Robot Blues (35 page)

Muttering
imprecations on everything from women to robots to Naval Intelligence and meek,
mild museum curators, Xris climbed back into the hoverjeep, slammed it into
gear, and roared off toward the hangar.

On arrival, he
found Harry standing in the spot where his Claymore had been parked, staring
wistfully at a grease spot. “I can’t believe it’s gone,” he said, as Xris
walked up.

“Believe it,” Xris
snapped. “Where’s Jamil?”

Harry waved in the
general direction of the hangar.

“Asleep.” He shook
his head admiringly. “That man can sleep anywhere. I never saw nothing like it.”

Xris walked over
to the hangar. Jamil sat in a folding chair, his arms and head draped over an
oil drum. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even. Xris started to
touch him, to wake him.

He changed his
mind. Let him sleep. Odds were, he was going to need it. Xris twitched his jaw
in a certain way. The comm channel in his subcutaneous transmitter came on.

“Doc, Tycho, you
both hear me?”

“Yes, Xris. No
sign of the ‘bot. One guy thinks he saw it, but he isn’t sure if it was the ‘bot
he saw or if he was experiencing flashbacks from a bad acid trip—”

“Skip it. New
developments. Report back to the airfield. ASAP. Xris out.”

He next tried
Raoul.

“Raoul, this is
Xris. Over.”

No response,
although he did hear a startled “Mmmm?”

“Raoul, this is
Xris. Over.”

“Xris?” Raoul was
tentative.

“Raoul, this is
Xris. Over.”

“It sounds like
Xris,” he heard Raoul say, probably to the Little one.

“It
is
Xris!”

“Where are you?”
Raoul’s voice had a hysterical edge. “1 can hear you, but I can’t see you!”

“I’m on the comm,
Raoul,” Xris said patiently. “The comm. You remember. Left ear. Put your hand
up, touch the skin. You’ll feel a bump.”

“Ah!” Raoul sighed
deeply. “I thought you were a disembodied spirit. Or perhaps one of those other
voices I sometimes hear....”

“Where—”

“Isn’t that
redundant? Disembodied spirit? Aren’t all spirits disembod—”

“Never mind!” Xris
seemed to always get sucked into these weird conversations. “Where are you?”

He could
practically hear Raoul’s head swiveling.

“We are in an
establishment which maintains that it serves food. Personally, I have my
doubts. The man behind the counter asked me what I wanted. I said something light—crackers
and pate fois gras, with a glass of white wine, dry, chilled to the correct
temperature. I did not specify the vineyard, because I could tell it was
hopeless. The man was extremely rude anyway. He said—”

“Report to the
hangar!” Xris was finally able to get a word in. “We’re leaving.”

“Not a moment too
soon.” Raoul was emphatic. He was silent a moment, then asked, “Where, exactly,
will we find the hangar?”

“Ask someone. Xris
out.”

He slumped down in
a chair in the empty hangar, felt the sweat pool in a damp patch on the back of
his uniform. He could guess what Tess had in mind—she was going to go chase
after this blasted Grant and his blasted robot. And what about Darlene? They
were due to meet her when her ship docked on Moana. He wanted someone there
with her. He didn’t like the idea of her being alone, not now. Not since the
Hung knew who she was. The Hung may have lost her for the moment—at least he
hoped that was the case. But they’d find her again.

Maybe he could
shake loose Doc and Tycho, Raoul and the Little One? Xris had never planned to
have every last one of them involved in this job. He’d send the others off to
guard Darlene. Yes, that was a good plan. He’d send them off. He’d stay with
Tess and Harry, help capture Grant and the kidnapped robot.

That settled, Xris
tried to relax, but he only grew more fidgety. When he caught himself thinking
that, yes, the term “disembodied spirit”
was
a redundancy, he angrily
shoved himself to his feet and stomped outside to see what the devil was keeping
everyone.

“Please hurry,
gentlemen,” Tess said crisply. “The Claymore has a head start on us. Climb on
board and take your seats. Pilot Luck, what’s the matter? I assume you can fly
a PRRS?”

“I can fly
anything, ma’am,” Harry said. He was being honest, not bragging. “But ... we’re
going to chase the Claymore in this?”

“Yes, Pilot Luck,”
Tess’s voice hardened. “What’s wrong with this spaceplane?”

“Nothing, ma’am,”
Harry replied seriously. “Except when do you want to catch the Claymore?
Sometime next year?”

Tess’s cheeks
reddened. She reached for the comm in the hoverjeep. “I’ll get another pilot—”

“Take it easy.”
Xris intervened. “Harry’s just being honest. And he’s right. This clunker”—he
made a disparaging gesture—”will never catch up with a fighter-bomber.”

Tess frowned; her
eyes glinted. “I’m open to suggestions. Just how did you plan to stop the
Claymore and recover the ‘bot?”

“Send the command
cruiser
King James
after it.”

Tess hesitated,
then said, not looking at Xris, “Something I didn’t mention. We’re convinced
that Harsch has high-level contacts in the Navy. A flagship command cruiser
goes tearing after one insignificant Claymore. A strange-looking robot is
captured and brought on board. It would be the talk of the ward room for a
week. If Harsch found out, that would be the end of our operation. We might
never have another chance to catch him. No, we can’t risk it.”

“But you’ll risk
losing the Claymore and the robot?” Xris raised an eyebrow, or what would have
been an eyebrow if he’d had any eyebrows. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s not much of
a risk,” Tess argued. “The Claymore is being flown by an inexperienced novice.
We checked Grant’s records. He has a pilot’s license, but he only ever flew
corporate shuttles. As for this ‘clunker,’ as you term it, the PRRS may not
look like much, but she’s faster than she looks. She has a tractor beam and, as
her name suggests, the PRRS is built specifically for this type of operation.”

“PRRS?” Dr. Quong
said. “The name doesn’t suggest anything to me, except maybe a cat with a lisp.
Purrs. Get it? Cat with a—”

“PRRS. Pilot
Recovery and Rescue Ship,” Jamil informed them. “If a pilot’s plane is disabled
or damaged in space or if the pilot is forced to eject, the PRRS can tractor
home the crippled plane or pick up the life pod. These spaceplanes aren’t real
pretty to look at, but when you’re marooned out there in the endless night with
your fuel running low and the black cold creeping into your bones, nothing
looks more beautiful than this old girl coming to take you home.”

Harry only shook
his head gloomily. He clumped up the ramp, entered through the enormous, gaping
hatch.

The PRRS was a
converted Flamberge medium bomber. Its bomb bay and weapons mounts had been
removed to add a tractor beam and a much larger cargo section. The gun turrets
had been taken off, replaced with grappling equipment.

Dr. Quong and
Tycho boarded, carrying with them the equipment Tess had stowed in her jeep.
This included Jeffrey Grant’s Collimated Command Receiver Unit, which was still
humming to itself.

Jamil lingered a
moment to take a long, nostalgic look, then he walked up the ramp. He patted
the hull affectionately as he entered.

That left Xris and
Tess and Raoul and the Little One. Raoul was hovering, obviously had something
urgent to impart. He had probably lost an earring.

Xris shook his
head. “Later.”

He turned to Tess.
“You’re chasing after the Claymore. Do you mind telling us what
we’re
doing here?”

“Just what you’re
being paid to do,” she said coolly. “Once we catch it, you’re going to deliver
the robot to Harsch.”

“It doesn’t take
all of us,” Xris said. “Harsch isn’t expecting an army. He’ll get suspicious if
seven people descend on him. Harry can fly the plane. Once we catch the ‘bot,
Jamil and I can handle the delivery. You don’t need Quong or the others. I want
to send them—”

“Xris Cyborg.”
Raoul plucked at his sleeve.

“Just a minute,”
Xris said impatiently. He faced Tess. “Well? How about it? You’ve got me. You’ve
got Harry and Jamil. Let me send the others on their way.”

“And I’m sure the
others would go right straight home. No little detours?” Tess smiled. “Nice
try, Xris. But no. You’re all coming.”

Xris gritted his
teeth to keep back the words that would have made her furious, accomplished
nothing. With any luck, this job would go fast. They’d finish it on schedule,
meet Darlene as planned.

Luck. They’d had
none so far. They were due.

“Yes, what is it?”
He turned to Raoul.

“You said
something about the Grant person flying the bomber.”

Xris nodded.

Raoul was grave. “He
is not the one flying. He is not,
per se,
the pilot.”

“Then who the hell
is?”

“The robot.”

Tess had started
to walk up the ramp. Hearing this, she paused, half turned. “What did he say?”

“Jeffrey Grant did
not run off with the robot,” Raoul repeated his information. “The robot ran off
with Jeffrey Grant. The robot is piloting the bomber.”

“How does he know
that?” Tess had gone extremely pale. “I don’t believe it.”

Xris motioned. “The
Little One. That’s my guess. He must have read Grant’s thoughts before the
plane got off the ground.”

Raoul confirmed
this. “The Grant person is a very easy subject. His thoughts are simple,
colorful, close to the surface, and tinged with whimsy.”

“Oh, God!” Tess
gasped. “If he’s right ... Oh, dear God! Hurry!” She beat on the railing with
her hands. “Hurry! Get on board! There’s not a moment to lose! We have to stop
the robot!”

The PRRS gave a
shudder. Whatever else Tess said was lost in the whine of the turbines cranking
up. Xris dashed inside as the hatch slammed shut. The whine reached a painful
level, changed to a thunderous roar. The ex-bomber’s dual engines began sucking
in ionized air faster than the speed of sound, dumped it out just as quickly.
Harry released the magnetic brakes and the bomber bucked and bounced down the
tarmac.

“Stop the robot?”
Xris yelled over the din. He dropped himself into his seat, strapped himself
in. “Stop it from what?”

“From doing its
job!” Tess shouted back.

Marriage and
hanging go by destiny; matches are made in heaven.

Robert Burton,
Anatomy of Melancholy

The interior of
the PRRS was cramped and crowded, being essentially a spacegoing ambulance.
Living space was divided into three major areas: the bridge, crew quarters, and
two treatment rooms. The plane’s most prominent features were a docking and
recovery bay, designed to accommodate life pods and the tractor beam, extremely
powerful for a spaceplane of this size.

“The tractor beam
could take a small-sized fighter in tow,” Harry advised them. “If it had to.
But that’s not what it’s designed to do. If a plane is disabled, for whatever
reason, it’s generally drifting helpless in space. Crippled planes can perform
some pretty wild gyrations, making it dangerous for other planes or ships to
venture near. The tractor beam locks on to the crippled plane, clamps it down,
and holds it in place until the medics can go aboard to check on the condition
of the pilot.”

Several enormous,
pressurized spacesuits, standing in a corner of the docking bay, their inflated
arms outstretched, their helmets balanced on their shoulders, suggested one way
the medics could board a disabled spaceplane. The arms swayed and bounced with
the movement of the PRRS, the helmets nodded. The sight was unnerving. Xris,
investigating the ship’s interior, caught sight of these apparitions out of the
corner of his eye, thought at first someone else was with him in the docking
bay.

Dr. Quong was
impressed with the equipment in the treatment facilities. Raoul, investigating
the medicine cabinet, was obviously impressed as well. He disappeared for about
half an hour, returned smiling, dreamy-eyed, and hungry. Jamil appropriated one
of the beds, stretched out, and was immediately asleep. Xris sent Tycho forward
to act as copilot.

Tycho protested.
Harry was in a bad mood. Disconsolate over the loss of the Claymore, frustrated
over the real or imagined inadequacies of the PRRS, he whined and complained,
ranted and swore and generally made life hell for anyone in his immediate
vicinity.

“Turn off your
translator,” Xris advised, when he sent Tycho into the lion’s den.

The advice
obviously worked, for the next time Xris went onto the bridge, he found Harry
bitching and moaning and Tycho concentrating on his instrument readings,
obviously not understanding a single growl or mutter.

“How’s it going?”
Xris asked. “You got a fix on that Claymore?”

“It’s going okay,
I guess,” Harry said. “Yeah, I got a fix on the Claymore. The Navy sent in the
latest coordinates. They’re keeping an eye on it, but they got orders to back
off when we get there.”

“What’s it doing?”

“Damned if I know.
The Claymore’s just ambling along, taking its own sweet time. Not a care in the
galaxy. It’s like it’s sightseeing. Cruising, surveying the territory. At this
rate we’re due to catch up with it in the next two hours.”

“You know, Harry,
you might be right,” Xris said thoughtfully.

“Huh?” Harry
looked up. “I am?”

“What is this
phenomenon?” Quong walked onto the bridge. “Harry is right about something?”

“He may be. He
said the Claymore acted like it was surveying the territory. According to the
Little One, the robot is actually in control of the Claymore. Is that possible?
Could an antique robot fly a modern spaceplace?”