Robot Blues

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  All in all, it was a comfortable waiting room and only the fact that the paintings were bolted to the wall and the furniture was bolted to the floor gave any indication to Jamil that he was on a ship of war, which might be called to go into action at any time.

  He sat down in a leather chair, fidgeted, stood up, fidgeted, sat down, flipped through a mag. He stood up again, walked over to the door. A touch of his own on the keypad and the door slid open. The two Marines stood there, one on either side of the door.

  Colonel Jatanski had every right to leave. Jamil, confidently, stepped out.

  Two beam rifles snapped up in front of him so fast they nearly clipped him in the nose.

  “Sorry, sir. General Hanson’s orders,” said one of the Marines.

  “It was a long flight,” Jamil said in iced tones. “I have to use the head.”

  “In there, sir,” said one of the Marines. “Touch that panel on the wall on the far side.”

  Jamil muttered and stalked back inside. The door slid shut behind him.

  He now knew all he needed to know. Sitting on the couch, he picked up one of the mags—this one on golf, his favorite game—and settled down to read how to improve his putting.

  Some of these minimum-security prisons had pretty good golf courses.

  He had just finished the article and was on his feet, an imaginary putter in his hand, testing what the author had said about wrist action, when the door opened. One of the Marines looked in.

  “They’re ready for you, sir.”

  Jamil was about to make some suitable remark, but his throat was dry, he suddenly couldn’t talk. He was surprised. He hadn’t thought he was nervous. He drew in a deep breath, stepped into the corridor. Another officer was waiting for him, a black-skinned human male who said something—Jamil didn’t hear for the blood pounding in his ears.

  The officer led Jamil into yet another room. This room was plush—carpeting wall to wall. A large round wood table stood in the center of the room. Crests of all the ships serving in the fleet the King James II commanded lined the bulkheads. A man and a woman sat on the opposite side of the table. The officer saluted smartly.

  “Here is the prisoner, my lord. Jamil Khizr, of Mag Force 7.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” said the man behind the table.

  Jamil stared, sucked air.

  The commander made introductions. No need. Jamil knew one of these people by sight.

  “General Irma Hanson, commander of the Second Armored Drop Corps. Lord Admiral Sir John Dixter, commander-in-chief of the Royal Military.”

  “Holy shit,” Jamil said softly.

  “You could say that, Khizr. And—holy or unholy— you’re into it up to your armpits.” Dixter issued orders. “Tusk, reseal the doors. Post the guard. No one without authorization has entered this room since we did the last security sweep, have they?”

  “Yourself, myself, General Hanson, and the prisoner are the only three to be admitted. The prisoner was scanned, my lord. He’s clean.”

  “Fine, carry on.”

  Tusk saluted, turned on his heel, walked out the door.

  The prisoner—that’s what they’d termed Jamil.

  He cleared his throat. “My lord, General Hanson, it is an honor to meet you both.”

  Dixter grunted. “An honor I’ll wager you wished had been deferred, right, Khizr? Or perhaps I should address you as ‘colonel’?”

  Jamil felt his face grow warm. “My lord, I can explain—”

  “And you will,” Dixter said gravely. “General, hand me the file.”

  General Hanson passed over an electronic file viewer. Dixter took it, instructed it by voice to bring up the information on Mag Force 7.

  “You may be seated,” he told Jamil, adding dryly, “This could take a while.”

  A chair had been placed for him in the center of the room. Jamil sat, hunkered down, and waited for the barrage to start.

  “First,” said the Lord Admiral, reading from the file, “there was the raid on a company known as Olicien Pest Control, the theft of a spaceplane belonging to that company, and the deliberate drugging of the employees by the admittance of a sleeping gas into the air-conditioning system,”

  Jamil shook his head. “My lord, I’ve never been near—”

  “We have positive IDs,” Dixter said. “That job could get you twenty years. Next file,” he told the computer.

  “The assault on RFComSec, a secret naval base. Disguised as exterminators for Olicien Pest Control, you and your accomplices lied your way onto the base. Once there, you sabotaged the robots designed to rid the base of its flea infestation. You then proceeded to kidnap a Naval officer, one Darlene Mohini, and take her off the base, meanwhile disrupting base communications and its computet system, putting at risk the entire Royal Navy, not to mention the people of the galaxy, whom we are responsible lor protecting. Again, we have positive IDs.”

  Jamil settled into his chair, maintained silence. The shells were falling thick and fast, the flak was flying. He had one small bit of hope to cling to in his exposed position, and that was the fact that he was sitting here, right now Ordinary prisoners headed for the disrupter were not brought before the Lord of the Admiralty to heat their eases reviewed. This barrage was simply clearing the way for the main advance. He had only to endure it, wait it out.

  “Then,” said Sir John, referring back to the file, “There is the attack on an unarmed research vessel known as the Canis Major. You were acting under the belief that one of your comrades was being held prisoner aboard that vessel. As it turned out, you were correct in your assumption. The Canis Major was afterward proven to belong to the terrorist organization known as the Knights of the Black Earth. But,” Dixter added, his voice cold, “you had no way of knowing this at the time. You look the law into your own hands. No positive IDs on this one, but that’s only because the knights are no longer around to press charges.

  “To continue. There is next the matter of the hijacking of an Army Special Forces drop ship from a NOROF rebuild and overhaul facility. Not only do we have positive IDs on this, your leader, Xris, actually had the nerve to send me a message. As for the rest of your adventures after that, they were recorded and broadcast by every news station in the galaxy!”

  “Yes, my lord.” Jamil was on secure ground here. “I assume Your Lordship is referring to the time we saved His Majesty, King Dion Starfire, from the assassin. And, my lord, may I respectfully point out that we did give back the drop ship.”

  He’d meant that as a little joke. Neither the Lord Admiral nor General Hanson was amused. Dixter put the file down, folded his hands on the desk, and regarded Jamil with an intense gravity that was more disturbing than the previous accusations. It was like the period of eerie silence which comes when the artillery barrage has ceased and you know that the enemy is preparing to advance. Jamil braced himself.

  “Jamil Khizr,” said the Lord Admiral, “I have, right here, warrants for the arrest of”—he read the list— “Xris, a cyborg, Harry Luck, Dr. Bill Quong, Raoul de Beausoleil—which, by the way, is just one of his aliases—a being of unknown origin known as the Little One, Tycho, a ‘chameleon,’ and you, Jamil Khizr.” Dixter taped his hand on the computer. “I can issue these warrants in a single second, by simply pressing ‘Enter.’ The charge is murder.”

  “Murder, my lord?” Jamil shrugged. “If you mean the assassin, yes, I admit we were responsible for his death, but—”

  “You saved the life of His Majesty. I’m well aware of that,” Dixter said coolly. “And that is not it.”

  “Then what?” Jamil was truly puzzled.

  The Lord Admiral was grave. “Jamil Khizr, you and all the rest of the people previously mentioned are charged with the kidnapping and murder of Naval officer Major Darlene Mohini.”

  Chapter 18

  Crime like virtue has its degrees.

  Jean Racine, Phedre

  The bombshell landed squarely in Jamil’s foxhole, burst above his head
. He was stunned from the concussion, could only gape at the Lord Admiral, while trying to gather together the scattered bits and pieces of his brain.

  “The game’s up, Khizr,” said John Dixter. He lowered the file, looked over the top at Jamil. “We have you on vid at RFComSec. We have vids of Xris and Major Mohini together; Xris is holding the major hostage at gunpoint. That was the last time anyone ever saw Major Darlene Mohini alive. An excellent case, don’t you agree, Khizr? Men have gone to the disrupter on less.”

  Jamil leaned an elbow on the armrest, shifted his weight in his chair. He crossed one leg over the other, tapped the fingers of one hand lightly on his knee. All the while, he kept his gaze fixed on Lord Admiral John Dixter. The dust had settled. Jamil had to figure out now how to escape from the wreckage.

  He didn’t see much hope. In fact he was in one hell of a mess.

  The major picked up me alone, Jamil reminded himself. They left Xris behind. They ordered him to “carry on.” They wouldn’t have done that if they seriously thought we’d murdered someone. They’re after something, but what? How should I answer this?

  Advice once offered by Raoul came to mind: “Try the truth.... But only as a last resort.”

  Jamil uncrossed his legs, sat up straight. “My lord, Darlene Mohini is alive and, as far as I know, she’s well.”

  Dixter raised an eyebrow. “Is she? That’s good news—for everyone. If you’ll tell me where she is, how to contact her, we’ll clear the record of this matter.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” Jamil said. “But I can’t do that.”

  “And why not?” the Lord Admiral asked grimly.

  “I think you know the answer to that, my lord,” Jamil said, taking a big risk, but figuring he had nothing to lose. “It’s because Darlene Mohini isn’t really Darlene Mohini. She’s someone else and that someone could be in serious danger if her true identity ever became known. If she came forward now, there’d be all sorts of publicity. Her face would be transmitted from one arm of the galaxy to the other. The people who are searching for her would recognize her from the news reports. She’d be dead before the first break to go to the local sponsor.”

  “We could guarantee her protection.”

  Jamil decided this had gone far enough. He was tired of playing blind man’s bluff, of fumbling around in the dark.

  “Begging Your Lordship’s pardon, but that’s a crock of bullshit. His Majesty the King rides in an armored limo, he’s surrounded by the best-trained bodyguards in the business, and if it hadn’t been for us and Darlene Mohini, His Majesty would be dead right about now.”

  Silence settled over the room. General Hanson, a stringy, scrawny, tough old bird in her sixties, who was not known as Iron Guts for nothing, tightened her lips, cast a sidelong glance at the Lord Admiral. Dixter gazed steadily at Jamil.

  “You won’t tell us where Major Mohini is.”

  “No, my lord,” said Jamil respectfully.

  “You and Xris have been caught impersonating officers in the Royal Army. You finagled your way onto a military base. You were on that base with the intention of stealing an object which, if it falls into the wrong hands, could endanger the lives of every person living in this galaxy, not to mention disrupting trade routes, destroying the economies of hundreds of worlds, and very possibly plunging this galaxy into chaos and anarchy.”

  Jamil shook his head. “You’ve got it all wrong, sir. We weren’t hired to steal anything like that. We were hired to steal some moth-eaten old robot.”

  Dixter was grim. “Moth-eaten old robot. You and the rest of Mag Force 7 are in trouble, Khizr, more trouble than you can possibly imagine. There are only six people in the universe who know about the existence of this robot—myself, General Hanson, His Majesty, the prime minister, the head of Naval intelligence, and one of our operatives on the Pandoran military base. This is so god-darned classified it’s not even classified. We couldn’t risk it. Nothing’s been written down about it, nothing’s been entered into any computer. Hell, I don’t even let myself dream about it!”

  Dixter leaned forward, hands on the table. “Imagine my surprise when you and Xris suddenly show up on base with a container that just happens to be the right shape and size for transporting one moth-eaten robot!”

  “My lord, I can explain....” Jamil began, then hesitated, wondered if he could.

  “You better,” said John Dixter, his tone cold with fury. “I can’t charge you with anything concerning this case. I don’t dare risk any hint of this robot’s discovery leaking out—at least any more than it apparently already has. But I can and I will bring you up on charges of murdering Major Mohini, which puts you in one hell of a fix. Either you produce her alive, in which case you blow her cover and the Hung will find out that she was, once upon a time, Dalin Rowan, former FISA agent who was personally responsible for the downfall of the Hung ... or you refuse to admit you know anything about her, in which case you and Xris and everyone else involved on that raid on RFComSec are convicted of kidnapping and murder and you end up on death row. And you wouldn’t be there long,” Dixter concluded, his mouth twisting.

  Jamil listened in silence; then, with dignity, he stood up. “You don’t need to threaten us, my lord. Like I said, we didn’t know anything about this ‘bot, except that some museum wanted it and was willing to pay us to snatch it. If that robot’s as hot as you say it is, we don’t want any part of it. You can have it and we’ll forget we ever heard of the damn thing. But first I want two things from you, my lord.

  “One, I want assurances that Darlene Mohini is taken off the record books, that as far as the Navy’s concerned, she never existed. Second, I want to know why—after all this—you gave orders that Xris was supposed to continue with the plan. That he was supposed to go ahead and steal that robot. You’ve set him up for something and I want to know what. Otherwise,” he continued coolly, forestalling an attempt by General Hanson to intervene, “the only words you’re going to hear from me after this are: ‘Where the hell’s my attorney?’ “

  Dixter eyed Jamil narrowly.

  Jamil held the man’s gaze, didn’t flinch beneath the intense scrutiny.

  The Lord Admiral let out a deep breath. “I didn’t think Xris would take on a job like this if he knew the whole story, but ... I had to be sure.”

  He closed his eyes, wiped his hand over his face. General Hanson asked him in a low voice if he needed something, started to pour him a glass of water. Dixter shook his head. Opening his eyes, he gazed steadily at Jamil.

  “I can’t promise you anything regarding Major Mohini, but I’ll take the matter under advisement. At least I can promise that I will keep her identity secret. As for setting up Xris, I’m giving both him and you a chance to try to repair some of the damage that you two have done. Inadvertently, perhaps,” Dixter added, seeing Jamil about to protest, “but Xris knew what he was doing was breaking the law.”

  “In the interests of science, my lord,” Jamil protested.

  “In the interests of your bank balance, is what you mean. You’ll pardon me if I don’t feel particularly sorry for you. Sit down,” Dixter concluded wearily, waving his hand. “You’re not going anywhere. Not for a while, at least.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jamil sat down again, breathed a careful sigh. Sweat trickled down his back, beaded on his brow. That had been close. Really close. But they weren’t out of this yet. Which brought up an important point. “One thing I need to know, my lord. Is Xris in any danger? If he is—”

  “No, he’s not. In fact, our operative reports that he was successful in removing the robot from the crash site. He is, I presume, at this moment boning up on his notes for his speech. What was that topic again? ‘Foreign Object Damage to Spaceplane Engines.’ “ Dixter shook his head.

  “It’s a serious problem,” observed General Hanson, looking quite fierce. “Tears the hell out of them. Some bonehead leaves a Coke can on the runway, it gets sucked into the engine of a Claymore bomber, and you can kiss sixty b
illion eagles good-bye. I wouldn’t mind hearing that lecture myself.”

  John Dixter’s face relaxed in a smile. “Xris is safe and sound, Khizr. Set your mind at ease on that point. You’ll be rejoining him—soon, in fact. We wouldn’t want anyone on the base to miss that lecture.”

  “And after that?” Jamil was tense, wary.

  “You’re going to deliver the robot to the man who hired you, to ‘Professor’ Michael Sakuta.”

  “I take it he’s no professor.”

  “Oh, yes, he is. But he’s not connected with any Space and Aeronautics Museum.”

  “That’s funny,” Jamil said warily. “Because he had an office in the museum on Megapolis. Xris met him there.”

  “And if Xris had bothered to check, he would have discovered the business offices of the Space and Aeronautics Museum on Megapolis had been closed for a week in order to remodel.”

  “Oh,” said Jamil. He squirmed in his chair. “What do you want us to do, sir?”

  “Deliver the robot as agreed. Collect your paycheck and leave. That’s all you have to do. We’ll handle it from there.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, but if this job is as hot as you say, what’s to keep Sakuta from spending his money on our funerals, not our paychecks?”

  “There is always that possibility,” Dixter conceded, “but I assume you knew that was a risk when you undertook this job. Xris must have known Sakuta was a phony.”

  “Well, no, my lord, we didn’t,” Jamil admitted, his face burning. “We thought he was an egghead—a cracked one, at that—but not dangerous. The Little One—he’s our telepath—he verified that Sakuta’s thoughts matched up with his words.”

  “Telepathic scrambler,” Dixter said succinctly. “He’s used it before.”

  “But how would he know about the Little One? Xris never said—”