Bill 2 - on the Planet of Robot Slaves (20 page)

“Hail, Centurion Pediculus, hail!” the ancient slave hailed in a cackling gasp. “The prisoners are here.”

Pediculus pushed aside the tentflap and emerged. He had stripped off his armor and donned a loose tunic to better reveal his manly form. He had a potbelly, knock-knees and cross-eyes. “Parade them before me,” he ordered looking at everyone and no one at the same time.

Swords and spears convinced the prisoners to line up while Pediculus inspected them.

“A handsome big burly fangy chap,” he said, looking at Bill.

“Oh, thank you, sir!” he smarmed.

“Start off with him. He should go few rounds before he's killed.”

“I'll kill you first, Tubby!”

Bill growled and leapt forward — but was kept from his prey by the drawn swords. Pediculus smiled sadistically which made his false teeth protrude and he pushed them back in slurpily. He eyed the admiral, Cy, Wurber and Bly with disdain as he strolled past — until he came to Meta where his eyes trembled to a focus on her fulsome form.

“Take the others to the arena,” he ordered. “Except for this one! Strip her and anoint her with balsam and myrrh and lemon scented washing up liquid. Then drape her in the finest silk and she shall be my love slave.”

“Oh, thank you, kind commander!” Meta breathed, seizing his hand and bending to kiss it. “You're kind of cute, in a paleonihilistic way. And that's the most romantic offer I have had in years. I would swoon at this sublime opportunity if your teeth fitted better.”

Even as she spoke she seized his hand and in an expert movement seized his elbow as well, twisted and pulled. Pediculus screamed in agony — then in fear as she whirled him into the air then threw him against his tent. Which collapsed and enveloped him. Soldiers hurried forward in response to his muffled roars of pain. Neither Meta, nor the others, moved as sharp swordpoints quivered at their throats.

“Nice,” Bill said. “You're a girl in a million!”

“Thanks, toots, a kind word always appreciated. I was also judo champion three years running of LAGTAA.”

“Lactate?”

“No, cretin, LAGTAA. That is the Lifeboat and Garbage Tug Athletic Association.”

“To the arena!” Pediculus screeched, being helped from the remains of the tent. He had lost his teeth and his wig hung over his eyes. “Death, blood, destruction — I can hardly wait! And that muscle-bound doxie goes first.”

Swept forward at spearpoint, followed by the roaring mob of soldiers, they were driven to the arena. It was a natural glade that had been terraced in a half circle to face the leveled and walled patch of blood-stained ground below. This was lined with cages and the prisoners were pushed into the nearest one. There was a fierce howling from the adjoining cage and they all drew back lest they be mauled through the bars. All except Meta who put her hand through the bars before they could stop her.

“Here, kitty-kitty,” she said. The sinister looking tomcat mewed happily as she scratched its head. It was a one-eyed, scarred and tough alley fighter.

“But only about two feet long,” Bill said.

“And it's the only animal in sight,” Cy added, pointing to the other cages. “All empty. What happened to the lions, and tigers?”

“It's the wrong season for them,” the slavemaster said as he stalked up, cracking his whip. “We only have lions and tigers when there is an X in the month.”

“There are no months with X's in them,” Praktis said pedantically.

“Yeah? What about XII and XI, wise guy. All right, the fun begins. I need a volunteer to go first.”

When the dust settled they were all pressed against the back of the cage. Praktis and Captain Bly were last since they didn't have the enlisted troops' instant reflex to the word volunteer. The slave-master chuckled sadistically.

“No volunteers? Then I'll pick one myself. You, big boy, the Centurion wants you to lead off the prelims. He's saving the tootsie for the main event.”

“Good luck, Bill,” they called out, pushing him forward. “You die fighting for a noble cause.”

“It's been nice knowing you, big fellow. Happy journey.”

“May you be in heaven for an hour before the devil knows you're dead.”

“Gee, thanks, guys. That's a big help.”

Bill was horribly depressed by the entire affair. War and all its terrors was one thing. But a screwball and deadly circus on this lost plateau? He could not believe that it was happening to him.

“It's happening to you all right,” the slave-master gurgled antipathetically. “Now take this sword and net and get out there and put on a good show. Or else.”

“Or else what? What could be worse than this?” He hefted the weight of the sword and got a good grip on it as his muscles tensed.

“What could be worse? You could be drawn, quartered, flayed, boiled in oil, have your fingernails pulled out for openers.”

Roaring with rage Bill hurtled forward. And stopped when he saw the ranked bowmen, arrows pulled back, all aiming at him.

“Message clear?” the slave-master asked. "Now go forth and remember your orders.

Bill looked up at the massed, screaming soldiers, the royal box occupied by harlots and Pediculus's sadistic, pot-bellied form. There didn't seem to be much choice. He turned and shuffled out into the arena swishing the sword and swinging the net and wondering how the hell he had ever gotten into this mess. He was alone in the arena — but a cage on the far side was being opened and from the gate stepped a tall, blond-haired man carrying a trident. His fine garments were torn and his fine boots scuffed. Yet he strode forward like a king, seemingly ignorant of the roaring rabble. He stamped up and stopped before Bill, eyeing him up and down.

“Well, varlet,” he spake. “What hite ye.”

“About six feet two in my stocking feet.”

“Methinks thee mithunderstood. What be your name and rank?”

“Bill, trooper, Temporary Acting Second Lieutenant.”

“I am Arthur, King of Avalon — though these varlets know it not. You may call me Art to preserve this secret.”

“OK, Art. My friends call me Bill.”

This exchange of conversation rather than assassination had infuriated the mob who hurled epithets and empty bottles into the arena.

“We must battle, friend Bill — or at least make the pretense thereof. Defend yourself!”

The trident stabbed out, the crowd roared sadistically, and Bill parried it and stepped away. Art jumped aside to dodge the hurled net.

“Verily, that's the stuff. We must carry this mock battle across the arena to the royal box. Take that, knave!”

The sword thrust grazed Bill's side and his jacket tore when he yiped and pulled away from the cold steel. You can bet the mob really liked that.

“Easy! You want to hurt me?”

“Verily, nay. But as is spake in rude parlance we must make it look good. Attack! Attack!”

Steel rang against steel and the vulgar mob went wild with excitement. Howling happily when the net caught the king's leg. Howling unhappily when he escaped. Clash and clash it went until the battle was just under the royal box.

“This is...it!” Art panted. “There is an emergency exit from the arena just under the box. Guarded by that sentry. We escape that way — after you kill me.”

Clash of steel, roar of crowd, whisper of confusion.

“If I kill you — how do we escape?”

“Pretend to kill me, addlepate! Entrap me in your net, then thrust down twixt arm and chest. As in all the bad plays.”

“Gotcha. Here goes.”

Fast as a striking cobra the net lashed out to entrap and engulf his opponent. Only Bill wasn't very good at net throwing and Art had to dive forward to be caught by it. Pulling up the edge so that it enwrapped him.

“Get on with it, knave!” he hissed at Bill who stood there blinking. “Fall upon me and seek the verdict of the crowd.”

A little rehearsal might have helped, but with this audience who cared. Bill jumped forward and Art fell before his onslaught, his trident enmeshed, where he had enmeshed it himself, in the net. Bill seized his opponent's limp wrist and pressed it to the ground, then knelt on his chest. Feeling slightly ridiculous he raised his sword ready to strike — and turned to the crowd.

They were really buying this simpleminded act. Leaping to their feet and calling out for death, all their thumbs pointing to the ground. Bill looked on all sides and all the thumbs were down. Then looked up at Pediculus who thrust down the cruelest thumb of all.

“Finish him off,” he shouted. “We've got plenty of acts to follow.”

Bill plunged the sword down as he had been instructed. Art's body arched in the throes of death, then was still. The crowd went wild. Bill pulled the sword free and marched to stand before the royal box. All eyes were upon him. Which was a good thing since the king was really tangled in the net and having a hard time getting free. Bill caught this out of the corner of his eye and leapt forward brandishing his weapon, crying out. A distraction was very much in order.

“Hail, Centurion Pediculus, all hail. Hail!”

“Hail, hail, sure,” Pediculus muttered looking at his program, then glancing back to Bill. “Say — how come there's no blood on your sword?”

“Because I wiped it on the corpse's clothes.”

“I didn't see you wipe it,” he leaned forward eyes spinning. “In fact — I don't even see the corpse!”

“This way!” Art called out, pushing aside the guard he had struck down and kicking open the door with the red EXIT sign above it.

Bill did not have to be asked twice. Art dived through it with Bill right on his heels. They ran down the long, curving tunnel, feebly lit by the sunlight that trickled down through the cracks in the bleachers above. Broken nutshells and olive pits also trickled down on them. Now there was the rumble of feet and angry cries of frustration and rage. Behind them there was a crash as the exit door was torn open and armed soldiers burst through.

“Run, varlet — run! As if the very...hounds of hell were upon your heels!”

“They are!” Bill gasped at the fierce howling behind them.

There was a glimmer ahead and Bill saw the light at the end of the tunnel. The wooden door there had been swung open — and an armed man barred their way!

“We are lost!” Bill wailed.

“We are saved! Yon warrior is of my band!”

“Hail, Arthur,” the warrior shouted, raising his glistening sword.

“Hi, Mordred. Did you bring the horses?”

“Forsooth, verily.”

“That's the good knight. Avaunt — we jaunt!”

An armed band of soldiers milled about beneath the trees. Arthur bounded athletically into the saddle of his horse while Bill was heaved into the saddle of another horse by Mordred, who leapt up behind him. They were off at full gallop over the greensward before the first of their pursuers burst out through the doorway.

But their escape had not gone unnoticed. All of the army was at their heels now, shouting and cursing. And shooting off arrows, hurling spears. But two of the men in heavy armor rode to the rear of the posse so that the arrows and swords bounced harmlessly from their metal protection. And, it must be added, from the horses as well since they wore steel haunch and hock protectors, as well as chainmail leggings and, since they were stallions, riveted steel jockstraps. Everything had been planned down to the last detail.

Along the road they galloped towards the castle — and the drawbridge was coming down! It crashed to the ground as the first horse raised its first hoof. Down the hoof came on solid wood, and down came the other hooves right behind it. A thunderous rumble rumbled as they galloped across the drawbridge — which rose instantly when the last tail had flicked safely by. The attackers could only rage at the moat's edge while the defenders pissed themselves with laughter in the crenellations above.

The horsemen reined up in the courtyard in a clatter of hooves and a spray of horsesweat. Bill slid to the ground and Art, here known better as King Arthur, strode forward and clasped his hand with friendship.

“Welcome stranger, welcome to Avalon.”

“That's all very well,” Bill said. “I appreciate the favor. But what about my friends — we can't just leave them back there to die.” Then he had a hideous sinking feeling.

“Or — perhaps they are dead already!”

“Allay your fears, new comrade Bill. Forsooth, knew I not that the brouhaha at the arena, and yeah verily the escape and chase, would create a great diversion? And draw off the troops. Therefore my boldest knights sallied forth through a secret tunnel known not to the enemy. From a place of hiding they did perceive events — and were to fall upon the weakened soldiery and free your friends. Avaunt! We shall ascend and determine ye outcome of events.”

Arthur, who was in pretty good shape, took the tower steps two at a time with Bill right behind him. They emerged at the top to find an old geezer with a pointed hat waiting for them.

“All hail, Arthur the King. Hail, hail!” he hailed.

“And hail to you, good Merlin. What dost thou report?”

“I dost report that I have gazed at yon magic mirror and have followed ye progress of all that transpired below.”

Bill examined the magic mirror and nodded approvingly. “Not a bad little reflecting telescope. Did you grind the mirror yourself?”

Merlin raised one shaggy white eyebrow, combed his fingers through his flowing beard and spoke.

“My liege, yeah verily, who is this weisenheimer?”

“He hite Bill and is the prisoner I salved from yon arena. And what of the other captives?”

“Verily I perceived events with...” he glared at Bill, “my magic mirror. Your puissant knights did hurtle to the attack, did brast their spears on the oafish defenders who didst flee in panic, did thus free the prisoners.”

“Bully! So come dear friends, we shall below to partake of sweetmeats and fine wines, thus we celebrate this day.”

The fine wine sounded like a fine idea to Bill and he trod on Merlin's robe in his haste. The hall, when they reached it, was filled with tall blokes in metal armor, which clashed and squeaked as they stamped about bragging at the top of their lungs.

“Did thoust see my lance brast upon his pate?”

“Impaled three of the buggers at one time!”