in the end. We might as well take some of the bastards with us."

  "And how many would that be?" an older woman asked pragmatically, her breath fogging the night. "A dozen or so? Against a thousand human lives? Seems like a mighty poor trade-off to me."

  Mary thought about the palisade that encircled them, the Reapers who patrolled the top, and the weapons they carried. There was no doubt about it—the woman was right, but so was the man. The only real choice was how they wanted to die.

  There was a commotion as the gate opened and a group of Reapers forced their way in. They were mounted on mutimals and carried whips rather than firearms—a wise precaution, given the extent to which they were outnumbered.

  Torches flared, a whip cracked, and a mutimal bellowed in pain as the phalanx of riders pushed its way into the crowd. A Reaper stood in his stirrups. "Prisoner Smith! Prisoner Mary Smith!"

  Mary felt a sudden jolt of fear. Her knees felt weak, and her hands started to shake. Few of the prisoners knew her, but those who did looked in her direction. They knew the Church had rejected her—and why. The roboticist would make an excellent sacrifice—a way to add interest to an otherwise dull sermon.

  A shot rang out. A man threw up his arms and toppled into a fire. Sparks flew upward, screams were heard, and the crowd eddied. "We want Smith! Mary Smith!" the Reaper shouted. "Or another will die!"

  Mary forced strength into her limbs and raised an arm. "I'm Smith! Over here!"

  The Reaper spotted her, signaled his companions, and urged the mutimal forward. The man, his clothes on fire, continued to bum. Those standing to either side of Mary scattered as the Zid approached, leaving her to face them alone. The lead Reaper jerked his animal to a halt and stared downward. "Mary Smith?"

  Mary tried to speak, but nothing came out. She nodded instead.

  The Zid motioned with his whip. "Raise your arms."

  Mary obeyed.

  A pair of riders moved in, grabbed the roboticist by the wrists, and jerked her off the ground. Then, hanging between them, Mary was carried toward the gate. It opened as if by magic—and closed three seconds later. A howl erupted from inside the compound as the prisoners recovered their courage.

  But they were too late to help Mary, whose arms felt as if they would be torn from their sockets, and whose boots touched the ground at six-foot intervals. The roboticist saw a fire up ahead, a big one, with flames as tall as she was. The Reapers showed no signs of turning and increased their speed. They meant to drop her. The human struggled to no avail. She hoisted her feet, closed her eyes, and waited for the pain.

  The Zid on the right let out a whoop, the one on the left answered, and they split the fire between them. Mary closed her eyes, felt the heat flash around her, and waited for the riders to let go. They didn't.

  The roboticist was still absorbing that fact, still marveling at the cool night air, when she saw the mutimal. It was huge and loomed black on black. Then she was flying, falling and rambling, her hands pushing through the slush. When the human came to a stop, she was facedown only feet from the animal's iron-clad hooves. She had been delivered. But to whom? And for what?

  The Reapers were gone, but Mary heard footsteps in the slush. A pair of knees landed next to her face, and a hand touched her back. "Mommy? Is that you?"

  Mary pushed the ground away, terrified that it was a dream, and she would wake in the compound. "Corley? Oh my God, is it really you?"

  Corley threw her arms around her mother's neck. "Yes, of course it's me! I missed you."

  "Not as much as I missed you," Mary blubbered, hugging her daughter to ensure that she was real. "You're bigger! Lots bigger. I came as soon as I could. We went to Riftwall but the Reapers came and ..."

  Corley touched her mother's lips. "I know, Mommy— Daddy told me."

  George Maras stepped forward, offered his hand, and pulled Mary to her feet. "I told her everything. How you came for her and how I betrayed you. All of it."

  Mary looked into his eyes, saw the pain there, and started to speak. Maras shook his head. "Thanks, Mary, but we don't have much time. Take Corley and the mutimal. You'll find food in the saddlebags. Run and keep running. All the way to Hat Top. Tell them what's coming. Who knows? Maybe they can survive."

  Corley frowned and bit her lower lip. "What about you, Daddy? The Church will get mad, real mad, and try to hurt you. Please come with us."

  Maras smiled and stroked the side of her face. "I-will come, honey .. . but there's something I must do first. Something important."

  Mary looked into her ex-husband's eyes, admired what she saw there, and gave a nod. "Thank you, George. Thank you for everything. We shall never forget."

  The roboticist placed her left foot in a stirrup and hoisted her right leg over the saddle. Maras kissed the top of his daughter's head, boosted her behind, and forced a smile. "Take care, you two! See you at Flat Top!"

  With that, he slapped the mutimal's hindquarters and watched them ride away. The counselor waited until his family was safely out of sight before turning toward the cathedral. It was a twenty-minute hike—and speed was of the essence. The church se
rvices were spaced about one hour apart. Just enough time to clean the floors, renew the candles, and otherwise prepare for the next horde of worshipers.

  Maras needed as much of that time as he could get. The semifrozen slush crunched under his boots.

  The spy watched for a moment, and allowed his subject to lead the way. As with all of his kind, he found the shadows to his liking and stayed to them whenever he could. Darkness was his friend.

  Doon watched the latest batch of churchgoers shuffle their way out, gave thanks for the upcoming break, and checked his surroundings. No one was watching, not from the front anyway, which meant it was time to flex his muscles.

  Thanks to the fact that the clay had been applied back in Riftwall, and subjected to the rigors of the road, stress fractures had developed within. By flexing his servo-driven musculature, the android hoped to exploit the cracks and eventually break free.

  He figured it was only a matter of time before the Zid removed his old shell and built a new one around him. The key was to shatter the clay before that day came—but not in the middle of a church service.

  Repetition was the key, or so he theorized, and the synthetic went to work. Contract-push-relax. Contract-push-relax. Contract-push-relax. He did it over and over with machinelike persistence.

  Doon had been at it for exactly nine minutes and sixteen seconds when Maras entered. He was famous by now—and maintenance workers hurried out of his way.

  The synthetic recognized Maras immediately, and was surprised when the human started in his direction. There was a bag in his hand, similar in size and shape to the ones that Zid stonemasons favored, and his expression was grim.

  Bystanders watched with open curiosity as the newly named counselor strode across the floor and approached the Devil's altar. Maras found the android's eyes, smiled reassuringly, and opened the bag. "Some chance is better than none ... that's the way I figure it, anyway. Help me free your friend, then run like hell. Don't bother with the others. None of them are sentient."

  So saying, Maras removed a hammer from the bag, struck the clay over Doon's shoulder, and watched it crumble.

  Jantz, exhausted by the effects of his heart condition, remained in his chair. The spy, who had run the last half mile through the corridors, was badly out of breath. He was a Zid, one of a number the human had managed to suborn, and dressed in rags. His gills pulsed as he fought for air. The human knew the way that felt. He waited for the male to speak.

  "The counselor—gasp—sent for one of the females— gasp—put her on a mutimal—gasp—and allowed her to escape."

  "And his daughter? Did she run as well?"

  "Yes!" the spy answered, astonished by the extent to which the bishop could read his mind. "That's exactly what happened."

  Jantz shook his head in amazement. So Maras had balls after all. Who'd have thought it? "And then?"

  "He stopped for a tool bag and entered the cathedral. That's when I came for you."

  "A tool bag? You're sure?"

  "Yes, holy one."

  "Take my arm. Help me up. We must hurry."

  After Maras struck the blow, the rest was easy. The clay fractured into large chunks, exploded against the floor, and scattered in every direction. Doon felt the weight drop away, brought his aggressor systems on-line, and flexed his shoulders. More of the hardened earth broke away from his body as he stepped down onto the floor.

  A maintenance worker screamed and another ran for help as the android ran across the nave. He struck a blow with his fist, saw a crack zigzag down through the clay that encased Amy's chest, and did the same thing again. More of the stuff fell away, and an arm came loose.

  Amy felt a wonderful sense of freedom as she rid herself of more clay and entered the circle of Doon's arms.

  The embrace was brief but wonderful. It was the first time she had felt anything like what human females described as "love." A profound sense of warmth, belonging, and trust. Was there more? Could there be more? Amy didn't know and doubted that she would live long enough to find out.

  "Doon grabbed Amy's hand and pulled her away. "Maras! Where's Mary?"

  "Gone with Corley," the counselor answered. "They're headed for Flat Top."

  "Good. Come on, let's get going."

  The human shook his head. "No, I'll be fine. There are mutimals tethered outside. Take them and ride."

  The android looked at the human, saw he was serious, and headed for the door.

  A pair of Reapers appeared and were framed by the entrance. Both were armed, but their weapons hung on slings. Understandable, given where they were—but unfortunate for them. Doon had been born with an in-depth preconditioned knowledge of six martial arts.

  The first Zid fell to a lightning-fast series of blows, the last of which left him unconscious.

  The second Reaper had more time, landed a roundhouse right, and winced as the Devil machine took hold of his arm. Bone cracked; the Zid screamed and went to his knees.

  Doon bent over his first victim, removed a knife from his belt sheath, and cut the assault weapon free.

  "Harley! Behind you!"

  The android spun, spotted the Reapers, and touched the trigger twice. They staggered and fell. Battle axes clattered to the floor and slid away.

  "This way!" Amy shouted. "Hurry!"

  The synthetic ran for the door as Amy kicked a Reaper in the chest and then struggled with a second. Doon fired from the hip, saw the assailant fall away, and grabbed the other android's wrist.

  More than a dozen mutimals were tied to a rail. The android freed all but two, hoped there was something useful in the bags slung across their backs, and boosted Amy into a saddle. She had acquired a weapon of her own somewhere along the line, and now she fired two rounds into the air. The mutimals panicked, turned, and galloped away. Doon saw the direction they had chosen, shouted, "Follow me!" and took off in pursuit.

  Maras listened to the firing, hoped it meant what he thought it did, and turned his back on the door. The platforms looked strangely empty. It seemed as if his feet had minds of their own. Clay crunched as he walked. The Devil's altar made a good place to sit... and that's where Lictor, Jantz, and a half dozen Reapers found him.

  The counselor smiled wearily. "Fancy meeting you here.... Don't tell me, let me guess. Something's missing."

  29

  a tone' ment / n / reparation for an offense or injury

  The sky was miraculously clear, and the sun rose like an omen of gold. Its rays melted some of the slush and sent rivulets of water gurgling in every direction—water that added to the muddy morass that surrounded the camp.

  But no amount of mud could dampen Solly's spirits, not with the sun on his back, and the sure knowledge that they were leaving. Not for home, as he had hoped, but as part of the holy crusade.

  It sounded glorious, but, as Solly had learned over the last ninety days, things that sound good often aren't. He also questioned the wisdom of such a trek, especially when food supplies were dwindling and the harvests were poor. Even Crono agreed, not directly of course, but by implication. There was very little doubt who "those idiots" were, or what he meant by "damned foolishness."

  Still, Solly felt lucky in two respects, first to escape the cathedral and its muddy environs, and second to do so in company with Dara, a continual source of joy. Even the large clumps of mud that clung to Solly's boots couldn't slow the youngster's stride as he made his way between the shelters, spotted the female on the far side of the assembly area, and hurried to join her.

  Voices yelled orders as tents were struck, a hammer rang on metal, a hordu issued a series of grunts, a prayer caller sang his song, the odor of hot tromeal hung in the air, and a squad of would-be Reapers marched back and forth. It was stimulating, but Solly still yearned for home.

  They couldn't embrace, not publicly anyway, but no one could object to eye contact. Thoughts, ideas, and emotions jumped the gap between the youngsters and brought smiles to their faces.

  "Good morning, Soll
y."

  "Good morning, Dara."

  "Have you had breakfast?"

  "Why no, how 'bout you?"

  "Not yet. Would you care to join me?"

  "Why yes, that would be nice."

  They laughed at the parody and left for the mess tent. Some villagers subsisted on one meal a day. The crusaders ate three.

  Dr. Suti Canova scanned the room to ensure that no one was watching, took the second position, and moved to an arabesque. She was free! Free to move as she pleased... and it felt wonderful!

  There was work to do, however, important work that had nothing to do with the so-called "gift" of ballet. The synthetic giggled, dropped the pose, and went to work.

  The makeshift surgery was located somewhere within the cathedral and was packed with illicit medical equipment. There were sets of old-fashioned instruments, an autoclave in which to sterilize them, packages of surgical drapes, an operating table, lights, basins, a nonsentient anesthetist, a cupboard packed with drugs, and a fully operational nano farm.

  All the android was required to do was operate on the human, repair the damage to his heart, and renew his nano. Then she'd go free. That's what Jantz had promised—and that's what Canova wanted to believe. But could she believe it? And, more than that, should she believe it?

  The trap had been well and carefully laid. Thanks to updates provided by Michael, the synthetics had not only managed to escape from the cathedral but had made excellent progress as well. They were no more than a half day behind Mary and Corley Maras. Now, as the Reapers closed in, Doon had plans to dissuade them.

  The synthetic left Amy to guard the mutimals and picked his way up through a pile of randomly placed boulders to the very top. The sunlight had melted the frost and left a wet spot behind.

  Doon lay on his anterior surface, checked the assault weapon to ensure its readiness, and moved the fire selector to S for "single." With that accomplished, he lowered the barrel-mounted bipod into the proper position, ejected the 1.5X6 sight from the top-mounted receiver bay, and dry-snapped the trigger. There were three levels of sensitivity to choose from, and he selected number two.