Robot Blues (11 page)

“We have every
confidence in the captain, sir,” the major added, saluting. He accompanied
Jamil out of the bar, into the foyer. Here he introduced Jamil to the pilot,
who nodded curtly and intimated that they were running behind schedule.

A vehic was
waiting for them outside the mess; not the staff car, with its fluttering
flags, but a hoverjeep. The major kept close behind him. Jamil ignored the man,
paused a moment, glanced around, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of
Xris.

No such luck.

Jamil climbed in
the back of the hoverjeep alongside the major. The pilot sat in front. Major
VanDerGard apologized for not taking the staff car to the airfield.

“This is quicker,
sir, if less comfortable.”

They had all just
barely settled themselves when the driver launched the jeep into the air, sped
toward the airfield.

The ride was fast
and uneventful. No one said much of anything, mainly because no one else would
have been able to hear what was said over the roar and rattle of the hoverjeep,
which had seen better days. VanDerGard must have commandeered the first vehic
he found. The pilot sat up front beside the driver, keeping fast hold of her
helmet on her lap. She paid no attention to them, never once glanced back.
VanDerGard braced himself in his corner, one arm on the doorframe. Jamil kept a
firm grip on the back of the seat.

The hoverjeep was
covered with a fine coat of the red Pandoran sand. The jeep’s frame rattled and
shook and bounced over the uneven terrain. Its air jets must have been out of
sync, for there was a noticeable dip to the back end. Twice Jamil was bounced
off his seat, struck his head on the detachable roof. Both times, when that happened,
VanDerGard smiled in rueful apology, just as he might have done in the presence
of a real colonel.

Jamil gave up
trying to figure what all this was about. No use wasting his energies on
guesses. He was stumbling about in the dark and while he might accidentally put
his hand on the correct answer, how would he know it? This concluded, he ran
quickly through his options. There weren’t many. He could, of course, punch
VanDerGard in the face, grab his gun (interesting point; the major was wearing
a sidearm), shoot the pilot and the driver, and make a run for it.

And go where,
exactly? And do what?

Besides,
VanDerGard didn’t look the type to collapse in a heap at one punch. And if he
was armed, the pilot probably was armed, too. Jamil discarded that idea about
five seconds after he’d thought it up. Since he couldn’t think of anything else
constructive, he decided his best bet was to keep playing the game. Besides, by
now, he was extremely curious.

His curiosity
would probably land him in the brig for about twenty years for impersonating an
officer, but he couldn’t help it. He was interested to know just what the devil
was going on. The only way to find out was to go along with the agenda—whatever
that happened to be.

The jeep entered
the airfield, the driver looked around for directions. Major VanDerGard
pointed, indicated a glistening Stiletto bomber parked at the very end of the
tarmac. The tubular fuselage gleamed in the moonlight. Its green and gray
camouflage enhanced the sleek look. It was designed for precision bombing, both
in and out of atmosphere. The spaceplane sat high on its wheels, indicating
that it did not have a bomb load, but the racks of missiles under the wings
were real—no practice weapons here. What was known as a wild-weasel pod hung
from the central hard-point.

The jeep pulled up
beside a refueling bowser. The crew was just finishing refueling the bomber and
were starting to replace the hoses back in the bowser.

The pilot jumped
out almost before the jeep came to a stop. She began walking around the
spaceplane, checking it over to ensure it was sound for flight. Two members of
the ground crew were inside the cockpit, readying it for the pilot. The major
climbed out of the jeep, walked around, opened the door for Jamil, saluted when
he stepped out.

Jamil studied the
man’s face. If Jamil had seen one flicker of an eyelid, one sardonic curl of
the lip, any indication at all that VanDerGard knew he was acting a role, Jamil
might have reconsidered and taken on the major then and there.

VanDerGard saluted
respectfully, his face grave and solemn as befitted the occasion. Jamil
returned the major’s salute and stepped onto the tarmac. VanDerGard walked over
to the bombardier’s hatch, reached inside, pulled out a set of coveralls and a
flight helmet, and handed them to Jamil. The major reached back for a set of
flight clothes for himself and began to slip the coveralls on over his uniform.

Jamil glanced
swiftly around. The pilot had moved on to the back end of the spaceplane. The
ground crew were occupied some distance away.

VanDerGard glanced
up, noticed Jamil wasn’t dressing. “Don’t those fit, sir? There’s a size
larger—”

“Look, Major, let’s
cut the crap,” Jamil said tersely. “You and I both know—”

“—that Katchan is
innocent of these charges, is that what you were about to say, Colonel?”
VanDerGard shrugged. “I like to think so, sir, but I must add that, from what I’ve
seen, the evidence against him is very strong. You should be getting ready,
sir,” he advised, seeing that Jamil wasn’t moving. “We’ll be leaving shortly.”

And that was that.

Jamil slid the
coveralls on over his uniform, accepted the flight helmet, and waited for the pilot
to indicate they were ready to take off. He looked out over the tarmac back to
the base, wondered if Xris knew his partner was gone yet, what he was doing
about it. Jamil was tense, prepared for action. It was unlikely that Xris would
be putting together some sort of rescue attempt, but Jamil had to be alert and
ready to react if that happened.

It didn’t.

The pilot
indicated that all was ready. She climbed up the ladder and took her place in
the cockpit.

The two senior
officers boarded the bomber by climbing a ladder in the open bomb bay, leading
into the crew area. They strapped themselves into the communicator’s and the
bombardier’s chairs. The pilot wound up the engines. To anyone accustomed to
flying in the relative comfort of fighter spaceplanes, the engine noise inside
the larger and heavier bomber was deafening. Jamil grimaced, wondered how any
living being could take this. A hand touched his arm. VanDerGard pointed to a
cord with a jack on one end which hung from Jamil’s helmet to a socket in the
bulkhead.

Jamil plugged in
the jack, and all was blessedly quiet. The helmet’s noise filters completely
removed the engine whine and the creaks and strains of the fuselage. He looked
outside the small porthole. A storm was moving in over the desert; lightning
shot through the clouds that were building fast in the heat.

Jamil bid Xris a
silent and rueful good-bye, wished them both luck, and prepared for takeoff. He
was seated in the communicator’s chair. A voice came over his helmet.

“Navy Three Five
Niner Zircon, you are cleared for priority launch on runway Two Niner. All
traffic is cleared of your launch and egress vectors. Have a good flight.
Pandor Tower out.”

The pilot wasted
no time. The spaceplane—clumsy and awkward on the ground, graced with a deadly
beauty in space—lurched forward, taxied to the runway.

The takeoff and
flight were, in Navy terms, uneventful, despite the fact that lightning struck
the fuselage of the spaceplane at least three times that Jamil counted. He
expected all sorts of dire consequences, from the engines blowing up to the
electrical systems going haywire, but nothing happened. The pilot didn’t seem
bothered by the strikes. VanDerGard apparently hadn’t even noticed. Jamil quit
looking out the viewscreen. Gritting his teeth, sweating and nervous, clutching
the arms of the seat, he faced grimly forward. He detested space flight. This
was exactly the reason why he’d joined the Army. Ninety percent of the time,
your feet were on solid ground.

Once into space,
the pilot kicked in the radiation drive and exited the Pandoran solar system.
Jamil looked out the viewscreen again. A tiny speck of light, no brighter than
the stars around it, began to grow larger. Jamil stared at it and, forgetting
where he was and under what circumstances, he whistled.

“Never seen a
command cruiser before, sir?” VanDerGard asked.

“Not for a very
long time,” Jamil answered truthfully. “And they never looked like that! My
god, but she’s huge.”

“The
King James
II
is one of the new Septimus Severus Class command cruisers,” VanDerGard
said with obvious pride. “She was only commissioned four months ago. The king
and queen both attended the launching ceremonies.”

The ship was
larger in area than many cities, held more people. Its blue-gray durasteel hull
shone in the reflected light of Pandor’s distant sun. Lights from hundreds of
portholes sparkled on its surface. Its hull was smooth, sleek, unmarred by
antennae, guns, torpedo tubes, lascannons or any other weapon mounts.

But they were
there. Harry—who kept up on all the Navy’s new designs—had gone on for days
about how all the weapons and other instruments had been built into the hull.
When the ship went into action, she must be an awesome sight. Jamil imagined
gunports sliding open, torpedo launch mounts lifting into place. He was so
interested, he almost forgot that he was likely to see more of this ship than
he wanted.

Like the brig.

VanDerGard was
conferring with the pilot. Probably requesting the armed escort, the leg irons
and shackles.

Well, as his old
sergeant used to say when they came under enemy bombardment, nothing to do but
hunker down, sweat it out.

Jamil hunkered
down and began to sweat.

Now is the time
for all good men to come to the aid of the party.

Charles Welter

Customs was not as
bad as Darlene had anticipated.

After a critical
inspection, she wasn’t required to wear a mask, as were some of her more
unfortunate fellow passengers. The customs agent did recommend, however, that
she do something with her hair. Having assured the agent that this would be her
first priority, Darlene offered the computer case and her overnight bag for
inspection. The agent cast a bored look at the computer and a skeptical look at
the small and shabby overnight bag.

“How long are you
staying?” he asked.

“A week,” Darlene
replied. “I’m here for Carnival.”

The agent lifted a
plucked and skeptical eyebrow. Opening her carry-on, he peered disdainfully
inside. “You
are
going to one of the nude colonies, I assume,” he said.

Darlene added
hurriedly, “I’m here on a shopping spree. I plan to buy a whole new wardrobe.”

The agent
indicated—with a meaningful glance at what she was currently wearing—that this
would certainly be highly advisable. With a languid wave of his hand, he passed
her on through.

Darlene was
leaving customs, smiling over this episode and searching for Raoul, when she
encountered a party of Adonians who were most obviously on their way to visit
one of the nude colonies. It was an impressive sight. Darlene was still staring
when Raoul and the Little One found her.

Raoul greeted her
with a fond hug and kisses, as if they’d been separated for thirty years, not
thirty minutes. This was the typical Adonian form of welcome, however, as she
learned from the kissing, hugging throng around her.

“You’re not
masked! Congratulations!” Raoul gushed, then paused—fearful—and asked in a loud
whisper, “What did they say about your hair?”

“I’m to have it
done,” she whispered back.

“Nothing more than
that? I thought they might sentence you to ... Well, never mind. They didn’t.”
Raoul breathed a sigh. “We’re not out of this yet, though.”

He looked around,
all directions, scrutinizing the crowd closely. Darlene, assuming he was
searching for the Hung assassin, was about to ask him if he had noticed anyone
suspicious, when he pulled out a silken scarf from his purse and handed it to
her.

“Put this over
your head,” he said in the hushed tones. “We have to reach my abode safely and
the magnet is simply crawling with cops.”

Darlene might have
welcomed this, had she thought the police were posted in the “magnet” (whatever
that was) for the protection of the citizenry. Knowing Adonians, however, she
guessed that the cops would be far more interested in outrages perpetrated
against fashion than such sordid and distasteful crimes as muggings, theft, or
murder. No doubt they would arrest her assassin if he gunned her down in public
(especially if he splattered blood on someone’s fine white leather shoes). But
the police would be apt to arrest the assassin a whole lot faster if he was
wearing polyester at the time.

Accordingly,
Darlene tied the scarf around her head and accompanied Raoul through the
spaceport to the baggage claim, to arrange for the delivery of fourteen
trunks—all the clothing he considered necessary for a week’s vacation.

“I hope I brought
enough,” he said worriedly, watching the trunks slide down the conveyer. “Yes,
what is it?” he asked distractedly.

The Little One was
tugging on Raoul’s sleeve. They held one of their silent conversations, then
Raoul turned to Darlene.

“The Little One
says that no one is following you, that no one is taking the least bit of
interest in you. The scarf’s working,” he continued, and, nodding in
satisfaction, he began pointing out trunks to a luggage retrieval ‘bot.

“Thank you,”
Darlene said gratefully to the Little One.

The fedora nodded.
The small hands came out of the raincoat pockets, fluttered about the head, which
jerked in the direction of Raoul. The small shoulders shrugged.