Time Was

by Steve Perry

  Psy–4 looked at the others, then back to Stonewall. “I’m afraid I don’t see what this has to do with—”

  “It has everything to do with it, don’t you see?” Stonewall’s voice broke on the last three words and for a moment he looked as if he might begin to weep, but he pulled in a deep breath, turned away from the window, and walked to the center of the room.

  “We were created, not born, but we’re not robots. We’re something more. At that moment of creation, Zac gave us a set of moral guidelines in our programming, yet we still defer to our logical impulses. Those have no place here right now. For all our lives, I think most of us have been avoiding—if not outright denying—our emotional impulses. Maybe some of that stems from dealing with so many shades of gray, but that doesn’t apply here. This is as black and white as it gets, folks. There is a child out there in pain, and he’s afraid, and he has no one else to turn to for help.” He faced Psy–4. “We don’t need you putting yourself on the rack about triggering the D and D; there was no way you could have known.”

  “No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible,” whispered Psy–4.

  “Don’t quote S. J. Lee to me. You have a tendency to worry your wounds, my friend, and we don’t need that in our leader—and you are our leader, and always will be.” He turned to face Radiant. “You, my dear sister, have to set your vanity aside until we figure out what we’re going to do.”

  “But I—”

  “You’ve always been somewhat self-absorbed and you know it as well as anyone in this room. You and I have to plan how we’re going to get back into PTSI because we cannot chance breaking in the same way as before. I need all your concentration for that.”

  “What’s so difficult about that?”

  “The D and D program has been running for well over seventeen hours. We have to assume that Preston—or someone at PTSI—is aware of what’s happening, and that they’re taking steps to rectify the problem.”

  Itazura shook his head. “You’re assuming that Preston has enough sense to—”

  “Do you remember what Zac told us?” asked Stonewall. “Under no circumstances do we ever, ever underestimate an opponent. I see no reason why we should operate under any other assumption.” He looked at Killaine. “We’ve had more than enough discussions about your temper in the past and I’m not going to waste any more time by reminding you of those discussions now, but take them to heart. You have to learn to reconcile your ideal of your existence with the reality of it. Face it, you’re not wholly robotic, but you’re not wholly human, either, and never will be. We are, all of us, like it or not, the next step of forced human/mechanized evolution. We’re a new race, and until there are others like us, all we have is each other. I can’t understand why you, of all of us, have such contempt for Singer—you, who go off the deep end every time you see an injustice. Tell me, Killaine, what justice has there been for him?” He pointed to Singer. “He’s already been an immeasurable help to us, and what thanks does he get for it? Your scorn?” He touched Killaine’s cheek. “Your prejudice will only get in the way. I don’t expect you to overcome it in the next sixty seconds, but you must store it elsewhere until Roy is safe.”

  Then, at last, he faced Itazura. “And you, with your ‘What’s the point? What does it all mean?’ Do you think you’re asking yourself questions that are unique to this world? Every person on the face of the Earth has grappled with those questions, but for once, you have something like an answer within your grasp.”

  “And that would be . . .?”

  Stonewall pointed toward the butterfly at the window. “As of this moment, our purpose, our meaning, is to still the fluttering of the butterfly’s wings for one child. If you can’t find peace within yourself armed with that knowledge, then I’m afraid there’s no peace to be found.”

  Itazura lowered his head. “Do you think it will be enough?”

  “It has to be. For then we will have made a difference in a way more profound than any governments, any armies, any politicians or poets ever have; we will have saved a life from suffering, we will have given hope to one who’s never known what hope is, and we will always know it, regardless of what happens later. Even in the bleakest, darkest of nights, that knowledge will be our anchor: that once, not so very long ago, we did a great thing for someone else without any thought of our own reward, that we refused to look away while another’s life was swallowed by darkness, that we stood as one and refused to allow a child to be sent not-so-gently into that good night.”

  Stonewall held out his hand. “Are we together on this?”

  Itazura put his hand on top of Stonewall’s. “I’m with you all the way, Big Guy.”

  Radiant put her hand on Itazura’s. “Me, too.”

  Psy–4 joined them. “Thanks, Stoner.”

  Finally, Killaine put her hand on top of Psy–4’s. “All for one and one for all, eh?”

  Stonewall grinned, then looked at Itazura, who understood his meaning.

  All of them—including Killaine—looked at Singer.

  “Well?” said Itazura.

  Me? Really?

  “Wouldn’t be a proper trip to see the Wizard without the Tin Man.”

  Slowly, with great dignity, Singer walked over and gently placed his hand atop Killaine’s.

  “To the stillness of butterfly wings,” said Stonewall.

  “To the stillness of butterfly wings,” repeated the others.

  Psy–4 nodded his head. “Then we are decided.”

  44

  * * *

  Preston’s insides felt on fire as he made his way back to his office.

  The fire wasn’t just because of the newest wave of pain—though that was a large part of it.

  No, some of the fire was his anger with McCarrick. Damn, he should have had the man snuffed months ago.

  A Nobel-prize winner, and the man hadn’t proposed one workable solution to the problem with Roy.

  “As a last resort, Mr. Preston—since you have offhandedly discarded all my suggestions—I propose that we ready another robotic brain and program the system to deposit all of the information from Roy into it rather than have it absorbed into the mainframe. I realize that since time is short there would not be sufficient time to program the brain itself—we’d have the equivalent of the world’s largest disorganized filing cabinet—but at least the information would be saved.”

  “And what about Roy’s personality?” asked Preston.

  “That, I’m afraid, we’d have to deem expendable.”

  “That’s unacceptable, Professor.”

  McCarrick had glowered at him. “Then our only other option is to disconnect Roy during the final stage of the program when the computer is running the data comparison, and I find that unacceptable, sir. There are too many variables, too many things that could go wrong. If not timed precisely, disconnection could destroy all the information—as well as his precious personality.”

  Arrogant pissant!

  Preston closed his office door behind him, made his way over to his desk, and sat in the plush leather chair.

  He probably shouldn’t have needled McCarrick at the end, but he’d been angry, anxious, and in pain.

  He had stopped at the lab door and asked, “How’s your daughter doing these days?”

  McCarrick turned three shades of red. His voice was barely a croak when he said, “She’s doing a lot better. She wanted me to thank you for the . . . the new computerized chair.”

  Such broken contempt in those words.

  “Any time,” Preston had said, not meaning it and knowing that McCarrick knew he didn’t mean it.

  Preston winced. The pain was waning somewhat, but it was only the second wave.

  They came in threes, always, and the third was always the worst.

  He pulled in a deep breath, held it, released it slowly.

  Repeated the process.

  Repeated it again.

  It was as he was exhaling for the third time that he
noticed the curtains had been closed and the office was cloaked in shadow. He rarely left his lights off—

  He turned on his desk lamp.

  The light’s position had been changed; it shone not on the surface of his desk but out toward the couch, spotlighting the bodies of his two private security guards.

  Both were quite dead, each with a small, bloody hole in their temples.

  He imagined the exit holes were much bigger, but whoever had done this had taken care to arrange the bodies so that Preston saw them only in the less gory profile.

  He immediately reached over and hit the alarm button.

  Nothing.

  “Sorry about Laurel and Hardy,” said a voice from the darkness, “but they weren’t exactly the most hospitable pair when they found me in here.”

  Janus stepped into the circle of light. “Hello, Sam.”

  “Janus.”

  “Been a while.”

  Preston nodded toward the guards. “Was that really necessary?”

  Janus shrugged. “I suppose not. I just wanted to have a little something handy to show you how serious I am. Originally I was going to tie you up and use a couple of toys on you, but then I found these.”

  He held up a clear plastic bag filled with Preston’s prescriptions.

  Preston yanked open his lower desk drawer.

  Empty.

  “How did you manage to pick the lock?”

  “Oh, come on, Sammy-Boy! I knew how to pick a desk lock by the time I was five.”

  “I suppose it was a stupid question.”

  “Very stupid.”

  “All you had to do was call, Janus. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for—”

  The third wave began.

  Preston doubled over in his chair, clutching at his mid-section, eyes tearing, a small trickle of blood exiting his nose. “Oh, god . . . please, Janus . . . I n-n-need my . . . my medicine.”

  Janus came over and sat on the edge of the desk, turning the lamp around so the light shone into Preston’s face. “You don’t look so good.”

  “Please!”

  Janus held out two painkillers.

  Preston, shaking uncontrollably, reached for them.

  Janus pulled his hand away before Preston could grab his medicine. “Not so fast, Sammy-Boy. I need some information.”

  Preston nearly fell out of his chair the agony was so intense. He tried to form words but there was nothing for him now but the pain, the pain, the wrenching, draining, fiery pain.

  Janus crossed to the wet bar and poured a glass of water, then returned to the desk and helped Preston regain his balance.

  “Here you go,” said Janus. He put the two pills into Preston’s mouth, then held the glass for him as Preston drank everything down.

  Sitting back on the edge of the desk, Janus crossed his arms and said, “How advanced is it?”

  “Enough that . . . no surgery or treatments would help.”

  For a moment Janus looked as if he were genuinely sorry to hear this.

  But just for a moment.

  “Okay, Sammy-Boy, I’ve shown you that I’m being reasonable here. Now it’s your turn.”

  “Could you . . . could you just give me a minute or two?”

  Janus waited.

  One minute.

  Two.

  Three.

  Never speaking, never moving.

  Preston couldn’t even hear his breathing.

  Midway through minute four Janus leaned over and whispered, “Feeling a little better?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  Then he grabbed Preston’s tie, yanked him to his feet, and dragged him across the room, kicking open the door of Preston’s private restroom.

  “I do some of my best work in toilets,” snapped Janus, swinging Preston around and throwing him across the slick tile floor.

  Preston slammed against the wall headfirst.

  Janus closed the restroom door and turned on the bright overhead lights. “So now that the nicey-nice part’s out of the way,” he said, kicking up the toilet lid, “I believe we have some things to discuss.”

  Preston managed to wriggle into a sitting position, then groaned.

  “Zac Robillard,” said Janus.

  “What about him?”

  “He was here last night.”

  Preston laughed humorlessly. “Is there anything Annabelle doesn’t know?”

  “That I wear boxers instead of briefs. Answer my question.”

  “You didn’t ask one.”

  Janus crossed to Preston and kicked him squarely in the groin.

  Preston howled in anguish and doubled over.

  “Don’t get nitpicky with me, Sammy-Boy. Was Robillard here last night?”

  “. . . yes . . .”

  “And he had a five-member team with him?”

  “. . . yes . . .”

  “You’ve already figured out who those five are, haven’t you?”

  Preston nodded. “The I-Bots.”

  “Right.”

  Janus crossed back to the toilet, pulled a bottle of pills from the plastic bag and popped the lid on the container.

  “My, my—morphine tabs. These aren’t easy to come by, even for someone in your position of power.”

  Janus tipped the container, dropping four of the tablets into the toilet.

  “NO!” screamed Preston, trying to get to his feet and failing miserably. “No, Janus, please, it cost me a . . . a lot of money to get my hands on those and it took forever to track down a supplier.”

  “Pity.”

  He dumped two more into the toilet, then flushed it.

  “Only twelve left, Sammy-Boy.”

  “God Almighty, Janus, just tell me what you want to know!”

  “How did you get in touch with Robillard?”

  “A phone number.”

  “And you of course have this most important number written down somewhere?”

  He began to tip the container again.

  “YES! Yes, it’s in my private file on my computer.”

  “You wouldn’t be trying to bluff me, would you, Sammy-Boy?” Another pill dangled on the edge of the container.

  “No,” cried Preston, his eyes wide with panic. “No, I swear it. I . . . I knew that Robillard was somewhere in the city . . . an informant told me . . . and I knew he’d need money, so it was just a matter of figuring out . . . figuring out . . .” He collapsed once again, still conscious but in pain.

  “It was just a matter of determining how he’d be hiring himself out, is that it?”

  Preston nodded.

  “And?”

  “Se . . . sec . . . security work. It was easy to find out which security company had added a listing in the last ninety days.”

  “Give me a name.”

  “Invasion Prevention Systems, Inc.”

  “Good lad.” Janus pushed the pill back into the bottle and replaced the lid, then crossed over and helped Preston to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you into that comfy chair of yours.”

  Once back at the desk, Janus powered up Preston’s computer. “Bring up the file.”

  Preston did so.

  Janus read the information, memorizing the phone number.

  “I assume,” croaked Preston, “that you’re working for Annabelle?”

  “You said it, I didn’t.”

  “Mind a little advice?”

  Janus grinned. “Usually, yes, but since you and I go back a little, I’ll make an exception.”

  “Don’t waste your time trying to trace this number. I had people on it for over a week before Zac showed up here and they came up with squat.”

  “Not the best way to drum up business.”

  Preston squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, felt the blood, and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. “This number connects you to the first in a series of voice-mail programs. Somehow Zac and the I-Bots have managed to tap their way into the local
phone system in such a way that the path of the call changes every time the number is dialed. I have no idea how they did it.”

  “So how does it work—hiring them, I mean?”

  “You call and leave a message. Tell them where and when you’ll meet them for a preliminary powwow and they show up.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Janus considered all this for a moment.

  “Okay, Sammy-Boy, since I’ve made such a mess here in your office, I’m going to give you the benefit of a doubt and believe what you’re telling me.” He threw a PTSI card key onto the desk. “But keep in mind that I can get more of those if I need them. If you’re screwing me on this, I’ll come back here and make the pain of your cancer look like a foot massage by comparison. You clear on that?”

  “Very.”

  Janus tossed the plastic bag of medicine onto the desk.

  Preston grabbed his wrist. “Janus, listen to me for a minute, all right?”

  “One minute.”

  “Work for me. I’ll pay three times what Annabelle’s paying you. Track down Zac and the I-Bots and bring them here to me. Hell, I’ll settle for Zac by himself.”

  “I’ve never been one for pushing my luck, Sammy-Boy. Playing both sides against the middle tends to get you crushed. Besides, I may not be the most moral person ever to walk this planet, but I pride myself on professional integrity. Sorry; Annabelle hired me, she paid first, my services are hers.”

  “Then I’ll work with the two of you! I’ll call Annabelle and hammer out an agreement. Okay?”

  “Not up to me.”

  “Fine. I’ll call her right now.” Preston reached for the phone.

  Janus clamped an iron grip around his wrist. “Huh-uh, not yet. Tell me why you so desperately need Zac.”

  “Because he can save my life.”

  Janus only stared as Preston explained what he had in mind.

  The two men then stared at one another for a moment.

  “What do you say, Janus? You could stand to make a lot of money from this.”

  “Like I said, it’s not up to me.” Janus stood, pulling a syringe from his pocket.

  Preston blanched. “What the hell is—”