Steelheart (41 page)

A bank of screens dominated one wall, and Colonel Samuel Jones watched as the high-res camera dove at the two-wheeled cart and suddenly cut to black. He shook his head sadly. "Too bad it didn't work... words beat the heck out of bullets. Still, we gave them something to think about."

Strang spoke without apparent thought: " 'Everything the enemy least expects will succeed the best.' Frederick the Great, 1747."

"So noted," Jones said dryly. "Well, the effort bought some time ... how will we take advantage of it?"

Major Kristen Cantwell had been a sergeant at arms aboard the ship, had served the Guild, and had been recruited by Jones. She had closely cropped gray hair, eyes with a tendency to flick back and forth, and extremely white teeth. "My people are ready, sir. Just say the word."

Jones looked thoughtful. "Yes, I believe they are.... But will they stay? When the going gets tough?"

Cantwell shrugged. "We're mercenaries ... we get paid to fight."

Strang smiled. " '... Mercenaries and auxiliaries are useless and dangerous, and a leader having his state built on mercenary armies will never be secure...' Machiavelli, 1513."

Cantwell wasn't all that fond of wireheads—or negative comments about her troops. Her right hand dipped toward a sidearm as she rose from her chair.

Jones raised a hand. "Enough!" He turned to Doon. "Major, I'll thank you to keep your executive officer under control. The last comment was completely unnecessary."

Doon said, "Yes, sir," made a mental note to talk with Strang, and blanked his face.

Jones motioned to Cantwell. ' 'Thank you, Major. We will count on you and your troops. Major Nargo?''

Nargo was thirty-something—and very intense. He led his militia the same way he led the accounting department: by the numbers. He crossed his arms, realized that might look defensive, and forced them down.

"My group is at 86.2 percent readiness, sir, with an average training score of 82.1, a physical readiness index of 92.4, and a ..."

"Yes," Jones interrupted. "Very impressive, I'm sure. But are they ready to shoot at the Zid?"

Nargo blushed. "Sir, yes sir."

"Excellent. Now, how about you, Major Doon? Tell us what, outside of quotes, we can expect from your battalion."

Doon ignored the barb. "One helluva bill for spare parts, Colonel—and some very shiny floors."

The room exploded into laughter, and Jones allowed himself a grin. Doon waited for the noise to subside and launched his report. "After taking a long, hard look at the assets under my command, I realized that most of them wouldn't make very good soldiers. With that in mind, my staff and I decided to form three separate units, including an engineering company, presently engaged in digging trenches and laying mines, a special operations unit, of which the airborne drone was part, and an armored group built around the Mothri-donated machines.

"I think you'll agree that the bugs will not only inflict a significant amount of damage, but are quite likely to scare the shit out of the enemy."

"Ah, death by dehydration," Cantwell's XO put in. "How devious."

The room broke into laughter yet again, and Jones waited for it to die down. "Thank you, Major Doon. Any questions? No? Well, it's my turn."

The officer looked around the table as if seeing his subordinates for the first... and perhaps the last time. "I won't waste your time with a whole lot of rah-rah bullshit. There are more than twenty thousand religious fanatics headed our way—and they mean to wipe us off the face of the planet.

"Truth is, we could kill every single one of the sonsofbitches if we wanted to—and use their bones for paperweights. We have the know-how, we have the means, and we sure as hell have the motivation. We have three aircars stored down below. They don't like volcanic dust much, but each and every one of them has sufficient range to reach the column, and enough payload to carry a nuke.

"Only trouble is that it wouldn't be right. Most of the Zid aren't any more evil than you or I. They've been lied to, that's all—kinda like we were back on Earth—and they actually believe this Antitechnic bullshit.

"So we're gonna gamble that we can stop with something short of a nuke—and pay for that privilege with some lives."

Strang broke the ensuing silence. "And if we fail?"

Jones shrugged. "We don't have a backup, if that's what you mean. There isn't enough time to build a nuke at this point—even if we had the will to do so. Use the minimum amount of force necessary—but do what you have to do.

"The eggheads will start pushing nano down through the G-Tap at 2100 hours. It's gonna take the better part of seven days to get the job done. What they don't need is a whole bunch of T-heads lighting fires under their feet while they do it. Questions? No? Okay, you've got your orders. Carry them out."

 

The Reapers, who had been sent ahead as scouts, passed the prophet and thundered down the column. They enjoyed showing off, and did so whenever they could.

Lictor, who'd been dozing in his sedan chair, heard the commotion and sat up. An officer brought his mount to a halt, bowed formally, and delivered his report. "We saw the mountain, your eminence—the seed could reach it by nightfall."

Thrilled to have arrived, the Chosen One called for his mount, boarded the mutimal straight from his chair, and gave instructions to his aides. "March for the length of two additional prayers. Select a site with excellent drainage, a bountiful source of water, and plenty of loose rock. Deploy the Reapers to protect the seed. Put the heretics to work building a wall around the perimeter. Show no mercy, for the barrier must be completed by nightfall."

The assistant bowed, took a big step backwards, and escaped the flying mud.

Lictor had never seen the heretic stronghold and was eager to do so. He rode like the wind, felt the snowflakes sting his cheeks, wished he could yell. The ride was exhilarating— and life was good.

 

The robot had no real name, although the human for which it had previously worked frequently referred to it as "that worthless piece of crap."

Not being sentient, and having no emotions, the robot didn't care what it was called.

Originally designed to roll through drainage pipes, inspect crawl spaces, and perform similar tasks, the segmented machine was about three feet long and shaped like a worm. Not that its shape mattered much, since it, like a dozen similar units, had been dropped into holes and ordered to stay there. Something the robot named Crap did very well indeed.

Time passed—three days, six hours and twenty-one seconds to be exact—and vibrations shook the ground. Not the deep kind, like those generated by tremors, but thousands of minor disturbances of the sort Crap was programed to monitor.

Hours passed, and the vibrations intensified. Finally, when certain parameters had been exceeded, the robot sent a low-frequency message. An encampment had been established— and the Zid were planning to stay.

 

The southeast comer of the mesa offered an excellent view of the area most likely to come under attack—or would have, had the weather been better. Shelters had been established, along with the necessary command and control equipment and a makeshift mortar battery. The weapons wouldn't make much difference unless the Zid got awfully close—but would be devastating when and if they did.

Jones took the latest scans obtained from Michael, compared them to the information received from subsurface sensor number four, and saw they matched. The area around Flat Top boasted five sites capable of accommodating more than twenty thousand beings and the Zid had chosen number four.

The security officer nodded agreeably, turned to a tech, and made a request. Video blossomed as site four appeared on a monitor. There was an analysis of the most likely avenues of attack, the depth of the snow, and composition of the soil. The human smiled. So far, so good.

 

The mist parted, and the mountain loomed ahead. Lictor could hardly believe his eye. Nothing stood in the way! Had the heretics heard of his coming, and run for their city to the west? How disappointing—to come all that way and have nothing to show for it.

The lead Reaper, a fanatic named Orgon, had come to much the same conclusion. He thrust his weapon into the air, urged his mount to a gallop, and uttered a whoop.

The resulting explosion blew the mutimal's forelegs off and threw Orgon into the air. He landed on a second mine and vanished in a gout of flame.

The Chosen One felt pieces of wet flesh pepper his face as he hauled on the reins, turned his animal around, and kicked it in the ribs. More explosions, at least three, signaled additional deaths.

Another Reaper, eager to escape the killing ground, galloped toward the rear. Lictor, realizing that danger could lay in that direction as well, followed behind.

The cleric rode for a long way before he felt safe enough to stop, turn, and check on his subordinates. A count revealed that four Reapers had been killed or left to die. It was a quick and bloody lesson—one Lictor would not forget. Darkness gathered, and he turned toward the east.

 

The area immediately around the down tube was filled with equipment, consoles, and hundreds of squirming cables. They made a strange threesome: the gaunt, almost skeletal human, the boxy synthetic, and the huge, beetle-like Mothri. They had more in common with each other than with many of their peers, however, and shared the same work ethic.

The bond started with the nano now pouring down through the vertical shaft and into the very bowels of the planet. Once in place, the micromachines would make contact with the Forerunner units, assess the damage that had been done, and set to work. That's the way it was supposed to work, anyway ... but would it?

The relationship went deeper than that, however. All three of them were lonely, cut off from the rest of their peers by personality, position, and circumstance, yet driven by the same overriding need: to save what they had created.

The three beings were tired, knew what the others were thinking, and waited in silence. All that could be said had been said—and all that could be done had been done. The nano would handle the rest.

 

The timer hit midnight, a contact closed, and the robot named Crap sent a probe toward the surface. It emerged from the snow, grazed a hordu's leg, and paused.

There was a distinct popping sound as a cap flew off. A rocket was fired, lasers flashed, and alien music blasted forth.

Reapers fired their assault weapons in every direction. Roughly half the seed stampeded toward the east while the rest stood and screamed. Mutimals broke their tethers, a monk was trampled under their feet, and a youngster fell in a fire.

It took less than five minutes to locate the device and send humans to dig it up. That was enough, however—since the faithful were frightened, and it would take hours to quiet them.

Crono helped restore order, cursed the Devil, cursed the humans who served him, and cursed the fool in charge. Dawn came slowly—and he was glad.

 

Lictor, like the Founder before him, was subject to visions. Visions that, while occasionally wrong, were often correct, and in no small way responsible for his now lofty rank.

Where such understandings came from, and why he had been blessed with them, the cleric didn't know. He would have ascribed the visions to God, except a few of them had proved wrong, and the Supreme Being was infallible.

Still, such revelations came in handy, and the Zid had learned to rely on them. One had warned of an assassination attempt, another had revealed the true meaning of the volcanic eruptions, and faith, and a third presaged a flood.

That's why the Chosen One took the dream so seriously. It came within an hour of the human-engineered disturbance. During the vision, Lictor saw the aliens ride forth from their citadel, saw them engage his Reapers in a dozen different battles, and saw them win every conflict.

Then, stripped of their warriors, the faithful were slaughtered. All without a single Zid entering the mountain fortress.

The dream was so real, so frightening, that Lictor awoke to discover his gills were fluttering. He rolled off his mattress, felt the carpet under his feet, and started to pace.

There were many things to consider. Among them was the fact that food supplies were low, morale had started to deteriorate, and the humans were stronger than he'd hoped.

And what of the manner in which the camp had been awakened? The humans could have caused the Devil-machine to explode, but they hadn't. Why? Did it mean what he thought it meant? That the aliens opposed indiscriminate violence? But what of the things that exploded when mutimals stepped on them? How did
they
fit?

There was a great deal to think about and, having considered, to take into account. It took a while, but when darkness fled he was ready.

 

Though perfectly willing to forgo his place of honor among the martyrs, Elder Pomo had been unable to negotiate any sort of transfer. That being the case, he, along with Elder Zozo and the rest of Piety's contingent, were among the first to be awakened.

It seemed that the most glorious moment of the crusade was upon them, and they, along with the rest of the martyrs, would follow the labor brigade into battle.

"Why us?" Pomo demanded shrilly. "We're old and sickly! Surely the Reapers should go first—to smite the heretics down. And where's my breakfast? I want it now."

A monk, tired of Pomo's whining and concerned as to his own safety, shoved the elder into line. "For the greater glory of God—that's why you'll do it. Now, shut up and do as you're told."

The elders did as they were told, the drums started to roll, and the attack began.

 

Cantwell watched from the top of a hill. Her cavalry was arrayed on the slope in front of her, vapor hanging around their heads, weapons at the ready. The valley, through which the Zid must come, lay below. There were mines and rows of well-placed stakes, backed by a maze of trenches. Many were empty, but she saw a scattering of heads. Though not impregnable, the arena would be hard to penetrate, and very, very lethal. A killing ground the likes of which she would hesitate to enter.