Time Was (48 page)

“It would seem that way, Control, over.”

“Ah, well,
hell
. . .”

Annabelle reached into one of her pockets and removed a fully automatic pistol and pointed it at Preston. “What's going on here?”

Preston held up his hands. “I can explain all of this, Annabelle.”

She looked at her guards. “Leave this room and make sure no one else enters until I call you—that goes for you as well, Simmons.”

“Madam.”

A few moments later, she and Preston were alone in the room.

“Start explaining,” she said, her voice cracking.

“I didn't want you to find out, not like this.”

“Find out
what?
”

“About Roy.”

A single tear slid down her right cheek. “Roy's dead.”

Preston stared at the gun in silence, then slowly began to rise from the chair, gesturing toward the computer beyond the glass. “Well, you see, about that . . .”

Beyond the perimeter of the compound, the HIR system ran out of juice.

The robot army disappeared.

As did the oversized IA–2112s.

And the Godzillas that had been giving Security Nine such nervous moments.

For a minute, there was nothing but smoke, sputtering flames, and floating debris.

Then out of the darkness a crowd of shadows came running toward a rocket-blasted section of fence.

Screaming about wreckage . . .

Killaine and Radiant were nearing the section of fence where they'd entered earlier when Singer emerged from the smoke, carrying the portable chamber in his arms as if it were a baby.

Killaine was so proud of him she could have cried.

“Oh, Singer,” whispered Radiant, reaching out to take the chamber from his arms. “I don't know how you managed to get through without being shot to pieces, but you'll have to teach me sometime.”

Killaine took the chamber from Radiant. “We need your hands free in case there're any security devices still functioning properly—though judging from the mess out here I doubt there are.”

The three of them turned and started back toward the main building.

And that's when the world seemed to come to an end. . . .

Itazura was darting around the grounds of the compound, his StunShooter at the ready in case he encountered any security guards.

There were several different vehicles parked all over the grounds.

Of course, most of them were burning right now, having been blasted by panic-fire.

Two guards came out of the smoke and ran toward him.

He got both of them with one blast, knocking them unconscious—as they would remain for the next several hours.

To make sure they'd remain safe, he dragged them into a nearby supply shed.

Then resumed his search.

He saw the truck—unharmed and unguarded—at the same time he caught a quick glance of Radiant, Killaine, and Singer.

Then the whole world blew up. . . .

Annabelle stared at the computer and the mechanical brain, stunned beyond both words and action for the first time in her life.

Roy.

Her son was in there.

Alive.

Alive!

“Annabelle?” said Preston very, very softly.

“. . . what . . .?”

“I did it for us. I wanted us to be a family again.”

“. . . we were never a family, Sam . . .”

“Then I did it because I wanted us to
finally
be one.”

Slowly, Annabelle turned back to look at him.

He seemed so pathetic to her right now, so desperate and helpless and so completely without any grasp of reality.

“I don't love you, Sam. I never did.”

“I know, I know, but”—he pointed toward the computer—“don't you think that, maybe, you could
learn
to?”

“You're dying, Sam.”

“But we have
Zac
now! Don't you see? If he can design the I-Bots to be so humanlike, then why can't he build bodies for Roy and me, as well? Bodies just like the I-Bots', so human, able to feel, to touch, to give and receive affection.”

When Annabelle didn't say anything, Preston came a step closer to her, then slowly began to get on his knees. “I don't want to die, Annabelle, not like this—so weak, so drained, wearing
diapers
under my suit because I never know when—”

“—get up, Sam—”

“—you're the only woman I've ever loved, Annabelle, and I only did what I did with Roy because I saw how much it hurt you, how his death nearly destroyed you—”

“—I'm warning you, Sam,
get up
—”

Preston grabbed Annabelle's other, empty hand and brought it to his lips. “Oh,
please, please
Annabelle, let's do it. Even if you don't . . . don't care for me, at least give me a second chance at life for what I tried to do for Roy—”

It was the “tried” that did it, that tipped off Annabelle.

She looked at the console, then the computer, then Preston. “You bastard,” she whispered. “You never . . . you never intended to tell me, did you?”

“I had no choice, Annabelle, things went wrong and he would have been brain damaged and I knew you wouldn't want him, not like that, so—”

“—how fucking
dare
you decide for me that I wouldn't want my son back because he'd be brain damaged! How
dare
you keep this from me all these years! Do you have any idea the . . . the
hurt
I've felt every day and night for the last five years? And all this time you had him here, had him
trapped
in your system like a prisoner and—”

She caught it from the corner of her eye.

A screen-prompt.

“Data comparison?” she said aloud, more to herself than anyone.

It took a moment for the full impact to hit her.

“You
bastard!
” she screamed, slamming the pistol against the side of Preston's skull and knocking him to the floor. “Something went
wrong?
You screwed up, didn't you? You screwed up and didn't want anyone to know about it, so now you're running a Download and Dump. You're . . . you're killing him again.”

Preston started to get to his feet.

Annabelle stepped over, slammed a solid Tai kick into the other side of his head, then stood over him, one leg on either side of his chest.

“You're taking him away from me a second time . . . before I ever knew I still had him.”

“. . . Annabelle, please, there's still time, if we can get Zac—”

She gripped the automatic with both hands and took careful aim.

“Annabelle!”
screamed Preston.
“Annabelle, I did it because I love you, PLEASE—”

There were twelve shots in the clip and one in the chamber.

Annabelle emptied all thirteen of them into Preston's head and chest.

She was still squeezing the trigger over and over when Simmons came into the room and took the pistol from her hands, whispering, “I'm here for you, madam, I'm right here, now, please, we must—”

And that's when part of the wall in the computer room exploded. . . .

The blast that hit the compound yard was like nothing any of the I-Bots had ever experienced before.

As Itazura felt himself lifted from the ground and thrown backward like a rag doll, he thought:
Ain 't this a bitch? The Wrath of God and I don't even
believe
in God.

When the smoke cleared away all Itazura could see were flames and large chunks of twisted metal and other debris raining down.

Killaine, Radiant, and Singer were nowhere to be seen.

Please be all right
, he thought.

He pulled himself slowly to his feet, checked to make sure he still had all his body parts, and staggered forward just as he saw the figure walking toward him.

“It's a motherfucker, isn't it?” yelled the figure. “I never thought I'd get to use it.”

“. . . what was it . . .?” Itazura managed to get out.

“A Kolikov-Plotnik A–72 military field-issue cannon-launched ShellBlaster,” said Gash, unsheathing his sword. “They said it was designed to take out half a city block.”

“They were right,” replied Itazura, unsheathing his own sword. “Where's the rest of your little Wuss-army?”

“Hanging back, Little Mary Sunshine. I told ‘em I wanted first crack at this.”

Both of them bowed, then assumed the initial attack position.

“How did you know I was here?” asked Itazura, circling Gash clockwise.

“I didn't,” replied Gash, countering the move. “I came here to get Preston, but then I spotted you through the target lens right before I fired. We got business to finish, you and me. My Stompers will follow when I give the signal.”

“Right,” said Itazura, then jumped to the side and swung his blade up at an arc, connecting solidly with Gash's sword.

Gash countered with a downward-press that brought the tips of both their swords to the ground.

Itazura faked left, went right, and pulled his blade out, snapped it up over his head, and brought it down toward Gash, who scrambled right, twirled his sword in the air, and held it parallel to his chest just as Itazura's blade connected.

The two opponents looked at each other for a moment.

“I'm going to kill you, Mary,” said Gash.

“Who's stopping you from trying?” asked Itazura.

And they decided to get serious. . . .

Killaine, Radiant, and Singer had just reached the door when the blast behind them brought down a quarter of PTSI's buildings.

They barely had time to hit the floor before a large, fiery, twisted section of something that might once have been a truck sailed over their heads and slammed into the side of the main building.

Killaine was the first on her feet, checking the portable chamber to make sure it hadn't been damaged, then reaching down and helping Radiant to her feet.

Singer didn't move.

“Singer?” said Killaine. Then:
“Singer!”
She knelt by his side and started to touch him, but Radiant grabbed her hand and said, “Don't.”

“But he's damaged.”

“I know. He—are there any guards around?”

“No,” said Killaine. “I mean, there are sections of the tower and some stray weapons some of them must have dropped when they were—oh, no.”

“He fell on an electron gun and accidentally discharged it, Killaine. The charge was low, but it . . . it's enough.”

“Oh, no,
Singer
. . .”

He turned his head slightly then managed to work one of his arms behind his back and pull the gun out, tossing it away.

Killaine started to touch him again.

No
, he signed.
The charge is still . . . still potent enough to jump to another host.

“We can't leave you here, Singer,” said Killaine. “I know that there . . . there has to be something Zac can . . . can do for—”

Singer's hands moved more slowly than before, jerking and twitching so that some of the words he signed were indecipherable:
You don't have have all that much left only twen-twen moots.

“Come on, Killaine,” snapped Radiant.

She couldn't take her eyes from Singer's face. “You'll be . . . you'll be all right, you hear me, Singer?
YOU HEAR ME?
”

Go on. I'll . . . I'll wait here if you don't mind.

“Killaine!”
Radiant shouted. “We've got about fourteen minutes!”

Killaine shook her head and bit her lower lip, turning away so neither Radiant nor Singer would see the tears forming in her eyes.

She grabbed the portable chamber and leaped to her feet.

“Come on,” she said coldly, the warrior once again. . . .

* * *

“What the hell was
that?
” Zac shouted, hanging on to Stonewall as the violent ripples of the explosion outside traveled along the floor.

“I have no idea,” said Psy–4.

“Someone's launched a military field-issue ShellBlaster,” said Stonewall. When Zac and Psy–4 looked at him, Stonewall shrugged. “I mean, I've only
read
about them, but that's my best guess.”

Zac—far less dizzy now but in serious pain because the anesthetic was rapidly wearing off—checked his watch again and said. “We can't wait any longer.”

Psy–4's eyes grew wide. “But they should—”

“I know,” snapped Zac. “They'll be here in a minute, but we've lost too much time as it is.” He lifted the palmtop and said, “Give me the last three numbers in the sequence.”

Psy–4 stared at him.

“Psy–4,” said Zac, the warning in his voice clear.

Psy—4 gave him the numbers.

Zac entered them then pressed the
INITIATE
key.

“All right,” he said to Stonewall. “We've hit ‘Piss on Subtlety Time.' You got something on you that'll blow away part of this wall?”

Stonewall reached into his pocket and removed a small grenade. “We'll have to take cover at the other end of the hall.”

“Fine,” said Zac, already on the move. “Just make damn sure it doesn't land
too
close to the wall; we don't want to damage the mainframe.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stonewall?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Call me ‘sir' one more time and I'm going to get irritable.”

The three of them took cover.

Stonewall activated the grenade, then tossed it.

It landed six feet from the wall.

“Perfect,” he said.

Then came the explosion. . . .

The Catherine Wheel program was designed with one simple task in mind: To have a computer so intensely focus all its energies on following one directive that anything not directly associated with that directive was basically ignored.