Bill 3 - on the Planet of Bottled Brains (28 page)

Bill found the liquor all by himself, and threw back a triple shot of Old Hamstringer. He blew his nose on an olive-drab handkerchief which had unaccountably been in his pocket all this time. He said, “OK, I'm ready. Who else died?”

“Oh, nothing as bad as that,” Dirk said, laughing.

“No,” Duo said, grinning, “it's not a life and death matter at all.”

“It's nothing to be upset about,” Splock said. “But have another drink anyway.”

“Your outfit has demanded that you be returned to them immediately. They got quite excited when they learned you were here. They seemed to have been under the impression that you deserted.”

“How could those bastards think that?”

“Maybe it's because you've been gone for a few months without reporting in,” Duo hazarded.

“I was a prisoner on an alien planet. They had me locked up inside a giant computer. What did they think — I had PX and telephone privileges?”

“I think we set them straight,” Dirk said. “In fact, we recommended you for a medal. They didn't like the idea. But do you know whose word finally swayed them?”

“How in hell should I know?” Bill said, literal as ever.

“It was Hannibal,” Splock said. “He no longer views you as his enemy. He said that talking with the Alien Historian had changed his view of historical necessity.”

“That's great,” Bill said, whether plain or with irony was hard to tell. “When is all this supposed to take place?” Dirk and Splock exchanged looks. Dirk's chin gave the barest suggestion of a nod. Splock's lips took on the subtly strained appearance of one who is about to say something.

“You may come in,” Splock said.

The door opened. In walked two men in the chromium helmet-liners and white arm bands of the MPs. They looked like NBA centers. In fact, they had both been NBA centers before their exhibition game on Mars was broken up by the cutting-out party of Captain Nemour DeVilliers. But that is another story.

“Soldier!” said the MP with the small mustache. “You are under arrest. Hold out your hands.”

What was there to say? Bill held out his arms. The MP without the mustache slipped the handcuffs on them. They led him away.

At the door, Bill paused and turned. “See you guys around,” he said. And then the MPs took him away.

There was silence in the cabin for a moment. Then CIA yelled, “Hey, Bill, wait for me!” and hurried after him.

Another silence. Finally Duo broke it.

“Poor devil,” Duo said. “He didn't even get a decent curtain line.”

Events passed for Bill in a blur of unbearable clarity as the MPs marched him to the special dispatch ship. Once aboard, they took off Bill's cuffs and offered him a strong drink. They figured Bill was guilty of really despicable crimes and they thought all the more of him for it. Their usual prisoners were guys who just went AWOL, or got drunk, that kind of thing. But now they had a real live one. They wanted to hear stories of Illyria, and what it had really been like on Royo, and what it was like being inside a giant computer. The ship sped along, and even though he was a prisoner, Bill was fairly happy to be aboard.

The point is, you see, he was glad to be back, but it was a paradoxical gladness because he was returning as a prisoner, and that meant unpleasantness ahead. On the other hand, what could they do to him? Kill him probably. The penalty for all military crimes was execution. While this might appear to be severe it sure made sentencing easy for the low-IQ officers who sat on the courts martial. Thus it had always been. So, while Bill didn't like it at least he was used to it. The military was out to get him — he never forgot that.

All too soon they landed at the spaceport of Camp Despair, named so not because it was an unhappy and desperate place, though it was, but in honor of its first commander, Martin Harry Despair, hero of Big Little Greenhoof and Skirmisher's Nook, two great battles with more than usual losses so of course he got promoted.

Camp Despair was on the planet Inquest X, a small world with an atmosphere that smelled of rotten eggs. The camp itself was on a tropical island which was separated from an inhospitable and savage coast by a channel of foaming water with many whirlpools in it. It was the old Devil's Island model, and palm trees had been imported to give it a proper look.

Bill was put into the maximum security prison, a place so secure that even food had difficulty getting in. So it was a gaunt and red-eyed Bill who was awakened early one morning not long after his arrival and told to wash his gob and brush his fangs; he was going to appear before a board of officers who would judge his case but could not be expected to tolerate his bad breath whether he was guilty or not.

The court Bill was brought to was in the middle of an amphitheater which seated about ten thousand; because the spectacle of unfairness in action was fascinating to so many people, a larger capacity court was being planned. Meanwhile, this one would have to do. As usual it was full, since watching military court martials was one of the specialties offered by many tour agencies.

There was a jury, too, but it was not made up of humans. A recent change in military law called for trial by jury in all cases on a trial basis. This was a crude attempt by the military to disguise the basic injustice of the system. The juries invariably voted as the presiding judges indicated they should since they would be shot if they didn't. This had proven to be expensive so now, to save money, a jury of twelve robots had been permanently impaneled. The jury was made up of robots who had been brought back from various battles and were awaiting repair. Aside from a few lacking limbs, they were fit enough. It was disconcerting to see that some of them had no heads, but they assured the court that their brains were in their thoraxes, and so they were allowed to sit. All of them had been programmed to bring in guilty verdicts no matter what evidence was presented.

“All rise!” cried the bailiff. The spectators in the courtroom got to their feet and applauded the presiding judge, Colonel Genc Bailey; he was a popular judge on the military circuit. His real name was Lewis, but he was called Genc for his favorite sentence, which he served upon all malefactors whatever the accusations against them was — “Guilty, electrocution, next case.” That was his favorite sentence, and the spectators, with their predictable detestation for malefactors, were always pleased. Some had been known to say that even Bailey was easier on the guilty than he should be and those found guilty should be shot on the spot. But it was well-known that liberalism had crept into the military justice system.

The attorney for the military was Captain Jeb Stuart. All the spectators were rooting for him, because Stuart hadn't lost a case in five years. He just needed one more year's successes to qualify him for the Triple Crown of jurisprudence.

“Need I go into it all?” Jeb Stuart declaimed, addressing the court in a rich and sonorous voice. “This trooper Bil, a subversive even in his name since he spells it with two 'l's, and that spelling is only for officers, is guilty of breaking sections 23, 45, 76, 76a and 110b sub-part c of the Uniform Military Code of Justice. If you will all look at the crib sheets which have been passed among you, you will see that these are all crimes of a gross nature. Bil, have you anything to say for yourself?”

“Sir, all I did was follow orders,” Bill said.

Stuart smiled with gross subtlety. “And since when has that been a legitimate excuse in the eyes of military law?”

“But what was I supposed to do?” Bill asked.

“You were supposed to do everything right,” Stuart snarled. “We find that you were AWOL on an alien planet during a time of considerable civil upset, and that furthermore you did knowingly consort with an alien female of the Tsurisian race, our enemies, and that you furthermore took up residence within an alien computer for reasons best left unsaid, and that you also conspired with an alien general from another time period, one Hannibal, who was unable to be here for this trial due to pressing engagements with the Roman General Scipio Africanus. But we do have Hannibal's deposition. Since it is written in Carthaginian, we have had a little difficulty deciphering it. But we think it says, 'This trooper is guilty as hell of everything he's accused of and he ought to fry painfully in the worst you can give him.'”

“Hannibal is my friend.” Bill said. “He wouldn't have said anything like that. You must have gotten it wrong.”

“See for yourself,” Stuart said. He gave a meaningful nod and one of his clerks hurried forward carrying a large baked clay tablet with cuneiform characters inscribed upon it.

“I can't read this,” Bill said.

“Of course not,” Stuart agreed. “It would have been strange, not to say treasonous, if you had been able to. Since that is the case, how can you deny our interpretation of the message?”

“My guess about what it means is as good as anyone else's,” Bill said.

“Oh, is it now?” Stuart said. “We thought you might take that line of defense, and so we have brought to this court an expert on interpretations of unknown scripts. Will Professor Stone please take the stand?”

Professor Rosetta Stone was a tall and skinny spinster with a cold and imperious manner. She looked contemptuously around her and sniffed, “An expert at languages such as myself can always be expected to make a more reasonable, not to say pertinent, guess as to the meaning of a dubious text than can a lay person such as the barely literate trooper here.”

And so it went. Various witnesses were brought in to testify. Bill had never seen them before. He later discovered that they were professional witnesses, who appeared in cases in which the prosecutor knew that the plaintiff was guilty as hell but lacked supporting evidence.

Bill thought it unfair when one of the witnesses, a clergyman of the Albigensian sect, swore under oath that Bill was responsible for the sacking of Rome in 422 AD. Bill vehemently denied this. Since there were sufficient other charges against him to warrant whatever sentence the judge pleased, that particular one was dropped.

When it was his turn to speak, Bill asked for time to prepare his case. The judge smiled. “That is the sort of thing the guilty always say. Listen, trooper, this case is a foregone conclusion. If you want to waive your right to speak, it will be held in your favor that you saved the court valuable time.”

“And if I don't?” Bill asked.

“Then we won't let you prepare your case and your asking will be held against you.”

Bill's shoulders slumped shrugged. He had been here before. “You've got it all set up against me. What can I say?”

“As little as possible,” the judge said. “You have no idea how tiring it is for me, sitting here and hearing criminal after criminal perjure himself in the name of a law which he took all too lightly when he perpetrated his various and heinous offenses. Any final remarks? No? You're learning. Now let's get on with the important part, the punishment.”

“You forgot to ask the jury how they vote,” Bill said.

“A mere formality,” the judge said. “I think we can forget all about that little bit of nonsense.”

“No!” Bill cried. “I want to hear what the jury says!”

The judge looked disgusted. He had a busy day ahead of him. Three rounds of golf were scheduled that afternoon with important personages who would not take it kindly if the judge's game were not up to its usual high standard. They hadn't traveled all this distance to this remote post to have a crappy golf game. It passed through the judge's mind that this trooper was being very difficult. No one else had ever insisted that the jury be heard. It just showed the disadvantage of filling the military personnel with new-fangled ideas. He toyed with the idea of pulling out his laser pistol, which he always carried in a cutaway holster under his judge's gown, and saving everyone a lot of time, expense and trouble by blasting this goniff straight to the hell he so richly deserved for even having taken on enough of the shading of guilt to be brought in front of the court. But then he calmed himself. He already had several demerits for shooting prisoners out of hand. The lily-livered bastards back at Military Command liked to do it all by the book. Until he could prove that they were engaged in a conspiracy to undermine the entire justice system, he would have to accede to their wishes.

The judge turned to the jury. Nine robot heads and three thoraxes swiveled to look back at him. Their blank eyes and shiny metal skins reminded the judge of juries he had served with in other cases, some human, some robotic, some Simian.

“Robots of the jury,” the judge said, “have you listened with care to all the evidence?”

“Indeed, your honor, we have,” simpered the foreman, a deviate robot with a shiny purple face and granny glasses.

“And have you had time to weigh the evidence and come to a verdict?”

“Oh, indeed we have, your honor.”

“Then how say ye?”

“We find the defendant not guilty in any degree whatsoever and deserving of a medal, maybe two.”

The judge gave them a look in which consternation mingled with rage to terrifying effect. “Did I hear right?”

“It depends on what you heard,” the foreman giggled.

“Did you find this trooper not guilty?”

“Yes,” said the foreman, “that's how it looked to us. Don't forget the medals, either.”

There was pandemonium in the courtroom. Mothers wept and clutched their children close to them. Strong men lit cigarettes. Robots of various kinds and descriptions who had been in the audience as spectators gave cheers of applause, as well as the high-pitched yelps that robots emit when in a state of elation, for reasons that are still under investigation. The judge swelled up like a chicken under pressure. Several bailiffs fainted and had to be revived with strong drink. Reporters for the military newspapers rushed out to telephone the scoop. Bill rushed down from the stand and embraced his friend CIA, who had been in the crowd rooting for his friend.

“Bill, it's wonderful!” he cried.

“But why?” Bill asked. “I never heard of robots not voting the way they were supposed to.”

“Everybody! Stop! This court is not dismissed!” So shouted the judge. In response to a wave of his hand the doors were barred. But just before they were barred, a messenger in motorcycle leathers, his goggles still in place over his eyes, gouts of sweat bursting from his forehead, rushed in and approached the bench. He handed the judge a slip of paper, then collapsed on the floor and had to be revived with powerful drugs.