Time Was (9 page)

Idiot!

Why had he thought there'd be only two guards? Hover-cars moved fast and furiously, could cover half a mile in a few seconds. The sound of shooting must have been heard for miles along the ice! They probably fired up the first of the hover-cars before he'd even escaped the compound.
Oh, you moronic horse's ass!

The ice was forming white crystals around Janus's suit. The skin on his face tightened: Ice crystals were covering it. He had to dry off.

He was preparing himself to turn and face them down—he thought now only in terms of
them
because to think otherwise could be lethal at this point—and had just begun to pivot when he saw a thin leather strap come flying down across his field of vision. He managed to get his hand up in time to prevent the strip from constricting around his throat.

Janus spun around, his would-be strangler holding tight, and saw that there was, indeed, a fourth guard. This one had a pistol and was trying to aim at Janus's head but there was too much movement right now for the guy to get off a good shot. Any hit right now would just be lucky, even though the guy could take Janus with it if he was quick enough, which he wasn't, but that was all right with Janus because right now he was dominated by pain both from within and without, and pain changed his world, put a cloud around him that he couldn't see through, preventing him from acting in accordance with logic and experience and training.

For a moment, as the thin leather strap cut into the flesh of his hand, Janus was feeble and clouded and clumsy and ripe for death.

Standing stock-still, a target on a shooting range.

But the other guard, the kid with the gun, was too slow and the moment went by.

Janus's brain began to clear.
You're the best there is!
he raged at himself.
Maybe you're getting too old for much more of this shit, but right now you are STILL THE BEST THERE IS and you have to do something
NOW!

He hit those words hard in his mind because the kid with the pistol was moving around, trying to get a decent aim again, and so what if his mind was clearing up, a bullet could crush clear tissue as well as cloudy, and the Strangler behind him was strong, almost as strong as Janus, and he had to use that to advantage somehow, had to do something extraordinary, something remarkable, unique and awe-inspiring, that was all, nothing to it, and he had to do it in the next five seconds.

Go.

And think about raising your rates next time.

The Strangler was strong but the Strangler was shorter than Janus—

—the kid with the gun was getting closer—

—the Strangler was quick but the Strangler was now stationary—

—the kid raised the gun into the firing position, supporting his firing arm with his free hand, a classic shooting-range stance—

—
so if you can budge the Strangler, if you can unsettle his balance, if you can do that
—

Janus faked going right—

—and went right.

The kid whirled left and fired into empty air and the surprise on his face was all that Janus needed; he powered everything he had into completing the next move, and behind him he could feel the Strangler's strip loosen slightly as the man's balance momentarily deserted him—

—and with all the power in his great body, Janus hunched forward, pulling the Strangler with him, and when he had his balance, Janus put all of his strength into a shoulder throw, sailing the Strangler helplessly over him and into the too-slow kid.

The two of them went down hard on the ice, and the kid was stunned as he hit, losing his grip on his weapon, and the gun skidded across the ice. Janus saw it but so did the Strangler, and the Strangler went for it, scrabbling and sliding along the ice like a desperate roach.

Janus let him.

His right hand was next to useless, bruised and bleeding from the leather strap, so he merely watched as the Strangler got closer to the gun—

—then Janus kicked the Strangler's head off—

—or tried to; the Strangler was ready and grabbed Janus's foot and snapped it around, tripping him—but not before Janus got off one good spiked kick into the Strangler's shoulder, following it up with a blow from his left hand, but it only grazed the Strangler's head because even on his knees, even still dazed from the throw, even bleeding from the deep gashes left by Janus's spikes, the Strangler could still move, and Janus went for another left-hand blow, and again the Strangler spun free; another left-hand barely connected as the Strangler writhed and twisted, and he really was like a roach, a waterbug that you could see and chase but somehow never catch, and both of them went for the gun then, but it was clumsy going, pained going, skidding-on-the-ice going, and when Janus saw that he might not get to the gun first he kicked at it and sent it spinning toward the exit hole and smiled as it teetered on the edge then fell in with a soft
plop!
The Strangler chopped him on the neck, but Janus faked sideways enough so that the Strangler missed a death spot—but that didn't mean it didn't hurt like hell, didn't make his nerves shriek, didn't start his brain to clouding again, which—coupled with his desperate need for heat, for warmth, for drying—served to slow him momentarily, but Janus would not allow that to happen—not for long, anyway—
If I cloud, I'm gone, it's that simple
—so he wriggled away from the Strangler's grip and connected with a spiked kick to the side of the Strangler's head, ground-zero on a death spot, and when his spiked boot hit, there was a double cry of pain, and who was to say whose was the greater agony, his or the Strangler's. All Janus could be sure of was that the Strangler's was over a lot sooner.

Gasping, cramping, bleeding, Janus managed to get to his feet, then moved past the dead Strangler and finished off the kid quietly before staggering into the drying shed. It was so blessedly warm, so heavenly toasty and welcoming, and he fell onto the pile of blankets he'd left there, wrapping himself in them like a child hesitant to leave its mother's womb, and then he reached for the thermos of hot tea and sipped it, then gulped it, not caring about the searing pain in his throat, and soon he was able to breathe easily and move freely with only a little agony. He managed to get out of his wetsuit and into some dry, warm clothes, taking care to check out the window for signs of other guards who might have heard the shooting earlier, and as he looked he saw maybe a dozen hover-cars rising out of the compound, swarming together, massing like dark, angry hornets, but before they could clear the distance the air ignited in a thunderous flash and Janus grinned because the first of the six bombs he'd set in the compound were now detonating, seven seconds apart, and would level 90 percent of the main building by the time they were finished, so that meant he was probably safe for a little while, thirty minutes tops—and that reminded him about the radio, so he staggered over and flicked it on, turned the transmission dial until he got the frequency he needed, instructed the person on the other end to patch him through, and when the person he wanted to speak to was on the other end, Janus said, “It's ‘Come-and-Get-Me-Time.'”

“Did you get the disks?”

“You'll have to pick me up to find out, won't you?”

“I'm not in the mood for attitude, Janus.”

“Neither am I. I need medical attention, so have a doctor ready.”

“You'll have everything you need. Give me your location and I'll have the chopper airborne in five minutes.”

“You'd have a little trouble landing where I'm at.” He gave them an alternate location, a field less than half a mile from his present location. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

“The chopper will be waiting.”

“It damned well better be,” said Janus, “or your precious disks are going right into the lake.”

“What a trusting soul you are.”

“Just my warm and fuzzy nature. Don't be late.”

And with that, he killed the connection, gathered up his weapons, and set about preparing to blow up the shed and most of the ice supporting it.

 

It took Mr. James a lot longer to die than Annabelle had estimated.

Not that she didn't have the stomach for such things; for her, watching someone who'd betrayed her die was akin to stepping on a worm wriggling on a hot sidewalk, and carried about as much guilt.

Still, it was fun to watch the expressions on Tyler's young face as he watched the other man begin to fry from the inside out.

And all the while, behind him, there stood Simmons, reciting the facts aloud in that delightful, clipped, and (Annabelle thought) subtly sexy watered-down British accent of his.

“What you're watching, Mr. Tyler, is the fruition of Ms. Donohoe's improvements on the function of nanites.”

Tyler, not moving his gaze from James, said, “W-w-what're those?”

“Nanites are used for manufacturing on the molecular level, sir,” said Simmons patiently, as if addressing a slow-witted child. “They are, for all intents and purposes, microscopic-sized robots. The one in Mr. James's system looks something like a mechanical spider.

“They are programmed to build anything—organic and inorganic—from the base up, including themselves. They can self-replicate.”

“What he's saying,” whispered Annabelle in Tyler's ear, “is that all we have to do is introduce one preprogrammed nanite into a person's system, and within a few hours there can be thousands, millions, theoretically
trillions
, of them swimming along with the cells.”

“Then,” said Simmons, “they begin the process of breaking down, then rebuilding a person's molecular structure, causing a chemical reaction that turns a human being into a time bomb.”

“It all has to do with quarks and something known as the X-Particle Theory and gets a bit complicated,” said Annabelle, “but the upshot of all this is that we have produced nanites that can force a human body to spontaneously combust . . . providing that there is a sufficient amount of alcohol in their system at the time. Over ninety percent of all cases of spontaneous human combustion involve individuals who have been drinking heavily—much as you were last night, Tye.”

“How did you know—”

“Shhh,” said Annabelle. “I know everything, dear boy. Haven't you figured that out by now? But, please, watch dear Mr. James.”

On the other side of the two-way mirror, James's skin began to ignite; first his arm burst into flame, then his legs, then his stomach, and within moments his entire body was aflame.

It didn't last long.

With a near-blinding flash of smoke and light, James's body exploded, drowning the room in flames.

Bits of sticky, seared, unidentifiable tissue slammed against the mirror and . . .

Stayed in place.

It was grotesque.

Unspeakable.

And, to Annabelle, at least, wholly deserved and justified.

She crossed back to her desk, pressed the button, and the gigantic image of St. Joan slid back into place, hiding the ugly, horrifying aftermath on the other side.

“Very impressive, don't you think?”

Tyler couldn't speak.

This pleased Annabelle.

Greatly.

“Too moved to find your voice? I understand. So you can just listen for a moment.” She nodded to Simmons, who walked to the other end of the room and opened one of three wall safes in Annabelle's office.

From the safe he removed two items: a small glass vial with a rubber-stop top and a black case.

“Last night, Tye, did you have a good time with the blonde you met at . . . oh, at that club—what was its name, Simmons?”

“The Shalott, madam.”

“That's right, the Shalott—though I doubt anyone who works there knows the name was stolen from Tennyson. Anyway, Tye, did you have a good time with her?”

His face was turning ash white now, but he managed to nod his head.

“I understand that you were pretty plotzed on Cutty Sark, is that right?”

Another terrified nod.

“Too bad you passed out before getting to the main event. Tawny said she thought you were cute and she would've been happy to—well, you know.” She put out her hand and Simmons placed the glass vial into her grip.

Annabelle showed the vial to Tyler.

“Do you know what this is, Tye? The boys in the lab have dubbed it ‘Liquid Burn.' Has a nice ring to it. This is a massive

swimming pool where one of my nanites is having a relaxing swim. You see, the thing is, most people have the impression that a nanite can only be introduced into the human system by injection. Not true. All it takes is for someone—say, a busty blonde named Tawny who's looking for a way to advance her career—to unstop a vial like this and pour the liquid into another person's Cutty Sark. Do you see where I'm going with this?”

“. . . yes . . .”

“Sorry, didn't quite catch that. Simmons, could you make out what Tye here was saying?”

“Afraid not, madam. My hearing isn't what it used to be.”

“Care to repeat what you just said, Tye?”

“. . . said that, yes, I can see where this is going.”

“So now you know why you're feeling a bit feverish, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you've undoubtedly surmised, bright boy that you are, that the ‘drug test' this morning was simply our way of checking to see if the nanite had succeeded in self-replicating.”

“Yes.”

“Care to know how it's doing, Tye?”

“Does it matter?”

“Very much so. Right now, judging by the amount of nanites found in your blood cells, there are roughly three hundred billion of my little friends tearing you down bit by bit at the molecular levels as we speak. The fact that you haven't yet ridded your system of the vast quantities of Cutty from last night is a definite plus.”

Tyler swallowed, wiped his soaked brow, then raised his head, trying to meet her gaze. “How . . . how long do I have until . . . until . . .”