Koontz, Dean - Time Thieves

by Time Thieves(Lit)

  In the nearby regions of the tunnels, footsteps echoed against the stone walls. They sounded wet and heavy, and they belied the advance of three men.

  At the foot of the steps, one of the triplets appeared. He looked up the long flight and managed a smile that looked somehow wicked on his artificial face.

  "Wait right there," the triplet said. "Don't move, please." His face was colored blue by the single lightbulb above the service door, and his eyes shone like jewels.

  He started slowly, cautiously, up the steps.

  Pete began to rise.

  "Wait right there," the triplet repeated.

  Pete felt something crash against the walls of his mind, something which had been intended to make certain that he obeyed the mechanical man's order. But his own shield was stronger than they had expected it would be; it bent, regained its form and held. He fancied that it had gained strength from its interaction with Della's mind.

  He stood and turned away from the triplet, hurrying to the righthand drainage tunnel. As he stepped up into it, grasping the edges with his hands to keep himself from tumbling backwards, he risked a glance behind. He saw the first triplet reach the top of the steps, running. Behind, the second triplet's head popped into view on the stairs as it followed. He shoved forward, into the ebony of the tube, got his balance, hunched his shoulders, held his head low—and ran.

  The white sphere still rolled around the edges of his consciousness, keeping a close fix on his position. He thrust it out, again and again, only to watch it return, moments later, undiminished. He wanted to follow the thread back to the eight-fingered creature who controlled the featureless robotic minds, but he could not spare the time and the energy while they were so close on his trail.

  He turned twice, trying to lose himself in secondary corridors, even though he was aware that such tactics did little to alter the circumstances, since they were again tracking him telepathically. It was just not in him to admit defeat. He had always believed that, once a man stopped thinking like a winner, he stopped being a winner. And started losing.

  So, moving purposefully down the dark tubes, keeping his confidence alive with a series of unvoiced pep talks, he came to a dead end in the tunnel. In the deep gloom, he searched desperately for a continuation of the system but found nothing more than cold stone of all sides.

  The white sphere seemed to sense his distress. It hummed along his mental ramparts, shimmering and shuddering, as if in anticipation of his fall.

  Behind, the triplets entered the mouth of this branch of the sewer system. They stopped, listening and probing with their master's telepathic talent. They came on. Though this avenue of the drain system was a long one, more than five city blocks, they stopped running. Their pursuit was leisurely. They knew that they had him cornered.

  "Rest easy, Mr. Mullion," one of them called. His voice was sweet, bell clear.

  "Go to hell."

  "Cooperate, Mr. Mullion."

  "Go to hell."

  That battering, unseen force struck him again. It was hard, rushing at him with the speed of a train. It struck and almost overwhelmed him, once, twice, a third time. He had flickering glimpses of a completely alien consciousness. Then he was his own master again.

  "We won't hurt you," the triplet crooned.

  It couldn't end here. He wouldn't let it end here. It was no longer merely a matter of sanity and insanity, nor was it strictly a question of life or death. Now, he must consider Della, that woman who was no longer a woman but a part of himself. That made all the difference.

  ". . . no pain," one of the triplets was saying.

  ". . . for your own good."

  The roof of the tunnel was only six inches above his head. Now, he turned to examine that, in hopes there would be a vertical run which emptied into this horizontal system. He began his search against the end wall, working toward the approaching triplets who still murmured their reassurances. He scraped his fingers on uneven stones and rough concrete; in moments, his fingers were growing numb from the torture.

  And then his fingers hooked in a drainage grill and brought him to a halt with a flash of pain. It was the most pleasant pain he had ever experienced, a positive thrill.

  He pushed up.

  The grill rattled, loose.

  He jumped, striking it with both fists, knocking it out of its recessed niche. It clattered onto a floor overhead.

  "Mr. Mullion?"

  The triplets came forward a bit more quickly.

  He leaped and caught the edges of the hole. He hung there a moment, his feet inches from the tunnel floor, every muscle of his body strung tight. He was a century old, wrecked by time and experience, too tired to go on. It would be much easier to drop, relax, and let them have him.

  But he had never been a quitter. And there was Della, the other him, his second half who needed him as much as he needed her.

  He found the strength to shove up, grapple to chest level with the hole, then lever himself through with his elbows. He sprawled on a cold, damp cement floor, sucking stale air into his lungs. Though the darkness here seemed almost as complete as that in the storm drain, he knew he was not merely in another tunnel. He sensed open space about him, a high ceiling.

  He got to his feet without trouble. The flush of excitement at having escaped the drains seemed to have washed away all the weariness he had felt burdened with only a moment ago.

  "Mr. Mullion—" the first of the triplets began as it worked its way free of the tunnel.

  Pete swung his left foot, kicking the mechanical man solidly in its face.

  Something snapped. Something else made a soft, sickening splatter. The triplet whined stupidly, coughed once and fell backwards, on top of his comrades.

  He had to rely on instinct and put as much space between himself and the triplets as he could. He looked about, searching for something that would guide him. He found it, to his right, a third of the way up the wall. It was a fine, bright point of light leaking under a door. He went for it, fell on sudden, steep steps, and climbed until he reached a wooden door that was not locked. He opened it without hesitation.

  Behind, one of the triplets struggled out of the drain. Softly, it called to him, its voice as melodic as ever, no sign of exertion in its rounded tones.

  Pete went through the door, closed it and latched it behind him.

  XI

  With his back against the cellar door, he studied the kitchen in which he stood. It was a large room, painted white with a red tiled floor, everything clean and sparkling. Though the high ceilings indicated an old structure, the kitchen was well appointed with modern ranges and a huge freezer and refrigerator. In the center of the room, a thick wooden worktable had a stainless steel sink set flush with the surface.

  Just then, the swinging door that lead from the kitchen to the dining room swung inward. A sturdy, Germanic woman, wide of hips, with legs like posts and arms like a wrestler's, came into the kitchen, carrying a dirty coffee cup, which she was obviously intent on scrubbing. The clock above the freezer read six-forty; this was probably the last sign of her own breakfast. At first she did not see him by the cellar door. Then, as if reluctantly tearing her attention away from the grimy dishes, she looked up and blinked, coloring slightly red.

  Before she could cry out for help, one of the triplets rammed into the oak door from the other side. The panel shook, popping one of the four screws which held its two hinges in place. Against an ordinary man, it would have offered all but certain protection. It would go down in seconds before the triplets.

  "What are you doing here?" the woman asked.

  He saw she was in a white and black maid's uniform. It was very unlikely, then, that she was alone in the house. Her employers, and perhaps even other servants, would be within calling distance.

  The mechanical man slammed into the oak door again. The portal boomed and burst another screw, ripping loose the top hinge. The screw pinged on the edge of the steel sink and rattled away, across the table, out of s
ight.

  Pete stumbled across the room, gripped the edge of the table to steady himself.

  "Here now!" the maid shouted. "Whoever's there! You can't go about busting up this place! Look what you're doing there!" She started to round the table toward the door. She seemed to have no concern for her personal safety, and she was prepared to risk her own well-being to keep the place tidy and in good order.

  "You better stay back—" Pete began.

  She threw the coffee cup at him.

  He ducked.

  It smashed on the refrigerator, behind him.

  He thought he heard voices somewhere else in the house, raised in question at the sound of destruction. He realized it would be as bad to be caught housebreaking by these people as to be rounded up by the mechanicals. Edging around the opposite side of the big worktable, trying to keep out of the maid's way, he made for the swinging door and the rest of the house that lay beyond it.

  "Stop that, now!" the maid told the triplets.

  One of them struck the door again, harder than ever.

  The bottom hinge tore loose of the frame. A screw rattled away over the red tile.

  The heavy-set woman leaped back, surprisingly agile for her weight, and narrowly avoided getting conked solidly by the falling door. It smashed into the red tile, trembling.

  Pete reached the swinging door and looked back. The maid was waving her fist at the first intruder, advancing on him belligerently. The robot looked momentarily confused, then distressed. As she beat at his shoulder with a big, hammy fist, he turned to look directly at her, squinted—

  —and caught her as she slumped unconsciously to the floor. He set her down gently, straightened up and looked at Pete.

  That unseen, ponderous force exploded across the surface of his mind again. His shields held against it.

  He pushed open the swinging door, ran across the dining room and into a narrow hallway hung with original oils. Then he bounded upstairs and hurried along the main upstairs hallway. He was no more than ten feet from an open doorway when a white-haired old man stepped out and fired at him, point blank, with a small, heavy, deadly looking revolver.

  Pete felt hot white pain blossom in his right shoulder, sending spidery tendrils through his neck and down into his heart.

  "No closer," the old man said. "I'll put the next one right in the middle of your chest. Believe me, I will."

  "I believe you," Pete croaked.

  "You stand right there," the old man said.

  XII

  Pete nodded.

  "Is he dangerous?" someone asked in the room behind the old man. It was a woman's voice, breathy and obviously frightened.

  "I've got him under control," the old man said.

  "Be careful, Jerry."

  "I'll be careful, for God's sake!" Jerry hissed. He was an old man with a wife who pampered him, and he was enjoying this moment of heroism. He fairly clothed himself in the aura of the virile, no-nonsense man of the house, gripping his gun as if it were the main touchstone to his glory.

  "Has he got a gun?" she asked.

  "No—" He looked beyond Pete, seeing the twins for the first time.

  "Is something wrong?" she asked.

  "Who the hell-?"

  Then he passed out, striking the carpet rather hard, his arms thrown out before him as if in supplication. His aura of no-nonsense virility had deserted him.

  Holding his wounded shoulder, Pete bent and picked up the old man's gun. He leaped sideways through the open door and slammed and locked the flimsy portal.

  "I'll shoot you if you touch me," the woman said.

  She was sitting up in bed, perhaps seventy years old, with a seven-shot automatic in both hands, stretched out in front of her, the safety off.

  "Good god, not another gun!" Pete groaned.

  "I will!" she said.

  "I believe you, lady."

  "Drop your gun."

  "Drop yours," he said.

  'Why should I?"

  "Because you've probably never fired a gun, you'd miss me, and then you'd make me hurt you. Guns are dangerous, lady."

  She looked at the automatic, then wrinkled her nose. "I suppose they are," she said. She threw the weapon on the floor.

  "That's fine," he said, picking it up.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked.

  Before he could even think of an answer, she smiled stupidly, yawned and passed out, first dropping forward until her face rested on her blanketed knees, then toppling sideways. She snored.

  "There's nowhere to go, Mr. Mullion," the newscaster said. "Don't make us damage another door to reach you. Just open up, and everything will be fine."

  The eyeless creature still broadcast that seeking pressure, driving harder and harder against the walls of Pete's mind. Still, Pete held off the attack. Perhaps it was the knowledge that the creature could not get to him as easily as it got to other men which caused him to enter conversation with the mindless robot beyond the door.

  "You can't hide the traces of your presence here," he said. "There's the cellar door to consider."

  "That can be repaired." It waited, now sure that it could reason with him.

  His shoulder ached. He still clutched it with one hand. Blood bubbled through his fingers, wet and warm—and probably red, though he could not bring himself to look at the wound.

  "You can't repair the maid. Or the manservant. Or the old man and woman."

  "They're merely sleeping, Mr. Mullion. There was no need to harm them."

  "And they aren't going to remember?"

  "No."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Did you remember what happened during your periods of—amnesia?"

  He did not answer that. He could not.

  "Open the door, Mr. Mullion."

  "Why don't you break it down?"

  "Then it would require repair." The robot seemed to sigh. "It is one matter to fix the memories of the people here. It is quite another to repair artifacts of your world. The first follows a simple pattern and can be done from a distance. But to repair the doors, I will have to dispatch tool-laden androids, increasing the chance of discovery."

  Pete considered that. He said, "You're not trying to fool me any longer, are you? You're not masquerading in robots. I'm talking directly to—the one without eyes?"

  "You know about me now. Why should I attempt to conceal myself? There have been too many errors in this whole affair. But we have learned now, and we just want to straighten everything out."

  "Who are you?"

  The robot had no relayed answer for that.

  "Why me?"

  "I can't answer your questions," the robot said, speaking for his inhuman master.

  Take the pressure off me," Pete said. He felt as if the sky had lowered and were pressing directly against his scalp.

  "Open the door," the alien countered.

  The old lady continued to snore, oblivious to the weird scene that unrolled around her.

  "Let me think about it," Pete said.

  "But only for a minute or two," the creature said.

  Pete crossed the bedroom to the window beside the dresser. Pressing his face to the glass, he looked down, thirty feet, onto a flagstone patio. He might be able to make the jump without breaking or twisting an ankle. But he didn't want to have to try it.

  "Are you thinking, Mr. Mullion?"

  Pressure, pressure, boring, leaning, grinding down on him. . . .

  "Yes," he said. "Look, will you make me a promise?"

  "What is that?"

  "Don't hurt me?"

  "We promised that quite some time ago, Mr. Mullion. It has never been our intention to cause you pain."

  He only half listened to the reply as he rounded the bed and made his way to the second window in the room. Just beyond the window, there was a large elm tree. Its branches thrust within inches of the glass.

  "Mr. Mullion?"

  He took his hand away from his wounded shoulder, winced at the new rush o
f pain, unlatched the window and opened it. He went out feet first, squirming beneath the half-raised sill until his head and shoulders were out He was precariously perched on the window ledge.

  "Mr. Mullion?" the robot asked from beyond the door, growing wary now.

  Holding the bottom of the sill with his bad arm, he reached for the elm branch nearest him. It was just a bit too far for comfort.

  Behind, the door slammed open, torn from its hinges

  He leaped for the branch and caught it with his bleeding arm, almost blacking out. He scrabbled for the security of the rough bark and swung his good arm over it, In a moment, he was perched upon it, looking back at the bedroom and the confused figures of the two robots as they looked under the bed and in the closet. Before they could notice the open window, he worked his way to the main trunk of the tree and went down, from branch to branch, until he dropped easily to the flagstones out of which the elm grew.

  He looked up at the bedroom window.

  A mechanical man was standing there, looking down at him.

  He ran.

  The houses in this part of the city were all large, set on small but thickly treed lots which afforded a sense of privacy. They also offered good cover for a man who was running for his life. He tried not to cross any open ground, staying with the trees and the shrubs, the shadows and the fragrant lilac bushes, houses and garden walls.

  When he paused for breath, he realized the white, spherical sentience of the robot was keeping touch with him. He thought of thrusting it out but knew he couldn't get rid of it for very long. Yet, if he could not get rid of it, he was foolish for running. He did not have much strength left; his legs felt as if they were made of cardboard that had suddenly gotten wet; the mechanicals would dog him until he collapsed.

  With the chances of escape constantly diminishing, he realized what he must do.

  He slid to the ground, his back against the wall of a three-car garage. Summoning up all his energy, he touched the white sphere with a telepathic probe and found the thread that would lead him back to the distant inhuman master of the machines. Without hesitation, he coursed along that filament, moving faster than the speed of light, slammed head on into the alien consciousness on the other end, and felt their minds melt through each other.