Steelheart (7 page)

Elder Worwa was stunned. "Would you look at that? Raswa is right!"

Sensing that victory lay within his grasp, Grandfather Raswa made what he hoped would be the final and telling argument. "Look at my family's fields. Solly used the old blade on one, and the new blade on the other. Guess which is which."

The elders looked out over the valley and, knowing it as they did, had no difficulty locating the plots assigned to the Raswa clan. Neither patch looked as good as it should have for that time of year; the long winter had seen to that, but the southern parcel was at least twenty percent farther along than its northern neighbor.

The calculation seemed obvious. Approve the innocuous change, and use it themselves, or forgo a serious increase in productivity—a sacrifice that would be made even more onerous by the fact that as harvests shrank, tithes remained constant. The stockpiles had kept them even so far—but wouldn't last forever.

Elder Gorly, his back bent by a lifetime's hard work, put their thoughts into words. "Solly acted as an instrument of God, bringing new life to our fields and food to our families. We owe him a debt of gratitude."

The other elders mumbled their agreement, fingered the wedge-shaped plow bottom, and marveled at the difference it made. A smile rippled the length of Grandfather Raswa's lips, and Solly felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Brother Parly, never at a loss for words, felt the need to reassert his authority. “Thank you, Elder Gorly. I agree with the judgment rendered by the council—and hereby dismiss the charges brought against Solly Raswa."

"However," the monk said, his face growing stern, "our approval should not be construed as explicit or implicit approval for unrestrained tinkering. The Raswas would be well advised to fill Solly's days with good, honest work and to monitor the manner in which his evenings are spent. Do I make myself clear?"

"Very clear," Solly's father said, speaking for the first time. "It shall be as you say."

"Excellent," Parly responded, allowing an expression of benevolence to steal over his face. "All is as it should be. Let us pray."

 

The regional underpriest had walked the same route for more than ten years. His eye knew each nuance of the land, his ears knew the sounds the birds made, and his feet knew every dip in the road. It narrowed at the point where two great ridges came together, and became little more than a trail.

The Harmony River roared below, splashed against rocky walls, and threw mist into the air. Mist that turned to a thin coating of ice—no small danger where the pilgrims were concerned. His name was Crono, and he paused to check his flock. The vast majority of the pilgrims were either very young or extremely old, since the rest of the population was needed on the land.

This year's crop was better than expected. Yes, those from poor villages, with small to nonexistent stockpiles of food, were overly lean, but the rest seemed hardy enough. There were more than fifty of them, each burdened with a fifty-kol bag of grain, all destined for the Holy City's hungry silos.

The Church had a large hierarchy, so even though his flock would bring close to eight tol worth of grain in from the countryside, it would require countless columns to meet the overall need. But it was written that "from many drops a mighty river will flow," a quotation that suited the moment and sent a smile down Crono's lips.

The priest stood to one side and urged his flock to be careful as they made their way along the length of mist-slicked path and around the lake beyond. Harmony, like dozens of communities visited during the pilgrimage, would be expected to house the pilgrims in huts maintained for that purpose, add one kol to the weight of each bag, and provide each traveler with two meals.

It was a marvelous system that enabled the Church to monitor activities in the hinterlands, exercise control over the vast network of resident monks, and move food all at the same time. Crono took pride in the system—and dreaded the day when they would force him to retire.

The priest waited until everyone had passed through the gap, urged the stragglers to greater speed, and hurried to the front of the column. He had a long, lean body, legs like tree trunks, and heavily muscled arms. Female eyes watched the priest stride by. There had been hundreds of attempts to seduce him over the years, but none had succeeded. Crono was proud of that—and determined to defend his virtue.

The pilgrims had become accustomed to the
chink, chink, chink
sound that Crono's staff made as it hit the ground, and knew when he was approaching from behind. They also knew that any attempt to shirk, to lighten the weight of their sacks, or to victimize other members of the procession would bring a quick flurry of expertly delivered blows. Still, everyone knew the underpriest was fair, and took three steps for each of theirs.

The fields were more tan than the beautiful green they should have been, and patches of unmelted slush marked the places where the seldom seen sun failed to reach.

On the other hand, the huts, which were laid out according to the God-inspired grid, were well maintained and, in at least three or four cases, as large as the law permitted. One of these, the Orlow residence, held special interest for the priest. He came abreast of a reliable male, issued the necessary instructions, and left the column.

The ensuing session would be somewhat tedious, and more than a little distorted by Mother Orlow's lack of objectivity, but interesting nonetheless. In a drol, two at most, he would hear the latest news, receive some input regarding Brother Parly's performance,
and
ingest the best sweet cakes west of the Righteous Mountain Range. Other opinions, harvested during the evening meal, would complete the picture. A farmer waved, and Crono waved back. Life was hard—but undeniably good.

 

The monk's hut was small and carefully spartan. The furnishings consisted of a table, two chairs, and a cot. The fire, carefully banked to maximize the heat it generated, crackled and jumped.

Breakfast was something of a tradition, not to mention a trial, since neither male enjoyed the other's company. Crono saw Parly as soft, self-indulgent, and morally weak. Parly regarded Crono as hard, unnecessarily strict, and self-righteous.

Making the occasion even less appealing, especially from Parly's perspective, was the thin, watery gruel mat Crono favored, rather than the considerably heartier fare to which the monk had accustomed himself. Still, Parly mused to himself, the verse-spouting maniac will be gone soon, and a mid-morning snack will set me right.

Crono emptied his bowl, used a crust of bread to wipe it clean, and popped the morsel in his mouth. Parly had already completed his meal, and hurried the prayer. "Thank you, God, for the bounty placed before us. May we grow stronger in mind, body, and soul."

"Words to live by," Crono said comfortably, as if hearing them for the very first time. "Words to live by. So, tell me, Brother Parly—how does the valley fare?"

Parly was well aware of the fact that Crono had spies within his flock, and had gone to considerable lengths to uncover their identities and curry favor with them. A prudent activity that paid consistent dividends. He stretched his feet toward the fire. They were huge and difficult to warm. He picked his words with care.

"The gift of eternal winter has done much to sharpen our sense of appreciation for seasons gone by.... Still, we make do, and with rare exceptions, five in God's harmony."

"Yes, you do," Crono said agreeably, and meant it too, for in spite of his weaknesses, Parly was more competent than many, and, with the exception of his rather obvious gluttony, a good example to his flock. A little fear did wonders, however—and would provide the monk with something to meditate on. "Realizing that even the most remote members of our order must deal with difficult questions. The Raswa plow being an excellent example."

Parly's eye slid sideways, then back toward the fire. Damn Mother Orlow anyway .... Crono was far too intelligent to believe everything the old hag said, but exceedingly conservative, and capable of righteous excess. "Yes, a delicate matter, that. Still, all's well that ends well."

Crono stared into the flames. "And the lad? How is he?" Parly paid close attention. The priest was up to something ... but what? "Solly is well behaved—but a curious sort, forever asking questions."

Crono looked up from the fire. His eye was hard as stone. "A bright lad, then ... full of mischief."

Parly didn't think of Solly as mischievous—the youngster was far too serious for that—but nodded anyway. "A bright lad, yes."

"Bright enough to be a monk?"

The question startled Parly, partly because it was so completely unexpected, and partly because the idea should have been his. Smart young males, those with incipient leadership potential, were routinely removed from the villages and channeled into monasteries, where they could be formed, shaped, and if necessary, eliminated. "Spiritual culling," as it was sometimes called, ensured social stability. "Yes, bright enough to be a monk. I should have thought of it."

Crono knew the humility was genuine and smiled. "It is written that 'familiarity hides virtue' and that 'novelty conceals truth.' Who's to say which illuminates our way? Can the family pay?"

Parly shook his head. "No, they are too poor."

Crono shrugged. ' 'Merit pays its own way. Send for Solly ... we leave within the drol."

Parly stood and lumbered toward the door. That particular day's messenger, a ten-year-old female, sat huddled outside. He was halfway across the room when the priest spoke again. "And, Brother Parly..."

"Yes?"

"When the column is gone ... destroy the plow."

 

 

 

6

 

de' mon
/ n / a person or thing regarded as evil

 

 

Two micro sats, both created by the Eye of God's onboard nano, started to close in. There was no way to know what to expect, whether they were armed with lasers, stylus-sized missiles, or contact mines.

The sentient spy sat known as Michael had successfully defended himself against such threats before, but still felt afraid. Or did he? Was his fear equivalent to what humans experienced? Or was their fear, which flowed from biological imperatives, somehow superior?

No, Michael cautioned himself, mortal combat is
not
the time for self-doubt.

The micro sats were far too stupid to worry about such matters. They locked onto the designated target and fired their steering jets.

Michael checked to ensure that his defensive weaponry was ready, verified that it was, and waited for the distance to close.

The micro sats parted company, chose separate vectors, and armed their onboard mines.

Michael, who had the capacity to perceive external reality in dozens of different ways, had chosen to center his being within a gridwork globe. The micro sats appeared as horned devil icons with pitchforks and pointy tails. Green lines flashed as the targets came in range. Michael forced himself to wait, then fired his latest invention.

Like his archenemy, the Eye of God, Michael was equipped with onboard nano. Though originally intended for maintenance purposes, they could be reprogrammed. That was relatively simple. The more complex problem was to capture the raw materials required to manufacture what he needed. There were three choices available to him: capture some of the micrometeors that whacked him on a regular basis, cannibalize his own body, or salvage the metal from his dead comrades.

The last of these options was not only the most practical but the most symbolically satisfying, since it enabled his former companions to fight from their metaphorical graves. Which explained why he adopted all of their nano, carved chunks from their orbiting bodies, and used them to build weapons. The latest, which he called "the shotgun," was not only practical but aesthetically pleasing as well.

On Michael's command the ball turret-mounted tube spit highly concentrated streams of custom-designed nano at the incoming targets. He cheered as the micromachines hit the killer sats, clung to their exterior casings, and went to work. It took the tiny robots less than three seconds to disassemble the attackers, reconfigure their component parts, and completely rebuild them. The result was four miniature weapons platforms, each orbiting Michael's body, protecting him from harm.

The outcome pleased Michael so much that he generated peals of artificial laughter, beamed the sound toward the Eye of God, and waited for a reaction. None came. The Mothribuilt machine had been built for aliens by aliens and was impervious to humanlike head games. Too bad—since the Angel sat felt sure that he could beat the other AI in satelliteto-satellite combat, and thereby end the matter.

An alarm reminded Michael of the scheduled surveillance scan. He brought his optical imaging system on-line, scanned the area around Flat Top for any sign of intruders, repeated the process via both radar and infrared, and made his report. Doing so involved human contact and was one of the most pleasurable moments of his day. Abby Ahl was waiting— and her voice made him happy.

"Hey, Michael, how's it hanging?"

"If I had one, it would be floating," the satellite replied.

Ahl laughed. "Roger that—how's our three-sixty?"

"You've got a couple of Mothri surveillance units hanging around, and Zid spies in all the usual places, but nothing to get excited about."

"Good," Ahl replied. "Keep us advised."

"As always," the satellite replied. How's your love life?"

"Completely nonexistent," Ahl lied. "But what else is new?"

"Those guys don't know what they're missing," Michael said, without having any idea himself. "Take care."

"You too," Ahl replied. "Catch you next shift."

"Roger that," the machine said. "Over and out."

Abby Ahl was thirty-three years old. She had short brown hair, a crooked nose, and large, inquiring eyes. A Zid cross hung between her breasts, down where no one could see it, but she could feel its comforting presence.