Time Was
Page 1
DEDICATION
For Dianne
—Steve Perry
For Eric Robert Dickey and Kylie Ann Connor. Someday you’ll be old enough to read this, and then you’ll understand why everyone looks nervous when Uncle Gary comes around.
—Gary A. Braunbeck
CONTENTS
Dedication
Acknowledgments
All This Darkness
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part One: Wheels of Confusion
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Part Two: Wheels of Illumination
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Part Three: Wheels of Fire
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
After All
About the Author
Also by the Steve Perry & Gary A. Braunbeck
Copyright
About the Publisher
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The authors would like to acknowledge some of the people who helped us along the way as we wrote this book. First, thanks to Denise Little, for her enthusiasm and some much needed shots in the ego. Next, thanks go to Larry Segriff, for continuously putting Gary in his place. Thanks to Ed Gorman, for being a fine teacher by example. And last but hardly least, thanks to Isaac Asimov, for the legacy he left us, and in the sincere hope that this minor footnote is worthy of his memory.
ALL THIS DARKNESS
“It is one of the greatest tragedies of this age that as soon as Man invented a machine he began to starve.”
—Oscar Wilde, THE SOUL OF MAN UNDER SOCIALISM
1
* * *
08/08/2013 23:54:00
Time was he knew happiness, hope, and acceptance.
But now . . .
Now, in the grave-silent, ink-black darkness where even the deepest shadows would shine brightly, the child thought: If only I could scream.
Blackness above, below, all around him.
Or so he imagined.
This darkness had been his home for so long he could no longer tell if his eyes were open or closed. Sometimes he wondered if he still had eyes; he had no sensations of blinking, of crying, of fluttering lids—he couldn’t even reach up to rub them, to find out if they were still there or if Father had blinded him.
If only he could scream . . . but there was just numbness, a consuming nothingness where he knew his mouth should be. He’d long ago forgotten what it felt like to whistle, to click his teeth together, to moisten his lips with the tip of his tongue before letting fly with a good, loud raspberry.
Why did you do this to me, Father? he thought. If I did something bad, I’m sorry. Just, please . . . please let me out of here. It’s so dark.
I’m scared.
I hurt.
Please, someone, come get me.
He remembered the faces of other children he’d seen (though he could never be sure where it was he’d seen them), faces filled with joy, mischief, glowing with laughter, and he wondered if any of them had noticed him, if they remembered what he looked like, if they were now, right now, asking their mother or father where that little boy was, if he was coming back.
The memory made him smile (he thought/hoped), because that meant he wasn’t blind, after all. The darkness had just lasted a lot longer this time, but maybe that was okay because then he’d appreciate the Light all the more, and maybe, just maybe, if he appreciated it enough, then Father would never put him back here in this awful, dead, silent, dark, and lonely, lonely place.
Sometimes, when he remembered the threat (and Father had made it, hadn’t he?) and the Bad Feeling came over him, the child would think about his own face. He thought he knew what he would look like, and the face he gave himself was a good one, yes it was; a good, friendly face, the face of someone another child would want to have as their bestest buddy in the whole wide world.
He pictured his face now and felt a little better.
But only a little.
Only a little was often all he had.
He remembered ice cream, and hot dogs with mustard (he didn’t think he liked mustard), and big, juicy cheeseburgers. It all looked so good and tasty.
He could not remember the last time he’d eaten anything.
He couldn’t even remember what they tasted like.
Or even if he’d ever tasted anything.
Why wasn’t he hungry? He should have been starving—but then he remembered seeing pictures of other children in faraway countries, their bellies bloated from starvation, and some voice telling him that these deprived children reached a point where their hunger was so great they were no longer aware of how hungry they were.
Was that why he didn’t feel hungry? Below him, somewhere in the darkness, was his stomach swollen?
He slowly became aware of occasional flickers of dim light piercing the darkness, flowing inward, and for a moment he thought Father had come back for him, smiling forgiveness and understanding, and Father was going to turn on the lights and say, “All right, then, you’ve learned your lesson. Now come on out. There are a bunch of your friends waiting outside, see? Run along, have fun. But behave yourself. You know what happens when you misbehave, don’t you?”
The child waited, so excited and happy he could barely contain himself.
If he could have felt his hands, he would have clapped them together with glee.
If he could have found his legs, he would have bent his knees and bounced on his toes with anticipation.
If he could have laughed, that would have made everything all right. Forever.
Never again this darkness.
He tried to laugh, to force the sound out from the back of his throat and make everything All Right.
He thought about strands of cotton candy swirling onto paper cones.
He thought about playing catch with his friends in ope
n summer fields when night was kept away by the buzzing lights surrounding the baseball diamond.
He thought about the music of a calliope and wondered why he couldn’t remember ever hearing it.
Above him the blackness snowed a blizzard of images from his memory as the lens of night burned, blinding him once again with white-hot darkness in his eyes. Then:
Silence.
The crackle of fear.
Loneliness.
Abandonment.
No echo of laughter, for there had been none.
The child remained still, almost lifeless, and knew that he’d made a mistake about that light, those images and memories. It was part of his Forever-punishment. Father would show him all the things he was missing, all the joy and happiness and fun that would never include him, and it was mean and hurt so much and made him want to cry or shout or raise his fists and strike out or maybe smash through one of the windows in this room if it had windows, if it was a room, if he could move, if . . . if . . .
. . . if only he could scream.
But he knew he couldn’t.
He also knew what Father was planning to do to him.
Soon.
Very soon.
Please don’t, he silently called out to the night.
. . . and as much as he was capable, the child began to whimper, wishing for the release of tears. . . .
2
* * *
There was something in the air, something more than the humidity of another seventy-one-degree night; not quite tension, perhaps, but a sense of something unnameable impending. In the city below, it beckoned solitary figures to their windows to watch the murky light of the streets, their gazes following it upward to stare transfixed at the massive, brightly lit compound atop the somber hill, motionless as some ancient sleeping animal on the edge of civilization. There was a great insect humming in the air, singing in ceaseless, bumbling tones, rising a bit, falling a bit, but keeping the same pitch.
The breeze soughed and leaves fell silently from trees, tumbling with dry whispers, the rattling sound of a paper cup caught in the wind.
Crickets chirruped.
Frogs croaked.
Dogs howled mournfully in the distance.
The moth was unaware of any of it, save for the light.
It fluttered in ever-smaller circles toward the light, only the light, allowing nothing else to draw its attention away from a destiny its race was genetically predisposed to fulfill.
It felt the force of the light and, beneath it, something thrumming.
So close now, circling, so near to the light—
—the tip of its left wing touched the electrified chain-link fence and in a millisecond its fate was realized in a flashing crackle-buzz burst of two hundred and ten thousand volts that reduced the moth to ashes before its remains hit the ground. The moment of its fiery death was captured by the lens of a video camera positioned atop the nearest post; the image simultaneously appeared on one of the numerous screens in the security kiosk five yards behind the fence.
“Hot damn—zapped another one!” In his enthusiasm Ed Ransom accidentally spilled some of his coffee on his uniform, staining the PRESTON TECHNICAL SYSTEMS, INC. logo sewn to his shirt.
His partner, Daniel Gorman, shook his head and sighed. “You’ve got a real nasty streak in you, you know that? Pay attention to your monitors, all right?”
Another flicker on one of the screens, and Ransom turned just in time to see another moth bite the big one. “You suppose moths just get despondent and decide to, y’know, end it all? Think there’s such a thing as moth depression?”
“Do you ever listen to yourself?” said Gorman.
“I try not to. What if I start to make sense?”
“I shudder at the thought.” Gorman looked at his watch. “Show’s supposed to be starting right about now.”
“Let’s hit it.”
Both men moved to their respective consoles, entered the necessary codes and commands, and the bank of monitors came alive. The guards studied the screens with professional intensity.
“Radar’s clear.”
“InfraScan’s normal.”
“Ground sensor readings?”
“Consistent with last scan.”
“No substantial change in circumference temperature.”
“Distance?”
“Three hundred yards.”
“Increase it to five.”
“Done.”
“Cameras five through twenty?”
“Operational, unimpeded view. Nice night.”
“Audio?”
“Frequency-high. I think I heard a gnat fart.”
The rest of the check took under one minute.
“Nothing,” said Gorman.
Ransom grinned. “Tell me about it. A ghost couldn’t get past us tonight.”
Gorman reached for the phone, gripped the handset but did not lift it, and stared at his watch.
“Call in already!” said Ransom impatiently.
“Can’t. Each station’s been given a direct line into the main office tonight. I lift the receiver, and it’ll be Prest-O his own regal self on the other end.”
“When do you—?”
“In about fifteen seconds. It’s gotta be solid clockwork. No excuses or screw ups.”
“I tingle with excitement.”
“That’s called gas. I warned you about anchovies on the pizza.”
“You care. I’m touched.”
“You really don’t listen to yourself, do you?”
Before Ransom could answer, Gorman lifted the receiver.
3
* * *
At the same moment Gorman checked in, a new security code came to life in the PTSI mainframe, replacing the one that had initiated only ninety seconds before:
4
* * *
23:54:36
A hundred meters outside the electrified fence, unseen by the guards, three figures approached through the shadows, pausing each time the beam from one of the revolving searchlights swung around to illuminate the multiple coils of barbed wire that topped off the five-meter-tall fence.
The searchlight passed them by in seventeen-second intervals, punctuating their approach.
When the darkness was returned to them, they moved swiftly, making no noise.
Even the foliage remained undisturbed.
Dressed in black, with dark wool caps pulled down to just above their eyes, they were more than just invisible in the night—they were the night, and all its attendant shadows.
Sometimes—not often, but sometimes—Psy–4 found this ninja-like approach a little melodramatic, like something from an old 1980s action film.
Sometimes he felt a little embarrassed about it, but he would never dare tell anyone.
He didn’t want them to interpret it as weakness.
Weakness in a leader—even perceived weakness—tainted respect and authority.
That wouldn’t do.
Psy–4 stopped, crouched, then signaled the other two I-Bots to move forward.
Radiant took point, her lithe and graceful figure reminding Psy–4 of a gazelle—only the pair of electronic infrared night goggles she wore damaged the illusion.
She moved farther ahead, then signaled Stonewall to move in front of her; despite his massive and near-mountainous bulk, Stonewall’s movements were quick, deft, and precise.
Just as all of them had been programmed to be.
Liquid-smooth and soundless.
The way Psy–4 liked it.
So synchronized were their movements, so effortlessly choreographed and executed was every gesture, pounce, and sprint, that they easily covered thirty meters during their seventeen seconds of darkness.
The searchlight came around.
They paused.
The light passed.
And they propelled themselves into the darkness once again.
They would not be detected by any sensors until they were three yards away from the f
ence.
But that was all the room they would need.
5
* * *
In his lush office overlooking the compound, Samuel Preston hung up his phone, smiled quickly to himself, checked the time, and said, “Looks like you’re about to owe me a lot of money, Zac. Your people have less than ten minutes left. My guards say no one has even tried to get in yet. They’ll never make it.” On this point he was confident. In fact, Preston could never remember a time when he’d been more confident about anything; not only had he brought in extra security for this evening’s test, he’d personally programmed the security codes and sequences into the computers.
He smiled to himself and, turning for a moment toward the window, wiped away the thin bead of sweat that was forming on his upper lip.
Across from him, seated in an antique wing-backed chair, a burly man whose full beard and thick hair were speckled with more gray than his thirty-eight years should have earned, leaned forward as he adjusted the suspenders holding his blue jeans in place. “Ten minutes can be a lot of time in some circumstances, Sam. You ever try holding your breath underwater for three minutes, let alone ten? Or not talk about yourself for that long? It can be an eternity. Trust me on this.”
The two of them, once coworkers if never quite close friends, could not have contrasted one another more drastically; Preston, of the shockingly expensive tailored suits, hundred-dollar haircuts, and specially mixed cologne that cost more for two ounces than most people paid every month on their mortgages, was the epitome of the high-powered, high-rolling, high-salaried corporate executive; Zac Robillard, on the other hand, of the off-the-rack denims, fifty-cent elastic ties to pull his longish hair into a ponytail, and the basic frugal soap-and-water scent, more resembled the photos in recent history books of the so-called “ex-hippie” whose species was prevalent during the “Woodstock generation.”
And so here they were, mused Preston: the Corporate Giant and the Long-in-the-Tooth-Ex-Hippie, jockeying for position.
He felt a twinge of fire deep in his center and pressed his hand against it.