by Steve Perry
Still, if he were going to be followed by anyone, Janus supposed he preferred it to be Simmons.
“Sir, the plane will be taking off in seven minutes!” The flight attendant at the door sounded frantic.
“I know, I know, I’m . . . I’m sorry. I left my insulin kit in the men’s room just inside Gate Six. I have to have it.”
“I understand, sir, but—”
“Please? It’ll only take me four minutes to get it and return.”
The flight attendant stared at him for a moment, then nodded his head. “May I see your ticket?”
Janus handed it over.
“I’ll speak to the pilot.” The attendant wrote something on Janus’s ticket, then handed it back. “I can only guarantee you four minutes, sir.”
Janus smiled. “That’s all I need. Thank you very much.”
He was back inside the gate in less than a minute, envelope in one hand, white cane unfolded, dark glasses on.
He made his way to one of the nearest ticket counters.
“Security! Security!” he cried out.
A hand was placed on his shoulder. “May I help you, sir?”
Janus turned around, saw that it was a security guard, but played his part to the hilt, touching the man’s face and chest. “Oh, thank heavens! A . . . A man . . . he . . . oh, I’m sorry . . .”
“It’s all right, sir, just calm down.”
“It was very unnerving, you know?”
“Of course, sir.”
“A man cornered me in the men’s room just a few moments ago and gave me this.” He offered the envelope. “He told me that if I didn’t get it into the hands of someone in authority within ten minutes, then . . . oh, how did he put it . . . ‘many innocent lives will be lost.’ I . . . I don’t deal well with that sort of thing, officer. He . . . he grabbed me! His breath was horrid!”
“I understand, sir. If you’ll just follow me—”
Janus reached into his pants pocket and found the matchbook-sized device, turned it over, pressed the small button.
The sound of the small explosion would have been lost, had it not been for the PA system announcing yet another final boarding call.
Somewhere in the airport, a trasri receptacle had just gone to meet its maker.
The security guard whirled around. “Jeezus! You—you wait here, sir.”
“Is it them,” said Janus in his best hysterical voice. “Is it the revolutionaries? Has the revolution began?”
The security guard was gone, running toward the smoke and flames.
Janus checked his watch: Even with all the panic and confusion, the guard would have the letter into the right hands before the ten-minute deadline.
Then the real fun would start.
He made his way to the nearest exit, tossing the cane and dark glasses into a trash can.
He caught a glimpse of the plane he’d been on only four minutes ago.
“Sorry, Simmons. I’m sure you’ll get out of it somehow.”
He climbed into the first taxi outside and instructed the driver to take him to a semiprivate airfield fifty minutes away.
Where his chartered flight waited.
He almost laughed to himself, wishing he could see the expression on Simmons’s face when the FBI came swarming onto the plane.
Well, at least Annabelle was keeping it interesting. . . .
39
* * *
Rudy couldn’t believe his luck; it was almost enough to make him believe in a god.
Almost.
He caught one of the robots alone and managed to do some serious damage to it with a piece of pipe, then he found what he thought was an empty gasoline can but there was about an ounce of gas in the bottom, so he used that to set the robot on fire and told it to run back to the camp.
On top of all that, the sewer grate hadn’t been pulled back all the way; there was still about a foot, maybe a foot and a half of room between it and the face of the cement drain.
It was a tight squeeze, but Rudy managed to work himself through and now stood inside the sewer drain.
Next: a place to hide.
The robot would reach the Scrapper Camp, the others would help it as much as they could, and then one of them would come for DocScrap.
The only thing Rudy had to decide now was whether to wait and kill DocScrap here in the darkness of the sewer, or follow whatever robot was sent to fetch him.
If he killed DocScrap down here, he’d stand a better chance of fighting off that red-haired bitch who’d been with him earlier.
But if he followed whatever robot would be sent to fetch DocScrap, then he could discover the exact location of the dude’s headquarters, and, man, wouldn’t Gash just love that!
Rudy sloshed ahead several yards, found a relatively dry spot to hide, swallowed a couple of the painkillers the clinic had given to him, and decided he’d just sit here for a minute and think about it.
He leaned his head back.
And I won’tfall asleep.
No way.
No sleep.
Not me. I’m too pumped to fall asleep. I’m in too much pain to fall asleep. No pain here. I won’tfall asleep, not me. Too sleepy to pain about the scrap and robot-pump.
Sharp as a bat.
Alert as a tack.
No problem here . . .
40
* * *
Singer listened politely as Psy–4 explained their dilemma, holding back no detail (much to the others’ surprise).
Once finished, Psy–4 looked around the room to see if anyone wanted to add their own comments.
No one took him up on the silent offer.
“So?” he said to Singer. “Will you do it?”
No.
Psy–4 looked at Singer, then everyone else, then Singer again. “No?”
No.
“Look, Singer, I’m sorry if anything Killaine said offended you, but—”
This has nothing to do with her. I’m saying no because it isn’t necessary for you to run a virtual D and D.
“How else can we determine how long it will be before Preston’s computer—”
Singer waved his hands, silencing Psy–4, then crossed over to one of the computers, sat down, typed in a few commands, and brought a 3D image of a normal human brain up onto the monitor.
Then he pulled up a 3D image of a standard robotic brain.
Watch, he signed.
He superimposed the image of the mechanical brain onto that of the normal human brain.
A few more quick commands to the computer, and a schematic of the various sections of the cerebrum appeared.
He magnified the picture so the I-Bots could see where the motor area of the human brain corresponded with that of the robotic brain.
Then he magnified it to show, more specifically, where the central sulcus—or the Fissure of Rolando—of the human brain found its match in the robot’s brain.
He then did the same for the lateral sulcus, or Fissure of Sylvius.
“What’s he doing?” whispered Itazura to Stonewall.
“Showing us how to determine which part of the robotic brain serves as the dividing line between lobes.”
“Why?”
“Look at the formulae he’s typing in. They’re all fractal-based, don’t you see?”
“If I yawn, it’s only in anticipation.”
Stonewall smiled slightly. “He’s using the equations to map the levels of the nervous system that react to longitudinal unifications of function, then cross-referencing them with the coordinates of the reticular activating system.”
“And when, exactly, does Little Rabbit Foo-Foo enter the picture?”
“When he isolates the area that we feed the information into.”
“I’ll bet you believe in Santa, too, don’t you?”
Got it, signed Singer.
“Got what?” asked Itazura. Then: “Pardon the grammar.”
“The location of the robotic equivalent of the midbrain.”
<
br /> “Do you see the confused look on my face? What does that tell you?”
Do you have an EEG cart? asked Singer.
Psy–4 nodded, then went to the storage area to get the necessary equipment.
Slowly, Itazura managed to swallow back his confusion enough to pay attention.
Slowly, it began to make sense to him.
“Reaction time,” he whispered to Stonewall. “We hook one of us up to the EEG, ask a series of questions, perform a series of simple tasks, measure the reaction time—”
Stonewall smiled. “—then apply that reaction time to the base robotic programming of one brain—”
“—translate the results into a fractal-based equation—”
“—and that will tell us how long it will take for the D and D to run a compare and erase through one lobe when entering through the two fissures.”
“The rest is simple multiplication,” said Itazura, awed.
Slowly, turning toward Killaine, he began to smile. “Whatta you think of our primitive friend now?”
“I never said he was primitive.”
“No,” said Radiant, “you only felt that way.”
“Mind your own business.”
And they got down to the business of figuring out how much time they—and Roy—had left.
41
* * *
“Yes?” said Annabelle.
“Hello, madam.”
“Simmons?”
“I’m afraid so, madam.”
“What happened?”
“It is my sad duty to inform you that I lost track of your package shortly before the plane was supposed to take off.”
“How did that happen?”
“I was taken into custody by the FBI. I am calling you from their local offices.”
Annabelle bit her lower lip. “Why were you—”
“It appears that someone gave them a letter claiming that I was one Sean Patrick Gallagher-O’Flynn, mad-bomber soldier for the IRA.”
“You’d think your accent would be enough to clear you of suspicion.”
“My feelings precisely, madam, but as I am sitting here in leg restraints, I daresay the FBI requires a bit more evidence.”
“Let me make a call, Simmons.”
“I was hoping you would say that, madam.”
“He’s a sharp one, isn’t he, Simmons?”
“Like a scythe, madam.”
“Don’t worry, Simmons, you’ll be out and on your way within the hour.”
“That is a great relief, madam. Many of the FBI agents I’ve thus far met could use a few dozen lessons in common courtesy.”
“Would you like to beat the stuffing out of a couple of them, Simmons?”
“Very much, madam.”
“Then I’ll need to make two calls.”
“Patience is its own reward, madam.”
“Hang loose, Simmons.”
“Not easy to do when in handcuffs, madam.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Click.
42
* * *
The sun was just beginning to slink its way past the horizon when Janus’s chartered plane landed.
He paid the pilot, gathered up his bags, then found a cab that took him to the airport where his first plane was supposed to be landing now—except, of course, that the first plane hadn’t even taken off yet and probably wouldn’t for several hours more.
He climbed out of the cab and sprinted over to the section of the parking lot where his car awaited him. He had the ticket stub ready for the lot attendant, who quickly and politely took him to the silver Mercedes.
Janus stared at the car with contempt.
Shit—not exactly inconspicuous, this car.
He’d have to trade it for something more conservative, more trailer-park chic.
He waited for the attendant to be on his way, then opened the trunk and pulled back the tarpaulin to reveal the small arsenal Annabelle and Simmons had provided for him.
“Ooooh, Simmons,” he muttered under his breath. “Very impressive.”
The only things missing were disposable rocket launchers—one-shot bazookas, as Janus sometimes called them.
Those he found in the hollowed area where a spare tire should have been.
He had enough hardware here to take over a small third-world country single-handedly, if he got the urge.
He checked the time.
He’d worry about switching cars later.
Right now, he had an appointment to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep, he thought, grinning to himself.
43
* * *
Stonewall finished his final calculations, double checked the results, then looked up at the others. “Three times through, and there’s less than a fifty second deviation in the numbers.”
“That’s a good thing, right?” asked Itazura.
“Very,” replied Psy–4. “It means that, give or take fifty seconds, we’ve got eighty-four hours until Preston’s system begins the final stages of the D and D.”
Stonewall studied the readouts again. “Right now it’s 6:47 P.M. on Thursday. The final stage of the D and D will last somewhere between one hour and one-hour-thirty-six minutes and will commence at 6:45 A.M. Sunday.”
Psy–4 rubbed his eyes. “Which means we not only have to be inside the PTSI compound before seven, we have to be in the same room as Roy.” He slowly turned his head, glancing at everyone else. “The target time for probable maximum capacity is 7:12 A.M., right, Stonewall?”
“Give or take a minute. After 7:10 but before 7:15 is the best window of opportunity I can come up with. According to my figures, if we can disconnect Roy from Preston’s system and hook him up to a portable container within the given time frame, he stands to retain at least eighty-three percent of his original mental capacity, maybe even all of it. Any later than 7:15, and we can lop twenty percent off his IQ for each minute.”
“So at 7:20 we’ve got ourselves a vegetable salad, is that it?”
Stonewall glared at Itazura. “That’s a bit harsher than I would have put it, but . . . yes, basically.”
“Just checking.”
For several moments, no one said anything.
The weight of it seemed too great even for their shoulders.
Finally, Radiant cleared her throat and said, very, very softly: “Which of us will tell Zac?”
“No!” snapped Killaine. “None of us’ll be telling him. No arguments. The man’s got enough worries crushing his spirit right now and I’ll be damned if any of us will add to his burdens.”
Psy–4 nodded. “I hate duplicity as much as anyone, but Killaine’s right. Zac’s been wrung out for a while now. This would just give him something more to tie himself up in knots over. Maybe in a day or two, when things have been worked out in detail, maybe then we’ll tell him. Until that decision is made, we keep it to ourselves, agreed?”
Everyone did.
“Fine,” said Psy–4. “Then we go about our daily routines as much as possible.” He looked at Radiant. “Any jobs waiting?”
“Construction workers, delivery truck driver, dishwasher, the usual.”
“No security assignments?”
Radiant huffed. “Don’t you think I would have said something?”
Psy–4 held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, you’re right, I wasn’t—”
He noticed Stonewall then.
Across the room.
By the window.
Staring out at the rain with the saddest expression Psy–4 had ever seen on his face.
“Stoner? Stoner, what is it?”
“Looking at a butterfly,” he replied.
And, indeed, there was a butterfly perched on the ledge, under a pipe, protected from the pouring rain.
“Yeah . . .?” said Itazura. “I mean, sure, it’s no puppy dog but it’s nice. Don’t think it’d make a good pet, though.”
“No,” said Stonewall, who either didn’t
notice or didn’t care about his friend’s jest. “I was thinking about what Edward N. Lorenz said about butterflies.”
“Lorenz?” asked Itazura.
“He was a mathematician who eventually went into the field of meteorology. He opened up the field of chaos math. He applied certain convection equations to the short-term prediction of weather and watched those equations disintegrate into insanity. He asked, ‘When a butterfly flaps its wings in Brazil, does it set off tornadoes in Texas?’ His answer, of course, was yes, because that seemingly harmless movement creates a small but potent change in atmospheric pressure that interacts with other minute changes, and those combine with still other unpredictable variables that come down through the exo-, iono-, and stratosphere to mingle with the cumulative ‘butterfly effects’ in the troposphere, and before you know it—wham!—you’ve got thirty people dead in a Kansas trailer park. Think about it.” He pressed a finger against the window. “This little fellow flutters his wings, and chaos could come crashing down to reduce our world to smithereens.”
Stonewall was not known to his friends as a talker—he only spoke when he considered it necessary—and when he did speak it was rarely for very long and never without a serious purpose. Now his words came out in a rapid, deadly cadence—a sure sign that he was working out a serious problem.
“Imagine,” he said, “that Lorenz’s butterfly is the embodiment of everything that causes us to ignore or add to the suffering of others, and that the flapping of its wings is the force of that apathy spilling outward. In less than a second it combines with the myriad emotions already expelled into the air—anger, lust, despair, whatever—until all of them become a single entity. Multiply that by however many times a day a person turns away from another’s suffering, then multiply that by the number of people in this world, then multiply that figure by the number of seconds in a day, week, year, or decade, and pretty soon you’ve got one hell of a charge building up. A point of maximum tension has to be reached, and then the combined forces will rupture outward, destroying whomever happens to be in its path.”