Bill 2 - on the Planet of Robot Slaves (4 page)

Praktis grimaced as he drained the warm beer from the bottle, then whistled wetly. When Bill looked around he flipped the bottle to him.

“Put this outside with the rest of the rubbish, chicken-foot. And while you are out there sort of have a look-see and let me know what it looks like.”

“Are you requesting me to make a reconnaissance and report back?”

“Yes, if that's what you want to call it in your rotten Trooperese. I'm a doctor first and an admiral by accident. So just get on with it.”

The dim glow of the emergency light did not penetrate down the ladderway. Bill clicked his heels together to turn on his toe-torch, then climbed down the rungs in the light of his glowing boot. Since there was no power the spacelock would not open when he thumbed the switch. He turned the sticky manual wheel and groaned with the effort. When the inner door had opened about a foot he squeezed through the gap and into the chamber of the lock. A bright beam of sunlight shone through the armorglass window in the outer door. He pressed his eye to it, curious and eager for a glimpse of this alien world. All he saw was garbage.

“Great,” he muttered and reached for the wheel beside. Then stopped.

What was lurking beyond the outer door? What alien terrors had the future in store for him? What sort of atmosphere was out there — if there was any atmosphere at all? If he opened the lock he might be dead in an instant. Yet it had to be done sooner or later. There was not much of a future doing nothing, staying locked up in this crumpled garbage can along with its obnoxious captain and the quack admiral.

“Do it, Bill, do it,” he muttered to himself. “You only die once.”

Sighing unhappily, he turned the wheel.

And stopped when the door cracked open and began to hiss loudly.

But it was only the pressure equalizing, he realized, heart thudding like a triphammer in sudden panic. Wiping the beads of sweat from his brow, he leaned over and sniffed at the draft of air that blew into his face. It was hot and dry — and smelled more than a little of garbage — but he was still alive. After that, feeling very proud of himself and forgetting his animal panic, he kept turning until the door opened wide. Sunlight lanced in brightly and there was a brittle crackling sound. He leaned out to look — turned and went quickly back into the bowels of the ship. Praktis looked down the ladderwell at him as he ran by.

“Where are you going?”

“To get my barracks bag.”

“Why? What's outside?”

“Desert. Just a lot of garbage and sand and nothing else in sight. No dragons, no nothing.”

Praktis blinked rapidly. “Then just why the hell are you getting your barracks bag, Trooper?”

“I'm getting out of here. The garbage is on fire.”

Praktis's scream of pain and shouted commands followed Bill when, equipped with barracks bag, he bailed out through the open door. He did not stop nor even bother to look back. The lesson with the greatest value that he had learned during his years in the troopers was a simple one: cover your ass. He only stopped when he was clear of the tug, threw down his bag and, breathing heavily, sat on a sand dune. Nodding appreciatively, he watched the evacuation of the tug with great interest.

Pained screams and a great deal of shouting and pounding came from the open lock. In a few moments a box of supplies thudded into the sand, to be followed closely by more containers and crates. Since his own survival was at stake he went to help, dragging them clear and going back for more. The flames crackled and grew close. He pulled one more crate to safety then shouted into the ship.

“Anyone getting out better do it now or never.” Then jumped aside as the rats deserted the burning ship. After them came the crew, coughing and scrambling for safety away from the flames.

Praktis was first, of course, since the commander always leads from the front. Particularly during a retreat. Cy was next, staggering under the weight of some electronic junk, followed closely by Wurber and Captain Bly. Followed by a stranger. Not only a stranger, Bill realized, but a strangerette. A female person with stripes on her arms.

“Who...who...you?” Bill asked. She looked him up and down with scorn.

“Knock off the owl imitation, bowbhead, and say ma'am when speaking to a superior officer. Report. Name, rank and condition.”

“Yes, sir — ma'am. Trooper Bill, ma'am, draftee, hungover, tired.”

“You look it. I'm Engine Mate First Class Tarsil. Put my suitcase with the rest of the stuff.”

“As you command, Engine Mate First Class Tarsil.”

“Since we are shipmates you can call me by my first name. Meta.” She reached out and squeezed his arm. “You got good biceps, Bill.”

Bill smiled ingratiatingly as he grabbed up her suitcase. It was always best to keep on the good side of the noncoms. Especially female noncoms. Though, really, he didn't think she was his type. He liked big girls, but not those a head taller than him. And her biceps, he pouted with inferiority, were really much bigger than his.

“Bill,” a familiar and loathed voice called out. “Stop fraternizing and claw your way up here.”

Bill joined Admiral Praktis on the summit of the sand dune, looking out at the golden majesty of the setting sun. Which was really the only thing worth looking at since other than the sun, and the empty sky with one small cloud that vanished while they watched, there wasn't anything else.

“Sand, and an awful lot of it,” Praktis said with an expression of deep gloom.

“That's what deserts are like, sir,” Bill said brightly. Praktis turned a withering glare and scornful sneer upon him.

“When I want that kind of bright Pollyanna bowb I will ask for it. Do you realize the kind of hole that we are in? There is myself and there is you, which is not saying very much. And what else? That dim recruit who was probably a dim civilian yesterday, the captain who is already stoned out of his mind, an electronic technician with no electronics — and that overweight oversexed crewmember who is going to cause trouble, bet on that. We got some food, some water — and little else. I have the intensely gloomy sensation that we are for the chopping block.”

“I have a suggestion, sir?”

“You do? Great! Speak quickly.”

“Since you are in command and there is a war on — I want a battlefield commission.”

“You want what?”

“A commission as a third lieutenant. I am an experienced trooper with plenty of service-related know-how — in addition to which I am the only one here with these qualifications. You will need my combat-hardened skills and professional knowledge...”

“Which I will not get unless you have some rank. All right bowb, not that it makes any difference. Kneel Recruit Bill. Rise Third Lieutenant Bill.”

“Oh, thank you, sir. That makes all the difference,” Bill simpered. Praktis curled his lip with disgust while Bill dug the tarnished golden pips of a third lieutenant from his pocket and proudly pinned them to his epaulets.

“It is said that every real soldier with guts or talent, or both, marches with a marshal's baton in his pack. My goal is simpler...”

“Shut up. Take your mind off of your pathetic military ambitions and apply whatever intelligence you have, the existence of which I am growing doubtful about, to the problem at hand. What do we do?”

His ambition fired by his newfound rank, Bill hurled himself in to the role with enthusiasm.

“Sir! We will begin by taking inventory of our supplies, which will be guarded at all times and rationed equally among all. When this has been done we will prepare sleeping accommodations for the night, since, as you can see, the sun is setting. Then I will draw up a guard's roster for the night, have a shortarm inspection, prepare battle plans...”

“Stop!” Praktis called out hoarsely, eyes bulging at the military monster that he had created. “Let's just get our heads together and simply figure out what we have to do next, Lieutenant. Just that much, or it is instantly back to recruit rank with you.”

Bill accepted the decision with all the bad grace he could muster up, kicking his clawed heel into the sand and scowling darkly. His military career in command had been brief. He trailed after Praktis as they went back down the dune to join the others.

“Give me your attention,” Praktis called out. “All of you that is except Captain Bly who has stoned himself unconscious on that cheap drek he smokes. You, trooper, what's your name?”

“Wurber, your highness.”

“Yes, Wurber, great to have you aboard. Now go through Captain Bly's pockets and get all the dope he has and bring it to me. When he surfaces he will probably have more stashed, but at least we can start with this. Now listen, the rest of you, we kinda got a problem...”

“You ain't just blowing it out your barracks bag buster,” Meta said.

“Yes, well, thank you miss...”

“Miss my butt, buster. There are laws against that male chauvinist pig stuff. I am Engine Mate First Class Meta Tarsil.”

“Yes, Engine Mate First Class, I fully understand your attitude. But might I also point out that we are far from civilization and all its laws. We are stranded on this unknown alien planet and we will have to work together. So let us abandon our little egos for a bit and try and find a way out of this mess. Are there any suggestions?”

“Yes,” Cy said. “We pull a zingo and get out of here. This planet has a magnetic pole.”

“So what?”

“So I got a compass. So we can walk in a straight line and not in circles. In the morning we load up whatever food and water that we can carry and split. It's either that or stay here until the natives find us. Whatever you say, Admiral. You're in charge.”

The sun set at that moment and stygian darkness descended. Bill turned on his toe-torch and in its feeble illumination they settled down with their problems for the night. The stars appeared, unknown constellations in an unknown sky. It was a time that cried out for strong nerves. Or strong drink. Bill settled for the latter, craftily opened his barracks bag and stuck his head inside and drank from his hidden bottle until he passed out.

The rising sun washed its warm rays over Bill's sleeping, bristly face. He grunted and opened one eye. Instantly regretted it and slammed it shut with a hideous grating sound as the light punched a hot icepick into his drink-sodden brain. Taking more care this time he rolled over away from the sun, opened his eyes the tiniest slit, then peeked through his fingers. The huddled forms of his shipmates, wrapped like him in GI blankets from the torched tug, still lay in silent sleep. All except for Admiral Praktis who, driven by duty or insomnia, or a full bladder, stood upon the highest dune staring into the distance. Bill smacked his lips and tried to spit out some of the fur that covered his tongue, did not succeed, climbed to his feet and, ever a sucker for curiosity, climbed the dune himself.

“Good morning, sir,” he ingratiated.

“Shut up. I can't stand conversation this early in the day. Did you see the lights?”

“Wurgle?” Bill said, gears not meshed, brain still alcohol and sleep sodden.

“That's about what I thought you would say. Listen numb-nuts, if you had stayed alert rather than wallowing in an alcoholic stupor, you would have seen what I saw. On the horizon there, very distant, glowing lights. And no, before you say it, it was not the stars.”

Bill pouted because that was what he was going to suggest.

“Definitely lights, waxing and waning and changing color. Get Cy up here. Now.”

The technician must have been popping something because he lay unconscious, eyes open but rolled back so that only the whites, or rather the yellows, showed. Bill shook him, shouted in his ear, and even tried a few good kicks in the ribs with no results.

“Really wonderful,” Praktis snarled when he got the report. “Is this a crew or an addicts' ward? I'll go give him a shot that will blast him out of it. Meanwhile you stay guard here over this line in the sand so no one walks on it. And don't bulge your eyes at me like that — I haven't gone around the twist. That line points at the lights I saw.”

Bill sat and stared at the line and wished he had a drink and fell asleep again — but jerked awake when he heard the ghastly moans. Cy was crawling up the dune on all fours, groaning as he came. His skin was ghastly white and he was vibrating like an electric dildo. Praktis climbed up behind him, his expression one of sadistic pleasure.

“The shot brought him around but, oh boy, has it got some really wicked side effects. That's the direction, juice-head, that line scratched in the sand. Get a fix on it.”

Cy dug out the compass, but his hand was shaking too much to read it. In the end he had to lay it flat on the sand. Then he had to hold his head still with both hands to take the sight. After a certain amount of blinking, eye-popping and twitching he spoke in a hollow voice.

“Eighteen degrees east of the magnetic pole. Permission requested to go away and die, sir.”

“Permission denied. The shot will wear off soon...”

A shrill scream cut through his words, followed by the roar and splat of blaster fire.

“We're being attacked!” Praktis screeched. “I'm unarmed! Don't fire! I am a doctor, a noncombatant, my rank only an honorable one!”

Bill, his brain cells still so gummed by sleep and ethyl alcohol, drew his blaster and ran down the dune towards the firing instead of away from it which, normally, he would have done. He picked up speed, could not stop, saw Meta before him, standing and firing, could not turn and ran into her at full gallop.

They collapsed into an inferno of arms and legs. She recovered first and punched him in the eye with a hard fist.

“That hurt,” he whimpered, holding his hand over it. “I'm going to have a shiner.”

“Move your hand and I'll give you another one to match. Why did you knock me down like that?”

“What was all the shooting about?”

“Rats!” She grabbed up her blaster and spun about. “All gone now. Except the ones I blasted into atoms. They were getting at our food. At least we know what lives on this planet. Great big nasty gray rats.”

“No they don't,” Praktis said, having recovered from his fit of cowardice and rejoined the party. He kicked a piece of exploded rat with his toe. “Rattus Norvegicus. Mankind's companion to the stars. We must have brought them with us.”