“Rather confusing, Commander,” the officer replied. “And brief.”
“All Designates file brief reports,” Kril declared. “They are not utilized because of their ability to carry on lengthy conversations.”
“No, Commander.” The officer swallowed. “The message from ZZ-Designate 61 says, ‘The last Star-fighter . . . .’ ”
The Beta turned off the dirt road and started climbing a steep slope above the clearing, hoping to take the assassin by surprise. It might not be expecting any pursuit, but the Beta was taking no chances.
As the truck bounced crazily over boulders and rills, the Beta held the wheel firmly in one hand while opening its stomach with the other. Maggie observed this bloodless operation with silent fascination. The Beta removed a small box no larger than a pack of cigarettes, stuck it beneath the pickup’s dashboard, and refastened its stomach. The box clung to the metal, a single red light glowing brightly on one side.
“What’s that?” she asked, her teeth rattling.
“A surprise for our friend below. Isn’t it your custom to give presents during the upcoming time you call Christmas?”
She nodded. Actually she couldn’t do anything but nod, rough as the ride was. They had reached the top of the low ridge and were starting down the opposite side.
“This will be an early present for our friend. When I give the word, you jump, okay?”
“Do I have a choice?” The pickup was beginning to pick up speed as the Beta sent it rumbling down the rocky slope.
The Beta indicated the metal box attached to the dash. “Not unless you want to be part of the surprise.”
“I don’t think so. If this is going to help Alex …”
The Beta nodded. Maggie put one hand on the door handle, keeping her other on the overhead grip, and waited anxiously for the robot’s command.
At the last instant he shouted, “JUMP!” Without thinking, Maggie threw herself out the door, covering her face and rolling over a couple of times until coming to rest against a mercifully soft bush. She sat up fast. It occurred to her then that she hadn’t seen the Beta try to jump clear.
Below, she could see the truck roar toward something shiny and strange of shape. The last seconds seemed to pass in slow motion, like something out of an old movie.
The pickup smashed into the vessel concealed by the brush and exploded. The truck’s twin gas tanks erupted in concert with the robot’s mysterious metal box. The alien craft, which would have withstood the gasoline explosion easily, turned into a geyser of metal and metallic glass. The concussion knocked Maggie down. Among the vaporized contents of the spaceship were the remains of one very surprised alien killer.
The gasoline and the surrounding vegetation continued to burn long after the ship had been destroyed. For the second time in as many minutes Maggie slowly picked herself off the ground. She wiped twigs and dirt from her legs. She was sore and bruised, but nothing was broken.
She wished she could say the same for the Beta. He was down there, somewhere, in small pieces. He’d sacrificed himself to help Alex. Of course, he was only a machine. It wasn’t like he was a real person, was it?
Well, was it?
You can’t cry over a machine, she told herself. That would be silly. Beta would’ve thought it silly. So she didn’t, but she had to work hard to keep the tears back.
She still didn’t understand what was going on, but she didn’t want to have to answer a bunch of awkward questions. The fire would bring out forestry service trucks, and Jack Blake would be coming along soone r or later, hot on the trail of his precious, missing pickup. She didn’t want to talk to Jack just now. She didn’t want to talk to anyone.
She started back toward the trailer park-sore, confused and concerned.
Just where was Alex?
13
“Well,” Kril said into the unexpected silence, “what’s the rest of the message?”
“I’m afraid that’s all there is, Commander.” The communications officer was apologetic. “That much came in and then the transmission ceased.”
“Could there have been a relay failure between here and this primitive system the report was being filed from?”
The communications officer considered. “I do not think so, Commander. Because of the planned assault on Rylos and the rest of the League, all deep-space relays were performance checked just prior to the fleet’s departure. All were certified operational.”
“Doesn’t make any sense,” Kril muttered. “There has to be more to the message.”
“ZZ-Designates often find themselves operating under less than ideal conditions for long-range communication,” another officer suggested thoughtfully. “Obviously this one did not have time to complete its report and intends to do so at some time in the near future.”
Kril repeated the cryptic line to himself. “The last Starfighter. . . . What could the rest of it be?”
“The last Starfighter …” Xur declared portentously into the resulting silence, ” . . . is dead! That’s the message! There was one on that ship fleeing Rylos. As ordered, the ZZ-Designate took care of it. The last Starfighter is dead! The last suggestion of a threat has been terminated. There is nothing to stop us now.” He turned wild eyes on Kril. “No longer any reason for this display of excessive caution, Commander. We have wasted too much time already. Full sublight speed. On to Rylos!”
Kril found himself hesitating only momentarily. Xur’s interpretation of the message seemed so natural, so correct, that truly there was no reason any longer to hesitate. He gestured to communications and engineering.
One elderly officer spoke from his station. “Shouldn’t we do a follow-up on this message, sir, to seek positive confirmation?”
“By all means,” Kril agreed, “but the time-delay between here and this backward world where the message originates would keep us waiting unconscionably long. We do not want to give the Rylans any cause for hope, much less time to strengthen their energy shield. This close, it could destroy our engines if reactivated. For a change, Xur makes good sense. By all means put through a request for clarification of the remainder of the message and report to me when it comes in. But I will not delay longer for a formality.”
“As you wish, Commander.” The elderly officer moved to comply with the directive, disquiet nagging the back of his mind.
Alex shifted impatiently in his seat, itching for the fight to begin while aware that Grig would not take them out until just the right moment. Something massive and dark appeared on his battle screen and he stopped squirming.
“The command ship.”
“Yes, that’s it,” Grig said. “Not as well-screened as I expected. Most of their attending fighters are well forward, moving in what amounts to review formation. It’s almost as if they’re on parade. And why not? There’s nothing left to threaten them, is there?”
Alex smiled as Grig activated the gunstar’s oversized engines. Slowly they drifted out of the crater under minimum power as the command ship lumbered majestically past.
A large opaque blister was clearly visible against the smooth metal surface of the massive vessel.
Grig pointed it out immediately. “There, Alex. At the far end. The fighter command center.”
“I see it.” Alex tried to push himself back into the yielding cushion of the gunnery chair. He strove to blank his mind of everything but the target on the screen, just as he did when he was playing the game back home.
Grig glanced back and up. “Good luck, Starfighter. The League expects every being to do his or her or its best today.”
It made Alex smile, exactly as Grig had intended. “Thanks, Grig. For everything.”
“For what? I haven’t given you a thing, Alex.”
“You’ve given me confidence, insight, and a feeling that maybe I’ve grown up a little out here. For starters.”
The Navigator/Monitor looked away, embarrassed. “Those qualities were in you all the time, Alex. I merely helped them rise to the surface, just as you have risen to the occasion.”
“You’re a good man, Grig, even if you aren’t a man.”
“The term is relative, Alex. It translates well. As does your friendship.”
Alex let that warm thought flow over him as Grig turned his attention to the ship’s systems. The Starfighter’s gaze settled on Maggie’s picture, resting nearby. So far away. She was so impossibly far away.
And what was he doing here, a kid with SAT scores barely above average and grades pulled down by lack of sleep and study time? How the hell had he ended up in this position, with so much riding on an ability he’d perfected while playing at it in his spare time?
Something Mr. Solomon, his history teacher, had said in class came back to him now. “It’s always been a matter of debate as to whether great men make history or the sweep of historical events makes great men.”