Steelheart (33 page)

The corridor opened onto a path. Flathead was gone— stolen by one of the townspeople. A rider blurred past, fired, and someone screamed. The wall had been breached, the Reapers had entered, and Riftwall had fallen.

 

 

 

26

 

ex per' i ment
/ n / a test or trial

 

 

The day dawned just the way Michael had predicted that it would—cold, clear and perfect for playing God.

An awning had been erected on the southernmost edge of Flat Top's mesalike surface. That, plus a table loaded with refreshments, lent the occasion a festive air. Hundreds of staff members milled around, struggled to stay warm, and traded gossip.

Modo disapproved. If science wasn't a serious business in and of itself, then world-saving certainly was. The biologist stamped his feet, shoved his hands more deeply into his pockets, and wished the brass would get on with it.

There was a delay while the Mothri lumbered up a specially made ramp, sampled the air, and emerged onto the surface. The beetie had an extremely sharp mind and the benefit of an excellent education. It was amazing how quickly she had adjusted to her surroundings and become an integral member of the team.

The alien spotted Modo, waved an antenna by way of greeting, and ambled his way. Her voice rumbled through his translator. "And how is Bana Modo? Student of tiny bugs?"

The biologist laughed. "I study
them
... not the other way around. How is Mallaca Horbo Drula Enore the 5,223rd— the biggest bug I'm ever likely to meet?"

Static crackled as the Mothri laughed. "That depends on the experiment, little one... and whether it goes as expected."

Modo waved an arm in agreement.

A sizeable crowd had assembled by then. There was a stir as an elevator surfaced and Garrison stepped out. He looked stronger now, and more resilient. A robot sought to take the scientist's arm, but he jerked it away. He felt better and needed to let people know. Just part of the never-ending play-acting associated with leadership—an obligation that started with the way he looked, and extended to morale builders like the one they were scheduled to watch. Important in its own way—but far less significant than most of the staff might suspect.

Thanks to the Mothri, and the Forerunner nano collected during her journey south, the lab had been able to replicate hundreds, soon to be thousands, of highly specialized micro-machines. Machines that could repair the planet.

That was the
good
news. The
bad
news flowed from the fact that there were holes in the nano structure, gaps left by extinct machines, which the scientists planned to fill with human-Mothri prototypes. Prototypes mat needed to communicate with their Forerunner kin—but would be unable to do so. That was a problem Sojo had identified, and might have solved, had Garrison allowed him to do so.

The roboticist felt himself sag under the weight of his guilt. Omita touched his arm. "Gene? Are you okay?"

The scientist forced a smile. ''Yes, sorry about that. Which one is it? The knoll? With the rock on top?"

Omita shook her head and pointed. ''No, the bigger one, just off to the west."

Garrison eyed the hill, raised his eyebrows, and smiled. "Really? He's a big one. I'm impressed. All right, then— turn the little beggars loose."

Dr. Omita nodded to an assistant, who tapped some code into a handheld computer. Nothing happened. Nothing they could see, anyway... because the action took place under the hill. Five minutes passed, followed by ten, followed by fifteen, followed by twenty. Garrison began to worry. What if they had missed something? What if it didn't work? The possibility frightened him.

Others must have felt the same way, because no one spoke, and the crowd had grown silent.

Bana Modo saw it first. The hill's outline seemed to soften, as if all its rigidity had been lost, and it was made of gelatin. "Look! It's coming apart!"

And it
was
coming apart. Millions upon millions of nano were dismantling the hill, reducing earth and rock to their component molecules and hauling them away.

The hill shivered and collapsed inward as what looked like a reddish-brown pseudopod oozed toward the east.

The scientists watched for more than four hours as the nano reconstructed the hill—molecule by molecule, rock by rock, until it stood a half mile to the east.

Finally, when the hill was whole once more, a cheer went up. Garrison smiled, waited while Omita filled his mug with something akin to a hot toddy, and raised it high. There was a second cheer, louder than the first, but Garrison knew the horrible truth: Amazing though their feat was, it wouldn't be enough. Programmers were working day and night to create the necessary communications protocols, but Zuul was dying, and time was running out.

 

Though not truly sentient, the Eye of God could learn via experience, and one of the things the satellite had learned was that the slightest activity drew an attack.

That being the case, the Mothri-made machine scanned the surrounding volume of space for any sign of a threat, compressed the video into a half-second burst, and fired it off.

Retaliation was nearly instantaneous as Michael launched a flight of nano-built missiles in the direction of his longtime foe.

The Eye of God wanted to move, wanted to escape, but as luck would have it, Jantz had seen the video. Video in which a hill shifted from one place to another. Impossible! Or was it? And why would the eggheads do it even if they could? Unless it was some sort of weapon ... which would be very interesting indeed.

An override went out, and the Eye of God was ordered to remain on station. The satellite took issue with the order— but did so in the Mothri language.

The tech was new. She winced as static filled her headset, turned the interference down, and nodded toward Jantz.

The Eye of God established its shot, and was about to send, when the missiles hit.

Michael was on the other side of Zuul at the time, and couldn't see the missiles hit, but sensed that they had. Not electronically, because the alien machine was off-line at the moment of impact^ but on some other level, as if a more ethereal link had been severed.

It might be a trick, however, which was why Michael approached the area with caution, his sensors on maximum sensitivity.

But it
wasn't
a trick-—the Eye of God had been destroyed. The debris field occupied a large volume of space and continued to expand. Thousands of fragments glittered in the sun as what remained of the alien satellite circled Zuul.

Michael's first reaction was one of triumph, of joy stemming from his victory, but the emotion was short-lived.

Stupid though the other machine had been, the satellite had been company of a sort, and Michael knew he'd miss it. Then there was the fact that the never-ending attacks had served to validate his existence. After all, why destroy something that has no value?

Michael was safe now, safe but lonely, spinning through space all by himself. The Angel sat drifted through the other satellite's remains—and wished that they were his.

 

 

 

27

 

cleanse
/ vt / to make clean, to purify

 

 

Heavily weathered Forerunner ruins broke the otherwise smooth symmetry of the horizon and made the perfect vantage point from which to view the city of Riftwall. Identifying such locations, and taking advantage of them, was something Maras did well.

The administrator had remained in the saddle so that he could see—and
be
seen by his mostly Zid troops. The fact that the mutimal made him look even larger and more impressive was a bonus.

Had the great Khan troubled himself with such matters? Maras felt sure that he had, which explained why the standard-bearers were positioned just so, and his bodyguards were arrayed behind him. And, for anyone who somehow managed to miss the carefully arranged tableau, the slow, deliberate
boom, boom, boom
of the drum served to draw their attention.

Though annoying at first, such matters had become second nature to Maras—and knowing that made him uncomfortable. Which was the
real
him? The academic who joined the Church to protect his daughter? Or the warrior priest who rode to the drum and sacked heretic cities? He wasn't sure any more.

The smell of smoke and the sound of gunfire sharpened the human's senses. He knew he would never forget the sight before him.

The cliff, or wall, from which the city took its name ran north to south and formed a mighty backdrop for the drama now unfolding. The battle was essentially over.

With no real government to hold them together, the citizens of Riftwall had responded to the attack like the mindless rabble they were.

The walls had been manned, but the defenders, who consisted of packers, bandits, and a ratty assortment of townsfolk, preferred to cluster around their various leaders rather than spread out and submit to the discipline of a centralized command—a tendency that left entire sections of the perimeter open to attack.

The Reapers had little to no training, but didn't require any to seek out the places where the defensive fire was the weakest and open fire.

Once the wall had been breached and riders had broken through, the defensive effort collapsed. The townsfolk fled toward their homes, the Reapers rode them down, and more than a hundred were slaughtered.

Maras had chosen to remain at the outskirts of the battle, where he could see the big picture and maintain a clear head. That's what he told himself, anyway—in spite of the voice that suggested otherwise.

Safety, to the extent that such a thing existed, lay in surrender. Maras watched more than two hundred prisoners march out through the gate, fall to their knees, and await their various fates. Priests moved among them, urging the faithful to say the rotes, freeing those who could.

The administrator wondered how many of the captives were like him, people who had studied Antitechnic theology as a form of insurance, and now used it to purchase their freedom.

Finally, after the battle had died down to little more than an occasional gunshot, and the crackle of fiercely burning wood, Maras entered the town. The drum announced his coming. The mutimal walked with a dignified cadence, as if it had been trained for such occasions rather than stolen from a homestead.

Smoke billowed into the sky as a watchtower burned.
 

Bodies, some human and some Zid, lay heaped by the gate.

A child, tears streaming down her face, clung to her mother's body.

A Reaper, his face contorted in agony, lay impaled on a stake.

A mutimal, eyes rolling in pain, collapsed in the street.

A dead android, his hands still wrapped around a Reaper's throat, jerked as one of his systems shorted and sent electricity jolting through his nervous system.

Maras found such images distasteful and directed his eyes elsewhere. There was movement at the far end of the street. A group of prisoners appeared, some twenty-five or thirty of them, walking, limping, and in one case hopping toward him. Reapers, their weapons ready, followed behind. Smoke drifted across the way, eddied through the crowd, and vanished beyond.

That's when Maras recognized one of the prisoners, or thought he did, even while knowing it couldn't be true. The human squinted into the smoke, urged his mount forward, and discovered that he was right. Mary! It
was
her! Head high, hands behind her neck, eyes bright with anger. Something had nicked her scalp, and blood trickled down her temple. Their eyes met. Mary's face registered surprise, hope, and disgust, all in quick succession.

Maras was surprised by the extent to which the last expression hurt. He jerked his mutimal to a halt and raised his arm. All movement stopped. The administrator was about to say something when a shot rang out.

A Reaper tumbled out of his saddle, and Leadbutt thundered out onto the street.

 

Doon, Amy, and Mary emerged from the lab to discover that the battle for Riftwall was essentially over.

Smoke made it difficult to see.
 

Mutimals thundered back and forth.
 

Gunshots rattled in the distance.

A woman screamed, a child dashed across their path, and a drum thumped in the distance.

The threesome started to run. They hadn't gone far before a man ran out of a side street followed by a group of heavily armed Zid. He turned, threw up his hands, and backpedaled as bullets ripped through his chest.

Mary went right as the androids went left. The Reapers spotted the human, fired in her direction, and shouted in men-own language. The roboticist stopped, allowed the riot gun to fall, and turned toward her attackers. They would kill her, she knew that, but she preferred to see it coming.

A Zid raised his assault rifle, eyed his ammo indicator, and took his finger off the trigger. Ammunition was scarce, and his was running low.

A group of prisoners appeared. Their eyes darted from side to side as the guards pushed them up the street. The humans needed a miracle—something, anything, that would turn the situation around. A Reaper, the one who had spared Mary's life, shouted in her direction. Over there! With the others!"

The words meant nothing to the roboticist, but the gesture was clear, and she turned in that direction.

It wasn't until Mary had been absorbed into the group that she realized that the synthetics had vanished. She felt safer by herself, knew how cowardly that was, and cursed her own weakness.

The prisoners were herded out onto the main street and forced to march toward the north. That's when the riders approached, when their eyes met, and when Mary found her husband.

 

Doon was frightened, more frightened than he'd ever been before, not for himself but for Amy. It was strange how that worked, how you were strong one moment and weak the next. All because of someone else. The android had read about such things .. . but never understood what they meant.