Steelheart

by William C. Dietz

  Doon fussed with the travois. He did the same thing each and every morning. Get up, check to see if his companion was awake, open the lid, and peer inside. What did the dolt expect? Some sort of miracle?

  She felt a wave of resentment. Damn him anyway! What was he thinking? The coffin, not to mention its contents, was slowing them down. She was tired of struggling with the damned thing all day, tired of the solicitous way in which Doon looked after it, and tired of his moonfaced yearning. Robot love! What a ridiculous notion.

  The lovesick synthetic reminded her of George, how he had asked her to marry him. And asked and asked. He had been charming, very charming, and extremely determined. She had told him no, and no, and no again, but it did no good. He never stopped asking. He looked after her needs, sought to please her, and eventually wore her down.

  It was only later that Mary discovered that George was equally determined to acquire power, status, and yes, women other man herself. George had betrayed her... and so eventually had Doon.

  No sooner had the thought registered than Mary realized what it meant. Slowly, without being consciously aware of it, she had fallen in love. And why not? Doon was strong, dependable, and for the most part thoughtful. But how could she be in love with a machine?

  Though he came off as somewhat shallow when she first met him, the android seemed more complex now, as if the journey, combined with the overlay of Sojo's ghost, had deepened his personality. Which explained how she felt. Mary was jealous. She hated the female synthetic because he was in love with it. Her. Amy Reno. The realization made her both sad and ashamed. Doon turned and met her eyes.

  "Is everything okay? You look sad."

  Mary forced a smile and wrapped the scarf around her face. "No, just cold, that's all. Are the lashings all right?"

  Doon nodded. "Yup. Tight as I can make them."

  Mary nodded. "Good. You've got something good there. ... Be sure to take care of it."

  Doon was going to open his mouth, going to ask what she meant, but the human had turned away. The sleet peppered his face, a whistle blew, and the caravan was off.

  The sleet stopped and gradually gave way to the rarely seen sky. It was blue with white striations where high-altitude clouds traveled toward the east. It seemed that everything went east—as if pulled by a gigantic magnet. Light flooded the plain, transformed ice crystals into diamonds, and made them sparkle. Doon took little notice, but Mary gloried in the sunlight and removed her riding cloak.

  Hours passed, they stopped for lunch, and the mutimals began to fidget. The quake came three minutes later. There was no damage—not to the caravan, at least.

  The rider wanted to say something about the relationship between the temblor and his self-assigned mission, but Doon was in no mood to listen.

  Mary thought about her daughter, and hoped she was okay.

  Ahead, at the very front of the column, Aoki blew his whistle. The packers gobbled their food, climbed on their mounts, and jerked the pack animals into motion. The journey resumed. Everything was normal. Or so it seemed.

  An enormous canyon ran north and south. It was long and broad. The packers followed a path down toward the valley floor. It was steep, narrow, and covered with scree. Mary stared at the Forerunner ruins as Princess picked her way down the trail.

  They occupied what had once been an island but looked like a miniature mesa. What had the Forerunners been like? She wondered. Tall? Thin? Short? Fat? There was no way to know. There were no known pictographs, art, or statues. Just buildings, silent for thousands of years, as if mourning secrets lost.

  The roboticist's questions went unanswered as Princess left the trail and stepped onto the valley floor. Walls rose all around to form a maze of water-cut rock. Wherever Mary looked she saw caves, passageways, and tunnels all carved by long-vanished currents.

  Then, while the roboticist was still engrossed in her own thoughts, they entered the trap.

  Suddenly, the narrow, twisting corridor through which the caravan had been forced to pass emptied into a natural amphitheater. It had been a pool once, a place where a gigantic whirlpool had hollowed the rock prior to rushing downstream.

  The back current caused by tons of churning water had excavated a long, horizontal cave along the foot of the cliff. It held thirty riders, half of them Zid, half human, all heavily armed. A woman stood before them, eyes aflame, cross raised, lips moving in prayer.

  Aoki, who knew a missionary when he saw one, allowed the caravan to fill the amphitheater and prepared for a long, frustrating session. The Zid were customers, important customers, which meant that he and the rest of the packers had to humor them.

  Sister Light watched the packers assemble before her. She had no advance knowledge of the caravan, much less its path, but knew what God intended. It was her duty to purify the multitude—to find evil and root it out—for that was the assignment Jantz had given. "Go forth and purge the faithful. Prepare them for that which comes." It was a difficult mission—but one that her heart embraced.

  Doon knew they were in trouble the moment Leadbutt entered the naturally formed arena. The woman, the cross, and the passive manner in which the packers interacted with her all added up to the same thing: a really bad situation.

  Sister Light had been an actress once. Not a real actress, but a talented amateur, which is how she had met Jantz. He had done some acting as well, and it was he who taught her the importance of timing, and controlling the audience.

  That's why she waited until all of the packers were present before saying her piece. When Sister Light spoke, she chose her words with care. The acoustics were excellent. They amplified her voice. She welcomed the caravan to the holy lands and delivered a fifteen-minute sermon—short by Zid standards, but an eternity for the packers.

  "And so," Sister Light concluded, "it's easy to see how the Devil used technology to carry out his plans. Technology robbed us of work. Technology weakened our bodies. And technology stole our minds. God wants us back. Welcome home.

  "Now I shall pass among you, dispense blessings to those who desire them, and speed the caravan on its way."

  Doon watched the woman and her protectors leave the protection of the cave and cursed his rotten luck. A rock-solid roof had screened the missionaries from orbital surveillance.

  He considered making a run for it, but didn't think it would work. Not with dozens of mutimals blocking the path out. No, the trick was to maintain his composure and bluff his way through.

  Mary made eye contact, saw the android shake his head, and knew what he meant.

  Mutimals brayed and bumped each other as riders forced them back. Sister Light, followed by her bodyguards, raised the cross and entered the newly created passageway. Slush and feces covered the ground and stained her ragged hem.

  The cross, which contained a cleverly concealed metal detector, was heavy. The missionary held it aloft, applied pressure to an uncut gemstone, and started to pray.

  The cross vibrated as it passed in front of the heavily armed packers—but that was to be expected. Weapons such as those were permitted, except for heretics. No, her task was more important than the search for firearms. During the last couple of weeks she had uncovered a chemically powered stove, a pair of short-range com sets, and a wind-up alarm clock.

  The owners, along with their friends and families, were burned at the stake.

  Mutimals edged away, faces made a blur, and God waited above.

  Doon felt increasingly uneasy as the missionary headed his way. It was as if she knew who and what he was. Her eyes seemed to lock with his, and they were filled with hatred. His aggressor systems came on-line, energy accumulated in his actuators, and he was afraid.

  Mary saw what was happening, used her thighs to ease Princess out in front of Doon's mount, and felt the weight of the other woman's stare. The fanatic's eyes were hard and filled with determination. The roboticist swallowed, fought to maintain her composure, and murmured a childhood prayer.

  The cros
s vibrated in response to the metal in the mutimal's trappings and the gun on Mary's back. That's when the shock ran through Sister Light's arms—and joy filled her heart.

  The device hidden within the cross could do more than locate metal objects—it could detect electromechanical activity as well. It was a sign from God, a command to do his bidding, and the very thing she had hoped for. The missionary turned to her escort. "Seize that woman! Search her belongings!"

  Already convinced of their leader's seemingly supernatural powers, the Reapers hurried to comply. They surrounded her mount, pulled the roboticist down onto the ground, and attacked her saddlebags.

  Doon was not only surprised by the suddenness of the action, but by the person they had chosen to search. What should he do? Reveal his identity in an attempt to save Mary? Or wait it out? His hand eased toward the Skorp.

  Aoki had forgotten about the synthetic, and cursed his own stupidity. The wirehead was like a detonator that could trigger an explosion and destroy the entire caravan. He saw the hand move, willed it to stop, and gave thanks when it did.

  Mary was both surprised and terrified. Why single her out, with Doon sitting nearby? She renounced the thought as quickly as it came. Then she remembered the tools of her trade, all neatly packed away. She was as guilty as he. But how would the missionary know? Not that it mattered. Once exposed, the instruments would condemn her to certain death. Lead trickled into her belly.

  Aoki watched the Reapers empty the young woman's saddlebags and start on the pack animal. What if they killed her? What a waste that would be. Could he trade one for the other? That wasn't very nice, especially after the bandit thing, but the android was a machine. She was a person. He knew it wouldn't work, though, not without revealing what he knew—which was a crime punishable by death.

  Flathead rolled his eyes as unfamiliar hands touched his flanks and tried to pull away. Food, clothing, and camping gear cascaded to the ground. There were tools too, clearly illegal tools, which made holes in the slush. Sister Light saw the objects fall, pointed an accusing finger, and was just about to say something when Hairball bounced into the open. "Hi! Where Corley? Me want to play!"

  Sister Light was still processing the situation, still trying to absorb it, when the bullet nicked the side of the cross, tumbled toward her face, and destroyed her skull.

  There were plenty of targets—but a lot of bystanders. That was a scenario the programmers had anticipated and one for which Doon was prepared. Each Reaper had been evaluated and assigned a threat index. Individuals, based on their position relative to the android, the speed with which their weapons were coming into alignment, or the extent to which they sheltered an important target, were outlined in red.

  There were never more than three "reds" at any given moment, but the moment that Doon shot one of them, another took his place. The object was to drop as many of the Reapers as he could without killing any packers.

  People screamed, mutimals bolted, low-priority targets fired wherever their weapons happened to be pointing, and the android continued his deadly work.

  Mary grabbed her riot gun, shot a Reaper in the stomach, and was sickened by what happened next. The force of the blast lifted the Zid off his feet, threw him backwards, and blew part of his intestines out through his spine.

  Appalled by what had taken place, and scared half out of their wits, some of the Reapers ran. Aoki pulled the semi-auto, shot the last one in line, and worked his way forward. Then, as the leader sprinted away, the packer reached for the long gun. It kicked against his hand, the Reaper skidded face down, and the report echoed off the cliffs. "Kill them!" he shouted grimly. "Kill every damn one of the bastards!"

  What followed was little more than slaughter as the remaining Reapers were annihilated. They seemed to dance under the impact of the bullets, jerked like puppets at the end of a madman's string, falling as he let them go.

  Finally, when the last shot had echoed off the canyon walls and gunsmoke hung like a shroud, Mary threw up.

  Doon, conscious of the price he would pay later on, kicked Leadbutt's ribs. The mutimal complied. Aoki stared at the bodies. The synthetic stopped at his side. "Thank you."

  The trail boss straightened. There was anger in his voice. "I didn't do it for you. One witness and everyone would die."

  "This one's alive!" someone shouted. "What shall I do?" Aoki's eyes never left Doon's. "Shoot him."

  "It's a her!"

  "Shoot her."

  A single gunshot rang out. Mary flinched, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and looked away. The trail boss looked from her to Doon. "Take the woman, your so-called sister, and get the hell out of here."

  Doon nodded, pulled the mutimal's head around, and pushed his way through the milling pack animals.

  It took the better part of an hour to recover and load their gear.

  Aoki supervised as the packers collected the bodies, laid them in a cave, and sealed the entrance.

  It was far from perfect, but the cold would slow the process of decomposition, and the rocks would hide them. The packers would swear they had never seen the missionaries— and there was no reason to doubt them.

  Mary waited till the last body had been removed, looked for Hairball, and found him cowering under a rock. "Me sorry. Didn't know."

  The roboticist wiped the mud off the robot's fur. "No, of course you didn't. It was my fault. I never should have brought you."

  "Corley play?"

  Mary signed. "Not right now. How 'bout a nap?"

  "Okay," the toy replied. "Me take nap."

  The roboticist searched for the switch under Hairball's fur, found it, and turned the device off. Doon, who had been watching, raised an eyebrow. "What are you going to do? Get rid of him?"

  Mary felt a sudden surge of anger. "Sure, and while I'm at it I'll get rid of you, the lady in the coffin, and the tools. Then I'll be safe."

  There was silence for a moment. The android nodded. "Okay, I had that one coming. Would you prefer to travel alone?"

  The caravan was on the move. A mutimal brayed as a packer urged it forward. The roboticist wondered if they'd take her. Aoki would, she felt certain of that, but what of Doon? So strong, yet vulnerable. What if there was some sort of malfunction? Not to mention Sojo's mission—assuming it actually existed. She looked the android in the eyes. It was strange how the habit persisted—in spite of the fact that a vid cam was an unlikely window to the soul. "No. We started together—we'll finish together."

  Doon nodded, mounted Leadbutt, and took his reins. Aoki watched them go. The angular android, the diminutive woman, and the ice-encrusted coffin. The travois left two parallel lines in the muck. Zuul was a very strange world.

  24

  doc' trine / n / something taught as the principles or creed of a religion or political party

  The sky was gunmetal gray. Snowflakes drifted in from the north and merged with those on the ground. The hill lay just south of Sacrifice. Three heavily weathered prayer poles marked the summit. They were vacant save for pennants that snapped in the breeze. The area around them provided the perfect vantage point from which to observe the crowd below. It was the largest that Crono had ever seen. The parishioners seethed like water brought to a boil as their leaders urged, threatened, and cajoled them into their proper places.

  Many villagers wore clothing of the same color. Not because they wanted to look alike, or had been ordered to do so, but because of the dyes available in their particular region. Those who had traveled, individuals like Crono, were familiar with Obedient blue, Faithful green, and Provident red—a color that smacked of pride and should be avoided in Crono's opinion. He turned to examine his flock.

  They, at least, were more soberly attired—and a compliment to the communities whence they came. He had concerns, though, not in regard to their appearance, but where their emotional well-being was concerned.

  Some were in mourning, still dealing with the deaths caused by the avalanche, while others, Dara being a
prime example, fought more private battles.

  There was little doubt where Dara had gone the day after they arrived—or what had transpired once she arrived there. Though it had been unquickened, she mourned for the little one, and felt guilty about what she'd done. The priest wished he could comfort the youngster, tell her that it was no fault of her own, for that was how he felt. But doctrine said otherwise, and doctrine was paramount. The entire faith depended on that.

  Still, Solly had been of some use, and while clearly enamored of the young female, he showed no sign of taking advantage. That at least was good—and suggested a match. Assuming all went well, he would return them to their families, place a word with some of the elders, and enable what God had clearly ordained.

  A cheer went up. Crono turned to find that the crowd had been released and was streaming toward the road beyond. More human meddling, according to Bishop Hontz, who complained that local authorities were being robbed of their autonomy, as Jantz and his cronies exerted more and more control over the Church.

  Yes, Hontz could understand how impressive the crowd would be, and the sense of wonder the multitude would engender as it swept across the land, but he wondered if the whole thing made sense. What of the dangers involved? What of the crops that went unplanted?

  Such concerns had been shared with Lictor via back channels, but to no avail.

  Still, the crusade was a brand-new idea, and new ideas deserve new methods. Or so it seemed to Crono. If the idea worked, if the heretics were converted, a tremendous good would result. So why did he doubt it?

  Crono pushed the thought away and motioned to his followers. A few noticed, passed the word to others, and started down the hill. They would reach the Cathedral of the Rocks in five days. The priest should have felt a sense of anticipation—of joy—but his spirit remained unmoved. No matter—a good hike would take care of that, as it had many times before.