Time Was (46 page)

Zac stared at the numbers.

Okay, Zachary, think, think.

Begin with placement, then try division.

In any incomplete/interrupted sequence of numbers (if he remembered his Euclidian logic correctly), you have to remember to count the number of the place of the missing digit.

There were seven numbers, but
eight
places; and once you have the eighth number, you have to remember to count the ninth place, even if you
don't
have that number.

Piece of cake.

Right
, he thought:
And if you believe that, odds are you'll find a guy with some prime real estate to sell in the Florida swamps.

But that sort of thinking was getting him nowhere.

He looked at the numbers again.

The larger numbers could be easily divided in countless ways, but the key had to be with the smaller numbers.

To whit: 1 can only be divided by 1 itself.

2 can be divided by both 1 and 2.

6 can be divided evenly by 1, 2, and 3—in fact, it was the smallest number that could be divided by those digits.

Except there's no three, you moron!
Zac scolded himself.

Unless it has something to do with
consecutive
digits beginning with 1 that can serve as divisors. 6 appeared
third
in the series, so the number 3
must be
relevant.

Okay, maybe,
maybe
there was something there.

Go with it
, he thought.

He managed to get to his feet and, taking hold of the IV rack, began to slowly pace.

He nearly fell at first from the initial dizziness but caught himself on the edge of Preston's desk.

All right, then: 12 appears fourth in the series. 12 can be divided evenly by 1, 2, 3, and 4. Okay, Zac old man, you're onto something.

The fifth number was 60. That could be evenly divided by 1, 2, 3, 4, 5—
and
6!

Six. How could he have overlooked the most often-employed number in long division? Not only that, but he wasn't taking into account the fact that there
was
an eighth number in the series, so even though he didn't have the number itself, he did have its place—number 8.

Whoa, Zac
—
hold the phone. Didn't you
start off
reminding yourself of that?

Dammit to hell! This was not—repeat
not
—the time to let himself confuse himself.

Zac increased the speed of his pacing.

420 could be divided evenly by all the previous digits and the number of their placement in the series—1 through 7—right: and the final number, 840, was divisible by all the digits and the number of their placement in the series: 1 through 8.

Okay, all right, getting closer, have to be getting closer now . . .

He stumbled again, almost crying out, but managed to choke back his voice at the last second.

Son-of-a-bitching IV!

He looked at Preston's desk until he found what he was looking for: a tape dispenser.

He pulled off several strips of plastic tape and attached them to the edge of the desk.

Then he gently removed the gauze pad, cotton balls, and medical tape that covered the spot where the IV needle entered his vein.

He scanned the top of the desk again and found a large eraser, which he picked up, dusted off, then clenched between his teeth.

He took a deep breath, then quickly pulled the IV needle from his arm.

For a moment, there was a frightening amount of blood.

Zac pressed the gauze pad and cotton balls to the wound and bent his arm, then quickly grabbed up the medical tape and strips of plastic tape and slapped them to the gauze, pulling each strip tighter than the one before.

It took a moment, and he had to spend two minutes holding his arm over his head, but eventually the bleeding stopped.

Exhausted, he staggered back over to the sofa and sat down.

Okay, where was I?

The seventh number, 840, and the missing eighth digit.

The next number in the series, which damn well better be the combination or he was toast, should be the smallest number that could be divided evenly by all the previous numbers and the number of the space following: 1 through 9.

If you multiply 840 by 3, the product is divisible by 9 and remains divisible by all the lesser digits in the sequence. And, since 840 multiplied by 3 is . . . is . . . c'mon, c'mon, you used to be good at this . . . carry the 1 . . . add that to the . . . right, right . . . 840 times 3 is 2520.

The combination
has to be
2520!

He opened his mouth, then snapped it closed once again.

Not because he was uncertain of the solution.

Not because he doubted his logic.

Not because he was worried that he might slur his words.

No; Zac Robillard shut his mouth because he was afraid he might laugh—not only at Annabelle's remarkable cleverness, but at his own stupidity, as well.

2520 had been his employee number when he worked at WorldTech.

Taking a deep breath and composing himself, Zac opened his mouth and spoke slowly and clearly.

“2, 5, 2, 0.”

The safe buzzed, clicked, and the door swung open, revealing the case within.

Zac stumbled over, retrieved the case, and opened it.

Annabelle hadn't been lying; there was the syringe.

But what if it's a trick?
he suddenly thought.
What if the initial shot was nothing more than colored water and
this
syringe contains the nanite?

No—Annabelle would have stayed to watch if she was going to pull something that perverted.

And, whether she was willing to admit it or not—Annabelle Donohoe never admitted to any weakness—Zac was useful to her.

He tapped the side of the syringe to remove any bubbles, then found a nice, plump vein, and gave himself the shot.

After that, he fumbled around Preston's desk until he found the hidden button, pressed it, and opened the secret passage behind the monitor banks.

Time to see where you go
, he thought, and began to slowly, cautiously, descend the iron spiral staircase.

 

It took Singer a little more than nine minutes to place the portable HIR units at various locales surrounding the outskirts of the PTSI compound.

He returned to the spot where, now, all the I-Bots were assembled.

“Well?” asked Stonewall.

Singer gave him the thumbs-up sign.

“I can't believe you were messing around with my equipment,” whispered Itazura.

Singer put a hand on Itazura's shoulder, then signed,
Sorry
—
but wait until you see the modifications I made.

“Modifications?”

“Shhhh!” said Psy–4. “We have to take a vote.”

“On what?” snapped Radiant.

“Do we focus solely on retrieving Zac or do we try for both Zac and Roy?”

The rest of them exchanged confused glances.

Itazura was the one who said it: “After all this, you're willing to abandon Roy?”

Psy–4 glared at him. “We've got seventy-nine minutes until the final D and D stage is complete. Given a choice between Roy and Zac, there
is no choice.
”

“You have to hate that.”

“What I feel about it doesn't matter—which is why I'm not voting. Singer can have my vote. It's up to the rest of you: Zac or Zac
and
Roy?”

Why either/or?
inquired Singer.

“Because—” began Psy–4.

“Shut up,” said Killaine.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, ‘shut up.'” She looked at the others. “I say we split up. Psy–4 and Radiant already know Roy's physical location. They head to the lab, the rest of us will search for Zac.”

“What about Singer?” asked Stonewall.

Killaine smiled and put a hand on the robot's shoulder. “Singer's going to be busy creating a diversion for us, aren't you, my friend?”

Diversion is so mild a word for what I have in mind.

Killaine put out her hand. “Does everyone agree?”

All of them, Singer included, placed their hands into the circle.

“Then we are decided,” said Psy–4.

They broke the circle, waiting for Singer's signal.

Singer activated the main HIR unit, checked the signal strength, then signed:
Nothing up my sleeve . . . Presto!

And with the flick of a switch the grounds surrounding the PTSI compound were swarming with an army of robots.

“Let's move.” said Psy–4.

And the siege began. . . .

“Control, this is East Tower Two, over.”

“Go ahead East Tower Two, over.”

“We have initiated security lights and have established visual contact with a large group of robots, approximately twenty-five to thirty in number, armed and moving toward the Sector B entrance gate. Please advise, over.”

“East Tower Two, are you certain that the robots are armed, over.”

“Affirmative. The largest of the group is carrying what appears to be an M–60, over.”

Silence.

“Control, we need permission to open fire, over.”

“East Tower Two, the order is given; commence firing upon intruders, over and out.”

Once inside the gates, Radiant rerouted the energy of all security sensors so the I-Bots could move quickly and undetected toward the main building.

They were less than one hundred feet from the basement entranceway when one of the guard towers opened fire with a large, fully automatic machine-gun.

“What the
hell—
?” said Itazura.

“They're firing on the robots,” whispered Radiant.

“How long do you think it will be until they figure out they're holos?”

“Not before Singer activates the next batch. Now, come on!”

“Control, this is North Tower One—”

“Control, this is Security Kiosk Seven, South-West Sector—”

“Control, this is Observation Booth Five, Main Building—”

“—we have visual contact with a large group of robots—”

“—we have established visual contact with what appears to be a band of robots—”

“—visuals on a group of robots, approximately thirty to forty in number—”

“—please advise—”

“—please advise—”

“—please advise—”

The guards were just moving McCarrick's body from the computer room when one of their portable radios squawked loudly. The guard answered at once, then looked toward Preston.

“Sir?”

“What?”

“We have a situation outside the compound.”

“So? Handle it.”

“Control respectfully asks that you pick up on line one.”

Preston groaned and snatched up the receiver. “This had better be damned good.”

He listened to what Control had to say.

His face grew pale.

Then he nodded his head and said: “You have authorization to use any and all means at your disposal to stop them.
Yes
, including explosives. Keep me advised.” He slammed down the phone, turned toward the guards, and said, “Why are you still here?”

“Because I told them not to be in such a hurry,” said Annabelle, stepping into the room.

And that's when Preston saw the WorldTech guards relieving his own security of the burden of their weapons. . . .

Down in the lower-level corridor, Psy–4 and Radiant went left while Stonewall, Killaine, and Itazura went right.

Alarms were sounding everywhere.

“I don't know how much longer I can control all this,” said Radiant. “Too much is happening at once.”

“Do the best you can,” shouted Psy–4.

He grabbed her hand and they ran toward the branch in the hallway where Psy–4 had first experienced the feeling of fear and loneliness.

They made a sharp right.

And there was the door.

And there was the wall-mounted hand-scanner.

And there was another door where one hadn't been before, and then suddenly, like a ghost from an old Gothic novel, there was a hunched and twisted figure coming right the hell out of the wall, and Psy–4 lunged for it because it was carrying what looked like a very large gun. . . .

The security towers hit the oncoming robots with everything they had; from heavy strafing with mounted M–60s to hand grenades and rocket launchers.

Nothing stopped them.

Nothing harmed them.

Nothing even seemed to
touch
them.

And just when it seemed there couldn't possibly be any more of the damned things, four more reported sightings came in. . . .

Hidden within the trees and foliage, Singer checked the main HIR unit.

He'd engaged less than half the portable units.

He looked toward the compound, saw the lights in the night, the muzzle-flash of all the firepower, the smoke hanging in the air from the grenades and rockets, and wondered how anyone could manage to see anything through all the fire, smoke, and debris.

Then decided it didn't matter.

And activated the next series of three units.

The magnified images appeared.

If he weren't so worried, this might actually have been fun. . . .

* * *

“Holy shit! Tower Three, this is Tower Five. Are you guys seeing what I'm seeing?”

“No way, Tower Five, that
I'm
going to be the one to say it.”

“Towers Three and Five, this is Control. When you are on this frequency you will observe the rules of—”

“—with all due respect, Control, look out your east window.”

“Towers Three and Five, be advised that all personnel assigned to your—oh,
holy shit!”

“Told you. This is Tower Three—we're getting the hell out of Dodge. Over and out.”

All over the compound tower guards were freezing at the sight of dozens of IA”2112 model mining robots running toward the gates.