Steelheart (40 page)

The Third Holy Reapers had been divided into the right and left Hands of God. They rode mutimals and were trained to function as either scouts or a reaction force, should such a thing be necessary. They were heavily armed and more than 1,000 strong.

Lictor stood in his stirrups, scanned the ocean of heads, and gave thanks to God. Every passing moment brought him closer to victory.

 

It was their second day at Flat Top. Amy made her way to the biology lab, where she discovered that her samples had not only been delivered but had helped verify Garrison's hypothesis and triggered project Forerunner.

Mary, whose skills as a roboticist were much in demand, had been greeted as a godsend and immediately put to work.

That left Doon with no one to look after and nothing to do. He wandered for a while, arrived in the ground-level cavern, and decided to check on the mutimals. That's where he was, shoveling muck from a stall, when Jones appeared. He sat on a partition, allowed his feet to dangle, and shook his head. "You have a way with shit."

The synthetic shrugged, tossed a shovelful of manure out through the gate, and turned for more. "I've had plenty of practice."

"Like when you were a cop?"

Doon used the shovel to lean on. "You checked?"

Jones smiled. ''Of course. Especially after you took my weapon and shoved it into my ear."

"Sorry about that... I got lucky."

Jones shook his head. "That's bullshit.. .but thanks for trying."

"So," Doon said, "you didn't come all the way down here to watch me shovel shit. What's on your mind?"

The human looked serious. "There are more than twenty thousand Zid headed this way ... and somebody's got to stop them."

"You think it's possible?"

Jones shrugged. "Maybe.
If we're
smart,
if we
pull together, and
if
we're lucky."

"So what do you want? Another foot soldier?"

The security chief shook his head. "No, what I need is a leader, someone who can think on his feet."

Doon felt as though there was something more... something the human hadn't told him yet. "And?"

Jones looked uncomfortable. "We have a number of synthetics ... many of whom would be willing to fight. Especially under the right kind of leadership."

Now the visit made sense. The bigwigs, most of whom were human, would have to employ every available asset to stop the Zid horde—robots included. The machines weren't stupid, however, not all of them anyway, and had well-founded doubts.

Many humans saw synthetics as people, but some found that hard if not impossible to do. Given the choice between sacrificing a human or what they regarded as a machine, there was little doubt which they would choose. The answer, a partial one at least, was to put a robot in charge.

Jones watched the android for some sign of response. Damn the wirehead anyway, couldn't he see how much the visit cost? Or was that expecting too much? Did machines feel embarrassed when another unit outperformed them? Or were they above such human foibles?

Doon looked up, saw the emotion in the human's eyes, and nodded. "Who would fall under my command?"

"Ninety percent of the robots and synthetics capable of combat."

"Who would I report to?"

"Me."

Doon held out his hand. "Done. Harley Doon ... reporting for duty."

 

Michael had descended to the lowest orbit he could maintain without falling out of the sky. There was only one thing really worth looking at, and that was the crusade. It had crawled across the countryside for more than five days now.

It seemed as if half of each morning was spent eating breakfast, participating in prayers, and milling around. Then, once everyone was in place, there was the tiresome business of the march itself, with the entire procession being held to the pace of the slowest members.

Not that Michael was complaining, goodness no, not when the beings at Flat Top needed every second they could find. First to prepare their defenses... and second to save the planet. A worthy goal—even if it didn't mean much to him. Hundreds of thousands of lives at stake, including human, Mothri, and Zid, not to mention synthetics and their lesser brethren.

The satellite watched sadly as a Zid fell by the wayside and his companions tried to revive him. Not the first casualty of Lictor's crusade ... and certainly not the last. The planet turned—and Michael turned with it.

 

Gradually, and with a slowness that threatened to drive Jones out of his mind, Flat Top's leaders—Garrison and those who reported to him—had turned more and more of their attention to the impending threat. Something they were reluctant to do, given the importance of Project Forerunner.

In fact, if it hadn't been for the video Michael shot through holes in the cloud cover, and the breathless, nearly hysterical accounts brought back by the facility's long-range scouts, Garrison and his staff might never have reacted. Not in time at least, which would have been too bad, especially since Sojo's arrival had enabled a major breakthrough and might even lead to success.

They
did
respond, however, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and Jones was able to get a substantial increase in resources. That included the right to recruit noncritical personnel into the newly formed Flat Top militia, sufficient trade goods necessary to strengthen his force of mercenaries, and the formation of what came to be known as Doon's Droids.

That was a name Doon might have secretly enjoyed, had it not been for the fact that it was extremely misleading—a fact he discovered after assembling his troops.

One comer of the cavernous garage had been converted to a military training area, and the synthetic watched as his would-be subordinates walked, crawled, and rolled into the area.

There were one hundred thirty-six units on his roster—but only twenty of them were sentient. The rest were a mishmash of machines that included everything from floor sweepers to mid-level maintenance machines and heavy duty construction equipment. Not that
all
the droids were dreck, since the Mothri known as Enore had sent two dozen fighting machines, each of which was equivalent to a company of human soldiers.

Doon stood on a cargo module, hands on hips, and surveyed his troops. Some wore yellow paint with black stripes, two were dressed in lab coats, and there was plenty of bare metal. They stood on legs, sat on tracks, perched on wheels, and wriggled like snakes. Lights flashed, servos whirred, lasers probed, data flowed, beams stabbed, tracks clanked, and the air stank of ozone.

On one level the whole thing was laughable, ridiculous, and very disheartening. In fact, a human might have given up then and there. But Doon saw something in his collection of mechanical misfits—something a bio bod might have missed.

While some of his troops were clearly unsuitable for combat—the sweepers being an excellent example—many were quite adaptable, and, thanks to a ready supply of nano, could be modified in a relatively short period of time.

More than that, the machines were
trainable,
needing only the correct programming to make themselves useful and, once employed, utterly reliable.

The problem would be in the areas of flexibility and initiative. While dependable, the nonsentient machines would be trapped within the parameters of their programming, or reliant on others to provide direction.

Still, unlike Jones, who was continually frustrated by how slowly his human recruits absorbed new skills, Doon could train his low-function subordinates in a matter of seconds once the software was ready. That was a task to which Mary had already turned her considerable skills.

Yes, the synthetics would prove more difficult, especially where their independence was concerned, but they did have the ability to acquire vast amounts of information in a relatively short period of time, and that would prove useful.

Doon called the synthetics together, took a moment to introduce himself, and stated the challenge. "The choice is yours: You can stop the Zid—or die on their altars. Anyone have any questions?"

No one did.

 

 

 

32

 

Ar ma ged' don
/ n / a final and conclusive battle 
between the forces of good and evil

 

 

The sedan chair lurched as one of two human beings slipped, fell to one knee, and rose again. Lictor heard a whip crack as a bodyguard set the matter right. The job had killed three of the heretics so far—which was all to the good.

The news regarding the missing Devil-machine, Jantz, and his mysterious paralysis had arrived the evening before. Lietor's mind was made up. Though relatively easy to convert, the humans were treacherous by nature, and must be purged. Jantz, who had clearly been up to something, would await his return.

In the future, after Flat Top had fallen, the aliens would be treated like what they were: beasts of burden. Fit only to work the fields. The thought pleased the Chosen One, and he smiled.

 

The diagnostics came up green, the robot beeped, and Mary turned the device loose. The machine, which had originally been designed to place seismic sensors, had been converted into a mine-layer and supplied with appropriate programming, not to mention a heat-seeking machine gun, camouflage paint, and a new set of communications protocols.

It was just the latest in the long list of conversions, modifications, and adaptations that Mary and her two assistants had been asked to carry out. That was the trouble with working for a machine—the bastard never took breaks.

Doon filled the doorway of her makeshift lab. His newly appointed executive officer, a history teacher named Rudolph Strang, stood in the background. Both wore camos.

Mary wasn't sure which of them scared her the most— Doon, who had made the transition from self-centered loner to idealistic leader, or Strang, who was said to carry every military text ever written around his processor and had the words "machines rule" stenciled across his forehead.

"So," Doon said with his usual cheerful efficiency, "how are we doing? Are my troops ready to go?"

"As ready as a collection of street-sweepers, maintenance bots and ditch-diggers ever will be."

"Good. We've got a field exercise tonight. Care to join us?"

Mary shook her head. "I'm human. Remember? We have to sleep."

Doon waved an acknowledgment, and Strang smiled. Not a friendly smile, but one filled with pity. The synthetic felt sorry for her. Mary remembered school, where she had struggled to learn while machines had absorbed knowledge as if it were oxygen. Except that they didn't
need
oxygen—or very much else, for that matter. Maybe the Zid were right ... maybe there was reason to be scared.

 

It was a ritual by now. Exhausted by the journey, and scared of what lay ahead, one, two, or three of the crusaders would sneak out of camp and attempt to run. A few made it. Not many—but just enough to encourage those with similar aspirations.

Most were not so lucky, however, and were killed in the morning, right after breakfast.

Solly and Dara had grown to hate the ritual
thump, thump, thump
of the drums, the words mixed with snowflakes, and the inevitable fall of the bloodstained hammer.

This particular morning was no different, not at first anyway, although something amazing was about to happen.

The multitude was assembled and the Chosen One was halfway through the usual condemnation when a strange buzzing sound was heard.

Solly thought he was the only one who had heard the noise at first, until others began to frown and search for the source. It came like a night bug to the flame, a silvery construct with long fragile wings.

It was high at first,
very
high, but flew in ever-descending circles.

The crowd gasped as the device appeared. Some raised their hands, as if to protect themselves from harm, while others began to pray.

Solly allowed words to issue from his mouth, but his attention was on the wonderful, fabulous machine, his mind already absorbing the manner in which it had been constructed, and wondering what impact a shorter set of wings would have on its performance.

Still, even
he
was shocked when the flyer spoke perfect Zid. "Greetings from the beings of Flat Top. Don't be frightened. This machine, which is only one of thousands at our disposal, will do you no harm, as
we
have done you no harm. Please return to your homes. The Cleansing, as you refer to them were an omen, a sign that Zuul is sick, and in need of medicine. We
have
that medicine, and just as you might treat a sickly child, we plan to ..."

The rattle of automatic weapons fire obliterated the next few words. The drone staggered, issued a thin stream of gray smoke, and made a hard right-hand turn.

Thousands watched in horror as the Reapers continued to fire, and the flyer, seemingly guided by an invisible hand, dived toward a supply cart. Not just
any
cart, but one loaded with ammo, and marked to that effect.

Though small in and of itself, the explosion was sufficient to trigger some black-market grenades, and they took care of the rest.

Those standing closest to the blast were killed. Others were knocked off their feet. A wheel soared fifty feet into the air. A splinter ripped through a Reaper's chest. A female screamed, priests began to chant, and Solly held Dara in his arms. Crono saw, but didn't say a word. A message had been sent—and a message had been received.

Lictor screamed orders, caused a half dozen Reapers to go under the hammer, and called upon God for divine retribution.

It took the rest of the day and the better part of the evening to restore order, remotivate the faithful, and organize antiaircraft squads.

Maras had been good at things like that, and—much to his own surprise—Lictor actually missed him.

 

A nano-built scale model of Flat Top and the surrounding terrain occupied the center of the conference table. Blocks of Reapers, soldiers, and robots were positioned willy-nilly among hats, half-empty cups, and other debris. The room was crowded, and beings sat where they could.