Steelheart (31 page)

Doon nodded, mounted Leadbutt, and took his reins. Aoki watched them go. The angular android, the diminutive woman, and the ice-encrusted coffin. The travois left two parallel lines in the muck. Zuul was a very strange world.

 

 

 

24

 

doc' trine
/ n / something taught as the principles or creed of a religion or political party

 

 

The sky was gunmetal gray. Snowflakes drifted in from the north and merged with those on the ground. The hill lay just south of Sacrifice. Three heavily weathered prayer poles marked the summit. They were vacant save for pennants that snapped in the breeze. The area around them provided the perfect vantage point from which to observe the crowd below. It was the largest that Crono had ever seen. The parishioners seethed like water brought to a boil as their leaders urged, threatened, and cajoled them into their proper places.

Many villagers wore clothing of the same color. Not because they wanted to look alike, or had been ordered to do so, but because of the dyes available in their particular region. Those who had traveled, individuals like Crono, were familiar with Obedient blue, Faithful green, and Provident red—a color that smacked of pride and should be avoided in Crono's opinion. He turned to examine his flock.

They, at least, were more soberly attired—and a compliment to the communities whence they came. He had concerns, though, not in regard to their appearance, but where their emotional well-being was concerned.

Some were in mourning, still dealing with the deaths caused by the avalanche, while others, Dara being a prime example, fought more private battles.

There was little doubt where Dara had gone the day after they arrived—or what had transpired once she arrived there. Though it had been unquickened, she mourned for the little one, and felt guilty about what she'd done. The priest wished he could comfort the youngster, tell her that it was no fault of her own, for that was how he felt. But doctrine said otherwise, and doctrine was paramount. The entire faith depended on that.

Still, Solly had been of some use, and while clearly enamored of the young female, he showed no sign of taking advantage. That at least was good—and suggested a match. Assuming all went well, he would return them to their families, place a word with some of the elders, and enable what God had clearly ordained.

A cheer went up. Crono turned to find that the crowd had been released and was streaming toward the road beyond. More human meddling, according to Bishop Hontz, who complained that local authorities were being robbed of their autonomy, as Jantz and his cronies exerted more and more control over the Church.

Yes, Hontz could understand how impressive the crowd would be, and the sense of wonder the multitude would engender as it swept across the land, but he wondered if the whole thing made sense. What of the dangers involved? What of the crops that went unplanted?

Such concerns
had
been shared with Lictor via back channels, but to no avail.

Still, the crusade was a brand-new idea, and new ideas deserve new methods. Or so it seemed to Crono.
If the
idea worked,
if
the heretics were converted, a tremendous good would result. So why did he doubt it?

Crono pushed the thought away and motioned to his followers. A few noticed, passed the word to others, and started down the hill. They would reach the Cathedral of the Rocks in five days. The priest should have felt a sense of anticipation—of joy—but his spirit remained unmoved. No matter—a good hike would take care of that, as it had many times before.

A river of Zid flowed out onto the road. Some followed leaders like Crono, but many had joined on their own, eager to share the great adventure. Prayers were sung, laughter rippled through the crowd, and the mood was festive. They waved at the priest, and he waved back.

 

From a vantage point similar to the one ascribed to God, Michael watched. Where were the Zid headed, and why?

He made regular reports to Flat Top, and would pass the word. Especially in light of the fact that he had spotted at least three similar groups, all of which were headed toward the Cathedral of the Rocks. Something unprecedented was happening—and he had the best seat in the house.

 

 

 

25

 

res ur rec' tion
/ n / to rise from the dead

 

 

It took three days to make their way out of the river canyon and through the badlands beyond. Doon knew exactly where they were, thanks to Michael.

Riftwall, the outpost in which George Maras had been living prior to the Cleansing, lay to the southeast with Rat Top beyond that.

Exhausted from climbing hills and negotiating gullies, Doon, Mary, and the three mutimals emerged onto an enormous plain.

It was featureless for the most part, with nothing more than the occasional rise or shallow river to relieve the mind-numbing monotony of the landscape. A problem that affected Mary more than Doon—since he seemed devoid the need for visual variety and was satisfied with whatever the journey offered.

Mary needed things to think about—things other than Corley—and wondered what the android's attitude meant. Did its attitude demonstrate a masterly acceptance of reality, or a lack of imagination?

Then there was the question of merit. If a human spent years working to develop a calm acceptance of that which cannot be changed, and an android possessed the same understanding from the moment of creation, which was superior? And did such questions have meaning?

Doon passed the time in other ways. He talked to Michael and, when the satellite was off-line, to what remained of Sojo. Not because he liked the rider, but as something to do. Their most recent conversation was focused on the rider's self-imposed mission.

"So," Doon said, "assuming we manage to reach Flat Top, what then?"

"I'll download myself to a new body and go to work."

"There's enough of you to do some work?"

"There's enough to drive you crazy."

"Point taken."

"I thought so."

"What about Garrison? And the rest of his staff? You assume they'll agree with your hypothesis. What if they don't?"

There was a pause while the ghost considered his reply. "I believe that they will. We're screwed if they don't." "Thanks for lifting my spirits." "Hey, you asked." The horizon waited.

 

Reno lived in a place with no limits, where static electricity crackled at the edge of her being, and the world lacked substance.

There was awareness, enough to know who she was, but little more than that.

There had been moments, though—brief, fleeting moments during which she saw or heard glimpses of her environment.

The synthetic had seen sky once, swaying from side to side, but nothing since. Later, she
thought
it was later, there had been voices. Female voices that talked to each other. Once was commanding, the other compliant. And there was
pain,
a great deal of pain, as the voices did things to her. Things they had never been trained to do.

There was darkness after that, a refuge she didn't want to leave but was dragged out of.

There were different voices this time. A female and a male. They did things too, skillful things, and nearly brought her back. Reno felt herself drawn together, made contact with previously inaccessible parts of her being, and struggled for control.

But something was wrong,
very
wrong, and her efforts failed. She could
hear
them, though—every word they said, including the argument.

The female wanted to terminate Reno's functions and send her to Shipdown. The male objected, likened such a plan to murder, and ultimately won.

There were many sounds after that, including voices, most of which were too muffled to understand, not to mention the wind, which took on a personality of its own. It whispered at times, like the best of friends, moaned as if tortured, and howled like a monster, all in the same day.

Reno was frightened then, fearful that she'd remain trapped, unable to move or speak, vulnerable to anyone who came along.

There were times when it seemed too much to bear, when insanity beckoned from the darkness, when she wanted to die.

But then came the visits, as regular as clockwork, and Reno had company.

It was the same voice she'd heard before—the male voice, the one that had defended her. He
could
have been human ... but she knew he wasn't. He told Reno how beautiful she was, how he knew of her passion for biology, and his hopes for the future. A future together.

The words, not to mention the sincerity behind them, fueled a variety of emotions. Affection for a person she had never met—and fear for his sanity.

Sane or not, she lived for the squeal of metal hinges, the sudden rush of the wind, and the gentleness of his voice. "Hello, beautiful! How are you today? You look wonderful—but what else is new?

"It's cold this morning, damned cold, and snowing. Hope you don't mind a few flakes. There's no way to stop 'em— not without leaving the lid down. I couldn't bear that. Mary thinks I'm nuts and Sojo agrees. Who knows? Maybe they're right. Have a good day—I love you."

That's when Reno felt a tremendous tenderness rise to fill her throat and wanted to cry the way humans did. And that's when the hinges squealed, the wind dropped to a rumble, and the waiting started all over again.

 

The community of Riftwall took its name from the three-mile-long discontinuity that had resulted when one section of the planetary crust had been pushed up over the rest.

Given the fact that it was located at the intersection of a trail that went south toward Flat Top, and a road that went east toward the Cathedral of the Rocks, Riftwall had been known for its Zid-inspired architecture, long, sunny days, and laid-back atmosphere.

Yes, there had been tensions, but they had been manageable ones until the Cleansing came. The same quakes that damaged Shipdown shook the city. Citizens of both races were killed or injured. Because of subtleties in the way they were constructed, human structures suffered more damage than their Zid equivalents did.

A fact which the more zealous of the Zid interpreted as a message from God—and a sign that mass expiations should begin. Some of the humans joined the Antitechnic Church, but most chose not to, and resisted the nonstop efforts to convert them. That being the case, it wasn't long before the issue came to blows, fighting escalated, and, thanks to their superior weaponry, the humans won.

The Zid were ejected, ditches were dug, walls were erected, and towers were built. The town, once so open, turned inward. Winter, nearly eternal now, froze the situation in place. The townspeople were victorious.

That's what
they
thought, anyway—although the reality was somewhat different. As conditions worsened, and Riftwall was cut off from the HZ, commerce all but stopped. Many people drifted away, buildings fell into disrepair, and a community of thousands was reduced to hundreds.

Doon adjusted the aperture on his eye cams and stared into the glare. The tower was made of wood and stood like a sentinel against the sky. The wall, and the city it protected, lay beyond. He knew the sentries were watching, wondering who they were, and assessing their strength.

The synthetic waited for a challenge, but none came. Just the glint of lenses, a once-bright flag, and the smell of wood smoke. Ruts led, and the mutimals followed. The travois didn't fit. One pole thumped through a trough while the other climbed onto a shoulder. The coffin started to list, but the lashings held.

The gate, which had been scorched during an attack, was guarded but open. A sentry waited for the twosome to approach, aimed some spit at a spot in front of them, and grinned as it struck. His hair was long and greasy, his eyes were bloodshot, and his face wore a three-day growth of
 
beard. An auto thrower hung low across his chest. It at least was clean. "Howdy. . . . What can I do for you?"

Doon pulled Leadbutt to a halt and did his best to sound casual. "We're looking for a hot meal and a place to stay."

The sentry nodded. "Shouldn't be a problem ... long as you can pay. Where you headed?"

Leadbutt shook himself, and the android patted the side of his neck. "Up north ... to visit my mother."

The sentry laughed and rubbed thumb on finger. "And the Mothri fly like birds! We got an entry tax ... fifty guilders a head."

Doon frowned. "Kinda steep, ain't it?"

The sentry grinned. "Yup, it sure as hell is."

It was Doon's turn to laugh. He pulled a wad of scrip, small so it wouldn't attract attention, and peeled some off. One of the fifties was new ... the other was greasy from use.

The sentry accepted the bills, checked the watermarks, and wrote a receipt along the bottom of page 37 of a
Colonist's Guide to Zuul.
"Here you go ... welcome to Riftwall."

Mary cleared her throat. This was the place where Corley had come to be with her father. Were they alive? Now she would know. "What happened to the Research Facility? Does it still exist?"

The sentry, who wished she was naked, shook his head. "No, ma'am. Burned and looted. There ain't nothin' left."

"And the people who worked there?"

The sentry shrugged. "Don't rightly know, ma'am."

"Do you know a man named Maras? George Maras?"

"No, ma'am. Sorry."

Mary nodded. "Thanks anyway."

Doon kicked Leadbutt in the ribs, made a clucking sound, and led Flathead through the gate.

The sentry mounted the wall, nodded to another member of the watch, and looked toward the east. When trouble came—as surely it would—that's the direction it would come from.

 

A single Zid came first. His was a place of honor. The head, mounted on a pole, was that of a human heretic. Three of his fellow missionaries had died during the effort to take her down. Her empty eye sockets probed the way ahead, while her long blonde hair whipped from side to side.