Robot Blues (7 page)

“Damn! What are we
going to do? We have to do something Xris,” Harry said, his face creased with
worry.

“I am,” Xris said,
rubbing his temples. His head ached. “I’m sending Darlene to Adonia with Raoul—”

“In time for the
festival?” Raoul was breathless from the suspense.

“Yes, in time for
the festival. You see—” He would have explained further, but Raoul had leaped
from his chair, hurled himself at Xris, and flung his arms around Xris’s neck.

“Thank you! Thank
you, my friend!” Raoul cried fervently. “You have no idea how much this means
to me. I unfortunately have been forced to miss the last three festivals and my
friends on Adonia are most annoyed with me since I owe them all parties and now
I will have a chance to fulfill my social obligations—”

Choking in a cloud
of lilac perfume, Xris endeavored to disentangle himself from the Adonian’s
fond embrace. “Your main obligation is to take care of Darlene. And don’t
forget it.” He rubbed his cheek where Raoul had planted a kiss, looked
suspiciously at the smear of red lipstick on his hand. “What is this? Do I need
an antidote or something?”

“No, no,” Raoul
said reassuringly, patting his hair— which had become mussed in the flurry of
the moment— and picking up the hat that had been knocked to the floor. “It is
ordinary lipstick. Berry Berry Delicious, if you want the name. It’s really
quite a becoming shade on you.”

“I don’t like
this, Xris,” said Harry Luck grimly. “I don’t like it one damn bit.”

“I don’t much like
it myself, Harry, but this is Darlene’s plan and it’s her decision and, all
things considered, I think it’s the best we can do—aside from you sitting
outside her door day and night with a beam rifle across your knees, of course.”

“And maybe that’s
what we should do,” Harry argued stubbornly. “Not let her go traipsing around
the universe with Mr. Berry Berry Delicious here—”

Raoul was
affronted. He smoothed his hair and regarded Harry with an icy, if somewhat
unfocused, stare.

“The Little One
and I pledge ourselves by all that Adonians hold sacred—”

“Condoms, lip
gloss, and styling mousse,” Quong whispered in a loud aside to Jamil.

Raoul’s lashes
fluttered, but he carried on. “—to keep Darlene Rowan safe and sound, and I
will hold myself bound by that pledge and the Little One will hold himself
bound—”

“All that binding,
sounds like an Adonian party to me,” Jamil said, nudging Quong.

“This is not
funny!” Harry shouted angrily. “Harry, listen—” Xris began.

“Indeed it is not,”
Raoul said, his lip quivering, his cheeks flushed crimson. “If you are
impugning our abilities, Harry Luck—”

“I’m not . . .
whatever that word is . . . anything.” Harry slammed his hand on the table,
rattling the water pitchers. “I’m just saying that I don’t think it’s a good
idea to send Darlene off with a poisoner and a telepath when the odds are that
some top-notch death squad is after her.”

“You
are
impugning our abilities!” Raoul returned, highly indignant. “I promise that we
will look after Darlene most assiduously!” He caught hold of the Little One,
who, at the torrent of conflicting emotions surging about the room, was
endeavoring to hide from them by crawling under the table. “And,” Raoul added
magnanimously, “I will do something about her hair at the same time.”

This pronouncement
broke up the meeting. Harry clenched his fists and kicked over his chair. Jamil
lay sprawled on the table, helpless with laughter. Tycho fumbled with his
translator, trying to find out what Darlene was doing with rabbits. Quong
offered to check Harry’s testosterone level. Raoul sniffed and held himself
aloof while the Little One tangled himself up in the tablecloth.

“Shut up,” Xris
said. “All of you.”

The words snapped.
Xris had the feeling he might snap next.

“Harry, sit down.
Raoul, get the Little One out from under there. Tycho, recalibrate that damn
translator. No one said anything about rabbits.”

Jamil raised an
eyebrow, exchanged glances with Quong. Harry, his choleric face splotched with
patches of white, mumbled something, returned to his seat. Raoul dragged the
Little One out from under the table, adding the loudly whispered admonishment
that he had better behave because Xris Cyborg was in a bad mood.

“Damn right I’m in
a bad mood,” Xris said. Taking out the golden case which held the twists, he
tapped the case on the table. “This is all my fault. I screwed up. I was
stupid. Careless. I had no idea the bureau was tailing me. They’ve probably
been at it for weeks now. Amadi showed himself because he needed to talk to me.
If Amadi had been the Hung, I’d have led them right to Darlene. Maybe I already
have. I don’t know.”

He tapped the case
on the table, frowned down at it.

Jamil shifted
uneasily in his chair, an expression of disapproval on his face. He was
ex-military, an officer. Superiors weren’t supposed to admit to making
mistakes, weren’t supposed to show weakness.

Harry Luck, big,
brawny, with as much muscles in his head as his arms, kept quiet. Xris would
have to explain this plan several times to Harry and even then the big man
might not catch on. Thoughts dropped down into his mind like the little steel
balls in a pachinko game, bounced around, sometimes hit, most of the time
missed. But he was a damn good pilot, one of the very best.

Bill Quong. Doctor
of medicine, degree in engineering. He kept them all in good working order,
Xris especially. Terse, pedantic, Quong reduced all of life to its chemical and
mechanical components. He preferred machines to people and his bedside manner
tended to reflect this. He was regarding Xris with professional concern,
probably wondering if his electrolyte count was out of whack.

Tycho. Tall,
humanoid in appearance, thin to the point of emaciation, he belonged to a race
known in slang terms as “chameleons” for their ability to alter skin color to
blend in with their surroundings—a handy skill for a sniper and a trained
assassin. His people had no facility for any human language, neither
comprehending it nor speaking it. He wore a translator for that purpose.
Unfortunately, the translator tended to miss a lot. The “chameleon” language
was immensely logical, highly structured and consequently had difficulty
handling the idiosyncrasies of human speech. Tycho’s use of cliches and
idiomatic expressions tended to be extremely colorful and possess meanings
never intended. He was clearly perplexed by what was going on. Between “impugned”
and “assiduously” his translator had probably overloaded.

The Little One,
empath, telepath, was staring at Xris from beneath the brim of the fedora. His
was a mysterious race, unknown to the rest of the universe, given the fact that
they were extraordinarily hideous-looking people (one reason he was muffled to
the eyes in raincoat and to the nose in fedora). To leave their planet was
punishable by death.

Somehow,
somewhere, the Little One had hooked up with Raoul, Adonian, Loti—slang for
habitual drug user—and one of the most expert chemists and poisoners in the
field. The two were an interesting pair, completely devoted to each other. The
empath was comfortable around the Loti, who functioned—generally—in a
drug-induced haze of pleasant thoughts and emotions. The Little One, as far as
Xris could determine, acted as Raoul’s guide dog, leading the Loti around the
obstacles and pitfalls of life.

The Little One was
now quivering beneath the rain coat, shivering in the emotional windstorm of
Xris’s anger, guilt, anxiety, and frustration.

Xris looked up. “There’s
not a damn thing I can do to help Darlene except keep away from her; draw them
off her, maybe draw them out. So that’s the plan. Harry, I gave Darlene all the
options. She chose to go with Raoul. If you want to argue with her, go ahead. I
don’t advise it. She was barely speaking to me when I left.”

Harry muttered
something unintelligible, shook his head. The others kept silent, so silent
that they could all hear the faint whir and hum of Xris’s machinery.

“Right,” Xris
said. “I think that’s it. Jamil, how long will it take you to gather everything
we need?”

Jamil cleared his
throat, sat up straight. “A couple of Army uniforms, standard-issue side arms,
insignia, medals, patches—I’ve got most of those at my place on Esquimalt.
Leaving tonight, I can be there by twelve hundred tomorrow.”

“Good. Meet me at
seventeen hundred hours the day after. I assume we can take a standard
spaceplane flight to Pandor?”

“Right. No need to
steal a fighter or anything.” Jamil was on his feet. “I’m a colonel and you’re
my aide, rank of captain, arriving to give the Army personnel on Pandor an
edifying and informative lecture which they’ve had scheduled for months, only
they just haven’t noticed it yet. I’ll need Darlene’s help to slip it into
their computer files. Is that all right?”

“She’ll be glad to
have something to do. Go on up to her room, tell her what you need. Take Raoul
and the Little One with you. The sooner you three leave”—Xris gave the nod to
Raoul—”the better.”

“Indeed,” Raoul
said, equanimity completely restored. “I have a great deal to do to arrange for
the party. There are the caterers to contact, the menu to consider. I am
certain that the house needs cleaning—”

“Just get Darlene
off this planet quickly and safely, will you, Loti?” Xris said grimly.

“Of course.” Raoul’s
lashes half closed. He glided over, wrapped a hand around Xris’s arm, his
flesh-and-blood arm, squeezed it gently. “Have no fear for Darlene, my friend.
We will take excellent care of her. And perhaps she may learn some things about
herself at the same time. She has been shut up inside a prison for the last
several years—”

“She’s been shut
up inside a secret military spacebase—”

“I don’t mean
that, Xris Cyborg.” Raoul’s voice was soft, low. “I mean a prison of her own
design. It is not her death you should be most concerned about, but her life.”

“What do you mean?
What about her life?”

“She doesn’t have
one,” Raoul said calmly. “Goodbye. Kiss, kiss.” He started to glide away,
turned back. The purple-drenched eyes were misty, shimmering, glazed. “Oh, and
you
will not
permit Harry Luck to accompany Darlene to Adonia, will you?
To think of him sprawled on my white velvet couch, in those dreadful T-shirts
he wears, drinking beer, belching, and munching potato chips.”

“ ‘The horror, the
horror,’ “ Xris said sympathetically.

Raoul swayed
slightly on his feet, put his hand to his head. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? Pardon,
Xris Cyborg. That last image has been too much. I feel faint. I believe I shall
go sit down a moment.”

“Xris, I—” Harry
was looming on the horizon.

“Wait a sec.”

The Little One,
instead of attending to his distraught friend, as would have been usual, was
standing in front of Xris.

“What is it?” Xris
asked gently. He had a real fondness for the small empath. “Is something wrong?”

The fedora nodded.

“What? Tell me.”

The Little One
raised his small hands, palms out.

“Something’s
wrong, but you don’t know what,” Xris guessed—correctly, it seemed. “Is it me?”

The Little One
nodded his head once, then shook it again and waved his hands, indicating that
yes, he knew Xris had problems, but that this wasn’t what was bothering him.

“Is it about
Darlene?” Xris tried again.

The Little One
thought a moment, then shook his head emphatically.

“What, then? The job?
The museum? Sakuta?”

The Little One
considered this. He nodded, but only tentatively.

“Something’s wrong
with this job?
What’s
wrong? Can you tell me? Can Raoul tell me?”

The Little One
shook his head, pulled the fedora down around his ears in a gesture of
frustration. Stamping his feet, he lifted his hands into the air, turned, and
stomped off, tripping over the hem of the raincoat as he went.

Xris, too, was
frustrated, considered going after the empath and trying to pin him down, then
decided against it. The Little One was obviously as upset with himself as Xris
was with him. Nagging at him wouldn’t help, might further upset him.

“As if we didn’t
have enough trouble,” Xris muttered. He thought over what might go wrong with
the job and, other than the obvious, like being arrested for impersonating an
officer, couldn’t think of a thing.

Paranoia must be
catching.

Xris turned to the
next problem, to tell Harry that he couldn’t go to Adonia because he’d never
make it through customs.

He just wasn’t
pretty enough.

I always say that
beauty is only sin deep.

Saki (Hector Hugh Munro),
Reginald

The only part of
the passport which Adonian customs officers inspect is the photo. On Adonia,
they don’t particularly care where you are from, where you are going, or how
you intend to get there. They’re not overly interested in what you are bringing
on-world, what you are intending to take off-world, or why you’re on their
world at all. They only want to know what you look like.

Eons ago, when
genetic altering was popular, scientists set out to breed a race of superior
people. Wise, intelligent, gifted with all manner of attributes, these people
were destined to be rulers and were known as the Blood Royal. The current king,
Dion Starfire, and now his newborn son, are the last of that bloodline. At that
time, the Adonians also began experimenting with genetics with hopes of
producing a superior being—one designed to meet their own standards. The
Adonians did not seek intelligence and wisdom. They sought aquiline noses, flat
ears, thin thighs, cleft chins, melting eyes, and firm buttocks. If you are
beautiful, reasoned the early Adonians, you don’t need to think. Thinking will
be done for you.