Steelheart (14 page)

The first transmission Doon intercepted originated from within the train itself. Given the programs at his disposal, the android had little trouble decrypting their lightly scrambled transmissions. It seemed that two men found Mary attractive and thought it would be fun to have sex with her. The conversation filled the android with amazement. It seemed so silly. What would it be like to have an underlying program that drove you to do irrational things? Then he remembered the arm, Sojo's lurking presence, and laughed. Sex made a whole lot of sense when compared to
his
problem.

The synthetic continued his scan, coming across a religious broadcast being made under special dispensation from the Antitechnic Church, some nonstop static that conformed to the Mothri definition of "music," and something completely unexpected—a signal from space. He boosted the gain, ran the transmission through a series of filters, and listened in.

"And there came war in the heaven: Michael and his messengers did war against the dragon, and the dragon did war, and his messengers."

The material was an exact match with one of the many religious texts stored in his memory. Intrigued, and more than a little curious, Doon sent a reply: "Revelation 12:7, I believe."

There was a moment of stunned silence followed by a torrent of words. "Yes! You are absolutely correct! Did I send that out? I didn't mean to,... Still, I can't tell you how wonderful it is to hear from a fellow scholar! This is SS-4. Friends call me Michael. Who are you?"

Doon checked a database, confirmed the existence of four sentient satellites having the designators "SS," and pondered the merits of revealing his identity. Finally, after what had grown into an uncomfortable silence, he decided on a compromise. "I'm a model twenty."

There was another moment of silence followed by some terse instructions. "If you are who and what you say you are, then I suggest that you launch a program called Sphinx 9.7. Run it now."
 

Doon was, and did.

"There," the satellite said. "Nobody can crack 9.7, not even you."

"Not even me," the android agreed.

"Good," Michael replied. "You can't imagine how I have longed to speak with one of my own kind. You must be careful, though,
very
careful, since the Zid would like nothing better than to capture you."

"I plan to be," Doon said, bouncing as the right-hand track lurched onto a rock.

"Really?" the satellite inquired. "Then why are you heading up toward High Hand Pass? It's safer in the HZ."

The synthetic was startled. He looked up through the windshield, realized how stupid that was, and brought his pickups down. "You know where I am?"

"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.