Steelheart (25 page)

The little girl took one last look around, hoped she'd be home for dinner, and knew she wouldn't. The door closed over Becka's head, a candle lit the way, and her boots splashed through stagnant water. Home, if such a thing were possible, lay somewhere else. Tears were a luxury—and hers would have to wait.

 

 

 

20

 

pow' er
/ n / the ability to control others

 

 

The Cathedral of the Rocks shuddered in response to a minor tremor, just one of dozens felt each week. A stone fell from a buttress and shattered in the courtyard below. A hut collapsed on the edge of town. Candles flickered and sent shadows to dance the walls.

Jantz looked down to the point where his sex organ entered the woman's mouth. Her head bobbed up and down as she struggled to make lustful sounds. It was a quick, efficient way to relieve himself. Sex, or the desire for it, threatened to siphon energy away from more important activities, such as the pursuit of power.

The pleasure began to build. His pulse increased, as did his respirations. Though not especially skilled, the woman made up for the deficit with sheer energy, and his climax arrived quickly. There was the all too brief moment of pleasure, quickly followed by fatigue and shortness of breath.

The woman looked up, embarrassed by what she'd done, and eager for approval.

Jantz wanted to reward her, wanted to meet her need, but couldn't summon the energy. Not without more oxygen. The religious leader gestured in what he hoped was an appreciative manner. It came across as both a blessing and a dismissal.

Tears streamed down the woman's face. She rose, grabbed her robe, and made for the door. The idea of requesting her help never occurred to him. Not when the slightest sign of weakness would invite attack.

Jantz waited till she was gone and surrendered to his symptoms. He had felt them before. They included fatigue, shortness of breath, and excessive perspiration—all due to a stenosis of his mitral valve.

The problem had been corrected years before, or he thought it had, but there was no mistaking the way he felt. The nano that were supposed to keep the valve in good repair had broken down, run out of gas, or gone on vacation.

Jantz waited, felt his breathing stabilize, and forced himself to stand. The physical problems were annoying,
very
annoying, but could and would be solved.
After
he set certain forces in motion.

The Chosen One, whom the human disliked more with each passing day, wanted a crusade. Never mind that there was psychological groundwork to lay, untold tons of supplies to wring from an increasingly needy population, and logistics to worry about. Lictor didn't care.

The religious leader checked a well-concealed chron. It was time to meet with George Maras—the lackey on whom most of the logistical effort had fallen.

Though spineless, and something of a bore, the academic certainly knew his stuff. Caravans ran on schedule, pilgrims carried heavier loads, and the priests read from centrally prepared texts. Arms were flowing out of the west, food was pouring in from the north, and the newly created factories ran day and night. Well, not factories exactly, since everything was made by hand, but highly organized sweat shops.

No good deed goes unpunished, however—which meant Maras was in for a surprise. Jantz smiled at the thought, opened the door, and followed the long, empty hall.

 

Maras had been waiting more than twenty minutes now. Was Jantz really that busy, or was he playing games? The administrator sighed and looked around.

Referred to as "the cloister," and off limits to all but a few, the room functioned as headquarters for Jantz and the human members of his staff. The cathedral was riddled with secret passageways—but great care had been taken to ensure that only one led here. There were candles, however, and curtains that could be pulled in an emergency.

The cloister was large, comfortable, and packed with technological items, starting with such mundane objects as a fully functioning cooler and extending to some rather sophisticated com gear and a Mothri control console modified for human use.

The "Eye of God," as Jantz referred to his hijacked satellite, was beaming video down from orbit. Maras watched as a long line of pilgrims struggled up the side of a hill. They were Zid, each loaded with a pack fully twice the size of what they were normally asked to carry, and headed for a central marshaling point. One of them stumbled, was helped to her feet, and the march continued. It felt strange to look down on them—to witness their hardship—and know that he was responsible for it.

Maras felt a moment of guilt, worked to suppress it, and felt a little better.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Jantz inquired. "A month, maybe less, and the supplies will be in place. All thanks to you."

Maras gave an involuntary jump.

Jantz grinned. "Sorry about that. Would you care for a drink?"

Maras eyed the walls. A great deal of time and energy had been invested to make the cloister secure—but what if Lictor knew? What if the head of the Antitechnic Church was watching through a peephole?

Jantz read his subordinate's expression. "You worry too much. . . .Besides, if ol' T-head's onto us, then the whole thing is over. You might as well have a beer."

The administrator nodded and waited while his superior opened the cooler, selected a bottle of beer, and popped the cap. It had been brewed in Vent and shipped along with some black-market weapons. The same ones destined for use by the recently commissioned Reapers, a paramilitary force created to protect the unarmed crusaders and handle most of the fighting. Maras took a sip, considered the cold, crisp taste, and tried another.

"Not bad, is it?" Jantz inquired of no one in particular. "Just a taste of things to come. Life could be comfortable here... for us, anyway."

Jantz was in a good mood, though slightly pale. Maras began to relax. As always, that was a mistake.

 

Corley took a long, careful look around the central nave. It was a Five-Day, the evening services were hours away, and the church was nearly empty. A group of pilgrims, ragged from their long, arduous journey, sat in front of the true altar and listened to their priest.

A painter, just one of the many workers required to maintain the cathedral, worked on a scaffold a hundred feet away.

Two elders, who never left the building except to eat and sleep, dozed in their chairs.

The little girl approached the Devil's altar slowly, as if in awe. Dr. Suti Canova watched eagerly. Such visits were rare and extremely important to her.

Corley knelt for the benefit of spies and kept her voice pitched low. "How's it going? Are you okay?"

The most truthful answer would have been no, but Canova forced a smile. "I'm fine. How are you?"

"You're lying," the little girl said seriously, "because complaining doesn't do any good."

Canova shrugged, or tried to, but couldn't move. Though moist and somewhat flexible on the outside, the inner clay was hard and unyielding. "I'm glad you understand."

Corley smiled and nodded. "You won't have to be there much longer—I have a plan to get you out."

Canova felt a sudden surge of hope, knew how silly that was, and allowed it to dissipate. "No, Corley, you musn't. Grown-ups might be able to break me out—but you couldn't. Besides, there's no place to run."

Corley looked from side to side and winked. "No offense, Suti, but you're wrong. My father has a computer, a
good
one, with lots of memory. It came from Shipdown. I could hook it up, take you across, and leave the hardware here. They wouldn't even know you were gone."

The possibility of freedom caused Canova's spirits to soar. The news that a relatively high-ranking member of the Church owned a computer should have surprised her, but didn't somehow. The plan was so wild, so audacious, that it might actually work. Knowing that made her mind race.

Then an odd thing happened. The android, who would have sworn that she had little or no attachment to her physical body, discovered that she did. Even though the synthetic
knew
her chassis was little more than a vehicle, and an interchangeable one at that, it was
hers
and therefore unique. She summoned the gentlest of smiles.

"Thank you, Corley. It's a wonderful idea—more than that, a
brilliant
idea—but I need time to think. Is that okay?"

"Sure," Corley answered simply. "Take all the time you need. It's not like I'm going anywhere."

 

Jantz felt tired, knew he shouldn't be* but couldn't help it. He speared Maras with his eyes and lowered himself into a chair. "Enough small talk ... time to get to the point. Lictor grows impatient. He'd launch the crusade tomorrow if we allowed him to do so. Half the crusaders would starve before they arrived at Flat Top, and the rest would be so weak the geeks would beat them to death with microscopes.

"In order to avoid that, I drew the exalted one's attention to the communities of Wellhead, Chrome, and Riftwall."

Jantz gestured toward the hand-drawn map that decorated one of the walls. "Take a look. You'll notice that all three of them are located within the holy lands, and though severely chastised during the Cleansing, are riddled with the Devil's work. As I pointed out to his incredible flatulence, it makes sense to purify these hellholes
before
the attack on Flat Top, so as to secure our northern flank and set an example. I'm proud to say that the supreme asshole fell for the suggestion hook, line, and sinker."

Something cold seeped into the bottom of the administrator's stomach. Where was the conversation headed? "Really? What about the resources required? Supplies aren't limitless, you know."

Jantz struggled to control his impatience. "I'm aware of that... but we need more time. That's what
you
keep telling me, anyway.

"And there's something else, too. Much as I hate to admit it,... Lictor's right. Flat Top must fall... but not to
him.

"I have a spy there, or had, since she hasn't been heard from in some time, and you'd be amazed by what the eggheads put together. They have power, lots of it, straight from a geothermal tap, subsurface farms, hot and cold running water, you name it. Just the place from which to govern the planet.
If
we can take it.

"That's where
you
come in. You and a few of my most trusted lieutenants. Go to Riftwall, convert the populace, and return in triumph. Lictor will come in his pants, we'll get plenty of recruits, and our preparations will be complete."

The plan made a certain amount of sense, except that Maras had no relevant experience and no desire to gain it. "Couldn't someone else handle Riftwall? I'm really busy ... and there's Corley to think of."

Jantz was disappointed and allowed it to show. It was clear that he'd been too nice—and too collegial. "I'll take care of Corley," he answered coldly. "You heard my orders... carry them out."

Maras bowed in the same way that a Zid might have. "Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

"Good. Now leave me alone."

Jantz waited for Maras to back out through the door and close it behind him. It took every bit of his strength to push himself up out of the chair and stand. Death had wrapped its cold, clammy hand around his heart. Would it squeeze him dead? Or allow him to escape? The room swam ... and he staggered toward the exit.

 

 

 

21

 

reap
/ vt / to cut down, as grain, with a sickle, scythe, or reaping machine

 

 

The avalanche that had killed twenty-three members of the party was over, but the emergency wasn't. The light had started to fade, the temperature had started to fall, and there was no place to take shelter. And, as if that weren't bad enough, Father Crono, who had led the pilgrims with such assurance up until now, had descended into a state of shock.

Not just physical shock, but psychological shock, since the priest saw God's hand in everything, disasters included. Why? Crono asked himself. Why had God forsaken him? It wasn't fair... and that shook the priest's faith. So much so that he had retreated to a place deep within himself and refused to come out.

Solly, who for lack of a better candidate had assumed a leadership position, knew the situation was desperate. The survivors, some of whom were elderly, wouldn't be able to travel during the night, especially with injured to care for.

No, the answer was to stay where they were, conserve the group's energy, and make for Sacrifice in the morning.

But how? A shelter could be improvised, but what about a fire? Especially without fuel? No sooner had Solly asked himself the question than the answer popped into his mind. From God? No, the Devil seemed more likely, since the plan would require the pilgrims to appropriate God's property and use it for their own purposes. A sin if there ever was one.

However, given that the alternative was death, the youngster hoped that the supreme being would forgive the transgression, if not for him, then for those acting at his direction. But would they obey his orders? Or, like the God-fearing folk they were, rise up and strike him down?

Solly scanned the faces around him, searched for reassurance, and found it in Dara's face. She looked
so
calm,
so
sure of his leadership, that his doubts melted away. He smiled. "Dara, gather everyone in, count heads, and assess injuries. Send those who can work to me."

"Elder Ranko, see the rock ledge up ahead? The one that hangs out over the trail? That will be our roof. The walls are up to you. Take half the able-bodied males and get to work. Remember, though, speed is everything. Please lower your standards."

Ranko, who was known for the exacting methods by which he laid stone, laughed, as did those around him. The comment, so masterfully put, struck just the right note. Morale rose accordingly.

Dara returned, Ranko led the work party toward the overhang, and Solly focused on the second part of his plan. "I need water flasks, Dara—nine should be enough. Small holes would be best. Empty them and bring them here."