Darlene wiggled her toes, yawned again. Maybe she’d watch a vid. She hadn’t seen one in years and there were a few out she’d heard were really good. Or perhaps she’d read a book. She hadn’t done that in years, either.
The Hung assassin wouldn’t try again. Not while she was being watched and guarded twenty-four hours, Standard Military Time. No, for the moment she was safe.
She’d have to deal with the Hung sometime soon. But she wouldn’t do it alone. She had friends now, she and Xris and Mag Force 7. The Hung had better watch out.
Darlene grinned, giggled, and started to laugh. The female steward was reaching for something, probably a hypo, to administer a sedative. Darlene didn’t care. She could see, in her memory, the computer’s final calculation, the Lane flashing, the next Lane the robot was scheduled to take out. And projected over that, the Lane into which the cruise ship was scheduled to make the Jump.
The Hung assassin would never know it. He had actually saved her life.
Chapter 36
We are star stuff . . .
Carl Sagan, Cosmos
“The robot was preparing to take out still another Lane. It had taken out two now, so far. It Jumped into the lanes, then removed them. When Grant asked why, the robot’s response left Grant sweating and shaking.
“I laid many Lanes in this sector. The professor has undoubtedly decided that there are too many. I have transmitted the data on the Lanes I laid to the professor. I have not received a response. That means I am to continue taking the Lanes out.”
Grant attempted to reason with the robot, to explain that what it was doing was wrong, but it was like attempting to reason with a small child. Not that Grant had ever been around many small children, but he had heard his fellow employees talk and he knew that logic and two-year-olds did not mix. Or rather, that two-year-olds had their own particular kind of logic—a simple logic, a refined logic, a distilled logic. A type of logic based on their own view of the world, which was, of necessity, short in stature, confined by immediate surroundings, and centered entirely on themselves.
Add to this toddlerlike perspective of the world an almost certainly damaged logic board and that was the robot. All very frustrating.
“Isn’t it possible,” Grant argued, “that the professor could be dead?”
The robot was complacent. “That is just what the professor told us his enemies would say, in order to trick us into compliance.”
“But there are ships and planes in those Lanes you’re proposing to remove!” Grant pleaded.
“That is impossible,” stated the robot. “The Lanes were just laid. The professor has estimated that frequent space travel utilizing the Lanes will not occur for another thousand years.”
“What do you think we’re doing here? All those people on Pandor? Ask the plane’s computer, if you don’t believe me,” Grant cried. “Look in its memory banks! You’ll find the date, the time, information on the current political situation, information about all the other inhabited planets.”
“Nonessential,” the robot returned. “Such information was interfering with the computer’s ability to follow my orders. I dumped all such irrelevant material from its memory.”
And, at that point, Grant gave up.
He considered sabotaging the spaceplane, but he had no idea how to go about it. The Claymore appeared practically indestructible. He had just about given up on this course of action when a voice hailed him from the comm.
“Claymore bomber One-Oh-Seven-Niner, come in. I say again, Claymore bomber One-Oh-Seven-Niner, do you read me?”
Grant cast a sidelong, nervous glance at the robot. It listened, but it paid no attention. The blue light flashed, which indicated that it was taking note of the words, storing them in its translation program. But it was not taking any interest in what was being said.
The robot was making surveys, performing calculations, reconfiguring the spaceplane’s computer programming to function more efficiently for the robot’s needs. To take out Lanes more quickly, accurately. As Grant watched, the robot disabled the Claymore’s rear guns.
Grant sighed and moved over to the comm. The voice was repeating its call.
“Claymore bomber One Oh Seven Niner, come in.
Claymore bomber One Oh Seven Niner, do you read me?”
“This is Claymore bomber One Oh Seven Niner,” Grant replied. “Yes, I read you. Who are you?”
“My name’s Harry.”
The voice was hearty and friendly and cheerful. Jeffrey Grant warmed to it. He would have been run through the terminator before he said anything uncomplimentary about a woman, but he found Captain Strauss, while undeniably an attractive person, a bit too intimidating, cold-blooded. She struck him as dangerous.
“I’m the pilot of the PRRS,” Harry was saying. “That’s short for Pilot Rescue and Recovery Ship. How’re you doing, Mr. Grant? What’s going on?”
“I ... I told you ... I mean I told someone ... to shoot this plane down.” Grant was irritated. “You didn’t do so and the robot took out two Lanes. Now it’s planning on taking out another one. You know that, don’t you? You know that the robot removed two space Lanes? Was ... was a ship in any of them? Do you know?”
“Nothing certain, Mr. Grant.” Harry was cautious. “Let’s just put it this was: It would be really nice ... I mean really nice”—he emphasized that—”if the robot didn’t take out another Lane. We’re in a heavily traveled sector, if you take my meaning.”
“Yes, I do,” Grant said ominously. “And that’s why I told you to shoot this plane down.”
“Naw, we don’t want to shoot nobody down,” Harry said. “I take it that since you’re talking to me like this, the robot isn’t monitoring communications?”
“Yes, it is,” Grant said. “I mean, it’s taking note of our words, but it’s not assimilating them. It’s not devoting its energies to understanding us. Why should it? After all, it’s in control. It’s doing exactly what it’s been programmed to do. I think it would try to stop me only if I tried to stop it. From carrying out its programming, I mean.”
“Yeah, sure.” Harry paused to consider this. “Well, just in case, I’m going to explain to you what a PRRS does, Mr. Grant.”
“I know—”
“Let me explain, Mr. Grant,” Harry repeated. “We have a tractor beam that is capable of locking onto a life pod, should it become necessary for the pilot to eject.”
“Yes, Mr. Harry, I know all that, you see—” Grant was cut off again.
“What you may not know,” Harry said in an emphatic voice, “is that when a bomber is heavily damaged and the pilot cannot or will not eject, then it becomes the copilot’s job to eject both of them. Did you know that, Mr. Grant?”
Grant paused. “Actually, no, I didn’t know that. I’ve only been in a single-person simulator. Do you mean that the copilot can eject the pilot? Are you, in fact, saying—”
“No need to repeat ourselves, Mr. Grant. We both understand each other. Now, don’t you think that you’d feel better if you were wearing your vacuum suit with your helmet fastened and your oxygen attached and on portable power?”
Grant hesitated. He was very nervous. “I don’t ... I’m not ... Suppose? .. .What if ...”
Harry remained calm. “Mr. Grant, you’ll find a vac suit in the closet at the back of the flight deck. Put it on and then contact me. Harry out.”
Grant started to get up from the copilot’s chair. The robot turned its sad-eyed gaze on him.
Feeling horribly guilty, Grant sank back down.
But this was the way, the only way.
“The odds of you surviving this mission are so small they don’t even bear mentioning,” said the commanding officer. “Go forth and do your duty. And know that you will be forever honored.”
“Yes, sir,” Grant murmured, hearing the words of his squadron commander in his head. Tentatively, he stood back up. “Uh, do you mind if I put on something more, that is, more, urn, comfortable?”
>
The robot did not reply. It had swiveled back to complete its calculations.
Grant hurried to the rear of the cabin. “Quickly, there, Captain. Mustn’t show fear with the lads about.
Smooth and professional, that’s it. Look good for the lads.”
He was finding it somewhat difficult to enter his pleasant fantasy. He really was in a Claymore bomber, preparing to eject into deep space, preparing to risk his own life to save countless lives. His dream-world rather paled in comparison. His dream did have one element that the real world did not have, and that was Grant’s calm, cool steel nerves. He decided to stay in his fantasy world.
Grant knew all about pressure suits from his days as a shuttlecraft pilot. Bolting on the helmet, he next strapped on the power and air pack. The familiar actions were calming. His hands shook very little. He plugged in the hoses and cords, switched the unit from external power to self-contained. He felt sick, as if his stomach were going to surge up out of his throat and make a mess on the deck. But his squadron commander wouldn’t approve.
“Buck up, there. Captain! You’ve got a job to do. Let’s get hopping!”
Grant returned to the bridge, settled back into the copilot’s seat. He flipped the communications panel to hands-free again.
“Mr. Harry, are you still out there?”
“Hey, there, Mr. Grant. How’re you doing? Are you all dressed up and ready to go?”
“I’m ready, Mr. Harry,” Grant said miserably. “Now what do I do?”
“Let’s say . . . what would a copilot do in a real emergency?”
“Yes, that’s what I meant.” Grant started to sweat. The robot had turned to gaze at him again. He gave it a strained smile through the helmet.
“Like I was saying before”—Harry’s voice was reassuring—”the copilot’s duty is to eject himself and the pilot. To do that, he and the pilot must be securely strapped into their chairs. You securely strapped in, Mr. Grant?”
There was a pause as Grant strapped himself in. “Uh, pardon me, Mr. Harry, but what does the copilot do if the pilot ... um ... refuses to cooperate?”
“Would the pilot be somewhere over the pilot’s seat?”
“Yes, sir, he—rather, it—is hovering there.” Grant started to tremble.
“No problem.” Harry continued to be reassuring. “All you do is reach between your legs under the seat and pull the yellow handle. Do you see it, Mr. Grant, the yellow—”
“I see it,” Grant announced, peering down between his legs. He grasped the handle and gave it a tug, wondering, at the same time, what it did.
His seat exploded.
The rocket beneath the copilot’s chair hurled Grant straight up. The top of the chair punched through the canopy covering the cockpit. Steelglass shattered, as it was designed to do, and fell away around Grant in a cascade of glittering shards. The explosion was loud, but only for a split second, and then immense and terrifying silence swallowed him.
Grant’s vacuum suit expanded out, swelling like a balloon. He tumbled head over seat, moving ever outward, away from the Claymore. With each revolution, he saw the spaceplane below him, debris streaming out from the cockpit area, moving farther and farther away.
It was only then that Grant realized what had happened.
He had been ejected.
He stared down at his inflated, bloated body. His thoughts were disconnected and floating, much as he was himself.
There is nothing between me and the cold, suffocating blackness of space except plastic and rubber.
I am alone out here. What happens if no one finds me? I can’t yell for help. No one will hear me. What a terrible way to die.
And yet, it’s quite beautiful. I can see forever. Huge, immense stars are only specks. I am a speck. But at the moment, I’m bigger than the stars....
At least the robot won’t take out any more Lanes. The robot. Grant experienced a moment of concern. Where is the robot?
The next revolution, he saw a metallic speck traveling in the same direction as himself, arms twirling over metal head. Grant felt immediately relieved. He’d been afraid that it might have blown up in the explosion. The robot was safe and they weren’t alone. When he rotated back to where he could see the Claymore, he saw the PRRS come up around the disabled spaceplane.
Grant waved his arm, discovered that this slight movement caused a violent shift in his rotation. He wobbled around sideways, catching glimpses of the robot, the PRRS, and the Claymore at different times.
He held himself completely still and gradually his rotation slowed. Grant felt himself being tugged gently toward the PRRS. Glancing around—as best he could, for the view-constricting helmet—he saw the robot being sucked toward the PRRS.
A hatch beneath Grant yawned.
I wonder, he thought, as he sailed gracefully toward the gaping maw of the PRRS, if Mr. Harry will let me keep this vacuum suit for my collection.
Chapter 37
. . . While we think of it, and talk of it
Let us leave it alone, physically, keep apart.
For while we have sex in the mind, we truly have
None in the body.
D.H. Lawrence, “Leave Sex Alone”
“You got a fix on him?” Tess asked.
She stared out the viewscreen of the PRRS, searching for Grant and the robot. Harry had said they would be difficult to see with the naked eye, but that Xris with his enhanced vision—might be able to pick them up.
“I can’t see them. Nothing,” Xris reported.
“Not to worry,” Harry said softly, his gaze focused on his instrument readings, hands poised over the controls. “I see ‘em. I’ve got ‘em. Lock on target,” he ordered the ship’s computer. “And ... fire!”
No missiles flamed into the darkness, no flashing lethal laser light shot from the guns. An unseen magnetic beam pulsed outward, bringing life, not death, though one might never have guessed that from Harry’s orders.
What appeared at first to be nothing more than a red flashing beacon came into sight, very rapidly expanded into the form of a pilot, still strapped into his seat from the Claymore. Grant’s face was visible—looking moon-shaped and distorted behind the helmet.
Next, Harry targeted the second blip and brought it in. The robot, with its sad eyes, stared straight ahead.
It looked like a terrified child stuck on a frightening carnival ride.
At least it appeared docile. Xris had been afraid it might attack poor Jeffrey Grant.
“How long?” he asked.
“Another fifteen minutes,” Harry said. “We’ve got to take this slow. Too fast, and we could lose control, end up with them splattered over the hull. Once we get them safely in, I’ll lock onto the Claymore.”
“I suppose the plane’s useless.”
“For the time being,” Harry conceded. “Hard to fly without a cockpit. But any rebuild and overhaul facility can put it back together.”
“For a price,” Tycho said gloomily. “You can kiss the ass of any profits we might have made off this business. As for the robot taking that Lane out, have you considered what will happen to intergalactic commerce if word of this leaks out? I have stock in several major shipping companies—”
“Kiss good-bye,” Xris corrected. “Not kiss ass. That’s something else entirely. And we’re not going to make any profit anyway. Tycho, old friend, so just count this as a dead loss.”
Tycho groaned.
“The job’s finished, huh?” Jamil said.
“For us it is. Tess”—Xris nodded at her—”was on the comm with the Admiralty. This robot’s way too dangerous to turn over to Harsch. They don’t want to risk it. Our orders are to bring it back to the King James II.”
Tess was pale, unhappy. She sat with her head in her hand, her elbow on the console. The other hand, resting on her thigh, was clenched to a fist.
Jamil was sympathetic, gave her a pat on the shoulder. “A lot of work down the drain, I’ll bet.”
“
Months,” Tess said, sighing. She raked her hair back. “And we’ll never have another chance. This was it. Oh, I know they’re right. The robot’s far too dangerous. It was okay when we didn’t think it worked, but now we know that it does ... not only that it works but that it takes out Lanes. But don’t pay any attention to me.”
She shrugged, looked at them, concerned. “I’m just babbling. You men are the ones who are out a lot of money. I’ll talk to the Admiralty.”
“Never mind, it’s not important,” Xris said. Noting Tycho lurning the jaundiced yellow color his people turned when going into sudden shock, Xris added hastily, “I mean, we’ll think of something. Maybe we’ll ask the Navy to at least pay for repairs.”
“Obese chance,” said Tycho.
“I will go back to the air lock to meet the robot,” Dr. Quong offered. His eyes glistened. He tapped the tips of his lingers together. “And Grant,” he added as an afterthought.
“Take care of the human patient first, will you, Doc?” Xris said.
“What? Oh, of course. Certainly I will,” Dr. Quong returned stiffly. “The scanners monitoring Mr. Grant’s condition indicate that he is doing quite well, considering the fact that he was never trained for such a catastrophic event. His blood pressure is elevated, his heart rate is accelerated, but not beyond an acceptable range. I will administer a mild sedative to calm him. As for the robot” Quong was intense, eager —”what should I do for the robot?”
“We have to shut it down,” Tess said wearily. “From what we’ve seen, it would be quite capable of taking control of this ship.”
“It appears passive enough now,” Dr. Quong stated, staring out the viewscreen as the robot and Grant slid past, on their way to the air lock, which was located at the rear of the PRRS. “Still, I will be careful. I believe I know how it can be deactivated. I’ve been doing some research on it and, as it turns out, I found quite a useful diagram.”
Robot Blues Page 32
