Steelheart (20 page)

 

Corley Maras hated Six-Day with every bone in her ten-year-old body. But that was a secret, a very important secret, and one that she must never reveal. First because she was human, and humans were automatically suspect, and second because her father was none other than George Maras, Administrator General for the Antitechnic Church, and a very important personage.

It was an influential position, one that guaranteed plenty to eat, and a nice place to live, but forced Corley to tell lies, a
lot
of lies, which her father said was okay, but her mother would never have approved of.

That's why Corley smiled as her father led her into the much-hated cathedral—and toward the Devil's altar. Not the second, third, or fourth altars, one for each point of the star, but the
main
altar, where the top members of the hierarchy paused before making their way down the central aisle to take their places before the
true
altar, from which a long, boring sermon would soon be delivered.

George Maras nodded to members of the council, and knew that his superior, a human named Victor Jantz, would wait to make an entrance. One more seemingly insignificant note in a symphony of moves calculated to undermine Zid leadership.

Not an effort that Maras had
intended
to become part of, but one he had fallen into, and continued to support as the means to protect Corley. After all, most of the humans resident in the holy lands during the Cleansing had been killed by rampaging mobs, subjected to the inquisition, or turned out to starve.

Only the fact that Maras had converted early and demonstrated the value of nontechnological management practices had protected father and daughter from sharing similar fates.

That's what Maras told himself, anyway, although there was a part of him, a seldom-heard voice, that questioned his motives. Had he come to enjoy power for power's sake? And what about the perks that went with it? The questions surfaced ... but went unanswered.

Seats had been saved for Maras and his daughter. He genuflected in front of the altar and backed into his chair. Corley did likewise. The contemplation of evil, and the threat it represented, was a necessary prerequisite to serious worship.

The little girl checked the altar to see if anything had changed. It was carved from a huge chunk of glistening clay that was never allowed to harden—a strategy that allowed the altar keepers to change the display by adding or removing components. A hand here, a circuit board here, and lots of randomly connected metal, wire, and plastic.

One thing
never
changed, however, and that was the eyes that stared down at her, and the face they were part of. It reminded her of the Madonna—as seen in the media player she no longer had. Corley's mother was a roboticist, and the little girl had grown up around such machines, so she knew the synthetic was a model twenty that possessed a brain, personality and emotions every bit as real as hers. That's what her mother said, and Corley believed it.

The only problem was that the Church said androids were evil, and even though Corley didn't want to believe that, it was hard to ignore what they said.

The synthetic winked at her, and Corley turned to her father. He had a vacant expression and was clearly unaware. Corley looked left, right, and back again. No one seemed to be watching. It was a daring thing to do, but the little girl met the android's gaze and winked in return.

Canova collected the wink in the same way that a glutton might accept an especially tasty dish, with a sort of greedy intensity. She wanted more.
More
contact,
more
interchange, and
more
stimulation. For the android, like her creators, was a social being.

There was no chance of that, however, as the Mar as family rose to make way for the newly arrived, who made their way down toward the center of the cathedral, and took the next set of seats reserved for their exclusive use.

 

Victor Jantz, easily the third most important being in the Antitechnic Church, and quite possibly the second, examined himself before a mirror. He was a handsome man with large eyes, a long straight nose, and a firm jaw. All of which meant nothing to the Zid. They thought
all
humans were ugly.

Jantz was rugged, though, and physically powerful, which the T-heads admired. The human laughed out loud. If only they knew! Robotics, the technology they loved to hate, was only one of the ways through which sentients could leverage their abilities. There was genetic engineering to consider, along with his own personal favorite, medical science.

Yeah, the T-heads could scan his body all day long and never discover the truth, which was that his overall musculature had been enhanced with drugs, his right leg had been grown in a lab, his left kidney had been "harvested" from an accident victim, and nano, far too small to see, kept his pipes in good repair. So far, anyway. Just one of the reasons why he never seemed to age.

Jantz smiled at the image in front of him, and it smiled in return. Life, which was undeniably good, would soon get better. First things first, however... which meant a fire-and-brimstone sermon. A sermon similar to the ones his pa liked to deliver, back before he beat the crap out of his son one too many times and went to an early grave.

The authorities never suspected the fifteen-year-old boy. Not given the attacker's obvious strength and the almost unbelievable violence with which the murder was carried out. It was strange how as the years had passed, Jantz had failed at every profession he tried,
except
the least likely of all: man of God.

The religious leader straightened his robe, plastered a stern look on his face, and left the office. The underground corridor led past the armory, past the Zid powered altar mechanism, and past the holding cells. The heretics, one of whom was human, rattled their bars and begged for mercy. Jantz, his mind on other things, didn't hear a sound.

 

The cathedral was not only huge, but extremely complex, containing a labyrinth of rooms, chapels, halls, and cells for the resident monks and priests. Woven in and around those many compartments were countless halls, corridors, stairs, and walkways some of which were secret and known to a very few.

Narly Lictor was one of those few, and used the little-traveled passageways for his own purposes, watching through spy holes, listening to conversations he wasn't supposed to hear, and "appearing" as if by magic when it suited his purposes to do so.

It was boring for the most part, but there were moments when the vigils paid off, when he found out something others thought was secret, and hoarded that knowledge against the time when it could best be used. For even God's instrument in the physical world can use an edge once in awhile. Especially if he wanted to retain control—which Lictor definitely did.

All of which explained why the Chosen One was there, watching through a peephole while Jantz examined himself in the mirror, smiled, and left the room. Never mind the mirror, which signaled the human's vanity—why had his strangely horizontal mouth curved upward in the human equivalent of a smile? Because he was happy with his appearance? Or because of something else? Something Lictor wouldn't like.

The decision to include humans within the Church hierarchy had seemed logical at the time, especially given the number of alien converts streaming in from the HZ, but now he had started to wonder. Did the humans want to
join
the Church? Or take it over? That was a troubling thought.

 

Maras watched Jantz emerge from the circular opening in front of the altar, bow to the congregation, and climb the stairs that led to the podium. There was a creaking sound as the entire altar started to rotate. The shaft, gears, and other components involved were all made of wood, and allowed by a special dispensation from the council.

Maras, like the officials seated around him, had witnessed the phenomenon many times before, but a group of pilgrims, just arrived from distant villages, sucked air through their gills. It made a whistling sound. The altar really did rotate! Just like everyone said. . . . . Still another wonder to report on their return.

Jantz opened the book of rotes to a beautifully illuminated page, cleared his throat portentously, and started to read. Not in Spanglish, sometimes referred to as standard, but in the Zid dialect used by most members of the Church. A human who spoke Zid! The pilgrims looked at each other in amazement.

Jantz, who had a near photographic memory, as well as a natural ear for language, didn't especially like the tongue but understood the value of speaking it.

The human wondered if the master language from which the dialect had been taken was equally drab, or more vibrant, belonging as it did to beings who had space flight
and
the common sense to unload their troublemakers on remote planets. It was an errant thought, and he pushed it away.

The sermon was a back-to-basics sort of thing, a way to refocus the congregation on fundamentals while positioning himself as a true rote-spewing, rock-throwing, fire-breathing zealot.

Jantz started with the book of rotes, reviewed the appropriate scripture, and launched into a sermon titled "The Three Faces of the Devil."

The faces included
heresy,
or the failure to believe,
subversion,
the very thing he hoped to accomplish, and
idolatry,
which referred to the worship of physical objects, most especially robots, but also including a wide variety of icons, tools, and art.

It was good stuff, but somewhat basic, and therefore dry. Which was why Jantz had made arrangements to liven things up. "And so," he said, the audience turning before him, "the first face is that of heresy."

The Zid, a none too bright specimen that had been caught relieving himself against one of the cathedral's walls, was pushed up a ramp. Guards, well aware of what was about to take place, grabbed the unfortunate and held him in place. He started to whine but stopped in response to a well-directed blow.

"Look well," Jantz cautioned the audience, "for the Devil is a master of disguise. A face such as this one might appear anywhere. You could encounter it on the street, in church, or, most terrifying of all, on the other side of the dinner table."

Canova had zoomed in on the Zid's face. She listened to the words, guessed what was coming, and dumped her sensory input. She had witnessed such moments before, and felt no desire to do so again.

"There is," Jantz intoned solemnly, "only one solution. Find heresy wherever it may dwell... and destroy its home."

The hammer of divine justice had been brought all the way from the home world. It was hundreds of years old and consisted of an oblong stone tied to a wooden shaft with leather thongs. It blurred through the air, struck the heretic's head, and spilled his brains onto the floor. His body followed.

Corley, who had seen even worse things, remained unmoved. Her father had trained her to look—but see something else. She thought of Hairball and smiled.

A pilgrim, just arrived from the tiny village of Tithe, lost her breakfast. Most of the crowd strove for a better view. They loved the drama of it—and would exaggerate the gore when they got back home.

It was important to appear evenhanded. Jantz nodded to the executioner, and a human stumbled out onto the floor. His wrists were tied, and a gag split his mouth. He saw the body and started to cry. His crime, the
real
crime, was spying for the Chosen One. The traitor's death would not only seal his treacherous lips, but send a message to Lictor as well. All under the cover of righteous piety.

"This," Jantz announced, "is the face of subversion. Study it well. The man before you slandered our glorious leader in hopes of pulling him down."

Lictor, who had chosen to monitor his subordinate's sermon from a peephole high overhead, winced as the hammer hit the alien's skull, and watched his informer die.
Had
the idiot slandered him? Or was this something more ominous? A message, perhaps ... a rather gruesome message meant to intimidate him. There was no way to be sure. The blood ran down a limestone gutter, gurgled through a hole in the floor, and dripped into the catch basin below.

"And finally," Jantz said, "an idolator who valued a piece of metal before her God, and must now pay the price."

The female Zid stumbled, fell, and was pulled to her feet. Something, Maras wasn't sure what, hung around her neck. Then she turned, the light hit the object, and he recognized the artifact for what it was: a half-meter com dish, worthless without the equipment necessary to make it work, and best put to use as a large soup bowl.

There was no way to know where the female had obtained the device, or why she'd been foolish enough to keep it, but she had. He wanted to shield Corley from the execution—but knew he couldn't. Not if he wanted to maintain his heretofore pious image.

The executioner raised the bloodstained hammer. The female swayed and suddenly collapsed. The com dish clanged as it hit the floor. A monk checked her pulse, confirmed she was dead, and signaled the podium. The idolater had died of fright.

Certain that he'd made his point, and eager to get the whole thing over with, Jantz brought the service to a close.

Lictor waited for the last dola to be said, sketched a triangle into the air, and made for his quarters. That's where the next battle would be fought—and that's where he would win.

 

The service was over and icy rain drove in from the north as the congregation streamed out through the massive doors and down toward the city below. It was laid out on a grid, with each citizen receiving a rectangular plot of land on which they had constructed huts, which if not identical, were so similar that they might as well have been, especially from a distance. The cook fires were banked but still sent hundreds of smoky tendrils skyward, where they seemed to seek each other out, and wove intricate patterns against the sky. Lamps would be lit as the parishioners returned home, a meal would be prepared, and the evening would be spent at rest.