Steelheart (36 page)

Light stabbed down through open vent holes and brought the smoke-filled atmosphere to languid life. A table stood off to the right. Mary stumbled as a guard pushed her, regained her balance, and came face to face with her husband.

He looked different somehow—colder, if such a thing was possible, and even more imperious than before. High-ranking members of the Church hierarchy sat to either side of him, and both were Zid. Mary searched but saw no compassion in their stony eyes. The one on the right spoke passable Spanglish. "Your name?"

Maras sat expressionless, but Mary knew what he would want. "Smith. Mary Smith."

The Zid scratched something onto the parchment in front of him, sent his eye to the far side of his face, and addressed his peer. "Bishop Drog?"

Drog recognized the human as the one that the Chosen One had warned him against. He wondered what the next few moments would hold. How would the newly appointed counsel for ecclesiastical affairs handle himself? Would he use his newfound power to save the female? Or prove his devotion to the Church by condemning her to a labor brigade? A truly fascinating moment. Lictor would hang on every word.

Drog pretended to consult the document in front of him and cleared his throat. "Mary, ah, Smith ... Ours is an all-loving God who extends his mercy to Zid and human alike. The only entities barred from membership are so-called synthetic beings and those who serve them. Are you, or have you ever been, a member of either class?"

Mary's throat felt dry. She swallowed in order to lubricate the word. "No."

"That being the case," Drog continued, "you are invited to renounce evil, join the Church, and live as we do.

"Please remember that membership in the Antitechnic Church will in no way protect you from hardship and may lead to even greater sacrifice. That being said—how do you declare?"

Maras felt his stomach churn as his wife prepared her answer. She would say yes, which would trigger a vote. What should he do? Vote yes, and hope for the best? Or listen to the voice that warned of a trap?

Mary found her ex-husband's eyes and delivered the lie directly to him. "I believe in the Church—and wish to convert."

Drog marveled at the accuracy with which Lictor had predicted her response. He turned to his companions. "The human, Mary Smith, would take God into her heart. What say you?"

Bishop Worb, the Zid seated to Mary's right, knew nothing of Lictor's concerns and had little respect for the frequently inaccurate intelligence reports. The human seemed sincere—and he had no way to look inside the female's head. "I vote yes."

Things were proceeding exactly as George had predicted they would. Mary felt her spirits rise.

Drog signaled his understanding. "Thank you, Bishop Worb. Mine is the opposite view, I'm afraid. This female was spotted in the company of so-called synthetics prior to the counselor's attack on Riftwall—and subsequently went to their aid. She lied to this panel—and can never be trusted."

The bishop's words left no doubt as to the truth of the matter. The situation was a setup ... and Maras must choose. Condemn Mary—or condemn himself. He attempted to meet her eyes but couldn't.

"Bishop Drog is correct. Request denied. Next, please."

Mary heard herself gasp, then was herded toward the back door and shoved into the cold. Her fate was sealed.

 

Harley Doon had never felt so helpless as when they rolled him into the cathedral, down a long, empty aisle, and boosted him up onto a pedestal. He wanted to hurt them, to run as far as he could, but the clay held him fast.

He could have spoken to them, yelled or even screamed, but knew better than to do so. They could stuff his mouth with clay, mess with his electronics, or who knew what else. No, it was better to wait and hope for the best. Amy was nearby, and that helped, especially since they could communicate.

The cathedral was amazing. So much so that he actually forgot his circumstances for a moment and was lost in the magnificence of the building itself. The design, stonework, and art were of the highest quality.

That stage passed, however, especially when the faithful entered and clustered around. Like most law enforcement beings, Doon had been hated before. It didn't seem to help much.

Amy started to sob. Doon tried to comfort her. The minutes, hours, and days stretched eternally ahead. It seemed strange that it was here, within a cathedral, that hell made its home.

 

Night had fallen, and the halls were lit by candles. Maras threw multiple shadows down the hall. The largest of them was big and black. It lunged ahead. The counselor's mind, riddled by doubt, was left to follow.

The human had gone to sleep after the judgment in the hut, or tried to, but nightmares disturbed his rest. All of them were horrible, but none worse than the one in which Jantz handed him the hammer of justice and commanded that he make use of it. The handle was slick with blood, and nearly slipped from his fingers. "No! I work with numbers—not people."

Jantz looked surprised. "Really? But what of this? And this? And finally this? Are they not people?"

Maras saw a heretic hanging from a tree, a child cut in half, and Mary standing before him, head bowed, waiting for the hammer to fall.

That's when he woke, his nightclothes drenched in sweat, his jaw clenched.

Now, only hours later, he was making his way to the chapel where Corley would be initiated, where the Church would claim her soul and convey it to God. A God in which he didn't believe—and knew he never would. His footsteps sounded hollow, and they echoed down the hall.

 

Seeing no reason to waste a candle, the workers left Canova in total darkness. Well, not total darkness, since her sensors could detect heat. It appeared as bright green blobs. One for the wall sconce that continued to cool, another for the rat that scurried along the wall, and the last for a flue that rose through the floor above.

The darkness didn't bother her so much as the sudden isolation and complete uncertainty did. Was this some sort of storeroom? A place in which she would rot for years on end? Or little more than a way station from which she would soon be moved? The questions continued to nag.

A human might have wondered about the passage of time—but Canova knew she had occupied her prison for exactly twelve hours and sixteen minutes before a commotion was heard and the door creaked open. A rectangle of light extended across the floor.

A human entered, placed a candle in the sconce, and turned in her direction. Canova had seen the man before, and knew who he was. Victor Jantz. He nodded pleasantly.

"Good evening, Dr. Canova. I'm sorry about the darkness, but we couldn't expect much else. The workers had no idea who or what they were dealing with."

"And you do?"

Jantz looked surprised. ''Yes, of course. Dr. Suti Canova, one of the most skilled physicians on Zuul, and an amateur xenoanthropologist. I'm sorry, Doctor, but scholarship
can
be dangerous."

"Yes," Canova agreed cautiously. "It can. So tell me, citizen Jantz.. . what brings you to my little hideaway? Slumming?"

The human scanned the walls, hoped they were solid, and forced a smile. "No, of course not. You have a problem, and so do I. Perhaps we could be of assistance to each other."

Canova felt a sudden surge of hope. Jantz needed something! Something she could give. "A deal, Bishop Jantz? A deal with the Devil?"

The human looked over his shoulder. "Don't talk like that. Not even in jest."

"I'm sorry," the synthetic said quickly. "It won't happen again. Medical history first—symptoms second."

Jantz looked surprised, and Canova smiled. "What else would bring you here?"

The human nodded, provided the necessary information, and answered her questions.

Later, when the door squeaked closed, a candle burned in the sconce.

 

Maras heard the sound of chanting and detected the scent of incense long before he arrived at the chapel. Corley was waiting for him. She was annoyed and let it show. "Where have you been, Daddy? We should be halfway through the ceremony by now."

The tone was both spoiled and petulant. A lack of discipline, or something more? His daughter had changed during his absence—and not for the better. Where was the sweet little girl he'd known just months before?

Maras knelt next to Corley, straightened her gown, and looked into her eyes. Mary looked back.

The counselor flinched as if struck across the face. Corley looked curious, and Maras forced a smile. "Sorry about being late, honey. I got hung up, that's all. Are you ready?"

"Sure," the little girl said confidently. "I'll make you proud."

The words echoed through the counselor's mind as he took his seat. The initiation involved a long series of ritual questions. Corley had memorized the answers, and now she reeled them off. What amazed Maras was the extent to which she sounded sincere. Did Corley really believe this stuff? Or did she pretend to believe, the same way he did? It had been a long time since they had talked about such matters. Too long.

Suddenly, as his daughter traced triangles in the air, and bound herself to the Church, Maras felt a wave of nausea. What the hell was he doing? Had he done? Corley didn't belong here, joined to something built on hatred.

It was all the counselor could do to resist the impulse to snatch his daughter off the platform and run away. However due to the fact that the ceremony functioned as a source of entertainment within smaller villages, it was intentionally long, and lasted more than an hour.

By the time the last "dola" had been said, Maras knew what he must do. The knowledge both pleased and frightened him. He took Corley by the hand. "Come on, honey—there's someone I want you to see."

 

There were more than a thousand prisoners, most of whom were human, all shivering in the cold night air. There were no shelters, no blankets, nothing beyond the two dozen fires to provide them with warmth. Some slept, or tried to sleep, huddled in groups. The rest, Mary included, stood around the fires. Their faces, lit from below, floated ghostlike in the air.

"Why wait?" one man asked, his face anonymous behind a tightly wrapped scarf. "They'll kill us in the end. We might as well take some of the bastards with us."

"And how many would that be?" an older woman asked pragmatically, her breath fogging the night. "A dozen or so? Against a thousand human lives? Seems like a mighty poor trade-off to me."

Mary thought about the palisade that encircled them, the Reapers who patrolled the top, and the weapons they carried. There was no doubt about it—the woman was right, but so was the man. The only
real
choice was how they wanted to die.

There was a commotion as the gate opened and a group of Reapers forced their way in. They were mounted on mutimals and carried whips rather than firearms—a wise precaution, given the extent to which they were outnumbered.

Torches flared, a whip cracked, and a mutimal bellowed in pain as the phalanx of riders pushed its way into the crowd. A Reaper stood in his stirrups. "Prisoner Smith! Prisoner
Mary
Smith!"

Mary felt a sudden jolt of fear. Her knees felt weak, and her hands started to shake. Few of the prisoners knew her, but those who did looked in her direction. They knew the Church had rejected her—and why. The roboticist would make an excellent sacrifice—a way to add interest to an otherwise dull sermon.

A shot rang out. A man threw up his arms and toppled into a fire. Sparks flew upward, screams were heard, and the crowd eddied. "We want Smith! Mary Smith!" the Reaper shouted. "Or another will die!"

Mary forced strength into her limbs and raised an arm. "I'm Smith! Over here!"

The Reaper spotted her, signaled his companions, and urged the mutimal forward. The man, his clothes on fire, continued to bum. Those standing to either side of Mary scattered as the Zid approached, leaving her to face them alone. The lead Reaper jerked his animal to a halt and stared downward. "Mary Smith?"

Mary tried to speak, but nothing came out. She nodded instead.

The Zid motioned with his whip. "Raise your arms."

Mary obeyed.

A pair of riders moved in, grabbed the roboticist by the wrists, and jerked her off the ground. Then, hanging between them, Mary was carried toward the gate. It opened as if by magic—and closed three seconds later. A howl erupted from inside the compound as the prisoners recovered their courage.

But they were too late to help Mary, whose arms felt as if they would be torn from their sockets, and whose boots touched the ground at six-foot intervals. The roboticist saw a fire up ahead, a big one, with flames as tall as she was. The Reapers showed no signs of turning and increased their speed. They meant to drop her. The human struggled to no avail. She hoisted her feet, closed her eyes, and waited for the pain.

The Zid on the right let out a whoop, the one on the left answered, and they split the fire between them. Mary closed her eyes, felt the heat flash around her, and waited for the riders to let go. They didn't.

The roboticist was still absorbing that fact, still marveling at the cool night air, when she saw the mutimal. It was huge and loomed black on black. Then she was flying, falling and rambling, her hands pushing through the slush. When the human came to a stop, she was facedown only feet from the animal's iron-clad hooves. She had been delivered. But to whom? And for what?

The Reapers were gone, but Mary heard footsteps in the slush. A pair of knees landed next to her face, and a hand touched her back. "Mommy? Is that you?"

Mary pushed the ground away, terrified that it was a dream, and she would wake in the compound. "Corley? Oh my God, is it really you?"

Corley threw her arms around her mother's neck. "Yes, of course it's me! I missed you."

"Not as much as I missed you," Mary blubbered, hugging her daughter to ensure that she was real. "You're bigger! Lots bigger. I came as soon as I could. We went to Riftwall but the Reapers came and ..."

Corley touched her mother's lips. "I know, Mommy— Daddy told me."