Time Was (22 page)

Itazura was on his feet now. “Are you listening to yourselves here, folks? Singer's the only one of ‘us'?
Us?
Am I the only one who finds it interesting that we've started talking about him like he's one of the family, yet some of us continue to treat him like a leper?”

“I don't treat him like a leper,” said Killaine.

“No, no, that's true—you just look at him the same way a human looks at an ape in the zoo.”

“Don't lecture me, Itzy.”

“Oh, no—heaven forbid that anyone should go up to the great Killaine, our self-appointed moral conscience, and show her any flaws in her character.”

Killaine sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. “You're really beginning to annoy me.”

“You know what it is, don't you?” said Itazura. “It's Singer's
primitiveness
that you find repugnant. He's what you know you look like beneath the beautiful exterior, so your volunteering him for this serves twofold purpose: The first is to help acquire the information we need in order to save Roy, but the second one—your not-so-hidden agenda—is that by risking his life, he might go away forever, and if that happens, then you won't ever have to face again what is primitive and weak in yourself.”

Stonewall nodded his head. “That's not bad.”

“Jungian psychobabble,” hissed Killaine.

“Focus, people,” said Psy–4. “The question is, will he do it if we ask?”

Itazura pointed toward the open door.

Killaine looked over her shoulder, then stepped aside.

Singer stood there, silent as ever, his photoelectric eyes glowing.

Ask me what?
he signed.

 

“Excuse me, miss?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I was wondering, when you have a spare moment before the plane takes off, if you would be so kind as to check back in the coach section for some friends of mine? I wouldn't ask, but we were supposed to meet at the gate earlier and they hadn't arrived when the final boarding call was issued.”

“I'd be glad to, sir.”

“Oh, thank you. You can't miss one of them, a rather tall, burly fellow with a delightful British accent, usually wears a bowler—”

“Oh, yes, sir! I saw him get on a few minutes ago.”

“Wonderful! Were there two other gentlemen with him?”

“Yes, sir, there were.”

“Thank you very much, miss.”

“Glad to be of assistance.”

Janus waited for the flight attendant to reach the end of the aisle, then unbuckled his safety belt and began to exit the plane.

Of course
Annabelle would have him followed.

Of course
she'd have Simmons do it.

But having Simmons and the other two get on the
same flight
 . . . that was cute, very cute. Almost inspired.

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. . . .

 

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 . . .

 

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.”

“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.

 

“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.

 

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.