Time Was (18 page)

Aside from the main computer, there were three others in the control room's mini-network. All three monitors were on, and once the infiltration was underway, each monitor would display a different set of images as Psy–4 broadcast them back through his input/output connectors. The first monitor would display the layout schematics of PTSI's main building, each floor and room coming up in accordance with its individual security code; the second monitor would display, in split-screen, the precise configuration of every security code and exactly how long Psy–4 had until his presence was detected; the third monitor would display images of PTSI's main building as they were recorded by security cameras, as well as any images Psy–4 encountered in the InfoBahn that he felt needed to be downloaded into the I-Bots' network.

And so, in dazzling color, the other I-Bots could keep track of where Psy–4 was in the system, when he was there, how long, what codes he was bypassing, whether or not his presence had been detected, and what was going on in the PTSI compound while he telepathed with the mainframe.

Stonewall and Itazura would be watching the monitors.

Radiant would, as always, be monitoring Psy–4's vital signs.

She stood behind him, placing one hand on each of his shoulders.

Psy–4 finished his final check of the system, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then nodded at Stonewall. “Make the handshake.”

“It's showtime, folks,” whispered Itazura.

There was not so much as a hint of levity in his voice.

 

At first: Darkness.

Buzzing.

Hissing.

Static, fading.

Psy–4 found himself looking at a massive white wall.

It always took him a few seconds upon entering the system to acclimate himself. The first time he had telepathed with a system, the sheer number of equations, codes, images, sounds, and information had genuinely frightened him, distilled, as they were, to their barest skeleton of computer symbols and language, not quite real, but too numerous and formidable to be denied.

Zac had quickly rectified that, reprogramming Psy–4 so that he saw everything in terms of concrete forms; unconscious symbology made three-dimensional, all representation of continuously changing physical memory transformed into beings with whom he could communicate, regardless of the data definitions, analogous anomalies, or inconsistencies in electronic signals or encryptions.

Algorithms, buffers, LANs, microprocessors, memory chips—all were simply denizens of these ethereal streets.

And Psy–4 was always glad to meet them.

A ripple appeared in the center of the wall, as if something in the process of being birthed were trying to break through a thin membrane.

The ripple became a tear, widening.

From the center of the tear a long, thin, iridescent strand snaked out, followed by another, then another, then dozens, hundreds more, each strand forming a web composed of bluish electronic grid lines.

The web began to spiral.

Slowly at first, like the wheels of a train gaining speed, but as their momentum increased, each strand blurred into the next, creating a whirlpool effect that grew ever wider, a vortex, a wormhole—a tunnel.

Insomuch as Psy–4 could, now that he was no longer fully one with his corporeal self, he smiled.

And threw himself forward.

The exhilaration seeped down into his core and spread through him, pressing against his components as Psy–4 was flung wide open, dizzy and disoriented, seized by a whirling vortex and thrust into the heart of all whirling invisibilities, a creature whose puny carbon atoms and other transient substances were suddenly freed, unbound, scattered amidst the universe—yet each particle still held strong to the immeasurable, unseen thread which linked it inexorably to his body and his consciousness; twirling fibers of light wound themselves around impossibly fragile, molecule-thin membranes of memory and moments that swam toward him, becoming Many, becoming Few, becoming One, knowing, learning, feeling; his power mingled with their power, his thoughts with their thoughts, dreams with dreams, hopes with hopes, frustrations with frustrations, and in this mingling, this unity, this actualization, Psy–4 became one with the universe of the InfoBahn; he was no longer bound by the limits of his physical body, by his muscles and tissues, by the alloys and steel that composed his skeleton; here, machine and body became One and spiraled to a new form of being. First, his brain was rendered anachronistic; all that mattered here was Thought, nothing more.

He was more than mere Machine.

He was Machine-Entity, raw with pain yet drenched in wonder, and he stretched himself forward in the moment before he emerged into his destination whole, clean, and filled with glory, then he opened his true eyes and rejoiced in the feeling of freedom as he touched down on—

—a cobblestone path.

Stars above.

Night.

He stood in a courtyard.

Unconscious symbology made concrete.

He felt the child's presence immediately.

Someone please come
, it whispered.

Please.

I know you're here.

I can feel you, so close.

Please, please, come get me.

Psy–4 moved toward the child's voice.

“Psy–4's in,” said Stonewall. “How's he doing?”

“He's scared,” said Radiant. “But he's trying not to let him know it.”

“Let who know it?” asked Itazura.

“I don't know. A . . . a child . . . I think.”

Itazura and Stonewall exchanged troubled glances, then returned to watching the monitors.

“He's uploaded the replay of last night into your console,” said Radiant.

Itazura nodded. “I know. Preston's security codes are coming up on the screen.” He turned his monitor slightly so Stonewall could see:

“And I'll bet Preston thought he was clever. This is kids' stuff.”

“Quiet,” said Stonewall.

“Something's happening,” whispered Radiant.

An ornate, four-wheeled circus cage sat in the center of the courtyard. Inside the cage, lying on its side, was a sculpture of a child's head. Shimmering gossamer webs blanketed the sculpture, holding it down like a weighted net; it tried rolling to one side, then the next, but the webs remained strong. Finally, defeated, the sculpture opened its eyes and pursed its lips; the darkness trembled with trills and arpeggios and flutings, echoes of a winter's midnight wind whispering
soon
on this late August night . . . then creatures that had been hiding in the darkness came slowly forward and began dancing around the cage.

One was a lithe female figure with the head of a black horse, its ears erect, its neck arched, vapor jetting from its nostrils; another was tall and skeletal, with fingers so long their tips brushed against the ground: It hunkered down and snaked its fingers around the bars of the cage, as if absorbing the sound through vibrations. Some hopped like frogs, some rolled, some scuttled on rootlike filaments that were covered in flowers whose centers were the faces of blind children. All of them sang and danced.

There was a man with the head of a black hawk wearing a feathered headdress, a turtle with small antlers, a raven-headed woman in a golden flowing gown, a lion peering out from behind the visor in a suit of armor, a wolf in multicolored bandoliers, a mouse with angel's wings, a steer-skull being wearing the uniform of a Spanish Conquistador, a glass owl, a crystalline buffalo, a jade spider; dressed in deerskin shirt and breechclouts and leggings, with medicine pouches and beaded necklaces, holding flutes and horn-pipes and ceremonial chimes, their music and soft singing became the unbound wings of time, holding the Earth's spirit in the spell of a lullaby.

Psy–4 wondered what they were in actuality.

Codes?

Fragments of old programs?

Bits of information lost along the multitasking way?

Then, stepping closer, he saw what was happening to them.

Each of them had a small, glowing thread attached to them that led back to the child's head.

Psy–4 thought then of Athena, springing full-grown from Zeus's head, and knew what these oddly glorious creatures represented.

They were composites, compressed information and programs that were being pulled from the child's memory.

But by whom?

And why?

Even as they sang and danced about the child's cage, the creatures were slowly dissolving. Not all at once, nothing quite so dramatic, but dissolving nonetheless.

A small piece here, a small piece there—and even then, in small increments.

Disintegrating slowly, the pieces scattering like dust motes and wafting in a deliberate formation toward something that was just out of sight.

The child then looked directly at Psy–4 and said,
Come closer.

Psy–4 approached the cage, and several of the creatures made room for him—but none would release their grip on the bars.

—Hello, said Psy–4

I knew you'd come back for me
, said the child.
You were here last night.

—Yes.

They're leaving me.

—I can see that.

It gets . . . it gets real hard for me to remember things when they leave, y'know?

—Of course.

I don't know why Daddy is doing this.

—Doing what?

Killing me.

And that's when Psy–4 saw it.

At first it resembled more a gigantic black lump than a head, but as it rose farther up from the darkness, its surface alive with zigzagging bolts of electricity, its shape was easily discerned—especially its mouth.

It opened its mouth and released a long, wailing, hungry cry.

It threw itself back, wriggling, trying to pull the rest of its body up toward the surface, spitting out useless bits of data that tumbled around it like so much mud and roots: It looked like film of a quicksand victim running in reverse.

Whatever it was, it was vaguely humanoid in shape and appearance.

But it was also robotic.

And it was
huge.

Another groan became a wailing roar.

A hand exploded to the surface, a great hand, thrice the size of Psy–4, clawing at the luminous dust motes of programs and information that were being pulled toward it as if by a vacuum.

The thing began reaching out and grabbing hold of the motes.

And eating them.

With every mouthful of information it consumed, it grew stronger, pulling itself slowly up from its pit.

Even though only the head, shoulders, and one arm were visible, Psy–4 felt himself tremble at how
colossal
the thing would be once fully revealed.

—What is it? He asked of the child.

The Bad Thing that Daddy sent to kill me.

—Why?

I don't know. Please help me.

—That's why I've come, but you have to understand . . . you . . . do you have a name?

Yeah. I'm Roy.

—You have to understand, Roy, that there are others like me who—

What's your name?

—What?

I told you my name, now it's your turn.

—I am called Psy–4.

The child giggled.
Sighfer? Thas'a funny name.

—Tell me, Roy, what is it that the Bad Thing is doing to you?

Takin'way all my head.

—Your head? What do you mean?

But Psy–4 knew exactly what it meant.

The titan rising from the darkness behind the cage was a download and dump program, designed to drain all information from the child's brain and discard anything that was not considered necessary data.

Like dreams.

Hopes.

Personality.

—Where did you come from, Roy?

Dunno what you mean.

—Who was your creator? Who designed you?

I got a mommy and daddy but they don't. . . they don't love me, I think. I think I did something bad and that's why I was put here.

The child was beginning to cry.

—Shh, said Psy–4. There, there, it's all right. You don't need to be scared.

I AM! The Bad Thing's gonna chew me all up.

—No, it won't. We won't let that happen.

You mean you and your friends? You got friends, Sighfer? What's it like? Tell me 'bout 'em.

—Later, perhaps, first we—

Please! Please tell me about your friends. It's been so long since I met anybody, so long since . . . since I seen a new face. Please tell me about your friends. And what it's like where you live.

Suddenly, all three monitors were filled with blinking squares of color that blurred and shifted, forming the same shape.

Psy–4 pulled back slightly in his seat.

Radiant channeled his message.

“He wants us to say . . . say hello to . . . to Roy.”

At that moment, all three monitors displayed a fuzzy, digitized representation of a young boy's face.