Bill, The Galactic Hero 6 - on the Planet Of The Hippies From Hell (5 page)

“Gee — I'm glad you like it, Bill.”

“Now — what say we get some sack-time in before we have to get going.”

“Aren't you going to play any of the implant in your ear, Bill?”

“What for? Voluntarily listening to orders without being ordered to? You got a lot to learn. If we have to we'll do it tomorrow morning. What say we round the night off with some more drinks and maybe a look-in at EM's knocking shop if it is open.”

“Gee — Bill. That sounds great! What's a knocking shop?”

Yep, thought Bill sinking back into an alcoholic gaze. This guy really was okay. Even if he was incredibly stupid. But there was something about him that bothered Bill ... like some scampering little lizard, he seemed much too eager about the whole thing.

But, gee, thought Bill, otherwise this Elliot Methadrine was a good buddy, a nice guy to drink with.

Bill and Elliot found tickets waiting for them when they arrived at the good ship IC — Interstellar Cruiser — Starbloater. Since Troopers were only permitted to travel steerage class, Bill was now sporting a silver set of fake lieutenant's bars that Elliot had given him. This temporary disguise would last only for the duration of the trip — but of course it went instantly to his head. He flared his nostrils, insulted the help, affected a poncey accent and did all the things that he knew officers did. They were well on their way in space, Bill enjoying every nonservile moment of his new existence, when the assassin came after him with the most terrifying hand blaster that Bill had ever seen.

A few moments before this happened, Bill was balanced at the tip of the diving board, dressed in pink and electric green bathing trunks, holding a can of beer in his hand and calculating the distance between himself and the pool of opalescent water below him. Bill's muscular midsection was quite red already from the numerous belly flops he'd achieved. He was intent upon making a successful dive this time, even if it killed him.

“What do you think, Elliot? Should I stand back a little bit, or should I balance on the very tip before I go over?”

Elliot watched from his lounge chair intently, taking his time to calculate the equations involved and sipping at an Aldebaran Arachne as he did so. “I should think just about where you are will do, Bill. And, gee — maybe you should think about losing the beer can. I think that throws your balance off.”

“Yeah,” said Bill. He drained the can, crumpled it and tossed it to Elliot. “Good idea. By the way, Elliot. I've been meaning to ask you ... why do you say 'Gee' all the time?”

That was starting to bother Bill. Not because he had anything against the word “Gee.” It was kinda cute, actually. No, what bothered Bill was that Eager Beager at Camp Leon Trotsky had used “Gee” all the time, and he'd turned out to be a Chinger called Bgr who in all of Bill's misadventures had used the word “Gee” quite often. In his guise as Eager Beager, the seven-inch tall creature had utilized a human-looking robot, controlling it from a control booth in the brain-pan.

Bill was becoming suspicious. He'd asked if Elliot wanted to come up for a swim in the ship's pool, figuring that if Elliot sank, then for sure he was a robot. So far, however, Elliot, although he'd donned a very becoming bathing suit, had somehow avoided going for a dip.

Bill and Elliot, following orders from the implant in Bill's left earlobe, had taken berth on the pleasure cruiser IC Starbloater, a converted garbage scow reshaped by the Tasteless Plezure Co. to look like an iceberg. (“A cool, COOL cruise,” proclaimed the pamphlet.) It was stuffed with officers and their ladies, or girlfriends, or doxies — or boyfriends in many cases — since this was a time for fun. The food was as tasteless as the entertainment, which didn't matter since most of the guests were drunk out of their teeny-tinys most of the time. Getting their kidneys and livers in shape for Barworld. All in all it was pretty revolting; Bill thought it was paradise. Which says more than a bit about his values. Now he waited for an answer to what might be a highly pertinent question.

“Gee, Bill. I don't know. My father and my mother say it all the time. And, after all, I am a G-man.”

Bill didn't let logic deter him. “You can't think of any other reason?”

“Gee — no. Why does it bother you so much?”

“Well. I knew this Chinger once who said 'Gee' a lot.”

“Oh. You mean, Bgr. Yes, we're aware of that. I was wondering when you were going to ask me that question, Bill. But I'm quite happy to answer you. No, I'm not Bgr. Do I look like a seven-foot-tall lizardoid with four arms?”

“Well, no, but —”

“There you go! That problem resolved. Now, as to the problem immediately at hand, why don't you try the implant. It might have an opinion.”

As it had turned out, the implant was a marvel of bioelectronics plugged directly into Bill's cerebellum. It had an amazing database of knowledge and some intelligence, and could also be used as a handy pocket calculator. The problem for Bill had been in learning the correct methods of utilizing it without hurting his sore earlobe too much.

Well, Bill rationalized, in this case it was a toss-up between sore ear or even sorer belly.

Bill tugged on his ear. “QUERY: How do I dive in this situation without belly-flopping?”

The device was apparently equipped with all manner of sensor devices hooked to Bill's nervous system — nanochip memory, a rudimentary artificial intelligence, and a nasal voice simulator (funny, thought Bill — a nasal voice in an ear lobe!). What was worse was that the demented programmer who had designed the system also had a love for the ethnic music of long-vanished Earth. He must have tapped a digitized databank from one of the ancient spacers and had dumped it into the RAM in Bill's ear. He had undoubtedly listened to it while working away the weary hours of programming. Fine. But he wrote such crappy software that bits of the music leaked through into the rest of the programs. Something Latin, scratching away at the edge of Bill's hearing, sounded like Mula Chula.

“Come on,” Bill said, raising his voice to drown out the guitars. “Diving — how do I dive?”

Bill, who'd been expecting trajectory extrapolations and weight/air-resistance/gravity equations, was naturally disappointed.

“Don't,” he said out loud. “What the bowb do you mean, don't! I'm going to get this right if it kills me!”

“Leesten, cabron. You got the grace and reflexes of a grande flamenco dancer — a dead grande flamenco dancer!”

“You know, for once I wish you'd be a machine like you're supposed to be and do what I ask,” shouted Bill, tugging his ear with exasperation. “And would you stop playing that stupid music and answer the question?”

Elliot Methadrine looked up from the lounge chair. “Gee — talking to your ear again, huh? I wonder why they didn't give that device to me!”

“I certainly wish they had!” Bill twisted the ear hard to shut the stupid thing of. “Now I'm going to dive, and dive right this time, or —”

Bill never got the chance to explain what he would do if he didn't dive right — or belly flop for that matter, although he did end up in the water.

Because that was when the assassin popped out of the service hatch in the deck.

The guy was about five foot nine. He had long shaggy hair and a rainbow-colored headband to keep that hair out of his eyes. He had a goatee and granny glasses. He wore a dirty dyed T-shirt, bell-bottoms, and leather moccasins. From around his neck dangled a large medallion: the peace symbol. In his arms he cradled a Mauser laser cannon: a definite war symbol.

It was the deadliest hand armament Bill had ever seen.

“Die, Imbeerialist Pig!” the guy screeched and pointed the sights and bore of the cannon directly at Bill.

Battle being the line of work he'd chosen (well, not exactly chosen, maybe), Bill had had many a gun trained on him. However, since he was now weaponless and in the open, making a fine target, he didn't have many options.

He dove headfirst into the water.

An energy beam fried the air where he'd just been.

Bill hit the water feetfirst and went as deep as he could. He could feel the water boiling above him as the assassin tried to get him through the water. But Bill knew that a sinking target was hard to hit, and there was nothing Bill did in aquatic sports better than sink. Fortunately, he was at the forty-foot-deep end of the pool, so he had a long way to sink. Unfortunately, his lung capacity was not terrific; he had not breathed in deeply before diving, so just as soon as he hit bottom, he had to start thinking about coming up for some air.

Bill was intelligent enough to know that he'd better not come up where he went down. So he swam as far as he could until he banged his head on the side of the pool and then began thrashing back to the surface up the side of the pool, hoping against hope that by the time he'd surface the guy would have been killed by Elliot — and that he wouldn't get the bends.

When he peeped up out of the top of the water, taking a Trooper-sized breath immediately, he saw that the poolside was a total mess. The lounge chair was blown apart, burned towels were everywhere and Elliot's plastic raft and rubber duck lay deflated upon the water. There was the smell of singed flesh in the air.

Bill vaulted out of the pool and ran for cover.

He peeped out from the door marked LADIES.

Someone had been burned, that was for sure ... but there was no sign of bodies now, charred or otherwise. Bill was about to make a run for the MEN'S room and his clothes when Elliot Methadrine stumbled through the door, walked a few paces and then fell down, moaning. In his right arm he held a small derringer-blaster; his left arm was badly burned.

“Medic!” Bill called out loudly and automatically. “Medic!”

“Gee — maybe the ship's doctor would be a better idea, huh, Bill?” said Elliot Methadrine, grimacing with pain but trying to get up nonetheless. “I doubt if there are any Trooper medics aboard. That guy kind of gave me a good one.”

Bill looked down. Nothing good about this wound. One thing good it proved though: no way could this guy possibly be the Chinger called Bgr in a robot suit. This guy was human, no question about that.

A human going into shock.

“He sure did do that.” Bill went to the phone and called up the ship's emergency medical team. However, it appeared that the emergency forces aboard the STARBLOATER had already been alerted. Red lights started flashing everywhere, and Bill could hear the clatter and thump of running feet. Any moment now help would be on its way.

But before they carted Elliot off, Bill had to ask him something. He had to smack him around a bit to get him back to working consciousness, but finally the guy roused. “Elliot. Who the bowb was that guy? And what happened to him?”

“I don't know, Bill,” said Elliot. “I winged him, he scorched me, and then alarms started going off and he ran. I chased him down a corridor all the way to the bow.... And then he just ... disappeared.”

“You mean, he hid and you couldn't find him. So he's got to be somewhere still on board this ship.”

“Gee — No. I mean, disappeared. Into thin air. Like a sort of ghost fading out. One moment there he was, wild-eyed and hairy. The next, he just melted into thin air.”

“Melted?”

“No, wait. It was like there was this hole. This wavering energy fluctuation ... and he stepped into it and he was ... gone.”

Elliot took a deep breath. “Gee — Bill. Do you think he's a time traveler? Do you think this is one of the guys we're after ... and he's trying to get you first?”

“I think —” said Bill. “I think that I need a big tumbler of whiskey.”

“One more thing, Bill. I recognized him ... I mean, not personally, but generically. He's a hippie, Bill. A hippie from Hellworld. Do you know what that means, Bill?”

Bill's eyes bugged. “Yeah. That means you need a whiskey too.”

A Hippie!

From Hellworld!

Bill didn't really know what that meant, but it didn't sound real good. However, Elliot passed out before he could tell him, and was carted off to the ship's sick bay for emergency medical attention. Bill stumbled into the bar and ordered his jug of whiskey — but made sure that he kept a gun, safety off, by his side.

In the dark ship's bar, Bill made discreet inquiries into the exact nature of his would-be assassin.

“Hey, you bowbs,” he addressed the assemblage of ancient lieutenants and brain-dead captains, weaving back and forth, red eyes glaring, spittle glistening on his fangs. “Anybody here know what hippies from Hellworld are?”

If anyone knew, they weren't telling. Or were too wiped out to even hear him. So Bill just ordered a refill and whiled away the time till the arrival of the STARBLOATER at Barworld. Elliot Methadrine was out for a few days.... And it never occurred to Bill that his computer earlobe companion might have had the information....

Or maybe he just didn't want to listen to any more ethnic music for a while.

Whatever the case, Bill spent the remainder of the voyage to Barworld prepping his system for what it could expect when they landed.

Booze.

“Gee, Bill! This is a great place!” said Elliot Methadrine, gesturing with his good arm. The other one, wrapped in plastiband, hung limply from his shoulder in a cloth sling. The doctors on the STARBLOATER had performed a miracle. In an era of computerized microsurgery, growth replacement and arm-bud implants, they had managed to botch the job totally. Usually, a salvageable arm could be healed up in a few days. However, the doctors had programmed the wrong mixture in the heal-tank and Elliot's arm was going to be out of commission for a while.

“Wow!” agreed Bill enthusiastically. “It sure is something!” He dodged a football that sailed over his head. A group of short-haired, ugly young men in silly-looking armored outfits and helmets began chasing the ball, kicking it and each other. Spectators occasionally got into the action by throwing a punch at one another. All in all there was a terrific spirit of competition and cooperation in the yeasty air.

Bill and Elliot had just docked at Barworld. Following the orders of Bill's ear implant, they had taken a shuttle down to the unusual island of Rosebowl. Here quaint holograms of old and creakily picturesque buildings leaned in various states of historical decomposition, modeled on the sprawling skyscrapers and slums of long-vanished Old Earth. Here antique gin joints and cocktail lounges did a roaring business.