Steelheart (28 page)

Mother Juma nodded understandingly, assured the youngster that she was in the best of hands, and turned to the sound of voices. "Just relax, dear ... I'll be back in a moment."

Dara felt fear grip her heart as Juma left the room. Was this a raid? Would Reapers chase her through the streets? She grabbed her shift and pulled it on.

The commotion died away. Mother Juma stuck her head in.

"You have clothes on? Good! A rather insistent young male wants to speak with you. Quickly, now... we have work to do."

The head was withdrawn, and Solly appeared. He looked shy but defiant. "I'm sorry, Dara ... but I wanted to be here. In case you need someone."

Dara felt her heart melt as she heard the words and saw him standing there, awkward but determined. "Thank you, Solly. You're the one I need."

His face brightened, and Solly felt warm inside. He was just about to respond, to tell her how he felt, when Mother Juma took his arm. "You had your say ... wait outside. I'll inform you when the procedure is over."

Dara drank some foul-tasting liquid, was ordered onto a table, and subjected to a rather painful examination.

Mother Juma apologized for the lack of effective painkillers, laid out the tools of her trade, and went to work. The trick was to recover the unquickened fetus without causing excessive blood loss or damaging Dara's reproductive organs. Never easy—but best accomplished with a healthy youngster such as Dara. The skills, diluted by now, had been passed down the female side of her family from a convert who, in spite of her belief in the Church, had been unable to let young females suffer. Juma invoked her spirit and hoped for the best.

Solly paced back and forth across the waiting room, winced each time that Dara cried out, and willed the operation to end successfully. He would have prayed if it hadn't seemed so hopeless. After all, why would God listen to him or intercede for Dara, both of whom were destined for hell? No, all he could do was hope, and visualize the future. A hut, some land, and youngsters of their own. . . .
 
      

Dara screamed. It went on and on. Solly threw the curtain aside and rushed into the room. Dara lay there, her legs on supports, blood pooling on the table.

Juma turned, delivered a disapproving stare, and dropped the fetus into a specially prepared sack. It would be buried that night, not in the graveyard, but in a place prepared by a sympathetic priest. A place where the Devil would be unable to quicken it.

Solly took one of Dara's hands, winced at the strength of her grip, and started to whisper. He told her about his dreams, about their life together, and how good it would be. He told her that she was beautiful, that he liked to watch her move, and that he loved her. He told her that he would stay with her, even through the gates of hell, and that nothing could tear them apart.

And then, when everything had been said, he would have begun again, except that Juma touched his shoulder, indicated that everything was fine, and Dara should rest.

They were the most welcome words that Solly had ever heard. He watched her eye close, took pleasure in her breathing, and watched her sleep. He was determined that somehow, some way, his promises would come true.

 

 

 

22

 

em' is sa ry
/ n / a person or agent sent on a specific mission

 

 

It had been a long time since the roboticist's health had allowed him to leave the lab, but the nano had worked wonders, and he looked much, much better. Only "half dead," in the words of one wag.

Still, it wasn't every day that an emissary from a barely known alien race arrived at Flat Top, and Garrison had insisted that he be present.

In spite of the fact that the roboticist knew the Mothri was on the way, and had seen video taken from orbit, the sight was amazing nonetheless. He and his party waited at the foot of the mesa as alien robots swept over the rise before them.

They were black, or nearly so, with eight legs, flexible antennae, and bulging eye modules. Most were in good condition, but a few showed signs of wear, including at least one missing limb, a carapace riddled with bullet holes, and a half-slagged head unit. Damage that the hard-pressed nano had been unable to repair in the field.

The robots spotted the humans, stopped, and formed a protective semicircle. Garrison felt the ground shake, wondered if it was a tremor, and soon learned differently.

The pearly gray head appeared first—followed by a five-ton body. The roboticist, who thought he'd seen everything, stood transfixed as the enormous being lumbered into sight. Though alien, it was beautiful in its own way. That such a creature could exist, much less invent robots and master the intricacies of space travel, was a true testimonial to the diversity of intelligent life.

Garrison fingered the makeshift translator that hung around his neck. "This thing will work?"

Dr. Barbara Omita shrugged. "It has so far. We've been in radio communication for weeks now."

The scientist knew she was right, but still found the notion of communicating with something so different to be more than a little strange—in spite of the fact that he held conversations with machines each and every day.

How
strange the alien was became even more apparent as the Mothri loomed above them. Her voice rumbled like static through a thunderstorm. ''I am known to my sisters as Mallaca Horbo Drula Enore the 5,223rd. I greet you on behalf of the Graal... and ask a blessing on your eggs."

The roboticist looked up, searched for something to focus on, and chose one enormous eye. It gleamed with intelligence. "My name is Garrison. Dr. Gene Garrison. My staff and I are honored by your presence—and hope that your eggs sleep peacefully."

Enore, pleased with the polite response, clacked her mandibles. A human, she wasn't sure which sex, jumped in alarm. "The reports are propitious. All is well."

"Excellent," Garrison replied. "Please forgive my directness—but how are the samples? Are they okay?"

Enore thought back to the enormous distance she had traveled, the hardships endured along the way, and the villages she had visited. Villages without the slightest vestige of technology. If native nano were anywhere, that's where they'd be. But there had been no time to stop and examine the samples. Her voice rumbled like wind over a mike. "That's the critical question, isn't it, my friend? Have the facilities been prepared?"

Garrison nodded, remembered that human nonverbal communication wouldn't mean anything to his guest, and gave a verbal response as well. "A cave has been excavated, a work trench has been dug, and the electronics are in place."

"Good," the Mothri replied. "Please lead the way. I am eager to begin."

 

 

 

23

 

free will
/ n / the human, extraterrestrial, or machine will regarded 
as free from restraints, compulsions, or antecedent conditions

 

 

Dobe was defined by a grid of muddy streets, languid columns of wood smoke, and softly rounded roofs. Becka watched from the hill above. It wasn't safe down there, not for young girls, and she knew better than to go. It was lonely, though, now that Annie was gone, and the view made her feel better. Especially at night when the lights came on. They were like beacons that connected Becka with the townsfolk. Not now, though, since it was daylight, and had been for some time.

The caravan had pulled in three days before. It took the better part of four hours to sort the mutimals into their various pens, supply the feeders, and secure the trade goods.

Then, just as the light started to fade, the party began. There was drinking, yelling, shooting, dancing, and more drinking clear till dawn. Becka took comfort from the noise and preferred it to the silence of the woods.

Things had moderated during the next couple of days, so that little more than the occasional pistol shot or snatch of drunken song wafted its way up to her lofty perch. And now, having rested for three days, the packers were about to leave. Mutimals brayed as packs were strapped to their packs, metal clanged as hooves were shod, and there were wild packer yells as the scouts thundered away.

Becka knew she would miss them, especially at night, but that was the way of things. The minute you get comfortable, whammo! Things change. It happens every time.

There will be other caravans, Becka thought, consoling herself—and one of them would take her west. There was an aunt in Shipdown, had been anyway, which gave her a reason to go. Annie's pistol, pack, and purse would see her through.

It felt good to have a plan... and the ability to carry it out. Becka backed away from the skyline, swept her tracks with a branch, and entered the burrow. The tunnel angled down, then up—a trap to keep the heat in.

The passageway opened into the space around a tree trunk. Her gear was stacked next to a miniscule fire pit. A skirt of low-hanging branches formed the roof. Snow covered it over. Becka was snug in among the roots, and as safe as she was likely to be. "Home," as Annie liked to say, "is a state of mind."

 

Aoki had been a life-support specialist once, back when technology meant something, but not any more. Now he was the trail boss, a job he had survived into, and would hold till it killed him. A fate he would welcome if it cured his hangover.

Though short, there was a considerable amount of power in Aoki's barrel chest, chunky thighs, and well-developed biceps. His taste ran to the flamboyant, and the trail boss favored a cap with a foot-long tassel. It, like the heavily quilted parka and the windproof pants, was an eye-searing blue.

He wore two pistols, an ugly-looking semiauto with a fourteen-shot clip, and a custom-designed long-barrel that held only one cartridge but packed plenty of reach. The first weapon rode in a shoulder rig, the second in a cross-draw holster belted to his waist. The rifle slung across his back wore a thirty-round drum and was shiny from use.

Bright brown eyes peered out from beneath bushy black eyebrows. They didn't miss much, as those who worked for him had reason to know. Snow crunched under his boots as the boss man walked the length of the caravan. His voice was loud and carried a long way. "Hey, Monolo, what's the problem with Blue? There's drainage from his left eye. Ask Bones to check it out."

"You'd better tighten that cinch, Wheezer—unless you feel like chasin' gear all day."

"Well, I'll be damned—Shogi has his shit together
      

Will wonders never cease? Whoa! What have we got here?"

Caravans were the only semisafe way for people to travel, and they attracted lots of riffraff. Though unwilling to feed or otherwise care for them, most packers would tolerate a certain number of "tail-biters," as long as they met certain criteria.

An acceptable tail-biter would be armed, but not
too
well armed, since that was reason for suspicion. They would have an animal of their own, a reasonable amount of supplies, and would pass the "sniff test," which had nothing to do with the way the candidate actually smelled. Those who came across as coherent, friendly, and cooperative were generally approved. Thieves, gamblers, and prostitutes were generally left behind.

This couple fell into none of those categories, not so far as the trail boss could tell anyway, but still triggered his alarms.

The man was a big, strapping fellow, with an aura of competence, and a sizeable hand-cannon. The woman was both small and pretty. No problem there. What troubled the trail boss was their pack mutimal, the travois to which the animal was hitched, and the coffin that rode it. Aoki pointed a stubby finger at the object in question. "What the hell is that?"

"A coffin," Doon answered expressionlessly.

"I
know
that," the trail boss replied impatiently. "What's
in
it?"

"My sister," the android replied somberly. "She took sick and died."

Aoki, who was in charge of a caravan loaded with illicit weapons, knew something about contraband. "Your sister, huh? We'll see about that. . . . Open it up."

The synthetic looked resentful, opened the catches that secured the lid, and hoped the human wouldn't notice. Most coffins were nailed shut... and for good reason.

The trail boss kept the biters where he could watch them as he stepped up onto the travois. There was a body, all right—and a looker too! What a waste. He reached down to touch the side of the woman's neck. There was no pulse. The body was ice cold.

The packer stepped down and raised an eyebrow. "So what gives? No offense—but shouldn't she be buried?"

Doon shrugged. "I promised to bury her next to a church. Gotta find one first."

Aoki studied the man for a moment. The story was crazy enough to be true. "All right, seal her up. You can come. Don't fall behind, though—we don't wait for anybody."

The trail boss finished his inspection, Mary watched Doon, and Reno slept.

 

Becka surfaced in time to see the caravan depart. She watched till the last mutimal faded from sight. The next caravan would be
hers.
The thought felt warm, and she took it to bed.

 

The first day was the worst. Doon and Mary spent the majority of it struggling with the travois. It foundered on rocks, stalled in the snow, and caught on bushes.

Then, as if that weren't bad enough, there was the fact that with the exception of a brief lunch break the caravan never stopped moving. That forced them to play catch-up, or try to, since most of the other tail-biters had passed them by.

Eventually, the trail boss, who shaved her head and went by the inevitable nick name of Curly, plus a ragtag bunch of camp followers, were the only ones farther back. It looked bad for a while, as if they would fall behind, but conditions improved. The tie-downs held, the terrain grew smoother, and their speed increased. They even managed to pass a few people—a significant accomplishment, all things considered.

The pack mutimal was an enormous beast that Mary named Flathead. It fairly lunged ahead, rolled its eyes, and blew columns of vapor out through its nostrils.