Time Was (15 page)

Usually it soothed him, but Psy–4 could tell it wasn't working this morning.

“I really think you ought to talk about what's bothering you before trying this again,” he said.

“I really think you ought to mind your own freakin' business.”

“Itzy,”
said Stonewall from the shadows.

It was a warning.

Itazura turned away from the labyrinth. “All right! I guess I'm just angry about what happened with Killaine and Singer this morning.”

“Tell me about it,” said Psy–4.

Itazura recounted the entire incident, from Singer's complimenting Killaine, to Killaine's obvious disgust at the Scrapper's presence, to Singer's at last asking Itazura why Killaine didn't like him.

“It's almost as if she thinks that because Singer's a Scrapper he doesn't have any feelings, you know?”

“Killaine prefers to think of herself in terms of human as much as possible,” said Psy–4. “She was programmed that way. We all were.”

“So what?” said Itazura. “We can delude ourselves all we want, Psy–4, it doesn't change the fact that we
aren't
human. Oh, sure, we have all the outward appearances of humans, we perform many of the same functions—eat, sleep, go to the can, enjoy music, movies, cha-cha-cha—but we're still outsiders . . . no, scratch that. At least an outsider can blend in with the passing throngs—”

“—we can blend in—”

“—let me finish? An outsider can blend in not only physically, but emotionally and psychically, as well. Even the homeless people that we pass every day have an advantage over us—
they
at least know they're part of humanity, even if that humanity prefers not to see them. The Have-Nots are invisible to the Haves, but at least they know that the world exists for them. Don't you get it? All we have is each other, Psy–4, and that's all we'll ever have. The world outside these walls isn't really there for us. We're not just outsiders, we're ghosts.”

“You are in a state, aren't you?”

“Don't you dare! Don't you dare sit there with that quietly amused smile on your face and shake your head at me like I'm some slow-witted third-grader trying to grasp the intricacies of short division.”

“I'm not smiling.”

“Maybe not, but you want to. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Some would call that ‘paranoid,'” said Stonewall.

Itazura turned toward the shadows. “Whoa, dig that—Garbo talks.”

“You're not just angry about what happened this morning,” continued Stonewall. “You're angry because what happened has reminded you of things you'd rather not think about.”

“Shouldn't I be lying on a couch for this,
Herr Doktor?
”

“You're begging the question.”

“There
was
no question, Stoner.”

“Stop it,” said Psy–4. “Right now. Your biggest problem, Itazura, is that you can never focus when you get like this. Why is that? In preparations for an assignment, in battle, in even the most mundane of tasks, you have the most astounding concentration, yet when you get upset you've the attention span of a two-year-old.”

Itazura cocked his head to the side. “And why do you suppose that is? Couldn't be because, technically, I'm only five, could it?”

“All of us are only five,” replied Stonewall. “But I have the emotional maturity of someone four times that age.”

“Barely out of your teens, then!” Itazura shook his head. “You two really take the cake.” He stomped over to Psy–4. “You want to know what's bothering me? I'll tell you what's bothering me—
we have no place in the natural order of things
, understand? We don't belong with human beings, but we don't fit in with those like Singer, either. Remember all those times you've asked me why I choose to build my labyrinths in the
cellars
of wherever in the hell it is we end up for a while?”

“Yes.”

“It's my church, buddy. My temple of worship. Human beings can look upward and tell themselves that God is looking down. We don't have that luxury. That's why I let the rooftop gardeners of this motley crew have their space up there. No, give me the dank, lower depths every time.”

“Why?”

Itazura stomped his foot down, hard, raising a cloud of soil. “Because down here I am closest to the Earth! Look at me, look at
us!
Everything that makes us what we are—the alloys, the silicon, the ceramic and steel, the copper of the wires that run through us like veins, even the carbon-based chemistry of our biological components—all of it came from the Earth. Gaea gave us the structure of life, Gaea
truly
formed our components. Any god that we might have isn't
up there
with the clouds and birds and radio towers and smog—it's down here, miles beneath the soil, beneath the worms and roots and shales and limestone. Our god is in the shifting of tectonic plates, the rumbles of aftershocks, the glory of a root pushing through the surface and giving birth to a leaf. For human beings, all that ‘Earth to Earth, Ashes to Ashes' stuff is a lie—
we're
the ones who truly came from the Earth, and we're the ones who'll return to that state someday. In rust, in decay, in the sweet, sickly song of decomposition. Just us, Psy–4. Because we came from the womb of Gaea, and only She will accept us when all is said and done. In the meantime, we go through the motions, we try to convince ourselves that our lives have meaning when the truth is the only meaning they have is the one we convince ourselves it does! Think about it, we don't even have the basic genetic right of
race memory!
Every memory that's in our head was programmed by Zac—”

“Really?” said Psy–4. “I seem to remember the Italian food last night quite well, and all Zac did was pay for it.”

“Don't mock me!”
Itazura's fury was nearing its peak, and both Psy–4 and Stonewall readied themselves to restrain him, if the need arose.

Itazura, for all his joking, was perhaps the most dangerous of all the I-Bots when he lost control. Many times in battle he'd shifted into overload and become a berserker to end all berserkers.

Itazura was pacing back and forth, his voice rising, his expression intense. “Every sentence in my head, someone else has already said! And—don't give me that look, I know what you're going to say: ‘But we have the potential for achieving knowledge that human beings do not.' So what? A computer can amass knowledge. Any nerd who knows how to maneuver the InfoBahn can log on and download all the information he wants. Sure, we can assimilate and apply that information at levels far beyond human abilities, but big deal! It's still just a function any sophisticated mainframe system could fulfill. Argue all you want, me droogies, but in the end that's all we really are—sophisticated mechanical systems.

“And Killaine has the nerve, the gall, the arrogant
temerity
to think herself superior to Singer. I once heard Zac say that there were times he was ashamed to be a human being. Well, today, I'm ashamed to be one of us. So . . . now you know what's bothering me. Aren't you glad you asked?”

“Yes, actually, I am,” said Psy–4.

“Feel better now?” asked Stonewall.

“You weren't really listening, were you? Of course not. You never listen to me.”

“Not true,” said Psy–4, walking over to the labyrinth. “I listened very well when you first explained the labyrinth to me.” He pointed down at the first set of three spirals. “These are the Wheels of Confusion, symbolizing the struggle to reconcile the heart, mind, and spirit. When you walk the path of the Wheels of Confusion, you open yourself wholly to the problem that troubles you, you surrender to the problem, let it overwhelm and consume you, so that by the time you reach the center, you have explored the ramifications of inaction, every consequence of all possible solutions, and the price you would have to pay for the choice you make.”

Itazura said nothing.

Stonewall came out of the shadows and pointed to the center of the labyrinth. “At the center of the labyrinth lies Emptiness, where either triumph or defeat waits. In the heart of Emptiness you kneel and meditate, clearing your mind of all static, every stray thought. You become a hollow vessel who is One with the Earth. When you stand, the power of Gaea fills you, and in thanks you turn around three times, creating underfoot the three Wheels of Illumination—Possibility, Probability, and Meaning.”

“Then,”
said Psy–4, “you make your way out of the center, heading toward the three Wheels of Fire, and with every step you take, your strength returns to you as more than it was before; you are stronger of heart, mind, and spirit, because they have become reconciled, and as a Reconciled Being you are unstoppable, there is no problem that is bigger than you, no challenge you cannot meet, no adversity over which you cannot triumph. From the moment you step from the labyrinth, you are what you were meant to be, and nothing can touch you.”

Stonewall came over and stood next to Psy–4, and the two of them stared at Itazura.

After a few moments of silence while he regained his composure, Itazura spread his arms in front of him in a gesture of acquiescence, then said, “Okay, I was wrong, you
do
listen.”

Psy–4 laughed. “Humility becomes you.”

“Am I really such a fool sometimes?”

Silence.

“Well?”

“Which one of us are you talking to?” asked Stonewall.

“Let's start with you,” replied Itazura. “Am I really such a fool?”

After a moment, Stonewall said, “At times.”

“Had to think about it for a moment, didn't you?” ,

“You asked an absolute question. An absolute question requires an absolute answer if confusion is to be avoided.”

Itazura grinned. “You've been reading Thoreau again, haven't you?”

“Emerson, actually.”

“Emerson? As in Lake and Palmer?”

“As in Ralph Waldo.”

“As in Ralph Waldo. Jeez, Stonewall, don't you ever lighten up? Read a comic book once in a while, why don't you? I'll loan you my
Primortals
collection!”

“No, thank you.”

“Then how about a hot romance paperback? Mysterious heroes and breathy, satisfied heroines? Good stuff—no social significance whatsoever, but—whew!—the dreams they'll give you!”

“He's feeling better,” whispered Psy–4.

“
Ladies 'Home Journal!
There's the ticket! You could take one of those personality tests they publish every month and have proof-positive that you don't possess one!”

“
Much
better,” whispered Stonewall to Psy–4.

“Or you could—hey, hold the phone.” Itazura came over to Psy–4. “Exactly
why
did you come down here in the first place?”

“Because I need the two of you to help me with something.”

“Like . . .?”

“A bit of detective work.”

Itazura clapped his hands together. “
Detective work?
How utterly
noirish.
Just let me find my snap-brimmed fedora and trenchcoat and I'll be right—”

Psy–4 put a hand on Itazura's shoulder. “Walk your labyrinth first. I really need for you to be focused for this.”

Itazura's face became serious. “It's that important?”

“I think it could be, yes.”

“Then you got it.” He walked to the Wheels of Confusion and bowed his head.

Psy–4 and Stonewall took the hint and headed upstairs to the Control Room.

Suddenly, Itazura turned back around and parted his arms wide. “I can't stand it, fellahs. I mean, there's just so much love in this room right now and I feel so warm and fuzzy that I . . . well, I don't see there's any getting around it. Come back down here, you
goombahs
, and let's have a group hug! C'mon! Squeezie time! Group hug—I MUST HAVE MY GROUP HUG OR I'LL GO MAD,
MAD I TELL YOU!
”

At the top of the stairs, Stonewall leaned over to Psy–4 and said, “I worry about him sometimes.”

Psy–4 couldn't tell if Stonewall was joking or not.

 

Seven blocks from the I-Bots' warehouse stood a section of Cemetery Ridge where the junkies and street predators were afraid to go, even during the day. The buildings that lined the streets here squatted like diseased animals waiting for someone to come along and blast them out of their misery. The few stores that remained in the area sold mostly liquor and had bars on their doors and windows; the clerks who worked these stores were armed well beyond even the most lenient definition of “legally.” It was a cancer growth, this area, a breeding ground for violence and anger and despair where the inhabitants accepted degradation as a way of life, where brutality was second nature, and where rape, murder, and robbery were looked upon the same way most people look upon rush hour traffic: You put up with it and try to get yourself home in one piece.

It was a place where the spirit would have to rally in order to reach hopeless, where the odd and the damaged, the despondent and the discarded, the lost and the shabby came when they reached the end of their rope and life offered no alternative but to crawl into the shadows of poverty and just give up.

And in the center of this place stood the gutted remains of an old hotel.

It was here that the Silver Metal Stompers made their home base.

Inside the building, along the rickety balconies, dozens of Stompers looked down upon the once-grandiose main lobby where a figure clad in black leather sat in a large, lush, ornamental chair that was placed atop a dais.

At the foot of the dais knelt a young man, bruised and bleeding, clutching his stomach.

His face was a tightly pinched mask of pain.

The leather-clad figure stuck out its left leg and brought a steel-toed boot down hard on the back of the kneeling boy's neck.