Robot Blues (33 page)

Grant trembled. He
knew that voice. He’d heard it before, on occasion. It was always trying to get
him to do wild and daring things. “Tell Ms Kline next door that you’ve always
loved her!” “Tell the boss it was your idea!” “Tell the guys you’d like to join
them for a drink!”

No, I can’t.... I
couldn’t possibly.... Leave me alone. I’m fine the way I am.

Grant had always
before been able to tune out that rabble-rousing voice. He could shut it off,
as he occasionally shut off the sound on one of his vid games. He hadn’t heard
the voice much in his later years (it had bothered him excessively when he was
young), and he was rather hoping it had retired. He was considerably disturbed
to hear it, irritating and insistent as ever before.

“Save the robot!
If you don’t, they’ll kill it!”

“This is
outrageous, sir!” Grant returned, flustered. “You’re insane! You are seriously
contemplating stealing government property and making off with it! This is a
capital crime, sir. An offense against the Crown. They might consider it
kidnapping. They might consider it treason!”

“It’s murder,
Jeffrey Grant,” said the inner voice. “They’re going to kill it.”

Grant’s
imagination was, from long practice, extremely vivid. He saw the robot sitting
in some disintegrator chamber, saw the female captain sealing up the door and
walking away. He saw and heard the cyborg give the order to detonate. He saw,
he heard, he felt the robot explode, arms torn asunder, fluid spattering
against the walls, eyes popping out....

“I’ll do it, sir!”
said Jeffrey Grant firmly, and he astonished the inner voice so much that it
shut up.

“
Mrft,
,”
said the robot. The green light had ceased to flash. The pupils returned to
normal size. The robot turned away, began to drift off toward the front of the
Claymore.

Grant followed it,
wondering how he was going to get hold of it, haul it back to his rent-a-plane.
He glanced around the airfield, fearful that someone would see them.

No one did. No one
was around.

Grant trailed
after the robot, who was now examining the Claymore, the green light on its
head flashing again.

“Of course!” Grant
said, watching the robot with interest. “It’s scanning the plane. Just as it
must have scanned me. I wonder,” he wondered wistfully, “what it thought of me.”

Not much,
apparently. The robot didn’t give him a second look. Grant followed it,
cobbling his plan together.

Once he had
smuggled the ‘bot onto his spaceplane, he would have to hide it somewhere.

The bathroom. It
would fit nicely into the shower stall.

“Then I’ll take
off,” Grant said. “I’ll have to request clearance, of course. This might prove
to be a problem. But I’ve given them the unit, after all. They don’t seem to be
interested in me now. Perhaps they’ll be glad to get rid of me.”

He felt a pang of
regret, leaving the unit behind. But it was either that or lose the robot, and
the robot was far more important. Besides, Captain Kergonan had promised to
return the machine once they were finished with it.

“I’ll simply
explain to the people in air traffic control that I have to get back home. To
... to ...”

What were people
always going home to do? Feed the cat. See the wife and kids. Water the plants.
Any or all of the above.

Grant was certain
the Army would let him go.

Fairly certain.
Almost certain.

“I won’t worry
about that now,” Grant said to himself.

The important
thing was to smuggle the robot aboard his spaceplane.

“Excuse me,” Grant
said shyly, speaking to the robot.

It had reached the
open bomb bay. The robot’s eyes focused on the hatch. It paid no attention to
Jeffrey Grant. He recalled the old vid of Professor Lasairion. That vid had
been subtitled.

The robot didn’t
understand Standard Military! But it could learn. He recalled this fact from
his studies. Lasairion had believed in life on other planets. He hoped that his
galaxy-traveling ‘bots would encounter other life-forms and that, when they
did, they would communicate with them. The professor had therefore given the ‘bots
the ability to record the spoken language of other beings, with the instruction
that they bring the recordings back for study. The robot was also, by means of
auto-event comparison and frequency-of-sound analysis, supposed to have the
ability to “learn” languages.

Grant needed the
robot’s attention.

“Lasairion,”
Jeffrey Grant said shyly, experimentally.

At the sound of
his voice, a blue light began to flash on the top of the robot’s head. It
pulsed four times, to the syllables of the professor’s name.

The robot turned.
The sad eyes were suddenly bright. It reached out one of its arms. Metal
fingers took hold of Jeffrey Grant’s sleeve, gave it a gentle tug, then let
loose.

“You,” it said.

“Me?” Grant was
momentarily confused, then realized what was being asked. “No, I’m not
Professor Lasairion.”

But, of course,
the robot must know this. It had scanned him and evinced no sign of interest in
him until he spoke the professor’s name.

Obviously, the ‘bot
was trained to search for alien life-forms. Grant was nothing new. He was
merely human. But now that he’d mentioned the professor, the robot was
interested in him.

“Watch it,” said
the robot. “Next you’ll be giving it a name.”

The robot was
speaking Standard Military as well as anyone in the military. As well as
Captain Kergonan. In fact, the robot sounded a great deal
like
Captain
Kergonan. Of course! Grant realized, excited. That was because the robot must
have been speaking to Captain Kergonan. The ‘bot had recorded the captain’s
voice and was using its programming to try to make sense of the words. Either
that or it was selecting phrases at random. Grant didn’t think that likely.

“Name,” he
repeated, then added, “Jeffrey Grant.”

The blue light
pulsed and Grant realized that the robot must be recording
him.
Grant
was pleased, flattered ... touched.

The robot’s sad,
humanlike eyes gazed at Grant steadily. The ‘bot appeared to be considering. “You
and I— we’re just going to take a little walk.”

“Yes,” said Grant
eagerly. He half turned, pointed to his spaceplane. “Over there.” He took a few
steps in that direction, hoped the robot would follow.

Such a method was,
he believed, supposed to work with dogs.

“Halt! Stop!” the
robot commanded.

Grant stopped,
turned around, pleaded, “Please, you
must
come with me. Now! Quickly!
Before someone finds you!”

The robot lifted
one of the metal arms, pointed toward the hatch of the Claymore. “You go
inside.”

Good grief! The
robot was going to save itself! It was going to hide in the Claymore. And it
wanted him to come along.

Why? Grant stared
at the robot. The robot stared back. Grant saw his reflection in the metal
saucer head____

“Of course! I’m
wearing a flight suit!”

He almost shouted,
he was so enthused. Communicating with the robot was exhilarating, fun! It was
like trying to solve a crossword puzzle.

“And I’m carrying
a helmet. Which means that the robot has mistaken me for the pilot. The robot
doesn’t want to hide in the Claymore. It wants me to fly the Claymore! The
robot is trying to save itself!”

“Do it!” said that
troublemaking voice inside him.

“1 couldn’t,”
Grant whispered, suddenly appalled at his temerity. “Could I?”

“Don’t be
frightened,” counseled the robot in Captain Kergonan’s voice.

Grant had the
feeling there were three people lined up against him, urging him on: the robot,
Captain Kergonan, and the inner self.

“No, no, I won’t
be frightened,” Grant promised. He looked up at the hatch, looked at the
bomber, which was really much larger than it had looked in virtual reality.

After all, he’d
flown a Claymore a thousand times.

And they were
going to blow up the robot.

The robot floated
effortlessly into the bomb bay and then turned to examine the hatch. Grant had
to climb the ladder to the hatch quickly in order to keep up.

The robot used one
of its attachments on its tool arm to force open the hatch.

Grant dropped down
inside the bomber, looked around. He was terrified, excited, and exalted all at
the same time. It was different from the flight simulator. These controls were
real, not portrayed on a screen. It was ... well ... grayer than he’d pictured.
Dirtier. Not that the inside of the bomber was dirty; it was kept in good
condition. But the real thing was different from the simulation. It wasn’t
pristine, wasn’t perfect. One of the steelglass faces on a dial had a crack in
it. He touched the instruments, felt hard edges, smooth surfaces beneath his
fingers. The metal was hot, from the sun shining in through the viewscreen. The
interior smelled of metal and of stale sweat and musty webbing, warm plastic
and a brown, shriveled apple core that someone had tossed toward the trash
compactor and missed.

Grant sat down in
the pilot’s seat, studied the controls, and panicked.

The controls were
not the same. They were similar, but not the same. Of course, for security
reasons, the makers of the game wouldn’t be allowed to replicate exactly the
insides of a Claymore. He recognized a few: atmospheric pressure, airspeed,
space speed, vector controller. But what were those blue baubles that sat in
some sort of liquid with silver reflectors, or the myriad of computer consoles
with keys hanging just above their banks of switches?

This was a
mistake. A very bad mistake. Grant had always known he would get into trouble
listening to that inner voice.

He had to leave,
before someone caught him! He tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn’t support
his sagging body.

The robot shut the
hatch, sealed it.

Grant gasped and
gulped, then stared, baffled, at the myriad controls.

“I’m sorry ...” he
began faintly.

The robot tapped
him on the shoulder. Its arm pointed to a berth at the back of the crew’s
living quarters. Claymores were equipped to make the Jump to hyperspace, which
meant that they could take journeys which might last days or weeks.

“Don’t be
frightened,” the robot said again.

Grant pushed
himself up from the pilot’s chair, tottered on unsteady feet. Hesitantly, he
moved away.

The robot floated
over to the bomber’s controls, studied them—green light flashing. It reached
out one of its arms, plugged the attachment on the end of the arm directly into
the console.

Minutes ticked by.
Grant, sweating, stared out the viewscreen, waited—hoped—someone would come.

The robot spoke
again. “I understand, computer. We can communicate. Command Sequence Request,
stand by to receive.”

The computer
responded. “Protocol low, require authorization and voice print.”

“Voice print
negative,” returned the robot. “Protocol low for security. Analyze feature
packet sending . . . now.”

“Unknown packet
type.”

“Your request was
garbled, please resend.”

“I didn’t send
anything,” said the computer. “I request that you send authorization.”

“You are
responding to my request for authorization,” the robot returned. “Last command
was garbled. Please resend your authorization and command structure
information.”

“Sending,” said
the computer. “Please stand by.”

“The robot doesn’t
need me,” Jeffrey Grant realized out loud. “Then why am I here? And where is it
going?”

The robot shifted
around, looked back at him.

“I’ve got a job to
do,” it said in Captain Kergonan’s voice.

Jeffrey Grant
blinked. “Oh, my,” he said softly. “Oh, dear.”

He laid down on
the berth. He was dizzy, having difficulty breathing.

“Oh, my goodness,”
he said again.

“Sleep tight,” said
the robot.

The optimist
proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and the pessimist
fears this is true.

James Branch Cabell,
The Silver Stallion

A corporal drove
Harry Luck and Jamil over to the airfield. Jamil, sleepy, grumpy, and
irritated, threw himself in the back, crossed his arms over his chest, and
glowered at the back of Harry’s head.

Harry, seated in
front, chatted with the driver, who happened to be a redhead. Harry had a
weakness for redheads.

“You ever flown in
a Claymore bomber, Corporal? What did you say your first name was? Janet? Is it
all right if I call you Janet? Oh, officers aren’t supposed to, huh?
Fraternization. Whatever that means. Who made up these dumb rules anyhow? I—
Yeah?” Harry turned around in response to Jamil kicking the back of the seat. “You
want something?”

“Do you want
something,
sir?”
Jamil growled. “No, I’m fine, thanks. It’s just—”

“I suggest,
Captain
Luck,” Jamil said in loud and frozen tones, “that you keep quiet
and permit the corporal to do her job.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry
appeared properly chastened, but when he turned around, he winked at the
corporal, who was having difficulty controlling her smile.

Jamil shut his
eyes, sat back in his seat, and decided the hell with it.

The next thing he
knew, Harry was shaking his shoulder.

“Jeez! I thought
you’d never wake up! You feeling any better?” Harry asked.

“No, I don’t.”
Jamil growled. “I feel groggy and thickheaded. We’ll make a perfect team.”

“We always do,”
Harry replied, flattered. “That hangar’s where they towed the Claymore.”

“You better fill
me in on your story,” Jamil said beneath his breath as they walked that
direction.