Bill 2 - on the Planet of Robot Slaves (18 page)

“Plan? What plan? Oh, yes. Killing them all in the mountain stronghold. We drop a neutron bomb on them. As is common knowledge this kills all forms of life — but does not harm property. Then we just walk in and grab their spacer.”

“Simplicity itself,” Praktis said, pointing to his lips. “And I hope you will notice that I am still sneering. We don't have a neutron bomb, bowbhead, do we?”

“No we don't. But before I became a garbage tug captain I was a nuclear physicist. All of that before the dog incident, of course. And there is plenty of neutronium in the engines of the wrecked garbage tug.”

“All burnt up now,” Bill said.

“Just because you look stupid don't act stupid too. The neutronium is sealed in and armor plated. It's still there.”

“I think, Cap, that you are onto something good,” Praktis said, eyes gleaming with murderous intent. “We go to the ship, extract the neutronium, build a bomb, drop it and get the spacer. Wonderful!”

“No go,” Zots said, waving a languid golden arm. The carriers carried him around the landing strip a few times then gently sat his palanquin down. “The bombing deal is off.”

“Why?” Praktis asked, puzzled.

“Why? Because it would end the endless war for one thing.”

“But you want that?”

“I do not. Nor does my brother Plotz who is in charge of the insane machines. Who all of them, PS, think that we are the insane machines.”

“Speaking of insane machines...” Meta did not finish the sentence but jerked her thumb in Zots's direction.

“Just watch that,” Zots grated, a scowl marking his usual golden expression. “The whole thing is a put-up job if you must know. Plotz and I lust after power — and we got it in plenty since we started this war. It keeps the economy turning over, provides plenty of junk metal so we never go hungry. Lots of good comes out of it.”

“Lots of destruction, maiming, death comes out of it,” Bill said.

“That too. So what's new? You humans are up to the same game, aren't you, Admiral?”

“More or less. So keep your war, that's your problem. Our problem is getting off this planet before we starve to death. What about that?”

“You just said it — it's your problem.”

“You're all heart. Do you expect us just to stay here and starve to death?”

“That's it. You got it right without any help.”

“You tinkertoy traitor!” Praktis howled with fury. He rushed to the attack as did all the others. The attack stopped instantly when ten Fighting Devils ran out of the tunnel entrance and formed a protective screen.

“You'll not get away with this,” Praktis frothed. “We will tell every machine about this fake war. Hear that, Fighting Devils, carrybots? The whole war is a fake. You die for nothing.”

“You speak for nothing,” Zots yawned boredly. “I issued the command by radio to all my troops to forget your language. They can no longer understand you.”

Bill looked up at their faithful steed, the virile ornithopter. An eye swiveled in his direction as he spoke.

“It's not true, what he said. You understand me, don't you?”

“Comment?”

“You can't have forgotten how to speak with us — not that quickly!”

“Enfin, des tables de monnaies et de mesures rendront de réels services.”

“You've forgotten that quickly.”

Then he turned back and saw that Zots and his entourage were gone, the Fighting Devils as well. A great flapping sounded and died away as the ornithopter took off.

They stared at each other with horrified gazes.

Alone.

Trapped on this barren world.

To starve to death. Was this their fate?

“I can't believe this is happening to me!” Cy moaned whimpily.

“Well it ain't happening to the man in the moon!” Meta snarled. “We will all feel sorry for ourselves later. Right now we have got to make a plan.”

“So make,” Praktis gloomed. “I'm open to all suggestions, no matter how wild.”

His answer was only silence. After a long time Bill coughed. “I'm thirsty. I'm going to get a drink of water. Can I bring any back for anybody? One thing we know, there's plenty of water so we don't die of thirst.”

He retreated under the barrage of their insults, pausing at the tunnel entrance only to catch his breath. Before he could go on Meta called out to him.

“Bill, hold it. There's a dragon here that wants to talk to you.”

It had made a perfect four-point landing and now sat peacefully, puffing the occasional smoke ring.

“Hi there, Bill, and all you folks. I had a good flight. As you see I came to join you here as soon as the wing grew back. I couldn't return to dragon-hold, not after turning traitor. So I thought you might have a job for me in this neck of the woods.”

“We sure do!” they all exulted. “You are going to get us out of here.”

“No problem. But I'll need to refill my tank first. A barrel or two of oil should do.”

“That could be a problem,” Praktis said. “We have had a difference of opinion with the locals.”

“So we don't talk to them,” Captain Bly said. “There's a supply room just down this corridor. I suggest that you and you volunteer to roll out the barrel.”

“It's always the enlisted men who get the dirty work,” Bill muttered petulantly.

“And the enlisted girls too,” Meta said. “So instead of feeling sorry for ourselves shall we just go and do the job?”

The door to the supply room was open, but a small inventorybot was taking inventory. Keeping track on a wax tablet with a metal stylo. They brushed past it and pushed over two of the full barrels and started to roll them from the room. The inventorybot blocked the doorway and waved its fourteen arms furiously.

“XII, II, XVI, VIX!” it said.

“Sure, sure,” Bill agreed. “But you got a whole room full. You're not going to miss two little ones.”

“XXIXIIXXX!” it screamed at them.

It crunched when they rolled the barrels over it. But it must have got off a final radio call because before they could get back to the landing strip Zots came hurrying up on his palanquin.

“Did you just run down my inventorybot?”

“It was an accident, it tripped right in front of the barrel.”

“Am I supposed to believe that old crapola?”

“'Tis but the truth,” Bill said, placing his hand over his heart and looking saintly.

“Thousands would believe you — but I don't. And what were you doing with the oil anyway?”

Bill was all lied out but Meta rose to the occasion. “You want us to die,” she sobbed. “No food. Starve to death. So we thought maybe we would sip a little oil, get used to it, it is filled with rich hydrocarbons after all — and we are carbon based life forms. Would you begrudge dying aliens a last sip of oil?”

“All right, all right, enough already. I got more important things to do than to jaw-jaw with squishies. There's a war on you know.”

The palanquin vanished down the corridor and Bill let out a whoosh of relief. “You were marvelous!” he said, spaniel eyes gleaming moistly at Meta.

“Wasn't I though. I have real acting talents. I'm more than just another pretty face you know. Or do you know? I seem to be getting very little feedback from you. You are interested, aren't you? Or are you kinky or bent, Bill? Let me know now so I won't go on wasting my time. Who do you find more attractive — me or Cy?”

“You, of course! What do you think I am?”

“Just checking up. Now put your mouth where your money is!”

She grabbed him in a warm embrace and they kissed. Her mouth was a passionate tiger longing to consume him —

“Ouch! You bit me!”

“Love play, toots — and it gets better...”

“You two. Knock off the heterosexuality on duty. Get those barrels rolling.”

Praktis watched suspiciously as they rolled past, then followed them out onto the landing strip.

“How delightful!” the dragon flared appreciatively. “Vintage Pennzoil. Delicious.”

It holed a barrel with a quick stab of one steel claw, upended and drained it in one dragonian chugalug. Then belched flame appreciatively and covered them all with a cloud of soot.

“I do apologize for my table manners.” Its voice died to a liquid mumble as it drank the second barrel as well. Then the air was filled with a loud crunching and clanking as it ate the barrels.

“Can we talk now?” Praktis said when the last morsel of steel had slipped from sight.

“Surely. You want transportation?”

“Correct.”

“Where to?”

“Good question,” Praktis mused. “You might take us back to the plateau that you all enjoyed visiting so much. You said that the food there was edible.”

“But the autochthons are not!” Cy complained, and the others nodded complete agreement. “A bunch of crazies. And there is no future there with everybody just chasing around, killing each other.”

“A well-made point. Where else then? We can't surrender to the Chingers.”

“Why not?” They all turned to look at Bill with various expressions of revulsion; Cy bent and picked up a large rock. “Now wait a minute! We're just looking at possibilities. There aren't that many choices, you know. The Chingers say that they are peaceful and don't like to kill or make war. So make them prove it. We go there. They have to feed us or we croak. If they don't have food we can eat — then they have to get us offplanet soonest.”

“That plan is so stupid it might work,” Captain Bly said hoarsely through his cottonmouth.

“I say no — and I'm the admiral. No surrender. Except as a last resort. Is there any place else we can go on this desert planet?”

“Well,” the dragon said. All eyes were on him. He brushed them off. “I remember a story this old dragon used to tell when we sat around the fire at night roasting nuts. And bolts. He spoke of the green plateau we have just visited, and of the repulsive life forms that infest it. But he talked as well of another plateau, also of the same hideous shade of green, that lies almost a day's flight beyond the first one. But he warned us not to go near it. For Great Dangers lurked there. And Evil as well.”

“He said that? Great Dangers and Evil?”

“Yup. Just like that. And if you think it easy to speak in capital letters just try it some time.”

“No thank you,” Praktis said. “I would like to make sure of just one detail. You did say it was green?”

“Green as a dragon's eye in heat.”

“An interesting simile. Great. We go.”

“What about all the Great Dangers and Evil?” Bill complained. “That doesn't sound good.”

“What does? Just follow orders, trooper. The first order is to shut up. All right, we leave at once. It is going to be a bumpy flight — so everyone who hasn't gone, go now. I don't want to make any pit stops. Tally-ho!”

Just as they were climbing aboard, a familiarly repulsive voice called out. “That dragon! I want to talk to you.”

The palanquin trotters had trotted out the palanquin with Zots aboard.

“Yes, sir,” the dragon said, looking back to see if the passengers were safely aboard.

“Shake those alien squishies off at once — that is an order. I don't like any of this.”

“Oh, sir, I hope that you like this better.”

With that the dragon breathed a blast of flame that melted the trotters and the palanquin instantly. Only Zots, being goldplated, survived. He shrieked warmly and ran to safety as the dragon fired up its boilers.

“Up, up and away!” it yodeled and hurled itself into the air.

“We're ever so grateful for your aid,” Meta said gratefully.

“Think nothing of it. Ever since I left the egg I have been taught to hate Zots and his lotz. He might be a nice fellow...”

“He's a metallic meathead!”

“Good. One enjoys having one's prejudices proved correct. So — lovely flying weather. Next stop the Plateau of Mystery.”

“And give the other plateau a wide miss,” Bill cozened. “Remember what happened last time.”

“How could I forget. The new wing still isn't broken in right.”

Fueled by the high octane oil, the dragon flew all night. No one slept, particularly the dragon, for obvious reasons, and it was a bleary-eyed bunch that greeted the rising sun. They blinked into its brightness and there — dead ahead — a plateau rose from the desert wastes.

“We've made it,” Bill said hoarsely.

“Not quite,” the dragon said, yawning out a little fireball. “I'm going to get some altitude in case they are trigger-happy down there as well.”

They soared in circles, riding the updrafts, before the dragon ventured inland.

“Smoking volcanoes,” Praktis said. “Stay away from them.”

“For the moment, if you insist. But I do love lava! Lambent licking flame, fuming fumaroles. My kind of stuff. And that looks like your kind of stuff down there. Is that a war going on?”

Praktis lifted his eyepatch and his telescopic eyelens whirred out. “Very interesting. There appears to be large structure of some sort, a castle it looks like. Heavily defended because it is being heavily attacked. Details not too clear from this height, but it looks like a standoff. Take us down, dragon.”

“Not to the war,” Bill wailed.

“No, dummy, not to the war. But close to it. There, mighty steed, do you see that tree-covered hill? Set down on the other side, out of sight of the attackers. We can reconnoiter from there.”

With their limbs paralyzed from the long flight they could only slide to the ground and lie there kicking feebly like turned-over beetles.

“Hope you enjoyed the trip,” the dragon said.

“Great. Wonderful. Whee.” They gasped.

“That's nice. I'm going to leave you here because warring squishies are not my bag. See you around.”

They waved feebly as powerful wings hurled their fiery charger into the air. He roared his farewells and a thin shower of soot descended upon their limp forms.

Bill was the first to stir, standing and groaning with the effort. They were in a grassy glade across which a merry brook bubbled.

“I'm going to get a drink from that merry brook,” he said and staggered off.

As soon as they were able the others joined him and they all stretched out on the bank slurping and gulping like crazy. Restored, they were soon sitting up and examining their new home. Birds sang, bees hummed, flowers dipped saucy blossoms in the breeze and the admiral barked commands.