Robot Blues (23 page)

Advice once
offered by Raoul came to mind: “Try the truth.... But only as a last resort.”

Jamil uncrossed
his legs, sat up straight. “My lord, Darlene Mohini is alive and, as far as I
know, she’s well.”

Dixter raised an
eyebrow. “Is she? That’s good news—for everyone. If you’ll tell me where she
is, how to contact her, we’ll clear the record of this matter.”

“I’m sorry, my
lord,” Jamil said. “But I can’t do that.”

“And why not?” the
Lord Admiral asked grimly.

“I think you know
the answer to that, my lord,” Jamil said, taking a big risk, but figuring he
had nothing to lose. “It’s because Darlene Mohini isn’t really Darlene Mohini.
She’s someone else and that someone could be in serious danger if her true
identity ever became known. If she came forward now, there’d be all sorts of
publicity. Her face would be transmitted from one arm of the galaxy to the
other. The people who are searching for her would recognize her from the news
reports. She’d be dead before the first break to go to the local sponsor.”

“We could
guarantee her protection.”

Jamil decided this
had gone far enough. He was tired of playing blind man’s bluff, of fumbling
around in the dark.

“Begging Your
Lordship’s pardon, but that’s a crock of bullshit. His Majesty the King rides
in an armored limo, he’s surrounded by the best-trained bodyguards in the
business, and if it hadn’t been for us
and
Darlene Mohini, His Majesty
would be dead right about now.”

Silence settled
over the room. General Hanson, a stringy, scrawny, tough old bird in her
sixties, who was not known as Iron Guts for nothing, tightened her lips, cast a
sidelong glance at the Lord Admiral. Dixter gazed steadily at Jamil.

“You won’t tell us
where Major Mohini is.”

“No, my lord,”
said Jamil respectfully.

“You and Xris have
been caught impersonating officers in the Royal Army. You finagled your way
onto a military base. You were on that base with the intention of stealing an
object which, if it falls into the wrong hands, could endanger the lives of
every person living in this galaxy, not to mention disrupting trade routes,
destroying the economies of hundreds of worlds, and very possibly plunging this
galaxy into chaos and anarchy.”

Jamil shook his
head. “You’ve got it all wrong, sir. We weren’t hired to steal anything like
that. We were hired to steal some moth-eaten old robot.”

Dixter was grim. “Moth-eaten
old robot. You and the rest of Mag Force 7 are in trouble, Khizr, more trouble
than you can possibly imagine. There are only six people in the universe who
know about the existence of this robot—myself, General Hanson, His Majesty, the
prime minister, the head of Naval intelligence, and one of our operatives on
the Pandoran military base. This is so god-darned classified it’s not even
classified. We couldn’t risk it. Nothing’s been written down about it, nothing’s
been entered into any computer. Hell, I don’t even let myself dream about it!”

Dixter leaned
forward, hands on the table. “Imagine my surprise when you and Xris suddenly
show up on base with a container that just happens to be the right shape and
size for transporting one moth-eaten robot!”

“My lord, I can
explain....” Jamil began, then hesitated, wondered if he could.

“You better,” said
John Dixter, his tone cold with fury. “I can’t charge you with anything concerning
this case. I don’t dare risk any hint of this robot’s discovery leaking out—at
least any more than it apparently already has. But I can and I will bring you
up on charges of murdering Major Mohini, which puts you in one hell of a fix.
Either you produce her alive, in which case you blow her cover and the Hung
will find out that she was, once upon a time, Dalin Rowan, former FISA agent
who was personally responsible for the downfall of the Hung ... or you refuse
to admit you know anything about her, in which case you and Xris and everyone
else involved on that raid on RFComSec are convicted of kidnapping and murder
and you end up on death row. And you wouldn’t be there long,” Dixter concluded,
his mouth twisting.

Jamil listened in
silence; then, with dignity, he stood up. “You don’t need to threaten us, my
lord. Like I said, we didn’t know anything about this ‘bot, except that some
museum wanted it and was willing to pay us to snatch it. If that robot’s as hot
as you say it is, we don’t want any part of it. You can have it and we’ll
forget we ever heard of the damn thing. But first I want two things from you,
my lord.

“One, I want
assurances that Darlene Mohini is taken off the record books, that as far as
the Navy’s concerned, she never existed. Second, I want to know why—after all
this—you gave orders that Xris was supposed to continue with the plan. That he
was supposed to go ahead and steal that robot. You’ve set him up for something
and I want to know what. Otherwise,” he continued coolly, forestalling an
attempt by General Hanson to intervene, “the only words you’re going to hear
from me after this are: ‘Where the hell’s my attorney?’ “

Dixter eyed Jamil
narrowly.

Jamil held the man’s
gaze, didn’t flinch beneath the intense scrutiny.

The Lord Admiral let
out a deep breath. “I didn’t think Xris would take on a job like this if he
knew the whole story, but ... I had to be sure.”

He closed his
eyes, wiped his hand over his face. General Hanson asked him in a low voice if
he needed something, started to pour him a glass of water. Dixter shook his
head. Opening his eyes, he gazed steadily at Jamil.

“I can’t promise
you anything regarding Major Mohini, but I’ll take the matter under advisement.
At least I can promise that I will keep her identity secret. As for setting up
Xris, I’m giving both him and you a chance to try to repair some of the damage
that you two have done. Inadvertently, perhaps,” Dixter added, seeing Jamil
about to protest, “but Xris knew what he was doing was breaking the law.”

“In the interests
of science, my lord,” Jamil protested.

“In the interests
of your bank balance, is what you mean. You’ll pardon me if I don’t feel
particularly sorry for you. Sit down,” Dixter concluded wearily, waving his
hand. “You’re not going anywhere. Not for a while, at least.”

“Yes, sir.” Jamil
sat down again, breathed a careful sigh. Sweat trickled down his back, beaded
on his brow. That had been close. Really close. But they weren’t out of this
yet. Which brought up an important point. “One thing I need to know, my lord.
Is Xris in any danger? If he is—”

“No, he’s not. In
fact, our operative reports that he was successful in removing the robot from
the crash site. He is, I presume, at this moment boning up on his notes for his
speech. What was that topic again? ‘Foreign Object Damage to Spaceplane
Engines.’ “ Dixter shook his head.

“It’s a serious
problem,” observed General Hanson, looking quite fierce. “Tears the hell out of
them. Some bonehead leaves a Coke can on the runway, it gets sucked into the
engine of a Claymore bomber, and you can kiss sixty billion eagles good-bye. I
wouldn’t mind hearing that lecture myself.”

John Dixter’s face
relaxed in a smile. “Xris is safe and sound, Khizr. Set your mind at ease on
that point. You’ll be rejoining him—soon, in fact. We wouldn’t want anyone on
the base to miss that lecture.”

“And after that?”
Jamil was tense, wary.

“You’re going to
deliver the robot to the man who hired you, to ‘Professor’ Michael Sakuta.”

“I take it he’s no
professor.”

“Oh, yes, he is.
But he’s
not
connected with any Space and Aeronautics Museum.”

“That’s funny,”
Jamil said warily. “Because he had an office in the museum on Megapolis. Xris
met him there.”

“And if Xris had
bothered to check, he would have discovered the business offices of the Space
and Aeronautics Museum on Megapolis had been closed for a week in order to
remodel.”

“Oh,” said Jamil.
He squirmed in his chair. “What do you want us to do, sir?”

“Deliver the robot
as agreed. Collect your paycheck and leave. That’s all you have to do. We’ll
handle it from there.”

“Begging your
pardon, my lord, but if this job is as hot as you say, what’s to keep Sakuta
from spending his money on our funerals, not our paychecks?”

“There is always
that possibility,” Dixter conceded, “but I assume you knew that was a risk when
you undertook this job. Xris
must
have known Sakuta was a phony.”

“Well, no, my
lord, we didn’t,” Jamil admitted, his face burning. “We thought he was an
egghead—a cracked one, at that—but not dangerous. The Little One—he’s our
telepath—he verified that Sakuta’s thoughts matched up with his words.”

“Telepathic
scrambler,” Dixter said succinctly. “He’s used it before.”

“But how would he
know about the Little One? Xris never said—”

“Sakuta did
his
homework. He learned all about Mag Force 7. He learned all about Xris. He knew
what type of jobs Xris would take, what kind he wouldn’t. Sakuta’s a skilled
actor. I’ve no doubt he played the role to perfection. And, of course, he was
just exactly what Xris expected an ‘egghead’ professor to be. Khizr, I’m going
to level with you.”

“Begging your
pardon, my lord, but it’s about time,” Jamil said bitterly.

“No apologies,
Khizr. You’re damn lucky—you and Xris both—that you’re not sitting behind a
force field about now. You came that close to blowing this case all to hell.
Instead, I’m going to give you a chance to set it right.”

“We’ll be glad to
help you out, my lord,” Jamil said respectfully. “How much does the job pay?”

“What?” Dixter was
incredulous.

“How much does the
job pay, my lord?” Jamil repeated. He leaned back, crossed one leg over the
other. “I figure, say ... twice what Sakuta was prepared to pay us....”

“Don’t bother with
the brig. Throw him out the air lock, John,” General Hanson said.

“Calm down, Irma,”
John Dixter returned. He put the tips of his fingers together. “There’s the
small matter of kidnapping and murder charges. The small matter of
impersonating an officer in His Majesty’s Army. The small matter of working for
an enemy of the state. What do you think this job is worth to you, Khizr?”

Jamil sat up
straight. “My skin, sir?”

“Your skin, Khizr.”

“Plus expenses,”
Jamil added.

Dixter stared,
then he started to chuckle. He caught himself, rubbed his eyes, drew in a deep
breath. “All right, Khizr. Plus expenses. Tell Xris to send me a bill.” The
Lord Admiral activated the commlink.

The door slid
open. The admiral’s adjutant entered, saluted. “Yes, my lord.”

“Take Khizr and
get him something to eat and drink. Fill him in on all the details of this job,
tell him what he’s supposed to do. Good luck, Khizr.” The admiral rose to his
feet. He was no longer laughing. “I can’t begin to tell you how critical this
assignment is. If you fail, God help you.”

“God help us all,”
General Hanson intoned. She no longer looked fierce. She looked just plain
worried.

“Yes, my lord.
Yes, ma’am,” said Jamil, subdued. He stood up, started instinctively to salute,
as Sir John and General Hanson departed. He stopped himself just in time,
changed the salute to an awkward scratching of his jaw.

He remained
standing until the Lord Admiral and the general had left the room through a
side door.

“If you’ll come
with me, Colonel Jatanski,” Tusk said, motioning Jamil toward the open door,
where stood the two armed Marines.

Jamil had had
enough. “Look, I’m not—”

“Not ready to
leave yet, sir?” Tusk interrupted. “Sorry, colonel, but I’m afraid your time’s
up.”

Jamil sighed. He
knew when he was licked. “Very well. Carry on, Commander.”

Tusk was grave. “Yes,
Colonel, sir. This way, sir.”

Jamil walked out
the door. The armed Marines fell in behind.

. . . the
articulate and audible voice of the Past . . .

Thomas Carlyle,
The Hero and Hero Worship

At just about the
time Xris was dreaming of robots with human eyes doing irreparable damage to
spaceplane engines, and Jamil was sweating it out with Lord Admiral Dixter, a
human named Jeffrey Grant, who lived in another part of the galaxy and who had
never heard of the planet Pandor and who only knew the Lord Admiral from the news
vids, was taking his usual morning stroll to work.

Grant lived on a
world known as XIO, short for some number that had been assigned to it by
ancient explorers. It says a great deal for the creativity and originality of
XIO’s inhabitants that they had never bothered to come up with anything
different. The planet was rich in mineral resources and was therefore heavily
industrialized. Factories belched untold poisons into the air, the people
breathed them and breathed money. Profit was king. Pollution laws were
nonexistent and, to be honest, XIO polluted wasn’t much worse than XIO in
pristine condition.

Its people were
hardworking, no-nonsense, solid union, and almost predominantly members of the
middle class. The few wealthy business magnates who ran XIO did not live there.
As for the poor, XIO was proud to boast that, like Adonia, their world did not
have any poor. On XIO, if you were union, you had a job, or you were retired
and living off your pension. If you were not union, you didn’t belong on XIO.

Jeffrey Grant had
been a union worker for thirty-five of the fifty-five years of his life. Now he
was retired and, because he had no family, was able to live quite well on the
generous pension plan his union provided. He was a gray man in appearance. His hair
was gray, he wore gray off-the-rack suits. His eyes had probably started out
blue but had now faded. His complexion had a grayish tinge to it, but that may
have been due to the dust and soot of his environment. He was short, inclined
to be tubby around the waist, with a preoccupied smile and a benign expression.
A gray, ordinary man, you would guess.