Robot Blues

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

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.

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.