Steelheart

by William C. Dietz

  "Of course," Michael said matter-of-factly. "You're in a crawler that has the name Bullet Eater painted across the blade. What appears to be a teenage male is sitting in front of the 'E.' My sensors are quite good."

  "They sure as hell are," Doon said sourly. "Please keep that information to yourself."

  "No need to worry about that," the other machine replied blithely.

  "Why not?"

  "Because you need an angel... and I'm on duty."

  Salls heard the gigantic machines long before she actually saw them. The light had faded by then, slowly dimming until the sky looked like worn pewter, and night hovered all around. The fusion plants were silent—but the machines they powered had lots of moving parts, many of which clanked, squeaked, and whined.

  Thus warned, the bandit stood and conducted one last check. The kraal looked normal. The mutimals were tethered to a rope that stretched between two posts, tents had been erected over the freshly dug graves, dung-fed fires glowed invitingly, and people moved to and fro, their bodies protected by their victims' clothing.

  Satisfied that the trap was ready, she turned toward the road. The clanking was louder now, much louder, and was quickly followed by the glow of multiple head lamps.

  Twilight turned to night as the first machine breasted the rise. A figure, his shoulders rimmed with snow, detached itself from the first machine and jogged toward the encampment. Salls smiled, pulled her cloak over the drum-fed slug gun, and went to meet him. The pushers would be tired— very tired—and eager to rest. A long rest from which they would never awaken.

  12

  ba' lance / vi / to be in equilibrium

  Garrison examined his countenance in the mirror, and while he wasn't pleased with what he saw, he knew it was better than what had gone before. The nano had rebuilt his face from the bone out. He looked human, if not handsome—and that was sufficient for his immediate needs. Women were surprisingly tolerant where appearances were concerned. Much more so than he was.

  The trip from the bathroom to the bedroom was a long and arduous journey. Still, the fact that he could make it was an improvement over the previous week. Though not ready to engage in hand-to-hand combat with whatever assassin was lurking in the halls, he was much, much better.

  Servos whined as a Class C robot moved in to help. The roboticist waved the machine away, tottered the last few feet, and collapsed on his bed. The sheets had been changed during his brief absence. They felt cool and clean. He lay back against a pile of pillows and looked up at the screen. One-hundred twenty-three messages waiting. All left during the last six hours. The scientist checked to see how he felt about that, discovered he liked it, and smiled at his own stupidity.

  Then, with an expertise born of long practice, Garrison surfed his e-mail. He deleted some messages based on who had sent them, bookmarked others, and read the most important first—Bana Modo's among them. Finally, after what seemed like an uncomfortable period of time, the biologist had confirmed Garrison's suspicions.

  MEMO

  Priority: 1

  To: Dr. Gene Garrison

  From: Bana Modo

  Re: Project Bio-Structure

  You were correct. After revisiting the data, and conferring with my peers, it's apparent that there were no microorganisms on Zuul prior to colonization.

  This in spite of the fact that interviews conducted by our field agents confirm the existence of flora and fauna when the Zid landed, and in spite of the fact that all previous (Earth) experience led us to expect that higher life-forms would necessarily play host to, or be dependent on, a variety of microorganisms.

  Equally perplexing is the fact that then, as now, one species of plant instead of animal tends to occupy an ecological niche that might be home to a dozen competing or interdependent species on Earth. A situation that could, and logically should, lead to unrestrained reproduction followed by cycles of mass starvation and death. Cycles which, if they actually occur, have yet to be observed.

  All of which made no sense at all until my studies were superimposed over work done by other members of your team.

  As you know, the effort to inventory Mothri-manufactured nano has been underway for some time and, in the absence of cooperation from the Mothri, has been difficult to carry out.

  Thanks to breakthrough work by your roboticists, however, we have identified the electronic equivalent of inventory numbers for 93.1 percent of Mothri nano, and by deductive logic have constructed a fairly good map of their robotic ecostructure, starting with a variety of large "macro" machines and extending all the way down to their microscopic cousins.

  Here's the breakthrough: Mothri nano, plus human nano, should equal all nano. But they don't! Even after a generous allowance for uncataloged Mothri nano, your staff still came up with 138,432 functionally diverse nonhuman/Mothri nano types! More are being discovered and classified each day.

  These machines can be divided into two classifications: those that seem to be extinct, meaning we are unable to locate "living," i.e. functional, specimens, and those that are viable, i.e. operational, and still dedicated to their various tasks.

  We are just beginning to absorb this new information— and are working to determine what it means. We will keep you informed.

  Garrison felt his heart beat faster as he read the memo for a second time. The implications were beyond enormous— they were terrifying! Here were the data necessary to support Sojo's thesis. A thesis he had belittled—but had never been able to forget. He blanked the screen, dictated a memo, and called for his robots.

  Chimes sounded all over Flat Top as the short message appeared on each and every computer screen.

  MEMO

  Priority: Emergency

  To: All Staff

  From: Dr. Gene Garrison

  Re: Project Forerunner

  Please attend an emergency staff meeting at 1400 hours. There is a lot of work to do.

  13

  pil' grim / n / a person who travels to a shrine or holy place

  It was a nice day by current standards. The sun glowed over a high, thin layer of cirrocumulus clouds, a long, thin finger of smoke pointed toward the east, and the rich smell of hordu manure scented the air. This was Harmony, this was home, this must travel with him. The youth drank it in.

  The entire village came to see Solly off. His mother, father, and sister were there, as was his grandfather and elders Tobo, Worwa, Gorly, and Denu, not to mention Brother Parly, Mother Orlono, and a host of others.

  Harmony had but a single prayer pole—and cousin Itha had volunteered to climb it, his scarf flapping in the wind. He had a good voice, and the townsfolk liked to listen.

  Never one to shirk God's work, Crono seized the moment. He climbed onto a milking stool and held out his hands. "Bless this village, oh great one, for those who live here glorify you above all else, forsake the use of the Devil's tools, and support good works. So it is, and shall ever be, dola."

  "Dola," the villagers echoed, and, much warmed by Crono's words, returned to their labors. Crono turned to Brother Parly, accepted the other male's embrace, and found a genuine smile. "I find the village in good hands, Brother Parly ... and the bishop shall hear of it. Take care of yourself ... and I'll see you next time around."

  Pleased by the priest's words, and grateful to get rid of him, Parly pressed a carefully wrapped package into the other cleric's hands. "Thank you, my friend. Here's a little something from Mother Raswa. Her sweet cakes are the best in the village. Keep an eye on Solly for us—and let me know how he does."

  "That I shall," Crono answered sincerely. "That I shall."

  The priest turned to his flock. He enjoyed grand pronouncements, and his followers had come to expect them. "The Cathedral of the Rocks awaits ... the journey begins anew."

  Habits had been formed by then. Some of the pilgrims preferred to walk at the head of the column, while others were satisfied to follow, their pace measured against the chink, chink, chink of Crono's staff. True to their
various natures, the leaders led, the followers followed, and the laggards lagged.

  Solly felt his gills start to flutter, managed to bring them under control, and bowed to his family. They bowed in return and watched his final preparations.

  The brown leather belt, sheath knife, and purse were buckled around his waist, while the cord and water flask hung across Solly's chest, and dangled at his side. His grandfather had carved a plug for the bottle, and it gleamed with newly anointed oil.

  Once those items were in place, the family watched with pride as Solly hoisted a nearly full grain sack onto his strong young back and followed the column up the road, past the ancient Forerunner ruins, and toward the center of the holy lands. It was the most exciting and frightening moment of his relatively short life.

  After years of stability, in which each event of each day could be foretold in advance, it was as if everything had speeded up, like a chip of wood dropped into the river's current.

  Solly knew that he should be elated, thrilled by the unexpected adventure that life had brought his way, but felt a sense of foreboding instead. What was it his grandfather had said? "The religious life isn't for everyone, lad. Make your choices carefully, and remember that prisons assume many forms."

  It was as if the elder Raswa had been warning his grandson against the priesthood—not that God was likely to call him. Should he take the comment seriously? Or ignore it, as with so many of the oldster's ramblings? The answer was far from clear.

  The path became momentarily level as it reached the top of the ridge. The huts looked tiny, their owners little more than dots. Solly looked down upon the place where he'd been born, wondered if he'd see it again, and turned toward the south.

  The overcast dropped during the course of the day, and the temperature with it, making Solly grateful for the coat his mother had made for him. It was drab, the way a righteous coat should be, and stuffed with hordu fleece, which she had stitched into perfect squares. The sin of pride oozed its way into Solly's mind and was pushed away.

  The next section of the trail was extremely interesting, passing as it did through an area where the ground had opened up and a small mountain had been born. It was shaped like a cone and made of what looked like cinders— cinders that remained black in spite of the incoming sleet. The air around the structure seemed to shimmer, and steam wafted upward.

  Solly found the whole thing fascinating and wanted to investigate further, but knew Crono would object.

  Serenity, the next village on the path, and one of the few places the youngster had visited before, lay on an island within a vast wetland. Unlike Solly's neighbors, who were farmers one and all, the marsh dwellers made their livings from hunting and fishing. Activities Solly knew little about, but considered to be adventurous.

  After leading steadily downward for most of the early afternoon, and crossing any number of small rivers, the path caressed the side of a lake before winding its way through a forest of head-high reeds. Solly had seen these reeds before, most often in the form of baskets, which the locals traded for vegetables.

  Short lengths of log, each laid side by side with the next, had been used to construct a rough and ready road. The ice that formed a crust on the surface of the marsh, and filled the gaps between the tree trunks, snapped, crackled, and popped as the pilgrims passed over them, warning resident wildlife of their arrival.

  Fliers, their numbers vastly reduced by the neverending winter, took flight now and then, wings beating on the frigid air.

  There were other sounds too, like the crack of suddenly shattered ice, the chitter of an unseen animal, and the thud of Zid footfalls.

  Bridges, many of which were enhanced by fanciful carvings, connected the islands. They grew steadily larger until an especially handsome span loomed ahead. Crono signaled for a halt, and the pilgrims gathered to receive instruction.

  "Serenity lies just over the bridge. I have an errand to run—but you may proceed to the far side of the village where huts have been prepared for your use. Remember to store your grain in a warm, dry place."

  The priest allowed his eye to roam the faces before him, spotted Solly's earnest gaze, and speared the youth with a long, bony finger. "Solly will lead you to the huts, take charge of the grain, and act in my place. Obey his orders as you would mine."

  With that Crono was gone, leaving Solly to take charge.

  Surprised by this turn of events, but determined to do a good job, Solly waved the pilgrims forward. "Come on, everybody! You heard Father Crono—we're almost there."

  It was an innocent statement, no different from dozens uttered by Crono each day, but Crono was Crono, and Solly was Solly. A number of pilgrims took offense and started to grumble. And not just grumble, but speak loudly enough for Solly to hear.

  "Who does he think he is?" a female demanded. "A bishop?"

  "They're like that in Harmony," a male replied scornfully, "always flirting with the Devil."

  "You may be more right than you know," a second female put in. "Mother Orlono's cousin is a friend of my daughter's. She says the loud-mouthed lad brought a plow to life. It could talk and quote the rotes. Father Crono ordered the elders to destroy the device as soon as we left."

  The words came as a terrible blow to Solly, who believed his improvements had been blessed, and would help the village. Had the female lied? The part about the plow was absurd—but the rest rang true. Especially to the extent that it explained the heretofore unexplainable—why he had been granted a place in the pilgrimage and at no expense to his family. Brother Parly and the Elders had conspired to get rid of him.

  Head down, shame riding his shoulders, the youth crossed the bridge. He had failed his parents, failed the village, and been sent away. Life would never be the same.

  Father Crono paused by the side of the road, watched Solly wave the pilgrims forward, and knew how they would react. A smile rippled the length of his mouth. One of the best ways to treat an infection is to cauterize the wound. The results weren't especially pretty—but the patient would survive—and live to glorify God.

  Satisfied that he had done the right thing, Crono stepped onto a swaybacked plank, and followed it toward a distant hut. Mother Zeleena was waiting ... and so was her news.

  The hut occupied low ground—as befitted the status of those who dwelt within. It was cozy, though, and attractive, not because of luck or sharp dealing, but because of hard, unremitting work. The family sat in their usual places, with firelight on their faces and shadows dancing the walls.

  Dara listened to the sound of metal grating on wood as her father carved a new vent plug, the rasp of reeds as her mother repaired a fish trap, and the occasional pop as a superheated rog nut exploded deep within the friendly embers.

  This was to be Dara's last evening with her parents, for a while at least, depending on what the future might hold. The very idea of the abortion filled the youngster with fear—but what could she do? Most of her friends would become pregnant at approximately eighteen years of age, an event that would signal their entry into adulthood and readiness for marriage. The ceremony would occur two months later, the relationship would be conjugated, and the fetus would be "quickened." It was a process that most if not all young females looked forward to.

  The only problem was that Dara was sixteen—and too young for a pregnancy. Not in biological terms perhaps, but culturally, since it was well known that early pregnancies were the work of the Devil, and his way of introducing one of his demons into the physical world. The answer was an abortion, which would not only be painful but potentially fatal, since so many things could go wrong.

  Still, horrible though an abortion might be, the other possibility was even worse. The resident monk, a fanatic known as Brother Org, was on a neverending hunt for heretics, slackers, and what he referred to as the "Devil's hands," by which he meant anyone who violated the rotes, failed to make tithe, or "played host to the Devil," a clear reference to situations such as hers.

  Dara r
emembered the ceremony two years before, when a fifteen-year-old had been "purged" by fire, and how her screams had served as a counterpoint to Org's rantings and her family's desperate prayers.

  The youngster knew that the sights, sounds, and smells she had experienced that night would forever be etched into her memory, and it had changed her perception of the world. It was a more complicated place now, in which the concept of good had many shadings.

  Other monks, Brother Parly for example, took a more understanding approach, some going so far as to obtain medical assistance for the girl, or, if less sure of themselves, to at least turn their backs while the family dealt with the situation themselves.

  Not Org, though, who saw such pregnancies not only as an affront to his office, but an opportunity to exercise the full extent of his powers.

  All of which explained why Dara's mother and father had damned themselves to hell by concocting an elaborate escape plan.

  Knowing that Brother Crono was due to pass through their village, they had volunteered their daughter for the pilgrimage, and created the means by which Dara could escape.

  Brother Org, eager to deliver as many penitents as possible, had praised the family in church.

  Now, with the pilgrims bedded down within Serenity itself, Dara dreaded the dawn. Her mother looked up and smiled. "Don't worry, dear, the whole thing will soon be over, and in the past. Now get some rest. You'll need energy for the journey ahead."

  Dara bowed obediently, said her prayers, and went to bed. A bonfire lit her dreams—and the screams were hers.

  In spite of the fact that Crono had been critical of Brother Parly's tendency toward self indulgence, he was even less fond of Brother Org's wild-eyed fanaticism, and he rose eager to leave.