Time Was (10 page)

“Until you do the James Jump? About three hours. We've developed three different strains of nanites, you see. James's were the least destructive. The ones in your system are the second strain, much nastier, and on a timer. Unless, of course, we
choose
to override their programming and press a certain button. But . . .” She purposely didn't finish.

Tyler jumped up from his chair and started toward her.

One of Simmons's massive hands gripped his shoulder like a vice and forced him back down into his seat.

“But
what?
” shouted Tyler.

Annabelle put out her other hand.

Simmons handed her the small black case.

“But,” said Annabelle, “there is a way around any further unpleasantness. All you have to do is tell me
which
member of the board has been planting spies like you in my company.”

She opened the case, then held it out so Tyler could see the contents.

A hypodermic syringe, shiny and clean, nestled like a sleeping baby in a red velvet cradle.

“Care to guess what this is, bright boy?”

“ . . . please . . .”

He was nearly in tears.

Sweat had ruined his shirt.

His meticulously coiffed dark hair hung down in his face like vines.

Annabelle felt elated.

She had broken him.

“This syringe contains, naturally, the closest thing to an antidote that the lab boys have managed to create. While it won't destroy the nanites in your system, it
will
erase their programming and prevent them from manufacturing any more of themselves. They'll be harmless enough, though they'll remain in your system forever.

“But at least you'll be safe, Tye. All you have to do”—she removed the syringe, held it in the light where it glistened—“is give me the name of the board member who put you up to this. That's all. One name, and your life is yours once again.”

“They'll . . . they'll have me killed,” he whined.

“No, they won't. If anyone is going to have that pleasure, it will be me.” She pushed the plunger slightly, watching as the tip of needle spewed forth a tiny amount of liquid. “Your call, Tye.”

He stared at her face.

Then the needle.

Then the photo of St. Joan.

“Would you—I'm sorry, Tye, I've been rude: Would you like another look at what's left of Mr. James?”

“NO!”
he screamed, then began to weep. “All right. All right.”

He gave her the name she wanted.

Annabelle gave Simmons the syringe.

Simmons gave Tyler the shot.

Everybody was happy.

“One last thing, Tye,” said Annabelle, leaning down and placing one of her hands against Tyler's cheek. “I wouldn't tell anyone about this if I were you.” Suddenly, her hand became a clamp that snapped up and closed on his face, squeezing with such power it was easy to believe the bones in his skull were going to implode from the pressure. “I am everywhere, Tye, hear me? There is nowhere in this world you can go, no hole deep enough, no cave dark enough, where I don't have an operative. That's not a threat, bright boy, just a simple statement of fact.

“
This
is the threat: Mention this to anyone, tell anyone, even
allude
to it, and I promise you that you will never feel safe in your world again. I'm afraid I pulled a little Agatha Christie on you. The nanites in your system
have
had their programming erased, but that in no way means they have been rendered useless.” She snatched up the small palmtop unit and turned it toward him, the button clearly visible. “If I choose to, I press this button and the nanites in your system will do the James Jump. Understand me? Think of them in terms of an unexploded bomb: harmless as long as I don't decide to press this button.” She pulled her other hand away from his face, making sure to dig a couple of her fingernails into his cheek as she did so.

Drawing his blood, she felt satisfied.

“Ooops,” she said coyly. “I'm afraid that's going to leave a nasty scar.”

Simmons escorted Tyler from the office.

Annabelle turned and faced St. Joan.

After a few moments, she began to cry.

Gently fingering the locket.

What did I know?
She thought.
What did I know of love's austere and lonely offices?

It was several more moments before she became aware of Simmons's presence in the room.

Not bothering to hide or wipe away her tears, she turned and faced her assistant. “What is it?”

“Are you all right, madam?”

“No, I'm not all right—and why do you persist in calling me madam when we're alone? Surely we've gone beyond that in the years we've been together.”

“Because the word is more than a mere formality to me,” Simmons replied. “It symbolizes the respect I have for you—the respect you've earned.”

He began fixing a drink for her. “Might I inquire what you'd like for me to do with the information Mr. Tyler provided?”

“You know perfectly well what I want you to do.”

Simmons handed her the drink. “Just double checking, mad—
Ms. Donohoe.
” He smiled. “I have you to thank for that. ‘There's no such thing as being too cautious.' You said that.”

Annabelle smiled at him. “You know, Simmons, you're the only one who understands me. Sometimes I think you're the only friend I have.”

“I like to think of myself as your friend.”

Annabelle took a sip of the drink. Then another. “But you still know I wouldn't hesitate to have you killed if you ever betrayed me.”

“Anything less would disappointment me.”

Annabelle nodded her head, took another sip. “Oh, if those fools on the board had any idea how much Robillard and those damned I-Bots cost me personally—and I'm not just talking about the money and face, Simmons.”

“I'm . . . I'm well aware of what they cost you. And if I may, I'd like once again to tell you how very sorry I am that—”

“I know,” said Annabelle, clutching the locket so tightly it made her hand hurt. “And I appreciate it.” Then: “Was there some specific reason you came in here?”

“Yes. You have an urgent call.”

“Why didn't you tell me that right away?” she snapped, crossing quickly to her desk.

“You were upset, Ms. Donohoe. As far as I am concerned, nothing is so urgent as that.”

Annabelle grinned at him. “Don't you
dare
start getting sentimental on me now, Simmons.”

“I will go out and purchase a copy of
The Cynic's Manifesto
immediately.”

“You do that.”

Simmons left the office.

Annabelle took another sip of her drink, set it on her desk, looked toward St. Joan for divine guidance, and answered the phone. “Yes?”

“It's ‘Come-and-Get-Me Time,'” said Janus.

 

Something was wrong.

She could sense it.

Smell it.

Feel it.

But if anyone had asked, she would not have been able to say exactly
what
was setting her nerves on end.

Killaine thought,
This doesn't make sense, being this paranoid so soon.

She was having a hard time keeping pace with Zac as they made their way through the maze of alleyways toward the Scrapper camp.

It amazed her how quickly her creator moved, considering how heavy the duffel bag slung over his shoulder was.

The backs of the buildings here ran to three stories of dirty brick. Near the rear stoops were Dumpsters and garbage cans with all the attendant scrawny dogs and starving cats prowling for sustenance.

The air carried the smell of decay; rotting food and motor oil and animal waste and old sweat mixed with the rich, loamy scent of mud and the sharp, stinging odor of—

—metal.

Most human beings would probably mistake it for the smell of ozone, this scent, but Killaine knew the scent of metal well. She inhaled it every time she undressed for bed at night.

She'd always thought that a bit odd; even though she was covered in synthetic flesh from head to toe, she could still smell the metal underneath the skin.

And it wasn't just her; on more than one occasion, Itazura and even the vain Radiant had confided the same thing to her.

She took one last deep breath, nearly gagged on the cumulative stench of the dank alleyways, and decided to power-down her olfactory system until they were well away from this awful place.

Still, she couldn't rid herself of the feeling.

Something was wrong.

She knew it.

To make matters worse, rain was pounding down from the black morning sky, hitting the iron overhangs, each drop sounding like a bullet fired from a high-powered weapon.

Rain puddled at their feet, deepening the mud, making each step more precarious than the one before.

Rain flowed from the roof gutters, creating blurry waterfalls that obscured their vision.

Rain slid along the railings of the fire escapes like shiny pin-balls in the tracks of arcade machines, pooling on the mesh landings, dribbling down like tears.

There was no way it could have been any more oppressive.

Or depressing.

Or potentially unnerving.

And it wasn't even ten
A.M.
yet.

Killaine hated days that started off like this.

A few yards ahead of her and Zac, their silent guide turned and gestured for them to hurry.

Bloody Scrapper
, she thought, fisting both her hands.

Not that she had any intention of doing the Scrapper harm; for one thing, it wasn't in her nature; for another, she thought it a waste of effort.

As if he'd read her mind, Zac suddenly slowed his pace in order to speak with her. “I know your feelings about the Scrappers, Killaine, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't do or say anything to offend them.”

“I'll not be lying to you, Zachary, I've never cared for their type.”

Zac shook his head. “You sure didn't get that from me.”

“Maybe it's my inherent Irish clannishness.” She smiled.

Zac did not return her smile. “You know, don't you, that I
vehemently
detest that particular characteristic in you?”

“You could always erase it from my—”

“—never! Don't even joke about something like that.”

Killaine immediately felt ashamed of herself. She'd only been trying to win the argument by any means necessary—a characteristic that none of the I-Bots found particularly endearing—and thought she could gain the upper hand by making an absurd suggestion.

She could see how deeply she'd hurt Zac's feelings.

And after their talk earlier this morning, she'd felt as if the two of them had grown a bit closer.

Maybe she could fix things.

Make them better, at least.

“I'm sorry, Zachary,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I truly am.”

Of all the I-Bots, only Killaine called Zac by his full name. She hoped this displayed the proper amounts of both respect and affection.

Zac nodded his head as their silent guide rounded a corner ahead of them into another maze of alleyways. “I detest prejudice of any kind, Killaine. I just wish to God that—”

His words were cut off as they rounded the corner and saw their guide standing stock-still, arms raised to the level of his waist.

A few feet in front of their guide stood a young man in a long, dark, leather duster coat, his shaved head glistening with either rain or perspiration.

His left hand hung at his side.

His right hand came up quickly.

Holding a gun.

“Well, well,” he said. “Looks like I'm gonna make my quota, after all.”

Killaine began to make her move.

Zac grabbed her arm, stopping her.

“No,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“He's got an electron gun.”

Killaine felt something in her center go suddenly cold.

With fear . . .

An hour earlier, a little after eight
A.M.
, Killaine had gotten out of bed, feeling quite refreshed from last night's PosiTrance Time, and decided to make breakfast for everyone.

Killaine was glad that Zac had decided to program them for PosiTrance Time—the equivalent of human sleep—because it gave their neuro-programming an opportunity to more fully collate, absorb, and apply the myriad bits of information they accumulated.
When
to power-down into a PosiTrance state was a matter of personal choice for each of them—they were, after all, more machine than human, so “sleep” wasn't necessary—but Killaine chose to “sleep” at least three times a week.

It made her feel more like a human.

Zac took great care to program them with as many human characteristics as possible.

Killaine was always the first one to rise in the morning, earning the annoying cloying nickname of “Sunshine” from Itazura—a nickname that the other I-Bots, seeing how much it grated on her nerves, quickly took to.

She knew they meant no harm, that it was all only in good humor but, still, there were times she wanted to clap any or all of them upside the head.

You've got to learn to rein in that temper of yours
, Zac had told her on more than one occasion.
If you don't, you're going to get us all in a lot of trouble someday.

So, well aware that someone was just dying to irritate her, Sunshine rose from her bed, donned her terry-cloth robe, and started downstairs to make a good old-fashioned Irish breakfast for her friends.

The ingrates.

She was approaching the end of the hall when she noticed that Zac's door was open.

Killaine knew right away that Zac hadn't slept well, if at all; his door being left open was a sure sign that he'd been up during the night, wandering the warehouse that served as both their place of business and their home.