Steelheart (32 page)

Next came three standard bearers, their banners held high.

The drummer, a youth of twelve, followed behind. The beat came at five-second intervals. Boom! One, two, three, four, five—boom! That, along with the other problems associated with leading a band of religious zealots across a hostile country, had given Maras a horrible headache.

One pain tab—that's all it would have taken to ease the agony, but Maras didn't have a pain tab and wasn't likely to get one. Not so long as he lived with alien rabble.

The human, like those who followed behind, was mounted on a mutimal. He turned, checked to ensure that the column was intact, and scanned for outriders. Yes, there they were, little more than dots in the distance, riding parallel to the column.

There had been something of a fuss earlier, when the flankers had chased someone, but that was over now.

All Maras knew about military tactics had been taken from books, but every single one of the references he read had stressed the importance of intelligence, and the use of scouts as the means to obtain it.

The human had another resource of course, the satellite known as the Eye of God, but couldn't make good use of it. Not without establishing radio contact with Jantz—a dangerous process best reserved for emergencies.

Yes, the Chosen One had granted special dispensation where firearms were concerned, but had prohibited the use of other technologies, including electronic communications.

The administrator was stuck with the situation, and would have to make the best of it. The communities of Wellhead, Chrome, and Riftwall had to be purified in preparation for the coming crusade. That's why Jantz had ordered him to go—that, plus other reasons Maras could only guess at. To dirty his hands? To prove human zeal? For political reasons?

The answer might be found in one or all of those questions. It made little difference. What was, was, and he would endure. For Corley—and for himself.

Thinking of his daughter triggered feelings of guilt. Leaving his daughter behind had been the hardest thing he'd ever been forced to do. He didn't trust Jantz, not for a moment, but had no choice.

Corley was a form of insurance. A guarantee that her father wouldn't run, enter some sort of conspiracy, or go into business for himself—all possibilities that Maras had considered.

The administrator turned his mind to the past. Certain that Riftwall would fall, and concerned for Corley's safety, Maras had been one of the first to convert. The arduous trek to the east, and the intensive indoctrination, were preferable to death.

Later, when conditions worsened, and hundreds of humans flocked to the Church, the decision paid off. While the sincerity of recent converts was questioned, rather painfully at times,
his
was assumed.

He'd been wrong in at least one respect, however: Riftwall refused to fall—and remained in human hands. That was what he'd been sent to remedy. The irony of it brought a smile to his lips.

The drum boomed, equipment clattered, and the wind moaned in his ears. Maras looked back along the column, counted the beings who followed him, and felt a primitive sense of pride. Like it or not,
this
was the essence of power,
this
was the way empires were built, and
this
was his.

 

There was something about the boy that Doon didn't like. Scraggly red hair seemed to crawl across his head, pimples populated his cheeks, and his eyes were exceedingly bright, as if the youngster was on drugs, or supernaturally alert. "Honest, mister, me pap is waitin' at the other end of the alley, and the lab's close. Real close."

Doon activated his aggressor systems and scanned for trouble. Mary and he had been in Riftwall for a little more than a day now, each pursuing their own separate interests.

While the human looked for her family, the synthetic went in search of a robotics lab. Not for himself—but for Reno. That was a cause for which Sojo had but limited sympathy, especially given the need to leave Riftwall and head for Flat Top.

The screen came up empty. The boy, who had approached Doon as he left the hotel, danced from foot to foot. "Come on, mister, we're almost there!"

Doon nodded and allowed his hand to brush the Skorp. "You first."

The boy grinned slyly and did as he was told. The alley had been used as a dump for the last year or so. The garbage had frozen in layers, like mud in sedimentary rock, and rose to either side. The trail swerved right, then left, its course defined by the larger pieces of junk.

They came to a comer, the boy turned into a passageway, and Doon stopped. The man was concealed in a doorway, but his heat signature gave him away. He stepped out into the hard, gray light. He looked a lot like his son—the same red hair, hollow cheeks, and too-bright eyes. A stunner filled his fist. "An honest-ta-God twenty—didn't know there were any more."

Doon eyed the stunner. Many weapons could do him harm—but this was one of the worst. A single shot could leave him like Reno. "Yeah, how'd you know?"

The human let out a chuckle. It made a dry, raspy sound. He rumbled in a pocket and produced a small black box. "Simple ... I got a scanner."

The android nodded. Such devices had been common prior to the Cleansing, when bigots wore them to prove they were bio bods, or to "out" synthetics that passed for human. Doon prepared to draw. He would have to be fast,
very
fast, but that's what he was.
If
the stunner's safety was on,
if the
red-haired man took a fraction of a second to release it, he'd have a chance. "So? What now?"

The man grinned. "So now we do business. I ain't no bigot. Katie was—but the Zid took her. God bless each and every one of the clam-faced bastards!"

The stunner disappeared, and the laugh sounded like a cackle. "Come on—you're gonna like this."

Doon allowed himself to relax slightly as the man and his son removed a pile of junk with a smoothness that spoke of long practice. The door opened on well-oiled hinges, and the android followed them inside.

Battery-powered panels, still fed by the solar active roof covering, filled the room with light. The equipment was dusty but intact. There were a couple of degrees on the wall—one of which had been granted aboard the
Pilgrim.
There was a picture too, of two men with their arms around each other's shoulders, grinning into the lens. Where were they now? There was no way to know.

"Amazing, ain't it?" the man asked proudly. "We found it just like it is—all sealed up. And it's yours—assumin' you can pay."

The lab was everything Doon had hoped for. He imagined the way Amy would open her eyes and look up into his face. How much was something like that worth? Everything—assuming he wanted to pay. There were other possibilities— but he pushed them away. "How much do you want?"

"Three thousand G's."

"That's two thousand more than I've got," the android replied honestly. "How 'bout a thousand?"
 

"Done," the man said quickly.

The synthetic pulled what remained of his roll out of his pocket and gave it over. The human accepted the money, counted the bills, and offered three in return. "A deal's a deal."

Doon nodded and watched them go. The door had no more than closed when it opened again. The man stuck his head in. "So, ain't you gonna ask?"

"Ask what?"

"Why we would sell so cheap?"
 

"Okay," Doon replied mildly. "Why did you sell so cheap?"

" 'Cause the Reapers are a-comin'," the man cackled gleefully, "and they're gonna wipe this town off the map."

 

The streets had been laser-straight, and at least two crawlers wide, but a combination of rubble and garbage had put an end to that. Trails went here and there, straight when feasible and curved as necessary.

The townspeople were around—though not always visible. Mary could
feel
their eyes on her, peering from windows, watching from doorways. Wondering how much money she carried, what she looked like with her clothes off, and whether the riot gun was for real.

It was an uncomfortable feeling—and one that reminded the roboticist of the extent to which she relied on Doon to protect her. Nobody messed with the android because of the way he looked. Armed and dangerous.

She remembered Dobe, the personality Doon had established for her there, and scanned her surroundings. The red on black sign was faded, but still read "Cafe," and creaked under pressure from the wind. The shotgun roared, the panel came apart, and splinters flew in every direction.

Mary could almost feel the eyes turn away. The riot gun
was
for real... and the woman was crazy.

Most of the street signs were gone, but some remained, and that, plus the directions received at the hotel, enabled the roboticist to find the campus. Or what
remained
of the campus... since the buildings had been damaged in the quakes, looted, burned, and looted again.

Mary checked her back trail, marveled at the habits she had formed, and wandered through the rubble. This was the place where George had been stationed. Where he had written long, self-centered letters, jockeyed for position in a meaningless hierarchy, and preyed on whatever women were available.

It was also the place to which Corley had come, eager to spend time with her father, never suspecting what would happen. Had they been killed? Forced into the badlands? Taken by the Zid? She hoped not—but knowing would be better than not knowing.

The path ended in front of some broken duracrete. It was all that remained of an arch. One chunk bore the fragment "Univer," while another read "sity Station."

Mary closed her eyes and fought back the tears. Tears were a sign of weakness—an invitation to attack. Doon arrived a few minutes later, put his arm around her shoulders, and led the roboticist away. That's when she cried—and the android understood.

 

It took the better part of three hours to return to the hotel, retrieve the coffin, and haul it to the lab.

Flathead, who had enjoyed the time off, complained incessantly as Doon led him through the streets.

There were people, lots of them, all on the move. They wore packs stuffed with supplies, pulled carts loaded with belongings, and rode sturdy-looking mutimals. Some wanted Flathead, and offered a lot of money for him; others swore when the animal got in their way.

The word was out: The Reapers were coming, though no one knew when. Was it rumor, with no basis in truth? Or fact, based on actual sightings?

There was no way to be sure, but Sojo felt a sense of urgency, and never stopped nagging. "What the hell are you doing? Deal with what's her name later when it's safe. Let's get out of here!"

Doon grew tired of the rider, shoved him down out of the way, and continued as before.

Mary, still depressed by her failure to find any trace of her family, felt numb. It took a great deal of discipline to follow Doon into the lab, connect the various leads, and run the diagnostics. Why should she be the one to bring Reno back? Especially when it meant she'd be replaced? It didn't seem fair.

The roboticist pushed the correct buttons, watched readouts flicker to life, and felt temptation nibble at the edges of her mind. What if she lied? Told Doon it was hopeless? He at least would be hers.

But one glance at his face, at the way he looked down into the coffin, and Mary knew she couldn't do it. Not now— not ever.

The roboticist pushed her personal concerns aside and focused on the patient. The readouts confirmed her assumption. The synthetic had been struck by a full-force stunner blast. One of twelve suboperating systems had crashed—and two were scrambled.

A check confirmed that the necessary software was available, and the download began.

The process was barely underway when the building shook, plaster fell from above, and a tool crashed to the floor. Mary looked up. "A quake?"

Doon shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Felt like a demolition charge to me. Perhaps our friend was right."

Sojo had been lying low for a while, inviting his host to relax, waiting for the right opportunity. He struck without warning.

Doon went rigid as the rider launched a simultaneous attack on his higher thought processes
and
motor controls. It was the worst assault yet—and he felt himself slipping.

Mary saw the synthetic's expression, guessed what had occurred, and took immediate action. She grabbed two leads, shoved the tips through the outer layer of his "skin," and flipped a series of switches. "Into your cage, Sojo—or kiss your butt good-bye."

Doon felt his lips form the words: "DON'T-DO-IT. I-CAN-SAVE-ZUUL."

"So you claim," Mary said calmly. "And I can erase your ass."

"YOU-COULDN'T-BEFORE."

"This lab has better equipment than mine did. You have five seconds: five, four, three ..."
 

Doon felt the rider back away and slammed the door behind him. "You
had
him, Mary! Why let him go?"

The roboticist shrugged. "I lied. Besides, what if he
can
save Zuul?"

The android was about to reply when Reno sat up in her coffin. "Hello! Where the heck am I?"

The other two rushed to the synthetic's side. Doon wanted to speak, wanted to say all sorts of things, but couldn't get them out. For the first time in his life, the android knew what humans meant by the term "tongue-tied."

That being the case, Mary did all the talking, asked a battery of questions, and checked the results. The synthetic was fully functional. There was the possibility of long-term damage—but a full-fledged psych profile would take more time than they had.
 

Reno was freed from the leads and helped out of the coffin. Though a human would have been weak, and barely able to walk, the android was strong as ever.

Doon had recovered his powers of speech by then, and gave the biologist a briefing.

Reno listened, signaled her understanding, and followed him outside. The encounter was anticlimatic, especially in light of the things he'd said, but Reno was glad.
Saying
things was one thing—
meaning
them was something else. Time would tell if Doon meant what he had said.