Robot Blues (13 page)

“He said that?”
Darlene was skeptical.

“Not precisely in
those words,” Raoul admitted. “He left it to me to translate. But I believe
that this accurately describes what he is feeling. Are you going to contact
Xris Cyborg?”

“There’s no way I
can contact him,” Darlene said, eyeing the Little One worriedly. “He and Jamil
are already on the Army base. We’re not supposed to contact them—”

“Except in an
emergency,” Raoul interrupted.

Darlene thought it
over, shook her head. “What would I say? Be careful because the Little One is
experiencing strange feelings he can’t explain?”

Raoul considered. “You
might tell Xris to examine carefully the stitching on any shirts he purchases.”

At this, the
Little One let out a screech—a startling and unnerving sound, which caused the
swan to flutter in the water and head for the opposite shore. Shaking his fists
in disgust—perhaps at Raoul, perhaps at Darlene, perhaps at the swan, or
perhaps at nothing—the Little One slid off the chair and stomped moodily into
the house, angrily kicking the raincoat’s hem with each step.

“Oh, God! My
party,” Raoul moaned, and collapsed onto the table, his head pillowed on his
arms.

“Oh, God ... Xris,”
Darlene murmured.

“Absent friends.”

Toast for the day, Sunday, Royal Navy

On leaving the
officers’ mess, Xris took a quick stroll to the part of the base located near
the construction site. He was pleased to note that, while it was a part of the
base in use during the day, it was likely to be deserted at night. This was the
base maintenance area; vehics of all sorts, in various states of disrepair,
were parked here.

Up against the
fence sat three PV-L Devastator light tanks, two with their power packs
removed, one with the turret half disassembled. Utility trucks in winter
camouflage stood in a line, probably recently arrived from off-world and
waiting for a desert paint job. A seventy-two-ton hoverwrecker gleamed at the
end of the row. The wrecker was the pride of the workshop and proudly displayed
the maintenance symbol on the front bumper. A sergeant was still about. The man
glanced at Xris curiously as he sauntered past; the sight of a stranger in this
area was enough to arouse his interest.

Xris walked over. “Evening,
Sergeant.” Xris gazed around the garage with the fond expression of someone who
was returned home after a prolonged absence.

“Captain,” said
the sergeant, glowering and wiping his greasy hands on a rag. This was the
sergeant’s domain and he was clearly suspicious of high-ranking intrusion. “Can
I do something for you, sir?”

“Not at the
moment. Sergeant. I’ve got a warning light on a remote-controlled,
temperature-regulated storage crate. I’d like you to take a look at it.”

“Pardon me, sir,
but ... warning against what?”

“Biohazard. There’s
nothing to worry about, though. The warning light isn’t flashing like it’s
warning against anything. It’s flashing like it’s malfunctioning. I can tell
the difference.”

“Yes, sir.” The
sergeant was not convinced.

“And there’s
nothing to worry about unless the crate is opened in an improper manner.
Certain systems have to be shut down first, in the correct order. Any mistake
there and ...” Xris shrugged, left the details to the sergeant’s imagination,
which must have been fairly active.

The sergeant
backed up a step, glanced nervously around. “Did you bring the crate with you,
sir?”

“No. I didn’t want
to lug the damn thing around with me while I searched for maintenance. I’ll
drop it off tonight. You can check it out tomorrow. Where should I stash it?”

“How about over
there, sir? Next to that hoverjeep with the banged-up fender. No one will
bother it, sir. You can bet on that.”

“Fine. I’ll come
around sometime tomorrow, be on hand in case you need to open it.”

“Yes, sir. Thank
you, sir.” The sergeant appeared vastly relieved. Perhaps he had tomorrow off.

“Don’t let me
interrupt your work.” Xris reached his hand to his pocket, automatically, to
pull out a twist. He caught himself halfway. “My first assignment was a
maintenance troop with the Thirtieth Field Artillery Regiment. Repair and
overhaul. We worked on those old modified Devastators. God!” Xris shook his
head. “What a bucket of bolts!”

“Yes, sir.” The
sergeant agreed, more at ease now that he knew the malfunctioning biohazard
crate wasn’t going to be making an appearance anytime soon. “They were that.
But once you got ‘em movin’, there wasn’t much around that could stop them.
Why, I remember once ...”

The sergeant
related a tale. Xris listened, laughed, and twice had to stop his hand from
reaching for his pocket. The sergeant finished his story, offered to show Xris
around the yard.

“Thanks, Sergeant,
but it looks like you’re closing up shop. Must be past your dinnertime. Or are
you in charge of the night shift?”

“Night shift!” The
sergeant snorted. “Begging your pardon, sir, what would we run a night shift
around here for? It’s not like we ever see any action. Busted axles, flat
tires, the occasional blown engine, clogged air jets— that’s the extent of the
work around here. I was staying late to do a little project of my own. If you’d
care to see, sir?”

Xris had found out
all he needed to know, but he stayed a few moments longer to admire an ancient
internal combustion engine which the sergeant had discovered in a corner of one
of the storage sheds, resurrected it, and was now in the act of restoring. Xris
was properly enthusiastic. He stayed to watch the sergeant lovingly cover the
engine in a drop cloth.

“You heading back
to the barracks, sir?” the sergeant asked.

“No, not right
away,” Xris answered. “I thought I’d take a stroll around the base.”

The sergeant was
regarding him with wry sympathy. He leaned close, said in a low voice, “If you
want a smoke, sir, head over by the storage sheds near the fence. It’ll be
deserted this time of night.”

Xris stared at the
man.

The sergeant
chuckled. “I saw your hand go to your pocket, sir. I’m a smoker myself. Can’t
beat a good cigar, eh, sir? If there’s nothing else—”

“No, Sergeant.”
Xris smiled. “Thanks. You’ve been a big help. Uh, which way—”

“That way, sir.
Out this door and turn to your right.”

Xris nodded. The
sergeant pulled shut the door to the maintenance shed, locked it, then saluted
and headed back toward the barracks.

“By God,” Xris
said to himself, walking in the direction indicated, the direction that led him
toward the fence, “that was a stroke of luck. Here I was trying to think of
some way to get rid of the guy and he sends me right where I want to go.
Easiest job ever, so far.”

The maintenance
shed was a large, hutlike building made of corrugated steel, located only a few
meters from the fence, directly opposite the construction site. Walking over by
the fence, Xris could see the glow of the security lights illuminating the site
of the downed spaceplane. He was almost directly across from it. Little more
than a kilometer away.

He couldn’t have
ordered anything more perfect. Pulling the gold case from the compartment in
his leg, Xris took out a twist, lit it, and inhaled deeply, thankfully. After a
few puffs, he tossed the butt end of the twist at the fence. The twist struck
the metal. Blue light flashed; there was a sizzling sound. Xris grunted. He’d
expected as much. Turning, certain now that the sergeant must be long gone, Xris
headed back for the shed.

Both maintenance
shed and yard were lit by overhead nuke lamps, the only lights around, with the
exception of a few security lights above the fence. Xris was satisfied. The
yard was the perfect place to stash the storage crate.

Getting off the
base was the next problem. Xris strolled back over to the fence, indulged in
another smoke. He wasn’t planning on going through the fence. It would sizzle
his butt as fast as it had sizzled the twist’s. In addition, the fence was
undoubtedly loaded with sensor devices, including backup sensors if something
happened to the first. But Xris didn’t need to get over the fence. He could
enter the construction site by an easier route. The robot crate needed to get
over the fence. It had jets, operated by remote control, and wasn’t going to be
bothered by a few strands of barbed wire.

The only problem
might be some type of magnetic force field radiating up from the top of the
fence. Jamil hadn’t considered that likely, and Xris, making his inspection,
didn’t see any indication. He waited a moment and was rewarded by the sight of
a low-flying bird skimming over the fence without incident.

It was a sign from
the gods. If it had been a dove, Xris might have found religion. As it was, he
figured all he had to do was stash the crate in the maintenance shed, come back
at o-dark-thirty, when everyone but the guards would be in bed, haul out the
crate, place it next to the fence. Once he reached the construction site, Xris
would use the remote to hoist the crate up and over the fence. He’d leave the
crate by the fence, retrieve the ‘bot from the crashed plane, haul the ‘bot to
the fence, stuff the ‘bot in the crate, send the crate with the ‘bot back over
the fence. He’d return to base, stash the crate in the maintenance yard again,
collect it when he and Jamil were ready to leave.

If anyone wondered
what he was doing with the crate over near maintenance, instead of at the
lecture hall, Xris had already established that the case was malfunctioning; he
had brought it over to maintenance to repair.

He took a look at
the auditorium in which the phony Colonel Jatanski would be making his speech.
Having located the large, empty lecture room, Xris spent several minutes
checking out the lighting, testing the sound, putting the podium into place,
doing all those chores a captain should be seen to be doing when preparing for
a speech to be given by his colonel. When Xris was finished, he walked back
outside.

He stood in the
darkness, enjoying the warm night air. His next task: to find out how easy it
would be to get off base.

Xris sauntered
over to the front gate. The lights of the nearby town gleamed in the distance.
Must be only a couple of kilometers, a pleasant walk beneath starlit night
skies. The gate was wide open; two MPs—a private and a corporal—lounged in the
guardhouse, talking companionably. The private’s beam rifle was slung across
one shoulder. The corporal had leaned his rifle upright against the wall of the
guardhouse while he poured himself a cup of coffee. These two were not
expecting trouble.

Xris called a
greeting as he strolled nonchalantly through the gate.

The private dashed
out after him.

“Captain. Excuse
me, sir”—the private caught up with Xris, saluted—”but could I see your orders?”

“No orders, Private,”
Xris answered in a friendly tone. “I’m off duty, thought I’d walk into town,
check out the local nightlife.”

“Sorry, sir, but
the town’s off-limits. No one’s allowed to leave base without written orders.”

“Damn,” Xris said.
“Town that rough, huh?”

“No, sir.
Actually, the town’s very nice. We’ve never had any problem with the locals. It’s
an agreement between the base and the central Pandoran government. They don’t
like off-worlders.”

Xris considered.
He could get nasty, point to his captain’s bars, shove his jaw in the private’s
face, but that would only create animosity, might start raising questions.

“I see.” Xris
shrugged. “Guess there’s nothing much left for me to do but go back to bed.”

“Sorry, sir. There’s
the officers’ mess, sir,” the private added.

Xris grimaced. “My
colonel’s in there, if you take my meaning.”

The private gave
Xris a knowing grin. “Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

“Good night,
Private.” Xris turned, shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled back in the
direction of his quarters.

On to Plan B. He
needed orders to leave the base. That should be easy enough to obtain. Pandor
was known galaxy-wide for its stout, which was dark, bitter, with a head on it
that, according to legend, you could land a spaceplane on. Colonel Jatanski was
particularly fond of Pandoran stout, wanted to replenish his supply. Xris
headed back toward the mess. He’d have Jatanski give him orders to go into
town.

“Pardon me—Captain
Kergonan?”

Xris looked up. It
was the blond captain, the one he’d spoken to earlier at the bar. She was
standing on the sidewalk, had probably just left the officers’ mess.

“Captain Strauss,”
he said, walking over.

“Frances,” she
said, smiling. “But everyone calls me Tess.”

“And I’m Xris.” He
smiled back. “Everyone calls me Xris.”

“I couldn’t help
noticing you talking to the guards,” she said, with a glance in the direction
of the gatehouse. “Passing the time of day with the MPs, or did you need
something?”

“What I needed was
a beer. They said I can’t go off base without written orders.”

“There’s the
officers’ mess,” Tess suggested.

“Too many
colonels,” Xris replied.

“One less colonel
now,” she said, smiling in understanding. “What with Jatanski leaving the base.”

Xris thought his
augmented hearing was acting up on him again.

“I beg your
pardon,” he said. “I didn’t quite catch that. Did you say something about
Jatanski leaving?”‘

“Why, yes? Didn’t
you know? I’m sorry. Colonel Strebbins sent a messenger to your quarters to
inform you. I guess he didn’t.”

“I didn’t go back
to my quarters. I took a walk to wake up after that speech, then I checked out
the lecture hall.” Xris was carefully casual. “Jatanski’s left the base, you
say? Where’s he gone? Into town to fight off six thousand wild-eyed bartenders
with a toothpick?”