Time Was (44 page)

Annabelle scooted closer. “Have you designed a new prototype?”

Zac smiled. “If I have, you'll never find the blueprints.”

“Oh, give me a little credit, Zachary. Do you think I'm so naive as to think you'd still be careless enough to put something that valuable down on paper or enter it into a hard-drive file? You're too smart these days for that.” She touched his cheek, then ran her hand up to his forehead. “No, if you've a new prototype designed, it's all in
here
,” she put a finger against his temple. “And if I know you, the design isn't in any preliminary stages. You've got it stored away full-blown, every minute detail worked out.” She sat back and lit a fresh cigarette, blowing the smoke in Zac's face. “All you lack to bring your new creation into existence is the backing. So why don't you and I quit this irritating cat-and-mouse game we've been playing? Come back to WorldTech, Zachary. You belong there.”

“Go to hell.”

Annabelle shook her head. “Such language! I remember you as always having been a gentleman.”

“People change.”

“I haven't.”

“I said ‘people.'”

Annabelle's face turned into a granite mask. “Don't let's make this
too
personal, Zachary.”

“Why not? This whole thing's been personal since the day I left WorldTech.”

Annabelle leaned forward and jabbed out with her cigarette; its glowing tip was less than an inch from Zac's face. “I
confided
in you, Zachary. I trusted you enough to share my most secret plans with you, my precious and worthwhile goals, and you thanked me by stealing my property and doing all you could to hurt my name and reputation.”

Now it was Zac's turn to laugh loudly. ‘“Precious and worthwhile goals'? Don't make me laugh much harder or I'll pop a vein!”

“Don't mock me, Dr. Robillard!”

“Then don't sugarcoat your precious goals! Not with me, Annabelle!”

She crushed out her cigarette, lit a fresh one. “What was so terrible about what I had in mind?”

“Nothing, if you subscribe to Ceausescu's theory that humanity can only be effectively ruled by fear and genetic purification.”

“Don't compare me with that, that—”

Zac managed to pull himself up enough to keep his face almost level with hers. “The whole purpose of the I-Botics program—at least as you outlined it for me initially—was to create a workforce of teachers, an automated race designed to handle the complexities of computer programming, lunar mining, fusion engineering, laser communications, neurophysiology, and so on.”

“To compel the advance of technology, yes,” said Annabelle.

“But there was a bit more to it than that, wasn't there?”

“I will
not
listen to your paranoid—”

“Wasn't there?”

“Yes! But you, the mighty Zachary Robillard, you couldn't see past the surface of the goals, oh, no—not the grandson of the great Benjamin Robillard! You were so busy climbing up on your antiquated soapbox and spouting your grandfather's code of morality that you refused to see the beauty of my logic.”

“The beauty of your logic?”
shouted Zac. “Oh, that's rich. You decide to use I-Botics to lay the groundwork for totally wiping out the subwork of humanity—”

“—the mind-numbing, soul-sucking
grunt work
, Zachary! The pushing and digging and filing and punching and clicking and all the repetitive motions done by the mind and body that could be done so much more effectively and exactingly by robots.”

“Yes,” said Zac. “A
completely controlled
workforce to ensure that the world could be run so well and smoothly that only a handful of human ‘foremen' would be needed to engage in the few remaining professions and ‘supervisory' positions to ensure that the rest of the world remained housed, fed, and cared for. How
stupid
do you think I am, Annabelle? Did you really think it wouldn't eventually occur to me that these ‘supervisors' would be answerable only to you? And to whom would Annabelle Donohoe answer?
No one!
”

“You make it sound as if I've some sort of demigod complex.”

“What the hell else
would
you call it? An admirable career goal?”

“Stop making it sound as if I thought of no one but myself,” yelled Annabelle. “We both knew that the future would be owned by those who understood the complexities of the emerging technologies. During all our arguments, all your rages, did you ever once stop to ask yourself what was going to happen to people like those you see living in the streets or hurrying into the hellish factories every morning, their pitiful little metal lunch pails tucked under their arms? Sure, they can operate a metal press, they can run a lathe, but what good is that when faced with the control board of a fusion chamber? Face it, Zachary—there is
no place
in the future for that sort of worker, menial laborers with at-best limited mechanical skills. Already we've seen over forty-three percent of the blue-collar workforce replaced by robots, and in another five years, ten at the most,
all
of those jobs will be performed by robots. Did you ever ask yourself where the noble janitors would fit in, or wonder what would become of the dependable trash collectors? What of them, Zachary? What of the broom-pushers and window-cleaners with only a grade-school education? What fate lies waiting for the butcher, the baker, the old candlestick maker who are still holding onto their soon-to-be lost jobs? What will happen when the robots are finally, totally in place?”

Zac snorted a derisive laughed. “You really expect me to believe you've worried and agonized over the plight of the common man during all this?”

“Yes!”

“Bull
shit
, Annabelle! Do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Oh, hardy-har.”

Annabelle shrugged. “You asked.”

“You jump down my throat about not considering what would happen to the broom-pushers and menial laborers who'll be swallowed up in the technocratic future that's already overpowering us? Turn the question back on yourself, Annabelle! What are those people going to do when you strip them of a job? What's going to happen when your noble plan goes into effect and they find themselves with nothing to do?”

“Don't you see, Zachary—that's where the I-Bots come in! Each person, regardless of their level of education or their station in life, can be assigned a teacher that can open their eyes to their dormant potential. Each person, guided by a teaching machine sophisticated enough to offer an endless array of human activity, can discover and then
master
what he or she is best suited for. Think of the dreamless ones who can be given the opportunity to achieve their dreams! What is so evil about that? In the properly automated and educated world, machines such as the I-Bots could prove to be the
true
humanizing influence! The I-Bots can teach while the other robots and machines do the menial tasks that make living possible, while human beings can do all the things that make life rich and adventurous and enjoyable!”

“Then why insist,” snapped Zac, “on the robots and I-Bots being designed more and more to resemble human beings? Why design machines that are based on the human form?”

Annabelle stared at him. “I'm not sure I—”

Zac pulled himself up into a full sitting position. “We began with machines. Those machines became robots molded in our own image. Then we took the next step, we created the I-Bots, cybernetic organisms that are indistinguishable from human beings except upon the closest inspection. Why? Why go through the process of wiping out the subwork of humanity by building more humanlike machines? Why not just try reeducating human society by offering free seminars and classes to the broom-pushers and trash-collectors and candlestick makers? ‘Learn fusion at home.' ‘Master neurophysiology with a free home computer and this program.' A society that
wants
to better itself
can
better itself.”

Annabelle sneered at him. “Still have the old soapbox handy, I see.”

“Answer my question, Annabelle. Why go to such lengths to relieve humanity of the burden of work if you only plan to replace human workers with mechanical workers designed to
look
like human workers?”

“Most of the world's menial tasks have been designed to be carried out by humanoid beings.”

“Then why was WorldTech so hell-bent to eventually turn all antiquated robots into I-Bots? Why were you so determined to produce an army of humanlike cybernetic organisms?”

Annabelle only stared at him.

“Because,” snarled Zac, “your ultimate goal, your hidden agenda, was
not
to give humanity room to realize its potential, but to create a new and highly selective aristocracy, and like all aristocracies throughout history, in order to live in luxury and exquisite idleness, you require sweat off the backs of slaves, serfs, and peasants. Knowing damn well that no human being with an ounce of dignity would allow themselves to be ruled that way, your goal was to create a humanlike peasantry—because, after all, how can an aristocracy revel in its superiority if there is no one to be feel superior
to?
”

Annabelle, wide-eyed, shook her head. “I think all these years of running having finally sent you off your nut, Zachary. You've gone completely insane.”

Zac pushed himself forward as best he could, his face only two inches from hers. “Not only did you wish to create a new aristocracy, Annabelle, but you also knew that a certain percentage of the people you put out of work would become depressed and simply allow themselves to rot—but
the rest
 . . . the rest, as you say, would turn to mechanical teachers, who would have been programmed to teach them only as much as you
wished
for them to be taught. You couldn't give less of a damn about the common folk learning the liberal arts or gaining an appreciation for music or poetry or philosophy—you and your chosen followers would have complete, unadulterated, unchallenged, irrevocable, and—best of all—
hidden
control of all things human and robotic. What more could you want? To rule a world that doesn't even
realize
it's being ruled.

“Well, fuck you, Annabelle Donohoe. I will not give you the materials or information you need to enslave those you see as being inferior to yourself.”

“I take it, then, that our little stroll down memory lane is finished?”

“I hope I live long enough to piss in your open grave, Annabelle.” Zac nodded. “
Now
it's finished.”

“Fine.” Annabelle crushed out her cigarette, took a deep breath, then grabbed a vase from a nearby table and smashed it against the side of Zac's head.

There was a moment of blinding, intense pain, and then an incessant, dull throbbing.

He was aware of several things happening at once; Simmons setting a large iron box on the floor near Annabelle's feet, someone else handing Annabelle a black case roughly the size of palmtop computer; then Annabelle, rising from her chair, opening the lid of the case, and removing a bright, shiny syringe filled with an oddly colored liquid.

“I'm going to give you one last chance, Zachary, to cooperate.” She tapped the side of the syringe to make sure there were no bubbles, then leaned over and stuck the needle into the IV tube, pressing down on the plunger until the syringe was emptied.

“Do you know what that was?”

“. . . no . . .” He could barely get the word out.

Dizziness. Nausea.

Then Annabelle lifted his head and gave him a long, luxurious drink of cool, cool water. “Better now?”

“. . . a little, yeah . . .”

Another cool drink, and Zac's head began to clear.

“Back with me now?” asked Annabelle.

“. . . sure . . .”

“Simmons,” she said.

Simmons rolled a television stand over, positioning it at the far end of the sofa so Zac could get a good view of the screen.

Turning on the set, Simmons inserted a small video disk into the set's preinstalled player.

“The gentleman you see there,” said Annabelle, “is—or rather,
was
—named James. He was a spy the Board of Directors planted in my company—but that's another story and one you'd probably find frightfully boring. Watch what happened to him.”

Zac stared dispassionately at the whole ugly scene, from the first thrashings until the final, fiery, grotesque explosion. He refused to show Annabelle any reaction whatsoever.

When it was finished, Simmons turned off the television set and rolled it away.

Annabelle took her seat before Zac once again. “
Now
do you know what I just injected into your system?”

“A nanite.”

Annabelle nodded her head. “But you didn't get the James's brand of nanite; nor did you get the second, deadlier strain; no, for you, Zachary, we used a new, experimental model. It functions at seven times the speed of the others.”

“. . . how long . . .?” whispered Zac.

“Before the fireworks? An hour and twenty minutes. Give or take a minute or two. Bearing in mind, of course, that this third-strain model has proven to be a bit unstable in some tests.”

“So it can go at any time?”

“More or less, yes. Or I can always press the button and activate it. Isn't this wonderful? Like playing Russian roulette with a gun that has a hair trigger, only no one knows it but the gun.”

Zac laughed to himself. It hurt like hell. “So you're hoping for a deathbed confession or something along those lines?”

Annabelle shook her head. “Oh, no; you're far too stubborn for that sort of thing. I'm figuring that you've developed a deep affection for your creations over these past five years, and that you'll agree to come back to WorldTech not out of any loyalty to me, but because if you don't I'll sit here and watch you die.”