Time Was (14 page)

Falkirk shuddered.

“Oh, no . . .” choked Zac.

What?
asked Singer.

Zac rubbed his eyes, exhaled a breath that was both sad and furious, then asked: “He was hit with an electron shot, wasn't he?”

Yes, but the blast was weak and only got him in the chest, not the head, and
—

“There's no
and
to it, Singer. Look.” He pointed to the tiny two-inch sphere of atomic energy that was this robot's life. The sphere itself was intact, but all of the gear and wiring surrounding it was blackened, charred, and sputtering.

“That sphere is a nuclear power plant designed specifically for this particular model—one with an exceptionally high power output, able to function for decades without recharging or maintenance. It serves a similar function, theoretically, as a human heart. It's one of the reasons that this particular model hasn't been produced in years. That sphere will vaporize a city block if it's overloaded or deformed. Of course, the engineers put in every fail-safe they could think of to prevent such a thing from happening. When the blast penetrated Falkirk's chest cavity, the sphere remained unharmed, but everything powered by the sphere absorbed the damage.”

What are you saying?

“The gun used to shoot him
wasn't fully charged. . . .
If it had been, none of you would have survived the sphere's explosion—hell, most of the block would be gone right now. The remnants of the electron charge are snaking through Falkirk's system now, moving toward his brain, little by little. He's suffering the human equivalent of a massive stroke. There's nothing I can do to save him.”

Singer stared down at his fallen leader.

After a long, agonized silence, Killaine whispered: “Is he suffering, Zachary?”

“If you mean is he in pain, then the answer is no—not like you or I would feel pain. If you mean is he aware that something is terribly, horribly wrong, that his entire body is betraying him, that he's dying slowly, then, yes. He's suffering.”

Zac looked at Killaine.

Then Singer.

Then the other Scrappers who were assembling nearby.

“I need those two crates over there,” he said.

Singer and Killaine retrieved the crates, then—per Zac's instructions—stacked them one on top of the other.

Zac took something from Killaine, then climbed up to stand face-to-face with Falkirk.

For a moment, the dying robot's eyes glowed bright red, as if communicating a last message.

Zac took a deep breath.

“Sometimes I wish it were still yesterday,” he whispered. “Summer camp. The Moon shot.
Playhouse 90.
‘American Pie.' One enormous yesterday with everything crammed into it like Fibber McGee's closet. I'd open the door and let everything cover me.”

He looked into Falkirk's eyes. “Rest now, good fellow.”

The robot gave a weak nod of its head.

Zac shot him square in the head with the electron gun.

The robot shuddered one last time, its legs kicking out in a death spasm and knocking the crates out from under Zac, who rumbled to the ground with a loud
thud!

Killaine helped him to his feet, thinking,
Oh, Zachary.

Swallowing back his anger and grief, Zac wiped his eyes and said, in a voice eerily devoid of emotion, “We have to take him apart and salvage what parts we can.”

This was done quickly, with little conversation.

Then, one by one, the damaged Scrappers came forward, carrying with them their dismembered arms, chestplates, faceplates. Some had to crawl for help, their legs having been ripped or shotgun-blasted from their bodies.

And there, in the alley, under a tarpaulin placed atop wooden boards to form a tent to keep away some of the rain, DocScrap repaired as many of the robots as he could.

Many of them walked away with some small part of their fallen leader within them.

“Maybe it's a way for him to live on,” Zac said three and a half hours later, as they were making their way back toward the large cement drain that led into the sewers.

“You had no choice,” said Killaine. “He was suffering.”

“So it's
he
now, is it?”

“Zachary, please—”

“Don't tell it to me.” He pointed toward Singer. “Tell him.”

“You'll not even let me apologize?”

“What good will your apologizing do, Killaine? ‘The moving pen writes, and having writ,' and so on.”

“But I
am
sorry, Zachary. And I want . . . I want to change. 'Tisn't right, the way I treat Singer, the way I look down at the Scrappers. I know this. It's just that there's something . . . something
hateful
in me that I cannot define—and if I can't define it, then how can I defeat it?”

“You can defeat anything, Killaine—I made sure of that when I designed you. Each one of you has nearly one hundred thousand terabytes of memory in your heads—the ability to store enough knowledge to fill over a quarter million human brains. But it's not just the ability to store that knowledge that makes you so special, but how you can apply that knowledge. Within or without, there's no challenge you can't meet. You just have to want to bad enough.”

“Now you're sounding like Itazura.”

Zac almost grinned.

Almost.

“I suppose, of all of you, Itzy's the one who's got the most of me in him. Not the Me-Now, or even the Me-Then, but the Me-I-Wish-I'd-Been. Strong, witty, playful, formidable . . . and questioning.”

“But you
are
all those things and more.”

“And you're just trying to earn some extra brownie points.”

“No, I mean it, Zachary. You denigrate yourself far too much and far too often.”

“Everybody needs a hobby.”

Killaine was getting irritated. “You really do think of yourself as something of a failure, don't you?”

“Shouldn't I be lying on a couch or something when you ask those kinds of questions?”

“Would it help me to get an actual answer?”

“Fine. What if I do feel that I've failed in many areas of my life? Who
doesn't
feel that way from time to time? Or don't you ever listen to Itazura when he goes off on one of his tangents, questioning the point of everyone and everything?”

“In his own way, I
do
think Itzy's the most spiritual of us.”

“‘Spiritual.' Nice way to put it. If you believe in the soul.”

“Don't you?”

“Not so much anymore, because that would involve believing in a god who instilled you with one.” He glanced back over his shoulder in the direction of the Scrapper camp.

“Do you not believe in God, Zachary?” asked Killaine.

“Depends on what day of the week you ask that question. Yesterday, sure. Today—” He shrugged. “Today, not so much. I used to, in the traditional sense. Said my prayers at night when I was a child, went to church on Sundays, the whole nine yards. Then I grew up into a scientist, and decided that God was a psychological transcendent symbol expressing unconscious forces.”

“And now?”

Zac cast one last glance back toward the Scrapper camp. “Now I think it's quite possible that God is a sadist . . . and doesn't even know it.”

 

“So . . . you're actually answering your phone this morning.” Annabelle's voice was drier than the Sahara.

“Hello, Annabelle.”

“Imagine my surprise, when the corporate helicopter came back last night and you weren't on it.”

“I had the chopper dump me just outside the city.”

“Why?”

“I have a doctor here that I trust.” Janus moved a little—his abused muscles registered a strong protest.

“But I told you that I would have a medical team standing—”

“I decided I didn't want to owe you any favors.”

“Funny you should mention
owing
, Janus. Do you know what I'm holding in my hands?”

“Someone's balls that you're having for breakfast?”

“My, you are in a mood this morning, aren't you?”

“I took two bullets and needed seventeen stitches in my hand. I'm a little groggy from the happy pills the doctor gave me.”

“Poor boy.”

“I'm touched by your sympathy.” Janus wondered how much longer he should put up with this—but was still curious enough about where it was leading to let it go on. Besides, he had a few issues of his own to put on the table.

“My hands?” Annabelle asked.

“What?”

“We were discussing what I'm holding in my hands.”

“You know, Annabelle, I'm sure this penchant you have for drawing out nonexistent suspense probably leaves most of your underlings peeing in their pants. I find it simply irritating.”

“Fine. Where's the third disk, Janus?”

“With me.” Janus smiled.

“That isn't a lot of help to me, now, is it?”

“About as useful as an envelope with only seventy percent of my fee is to me.”

“Ah.”

Silence.

“You never used to be this heavy-handed, Annabelle,” Janus said. “I never much liked you but I could always trust you to be straight with me when we did business together.”

“You sound as if I've hurt your widdle feelings.”

“You've insulted my integrity, Annabelle. If we are going to continue to do business together, I have a right to know why.”

“What makes you think I want us to do more business together?”

“Because that's why you didn't send all the money with the chopper pilot. You knew I'd come over there to your little fortress to ask why, and then you'd offer me another assignment—one that I'm guessing is too delicate or personal for you to describe through the usual channels.”

“And a smart lad, to boot.”

“Watch your tone, Annabelle.”

“What if I were to tell you that I've six of my best operatives ready to take you down any second?”

“I'd tell you to go for it.”

“Really?”

“Why do you think I chose to live out here in the boonies, as you call it?”

“Do tell.”

“Because I knew that someday I'd end up doing business with someone just crazy enough to try and have me taken out on my home turf. Go ahead, Annabelle, send in your goon squad. One button. I press one button and this cabin and everything else within a six-mile radius goes up with a bang.”

“Including you?”

“Including me. This freak show called life long ago lost most of its appeal for me. It's no skin off my nose if I buy it right now or in ten years. So go on, Annie—”

“—don't call me that, you—”

“—give your boys the word. The way I feel this morning, you'll be doing me a favor.”

Silence.

“Would it do any good if I apologized to you, Janus?”

“Not really.”

“We shouldn't treat one another like this.”

“Keep going.”

“I shouldn't have tried something as amateurish as I did with the money.”

“Go on.”

“What? I've apologized.”

“No, you haven't. An apology usually includes two very important words.”

Silence.

“Well?”

“Fuck you.”

Janus laughed loudly. “There's my Annabelle. I'll be catching a flight at one-thirty this afternoon. I'll be at your office with the disk around four.”

“I'll have the rest of your money.”

“Fine,” he said.

“Friends again?”

“We were never friends, Annabelle. But I'll consider your next assignment.”

“Good.”

“Annabelle?”

“Yes?”

“You ever try anything like this again, and I'll kill you and as many people around you as I can.”

“Well, at least the chopper pilot will be glad to know it wasn't personal.”

“I'm sorry about his nose and shoulder.”

“And left eye.”

“Ooops. Clumsy me.”

“Now, Janus—”

Click.

 

In the cellar of the warehouse, Psy–4 watched in silence as Itazura walked his labyrinth.

The only light in the cellar came from a bare bulb that hung from the ceiling. Its too-bright glow cast deformed shadows on the cinder-block walls and made the already cramped space seem all the more claustrophobic. Psy–4 could never understand why Itazura had chosen to build his earth-maze down here instead of on the roof where Zac and Killaine kept a lovely garden.

But judging from the impatient manner in which Itazura stomped through the maze, Psy–4 wasn't about to broach that subject this morning.

“What's wrong?” he finally asked.

“Nothing,” snapped Itazura.

Psy–4 sighed. “Look, I realize I don't possess Radiant's sensitivity to body temperature and blood pressure, but it doesn't take an Einsteinian leap of the imagination to figure out that you're not being truthful with me.”

“So you're calling me a liar?”

“Let's just say I get the feeling you're not telling me everything and leave it at that.”

Itazura stopped midway through the maze, stomped his foot like a petulant child, then made his way back out before starting over.

In a far corner of the cellar, just out of the range of the circle of light, Stonewall stood very still, very silent, watching.

Itazura's earth-maze—or “labyrinth,” as he insisted on calling it—was a long, uninterrupted path painstakingly drawn into the soil in the shape of an ancient “magic hierogram,” modeled after that found in the Egyptian temple of Amenemhet III. The exercise—or meditation—that Itazura performed twice every day seemed, on the surface, simple enough: He began on the outskirts of the maze, slowly winding his way inward (toward death, symbolically), then, once reaching the center, knelt for a few minutes (a gesture of transmigration from one plane of existence to the next) before rising to his feet, turning three times, and following the path back to the outside of the maze (toward life, rebirth), exiting at a spot parallel to where he'd begun. The points of entrance and exit were marked by three small spirals drawn into the soil.