Robot Blues (46 page)

“Tell them not to
be surprised if they find this meal a bit hard to digest. Harry, shut that
bastard off.”

Harry switched off
the comm. Tess sat, unmoving.

“What is going on,
Xris?” Dr. Quong was on the comm. his voice loud in Xris’s ear. “Did you say
something about a Corasian mothership—”

“That’s what we
got, Doc,” Xris said.

“A Corasian
mothership!” Quong was terse. “We should leave the vicinity immediately!”

“Love to, Doc,”
Xris returned. “But they’ve got us in a tractor beam. Tycho, you read me?”

“1 copy, Xris. Did
I translate correctly? Corasians? Those we call in my language Corpse Eaters?”

“A bit inaccurate,”
Xris said dryly. “They prefer their meat live, when they can get it. What’s the
weapons stockpile on this ship?”

Tess was on her
feet. “Xris, you can’t—”

He ignored her,
concentrated on Tycho.

“Standard for a
military vessel,” he reported. “Four beam rifles, four .22-decawatt lasguns,
one stun grenade, and a utility knife.”

“Hand ‘em out,”
said Xris. “Jamil, go help Tycho distribute the weapons.”

“Xris, this is
crazy!” Tess protested. “You can’t win! Harsch has men of his own on that ship.
And God knows how many Corasians—”

“We’re being
pulled in,” Harry reported. “All systems are shut down. What’s the plan, Xris?”

“It’s pretty
simple,” Xris said. “They’re going to tractor the PRRS on board the Corasian mothership.
Once we land, they’ll have to blow the hatch to get to us; we’re sure as hell
not going to open the door for them. When they come on board, we start
shooting.”

“Yeah,” Harry
said, eager. “Then what?”

“That’s it, Harry.
That’s the plan.”

“But I don’t get
it, Xris. How do we escape?”

Tess was quiet,
watching him tensely, her hand clutched over the back of the chair.

“You remember that
Corasian ‘meat locker,’ Harry? The time we went in to rescue those people.”

“You mean your
wife?” Harry said. He thought back, nodded slowly. “I guess I understand now,
Xris. We shoot until they kill us.”

“That’s about the
size of it.” Xris was back on the comm. “Yes, Raoul, what is it?”

“Jamil has just
explained the situation, my friend,” Raoul’s voice was calm. “I want you to
know that I have located certain supplies in the pharmacy which would allow me
to prepare cocktails for everyone.”

Xris was about to
say that this was a lousy time to be thinking of martinis when it occurred to
him what type of cocktail the Loti meant.

Feeling no pain,
as the saying went. Permanently.

“Thanks, Raoul,”
Xris said. “Not for me. That’s not the way I want to go out. But ask the
others.”

“Yes, Xris Cyborg.
You do not mind if that is the way . ..” Raoul hesitated, then said, “I am such
a hopeless shot with a gun....”

“Your choice. Same
goes for the rest. Tell them I said so.”

“Thank you, Xris
Cyborg, and may I say that it has been a pleasure working for you. Far more
than for my late former employer, Snaga Ohme. The Little One asks me to express
his admiring feelings as well and to tell you that we will meet in the picnic
area of the park. I am not certain,” Raoul added solemnly, “but I believe this
to be a reference to his people’s vision of the afterlife.”

“It’s been a
pleasure working with you, Raoul,” Xris said, and was surprised to find that he
meant it. “Same goes for the Little One. I’m just sorry I got everyone into
this mess. Xris out.”

A loud clatter
sounded from the plane’s interior— hasty hands dropped a beam rifle on the
deck. His team was going about their business swiftly, efficiently. It was a
pleasure working with them all, every one.

Tess stood in
front of him. “Xris, this isn’t the way! Please! Listen to me—”

He put his hand on
her arm, gave it a pat.

“Feel free to
detonate that bomb anytime your little heart desires,” he said, and walked past
her.

Jeffrey Grant was
confused. Extremely confused.

He wasn’t used to
all this upset and turmoil. His emotions had never taken such a flight. Up one
minute and down the next, up again—soaring—and then dive-bombing, plummeting
toward the ground. At first it had all been exhilarating. But now he was only
exhausted and somewhat light-headed from the hypos the man who called himself a
doctor had been giving him.

Grant was certain
of at least one thing—he wasn’t going to take any more sedative! The drug dried
out his mouth and made it seem as if everything around him had turned to jelly
and he was trying to swim through it.

Having made this
decision, Jeffrey Grant sat up in his bed. He was in sick bay, he saw, along
with the robot, which was spread out on a metal table. Groggy, Grant slid off
of the bed and tottered across the deck to look at his friend.

He thought of the ‘bot
as his friend, and then immediately felt horribly guilty for doing so. The
robot was, undoubtedly, a murderer. A mass murderer.

He gazed down at
the ‘bot. It lay on its back, its sad eyes staring up sightlessly at the
ceiling, its reticulated arms stretched out in front of it or dangling off the
edge of the table.

Some of the arms
were damaged. No lights flashed. The robot did not speak. It had not been
strapped down when the cockpit ejected. The violent upheaval—Grant had not
realized just quite how violent the ejection would be—had flung the ‘bot
through the canopy. He could imagine, with a kind of horror, the thump of its
head striking the steelglass viewscreen. It lay on the table, limp and
lifeless.

“I should rejoice,”
Grant murmured. “The robot will not kill again.”

And part of him
was glad, but part of him was deeply grieved and part of him was angry. The
robot should not have been disturbed. It should have been left to rest in
peace, not raised, unhallowed and unblessed, from the dead.

Grant was angry at
the cold and callous manner in which the doctor on board had poked and prodded
at the ‘bot, talking to a recording device all the while, speaking of the robot
as he might speak of any machine. And the man had the effrontery to laugh when
Grant had meekly suggested that he treat the robot with respect.

At which the doctor
gave Grant another injection, which sent him into a realm of jelly, with the
robot’s sad eyes staring accusingly at him.

It was Grant who
felt like the murderer. Removing the sheet from his own bed, he placed it
gently, respectfully over the robot.

“You,” came a
voice behind him. “The civilian.”

Jeffrey Grant
turned, apprehensive and somewhat indignant. He thought, after all he’d been
through, that he deserved something better.

It was the woman,
Captain Strauss.

Grant was
immediately on his guard. He looked behind her for the doctor.

“I won’t take any
more injections,” Grant stated unequivocally.

“Good,” Tess said
vaguely, not really hearing him. She had entered the room in a great hurry, but
had now come to an abrupt halt, was staring at him, studying him, measuring him
with her eyes. And it seemed she was not completely happy with what she saw,
for her hand went to her furrowed forehead, rubbing the skin as if she could
smooth away the lines.

She finally said “Mmmm,”
and was in motion again, moving swiftly and surely toward what must have been
her goal in the first place, before the sight of Grant distracted her. She
opened a locker and pulled out a canvas belt with two canisters hanging from
it. Grant recognized them: grenades. Probably some sort of nuclear devices.
They looked truly frightful.

“Something’s going
on, isn’t it?” Grant said.

When the captain
didn’t answer beyond an incoherent mutter, Grant pressed. “Someone said
something about Corasians. Are you giving the robot to the Corasians?”

“Not giving,” Tess
said, straightening from her task. She looked over at him. “Selling’s more the
word. Look,” she went on, as he was sputtering with shock and outrage, “I don’t
have time for all this. Something very bad is about to happen. And I don’t want
you to get hurt. The others”—she glanced back over her shoulder, out the door,
where Grant could hear the sound of voices, speaking in tight, tense
monosyllables—”they came for the money. And me—I’m in it ... well, for my own
reasons.

“But you.” She
gazed at Jeffrey Grant and her expression softened. Her eyes shifted to the
robot lying on the cold steel table. “You came after a dream,” she said. “I
suppose it’s more worthy dying for a dream than for money. But you’re still
just as dead.” Her gaze—now it was a searching look—left the robot and flicked
over the sick bay. Her eyes fixed on a small steel door, as if her own morbid
thoughts had led that direction.

morgue
was stenciled on the steel door
in white letters.

“By God,” she
said. “That’s it. Look, do you know what’s going on?”

“I don’t know how
I could be expected to know, after—”

“Fine. Never mind.
I’ll tell you. Corasians are about to board this ship. Hundreds of Corasians.
Have you ever seen a Corasian, Mr. Grant?”

He had, but only
in vid games.

“Let me tell you
about them,” Tess continued. “They are some form of mostly energy, we don’t
quite know what. They look like blobs of molten lava, but they’re intelligent
blobs. They have a great fondness for human flesh. They devour their victims
slowly, starting at the feet and working upward, encasing the person in what
might be termed gelatinous fire. It is a terrible way to die, Mr. Grant. That’s
why those men there—Xris, I mean Captain Kergonan—and the rest, are getting
ready to fight to the death. They don’t have a prayer, a hope of surviving.
They don’t
want
to survive. A laser blast through the head is much less
painful.”

“Are ... are you
going to shoot me?” Jeffrey Grant asked, thinking that this was what all this
had been leading up to. He wondered how he felt about being shot, but his
emotions were so drained that he really couldn’t decide.

“No,” said Tess. “I’m
going to give you a chance to save your skin. Through that door are tubes,
which are built into the spaceplane’s bulkheads. Those tubes are meant to hold
corpses, to keep them in storage until autopsies can be performed, or until
proper burial can be arranged. If you have the courage, Mr. Grant, you can hide
in one of the tubes. I don’t
think
the Corasians will find you.”

“You don’t
think.
You can’t be certain....” Jeffrey Grant stared at the steel door
marked
morgue
. Images of being
buried alive filled his mind.

“I can’t be
certain of anything, Mr. Grant,” Tess said tensely. “It’s up to you. I’ve got
to go. You don’t have much time, Mr. Grant. I suggest you make up your mind.”

She started to
leave, the belt with the grenades in her hand.

“What are
you
going to do?” Grant wondered.

“What I have to
do,” Tess responded, and hurried out the door. She made certain it was shut and
sealed behind her.

“Humpf,” said
Jeffrey Grant. He opened the door marked
morgue
, found himself in an extremely small room. A neat stack of
bags—presumably body bags— were piled up in a corner, took up about one-third
of the deck space. Directly opposite him, mounted on the bulkhead, were three
small hatches, each with a spin-lock.

Grant touched
experimentally a button beside one of the hatches. The hatch swung open. He
peered inside, then crawled inside, to see what it would be like.

What it was like
was cold, with a peculiar smell— disinfectant. Lying prone in the tube (there
was no room to sit up—which function, of course, most occupants of the morgue
were not expected to perform), Grant discovered that it was going to be
difficult, if not impossible, to operate the hatch from the inside. Which made
him wonder how he was supposed to get out, once he got in.

A lever labeled
emergency hatch release
proved to be
the answer. Either the designers had thoughtfully provided an exit in case
someone was placed here by mistake or, more likely, this was a standard safety
requirement, perhaps for those who entered to clean and disinfect.

Jeffrey Grant
climbed out again. He opened the door on the second tube, was looking inside
and considering his next move, when the ship jounced, rocked, dropped, and then
settled into place with a horrendous bang. The jolt threw Grant off balance. He
fell on the pile of body bags.

Obviously, the
PRRS had landed. No one had, of course, bothered to inform him where, but then,
“I’m a civilian.” Grant growled to himself.

He made up his
mind then and there to go ahead with his plan. He might be a civilian, but he
knew that the robot should not, on any account, under any circumstances, be
allowed to fall into enemy hands.

Outside, he could
hear Captain Kergonan shouting, something about “blow the hatch.”

Jeffrey Grant
gathered up one of the body bags and, lugging the bag in his arms, he hastened
over to the steel table on which lay the dead robot.

“They’re going to
blow the hatch!” Xris yelled. He could hear the clamping sounds of explosive
charges being placed on the outside. “Everyone set?”

He and Harry,
armed with beam rifles, stood well back from the hatch, behind a girder. When
the hatch blew, they would pour blazing death at whatever tried to get inside.
The others were spread out through the PRRS. Jamil was prepared to blow out the
viewscreens. Tycho, with his sharpshooter’s aim, would pick off anyone
attempting to enter the plane from that direction. Bill Quong stood to one
side, armed with a pistol and the stun grenade. He would toss it in when the
firefight was turning the wrong way.

Raoul wandered
into view, carrying a tray of drinks. He was dressed in a vibrant orange suit
with wide, flowing pants and long, flowing sleeves, cut low to reveal the Adonian’s
shoulders.