She’d always been considered odd, even as a child, when she had startled her teachers by being able to provide the correct answer to any math problem almost the second she saw it. What made this more unique was that she was a very mediocre math student. She was rarely able to show her work or explain how she arrived at the correct answer.
Tests indicated that she was a genius, possessed extraordinary capabilities in linear thinking. The teachers, never quite trusting her after that, let her alone.
She made few friends in school. Dalin Rowan never went out for sports or enjoyed hanging out with the guys. Darlene Rowan was still asleep inside Dalin’s psyche. It wasn’t until Rowan went to work for FISA and met her partners, Xris and Mashahiro Ito, that she found two people who were not intimidated by her. Two people who admired and respected and, better still, just plain liked her.
And then Ito had died, horribly, in a Hung trap. Xris had been supposed to die, but he survived—more machine than man. A part of Darlene died in that explosion, too, though she hadn’t been anywhere near it at the time. She spent the next year of her life working under cover, working to destroy the Hung, who had destroyed her life. She was successful. Most of the top people in the Hung were now busting rocks in penal colonies.
But the Hung’s reach is long and their memories longer. They are not the type to forgive and forget. Agent Dalin Rowan was a marked man. When his job was finished, he disappeared.
Darlene Mohini was born. Shortly after her birth, she joined the Navy.
A few hints dropped into the computer along the way prompted the top brass to post her to a secret Naval base located in the absolute center of nowhere. Here she was safe -at least for a little while. Here she could perform good work, be of benefit to someone. Here she could be eccentric and no one would mind.
It was considered part of her odd nature that she liked to work at all hours of the day and night, never kept to any sort of routine schedule, frequently requested a change of location for her office and her living quarters, rarely left the base, rarely requested leave.
She never went to visit anyone on base, never invited people to visit her, could be found working in her office over major holidays. She ate alone and at varied hours. She jogged alone. Eccentric, people said. She’s a genius, people said. What can you expect?
They never knew she was hiding. They never knew that she took these precautions because she feared for her life.
And then Xris found her anyway.
She was lucky it had been Xris and not the Hung.
During that time, she had become accustomed to a solitary life. She told herself she actually enjoyed it and had gone out of her way to avoid the vid parties and volleyball games and other social contact. Darlene had made of RFComSec a womb—warm and snuggly and soothingly dark. She was fed, pampered, housed, and clothed in her embryonic sac.
The birth process had been violent; she hadn’t wanted to leave. But her first gulp of fresh air had brought back to her everything she was missing. Having come to kill her, Xris had ended up giving her back her life.
And now, on this so-called pleasure cruise, Darlene was once again isolated, alone. She didn’t know any of the two thousand people on board and none of them knew her.
At least she hoped none of them knew her.
The passengers were intent on having fun, enjoying the major pastimes aboard an Adonian cruise vessel, these being sex and food. Several Adonians—men and women—had indicated that they found Darlene not quite repulsive (which was high praise from the beauty-addicted Adonians), and that they found her company not quite boring.
Then a handsome Adonian gentleman smiled and handed Darlene a glass of champagne. She was immediately back at Raoul’s party, seeing again the smiling, handsome face of the Hung assassin.
And though Darlene told herself repeatedly that she had thrown off her pursuers, that the Hung must think her dead and that she was safe, she pleaded space sickness and took her meals in her stateroom.
Darlene thought a lot about Xris and Jamil, wondered how their job was going. They must be finished with it by now, she reasoned. She would have liked to have seen that antique robot.
Surely I’ve thrown off the Hung. Surely I can go back. When we stop at the next port, I’ll—
A mellow tone sounded. A call coming through.
Darlene had been lying on her bed, trying to read an improving book and not making much headway. At the sound—which she admitted to herself she’d been waiting to hear ever since she came on board—she jumped up, ran for the vidphone so fast, she knocked over a chair. She punched the answer button, crouched down so that she could see and be seen on the screen.
“Hello?” she said eagerly. “Hello? Xris?”
Righting the chair, she sat in it, waited to see Xris’s face, waited to hear his tobacco-shredded voice.
He came on screen, wearing an Army uniform and hat. Xris detested hats.
“Xris, how nice—” she began.
“Darlene?” Xris smiled at her, casually straightened his shirt collar, tugged at the captain’s bars. “That you, sweetie?”
“Yes, it’s me, dear. How is everything at home? Nothing’s wrong, is it? How are all the kids? Are they okay?”
“Sure, sweetheart. The kids are fine. They send their love. You having a good time?”
“The best,” Darlene said dryly. “But I really miss you and the kids, honey.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Xris was grim. “You’re not having any trouble with that one fellow who was trying to hit on you, are you?”
“No. I think he got the message. I hope so, at least. Say, dear, are you and the kids still planning on meeting me when the ship docks at Moana?”
“That’s why I’m calling.” Xris made a face. “My leave was canceled. We’ll make it, but we may be late. I’ve got a new assignment and my new commanding officer’s a royal pain. Very demanding. But, with any luck, we should be on Moana a day or two after you arrive. We’re operating in the same sector of space. That’s the one good Ihing about this assignment. Check into a good hotel and wait for us.”
“I will. Is ...” she hesitated, “is there anything I can do?”
“Take care of yourself,” he said with a smile.
“You, too,” she said. “My love to the kids. I’ll see you all in a couple of days. Oh, you won’t be able to reach me after midnight, SMT. We’ll be making the Jump then. We’ll be out of communication range for forty-eight hours.”
“Fine.” Xris nodded. “Have a good trip, sweetheart. By the way, I ran into one of your old college profs. Lasairion. Professor Colin Lasairion. You remember him? I le said to tell you hello. He wants you to look him up sometime.”
“Sure! Yes, I remember him,” said Darlene, not having a clue. “Say hi back for me.”
“Will do. Love you.” Xris grinned, winked.
“I love you, too,” Darlene said. “Kiss Jamie and Little Harry for me.”
Xris rolled his eyes, made a face.
His image faded.
Darlene sat staring at the empty screen. Something had gone wrong. She wondered what and how badly. Xris didn’t seem all that stressed and he’d been free to contact her, so he wasn’t in dire straits. And he might have kept the disguise more for her safety than his own. Still, she couldn’t help wondering.
And worrying.
Professor Colin Lasairion.
Darlene left the vidphone, went to her computer. She knew the name, someone from history. She tapped into the shipboard computer, searched through the ship’s archives, which included an Encyclopedia Galactica.
“Oh, that Lasairion. Damn, I really would have liked to have seen that robot. But why would Xris tell me to look all this up?”
She didn’t know, but at least now she had something to do.
CHAPTER 31
The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?
Edgar Allan Poe, “
The Premature Burial”
Jeffrey Grant sat disconsolately on the bunk and watched the robot pilot the spaceplane. The robot was doing a very good job. Rather, the Claymore’s computer was doing a very good job, but it was the robot that was in command. The two rarely spoke to each other, audibly. One of the robot’s reticulated arms remained plugged into the instrument panel on the console. Grant assumed that they were communicating machine to machine.
At length, finding the bunk uncomfortable and feeling sort of silly and undignified, rather like a child that has been sent to bed while the grown-ups party, Grant ventured forth onto the bridge.
The robot hovered over the control panel. Grant considered seating himself in the pilot’s chair, but feared this might irritate the robot. He sank down meekly into the copilot’s chair.
The robot’s sad eyes shifted to him. “Talk to me,” said the robot, and this time it was not using Captain Kergonan’s voice.
The voice was human, had been prerecorded, and, from the distinct and separate and uninflected intonation, Grant guessed that the robot had recorded various vowel and consonant sounds and was stringing them together.
It occurred to Jeffrey Grant, and the knowledge gave him a little thrill, that the voice might well be that of the late Professor Lasairion, dead these past two thousand years.
“What would you like me to say?” Grant asked.
He studied the instrument panel. The comm unit was located in the same place as it was on his simulator game. His game often required him to communicate with Command Central. Grant thought he might know how to use the comm. But he wasn’t certain if the robot would let him.
“Your words,” said the robot. “I must know your words. It is my job.”
“Ah!” Grant was enlightened. “Is that why you brought me along? You want to study my language?”
He felt considerably deflated. He’d been going to rescue the robot, to save it from death, to escape with it into the stars. Instead, it had flown off with him, wanted to use him as a sort of linguistic guinea pig.
Grant talked to the robot. He didn’t know what else to do and he hoped, rather bleakly, that by talking he might be able to find out what the robot was intending. It had some purpose. It had to have a purpose. Unlike humans, robots did not act aimlessly.
Grant told the robot about his childhood, which, being relatively happy, had been singularly uninteresting. His teenage years had been unremarkable and those were dispatched in a few sentences. He expanded more on his job, which he had enjoyed, but he talked most about his beloved museum.
The robot was an attentive listener. It never interrupted. The blue light atop its head pulsed and flashed with every word. It evinced little or no interest in what he was saying, until he came to the museum. Then it seemed to Grant that the blue light was a little brighter, that it pulsed a little faster. And once the robot actually repeated a word—an ancient word, referring to some piece of equipment—and it had a very natural sound to it. As if Professor Lasairion had spoken it whole and intact, not just a compilation of meaningless syllables.
As they talked, the Claymore cruised slowly through space. And then Navy fighters dove into view.
“Unknown Claymore, this is Navy Dirk Two One. Shut down your engines and prepare to be towed.”
Grant heard the pilot’s voice clearly. The robot apparently heard it, too, for the blue light flashed in time to the orders. But the robot ignored it.
“Continue talking,” it said to Grant.
“Shouldn’t we obey them?” asked Jeffrey Grant. “Or at least acknowledge their instructions? After all,” he added with a sudden qualm, “they might shoot.”
“They will not shoot us down,” said the robot. “The professor has told us this. The enemy will try to capture us whole and intact in order to use us.”
Grant didn’t know what to do. He knew he should attempt to talk the robot into surrendering, but if he did that, the Navy was going to destroy the robot. Still, if he didn’t, the Navy was likely to destroy the robot anyway and end up destroying Jeffrey Grant in the process.
“Unknown Claymore, if you don’t shut down your engines, we will be forced to open fire. Stand by for towing.”
“Do you understand what they’re saying?” Grant asked, a tremor in his voice. He had never played poker, nor ever even heard of the game. He didn’t know a bluff when he heard one. “They’re going to shoot us!”
“Very possibly,” said the robot with the professor’s calm voice. “That is not my concern. I am ordered to do my job.”
Grant could see the fighters maneuvering into position. Very much like his simulator. In the game, when the enemy shot you down, there was a bright flash on the screen and the enemy voice either saluted you as a worthy opponent (if you had fought well and honorably) or sneered at you as you went down in flames (if you’d fought dirty). Grant wondered what they did if you didn’t fight at all. He supposed nothing. They sounded very businesslike.
“Couldn’t you just talk to them?” he pleaded. “Explain the situation.”
“I am not allowed to talk to them,” said the robot. “I am waiting for the professor to respond. When I receive the professor’s response, I will continue with my job.”
Grant didn’t know how to handle this. He supposed he should tell the robot that the professor was dead, but he feared the news might cause alarm or distress and then he had no idea what the robot would do. The ‘bot seemed genuinely attached to the professor. Grant decided he would break the news gently, gradually.
“Um, suppose that the professor doesn’t respond. Suppose that something happened to the professor. So that he ... er ... couldn’t respond.” Grant was floundering. It was not easy, talking to those sad, intelligent eyes.
“Nothing has happened to the professor,” stated the robot.
Grant was taken aback. The robot was so extremely certain. “How can you be sure?”
“Because I received a signal from him.”
Grant thought guiltily of his Collimated Command Receiver Unit. “How ... how did that signal work ... exactly?”
“Whenever one of us has been shut down for a length of time, we are programmed, on awakening, to send a signal to the professor, letting him know that we are back on line. He then sends a corresponding signal to us. If we do not receive that signal, we are to shut ourselves down again and take no further action. I received the signal. Therefore the professor is still functional.”
You received that signal because I thought the Collimated Command Receiver Unit made a nice table lamp! Jeffrey Grant groaned and stared bleakly out the vid-screen at the menacing fighters.
This is all my fault! I am the one responsible. If the robot and I get shot down, it will be my fault.
He gazed at the commlink controls. They were very complex, far more complex than those on his rent-a plane.
“Would you mind if I talked to the fighters?” Grant asked meekly.
“As long as your actions do not hinder my actions, I have no authority to stop you.”
Grant reached for the comm. He had no idea how to tune to the correct frequency, but if the Dirks could talk to them, he reasoned that he could talk to the Dirks. He hit the TRANSMISSION—HANDS FREE button. He spoke very rapidly.
“This is the unknown Claymore bomber do you read me over.”
And, while he listened for a reply, a thought occurred to him. “What are you waiting for now?” he asked the robot. “Another sort of signal from the professor?”
“Yes. I am programmed to warp space, to lay space Lanes. According to my records, I have laid twenty-five Lanes in this sector. I performed this function prior to the plane crashing. I have transmitted the information on the Lanes to the professor. I am now awaiting his approval.”
Grant considered this. He and the robot were cruising slowly through space, awaiting approbation from a man who had been dead two thousand years.
They weren’t going to get it.
“What will you do,” Gr
ant asked hopefully, “if you don’t hear from the professor?”
The robot told him.
Jeffrey Grant’s hope drained. He listened in horror. His hand on the controls of the commlink went limp. The pilot of the lead fighter was responding, but Grant did not reply.
It would be better if they did shoot them down.
Chapter 31
For the sins of your fathers you, though guiltless, must suffer.
Horace, Odes, III, 6:1
The chase after the robot was very strange.
The Claymore bomber meandered sluggishly through space. The PRRS lumbered along behind it. They knew they were nearing the Claymore when Harry reported sighting the two fighters that had fired the tracking missile, were now keeping an eye on the errant bomber.
The fighter pilots reported in. Tess took the call.
The pilots had not been able to establish contact with the bomber, although they thought someone on board was trying to do so, but was having difficulty using the equipment.
When the pilot of the lead fighter replied, either the robot was cutting him off or something had happened to the person making the attempt to contact them, because the pilot hadn’t received a response.
“Most likely he’s frightened. I’ll try talking to him,” Tess said. “You guys back off.” She added, in an undertone, to Harry, “Get ready to lock onto the Claymore with the tractor beam.”
Harry nodded. The fighter planes fell back, almost out of sight, but within call if they were needed. The PRRS slid forward, into range. Xris was on the bridge, right behind the copilot’s chair, where Tess sat. Dr. Quong was standing by in the infirmary, in case Grant was injured. Jamil and Tycho were manning the controls of the docking bay, ready to bring the Claymore alongside. Raoul and the Little One were also on the bridge; Xris suggested that perhaps the Little One could make some sort of telepathic connection with Grant.
Raoul was not confident.
“I do not believe they formed a close enough bond prior to the Grant-person’s departure.”
“Mr. Grant, this is Captain Strauss.” Tess’s voice was calm, soothing. “Do you read me, over?”
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