Steelheart (23 page)

The chanting had a mournful quality, like the keening of the wind, and sent a chill up her spine. A standard appeared—gold on light blue—and flapped like a captive bird. A teenager held it aloft, the butt supported by some sort of sling, his face invisible behind white-encrusted rags.

A Zid came next. Snow rode his shoulders like a vestment of gray. The priest was short and stocky. He gave off energy the way a stove radiates heat. Mary could
feel
his personality v from a hundred feet away. The newly converted faithful' shuffled along behind.

The women came first, some with tightly wrapped bundles in their arms, closely followed by older children and the men. Most wore packs and reasonably good boots. They looked tired, as if the rigors of their religion, combined with the journey through God's Teeth, had sapped their energy.

That didn't prevent them from singing, however—if the wailing qualified as such. Mary watched until the last pilgrims had passed and been absorbed by the sleet.

A deep ache filled the woman's heart as she thought about Corley and wondered where she was. Safe? Or living through God knows what? The other possibility, the one she couldn't quite admit to, was completely unacceptable. A hand touched her arm.

"Here," Doon said as he offered a hot cup of tea. "This will fix you up."

"Thank you," Mary said gratefully. "I'll hurry."

The android shrugged. "The road will wait. Take your time."

But Corley was waiting, or so Mary hoped, and time was of the essence. She gulped the tea, got to her feet, and stepped on the fuel tab. It hissed and died. "How did you know? About the column, I mean?"

"A bird told me," the synthetic said lightly. "Here, let me help with that pack."

They were on the road ten minutes later. The pilgrims made a path through the slush. The heretics followed behind.

 

Serving as Harley Doon's eyes was a somewhat tedious job—but one that Michael welcomed because of the human contact involved. Well, not human exactly, but close enough. And who was he to complain? A glorified tin can with delusions of grandeur? No, some purpose was better than none, and the satellite would do what he could.

 

The twosome was forced off the road again that day.

The westward-bound caravan was heavily laden and accompanied by heavily armed outriders. Most appeared to be human, though the scarfs made it difficult to tell.

Doon watched with weapon drawn and refused to leave the relative safety of the trees until Michael gave the all clear.

Mary wondered how Doon knew the caravan was coming before it arrived, but the android refused to explain. Perhaps it was the fact that he was a cop, or had been, and secrets came naturally. Or maybe, and this seemed more likely, it was his desire to have some sort of power over her. Men, it seemed even mechanical ones, were all alike.

Sojo, or the entity who thought of himself as Sojo, was different in that regard. He would have told Mary about the satellite, his favorite kind of music, or anything else that came to mind, had he been given a chance to do so. But Doon kept the clamps on, which left the rider to fuss, fume, and fret. A process that took its toll on the android's patience and emotional energy.

The sleet continued to fall, the hours wore away, and darkness gathered around.

 

The ruins were the obvious choice,
so
obvious that Doon would have opted for other less comfortable quarters, had it not been for Michael's repeated reassurances. There were no travelers in the immediate vicinity, and the nearest group, a party of three who were camped more than three miles to the east, had settled in for the night.

Thus reassured, the android led his human companion in among ancient walls. The light had started to fade, but there was enough to see where campfires had scorched the walls, and to read the graffiti that others had left behind. ''All glory to God," "Lars was here," and some ancient hieroglyphics were all mixed together like some sort of puzzle.

A quick check confirmed that the satellite was correct. The place was vacant, for the moment anyway, which met their needs.

A slab of something that resembled duracrete stood on six weatherworn columns. Tool marks showed where previous campers had attempted to topple the supports, short lengths of cord testified to long-vanished shelters, and a cluster of pockmarks spoke to a night of drunken target practice.

"Home sweet home," Mary said dryly, dropping her pack onto a crudely improvised table. "What could be better?"

"Damned near anything," Doon said cynically. "Still, it beats the alternatives, like pitching our tent in the open. You take that corner, I'll take this one."

There was plenty of accumulated trash. Doon piled some against a blackened wall and set the heap ablaze. The garbage burned in fits and starts, but eventually produced enough heat to cook on, and a glow that warmed the walls.

The roboticist finished her meal, washed the mess kit with slush, and sat on her pack. The riot gun was near at hand, and Doon was silent. The fire felt good.
Very
good. So good that she was asleep when the rider broke the silence. The voice had a much different timbre than Doon's. "How can you stand it? Doon is so
predictable.
Not a creative circuit in his body."

Mary's eyes snapped open. "Where
is
Doon?"

"Oh, he's here—taking a rest. He could control me if he really wanted to."

Mary frowned. The synthetic looked the same, yet different somehow. "Why allow you to speak, then?"

"Because he thinks I'm a jerk," Sojo replied honestly. "He figures I'll make an ass of myself. Funny, huh?"

"Hilarious," Mary replied.

"He's wrong, though," Sojo continued. "We have a lot in common, you and I."

"We do?" Mary asked cautiously. "Like what?"

"Like the fact that we share the same profession," the rider replied.

"Yes," Mary agreed. "I read some of your papers. Back before the Cleansing."

"You did?" the ghost asked with evident pleasure. "Which ones?"

"I don't remember the titles," Mary answered, "but the monograph on emotion was extremely interesting. Part of your work with Dr. Garrison, I believe."

"Yes," Sojo said eagerly. "We parted company shortly thereafter. Still, it was a productive relationship while it lasted."

Mary remembered how it had been on the ship. How badly she wanted to study under Garrison and his complete lack of interest. She was human, after all, and owed nothing to his genius. Students like Sojo might refer to him as "the Creator," but not her. She forced a smile. "What caused the schism, anyway?"

There was silence for a moment as the rider remembered. "It started with a professional disagreement. I put forth a hypothesis which he described as 'silly.' "

"So, was it?"

Sojo-Doon stared down into the fire. ' 'No. I was right.
Am
right. That's what makes this trip so important. He knows I'm right by now—and needs my findings."

"For what?"

The ghost met her gaze. "Why, to fix the planet, of course. What else
could
it be?"

"Enough babbling," Doon cut in. "I need some rest. See you in the morning."

Mary nodded, wondered how Garrison planned to fix the planet, and drifted off to sleep. Corley was waiting—and a smile found her lips.

 

Though founded by humans, and named by them, the town of Dobe owed its existence to the Antitechnic Church. Once they left Shipdown, most of the Zid columns took twenty days to reach Dobe, where they were allowed to pray, rest, and rebuild their strength.

There wasn't any money to be made from feeding and housing the pilgrims, but by doing so the townspeople made themselves immune from attack, and were free to serve their
real
clientele, which consisted of a motley assortment of packers, bandits, and scavs. That's why Doon lay belly down in the snow and watched from the hill above. Mary did likewise.

The synthetic saw Dobe through a targeting grid, while the human used binoculars.

He
saw the ghostly green glow of heat that oozed around vent plugs, poured out of chimneys, and slipped under doors. The gendy falling snow made streaks against the warmer background.

She
saw two interlocking towns. The rest area, with its starkly uniform huts, communal kitchens, and prayer pavilion, and the more secular area, with its mutimal kraals, two-story hotel, bars, and primitive stores. A layer of snow acted to soften edges and round corners. Mary blinked as a snowflake touched an eyelash. She turned to Doon. "So? What do you think?"

"I think the place is damned dangerous."

"So we bypass it?"

Doon shook his head. "No, I wish we could, but that would mean covering the next two or three hundred miles by ourselves. Not impossible, but risky, and far from ideal. The best option is to join an eastward-bound caravan. Should be one through here in three or four days."

There it was again—the ability to predict the future. The roboticist was used to it by now but curious just the same. She knew better than to ask, however, and took another tack. "So, we go in?"

The synthetic nodded. "Yes, but very,
very
carefully."

 

The bar had an oppressively low ceiling, dirty, unwashed walls, and hard-packed dirt floors. Gallons of booze, spit, and vomit had mixed with the native dirt to produce a hard brown surface. Flames danced as people passed, shadows roamed the walls, and a dung-fed fire glowed in the centrally located pit.

The entertainment, such as it was, was provided by a female Zid. The cheek pipes were played by pushing air out through her gills, past a series of reeds, and through a bundle of valve-controlled tubes. The music had a melancholy quality—or so it seemed to the humans.

The crowd, which consisted of the usual mix of packers, drifters, and bandits, were a relatively somber lot who sat in clumps, drinking, gambling, and telling lies. There was laughter as a joke was told, groans as the dice came to a stop, and swearing from the kitchen.

Wringer warmed his hands over the coals, grunted as some semblance of sensation returned to the tips of his fingers, and turned his back to the fire. A mute herder had taken possession of the scav's favorite chair—the one in the comer with the unobstructed view of the room. Wringer frowned, pulled the duster away from his sidearm, and wandered in that direction.

The mute man watched the other man approach, saw him clear the weapon, and knew what it signified. The scav wanted the chair, and would kill to get it. Stupid, but true.

What to do? The chair didn't mean diddly to the mute man, not with more all around, but there was his image to consider. First with his friends, and then with the locals, who found the whole thing amusing.

The calculation, which boiled down to little more than guesswork, was relatively simple: How fast
was
the scrawny little bastard, anyway? He didn't look like much, standing in a puddle of snow melt, yet...

The door banged open, and a man entered the bar. Everyone looked. He was big,
real
big, with eyes like blue lasers. They probed each comer of the bar, found a table, and flicked toward his companion. She had a pretty face and a nasty riot gun. Floorboards squeaked as they crossed the room.

The mute man felt the focus shift and gave thanks. He stood, grabbed his mug, and headed for the bar. His honor was intact—and so was the beer buzz.

Wringer waited, took the recently vacated chair, and removed his hat. His head was shaved, with the exception of a carefully greased topknot.

His drink arrived a few minutes later. He took a sip, watched the newcomers through the poorly cast glass, and felt something wiggle in the pit of his stomach.

Prior to the Cleansing, Wringer had been a robotech. The female was biological,
real
biological, and the stuff of which fantasies are made.

Not the man, though—he was an honest-to-god, walking, talking synthetic, a model nineteen or twenty, trying to pass for human. They had different faces, the twenties did, but there was no mistaking the frame, or the perfect symmetry of their features. Wringer smiled. Money on the hoof, that's what the android was, with a whole bunch of customers just waiting to buy.

What about the sidearm, though? Was it for show, or for real? There had been specially enhanced law enforcement units—machines that could kill in the blink of an eye.

That would explain how the circuit-head had managed to survive this long—but what was the android up to? Not that it made very much difference. Or did it? Yes, he could try the droid, and risk getting his ass blown off, or he could try something more sophisticated. The kind of play that would eliminate a competitor
and
turn a profit at the same time.

The scav licked his wind-chapped lips, took a sip from his drink, and settled in to wait. The night was young.

 

"The man in the floppy hat is staring at us."

Doon didn't have to look to know whom Mary was talking about. A single shot of the man's face had triggered his suspect-recognition program and produced a three-screen rap sheet. His criminal record had started on the trip out and continued on the ground.

Though trained as a robotech, William Axton Williams, aka "Wringer," had chosen to supplement his income by stealing, then selling reprogrammed medical nano—microscopic machines that cruised an addict's bloodstream, synthesized the person's favorite drugs, and released them on demand.

Not forever, though, since raw materials were required, which is where the repeat business came in. Doon nodded. "Yeah, I've got him. See that light fixture over there?"

Mary looked. Electrical conduit, looted from the
Pilgrim,
had been shaped into a makeshift chandelier. It held six Zid candles, five of which were lit. A table stood below, unoccupied now, but littered with the remains of a meal. "Yeah? So?"

"Use the riot gun. Blow it away."

Mary looked to see if the synthetic was serious. "Why would I do that? It's crazy."

"Exactly," Doon replied calmly. "Crazy Mary... that has a ring to it. What you need is a rep—the kind that makes people pause. Go ahead—do it."