Bill 2 - on the Planet of Robot Slaves (12 page)

“You — can let go now —” Meta said, struggling in its steel embrace.

“Quite right, sorry.”

Bill dropped to the ground, rolled over and was instantly sick.

“Clean it up when you're through,” Meta said with great sensitivity. “Where are we now?”

“Haven't a clue,” Mark I said, spinning its telescope in all directions. “I lost orientation with all those turns. Not that it matters — since we seem to have shaken off our pursuers. Let's stoke up this drooping dragon and then I'll see if I can locate a radio beacon.”

The Fighting Devil, still in fine form, trotted over to the nearest outcropping of coal and blasted it with an explosive round of cannon fire. When the dust had settled it filled its arms with broken chunks and brought them back. The dragon lay flat and unmoving, its neck extended along the ground. Its eyes were closed and only the slightest trickle of smoke came from its nostrils.

“Pry its jaw open and I'll push these in,” Mark I said.

Bill hauled on one side and Meta on the other and, after great effort, the jaw creaked open. Mark I shoved in the coal, pushing it down as far as he could, then leaned into the dragon's mouth and shot a bolt of lightning down its throat. When the coal was crackling nicely it pulled its head out and slammed the jaw shut. Very shortly thereafter smoke began to trickle out between the dragon's teeth. It moaned and shuddered and breathed deep.

“Just got it in time,” Fighting Devil said smugly, very proud of itself.

“Wonderful,” Bill agreed. “So whenever you are through patting yourself on the back, you might find a high spot and tune in on those beacons you mentioned.”

They sat, exhausted, on a small orange sand dune while Mark I climbed a spire of nearby rock. Meta recovered first and put her arm around Bill and gave a tender squeeze.

“Isn't it romantic with the green sunrise, this orange dune...”

“And this red-hot dragon dying at our feet. Come on, Engine Mate First Class, you know better than to associate with an officer.”

“It's more of an offense to be immune to the attractions of a lovely woman. Here, look at these.”

She pulled down the zipper at the neck of her uniform, ever so slowly, so that pink magnificence swelled into view. Bill, now glowing with lust as redly as the dragon, leaned forward, hands extended, just as the Fighting Devil reappeared.

“What an interesting mating ritual. Do continue, I find it fascinating.”

“Metallic peeping-tom,” Meta sniffed as she stood up and rezipped. “Why aren't you out there looking for radio beacons?”

“Because I have found one. Very weak, off in that direction. We must be in the Badlands, an unexplored area of volcanic emissions, earthquakes, landslides and quicksand.”

“Charming. So let's revive sleeping beauty here and flap off.”

The dragon stirred feebly at her words and croaked, “Oil...”

“Help is on the way,” Mark I said as it scurried off to the nearest pool, where it extended a tube and sucked a quantity into some interior tank. The dragon feebly opened its jaw when it returned and the Fighting Devil pumped the lot down its throat. There was the muffled whump of an interior explosion and flame jetted from the creature's nostrils.

“That's better,” it said, sitting up and hiccupping little bursts of smoke. “Keep the home fires burning, I always say. What's next?”

“We fly thataway,” Mark I said, pointing. “As soon as you are up to it.”

“Won't be long. This stuff tastes like prime anthracite and 30-60 oil. Be right back.”

The dragon lumbered to the outcropping and noshed great mouthfuls of coal, washing them down with deep swigs of oil. Very quickly the outcropping was cropped and the pool drunk dry. It flapped its wings to test them and breathed out a long tongue of flame.

“All systems go, boiler pressure up and I'm as hot as a Spanish pistol. And just as horny. It's a good thing there aren't any dragonettes here. Though you are kind of cute there, rusty!”

Mark I rolled backwards with alacrity, all its weapons raised. “None of that kinky interspecies sex, you overheated flying machine! We Fighting Devils reproduce by vegetative propagation in any case — so knock it off.”

The dragon miffedly belched flame and reluctantly ordered them to board. Its skin was almost too hot to touch, but cooled down as soon as they were airborne. Filled to bursting with overheated orgone it flapped into high gear and tore towards the horizon.

“What's that ahead,” Bill asked, blinking into the slipstream.

“Beats me, mate,” Mark I shrugged. “Never been here before. But it appears to be an immense plateau rising from the desert below.”

As they grew close they saw that the mysterious object was an immense plateau rising from the desert below. The dragon soared on the updraft near the cliff and circled to gain altitude. As they passed over the edge they saw that the plateau was covered in mysterious green growth.

“Doesn't look good,” Mark I said.

“Not good at all!” the dragon screeched, then groaned in pain as projectiles roared up from the plateau below, impacting and exploding on its hide.

“I'm hit!” it cried as its portside wing was blown off. “We're going down!”

“Is this the end?” Bill croaked as the green ground rushed up towards them.

“Fighting Devils die laughing — with a song on their loudspeakers! Yo-ho Tee-tee Ho-Ho!”

“Kiss me, hearty, Bill!”

With an incredible crunching and snapping the dragon crashed into the jungle, because that was what the green stuff was. Great boughs broke under its weight, thick vines stretched and snapped. Down and down, slower and slower it fell through the verdant vegetation that gave way, bit by bit, and slowed their descent. Until, with one last snap of one last giant liana, they dropped softly into the field of tall grass below.

“That was nice,” Meta said, stepping gently down from the dragon's back onto terra firma. The others joined her and they all looked with sympathy at the dragon who was gloomily poking at the remains of the severed wing with one claw.

“Not easy to...gulp...fly with one wing,” it whimpered with self-pity and a black, oily tear formed at the corner of one eye and rolled down to splash onto the ground.

“Take it easy, old hoss,” Mark I said with sadistic sympathy, extruding a large-bore cannon. “The end of a wild dragon is always a tragedy. Close your eyes, you won't feel a thing. Saving us was a far, far better thing you did than you have ever done. The rest you go to now is a far, far better rest than...”

“Just put that shooter away, you unctuous metal bastard!” the dragon shouted, rearing back. “You're too quick on the draw.” It began to eat the broken wing, glaring down at Mark I as it did. “I can grow a new one in a couple of weeks. Meanwhile I'm grounded.”

“And so are we,” Meta said, looking around at the verdant foliage. “At least this stuff looks a lot more homey than all that sand, coal, metal and oil...”

“Eeek!” the Fighting Devil eeked as it shivered and withdrew a test prod from a broken tree branch. “This is terrible. All this soft, gundgy stuff contains water! This is a poison plateau! We will rust, corrode, die in agony —”

“Oh shut up,” the dragon suggested disgustedly, biting off a chunk of wood and swallowing it. “This stuff burns great. Just keep your extremities well oiled and watch where you sit down.”

Bill's stomach growled and he nodded in agreement with it. “If we are going to be here a couple of weeks we are going to have to find food and water.”

“All this repellent soft stuff contains water,” Mark I said kicking the grass and shuddering. “If you eat that —”

“When I want dietary advice from a metal moron I'll ask for it,” Meta said, turning on her heel. “Come on, Bill, we'll go find something. Fruits, vegetables —”

“You'll find the nasties who shot us down,” the Fighting Devil said spitefully. “We metal morons will just stay here, vegetating, while you swan about through all that filthy muck. And don't hurry back.”

Meta stuck her tongue out at it, took Bill by the arm and started down what looked like a path.

“That Fighting Devil is right,” he said gloomily. “Who knows what hideous horrors lurk behind the jungle wall.”

“You got your blaster — so blast them,” Meta said with great practicality.

“The Chingers took it away. What about yours?”

“The same. Wait here, I got an idea.”

She went back down the path while Bill listened to the noises of the jungle and chewed his fingernails. He was on his last pinky nail when she returned and handed him a strange looking weapon.

“I was right. That Fighting Devil is so loaded with artillery that it could break off a couple and not miss them. That's a lightning-bolt hurler you got there. Just aim and press the red button on top.”

“Nice,” he said, blowing the top off of an innocent tree. “What do you have?”

“Gravity beam. It trebles the mass of anything you shoot. Immobilizes it until the charge wears off.”

“That's heavy stuff. We are going to be OK.”

“Well if the truth be known, you are not,” the red man said stepping out of the undergrowth, pointing a long and ugly weapon at them. “I would be truly obliged if you'all would hand over the hardware thus guaranteeing your safety. You have my word, as a southern gentleman, that you won't get hurt.”

Meta would not give up without a struggle. She jumped aside and aimed her weapon — and found the point of a sword pinking her lightly in the throat.

“One twitch of your delicate pink trigger-finger, Ma'am, and you have bought the farm. Drop it.”

The gun in his other hand was still pointing steadily at Bill. They had no choice. As soon as he had kicked their weapons aside the red man slipped his sword back into its sling, lowered his weapon and bowed politely.

“Welcome to Barthroom,” he said in a soft southern accent. “Strangers are not welcome here, so may ah compliment you on your very good luck that you encountered me upon yore arrival. Mah name is Major Jonkarta late of the Confederate Forces, and ah claim Virginia as my home. And though I may resemble a native of this world — I am not. I came from a distant planet. I was pursued by aborigines; I sought refuge in a cave where ah fell asleep. There was witchcraft there, ah do believe, my spirit left my body, came here...”

“Whatever you have been smoking has got a real kick to it,” Meta said. “The galaxy is full of psychos with identity problems, mothers impregnated by gods, changelings, noble infants stolen at birth...”

“What are you — a shrink or something?” Jonkarta pouted — then beamed with pleasure. “But mah dear, if you really are a specialist in problems of adjustment, Doctor, I have been having these awfully strange dreams...”

“My name is Engine Mate First Class Meta Tarsil. Meta to my friends — and you can be one too if you knock off the mystic crap.”

“Why you just consider it done, Meta honey! Ah just love your strength...”

“Do I get to talk too? I'm Second Lieutenant Bill of the Space Troopers.”

“How very nice for you, military rank and everything. Well, welcome you all.”

Introductions out of the way they had a chance to examine each other. Jonkarta examined Meta — who was far better to look at than Bill who was getting decidedly scruffy. Meta thought so too and found herself growing more and more interested in the newcomer. He was tall and broad shouldered, with plenty of red skin showing because of the clothes he was not wearing. No clothes at all, but wore instead a harness, sort of a modified horse's harness with buckles, jewels, daggers and things hanging from it. The only clothes, per se, that he wore was a kinky riveted mini athletic supporter. Well filled she noted, eyes glowing. Leather boots, rippling muscles, smart swagger, he was really something to write home to mother about. Though she wouldn't do that because mother might want one too.

“So — when all the eyeballing is done, you get to tell me what you are doing here,” Jonkarta said.

“We were shot down,” Bill said. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

“You ain't just whistling Dixie, pardner. Ah did it with mah own little radium rifle. This here plateau is more than a little short of raw materials so any time one of those machines flap over we just blast it. Use the metal to make swords, guns, knives, bombs, you know the sort of thing.”

“We sure do,” Meta said. “But don't you have any metal left over for cheese-graters, colanders, tubas or baby rattles?”

“Ah admire your quickness of mind, Meta honey. You sure can't make war with colanders.”

“You wouldn't mind telling us, Rusty, who — what, or which — you are at war with?”

“Why it's ma pleasure. There are two intelligent species that inhabit this plateau. One more intelligent than the other, it goes without saying. There are the red men of Barthroom, and the revolting, hideous and very smelly green men of Barthroom. These repugnant critters can be easily identified, even in the dark, not only by their smell but because they have four arms. And tusks just like you, Bill. Which makes me slightly suspicious.”

“Count the arms!” Bill said angrily. “Anyway, four arms and green, that's just like the Chingers. Maybe they are related.”

“Might ah inquire — who are these Chingers?”

“The enemy we are at war with.”

“War? My, my. Now don't you tell me that you fight them with baby rattles and colanders?” He winked at Meta when he said this. She sniffed.

“So we got a war too. Doesn't mean we have to like it.”

“Well ah shore like mine. Ah come from a long line of fighting men...”

“Listen,” Bill said, raising his voice to be heard over the loud borborygmus of his empty stomach. “It has been a very long time since we ate last. Could we have this chat over dinner — if you know where we can find dinner.”

“No problem. Food aplenty — as soon as you enlist.”

“There's always a catch.”

“Not in this one. Here, look at this nice cut of meat.” He unclipped a leather bag from his harness and from it took a smoked thoat ham. “Might ah suggest a short service commission. Just one foray and you get an honorable discharge. And it's a mission of mercy as well.”

“I just joined,” Meta said as she grabbed for the meat. “Gimme.”