Steelheart

by William C. Dietz

  His own vision, which was very nearly as good as that provided by the telescopic sight, detected movement on the edge of the horizon. "Mike?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Are those Reapers off to the east?"

  " 'Fraid so."

  "Roger that."

  It was another ten minutes before it was worth peeking through the sight, and another fifteen before the riders came within range. Part assault weapon, and part sniper's rifle, the Spatz fired a 7.62mm round with a muzzle velocity of eight hundred fifty feet per second. Not too bad ... if the ammo was good.

  The Reapers had ridden their animals hard, and the creatures were lathered with sweat. Doon watched their leader float through his sight, and allowed the crosshairs to caress the male's chest. The Zid didn't know it yet... but he was going to heaven.

  Maras, adorned by nothing more than a loincloth, and a sign that read "heretic," put his weight against the leather straps. They cut deeply into his already raw shoulders as his body accepted the full weight of the sled. It was loaded with the symbols of his guilt: a pile of jumbled droid parts, his vestments, and the tools confiscated from Mary. He pulled with all his strength, the sled slithered over the mud, and the crowd roared their hatred.

  Maras accepted the emotion as his due, as the price that needed to be paid, knowing the ordeal would soon be over. After all, it was he who had brought the crusade to life, had taken it from concept to plan, and written the master schedule—a schedule so well conceived that it allowed time for a "sacrifice" or similar entertainment just prior to departure. Little did he know who would provide it!

  Maras laughed, and some of the onlookers stepped back.

  Solly, who knew better than to share his innermost feelings with anyone other than Dara, felt sorry for the human. He remembered how the same male had been welcomed only days before, and marveled at the manner in which his fortunes had been reversed. Life was exceedingly strange.

  Crono watched the display with something verging on disgust. He felt nothing but contempt for the traitorous human, the hierarchy that had been stupid enough to trust him, and the manner in which so many innocents would soon lose their lives.

  The cleric had already gone to quite some lengths to ensure that his flock would march toward the rear of the procession—a rather undistinguished position that some of his less thoughtful brothers had been quick to relinquish.

  Crono smiled grimly as the human fell, took a whip across his bare back, and struggled to his feet. Let those who wanted glory have it. His job was to protect those placed in his care—and to get them home alive. He had failed once. It wouldn't happen again.

  "The door's locked? You checked?" Jantz asked nervously. He looked vulnerable on the operating table. White with lots of wiry black hair. Tubes snaked in and out of his body, and his arms extended to either side.

  Canova, who had answered the question at least three times before, nodded patiently. "The doors are locked. Besides, Lictor, his spies, and everybody who is anybody are at the ceremony. That's why you chose this particular day. Remember?"

  Jantz nodded. The android was correct—well, mostly correct, since he had detailed some men to stay. Yes, he had given his word, but what if something went wrong immediately after surgery? Or a year down the line? He would need the synthetic's help—and there was only one way to ensure that he'd have it. "You're right, as always—let's get on with it."

  Canova nodded and sent a radio transmission to the non-sentient anesthetist. "Take the patient down."

  The robot, which looked like a box with arms, dispensed the minimum amount of sodium thiopental to induce unconsciousness, placed a mask over the human's face, and pushed a mixture of oxygen and nitrous oxide down into the human's lungs.

  Canova prepped the human's chest, placed self-sealing drapes around the perimeter of the site, and inserted a standard medical interface into the socket at the back of her neck. Though conceived as words, her orders would be translated to code and transmitted to the nano. Thousands of tiny machines responded to the electronic call, swarmed up through a wire-thin tube, and spilled out onto the patient's skin. Others entered his body via the IV in his arm and routed themselves through his circulatory system.

  Most were far too small to see, which meant that the incision opened as if by magic, bleeders seemed to cauterize themselves, and the scar tissue left by previous operations appeared to dissolve.

  In fact, under ideal conditions, with full robotic support, there would have been no need for an incision, and the entire procedure would have been performed internally.

  Such was not the case, however, so it was up to Canova to place the chest spreaders, deal with the more stubborn bleeders, and suction the blood away. Blood that would be filtered to remove new or used nano.

  The initial phase of the reconstruction took half an hour. The micromachines would complete the rest of the surgery over the next few days—an approach calculated to reduce the overall insult to the body, and give the newly introduced nano time to work on the patient's circulatory and respiratory systems.

  Canova kept an eye on her screens, queried the nano from time to time, and monitored Jantz's vital signs.

  Finally, as the incision began to close, the synthetic ordered her nano to inject certain drugs into the human's bloodstream, checked to ensure that the appropriate dosages could be sustained for the next year or so, and told the anesthetist what she had in mind.

  True to its programming, the machine took silent issue with the instructions, and a dialog ensued. Also true to programming, the nonsentient machine was forced to back down and do what it was told. Valves opened, gas hissed, and readouts flickered.

  Consistent with the orders they'd been given, the two men watched through a peephole, waited until their leader's skin had knitted itself together, and opened the door. A blast of cold air entered the room. The first man held a stunner; the second secured the door.

  Canova, who had just applied a dressing to her patient's chest, looked over her shoulder. "There you are ... right on time."

  The smaller of the two had a large nose and beady eyes. They blinked stupidly. "Right on time?"

  "Zap her," the bigger man said impatiently. "Do it now."

  Big nose yawned, struggled to focus his eyes, and felt them close. The stunner fell from his hand and clattered on the floor.

  The larger specimen frowned, started to say something, and felt his knees buckle. Both men hit the floor at roughly the same time.

  Canova smiled, took a moment to bind their limbs with surgical tape, and sent an order to the anesthetist. ''Kill the nitrous."

  The machine obeyed and, because the action was in alignment with its programming, came very close to what sentients refer to as happiness.

  Pleased by the success of her plan, the android wrestled a pair of green bottles off a cart marked ' 'MED BAY 4, DECK 3," and pushed it to the operating table.

  A quick check confirmed that the drugs had taken effect. The human was effectively paralyzed—and would remain so as long as the drug supply lasted.

  It wasn't easy to lift Jantz off the table and strap him to the cart, but the synthetic was stronger than she looked.

  Once that was accomplished, it was a simple matter to pull a robe over her patient's head, throw a cape around her shoulders, and turn out the lights. The cart squeaked as it rolled down the hall.

  The bullet arrived before the sound did. However, like so much of the black-market ammo produced in Vent's factories, the chemical propellents fell short of military specs, and were less efficient than they should've been.

  The slug, which had been aimed at the Reaper's chest, hit his mutimal in the neck. The beast took three additional steps before it nosed over, threw the Zid over its head, and died. The Reaper lived just long enough to see the cluster of jagged rocks, throw his hands forward, and scream. The impact broke both his arms and crushed his skull.

  Doon swore on channel four and adjusted his aim. His next bullet went where it was su
pposed to—as did the one that followed that. The first body tumbled out of the saddle, hit the ground, and skidded to a halt. The second fell, hung from a stirrup, and bounced across some rocks.

  Doon took his finger off the trigger, saw the rest of the Reapers turn back, and let them go.

  That's when the android thought of something he should have realized before. There had been no consequence for shooting Zid back in Riftwall—no night of self-imposed torment, and no feelings of guilt. Aliens weren't people, not according to his programming anyway, and he could shoot as many as he cared to.

  Did that mean that his creators were fallible? Pragmatic in the extreme? Racist to the core? None of the possibilities seemed very appealing.

  Doon collected his casings, slipped them into his pocket, and slapped a fresh magazine into the well. Amy was halfway to the bodies by then. Ammo was valuable and well worth scavenging. Even Sojo agreed with that.

  Lictor felt mixed emotions as he looked out over the assembled multitude. Sixty thousand eyes stared back. The faithful stood in groups, clustered around their various leaders, ready to march. He saw Provident red, Faithful green, Obedient blue, and a half dozen other colors. The crowd looked like a living tapestry—a vast needlework of the sort his mother loved to make. Not a bad idea, actually—with him at the center. It would hang in the nave to commemorate this day.

  The crusade was shaping up to be even more glorious than he had hoped it would be—an unstoppable wave that would carry the heretics before it and purify the entire planet.

  There was a cost, however. The supplies required to enable his dream had left certain villages teetering on the edge of starvation—a problem he had relied on his newly named counselor for ecclesiastical affairs to solve. That same human stood before him now, head held high, waiting to die.

  If only Maras had held the course, had vanquished the Devil within him, but such was not the case. Humans were flawed, very flawed, and subject to every kind of weakness. Lictor raised a hand, and the crowd fell silent. His voice wouldn't carry to the entire multitude, so priests had been assigned to relay his words, causing them to echo across the land.

  "Greetings. We stand at the beginning of a great and glorious enterprise, a journey within ourselves, and a crusade against evil. An entire host of dangers await, not the least of which are the hardships of the road, the test of the long winter, and the heretics themselves. The Devil is strong— and will want to fight."

  Lictor waited for the last echo to die away and started again. "Foremost among our enemies, however, is the tendency to listen to our own internal yearnings and ignore God's call. That, my friends, is what the human named Maras did. I want to witness both his crimes—and the fact that no one is immune to punishment. He's going to hell—and you could do likewise. Come, let us pray."

  Maras squinted into the sun, felt his stomach flutter, and listened to the prayer. The one he chose originated from a different but no less bloody religion: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil..."

  The crowd spoke in unison, and Lictor, unable to hear the human's words, nodded approvingly. Who knew? Perhaps God would listen.

  The hammer of divine justice rose high into the air and paused. Maras felt a shadow flicker across his face, saw his daughter smile, and was gone.

  Canova nodded to an elderly monk, ignored a maintenance worker, and wheeled Jantz out onto the floor. Her platform, the one she had occupied for so long, lay directly ahead. A ramp provided access.

  The synthetic pushed her burden a little faster, built additional speed, and made it to the top. Once she was there, it was a simple matter to turn Jantz in the proper direction and lock the wheels.

  The human felt himself rise, as if from the bottom of a lake, and float on the surface. There was pain, yes, but not that much, and he was alive! Wonderfully, beautifully alive!

  Eyes! He must open his eyes, assure himself that all was as it should be, and then he could rest.

  Jantz ordered his eyes to open, felt resistance, and tried again. The sticky stuff gave way; blobs floated on air and quickly started to fade. "Zak? Paco?"

  Canova heard the human croak and stepped into view. "The patient awakes! Excellent."

  Jantz saw the synthetic, the seating beyond, and felt a sudden sense of panic. "Where are we? What have you done?"

  Canova smiled. "I thought you'd never ask! I'm going on vacation ... and leaving you in charge. The paralysis should wear off in a year or so—assuming they allow you to live. Oh, by the way, your heart is fine! Well, cheerio! My bill is in the mail."

  Jantz struggled to move his limbs, discovered that he was unable to do so, and started to swear.

  A group of pilgrims, just in from the country, made signs in the air.

  The android, a scarf wrapped around her face, left through the main entrance, turned toward the sun, and started the long journey home.

  In spite of the fact that it was night, the temperature was ten below, and snow had started to accumulate around them, the androids sat cross-legged, their knees touching. They had no need for a fire, no need for food, in fact no need for anything beyond each other. It felt good to be who and what they were, free from mindless hatred and from human society as well.

  Their relationship, though superficially similar to what humans experience, had already gone deeper. Much deeper than what most sentients would want or be able to bear. Amy had wandered through Doon's memories, had lived moments of his life, and he'd done likewise with her. Only Sojo, sulking in the background, kept them from going further.

  "Don't mind me," the ghost said. "Have a good time."

  "Thank you," Amy replied gently. "We will."

  The wind howled across the plain, the mutimals dozed in a nearby cave, and an angel watched over their heads.

  30

  proph' et / n / one who foretells future events

  The conference room looked the way it usually did—as if a bomb had been detonated inside it. A table stretched the length of the room. It was covered with an assortment of printouts, plates of half-eaten food, a couple of data pads, an R-26 servo controller, and a birthday cake with one unlit candle.

  Garrison was listening to Bana Modo's report on the latest nano strain, and wondering what Dr. Omita would look like with her clothes off, when the note arrived. He read the careful printing—then read it again.

  1016 Hours

  Dr. Garrison,

  A synthetic named Luis Garcia Sojo is attempting to contact you via radio—and says it is urgent. Reply? Com Op 4

  Could it be? Heads turned as Garrison stood, nodded to Modo, and left the room. Was the note for real? Or an excuse to leave the meeting? There was no way to know. Modo continued.

  Garrison hurried to the com center, saw one of the techs raise her hand, and hurried over. Com Op 4 had gray hair, green eyes, and an implant. A cable was jacked into her right temple. "Don't know what to make of this one, sir. Says he's coming this way, and has something you need."

  The roboticist felt his heart start to pound. "Thanks. I'll take the call."

  The conversation lasted five minutes. Once it was over, Garrison returned to the meeting. Were those tears in his eyes? Or something else? It must be something else, Modo decided, because the boss never cried, not that he could remember anyway, and there was no reason to start now. Was there?

  Garrison waited for silence, cleared his throat, and forced a smile. "Ladies and gentlemen ... I have some very good news."

  31

  sanc' tu ar y / n / a place of refuge and protection

  The rocks, scattered as if by some careless hand, lay in a circle and gave shelter from the never-ending wind. Corley had risen early, and was struggling to rekindle the fire— when the monster appeared. It was big, black, and equipped with a huge pair of mandibles. She screamed and backed away.

  Mary fought to extricate herself from the Zid bedroll, stood, and rushed to Corley's defense. The roboticist had no weapons, so there
was nothing she could do except place her body between her daughter and the threat. "Run! Hide in the rocks!"

  "That won't be necessary," a voice said. "Fido won't hurt you ... not unless I tell him to."

  Mary turned to find that a rider had entered her camp from the opposite direction. He was tall, good-looking in an unshaven way, and heavily armed. His eyes were green, his skin was brown, and his lips, twitched in what might have been a smile. "Are you Dr. Maras? Dr. Mary Maras?"

  Corley kept one eye on the robot and the other on her mother. Mary was surprised. "Yes, how did you know?"

  A synthetic named Doon told us," the man replied. "Via satellite relay. Said we should look for you."

  Satellite relay? Suddenly Mary knew where much of Doon's seemingly miraculous information had originated from. Information he used to control their relationship. It was hard to stay angry, though—especially now.

  "My name's Jones," the man offered. "Head of security for the folks at Flat Top. Once you and your daughter are ready, Fido will see you home. Ain't that right, big boy?"

  The robot clacked its mandibles in agreement as Jones slipped to the ground. He gestured to Corley. "Come here ... I want to show you something."

  Corley looked up, saw her mother's nod, and made her way over. The monster loomed above. Jones took the little girl's hand and placed it against the creature's flank. It was smooth and warm to the touch. "See? He's a robot, a Mothri robot, so he looks kinda like they do. Would you like a ride? Come on, I'll boost you up."

  Corley accepted the invitation, settled into the saddle-shaped depression at the rear of the robot's head, and laughed as it stood.

  Mary smiled as her daughter rode the machine in circles and turned to Jones. "Thank you."