Robot Blues Read online

  The two were settling down to a comfortable conversation when Colonel Strebbins loomed up. “Wonderful speech, Colonel,” he said. “I see you’ve met Captain Strauss. Best shot on the base with a lasrifle. Had our qualifiers last week.”

  “Thank you. Colonel.” The captain flushed with pleasure at the compliment.

  Strebbins turned to Jamil. “Your aide tells me that you have a particular interest in how we run things here on Pandor. He suggested I come over here now and give you the complete lowdown.” He glanced at the blonde. “1 don’t want to bore you. Captain ...”

  “If you’ll excuse me, sir?” Captain Strauss gave Jamil a smile, picked up her drink, and left.

  Colonel Strebbins leaned his elbow on the bar and began. “When I took command six years ago, this base had one of the lowest efficiency ratings in this quadrant. Since that time, I ...”

  Jamil listened, nodded, sipped his drink, silently cursed Xris, and swore to get even.

  An hour later, the colonel was launching into an account of the base’s new morale-boosting program, complete with a description of the enlisted personnel’s sock hop and talent show, when conversations paused, heads in the bar started turning, people began looking toward the front foyer.

  “By God,” Strebbins said, interrupting himself. He set down his empty glass on the counter. “What’s all this?”

  Jamil, thankful for any interruption, looked to see what all the fuss was about.

  Two officers stood in the entryway. One—a pilot-was still wearing her flight suit, carried her helmet under her arm. Jamil raised his eyebrows. The pilot had committed a serious breach of etiquette. You didn’t walk into the officer’s mess in a flight suit unless you had a damn good reason. The patches on her shoulder indicated that she flew a Stiletto precision bomber, Zircon Squadron. Not stationed here. The fact that she still carried her helmet meant she intended to leave again swiftly.

  The other officer wore the standard dress uniform, with the rank of major, though the gold-braided aguillet around one shoulder identified him as an aide-de-camp for a lieutenant general or higher. The major removed his beret and entered the bar area. He walked straight up to Colonel Strebbins.

  “This man appears to have urgent business for you, Colonel,” Jamil said, lifting his drink and preparing to leave, feeling relieved that he’d been spared an account of the talent show. “I’ll leave you—”

  “Excuse me, sirs,” the major said, including them both in his glance. “I am Major VanDerGard of General Hanson’s staff. I have been sent to immediately retrieve Colonel Jatanski.”

  Jamil gulped, stared. He decided to set down his drink before he dropped it. His first thought was: Xris. Xris has set this up, damn him.

  Figuring that, Jamil was just about to make some smart-ass remark when he took a good close look at the serious-eyed major, at the major’s gold braid, at the uniform that was rumpled with travel. Then there was the obviously flight-weary pilot waiting in the foyer.

  Jamil’s gut tightened. Not even Xris could pull off a stunt like this. Plus he would never do anything to jeopardize the job. Whatever this was, it was for real.

  “Yes, Major.” Jamil said, hoping astonishment would cover apprehension. “I’m Colonel Jantanski. What is it?”

  “Sir, you are requested to be the assisting officer for Lieutenant Colonel K. A. Katchan. As the lieutenant colonel’s commanding officer, you are the first choice for assisting officer, and the lieutenant colonel has chosen you. His Special General Court-Martial is to sit for opening statements in thirty hours, and you will need to begin work immediately.”

  Colonel Strebbins was grave. “Well, Jatanski, it looks as if one of your people has gone off the deep end. I don’t envy you this one. Sorry I won’t get to see your presentation tomorrow. This sounds serious, though.”

  Jamil had read many times the standard author’s cliche about a character who feels suddenly as if he has entered a dream. Jamil didn’t dream; he prided himself on the fact that he slept soundly throughout the night, was not one to wake suddenly screaming from the throes of a nightmare.

  Not until now.

  Now he was in one of those frightful dreamlike situations in which everything is going wrong, you know it’s going wrong, you want to try to fix it, but you are powerless to act. Jamil knew he should say something, but he could only stand staring at the major in speechless amazement while his brain scrambled to make some sense of the senseless.

  Jamil thought back. Katchan! I remember a Katchan. He served under me ... but that was six years ago And Katchan had been a supply sergeant! They don’t normally promote supply sergeants to lieutenant colonel! To say nothing of the fact that I’m not in the Army anymore. I haven’t been in the Army for years. I can’t serve on a court-martial. I’m not a colonel!

  Most of all—I’m not Colonel Jatanski!

  The game’s up, Jamil realized. Someone’s found out. Xris and I are going to be doing a long stretch in the brig.

  Okay, but if that’s true, where are the MPs? The beam rifles? The manacles? The Army doesn’t usually play games, especially with people impersonating their officers.

  The major was regarding Jamil with respect, Colonel Strebbins with sympathy.

  “You look a bit rocky on your feet, Jatanski. Comes as a shock to you, I expect.” Strebbins motioned to the sergeant behind the bar. “Another drink for the colonel. Make it a double.”

  “Thank you,” Jamil said faintly. “Katchan is an excellent officer. Never gave me cause for complaint. What”—he put the glass to his lips, tried to look casual—”what is the charge?”

  “Theft of government property,” the major replied.

  Jamil gagged, choked.

  “Steady, there, Jatanski,” Strebbins said solicitously, pounding Jamil on the back.

  Are the MPs arresting Xris right now? Jamil wondered. Is this a ruse to get us both off base without trouble, without publicity?

  He set down his empty glass. “I’ll have to find Captain Kergonan—”

  “That won’t be necessary, sir. The captain is to carry on as planned,” the major said.

  Jamil stared, stunned. “I beg your pardon. Major?”

  “General Hanson feels that Captain Kergonan is eminently qualified to carry on in your absence,” the major elaborated. “The captain is quite familiar with the subject material and is capable of handling the assignment on his own. Wouldn’t you agree, Colonel Jatanski?”

  “Yes, eminently,” Jamil murmured. He shoved himself away from the bar. Perhaps I can find Xris, warn him. This smells like a trap. “I’ll just go back to my quarters, get my gear.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we need you to come straight to the spaceplane. The trial is being held on the command cruiser King James II, General Hanson’s flagship. It is just now entering this system. Captain Ng will fly us back.” The major turned to Strebbins. “If you could send someone for the colonel’s luggage, sir ...”

  “Certainly,” Strebbins said heartily.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Jamil intervened. He had a few things in his luggage he’d just as soon not be discovered, things like a nonregulation .23-decawatt pistol, the vial containing the water-contaminating virus, the hand-drawn map of the base. “Captain Kergonan will take care of it for me.”

  “Are you sure?” Strebbins asked. “You don’t want to go before old Iron Guts Hanson without a clean pair of socks.”

  “Yes, no question.” Jamil was firm. “Captain Kergonan will take care of everything. If you would give him that message—that he is to carry on in my absence.” He glanced uncertainly at the major.

  The major nodded. “General Hanson’s orders, sir.” He reached into the pocket of his flight jacket, pulled out an envelope containing a disk. “I have that in writing. If you could see that Captain Kergonan receives this, sir?”

  “I’ll see to it,” Strebbins said, took the computer disk, stood tapping it on the bar.

  Jamil stared at the disk, wishe
d he could get a look at the orders, but it would have been coded to Xris’s military I.D. number and personal password.

  Of course, Xris didn’t have a real military I.D. number, nor did he have a real password. He’d made that all up, had instructed Darlene to enter it into the military’s computer files before they left. Someone had gone to one hell of a lot of trouble to ferret them out!

  And for what? Jamil had no idea.

  “If you please, sir. The spaceplane is being refueled. The car is waiting.” The major was obviously impatient to leave.

  Strebbins offered his hand. “Good luck, Jatanski. Glad it’s you and not me. Hate these damn courts-martial. Always put me to sleep. And I was really looking forward to your lecture, too. But I’ve no doubt that Captain Kergonan will manage fine.”

  “I’m sure he will, sir,” Jamil said.

  “We have every confidence in the captain, sir,” the major added, saluting. He accompanied Jamil out of the bar, into the foyer. Here he introduced Jamil to the pilot, who nodded curtly and intimated that they were running behind schedule.

  A vehic was waiting for them outside the mess; not the staff car, with its fluttering flags, but a hoverjeep. The major kept close behind him. Jamil ignored the man, paused a moment, glanced around, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of Xris.

  No such luck.

  Jamil climbed in the back of the hoverjeep alongside the major. The pilot sat in front. Major VanDerGard apologized for not taking the staff car to the airfield.

  “This is quicker, sir, if less comfortable.”

  They had all just barely settled themselves when the driver launched the jeep into the air, sped toward the airfield.

  The ride was fast and uneventful. No one said much of anything, mainly because no one else would have been able to hear what was said over the roar and rattle of the hoverjeep, which had seen better days. VanDerGard must have commandeered the first vehic he found. The pilot sat up front beside the driver, keeping fast hold of her helmet on her lap. She paid no attention to them, never once glanced back. VanDerGard braced himself in his corner, one arm on the doorframe. Jamil kept a firm grip on the back of the seat.

  The hoverjeep was covered with a fine coat of the red Pandoran sand. The jeep’s frame rattled and shook and bounced over the uneven terrain. Its air jets must have been out of sync, for there was a noticeable dip to the back end. Twice Jamil was bounced off his seat, struck his head on the detachable roof. Both times, when that happened, VanDerGard smiled in rueful apology, just as he might have done in the presence of a real colonel.

  Jamil gave up trying to figure what all this was about. No use wasting his energies on guesses. He was stumbling about in the dark and while he might accidentally put his hand on the correct answer, how would he know it? This concluded, he ran quickly through his options. There weren’t many. He could, of course, punch VanDerGard in the face, grab his gun (interesting point; the major was wearing a sidearm), shoot the pilot and the driver, and make a run for it.

  And go where, exactly? And do what?

  Besides, VanDerGard didn’t look the type to collapse in a heap at one punch. And if he was armed, the pilot probably was armed, too. Jamil discarded that idea about five seconds after he’d thought it up. Since he couldn’t think of anything else constructive, he decided his best bet was to keep playing the game. Besides, by now, he was extremely curious.

  His curiosity would probably land him in the brig for about twenty years for impersonating an officer, but he couldn’t help it. He was interested to know just what the devil was going on. The only way to find out was to go along with the agenda—whatever that happened to be.

  The jeep entered the airfield, the driver looked around for directions. Major VanDerGard pointed, indicated a glistening Stiletto bomber parked at the very end of the tarmac. The tubular fuselage gleamed in the moonlight. Its green and gray camouflage enhanced the sleek look. It was designed for precision bombing, both in and out of atmosphere. The spaceplane sat high on its wheels, indicating that it did not have a bomb load, but the racks of missiles under the wings were real—no practice weapons here. What was known as a wild-weasel pod hung from the central hard-point.

  The jeep pulled up beside a refueling bowser. The crew was just finishing refueling the bomber and were starting to replace the hoses back in the bowser.

  The pilot jumped out almost before the jeep came to a stop. She began walking around the spaceplane, checking it over to ensure it was sound for flight. Two members of the ground crew were inside the cockpit, readying it for the pilot. The major climbed out of the jeep, walked around, opened the door for Jamil, saluted when he stepped out.

  Jamil studied the man’s face. If Jamil had seen one flicker of an eyelid, one sardonic curl of the lip, any indication at all that VanDerGard knew he was acting a role, Jamil might have reconsidered and taken on the major then and there.

  VanDerGard saluted respectfully, his face grave and solemn as befitted the occasion. Jamil returned the major’s salute and stepped onto the tarmac. VanDerGard walked over to the bombardier’s hatch, reached inside, pulled out a set of coveralls and a flight helmet, and handed them to Jamil. The major reached back for a set of flight clothes for himself and began to slip the coveralls on over his uniform.

  Jamil glanced swiftly around. The pilot had moved on to the back end of the spaceplane. The ground crew were occupied some distance away.

  VanDerGard glanced up, noticed Jamil wasn’t dressing. “Don’t those fit, sir? There’s a size larger—”

  “Look, Major, let’s cut the crap,” Jamil said tersely. “You and I both know—”

  “—that Katchan is innocent of these charges, is that what you were about to say, Colonel?” VanDerGard shrugged. “I like to think so, sir, but I must add that, from what I’ve seen, the evidence against him is very strong. You should be getting ready, sir,” he advised, seeing that Jamil wasn’t moving. “We’ll be leaving shortly.”

  And that was that.

  Jamil slid the coveralls on over his uniform, accepted the flight helmet, and waited for the pilot to indicate they were ready to take off. He looked out over the tarmac back to the base, wondered if Xris knew his partner was gone yet, what he was doing about it. Jamil was tense, prepared for action. It was unlikely that Xris would be putting together some sort of rescue attempt, but Jamil had to be alert and ready to react if that happened.

  It didn’t.

  The pilot indicated that all was ready. She climbed up the ladder and took her place in the cockpit.

  The two senior officers boarded the bomber by climbing a ladder in the open bomb bay, leading into the crew area. They strapped themselves into the communicator’s and the bombardier’s chairs. The pilot wound up the engines. To anyone accustomed to flying in the relative comfort of fighter spaceplanes, the engine noise inside the larger and heavier bomber was deafening. Jamil grimaced, wondered how any living being could take this. A hand touched his arm. VanDerGard pointed to a cord with a jack on one end which hung from Jamil’s helmet to a socket in the bulkhead.

  Jamil plugged in the jack, and all was blessedly quiet. The helmet’s noise filters completely removed the engine whine and the creaks and strains of the fuselage. He looked outside the small porthole. A storm was moving in over the desert; lightning shot through the clouds that were building fast in the heat.

  Jamil bid Xris a silent and rueful good-bye, wished them both luck, and prepared for takeoff. He was seated in the communicator’s chair. A voice came over his helmet.

  “Navy Three Five Niner Zircon, you are cleared for priority launch on runway Two Niner. All traffic is cleared of your launch and egress vectors. Have a good flight. Pandor Tower out.”

  The pilot wasted no time. The spaceplane—clumsy and awkward on the ground, graced with a deadly beauty in space—lurched forward, taxied to the runway.

  The takeoff and flight were, in Navy terms, uneventful, despite the fact that lightning struck the fuselage of the spacepla
ne at least three times that Jamil counted. He expected all sorts of dire consequences, from the engines blowing up to the electrical systems going haywire, but nothing happened. The pilot didn’t seem bothered by the strikes. VanDerGard apparently hadn’t even noticed. Jamil quit looking out the viewscreen. Gritting his teeth, sweating and nervous, clutching the arms of the seat, he faced grimly forward. He detested space flight. This was exactly the reason why he’d joined the Army. Ninety percent of the time, your feet were on solid ground.

  Once into space, the pilot kicked in the radiation drive and exited the Pandoran solar system. Jamil looked out the viewscreen again. A tiny speck of light, no brighter than the stars around it, began to grow larger. Jamil stared at it and, forgetting where he was and under what circumstances, he whistled.

  “Never seen a command cruiser before, sir?” VanDerGard asked.

  “Not for a very long time,” Jamil answered truthfully. “And they never looked like that! My god, but she’s huge.”

  “The King James II is one of the new Septimus Severus Class command cruisers,” VanDerGard said with obvious pride. “She was only commissioned four months ago. The king and queen both attended the launching ceremonies.”

  The ship was larger in area than many cities, held more people. Its blue-gray durasteel hull shone in the reflected light of Pandor’s distant sun. Lights from hundreds of portholes sparkled on its surface. Its hull was smooth, sleek, unmarred by antennae, guns, torpedo tubes, lascannons or any other weapon mounts.

  But they were there. Harry—who kept up on all the Navy’s new designs—had gone on for days about how all the weapons and other instruments had been built into the hull. When the ship went into action, she must be an awesome sight. Jamil imagined gunports sliding open, torpedo launch mounts lifting into place. He was so interested, he almost forgot that he was likely to see more of this ship than he wanted.