Time Was (43 page)

“Bullet passed right through the meaty part of your calf,” he said. “Bet you had no idea I was such a good shot, did you?”

“. . . don't give a
damn
about you or your—” snarled McCarrick.

“Oh, but you will,” replied Preston, dragging McCarrick toward the console and putting him in the second chair. “Take a look at that screen right there.”

McCarrick did. “That's . . . that's the backyard of my
home
. . . .”

“Yes, it is. I have two men in your backyard right now, Professor. One of them is holding the camera that's broadcasting those pictures. The other one is holding a gun and a small black bag with—how to put this delicately?—various tools of his trade.”

McCarrick stared at him.

“He's a professional interrogator,” said Preston.

“You mean
torturer
,” hissed McCarrick.

Preston shrugged. “You say ‘tomato,' I say
‘tomahto'
 . . .”

“What do you want?”

“What I want,” said Preston, turning McCarrick's chair around so the professor faced Roy's console, “is for you to place your right hand on the scan-pad and for you to take hold of that key with your left.”

McCarrick looked at the scan-pad, then at the key, already in place and waiting to be turned.

An identical key was in place at Preston's end of the console.

“Oh, no . . .” whispered McCarrick.

“I'm afraid so,” replied Preston, staggering over to his chair and dropping into it.

The pain was quite bad; not so much that he'd require a morphine tab, but bad enough that he found it difficult to stand for long periods of time.

“I've spent five years of my life on this project,” said McCarrick, a touch of petulance in his voice.

“I'm aware of that,” whispered Preston.

“Why
this?
And why
now?
The D and D program will finish running itself in a little over eight hours.”

“Because,” Preston groaned, “we have a visitor on the grounds, and I'd rather she not know anything about this particular project. Don't look at me that way, Professor; Annabelle Donohoe will demand to be brought down here eventually, and she is not a lady that one refuses. I want . . . no, I
need
for all traces of Roy to be gone.

“So, if you please, place your hands in the necessary positions and—”

Then he noticed the
DISCONNECT
light flashing.

“How long has Roy been offline?”

McCarrick glared at him. “Almost since the day you brought him to me.”

“What?”

McCarrick pulled himself up into a sitting position, groaning at the pain, tears forming in his eyes. “It would've only cost you twenty-thousand dollars.”

Preston felt the blood drain from his face.

“Yes,” said McCarrick, smiling a cancerous grin. “Five years ago when they diagnosed the tumors on Sarah's spine. I asked you for a loan of twenty thousand dollars to fly Dr. Waggoner over from Geneva. He could've minimalized the damage to Sarah's spine, he might have even kept her out of that wheelchair, but you wouldn't do it, you piece of shit. I betrayed Zac Robillard and Annabelle Donohoe both to come work for you, and you wouldn't even help my daughter when I begged you.

“So now my daughter is a cripple who can't even feed herself or wipe herself, and every cent my wife and I have goes into caring for her. Do you know she probably won't live to see her eleventh birthday. Yes! The cancer's back again, and its eating what's left of her spine.” His voice was getting louder and more hysterical. “Do you have any idea how much I hate you—how much I hate even the
idea
of you? You make a random decision about loaning me
pocket change
and an innocent child pays for it!” The tears burst from his eyes and streamed down his face, but McCarrick's fury would not be stopped, not now.

“She has known nothing but pain and loneliness and darkness over every day of her life because of you. And I have to watch her die, and my wife's spirit along with her. So one day you bring me your precious little boy and tell me to babysit him, put him online and let him experience as much of the world as he can.

“Well,
fuck you, and fuck your precious child.
Let him know the loneliness and pain and darkness that Sarah knows. And let him think
you're
the one who did it to him.”

“ . . .no . . .”
choked Preston.

“I hope he hates you one-tenth as much as I do. And I hope you never have a moment's peace for the rest of your miserable, whorish, shit-stinking life. God! I want to rip out your eyes and suck your skull dry. I want to rip off your head and piss down your neck! I want to tie you to a bed of nails and force-feed lukewarm vomit down your gullet until
YOU CHOKE ON IT! DO WHATEVER YOU WANT TO ME, YOU BASTARD, BUT LEAVE MY FAMILY ALONE!
”

Preston was about to exercise his last, desperate option; overriding the remainder of the D and D program. At this point, about 12 percent of the information stored in Roy would be irrevocably lost, but Preston had resigned himself to that.

His son was lost to him.

Any chance he had to save himself was lost.

Everything was lost.

And it was all his fault. Every last damned bit of it.

The only thing he had to cling to now was his pride; he would not die having Annabelle know he'd failed so miserably at this, the most important thing he'd ever attempted to do.

Forgive me
, he thought silently.

My son, my good boy.

“Your hand, then, Professor.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you'll sit here at gunpoint and watch your daughter's teeth be extracted by a pair of pliers. He also has a soldering tool in that case. Would you like to know what he'll do with that or do you have enough imagination to picture it on your own?”

McCarrick glowered at him.

“I'll take that to mean you'll cooperate,” said Preston.

McCarrick released a howl of primitive animal fury and flung himself at Preston.
“ROT IN HELL, YOU FUCKING MONSTER!”

Preston shot McCarrick point-blank in the face, then dragged the body over to the panel and slapped McCarrick's dead hand onto the scanner pad.

The body fell back, pulling the hand with it.

Preston looked around the lab until he found the small box of tools that maintenance kept for mundane repairs.

He shot open the lid of the toolbox and removed the small hacksaw.

Looked at McCarrick's body.

Then did what he had to do.

After placing McCarrick's severed hand on the scan-pad, Preston placed his left hand on his scan-pad and gripped his key with his right hand.

The system scanned their handprints.

Then another prompt appeared on the monitor:

“Preston, Samuel Clemens; Employee Number 000–01–A.”

“Override order #7215-BTR36–7. My voice only for remainder of operation.” Preston spread his arms out over the console and just managed to grab and turn both keys simultaneously.

Another screen prompt:

Preston leaned toward his console microphone and said: “Preston. Yes.”

Preston did.

“That's it, then,” said Preston, then lowered his head and wept quietly.

After a moment, he looked at McCarrick's body and said: “It's all just an illusion, Professor. Happiness. Contentment. Inner peace. They're all just illusions we manufacture in order to give our lives the appearance of having purpose, when the truth is there is no purpose, no Supreme Being, no Satan, no heavenly reward or hellish punishment. Everything we do, all our so-called ‘accomplishments,' are the result of a cosmic accident. We're just cells under a giant microscope and the joke is, there's no one to look through the lens to map our progress. Don't you find that funny, in a sad sort of way?”

Oddly enough, McCarrick didn't answer.

“Don't worry about your wife and daughter; I'll make sure the illusion's maintained for them. They'll have a good life, I promise. What time is left for Sarah will made good . . . as good as it can be, anyway.”

Then he started laughing to himself.

Quietly.

Very, very quietly . . .

 

Stonewall was right; by the time Psy–4, Itazura, Radiant, and Killaine arrived back at the warehouse, packing was the last thing on their minds.

“Where's Zac?” asked Stonewall, trying hard not to let his anxiety show in his voice.

“Radiant says that Preston has him,” replied Psy–4.

“But she's not sure?”

“Not one hundred percent, no, but right now it's all we have to go on.”

Stonewall nodded grimly, then pulled Psy–4 aside. “How serious are Zac's wounds?”

“Not life-threatening, but he was hurt pretty bad.”

Stonewall nodded once again.

Psy–4 looked into his brother's eyes. “What is it?”

“Singer and I began dismantling everything—”

“—good thinking—”

“—and before I began breaking down the computers I thought it would be best to check on Roy and Preston's system.”

“And?”

“I think you need to telepath with Roy one more time before I say any—”

“What is it?”

Stonewall almost couldn't look at Psy–4. “There were some odd codes. I can't be certain but I think that Preston has initiated a program override on the remaining time on the D and D.”

Psy–4 froze. “Oh,
shit.
”

“Uh-huh.”

The two of them ran toward the computer room.

 

Zac opened his eyes and saw stars.

And within those stars, a diffuse ball of light.

Am I dead?
he wondered.

Then realized he was lying on his back, his head propped up by thick, soft pillows.

He was on a sofa.

In an office.

Facing a large window.

He tried to sit up but couldn't.

There was no pain from his wound, and as he slowly turned his head toward his wounded shoulder he saw that a large section of his shirt and jacket had been cut away. His shoulder was covered by a heavy cast.

He craned his head slightly and saw the IV bag dangling from a stand behind him. A clear plastic tube ran from the IV down toward his arm, vanishing beneath a gauze pad and several strips of medical tape.

He let his head fall back into the mound of pillows.

“Hello, Zachary,” said a lilting female voice.

At first Zac smiled, thinking that Killaine and the others had found him; then he took a deep breath and coughed on the stench of cigarette smoke.

He'd almost forgotten that there was someone else besides Killaine who called him “Zachary.”

“Hello, Annabelle,” he whispered, turning his head slightly.

He was on the sofa in Preston's office. Across from him was Preston's desk and seated in Preston's chair—the back of which faced him at the moment—was Annabelle.

Slowly, she turned around, smiling at him. “It's been a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Zac replied.

Annabelle pursed her lips and made a
tsk-tsk
sound. “Now, Zachary, is that any way to behave? After Simmons and I rushed you to PTSI's emergency medical building? The surgeons were worried you might lose part of your arm, but I convinced them to install some alloy and pins. You'll have an ugly mass of scar tissue attached to you, but your shoulder should be as good as—well,
functional enough
in four or five months.”

“Delightful.”

“Do try to keep your effusive gratitude down to a low roar.” Annabelle rose from Preston's chair and crossed over to the sofa. She began to sit on empty space but in a flash Simmons was there with another chair, sliding it under her and breaking her fall. She smiled at Simmons, then crossed her legs and leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. “We've a lot of catching up to do, Zachary—but, unfortunately, not a lot of time.”

“Did you hear that?” croaked Zac.

“What?”

“The sound of my heart breaking.”

Annabelle laughed loudly. “Oh, Zachary . . . believe it or not, I've missed having you around.”

Zac looked at the window again and saw the outline of Preston's bank of monitors.

He wondered if Annabelle knew about the hidden doorway and staircase.

She reached over and brushed some hair out of his eyes. “Letting yourself get a little sloppy in your old age.”

“My social life isn't as active as it used to be.” Zac was surprised that he was this lucid; he wondered what sort of anesthetic the surgeons had used on him.

“Where did we go wrong, Zachary?”

“You make it sound like we were high-school sweethearts who broke up after the prom.”

Annabelle responded with something between a smirk and a sneer. “You know what I mean.”

Zac sighed. “Why don't you just ask me what you want to know?”

“Fine. Where are the I-Bots?”

“My guess is getting ready to come here.”

Now
she smiled. “That's what I was hoping to hear.”

“You already knew the answer to that,” said Zac. “Now stop blowing smoke up my ass and tell me what it is you
really
wanted to know.”