“Jamil has just explained the situation, my friend,” Raoul’s voice was calm. “I want you to know that I have located certain supplies in the pharmacy which would allow me to prepare cocktails for everyone.”
Xris was about to say that this was a lousy time to be thinking of martinis when it occurred to him what type of cocktail the Loti meant.
Feeling no pain, as the saying went. Permanently.
“Thanks, Raoul,” Xris said. “Not for me. That’s not the way I want to go out. But ask the others.”
“Yes, Xris Cyborg. You do not mind if that is the way . ..” Raoul hesitated, then said, “I am such a hopeless shot with a gun....”
“Your choice. Same goes for the rest. Tell them I said so.”
“Thank you, Xris Cyborg, and may I say that it has been a pleasure working for you. Far more than for my late former employer, Snaga Ohme. The Little One asks me to express his admiring feelings as well and to tell you that we will meet in the picnic area of the park. I am not certain,” Raoul added solemnly, “but I believe this to be a reference to his people’s vision of the afterlife.”
“It’s been a pleasure working with you, Raoul,” Xris said, and was surprised to find that he meant it. “Same goes for the Little One. I’m just sorry I got everyone into this mess. Xris out.”
A loud clatter sounded from the plane’s interior— hasty hands dropped a beam rifle on the deck. His team was going about their business swiftly, efficiently. It was a pleasure working with them all, every one.
Tess stood in front of him. “Xris, this isn’t the way! Please! Listen to me—”
He put his hand on her arm, gave it a pat.
“Feel free to detonate that bomb anytime your little heart desires,” he said, and walked past her.
Jeffrey Grant was confused. Extremely confused.
He wasn’t used to all this upset and turmoil. His emotions had never taken such a flight. Up one minute and down the next, up again—soaring—and then dive-bombing, plummeting toward the ground. At first it had all been exhilarating. But now he was only exhausted and somewhat light-headed from the hypos the man who called himself a doctor had been giving him.
Grant was certain of at least one thing—he wasn’t going to take any more sedative! The drug dried out his mouth and made it seem as if everything around him had turned to jelly and he was trying to swim through it.
Having made this decision, Jeffrey Grant sat up in his bed. He was in sick bay, he saw, along with the robot, which was spread out on a metal table. Groggy, Grant slid off of the bed and tottered across the deck to look at his friend.
He thought of the ‘bot as his friend, and then immediately felt horribly guilty for doing so. The robot was, undoubtedly, a murderer. A mass murderer.
He gazed down at the ‘bot. It lay on its back, its sad eyes staring up sightlessly at the ceiling, its reticulated arms stretched out in front of it or dangling off the edge of the table.
Some of the arms were damaged. No lights flashed. The robot did not speak. It had not been strapped down when the cockpit ejected. The violent upheaval—Grant had not realized just quite how violent the ejection would be—had flung the ‘bot through the canopy. He could imagine, with a kind of horror, the thump of its head striking the steelglass viewscreen. It lay on the table, limp and lifeless.
“I should rejoice,” Grant murmured. “The robot will not kill again.”
And part of him was glad, but part of him was deeply grieved and part of him was angry. The robot should not have been disturbed. It should have been left to rest in peace, not raised, unhallowed and unblessed, from the dead.
Grant was angry at the cold and callous manner in which the doctor on board had poked and prodded at the ‘bot, talking to a recording device all the while, speaking of the robot as he might speak of any machine. And the man had the effrontery to laugh when Grant had meekly suggested that he treat the robot with respect.
At which the doctor gave Grant another injection, which sent him into a realm of jelly, with the robot’s sad eyes staring accusingly at him.
It was Grant who felt like the murderer. Removing the sheet from his own bed, he placed it gently, respectfully over the robot.
“You,” came a voice behind him. “The civilian.”
Jeffrey Grant turned, apprehensive and somewhat indignant. He thought, after all he’d been through, that he deserved something better.
It was the woman, Captain Strauss.
Grant was immediately on his guard. He looked behind her for the doctor.
“I won’t take any more injections,” Grant stated unequivocally.
“Good,” Tess said vaguely, not really hearing him. She had entered the room in a great hurry, but had now come to an abrupt halt, was staring at him, studying him, measuring him with her eyes. And it seemed she was not completely happy with what she saw, for her hand went to her furrowed forehead, rubbing the skin as if she could smooth away the lines.
She finally said “Mmmm,” and was in motion again, moving swiftly and surely toward what must have been her goal in the first place, before the sight of Grant distracted her. She opened a locker and pulled out a canvas belt with two canisters hanging from it. Grant recognized them: grenades. Probably some sort of nuclear devices. They looked truly frightful.
“Something’s going on, isn’t it?” Grant said.
When the captain didn’t answer beyond an incoherent mutter, Grant pressed. “Someone said something about Corasians. Are you giving the robot to the Corasians?”
“Not giving,” Tess said, straightening from her task. She looked over at him. “Selling’s more the word. Look,” she went on, as he was sputtering with shock and outrage, “I don’t have time for all this. Something very bad is about to happen. And I don’t want you to get hurt. The others”—she glanced back over her shoulder, out the door, where Grant could hear the sound of voices, speaking in tight, tense monosyllables—”they came for the money. And me—I’m in it ... well, for my own reasons.
“But you.” She gazed at Jeffrey Grant and her expression softened. Her eyes shifted to the robot lying on the cold steel table. “You came after a dream,” she said. “I suppose it’s more worthy dying for a dream than for money. But you’re still just as dead.” Her gaze—now it was a searching look—left the robot and flicked over the sick bay. Her eyes fixed on a small steel door, as if her own morbid thoughts had led that direction.
MORGUE was stenciled on the steel door in white letters.
“By God,” she said. “That’s it. Look, do you know what’s going on?”
“I don’t know how I could be expected to know, after—”
“Fine. Never mind. I’ll tell you. Corasians are about to board this ship. Hundreds of Corasians. Have you ever seen a Corasian, Mr. Grant?”
He had, but only in vid games.
“Let me tell you about them,” Tess continued. “They are some form of mostly energy, we don’t quite know what. They look like blobs of molten lava, but they’re intelligent blobs. They have a great fondness for human flesh. They devour their victims slowly, starting at the feet and working upward, encasing the person in what might be termed gelatinous fire. It is a terrible way to die, Mr. Grant. That’s why those men there—Xris, I mean Captain Kergonan—and the rest, are getting ready to fight to the death. They don’t have a prayer, a hope of surviving. They don’t want to survive. A laser blast through the head is much less painful.”
“Are ... are you going to shoot me?” Jeffrey Grant asked, thinking that this was what all this had been leading up to. He wondered how he felt about being shot, but his emotions were so drained that he really couldn’t decide.
“No,” said Tess. “I’m going to give you a chance to save your skin. Through that door are tubes, which are built into the spaceplane’s bulkheads. Those tubes are meant to hold corpses, to keep them in storage until autopsies can be performed, or until proper burial can be arranged. If you have the courage, Mr. Grant, you can hide in
one of the tubes. I don’t think the Corasians will find you.”
“You don’t think. You can’t be certain....” Jeffrey Grant stared at the steel door marked MORGUE. Images of being buried alive filled his mind.
“I can’t be certain of anything, Mr. Grant,” Tess said tensely. “It’s up to you. I’ve got to go. You don’t have much time, Mr. Grant. I suggest you make up your mind.”
She started to leave, the belt with the grenades in her hand.
“What are you going to do?” Grant wondered.
“What I have to do,” Tess responded, and hurried out the door. She made certain it was shut and sealed behind her.
“Humpf,” said Jeffrey Grant. He opened the door marked MORGUE, found himself in an extremely small room. A neat stack of bags—presumably body bags— were piled up in a corner, took up about one-third of the deck space. Directly opposite him, mounted on the bulkhead, were three small hatches, each with a spin-lock.
Grant touched experimentally a button beside one of the hatches. The hatch swung open. He peered inside, then crawled inside, to see what it would be like.
What it was like was cold, with a peculiar smell— disinfectant. Lying prone in the tube (there was no room to sit up—which function, of course, most occupants of the morgue were not expected to perform), Grant discovered that it was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to operate the hatch from the inside. Which made him wonder how he was supposed to get out, once he got in.
A lever labeled EMERGENCY HATCH RELEASE proved to be the answer. Either the designers had thoughtfully provided an exit in case someone was placed here by mistake or, more likely, this was a standard safety requirement, perhaps for those who entered to clean and disinfect.
Jeffrey Grant climbed out again. He opened the door on the second tube, was looking inside and considering his next move, when the ship jounced, rocked, dropped, and then settled into place with a horrendous bang. The jolt threw Grant off balance. He fell on the pile of body bags.
Obviously, the PRRS had landed. No one had, of course, bothered to inform him where, but then, “I’m a civilian.” Grant growled to himself.
He made up his mind then and there to go ahead with his plan. He might be a civilian, but he knew that the robot should not, on any account, under any circumstances, be allowed to fall into enemy hands.
Outside, he could hear Captain Kergonan shouting, something about “blow the hatch.”
Jeffrey Grant gathered up one of the body bags and, lugging the bag in his arms, he hastened over to the steel table on which lay the dead robot.
“They’re going to blow the hatch!” Xris yelled. He could hear the clamping sounds of explosive charges being placed on the outside. “Everyone set?”
He and Harry, armed with beam rifles, stood well back from the hatch, behind a girder. When the hatch blew, they would pour blazing death at whatever tried to get inside. The others were spread out through the PRRS. Jamil was prepared to blow out the viewscreens. Tycho, with his sharpshooter’s aim, would pick off anyone attempting to enter the plane from that direction. Bill Quong stood to one side, armed with a pistol and the stun grenade. He would toss it in when the firefight was turning the wrong way.
Raoul wandered into view, carrying a tray of drinks. He was dressed in a vibrant orange suit with wide, flowing pants and long, flowing sleeves, cut low to reveal the Adonian’s shoulders.
“I won’t be buried in olive drab,” Raoul remarked in passing.
Xris could have told him that he wouldn’t be buried at all, decided to skip it. The smell of lilac lingered in the air. “Jamil, Tycho, Quong, report in.”
Silence.
That was definitely not right.
Xris tried again. “Jamil! Report in! That’s an order!”
Nothing.
“Tycho, turn on your translator!”
No apology from the chameleon.
“Quong? Where the devil are you?”
Silence.
What was going on now?
“Harry, stay here. I think my comm’s out. I’m going to check on—”
He turned, saw Tess standing right behind him. She held up a grenade for him to see, then tossed it into the small enclosed area in which they were standing.
The grenade rolled to a halt, almost at Xris’s feet.
“I’ll save you!” Harry cried.
He flung his body full length on the grenade.
“Harry, it’s a—”
There was a muffled whump, a soft hissing sound. Yellow-gray fog curled up from beneath Harry’s broad stomach. Harry grunted. A funny look crossed his face. He lifted his head.
“Sleep-gas grenade,” Xris said.
“Yeah, I—” Harry’s eyes blinked, his head lolled, thumped down on the deck.
Tess lifted a gas mask, placed it over her nose and mouth, and set off another grenade.
Xris tried to raise his gun, to fire, but the weapon fell from his hand. He keeled over, halted his fall with his hand, tried to push himself back up, fighting the gas, fighting the darkness that was his brain shutting down.
He lost, pitching forward onto the deck.
“I’m sorry, Xris.” Tess’s voice, muffled by the gas mask.
Yeah, right.
Chapter 40
Unless someone has the wisdom of a Sage, he cannot use spies; unless he is benevolent and righteous, he cannot employ spies. ... It is subtle, subtle!
Sun-tzu, The Art of War
Xris woke to a blind darkness, numbing cold, and a throbbing pain behind his eyes. Memory was blessedly fuzzy for a few minutes, then he saw Tess with the gas grenades and heard her “I’m sorry.” He knew then what had happened and where he was. Dark, cold, like a refrigerator. Very much like a refrigerator. He was in a Corasian “meat locker.”
He lay still, trying to think, to force his brain to work when it would have much preferred to crawl off in a hole and howl. The pain was nothing more than the aftereffects of the sleep gas. It would go away. The gut-twisting knowledge of defeat, the certain knowledge of the horrible fate which awaited him and the members of his team would not go away. He asked of the Creator only one thing before he found himself listed on the Corasian dinner menu as “Catch of the Day.” He wanted to get his hands on Tess. Preferably the hand with the vise grip.
It was at that moment that he realized he had another problem.
His hand was missing.
“Shit!” Xris sat up.
“Xris is awake,” said a voice in the darkness— Tycho’s, by the mechanical sound.
Xris readjusted his cybernetic eye to infrared, was then able to see the warm bodies of his friends, though nothing else.
Corasians have no eyes and therefore have no need for lights on board their spacecraft. The darkness was absolute. Xris was the fortunate one. He could at least see heat sources. His fellow team members, not gifted with his augmented vision, were effectively as blind as if their eyes had been gouged out.
He made a quick count. At least they were all here and, since they were all radiating body heat, they were all still alive. Xris felt better. Not much, but some.
“How are you, my friend?” Quong asked, peering into the darkness in the completely wrong direction.
“Over here, Doc. I’m wonderful, absolutely wonderful. Well rested. Don’t know when I’ve slept better. How about the rest of you?”
“The same,” Jamil said lightly. “I’m thinking of going jogging.”
“I’m okay,” said Harry. He cleared his throat. “Uh, about that grenade, Xris—”
“You saved my life, Harry,” Xris said solemnly, suddenly glad of the darkness that was hiding his smile. “Well, you would have, if that grenade had been the exploding kind. But that was still the bravest thing I ever saw anyone do. I mean it, Harry, I owe you one.”
“Naw, you don’t, Xris.” Harry was pleased, probably blushing. “You’ve saved my skin plenty. Don’t give it a second thought.”
During the conversation, Quong h
ad crawled over in Xris’s direction, found Xris by clutching at him.
“Do you think the place is bugged? Do you think Harsch is listening?” he asked in a low voice, using their subcutaneous commlinks.
“Wouldn’t you?” Xris replied dryly. “And he might be able to pick up even that much noise. Keep it down. Way down.” He added aloud, “Say, do any of you guys happen to know what happened to my hand? I can’t seem to find it anywhere.”
“Maybe you left it in your other pants,” Raoul said, and burst into a lit of high-pitched laughter.
“What’s the matter with him?” Xris asked.
“He’s been like that ever since he woke up. I am afraid that the sleeping gas mixed with some other chemical substance in his blood. The Little One won’t wake up at all. Well, he will, but he keeps drifting off to sleep again.”
“ The bastards took off my hand, didn’t they? Fortunately it was the cosmetic one. Keep talking, Doc. I have to check something.”
Under cover of Quong’s long-winded diagnosis of the Little One’s condition, Xris pulled up his pants leg. He snapped open the compartment, felt inside, sighed in grim relief. His weapons hand and his tool hand were still there, along with various assorted small rockets and other implements.
Quong finished. “Are they there?”
“Yeah. So, Harry,” said Xris loudly, “tell us more about Professor Lasairion.”
“Huh? Now?”
Tycho. sitting next to him, nudged him in the ribs.
“What? Oh, yeah, sure. Let’s see. I think I can remember most of it. Mom always said I had a photogenic memory. Professor Lasairion was born in Belfast, Ireland, Earth, in the year 2069. He was one of twelve children ...”
“The Corasians took your hand,” Quong said softly. “I was just coming around and I saw two of them in here, working on you. The blobs lit up the place nicely, plus the humans carried nuke lamps. A man, whom I assume was Harsch, was with them, plus four other humans, probably his bodyguards. And the charming Captain Strauss.”
“Bless her little heart. She must have told them I was a cyborg I’m probably damned lucky that’s the only piece they took off me,” Xris said.
Robot Blues Page 35
