Bill 2 - on the Planet of Robot Slaves (8 page)

“Blep — bleep — bleep-b-blep — bleep!” it said with electronic enthusiasm, then tilted towards him as though awaiting an answer. Bill smiled and cleared his throat.

“Yes, I am quite sure that you are right,” he said.

“0101 1000 1000 1010 1110”

“Closer, perhaps.”

The thing vibrated — then spoke again.

“Karsnitz, ipplesnitz, frrkle.”

“I'm not really catching the drift...”

“Su ogni parola della pronuncia figurate è stato segnato l'accento fonico.”

“No,” Bill said. “I'm still having a bit of difficulty.”

“Vous y trouverez plus million mots.”

“Not lately.”

“Mi opinias ke vi komprenas nenion.”

“Getting closer.”

“There must be some language, ugly/squishy one, that you can speak/understand.”

“Bang on!”

“Does the expression 'bang-on' convey the meaning that you can comprehend my communication?”

“It sure does. Your voice is kind of gravelly but other than that it's okay. Now I hope that you won't mind but I would like to ask you if...”

The thing did not stay around for a chat but instead rolled backward to the wall and stopped next to a machine that looked like a cross between a TV camera and a water fountain. Bill sighed, waiting for what was to come next. When it came it was most impressive.

Bells rang in the distance and a far-off hooter hooted. All of this grew louder as the wall dilated to form a door, which emitted a golden shaft of light. A golden dais rolled through the opening and came to a halt before Bill. It was covered with golden draperies and upon the draperies lay a golden figure. Roughly human in form, unless you counted the fact that it had four arms, and was apparently made of metal. The golden-riveted head turned to face him, the golden eyelids clicked open, and from the open mouth, complete with real gold teeth, it spoke.

“Welcome, O stranger from a distant world.”

“Hey, that's great, you can really talk my language.”

“Yes. I just learned it from the linguistic cybernator. But I'm a little unsure about the pluperfect and gerunds. And the irregular plurals.”

“I never use them myself,” Bill said, humbly.

“Seems like a satisfactory, though more than moronic, answer. Now what brings you to our friendly little world of Usa?”

“Is that what this planet is called?”

“Obviously — dummy, or I wouldn't have said it. As a brief aside, would you by any chance have any advice on subjunctive clauses? Yes, I see, nod your stupid head, you don't use them either. Back to work. Your reason for coming here?”

“Well, our base, which should have been safe if it were attacked...”

“That, for your information, is the subjunctive you never use.”

Bill, at a loss for words, struggled a bit then went on. “But we were attacked, by giant flying dragons...”

“Excuse my interruption, but they weren't, by any chance, giant metal flying dragons?”

“Yes — they were.”

“So that's what those clanking bastards have been up to!” The golden eyelids clicked quickly and the creature emitted a deep hissing. Then drew its attention back to Bill.

“Do excuse me, I am forgetting my manners. My name is Zots-Zitz-Zhits-Glotz, but you may call me by the diminutive Zots to mark our growing and intimate friendship. And you are...?”

“Recently Commissioned Third Lieutenant Bill.”

“Must I use the entire name?”

“My friends call me Bill.”

“How nice for you, and them too of course. And I am being a bad host. Is there any refreshment I can offer you? Some refined oil perhaps. Or benzene, well filtered, or a drop of phenol.”

“None of those, thanks. Though I could sure use a glass of water...”

“You want WHAT?” Zots bellowed with lungs of brass. “Or, ha-ha, perhaps I did not hear you right. You might possibly want some substance that I have never heard of. You would not have asked for water, the liquid form of the compound H2O, at this temperature, containing two molecules of hydrogen to one of oxygen?”

“That's it, that's what I want, Mr. Zots. Your chemistry is sure good!”

“Guards! Destroy this creature! It wants to assassinate me, poison me! Decog it! Melt it down! Loosen its nuts!”

Bill drew back, whinnying with fear, as a frightening selection of ambulatory hardware crashed towards him. The pincers, metal claws, writhing tentacles, spud wrenches, were just about to grab and rend him when the voice rang out one more time.

“Stop!”

They all stopped in midattack. Except for one machine with extending arms that had been extended too far. It tilted forward and crashed to the floor.

“A single question, squishy stranger Bill, before I unleash the hordes yet one more time. This water — what had you planned to do with it?”

“Why drink it of course. I'm really thirsty.” A metal shiver passed over Zots's golden figure. Bill, for one of the few times in his life, had an original idea. With apparently great effort, over an extended period of time, his militarily decayed braincells had added up two and two and managed to get four.

“I like water. Why, ninety-five percent of my body,” he said, getting it wrong, “is made up of water.”

“Will wonders never cease!” Zots dropped back onto his drapes and cogitated so hard you could hear the wheels turning. “Guards, retreat,” he ordered, and they did. “I suppose it is theoretically possible to have a life form based on water, though it sounds disgusting.”

“Not water, really,” Bill said, dredging around for long-forgotten science lessons. “But carbon, that's it. And chlorophyll, you know the kind of thing.”

“No, frankly, I don't. But I am a quick read.”

“Now can I ask one?” He took Zots's languid nod for assent. “I'm just guessing. But you are made of metal. Not made, you are metal.”

“That seems rather obvious.”

“Then you are a living metal machine!”

“I take affront at the word machine used in this context. Metal-based life form would be more precise. We must have a good chat about this, and flying dragons, other topics of great interest. But first, here is your poison — I do beg your pardon — beverage.”

A metal platform rolled forward, stretched out an extending arm and deposited a glass receptacle on the floor before Bill. It retreated quickly. Bill picked it up and saw that a transparent liquid was gurgling about inside. With some difficulty he found the seal and the top finally snapped open. He sniffed suspiciously but could smell nothing. Dipped the tip of one finger into it, felt nothing. Licked the finger.

“That's good old H2O, Zots good buddy, thanks a million.”

He gurgled and gasped and drained the vessel, lowering it with a satisfied Ahhh.

“Now I have seen everything...” Zots breathed with awe in his voice. “Have I really got something to tell the boys down at the machine shop.” He snapped his fingers and a wheeled and tentacled device rolled forward and handed him a can of oil. He held it out in a toast. “Here's to you, O poison-drinking alien.” He drained it and tossed it aside. “Enough sociality — to work. You must tell me more about the attack of the flying dragons. Do you know why they should want to do this?”

“You bet I do. The attack was directed by the vile and disgusting Chingers.”

“This story gets better and better. What exactly is a Chinger?”

“They are the enemy.”

“Of who?”

“Mankind. That is me, I mean we, people. These Chingers are an alien and intelligent species that wants to destroy us. So naturally we have to destroy them first. Destruction on a large scale is called war.”

“Understanding penetrates. You and your other watery-squashy folk are at war with these Chingers. Might I ask — is their metabolism metal or carbon based?”

“Gee, I'm not quite sure. They have four arms, just like you, but I know they are not metal. But they were guiding the metal dragons. I know because I saw one myself. Those dragons, ho-ho,” he laughed artificially, trying to be cute, “they aren't yours by any chance?”

“By no chance. They were bred by the vile Wankkers. I will tell you about them but first — I am being most forgetful. Those creatures we brought in with you. Are they Chingers by any chance? Or business associates?”

“They are human like me. My friends — or at least some of them are friends.”

“Then we must see to their welfare for I am indeed being a bad host. I will get them in here — then I will tell you the loathsome story of the Wankkers.”

The rest of the expedition were herded into the room by herding machines. They looked about suspiciously and fingered their blasters.

“It's okay — you're among friends,” Bill called out quickly before there were any tragic accidents.

“You better amplify that statement,” Praktis said. “Which friends are those exactly among all this ambulatory hardware?”

“The golden guy on the couch. Name of Zots and he seems to be in charge here.”

“More than seems, friend Bill. I am Top Dog as you would say in your quaint language, though the definition of dog remains obscure. Do introduce me to your colleagues.”

After Bill had done this, and they all had big drinks of water, Bill brought them up to date.

“It seems that Zots here, and all the rest of his gang, are metal-based life forms.”

Praktis's eyes popped wide open when he heard this and a horde of scientific questions sprang to his lips. Bill saw them sticking there so he quickly went on. “He will fill you in on all that scientific stuff later, Admiral. But first he was about to tell us about the flying dragons that attacked us. They have something to do with something called Wankkers.”

“A slight correction,” Zots corrected. “They have been recently bred by the Wankkers. We keep a close eye on those metallic mothers because they are not to be trusted. Bill here has informed me that you war with the evil Chingers. You might say that our relationship with the Wankkers is very much the same. And, since they seem to have reared and trained the dragons for the Chingers, that would make us bedmates — would it not?”

“Allies is a better word,” Praktis said.

“Point taken, dear friend. As to the Wankkers, they are out to destroy us so we must destroy them first.”

“Just like humans and Chingers!” Bill said brightly.

“There would indeed appear to be a comparison. Here on Usa there are many and varied life forms — as you can see by looking about you. Millions of years ago life evolved in the warm pools of oil that adorn our landscape. Bathed by the rays of a benevolent sun, the process of evolution took many varied paths. Down through the ages there evolved the simple mineralvores who still graze the rich metal deposits in the hills and on the sandy prairies. But life is red, with rust, in tooth and fang. The machinevores evolved and preyed — and still prey — on the mineralvores. This is life as we know it and, I assume, as you know it?”

“Exactly!” Praktis agreed with great enthusiasm. “Parallel evolution. We must discuss this concept at great length...”

“As we shall. But first — the Wankkers. They evolved much as the other life forms did. But — how best to express it — they are insane in both the clinical and legal sense of the term. They are nuts. They have a screw loose. They have combined in a hideous alliance of mad machines and have been outcast by all sensible life forms. Long, long ago we sought to destroy them before they destroyed us. But just because they are insane it does not mean that they are stupid. The survivors of the metallic massacres fled and have built a stronghold in the mountains. Instead of living in peace they enslave others, beat and maltreat them. It is quite horrible. More horrible still to find them in league with these fleshly outcasts, the Chingers. Or so I am informed by friend Bill.”

“True enough,” Praktis said. “They directed the flying dragon attack.”

“It makes sense. We have been aware of furious activity at the Wankker stronghold of late. Great numbers of the flying dragons have been observed by our spies flapping about the hills. We feared another attack, not realizing that these ravening hordes were directed against others. While happy for ourselves, we are desolated to hear of your misfortune.”

“So are we,” Praktis said. “I would dearly love to discuss evolution with you. But it will have to wait. Speaking from my military rank, not scientific, how do we get together for our mutual benefit? And the mutual destruction of our enemies.”

“That is the question, isn't it? It will bear some thinking about. I would suggest that you now be shown to your quarters and take some light refreshments. A drop or two of lubricating oil, perhaps some powdered manganese? Oh, what am I saying!”

“Relax, Zots,” Meta said. “We have our own food supplies with us. All we need is the stuff we were carrying — and a bare plot of ground.”

“Simplicity itself and I have just so ordered. By radio signal of course. Relax and refresh yourselves and you will be summoned after I have conferred with my advisers.”

“Seems like a nice place,” Wurber said as they followed their wheeled guide through the riveted corridors. “Gosh we were lucky...”

“Shut up, you microcephalic moron,” Praktis implied. “You drivel on without a drop of any intelligent thought ever troubling your clogged synapses. Don't you see the scientific wonders all about you? No, obviously not. But I do! I will write papers, publish books, be galaxy famous!”

“And get promoted in the navy too,” Bill said sycophantically. “When you get all these machines fighting against the Chingers it will mean advances in your military career.”

“The only promotion I want is back to civvy street and, yes, this might just do it.”

“These are — your quarters —” their guide said in a very metallic voice, throwing open the door to a large room. It was barren of decorations or furnishings, other than the large hooks on the walls. Their bellboy indicated these with one of its tentacles. “You may hang yourselves from these hooks at night.”

“Thanks a lot, Shiny,” Meta sniffed. “But we have better ways to hang about at night. What about the patch of ground we asked for?”

“Provided. Walk this way please.”

“If I walked that way I would need crutches.”

She followed the machine through another door and out into a courtyard. “Looks great.” She stamped on the bare soil, turned and called out. “Bring one of those melonsteak seeds. My stomach thinks my throat's been cut. Awwwrk!”