It took less than five minutes to locate the device and send humans to dig it up. That was enough, however—since the faithful were frightened, and it would take hours to quiet them.
Crono helped restore order, cursed the Devil, cursed the humans who served him, and cursed the fool in charge. Dawn came slowly—and he was glad.
Lictor, like the Founder before him, was subject to visions. Visions that, while occasionally wrong, were often correct, and in no small way responsible for his now lofty rank.
Where such understandings came from, and why he had been blessed with them, the cleric didn't know. He would have ascribed the visions to God, except a few of them had proved wrong, and the Supreme Being was infallible.
Still, such revelations came in handy, and the Zid had learned to rely on them. One had warned of an assassination attempt, another had revealed the true meaning of the volcanic eruptions, and faith, and a third presaged a flood.
That's why the Chosen One took the dream so seriously. It came within an hour of the human-engineered disturbance. During the vision, Lictor saw the aliens ride forth from their citadel, saw them engage his Reapers in a dozen different battles, and saw them win every conflict.
Then, stripped of their warriors, the faithful were slaughtered. All without a single Zid entering the mountain fortress.
The dream was so real, so frightening, that Lictor awoke to discover his gills were fluttering. He rolled off his mattress, felt the carpet under his feet, and started to pace.
There were many things to consider. Among them was the fact that food supplies were low, morale had started to deteriorate, and the humans were stronger than he'd hoped.
And what of the manner in which the camp had been awakened? The humans could have caused the Devil-machine to explode, but they hadn't. Why? Did it mean what he thought it meant? That the aliens opposed indiscriminate violence? But what of the things that exploded when mutimals stepped on them? How did they fit?
There was a great deal to think about and, having considered, to take into account. It took a while, but when darkness fled he was ready.
Though perfectly willing to forgo his place of honor among the martyrs, Elder Pomo had been unable to negotiate any sort of transfer. That being the case, he, along with Elder Zozo and the rest of Piety's contingent, were among the first to be awakened.
It seemed that the most glorious moment of the crusade was upon them, and they, along with the rest of the martyrs, would follow the labor brigade into battle.
"Why us?" Pomo demanded shrilly. "We're old and sickly! Surely the Reapers should go first—to smite the heretics down. And where's my breakfast? I want it now."
A monk, tired of Pomo's whining and concerned as to his own safety, shoved the elder into line. "For the greater glory of God—that's why you'll do it. Now, shut up and do as you're told."
The elders did as they were told, the drums started to roll, and the attack began.
Cantwell watched from the top of a hill. Her cavalry was arrayed on the slope in front of her, vapor hanging around their heads, weapons at the ready. The valley, through which the Zid must come, lay below. There were mines and rows of well-placed stakes, backed by a maze of trenches. Many were empty, but she saw a scattering of heads. Though not impregnable, the arena would be hard to penetrate, and very, very lethal. A killing ground the likes of which she would hesitate to enter.
The officer peered through her binoculars as hundreds of Zid topped the rise and came her way. Cantwell saw that humans had been placed in front with civilians behind them. What she couldn't see was any Reapers ... the ones she was supposed to engage. She spoke into the wire-thin boom mike that hung in front of her mouth.
"Mongol One to Topper. Over."
"This is Topper," Jones replied. "Go."
"The Zid are on the way—humans in front with civilians behind. Over."
"Roger that, Mongol One. No sign of the Reapers? Over."
"That's a negative, Topper. Over."
"Hold, One. Over."
Jones had spent the night in his command post. His eyes were red, his throat was raw, and stubble covered his cheeks.
"Angel? This is Topper. Do you read me?"
Michael had been watching... and waiting for the call. "I read you. Over."
"The Zid are headed our way. No sign of armed troops. Where the hell are they? Over."
The clouds were thick but broken. Because of that, the satellite had been able to catch a glimpse or two—and knew exactly where the combatants were hiding.
"The Zid are throwing their entire column at you. The Reapers were placed at the very center of the formation. There's only one way to reach them—and that's through the civilians. Over."
Jones slammed his fist down on a console. A stylus jumped and fell. "The bastards are forcing our hand! Damn them to hell!"
"There's no need for that," the satellite replied sadly.
"They're damned already."
The humans went willingly at first, marching in front, unaware of the danger.
That changed when they saw where the snow had been blackened by explosions, where something red had rained down, and half-frozen body parts lay scattered on the ground.
It was too late, though—far too late—as mines went off and bodies cartwheeled through the air.
The humans turned, or attempted to turn, only to be met by a wall of advancing martyrs, backed by the First Holy Reapers. Pomo hesitated, felt a spear point penetrate his coat, and lurched forward.
Driven by a common enemy, and desperate to survive, the two groups merged, stumbled as they were pushed from behind, and struggled to keep their feet. Which was better? To take their chances in the minefield? Or beneath the Reapers' boots? Of course, that death was certain, or very nearly so, so most chose the minefield.
The column advanced, explosions marked its horrible progress, and Lictor was pleased. Rather than the skirmishes the humans had hoped for, they would be forced to fight a decisive battle in which the odds were against them.
The Chosen One's mutimal smelled blood, snorted an objection, and stepped over Pomo's body.
Garrison, Enore, and a group of scientists had made their way up onto the top of the mesa. It felt like a picnic at first, an escape from the laboratories where they spent so much of their time, and to which they must soon return.
But that was before the humans marched into the minefield, before explosions rippled along the front of the half-mile-wide column, before body parts soared into the air.
The clouds parted as if to allow the sunlight through, and the scientists watched in horror as the oncoming army cleared the minefield and approached the rows of well-sharpened stakes. Many had died, enough to leave a carpet of bodies behind, but at least eighteen thousand aliens had survived, and showed no sign of slowing.
Someone began to retch as the first, second, and third ranks were forced to impale themselves on well-anchored spears and the Reapers used the bodies as a ramp.
"We have no choice," Jones whispered to himself. "We have no choice at all."
"No," Garrison agreed. "We don't. We must keep them out of the complex. The nano need time."
"Yes," Enore added somberly. "And so do the eggs."
Doon listened to the orders, wished they were different, and issued his own. The plan was relatively simple: Assuming the Zid crossed the trenches, an eventuality that looked increasingly likely, Doon, along with the units capable of doing so, would attack head-on. That would slow the Zid column and force the sides outward.
That's when Cantwell would attack from the east, and Nargo would strike from the west. Assuming things went well, one, two, or all three of the defensive elements would break through the shield of noncombatants and engage the Reapers.
Then, with their paramilitary arm destroyed, or forced to retreat, the rest of the Zid would follow. Or so it was hoped.
Doon checked to ensure that his weapons were ready, signaled his troops to advance, and kicked the robot's flank
s.
The Mothri machines, which he and the other synthetics rode, were not only frightening to behold but extremely well armed, having both lasers and mandibles. That, plus the assault weapons and grenade launchers carried by the androids, made for a lethal combination.
Four Mothri machines had been kept in reserve, ready to defend Flat Top's main entrance should that become necessary, which left twenty for the assault team. They loped across the intervening ground, while their lasers burped coherent light, and the synthetics fired their launchers.
The Zid had filled the trenches with the dead and wounded by then, crossed them in force, and annihilated two companies of half-trained infantry. It seemed as if there were two bodies for each bullet, and no matter how many the defenders fired, they were never enough. The axes continued to rise and fall as the Reapers slaughtered the wounded. That's when the droids opened fire.
The prophet, still alive in spite of the fact that his diminutive assistant had fallen, toppled forward. He never knew what hit him.
Ninety percent of the humans and martyrs were dead by then, which left only the thinnest of shields between the machines and the First Holy Reapers. The barrier was swept away, falling like wheat before the scythe, to lie in drifts upon the ground.
The Reapers staggered as shrapnel cut their ranks to bloody ribbons, wilted as lasers burned through flesh, and screamed as mandibles cut them in two.
The column stopped, collapsed inward, and bulged at the sides. That's when Cantwell led her charge, and Nargo led an attack from the west. The battle was fully joined.
Chaos ruled the center of the column. Automatic weapons chattered, monks chanted as they marched into the machine gun fire, the wounded screamed, and drums pounded a relendess cadence.
Thanks to Crono's foresight, Solly, Dara, and the other members of their party were located toward the back of the seed, and thus were immune to the terrible devastation caused by the mines, stakes, and trenches.
But as the Reapers came under attack, and the body of the column was pushed backwards, things started to change. Solly grabbed Dara and edged toward the east. All the youth needed was a place to hide, a hole, a crevice, anything. But there was no place to hide, not that he could see anyway, and death plucked at his sleeves. Dara staggered, blood erupted under her cloak, and Solly screamed.
The robot waded into the oncoming Reapers as if they were little more than grass. Its lasers stabbed with ruthless efficiency, each bolt of energy nailing a Zid between the eyes, each slash of its mandibles cutting at least one of them in two.
Doon had lost his assault weapon, but still had both his handguns, and fired them in quick succession. The trick was to keep the Reapers from getting too close, from attaching a homemade satchel charge to the robot's flank, or pulling him out of the saddle.
The synthetic's combat systems were as effective as always, choosing targets, assigning threat indexes, waiting for him to fire. Which the android did, bullet after bullet, magazine after magazine, until it seemed like the shooting would never stop.
That's when one of the Reapers found a rocket launcher, aimed it at Doon, and pulled the trigger. The android was aware of the explosion, of flying through the air, but nothing beyond that.
Michael prayed out loud: "Please, God—please show me the way." And no sooner had the thought been thought than an idea formed and the angel knew what to do.
Nargo didn't know why his militia and he were in trouble, only that they were, and would soon be dead.
The Third Holy Reapers, all of whom were armed with assault weapons and mounted on mutimals, plunged into the fight. Had Strang been there to advise him, or had Nargo been more experienced, he might have been aware that well-disciplined infantry can survive in the face of calvary.
But Strang wasn't there, and Nargo didn't know, which quickly led to disaster. He and his troops were caught on the flat, and rather than form a square, Nargo allowed his people to gather in clumps of five, ten, or fifteen.
They fought bravely, though, and hundreds of Reapers fell, snatched from their saddles by a blizzard of lead.
More than seven hundred survived, however. They rode like maniacs, low across their animals' necks, jumping rocks and killing anyone who ran. Groups of soldiers rose to oppose them, but they were too few and too isolated to stand for long.
Lictor stood in his stirrups, watched the Second Holy Reapers move forward over the bodies of those who had preceded them, and shouted God's name. The ground shook, and the charge went home.
Garrison, Enore, and Jones, along with hundreds of staff members, watched in numb fascination as Nargo's militia were slaughtered and Cantwell's mercenaries were forced to retreat. The few robots that still survived had gone to her assistance, but the outcome was far from certain.
Garrison shook his head grimly. "I want every able-bodied man, woman, and synthetic down at the entryway. We'll fight them in the corridors."
A technician pointed at the sky. "Look, Doctor! What the hell is that?"
Michael felt his body shudder as it came into contact with Zuul's atmosphere, and the heat started to build. Layer after layer of nano-built skin burned away as he orbited downward.
Volcanos, glaciers, lakes, and plains passed below, closer than they'd ever been before, and part of what he'd been left to monitor.
None of that mattered now—for all was in the past. The new him was a comet, an avenging angel, a visitation from heaven.
It had been easy, really, to watch their movements, and spot their leader. The one who could stop the horror, be it by deed, or be it by death.
Death! Oh, how the word seemed to resonate, to call him down toward the cold, hard ground. Michael was on fire by then, a glowing spheroid that arced across the sky, barely in control.
He was lower now, very low, speeding over a plain, flashing past the magnificent cathedral and rushing toward the sun. Then the church fell behind, smoke marked the battlefield, and it was time to steer.
Michael ordered the nano-built vanes to deploy, gave thanks when they obeyed, and made minor corrections. Like eternal peace, the impact was only moments away.
"Our father, which art in heaven, holy be thy ..."
Solly saw a cluster of rocks, pushed Dara in that direction, and threw her down. Death rattled over their heads as the youth ripped at her blouse. The bullet had been pretty well spent by the time it hit her, but still managed to drill its way through. It was high, though, above her vital organs, and clear of bone.
Solly pulled the sash free of her waist, tore strips from it, and stuffed them into the holes. The rest would bind the dressings in place. She opened her eye. "Hello, Solly."
"Hello, Dara."
"You shouldn't look at me ... not without clothes."
"Why not? You're nice to look at."
"Only my husband should see me—so it is written."
"Then I shall marry you."
"Would you?"
Solly smiled tenderly. "Of course I would—was there ever any doubt?''
Lictor turned, he wasn't sure why, and was thrown to the ground. Something huge roared over his head, hit the ground, and exploded. Shrapnel flew outward, Reapers fell, and the wounded screamed.
The Chosen One, surprised to be alive, staggered to his feet. He spoke without meaning to. "What in the name of God was that?"
"Something that should have killed you," a voice answered, "just as you killed so many others."
Lictor turned, saw the disk that hung from the male's throat, and knew he was a priest. "How dare you address me in that manner! Guards! Arrest this fool! Take him away."
But nothing happened. There were no obedient minds— no willing hands. A single glance showed why. The clerics stood with a drift of broken bodies, some groaning, but most deathly still. Michael had missed ... but not by much.
Crono smiled. "Look, oh holy one, look at the seed! See how their bodies lay scattered where healthy weeds will grow. Are you not proud? Thankful for this bounty of death? Look,
and take the sight to hell."
The Chosen One saw the much-used staff, the strong, knobby fingers, and knew what the priest intended. "No! You can't! I'm the holy one!"
Crono swung the pole with expertise born of long practice, felt the staff connect with Lictor's skull, and heard the crack of broken wood.
The Chosen One staggered under the weight of the blow, spun, and fell. Crono removed the thong from around his neck, dropped the disk on the body, and walked away.
Shocked by the thing that had fallen from the sky, and bereft of leadership, the Reapers fell back. They watched to see if the heretics would follow, gave thanks when they didn't, and turned to help their wounded. Both groups mingled after that, helping where they could but avoiding each other's eyes.
Teams of humans and synthetics made their way out onto the battlefield, established aid stations, and went to work.
Amy, a medical bag bumping her hip, started with the first Mothri machine she came to and ran from unit to unit. "Harley? Can you hear me? Where are you?"
The biologist saw Strang, or what she thought was Strang, a battle axe stuck in his head. And there was Rawlings, Chang, and a half dozen more. All dead. Hope became despair, and tears flooded her cheeks. Fake tears, so she could pass for human, so she could grieve as they did.
A maintenance bot lay up ahead, belly up, treads churning. She started to pass the machine, started to leave the area, when a voice called from the wreckage. "Hey, beautiful, how 'bout a hand?"
Amy turned, saw Doon leaning against a sheet of smoke-blackened metal, and ran to his side. An arm was missing, and he looked at the stump. "There goes another one... Sojo will be pissed."
Amy laughed and threw her arms around the android's neck. Kissing wasn't supposed to mean anything, not to machines, but somehow it did.
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