Time Was

by Steve Perry

  Fact: Preston knew himself to be an at-best mediocre human being, but he hid this knowledge behind a scrim of arrogance and self-assuredness that no one could ever see through.

  Fact: No one would ever know of his mediocrity.

  Fact: He had to get to Robillard, somehow; if the man was capable of constructing robots like those from last night, if he could create such wonders with a robotic brain, then it might just be possible that he could . . . could . . .

  Another wave of pain, less intense than before.

  Preston grabbed a small pillow from the back of a nearby chair and sank his teeth into it to muffle his scream.

  When this wave passed, he struggled to his feet, collapsed, then settled for crawling over to the bed stand where he poured another glass of water and took two of the stronger painkillers.

  Fuggit: Make it three. He’d call his secretary and tell her he wouldn’t be in today. The place wouldn’t fall to the ground if he missed a day.

  He flopped onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Oh, shit,” he whispered.

  His body was bathed in sweat.

  He could taste the blood from his nose as it ran down his upper lip.

  Fact: If he could make things work out the way he wanted, if it could all come together just right, then not only would he devour the endless feast of his life, but he’d be in a position of ultimate power, with Annabelle, in her gratitude, forever at his beck-and-call, not to mention in his bed at night, ready and willing to do whatever it took to please him.

  And, Lord, how she could please a man in bed.

  But that was for later.

  Right now he had to make sure the R–l Program stayed on track.

  He felt a new wave coming on, but this time the painkillers were there, already building up a line of defense.

  Fact: He had to make sure the R–l Program came off without a hitch.

  Fact: He had to get Zac Robillard on his side; cooperation was preferable to coercion, but Preston would do whatever was needed. He would do anything at all, because . . .

  Fact: He, Samuel Clemens Preston, age thirty-six years, nine months, three weeks, four days, eleven hours, and fifty-six minutes, one of the fifteen most powerful businessmen in the country (forty-second in the world), was dying of inoperable pancreatic cancer, which, if the redoubtable Dr. Segriff was to be believed, had now spread to portions of his stomach, liver, and right lung.

  At first he’d thought the pain and bleeding were just the onset of a perforated ulcer and so had taken it upon himself to treat the symptoms with over-the-counter antibiotics and Turns.

  By the time he figured he needed a specialist, it was too late; the cancer had spread beyond the help of surgery.

  With chemo treatments, he’d last another two, maybe two and a half years.

  Without them, with only the medicines his doctors had currently prescribed, he had a few months, tops.

  Samuel Preston would not subject himself to the indignities of chemotherapy; no constant vomiting, bald head, and weight loss for him, thank you.

  He thought of that old saying from the money-obsessed 1980s: Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse.

  Right. And he who dies with the most toys wins.

  But Sam Preston, Mediocre Man, refused to go down without a fight.

  Or without taking several dozen people with him.

  Either way, he’d end with a triumphant smile.

  Thirty minutes later, the painkillers winning out over the steel hooks and fire in his gut, he was about to drift off comfortably when his private, secured phone line sounded.

  Groaning, he rolled over and lifted the handset, brought it to his face. “This had better be good or your legs will be broken by dinnertime.”

  “Mr. Preston?” said Leslie, his secretary, in that delicious, smooth, singsong voice of hers. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but Professor McCarrick has called four times from the R–l facility. He was very insistent that I get in touch with you.”

  “Did he . . . did he say what was going on?”

  “He refused to give me any specifics. He only said I should tell you that your presence in the lab is required immediately.”

  “Everything’s an emergency with McCarrick, Leslie, you know that.”

  “He said you’d say that, sir, so he told me to tell you that playtime’s started early.”

  Preston sat bolt upright in his bed, the pain a distant memory. “What?”

  “That’s what he said, Mr. Preston. ‘Playtime started early.’ His exact words.”

  “Oh, shit . . .”

  “Should I send a car for you?”

  “Screw the car, Leslie! Sorry, pardon my language.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Give me thirty minutes, then dispatch the company chopper to the landing pad on top of my building.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call McCarrick and tell him I want the whole R–l team in that lab when I get there—and I mean everyone. Anybody who isn’t there, or who arrives after me, is going to rue the day they were born. Tell him I said that.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  Preston smiled. “You don’t much like the good professor, do you, Leslie?”

  “I apologize for that comment, sir; it’s not my place to—”

  “It’ll stay just between you and me and won’t affect your job in the least. I had a lousy night and a bit of honesty would be a breath of fresh air.”

  “I think he’s a big, fat, hairy horse’s ass, sir.”

  “Me, too, but he’s the best at what he does.”

  “I’ll follow your instructions to the letter, sir.”

  “Leslie?”

  “Yes, Mr. Preston?”

  “After you’ve done that, fill out the necessary paperwork to give yourself a twenty percent raise and leave it on my desk for me to sign.”

  “But, sir—”

  “I liked your ‘hairy horse’s ass’ line. It made my morning.”

  He didn’t wait for her to thank him.

  After hanging up, he put his feet on the cold floor again and focused his eyes on the door to his bathroom.

  Shower, shave, rub-a-dub-dub.

  He caught a glimpse of a framed photograph on his dresser.

  Two people were in the picture.

  One of them was him.

  The other wasn’t Annabelle, but she should have been in it, as well.

  He tried not to think about it.

  He pushed up off the bed and began his trek toward the shower.

  Dead man walking, he thought.

  Then laughed.

  It was the laugh of a terminal patient chuckling at a tumor joke.

  28

  * * *

  Itazura was just stepping onto the top stair, ready to head into the kitchen, when Radiant suddenly appeared in his path.

  “Nice little fit you threw earlier.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I can track someone by the shadow they cast three days ago, Itzy; I can follow a target by listening to the flow of their blood. You delivered your little diatribe at around one hundred and fifty decibels. Deaf people in India heard you.”

  “You flatter me.” He began moving past her.

  She grabbed his arm and spun him around to face her.

  “You’d better listen to me, Itazura; you keep it up and Zac may very well start to wonder about your emotional stability.”

  “My emotional stability is just fine, thank you.”

  “Based on what I heard, that’s arguable.”

  “I’m . . . I’m a little nervous, all right?”

  “About what?”

  “If I knew, don’t you think I’d come to you?”

  “You usually do.”

  He touched her cheek with brotherly affection. “And I always will. It’s just that I can’t seem to get a grip on what it is that’s bothering me.”

  “You and everyone else around here, it seems.”r />
  “Meaning what?”

  Radiant shrugged. “Meaning that I’ve been getting flashes of anxiety and confusion—sometimes outright fear—almost nonstop since the other night at PTSI.”

  Itazura thought about it for a moment. “Has a lot of it been coming from Psy–4?”

  “Yes, why?”

  He was silent for a moment, considering what he’d been told.

  They hadn’t said not to mention it to anyone, had they?

  Itazura took Radiant’s hand and started toward the control room. “Come on. I think you need to be in on this.”

  “In on what?”

  “I’m not sure, but Psy–4 seems to think it’s important.”

  29

  * * *

  The other I-Bots were nowhere to be found when Killaine, Zac, and Singer arrived back at the warehouse—which was fine by Killaine, since it had become obvious during the last part of their underground journey that Zac was developing one of his severe migraines and needed to be put to bed at once.

  On this point, she would hear no argument.

  “I’m fine,” said Zac, hoarsely.

  “And you’re also a terrible liar, Zachary Robillard. Now, do you go to bed under your own power or do I have Singer here pick you up and carry you?”

  “Singer would never do that, would you, Singer?”

  Leave me out of this, signed the robot.

  “Coward,” said Zac, smiling.

  Singer folded his arms and tapped one foot.

  “Smartest thing I’ve seen him do in all the time we’ve known him,” said Killaine. “Look, Zachary, you’ve not slept but a few hours in the last two days. You’re no good to us like this.” She crossed to a shelf in the kitchen and took down a bottle of pills. “Here, take two of these and—”

  “—call you in the morning?” said Zac. Then, to Singer: “That’s an old doctor joke.”

  Does not compute, signed Singer. Danger, danger, Will Robinson! Then: That’s an old robot joke.

  Zac obediently took two of the pills and headed up to bed, Killaine and Singer close behind.

  Not that Killaine didn’t trust him, mind you.

  30

  * * *

  As far as Sam Preston was concerned, the three words that best described Professor Ian McCarrick were as follows:

  Officious.

  Little.

  Prick.

  The two men had never really gotten along, but Preston thought that a small price to pay for having the leading computer scientist in the western hemisphere in his employ.

  The fact that the man had little to no personality whatsoever—and what personality he displayed was, at best, arrogant, and, at worst, contemptuous—seemed trivial in light of what he’d done for PTSI.

  Except on days like this, when Preston felt the shabby specter of his own mortality breathing down his neck from an ever-closer proximity.

  He hadn’t time to waste playing McCarrick’s guessing games.

  “But surely you understand, Mr. Preston,” said McCarrick, “that this process is irreversible.”

  “Bullshit,” snapped Preston. “I know you, McCarrick. You probably suspected that something like this would happen eventually.”

  “That I did, yes.”

  God, how Preston wanted to knock out, say, the upper row of McCarrick’s teeth.

  “So, what do you suggest we do?”

  McCarrick shrugged.

  Then smirked.

  Then turned away.

  It was the smirk that did it.

  Sam Preston turned to one of the security guards and said, “Give me your pistol.”

  “What?”

  “Was I speaking in Latin? No. Give me your pistol.”

  The guard handed over his pistol.

  Preston jacked a round into the chamber, came up behind McCarrick, and pressed the business end of the pistol against the back of the scientist’s neck.

  “I’m not easily intimidated, Mr. Preston,” said McCarrick.

  “I want to know what backup plan you have.”

  “Kill me and you’ll never know, will you?”

  “That’s true,” said Preston, pulling the gun away.

  Even with his back turned, McCarrick’s smirk was an oppressive presence in the lab.

  “I warned you about that program, Mr. Preston.”

  “Yes, that you did, Professor.”

  Preston was trying very hard to swallow down the panic he felt rising in him.

  “McCarrick?”

  “What is it now?”

  “How long until the program finishes?”

  “I’d say one hundred hours, roughly.”

  “Can’t you be a bit more precise?”

  McCarrick huffed like a pouting child, picked up a calculator, and did some quick equations. “As of right now, we have approximately one hundred and four hours, fifty-two minutes. Give or take thirty seconds.”

  “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” snarled Preston.

  “It gives me a certain satisfaction to see you realize that I was right and you were wrong, yes.”

  “Fine. Do you have a proposed backup plan, yes or no?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps? That’s all you’re going to give me?”

  “For the moment. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless we clear up that little disagreement we’ve been having about my salary increase for the new contract.”

  “That’s why you’re doing this to me? Money?”

  “What better reason?”

  Preston bit his lower lip, felt something in his bowels shift—he was probably bleeding again—and thought: Here’s where I use one of the lessons you taught me, Annabelle.

  He turned back to the security guard. “Lawrence?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I want you to break any two items you wish to on the good Professor here and see if that persuades him to put aside our contractual differences for the sake of the project.”

  “Any two items?”

  “Except his hands. We’ll need those—and don’t knock him unconscious, all right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Preston turned back to McCarrick, pleased to see that the professor’s face had turned three shades whiter than white.

  “P-p-p-please,” said McCarrick.

  Preston grabbed McCarrick’s collar and pulled the scientist up close, pressing the gun up under the man’s chin.

  “Scared now?”

  “. . . yes . . .”

  “Should I leave you with Lawrence or do we now speak as civilized men?”

  “Let me get my notes.”

  “That’s a good fellow.”

  31

  * * *

  “So what exactly are you looking for?” asked Itazura.

  Psy–4 sat before the main computer console, already hooked in. “I’m not sure.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up.”

  “Does everyone know what they’re supposed to do?” asked Stonewall.

  Everyone did.

  Psy–4 made one last check of the equipment. The system was already online and ready to log onto the PTSI InfoBahn Site. Psy–4 knew from past experience that this was the easiest way to infiltrate an outside system. Firewalls were child’s play to him, as were any security codes designed for keeping BahnSurfers from accessing the mainframe. Psy–4 had yet to encounter a system that he could not merge with undetected.

  Aside from the main computer, there were three others in the control room’s mini-network. All three monitors were on, and once the infiltration was underway, each monitor would display a different set of images as Psy–4 broadcast them back through his input/output connectors. The first monitor would display the layout schematics of PTSI’s main building, each floor and room coming up in accordance with its individual security code; the second monitor would display, in split-screen, the precise configuration of every security code and exactly how long Psy–4 had
until his presence was detected; the third monitor would display images of PTSI’s main building as they were recorded by security cameras, as well as any images Psy–4 encountered in the InfoBahn that he felt needed to be downloaded into the I-Bots’ network.

  And so, in dazzling color, the other I-Bots could keep track of where Psy–4 was in the system, when he was there, how long, what codes he was bypassing, whether or not his presence had been detected, and what was going on in the PTSI compound while he telepathed with the mainframe.

  Stonewall and Itazura would be watching the monitors.

  Radiant would, as always, be monitoring Psy–4’s vital signs.

  She stood behind him, placing one hand on each of his shoulders.

  Psy–4 finished his final check of the system, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then nodded at Stonewall. “Make the handshake.”

  “It’s showtime, folks,” whispered Itazura.

  There was not so much as a hint of levity in his voice.

  32

  * * *

  At first: Darkness.

  Buzzing.

  Hissing.

  Static, fading.

  Psy–4 found himself looking at a massive white wall.

  It always took him a few seconds upon entering the system to acclimate himself. The first time he had telepathed with a system, the sheer number of equations, codes, images, sounds, and information had genuinely frightened him, distilled, as they were, to their barest skeleton of computer symbols and language, not quite real, but too numerous and formidable to be denied.

  Zac had quickly rectified that, reprogramming Psy–4 so that he saw everything in terms of concrete forms; unconscious symbology made three-dimensional, all representation of continuously changing physical memory transformed into beings with whom he could communicate, regardless of the data definitions, analogous anomalies, or inconsistencies in electronic signals or encryptions.

  Algorithms, buffers, LANs, microprocessors, memory chips—all were simply denizens of these ethereal streets.

  And Psy–4 was always glad to meet them.