Steelheart

by William C. Dietz

  "Because he thinks I'm a jerk," Sojo replied honestly. "He figures I'll make an ass of myself. Funny, huh?"

  "Hilarious," Mary replied.

  "He's wrong, though," Sojo continued. "We have a lot in common, you and I."

  "We do?" Mary asked cautiously. "Like what?"

  "Like the fact that we share the same profession," the rider replied.

  "Yes," Mary agreed. "I read some of your papers. Back before the Cleansing."

  "You did?" the ghost asked with evident pleasure. "Which ones?"

  "I don't remember the titles," Mary answered, "but the monograph on emotion was extremely interesting. Part of your work with Dr. Garrison, I believe."

  "Yes," Sojo said eagerly. "We parted company shortly thereafter. Still, it was a productive relationship while it lasted."

  Mary remembered how it had been on the ship. How badly she wanted to study under Garrison and his complete lack of interest. She was human, after all, and owed nothing to his genius. Students like Sojo might refer to him as "the Creator," but not her. She forced a smile. "What caused the schism, anyway?"

  There was silence for a moment as the rider remembered. "It started with a professional disagreement. I put forth a hypothesis which he described as 'silly.' "

  "So, was it?"

  Sojo-Doon stared down into the fire. ' 'No. I was right. Am right. That's what makes this trip so important. He knows I'm right by now—and needs my findings."

  "For what?"

  The ghost met her gaze. "Why, to fix the planet, of course. What else could it be?"

  "Enough babbling," Doon cut in. "I need some rest. See you in the morning."

  Mary nodded, wondered how Garrison planned to fix the planet, and drifted off to sleep. Corley was waiting—and a smile found her lips.

  Though founded by humans, and named by them, the town of Dobe owed its existence to the Antitechnic Church. Once they left Shipdown, most of the Zid columns took twenty days to reach Dobe, where they were allowed to pray, rest, and rebuild their strength.

  There wasn't any money to be made from feeding and housing the pilgrims, but by doing so the townspeople made themselves immune from attack, and were free to serve their real clientele, which consisted of a motley assortment of packers, bandits, and scavs. That's why Doon lay belly down in the snow and watched from the hill above. Mary did likewise.

  The synthetic saw Dobe through a targeting grid, while the human used binoculars.

  He saw the ghostly green glow of heat that oozed around vent plugs, poured out of chimneys, and slipped under doors. The gendy falling snow made streaks against the warmer background.

  She saw two interlocking towns. The rest area, with its starkly uniform huts, communal kitchens, and prayer pavilion, and the more secular area, with its mutimal kraals, two-story hotel, bars, and primitive stores. A layer of snow acted to soften edges and round corners. Mary blinked as a snowflake touched an eyelash. She turned to Doon. "So? What do you think?"

  "I think the place is damned dangerous."

  "So we bypass it?"

  Doon shook his head. "No, I wish we could, but that would mean covering the next two or three hundred miles by ourselves. Not impossible, but risky, and far from ideal. The best option is to join an eastward-bound caravan. Should be one through here in three or four days."

  There it was again—the ability to predict the future. The roboticist was used to it by now but curious just the same. She knew better than to ask, however, and took another tack. "So, we go in?"

  The synthetic nodded. "Yes, but very, very carefully."

  The bar had an oppressively low ceiling, dirty, unwashed walls, and hard-packed dirt floors. Gallons of booze, spit, and vomit had mixed with the native dirt to produce a hard brown surface. Flames danced as people passed, shadows roamed the walls, and a dung-fed fire glowed in the centrally located pit.

  The entertainment, such as it was, was provided by a female Zid. The cheek pipes were played by pushing air out through her gills, past a series of reeds, and through a bundle of valve-controlled tubes. The music had a melancholy quality—or so it seemed to the humans.

  The crowd, which consisted of the usual mix of packers, drifters, and bandits, were a relatively somber lot who sat in clumps, drinking, gambling, and telling lies. There was laughter as a joke was told, groans as the dice came to a stop, and swearing from the kitchen.

  Wringer warmed his hands over the coals, grunted as some semblance of sensation returned to the tips of his fingers, and turned his back to the fire. A mute herder had taken possession of the scav's favorite chair—the one in the comer with the unobstructed view of the room. Wringer frowned, pulled the duster away from his sidearm, and wandered in that direction.

  The mute man watched the other man approach, saw him clear the weapon, and knew what it signified. The scav wanted the chair, and would kill to get it. Stupid, but true.

  What to do? The chair didn't mean diddly to the mute man, not with more all around, but there was his image to consider. First with his friends, and then with the locals, who found the whole thing amusing.

  The calculation, which boiled down to little more than guesswork, was relatively simple: How fast was the scrawny little bastard, anyway? He didn't look like much, standing in a puddle of snow melt, yet...

  The door banged open, and a man entered the bar. Everyone looked. He was big, real big, with eyes like blue lasers. They probed each comer of the bar, found a table, and flicked toward his companion. She had a pretty face and a nasty riot gun. Floorboards squeaked as they crossed the room.

  The mute man felt the focus shift and gave thanks. He stood, grabbed his mug, and headed for the bar. His honor was intact—and so was the beer buzz.

  Wringer waited, took the recently vacated chair, and removed his hat. His head was shaved, with the exception of a carefully greased topknot.

  His drink arrived a few minutes later. He took a sip, watched the newcomers through the poorly cast glass, and felt something wiggle in the pit of his stomach.

  Prior to the Cleansing, Wringer had been a robotech. The female was biological, real biological, and the stuff of which fantasies are made.

  Not the man, though—he was an honest-to-god, walking, talking synthetic, a model nineteen or twenty, trying to pass for human. They had different faces, the twenties did, but there was no mistaking the frame, or the perfect symmetry of their features. Wringer smiled. Money on the hoof, that's what the android was, with a whole bunch of customers just waiting to buy.

  What about the sidearm, though? Was it for show, or for real? There had been specially enhanced law enforcement units—machines that could kill in the blink of an eye.

  That would explain how the circuit-head had managed to survive this long—but what was the android up to? Not that it made very much difference. Or did it? Yes, he could try the droid, and risk getting his ass blown off, or he could try something more sophisticated. The kind of play that would eliminate a competitor and turn a profit at the same time.

  The scav licked his wind-chapped lips, took a sip from his drink, and settled in to wait. The night was young.

  "The man in the floppy hat is staring at us."

  Doon didn't have to look to know whom Mary was talking about. A single shot of the man's face had triggered his suspect-recognition program and produced a three-screen rap sheet. His criminal record had started on the trip out and continued on the ground.

  Though trained as a robotech, William Axton Williams, aka "Wringer," had chosen to supplement his income by stealing, then selling reprogrammed medical nano—microscopic machines that cruised an addict's bloodstream, synthesized the person's favorite drugs, and released them on demand.

  Not forever, though, since raw materials were required, which is where the repeat business came in. Doon nodded. "Yeah, I've got him. See that light fixture over there?"

  Mary looked. Electrical conduit, looted from the Pilgrim, had been shaped into a makeshift chandelier. It held six Zid candl
es, five of which were lit. A table stood below, unoccupied now, but littered with the remains of a meal. "Yeah? So?"

  "Use the riot gun. Blow it away."

  Mary looked to see if the synthetic was serious. "Why would I do that? It's crazy."

  "Exactly," Doon replied calmly. "Crazy Mary... that has a ring to it. What you need is a rep—the kind that makes people pause. Go ahead—do it."

  The roboticist couldn't believe where she was or what she was about to do. She grabbed the shotgun, pretended to inspect the barrel for rust, and pumped a shell into the chamber. The action produced a rather distinctive clacking sound. Conversation stopped, and heads swiveled in her direction.

  Mary maintained a bland, somewhat neutral expression as she turned toward the chandelier and fired. The light exploded, and pieces flew every which way. The Zid let go of her cheek pipes and covered her ear holes. Mary had decided to improvise. She smiled and nodded. "Yup, you were right. The damn thing was loaded."

  There was an audible sigh of relief as the roboticist slipped the safety into the "on" position and laid the weapon across the top of her pack.

  The proprietor, a balding man whose homemade spectacles rode the very tip of a long skinny nose, headed in their direction. A pair of bouncers, brothers by the look of them, provided his backup. His attitude served as an unintended testimonial to their effectiveness. "What the hell do you think you're doing? That fixture cost sixty guilders! How you gonna pay?"

  "With this," Doon said, slapping Guild scrip onto the table. "Seventy guilders worth. Sorry 'bout my friend here... Mary gets forgetful, that's all. Is the shotgun loaded? Boom! That's how she does it. . . .Drives me crazy."

  The barkeep's eyes went wide. Mary stood, smiled, and held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Mary . . . what's for dinner?"

  Mollified by the money, and entranced by the smile, the proprietor blinked as he spoke. "I got some stew ... or ship rations. Your choice."

  Mary made a face. "I'll take the stew."

  "Me too," Doon added, wishing he didn't have to. "With a shot of whatever passes for booze around here."

  "Coming up," the innkeeper said happily. "Welcome to Dobe."

  Doon consumed his meal with machinelike efficiency, left Mary within the safety of her newly minted reputation, and started to table-hop. Most of the customers would talk a blue streak for the price of a drink—which enabled the android to gather a significant amount of information within a short period of time.

  It seemed things were pretty much normal in and around the community of Dobe. Religious converts headed east, packers went west, and bandits were where you found 'em.

  There were rumors, though, talk of big doings deep in the holy lands, like the Zid were up to something. When Doon asked for specifics, nobody could provide any, so he let the matter drop.

  One thing was for sure, however—an eastward-bound caravan was due within the next couple of days, and that was welcome news. It would be easier to travel with others, and a heckuva lot safer, assuming the packers were agreeable.

  The synthetic had completed his last conversation, swallowed another meaningless drink, and was sitting next to Mary when Wringer ambled over. The scav nodded and gestured toward a vacant chair. "May I?"

  Doon raised his eyebrows. "Suit yourself."

  Wringer sat down, offered to buy a round, and shrugged when the twosome refused. "Hey, just bein' friendly, that's all. "You waitin' on the caravan?"

  Doon frowned. "Maybe, and maybe not. Why do you ask?"

  Wringer placed his hands on the table. They were dirty, but surprisingly delicate. "The packers ain't due for a couple of days. Maybe more. Which would you rather do? Waste your time, or make some money?"

  Doon was in favor of sitting around wasting time, but knew his character wouldn't be. He gave the appropriate response. "Money is good ... What's up?"

  Wringer looked around as if to assure himself that no one was eavesdropping. "There's a scav what lives in these parts. Calls herself Android Annie. Got a hut off to the east. Don't know how much inventory the old bag's holdin' right now— but I wouldn't be surprised if she's got three or four droids."

  Sojo tried to speak, and Doon shut him down. "Sounds interesting ... How would we split 'em up?"

  "Seventy-five, twenty-five," the scav said experimentally. "I know where they are."

  "You need help," Doon replied, "or why come to us? Fifty percent suits us fine."

  "No way," Wringer said vehemently "That's ridiculous."

  Doon felt sorry for whatever droids this Annie person had managed to capture, but had no desire to get involved. "Guess that's it, then—see you around."

  Wringer was about to leave when Sojo located a gap and pushed his personality through. In spite of his desire to avoid unnecessary risks, and reach Flat Top as quickly as possible, the rider had a soft spot. "Hey! No need to leave in a huff. ... How bout seventy-thirty?''

  Doon cut the rider off and blocked the gap. The deed was done, however—Wringer nodded his agreement. "Done. Seventy-thirty it is. The next round is on me."

  Annie was in a good mood. That much was obvious from the spoonful of extremely valuable sugar that had been sprinkled onto Becka's hot tromeal. It was a treat, and the older woman watched approvingly as the youngster spooned it up.

  And why not? Annie thought to herself as she poured a cup of herbal tea into a well-stained mug and took her seat at the solidly built table. Life was as pleasant as she could ever expect it to be, and it felt good to splurge once in awhile.

  Becka licked the spoon clean, wiped her bowl with a crust of homemade bread, and popped the morsel in her mouth. The little girl swallowed, said, "Thank you," and waited for Annie to speak. It was the same each morning, when they were home anyway, and both enjoyed the predictability of it.

  Annie took a final sip of tea, placed the mug on the table, and made the daily pronouncement. "I'm running out of patience, scrap. . . We'll give Sleeping Beauty one last try. A live droid is worth a helluva lot more than one that sleeps all day. We can't wait forever, though—so it's now or never. She comes round, or I give her the chop. Agreed?"

  Becka thought about how pretty the synthetic was, and hoped it wouldn't come to that. Still, "Business before pleasure," that's what Annie said, and it made sense. She nodded. "Yes, Annie. I'll get your tools."

  "That's a good scrap," the scav said approvingly. "I'll be along in a minute or so."

  "The slab," as Annie referred to it, filled most of the rectangular shed that extended back from the hut. Becka entered, lit some well-placed candles, and removed a pair of vent plugs. Light flooded the work table.

  "The inventory" consisted of Beauty, the Mothri nest tender that they referred to as Bug, and the bottom half of a model ten better known as Ralph.

  Though little more than an abdominal housing and a pair of skeletal legs, Ralph boasted all sorts of jury-rigged sensors, and spent most of his time on security patrol.

  The android's power came from a roof-mounted solar panel, which, due to the constant overcast, required at least three days to provide a full charge.

  Becka checked, saw that the indicator light was green, and pulled the android's plug. "Congratulations on a full charge. Use search pattern three—and report at one-hour intervals. Happy hunting."

  "Use search pattern three," Ralph said emotionlessly. Report at two-hour intervals."

  "No," Becka replied patiently "Report at one-hour intervals. Now, off you go."

  "Off I go," Ralph said mechanically, and off he went. Motors whirred, servos whined, and something squeaked. Becka knew the android would exit through the hut and walk in ever-widening circles until it was three miles out. It would reverse the process at that point and return by nightfall. He wasn't much—but something was better than nothing.

  It took both of them to lift Reno's inert body onto the slab. Annie checked her tools, wished she had a lot more training, and knew she wouldn't get it. All she could do was experiment, hope for the best, and trust to
luck.

  Wringer held a finger to his lips and pointed ahead. Doon nodded, backed off the trail, and gestured for Mary to do the same. It had taken the better part of a day and a half to reach the vicinity of the scav's hut. Morning had given way to afternoon, and the light was fading. The lower temperature had put a crust on the slush. Servos whirred, a joint squeaked, and snow crunched as Ralph approached. A wild assortment of vid cams, heat sensors, and other paraphernalia jutted in all directions, scanning for trouble.

  Doon found the half-droid to be somewhat disconcerting, but Sojo, or that part of him that remained, went a little bit crazy. He launched an assault on Doon's cognitive functions, failed to take control, and took a run at the synthetic's main locomotor subprocessor.

  The android fought the rider off, but seconds had passed, and Wringer took action. The scav stepped onto the path, put three bullets through Ralph's CPU, and laughed as the droid collapsed.

  Sojo started to sob, and Doon swore. "Nice going, idiot. I might have been able to stop him."

  "Let's go!" Wringer yelled. "We can take her by surprise!" The scav started to run, and the others followed.

  After working on Beauty for the better part of five hours, Annie had finally given up. The synthetic was alive, the scav knew that, but she couldn't bring her around. To do so would require the services of a skilled roboticist and a fully equipped lab. She had sealed the robot's chest when the alarm sounded. The buzzer was both loud and annoying. Becka came running, "What's wrong?"

  Annie took her gun belt and buckled it around her waist. "Something happened to Ralph."

  "Could be a malfunction," the girl said hopefully.

  "Anything's possible," Annie agreed, "but there's no way to be sure. Short of going out there—and that's what I plan to do. Lock the door and stay sharp."

  Becka didn't want Annie to go and bit her lip. "Yes, Annie.

  The scav must have heard something in the girl's voice, or seen it in her eyes. She cupped Becka's face in the palm of a work-worn hand. Annie smiled, and wrinkles exploded away from her eyes and mouth. "Don't worry, scrap ... I'll be fine. You fix dinner... we'll split a candy bar for dessert."