Steelheart (21 page)

George Maras waited till most of the congregation had left the cathedral, then stood. He turned toward his daughter. ' 'Daddy must attend a meeting. Will you be okay?''

Corley nodded. Waiting was bad enough. Waiting
within
the meeting, where she would be expected to sit absolutely still, was the most horrible possibility of all. This would give her a chance to explore—an opportunity that came all too seldom.

Maras smiled, patted his daughter on the head, and ordered her to stay within the nave. The cathedral was huge, and he didn't want to spend hours looking for her.

A pair of Lictor's guards, both equipped with battle axes, appeared at his side. They offered a hood, which he, accepted and slid over his head. A drawstring secured the bottom around his neck.

No one, not even Jantz, knew the exact location of the Chosen One's quarters, and they weren't about to learn. Maras viewed the procedure as little more than an annoying security precaution.

Jantz was more cynical, and wondered if Lictor used the ritual as a way to bolster his importance.

Corley watched her father being led away, shrugged, and set off on her own. The little girl knew better than to make a beeline for that which interested her most. No, the safest thing to do was to wander the way any child might, touching all the things she never got to touch, and winding up at the Devil's altar seemingly by accident.

Once she was in position, a show of piety was called for should anyone be looking. Corley knelt, stood, and backed into the closest chair. There was no doubt in her mind that the altar, and the android it contained, were the most fascinating elements of the Church.

Dr. Suti Canova had been resting, fantasizing about freedom, when she heard the rustle of cloth. She opened her sensors half expecting to see one or more members of the cleanup crew, a mostly half-witted bunch who delighted in finding new ways to torment her. The girl was an unexpected treat. She had closely cropped black hair, rich brown skin, and large, luminous eyes.

The android activated all of her sensors, scanned the nave, and came up empty. If they were under surveillance, it was beyond her ability to detect. "Hi. Nice to see you again."

Corley nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry about what they did to you."

Canova raised an artificial eyebrow. "You know what I am?"

"Oh, yes," the little girl answered brightly. "You're an android. A model twenty. You can think and feel just like we do. That's why I'm sorry."

"Thank you," Canova said. "It's been a long time since anyone said anything nice to me."

"Do you have a body?" Corley asked politely. "Or just a head?"

Canova laughed. "Yes, I have a body, but it's hidden under the clay. They reveal parts of it from time to time—but never enough for me to break free."

"That's too bad," Corley said thoughtfully. "I could free you, but it wouldn't make any difference. They'd catch you and smash my head open."

Canova winced at the thought. "No, you musn't do that. It isn't worth it. There is something you
could
do for me, though—not now, but later."

Corley folded her hands as if in prayer. "Really? Such as what?"

"You could kill me," the android replied softly.

"Would you go to heaven?" Corley asked. "Mommy says it's nice in heaven."

Canova didn't think there was a heaven—not for robots, anyway. The nothingness of electronic death would suit her fine. She smiled. "Yes, I would go to heaven. With your help."

The little girl might have replied, might have given the android reason to hope, but a monk chose that particular moment to appear. He was a kindly soul and, seeing Corley all alone, hurried to keep her company. "Goodness, child! You look starved! Come. I have some sweet cakes hidden in the vestry."

Corley rose obediently, allowed her eyes to brush past Canova's, and took the monk's hand. They turned and walked away.

Had either of them turned, they would have seen a tear trickle down the android's face, and wet the clay below.

 

With an escort at each elbow, Maras was led through an interminable number of twists and turns. He tried to memorize them at first, just to see if he could, but soon lost track.

As in the past, Maras knew when he had arrived by the strong odor of incense. It smelled of sulfur. Did the ritual have religious significance? Or was it little more than a personal quirk? There was no way to tell.

Hinges squealed, Maras felt carpeting under his feet, and the hood was removed. Jantz was already present, and he bowed with the gravity of someone under observation. "Greetings, Administrator Maras—you're looking well."

"As are you," Maras replied. He bowed, wondered if they were under observation via peepholes in the austere walls, and guessed they probably were. He started to say something, saw the beginnings of a frown on his superior's forehead, and thought better of it.

A human might have kept them waiting as a way to demonstrate his or her power, but the Zid had other ways of accomplishing that. Lictor entered the room from his private quarters, bowed, and took his seat. It was made of wood and, with the exception of the intricately carved arms, was free of adornment. It had a thronelike aspect, however, or so it seemed to the humans, who were left to stand.

Lictor was middle-aged, young for his position, and extremely good-looking. That's what other Zid claimed, anyway, although it could have been out of respect or outright fear. The Chosen One wore a caste mark on his forehead and spoke heavily accented Spanglish. Not that Maras was in a position to be critical, since he spoke very little Zid. A deficiency he continued to work on.

"Thank you for coming. Your piety, righteousness, and zeal do you credit."

So much for openers, Maras thought to himself. The bad stuff is on the way. He let his eyes go to Jantz, but saw the other man's face was blank.

"The Cleansing was God's way of helping us with our work," Lictor continued. "It was no accident that our membership suffered fewer casualties than the heretics did."

Lictor was a skilled communicator, and Maras admired the manner in which the word "heretics" had been exchanged for "aliens." Neither of the humans believed Lictor had access to God, but both murmured their agreement.

"Now comes the next stage," Lictor said, his words barely intelligible. "The stage during which we must
finish
what God started. A considerable amount of progress has been made. Our monks have entered the heretic cities, identified those who seek God's peace, and put others to death. These things are good ... but much remains undone."

"Give us God's vision," Jantz asked respectfully, "that we might bring it to life."

" 'God has natural dominion over
all
things,' " Lictor said, quoting the book of rotes. " 'He rules the Zid, the animals of the field, and the plants from which sustenance flows.'

"To deny him is to deny life itself, which is why heretics must be sought out, brought into the light, or consigned to darkness. I submit that the day of reckoning is upon us, that we must go forth, find those who seek the light and bring them home."

"And the rest?" Jantz asked quietly.

"The rest will perish," Lictor replied evenly, "not by our hand, but by the hand that guides us."

Lictor knew what that meant, as did Maras, but enjoyed forcing the Zid to be explicit. "So you want us to identify the heretics and kill them."

The ensuing moment of silence drew long and thin. The time came when Maras concluded that his superior had gone
too
far, and he was already thinking of ways to distance himself from Jantz when Lictor spoke. The words were even and belied none of the anger that Maras saw in the single glaring eye. "Yes, that's exactly what I mean."

Jantz bowed. "Then it shall be as you say. How should we proceed?"

It was intended to be a pro forma question to which Lictor would respond with a request for recommendations. Recommendations that Jantz would use to further his interests.

The Zid had anticipated such a move, however, and not only formulated his own plan, but cleared it with the Council of Elders. That group opposed the ordination of human priests and consistently urged Lictor to assert his God-given authority.

Yes, Lictor knew what he wanted the humans to do... and how he wanted them to do it. The key was to present the information in a way calculated to gain their enthusiastic support, while lulling them to sleep regarding the long-range implications of their actions. Or, barring that, to gain minimal compliance and move ahead anyway.

In spite of the fact that the human was shrewd in his own self-concerned way, and useful where administrative matters were concerned, Lictor knew Maras was little more than a tool. A tool anyone could have and use.

Jantz was dangerous, however,
very
dangerous, and the person on whom his energies should be focused. That being the case, he adjusted his expression to convey warmth and collegiality, confident in the knowledge that the human had equipped himself with an extensive knowledge of Zid facial expressions.

"You may recall that I am a student of human history, and having read many of the texts translated by the humans within our membership, have identified an ancient practice that's perfect for our situation."

Jantz had been unaware of the Zid's studies and didn't like the idea one bit. The more the religious leader knew about humans and their not very admirable history, the more suspicious he was likely to be. Jantz couldn't say
that,
however, so he bowed instead. "We are both surprised and gratified that the Chosen One could find anything of value in our tumultuous history."

"You are far too modest," Lictor said, sending a smile down his lips. "Though misinformed regarding the nature and identity of God, your ancestors had some wonderful ideas, not the least of which were the Crusades."

Though of lower rank than Jantz, Maras had the better education and knew something about history. The Crusades had originally been armed pilgrimages. In fact, the word "crusade," had its origins in the Latin word "crux," or "cross." When the Arab Muslims conquered Palestine, which included numerous locations sacred to Christians, the Christians responded with a series of eight military expeditions between the years A.D. 1096 and 1270. These Crusades included kings, nobles, and thousands of peasants. They had two goals—to gain permanent control of the holy lands, and to protect the Byzantine Empire with which they were aligned.

The Christians
did
gain control of the holy lands for a time, but they were ultimately unable to hold onto the territory and were eventually forced out.

Jantz, though less knowledgeable than Maras, had a rough idea of what the Crusades involved and was struck by the brilliance of the Zid's plan. By launching a crusade, Lictor could not only focus the membership on something external to the Church, the ongoing crop failures, and the steadily dwindling food reserves—he could harness the energy of his zealots, a rather dangerous group if left unoccupied for sustained periods of time.

The slaughter of heretics, and the possible loss of his human followers, especially those in leadership positions, was icing on the cake. Or was that too paranoid? It hardly mattered. It could be true ... which meant Jantz should assume that it was. He chose his words with care.

"It's a brilliant plan ... a truly brilliant plan. One question, however—the Crusades had a goal, something we lack. How will we generate sufficient support?"

"Not a problem," Lictor replied, happy to see his subordinate's obvious discomfort. "We
do
have a goal—and a worthy one at that."

Silence begged the question. Jantz remained silent, so Maras did it for him. "What is God's will, Father? The Mothri? The settlement called Shipdown?"

"No," Lictor answered. "Lay the necessary plans, send raiders to prepare the way, and summon the faithful. Once the crusaders are assembled, you must fill them with fire, arm them with the word of God, and send them to the place called Flat Top.
That's
where the Devil does his work, where his demons hatch plots against the Church, and where the blow must be struck."

Maras looked at Jantz, saw the other man's eyes narrow, and watched him bend at the waist. "The Chosen One has spoken. God's will be done. Dola."

 

 

 

18

 

sam' ple
/ n / a part or piece taken or shown as representative of a whole group

 

 

The chamber was dim, so much so that the only illumination came from the phosphorescentlike glow of the off-world fungus that grew on the ceiling, the light-emitting diodes located at the center of each robot's forehead, and the Mothri's abdominal work-light.

Mallaca Horbo Drula Enore the 5,223rd stood at the foot of the ramp and watched a seemingly endless procession of six-legged machines enter the chamber, disgorge exactly three droks of class three pack dirt, and return for more.

Additional robots attacked the recently regurgitated offerings and pushed, shoved, and shaped them into a steadily growing ramp. A ramp wide enough and strong enough to support the Mothri's considerable weight. She hadn't been to the surface for many months now, and had mixed emotions about the need to go there.

Just as a human might be excited about the prospect of living in an underwater habitat, yet have qualms as well, Enore had similar feelings about the planet's surface.

Enore knew the impulse toward adventure was nothing to be proud of, especially in light of the fact that it ran counter to her biological purpose, but there it was. Not something she planned to admit to Rota, Zenth, Tortna or Huubath, all of whom regarded the humans with well-founded suspicion— and weren't about to leave the relative safety of
their
tunnels.

Work slackened suddenly. Enore directed a burst of static toward her workers, and watched them sort themselves out. It had taken time to push the necessary relay stations south, make contact with the humans, perfect the necessary translation protocols, and begin negotiations.