Robot Blues

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  “What... the hell ... happened?” she demanded dazedly. “Where am I?”

  “In your room,” Raoul replied. “I had them carry you up here. I know one isn’t supposed to remove the body from the scene of the crime, but after the initial excitement of the murder, your corpse was casting rather a pall over the party. I’m sure the police will understand. Particularly when they learn that it was all a hoax.”

  The Little One tugged on Raoul’s sleeve, motioned at the French doors, which led from the room to a deck with a seaside view.

  “Ah, yes, speaking of the police”—Raoul put his arm around Darlene’s shoulders, helped her sit up in the bed—”they’ll be here any minute. You should really be leaving.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Darlene said, clutching Raoul and giving him a shake. “I have to know what happened! It was the Hung, wasn’t it?”

  “They tried to poison you.”

  “In the champagne. That’s why you switched ...” She paused, stared at him. “Good God! You drank it!”

  “One of us had to,” Raoul said simply. “The Little One read their minds. The assassins were prepared to kill everyone here in order to make certain of you. They had with them devices known as scramblers.”

  “Yes, that would have done it,” Darlene said. She was regarding Raoul anxiously. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Don’t worry. I— Whatever is the matter?” Raoul demanded.

  The Little One had gone stiff, rigid. Suddenly he threw himself down face-first on the floor, began to kick his feet and beat his fists into the carpet.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Darlene asked, alarmed. She stared at him. “I’ve never seen him behave like that. Have you?”

  “Well, yes, but not generally when we have company. Don’t worry, my dear, I’ve taken the antidote.” Raoul pointed to a hypo lying on the nightstand. “And, really, considering the number of chemical substances of which my body is the humble repository, I am not certain I needed the antidote at all. The poison, once it reached my bloodstream, must have been in a highly confused state of mind.”

  “You could have been killed!” Darlene said, shuddering. She put her arm around Raoul, hugged him close. “And you know it.” She kissed him. “You saved my life!” She looked over at the Little One, who had rolled over onto his back, was beating his heels on the carpet, pounding himself on the head.

  “Just ignore him,” Raoul said lightly. “And now, my dear, the police are notoriously slow to respond to calls during Carnival season, but the prospect of a murder to investigate might give them some incentive.”

  “Yes. You’re right. I’m going.” Darlene rose hurriedly to her feet. She staggered, swayed, sat back down just as hurriedly on the bed. She put her hand to her forehead. “Whoo, boy. Just a minute. What was that stuff you gave me? No, on second thought, I don’t want to know. There.” Taking it slower, she stood up again. “That’s better.”

  “Here’s your overnight bag.” Raoul handed it to her. “I packed it.”

  “Where am I going?” Darlene asked, taking the bag without being cognizant of either the fact that she’d taken it or the bag itself.

  “Out the French doors. Across the deck. Climb over the railing. Descend the stairs down the cliff side to the beach. Once you reach the beach ... reach the beach— that rhymes,” Raoul added, charmed.

  “Yes?” Darlene prompted.

  Raoul recalled himself to the task at hand, though he could not forgo repeating his ascension to the poetic. “Once you reach the beach, take the boardwalk to the magnet, the magnet to the spaceport. Cruise ships leave from there all the time.”

  Darlene opened the French doors, looked out into the night, which was beautiful, as are all nights on Adonia. The sounds of music, voices, and laughter wafted in from the garden. A splash and another splash. People were jumping into the pool. She paused, her hand on the ornate door handle. “1 wonder how the Hung found me. The Little One was positive no one was following us.”

  The Little One let out a savage howl. Jumping to his feet, he raced across the room, shut himself up in the closet.

  Darlene gazed after him in astonishment.

  “He admits that he is sometimes mistaken,” Raoul said quietly. He edged her out the French doors. “But at least now they will think you are dead. This should effectively throw off all pursuit.”

  “Yes ... good-bye. And thank you.” She started out the doors. She halted, looked about vaguely. “My computer.”

  “Leave it,” Raoul said, shoving her along. “You have your clothes, that’s most important.”

  “Hang the clothes!” Darlene dropped the bag on the floor. “Hand me my computer.”

  “You can’t go on a pleasure cruise without clothes!” Raoul stated firmly. “Not, that is, unless you’re planning on taking one of the nude—”

  “No, no,” Darlene said hastily.

  “I packed them all specially.”

  “Very well, then,” she said, knowing that she’d never get away otherwise. “I’ll take my clothes and the computer.”

  Raoul picked up the computer case. Regarding it with distaste, he handed it to her. “I packed all your new clothes. Your old clothes, I’m sorry to say, met with rather an unfortunate accident. Here you are.”

  Darlene grabbed the bag, clutched at her computer case. She kissed Raoul again on the cheek. “Thanks again, for everything. You and the Little One. Tell Xris I’ll be in touch.”

  “Yes,” Raoul said, smiling airily. “I’ll tell him.”

  Muffled howls and thumps could be heard coming from the direction of the closet.

  Darlene gave it a worried glance. “Are you sure he’s all right?”

  “Positive. Don’t worry. Take care of yourself.” Raoul had hold of the French doors. He was drawing them shut when he recalled last-minute instructions. “Remember to smooth the blush in the hollow of the cheek. Use that cream I gave you to get rid of those lines around your eyes. Keep the bangs soft and don’t wear red. It makes you look anemic.”

  Darlene waved from the deck railing. She climbed up and over and, the next moment, had vanished from Raoul’s sight. He could hear her footsteps as she ran down the wooden stairs. He shut the doors, an unusually thoughtful expression on his face. Ordinarily, Raoul took care not to think—it was damaging to the complexion— but matters had taken a serious turn. A knock came, the bedroom door opened. The butler entered.

  “Pardon me, sir, but the police have arrived.”

  “Have they?” Raoul asked, preoccupied. He waved a negligent hand. “Give them something to eat.”

  “Very good, sir,” the butler replied. His gaze shifted to the bed. He raised one eyebrow. “I beg your pardon, sir, but where is the corpse?”

  “Corpse,” Raoul repeated vaguely. His gaze was fixed on the closet, which had suddenly fallen silent.

  “The young woman, sir, who collapsed and died in the atrium.”

  “Ah, that corpse.” Raoul shrugged. “I assume it must be around somewhere.”

  “Am I to understand, sir, that you have misplaced it?”

  “Yes, that’s it,” said Raoul. “We’ll hold a scavenger hunt. The first person who finds the corpse wins a prize.”

  “Very good, sir. Oh, and I should inform you, sir, that the bartenders say their time is up. If you require them to stay longer, they are to be paid triple.”

  This caught Raoul’s attention. “Indeed? Their time is up? I should say that it very well might be. Send them to me.” Reaching for his handbag, Raoul took out a tube of lipstick. “I have a little something to give each of them.”

  He walked over to the mirror, began to carefully apply the lipstick to his lips, taking care not to touch his lips with his tongue.

  “Very good, sir. And, in the interim, sir, I am a bit concerned about that missing corpse....”

  “Don’t worry,” said Raoul. “I’m certain it will turn up. If not that particular corpse, then some other. I suppose the police ar
e not fussy?”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t say, sir.”

  “Discuss the matter with them while they are dining,” Raoul instructed. “Give them some champagne. Show them the scene of the alleged crime. Let them question a few witnesses. See to it that they are occupied for the next thirty minutes. By that time, I’m certain a corpse— or maybe even two—will have surfaced.”

  The butler lifted a second eyebrow to match the first, but he said nothing. He had his orders. Bowing, he withdrew, shutting the door softly behind him.

  Raoul went immediately to the closet.

  The Little One was sitting on a hat box in an attitude of the deepest dejection. His head clutched in his hands, he rocked back and forth, making small feral sounds. Raoul put his arm comfortingly around his friend’s thin shoulders.

  “It’s not your fault. How were you supposed to have known?”

  The Little One pulled his fedora down over his head, shook it vigorously.

  “We don’t have much time,” Raoul said. “The bartenders are coming to be paid. After that, I suggest that we embark on a cruise ourselves. The Adonian police are generally fair and open-minded, particularly to those who have contributed to their association generously in the past, but with one corpse gone missing and a couple of new ones showing up in its place, this is likely to tax the sheriffs patience. While we’re waiting for the bartenders, fill me in on the details. Xris and Jamil are in danger, you say?”

  The Little One shoved his hat back; his eyes gleamed from beneath the brim. Lifting his hands, he pointed to his head, described circles with his fingers around his temples.

  “A telepathic scrambler! That’s what has been bothering you, ever since we visited the museum. The name of the weapons known as scramblers. That made you realize what had happened. Professor Sakuta is not what he seems. He was lying to us all the time. Have I understood you?”

  The Little One gave a gloomy nod.

  “I don’t suppose,” Raoul said, “that you have any idea what Professor Sakuta’s true thoughts were?”

  The Little One shook his head morosely, beat himself on the forehead with his small fists.

  “It’s not your fault,” Raoul repeated kindly. “No one blames you. Don’t blame yourself.”

  Raoul was again thoughtful, again risking damage to his complexion. The urgency of the situation appeared to warrant the sacrifice.

  “There is only one thing to be done,” Raoul decided. “Darlene is safe, for the time being. The Hung thinks she is dead and we’ll make certain that they don’t find out otherwise. It seems to me, therefore, that our next priority must be to rescue Xris Cyborg and Jamil from whatever it is that threatens them. We could undertake to do this ourselves—”

  The Little One growled.

  “No, you’re right,” Raoul agreed. “We must assemble the team.” The idea appealed to him. He smoothed his hair. “I will assemble the team. I’ve never done that before. It should be quite thrilling. Well, of course they’ll listen to me,” he added, offended. “Why shouldn’t they? I—”

  A knock on the door interrupted him.

  Raoul rose to his feet. Opening the door, he saw the two bartenders—handsome, charming, smiling, confident.

  “Dear boys,” Raoul said. “Do come in.”

  He greeted them each with a kiss.

  Chapter 17

  “I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, sir,” said Alice, “because I’m not myself, you see.”

  “I don’t see,” said the Caterpillar.

  Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

  “King James Control, this is Navy Three Five Niner Zircon. Please clear for priority landing.”

  “Navy Three Five Niner Zircon, you are cleared for immediate landing in Bay One Forward. All other traffic is diverted. Do not exit your spaceplane until the Marine Guard is in place. Understood, Navy Three Five Niner Zircon?”

  “Roger that, King James Control. Beginning landing sequence now. Navy Three Five Niner Zircon, out.”

  The bomber cruised toward the massive ship. Jamil studied it, memorizing detail for possible use later. The aft engines were modular in design and were fitted outrigger style, so that they could be jettisoned in case of an engine overload. Below the engines, the hull formed a flight deck and landing platform.

  The bomber gracefully arced toward the platform, and gently touched down. Maneuvering thrusters kept the spaceplane from bouncing off the deck, until the magnetic clamps took hold and trundled the spaceplane along the deck into the hangar.

  The hangar’s blast doors did not shut behind it, once they had cleared the atmosphere shields. The pilot did not leave her seat. The bomber would not be staying here long. Once the bomber was stationary, the ground crew scrambled over the wings and up the side of the spaceplane for servicing. The hatch popped, and both VanDerGard and Jamil exited, climbing down the ladder to the deck.

  A colonel, accompanied by two Marines armed with beam rifles, awaited them. Behind the colonel, a platoon of Marines were assembled.

  “Oh, God. This is it,” Jamil said to himself, blinking in the bright lights.

  The colonel stepped forward, extended his hand.

  Jamil stared at the hand in astonishment—he’d been expecting a rifle in his gut, not a handshake. Belatedly, awkwardly, he reached out, shook hands.

  The colonel had a firm, confident grip. He was in his early forties, freckled, with buzz-cut red hair, a warm smile, and a friendly manner.

  “Colonel Jatanski, I’m Colonel Michael Ponders, General Hanson’s chief of staff. You’re to come with me.”

  Ponders had to nearly shout to be heard in the hangar bay, which was echoing with the banging and clanging and swearing of maintenance crews at work on the spaceplane. He and Jamil started walking, heading for the blast doors that led off the hangar deck. Major VanDerGard fell unobtrusively into step behind them, as did the two armed Marines.

  The doors opened, slid shut. Jamil and the Colonel, the Major and the Marines entered a corridor that was sleek, carpeted, quiet. They could talk normally now.

  “Where are you taking me, Colonel?” Jamil asked, figuring he knew the answer but thinking it was about time somebody said it.

  “To meet with General Hanson, of course,” Ponders said, looking surprised that Jamil would even ask. “She’ll be briefing you on the Katchan case.”

  “Oh, ah, I see,” Jamil said, just for the sake of saying something.

  He was starting to wonder if he’d slipped through a worm hole and had ended up in an alternate universe where he really was a colonel. He tried to think of what might be a logical question to ask that would clarify this bizarre situation, but he was so confused that nothing came immediately to mind. He was like an actor in a play who’s not only forgotten his lines, he’s forgotten the plot as well. Fortunately, Ponders was the gossipy, sociable type, who carried on without prompting.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it looks bad for the lieutenant colonel. Katchan must have stolen some pretty sensitive material. I guess you can’t tell me what he was working on, eh?”

  “Well, actually, uh, n-no. I can’t say,” Jamil stammered. “Security, and ... all that.”

  “Right, right. I understand. It must be top-level, though.” Ponders glanced over his shoulder. “These two Marines have orders to accompany you wherever you go. General Hanson’s direct command.”

  “I see,” Jamil said, eyeing the Marines, who were regarding him with the impassive detachment of men who have been ordered to shoot to kill. Jamil experienced an odd sense of relief. This—at least—made sense!

  “I sure would like to know what this poor bastard Katchan did. You two in some sort of Special Ops? No, don’t answer that.” Ponders raised his hand. “Listen, when the General’s finished with you, give me a call on the comm and we’ll go grab a bite in the Senior Officers’ Wardroom. A pity we can’t get you something to eat now, but I’m supposed to take you straight to your briefing.”

  Jamil glanced at the
Marines and the eyes of one man flicked over to meet his. The eyes were cold, did not blink. Jamil could have sworn he saw the man’s hand on the beam rifle tighten.

  “Sure thing. Thanks,” Jamil said, and accompanied the colonel down the corridor. The Marine guards marched behind.

  Three times he, Ponders, and the Marines had to stop, identify themselves, show ID cards, and submit to retina scans, all before proceeding to the next level of the gigantic cruiser. Jamil’s ID card stated he was Colonel Jatanski, his retina scan matched that of Jatanski—all thanks to Darlene Rowan and her skill at breaking into computers. Security passed him without a murmur. The Marines proved a comfort. They continued to give him the fish-eye. Someone on this ship knew Jamil was Jamil and not Jatanski. At least he hoped so. He was starting to doubt it himself.

  Ponders talked the entire time, trying to elicit information without really trying to elicit information. He was either a very good actor, truly endeavoring to make Jamil incriminate himself, or he was what he appeared—a gregarious man who made himself popular on board ship by spreading the latest rumor, dishing the latest dirt.

  They passed through a fourth set of guards, who stood with their backs against yet another set of closed blast doors, and again they all presented their ID cards. The blast doors opened onto another corridor. Ponders walked up to a door, punched in a code. The door slid open.

  “Here’s where I leave you.” Ponders said regretfully. “Good luck with Katchan. It sounds like he’s in one hell of a mess. Give me a call later—we’ll do that dinner.” He nudged Jamil. “You can fill me in on everything then. After your meeting with the general.”

  Ponders left. Jamil entered the room. The door slid shut behind him.

  He might have been in the waiting room of the office of some high-priced attorney. The room was small but well furnished, with expensive-looking leather-upholstered chairs, carved wooden end tables, a coffee table with a few slick mags arranged artfully upon it. Ambient lighting from the ceiling softened the fact that the room had no portholes. A smaller door opened to his touch, turned out to be the head. He made good use of it, studied himself in the mirror, did what he could to smooth out the rumples in his uniform, then returned to the waiting room. There were even a few paintings—spacescapes by Gutierrez. Jamil was impressed. Someone who designed this room had good taste in art.