Robot Blues

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  “Oh, for the love of Elvis,” muttered the steward, rolling his eyes. “Another one.”

  The female steward gave the company speech. “Ms. Rowan, I can assure you that our captain and the bridge crew have the combined experience of over four hundred years of flying these ships. We’ve made the Jump at least fifty times in this vessel alone and everything’s gone smoothly. I understand that you’re feeling apprehensive.”

  “Damn right I’m apprehensive!” Darlene dodged out of the female’s grasp. “Look, your captain has received a warning from the Royal Navy advising him that making the Jump in this sector could be dangerous.”

  “And how do you know this, Ms. Rowan?” the steward asked politely.

  “1 can’t tell you.” Darlene pleaded. “I know this sounds crazy. I know I sound crazy. But I’m not. I’m telling the truth. If this ship makes the Jump, your captain is putting at risk thousands of lives!”

  “Thank you, Ms. Rowan. We’ll let the captain know. Now we’ll just escort you back to your cabin....”

  Accustomed to dealing with hysterical passengers, the stewards look hold of her arms, one on each side, and gently steered her back down the corridor toward the lift.

  Darlene had the skill and the training to leave these two lying on the deck in huddled, whimpering heaps. Physically assaulting two members of the ship’s crew wasn’t likely to advance her cause, however. If anything, it would merely reinforce the idea that she was deranged. She decided to go back to her cabin. By now the computer would have completed its calculations. If she gave the Navy something solid, they’d have no choice but to send out the gunboats.

  “I assure you, Ms. Rowan,” said the male steward, arriving at her room, “that everything is going to be fine.”

  “Are you subject to premonitions?” the female steward asked.

  “It’s not a premonition,” Darlene said, sighing.

  Thousands of ships. Hundreds of Lanes. The robot might take out any one of them. Yet our Lane is near Pandor. Our Lane is close to the Lane the robot has already removed. Darlene was starting to feel more certain by the minute. Our Lane is next. The Lane we’re going to jump into is next.

  “How about a sedative, Ms. Rowan? It will make you feel better.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Do you need any help strapping yourself in?”

  “No.” Darlene only wanted now to get back into her room, back to her computer. “I’ll be fine. I promise. You can leave now. Thank you for all your help.”

  “We’ll be back to check on you,” said the steward. He remained standing in the corridor. It was obvious he intended to stand there until Darlene was safely incarcerated.

  She started to unlock the door, glanced down and saw the fingernail file moved. It was in front of the door instead of under it.

  Someone had been inside her room.

  Darlene hesitated, stood outside the closed door.

  “What’s the matter now, Ms. Rowan?” The steward was struggling hard to remain patient. He must be convinced by now that she was delusional, paranoid.

  “Nothing. Thank you, just dropped my file,” Darlene said meekly. “I’ll be fine now. I’m just a bit nervous. You’ve been very kind. I know you must have other duties to attend to. Let me give you something for your trouble.”

  The stewards presented their service pads. Darlene punched in a generous tip for each of them.

  “Thank you, Ms. Rowan,” said the male steward. “You go along inside. We’ll wait out here for a few moments, just in case you need anything.”

  You mean you’ll wait to make sure I don’t leave again.

  Darlene unlocked, opened the door. She kept to one side, did not immediately enter. Not because she was afraid of being attacked from behind. Hung assassins weren’t the type to lurk about behind the door, waiting to knock her over the head with a lead pipe. They were far more sophisticated.

  Darlene stared hard at the deck, saw no tiny beam of laser light that she might break as she entered—the hightech version of a trip wire.

  The stewards watched her. Glancing back, she caught the male grinning. He swiftly wiped the smile from his face.

  Cautiously, Darlene entered her room.

  She cast a quick glance around, saw nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing had been disturbed. She shut the door, shut out the stewards and their amusement. She turned to look everything over once more.

  A flicker of light came from somewhere near the window. Darlene tensed, but further investigation revealed nothing. No gun barrel protruding from behind the bedpost.

  “You’re seeing things,” she told herself wearily.

  She was suddenly tired of this, tried of jumping at shadows, tired of making what were most likely harmless little molehills into mountains of fear.

  Probably the maid had entered the room for some reason. Leaving chocolates on the pillow, turning down the bed. No one was hiding here with the intention of stabbing Darlene in the shower. No one had put black widow spiders in her nightgown.

  Just to make sure, she turned down the bed sheets, searched under the bed and inside the bathroom. Nothing. No one.

  “My God, I am getting paranoid,” she said, and returned to the computer.

  At least it had been doing something constructive in her absence. It announced that its initial calculations concerning the Lanes the robot might next remove were complete. The computer offered a list of three Lanes and included the probabilities of likelihood of deletion, based on location of the Lanes in relation to the robot at its present location, taking into account certain variables.

  Darlene looked over the data. Something clicked in her head, but, at the same time, something clicked in the room. She leaped from her chair, scooted out of the way.

  Out of the way of what? Her imagination was offering such bizarre theories now as crossbows in the vidset or termination beams from the smoke detector. Logic told her imagination where to get off. Breathing hard, more from irritation at being interrupted than from fear, Darlene searched the room again, hunting for the source of the snick.

  The sound had come from in front of her, she recalled, on thinking it over.

  In front of her was the computer, the side table on which it sat. The table was bolted to the wall, presumably so that it wouldn’t roam around during the Jump.

  Well, maybe her computer had gone snick. Maybe the drive was going out. Wonderful. Just wonderful. She would never be able to find parts aboard this blasted Adonian ship. Not unless she wanted to try to repair it with swizzle sticks.

  Now, what the hell had she been thinking? Something ... something about the computer’s calculations ...

  Mulling over the numbers in her head, Darlene logged on to RFComSec, transmitted the computer’s data. She considered requesting a patch-through to Xris. But what would she tell him? That a fingernail file in her door had moved? That something in her room had gone snick’!

  She logged off.

  “Fifteen minutes to Jump. All passengers should be in the prone position, their webbing securely fastened ...”

  Darlene tuned the voice out. She ordered the computer to continue working, sat back down in her chair, mulled over the computer’s findings in her head. Her abstracted gaze went once more to the window, to the black backdrop of space, the stars slowly meandering past.

  That was it! She knew the Lane the robot would take out. She knew why.

  Her gaze suddenly fixed, focused, on the window.

  A crack.

  Darlene jumped up. knocking over the chair, and made a dive for the window. The crack was small, about the length of the tip of her index finger, and located in the bottom right-hand corner of the steelglass.

  But it wouldn’t stay small. Not in deep space. Not with the pressurized cabin.

  As she watched, Darlene saw the crack extend another centimeter.

  In that instant, she put everything together. Her first emotion was relief. She wasn’t paranoid, delusional, or overdosing on estrogen
! Her instincts had been right!

  She had time. Not much, but some. She needed evidence.

  Thinking back to the moment she’d entered the room, she saw the flash of reflected light. Near the window.

  Light reflecting off metal. Not a gun barrel....

  The crack had grown to about ten centimeters now; the pressure inside the room causing it to expand rapidly. In the back of her mind was the horrific vision of what would have happened to her if she hadn’t noticed that minuscule crack. Of the window blowing from the pressure. Being sucked out into the frigid, deadly darkness.

  The crack was about half a meter long now and extending rapidly, insidiously.

  Dropping down to her hands and knees, Darlene searched the carpet beneath the window.

  She couldn’t find it.

  It had to be here! She slid her hand over the carpeting on the deck, felt something hard jab into the heel of her palm.

  Breathing a sigh, she snatched up the tiny metal object, clutched it tightly. She ran across the room, hit the button.

  The door slid open. The two stewards were at their posts, near the door. One was reporting in on the comm.

  “Number one-seven-six is still giving us trouble. According to the sensors, she’s not in her bed.”

  Darlene grabbed hold of the nearest arm, shook it.

  “There’s a crack in my window!” she cried. “You’ve got to evacuate this part of the ship!”

  “Now, look, Ms. Rowan ...” began the male steward, exasperated.

  “We’ve had just about enough, Ms. Rowan,” said the female steward.

  “Goddammit! There’s a crack in my window and it’s spreading! It’s going to blow! See for yourself!”

  Darlene dragged the man inside the room. Marching him over to the window, she pointed.

  The steward peered at the steelglass.

  “Ms. Rowan, I don’t see—” He suddenly went very white. “A crack ...”

  He stared at it a disbelieving instant, then he was back on the comm, his voice shaking.

  “Emergency! This is Steward Boseman. I’m reporting a crack in the window of one-seven-six. It’s spreading fast.”

  “Exit the room immediately,” came the operator’s cool, well-trained response. “I repeat, exit immediately. Leave all personal belongings.”

  Alarms began their pulse-stopping blare. A rumble shook the ship. Blast doors started closing. Metal panels began to slide across the window, coming down from the top—the Jump shields being lowered in an effort to keep the window from exploding. But the shields were moving slowly. The crack wasn’t.

  And there, on the desk, Darlene’s computer. It had arrived at the calculations a split second before Darlene. Taking into account all the variables, it had selected the Lane the robot was most likely to take out next.

  “This is not a drill. Repeat,” came the announcement over the comm. “This is not a drill. Put on your pressurized suits and helmets and proceed to the nearest emergency station. Parents, put your own suits on first and then help your children.”

  Darlene dodged around the steward, who was yelling at her to get out, and picked up the computer. She made a grab for the case, but the steward, catching hold of her around the waist, hauled her out of the room. Outside in the corridor, passengers wearing pressure suits and helmets were being herded toward the blast doors at the end of the hall.

  “The white lights on the floor lead to the emergency stations. Keep calm. The white lights on the floor lead to the emergency station. Keep calm. The white lights ...”

  Darlene and the two stewards ran headlong into the arms of the ship’s emergency squad. Suited out in pressure suits with helmets and oxygen masks, three members of the emergency team, armed with repair kits and canisters of sealant, dashed into the room.

  They dashed out again almost immediately.

  “Too late! Get going!”

  Two men grabbed Darlene by her elbows and hustled her down the corridor. At the end, they literally threw her through one of the rapidly closing blast doors. The stewards stumbled in behind her. The emergency crew ran in last.

  “Is everyone out?” someone asked.

  “They better be,” said one of the crew grimly.

  The blast doors shut.

  Out of breath and shaking, Darlene stared at the rest of the passengers. They crouched in the corridor, wearing their protective gear, staring back at her through the bubbles of their helmets. Someone jammed a helmet on her head, hooked her up to oxygen tanks. Someone else told her to sit down. She sat, holding on tightly to her computer.

  A muffled explosion sounded from behind the blast doors. The ship rocked as if it had been hit by a missile. The lights went out. For an instant, the ship was horribly, terrifyingly dark. Someone screamed—an odd sound, muffled by the helmet. Then the emergency lights switched on. That was almost worse than the darkness. Harsh white light illuminated frightened faces, casting strange shadows, making the familiar suddenly alien.

  The ship listed. Darlene’s helmeted head struck the bulkheads. She was flattened against the deck. Someone opposite her was sliding toward her. A hot-water line broke; water spewed from a pipe overhead, pattering down on their helmets, sounding like a rainstorm. Steam filled the corridor, adding to the nightmare quality.

  And then the ship slowly righted itself. The captain came over the emergency comm, announced that the situation was under control; all passengers were to remain where they were and follow the directions given to them by the crew.

  They would not, he added, be making the Jump to hyperspace.

  Darlene edged her way out of the beam of bright light, kept to the shadows. Somewhere in that corridor, perhaps, was the Hung assassin. He would be wondering if he’d succeeded or failed. He couldn’t know, wouldn’t be able to see her in her helmet in the darkness.

  Darlene sat in the shadows, her computer hugged in her arms, and grinned.

  The cruise ship limped, wounded, through space. The blast had destroyed Darlene’s stateroom and taken out most of the adjoining cabins. The damage extended far into the bowels of the ship, severing the main electronics trunk line, the main power grid, and the water mains. All communications were down, both internal and external. The damage teams acted quickly. The water was shut off. Internal comms were reestablished.

  Passengers were permitted to return to their cabins. All but one passenger, who was arrested.

  The captain went back on the comm, explained to the passengers what had happened, assured them that the ship was in no danger, stated that the emergency mayday signal had been activated and that they could expect help to arrive within the hour. In the meantime, passengers could remove their pressurized suits and helmets. They were requested to remain in their cabins. The stewards would be around to serve everyone free drinks, compliments of the captain.

  Darlene, held under guard in a room off the bridge, was not offered a free drink. His announcement completed, the captain entered the small room. He stood glaring at her.

  “I don’t know what kind of sicko you are, lady,” the captain stated, barely able to talk, anger squeezing his voice tight, “and I don’t know how the hell you managed to crack the steelglass in that window, but—by God— I’m going to see that you’re charged with sabotage, attempted murder, and anything else I can think of!”

  “Yes, sir,” Darlene said, composed.

  “I’m placing you under house arrest until the authorities arrive. You’ll be under twenty-four-hour guard, locked in a cabin without windows”—his tone was dire— “and allowed to communicate with no one, not with any member of the crew or passengers.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Darlene said, then realized—as the man’s eyebrows shot up to the brim of his hat that this probably wasn’t the appropriate thing to say. “Listen, Captain, I understand perfectly. You’ve been in contact with the Royal Navy, of course. You know that this operation is a matter of the highest-level security. I promise to be fully cooperative.”

>   The captain opened his mouth, shut it again. He shook his head in disgust, turned on his heel. “Watch her,” he said to the steward. “And don’t let her get her hands on any sharp objects.”

  “Captain,” Darlene said, raising her voice as he marched out the door, “check that Lane. The Lane the ship was going to use to make Jump. See if it’s still there.”

  The captain made an obscene gesture with his hand, consigning Darlene to Adonian perdition. The door slid shut. A large female steward—not of Adonian breeding plunked herself down in a chair opposite Darlene and eyed her suspiciously, obviously considering her capable of ripping out the bulkheads with her bare hands.

  Darlene sat in a chair at an empty desk and stared at the bulkhead. When she caught herself staring fixedly at the bare wall—looking for cracks—she forced herself to pick up one the vidmags which they had brought her. They had taken away her computer.

  Fifteen minutes later, the door opened. Two members of the crew stood outside. They were, Darlene noted, armed with lasguns. The two stood aside to permit the captain to enter. He walked into the room, came straight up to Darlene, stopped. He thought he was going to say something, for his mouth opened. His mouth closed. He stared at her in baffled, fuming, helpless silence.

  Darlene looked up briefly from her vidmag and smiled. She very slightly shrugged her shoulders.

  The captain walked out.

  Darlene threw the mag back to the desk. She lay down on the bed, kicked off her shoes, stretched, and yawned. For the first time since she’d started her so-called vacation she felt relaxed, comfortable.

  The Royal Navy was most certainly on the way. They would rescue the wounded ship, escort it to the nearest port, see to it that everyone debarked safely. The Navy would also hustle Darlene off this vessel, take her someplace safe and secure. They’d ask her a million questions, of course, but Darlene had answered a million questions in her line of work and knew how to handle herself.

  They could never prove she’d deliberately cracked her own window. Where her room had been was now a gaping hole; where the corridor leading to her room had been was now a gaping hole. They couldn’t prove she did. And she wasn’t going to deny that she had cracked it. People on board had been badly scared, but no one had been hurt. And that would not have been the case if the ship had made the Jump into a Lane that was no longer there.