Time Was

by Steve Perry

  “I still insist it wasn’t a bloody fair test!” said Killaine, brushing a few strands of her red hair away from her eyes. “After all, no huma—”

  Zac raised his index finger, signaling silence, then turned toward the granite giant who was driving the van. “Any insects on the windshield, Mr. Green?”

  “No bugs, no tracking devices, nothing here now that wasn’t here this morning,” said Stonewall.

  “Good,” said Zac, turning back to look at the others. “I apologize for having interrupted you, Killaine; please.”

  “All I’m saying is that no human could have sneaked in there as easily as we did. ’Tisn’t a fair challenge to our abilities. Seems like cheating to me.”

  “But it isn’t,” said Zac. “Look, Killaine, the gear exists for any criminal who’s got half a brain to duplicate everything we did tonight. There are grounding units that can interrupt and reroute current in a section of electrified fence, there are devices that can defeat sensors, and any decent programmer could easily rascal that computer system once in close enough proximity. Just because the group managed to do all this without hauling along a ton of bulky equipment doesn’t mean that it can’t be done.”

  Killaine shrugged. “I don’t suppose I took the time to think of it quite like that.”

  “Alert the media,” said Itazura, retying his ponytail.

  “Don’t you be starting with me,” said Killaine.

  “Listen closely,” said Itazura, “and you’ll hear my teeth chattering—no, wait; that’s the sound of the shock absorbers. When are we getting some new wheels, Boss?”

  “Itzy,” said Zac, the warning clear.

  “You can be replaced,” said Killaine.

  “No, I can’t.”

  “No, you can’t—but you’ve got to admit, it sounded good.”

  “Hey, Boss? I’m being harassed back here. As the only member of a minority, I feel that my civil rights are being oppressed.”

  “Oppress this,” said Killaine, grabbing his wrist; Itazura grabbed hers in return, and the two of them began one of their infamous arm-pressure contests.

  “Children—” said Zac.

  “Did everything go well?” asked Stonewall.

  “Yes, Stoner, it did.”

  In the back of the van, Psy–4 raised his head. “But it should have gone much better.”

  Zac sighed, exasperated. “You lost two seconds, Psy–4! Under the circumstances, I don’t think you need to beat yourself up over that.”

  “Under other circumstances,” replied Psy–4, “two seconds might have cost one—or all—of us our lives.”

  Itazura, still locked in mortal combat with Killaine’s grip, shook his head and looked at Zac. “That’s our Psy–4, snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.”

  “I was distracted at a crucial moment,” snapped Psy–4.

  Itazura shrugged. “I took the secret staircase, Kennedy fell in the Bay of Pigs, Cimino followed The Deer Hunter with Heaven’s Gate, somebody invented the Edsel—we all miss. Get over it.”

  “I’m not in the mood for your snappy patter, Itzy.”

  “You know what, Psy–4? I’ll bet if you’d been born to a Native American clan, they would have named you ‘Dark Cloud.’ Give yourself a break already. Would it kill you to crack a smile every now and then, or are you afraid we’d all run and tell?”

  Psy–4 removed his wool cap and rubbed his forehead, massaging the row of input/output connectors there.

  ‘“A fine setting for a fit of despair,’” said Stonewall. ‘“If only I were standing here by accident instead of design.’”

  Zac looked at him. “And that is . . .?”

  “From Kafka’s The Castle.” He looked in the rearview mirror and saw Psy–4 staring at him. “It just came to me.”

  One corner of Psy–4’s mouth almost turned upward to form something that might have resembled the minuscule beginnings of a half-grin.

  Radiant huffed, slapping her arms down to her sides. “I give up. I really do. I can’t find the snap on the back of the damn strap. Help?”

  “Scoot around,” said Zac.

  Radiant did so, lifting her silver hair so Zac could unhook the goggles.

  Radiant pulled them away, then turned and smiled at Zac. “Thank you.”

  Where her eyes should have been there were only two smooth craters of flesh, giving her face the appearance of a mannequin whose face had yet to be sketched on, let alone painted.

  It detracted not one whit from her beauty, and she knew it. So did everyone else.

  “It’s going to take hours to get the knots out of my hair,” she said.

  “One more word about your hair,” said Killaine, “and it’ll be taking you days to get the knots out of your titanium spine.”

  “Jealous?” said Radiant.

  “Why should I be?”

  A shrug. “Seemed as if all the men in the office were paying attention to me.”

  “And it’s no wonder, what with the show you put on of removing your cap and—”

  “Catfight, catfight!” shouted Itazura.

  “Shut up!” said Killaine and Radiant simultaneously. A beat, then both looked at each other and laughed.

  Zac laughed a little himself. “Okay, okay, settle down. Everyone did a great job. Preston was very pleased.”

  Itazura snorted a laugh. “Liar. Nothing personal.”

  “Well, okay, maybe he wasn’t exactly pleased . . . but I sure am. One hundred and sixty thousand dollars tends to have that effect on me.”

  “That,” said Itazura, “and knocking Preston down a peg or two. Oh, come on, Boss, admit it. Half the incentive to take that bet was knowing that you’d get to see him eat crow.”

  “Anything wrong with that?”

  “Did I say there was?”

  “No,” replied Zac, “but I’m never sure with you. Besides—why shouldn’t I get a little enjoyment out of this? While I was busy building the five of you at WorldTech, Preston was becoming rich and respected by marketing programs that we’d kicked around together.”

  “Liar squared,” said Itazura. “Well, maybe not a liar, exactly, this time, but . . . aw, don’t look at me that way, Boss. The creep ripped off a bunch of your ideas, made a few minor modifications, slapped a different name to them, and marketed them as his own creations.”

  “He is a very bright man.”

  “And Hitler painted roses. So what? One good trait doesn’t redeem a monster.”

  While Itazura and Zac continued their debate (the death match between Itzy and Killaine having reached an impasse), Radiant moved to the back, seating herself next to Psy–4 who, for a few moments, merely stared out into the night, oblivious of her presence.

  She gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Psy–4? What’s wrong?”

  “There was . . . there was something there and we didn’t have time to—”

  “—look, if there was a delay, it was my fault. You know how I get sometimes. I’m vain, I admit it,” She reached up and began massaging the back of his neck. “Come on, talk to me. I don’t like seeing you this way.”

  “Do I really not smile that much?”

  “Well, no, to tell the truth, you don’t. But I’ve got a feeling this isn’t about your—what did you call them? Your ‘dreadful personality problems.’ This is much more than that. Tell me. Please?”

  Psy–4 looked at her, nodded his head, then placed one of his hands on top of hers. “You’re not half as big a pain as Killaine says you are.”

  “She says that about me? Why, the nerve of some—I ought to—”

  Psy–4’s grip tightened. He pulled her closer. “We’ve got to get back in there.”

  “In where?”

  Psy–4’s reply was a cold stare.

  “PTSI?” whispered Radiant. “Why?”

  Psy–4 looked at the others, then back at her. “Do you remember when we first entered the main building? On the ground floor?”

  ‘“Down there . . . so
dark and lonely.’ That part?”

  “Yes.”

  “I remember you scared me. What happened?”

  Psy–4 took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then sighed. “I heard someone crying when I telepathed with the computer system.”

  16

  * * *

  In his office, Samuel Preston sat drumming his fingers on the top of his desk, cursing under his breath.

  His personal security guards and the two other guards stood silent and very much at attention on the far side of the office.

  He had no idea what to do with them.

  He sure as hell couldn’t fire or reassign them.

  And they were too good at their jobs to terminate.

  Besides, he hated to waste good employees.

  But that didn’t mean he was above threats.

  “All right,” he finally said. “Here’s the way it works. You saw the hidden doorway and staircase. I can tell you to not mention it to anyone but I can’t tell you not to remember it. I have to live with that.

  “Never speak of that passage, understand? Not to me, not to each other, and most definitely not to anyone else—because if you do, I’ll find out about it, and I don’t give a tinker’s damn which of you says something or whether or not the others know, you’ll all be expunged immediately. I don’t mean simply killed; I’ll have every last goddamn one of your records erased—Social Security numbers, driver’s license numbers, birth records, blood types . . . you name it, it’ll be gone. Then I will have every one of your acquaintances, friends, and family members taken out.

  “Say one word about this, and within twenty-four hours there will be no trace anywhere on this earth or on the InfoBahn that any of you ever existed. Any questions?”

  “Concerning what?” asked one of the guards.

  “Concerning the hidden door.”

  “What hidden door?” said another guard.

  “Good boys,” said Preston, then dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

  As soon as he was alone, he reached into one of his desk drawers and removed an exquisite silver picture frame.

  Stared at the three figures in the photograph under the glass.

  And swallowed twice. Very hard.

  He thought long and hard about what had happened here tonight.

  It wasn’t just the money—he had plenty of money, what he’d lost had been nothing—no; what ate at him was how easily Zac Robillard’s team was able to breach his security.

  Even though he’d employed the Catherine Wheel program, they’d somehow managed to crack it.

  But how? Robillard had no idea of the modifications that Preston had made in the past five years, turning the Catherine Wheel into more than either of them had ever imagined.

  He looked at the three figures in the photograph again and thought about the bright moments of youth that were all too quickly lost.

  And the mistakes you sometimes made.

  Oh, God, the mistakes.

  He could feel the fire inside sparking back to life.

  He laid the photograph facedown on his desk—perhaps a bit too hard.

  “No human being could have done what they did,” he said aloud to the lonely office, then popped two more pills into his mouth.

  He picked up his phone, punched in a number, checked the time, almost hung up, then someone on the other end answered.

  “It’s me,” he said. “I need to get in touch with Janus as quickly as possible.”

  Just saying the man’s name made the blood chill in his arteries.

  But he had to do it. His only other alternative would be to contact Annabelle Donohoe.

  Anything was preferable to that.

  Even dealing with a Class-A, #1, certifiable nuclear bomb of a dangerously unpredictable psycho like Janus.

  Janus, he thought.

  And the chill blood in Preston’s arteries froze solid.

  17

  * * *

  Time was the child had known happiness, hope, and acceptance.

  123:18:22

  But no more.

  Never again. Not in this darkness. All this darkness.

  Help me, he whimpered.

  But no one answered. No one came.

  123:18:02

  Soon, it wouldn’t matter. Soon, the darkness would be all.

  And so the child remained still and silent.

  But inside he was screaming. . . .

  PART ONE

  WHEELS OF CONFUSION

  “A dwarf standing on the shoulder of a giant may see further thant the giant himself.”

  —Didacus Stella in Lucan, DE BELLO CIVILI

  18

  * * *

  WEDNESDAY MORNING; THURSDAY NIGHT 109:53:42

  Annabelle Donohoe’s expensively manicured fingernails, today sporting bloodred metallic polish, drummed rhythmically on the teak desk in her penthouse office in WorldTech’s main building.

  The incessant scritch-scratch-scrape sounded like the sharp, staccato cadence of a military drum beating the death march at an official execution.

  Her face was backlit by rows of state-of-the-art track lighting and obscured somewhat by the wisps of smoke curling from the tip of her cigarette.

  She sat hidden in shadows, except for her eyes, which shone with a bright, ominous anger visible from ten feet away.

  She rose from her chair and leaned on the desk. A small light installed at the base of her intercom cast a diffuse glow upward, creating gothic shadows. Her face, though beautiful, looked like something out of the final reel of a black-and-white horror film. But that was all right.

  She’d installed the light just for that effect.

  She stared down at the well-dressed man who stood at the foot of the twenty-four-inch high dais that supported her desk. “Well?”

  “Very intimidating, madam,” replied Simmons, her personal assistant.

  Annabelle’s mouth twisted into a smile, which on her face fell somewhere between a smirk and a sneer. “Everything’s ready?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Then let’s not keep our visitor waiting.”

  “Very good, madam.” Simmons turned and exited through the large wooden doors at the far end of the office. His Italian leather shoes whispered across the plush, dark carpeting.

  It reminded Annabelle of the sound of a terminal cancer patient’s last death rattle of breath.

  She found the sound not at all unpleasant.

  She crushed out her cigarette, lit a fresh one, then positioned herself on the desktop so that the first thing her visitor would see was her left side—her most intimidating side, if the rumors she heard were to be believed.

  She cast a quick glance at the seven-by-nine-foot photograph of the late actress Joan Crawford that covered a large portion of the wall behind her desk. “Bette Davis had nothing on you, babe. Not even Dietrich could be as nasty.”

  Her free hand reached up and clutched the small locket that dangled on a fragile gold chain she wore around her surprisingly delicate throat. What did I know, she thought. What did I know of love’s austere and lonely offices?

  She drifted away for a moment, turned a corner in her mind, and tried to recall the name and author of the poem from which that line had come; as always happened when she went around that corner, she pulled in a slow melancholy breath, for it was only here, in this secret place that no one else knew or would ever know about, that she was not entirely in control of her destiny.

  And that stuck in her throat like bile.

  Nowhere on this earth was there anyone who believed more in controlling her own destiny than Annabelle. She refused to believe in luck, or happenstance, or fate and divine intervention. She had as a child, but now, as far as she was concerned, such flights of fancy were the last refuge of the hysteric: frantic attempts to explain chaos—or at least give the appearance of having explained it. They were too easy and too cheap a way out of a dilemma.

  A
nnabelle refused to shake her head and throw her hands up in thrashed capitulation to the incomprehensible machinations of the universe. No, not for her; she was a woman driven to answer all the questions at hand, to meet every challenge issued, or else succumb to the snarl altogether.

  If she had to go down, she would do so fighting.

  And probably take several dozen people with her.

  But Annabelle Donohoe, CEO of WorldTech, had no intention of being brought down; not by the so-called turns of nonexistent Fate and especially—most especially—not by the back-alley, late-night duplicities of an underling who thought the quickest way up the rungs of this particular corporate ladder was to step on her toes, symbolic or otherwise.

  She exhaled a plume of smoke, ran her tongue over her lips, moistening them, and then pulled her dress up just a tad higher, showing a bit more thigh than was necessary or professional.

  She wanted to make the little twerp sweat in every possible manner.

  The office doors opened and Simmons entered, followed by a young man in an expensive power suit that had been tailored to accentuate his well-toned body.

  Annabelle swallowed her urge to laugh. With his dark, slicked-back hair, striped shirt, solid color tie, and suspenders, he looked like a throwback to the laughable Wall Street power brokers of the early 1980s. Of course, 80s retro was very in right now, and this twerp hadn’t even a passing acquaintance with an original notion and so followed what he’d been told was popular.

  This is going to be fun, though Annabelle, knowing all too well how a tiger felt the moment before it snuffed out the life of a fleeing zebra.

  “Madam,” said Simmons, closing the door behind him and gesturing toward the young man, “Mr. Anton Tyler to see you.”

  “Thank you, Simmons,” she replied. “Please remain in the room.” She looked down through the smoke and shadows at Tyler. “Richard Nixon recorded the conversations in the Oval Office when he was president; I prefer to have Simmons present. Of course you don’t mind.” It was not a question.

  She pointed to a chair and Tyler took a seat, doing an admirable job of masking his anxiety.