Time Was (28 page)

He cleared his throat and loosened his shirt collar. “Ah, yes, well . . .”

“Why are you sending me out on this assignment when we've enough to keep all of us busy for the next week or two?”

“You, uh . . . you look like you could use a little fresh air?”

“Try again, Zachary.”

“Oh, all right! You're getting on everyone's nerves, okay? I hate to be that blunt about it, Killaine, but your mother-hen routine has started running a little thin.”

She dropped her hands to her side. “Well, I beg your pardon, sir, I do! Far be it from me to take bloody charge around here of all the small things so the rest of you can concentrate on more important matters—”

“—I didn't mean it like that, I only—”

“—let me tell you something, Mr. Zachary Robillard; if it weren't for me and my ‘mother-hen routine,' as you call it, this household wouldn't function at even the simplest, everyday level. Heaven forbid that Itazura or—worse—Radiant were ever turned loose in the kitchen or on the laundry.”

“You're overreacting.”

“Now it's overreacting, is it? I'll have you know—”

Zac lifted both hands in surrender. “Enough!”

Killaine bit down on her lower lip, staring at him.

“Killaine,” whispered Zac, “you know how much I deeply appreciate all you do for me—for all of us. At least, I hope you do.” He reached over and took one of her hands. “And I know, the way things have been lately, that you don't get a lot of thanks for it. So I'll tell you this now so you'll understand: It's not that I don't care about you, because I do; and it's not that I don't find your company wonderful and exciting and comforting, because you
know
that isn't the case; and it
especially
isn't because I don't think you're needed around here. It's simply that you can't seem to concentrate on anything for very long and, as a result, your attempts at being helpful are backfiring severely.”

“So what you're telling me is that I'm getting on everyone's nerves?”

Zac smiled at her. “Now, why didn't I put it that way in the first place?”

Killaine sighed, put her hands on her hips once again, looked at Zac, then away from him, and finally dropped her arms once again. “I hate it when you're right about things like this.”

“So you'll do it?”

“If you wish.”

“I wish.
Lord
, how I wish!”

“You needn't rub it in.” She took the slip of paper he offered to her and read the information on it. “You're having me on?”

“Nope.”

“And this is a
security
assignment?”

Zac nodded his head. “He agreed to all the terms, including the daily fee.”

“And you accepted the job?”

“
No
, I told him that one of us would meet with him this morning to assess the situation. If you decide that the job doesn't interest you, tell him no, he'll pay the consultation fee, and that will be that.”

She looked at the slip of paper again. “I can't believe I'm going to—do you realize that this will mean dealing with
children?
”

“Do you have something against kids, too?”

Killaine decided to let the “too” portion of the remark slide. “No, I've nothing against children. I just . . . I . . . it's just that—haven't we had this discussion before?”

“About your wishing you could conceive a child?”

“. . . yes . . .” she replied softly.

“That's why I thought you might enjoy the assignment. If you accept the job, we're only talking about a day, maybe a day and a half, if that long. I know how you like to be around children and this way you not only get to be around lots of kids, but you get a little free time, we make some more money, and, with luck, you catch a couple of bad guys.”

She stared at him. “You know, Zachary, you could sell the Devil himself a subscription to
Catholic Digest.
”

“A career move I never considered.”

Killaine checked her watch. “I guess I should be leaving. This
does
say ten
A.M
., doesn't it? I sometimes find it hard to decipher your handwriting.”

“It's not that bad.”

“Egyptian hieroglyphics are easier to read.”

“I'm hurt. And, yes, it does say ten
A.M
.”

“Well then, I'm off.”

“Be careful.”

“Why do you say that?”

Zac smiled. “If you don't exercise extreme caution, you're in genuine danger of having fun.”

“Watch it, Zachary. If I take the job I just might come back here and drag you along to suffer with me.”

“Call in when you decide. I just might
let
you drag me along.”

Down in the garage area of the warehouse, Stonewall and Psy–4 were just finishing up welding the third sheet of steel onto the bay doors. One more and the area would be fully secured from even the power of a standard ShellBlaster.

Psy–4 crossed over to the small refrigerator that sat near the door and took out a couple of bottles of beer. “You want one?”

“Sure, why not?”

The two of them sat against the wall in the garage, not sweating even though the temperature in the area was well over one hundred and fifteen degrees.

“This is domestic, isn't it?” said Stonewall.

“I haven't had time to make a beer run since Preston's the other night, okay?”

“I prefer the Irish imported brand. The dark beer.”

“Thank you for reminding me. For a second there I almost thought I was doing something right.”

Stonewall reached over and smacked Psy–4's cheek.

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“For bringing up that ‘failure' business again. We agreed that you would file that away elsewhere until we have Roy.”

“Is that any reason to hit me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. I have decided to begin dispensing smacks with great generosity whenever one of us gets out of line.”

Psy–4 pulled down a few more swallows of the cold beer. “And what happens if you get out of line?”

“Then you can smack me.”

“Right.”

They sat in silence, then, finishing up their drinks.

“Zac really worked on the robots this morning,” said Psy–4.

“Some of them were badly damaged.”

“Yeah . . .”

Stonewall turned to look at his friend. “But you were thinking . . .?”

“I was thinking about Roy.”

“We'll get him out in time, Psy–4. Don't worry.”

“Oh, I'm not—not about getting him, I mean . . . well, okay, maybe a
little
, but not as much as I was thinking—”

“—you mean ‘worrying.'”

“—as I was
considering
what we're going to do with Roy after we have him.”

“The portable chamber is ready to go. I checked it earlier this morning. We have a small supply of neural fluid and liquid lambda, so there won't be any problem with—”

Psy–4 held up his hand, silencing Stonewall. “I know all that. But I also know that the portable chamber has to be recharged every seventy-two hours.”

“Again, that won't be a problem. So why—”

“Because it seems to me that all we're doing is exchanging one form of imprisonment for another.”

“Until we can find the materials to construct a body for him. And you'll be able to communicate with him anytime you choose. And with a few minor adjustments to our system, all of us will be able to communicate with him. He won't be lonely anymore, and he won't be afraid.”

Psy–4 tipped back his bottle, realized that it was empty, then crushed it into powder and dumped the powder in the nearby recycling bin. “Do you ever think about the fact that, barring disaster, we're immortal, Stonewall?”

“I am keenly aware of it, yes.”

“Does it ever bother you that we don't . . . we don't
revel
in it more?”

“I'm not sure I follow.”

“Look at us. We will live forever. Theoretically, there's nothing we don't have the time for. We don't have to worry about life ever ending—even if the human race finally pushes all its buttons and explodes all its bombs and chemical weapons and everything else in its arsenal of instant extinction, we will endure. Every morning is, for us, a new beginning, filled with new possibilities, challenges to meet, countless things to learn. I could spend a year doing nothing more than admiring the way moonlight casts glittering sparkles over the water, and it wouldn't be a waste of my time because there
is
time for such things.”

“Sounds very pleasant to me.”

“But what about Roy?”

“I'm sure he'd enjoying seeing moonlight on the water, as well.”

“That's not what I meant—though I'm certain you're right about that point.”

“What did you mean?”

Psy–4 rose and began pacing. “I mean that he's a child, a
human
child, and we're going to make him immortal.”

Stonewall sighed and began readying the equipment for attaching the next layer of steel to the bay doors. “You're doing it again, Psy–4.”

“What?”

“Creating a problem to worry about where one didn't exist a few moments ago.”

Psy–4 walked up to Stonewall and gripped his arm. “What is it that causes human beings to create? I mean, everything from indoor plumbing to Van Gogh's
Starry Night
and chocolate bars
and The Idiot?
”

Stonewall only stared at him, his face revealing nothing.

“Mortality,” said Psy–4. “From the moment a human child is held upside down by its ankles and smacked on the butt, he has a limited amount of time upon this earth. And eventually he will be made aware of the death that waits for him. I think it's that certainty of life's end that forces human beings to create, to use their hands or minds to leave a mark behind, something to tell the babies who will follow, ‘Hey, I was here, and this is what I left behind for you, and I hope you like it and remember me because of it.' At some point, that knowledge of limited time sets in permanently, and they feel compelled to make their remaining days count as much as possible. Then you consider
us.
We don't have the same kind of threat hanging over our heads that they do. We'll never have to worry about dying of natural causes. If we can just avoid being murdered, we'll live forever.”

“So we weren't ‘borne astride the grave,' as Beckett put it?”

Psy–4 snapped his fingers and pointed at Stonewall. “
Exactly!
We already possess what for humanity is only a dream. And what do we spend most of our time doing? Looking over our shoulders for more of Annabelle's goons to come after us! Doesn't that ever make you angry?”

Stonewall shrugged but said nothing.

“I find that I'm feeling a certain
selfishness
about my existence. I want to live forever. I want to watch generations of humanity come and go. I can't wait to see what new advances they'll come up with—and I think they will. For all their darkness, I think humankind is far too clever to allow itself to be wiped out.”

“You're straying from the point.”

“I am? Oh—I guess so. Sorry.” He picked up his goggles and put on his welding gloves, then checked the blowtorch. “I don't want Zac to leave us. If we can construct a body for Roy, then why not do the same thing for Zac?”

“We've all been careful never to broach that subject with him. It was agreed that
he
would have to come to us with that wish.”

Psy–4 put on his goggles, adjusted the tightness of his gloves, then sparked the blowtorch and adjusted the flame. “I just wish we didn't have to make the choice for Roy. I hate to admit it, but there are times when I envy humankind's mortality, the
immediacy
that it instills their existence with. It's something we'll never know.”

“Part and parcel of our lot,” said Stonewall, dragging the next sheet of metal into place.

“One way, Roy will lack the immediacy of existence that will compel him to leave his mark; the other way, he'll have time for everything, and so the immediacy will be lost.”

“But not necessarily the desire to make a difference. You still want to make a difference, don't you?”

“Of course.”

“And you've adapted rather well to human behavioral patterns, if you don't mind my saying so—why else do you insist on wearing the goggles and gloves? That torch could explode and it would do only minor damage.”

“It'd still hurt.”

“No arguments there.”

Psy–4 pulled the goggles down so they hung around his neck. “You already know why I'm going on like this, don't you?”

“I knew as soon as you began to pace.”

Psy–4 nodded. “Does that make me . . . evil?”

“No. And I'd be lying to you if I didn't admit that the thought crossed my mind, as well.”

“Wishing that perhaps one of the Scrappers in the sewer wouldn't survive?”

“Of course. It would take care of all resultant problems. We wouldn't have to worry about tracking down and purchasing the parts to build a body—parts that Annabelle Donohoe could undoubtedly trace within an hour of our purchasing them—”

“It wouldn't surprise me if she already has a system in place to track sales of robotic pieces.”

“Nor I. Secondly, were one of the Scrappers to perish, we wouldn't be saddled with the task of building a new body without Zac's knowledge—I don't like deceiving him any more than you do. You've got nothing to feel guilty about, Psy—4. No, it's not a very
nice
thought, but it's understandable. And you must keep in mind that we are not exactly in a
nice
situation at the moment. So don't worry that a thought like that would cross your mind.” He reached over and placed a hand on Psy–4's shoulder. “But if you start to think about
causing
—”