Solly opened his eye, saw Crono looming above, and managed to croak an acknowledgment. The youngster would have been quite happy to miss the processional, especially in exchange for more sleep, but knew better than to say so. If there was anything the priest didn't like, it was what he perceived as slackers.
Crono used his staff to thump, prod, and poke the rest of the males, and sent for the female members of his flock.
Breakfast was a hasty affair consisting of a dollop of lukewarm tromeal and some water to wash it down. Solly ate his serving, licked the bowl, and wished there were more.
Dara offered what remained of her ration and was refused. "Thank you, but no," Solly said firmly. "You must build your strength. There's the walk home to consider."
Dara knew he was correct, and wondered about the rumors they'd heard. Some said the pilgrims had been assembled for a purpose, and that they'd stay till whatever it was had been accomplished.
Dara didn't like that possibility and stayed close to Solly as the group threaded its way down muddy footpaths, past communal kitchens, and past rows of carefully ordered tents.
Others were on the move as well, summoned by their priests and led by teenaged guides. No one knew why, or (if someone did) was willing to say.
A steady trickle soon turned into a flood as footpaths joined a one-lane track, which merged with a road. The thoroughfare dived into a gully, climbed a hill, and passed through a jumble of enormous rocks. A pole had been erected among them, and a prayer caller wailed to the sky.
Then, with little warning, the road opened onto a vast plain. The sun, which had been concealed till then, chose that particular moment to break through the clouds and bathe the land in lavender light. It was then that Solly heard the dull thump, thump, thump of a drum and saw movement off to the west.
"There's no time to dawdle," Crono urged, "Let's keep 'em moving."
The early comers, easily identifiable by the way they lined both sides of the road and the smug expressions that they wore, stood three deep.
By the time Solly and the priest had managed to cajole, chivy, and chase their flock into position, the procession was a good deal closer. Dara's hand found Solly's as they turned to watch.
A squad of Reapers came first, weapons slung across their backs, eyes to the front. Their mutimals snorted, and the animals breath looked like smoke.
The drummer came next, his face tight and solemn as the boom, boom, boom of his instrument added weight to the occasion, and his mother waved from the crowd.
Then came the standard-bearers, closely followed by a mutimal-drawn cart. The axle creaked and chains clattered as the conveyance drew near. Something stood on it—no, two somethings, both so wondrous as to make Solly's hearts skip a beat. Devil machines! Not just parts, like in the churches he'd seen, but the real thing. Wet clay hid parts of the constructs from view—but the rest were exposed.
The cart lurched as a wheel encountered a chunk of stone. A whip cracked, the mutimals brayed, and the cart jerked. It was at that exact moment, while the animals struggled to overcome the obstacle, that their eyes met.
Solly had seen lots of humans by then, and had no difficulty identifying this machine as male, although the reason for such a guise was less than obvious.
The eyes were blue, ice blue, and filled with intelligence. Though angry, they regarded Solly without hatred or fear. They had a magnetic quality, and the Zid felt a part of himself jump the gap—and waited for God to strike him down.
The cart bounded over the rock and rattled past. In spite of the fact that Solly watched the administrator general ride by, and joined the cheer that followed, his mind went elsewhere. The machine was alive—that was obvious, yet clearly impossible. Only God could create life.
Still, God created humans, and they made machines. Why would the Omniscient One grant such a capacity to the aliens unless he intended them to use it? That would mean that machines were of God—and not of the Devil.
But what of the Church? Was it fallible? Solly looked at Crono and knew the answer. Of course it was. They had come a long, long way together, and while the priest had many strengths, there were weaknesses as well.
The realization frightened Solly—and set him free. Surely the gifts that God had bestowed on humans were available to the Zid as well. All one had to do was accept them.
The thought was so evil, so daring, that Solly glanced around. Dara smiled—but no one else seemed to care.
Solly squeezed her hand, tucked the secret away, and knew he must wait. When the opportunity came, he would take it.
28
e pi' pha ny / n / a moment of sudden or intuitive understanding
The Chosen One entered the room, took a long, careful look around, and nodded to his bodyguard. There had been two assassination attempts during the past thirty days. None of the would-be murderers had survived to face interrogation, and as a result, certain members of his staff had been made to suffer quite horribly. Still, there was little doubt who the killers worked for.
Jantz had been increasingly surly of late, was frequendy hard to find, and showed a marked lack of respect. Almost as if he knew Lictor wouldn't be around to cause him trouble.
The Chosen One frowned as he took his thronelike seat. His critics had been correct... damn their souls to hell. It had been a mistake to admit the humans to the priesthood. Still, mistakes can be corrected. Lictor motioned to a monk. "The administrator general may enter."
The door opened, and the human named Maras shuffled inside. A black hood covered his head. He blinked as it was removed. His clothing, still filthy from the rigors of the journey, was suitably humble.
Thanks to his spies, Lictor already knew about the battle for Riftwall, the woman who liked machines, and the fact that Maras knew his meeting had been observed by two spies ... neither of which was fooled by his clumsy strategms.
Of even more interest were the changes in his subordinate's face. It was leaner now, as if the excess flesh had been pared away, leaving nothing but skin and bone. Their eyes met, and the Zid bowed his head. ''You performed well, my son. The Church is grateful."
Maras looked down, then up again. "An instrument of God was I. To him all glory must go."
Lictor was both surprised and pleased by the attempt to speak his tongue. Perhaps there was hope for some humans after all. ''Yes, of course. Our language is not easy. I appreciate your effort to master it."
Maras felt a sudden pang of fear. How would Jantz react to such warm praise? And where the heck was he, anyway?
Lictor sent a smile rippling down the center of his face. "Congratulations, my son—for the elders and I have seen fit to elevate you to counselor for ecclesiastical affairs—a rank equivalent to archbishop. I would induct you into the priesthood if it lay within my power—but your marriage makes that impossible."
Maras had been interested in power and the people who had it for as long as he could remember. That being the case, he was thrilled, even though there would be a price to pay— especially where Mary was concerned. But that was for later—Lictor was waiting. "No, eminence, accept I cannot."
"Oh, but you will," Lictor insisted levelly. "Your modesty becomes you, but the Church has need of your skills, and your duty is clear."
The comment brought the meeting to a close, and Maras, who had never been given the opportunity to sit, was ready to depart. He bowed, turned, and was halfway to the door when Lictor spoke.
"Your daughter will be pleased by your return. Her initiation into full membership is scheduled for tomorrow evening."
The human turned. Daughter? Membership? The words were like twin blows. Maras had protected Corley and allowed her to ignore most of the dogma. That would have to change. He forced a smile. "Thank you, eminence. I will remember this day."
Canova knew something unusual was afoot, because the cathedral had been packed for weeks now. Not only packed, but open around the clock, allowing the faithful to gawk nonstop. She shut her eyes and tried to go wi
thin. It never seemed to work. The synthetic could feel the churchgoers staring at her body and hating what they saw. That's how it seemed, anyhow.
Did she "feel" in the human sense? Or generate predictions based on assimilated data? It hardly mattered. The experience was uncomfortable. That's all Canova knew or needed to know.
The android would have welcomed delusions, even at the cost of her sanity, but they never arrived. Humans bore the responsibility for that. Humans concerned with their own fallibility—and afraid lest some of their weakness manifest in their creations. A precaution that their creator had neglected to pursue. Why?
Canova found it curious that some humans were unable to accept the notion of a creator, while synthetics were "born" knowing they had been created and by whom.
The android heard the sound of approaching footsteps, felt hands grab her from behind, and felt a sudden sense of fear. What was happening?
The first voice said, "This thing is heavy... so watch your feet."
"You think this is heavy?" the second voice responded. "Wait till you see the monster they captured at Riftwall. It's huge!"
Canova opened her "eyes" in time to see a Zid lurch into view. He did something with a strap and signaled to his partner. "All right, Poog! You ready?"
"Ready!" the other Zid answered ... and Canova started to fall. She tried to deploy her arms, tried to save herself, but nothing happened. The ceiling, which she had often wanted to see, came into view. The synthetic saw carvings, paintings, and clan script. The whole of it swayed as they hauled her away.
That's when Canova realized that she'd been replaced— and knew that an even worse fate might lay in store. What if they cut her body into pieces? What if they sent her head to one village and her legs to another? The android screamed, and her voice echoed through the church.
The line stretched forever. That's the way it appeared, anyway, as the prisoners took a single step forward. There were various theories about what awaited them at the far end of the queue—ranging from a medical checkup to a firing squad.
Mary closed the gap and thought about Corley. So close and yet so far. And what of George? There had been no sign of him for days now. Had he forsaken her? Or been forced to stay away? There was no way to know.
Still, this could be it, the line that led to freedom. If Mary proclaimed her willingness to convert, if they believed her, and if George kept his promise. There would be decisions to be made, but she refused to consider them. That was then— this was now.
It took the better part of an hour for the line to inch its way forward and pull Mary into the specially designed hut. Originally conceived to process Reaper recruits, it had a front door through which the prisoners entered, and a back door through which they could leave.
Light stabbed down through open vent holes and brought the smoke-filled atmosphere to languid life. A table stood off to the right. Mary stumbled as a guard pushed her, regained her balance, and came face to face with her husband.
He looked different somehow—colder, if such a thing was possible, and even more imperious than before. High-ranking members of the Church hierarchy sat to either side of him, and both were Zid. Mary searched but saw no compassion in their stony eyes. The one on the right spoke passable Spanglish. "Your name?"
Maras sat expressionless, but Mary knew what he would want. "Smith. Mary Smith."
The Zid scratched something onto the parchment in front of him, sent his eye to the far side of his face, and addressed his peer. "Bishop Drog?"
Drog recognized the human as the one that the Chosen One had warned him against. He wondered what the next few moments would hold. How would the newly appointed counsel for ecclesiastical affairs handle himself? Would he use his newfound power to save the female? Or prove his devotion to the Church by condemning her to a labor brigade? A truly fascinating moment. Lictor would hang on every word.
Drog pretended to consult the document in front of him and cleared his throat. "Mary, ah, Smith ... Ours is an all-loving God who extends his mercy to Zid and human alike. The only entities barred from membership are so-called synthetic beings and those who serve them. Are you, or have you ever been, a member of either class?"
Mary's throat felt dry. She swallowed in order to lubricate the word. "No."
"That being the case," Drog continued, "you are invited to renounce evil, join the Church, and live as we do.
"Please remember that membership in the Antitechnic Church will in no way protect you from hardship and may lead to even greater sacrifice. That being said—how do you declare?"
Maras felt his stomach churn as his wife prepared her answer. She would say yes, which would trigger a vote. What should he do? Vote yes, and hope for the best? Or listen to the voice that warned of a trap?
Mary found her ex-husband's eyes and delivered the lie directly to him. "I believe in the Church—and wish to convert."
Drog marveled at the accuracy with which Lictor had predicted her response. He turned to his companions. "The human, Mary Smith, would take God into her heart. What say you?"
Bishop Worb, the Zid seated to Mary's right, knew nothing of Lictor's concerns and had little respect for the frequently inaccurate intelligence reports. The human seemed sincere—and he had no way to look inside the female's head. "I vote yes."
Things were proceeding exactly as George had predicted they would. Mary felt her spirits rise.
Drog signaled his understanding. "Thank you, Bishop Worb. Mine is the opposite view, I'm afraid. This female was spotted in the company of so-called synthetics prior to the counselor's attack on Riftwall—and subsequently went to their aid. She lied to this panel—and can never be trusted."
The bishop's words left no doubt as to the truth of the matter. The situation was a setup ... and Maras must choose. Condemn Mary—or condemn himself. He attempted to meet her eyes but couldn't.
"Bishop Drog is correct. Request denied. Next, please."
Mary heard herself gasp, then was herded toward the back door and shoved into the cold. Her fate was sealed.
Harley Doon had never felt so helpless as when they rolled him into the cathedral, down a long, empty aisle, and boosted him up onto a pedestal. He wanted to hurt them, to run as far as he could, but the clay held him fast.
He could have spoken to them, yelled or even screamed, but knew better than to do so. They could stuff his mouth with clay, mess with his electronics, or who knew what else. No, it was better to wait and hope for the best. Amy was nearby, and that helped, especially since they could communicate.
The cathedral was amazing. So much so that he actually forgot his circumstances for a moment and was lost in the magnificence of the building itself. The design, stonework, and art were of the highest quality.
That stage passed, however, especially when the faithful entered and clustered around. Like most law enforcement beings, Doon had been hated before. It didn't seem to help much.
Amy started to sob. Doon tried to comfort her. The minutes, hours, and days stretched eternally ahead. It seemed strange that it was here, within a cathedral, that hell made its home.
Night had fallen, and the halls were lit by candles. Maras threw multiple shadows down the hall. The largest of them was big and black. It lunged ahead. The counselor's mind, riddled by doubt, was left to follow.
The human had gone to sleep after the judgment in the hut, or tried to, but nightmares disturbed his rest. All of them were horrible, but none worse than the one in which Jantz handed him the hammer of justice and commanded that he make use of it. The handle was slick with blood, and nearly slipped from his fingers. "No! I work with numbers—not people."
Jantz looked surprised. "Really? But what of this? And this? And finally this? Are they not people?"
Maras saw a heretic hanging from a tree, a child cut in half, and Mary standing before him, head bowed, waiting for the hammer to fall.
That's when he woke, his nightclothes drenched in sweat, his jaw clenched.
Now,
only hours later, he was making his way to the chapel where Corley would be initiated, where the Church would claim her soul and convey it to God. A God in which he didn't believe—and knew he never would. His footsteps sounded hollow, and they echoed down the hall.
Seeing no reason to waste a candle, the workers left Canova in total darkness. Well, not total darkness, since her sensors could detect heat. It appeared as bright green blobs. One for the wall sconce that continued to cool, another for the rat that scurried along the wall, and the last for a flue that rose through the floor above.
The darkness didn't bother her so much as the sudden isolation and complete uncertainty did. Was this some sort of storeroom? A place in which she would rot for years on end? Or little more than a way station from which she would soon be moved? The questions continued to nag.
A human might have wondered about the passage of time—but Canova knew she had occupied her prison for exactly twelve hours and sixteen minutes before a commotion was heard and the door creaked open. A rectangle of light extended across the floor.
A human entered, placed a candle in the sconce, and turned in her direction. Canova had seen the man before, and knew who he was. Victor Jantz. He nodded pleasantly.
"Good evening, Dr. Canova. I'm sorry about the darkness, but we couldn't expect much else. The workers had no idea who or what they were dealing with."
"And you do?"
Jantz looked surprised. ''Yes, of course. Dr. Suti Canova, one of the most skilled physicians on Zuul, and an amateur xenoanthropologist. I'm sorry, Doctor, but scholarship can be dangerous."
"Yes," Canova agreed cautiously. "It can. So tell me, citizen Jantz.. . what brings you to my little hideaway? Slumming?"
The human scanned the walls, hoped they were solid, and forced a smile. "No, of course not. You have a problem, and so do I. Perhaps we could be of assistance to each other."
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