Steelheart (22 page)

In spite of the fact that the race had proved itself generally unreliable, the individuals who dwelt at the Mountain That Is Rat were quick to see the value of scientific collaboration—and had gone so far as to share their working hypothesis: Zuul was an artificial world, which, though relatively normal in outward appearance, had been constructed through the use of highly advanced microrobotic technology. Now, as the result of predation by Mothri and human nano, the planet was coming apart.

It made sense, to Enore anyway, though her peers were a good deal more skeptical. Not that their skepticism made much difference, since eggs were involved, and anything that could be done to safeguard the precious containers
would
be done, even if it seemed silly. All of which explained why the group had authorized her unprecedented trip.

The ramp was complete. A team of diggers made their way to the top, gobbled huge bites of soil, and ate their way toward the surface. The work went quickly, a pinpoint of light appeared, and Enore dispatched a heavily armed security team to reconnoiter.

Yes, the odds that invaders were waiting just outside were virtually nil, but security was of the utmost importance. Especially since the Mothri would be gone for weeks if not months—leaving tenders to protect her eggs. A situation that generated feelings of guilt. Guilt which the Mothri countered by remembering that
if the
humans were correct,
if the
planet was falling apart, every single egg was at risk.

The security bots gave the all clear, Enore issued some last-minute instructions, and attacked the slope. Dirt avalanched, the ramp accepted her weight, and the Mothri moved upward.

 

Ned had responsibilities, or believed that he did, and took them seriously. That's why he left the comparative comfort of his cave every eighth day to conduct his tour.

There were ruins to visit, where voices spoke from within solid walls; the cache, where Annie left food; and what he thought of as the bug farm, where his daughter appeared to him. Not every time he went there, but often enough that he continued to go back, listening should she care to speak.

The hermit scanned the clearing ahead, saw no reason for concern, and moved to the right. By staying with the trees and following them around, he would avoid the open space.

"It takes longer that way—but the long way is the safe way—and the safe way is the best way—and the best way is
my
way." The words made a ditty, a nice little ditty, and the hermit hummed it under his breath.

Ned was tall and thin. Each time he acquired a new set of clothes, he put them next to his eternally filthy skin, moved the next garments to the middle position, and allowed the outer layer to rot. The effect was to leave him dressed in layers of dark gray rags, which, though something less than attractive, made for excellent camouflage.

Moving carefully, like mist in human form, the hermit ghosted along the edge of the forest, found the robots' trail, and followed it toward their subterranean complex. They knew him by now, and never interfered. Not unless he ventured onto the flat area. That's when the machines would turn Ned back. Annie swore she'd been there, and Becka too, but he didn't believe them.

No one made use of the footpath except Ned, so it was hard to see, especially when covered by newly fallen snow, but the hermit had acquainted himself with each rock and tree, and knew when to turn.

The slope led to the top of a small knoll that offered a view of the area below. It was unnaturally flat and punctuated by cylindrical air shafts. Ned had no more than arrived, and settled onto his favorite rock, when the ground started to boil. That's the way it looked, anyway, as Mothri robots ate their way up and out of the repository. It was an amazing sight— and the human watched with slack-jawed fascination as an enormous hole appeared.

There was a pause as three insectoid heads appeared and scanned the area for anything that could threaten their five-ton mistress. Then, with servos whining and antennae waving, an entire squad of the creatures scuttled up out of the tunnel and assumed defensive postures.

Ned blinked and wondered if the machines were real or one of the dreams that were woven into his days. He was still watching, still wondering, when a pearly gray head appeared at the exact center of the newly created hole. It was
huge,
easily as large as the machines assigned to protect it, and equipped with equally massive mandibles. The head turned from side to side, paused, and withdrew.

Thirty seconds passed, enough time for Ned to conclude that the show was over, and ready himself to leave. He had stood, and was backing away, when the ground seemed to explode.

The tunnel had been kept intentionally narrow so that invaders if any would be forced to attack in columns of twos or threes. Rather than wait for the diggers to enlarge the passageway, Enore elected to charge up the ramp and force her way through. Dirt crumbled under the weight of her assault, exploded outward, and sprayed across the snow. It was still settling as she emerged.

Ned was transfixed. He watched in open mouthed amazement as the behemoth lumbered out onto the flat area followed by a steady stream of robots. Most had eight legs, but four looked like centipedes and were laden with heavy packs. Most of the machines formed a column of twos and marched toward the south.

It was then, after most of her escorts were gone, and the diggers were closing the hole, that Enore issued last-minute instructions, and hoped that her decision had been the correct one. The egg tenders knew what to do, and would do it— for years if necessary.

But what if something went wrong? Something the robots weren't equipped to handle? Then I wouldn't have been able to handle it either, Enore told herself, remembering other Mothri who had been crushed to death within their own tunnels. Still, it took an act of will to turn her back and lumber away. The rear guard, which consisted of twelve heavily armed robots, followed.

Ned, who had no idea what to make of the sudden exodus, shook his head in amazement as he watched them leave. This was the most amazing batch of hallucinations he'd ever had. The hermit chuckled, skidded down the slope, and resumed his rounds. The ruins lay a few miles to the north—and the voices were waiting.

 

With scouts crisscrossing the country ahead, flankers protecting her sides, and a rapid-response force bringing up the rear, Enore set forth on her journey.

Given the need for speed, the size of her body, and the nature of her escort, there was no way to go unnoticed. That being the case, the Mothri ordered her scouts to pursue a route that would allow her to stop at select locations while using the least amount of time.

In spite of the fact that thousands of Forerunner nano types had apparently been driven to extinction by their alien counterparts, the humans offered one last hope.

A scientist named Bana Modo theorized that at least some of the seemingly dead species might continue to exist within tech-free Zid villages. If so, they were likely to be intact, since there was nothing there to harm them.

If
Enore could capture samples of such nano, and
if
she could transport them south, efforts would be made to duplicate them. A vital first step toward manufacturing strains mat could not only survive alien attack, but reverse Zuul's deterioration. That was why certain kinds of equipment had been loaded onto the centipedelike freight bots, and why the column suddenly veered away from its natural path and headed toward the east.

 

Father Haslo called for a moment of individual reflection and looked out on the congregation. Something bothered him about the village of Piety, but he couldn't decide what. Or could he?

What with the weather, the ever-dwindling food stocks, and the ever increasing tithes, most of his parishioners were increasingly thin. He had witnessed the phenomenon in the communities of Charity, Truth, and Hope.

Now, as he visited the fourth and final town on his circuit, the elders looked plump, verging on fat. Pomo was an excellent example. How could that be? Unless the Devil was about—which was all too likely. Yes, despite the congregation's ragged clothes and seemingly pious ways, something was amiss. He would say as much in his next report. There was nothing like a visit from the inquisition to put a village back on the path.

Haslo murmured the usual prayer. Heads came up, and eyes met his. The priest could practically
see
their hypocrisy and felt his gills start to flutter. He brought the reaction under control and launched his sermon.

Not
the one he had originally planned—but the one they
needed
to hear. As with any truly fine sermon, it focused on the Devil, his demons, and the pits of hell. Haslo took particular pleasure in describing the pits, complete with roasting sinners, the stench of scorched flesh, and eternal screams of agony. One of the best parts was when a demon ate the farmer's prideful daughter—and Haslo had just laid the necessary groundwork for the story when the door slammed open.

The congregation turned as one. Some made gasping noises, others screamed, and one fainted.

The demon, for that's what it must certainly be, had multifaceted eyes, strange appendages, and a shiny black body. Haslo heard whirring sounds as the horror pushed its way into the church. Was he responsible? Had his sermon summoned this creature straight from the bowels of hell?

It was a terrible thought, yet strangely pleasing, since it stood to reason that only the most potent of presentations would have sufficient power to elicit such a response.

Hands trembling, gills fluttering, the priest lifted the cross out of its holder, held the device aloft, and marched down the aisle. A target laser kissed the priest's forehead, and a voice was heard. It spoke flawless Zid. "Stay where you are. Make no attempt to leave. None of you will be harmed. Our work will be completed soon."

So saying, the demon backed out through the door. Haslo, certain mat God had listened to his prayers, fell to his knees. The story of how the priest confronted the demon, and forced it to leave, would be told for as long there were evenings to tell it in.

A full twelve hours passed before the residents of Piety gathered enough courage to venture outside. Nothing had been damaged, and there were no signs of demons, other than tracks in the snow. There were plenty of those, so many that it didn't seem possible, and the entire village fell to their knees yet again. It was clear that an entire
legion
of demons had invaded Piety—a fact that made their survival all the more miraculous.

It wasn't too much later that the elders, led by a newly reformed Pomo, confessed their many sins, revealed their fully packed storerooms, and begged Haslo's forgiveness. Their tithe, which they subsequently carried on their backs, was generous in the extreme.

Eventually, as a reward for their openhanded virtue, Pomo and the rest of the elders were allowed to become part of the Grand Crusade's foremost rank, a position from which they could witness God's work, and hurry their impending martyrdom.

 

Enore lacked both the time and the means to assess the samples collected in Piety and the seven additional villages that she and her force of robots had visited. All she could do was take them and hope for the best.

The Mothri topped a rise, looked out over a slightly undulating plain, and felt horribly exposed. To a creature who had spent most of her life snug within a warren of tunnels, chambers, and passageways, the plain, horizon, and impossibly open sky felt more than a little threatening.

Enore struggled to control her panic, put her head down, and pushed ahead. It helped to look at the ground, to focus on what she knew, and avoid other stimuli.

And so it was that a five-ton beetle and her escort of insectoid robots passed within rifle shot of the packer station known as Git Up—and continued toward the south.

The complex, which consisted of a sod house, guest huts, and a maze of mutimal kraals, was momentarily empty. The manager and her husband watched from the roof of their dwelling. "What the hell
is
that thing?" the woman wondered out loud. "The big one."

"It's a Mothri, like as not," her husband answered. "That's what they're supposed to look like, anyway."

"Where's it going?"

The man shook his head. "Don't rightly know, dear... but I wouldn't want to get in its way."

"No," the woman allowed. "Neither would I."

 

 

 

19

 

grudge
/ n / sullen malice; a cherished dislike

 

 

A combination of snow and rain, which Mary referred to as "snain," slanted in from the west. The cold, wet substance accumulated on the roboticist's shoulders, seeped into her clothes, and chilled her skin.

The road east stretched long and hard. Step followed step, curve followed curve, and hill followed hill in mind-numbing succession. Using the trade route was dangerous—but not using the road was even
more
dangerous, which left very little choice. Doon kept a sharp eye out and made frequent use of Michael's orbital sensors.

By placing himself in a geostationary orbit over the holy lands, the spy sat could provide the synthetic with reports on the surrounding area. That's why Doon nudged Mary off the road and led her up through a ravine. The stream hid their tracks, and a cluster of weatherworn rocks offered shelter.

Mary looked around. A circle of fire-blackened stones indicated that others had used the spot before them. She shrugged her way out from under the pack. "I don't want to seem ungrateful or anything—but why take a break? Don't tell me you're running out of steam."

"Steam-powered synthetics," Doon said thoughtfully. "Why didn't I think of that? No, I'm not 'running out of steam,' as you put it. Watch the road. Company's on the way."

Mary lit a smoke-free fuel tablet, put some relatively clean slush on to boil, and sat on her heels. Ten minutes passed, and when they came, the sound arrived first.