Zor.
“Welcome back,” Nova Satori said pleasantly when she noticed Zor’s eyes open. “You’ve been asleep.”
“Yes,” he said uncertainly. His mind seemed to speak it in several tongues at once, but foremost came the one the female was versed in.
“Did you dream again?” she asked.
He shook his head and raised himself up in the bed. The female—Nova, he remembered—motioned to a device that allowed him to raise the head portion of the padded sleeping platform. He activated it, marveling at its primitive design, and wondering why the bed wasn’t reconfiguring of its own accord. Or by a prompt from his thought or will …
“What’s the last strong impression you remember from your past?” Nova asked after a minute.
For some unknown reason, the question angered him. But with the anger returned the dream, more clearly now, and it seemed to him suddenly that at one time he had been a soldier of some sort. He told her as much, and she wrote something on her notepad.
“And after that?”
Zor searched for something in his thoughts, and said: “You.”
“Nothing in between?”
Zor shrugged. Once again the dream resurfaced. Only this time it was more lucid still. His very body was participating in the memory, recalling where it stood and how it felt. And with this came a remembrance of pain.
Nova watched him slide into it and was on her feet and by his side instantly, trying to soothe him, recall him from whatever memories were driving him into such unmitigated suffering and agony. She felt a concern that ran much deeper than curiosity or nefarious purpose, and gave in to it, her hand on his fevered brow, her heart beating almost as rapidly as his.
“Let go of it, Zor,” she said, her mouth close to his ear. “Don’t push yourself—it will all come back to you in time. Don’t drive yourself to this!”
His back was arched, chest heaved up unnaturally. He groaned and put his hands to his head, praying for it to end.
“Make it stop,” he said through clenched teeth. Then, curiously: “I promise I won’t try to remember any more!”
Nova stepped back some, aware that he wasn’t talking to her.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
He’s the leader of a race of clones,
Who’d come to Earth to smash some bones.
He’s the Bioroid with lots of fight,
The Disturber of your sleep at night;
He screams “Victory, bab-ee, victory!
I’m invincible, I’m somebody!”
Just get into a duel with—
the Crimson Pilot
“Crimson Pilot,” music by Bowie Grant, lyrics by Louie Nichols
DANA LEFT THE WINDOWS OF HER ROOM OPEN THAT NIGHT, hoping that starlight and those redolent aromas would provide some soporific enchantment and ease her into sleep. But instead the light cast menacing shadows on the wall and the smells and sounds drove her to distraction. She tossed and turned for most of the night and just before sunrise lapsed into a fitful sleep plagued by nightmares that featured none other than the red Bioroid pilot. As a result she slept late. Upon awakening, still half in the grip of the night’s fear and terror, she literally ran to the compound’s battle simulator, where she chose land-based Bioroid combat scenario one-D-one-niner, and exorcised her demons by annihilating a holographic image of the crimson pilot, setting a new high score on the mecha-sized machine.
Entering her initials to the software package, however, was not prize enough to stabilize the circular pattern of her thoughts, and she carried a mixture of anger and bafflement with her for the rest of the day.
Sunset found her wandering into the 15th’s ready-room, where Bowie was at the piano, vamping on the atonal progression of half-notes he had heard in Musica’s harp chamber and finally been able to recall (and score). Angelo, Louie, Xavez, and Marino were lounging about.
“It’s good to hear you playing again,” Dana complimented him. She tried to hum the curious melody. “What is that?”
“It’s as close as I can get to Musica’s harp,” he told her, right hand running through the modulating riff again. Bowie put both hands to it now, improvizing an enhancement. “What kind of people can create music like this and still find it in their hearts to kill?”
“Don’t confuse the people with their leaders,” Dana started to say as Sean burst into the room. He made a beeline for her and was out-of-breath when he spoke.
“Lieutenant, you’re not gonna believe this, but do I have a piece of news!”
“Out with it,” she said, without a clue.
“I did some investigating and found out who the GMP have stashed away on the ninth floor of the medical center. It’s a captured Bioroid pilot—a red Bioroid pilot.”
Dana’s mouth fell open. “Did you see him?”
Sean shook his head. “They’ve got him under pretty tight security.”
“How did you find this out, Sean?” Bowie asked from the piano stool.
Sean touched his forefinger to his nose. “Well, my friend, let’s just say that it pays to make friends with a cute nurse now and again….”
Dana made an impatient gesture. “Do you think it’s him, Sean—Zor, the one we saw in the fortress?”
“Don’t know,” he confessed.
“I’ve got to see him,” she said, beginning to pace.
“Those Gimps might have some different ideas about that,” Sean said to her back.
“I don’t care about them,” Dana spat. “I’ve got some questions to ask, and that Bioroid pilot’s the only one capable of answering them!”
“Yeah, but you’ll never get to see him,” Louie Nichols chimed in.
Angelo had also picked up on the conversation. “I don’t know what you’ve got in mind, Lieutenant, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to stick our noses where they don’t belong.”
“In any case,” Louie pointed out, “he’s probably been programmed against divulging information. It’s not likely you’ll get anything out of him.”
“You’re probably right,” Dana agreed. “But I don’t think I’m going to be able to get a good night’s sleep until I confront him face-to-face.”
Sean put his hands on his hips and thought for a moment. “Well, if it means that much to you, then let’s do it. But how are we going to get in there?”
Dana considered this, then smiled in sudden realization. “I’ve got an idea,” she laughed; then quickly added, “Fasten your seatbelts, boys—it’s going to be a bumpy night!”
An hour later, a bogus maintenance transport was rumbling through the darkened streets of Monument City en route to the medical center. Louie had the wheel. Stopped at the gate, Angelo, riding shotgun, flashed a phonied-up requisition and repair order at the sleepy guard.
“Maintenance wants us to fix a ruptured ion gun in one of your X-ray scanning sequencers,” the sergeant said knowingly.
The guard scratched absently at his helmet and waved the vehicle through. As it entered the underground garage, Louie said, “By the way, ion guns don’t rupture.”
“Rupture, shmupture,” Angelo rhymed. “It got us in, didn’t it?”
Louie steered the transport to a secluded parking area. Angelo hopped down from the front seat and threw open the rear doors: out stepped Bowie, Sean, Marino, and Xavez—all in coveralls and visored caps—and Dana, in a nurse’s uniform that was at least three sizes too small for her and fit her like a second skin. Louie and Bowie immediately began toying with the hospital’s phone and com line switches, while the rest of the men started to strip down….
In Zor’s ninth floor room, Nova put her clipboard aside to answer the phone. A nasal voice at the other end said:
“This is the office of Chief-of-Staff Emerson, Lieutenant Satori, and the general requests that you meet with him at the Ministry as soon as possible.”
Nova frowned at the handset and recradled it. She apologized to Zor for having to leave so suddenly, and a minute later was on h
er way….
Bowie, who had a reputation for vocal impressions, unpinched his nose and informed the team that Satori had taken the bait. The coveralls gone now, Angelo wore bedroom slippers and an unremarkable cotton terry robe. Marino and Xavez were dressed like orderlies. Sean was in his usual uniform.
“Okay,” Dana told the sergeant, “make your move in ten minutes.”
“I never missed a cue,” Angelo promised.
Nova told the two GMP guards who were stationed either side of the door to Zor’s room to keep their eyes peeled.
“I’ll be back shortly,” she said.
At the same time, someone pushed the buzzer outside Marie Crystal’s seventh floor room. She was sitting in bed, reading a bodybuilding magazine, which she quickly hid from sight, slipping beneath the sheets as she did so and feigning sleep.
A moment later, the doors hissed open and in walked Sean.
Marie sat up, surprised. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”
Meanwhile, on the ground floor, Dana, toting a large shoulderbag (her nurse’s cap in place), was escorting a stretcher to one of the elevators; the stretcher was borne by Xavez and Marino, both wearing surgical masks—to hide their smiles as much as anything else. They entered the car, pushing seven on the floor display, just as the adjacent elevator opened, allowing Nova Satori to step out.
Upstairs, Sean was down on one knee at Marie’s bedside. “I got to thinking … you lying here all by yourself. I was worried about you.”
“Oh, no kidding,” she returned sarcastically.
“Seriously,” he persisted. “It’s a beautiful night, Marie. And I thought you might like to go up on the roof and enjoy it with me. A change of scenery, you know?”
Marie laughed. “Sounds great, but these doctors watch every move I make.”
Sean stood up and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “How ’bout if I promised you you wouldn’t get in any trouble?”
She threw him a puzzled look.
“I cleared it all with the administration,” he said with elaborate innocence.
Marie couldn’t help but be a little suspicious. “Why me, Sean?”
“Because you’re so sweet and gentle,” he flattered her. “I can’t help myself!” Then all at once there was a light rap at the door and he seemed suddenly impatient. “Come on, get ready. Your limousine’s here.”
No sooner had Marie run a hand through her hair and cinched her robe, than the doors hissed open again. Two masked orderlies appeared bearing a stretcher.
Marie leaned back, startled and having second thoughts. “Sean, I don’t know about this….”
“What’s the matter?” he said, coming over to the bed. “Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.” Without warning he pulled back the bed covers, and a second later, Marie found herself in his arms, being carried over to the waiting stretcher and those grinning orderlies….
As soon as the 15th’s trio had conveyed the stretcher a safe distance down the deserted corridor, Dana raced into Marie’s room, doffed the starched cap, and opened the window. She leaned out and looked up: Zor’s room was two stories directly above. From the shoulder bag, she retrieved a stun gun, a short coil of rope, and four climber’s suction cups. She put her arm through the former, and strapped the cups to her knees and wrists. She tucked the stun gun into the uniform’s narrow belt. That much accomplished, she climbed up on to the window stool and commenced her fly-crawl up the marble side of the building.
Reaching the ninth floor, she peered cautiously into the window, almost losing her grip when she saw Zor, the crimson pilot, sitting in the room’s single bed, a uniform jacket over his shoulders. She lowered herself down when he seemed to sense her presence and turned to the window. She stayed that way for several seconds, then checked her watch. It read 9:29.
“Almost time,” she said quietly, fixing a rope to the window’s exterior frame….
At exactly 9:30 a slippered and bathrobed Sergeant Dante stepped from one of the ninth floor elevators. Three GMP sentries were on him immediately.
“Get back in the elevator,” one of them told him curtly. “This floor’s closed to the public.”
Angelo waited for the doors to close and then said: “That’s all right, I’m allowed to be up here.” He began to walk off nonchalantly. A second guard restrained him.
“Check this guy out with security,” the guard ordered one of his companions. The man ran to the wall phone, but reported back with a shout that the line was dead.
Thanks to Louie’s basement tampering, Dante thought.
“Lemme go, you guys,” the sergeant protested to the two who had taken hold of his arms. “I tell ya, I’m here to see my wife!”
“Simmer down, pal,” said the one on Dante’s left. “We’re going to go for a little walk. You coming quietly or do we have to drag you?”
Dante smiled inwardly and prepared himself for battle….
In his room a short distance down the corridor, Zor heard the commotion and got out of bed to investigate. It was all the diversion Dana needed: she leapt in through the window, her stun gun in hand.
“Stop right there!” she told Zor, who was just short of the door.
Zor turned and began to walk toward her, wordless but determined.
“Stay back!” Dana warned him, arming the gun and bringing both hands to the grip. “If you don’t stop, I’ll fire!”
But he was undeterred, one moment stalking her, and the next three feet over her head in a superleap that brought him down precisely on the gun. As it flew from her hands, Dana dropped back, adopting a defensive pose and waiting for him to come.
Zor leaned forward as if to step, but ducked adroitly as she came around with a roundhouse right. He threw himself against her midsection, taking her down easily and pinning her to the floor, his left hand clamped on her left wrist, his right forearm pressed to her throat, firm enough to strangle the breath from her.
“Why are you trying to kill me?” he demanded. “What have I done?!”
Dana gasped for air, managing to say: “You’re responsible for killing men under my command!” And more!
She saw his eyes go wide in surprise, felt the pressure against her trachea lessen, and made the most of it, heaving up with her legs and throwing him over her head. But the nimble alien landed on his feet after a back flip, combat-crouched as Dana moved in on him.
He avoided her side kick and dropped to the floor, sweeping Dana’s legs out from under her with his right foot. She came down hard on the side of her face and lost it for a moment. When she looked up, the alien had the gun trained on her.
“You’re the one,” Dana said, struggling to her feet. “The red Bioroid.”
“What are you saying?!” He questioned her.
Dana had her fists clenched, her feet spread for another kata. “You’re the one we saw at the mounds—the one who captured Bowie! And the one in the fortress!”
Zor relaxed his gun hand somewhat, his face betraying the bewilderment he felt. “Nova told me the same thing,” he said with troubled brow. “What does it mean—Bioroid?”
Dana straightened from her pose. “Your memory only works when you’re killing my men, is that it?!” she shouted. “I don’t know why I’m even bothering with you, alien!”
Zor winced as though kicked. “Alien?” he seemed to ask himself; then: “I’m a Human being!”
Which he barely got out: Dana’s powerful front kick caught him square on the chin and slammed him back against the wall. He still had the gun, but it was now hanging absently by his side.
“I was there when you crawled out of that Bioroid!” Dana seethed. “Don’t deny it!” She stood waiting for him to get up, her hands ready; but the alien remained on his knees, blood running from his mouth.
“I won’t,” he said contritely. “But I wasn’t responsible for what I was doing.” Zor looked at her and said: “You’ve got to believe me!”
“Who made you do it?! Who are they?!�
� Dana demanded.
Resigned, Zor threw the gun at her feet. “Can’t you see?” he said, full of self-disgust. “I’ve lost my memory….”
Back at the elevators, Bowie Grant, in a white coat as large on him as Dana’s nurse’s uniform was small, had come to Angle’s assistance. Not that the sergeant needed any: one guard was already unconscious, the one gripped in Dante’s left arm well on the way, and the third was more than halfway there. Somehow, all of them had lost their helmets in the struggle.
“Ah, excuse me, Mr. Campbell,” Bowie was saying in his best professorial voice. “Your wife’s room is on the eighth floor.”
Dante tossed the two sentries aside dismissively and went on to finish his scene with Bowie, playing to an all but unconscious house.
“So I made a mistake, Doc—is that any reason for these gorillas of yours to jump down my throat?!”
Bowie, too, was willing to play along, especially now that the three were coming around. “Calm down, Mr. Campbell. They were only doing their job. And you can hardly blame them for that, right?”
Angelo laughed shortly and let a whistling Bowie lead him away….
The tune Bowie whistled was a strange one, with an unusual but haunting melody. It was Dana’s signal to make her escape. She said as much to Zor who was now seated on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.
“You can’t remember anything at all?” Dana asked one final time.
“No, it’s hopeless,” Zor started to say but suddenly looked up at the sound of the whistled tune. “That music,” he said anxiously. “What is that music?!”
Dana knelt beside him. “One of my troopers learned it from an alien girl on the fortress,” she explained.
Robotech Page 30