Robot Blues (26 page)

“They had me
surrounded,” Xris had told her. “Brought me in at gunpoint. I asked to be
locked up in the brig for life, but they said no, my sentence was to give a
speech.”

Tess had laughed,
kissed him lightly on the cheek “for luck,” and had gone to sit next to her
roommates.

The small
auditorium held about two hundred people and, as Tess had predicted, it was
practically a sellout. Someone in back shut the doors leading into the
auditorium. The crowd settled down, if not to enjoy the speech, at least to
find some amusement in the discomfiture of the speaker.

Xris opened his
mouth. His voice cracked. He coughed, cleared his throat, and looked around
nervously. “If I could ... uh ... have a glass of water?”

Colonel Strebbins
himself rose from the seats in the front row to pour Xris a drink, placed it
next to him on the podium. He patted Xris on the back, said gently “You’re
doing fine. Captain,” and resumed his seat.

“Thank you, sir,”
Xris mumbled. He looked down at Jamil’s notes, which now appeared to have been
written in hieroglyphs. He could make nothing of them.

Lifting his head,
he looked again out into the audience and was immediately sorry he’d done so.
His panicked thoughts flitted to the time he’d gone behind enemy lines, sneaked
into a Corasian “meat locker” to rescue his estranged wife. He was being hunted
by the deadly, flesh-devouring aliens. Breaking out of their robotic cases, the
fiery orange blobs oozed across the floor toward him. He fired at them, but
they kept coming....

Xris stared into
the flesh-devouring eyes of his audience and would have liked to do now what he
had done then.

Run. Run like
hell.

Colonel Strebbins
gave a polite cough. “Anytime you’re ready, Captain.”

Xris gulped down
more water, sucked in a breath, activated the holographic display, and launched
into his speech.

“Er, um, as you
well know, the delicate Clormin Turbocharged Hyper Velocity Spaceplane Engine
used on the lighter spaceplanes can be a difficult maintenance job. Even when
working correctly, the engine can act up for a variety of reasons. Now let’s
imagine ...”

Xris paused,
fumbled with the controls, and finally brought up the first holograph—a
beautiful human female clad in the uniform of a maintenance worker, holding a
soft-drink can. A Dirk fighter was warming up in the background.

“Let’s imagine,”
Xris continued, “what would happen if our corporal here were to let go of that
Coke can....”

Xris shifted to
the next holographic image, which showed the same Dirk fighter, smoke billowing
out the engine port, and the beautiful woman running for her life. The audience
was highly amused, and someone in the back gave the holographic woman a cheer
to spur her on.

Colonel Strebbins
turned, glared at the unknown offender. The audience quieted.

Xris lost his
place. By the time he found it, he had decided that the best thing he could do
was get this over with as quickly as possible.

“Just imagine what
a plasma retainer screw or ...”

Proceeding at a
rapid pace, without any real idea of what he was saying, he tried, at all cost,
to avoid looking at his audience. He kept his gaze fixed on his notes in order
not to lose his place again. But the sound of the door opening at the back of
the auditorium drew his attention. A man in uniform was attempting to sneak in
quietly.

The door shut
behind the man. Xris went back to his notes. Suddenly he realized who the man
was. Xris looked up in astonishment. What he had been going to say dribbled
away to an incoherent burble.

Dr. Bill Quong,
wearing the uniform of any Army medical officer, attache case in hand, was
seating himself in the back row. Quong might have made some hand sign to Xris,
but at that moment Colonel Strebbins, attracted by the sound of the door
opening, again whipped around to glare at whoever was interrupting.

Seeing a strange
medical officer, Strebbins stared, turned to his aide, whispered something.

The aide glanced
back, spotted Quong, who gave a slight nod of apology and subsided into a seat.
Shrugging, the aide turned back to the colonel, who shrugged and turned back to
Xris.

Xris had no idea
what Quong was doing here. Why had he come? How had he known that the job had
gone sour? Xris wasn’t at all sure he was glad to see him. The fewer of them
involved in this mess, the better.

The audience began
to stir restlessly. Xris tried to remember where he’d left off, didn’t have a
clue. In attempting to bring up the next holograph image, he accidentally shut
off the machine and had no idea how to start it again. Choosing a place in the
notes that looked as good as any, he began to speak. By the time he’d reached
the third sentence, he realized he was repeating himself. At that point, it
didn’t matter. He floundered on.

“Uh, oh, yes,
sorry, I said that already. Yes. Um, now, about those pesky turbine blades
twirling around to keep the reactor core, um, well, cool, and then this object
comes hurtling in, sucked in by the air intake, and striking the blades.
Catastrophic results would occur. The object might glance off the blades and
impact the plasma bottle, causing ...”

The door opened
again. Xris continued talking during this second interruption, fighting gamely
to retain his hold on his audience. He had no idea what he was saying, but it
didn’t matter, because no one was listening to him. The colonel had again
turned to see who was entering late and this time his stare attracted the
attention of everyone in the room.

An excessively
tall and extremely thin humanoid, whose skin had assumed the same gray shade as
his uniform, stood just inside the door. Tycho spotted Quong, pretended not to
see him, took a seat at the aisle. The people next to him immediately moved a
seat or two away. Not because they were prejudiced against aliens, but because
Tycho wore the gray uniform of the branch of the military known as
Unconventional Warfare. The insignia on his shirt identified him as a SyOps
with BCW—Biological and Chemical Warfare.

BCWs were
notoriously unpopular, being generally suspected of harboring all sorts of
deadly viruses.

Tycho folded his
long body into the chair, which was not made for “chameleons,” and sat, arms
and legs akimbo, his knees practically up to his shoulders.

“What the hell is
he
doing here?” Colonel Strebbins demanded of his aide in a voice that was
meant to be low but—due to the excellent acoustics—carried throughout the
auditorium.

“Possibly
something to do with contamination ... the crash site ...” his aide was heard
to respond.

Xris plunged
loudly forward. “And, um, then there is always the problem of indigenous life
acting as foreign objects being ingested into the intake of a spaceplane. One
small sakira lizard sleeping in the engine cowling could cause ...”

Tess was gazing at
him. She wasn’t smiling; she looked ... bemused.

Xris was feeling
bemused himself. Fortunately, due to unintentionally cutting out three
paragraphs, he had arrived at the halfway point. The end in sight, he was
racing on to the finish when he heard several members of the audience start to
snicker. A faint scent, as of orange blossoms, wafted through the air.

Xris jerked his
head up. The door at the rear remained shut. No one had walked in. But the
audience was now chuckling. People pointed to something happening on the stage
behind Xris.

Colonel Strebbins,
eyes bulging, gaped.

Xris turned to
look over his shoulder.

Raoul was mincing
across the stage on tiptoe. Seeing himself noticed, he halted, waved a delicate
hand. “Don’t mind me.”

“Who the devil are
you?” Strebbins demanded.

“Ah, Colonel,
darling.” Raoul advanced to the front of the stage. He was dressed in a uniform
that, by its tailored cut and elegant material, was obviously not Army issue.
His hat sat at a jaunty and strictly nonregulation angle on his head. His
salute, accompanied by a wiggle of his hips, brought down the house.

“Corporal de
Beausoleil. Morale Troops. Here for next week’s show. Just thought I’d sneak a
peek at the stage. I had no idea anyone was in here. Silly me! Carry on,
Captain,” he said to Xris. “So sorry to interrupt. Bye.”

With a kiss of his
hand, he left the stage, to the accompaniment of whistles and cheers. Colonel
Strebbins’s aide rose to his feet and turned to face the crowd, which suddenly
fell silent.

Xris sought refuge
in another glass of water. He had seen, in the wings, the Little One peering at
him from beneath the fedora. Xris opened his mouth when the door at the rear of
the auditorium banged open.

At this point,
Xris wouldn’t have been surprised if His Majesty the King had entered. The
sight of Harry Luck, wearing a Naval pilot’s flight suit, his helmet dangling
by a strap from his hand, his flight suit torn and ripped, a trickle of blood
running down his face, didn’t phase Xris in the least.

Harry dashed in,
saw Xris, saw the audience—every one of whom had turned at the sound of the
door banging to stare at this new arrival.

Harry’s jaw
sagged; his mouth fell open. He flushed a deep and unhealthy shade of red. Dr.
Quong was on his feet, taking charge of the situation. Grasping Harry firmly by
the arm, the doctor led the big man to a seat, shoved him into it.

“ Even the Navy
showed up to hear this speech,” Strebbins said, awed.

The audience was
having a hard time settling back down. Judging by their grins, this was the
most fun they’d experienced in a year. Under cover of the whispers, coughs, and
muffled laughter, Dr. Quong frowned, leaned over to Harry, said something on
the order of “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

Harry, looking
aggrieved, responded. Xris knew exactly what the big man was saying.

“But I heard Xris
was in trouble ...”

Xris pitched out
two pages of notes, found the ending, delivered it.

“And, in
conclusion, I just want to apologize for the fact that, due to the lack of
time, I am unable to show you the exhibits I brought with me. I leave you with
this important reminder: FOD, or Foreign Object Damage, cannot only kill you,
it can ruin an otherwise clean maintenance record!”

The audience, in a
good humor, gave Xris a rousing round of applause. Most even remained in their
chairs a few extra seconds, obviously hoping for more.

The colonel
ascended the stage, congratulated Xris on a fine job, shook his hand. “Sorry
about the interruptions,” the colonel said. “I had no idea this topic would
prove so popular!”

“Me either, sir,”
Xris said with heartfelt sincerity.

He tried to catch
Quong’s eye, but the Doc was deep in a low-voiced conversation with Harry.
Tycho was on his feet, moving to the back of the auditorium. Xris had no idea
where Raoul and the Little One had gone, though obviously not far. He could
still smell orange blossoms.

“We’ll have you
back next year,” the colonel promised.

Turning on his
heel, he walked up the aisle, headed for the door. The other officers filed out
behind him. The enlisted personnel were on their feet, waiting their turn. Xris
cast a quick look about for Tess, but couldn’t find her.

The colonel had
just reached the back of the auditorium when the door opened yet again.

Jamil walked in.

Xris didn’t know
whether to kiss him or slug him.

“Colonel Jatanski!”
Colonel Strebbins was enthusiastic. “You just missed it. Captain Kergonan did a
fine job. A fine job. I guess the court-martial proceedings were pretty rough,
huh? You don’t look as if you’d slept much. You can tell me all about it at
dinner.”

Jamil mumbled
something unintelligible. The colonel took a close look at the new arrivals.
Dr. Quong and Tycho both saluted smartly. Harry saluted, but only after Quong
elbowed him in the ribs.

The colonel made a
short speech of welcome, walked out.

Jamil, carrying a
metal briefcase, shoved his way through the departing audience, continued down
the aisle. Handsome, suave, urbane, Jamil invariably looked as if he’d just
stepped through the doors of a modeling agency. Now he looked as if he’d just
stepped through the gates of hell. His handsome features were soft and blurred
from fatigue, his eyes were bloodshot. His uniform was rumpled and
sweat-stained. He didn’t see Tycho, though he walked right past him; didn’t
notice Quong and Harry.

Xris waited, tense
and nervous, beside the podium. Whatever had gone wrong had obviously gone
wrong big-time. The auditorium was emptying out. Quong, Harry, and Tycho
lingered behind, watching for a sign from Xris, who—not knowing what was going
on—decided to leave them where they were, for the present.

He would have
given anything for a twist now, was wondering if he might not be able to slip
one into his mouth when he felt something cold and hard press into the small of
his back.

“This is a .10
decawatt lasgun,” said a voice.

Xris went rigid.

“Continue to act
naturally, Captain,” the voice went on. “Keep your hands where I can see them.
You and your friends are going to join me for a nice, quiet little chat. But
first you’re going to answer one question.”

Tess jabbed Xris
painfully in the back with the gun. “What the hell have you done with the
robot?”

The past is but
the beginning of a beginning and all that has been is but the twilight of the
dawn.

H. G, Wells,
The Discovery of the Future

“All right,” said
Xris, keeping his hands in plain sight, “I think it ‘s about time someone tells
me just what the hell is going on!”

“Isn’t that a
coincidence,” Tess said coolly, making certain he continued to feel l the
pressure of the gun in his back. “I was thinking the same thing. We’ll wait
right for those men of yours to come up to be introduced Oh, and don’t worry
about your pretty boy and his funny little friend. I have them tied up at the
back oft the stage.”