Time Was (50 page)

Zac, Radiant, and Psy–4 took the chopper.

Roy was with them, safely functioning in his new, temporary home.

Killaine, Stonewall, Itazura, and Singer took the truck, a military-style transport with a green canvas tarpaulin tenting its bed.

Stonewall drove, and Itazura rode up front with him.

As they sped through the night, Killaine held Singer's head in her lap, watching as the red glow of his eyes slowly faded.

The equivalent of a human stroke
, Zac had said.

Like the robot in the Scrapper Camp, there was nothing anyone could do for Singer.

And so Killaine held him in his last minutes of life and wept for not having known him better, or longer, or, ultimately, at all.

Maybe she wept for herself, as well.

For all the loss and guilt and pain she'd had to absorb over the last few days.

She was pulled out of herself by the touch of Singer's hand against hers.

She wiped her eyes, leaned down, and whispered, “What is it? What do you need?”

Not here
, he signed.

“What do you—?”

Not in here. Not in darkness and hiding.

Killaine couldn't find her voice.

Under . . . stars. I want . . . stars . . . under.

She nodded her head, understanding.

“Stop!” she screamed. “Stop the truck!”

Stonewall braked and drove the truck to the side of the road.

Itazura jumped out, ran to the back, and threw aside the tarpaulin. “What is it?”

But Killaine was already climbing out and down, cradling Singer in her arms.

“He doesn't want to die in there. He wants to die under the stars.”

Itazura shook his head. “Killaine, look, I know how you must feel, but—”

Her glare silenced him.

Itazura started to say something else, but then Stonewall placed a massive hand on his shoulder.

“Let her go, Itzy. This is something she has to do alone.”

Killaine walked across a moonlit field and began heading up a small hill.

She reached the top, and she saw the glory of the night, the acceptance of the stars above, and finally understood what Radiant meant when she spoke of the “silent poetry of the world.”

“I wish we'd had more time together,” she whispered to Singer.

He managed to squeeze her hand.

Just a little.

“Can you ever forgive me for the way I treated you all this time?”

He tapped her arm.

She looked down at him.

Nothing to forgive
, he signed, the light in his eyes dimming more.

Killaine had to fight with everything she had in order not to break down. She didn't want Singer to see her grief, not at the end.

“Is there . . . is there anything I can do for you?” she whispered.

Singer held up two fingers:
Two things.

“Name them.”

He pointed toward the sky, then made a circling gesture with his finger.

Killaine puzzled over the gesture.

Singer made the circling gesture again, only faster.

“Flying?” whispered Killaine.

Singer managed a nod.

“I don't understand what—”

He pointed to the sky again, then managed to sign two words:
Use me.

And Killaine understood.

Roy. Singer wanted his body to be used for Roy.

“I promise you, my friend. I promise.”

Then Singer placed two fingers against the area where his mouth would have been if he'd had one and reached up and placed the same two fingers against Killaine's lips.

She understood his wish at once.

Tell me the rest of the story.

Killaine looked up at the stars. “Well, the girl with no name prepared a magnificent feast for her relatives and . . . and everyone else in the village. The feast lasted for days, and even those who had arrived feeling angry or sad or resentful of a neighbor left with full bellies and bags of extra food and more happiness and hope than they'd known in years. When it was done, when the girl with no name had finished cleaning up and storing the leftovers, one of her aunts took her aside and said, ‘Where will you go now?' ‘I don't understand,' said the girl. ‘Well,' replied her aunt, ‘now that you have given everyone enough food to last throughout the winter—and a fine feast it was, my dear—now that you have done so much for us and the village, you need not stay here any longer, not with all the money you've inherited.' Then the girl laughed. ‘What is so funny?' asked her aunt. ‘May I have a name now?' ‘Why not choose it yourself?' ‘Because I think I may have done a foolish thing, but I don't care.' ‘What foolish thing is that?' ‘I have no money left,' replied the girl. ‘I spent all I had on the feast.'

“Then the girl began to cry, so embarrassed was she by her foolish behavior, but her aunt took the girl into her arms and whispered, ‘You have not done a foolish thing, my dear. You have given of yourself in a way that few of us ever have. And because'”—Killaine's voice broke and the tears began streaming down her face—“‘because of what you have done, and for all that you've given us, there is only one name worthy of you. From this day forward, my dear, your name shall be a reflection of your soul. From this day forward, you shall be called Grace.'”

Killaine looked down at Singer as the last of the light faded from his eyes.

She looked up at the stars and the night, wishing that she knew a prayer.

Then she slowly turned and made her way back down to the truck where Stonewall and Itazura waited in respectful silence.

“Is he gone?” asked Stonewall.

“Yes,” whispered Killaine, lowering her face and kissing Singer where his lips would have been.

“He was a good friend,” said Itazura, his own voice breaking. “I'm sorry he died.”

Killaine shook her head, her tears spattering gently on the shiny metal of Singer's stilled face. “He gave up his life,” she said. “And he never even knew his real name.”

“He was a robot named Singer,” whispered Stonewall.

“No. He was a lamb. His name was Grace. Never forget that.”

“I have some rights of memory in this kingdom . . .”

—Shakespeare
, H
AMLET

O
NE
M
ONTH
L
ATER
 . . .

Time was, he knew happiness, hope, and acceptance.

But now, even though he had all those things and more again, Roy thought he 'd settle at the moment for just being able to get his new hands to do what he wanted them to.

“Darnit,” he said aloud, still not used to the sound of his new voice or the feel of his recently installed voice box.

“Such language,” said Itazura.

“I sorry,” replied Roy.

“We gotta work on your sense of humor, kiddo.”

Annabelle Donohoe stood at her office window, gently fondling the locket.

She was not even aware that Simmons had entered the room and stood staring at her.

“Madam?”

She blinked, then looked at him. “What is it, Simmons?”

He shrugged. “I was . . . concerned. You've not been out of your office all day.”

She smiled, staring out at the night.

Time was, she'd have been consumed by anger and her desire for revenge.

But now . . .

“It's odd, Simmons.”

“What's that, madam?”

Now it was Annabelle's turn to shrug. “I should be three times as driven to locate Robillard and the I-Bots as I was before, but, somehow . . .”

“We'll locate them again, madam. We always do.”

She shook her head. “I know. But let's not be too intense about it for the time being.”

“May I inquire why, madam—if it's not overstepping my bounds?”

“You may, and it isn't.” She turned away from the window with a wide, genuine smile on her face and in her heart. “He's alive, Simmons. My son is alive and
out there
, in the world. And even though I can't see him, can't touch him, can't hold him . . . I
feel
him near me. Does that make sense?”

Simmons remained silent.

Annabelle turned back to the window. “I want to wait a while before going after Robillard again. I want my son to have some time to enjoy the new world Zac has given to him.”

Her hand came away from the locket.

“But just a
little more
time.” She grinned her typical grin. “A mother's patience can only be stretched so far.”

Outside their new temporary headquarters in an ugly white house on Oceola Avenue in Nashville, Tennessee, Zac Robillard was making a final check on the contents of the new truck.

“Everybody comfy?” he called into the trailer.

The Scrappers who'd been of such help to them during the siege at PTSI all nodded their agreement.

Stonewall and Radiant brought out the last of the documents that Zac had requested.

“Thought we could use a little road food,” said Radiant, loading three bulging picnic baskets into the cab. “I can't believe we're going to Washington.”

“Testifying before Congress,” said Zac, still having a hard time believing he was going to do it.

One week ago legislation had been introduced to appropriate funds for the creation of “training centers” for all the so-called Scrappers in the country. The idea was that the outmoded, homeless robots would be rounded up and—instead of destroyed and recycled—trained to perform “public work” tasks; public sanitation, security, crossing guards, and other occupations that were becoming increasingly difficult to fill because of the low pay.

Zac had spoken with a congressional representative last week and suggested naming the legislation “Singer's Law.”

He was scheduled to testify before Congress in two days, and Washington was abuzz with anticipation of hearing from the “reclusive” grandson of Benjamin Robillard.

Zac figured it wouldn't hurt to be accompanied by Stonewall, Radiant, and the baker's dozen of robots who now waited in the back of truck.

It was the least any of them could do to honor their fallen friend's memory.

“Well,” said Zac, rubbing his still-hurting shoulder. “Methinks it's time we hit the road. Everyone say their good-byes?”

“To everyone but Psy–4,” said Radiant. “I think he's still hiding from Roy.”

Zac grinned. “Yeah, well—he did tell Roy he'd be his new daddy.” Then Zac and Radiant laughed at the same memory—of Roy, arms outstretched, stumbling around in his new body after Psy–4 and calling out, “Wait for me, Daddy, wait for me!”

“All set,” replied Stonewall.

“I think Singer would be pleased,” said Radiant.

Zac nodded. “Well, let's just make damn sure the law gets passed.”

A few minutes later, they were on their way.

* * *

Killaine sat alone in the living room, looking at the pillow that Stonewall had made for her. It was covered with happy little puppy dogs.

She liked it very much.

Itazura came into the room and saw her sitting there alone.

He joined her on the sofa, putting his arm around her shoulder. “How're you feeling?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes better, sometimes not.”

“Have you, uh . . . have you talked to Roy yet?”

Killaine shook her head. “I . . . I don't know if I can. Even with the new voice circuitry and faceplate, I still look at him and think he's Singer.”

“Pardon me for saying so, Killaine, but I don't think Singer would want you to act like this.”

“I know.” She sighed and looked out the window. “Do you think he made it out alive?”

Itazura blinked. “Okay, you switched gears on me. Who're we talking about?”

“Janus.”

“Oh.”

Killaine looked at him. “Do you think—”

“It's hard to say,” replied Itazura. “He's a damned clever guy. He very well might have gotten away. The news reports have never mentioned anyone matching his description as a casualty of the disaster.”

“I hope it doesn't make me sound like a Judas,” whispered Killaine, “but I hope he got away.”

Itazura leaned over and kissed her cheek. “For your sake, I hope so, too.”

“What's this?” asked Killaine, reaching down to take a small paperback book from Itazura's hand.

“Huh? Oh, some damned book Psy–4 gave me:
The Theory of Mechanical Race Memory.
It has to do with an argument we had a while ago.”

“Oh.”

“Hello.”

They both looked up, startled, to see Roy standing a few feet away, drumming his fingers nervously against the sides of his legs. “I got lonely.”

“Can't have that,” said Itazura, rising to his feet. “Hello, Roy. I must be going. I've got a pressing appointment with some plumbing pipes in the basement.”

“Itzy,”
said Killaine.

“What? Did you know there's a fungus down there? It's purple. It appears to be breathing. I think it's developing a rudimentary language. I have decided to call it Victoria.”

Roy made a metallic laughing noise. “You're funny.”

Itazura bowed. “Well, it's good to know that at least one person in this household has some taste when it comes to—” He froze, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

“Itzy?” said Killaine. “Itzy, what is it?”

He turned toward Killaine and whispered, “You haven't talked to him about—?”

“No.”

“Has anyone else told Roy about—”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“Look.”

“What's wrong?” asked Roy.

And as he spoke, his hands signed the same question.

“How did you learn to do that?” asked Killaine, rising slowly to her feet and walking toward him.

“Learn to do what?”