Robot Blues

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  “Indeed,” Raoul said, equanimity completely restored. “I have a great deal to do to arrange for the party. There are the caterers to contact, the menu to consider. I am certain that the house needs cleaning—”

  “Just get Darlene off this planet quickly and safely, will you, Loti?” Xris said grimly.

  “Of course.” Raoul’s lashes half closed. He glided over, wrapped a hand around Xris’s arm, his flesh-and-blood arm, squeezed it gently. “Have no fear for Darlene, my friend. We will take excellent care of her. And perhaps she may learn some things about herself at the same time. She has been shut up inside a prison for the last several years—”

  “She’s been shut up inside a secret military spacebase—”

  “I don’t mean that, Xris Cyborg.” Raoul’s voice was soft, low. “I mean a prison of her own design. It is not her death you should be most concerned about, but her life.”

  “What do you mean? What about her life?”

  “She doesn’t have one,” Raoul said calmly. “Goodbye. Kiss, kiss.” He started to glide away, turned back. The purple-drenched eyes were misty, shimmering, glazed. “Oh, and you will not permit Harry Luck to accompany Darlene to Adonia, will you? To think of him sprawled on my white velvet couch, in those dreadful T-shirts he wears, drinking beer, belching, and munching potato chips.”

  “ ‘The horror, the horror,’ “ Xris said sympathetically.

  Raoul swayed slightly on his feet, put his hand to his head. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? Pardon, Xris Cyborg. That last image has been too much. I feel faint. I believe I shall go sit down a moment.”

  “Xris, I—” Harry was looming on the horizon.

  “Wait a sec.”

  The Little One, instead of attending to his distraught friend, as would have been usual, was standing in front of Xris.

  “What is it?” Xris asked gently. He had a real fondness for the small empath. “Is something wrong?”

  The fedora nodded.

  “What? Tell me.”

  The Little One raised his small hands, palms out.

  “Something’s wrong, but you don’t know what,” Xris guessed—correctly, it seemed. “Is it me?”

  The Little One nodded his head once, then shook it again and waved his hands, indicating that yes, he knew Xris had problems, but that this wasn’t what was bothering him.

  “Is it about Darlene?” Xris tried again.

  The Little One thought a moment, then shook his head emphatically.

  “What, then? The job? The museum? Sakuta?”

  The Little One considered this. He nodded, but only tentatively.

  “Something’s wrong with this job? What’s wrong? Can you tell me? Can Raoul tell me?”

  The Little One shook his head, pulled the fedora down around his ears in a gesture of frustration. Stamping his feet, he lifted his hands into the air, turned, and stomped off, tripping over the hem of the raincoat as he went.

  Xris, too, was frustrated, considered going after the empath and trying to pin him down, then decided against it. The Little One was obviously as upset with himself as Xris was with him. Nagging at him wouldn’t help, might further upset him.

  “As if we didn’t have enough trouble,” Xris muttered. He thought over what might go wrong with the job and, other than the obvious, like being arrested for impersonating an officer, couldn’t think of a thing.

  Paranoia must be catching.

  Xris turned to the next problem, to tell Harry that he couldn’t go to Adonia because he’d never make it through customs.

  He just wasn’t pretty enough.

  Chapter 7

  I always say that beauty is only sin deep.

  Saki (Hector Hugh Munro), Reginald

  The only part of the passport which Adonian customs officers inspect is the photo. On Adonia, they don’t particularly care where you are from, where you are going, or how you intend to get there. They’re not overly interested in what you are bringing on-world, what you are intending to take off-world, or why you’re on their world at all. They only want to know what you look like.

  Eons ago, when genetic altering was popular, scientists set out to breed a race of superior people. Wise, intelligent, gifted with all manner of attributes, these people were destined to be rulers and were known as the Blood Royal. The current king, Dion Starfire, and now his newborn son, are the last of that bloodline. At that time, the Adonians also began experimenting with genetics with hopes of producing a superior being—one designed to meet their own standards. The Adonians did not seek intelligence and wisdom. They sought aquiline noses, flat ears, thin thighs, cleft chins, melting eyes, and firm buttocks. If you are beautiful, reasoned the early Adonians, you don’t need to think. Thinking will be done for you.

  The Adonians succeeded. They created a species of human noted galaxy-wide for extraordinary beauty. Males and females were so wonderfully attractive that the term “gorgeous as an Adonian” passed into popular usage. But it seems that the Creator demands a price for tampering with His creation. The more beautiful the Adonians became on the outside, the less beautiful they grew within, until at this time in their history, they were noted as being a society completely devoid of morals.

  The Adonians are not immoral. Immorality implies that one has a sense of the difference between right and wrong. The Adonians lack this. For example, Adonians have passed laws stating that it is legal to “refuse to sustain” a child if it is born ugly. To them, this is mercy killing. The Adonians care about nothing except beauty and pleasure—in any and every form.

  Following this line of thinking, one might assume that the home world of Adonia would be a cesspool of iniquity, a den of vice. This is not true.

  The Adonians believe that their planet must be beautiful, in order to suitably showcase the beautiful populace. If planet and inhabitants are beautiful, people in the rest of the galaxy will come visit and enjoy, admire and emulate, and—of paramount importance—spend money. Since most methods of earning money (factories, offices, and such) tend to either smell bad or look disgusting or cause wrinkles, the Adonians banned these from their world, which left them with only one major source of income. What they live for—pleasure.

  Adonia became a hedonistic paradise. The Adonians have only one entry requirement: You must either be at least passable in appearance or agree to wear—at all times—a mask so that your looks will not offend any of the more sensitive in nature.

  As Darlene rode on the Adonian shuttlecraft—one of the most luxurious she had ever encountered—she found herself growing increasingly nervous. The thought of having to pass through customs, of being deemed “unacceptable” in appearance, the possibility of having to wear a mask, was unnerving. Bothered her far more, she was startled to realize, than the thought of an assassin stalking her.

  “I’m being silly,” she argued with herself. “What do I care what a bunch of vapid, ignorant, egotistic, prejudiced people think of my looks?”

  Nevertheless, she did care. Perhaps it was being in such close proximity to so many Adonians on the shuttle, staring at them in awe, listening to them talk about shampoo and cosmetics, the latest fashions, the most exotic perfumes. Darlene caught herself pulling her hair to the back of her head in a vain effort to hide the split ends, and wishing that she’d taken Raoul’s advice as to her makeup. Several Adonians glanced at her and hastily averted their eyes.

  Raoul himself was in a state of bliss not to be approximated by artificial stimulants. It had been three years, he told Darlene, since he’d returned to his home world for Hedonist Days and he had missed it dreadfully.

  “Mummy and Daddy made so much of it,” he said during the shuttle trip. The tears of childhood memories glistened in his eyes. “Baking the phallic cookies, setting up the condom tree, mixing the hallucinogens for the punch. That was my special job. Then planning the party games!”

  “Your parents are dead, are they?” Darlene asked, watching Raoul make a delicate swipe at his nose with a lace handkerchief.
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  Raoul was forced to pause to think about this. “No, I don’t believe so. I’m sure I would have heard.... Yes.” He confirmed this in his mind. “1 would have undoubtedly been informed.”

  “Did you have an argument?”

  “Oh, no. We are on quite good terms. At least we would be, I’m sure, if we ever met.” Raoul smiled at her confusion. “You see, my dear, my parents’ job of caring for me ended when I reached the age of majority, which—on Adonia—is sixteen. At that age, state payments for the upkeep of children ends. I was expected to go out and make my way in the world. Mummy and Daddy gave me their blessing and a ten-setting adjustable curling iron and we haven’t seen each other since.”

  “You refer to child-raising as a job?”

  “What else would it be?” Raoul returned complacently. “Most children are products of test tubes anyway. I refer to my parents as ‘mummy’ and ‘daddy’ but they’re probably not, biologically. The state pays parents to rear children and they receive a bonus if their children turn out well. Which I did,” he added, smoothing his hair and contentedly contemplating his own reflection in the mirror, of which there were many on the Adonian shuttlecraft. “My parents made quite a tidy sum off me.”

  “There’s no affection,” said Darlene, hesitantly. “No parent-child bond. That sort of thing?”

  “Not necessary,” Raoul assured her. “Quite detrimental, in fact. People like you—no offense, dear—have complexes brought on by hating your father and loving your mother or vice versa. Those complexes lead to all manner of sexual problems, which lead to more complexes. We have none of that here. You were a woman trapped in a man’s body. Recall how you suffered in your society! On Adonia, such a mistake would have been discovered and corrected by the time you were twelve!”

  Darlene’s cheeks flushed. She didn’t mind talking about herself or her past with her friends, but she wished Raoul would keep his voice down. Several Adonians— who had before turned away from her—were now regarding her with marked interest.

  “What about affection?” she asked, hurriedly changing the subject. “Love?”

  “Messy emotions!” Raoul sniffed, banished them with a flutter of his handkerchief. “I am happy to say that, for the most part, we have eradicated them.”

  “I wouldn’t say that eradication has been entirely successful in your case,” Darlene said with a smile.

  The Little One, enveloped in the raincoat, his face covered by the hat, was sound asleep, his head pillowed on Raoul’s lap.

  Raoul glanced down at his slumbering friend. “1 do have some flaws,” he admitted, mortified. Sighing, he comforted himself with another glimpse at his reflection. “Fortunately they are only internal. They are not apparent on the surface. Which reminds me. I must change prior to landing.”

  Raoul gently shifted the Little One to a more comfortable position, cradling his friend on a nest of soft cushions, then left. Raoul had already changed clothes twice, once before leaving the space cruiser to go to the shuttle, once after having arrived on the shuttle, and now once again, in order to disembark.

  Darlene was accustomed to shuttle rides in which everyone sat glumly, silently in their seats, anxious to land, anxious to end the wearisome traveling and get on with their lives. Not the Adonians. The shuttle ride developed into a party, a blur of motion, color, and activity, all awash in heady perfume.

  Adonians were constantly leaving to change their clothes or arrange their hair or change their hair and arrange their clothes. A sumptuous banquet was served aft. Live entertainment was for’ard. Stewards poured champagne into crystal glasses. The shuttle had a heated pool on board, a masseuse, a sauna. Also a recreational area. Watching the couples (with the occasional threesome or foursome) enter the rec room and later emerge flushed and invigorated, Darlene guessed that the Adonians weren’t playing shuffleboard.

  “People became so restless on shuttle flights,” Raoul explained when he returned. He had changed from a mauve jumpsuit with golden epaulets on the shoulders and matching gold boots to a long flowing pink caftan with billowing sleeves, encrusted with embroidery and glittering with sequins.

  “Restless! The flight’s only two hours!” Darlene protested. “Why couldn’t you just ... read a book?”

  Raoul laughed so much he had to leave again to repair the damage done to his eyeliner.

  When he returned, he regarded Darlene with a contemplative frown. “Now, do let me try to do something with your hair!”

  While Raoul fussed over her—murmuring despairingly beneath his breath—Darlene studied the other passengers onboard the shuttle, trying to ascertain if any of them might be shadowing her—although, she admitted to herself ruefully, spotting a tail would be a difficult task on an Adonian shuttle. What with all the comings and goings and clothes changing and appearance altering, she probably wouldn’t have spotted her own mother.

  Was the drop-dead gorgeous Adonian blond woman seated across the aisle from her the same drop-dead gorgeous Adonian redhead who had occupied that seat on departure? Darlene wasn’t sure. She had the dim notion that the woman wasn’t a woman at all. Darlene was beginning to think Xris had been right. This trip was a mistake.

  But there was always the Little One. The telepath, having awakened, reported through Raoul that no one was thinking about Darlene at all.

  “Not surprising, with this hairdo,” Raoul muttered. He gazed sadly at Darlene. His voice had the tragic note of a surgeon telling the nurses to pull the plug. “I’ve done all I can conceivably be expected to do, given the circumstances.”

  The shuttle landing took forever, the craft settled down very slowly and very gently. “It would never do to jostle the wine,” Raoul explained.

  When the doors were at last opened, the Adonians rose gracefully, bade good-bye to newfound shipboard romances, and glided toward the exits on waves of rose and musk and violet. The smoke of hookahs lingered in the air. The few off-world passengers, feeling—as did Darlene—frumpy, dowdy, repressed, inhibited, and, most of all, ugly, slumped down in the seats and wished they’d never come.

  Raoul was eager to leave, however, and insisted that Darlene come with him. Walking off the shuttle in company with the glittering, beautiful Adonian, she understood now why the Little One chose to envelop himself in the raincoat; she envied him his fedora.

  Shrinking into herself, conscious of all eyes on her (disparagingly, it seemed), Darlene Mohini picked up her computer case and her shabby overnight bag and prepared to be thoroughly and deeply humiliated in customs.

  She would have almost rather been shot.

  Chapter 8

  So clomb this first grand thief into God’s fold . . .

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  The shuttle landing on Pandor was considerably more jarring to its passengers than the shuttle landing on Adonia. No champagne had been served on the flight; the fragrances in the air were a mixture of disinfectant, boot polish, and machine oil. No swimming pools; the passengers considered themselves lucky to have toilets. The seats were benches, with worn and cracked vinyl cushions. The passengers made no complaint about the discomfort, however. They were all Army personnel, they’d all been in worse places, and there was a full-bull colonel onboard, who was heard to remark to his aide that this landing was soft as a baby’s bottom compared to the drop-ship landings he’d made during his days with special forces.

  After that, of course, the other passengers—two privates and two lieutenants—dared make no complaint, could only nurse their bruised tailbones and suffer in silence.

  As a matter of fact, Jamil’s own tailbone hurt like hell, but he knew how a colonel was expected to act. He’d seen more than his share during his years in the Army.

  When the shuttle landed, the door opened to blinding, glaring sunshine. The flight attendant—an especially attractive woman who’d been solicitous to Jamil’s wants and needs all during the flight (to the glum envy of the two lieutenants and the sardonic amusement of the two privates)—turn
ed to announce that passengers could now disembark.

  The privates and the lieutenants all looked at Jamil. It would be the colonel’s privilege to leave first, keep them waiting—if he chose. He smiled, waved magnanimously.

  “You gentlemen go ahead,” he said. “The captain and I will wait.”

  Standing, he straightened his uniform, adjusted his cuffs, smiled and glanced at the flight attendant. She smiled back. He’d forgotten the effect of a uniform on some women.

  The others left hurriedly, the two privates endeavoring to avoid catching the eyes of the two lieutenants. All four grabbed their onboard luggage, which had been stowed in the back, sidled past the colonel and his aide, and hastened toward the door. Jamil could almost see them exhale with relief when they made it out safely. He felt a twinge of regret for the old days.

  Xris, in his guise as captain and aide-de-camp, left his seat, next to Jamil and stood aside to allow the “colonel” to pass.

  Jamil strode out into the aisle.

  “Check to see if the staff car is waiting, Captain.”

  “Yes, sir,” Xris replied, and started off.

  “Captain!” Jamil barked.

  Xris turned.

  Jamil held out his carry-on bag. “And see to the rest of the luggage, will you, Captain?”

  Xris blinked, recovered. Returning, he took the bag. “Yes, sir, Colonel, you bastard,” he added under his breath. “Don’t get used to this.”

  Jamil grinned, tugged on his cuffs, and walked forward to pass a few pleasant moments flirting with the flight attendant.

  Through the plane’s window, he watched Xris retrieve the luggage, carry it down the stairs to the tarmac, broiling in the Pandoran sun. Jamil chatted as Xris supervised the unloading of the large crate which contained the visual aid materials the colonel would be using in his lecture, saw it deposited safely on the tarmac.

  It must be hot out there, Jamil thought, observing Xris sweating in his heavy uniform as he stood at the bottom of the ramp, waiting to make his report.