Robot Blues (3 page)

Michael Armstrong
had been a Fed agent. He’d sold out to the Hung. It was Armstrong who set up
Xris and Mashahiro Ito to die in that munitions factory. A short time later,
Armstrong was found dead, murdered. The Hung, of course. Armstrong’s usefulness
to them had ended, and they’d rid themselves of a potential threat. That was
what the bureau claimed.

Dalin Rowan knew
different. Armstrong’s credit with the Hung hadn’t run out. He wasn’t a threat
to the Hung. He was a threat to someone else, someone in the bureau itself.

Rowan hadn’t been
able to find out much; just enough to make him nervous about accepting the
bureau’s phony ID. Dalin had to disappear completely, utterly, leaving no
trace. A few months of hormone treatments, the operation, and Dalin Rowan was
dead.

Darlene Mohini was
born.

Darlene Mohini’s
phony identity was so good that he—she—managed to gain security clearance at
the very top levels of the Royal Navy. She became a code-breaker, a code-maker.
Her abduction—by Xris—had forced the Royal Navy to all but shut down for
seventy-two hours while they changed their codes. Xris had ruined all that for
Darlene; he’d blown her cover and now he felt responsible for her safety. She
was a valued part of the Mag Force 7 mercenary team now, as well as— once
again—a trusted friend.

He and Darlene
both knew that the Hung would be after her; they should have figured the bureau
in on the hunt, too.

“Thank you, John
Dixter, for keeping her secret,” Xris said quietly, maneuvering the vehic down
the boulevard.

John Dixter, Lord
Admiral of the Royal Navy, knew the truth. He knew about Dalin Rowan, about
Major Darlene Mohini, about Darlene Rowan. The bureau was searching for Dalin.
But what about the Hung? Who were they searching for?

Xris had no
answers. He fretted and fumed and thought of this possibility and that
possibility and only when he realized he had no idea where he was or how he got
there did he force himself to snap out of it. He and Darlene had discussed all
this; he’d made the best possible arrangements to protect her, short of locking
her in a lead-lined container and sealing her up in cold storage.

“If the Hung are
going to end my life, Xris,” Darlene had said to him, “they’re going to end my
life.”

And so she was
working with the Mag Force 7 team, a group of mercenaries who were for hire to
anyone who had plastic enough to be able to afford the best in the business.
Someone could, apparently. Xris was on his way to the Megapolis Space and
Aeronautics Museum to meet with Dr. Michael Sakuta, curator, who’d expressed an
interest in hiring the team for a job.

Xris checked the
map in the rental vehic, discovered that, although part of his mind had
wandered, the other part was right on track. The residential section gave way
to an elite shopping district, and where that ended, the manicured lawns of the
museum began.

Xris parked the
vehic and mounted the broad marble stairs to the staid, columned portico. He
entered a side door, showed the pass that had been sent to him by the curator.
He was told how to find the museum’s offices, and walked into the gigantic,
echoing foyer into a throng of schoolchildren, who had stopped to gape at a
side by-side comparison of an ancient Atlas rocket booster and a compact,
powerful Naval spaceplane.

Xris paused to
listen to the guide, who was describing Earth’s first moon landing to the group
of now giggling children. The kids had probably been to Megapolis’s moon on
school outings. Glancing around the enormous room, Xris found Raoul and the
Little One. He did
not
see Amadi. Xris hadn’t really been expecting to.
That tailing business had been mostly for show—to shake Xris up, jolt him. Xris
gave Amadi credit. He’d succeeded.

As for keeping
Xris under surveillance, Amadi wasn’t the least bit interested in Xris’s
business, except to hope maybe Xris might lead them to Dalin Rowan, and Amadi
surely knew better than to figure Xris would make a blunder like that. As for
the Hung, if they didn’t know it, they soon would. Xris nominated several
likely candidates as Hung spies, fixed an image of each of them in his mind for
later reference, and strolled over to meet with Raoul and his diminutive
cohort.

Raoul was staring
at something—Xris couldn’t see what—with fixed intensity. Xris wondered what
had captured the Adonian’s attention. It could be anything from a holographic
rendering of the solar system to a trash receptacle. Dr. Quong had once
described Raoul’s thought processes as comparable to butterflies in a sunny
meadow: flitting happily this way and that, alighting on a bright-colored
flower, staying for a time, then fluttering off again. In this instance, Raoul
was transfixed by an illuminated and animated soft drink dispenser.

The Little One,
muffled in raincoat and fedora, stood patiently at his friend’s side, watching
Xris. The cyborg attempted to arrange his mind to meet the telepath’s searching
scrutiny. A hopeless task.

Walking up, Xris
tapped Raoul on the shoulder. “Most people come to look at the exhibits.”

Raoul—not the
least surprised—turned his unfocused gaze languidly on Xris, then sent it
wandering vaguely about the museum. “Whatever for?”

Xris was relieved
to see that Raoul was dressed quite conservatively in a dark suit, white shirt,
and hat. This outfit was such a radical change from the last Xris had seen
Raoul in—lime-green silk lounging pajamas—that Xris forgave the nipped-in waist
on the suit jacket, the mauve spats, which matched the mauve cravat, and the
six glittering earrings. Raoul had sleeked back his long black hair into a
ponytail. A homburg perched at a fashionable angle on his head and he carried a
walking stick with a pearl handle. He had only a hint of mauve on his eyelids,
a touch of mascara, and a soft pink lipstick. This was apparently Raoul’s
version of the well-dressed academic.

The Little One
tugged on Raoul’s coattail. The two spoke silently in whatever manner they
communicated. Raoul’s gaze shifted back to Xris. His eyes focused, his gaze
sharpened, the mauve eyelids narrowed.

Xris scowled at
the Little One, but by that time it was too late.

“He says you are
upset, Xris Cyborg,” Raoul murmured.

“I’m upset,” Xris
snapped. “Let’s leave it at that for the time being. We’re late as it is.
Sakuta’s offices are upstairs. We’ll walk. You have your passes?”

“Of course.”

Raoul cast one
last lingering glance at the soft drink machine, then followed Xris toward the
stairway, located some distance away from the main crowd. Since the staircase
led only to the museum offices and was marked
employees
only beyond this point
, the staircase was little used.

“Ask him”—Xris
jerked his thumb at the Little One— “if anyone’s taking an unusual interest in
us.”

“He says that one
gentleman is extremely taken with my hat,” Raoul replied.

“Not quite what I
had in mind,” Xris said.

“No, I didn’t
suppose it was.”

Raoul looked to
the Little One, who was standing on the stairs, scanning the crowd. At length,
the fedora shook back and forth.

“No, Xris Cyborg.
No one is focusing his or her thoughts on us at the moment.”

“Good,” Xris said.

“No one is
focusing his or her thoughts on Darlene Rowan, either,” Raoul continued
imperturbably.

Xris glared at the
Little One. “Just once, I’d like to have a private thought in my head. Just
once. Would that be too much to ask?”

The small telepath
cringed and sidled closer to Raoul, who rested a protective hand the the Little
One’s shoulder.

“He has no way of
knowing, my friend. The concept of privacy is unknown among his people—”

“Save it for Doc’s
thesis.” Xris snorted and climbed the stairs in glum and ill-tempered silence.

Raoul and the
Little One accompanied him, the Little One occasionally tripping over the long
raincoat he wore. The two were holding one of their incomprehensible
conversations.

“I was only going
to inquire ...” Raoul was saying in a loud whisper that echoed up the stone
staircase.

The Little One
waved one hand, made a tugging motion.

Raoul hushed,
listening to the Little One’s silent reply. Xris found the discussion highly
irritating. He could have ignored an ordinary conversation between two people,
but he couldn’t help listening to these two, couldn’t help trying to fill in
the blanks, so to speak, trying to guess what the Little One was silently
transmitting. And Xris always had the feeling that they were talking about him.

Which, in this
case, they were.

“I know he’s in a
bad mood,” Raoul responded, “but I don’t see any harm in asking ...”

The Little One was
holding forth again, apparently, because there was another burst of silence
from Raoul. Xris gritted his teeth, bit back an order for them both to shut up.

“It’s only once a
year,” Raoul said, aggrieved.

Xris came to a
halt on the first landing. “What is it?” he demanded.

“It is nothing,
Xris Cyborg,” Raoul demurred, lowering his purple-hued eyelids. “I was going to
request a leave of absence, but the Little One maintains that you are not in a
good mood and that therefore this would he an inappropriate time to approach
you—”

“Leave of absence?
What for?” Xris demanded, then remembered. “Oh, hell, is it that time of year
again? No, I may need you for this job.”

He began climbing
the stairs again.

“But if you don’t
need us?” Raoul pursued, assisting his small friend, who was having difficulty
traversing the broad stairs. Xris slowed his pace, though he did his best to
make it look unintentional.

“It’s a very
important holiday on my planet,” Raoul continued solemnly. “One that is fraught
with religious significance—”

Xris glanced
sideways at the Adonian. “It’s a carnival! A week of brawling, carousing, and
drunken orgies.”

“As I said”—Raoul
was grave—”it is fraught with religious significance. I was unable to attend
last year and my spiritual outlook on life was considerably diminished as a
result. I would very much like to attend this year and renew myself. The Little
One will, of course, accompany me.”

The cyborg knew
better than to pursue the subject of Adonian spiritual outlook. People made adult
vids out of those. Xris eyed the Little One, who was nodding the fedora. “What
does he do during the riots?”

“We do
not
riot,” Raoul said, dignity affronted. “The Little One finds the experience
cerebrally stimulating.”

Xris grunted. “I’ll
bet he does.”

“May we therefore
request a leave of absence?” Raoul asked.

“You can request
it.” Xris said in the tone which meant
No way in hell.

He marched on in
silence. Raoul sighed. The Little One fell over his raincoat.

Xris could almost
hear the words
I told you so
ripple through the air.

At the top of the
third flight of stairs, they entered an outer office. An efficient and
attractive female receptionist, whose choice of eye shadow and nail polish
received Raoul’s mark of approval, told them that they were expected and the
professor would be with them shortly. She had barely finished speaking when a
door in the back of the office opened.

“Ah, here’s the
professor now,” said the receptionist.

“Dr. Sakuta.” Xris
extended his hand—his right hand, flesh and blood and needing no adjustments as
to temperature. “These are my colleagues, Raoul de Beausoleil—”

Raoul offered the
fingertips of his hand. “Charmed,” he said, and meant it. Dr. Sakuta was a very
good-looking man.

“And this is the
Little One,” Xris added. “I spoke to you about him.”

“Your telepath.”
Sakuta nodded.

“I trust that’s
still all right with you,” Xris said. “Nothing personal, just a routine
precaution.”

Sakuta gazed at
the Little One with an abstracted air. The professor blinked, looked up. “Oh,
yes, certainly. Fine with me. I quite understand. In your line of work, you
must be careful. If you’ll just step into my office? Forgive the mess. They’re
renovating this part of the building.”

Entering his
office, Sakuta offered the one visible chair in the room to Xris. The professor
whisked a drop cloth off another chair, which he gave to Raoul. Sakuta glanced
uncertainly at the Little One; obviously no chair was suitable for the small
empath, who came only to Xris’s waist. The Little One took his accustomed place
beside Raoul, plopped down on the floor, and made himself comfortable.

“Is he all right
like that?” Sakuta asked in a low voice.

“He’s fine,” said
Raoul, melting. “Just perfectly fine. Thank you so much for caring.”

Sakuta shrugged
and walked around another piece of cloth-protected furniture to reach the chair
behind his desk. The room smelled strongly of paint. Half the walls were a
different color from the other half. A jet-powered ladder stood on the floor,
airbrushes gathered around it. The painters were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps
the professor had told them to take the day off.

Sakuta sat down at
the desk, then—blinking again— he stared at the open door. “Oh, dear,” he said,
and started to stand up. “This is very confidential.”

“I’ll get it,
Doctor,” Xris offered. Rising, he shut the door, returned to his seat.

“Thank you.”
Sakuta gave them an apologetic smile. “All this turmoil”—he made a vague
gesture to the walls—”it’s been a considerable strain. So difficult pursuing
one’s work. The constant distractions . . .” He blinked at them again, gave a
deprecating laugh. “It’s silly of me to complain, I know. Having one’s office
remodeled isn’t exactly a catastrophic event. But my life revolves around my
work.”