Steelheart (35 page)

Thousands of tents, each of which had been hand-sewn in specially created "cooperatives," were the least of the preparations. Ditches were dug to improve drainage. Rations were assembled and stored. Privies were built. Prayer poles were erected. Medical facilities were established. Wells were dug. Spies were assigned. Special church services were devised. In short, everything that could be done had been done.

The preparations had reduced what might have been a high rate of morbidity to something more acceptable, helped to allay the visitors' fears, and made them feel welcome.

That was the theory, anyway, although Crono didn't feel especially welcome as he led his flock into the maze of tents that comprised the northern encampment, and struggled through the ankle-deep mud. It was thick, glutinous stuff that stuck to his sandals and threatened to pull them off.

Of much concern, however, was the knowledge that Bishop Hontz had been correct. The faithful were gathered for a purpose—to take part in Lictor's crusade, about which the priest had serious doubts. Doubts he could vocalize to no one but himself—but that ate at him nonetheless.

The heretics were a problem, yes, but nothing compared to the increasingly harsh weather, the never-ending quakes, and the growing threat of starvation. Which came first? The glory of God? Or the welfare of his flock? Such were the questions on which seminarians spent years of contemplation. A waste of time, in Crono's opinion, since the answer was self-evident. The primary function of the Church was to serve its members.

But many would disagree with him. The priest knew that, and made allowance for the possibility that they were correct. He had battled what one superior described as "intellectual arrogance" for years now, and the struggle continued.

Solly, who continued in his role as Crono's assistant, had spent the entire day marching the length of the column, urging the laggards to greater speed and dealing with larger groups that threatened to absorb them—something the priest refused to countenance. Because he saw the group as his, or for other less obvious reasons? There was no way to tell.

Whatever the reason, one thing was for sure: The youngster had walked three times the distance that the other pilgrims had, and was bone tired. Mud sucked at the soles of his boots, faces blurred around him, and smoke assailed his eyes. The camp stretched on and on. Was this the destination they had worked so hard to reach? It hardly seemed worth it.

A guide, two or three years younger than Solly, met the group at an intersection, checked Crono off his list, and led them into a maze of tents.

It took every bit of the youngster's remaining store of energy to reach the shelter to which he had been assigned, mumble something to Dara, and collapse on a cot. Sleep rolled him under.

 

Solly had just entered his parents' hut, and was about to introduce Dara, when a hand shook his shoulder. "Time to get up, son—or miss the processional."

Solly opened his eye, saw Crono looming above, and managed to croak an acknowledgment. The youngster would have been quite happy to miss the processional, especially in exchange for more sleep, but knew better than to say so. If there was anything the priest didn't like, it was what he perceived as slackers.

Crono used his staff to thump, prod, and poke the rest of the males, and sent for the female members of his flock.

Breakfast was a hasty affair consisting of a dollop of lukewarm tromeal and some water to wash it down. Solly ate his serving, licked the bowl, and wished there were more.

Dara offered what remained of her ration and was refused. "Thank you, but no," Solly said firmly. "You must build your strength. There's the walk home to consider."

Dara knew he was correct, and wondered about the rumors they'd heard. Some said the pilgrims had been assembled for a purpose, and that they'd stay till whatever it was had been accomplished.

Dara didn't like that possibility and stayed close to Solly as the group threaded its way down muddy footpaths, past communal kitchens, and past rows of carefully ordered tents.

Others were on the move as well, summoned by their priests and led by teenaged guides. No one knew why, or (if someone did) was willing to say.

A steady trickle soon turned into a flood as footpaths joined a one-lane track, which merged with a road. The thoroughfare dived into a gully, climbed a hill, and passed through a jumble of enormous rocks. A pole had been erected among them, and a prayer caller wailed to the sky.

Then, with little warning, the road opened onto a vast plain. The sun, which had been concealed till then, chose that particular moment to break through the clouds and bathe the land in lavender light. It was then that Solly heard the dull
thump, thump, thump
of a drum and saw movement off to the west.

"There's no time to dawdle," Crono urged, "Let's keep 'em moving."

The early comers, easily identifiable by the way they lined both sides of the road and the smug expressions that they wore, stood three deep.

By the time Solly and the priest had managed to cajole, chivy, and chase their flock into position, the procession was a good deal closer. Dara's hand found Solly's as they turned to watch.

A squad of Reapers came first, weapons slung across their backs, eyes to the front. Their mutimals snorted, and the animals breath looked like smoke.

The drummer came next, his face tight and solemn as the
boom, boom, boom
of his instrument added weight to the occasion, and his mother waved from the crowd.

Then came the standard-bearers, closely followed by a mutimal-drawn cart. The axle creaked and chains clattered as the conveyance drew near. Something stood on it—no,
two
somethings, both so wondrous as to make Solly's hearts skip a beat. Devil machines! Not just parts, like in the churches he'd seen, but the real thing. Wet clay hid parts of the constructs from view—but the rest were exposed.

The cart lurched as a wheel encountered a chunk of stone. A whip cracked, the mutimals brayed, and the cart jerked. It was at that exact moment, while the animals struggled to overcome the obstacle, that their eyes met.

Solly had seen lots of humans by then, and had no difficulty identifying this machine as male, although the reason for such a guise was less than obvious.

The eyes were blue, ice blue, and filled with intelligence. Though angry, they regarded Solly without hatred or fear. They had a magnetic quality, and the Zid felt a part of himself jump the gap—and waited for God to strike him down.

The cart bounded over the rock and rattled past. In spite of the fact that Solly watched the administrator general ride by, and joined the cheer that followed, his mind went elsewhere. The machine was alive—that was obvious, yet clearly impossible. Only God could create life.

Still, God created humans, and
they
made machines. Why would the Omniscient One grant such a capacity to the aliens unless he intended them to use it? That would mean that machines were of God—and
not
of the Devil.

But what of the Church? Was it fallible? Solly looked at Crono and knew the answer. Of course it was. They had come a long, long way together, and while the priest had many strengths, there were weaknesses as well.

The realization frightened Solly—and set him free. Surely the gifts that God had bestowed on humans were available to the Zid as well. All one had to do was accept them.

The thought was so evil, so daring, that Solly glanced around. Dara smiled—but no one else seemed to care.

Solly squeezed her hand, tucked the secret away, and knew he must wait. When the opportunity came, he would take it.

 

 

 

28

 

e pi' pha ny
/ n / a moment of sudden or intuitive understanding

 

 

The Chosen One entered the room, took a long, careful look around, and nodded to his bodyguard. There had been two assassination attempts during the past thirty days. None of the would-be murderers had survived to face interrogation, and as a result, certain members of his staff had been made to suffer quite horribly. Still, there was little doubt who the killers worked for.

Jantz had been increasingly surly of late, was frequendy hard to find, and showed a marked lack of respect. Almost as if he
knew
Lictor wouldn't be around to cause him trouble.

The Chosen One frowned as he took his thronelike seat. His critics had been correct... damn their souls to hell. It had been a mistake to admit the humans to the priesthood. Still, mistakes can be corrected. Lictor motioned to a monk. "The administrator general may enter."

The door opened, and the human named Maras shuffled inside. A black hood covered his head. He blinked as it was removed. His clothing, still filthy from the rigors of the journey, was suitably humble.

Thanks to his spies, Lictor already knew about the battle for Riftwall, the woman who liked machines, and the fact that Maras knew his meeting had been observed by two spies ... neither of which was fooled by his clumsy strategms.

Of even more interest were the changes in his subordinate's face. It was leaner now, as if the excess flesh had been pared away, leaving nothing but skin and bone. Their eyes met, and the Zid bowed his head. ''You performed well, my son. The Church is grateful."

Maras looked down, then up again. "An instrument of God was I. To him all glory must go."

Lictor was both surprised and pleased by the attempt to speak his tongue. Perhaps there was hope for some humans after all. ''Yes, of course. Our language is not easy. I appreciate your effort to master it."

Maras felt a sudden pang of fear. How would Jantz react to such warm praise? And where the heck was he, anyway?

Lictor sent a smile rippling down the center of his face. "Congratulations, my son—for the elders and I have seen fit to elevate you to counselor for ecclesiastical affairs—a rank equivalent to archbishop. I would induct you into the priesthood if it lay within my power—but your marriage makes that impossible."

Maras had been interested in power and the people who had it for as long as he could remember. That being the case, he was thrilled, even though there would be a price to pay— especially where Mary was concerned. But that was for later—Lictor was waiting. "No, eminence, accept I cannot."

"Oh, but you will," Lictor insisted levelly. "Your modesty becomes you, but the Church has need of your skills, and your duty is clear."

The comment brought the meeting to a close, and Maras, who had never been given the opportunity to sit, was ready to depart. He bowed, turned, and was halfway to the door when Lictor spoke.

"Your daughter will be pleased by your return. Her initiation into full membership is scheduled for tomorrow evening."

The human turned. Daughter? Membership? The words were like twin blows. Maras had protected Corley and allowed her to ignore most of the dogma. That would have to change. He forced a smile. "Thank you, eminence. I will remember this day."

 

Canova knew something unusual was afoot, because the cathedral had been packed for weeks now. Not only packed, but open around the clock, allowing the faithful to gawk nonstop. She shut her eyes and tried to go within. It never seemed to work. The synthetic could
feel
the churchgoers staring at her body and hating what they saw. That's how it seemed, anyhow.

Did she "feel" in the human sense? Or generate predictions based on assimilated data? It hardly mattered. The experience was uncomfortable. That's all Canova knew or needed to know.

The android would have welcomed delusions, even at the cost of her sanity, but they never arrived. Humans bore the responsibility for that. Humans concerned with their own fallibility—and afraid lest some of their weakness manifest in their creations. A precaution that
their
creator had neglected to pursue. Why?

Canova found it curious that some humans were unable to accept the notion of a creator, while synthetics were "born" knowing they had been created and by whom.

The android heard the sound of approaching footsteps, felt hands grab her from behind, and felt a sudden sense of fear. What was happening?

The first voice said, "This thing is heavy... so watch your feet."

"You think
this
is heavy?" the second voice responded. "Wait till you see the monster they captured at Riftwall. It's huge!"

Canova opened her "eyes" in time to see a Zid lurch into view. He did something with a strap and signaled to his partner. "All right, Poog! You ready?"

"Ready!" the other Zid answered ... and Canova started to fall. She tried to deploy her arms, tried to save herself, but nothing happened. The ceiling, which she had often wanted to see, came into view. The synthetic saw carvings, paintings, and clan script. The whole of it swayed as they hauled her away.

That's when Canova realized that she'd been replaced— and knew that an even worse fate might lay in store. What if they cut her body into pieces? What if they sent her head to one village and her legs to another? The android screamed, and her voice echoed through the church.

 

The line stretched forever. That's the way it appeared, anyway, as the prisoners took a single step forward. There were various theories about what awaited them at the far end of the queue—ranging from a medical checkup to a firing squad.

Mary closed the gap and thought about Corley. So close and yet so far. And what of George? There had been no sign of him for days now. Had he forsaken her? Or been forced to stay away? There was no way to know.

Still, this could be it, the line that led to freedom.
If
Mary proclaimed her willingness to convert,
if
they believed her, and
if
George kept his promise. There would be decisions to be made, but she refused to consider them. That was then— this was now.

It took the better part of an hour for the line to inch its way forward and pull Mary into the specially designed hut. Originally conceived to process Reaper recruits, it had a front door through which the prisoners entered, and a back door through which they could leave.