Robot Blues (37 page)

But the Hung’s
reach is long and their memories longer. They are not the type to forgive and
forget. Agent Dalin Rowan was a marked man. When his job was finished, he
disappeared.

Darlene Mohini was
born. Shortly after her birth, she joined the Navy.

A few hints
dropped into the computer along the way prompted the top brass to post her to a
secret Naval base located in the absolute center of nowhere. Here she was safe
-at least for a little while. Here she could perform good work, be of benefit
to someone. Here she could be eccentric and no one would mind.

It was considered part
of her odd nature that she liked to work at all hours of the day and night,
never kept to any sort of routine schedule, frequently requested a change of
location for her office and her living quarters, rarely left the base, rarely
requested leave.

She never went to
visit anyone on base, never invited people to visit her, could be found working
in her office over major holidays. She ate alone and at varied hours. She
jogged alone. Eccentric, people said. She’s a genius, people said. What can you
expect?

They never knew
she was hiding. They never knew that she took these precautions because she
feared for her life.

And then Xris
found her anyway.

She was lucky it
had been Xris and not the Hung.

During that time,
she had become accustomed to a solitary life. She told herself she actually
enjoyed it and had gone out of her way to avoid the vid parties and volleyball
games and other social contact. Darlene had made of RFComSec a womb—warm and
snuggly and soothingly dark. She was fed, pampered, housed, and clothed in her
embryonic sac.

The birth process
had been violent; she hadn’t wanted to leave. But her first gulp of fresh air
had brought back to her everything she was missing. Having come to kill her,
Xris had ended up giving her back her life.

And now, on this
so-called pleasure cruise, Darlene was once again isolated, alone. She didn’t
know any of the two thousand people on board and none of them knew her.

At least she hoped
none of them knew her.

The passengers
were intent on having fun, enjoying the major pastimes aboard an Adonian cruise
vessel, these being sex and food. Several Adonians—men and women—had indicated
that they found Darlene not quite repulsive (which was high praise from the
beauty-addicted Adonians), and that they found her company not quite boring.

Then a handsome
Adonian gentleman smiled and handed Darlene a glass of champagne. She was
immediately back at Raoul’s party, seeing again the smiling, handsome face of
the Hung assassin.

And though Darlene
told herself repeatedly that she had thrown off her pursuers, that the Hung
must think her dead and that she was safe, she pleaded space sickness and took
her meals in her stateroom.

Darlene thought a
lot about Xris and Jamil, wondered how their job was going. They must be
finished with it by now, she reasoned. She would have liked to have seen that
antique robot.

Surely I’ve thrown
off the Hung. Surely I can go back. When we stop at the next port, I’ll—

A mellow tone
sounded. A call coming through.

Darlene had been
lying on her bed, trying to read an improving book and not making much headway.
At the sound—which she admitted to herself she’d been waiting to hear ever
since she came on board—she jumped up, ran for the vidphone so fast, she
knocked over a chair. She punched the answer button, crouched down so that she
could see and be seen on the screen.

“Hello?” she said
eagerly. “Hello? Xris?”

Righting the
chair, she sat in it, waited to see Xris’s face, waited to hear his
tobacco-shredded voice.

He came on screen,
wearing an Army uniform and hat. Xris detested hats.

“Xris, how nice—”
she began.

“Darlene?” Xris
smiled at her, casually straightened his shirt collar, tugged at the captain’s
bars. “That you, sweetie?”

“Yes, it’s me,
dear. How is everything at home? Nothing’s wrong, is it? How are all the kids?
Are they okay?”

“Sure, sweetheart.
The kids are fine. They send their love. You having a good time?”

“The best,”
Darlene said dryly. “But I really miss you and the kids, honey.”

“Yeah, me, too.”
Xris was grim. “You’re not having any trouble with that one fellow who was
trying to hit on you, are you?”

“No. I think he
got the message. I hope so, at least. Say, dear, are you and the kids still
planning on meeting me when the ship docks at Moana?”

“That’s why I’m
calling.” Xris made a face. “My leave was canceled. We’ll make it, but we may
be late. I’ve got a new assignment and my new commanding officer’s a royal
pain. Very demanding. But, with any luck, we should be on Moana a day or two
after you arrive. We’re operating in the same sector of space. That’s the one
good Ihing about this assignment. Check into a good hotel and wait for us.”

“I will. Is ...”
she hesitated, “is there anything I can do?”

“Take care of
yourself,” he said with a smile.

“You, too,” she
said. “My love to the kids. I’ll see you all in a couple of days. Oh, you won’t
be able to reach me after midnight, SMT. We’ll be making the Jump then. We’ll
be out of communication range for forty-eight hours.”

“Fine.” Xris
nodded. “Have a good trip, sweetheart. By the way, I ran into one of your old
college profs. Lasairion. Professor Colin Lasairion. You remember him? I le
said to tell you hello. He wants you to look him up sometime.”

“Sure! Yes, I
remember him,” said Darlene, not having a clue. “Say hi back for me.”

“Will do. Love you.”
Xris grinned, winked.

“I love you, too,”
Darlene said. “Kiss Jamie and Little Harry for me.”

Xris rolled his
eyes, made a face.

His image faded.

Darlene sat
staring at the empty screen. Something had gone wrong. She wondered what and
how badly. Xris didn’t seem all that stressed and he’d been free to contact
her, so he wasn’t in dire straits. And he might have kept the disguise more for
her safety than his own. Still, she couldn’t help wondering.

And worrying.

Professor Colin
Lasairion.

Darlene left the vidphone,
went to her computer. She knew the name, someone from history. She tapped into
the shipboard computer, searched through the ship’s archives, which included an
Encyclopedia Galactica.

“Oh,
that
Lasairion. Damn, I
really
would have liked to have seen that robot. But
why would Xris tell me to look all this up?”

She didn’t know,
but at least now she had something to do.

CHAPTER
31

The boundaries
which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where
the one ends, and where the other begins?

Edgar Allan Poe, “The
Premature Burial”

Jeffrey Grant sat
disconsolately on the bunk and watched the robot pilot the spaceplane. The
robot was doing a very good job. Rather, the Claymore’s computer was doing a
very good job, but it was the robot that was in command. The two rarely spoke
to each other, audibly. One of the robot’s reticulated arms remained plugged
into the instrument panel on the console. Grant assumed that they were
communicating machine to machine.

At length, finding
the bunk uncomfortable and feeling sort of silly and undignified, rather like a
child that has been sent to bed while the grown-ups party, Grant ventured forth
onto the bridge.

The robot hovered
over the control panel. Grant considered seating himself in the pilot’s chair,
but feared this might irritate the robot. He sank down meekly into the copilot’s
chair.

The robot’s sad
eyes shifted to him. “Talk to me,” said the robot, and this time it was not
using Captain Kergonan’s voice.

The voice was
human, had been prerecorded, and, from the distinct and separate and
uninflected intonation, Grant guessed that the robot had recorded various vowel
and consonant sounds and was stringing them together.

It occurred to
Jeffrey Grant, and the knowledge gave him a little thrill, that the voice might
well be that of the late Professor Lasairion, dead these past two thousand
years.

“What would you
like me to say?” Grant asked.

He studied the
instrument panel. The comm unit was located in the same place as it was on his
simulator game. His game often required him to communicate with Command
Central. Grant thought he might know how to use the comm. But he wasn’t certain
if the robot would let him.

“Your words,” said
the robot. “I must know your words. It is my job.”

“Ah!” Grant was enlightened.
“Is that why you brought me along? You want to study my language?”

He felt
considerably deflated. He’d been going to rescue the robot, to save it from
death, to escape with it into the stars. Instead, it had flown off with him,
wanted to use him as a sort of linguistic guinea pig.

Grant talked to
the robot. He didn’t know what else to do and he hoped, rather bleakly, that by
talking he might be able to find out what the robot was intending. It had some
purpose. It had to have a purpose. Unlike humans, robots did not act aimlessly.

Grant told the
robot about his childhood, which, being relatively happy, had been singularly
uninteresting. His teenage years had been unremarkable and those were
dispatched in a few sentences. He expanded more on his job, which he had
enjoyed, but he talked most about his beloved museum.

The robot was an
attentive listener. It never interrupted. The blue light atop its head pulsed
and flashed with every word. It evinced little or no interest in what he was
saying, until he came to the museum. Then it seemed to Grant that the blue
light was a little brighter, that it pulsed a little faster. And once the robot
actually repeated a word—an ancient word, referring to some piece of
equipment—and it had a very natural sound to it. As if Professor Lasairion had
spoken it whole and intact, not just a compilation of meaningless syllables.

As they talked,
the Claymore cruised slowly through space. And then Navy fighters dove into
view.

“Unknown Claymore,
this is Navy Dirk Two One. Shut down your engines and prepare to be towed.”

Grant heard the
pilot’s voice clearly. The robot apparently heard it, too, for the blue light
flashed in time to the orders. But the robot ignored it.

“Continue talking,”
it said to Grant.

“Shouldn’t we obey
them?” asked Jeffrey Grant. “Or at least acknowledge their instructions? After
all,” he added with a sudden qualm, “they might shoot.”

“They will not
shoot us down,” said the robot. “The professor has told us this. The enemy will
try to capture us whole and intact in order to use us.”

Grant didn’t know
what to do. He knew he should attempt to talk the robot into surrendering, but
if he did that, the Navy was going to destroy the robot. Still, if he didn’t,
the Navy was likely to destroy the robot anyway and end up destroying Jeffrey
Grant in the process.

“Unknown Claymore,
if you don’t shut down your engines, we will be forced to open fire. Stand by
for towing.”

“Do you understand
what they’re saying?” Grant asked, a tremor in his voice. He had never played poker,
nor ever even heard of the game. He didn’t know a bluff when he heard one. “They’re
going to shoot us!”

“Very possibly,”
said the robot with the professor’s calm voice. “That is not my concern. I am
ordered to do my job.”

Grant could see
the fighters maneuvering into position. Very much like his simulator. In the
game, when the enemy shot you down, there was a bright flash on the screen and
the enemy voice either saluted you as a worthy opponent (if you had fought well
and honorably) or sneered at you as you went down in flames (if you’d fought
dirty). Grant wondered what they did if you didn’t fight at all. He supposed
nothing. They sounded very businesslike.

“Couldn’t you just
talk to them?” he pleaded. “Explain the situation.”

“I am not allowed
to talk to them,” said the robot. “I am waiting for the professor to respond.
When I receive the professor’s response, I will continue with my job.”

Grant didn’t know
how to handle this. He supposed he should tell the robot that the professor was
dead, but he feared the news might cause alarm or distress and then he had no
idea what the robot would do. The ‘bot seemed genuinely attached to the
professor. Grant decided he would break the news gently, gradually.

“Um, suppose that
the professor doesn’t respond. Suppose that something happened to the
professor. So that he ... er ... couldn’t respond.” Grant was floundering. It
was not easy, talking to those sad, intelligent eyes.

“Nothing has
happened to the professor,” stated the robot.

Grant was taken
aback. The robot was so extremely certain. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I
received a signal from him.”

Grant thought
guiltily of his Collimated Command Receiver Unit. “How ... how did that signal
work ... exactly?”

“Whenever one of
us has been shut down for a length of time, we are programmed, on awakening, to
send a signal to the professor, letting him know that we are back on line. He
then sends a corresponding signal to us. If we do not receive that signal, we
are to shut ourselves down again and take no further action. I received the
signal. Therefore the professor is still functional.”

You received that
signal because I thought the Collimated Command Receiver Unit made a nice table
lamp! Jeffrey Grant groaned and stared bleakly out the vid-screen at the
menacing fighters.

This is all my
fault! I am the one responsible. If the robot and I get shot down, it will be
my fault.

He gazed at the
commlink controls. They were very complex, far more complex than those on his
rent-a plane.