by Allen Steele
Somewhere out there in the darkness, hidden by magnolias and the night, a killer was lying in wait for this moment. All he needed now was a clear shot …
“Come over and have a seat, Mr. President.” Corvo extended a hand toward the two rocking chairs they’d been sitting in just before another one of his servants had brought out the moonpup. “We were having such a good chat before all that, and I’d hate for the night to end on such a—”
The screen door leading out to the porch swung open with the elastic sound of an unoiled spring, and a woman’s voice behind them said, “Is everything all right?”
Randall. It was that damn IPF inspector, Joan Randall.
Corvo was becoming very sick of her. Ever since she was introduced to him as one of the leaders of Carthew’s security team, Randall had been much too efficient for comfort. If the senator only had to deal with her superior, things would have gone much more smoothly. Ezra Gurney was a familiar type, an old flatfoot who could be lulled by an outward appearance of peace and calm. Not so for his assistant. Ever since an unforeseen incident at the dedication ceremony—apparently the IPF had questioned a couple of suspicious individuals—Randall had been on edge, and now she was apparently sleeping with one eye open.
“Nothing to be concerned about,” Corvo said. “I tried to present the president with a puppy from the litter our moonpup had a few weeks ago, and the little cur—”
“Not his fault, Victor. Or yours either.” Carthew carefully lowered himself into the rocking chair. A large man, he never moved fast. “Just an accident. Once your people find him and bring him back, I’m sure we’ll be friends.”
“Once our people find him?” Joan stepped the rest of the way out onto the porch, and Corvo now saw that she’d hastily thrown her uniform jacket over a short nightshirt that revealed more than she probably realized. “Mr. President, are you saying your bodyguards took off to catch a runaway dog?”
“Oh, be reasonable, Agent Randall,” Corvo said, giving his voice a condescending tone. “There’s no danger here. Your agents aren’t necessary just now, and they—”
Randall was no longer listening. She blinked a couple of times to activate her Anni. “All stations, attention. Attention, all stations. Orange alert. Backup officers, report to the senator’s residence immediately.”
“Agent Randall, stand down.” Corvo couldn’t allow her to take control of the situation. “This is my home, and the president and I don’t need your protection.”
Randall ignored him. Turning away from the two men, she gazed out over the landscaped lawns surrounding the house. “Marshal Gurney, you’re needed at—”
Suddenly, she stopped and stared at something she’d glimpsed in the darkness. In the next second, she hurled herself across the balcony. Before Corvo could react, she shoved him aside. She then grabbed the back of the president’s rocking chair and, with an adrenaline-fueled shove, toppled Carthew to the porch floor.
“Gun!” she yelled. “Gun … everyone down!”
VII
Curt might have missed spotting the assassin if the gun had been camouflaged as well as the man. The man was dressed head to foot in black, and thus blended in with the darkness that surrounded the mansion, but he hadn’t taken care to do the same thing with the sniper rifle he carried. So as the assassin, unaware that someone nearby suspected his existence, raised his weapon from behind the ornamental hedge he was using for cover and took aim at the porch, the rifle’s long silver barrel caught the earthlight coming in through the ceiling, revealing his presence to another intruder hiding behind the nearby shed.
The killer was about forty feet away, maybe a little more. Seeing the rifle slowly moving to track the figures on the porch, Curt knew that it was only a matter of seconds before the assassin squeezed the trigger and a deadly particle beam lanced out to catch … who? Corvo, Carthew? Both?
It didn’t matter. He knew what had to be done.
Stepping out from behind the shed, Curt aimed the plasmar straight at the assassin. “Hold it!” he yelled. “Drop your gun!”
Startled, the killer whipped around to point his rifle in his general direction, and Curt fired.
The plasma gun—or plasmar, as the Brain dubbed it—was a unique weapon. To the best of their knowledge, no one else had ever built a working model like the one he and Simon had cobbled together in Tycho Base’s workshop, utilizing discarded pieces of old lab equipment and the particle-beam pistols used by Roger and Elaine Newton’s killers. They had been forced to do so because, while it was necessary for Curt to arm himself, neither he nor Otho could legally acquire a PBP without presenting valid ID’s, the acquisition of which would have exposed their existence, nor could Curt bring himself to carry one of the guns used to murder his parents. So he and the Brain had done better, and devised a weapon more versatile than a common particle-beam pistol.
Curt squeezed the trigger, and a nearly—but not quite—invisible stream of pulsed energy erupted from the gun’s flared muzzle. Comprised of compact toroids of electrical plasma, the stream appeared as a series of translucent hoops vaguely resembling smoke rings that spread apart as they moved away from the gun. The charge they carried could be moderated, and Curt had flicked the selector switch just above the trigger from kill, its strongest setting, to stun, its lowest. So the plasma toroids should have knocked the assassin off his feet and paralyzed him for a few minutes, long enough for Curt to disarm him.
But it had been a mistake to order the assassin to halt. All that had accomplished was to warn him that someone had him in his sights and give him a chance to react. The killer dropped flat behind the hedge before the plasma bursts hit him; tiny leaves were ripped from the bush and it trembled as if caught in a windstorm, but the assassin had already rolled away. Scrambling to his feet, he fired a random shot at the shed before launching himself toward a willow tree a few yards away.
From the house, Curt heard a woman shout something. He had no time to pay attention, though. The assassin had missed, but nonetheless the particle beam he’d fired came close enough to bore a hole through the side of the shed. There was a faint odor of scorched wood as he dropped to one knee and fired twice at the fleeing figure. But the plasma bursts missed by several feet, and Curt’s next shots did little more than drive splinters from the tree behind which the killer had managed to take cover.
Curt started to take aim again when a shrill beep from the gun delivered more bad news. He glanced down at the pulsing red diode just above the grip and swore under his breath. The gun was running low and would need at least thirty seconds to fully recharge before it could be fired again. As he’d feared, the fantome generator had drained the battery packs; this was a drawback he and the Brain hadn’t yet been able to resolve.
The assassin wasn’t aware of this, though. All he knew was that he’d been fired upon by someone with the spookiest weapon he’d ever seen, and now that he’d been discovered, there was no chance he’d accomplish his objective. Curt looked up again to see the killer bolt out from behind the tree and sprint across the lawn, doubtless heading for whatever airlock he’d used to enter the craterhab.
Shoving the plasmar back in its holster, Curt bent down and quickly unsnapped his ankle weights. Then he took off running after the assassin. No longer encumbered, his bounds carried him six feet or more at a time, nearly twice as fast as the killer was running. Although he’d spent most of his life in lunar gravity, Simon and Otho had never permitted him to let muscles atrophy the way loony immigrants often did. Two hours of each twenty-four-hour sol had been devoted to strenuous exercise; even on Earth, Curt would have been considered to be in superior physical condition.
The assassin hadn’t reached the edge of the lawn when Curt caught up with him. He squawked as Curt grabbed the back of his shoulders with both hands and pitched him to the ground, but didn’t let go of his rifle as he rolled across the grass and sprang back to his feet. Curt had just enough time to realize that the tall, skinny figure before him
was probably an aresian before the killer raised his rifle and fired.
Curt dodged to the left and the shot went wild. Fortunately, both combatants were deep enough within the crater that its walls absorbed the random energy shots without compromising the dome’s atmospheric integrity. Still in motion, Curt pivoted on the toes of his left foot, bent to one side, and swept his right leg around in a broad kick. His booted foot knocked the rifle from the killer’s hands. Before the assassin could recover it, Curt regained his stance and, feinting with his upraised right arm, hurled his left fist forward.
An hour of each exercise period was spent with Otho in martial arts training. When it became too easy to overcome his android friend, he sometimes sparred with Grag instead, often with Simon interfaced with the robot’s higher AI functions to double the speed of its reflexes. The assassin was combat-trained, too, but it didn’t do him much good; he’d barely ducked the punch when the rigid palm of Curt’s right hand slammed into the side of his neck, causing him to stagger and fall.
Curt rammed his foot down on his chest. There was an agonized hummpphh! from the other side of the full-face mask the killer wore and he curled inward to clutch at himself. Curt reached down and yanked him to his feet, and when the assassin made a feeble attempt to hit him, he swatted his hand aside and threw his fist into his solar plexus.
“Who are you?” Curt demanded.
“G-g-go … go to…”
Curt didn’t wait for the rest. Still clutching the front of the assassin’s skinsuit, he ripped the mask from his head. As he’d figured, the face that glared back at him had the red hue of a native aresian. He swung his hand across that face in a backhanded slap that rocked the killer’s head on his neck.
“Who are you?” he shouted again. “Who sent you?”
“Sons of the Two—”
The killer stamped down hard on the instep of Curt’s right foot. It caught him completely off guard, and before Curt could recover, the killer tore free from his grasp. The aresian went straight for the rifle he’d dropped moments earlier, and Curt looked up just in time to see its barrel move toward him. At this range, the killer couldn’t possibly miss.
“For Ul Quorn!” the killer snarled.
Curt was just beginning to think the viscous smile on the killer’s face was the last thing he’d see when blood spurted from the side of the aresian’s head.
The killer fell like a child’s discarded puppet, and from somewhere close by a voice shouted, “Don’t move, amigo!”
Curt did as he was told. Keeping his hands in plain sight, careful not to take a single step, he slowly turned his head in the direction the voice had come from. About ten yards away stood the gray-haired marshal who’d confronted him and Otho at the Straight Wall, a PBP braced in both hands and aimed straight at him.
“I’m not moving,” Curt said.
“Good.” The old lawman nodded. “Now looky here … I want you to use your left hand and, with two fingers only, pull the gun from your holster and drop it on the ground in front of you. And make it slow, son … I got an itchy trigger finger.”
“Marshal, with all due respect … I’m willing to cooperate, but my pistol is attached to my belt by a power cord.” Curt moved his right hip ever so slightly to let the marshal see his plasmar. “If I try to do as you say, it’ll only fall to my side. I assure you, though, it’s harmless … its batteries are dead.”
The IPF officer peered at the gun without lowering his own. “Okay, then … just fold your hands on your head and keep ’em there.”
Curt obeyed, but as he did, he covertly twisted the ring on his left hand so that its face was turned toward the marshal when he folded his hands together on top of his head. Time to get some help.
—Brain, are you there? he asked, tapping his ring with his thumb to activate it.
A few moments passed, then Simon’s voice came through the ring’s Anni interface.
—I’m here, my boy, and I’m aware of your situation. Otho and I have been monitoring the IPF bands ever since they went on alert a couple of minutes ago. You’re in trouble.
Curt had to restrain himself from laughing out loud. What a revelation. Past the marshal, he could see several figures running toward them from the mansion. As they got closer, one of them appeared to be the young woman—Officer Randall, if he remembered her name correctly—whom he’d also met earlier. Oddly, he found himself pleased to see her again.
—What should I do?
—Cooperate, but only to an extent. Do not reveal your true name, where you’re from, or the reason why you’re here.
—That’s not much cooperation.
—Let me handle this. I may be able to get you out of this, but only if you do as I say.
—All right. Another thought occurred to him. —Where’s Grag? Have they caught him, too?
A short pause. —Grag has its own problems just now. Its are … slightly more amusing. Now, here’s what I want you to do …
VIII
Grag had remained exactly where Curt had left it, a motionless automaton standing against the wall in the garage. Since its Anni interface with Curt wasn’t currently active, it had little idea of what was going on elsewhere in the craterhab. So Grag’s first intimation that something was amiss came with the faint sound of a dog barking from somewhere nearby.
Turning its head, Grag allowed its auditory sensors to trace the sound to its source. This was the door behind which Curt had disappeared just a short time ago. The door was closed, but nonetheless it could hear a dog barking just behind it. The dog sounded afraid; furthermore, it was scratching anxiously at the metal, as if desperately trying to get through it.
Among the many traits that had manifested themselves in Grag’s mind during the period of its life that it’d come to regard as the Great Awakening were two emotions: curiosity and empathy. But Curt had ordered it to stay where it was until further instruction. Grag weighed these things against each other for a very long time—approximately .756 of a second—before deciding in favor of satisfying its emotional needs.
Walking away from the wall, it approached the door and pushed the button that opened it. In that instant, a small dog dashed through the door and ran straight into Grag’s legs. Stunned by the impact, the dog fell back on its haunches, then stared up at the robot with what appeared to be brown-eyed astonishment.
“Hello,” said Grag. “Who are you?”
The moonpup responded by nervously squirting urine on Grag’s feet. Then it turned its head as voices came from farther down the narrow corridor behind it. “Eek!” it yelped, and took cover behind Grag’s legs.
“Eek is as good a name as any, I suppose.” Grag bent over to very carefully pick up the moonpup. “I am Grag. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The moonpup trembled as Grag gently scooped it up from the floor, but seemed to realize that this big, man-shaped machine meant it no harm. It curled up tight against the robot’s massive chest and had just begun to pant with relief when two men came into sight down the corridor.
“There it is!” one of them, a squat terran with a black beard, yelled. “The ’bot caught him!”
“Yeah, hey, willya look at that?” His companion, a tall aphrodite, laughed unpleasantly. “Nice catch, robby!”
The fact that both wore the blue dress uniforms of the Interplanetary Police Force had no special significance for Grag. So far as it was concerned, the IPF was just one more group whom the denizens of Tycho had done their best to avoid over the years. No one had ever instructed Grag to obey them at all times. So it silently watched as they came closer, and made no effort to hand over the moonpup to them.
“Okay, you can give me the dog now.” The terran IPF officer reached forward to take the moonpup from Grag.
Grag stepped back, wrapping its hands a little more securely around Eek. “No. I’m sorry, but I will not.”
Startled, the terran stared at the robot. “‘I’m sorry, but I will not’?” He looked at his colleagu
e. “Didja hear that? The ’bot just talked back to me.”
“Uh-huh. I heard.” The aphrodite stepped forward, but didn’t reach for Eek. “Okay, robby, gimme the mutt. That’s an order.”
“Many apologies, but I will not. Nor am I obligated to follow your orders.”
“Really? Don’t think so, huh?” The aphrodite glared at Grag. “Awright, ’bot, get this straight. We’re officers of the Interplanetary Police Force, on assignment as escorts for the president of the Solar Coalition, James Carthew. The dog you found is supposed to be a gift to the president from Senator Victor Corvo, the guy who lives here. The dog ran away. You found it. Now hand it over.”
“If the dog ran away from President Carthew,” Grag said, “then this indicates that he doesn’t want to be given to the president. Furthermore, if Senator Corvo is giving up the dog, then it’s clear that he no longer wishes to possess him. The dog is therefore unclaimed, in which case it’s my right to adopt him as my own. That is what I’m doing now, and giving him the name Eek.”
“Didja hear what he said?” the terran officer blustered, pointing a finger at Eek. “He’s a cop, and he’s just given you an order! Give him the dog!”
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but you do not have legal authority in this matter. You may go now.”
The two lawmen regarded Grag with slack-jawed astonishment. Neither could believe that a robot would act in anything other than a subservient manner.
