Bill 2 - on the Planet of Robot Slaves (16 page)

“I'll not ask you to repeat that,” Cy said, his head still ringing. “I have heard enough to know that the cause is hopeless. Why don't you and I grab the ornithopter and split?”

“Thanks very much, you sniveling coward,” Meta sneered while the other women shook their fists and emitted howls of derision and hatred.

“Just trying to help,” he shrugged.

“We can't just let them die!”

“The pallid young lady is right. Prepare to fire, chaps. Spare her life but shoot the rest of the hideous great white apes down,” a strange voice said.

They all turned and gasped as a horde of red warriors, armed to the teeth, pushed in from the hallway, led by the speaker, also red, but also gray of head. They raised their guns to fire — but before they could all the women in the room dropped their stone clubs and from places of concealment whipped out radium rifles and aimed them at the intruders.

Cy yiped in the deadly silence that followed, trapped between the opposing forces. If he moved he might precipitate a massacre. Yet it seemed every gun was pointed at him. In desperation he spoke.

“Hold it! If one shot is fired we all die. And me first which is why I am negotiating this meeting. If you ruddy newcomers shoot you will be killing the captives who now await death in the square below...”

“And one of them is the Princess Dejah Vue,” Meta added since the newcomers had the right color skin and might be co-religionists or co-countrymen of the prisoned plumpkin. Her guess hit the mark for the leader cried aloud, staggered back and hit his brow with the back of his hand. Meta smiled. “I have a feeling that you know the girl.”

“Know her? She is my daughter! Order arms!” he shouted back over his shoulder. “I am Mors Orless Jeddak of Methane. She was overdue from a thoat tour and I was beginning to get worried. Then a telegram was intercepted from this city and filled my heart with fear. I assembled my army and came at once. Tell me, pallid one, what has happened?”

“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.”

“We will save them! To arms, brave Methanians, to arms!”

“Hold it!” Meta shouted as they started to rush from the room. “Direct assault has already defeated a Fighting Devil, which is a very hard thing to do. We need a better plan than that.”

“And sure and I've got just the darlin'est plan for yez,” An Lar's wife said, stepping out before them, arms akimbo, the light of destiny in her eyes. “Here is what we shall do. We have been having a homophagic donnybrook with the green men for countless ages. Becuz they likes to eat us just as we like to eat them. So me, and the rest of the ladies, will go out unarmed and looking edible and throw ourselves on their mercy. Of course they have no mercy, but we'll make believe we don't know. They will not shoot us then but will instead attack with gusto, howling with hunger...”

“Whereupon,” Mors Orless broke in with a wicked grin and a shake of his gray head, “we, who will be hiding behind every window around the square, will fire a withering barrage that will wipe out every one of the green sons of bitches!”

“For an old lad with the wrong skin color you're not too stupid! Shall we do it?”

Shouting shouts of untrammeled joy they streamed from the room, red men to their windows, white women to the square. The clouds of dust settled and Cy dragged wearily over and dropped into a chair across from Meta.

“This happen to you very often?”

“No. And once is enough.”

Female shouts of submission echoed through the window, followed by hoarse bellows of happiness, and appetite. Which were soon replaced by the sound of gunfire and the screams of the mortally wounded. When this died away it was replaced by the sound of wild cheering. When the cheering, in turn, died away two voices could be heard calling in the ensuing silence.

“Jon!”

“Dejah!”

“JON!”

“DEJAH!”

“JON!!”

“DEJAH!!”

Louder and louder, accompanied by running footsteps, until it ended with the thud of colliding flesh. Followed by more cheers.

“Plan must have worked,” Cy said.

Soon after this they heard weary footsteps dragging up the stairs and a much battered Fighting Devil staggered in half-supporting the equally battered body of Bill.

“We got an ornithopter waiting,” Meta said, trying not to yawn. “What do you say we get the hell out of here.”

“You are drifting off course,” Fighting Devil said, kicking the ornithopter to get its attention. It stuck one eye out on its stalk and swiveled it to see who was talking.

“How do you know?”

“Because I got a built-in direction finder.”

“You're right, we are off course. But there is a powerful force field that is drawing me towards those mountains. I cannot fight it any longer. It is bigger than me...”

“All right — save the histrionics.” A large-barreled cannon extruded from its chest. “Just fly towards this mysterious force field and it will cease being a mystery. I'll blast it. Everyone comfy back there?”

“No!” they chorused, clinging to the handholds, jarred and vibrated to death.

“Poor soft squishy things,” Fighting Devil tsk-tsked with smarmy and obviously fake sympathy. “How superior we metal-based creatures are...why are we landing?”

“Because the power on the force field has been turned up and I have no choice.”

They were being drawn down towards a ledge of rock, apparently empty of all life. Fighting Devil blasted it anyway, but the force still pulled at them.

Even flapping at full flap the ornithopter could make no headway. In the end it was pulled down to the rocky surface, wings beating furiously and getting absolutely no place.

“Turn...off the...engine!” Bill gurgled and cried aloud and finally the wings slowed and stopped. While Fighting Devil was unbolting itself the human passengers slid to the ground with groans of pain and hobbled in circles, twisted and crunched.

“Never again!” Meta moaned. “Even if I have to spend the rest of my life on this mountain I'm not boarding that vibrating monster.”

“Likewise,” Cy sighed.

“Doubled in brass,” Bill blurted.

“You are most welcome to stay.”

“What said that?” Fighting Devil shouted, spinning about, all systems go, guns protruding from every orifice.

“None of us.” Bill pointed. “It seemed to come from that tunnel there.”

Fighting Devil instantly let fly with a barrage of shells that blew great chunks out of the cliff and sent fragments of stone flying in all directions.

“Knock it off!” Bill shouted, diving for cover.

When the firing had stopped the voice spoke again.

“Shame! I offer hospitality and you respond with gunfire.”

“Come on out and we can talk,” Fighting Devil said unctuously, guns ready.

“No way! I know your type. Before I appear I must guarantee my own safety.”

“How?” Bill asked.

“Help!” the ornithopter expostulated. “I am trapped by a gravity field and cannot move.”

“That's how. Without that frozen-down-flapper you are trapped on this mountain. And I don't have the switch with me to turn him loose. That is controlled by others who watch and listen to every word that we speak. Harm me and you harm yourselves, doom yourselves to eternity in these barren mountains. Ready to talk?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Fighting Devil muttered as its weapons slipped out of sight.

With a crunching rumble a large boulder slid aside and from behind it emerged an incredibly battered machine. One side was bashed in and rusty, and it walked with a limp because it had a crudely carved and unbending metal leg in the place of the one that was missing. A black patch had been welded into lace over a blank eye socket and it leaned on a crutch made from crooked lengths of pipe.

“Welcome, visitors,” it grated, “to Happy Acres. I am your host, Happy, and these are my acres.”

Meta popped her eyes at it. “Happy? I don't think I want to see Unhappy Acres!”

“Yes, happy, as I will soon prove to you. We will go below and nourishment will be provided as soon as you lay down your weapons. Squishy creatures first, that's it, blasters on the ground.”

“Moron!” Fighting Devil said with some feeling. “How can I lay down my weapons when they are all built in?”

“We have faced this problem before and have plenty of corks, plugs and safety wire. You will be secured. You may emerge now, dear comrades.”

With a cacophony of rattles, creaks, clatters and thuds a band of even more beat-up creatures clanked into sight. It was a robot's nightmare — a junk-dealer's dream. Some had treads missing from their tracks, limbs had been replaced by rusty prosthetics, bellybuttons by eggcups, eyeballs by lightbulbs; it was pretty revolting in a mechanical way.

“You guys don't look too good,” Cy observed. “What's your problem?”

“All will be explained — but first —” Happy waved his helpers forward and they swarmed over the unhappy Fighting Devil. He had to be urged to produce his weapons which, reluctantly, he did, one by one. And as they emerged corks were hammered into gunbarrels, chambers plugged, lightning bolts grounded, fuses removed. Then his tentacles and arm extensions were wired together so he could not undo what had been done.

“Bombs too,” Happy ordered. The orifice dilated in Fighting Devil's nether regions and the bombs plopped to the ground. Happy gave a rusty sigh of relief.

“It is always tricky when dealing with Fighting Devils. Some of them would rather die fighting than be disarmed...”

“I would rather die fighting!” Fighting Devil roared loudly — but it was too late. Solenoids clicked and buzzed while guns pointed futilely. However the broken brigade really knew their business and mayhem did not follow. Only a single small smoke grenade popped out of its kneecap and puffed into life.

“Follow me, dear guests,” Happy said happily and led the way into the tunnel. Rusty, bent doors squeaked aside so they could pass, rumbled reluctantly shut behind them. The final portal admitted them to a high chamber that was feebly lit by dim bulbs that were festooned with metal spiders' webs. There was a long table in the center of the room. Sitting behind it were some more equally dilapidated machines.

“Welcome to PLDP,” Happy intoned. “The acronym for our happy brotherhood. PLDP stands for the Planetary League of Deserters and Pacifists.”

“If you will make that Interplanetary I'll join!” Bill said instantly.

“That is an interesting idea that might be well worth our consideration. What a joyful thought! Our movement could spread galaxy-wide, we could have a special branch for you squishies...”

“Traitors! Rebels!” Fighting Devil frothed and all its weapons popped out, writhed and trembled with suppressed rage, but all he managed to do was produce another smoke grenade.

“Stop that, will you!” Bill coughed, fanning at the smoke. “It doesn't help anything.”

“Release me at once!” Fighting Devil thundered. “I will not hear these vilenesses spoken. A Fighting Devil does not belong here.”

“That is what you say now,” an ancient and crushed machine said from behind the table. “But we number more than one fighting devil in our ranks. You speak brazenly now, possessed of your strength, virility and phallic weapons — but you will talk out of the other side of your loudspeaker when your guns are spiked, your batteries discharged, your wad shot. Think! We were all like you once — now look at our state. My companion here, Grumpy, once commanded a legion of flame throwers. Right now he couldn't summon up enough spark to light a joint. Or dear Sleepy, the one dozing on the table, a permanent doze I fear for he hasn't moved for a month. Once he was a tank destroyer. Now he is destroyed himself and his tank is empty. Sic transit gloria machinery. For many of us it is too late. We came to PLDP when we were discarded. We were rescued from the junkyard by bodysnatchers, brought here in secrecy before we could be recycled. But — I talk too much. You will be hungry after your arduous journey. Pull up a hydraulic jack and tuck in. Rations will be taken to your flying companion immobilized outside.”

For all of his sneers Fighting Devil was not shy about plunging his snout into a can of oil.

“You don't happen to have anything we can eat — or drink?” Bill asked.

“By good fortune we do,” Happy said, pointing to a faucet on the wall. “Before we occupied these premises they were used as a torture chamber. That tap leads to — and I shudder to say it — a reservoir of water. Be my guest. As to food, our scavengers scavenging the desert discovered alien objects adorned with indecipherable script. Perhaps you can interpret them,” he said passing an alien object over.

Bill read the label and shuddered. “Yumee-Gunge rations. The ones we threw away. Thanks a lot, old buddy, but no thanks. But I will have a slug of your torture juice.”

“We may eat yet,” Cy said, digging into his pockets. “I think I got some of the seeds in here. I picked the admiral's pockets.” He produced a pink plastic capsule.

“The color is different from the other ones,” Meta said.

“So maybe the meat is different. Let's try it out.”

Their hosts obliged them by pointing out a tunnel that led to a sunlit cleft high on the side of the mountain. Windblown sand had collected here and a solitary metal weed had taken root in this inhospitable soil. They dampened the ground with water, pushed in the seed and stepped back. Short instants later the crackling plant had grown and the sizzling melon split open.

“Smells like ham,” Bill said.

“Pig cells no doubt,” Meta said as she carved off a slice. “If we had some mustard this would be paradise.”

Replete, Bill leaned back against the sunwarmed rock and belched. “This is not too bad, you know. Maybe we ought to join up with PLDP and stay on here.”