Robot Blues Read online

  Robot Blues

  A Mag Force 7 Novel

  By Margaret Weis and Don Perrin

  I’m so sad, got the robot blues.

  I’m so sad, got the robot blues.

  I’m so sad, got the robot blues,

  my robot done drank up all of my booze.

  I’m so sad, got the robot blues.

  My robot took my girl for a walk.

  Said all they’d do was sit and talk.

  When my girl got home, she gave me the news.

  She and my robot was takin’ a cruise.

  (And they was leavin’ me behind!)

  I’m so sad, got the robot blues.

  Anonymous, circa 2064

  Chapter 1

  The means by which enlightened rulers and sagacious generals moved and conquered others, that their achievements surpassed the masses, was advance knowledge.

  Sun-tzu, The Art of War

  The man followed the woman into the motel lobby. She never glanced at him, never noticed him. No reason she should. He was an unprepossessing type of man, the type whom witnesses are likely to vaguely describe as being of “ordinary build,” “average height,” with “no distinguishing features.” He kept his eyes on her.

  The woman was attractive, or rather she might have been if she had taken more care with her hair, her makeup, and her clothes. Her hair was shoulder-length, brown, lacked shape and body. Her clothes—a medium-length skirt and mannish coat—suited her trim, perhaps too thin figure, and that was about all that could be said for them. She had a preoccupied, studious air about her that was disconcerting, as if part of her were really somewhere else. She carried a shabby overnight bag that appeared to have been hastily packed, for the tail end of a blouse fluttered out from the side.

  Slung over her shoulder were a small, worn purse and the strap of a computer case. The case was made of high-quality leather, appeared to have been packed neatly and with care, with no odd bulges, no loose straps or unbuckled buckles. She kept her hand possessively on the computer case; the purse was forced to trail along behind. Obvious where she placed her priorities.

  The man entered the lobby almost on the woman’s heels. No need to keep his distance. The hotel was attached to the busy Megapolis spaceport and the lobby was crowded with people, either wanting rooms or checking out.

  The lobby was circular, with a gigantic vidscreen almost two stories high that loomed over guests, while a smiling personage with excellent teeth welcomed them to the Megapolis Spaceport Hotel, inviting guests to register at one of the automatic registration machines to be found conveniently in the lobby.

  A long line of restless people had gathered at the automatic motel registration, which machines may have been convenient but were, unfortunately, not working properly. There were three registration machines. One was out of order. An alien with credit problems was tying up number two, arguing loudly with the machine. The third machine was functioning, but at sublight speed. When a real live motel employee made the mistake of showing up, he was immediately mobbed and disappeared precipitously.

  The woman took her place at the end of the line for the sublight registration.

  The man took his place in the line behind the alien arguing with the machine, ensuring that he would probably be able to remain in the same place for as long as necessary. The woman would move along more rapidly, but that was all right. The man didn’t need much time. He just needed proximity and a clear shot.

  The woman shifted the computer case to a more comfortable position, yawned, blinked her eyes, rubbed them, and yawned again. She looked groggy, exhausted. Those jump-flights were killers. When you finally get to sleep, a steward wakes you up to tell you the ship is going into hyperspace and would you please make certain your webbing is fastened, don’t eat or drink anything for the next hour, and try to relax and ignore the fact that your insides feel like they’re now on the outside.

  The man knew what flight the woman had taken. He counted on the fact that she wouldn’t be operating at one hundred percent efficiency. Odds were that she would not have noticed him anyway, but he didn’t rely on odds, never took chances.

  She arrived at the front of the line and did precisely what the man had been expecting her to do. She placed the overnight bag on the floor at her feet, shoved the computer case to the back, brought her purse to the front. She reached inside her purse to retrieve her plastic. Sliding the card into the machine, she leaned forward to let the machine scan her eyeball, and said “Darlene Mohini” in a sleepy voice. She repeated her name when the machine announced tersely that it hadn’t understood her.

  “Darlene Mohini,” she said again, irritably.

  The machine asked Ms. Mohini if she had reservations.

  “Yes.” She yawned again. “One night.”

  The machine found this agreeable, indicated that it would have a room key for her momentarily.

  Dull-eyed and drowsy, she waited.

  The man reached into his suit coat pocket, drew out a small derringer that fit neatly into the palm of his hand. He held his suit coat folded over his right arm. Under cover of the coat, he raised the gun, aimed, and fired.

  A tiny projectile whispered through the air, embedded itself in the flat base of the woman’s leather computer case. The projectile was small, about the size of a needle. The man’s aim had been true. The projectile slid neatly into a seam in the leather, disappeared.

  The registration machine handed over a plastic chit. The woman took the key, started to leave. A person standing behind her stopped her, indicated that she’d forgotten her overnight bag. Smiling in a weary, preoccupied manner, the woman reached down, picked it up, and trudged off in the direction of the airlifts.

  The man, task complete, stepped out of line with the muttered comment that this was going to take all day and he didn’t have the time. He walked through the motel lobby, beneath the blaring vid sign that was now regaling the guests with the wonders to be found on Megapolis. The man paused at the news counter to buy a news/entertainment chip for the flight back. Seating himself, he slipped the chip into his pocket viewer, settled down to watch.

  Another man, walking past, stopped, asked him if that was today’s news chip.

  “Yes, this is today’s.”

  “How’d the Megapolis Bombers do? I think they’re overrated this year.”

  “See for yourself.” The man held up the screen, then said in a low voice, “Clean hit. The transmitter is in her computer case. You should be receiving the signal now.”

  The other man nodded. Sitting down beside the first, he leaned over to look at his neighbor’s viewer. This second man was middle-aged, graying, developing a paunch. He was dressed in a rumpled, ill-fitting, and inexpensive suit.

  “What’s the assignment?”

  “Simple. Eavesdrop on her conversations. Record them. That will let HQ know for certain she’s the one we want. Keep an eye out especially for this person.” The first man inserted another chip into his viewer. The picture of a cyborg appeared on-screen.

  The cyborg was of indeterminate age, bald, with acid burns on his head. His eyes were deep, penetrating. His left side was mechanical: cybernetic arm and leg, with— according to the description which was scrolling beneath the picture—a detachable hand that could be replaced by anything from a small missile launcher to delicate instruments. The leg was reported to have a special hidden compartment where weapons were stored, but that information could not be confirmed. The cyborg was also said to have augmented hearing and a specially designed left eyeball with infrared vision.

  “Jeez!” said the second man, impressed. “He looks scary. Is he? Or is that all for show?”

  “It’s for real. So’s he. Former field operative for the Feds. He’s
independent now, pulling down big bucks. His name is Xris. He’s the leader of a mercenary team called Mag Force 7. HQ has information that Mohini’s now a member of the team. If she’s the mark, she’ll hook up with the cyborg. If not, we drop it, start over.”

  “He won’t look like that, will he? I mean, don’t most cyborgs hide beneath fleshfoam and plastiskin and all that?”

  “Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. Depends on the job. But you shouldn’t have any trouble recognizing him. Watch.” The static vid shot on-screen changed to an action shot of the cyborg walking down a street.

  “Notice the peculiar gait,” said the first man, hitting the replay button. “He walks lopsided, as if the physical half of him is at war with the mechanical.”

  “Weird, huh?”

  “There are other people on the team,” the first man continued. “Mohini might make contact with any of them. You’ll find them all on here.” The first man removed the chip, handed it to the second.

  “Uh-huh. A lot of bother, if you ask me, but then who is asking me, huh?” the second said glumly. “Why didn’t you just kill her when you had the chance? You could have, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes,” the man said flatly, without emotion. “But my orders are specific. We need to make certain she’s who we think she is.”

  “And since when are the bosses squeamish about taking out the wrong person?”

  The first man shrugged. “It’s not that they worry about taking out the wrong person so much as they want to make damn sure we take out the right person. Get it?”

  “Not really, but then I’m not being paid to get it, am I, huh? You’re leaving town, I hear.”

  “Yes, it’s my son’s birthday party tomorrow and I promised him I’d be home in time.”

  “Really? How old is little James, Jr., now? Must be about four, huh?”

  “Seven,” the first man said proudly. “Already in third form. And captain of his school soccer team.”

  “Seven! Already? Time flies, huh? Last time I saw him he was a rug rat. Well, say hi to the wife and eat a piece of birthday cake for me.”

  “Sure thing. Oh, and remember, transmit all info to HO and then sit tight. Shadow only. Wait for orders.”

  “Right. I know. They were very specific about that.” The man shook his head again. “All a lot of trouble for nothing, if you ask me. Be seein’ you. Have a good one.”

  “You, too.”

  The two parted. The first man hurried off to catch his spaceplane, the second bought a news/entertainment chip. He plunked himself down in a chair in the motel lobby, took out a small vid machine, slid the chip inside, put the earphones on, and appeared to prepare himself resignedly to be informed and/or entertained.

  In reality, he was listening to the clear, distinct sounds of Darlene Mohini, inside her hotel room, kicking off her shoes.

  Chapter 2

  There are five types of spies to be employed: local spy, internal spy, turned spy, dead spy, and the living spy.

  Sun-tzu, The Art of War

  It was automatic for Xris to check for a tail every time he went anywhere, automatic to glance at the rearview cam display when he pulled away from the curb, automatic to glance at it a second and third time as he propelled the rental vehic through the congested city streets. Automatic, he didn’t even think about it, he wasn’t particularly expecting it, and so it took his brain a few extra seconds to latch on to the fact that—by God—he had company.

  The gray two-door. Thinking back, he recalled having seen it ease out into the street about a half kilometer behind him when he’d left the hotel. It was now accompanying him along the boulevard, keeping the same distance, both of them heading into the city.

  “Maybe you and I just happen to be going the same direction,” Xris said to the gray two-door, eyeing it on the display screen. “Let’s find out.”

  The boulevard was a spacious four-lane principal road, divided by a wide expanse of green lawn, dignified trees, and a well-disciplined creek. Bisecting a residential district, with attractive but not ostentatious homes for Megapolis’s burgeoning upper middle class, the boulevard was only lightly to moderately traveled.

  Xris took his time, signaled, and made a right-hand turn.

  The gray two-door turned right.

  Driving at a medium pace past rows of houses, Xris signaled, turned right again.

  The gray two-door cruised along after him.

  “Should have a sign marked ‘In Tow,’ “ Xris muttered. “Well, this should clinch it.”

  He turned right a third time.

  So did the gray two-door.

  Xris was stumped. He had no doubt that he was being followed. Making three right turns in succession is an old trick used to spot a tail. But the gray two-door was so damn obvious about it. Plus, why tag along? Why not just use any of the innumerable electronic tracking devices available on the market? Attach it to the car, bring up the blip on your screen, and follow your subject from the comfort and privacy of your own living room.

  Xris pulled his vehic over to the curb, shut down the air cushions. The vehic dropped to street level. The gray two-door stopped as well. It had moved up on him, due to the fact that the streets in the residential neighborhood were only a block to two blocks long.

  Xris sat in the driver’s seat, glared at the car through the rearview cam.

  “I might have known,” he said to the car. “Didn’t take you long, did it? Who? And how much?”

  He wasn’t going to get answers sitting here. He had parked in front of a nice little brick house with a two-vehic garage, a dog slumbering in the Argasian sun, and a toddler on a tricycle. Xris climbed out of the vehic. The dog woke up, began barking at him.

  Xris made it clear to the dog that he had no designs upon either the house or the toddler and strolled down the sidewalk. He allowed himself the thought, in passing, that this was the sort of neighborhood, the sort of life, he and Marjorie had always talked about buying into— complete with dog, kid, and trike. He allowed himself the thought, allowed himself the pain. It had been going to come anyhow. This way, he could control it.

  That done, he could focus on this little problem.

  The gray two-door remained where it was, parked in front of a house similar in design to the brick, except that it was built with stone and had a cat in the driveway.

  Xris walked up to the gray two-door, leaned down to peer through the tinted steelglass. Recognizing the man inside, Xris stood up straight, drew in a breath, then tapped on the window. The man inside touched a button.

  “I’m going to the Space and Aeronautics Museum,” Xris informed the man politely. “It’s about ten kilometers north on the boulevard, to your right. I’ll wait for you at the lights.”

  “Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor, Xris,” said the man inside, his voice coming through the speaker hidden in the blastproof door. “I wouldn’t want to spoil an educational outing. Why don’t you step inside? We need to have a little talk.”

  The door clicked, swung open.

  Xris entered, sat down in the passenger’s seat, shut the door, which was soundproof as well as blastproof. Relaxed, making certain he kept both hands in plain sight—and also making certain the driver kept both his hands in plain sight—Xris pulled out a twist, put it in his mouth.

  “You know I can’t tolerate cigarette smoke, Xris,” said the man.

  “I’ll chew it,” Xris said. “So, Amadi. It’s been a lot of years. I heard you had retired.”

  “I did. I was. They brought me back.”

  “Once a Fed, always a Fed, huh, Amadi?”

  “Something like that.” Amadi smiled.

  He must be pushing seventy now. His black hair was gray, his swarthy complexion seamed with wrinkles. He’d kept himself in shape and he was doing fine financially—if Xris could judge by the well-cut suit and the designer silk tie. The bureau must be keeping him on retainer. Not surprising. Jafar el Amadi was the foremost authority on the Hung
—one of the richest, most powerful criminal organizations operating in the central part of the galaxy.

  Amadi had also been Xris’s super on his last job with the Feds. The job that had gone very, very bad.

  Xris settled back into the cushy seat. A series of small beeps came from his left arm. Shoving back the sleeve of his own well-cut and expensive suit coat, Xris rolled up his shirt cuff, revealing a mass of gleaming steel, LED lights, complex wiring. He made a few necessary adjustments.

  He noted Amadi watching, saw that the man’s smile was a bit strained.

  Xris wiggled the fingers of his left hand. “It’s the temperature of the skin that’s the problem. Hard to maintain. You don’t want the plastiskin too cold—you touch someone and they think they’re being grabbed by a hand from the grave. You don’t want it too hot, either, although turning up the heat sometimes comes in handy. I can soft-boil an egg—”

  “Cut the crap, Xris,” Amadi said, the smile gone. “I was at the hospital when they brought you in. You’re damn lucky you’re alive.”

  Xris shrugged. The matter was open to debate. “I’m going to be late for my meeting at the museum. Let’s make this short. How’s the wife and kids, Amadi? Oh, and don’t bother asking me about mine.”

  Amadi’s dark eyes flickered. “I guess I can’t blame you for being bitter—”

  “No! Really?” Xris was shocked. “How long had the bureau known Armstrong was a traitor? Before or after Ito and I walked into that goddamn munitions plant and got ourselves blown to hell and back?”

  “It wasn’t until after, Xris, I swear—”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me the truth? Why didn’t you tell me it was Armstrong who set us up, not Dalin Rowan? You let me go for years thinking that my best friend had betrayed me. You let me go for years carrying that hatred inside me. God knows what I would have done if—” Xris stopped, clamped down hard on the twist, so hard his jaw started to ache. He hadn’t meant to say that much. Looking at Amadi brought back a lot, a helluva lot.

  The arm beeped again. Xris ignored it. He could have hard-boiled an egg about now.