Steelheart

by William C. Dietz

  The security officer tipped his broad-brimmed hat. "My pleasure, ma'am. Just stay with Fido, and everything will be fine."

  "What about you?"

  The man stuck a couple of fingers into his mouth, produced an ear-splitting whistle, and grinned when a half-dozen heavily armed riders swept into the clearing. The bigwigs want Doon—and I was sent to get him."

  Jones tipped his hat, mounted his animal, and turned toward the east. Gouts of snow, mud, and half-frozen gravel flew into the air, and the mutimals thundered away.

  Fido made a chittering sound, and Corley laughed. As Mary broke camp, she thought about George—wondered if he would come, and what he was doing.

  The wind shifted, sought a new path through the rocks, and sent a chill down her spine.

  Mallaca Horbo Drula Enore the 5,223rd had straddled the tool trench for more than sixteen hours now, and, having ran through two shifts of human assistants, was ready for a break. In spite of the fact that the overall repair project involved thousands of different nano types, Enore still had her favorites. Primary among them were a class of micromachines that the humans had nicknamed "mantle mites," both because they were designed to work deep inside the planet and because they were unbelievably small. Small enough to negotiate the narrowest fissures in their search for stress points.

  Maybe it was the fact that like the Mothri herself, the mites were burrowers, or perhaps it was their insectoid appearance. Whatever the reason, they were her favorites and a subject upon which she was the recognized authority.

  The subgroup now under construction was being assembled one atom at a time. Once complete, and having been checked for flaws, the new prototype would join an underground army. An army having no centralized control—and no model for the world. Each unit would operate in response to basic instructions such as move forward, find heat, and back up. More than that, they would learn—and share their knowledge with others.

  And that was the problem. Now, after thousands of hours of work, Mothri nano and human nano could communicate with each other. But that wasn't enough, not to save the planet, or to save her eggs. No, for that to take place, Mothri-human nano must communicate with Forerunner nano.

  Garrison claimed that a synthetic named Sojo had developed a solution to the problem, and that it would soon be solved. Enore hoped it was true.

  She entered a final set of commands into the console located under her thorax, allowed the abdominal tool light to shut itself off, and peered about. The light was brighter than she liked. "Modo! Where in the five names for dirt are you? Fill my vat. It's time for a beer!"

  The mesa known as Flat Top rose like an apparition through the mist, its cliffs straight and true, except where snow accumulated on ledges, and a trail zigzagged to the top.

  Sojo was ecstatic and so eager to complete the journey that he could hardly contain himself.

  Doon was a good deal less enthusiastic. Given the fact that Jones had been sent to bring the two of them in, and the eager way in which the security officer inquired about Sojo's health, there was at least some truth in the "I can save the planet" gibberish that the rider had been spewing for the last three months or so.

  That was development that Doon would have regarded with some amusement, had it not been for the manner in which the Flat Toppers had treated him. Nothing rude, nothing overt, just the feeling that while the ghost had importance, Doon was little more than packaging. Even Amy had noticed... and she was one of them.

  Flat Top vanished behind a veil of snow, only to reappear forty-five minutes later. It was closer now, much closer, and rose like an island of rock.

  There were checkpoints, and some rudimentary fortifications, but fewer than Doon would have expected. It appeared that the scientists had put their trust in isolation plus the mesa itself to protect them.

  Doon was thinking about the trail to the top, and wondering how many people had fallen off it, when Jones led the party into a heavily guarded tunnel. It had been created by construction droids and was as smooth as the inside surface of a shotgun barrel.

  An outward-bound party passed to their left. The humans were armed, and led a train of pack animals. Insults were exchanged, laughter rang out, and the contact was over.

  The tunnel widened into a cave reminiscent of Vent. Doon saw mutimal pens, lines of parked vehicles, stacks of cargo modules, and a pair of vertical tubes. One was blue, the other green. Both were huge. Amy saw his interest and pointed her whip.

  "The one on the left is our geothermal tap. We force water down a pipe, wait for the magma to bring it to a boil, and bring it up again. The steam runs turbines, and they generate electricity. Lots of it. The other tube carries elevators, utility pipes, and a whole bunch of cables."

  Doon nodded, dismounted, and waited for instructions. A woman asked for his rifle, and the android refused. The woman frowned, said something to Jones, and the security officer ambled over.

  "Sorry, citizen Doon—but you aren't authorized to carry weapons within the facility. Give the rifle to Kelly and she'll store it under your name."

  "I can vouch for him," Amy said. "Would that help?"

  "No," Jones replied. "Not since one of the staff tried to shoot Garrison on his way to a meeting. Sorry, but I'm afraid I'll need your weapon as well."

  Doon looked around, saw the manner in which the outriders had started to close in, and felt Sojo gibbering in the background. There wasn't much choice. The synthetic pointed his weapon at the floor, worked the bolt, and ejected the magazine.

  The woman named Kelly accepted the rifle, checked to make sure the chamber was empty, and took Amy's weapon as well.

  Jones nodded agreeably and led them toward the lift tubes. Doon was struck by the number of robots he saw—many of whom were sentient. Here was society as it had been, a cosmopolitan mix of humans and machines, with none of the paranoia he was so used to.

  That at least felt good, and the android felt his spirits rise with the indicator, which paused on "44." "Here's where we get off," Jones said easily. "I wouldn't be surprised if they were waiting for us."

  The words proved prophetic. Doon saw a sign that read "Robotics Section," followed the human down a gleaming hallway, and into a fully equipped lab. Ten or twelve entities stood in a semicircle. Most were human, but two were synthetic. They hardly ever spent time outside, but looked as if they did. A gaunt-looking man stepped forward. His clothes hung in folds as if part of him were missing. He peered at Doon as if through tinted glass. "Luis? Can you hear me?"

  Doon could have interceded, could have forced the man to take him into account, but chose to let the opportunity pass. Sojo, or what remained of him, gushed forth.

  "Yes, Gene! It's me, a little the worse for wear, but me nonetheless. Tell me about your work—tell me everything there is to know."

  It took more than an hour for Garrison and his team to brief the ghost on what they were doing and for him to respond. The rider's eagerness, and drive to complete his work, reminded Doon of himself—as if deep down they were disturbingly similar. "I'm ready," Sojo proclaimed, "or will be as soon as you can arrange for the transfer."

  "Transfer?" Garrison asked. "What transfer?"

  "I need a body of my own," the rider explained. "Doon, to whom this vehicle belongs, would impede my work."

  Garrison looked doubtful. "I see. There's is something of a shortage, however, and that being the case, I wonder if citizen Doon would be so kind as to step aside? Only until your work is complete, of course ... when the body would revert to him."

  Doon seized control of his body, threw an arm around the security officer's throat, and pulled the handgun out of his holster. "Hold it right there. . . . Amy, check 'em out, they might be armed."

  The biologist looked distinctly unhappy, but did as he had ordered, and shook her head. "They're clean."

  The android nodded. "Thanks, Amy. Stay where you are. No need for you to get involved in this mess. Thanks for the hospitality. All I want is my rifle and mutim
al, so tell your security people to stay clear."

  Garrison held up his hands. "Please! I was wrong! We need Sojo—and we need you. Stay, and we'll make it right."

  A staffer stepped forward. "We could download the rider into one of the class sevens, jury-rig some sensors, and use nano in place of limbs."

  "Brilliant!" Garrison said eagerly. "Do it!"

  "Not so fast," Doon responded cautiously. "What's to stop you from downloading me instead of Sojo?"

  "How 'bout Mary?" Amy put in. "She could do it. Did she make it?"

  Jones nodded. "Yes, she's here."

  Doon thought about the suggestion for a moment and nodded. "Okay, but that's the deal, it's Mary or nothing."

  Garrison had no idea who Mary was, but was quick to agree, and gave his word that the agreement would be honored.

  Doon released Jones, returned the security officer's weapon, and apologized. The human shrugged, returned the handgun into its holster, and waved the matter off. He was embarrassed—and wanted to conceal it.

  It took the better part of an hour to find Mary Maras, secure her cooperation, and make the necessary transfer. Doon was surprised by the way it felt. There was a rush as the rider departed, followed not by the freedom Doon had expected, but by a sense of loss. Strange and annoying though he was, the ghost had become part of Doon, and left something of himself behind. A trace of idealism, of scholarship, that would forever linger.

  Then it was over, and Doon, about whom the staff cared not at all, was free to leave the room, the mountain, or the continent itself. Sojo was whisked away. The threesome left the lab, and were absorbed into the foot traffic.

  The android smiled as Amy introduced one of her friends, and listened as Mary spoke of her escape. Suddenly he was free—but free to do what?

  The first member of the crusade was a self-proclaimed prophet. He was blind and walked with the assistance of an eight-year-old male. The oldster's prophecies consisted of complete and utter nonsense, but the faithful took strange comfort from them, and the hierarchy let the matter ride.

  Behind the prophet, where they could best absorb the impact of a surprise attack, were the aptly named "Martyrs for God," a shiftless bunch of hoarders, cheaters, and grifters who were destined for hell. Elders Pomo and Zozo were part of this not-so-distinguished group, as were the other members of Piety's social elite.

  Assuming that everything went according to plan, the heretics would waste a considerable amount of time slaughtering the martyrs, time in which the First Holy Reapers would outflank the heathen, and subsequently cut them down. To that end they were armed with spears, axes, and scythes all sharpened to a razor's edge.

  Marching to their rear were more than 15,000 faithful— "the seed" by which God would reclaim the land. Many were elderly, or, like Solly and Dara, youngsters on pilgrimage who had been diverted to something a good deal more dangerous.

  Though they were armed with little more than metal-bound walking sticks, the seed caused them to speak. Thump step, thump step, thump step! The ground shook with their progress, moved the needle on Flat Top's seismograph, and made a geologist sit up and take notice.

  The seed were followed by the Chosen One, his cadre of bodyguards, and a thousand chanting monks. The drone of their prayers merged into one uninterrupted bass note, and the smoke from their incense burners thickened the air.

  Then came 550 supply carts, 250 heavily laden hordu, 130 pack mutimals and more than 1,000 human porters, each bent double under 100-kol packs. They were silent except for their labored breathing, the occasional clank of a metal fitting, and the crack of the slave master's whip.

  The Second Holy Reapers were armed with assault rifles and brought up the rear. They marched with the relentless efficiency of professionals, trampling any porter who had the misfortune to faint, banners flapping in the breeze.

  The Third Holy Reapers had been divided into the right and left Hands of God. They rode mutimals and were trained to function as either scouts or a reaction force, should such a thing be necessary. They were heavily armed and more than 1,000 strong.

  Lictor stood in his stirrups, scanned the ocean of heads, and gave thanks to God. Every passing moment brought him closer to victory.

  It was their second day at Flat Top. Amy made her way to the biology lab, where she discovered that her samples had not only been delivered but had helped verify Garrison's hypothesis and triggered project Forerunner.

  Mary, whose skills as a roboticist were much in demand, had been greeted as a godsend and immediately put to work.

  That left Doon with no one to look after and nothing to do. He wandered for a while, arrived in the ground-level cavern, and decided to check on the mutimals. That's where he was, shoveling muck from a stall, when Jones appeared. He sat on a partition, allowed his feet to dangle, and shook his head. "You have a way with shit."

  The synthetic shrugged, tossed a shovelful of manure out through the gate, and turned for more. "I've had plenty of practice."

  "Like when you were a cop?"

  Doon used the shovel to lean on. "You checked?"

  Jones smiled. ''Of course. Especially after you took my weapon and shoved it into my ear."

  "Sorry about that... I got lucky."

  Jones shook his head. "That's bullshit.. .but thanks for trying."

  "So," Doon said, "you didn't come all the way down here to watch me shovel shit. What's on your mind?"

  The human looked serious. "There are more than twenty thousand Zid headed this way ... and somebody's got to stop them."

  "You think it's possible?"

  Jones shrugged. "Maybe. If we're smart, if we pull together, and if we're lucky."

  "So what do you want? Another foot soldier?"

  The security chief shook his head. "No, what I need is a leader, someone who can think on his feet."

  Doon felt as though there was something more... something the human hadn't told him yet. "And?"

  Jones looked uncomfortable. "We have a number of synthetics ... many of whom would be willing to fight. Especially under the right kind of leadership."

  Now the visit made sense. The bigwigs, most of whom were human, would have to employ every available asset to stop the Zid horde—robots included. The machines weren't stupid, however, not all of them anyway, and had well-founded doubts.

  Many humans saw synthetics as people, but some found that hard if not impossible to do. Given the choice between sacrificing a human or what they regarded as a machine, there was little doubt which they would choose. The answer, a partial one at least, was to put a robot in charge.

  Jones watched the android for some sign of response. Damn the wirehead anyway, couldn't he see how much the visit cost? Or was that expecting too much? Did machines feel embarrassed when another unit outperformed them? Or were they above such human foibles?

  Doon looked up, saw the emotion in the human's eyes, and nodded. "Who would fall under my command?"

  "Ninety percent of the robots and synthetics capable of combat."

  "Who would I report to?"

  "Me."

  Doon held out his hand. "Done. Harley Doon ... reporting for duty."

  Michael had descended to the lowest orbit he could maintain without falling out of the sky. There was only one thing really worth looking at, and that was the crusade. It had crawled across the countryside for more than five days now.

  It seemed as if half of each morning was spent eating breakfast, participating in prayers, and milling around. Then, once everyone was in place, there was the tiresome business of the march itself, with the entire procession being held to the pace of the slowest members.

  Not that Michael was complaining, goodness no, not when the beings at Flat Top needed every second they could find. First to prepare their defenses... and second to save the planet. A worthy goal—even if it didn't mean much to him. Hundreds of thousands of lives at stake, including human, Mothri, and Zid, not to mention synthetics and their lesser brethren.

&nb
sp; The satellite watched sadly as a Zid fell by the wayside and his companions tried to revive him. Not the first casualty of Lictor's crusade ... and certainly not the last. The planet turned—and Michael turned with it.

  Gradually, and with a slowness that threatened to drive Jones out of his mind, Flat Top's leaders—Garrison and those who reported to him—had turned more and more of their attention to the impending threat. Something they were reluctant to do, given the importance of Project Forerunner.

  In fact, if it hadn't been for the video Michael shot through holes in the cloud cover, and the breathless, nearly hysterical accounts brought back by the facility's long-range scouts, Garrison and his staff might never have reacted. Not in time at least, which would have been too bad, especially since Sojo's arrival had enabled a major breakthrough and might even lead to success.

  They did respond, however, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and Jones was able to get a substantial increase in resources. That included the right to recruit noncritical personnel into the newly formed Flat Top militia, sufficient trade goods necessary to strengthen his force of mercenaries, and the formation of what came to be known as Doon's Droids.

  That was a name Doon might have secretly enjoyed, had it not been for the fact that it was extremely misleading—a fact he discovered after assembling his troops.

  One comer of the cavernous garage had been converted to a military training area, and the synthetic watched as his would-be subordinates walked, crawled, and rolled into the area.

  There were one hundred thirty-six units on his roster—but only twenty of them were sentient. The rest were a mishmash of machines that included everything from floor sweepers to mid-level maintenance machines and heavy duty construction equipment. Not that all the droids were dreck, since the Mothri known as Enore had sent two dozen fighting machines, each of which was equivalent to a company of human soldiers.

  Doon stood on a cargo module, hands on hips, and surveyed his troops. Some wore yellow paint with black stripes, two were dressed in lab coats, and there was plenty of bare metal. They stood on legs, sat on tracks, perched on wheels, and wriggled like snakes. Lights flashed, servos whirred, lasers probed, data flowed, beams stabbed, tracks clanked, and the air stank of ozone.