Bill 2 - on the Planet of Robot Slaves (15 page)

“Ship? Crashed?” Bill echoed.

“Aye. A great spacer packed with refugees from the planet Earth, if you can believe the old stories. It is said that it was on this ship that the great conversion took place. Although those who boarded were of many religions, when they disembarked of religions there was but one. Due to the zealous missionary work of St. Tembo, hallowed be his name.”

“That's what Tembo always said,” Bill said. “That Earth was destroyed by an atomic war, at least the northern hemisphere was.”

“Sure and 'tis nice to have a little verification of the old stories. Myths the youngsters call them — and they sneer. But it's no myth that we are stranded on this barren planet. We raise a few potatoes in the roof gardens, eat a green Barthroomian or two when we get hungry. Begorrah and it's a rough life — made even rougher by the likes of him calling us apes!”

“I'm sorry. As a Southern gentleman ah do apologize. Just repeating what I heard.”

“Shows just how wicked rumor can be. But tell me, what brings you to our fair city?”

“My fiancée, the lovely Princess Dejah Vue, has been captured by the foul creatures that lurk below. We must free her!”

“Well you have come to the right place, boyo, if it's a little freeing and green Barthroomian bashing you want. And besides, the meat locker is empty. You just wait here, give another bone to that starving hound, and I'll be back in three shakes of a thoat's tail.”

“He's nice,” Meta said after their host had swung out of the window.

True to his word he was back almost as quickly as he had left, but his great white brow was puckered with worry.

“Begorrah and it's not going to be that easy. I think they know that you are coming?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Signs saying To the kidnapped Princess all over the city. 'Tis me firm opinion that they'll be waiting for you.”

“That's the way I want it,” Jonkarta said grimly, resolutely clutching his sword. “If they think they can capture me then they won't harm her. So we attack.”

Meta was shocked. “You mean walk right into the trap?”

“We have no other choice.”

“He's right, we have no choice,” Bill and An Lar intoned together.

“That's what you male macho morons say.” Meta's lips curled with well justified disgust. “But speaking from the female point of view I say reconnoiter first. There is always plenty of time to die later.”

“No,” Fighting Devil boomed. “Fight first, think later. I may not be male, vegetative propagation is asexual, but by Zots I like this macho talk. Let's go!”

“All gonads no brains,” Meta said disgustedly as they marched out. She followed at a watchful distance and stayed in the building above when they tramped out into the central square.

“It is empty! They have fled because they fear us!” Jonkarta cried out and the others cheered.

Then the ground opened up and they fell into the pit below while countless green Barthroomians poured out of the surrounding buildings, shouting victory cries and laughing and making obscene gestures which, with four arms working at once, are really pretty obscene.

“Told you so,” Meta sniffed. “But no one listens to me.”

Then her heart fell and she clasped her hands in despair.

“Is it all over? Is this how life ends? Not with a bang but with a green Barthroomian massacre and barbecue.”

She sighed tremulously and the only sound in the room was the crunch of hideous mighty fangs gnawing on a thoat bone. Followed by a hideous belch of satisfaction.

Meanwhile, back in the city of metal, Zots was beginning to get worried.

“They should have been back by now. I fear for your associates.” He took a swig of high-octane petrol to quiet his nerves and watched the admiral busily at work.

“Relax, Goldy,” Praktis muttered as he unscrewed a bolt from the hapless machine that he had nailed to the floor. It clicked its loudspeaker with agony. Praktis pointed to Wurber who handed him a wrench. Captain Bly was there as well, watching him, watching unseeingly, his head bobbing. Although they had cleaned out most of his supplies they had not found the stash of dope in the hollow heel of his boot. So he had popped an upper, a downer, and a sider, and was really spaced out of it.

“I would like to relax, thank you,” Zots suffered. “But I am so ashamed of my lack of hospitality. First there was one, but now two of your associates are missing.”

“Two, two hundred. I've lost more people than that doing illegal research on the common cold. Aha!”

The machine screeched as its leg came off. Praktis leaned forward and focused his microscopic eye on the socket. Zots looked pained. “I wish you could stop when I am talking to you. At your request I have supplied you with machines for dissection — I mean examination. But I would appreciate it if you would wait until I leave.”

“Sorry.” Praktis straightened up and tucked his black monocle back into place. “I do tend to get carried away with my work. Where's Cy?”

“Here,” he said, carrying in a tray of steaming steaks. “Food. I'm hungry. You?”

“Well, perhaps a little.” Praktis took a bite and pushed it away. “I like meat on the menu as well as the next man — but this is beginning to get boring. I should have worked on quick-grow artichokes, or maybe mangel-wurzels...”

He was interrupted by sharp screeching sounds as the machine he had been examining pulled out the nails that had been holding it down. It hopped frantically away on one leg.

“Stop!” Praktis shouted.

“Let it go,” Zots said. “There are plenty more where it came from. Now, if I might return to the topic under discussion. Your missing companions. Our detectors have picked up a faint transponder signal from somewhere in the badlands. It seems to be the correct frequency for a Mark I Fighting Devil. Therefore I have sent for an improved Mark II model. Which, if I am not mistaken, is here now.”

The door was thrown open with a great crash and the Fighting Devil ran into the room, circled it twice and shot a hole in the wall, then subsided panting with pleasure. Zots nodded agreement.

“Much improved, through selected breeding. We took cuttings. Pushed a few genes around, you know the kind of thing. So now they are more aggressive, better armored, more firepower, bigger batteries, smaller brains.”

“That's me!” the Fighting Devil shouted happily and blew away half of the ceiling. Praktis looked on disgustedly and did not notice Wurber stealing the rest of his steak.

“What are we supposed to do with it?” he asked.

“Mount a rescue mission of course. If you will follow me I will lead you to the ornithopter.”

“Not me — I'm the admiral here.” He looked around and sneered at the spaced out Captain Bly. “We seem to be running out of troops. You there, Corporal Cy BerPunk, you just volunteered for the rescue mission.”

“Negative, no go. I can't take heights. Get Wurber. Afraid.”

“Wurber's too stupid. And you are more afraid of me. Go!”

Cy fingered his blaster and wondered if it might not be wiser to blow Praktis away rather than go on this suicide mission. But the admiral had plenty of experience with reluctant troops, volunteers and patients, so he made his mind up far more quickly. “Lookee, lookee,” he smiled, aiming his gun between the unwilling volunteer's eyes. “Just follow Fighting Devil and return with your shipmates. Go.”

Reluctantly, he went. Fighting Devil II led the way at a trot, extending an eye on a stalk to look at his new companion. “I'm so excited — this is my first mission.”

“Shut up.”

“Don't talk bad to Fighting Devil or Fighting Devil blow you up.”

“Sorry. Nerves. I'm easy. Lead the way.”

An ornithopter was waiting in the courtyard for them. Little service machines were oiling its wing sockets and brushing its teeth.

“We go now,” Fighting Devil grated and dismissed the attendant machines.

“Maybe,” the ornithopter said in a deep voice. “Your bunch of nuts flew my sister out of here and she never came back. Where are we supposed to go?”

“Go badlands.”

“Forget it! No suicide missions for me.”

A bolt of lightning shot out of Fighting Devil's crotch and burnt a foot of metal off the ornithopter's tail.

The ornithopter looked back its tail and smiled insincerely.

“You know, now that I think about it, I've always harbored a secret wish to see the badlands. Hop aboard.”

“More willing volunteers,” Cy gloomed. “I'm getting bad vibes from this mission.”

“Be cheery, sloppy wet one,” Fighting Devil said, pulling him up onto the flying creature's back. “We fly to battle! Kill, destroy!” It blew great pits in the ground behind them as they rattled into the air.

As flights go, this one went. The Fighting Devil hummed merry battle tunes to itself, occasionally firing off a gun in a high-spirited fashion, and tuning in on the distant transponder.

“Getting louder. Clearer. Point nose and flap towards black spot on horizon,” it ordered.

The ornithopter rattled into a turn and felt more and more depressed as their destination grew clearer.

“I knew it,” he moaned softly. “The Plateau of Doom.”

“No plateau of doom on my map. And I got good maps.”

“No map dares represent its inconceivably repellent form, transcribe its forbidden name.”

“Then how you know?”

“It happened thusly. Visualize the happy scene. The Old Mob, sitting around the oil well in the evenings, talking lightly of this or that — when there is a sudden silence. All grows still as the oldesthopter speaks. Wings drooping, rivets popping, it regales the silent assembly with the Old Stories, passed on from generation to generation. And always, in the end, warns of the Plateau of Doom.”

While it spoke the ornithopter had been drifting off course. Cy noticed it but hoped that the dim machine he was clutching would not. He had about as much enthusiasm as their mechanical steed for the plateau ahead.

“We turning!” Fighting Devil shouted. “Go that way, no go this way.”

“It is sure death!”

“It surer death when me blow you out of sky!”

Guns blazed and wingtips flared into oblivion.

“You can't do that!” the ornithopter screeched. “If you shoot me down you will die too!”

More guns blazed, more bits of metal were blown off. Fighting Devil gave a mechanical shrug. “I know. But what can I do? After all, this is total war.”

Weeping oily tears, the ornithopter winged over onto the original course. Cy wondered if he could possibly push the metal moron overboard, but saw that the thing was firmly bolted into place.

“Why you fly so high?” it asked.

“The higher we fly, the safer we are from the terrors below.”

“I no see so good up here.”

“Use your telescopic lenses — or did you forget?”

“Oh, yes! Me forget.” The lens ground out and Cy began to believe that intelligence reduction, while normally a fine thing for the military mind, just wasn't working with this creature.

“Go thataway. Towards city of ruins. Signal strong. I send message. Ho, dear vegetatively propagated kinsman. Help on way!”

“Any answer?” Cy asked.

“Coming in now. PRISONER IN PIT STOP...Say, that pretty funny message. Why it in pit stop?”

“It's a telegram, dummy. It means it's in a pit. Then stop. Stop means period.”

“Why not say period?”

“Is there any more?” Cy fought down his anger, fear, disgust and a lot of other things.

“Oh, yeah. SQUISHIES IN PIT WITH ME STOP SAVE US STOP ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK SOONEST ATTACK ATTACK.”

“I think it wants you to attack.”

“That's what I'm good at!” Guns banged wildly and Cy had to shout to be heard.

“Stop firing! You'll warn them — and you need the ammunition.”

“Land there, carrying creature. Signal come from central square.”

The ornithopter zoomed down behind the ruined buildings and slammed to the ground.

“You land wrong spot. Square there.”

“Me land right spot. Save life of me and squishy. Go, mighty Fighting Devil! Attack!”

“Attack? Attack what?”

“The pit in the square with the captives!” Cy shouted with exasperation.

“Oh, yeah — that pit!”

It hurtled off and instants later the air was filled with explosives, screams, cries of pain, thunder of lightning bolts and such. Which died away pretty quickly.

“Did it win?” Cy whispered.

“Go look,” the ornithopter whispered back.

“Let's toss for it. Loser goes to look.”

“Don't bother,” Meta whispered from the balcony above their heads. “I can see fine from up here. That Fighting Devil has fought its last fight. It did some damage, but it walked into the muzzles of a thousand radium rifles and is now radioactive junk. Come on up. Through the door and up the stairs.”

The ornithopter trained one eye on the door. “Sorry. A little small for me. I'll just wait here and oil my wing sockets. Good luck.”

Cy climbed the stairs and entered a large chamber filled with a milling crowd of pallid women. Meta sat behind a table at the far end of the room and was hammering with a gavel for order. When her voice could be heard she spoke to them again.

“We have been going over the same ground for some time now. A frontal attack just will not work. You just saw what happened to the Fighting Devil when it tried that.”

“Wait 'til dark, then we bash them green meanies with our stone clubs.”

“Not on your nelly!” another voice called out. “The captives will be dead long before that. We must act now!”

Meta waved Cy forward. “Here!” she called out. “Reinforcements. He will help us.”

“Glad to — if you will let me know what is going on.”

“It is simple enough. Jonkarta, a native of Virginia now living on this planet, was crossing the desert with his betrothed, a red girl name of Princess Dejah Vue, when they were attacked by green Barthroomians who kidnapped the princess, but we arrived soon after and pursued the greenies and ambushed them, Fighting Devil blew them all away, except one that rekidnapped the princess and fled with her here, where we of course followed and attacked, but our forces, aided by this lady's husband, were defeated and captured, all except for me since I did not go along, and now they are all about to be tortured and executed.”