Steelheart (19 page)

 

People with parkas, packs, and weapons were a common sight in Vent, and no one noticed as they left through Big Mama's mouth and entered the predawn darkness. No one except a ragged-looking Zid beggar, that is. He watched the couple go, thanked them for the crudely cut coin that rattled into the bottom of his cup, and made a mental note. Two heretics, both armed with Satan's tools, were headed into the holy lands? Why?

The monks had a well-known appetite for information— and would welcome a tidbit such as this.

 

 

 

16

 

fa na' tic
/ n / one showing excessive enthusiasm or zeal

 

 

The news that Dr. Gene Garrison had not only survived his artificially induced illness, but was planning to hold a staff meeting, shocked Abby Ahl. Especially since she had been assigned to kill the scientist—and thought the job was essentially done. Jantz would be angry.

Ahl remembered the way he made love to her, stabbing her vagina as if his penis was a knife and he wanted to hurt her.

Ahl felt the blood rush to her face, looked to find out if anyone had seen, and was thankful that no one had. The spy checked her wrist chron, rose from her desk, and left the office. She had a pistol in her quarters, and plenty of supplies. Enough to reach the Cathedral of the Rocks. The mission was over—or would be by the time the sun went down.

 

After months of uncertainty, fear, and doubt, Flat Top was coming back to life. The announcement that Garrison had ended his self-imposed isolation had reenergized most of the members of the organization. Bana Modo was no exception.

Though impressed by the quality of Garrison's mind, the biologist was well aware of the other man's failings, especially where leadership was concerned. Having ruled by strength of personality, and having undermined every person named to succeed him, the director had subverted his own creation.

Fiefdoms had been created during his absence, intrigue had flourished, and resources systematically misappropriated.

Now Garrison was back, much to the disgust of those who had profited, or hoped to profit.

Not Modo, though—he was the first person to enter the spartan auditorium, and he sat down front. Something good would happen. He could
feel
it.

 

Ahl's plan was simple: station herself outside Garrison's door, wait for the roboticist to emerge, and shoot him in the head. The very seat of the Devil's power—and the area most vulnerable. Where nano had failed, a bullet would succeed.

Agents such as herself, and the troops known as God's Reapers, were allowed to use firearms by special dispensation. But how to justify her presence? There were numerous possibilities, but Ahl chose the most ironic.

By placing her back to the wall, and standing at ease, she looked like a sentry. There to guard her leader against attack. The roboticist had refused such protection in the past—but that was the
old
Garrison, and the new one could have changed. Ahl nodded to passersby, and they nodded in return.

 

Garrison examined himself in the mirror. He still looked like hell... but what could someone of his advanced years expect? Even with a body full of hard-working nano. He laughed and turned away. He was what he was—and his staff would have to accept it.

 

Ahl felt her stomach somersault as a series of locks snicked open and the door swung inward. She pulled the weapon out from under her jacket and held it down along her leg.

Garrison appeared and stepped out into the hall. He smiled and nodded. Ahl was amazed. The roboticist looked wonderful! Much better than the last time he had appeared in public. How? But there was no time to consider unimportant things, so she raised the weapon, screamed, "Glory to God!" and squeezed the trigger. Not just once—but three times in quick succession. The weapon jumped, and the noise was deafening.

The scientist staggered under the impact of the bullets. His head came apart, and he hit the wall. Something was wrong though—something having to do with a lack of blood. That's when someone shouted, "Hold it right there!" and Ahl knew bad things were about to happen.

The Zid agent was turning, pulling the weapon around, when the bullets hit her. One clipped the woman's skull, another punctured her right lung, and a third cracked a shoulder blade. She fell across the roboticist's legs.

Voices shouted, hands rolled Ahl onto her back, and the assassin opened her eyes. The world was gray and filled with pain. She felt for the cross and found it slick with blood. Something loomed above. Garrison! Not the pretty version she had killed—but a haggard old man. The first Garrison had been a robot!

Garrison shook his head. "Nice try, honey ... but people were trying to kill me before you were born. Must be my personality or something."

The face disappeared, but Ahl heard the words "Take her to the infirmary," and knew she wouldn't make it. This life was over—and the next hadn't started yet. Darkness rose all around. She waited for the light.

 

The auditorium was packed by the time Garrison arrived. Security beings and members of the senior team formed a wall around the scientist. The reason became apparent as Dr. Barbara Omita opened the meeting. She was a tiny woman with a pageboy haircut and an earnest expression.

"Good morning, everyone ... .Thank you for coming. I'm thrilled to announce that our director, Dr. Gene Garrison, has recovered from his debilitating illness and returned to work. Pardon our late arrival—but there was an attempt on his life."

There was a hiss of indrawn air followed by expressions of disbelief and concern.

Omita was about to say more when Garrison took the mike. His smile would have been more reassuring had his face been a little less gaunt. "It would seem that our current grievance process leaves something to be desired."

There was a roar of laughter followed by a lessening of tension. Bana Modo was entranced by the nearly mythical presence—especially in light of their correspondence.

Garrison looked out at his audience, marshaled his thoughts, and allowed the words to flow. ' "This facility was built in order to insulate our work from the political chaos that followed the landing, and yes, as a monument to my own considerable ego."

There were titters, but no outright laughter, a sure sign that at least some of the audience agreed.

"Whatever the reason," Garrison continued, "the fact remains that Flat Top was built and, as luck would have it, completed
before
the troubles began.

The audience shifted uneasily. Eyebrows were raised. Did Garrison have a point? And if so, what was it? The roboticist continued.

"The beings we refer to as the Forerunners constructed this planet from the inside out, installed a self-perpetuating, nano-based maintenance structure, and for reasons unknown, left all of it behind."

Some of the staff members were stunned by the sweep of what the director had said. Others were openly contemptuous. Garrison ignored them.

"The system I refer to controls what may turn out to be a fusion reactor at the planet's core—as well as geological mechanics that mimic those of more natural planets. That includes the recent seismic activity and the atmospheric changes that stem from it.

"That's why the ecology is so simple, why there are no native microorganisms, and why Zuul will die. It is my thesis that both Mothri and human nano have systematically attacked and killed their Forerunner counterparts as part of a misguided attempt to dominate Zuul's robotic infrastructure. The situation continues to deteriorate. Barring the unexpected arrival of a ship, there is no means of escape.

"The solution is obvious. We must prepare a complete inventory of Forerunner nano, identify those that have suffered the most predation, create attack-resistant strains, and introduce them into the planet's geological and biological systems.

"We must do this quickly, efficiently, and in the face of organized resistance from the Zid. There is no alternative other than death."

Garrison paused, and the room exploded into chaos. Questions were shouted, objections were heard, and at least one staff member burst into tears.

Garrison turned to one of his bodyguards, took her weapon, and fired three shots into the ceiling. The babble stopped. The roboticist smiled. "That was the
bad
news. There is some
good
news. Many of you, people like Bana Modo, have been working on a solution for some time now. The task of classifying and redesigning the Forerunner nano is already underway. These efforts will shift into high gear as we devote more resources to them.

"An additional piece of good news is the fact that the Mothri share our concerns ... and are open to an alliance."

Modo flushed at the mention of his name and felt heads swivel in his direction. Some admired him. Others, their work unrecognized, started to fume.

It took the better part of three hours to work through initial discussions, name team leaders, and launch "Project Zuul."

Garrison was exhausted by the time the meeting was over and was glad to reach his quarters. The body was gone, but a bloodstain marked the floor. A maintenance droid whirred as it scrubbed Ahl away.

The roboticist thanked his security detail, knew they would remain on guard, and entered his apartment. The bed beckoned, and he fell across it. The presentation had gone well, very well, but problems remained.

The first had to do with the fact that a high percentage of Forerunner nano appeared to be extinct—and the second had to do with translation software. Software that would bridge the gap between the language the Forerunners had used to program their nano and human-derived code.

The latter was of particular concern since he had lost contact with the being best equipped to solve the problem, a brilliant but somewhat idealistic synthetic who had chosen the name Luis Garcia Sojo.

In fact, much as the roboticist hated to admit it, and
wouldn't
admit it, not publicly at least, the possibility of a nano-dependent planetary maintenance system had been Sojo's idea, not his.

The truth was that instead of supporting his student, and taking pleasure in what he'd been able to accomplish, Garrison had been jealous instead. The human had accused the synthetic of sloppy science, had questioned his motives, and driven a wedge into their relationship. Even now, during the meeting, he had failed to acknowledge the synthetic's contribution.

Where was Sojo, anyway? Hiding somewhere, his talents going to waste? Or dead? His body parts incorporated into a Zid shrine? Garrison heard himself moan as the full weight of his guilt pressed down on his chest.

Servos whined as a robot appeared at Garrison's bedside, sent a radio message to the nano that cruised the human's bloodstream, and pulled a blanket over the scientist's skeletal body. An internally administered sedative would help, as would some antidepressants.

The roboticist fell asleep, and the machine settled in to wait. Something that it, like all its brethren, did very well indeed.

 

 

 

17

 

cru sade'
/ n / a war or expedition having a religious 
object and sanctioned by the church

 

 

The Cathedral of the Rocks was huge. So huge that it was third behind only the
Pilgrim
and the Forerunner city known as Maze in terms of overall size. It had four extensions, all of which were triangular in shape and joined to the base. Together they formed a star. The
single
star, insofar as the Zid hierarchy was concerned.

Built of limestone, with donated labor, the structure had been sited on top of a hill where it would dominate the city below. Outcroppings of volcanic rock surrounded the cathedral and accounted for its name.

Due to the fact that the Zid had brought their traditional religious calendar with them, and made use of it without regard to Zuul's orbit around the sun, there was no particular connection between it and the seasons.

Members, and that included everyone, were expected to worship every day of the week, but Six-Days were especially important, and considered mandatory.

Dr. Suti Canova thought there was something fascinating about the weekly spectacle, about looking out upon hundreds of Zid faces, their features registering emotions—but which ones? Did gill-fluttering signify distress? Was mouth-rippling equivalent to a smile? She thought so, but couldn't be sure. Still, she could
feel
their hatred, and was certain that it could be seen in their implacable stares.

Of course, that was the whole purpose of a living altar: to provide the congregation with a focal point for their hate— an emotion around which the entire organization had been encouraged to coalesce.

Viewed from that perspective, the alien landings had been the best things that ever happened to the Antitechnic Church. Left on its own, without an external threat to reinforce the need for unity, the organization had already started to wither. The arrival of first the Mothri, then the humans, gave the Zid something to hate. And hatred held their theocracy together.

Interestingly enough, the same phenomenon had been observed in human history—which seemed to suggest a higher than expected level of psychocultural commonality between the Zid and human races. Or did it? To what extent were the local Zid representative of the race that had marooned them on Zuul? They were self-proclaimed cultural deviants—and to generalize from their activities to the rest of Zid might be a mistake.

Fascinating stuff—especially for Canova's peers. Not that the medical doctor and amateur xenoanthropologist was likely to share her findings—since she'd been co-opted by the very structure she sought to understand.

The model twenty had actually set out to study the Mothri, a somewhat safer line of inquiry, when a scav known as the Junkman had captured and sold her. Canova had begged the human to kill her, to settle for what her body parts would bring, but he refused. The synthetic wondered how the scav was doing and hoped for the worst.