Steelheart

by William C. Dietz

  There were similarities, however, including the fact that both species had four limbs, walked erect, and boasted opposable thumbs. Never mind that the Zid had three fingers instead of four.

  Kora stepped forward, held out both hands palm out, and waited for the human to do likewise. The Zid's lips rippled from top to bottom. She spoke Spanglish with a thick, almost guttural accent. "Come, it is warm within."

  Mary didn't want to leave the riot gun outside, but knew Kora would be offended if she brought it with her. She laid the weapon on the doorstep, covered it with a mat, and stepped inside.

  The hut consisted of one large room. A carefully banked fire sent smoke up through six ceiling-mounted holes. Others allowed for ventilation, but most were closed. What light there was came from candles in wall niches. Mary chose one of the three-legged stools, warmed her hands over the fire, and waited for Kora to speak. As with most members of her species, the Zid was extremely direct.

  "I have news from the east.... A male with brown skin, and a daughter such as you described, were seen in Rift-wall."

  Doon approached his destination with care. The street seemed normal enough, as did his fellow pedestrians. It was only when he drew abreast of the shop, and spotted the Zid's characteristic heat signature, that he understood the danger. The Church had a line on the roboticist and kept her shop under surveillance. Not especially good, but not too bad, since she continued to live mere. How to make contact? And do so without attracting attention?

  The synthetic passed the shop without slowing, reached the end of the block, and took a left. The original grid called for alleys behind each row of prefab buildings, but some had been blocked by earthquake damage, and others had been sealed to limit access. Such was the case here.

  A barrier had been erected across the mouth of the alley and subsequendy turned into an ad hoc bulletin board—just one of hundreds that had sprung up throughout the city. Hundreds of white, blue, and yellow triangles showed where posters had been torn away. One bulletin remained.

  Doon ripped it free and read the text. The words were printed in the spaces between the names on an old duty roster. "MACHINES ARE EVIL—SO SAYETH THE LORD." There was more, but the synthetic had no desire to read it. He handed the paper to the wind and watched it whirl away.

  Doon scanned the area. There were pedestrians, heads down, minding their own business, and a prayer caller off to the south, but no sign of interest in him or his activities. A quick scan of the most popular radio frequencies produced nothing of note. The synthetic backed away, took three quick steps, and hit the barrier. Wood splintered and fell away. Doon widened the hole, pushed the pack through, and followed with his body.

  Once within, Doon saw that the other end of the alley was closed as well. Without city services, and with no other place to dispose of their trash, the alley had become a garbage dump. Only the fact that people had very little material to throw away, and the consistently cold weather, had prevented the intense bacterial action that would have rendered the entire area unlivable.

  Ground-level windows and doors were boarded up. If any of the residents had seen the synthetic, or were aware of his presence, they gave no sign of it. Doon plugged the hole as best he could, reshouldered the pack, and made his way toward the far end of the alley.

  Ice crackled under Doon's boots, and garbage gave under his weight as the android struggled to maintain his footing. Small, barely glimpsed scavengers scurried away. He wondered what species they represented, not that there were very many choices, since Zuul lacked the diversity of life found on Earth. A fact that both intrigued and puzzled scientists.

  Doon arrived at what he thought was the correct door— and wished he'd thought to count the openings on the street. Still, it looked right, and felt right, assuming that such a word applied to the complex programming meant to emulate what humans called intuition, or a hunch.

  So, assuming he had the right shop, what next? Knock and announce himself? Wait where he was? Neither option seemed completely satisfactory. The robot shrugged and set to work. Something slipped thousands of feet below ... and a tremor shook Shipdown.

  It was evening by the time Mary arrived home. The joyful news, plus the need for supplies, had stimulated a shopping spree and consumed her trade goods. But so what? Corley was alive, and Mary would find her—in spite of what that implied: a long and dangerous trip to the Zid-occupied east. The fact that the information was hearsay, and might have been a lie, left her undeterred. She was going... and that was that.

  The roboticist felt Zid eyes bore into her back as she fingered the remote, opened the door, and stepped inside. The bolts made a snicking sound as they slid into place. Hairball bounced into the room and demanded attention.

  "You back—me glad. Nice man pet me."

  Mary shook her head wearily. "There aren't any nice men any more, sweetie—so keep that in mind. If I run into one, I'll let you know."

  It felt good to hang the riot gun on its hook, to divest herself of the packages, and remove the top layer of clothes. It was only then, after Mary had entered the work room, that she sensed another presence.

  The roboticist turned, peered into a heavily shadowed corner, and nearly jumped out of her skin. The man had bright blue eyes, chiseled features, and a large, somewhat threatening body. His hair was silver, cut short, and an important part of his anatomy. Each follicle ended in a tiny solar receptor and fed his power supply.

  The riot gun ... could she make it? Mary turned, and the intruder made no attempt to interfere. "Go ahead, get your weapon. I'll wait here."

  Something about the timbre of the voice brought her to a stop. She turned. "A Beta 410 Police Special... I thought all of you were dead."

  "Most of us are," Doon replied, stepping out into the light. "How did you know?"

  Mary ran a practiced eye over the synthetic's body. The android had lost an arm but was otherwise intact. Externally, at least. She met his eyes. Funny how that meant something—even with machines. "I had a friend once ... a musician. She could tell one violin from another by sound alone."

  Doon nodded. "They said you were good. Now I see why. I chose the right place to come."

  "Maybe," Mary said cautiously, "and maybe not. You broke into my home."

  "I had no choice," Doon said reasonably. "Not with a Zid watching your shop. How long has he been there?"

  "A couple of weeks," Mary said wearily. "I'm planning to move."

  "Good idea," Doon said soberly. "And the sooner the better. I'll help you—if you'll help me."

  "Help you what?" Mary asked suspiciously. "I'll provide you with a tune-up, and renew your nano, but the arm is out of the question. I have one in stock ... but it won't fit."

  Doon shook his head. "Not a problem. I brought my own. Attach it, provide me that tune-up you mentioned, and I'll help you escape. Not only that—I'll find a place where you can set up shop."

  Mary had no intention of setting up shop, not after the news about Corley, but saw no reason to tell the synthetic that. Still, she needed to hide her equipment, or barring that to sell it, and she couldn't handle that alone. The Beta was big, strong, and equipped to defend himself. Just what she needed. "Okay, you're on. Let's take a look at that arm."

  The better part of two hours passed while Mary ran diagnostic programs on Doon and the arm. Everything checked out, but Mary was hesitant. "Nice limb ... where did you get it?"

  Doon lay face-up on the work table. He squinted into the work light. "Some bounty hunters caught up with a unit called Sojo. He was finished with it by the time I arrived."

  "And if you found him first?"

  Doon looked away. "I don't know."

  Mary sighed. "Well, you're honest, anyway. All right, this will take a while, so we might as well get started."

  Doon nodded and watched while the roboticist unrolled a set of tools, donned some goggles, and set to work.

  Like his brethren, Doon was covered with flexible multi-layered sheathing modeled on
human skin. It was about the same thickness and consisted of a super-efficient photovoltaic epidermis, and a conductive gel sandwiched between two layers of electrodes.

  As pressure was applied to the gel, the voltage between the electrolayers changed and feedback was sent to the android's CPU. The result was a sense of touch. What with the base mesh, electrode mesh, and two thicknesses of skinlike sheathing, there were six layers altogether. The stump had been covered with a layer of plastic and sealed with adhesive. Mary shook her head over the crudeness of the work, selected a power cutter, and turned it on.

  Doon winced at the shrill whine, turned his audio sensitivity down, and forced himself to wait. No anesthetic was required because the synthetic was designed to feel pleasure when the roboticist worked on him. In an hour, maybe less, the arm would be his.

  Outside, on the far side of the street, his flesh numb from the cold and his robes crusted with snow, the watcher waited. Many days had passed while the heretic came and went, and he'd been forced to bear witness. But not any more, not after tonight, for even as the human slept, the mob would be selected, briefed, and armed with righteous fire. Soon they would arrive and the evil would be purged. The thought warmed his most distant extremities. The vigil continued.

  4

  na' no / n / microscopic machines created to do work

  Dr. Gene Garrison, inventor of sentient machines, lover of women, and would-be savior, was trapped. Not just by the maze of wires, tubes, and other medical paraphernalia that squirmed in and out of his 158-year-old body, but by the memories, beliefs, and habits accumulated during the span of two normal lifetimes. They were baggage he couldn't jettison, and like the ancient mariner, was forced to carry wherever he went.

  Though successful on Earth, and frequently referred to as "the father of modern robotics" and "the creator," Garrison had been a controversial figure who spent more time defending his laboratory than doing the research he loved. That being the case, he had chosen to emigrate off-planet in hopes that the colonists would not only value his creations but allow him to continue his work.

  His body, which had long ago ceased to be anything his mother would recognize, much less love, was almost completely immobilized. A necessity if he was to recover. His face, which he lacked the courage to look at, was half rotted away. Nano, swarming like maggots in mushy flesh, struggled to make repairs. His eyes roamed the room, searched for a way out, but were unable to find one.

  Garrison's quarters were dark, lit by nothing more than the glow from multiple monitors, and the long vertical crack through which daylight had forced an entry. No one other than his personal robots had been allowed to enter the sanctuary for weeks now—ever since the most recent attempt to kill him.

  Not that assassination attempts were especially new. The roboticist had survived three on Earth, two on the way out, and two during his time in Shipdown. The would-be assassins had been a disparate lot having only their hatred of Dr. Gene Garrison as a common denominator.

  A group calling themselves the New Luddites had conceived plots one and two, a jilted lover had been guilty of the third, the Committee had ordered the fourth, a deranged assistant had engineered the fifth, and the Antitechnic Church was responsible for the last two.

  The assassination attempts were one of the reasons why he had colonized Flat Top, to escape such distractions and focus on the work. Critical work upon which the future of the planet might very well depend. The strategy hadn't worked, however—as the most recent attempt made clear. The most frightening aspect of the situation was the fact that this would-be killer probably wore a lab coat, walked the halls of the facility with impunity, and had looked him in the eye.

  But who? There was no way to know, which explained the locked doors and his self-imposed isolation.

  Or did it? Garrison asked himself. Maybe he was crazy, or quickly getting that way—how could he be sure? Except that data didn't lie, and data indicated that hostile nano had been introduced into his body, where they had attacked his spinal cord and central nervous system. A strategy similar to that pursued by a spirochete named Treponema pallidum. Just one of the many Earth-normal species that had been eradicated in the name of public health.

  Left untreated, the damage would have led to dementiainduced irritability, poor judgment, memory loss, delusions of grandeur, and poor hygiene. Of course, he'd been fortunate enough to detect the microscopic attackers before permanent damage could be done. A timely injection of antinano followed by spinal-repair nano would leave him good as new. That's why he was 158 years old.

  Or was it? Had he really taken the correct steps? Or was that little more than a delusion induced by a successful nano attack? After all, a person who was suffering from dementia might believe anything, so how could he be sure? He could send for help, ask experts to confirm his diagnosis, but what if they wanted to kill him?

  All Garrison could do was fight for his sanity, allow the nano to do their work, and heal as fast as he could. A goal made all the more urgent by the demands of Project Forerunner. Not that all work had come to a stop—various members of the staff had been assigned to work on it without their knowledge.

  In fact, by dividing the work into seemingly discrete chunks, and assigning a project name to each, Garrison had put most of the facility's resources to work on the problem. The most recent person to join the effort was a young man named Bana Modo, a skilled biologist who had joined the team two days before and showed every sign of having the right stuff. His e-mail still glowed on the monitor over Garrison's bed.

  MEMO

  Priority: 5

  To: Dr. Gtene Garrison

  From: Bana Modo

  Re: Project Bio-Structure

  Please allow me to tell you how thrilled I am to be part of your team. The trip from Shipdown was harrowing to say the least, but most of my party made it through, and Flat Top is everything your recruiter said it would be. A fully functioning computer network, hot and cold running water, and plenty to eat! What more could any researcher want?

  On a more serious note—it's my understanding that new staff members have the freedom to review current projects, choose the one they can further, and join that particular sub-team. This is to inform you that I would like to work on Project Bio-Structure, which is described as "a feasibility study designed to assess the extent of damage done to Zuul's microbiological ecosystems during the recent volcanic episodes." A rather serious matter that I as a microbiologist hope to assist with.—

  Garrison smiled at that point—enjoying the fact that Modo had self-selected himself for the work he'd been brought in to do. Just one more reason why Garrison remained in charge. The memo continued:

  —Based on current personnel records, it appears that a three-person team consisting of Dr. Arno Styles, Dr. Imo Toss, and Research Assistant Amy Reno were originally assigned to this project, and that while Reno is missing, Styles and Toss were killed on an expedition into Zid-occupied territory.

  That being the case, I plan to study their field notes (many of which were made on paper due to the penalties levied on individuals caught with data pads), review their lab specimens, and write a research plan. I am extremely eager to speak with Ms. Reno but understand there is no way to reach her at the present time.

  Your thoughts and advice would be most welcome.

  Garrison contemplated the message for a moment, knew he should reply, but couldn't find the energy. And besides, if Modo was half the bug-chaser he was supposed to be, he'd uncover the truth soon enough. Or was that the latest in a long string of faulty judgments? And what about his hygiene? Had his body started to smell? Garrison couldn't be sure—but somehow knew that it had.

  5

  ma chine' / n / a structure consisting of a framework

  and various fixed or moving parts for doing some sort of work

  The mission, like all its kind, sat on top of a hill, or in this case a ridge, one of two that embraced the valley called Harmony. This location conveyed numerous advan
tages. It placed the mission closer to God, ensured that it would be seen from the valley below, and forced an act of contrition on anyone who attempted to reach it. The structure had three sides and a pointed top.

  Like the mission itself, the one hundred ninety-two stairs that led up to it were made from hand-quarried rock, each block of which had been carried across the valley and up the hillside by local parishoners. Once there, it was up to the part-time stonemasons to make the necessary adjustments and set the stone in place. As the sun sank toward the western horizon, and day-end prayers were sung, the farmer-masons unhitched their plows, accepted bundles of food from their families, and climbed the hill. Work extended well into the night. Of course, they were gone now, dead these many years—freed from the unremitting labor that had shortened their lives.

  Solly, conscious of the hardship the stairs imposed on his grandfather's seventy-six-year-old joints, took the patriarch's elbow. His father, mother, and sister followed. They were silent, but Solly knew what they were thinking. "Why? Why would our son-brother bring such shame on the family?"

  And they were right. But for his weakness and affinity for evil, the family would be snug in their hut.

  Solly was ashamed of himself. His gills started to flutter as his respirations increased. A smile rolled the length of his grandfather's vertical mouth. The clan mark on his forehead was so old that it had faded from bright red to light pink. He patted the youngster's arm. "Don't worry, Solly, you're a good lad—everyone says so. Besides, Brother Parly owes me a favor or two, and the rest will do as he says."

  Solly took comfort from his grandfather's words, helped the oldster up the last few steps, and waited for him to recover.