Time Was (35 page)

“That's when we disconnect Roy and make the transfer. It
has
to be perfect, people. And I
mean flawless.
So I will not be figuring in any variables.”

It took a moment for the implication of that to register.

“So if we encounter any physical resistance?” asked Itazura.

“Counter with greater physical force.”

“So you're telling me that if we turn a corner and run smack into a group of guards headed home after their shift is finished, we just terminate them?”

“No. First of all, going by the personnel schedule, there shouldn't
be
anyone in these corridors during the three-minute period we've targeted; secondly, if there
is
anyone in the corridors, we'll have the element of surprise, so it should be easy to knock them out for a decent length of time.”

Itazura nodded his head. “That's very neat reasoning, and it's probably correct, but I'd like an answer, Psy–4: Are you telling me that if we have to choose between killing someone and losing five seconds, that we—”

“—protect the timetable at all costs, yes.”

They stared at him.

“No arguments, people. I didn't come to this decision lightly. I checked the work schedules for PTSI going back a year, at least, and I compared the schedule with the layout, then I compared the layout with all employees' areas—locker rooms, break lounges, parking lots . . . I'm telling you: There is absolutely
no reason
why we should encounter
anyone
in those corridors during those three minutes.” He looked back at Itazura. “That's the best I can do, Itzy. Take it or leave it.”

Itazura stared at Psy–4 for several tense, silent moments. “I'm with you, Psy–4.”

“Good. Anyone else have doubts they'd care to voice?”

No one did.

Psy–4 set the stopwatch at 00:00:00. “All right, then; let's run this again.”

Four minutes flat the second time.

Three-forty on third run-through.

By the fifth try they had it down to three solid.

“Outstanding,” said Psy–4, setting the stopwatch. “Now let's see if we can keep at three another two go-rounds.”

Not only did they keep it at three, but during the last run-through, they managed to shave two more seconds off the time.

“It's not going to get any better than that,” said Psy–4, smiling.

“You're going to make us do it again, aren't you?” asked Killaine.

“I'm going to make us do it
three
more times.”

“
Then
will you be happy?”

“Then I'll be happy.”

By the time it was over, Psy–4 was happy.

“We're still going to run it a couple of times more tomorrow night after we get back from the carnival assignment,” he said.

“Speaking of,” said Killaine. “I need to know which two of you want to pose as crooks.”

Itazura was the first to raise his hand. “If ever there was a role I was born to play . . .”

“I figured,” said Killaine.

The second volunteer surprised her.

“Psy–4?”

He shrugged. “All of you are always telling me I need to lighten up. This sounds like fun.”

“I think I'm having a stroke,” said Itazura.

Killaine rose to her feet and waved them on. “Come on, then. I've got a lot to teach you tonight.”

“Like what?” asked Psy–4.

“Yes or no: Do you know what any of the following terms mean? Poster Joint, African Dip, Cigarette Bill, Gigger, Fixer, Grind Store, Emby, Flash Cloth, Duke Shot.”

Itazura shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “Is this a trick question?”

Psy–4 wrinkled his brow. ‘“Duke Dip, Cigarette Cloth' . . .
what?
”

“I've got a long night ahead of me,” sighed Killaine. “Come on, you two. Now, first off, you'll be posing as ‘sticks.' A stick is a person who pretends to be a big winner at a flat store game in order to—”

“What's a flat store?” asked Psy–4.

And they disappeared up the stairs as Killaine explained it to them.

Stonewall looked over at Radiant, then at Singer. “Anyone up for some canasta?”

“Poker's more my game,” said Radiant.

Zac would make it four
, signed Singer.
I'm a heck of a bridge player.

Stonewall nodded. “You're right; we need to look over the Catherine Wheel program again.”

Radiant giggled. “Ask a stupid question . . .”

“If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it . . .?” said Stonewall.

Radiant turned toward him.

He shrugged. “You said to ask a stupid question.”

“Now
you're
making jokes. Am I the only one who's worried about the way we've all started to behave? No—don't answer that. Let's go do that computer voodoo that you do so well.”

 

Annabelle rolled over in her bed and looked at the clock.

2:37
A.M.

She'd been trying to get to sleep since midnight, only managing to drop off in five- and ten-minute increments.

2:47
A.M.

She knew it was useless and so rose in the darkness to find her two cats sleeping on either side of her head; Tasha, the oldest, a Siamese, was curled into a soft, gray, warm ball, her breath slow, shallow, and blessedly relaxed; Annabelle's second cat, respectfully addressed as “the Winnie,” was sprawled out like a massive spill of black ink, her generous tummy flopping to the right while the rest of her sleeping form edged to the left. Girth made the Winnie's naps an event to watch; if she wasn't careful, sometimes she'd forget just how large she was, then roll over close to the edge of the bed, thinking she had more room, and her tummy would pull her over the edge. On more than one night Annabelle had collapsed into paroxysms of laughter when the Winnie suddenly found herself wrenched from sleep to discover she was in the midst of a tumble. To Annabelle, there were few things more genuinely funny that the sight of a startled cat.

So she reached over, very quietly, and turned on the bedside light, then picked up one of her pillows and slammed it down on the bed, shouting, “Everybody up!”

Both cats jumped at least six inches into the air, landing on their feet with ears pulled back and wide eyes looking so very, very confused:
Are you insane? Can't you see that we were
sleeping,
for goodness'sake!

Annabelle thought the sight would make her laugh, but it didn't.

She just felt bad.

She reached over and began petting them. “Sorry, kids, didn't mean to scare you . . . but if Mommy doesn't sleep, no one else does. Those are the rules.”

They followed her downstairs and into the kitchen where they plopped themselves down in front of their food and water dishes:
Okay, you're sorry, we forgive you. Now feed us.

Annabelle complied, then sat at the table watching them eat.

Before he'd gotten sick, Roy had been so fond of the cats, especially the way the Winnie would climb up his chest and start licking his nose when he was laying down.

She got a fresh pack of cigarettes from the pantry and lit up, drawing in a long, deep drag that she could almost feel in the bottoms of her feet.

On nights like this, she swore she could hear the cancer cells applauding.

Cancer.

Preston.

She crushed the cigarette out violently, stared at the wisps of smoke curling in the air, and immediately lit another one.

She didn't like this, not one bit.

Janus was out there with Simmons and two other operatives doing heaven-only-knew what, and she had to sit around waiting.

Annabelle Donohoe did not—repeat
not
—enjoy waiting.

Especially in the dark—that both figurative and actual.

A couple of days
, Janus had said. It had only been thirty-six hours since their last conversation, and already Annabelle was so anxious it was costing her sleep, and
that
meant baggy eyes in the morning, and there was no way in hell that she'd let anyone see her looking less than totally in control.

She pulled in another drag of the cigarette and felt the cats rubbing up against her legs.

She reached down and began petting one of them, not looking to see which cat it was.

She stared at a spot on the wall, just . . . thinking.

She made a decision, then reached over, picked up the kitchen cell phone, and hit a speed-dial number.

“Yes, Ms. Donohoe?” said Gardner, the Assistant Chief of Security.

“Have a car sent for me in two hours and have the plane ready to take off at six-thirty.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Any word from Simmons yet?”

“No, ma'am.”

Annabelle bit her lower lip. Okay, she could understand Janus not checking in—she didn't
like
it, but she understood it—but the fact that Simmons hadn't even called Gardner worried her.

And if there was one thing she hated more than waiting, it was worrying.

“Ms. Donohoe?” said Gardner.

Annabelle realized that she'd been sitting there in silence for nearly a minute.

“Tell you what, Gardner,” she said, rubbing her eyes, “let's push it back. Have the car here at seven, the plane ready to leave by eight.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“If Simmons contacts you, put him on hold and call me at once.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She hung up, crushed out her cigarette, and looked at the cats, smiling. “Well, I think I might be able to sleep now,” she said to them in a singsong voice that she used only for them.

Only for them
now.

“C'mon,” she sang and headed back up to bed.

Tasha and the Winnie soared past her and up the stairs, reclaiming their previous positions by the time she arrived.

Annabelle felt relaxed now, knowing that she was going to be assuming control of the situation very soon.

She fell asleep almost at once, and did not dream.

 

In the still, quiet hours of the night, after all the plans had been rehashed and Killaine was satisfied that Psy–4 and Itazura knew their carny slang and gigging techniques, Psy–4 went into the control room, closed the door behind him, went online, and telepathed with Roy once again.

The courtyard surrounding the cage was deserted.

Only a few creatures remained around Roy's cage now, and they were slowly being broken down into particles of information and absorbed into the dark titan behind them.

The titan seemed to be sleeping or meditating.

Psy–4 went up to Roy's cage and saw that the child's form had changed. Roy was no longer a sculpted head but a full-formed child, deathly pale, naked, lacking any genitalia. His face was a smooth, empty, oval, save for his left eye.

He lay on his back, holding one of his hands in front of his face.

Psy–4 watched in silence.

Roy turned his hand a little to the left, then to the right.

Very slowly.

Psy–4 knew it would be no use speaking to him; he was too weak.

Roy pulled his hand closer to his face, then turned it to the right again, and only then did Psy–4 realize what the child was doing.

He was playing with the light.

Despite its seeming slumber, the titan was emitting a soft bluish light from deep in its core. The glow reached all the way over to the cage and was broken into solid beams by the bars. Roy was using the fingers of his hand to break up the light even more so that it made indiscernible shapes only he seemed able to identify.

Psy–4 pushed one of his hands through the bars and touched Roy's forehead, passing the child the initiation sequence for the Catherine Wheel program.

To Psy–4's surprise, Roy reached over and touched his hand.

You came back.

—I said I would.

I don't feel so good.

—I know, but you'll be asleep soon, and when you wake up I'll be right by your side, watching over you.

Promise?

—Yes. The next time you see me, you'll be just fine, and you won't be in this awful place anymore.

Okay . . .

—I have to go now, Roy, but you sleep, all right? Everything will be all right.

Thank you for letting me smell the grass.

—You're welcome. When you wake up, I'll show you all about the carnival.

Cotton candy and the merry-go-round?

—Yes.

We'll have fun?

—You bet.

Psy–4 touched the boy's cheek, sickened by how cold Roy felt.

—See you soon, Roy.

'Kay. I go sleep now.

—Yes, sleep. You'll be safe soon. Good-night.

'Night, Daddy . . .

When Psy–4 broke from the trance, he wasn't at all surprised to find tears in his eyes.

 

Killaine was down in the garage bay making a last check of the reinforced doors and thinking about tomorrow's assignment when she became acutely aware of another presence.

She turned slowly to see Singer sitting amongst the empty crates they used to move their lab equipment.

His photoelectric eyes looked at her, and he gave a small, apologetic wave.

Maybe it was because of the quietness, the stillness of the hour; maybe it was because, though she knew she should power-down and rest, her thoughts were coming too fast for her to fend them off; and maybe it was because, having experienced feelings during the last eighteen hours she thought would never be hers to explore, she had come to realize something that she'd always known but would never admit to anyone—including herself: She was lonely.

She thought it odd, that even a creation like her could feel such an overwhelming sense of
need
for a person she barely knew. In the hours since she'd said good-bye to Danny, she'd felt as if a part of her was missing and wouldn't be made whole until she saw him again.