Bill 2 - on the Planet of Robot Slaves (24 page)

“Oh, no you didn't! You could have put your hands over your ears. There have been a lot of battlefield commissions in the history of warfare, First Lieutenant. Be pleased by the fact that you are the first ever to get a battlefield decommission. Trooper. Back to the ranks. No more decent chow, officer's clubs or licensed knocking-shops for you!”

“I never had a chance to enjoy that sort of thing anyway!”

“Then you won't miss them,” Praktis cackled evilly. “War is hell, don't ever forget that.”

“For the enlisted troops it is,” Meta said, turning and going back into the SS Zog where she took another bottle of sacrificial wine from the refrigerator. “I have got to think of a way of getting a commission.”

Cy and Praktis, followed by a stumbling Wurber, came in to join her and she poured them each a glassful. Captain Bly did not have to join them since he had never left. As soon as the FTL message had been sent he had dived back into the bottle and had not been out of it since. They rested their feet on his recumbent body and listened to the sounds of domestic quarrel echoing from the bowels of the ship.

“Here's to peace,” Meta said and raised her glass.

“No way!” Praktis disagreed. “To war, endless war.”

“You sound a bit like that fake Mars, God of War.”

“Don't kid yourself — he talked a lot of sense. I would really like to fire up the old god myself, it makes a nice racket. I would do it too if Merlin hadn't slipped away when we were drunk. He'll blow the whistle and I suppose peace will descend on this happy land.” He frowned and twisted his face as though he had a bad taste in his mouth.

“But just here on this plateau,” Meta reminded him. “Not too far away the Barthroomians are locked in endless war. Just like us.”

“You're right! I forgot — nice of you to remind me. See, good things do happen.”

She drained her glass and did not bother to answer.

Outside, staring out at the trackless sand, scratching idly with his claws, Bill faced the future back in the ranks. Easy come, easy go, it had been too good to last. Anyway, at heart, he would always be an enlisted man. At heart, deeper down, he wanted really to be a civilian but that was pushing things. But all this thought was pretty heavy, not to mention depressing. What he should do was seek the traditional troopers' solution and go back into the ship and get smashed out of his teeny-tiny with all of the others. Get smashed, sing dirty songs, fall down drunk, throw up. Sounded like real fun! He turned to go when he heard the distant rumble of a spaceship. Was help on the way already? He had better get cracking on the booze before he was forcefully returned to sober military life. But the spacer arrived at supersonic speed, the boom of sound cracking across his head as it shot by close overhead and vanished. He looked up, blinking, to see the Chinger ship vanishing for a second time. But on this pass, instead of a parachute, a tiny spaceship had been dropped from its bomb bay. It zoomed about in small circle and landed almost at his feet. Then the top cracked open and a Chinger poked his head out.

“Hi, Bill. I saw you were alone and I thought I would have one last word with you. Besides that, I got a present for you. We captured one of your supply ships and it was filled with spare parts for the medics. It had some nice frozen feet and I picked you out the best one. It is here, inside this automated miniaturized field hospital.”

“For me, Beager! How decent of you!” Bill slobbered, stumbling forward arms extended, a tear of gratitude in his eye. Which turned to a tear of pain when Beager jumped up and punched him in the nose and knocked him backward into the sand.

“Not so fast, trooper. You want the foot you work for it. The days of the free lunch are long gone. Gee, we are learning a lot from you bowby humans.”

“Work? Do what?”

“Sow dissension, pacifist propaganda, spy for us. Work hard to end the war.”

“I couldn't do that — it's immoral...” Beager made a loud raspberry sound of contempt. Bill had the courtesy to blush. “But not quite as immoral as war itself. But, really, I couldn't be a traitor. What does the job pay?”

“A new foot.”

“That's great for starters. But what about later, I mean?”

“For a loyal trooper you drive a hard, not to say, traitorous bargain. Then you are on the payroll. A thousand bucks a month and a case of booze. Is it a deal?”

“It's a...”

His words were drowned out by the roar of an ionizer. The ions sizzled into the sand where Beager had been standing. But you got to move fast on a 10G world. He was back in the spaceship and the lid was closed before the second shot ravened forth. It wrapped the little ship in corruscating flame, but the ship must have been coated with impervium or some such mystery of alien science so harmed it not. Rockets blasted and the spaceship soared up into the sky and vanished in the distance.

“What were you saying, Bill?” Meta asked, her voice rich with dark menace. The ion pistol pointed at him now. “I didn't catch the end of the sentence.”

“It's an insult! That's what I said. An insult to think that a loyal trooper would betray his sadistic superiors.”

“That's what I thought you were going to say.” She smiled warmly and slipped the weapon into her holster. “So now, while the others are getting sozzled, and before the fleet arrives, we have a good chance to strip off our clothes and make out right here on the nice warm sand.”

“That's for me!” he cried with great enthusiasm, then tore great tracks in the sand with his chicken foot. He looked at it and frowned. “Is it OK with you if I change feet first? I wouldn't want to scratch you or anything.”

“Well, I've waited this long,” she sighed. “A little more time won't make that much difference. But get on with it, will you!”

“You betcha!” He turned the box over and found printed instructions on the other side.

Dear Bill. Press the red button to start warming it up. When the green light comes on stick your avian foot in the hole on top. Best wishes, your Chinger friend.

“That was real nice of him,” Bill said, pressing the button. “For an enemy Chinger he's not a bad little guy. A lot better than some officers I know. A lot better than all the officers I know.” The light came on and he scratched one last scratch with his claws and shoved his foot in.

He gave the yellow foot a decent burial in the desert, then wriggled and admired his new pink toes. All seven of them, but he wasn't asking any questions; never look a gift foot in the toe. He looked up at the sky where the Chinger ship had vanished.

“I really would like to help you with the peace thing, little green feller. But it's not easy. Anyway, right now I got to find a shoe. I'll think about peace some other time.”

“Is that peace or a piece you are thinking about? And you can worry about the shoe later. Come here.” Meta murmured the words in a highly osculatory fashion, while spinning him about and kissing him so passionately that his sperm count jumped one hundred percent.

In the name of decency — and the urgent desire to get a PG rating — we must reluctantly draw the curtain on this delicate scene of heterosexual intimacy. Let us simply observe that the sun which, as it was wont to do, sank slowly in the east and darkness descended across the trackless sand of the trackless desert and this world, for the moment at least, and only at this spot, was very positively at peace.