Robot Blues

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  This robot was the robot of the vid—dangling reticulated arms, saucer-shaped head, humanlike eyes. Those eyes were regarding Grant with interest. A green light began to flash on the robot’s head. The pupils of the eyes widened.

  Grant felt funny, as if the robot were able to see inside him.

  “Reep glut?” The robot had a questioning tone.

  Grant glanced about nervously. He expected Captain Strauss or Captain Kergonan or perhaps the short spy in the hat to appear and take the robot away.

  No one was in sight.

  Grant waited a few more moments, standing on the broiling hot tarmac in the shadow of the enormous Claymore, watching and listening.

  Nothing.

  And then Grant knew what had happened. The robot had escaped.

  “Run away!” said something inside Jeffrey Grant, something strange and foreign and alien. “Take the robot and run away! Save it from being blown up! Now! Quick! Before they come back!”

  Grant trembled. He knew that voice. He’d heard it before, on occasion. It was always trying to get him to do wild and daring things. “Tell Ms Kline next door that you’ve always loved her!” “Tell the boss it was your idea!” “Tell the guys you’d like to join them for a drink!”

  No, I can’t.... I couldn’t possibly.... Leave me alone. I’m fine the way I am.

  Grant had always before been able to tune out that rabble-rousing voice. He could shut it off, as he occasionally shut off the sound on one of his vid games. He hadn’t heard the voice much in his later years (it had bothered him excessively when he was young), and he was rather hoping it had retired. He was considerably disturbed to hear it, irritating and insistent as ever before.

  “Save the robot! If you don’t, they’ll kill it!”

  “This is outrageous, sir!” Grant returned, flustered. “You’re insane! You are seriously contemplating stealing government property and making off with it! This is a capital crime, sir. An offense against the Crown. They might consider it kidnapping. They might consider it treason!”

  “It’s murder, Jeffrey Grant,” said the inner voice. “They’re going to kill it.”

  Grant’s imagination was, from long practice, extremely vivid. He saw the robot sitting in some disintegrator chamber, saw the female captain sealing up the door and walking away. He saw and heard the cyborg give the order to detonate. He saw, he heard, he felt the robot explode, arms torn asunder, fluid spattering against the walls, eyes popping out....

  “I’ll do it, sir!” said Jeffrey Grant firmly, and he astonished the inner voice so much that it shut up.

  “Mrft,,” said the robot. The green light had ceased to flash. The pupils returned to normal size. The robot turned away, began to drift off toward the front of the Claymore.

  Grant followed it, wondering how he was going to get hold of it, haul it back to his rent-a-plane. He glanced around the airfield, fearful that someone would see them.

  No one did. No one was around.

  Grant trailed after the robot, who was now examining the Claymore, the green light on its head flashing again.

  “Of course!” Grant said, watching the robot with interest. “It’s scanning the plane. Just as it must have scanned me. I wonder,” he wondered wistfully, “what it thought of me.”

  Not much, apparently. The robot didn’t give him a second look. Grant followed it, cobbling his plan together.

  Once he had smuggled the ‘bot onto his spaceplane, he would have to hide it somewhere.

  The bathroom. It would fit nicely into the shower stall.

  “Then I’ll take off,” Grant said. “I’ll have to request clearance, of course. This might prove to be a problem. But I’ve given them the unit, after all. They don’t seem to be interested in me now. Perhaps they’ll be glad to get rid of me.”

  He felt a pang of regret, leaving the unit behind. But it was either that or lose the robot, and the robot was far more important. Besides, Captain Kergonan had promised to return the machine once they were finished with it.

  “I’ll simply explain to the people in air traffic control that I have to get back home. To ... to ...”

  What were people always going home to do? Feed the cat. See the wife and kids. Water the plants. Any or all of the above.

  Grant was certain the Army would let him go.

  Fairly certain. Almost certain.

  “I won’t worry about that now,” Grant said to himself.

  The important thing was to smuggle the robot aboard his spaceplane.

  “Excuse me,” Grant said shyly, speaking to the robot.

  It had reached the open bomb bay. The robot’s eyes focused on the hatch. It paid no attention to Jeffrey Grant. He recalled the old vid of Professor Lasairion. That vid had been subtitled.

  The robot didn’t understand Standard Military! But it could learn. He recalled this fact from his studies. Lasairion had believed in life on other planets. He hoped that his galaxy-traveling ‘bots would encounter other life-forms and that, when they did, they would communicate with them. The professor had therefore given the ‘bots the ability to record the spoken language of other beings, with the instruction that they bring the recordings back for study. The robot was also, by means of auto-event comparison and frequency-of-sound analysis, supposed to have the ability to “learn” languages.

  Grant needed the robot’s attention.

  “Lasairion,” Jeffrey Grant said shyly, experimentally.

  At the sound of his voice, a blue light began to flash on the top of the robot’s head. It pulsed four times, to the syllables of the professor’s name.

  The robot turned. The sad eyes were suddenly bright. It reached out one of its arms. Metal fingers took hold of Jeffrey Grant’s sleeve, gave it a gentle tug, then let loose.

  “You,” it said.

  “Me?” Grant was momentarily confused, then realized what was being asked. “No, I’m not Professor Lasairion.”

  But, of course, the robot must know this. It had scanned him and evinced no sign of interest in him until he spoke the professor’s name.

  Obviously, the ‘bot was trained to search for alien life-forms. Grant was nothing new. He was merely human. But now that he’d mentioned the professor, the robot was interested in him.

  “Watch it,” said the robot. “Next you’ll be giving it a name.”

  The robot was speaking Standard Military as well as anyone in the military. As well as Captain Kergonan. In fact, the robot sounded a great deal like Captain Kergonan. Of course! Grant realized, excited. That was because the robot must have been speaking to Captain Kergonan. The ‘bot had recorded the captain’s voice and was using its programming to try to make sense of the words. Either that or it was selecting phrases at random. Grant didn’t think that likely.

  “Name,” he repeated, then added, “Jeffrey Grant.”

  The blue light pulsed and Grant realized that the robot must be recording him. Grant was pleased, flattered ... touched.

  The robot’s sad, humanlike eyes gazed at Grant steadily. The ‘bot appeared to be considering. “You and I— we’re just going to take a little walk.”

  “Yes,” said Grant eagerly. He half turned, pointed to his spaceplane. “Over there.” He took a few steps in that direction, hoped the robot would follow.

  Such a method was, he believed, supposed to work with dogs.

  “Halt! Stop!” the robot commanded.

  Grant stopped, turned around, pleaded, “Please, you must come with me. Now! Quickly! Before someone finds you!”

  The robot lifted one of the metal arms, pointed toward the hatch of the Claymore. “You go inside.”

  Good grief! The robot was going to save itself! It was going to hide in the Claymore. And it wanted him to come along.

  Why? Grant stared at the robot. The robot stared back. Grant saw his reflection in the metal saucer head____

  “Of course! I’m wearing a flight suit!”

  He almost shouted, he was so enthused. Communicating with the
robot was exhilarating, fun! It was like trying to solve a crossword puzzle.

  “And I’m carrying a helmet. Which means that the robot has mistaken me for the pilot. The robot doesn’t want to hide in the Claymore. It wants me to fly the Claymore! The robot is trying to save itself!”

  “Do it!” said that troublemaking voice inside him.

  “1 couldn’t,” Grant whispered, suddenly appalled at his temerity. “Could I?”

  “Don’t be frightened,” counseled the robot in Captain Kergonan’s voice.

  Grant had the feeling there were three people lined up against him, urging him on: the robot, Captain Kergonan, and the inner self.

  “No, no, I won’t be frightened,” Grant promised. He looked up at the hatch, looked at the bomber, which was really much larger than it had looked in virtual reality.

  After all, he’d flown a Claymore a thousand times.

  And they were going to blow up the robot.

  The robot floated effortlessly into the bomb bay and then turned to examine the hatch. Grant had to climb the ladder to the hatch quickly in order to keep up.

  The robot used one of its attachments on its tool arm to force open the hatch.

  Grant dropped down inside the bomber, looked around. He was terrified, excited, and exalted all at the same time. It was different from the flight simulator. These controls were real, not portrayed on a screen. It was ... well ... grayer than he’d pictured. Dirtier. Not that the inside of the bomber was dirty; it was kept in good condition. But the real thing was different from the simulation. It wasn’t pristine, wasn’t perfect. One of the steelglass faces on a dial had a crack in it. He touched the instruments, felt hard edges, smooth surfaces beneath his fingers. The metal was hot, from the sun shining in through the viewscreen. The interior smelled of metal and of stale sweat and musty webbing, warm plastic and a brown, shriveled apple core that someone had tossed toward the trash compactor and missed.

  Grant sat down in the pilot’s seat, studied the controls, and panicked.

  The controls were not the same. They were similar, but not the same. Of course, for security reasons, the makers of the game wouldn’t be allowed to replicate exactly the insides of a Claymore. He recognized a few: atmospheric pressure, airspeed, space speed, vector controller. But what were those blue baubles that sat in some sort of liquid with silver reflectors, or the myriad of computer consoles with keys hanging just above their banks of switches?

  This was a mistake. A very bad mistake. Grant had always known he would get into trouble listening to that inner voice.

  He had to leave, before someone caught him! He tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn’t support his sagging body.

  The robot shut the hatch, sealed it.

  Grant gasped and gulped, then stared, baffled, at the myriad controls.

  “I’m sorry ...” he began faintly.

  The robot tapped him on the shoulder. Its arm pointed to a berth at the back of the crew’s living quarters. Claymores were equipped to make the Jump to hyperspace, which meant that they could take journeys which might last days or weeks.

  “Don’t be frightened,” the robot said again.

  Grant pushed himself up from the pilot’s chair, tottered on unsteady feet. Hesitantly, he moved away.

  The robot floated over to the bomber’s controls, studied them—green light flashing. It reached out one of its arms, plugged the attachment on the end of the arm directly into the console.

  Minutes ticked by. Grant, sweating, stared out the viewscreen, waited—hoped—someone would come.

  The robot spoke again. “I understand, computer. We can communicate. Command Sequence Request, stand by to receive.”

  The computer responded. “Protocol low, require authorization and voice print.”

  “Voice print negative,” returned the robot. “Protocol low for security. Analyze feature packet sending . . . now.”

  “Unknown packet type.”

  “Your request was garbled, please resend.”

  “I didn’t send anything,” said the computer. “I request that you send authorization.”

  “You are responding to my request for authorization,” the robot returned. “Last command was garbled. Please resend your authorization and command structure information.”

  “Sending,” said the computer. “Please stand by.”

  “The robot doesn’t need me,” Jeffrey Grant realized out loud. “Then why am I here? And where is it going?”

  The robot shifted around, looked back at him.

  “I’ve got a job to do,” it said in Captain Kergonan’s voice.

  Jeffrey Grant blinked. “Oh, my,” he said softly. “Oh, dear.”

  He laid down on the berth. He was dizzy, having difficulty breathing.

  “Oh, my goodness,” he said again.

  “Sleep tight,” said the robot.

  Chapter 27

  The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this is true.

  James Branch Cabell, The Silver Stallion

  A corporal drove Harry Luck and Jamil over to the airfield. Jamil, sleepy, grumpy, and irritated, threw himself in the back, crossed his arms over his chest, and glowered at the back of Harry’s head.

  Harry, seated in front, chatted with the driver, who happened to be a redhead. Harry had a weakness for redheads.

  “You ever flown in a Claymore bomber, Corporal? What did you say your first name was? Janet? Is it all right if I call you Janet? Oh, officers aren’t supposed to, huh? Fraternization. Whatever that means. Who made up these dumb rules anyhow? I— Yeah?” Harry turned around in response to Jamil kicking the back of the seat. “You want something?”

  “Do you want something, sir?” Jamil growled. “No, I’m fine, thanks. It’s just—”

  “I suggest, Captain Luck,” Jamil said in loud and frozen tones, “that you keep quiet and permit the corporal to do her job.”

  “Yes, sir.” Harry appeared properly chastened, but when he turned around, he winked at the corporal, who was having difficulty controlling her smile.

  Jamil shut his eyes, sat back in his seat, and decided the hell with it.

  The next thing he knew, Harry was shaking his shoulder.

  “Jeez! I thought you’d never wake up! You feeling any better?” Harry asked.

  “No, I don’t.” Jamil growled. “I feel groggy and thickheaded. We’ll make a perfect team.”

  “We always do,” Harry replied, flattered. “That hangar’s where they towed the Claymore.”

  “You better fill me in on your story,” Jamil said beneath his breath as they walked that direction.

  Harry nodded. “I flew into Pandoran airspace. I’d spotted that mother of a command cruiser on my way in, so I sort of implied that I belonged to them. Said I was on a routine scouting mission and that I’d developed problems with the stabilizer. Now, if you got stabilizer problems, they don’t particularly want you attempting to make a landing on a ship in space. Oh, sure, they can tractor you in, but what happens when you reach the docking bay?”

  “I give up,” Jamil said grimly. “What does happen?”

  “Mostly they wash what’s left of you out with a hose,” Harry said, grinning. “It can be done, but it’s a real tricky maneuver and gives everyone a lot of tense moments. No one likes it, and they’d much rather you make a land-based landing if possible. You got long runways, lots of space to wobble around, and if you veer off you’ll end up in a cornfield, not the Lord Admiral’s dining room.”

  “I understand. So you informed Pandoran air control that you had stabilizer problems.”

  “Yeah. They turned me over to the base airfield, who checked me out, but only sort of. After all, that mother-cruiser is floating around up there and everyone knows it.”

  “What do you mean, they ‘sort of’ checked you out? Either they did or they didn’t.”

  The two were drawing near to the hangar. Ground crewmen were eyeing them curiously.
<
br />   Jamil halted.

  Harry pretended to point out the interesting features of a Stiletto fighter to the Army colonel.

  “They said they were going to check with the cruiser, to verify that I was one of hers. I gotta admit that gave me a few tense moments,” Harry commented, squinting into the Pandoran sun, shading his face with his hand. “But I guess they must’ve received verification, ‘cause they came back and said I was cleared to land.”

  “What name did you give?” Jamil asked.

  “Harry Luck,” said Harry. “Why? What name was I supposed to give?”

  “You ninny!” Jamil snorted. “The Lord Admiral was the one who gave you clearance to land. Dixter recognized your name, of course. Otherwise you’d have been given clearance to land on the nearest prison planet.”

  “Oh, well.” Harry shrugged, not much concerned. “As long as it worked. Anyway, the landing looked real good. I was all over the sky. And I bet I bounced sixty meters back into the air when I hit the ground. That’s how I got the cut on my head. I don’t suppose many pilots could have brought that plane in—damaged like that,” he added with simple pride.

  “You mean,” Jamil said slowly, his brain sleep-befuddled, “that you actually sabotaged the stabilizer before you came in for a landing?”

  “Well, sure!” Harry returned. “I’m not that big a dunce. Of course, I knew that they’d be looking for a busted stabilizer and that they better find it.... Oh.” He paused, his face crinkled.

  “Yes,” said Jamil. “Why didn’t you fake the landing, then damage the stabilizer? You could have been pretending to try to fix it.”

  “Yeah,” Harry said thoughtfully. “I see your point. It would have been a whole lot safer, huh?”

  “A whole lot,” Jamil concurred.

  “I’ll remember that.” Harry nodded to himself.

  “How did you manage to walk away from the airfield? I presume they told you to stay here.”

  “Oh, yeah. They did.” Harry grinned. “But I said I had to pee and the head of the ground crew said he bet I did, after a landing like that. So I took off for the john, walked in the front, out the back, and just kept on going.”