Steelheart

by William C. Dietz

  A river of Zid flowed out onto the road. Some followed leaders like Crono, but many had joined on their own, eager to share the great adventure. Prayers were sung, laughter rippled through the crowd, and the mood was festive. They waved at the priest, and he waved back.

  From a vantage point similar to the one ascribed to God, Michael watched. Where were the Zid headed, and why?

  He made regular reports to Flat Top, and would pass the word. Especially in light of the fact that he had spotted at least three similar groups, all of which were headed toward the Cathedral of the Rocks. Something unprecedented was happening—and he had the best seat in the house.

  25

  res ur rec' tion / n / to rise from the dead

  It took three days to make their way out of the river canyon and through the badlands beyond. Doon knew exactly where they were, thanks to Michael.

  Riftwall, the outpost in which George Maras had been living prior to the Cleansing, lay to the southeast with Rat Top beyond that.

  Exhausted from climbing hills and negotiating gullies, Doon, Mary, and the three mutimals emerged onto an enormous plain.

  It was featureless for the most part, with nothing more than the occasional rise or shallow river to relieve the mind-numbing monotony of the landscape. A problem that affected Mary more than Doon—since he seemed devoid the need for visual variety and was satisfied with whatever the journey offered.

  Mary needed things to think about—things other than Corley—and wondered what the android's attitude meant. Did its attitude demonstrate a masterly acceptance of reality, or a lack of imagination?

  Then there was the question of merit. If a human spent years working to develop a calm acceptance of that which cannot be changed, and an android possessed the same understanding from the moment of creation, which was superior? And did such questions have meaning?

  Doon passed the time in other ways. He talked to Michael and, when the satellite was off-line, to what remained of Sojo. Not because he liked the rider, but as something to do. Their most recent conversation was focused on the rider's self-imposed mission.

  "So," Doon said, "assuming we manage to reach Flat Top, what then?"

  "I'll download myself to a new body and go to work."

  "There's enough of you to do some work?"

  "There's enough to drive you crazy."

  "Point taken."

  "I thought so."

  "What about Garrison? And the rest of his staff? You assume they'll agree with your hypothesis. What if they don't?"

  There was a pause while the ghost considered his reply. "I believe that they will. We're screwed if they don't." "Thanks for lifting my spirits." "Hey, you asked." The horizon waited.

  Reno lived in a place with no limits, where static electricity crackled at the edge of her being, and the world lacked substance.

  There was awareness, enough to know who she was, but little more than that.

  There had been moments, though—brief, fleeting moments during which she saw or heard glimpses of her environment.

  The synthetic had seen sky once, swaying from side to side, but nothing since. Later, she thought it was later, there had been voices. Female voices that talked to each other. Once was commanding, the other compliant. And there was pain, a great deal of pain, as the voices did things to her. Things they had never been trained to do.

  There was darkness after that, a refuge she didn't want to leave but was dragged out of.

  There were different voices this time. A female and a male. They did things too, skillful things, and nearly brought her back. Reno felt herself drawn together, made contact with previously inaccessible parts of her being, and struggled for control.

  But something was wrong, very wrong, and her efforts failed. She could hear them, though—every word they said, including the argument.

  The female wanted to terminate Reno's functions and send her to Shipdown. The male objected, likened such a plan to murder, and ultimately won.

  There were many sounds after that, including voices, most of which were too muffled to understand, not to mention the wind, which took on a personality of its own. It whispered at times, like the best of friends, moaned as if tortured, and howled like a monster, all in the same day.

  Reno was frightened then, fearful that she'd remain trapped, unable to move or speak, vulnerable to anyone who came along.

  There were times when it seemed too much to bear, when insanity beckoned from the darkness, when she wanted to die.

  But then came the visits, as regular as clockwork, and Reno had company.

  It was the same voice she'd heard before—the male voice, the one that had defended her. He could have been human ... but she knew he wasn't. He told Reno how beautiful she was, how he knew of her passion for biology, and his hopes for the future. A future together.

  The words, not to mention the sincerity behind them, fueled a variety of emotions. Affection for a person she had never met—and fear for his sanity.

  Sane or not, she lived for the squeal of metal hinges, the sudden rush of the wind, and the gentleness of his voice. "Hello, beautiful! How are you today? You look wonderful—but what else is new?

  "It's cold this morning, damned cold, and snowing. Hope you don't mind a few flakes. There's no way to stop 'em— not without leaving the lid down. I couldn't bear that. Mary thinks I'm nuts and Sojo agrees. Who knows? Maybe they're right. Have a good day—I love you."

  That's when Reno felt a tremendous tenderness rise to fill her throat and wanted to cry the way humans did. And that's when the hinges squealed, the wind dropped to a rumble, and the waiting started all over again.

  The community of Riftwall took its name from the three-mile-long discontinuity that had resulted when one section of the planetary crust had been pushed up over the rest.

  Given the fact that it was located at the intersection of a trail that went south toward Flat Top, and a road that went east toward the Cathedral of the Rocks, Riftwall had been known for its Zid-inspired architecture, long, sunny days, and laid-back atmosphere.

  Yes, there had been tensions, but they had been manageable ones until the Cleansing came. The same quakes that damaged Shipdown shook the city. Citizens of both races were killed or injured. Because of subtleties in the way they were constructed, human structures suffered more damage than their Zid equivalents did.

  A fact which the more zealous of the Zid interpreted as a message from God—and a sign that mass expiations should begin. Some of the humans joined the Antitechnic Church, but most chose not to, and resisted the nonstop efforts to convert them. That being the case, it wasn't long before the issue came to blows, fighting escalated, and, thanks to their superior weaponry, the humans won.

  The Zid were ejected, ditches were dug, walls were erected, and towers were built. The town, once so open, turned inward. Winter, nearly eternal now, froze the situation in place. The townspeople were victorious.

  That's what they thought, anyway—although the reality was somewhat different. As conditions worsened, and Riftwall was cut off from the HZ, commerce all but stopped. Many people drifted away, buildings fell into disrepair, and a community of thousands was reduced to hundreds.

  Doon adjusted the aperture on his eye cams and stared into the glare. The tower was made of wood and stood like a sentinel against the sky. The wall, and the city it protected, lay beyond. He knew the sentries were watching, wondering who they were, and assessing their strength.

  The synthetic waited for a challenge, but none came. Just the glint of lenses, a once-bright flag, and the smell of wood smoke. Ruts led, and the mutimals followed. The travois didn't fit. One pole thumped through a trough while the other climbed onto a shoulder. The coffin started to list, but the lashings held.

  The gate, which had been scorched during an attack, was guarded but open. A sentry waited for the twosome to approach, aimed some spit at a spot in front of them, and grinned as it struck. His hair was long and greasy, his eyes were bloodshot, and hi
s face wore a three-day growth of beard. An auto thrower hung low across his chest. It at least was clean. "Howdy. . . . What can I do for you?"

  Doon pulled Leadbutt to a halt and did his best to sound casual. "We're looking for a hot meal and a place to stay."

  The sentry nodded. "Shouldn't be a problem ... long as you can pay. Where you headed?"

  Leadbutt shook himself, and the android patted the side of his neck. "Up north ... to visit my mother."

  The sentry laughed and rubbed thumb on finger. "And the Mothri fly like birds! We got an entry tax ... fifty guilders a head."

  Doon frowned. "Kinda steep, ain't it?"

  The sentry grinned. "Yup, it sure as hell is."

  It was Doon's turn to laugh. He pulled a wad of scrip, small so it wouldn't attract attention, and peeled some off. One of the fifties was new ... the other was greasy from use.

  The sentry accepted the bills, checked the watermarks, and wrote a receipt along the bottom of page 37 of a Colonist's Guide to Zuul. "Here you go ... welcome to Riftwall."

  Mary cleared her throat. This was the place where Corley had come to be with her father. Were they alive? Now she would know. "What happened to the Research Facility? Does it still exist?"

  The sentry, who wished she was naked, shook his head. "No, ma'am. Burned and looted. There ain't nothin' left."

  "And the people who worked there?"

  The sentry shrugged. "Don't rightly know, ma'am."

  "Do you know a man named Maras? George Maras?"

  "No, ma'am. Sorry."

  Mary nodded. "Thanks anyway."

  Doon kicked Leadbutt in the ribs, made a clucking sound, and led Flathead through the gate.

  The sentry mounted the wall, nodded to another member of the watch, and looked toward the east. When trouble came—as surely it would—that's the direction it would come from.

  A single Zid came first. His was a place of honor. The head, mounted on a pole, was that of a human heretic. Three of his fellow missionaries had died during the effort to take her down. Her empty eye sockets probed the way ahead, while her long blonde hair whipped from side to side.

  Next came three standard bearers, their banners held high.

  The drummer, a youth of twelve, followed behind. The beat came at five-second intervals. Boom! One, two, three, four, five—boom! That, along with the other problems associated with leading a band of religious zealots across a hostile country, had given Maras a horrible headache.

  One pain tab—that's all it would have taken to ease the agony, but Maras didn't have a pain tab and wasn't likely to get one. Not so long as he lived with alien rabble.

  The human, like those who followed behind, was mounted on a mutimal. He turned, checked to ensure that the column was intact, and scanned for outriders. Yes, there they were, little more than dots in the distance, riding parallel to the column.

  There had been something of a fuss earlier, when the flankers had chased someone, but that was over now.

  All Maras knew about military tactics had been taken from books, but every single one of the references he read had stressed the importance of intelligence, and the use of scouts as the means to obtain it.

  The human had another resource of course, the satellite known as the Eye of God, but couldn't make good use of it. Not without establishing radio contact with Jantz—a dangerous process best reserved for emergencies.

  Yes, the Chosen One had granted special dispensation where firearms were concerned, but had prohibited the use of other technologies, including electronic communications.

  The administrator was stuck with the situation, and would have to make the best of it. The communities of Wellhead, Chrome, and Riftwall had to be purified in preparation for the coming crusade. That's why Jantz had ordered him to go—that, plus other reasons Maras could only guess at. To dirty his hands? To prove human zeal? For political reasons?

  The answer might be found in one or all of those questions. It made little difference. What was, was, and he would endure. For Corley—and for himself.

  Thinking of his daughter triggered feelings of guilt. Leaving his daughter behind had been the hardest thing he'd ever been forced to do. He didn't trust Jantz, not for a moment, but had no choice.

  Corley was a form of insurance. A guarantee that her father wouldn't run, enter some sort of conspiracy, or go into business for himself—all possibilities that Maras had considered.

  The administrator turned his mind to the past. Certain that Riftwall would fall, and concerned for Corley's safety, Maras had been one of the first to convert. The arduous trek to the east, and the intensive indoctrination, were preferable to death.

  Later, when conditions worsened, and hundreds of humans flocked to the Church, the decision paid off. While the sincerity of recent converts was questioned, rather painfully at times, his was assumed.

  He'd been wrong in at least one respect, however: Riftwall refused to fall—and remained in human hands. That was what he'd been sent to remedy. The irony of it brought a smile to his lips.

  The drum boomed, equipment clattered, and the wind moaned in his ears. Maras looked back along the column, counted the beings who followed him, and felt a primitive sense of pride. Like it or not, this was the essence of power, this was the way empires were built, and this was his.

  There was something about the boy that Doon didn't like. Scraggly red hair seemed to crawl across his head, pimples populated his cheeks, and his eyes were exceedingly bright, as if the youngster was on drugs, or supernaturally alert. "Honest, mister, me pap is waitin' at the other end of the alley, and the lab's close. Real close."

  Doon activated his aggressor systems and scanned for trouble. Mary and he had been in Riftwall for a little more than a day now, each pursuing their own separate interests.

  While the human looked for her family, the synthetic went in search of a robotics lab. Not for himself—but for Reno. That was a cause for which Sojo had but limited sympathy, especially given the need to leave Riftwall and head for Flat Top.

  The screen came up empty. The boy, who had approached Doon as he left the hotel, danced from foot to foot. "Come on, mister, we're almost there!"

  Doon nodded and allowed his hand to brush the Skorp. "You first."

  The boy grinned slyly and did as he was told. The alley had been used as a dump for the last year or so. The garbage had frozen in layers, like mud in sedimentary rock, and rose to either side. The trail swerved right, then left, its course defined by the larger pieces of junk.

  They came to a comer, the boy turned into a passageway, and Doon stopped. The man was concealed in a doorway, but his heat signature gave him away. He stepped out into the hard, gray light. He looked a lot like his son—the same red hair, hollow cheeks, and too-bright eyes. A stunner filled his fist. "An honest-ta-God twenty—didn't know there were any more."

  Doon eyed the stunner. Many weapons could do him harm—but this was one of the worst. A single shot could leave him like Reno. "Yeah, how'd you know?"

  The human let out a chuckle. It made a dry, raspy sound. He rumbled in a pocket and produced a small black box. "Simple ... I got a scanner."

  The android nodded. Such devices had been common prior to the Cleansing, when bigots wore them to prove they were bio bods, or to "out" synthetics that passed for human. Doon prepared to draw. He would have to be fast, very fast, but that's what he was. If the stunner's safety was on, if the red-haired man took a fraction of a second to release it, he'd have a chance. "So? What now?"

  The man grinned. "So now we do business. I ain't no bigot. Katie was—but the Zid took her. God bless each and every one of the clam-faced bastards!"

  The stunner disappeared, and the laugh sounded like a cackle. "Come on—you're gonna like this."

  Doon allowed himself to relax slightly as the man and his son removed a pile of junk with a smoothness that spoke of long practice. The door opened on well-oiled hinges, and the android followed them inside.

  Battery-powered pan
els, still fed by the solar active roof covering, filled the room with light. The equipment was dusty but intact. There were a couple of degrees on the wall—one of which had been granted aboard the Pilgrim. There was a picture too, of two men with their arms around each other's shoulders, grinning into the lens. Where were they now? There was no way to know.

  "Amazing, ain't it?" the man asked proudly. "We found it just like it is—all sealed up. And it's yours—assumin' you can pay."

  The lab was everything Doon had hoped for. He imagined the way Amy would open her eyes and look up into his face. How much was something like that worth? Everything—assuming he wanted to pay. There were other possibilities— but he pushed them away. "How much do you want?"

  "Three thousand G's."

  "That's two thousand more than I've got," the android replied honestly. "How 'bout a thousand?"

  "Done," the man said quickly.

  The synthetic pulled what remained of his roll out of his pocket and gave it over. The human accepted the money, counted the bills, and offered three in return. "A deal's a deal."

  Doon nodded and watched them go. The door had no more than closed when it opened again. The man stuck his head in. "So, ain't you gonna ask?"

  "Ask what?"

  "Why we would sell so cheap?"

  "Okay," Doon replied mildly. "Why did you sell so cheap?"

  " 'Cause the Reapers are a-comin'," the man cackled gleefully, "and they're gonna wipe this town off the map."

  The streets had been laser-straight, and at least two crawlers wide, but a combination of rubble and garbage had put an end to that. Trails went here and there, straight when feasible and curved as necessary.

  The townspeople were around—though not always visible. Mary could feel their eyes on her, peering from windows, watching from doorways. Wondering how much money she carried, what she looked like with her clothes off, and whether the riot gun was for real.