Time Was (2 page)

“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.

 

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:

 

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 fence.

But that was all the room they would need.

 

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.

This was, Preston knew, only a “friendly wager” between two
former coworkers; even so, his disposition didn't allow any room for humility—at least when it came to losing bets to someone so far down the ladder of success.

Time to play a card in his hand.

Preston opened a drawer and pressed a button. A split appeared in the opposite wall of the office as four separate oak panels slid back to reveal the massive bank of video and closed-circuit television monitors hidden there. The largest of the monitors displayed a series of layout schematics—what used to be called blueprints in the pre-HoloTecture days—decorated with series of flashing red, blue, and green lights.

“You've seen these, of course,” said Preston.

“What do you think?”

“Getting grumpy in your old age, Zac.”

“It happens.”

Preston couldn't quite gauge Robillard's tone so decided to ignore it for right now.

He pointed to the oversized screen. “In case you've forgotten, the green lights are weight sensors; the blue, air-pressure sensors; and the red—”

“—temperature sensors. I remember.” Zac looked entirely too calm for Preston's comfort.

“They're not in here, Zac. Your people”—he entered a series of commands on his keyboard, noting that his hands were trembling ever so slightly—”aren't even on the grounds yet, let alone inside this building.”

The schematics on the large screen changed more rapidly now, bringing up a new section of the compound and all its buildings every eight seconds, while the rest of the screens displayed pictures of empty hallways, quiet sidewalks, locked doors, computer banks running smoothly with no human assistance.

Preston felt smug, if not good.

Dammit
, he thought as the twinge of fire flared again inside him.
Not now!

No way was Zac going to beat him on this one. Oh, sure, when they'd been at WorldTech together, it became apparent to even the most self-involved of the researchers that Robillard possessed the superior scientific mind. Though Preston resented the respect and even awe with which Zac was regarded, it quickly became obvious that it was he, Preston, and not Robillard, who had the upper hand when it came to corporate political savvy.

Guess who made it all the way to the top, Zac
, he thought, studying Robillard's face.

Still, somewhere in the back of his mind, Preston knew that, ultimately, he was inferior to Zac Robillard in every way that counted.

But he'd become very good at denial.

Very good, indeed—he had the fire inside his gut to testify to that.

No way, no way in hell, would Zac Robillard beat him.

No way.

 

Ninety seconds after the mainframe security code changed, it changed again:

 

The child sensed the Bad Feeling again as he realized that he couldn't remember the color of his hair.

Blond? Dark? Light brown?

Was it straight, hanging down in his eyes so he had to brush it aside all the time, maybe puff it away with a good burst of breath, or was it wavy, even curly?

The Bad Feeling quickly gave way to sadness.

He couldn't remember.

And his sadness gave way to a deeper fear.

 

When the three I-Bots were less than nine feet from the fence, Radiant lifted her hands, signaling her companions to hang back. She adjusted her goggles, took a deep breath, then stepped forward into the range of the outside sensors.

Psy–4 was as still as death.

Even though he knew there was no security system that could
defeat them, he'd been programmed to never,
ever
discard any possibility, regardless of how outrageous or illogical it seemed.

And so he was a little on edge right now.

In fact, he was a little on edge all the time, but never more so than when they were executing a mission.

You never knew what might go wrong.

Or when.

He pushed his anxiety aside and concentrated on Radiant's movements.

She moved forward, hands straight out, palms up.

The air hit her hands and rippled backward like heat waves rising from an asphalt road in summer heat.

Psy–4 could smell the ozone, feel that crackling static electricity twisting through the atmosphere, brushing past him.

He looked at Stonewall, who nodded in his direction.

He felt it, too.

The night became blurred, shadows retreated, and the sounds of the crickets and dogs and countless other night creatures grew muffled wherever the sound waves passed through the ripples emanating from Radiant's hands.

She moved closer to the fence.

The ripples turned to waves, rolling forward, frothing the darkness.

This close to the source, the buzzing of the electrified fence was a physical force against the humid night, its volume rising with every step she took, becoming the vicious snarl of a starving junkyard dog ready to tear into a trespasser.

She never hesitated, never faltered.

Psy–4 stared at her, transfixed; she appeared to be in a trance.

He wondered if she knew how compelling she looked at moments like this.

The searchlight came around again, but this time when its
beam hit the ripple-shield around Radiant the light split, spread, became diffuse, and was swallowed.

There was an opening in the world where none had been before, a pit of night where nothing was seen or sensed; the maw of Death, wide and hungry.