Steelheart (27 page)

Crono watched the Reapers leave, murmured something under his breath, and knelt by Prulla's body. His lips formed a prayer, but his mind was elsewhere. The Devil was on the loose, all right—and working for the Church.

 

A substantial amount of time passed while the pilgrims took their companion's body to the city morgue and arranged for burial. It was a disturbing place, where the stench of death permeated the air, and the coffin-makers worked day and night.

Then, with snow falling all around, they made their way to the vast encampment where pilgrims from all over the Holy Empire were quartered. Unlike the cluster of guest huts common to villages such as Harmony, Grid, as it was known, was the size of a small city. True to its name, Grid had been plotted with geometric exactitude. Streets had numbers, and avenues had names.

So, in spite of the fact that Crono and his flock were so exhausted they could hardly see straight, they had no difficulty finding their respective huts. It was pleasant inside, thanks to the small army of juvenile fire-tenders charged with keeping them warm, and they were quick to unpack.

Solly squeezed Dara's hand, wished he could do something to allay the misery that haunted her face, and promised to visit in the morning. She nodded, forced a smile, and walked away.

The sleep that Solly yearned for came with surprising slowness. What was wrong with Dara, anyway? And what could
he
do? The answers were hidden in the darkness.

 

Dara rose early, shared in the group chores, and went to the morning service. It was a special occasion, one of four times a year when gender-specific sermons were heard and the faithful were reminded of their roles and responsibilities. Not something that Dara wanted to think about on that particular day.

Still, the very size of the gigantic pyramid, and the art that decorated the interior walls, couldn't help but claim her attention. She drank it in, and memorized as many details as she could, knowing her family would ask.
If
she ever saw them again. The pilgrims filed in, spent a brief moment in front of the Devil's altar, and were shown to their seats.

As with most of his kind, the priest had a lot to say— especially where motherhood was concerned—but Dara turned it off. Today was a free day, perhaps the only one that Crono would grant them, which left no possibility of delay. She could deal with the demon within—or die in the flames of purification. Her gills started to flutter, and she struggled to conceal it.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of listening, chanting, and praying, Dara rose and followed the rest outside.

She half expected to see Solly there, dear sweet Solly, waiting for her to emerge. Still in church probably, which was just as well, since the sight of his face could bring the truth, causing him to reject her, or even worse, making him a party to her sin.

Voices called, urged Dara to join them, but she waved and turned away.

In contrast to Grid's carefully laid-out right angles, the rest of Sacrifice was an exercise in happenstance. The streets, many of which had been laid down during the colony's first chaotic year, twisted and turned as if determined to escape. Dark alleyways and mysterious passages branched right and left. Many of the structures were two stories high and stood shoulder to shoulder along both sides of the street.

Pedestrians passed, Zid mostly, but with a scattering of humans. Dara tried not to stare, but found it was difficult, since the aliens were so different. They had two eyes instead of one, a lot of head filaments, and strange horizontal mouths.

The address her mother had given was Number Six River Front Road. Dara stopped one of the less foreboding citizens to ask directions. The moment the local heard the address, her face softened and she took Dara's hand. "Poor dear... my prayers will be with you. Follow this street to 6th Avenue, take a right, and continue to River Front Road."

Dara thanked the stranger and followed the directions. The interchange had been frightening and reassuring at the same time.

The youngster soon found herself on the street that flanked the river. The smell was unlike that produced by any river she had encountered before.

Perhaps that explained why the prosperous citizens of Sacrifice had put as much distance between themselves and the tributary as possible, leaving the poor and establishments like the one she sought to claim the historically beautiful waterfront.

The once-proud dwellings were some of the oldest in the city. Though freestanding back when they'd been built, many had been joined over the years, or expanded so that it was difficult to tell where one started and another left off.

That, plus the fact that almost all of them were in desperate need of maintenance, had transformed the block into what looked like a dirty gray embankment.

Number Six looked slightly less prosperous than its neighbors, and smaller somehow, as if trying to blend in. Thousands of stains pointed down from ancient vent plugs, cracks zigzagged across the plaster veneer, and smoke dribbled from blackened holes.

Dara looked around, saw no signs of surveillance, and waited for a heavily laden offal cart to pass. Assuming the place functioned the way it was supposed to, the Church
had
to know about it. That's what her father said, anyway... and she believed it. Though unwilling to confront the problem directly, the hierarchy had decided to let females like herself take their chances.

The cart moved on, and Dara crossed the street. The door was solid but badly worn. Her knock was weak and tentative. Blood pounded in the youngster's ears, her gills fluttered spasmodically, and her knees felt weak. She wished her mother was present and missed her terribly. The door opened, and Dara stepped through.

 

The church service passed with the slowness of a thrice-told tale. Though part of the same structure the females had been sent to, the chapel was separate from the main nave.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of sitting, the males were released out into the street. Solly, hoping to intercept Dara as she left the church, raced to the other side of the enormous pyramid only to discover that she had already left. There were other females, however, still lingering on the steps, and they answered his questions.

It seemed that Dara left immediately after church let out. One of the females, who thought the handsome young Solly could do better than a bit from a second-rate fishing village, smiled fetchingly. “Dara set out on her own, a reckless decision if you ask me, especially after last night's tragedy."

Solly sought to hide his impatience but failed. "Did you see which way she went?"

"Yes," another female obliged. "She went
that
way, down the street."

Solly thanked the females and set a brisk pace.

The citizenry, most of whom walked as if carrying enormous weights on their backs, kept their eyes on the slush in front of them and were rarely seen to laugh.

Most took no notice of the youth who dashed by, skidded around corners, and splashed through intervening puddles. Those who did contented themselves with a few well-polished curses, or Church-approved sayings such as "He who runs leaves merit at home."

Solly started to pant, saw what he thought was Dara's back disappear around a distant corner, and ran even faster. A female jerked her son out of the way as the lunatic hurtled past, leapt a puddle, and yelled his apology.

Solly rounded the corner, found himself on River Front Road, and spotted his quarry. Dara had mounted a short flight of stairs, knocked on a door, and was waiting to be admitted. He shouted her name, saw a figure outlined in the entrance-way, and started to run.

 

Their breath fogged the air as the clerics left the margins of the city and marched into fields beyond. Father Crono had known Bishop Hontz for a long time. They were roughly the same age, had attended seminary together, and enjoyed a hard-fought game of stones.

There were differences, however, starting with the extra twenty kol that the bishop had accumulated around his waist, and extending to the lives they had chosen. Crono preferred the life of a village priest, reluctantly acceding to a single promotion, while Hontz pursued a more ambitious path, rising steadily until his career had stalled. Not because he
couldn 't
go farther—but because he chose not to.

There was no place to talk, not in the city's churches, which accounted for the walk. The path, dusted with a light covering of freshly fallen snow, was unmarked. They had the area to themselves. Crono took comfort from that and shared his innermost concerns.

"I find conditions much changed, old friend.... Who commissioned the Reapers? And why do they exist?"

Hontz glanced back over his shoulder as if to assure himself of their privacy. "Many things have changed over the last year—and few for the better. The weather grows worse, the crops continue to fail, and our food stores dwindle. "Then, as if that were not enough, the Devil plagues us with human converts."

"Surely you jest," Crono replied seriously. "It is written that
all
must come to the glory of God."

The bishop nodded. "Yes, that's what I believed as well, until the human came to power. It was Jantz who filled Lietor's head with notions of conquest and created the Reapers."

"So, Lictor is nothing more than a tool?"

"No," Hontz replied wearily. "The heretics have established a fortress to the south. A place of evil where they traffic with the Devil. Lictor plans a Grand Crusade, an attack that will sweep the godless away and leave the Church in control. A plan which
sounds
good—but threatens our continued existence.

"The villages are being stripped of both parishioners and supplies. Who will grow the food? The oldsters left behind? And as the winter continues to deepen,
how
will it be grown? Such are the questions that go unanswered."

Crono was silent for a moment. "So, what can we do?"

Hontz paused. His breath jetted back along his cheeks. Their eyes met. "Do what you always do. Follow the word of God, guide your flock, and pray that the Chosen One is correct. The alternative is too horrible to contemplate."

 

The inside of the structure was dark and gloomy, lit more by candles than overhead vents. The door opened into a makeshift waiting room that was empty except for a female too old to share Dara's predicament. She looked worried, and fingered a well-worn prayer cube.

The attendant who claimed Dara was as impersonal as the process she administered. "Provide fifty percent of the fee in advance, strip to the skin, and wait for Mother Juma."

Dara did as she was told, shivered in the partially heated examining room, and crossed her arms over her chest.

That's when Dara heard the blood-chilling scream, and knew the abortionist was nearby. The Devil had been busy— and there were victims other than herself. She remembered the older female, the one in the waiting room, and knew who she was. A mother waiting for her daughter.

Silence followed the scream, which left Dara to wonder what had occurred. Was the patient all right? Freed from the thing that grew within her? Or dead, lying in a pool of blood? There was no way to know. Dara shivered, and time seemed to slow.

 

The door had closed by the time Solly arrived. He started to knock, thought better of it, and returned to the street. There was no way to know whom the dwelling belonged to, or why Dara had gone there. He might be welcome, but then again he might not, and the results could be disastrous. What if she wouldn't talk to him any more? That would be horrible.

A street vendor, steam rising from the front of his pushcart, clattered up the road. He saw Solly, analyzed his clothes, and came to the logical conclusion. A pilgrim, just in from the country, with hardly a coin to his name. Not an especially good prospect—but the only opportunity in sight.

"Piping hot tea! Just the thing to warm hands
and
stomach."

Though reluctant to part with any of his remaining money, Solly recognized the vendor for what he was, a potentially valuable source of information, and fished a coin from his purse. "That sounds good ... I'll take one."

Surprised, but pleasantly so, the vendor opened his cart, removed the pot from the charcoal-fed fire, and poured water into a badly chipped cup. The leaves had been secured within a ceramic strainer. It entered the liquid exactly eight times before being put to rest.

Solly accepted the heavily stained mug, expressed his appreciation, and nodded toward Number Six. "What can you tell me about the building over there?"

"It needs a coat of paint," the vendor said unhelpfully. Who was this youth anyway? An informant? Possibly, but only if the Church had fallen even further than appearances would suggest. "Why do you ask?"

"I saw an acquaintance of mine go in there," Solly replied cautiously. "Will she be okay?"

"Well, that depends," the vendor answered thoughtfully. "Mother Juma does a pretty good job, but some demons are stronger than others, and that's what kills them."

Solly waved the cup. Hot tea slopped over the side.
"Kills
them? What are you talking about?''

"I'll take my mug now," the vendor said, his breath filtering out through the scarf's loose weave. "Unless you wish to buy a second cup, that is."

Solly felt for a coin, found one, and handed it over. ' 'Tell me—what happens in there?"

The vendor told him. It all made sense. Suddenly Solly understood why Dara had been ill, why she lagged behind the others, and why she looked so haunted. He handed the cup to the vendor, ran up the stairs, and pounded on the door.

 

Dara had waited so long that she was startled when the curtain flew to one side and an energetic, middle-aged female stumped in. Her clan mark was blue, her apron was smeared with blood, and her voice was cheery. "Good morning, dear. Sorry to keep you waiting, but it couldn't be avoided. I'm Mother Juma, and you are? Dara. Well, Dara, tell me what's troubling you."

Haltingly at first, then with increasing confidence, Dara told her story. The initial symptoms, her mother's diagnosis, and the plan to secure help.