"Good morning, sir," he ingratiated.
"Shut up. I can't stand conversation this early in the day. Did you see the lights?"
"Wurgle?" Bill said, gears not meshed, brain still alcohol and sleep sodden.
"That's about what I thought you would say. Listen numb-nuts, if you had stayed alert rather than wallowing in an alcoholic stupor, you would have seen what I saw. On the horizon there, very distant, glowing lights. And no, before you say it, it was not the stars."
Bill pouted because that was what he was going to suggest.
"Definitely lights, waxing and waning and changing color. Get Cy up here. Now."
The technician must have been popping something because he lay unconscious, eyes open but rolled back so that only the whites, or rather the yellows, showed. Bill shook him, shouted in his ear, and even tried a few good kicks in the ribs with no results.
"Really wonderful," Praktis snarled when he got the report. "Is this a crew or an addicts' ward? I'll go give him a shot that will blast him out of it. Meanwhile you stay guard here over this line in the sand so no one walks on it. And don't bulge your eyes at me like that — I haven't gone around the twist. That line points at the lights I saw."
Bill sat and stared at the line and wished he had a drink and fell asleep again — but jerked awake when he heard the ghastly moans. Cy was crawling up the dune on all fours, groaning as he came. His skin was ghastly white and he was vibrating like an electric dildo. Praktis climbed up behind him, his expression one of sadistic pleasure.
"The shot brought him around but, oh boy, has it got some really wicked side effects. That's the direction, juice-head, that line scratched in the sand. Get a fix on it."
Cy dug out the compass, but his hand was shaking too much to read it. In the end he had to lay it flat on the sand. Then he had to hold his head still with both hands to take the sight. After a certain amount of blinking, eye-popping and twitching he spoke in a hollow voice.
"Eighteen degrees east of the magnetic pole. Permission requested to go away and die, sir."
"Permission denied. The shot will wear off soon..."
A shrill scream cut through his words, followed by the roar and splat of blaster fire.
"We're being attacked!" Praktis screeched. "I'm unarmed! Don't fire! I am a doctor, a noncombatant, my rank only an honorable one!"
Bill, his brain cells still so gummed by sleep and ethyl alcohol, drew his blaster and ran down the dune towards the firing instead of away from it which, normally, he would have done. He picked up speed, could not stop, saw Meta before him, standing and firing, could not turn and ran into her at full gallop.
They collapsed into an inferno of arms and legs. She recovered first and punched him in the eye with a hard fist.
"That hurt," he whimpered, holding his hand over it. "I'm going to have a shiner."
"Move your hand and I'll give you another one to match. Why did you knock me down like that?"
"What was all the shooting about?"
"Rats!" She grabbed up her blaster and spun about. "All gone now. Except the ones I blasted into atoms. They were getting at our food. At least we know what lives on this planet. Great big nasty gray rats."
"No they don't," Praktis said, having recovered from his fit of cowardice and rejoined the party. He kicked a piece of exploded rat with his toe. "Rattus Norvegicus. Mankind's companion to the stars. We must have brought them with us."
"Sure did," Bill agreed. "They bailed out of the spacer even before you did."
"Interesting," Praktis mused, rubbing his jaw, nodding, squinting, doing all the things that indicate musing. "With a whole planet to nosh in — I ask you — why do they come creeping back here to eat our food?"
"They don't like the native chow," Bill suggested.
"Brilliant but incorrect. It is not that they don't like it — there is none of it. This planet is barren of life as any fool can plainly see."
"Not completely, sir," any fool said. Recruit Wurber appeared from out of the desert, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a yo-yo. He held out a flower. "As soon as I heard the shooting I ran away. Over thataway I found the flowers and..."
"Let me have that. Ouch!"
"...and I cut my hand when I picked it, just like you did just then, Admiral, when you grabbed it."
Praktis held the flower so close that his eyes crossed as he examined it. "Stem, no leaves, red petals, no stamen or pistil. But made of metal. This is made of metal, you idiot. It wasn't growing. It was planted there in the sand by a person or persons unknown."
"Yes, Admiral. Shall I show the admiral where the rest of the flowers are growing?"
He led the way and the others followed. Except for Captain Bly who was still zonked unconscious. Up dune and down dune to a dark patch in the sand where a stand of flowers grew. Praktis snapped one of them with his fingernail and it pinged.
"Metal. All of them, metal." He poked a finger into the damp sand, then sniffed it. "And this is not water — smells like oil." No scientific explanation for the phenomena was forthcoming since he was just as baffled as the others, although he was too pompous to admit it. "The explanation of the phenomena is obvious and a detailed description will be forthcoming as soon as I have completed my investigation. I'll need more specimens. Anyone have a wirecutter?"
Cy did and he snipped off samples as instructed. Meta quickly had enough of this metallurgical horticulture and went back to their camp. And resumed shouting and shooting. The others joined her and the surviving rats fled into the desert. Praktis scowled at the torn open boxes of supplies.
"You, Third Lieutenant, get to work. I want the food repacked and rat-proofed at once. Issue orders. But not you, Cy. I want your help. Over this way."
Bill seized up a torn plastic container of compressed nutrient bars. Known jocularly to the troops as Iron Rations. Even the rats hadn't been able to dent them; broken rat teeth were stuck in the wrapper. After boiling for twenty-four hours they could be broken with a hammer. Bill searched for something edible and a little more tender. He found some tubes of emergency space rations labeled Yumee-Gunge. The others were watching him intently so he passed the tubes around and they all squeezed and sucked and made retching noises. The gunge was loathsome but promised to sustain life. Although the quality of life that it sustained was open to question. After this repulsive repast they worked together in harmony since the pitiful pile of supplies was all that stood between them and starvation. Or thirsting to death, which is faster.
They had just finished when Captain Bly groaned and rolled over, sat up and made dry-smacking noises with his mouth. Bill passed him a tube of Yumee-Gunge and he screamed hoarsely when he tasted it. He alternately sucked and groaned, shuddering the entire time. Praktis appeared and bulged his eyes at the performance.
"Is that stuff really that bad?"
"Worse," Bill said and the others nodded solemn agreement.
"Then I'll pass for the moment. And deliver my scientific report. Those plants with the flowers are alive and growing in the sand. They are not organic carbon-based life as we know it, but are solid metal."
"Impossible," Meta observed.
"Well, thank you Engine Mate First Class for the scientific information. But I think that I prefer my rather extensive knowledge to yours. There is no reason why a life form cannot be metal instead of carbon based. I can't for a moment think why it would want to — but let us leave this interesting topic for now and pursue the even more interesting one of our staying alive. Report, Third Lieutenant, food and water status."
"Food, inedible even by the rats. The water should last about a week with rationing."
"Bowb that for a game of darts," Praktis observed gloomily, sat down heavily and stared unseeingly at the metal flower in his hand. "Not much choice. We stay here and starve for a week then die of thirst. Or we march off in the direction of the lights I saw last night and see what's up. Let's see a show of hands. All for staying and dying."
Not a
finger twitched and he nodded. "Now — who is for marching out of here?"
The response was the same. Praktis sighed. "I see that the waters of democracy have caressed few fevered brows around here. So let's hear it for the old fascist pecking order. We will march!"
They jumped to their feet, swayed forward awaiting instructions. "You do it, Bill, this must be the sort of thing you were trained for. Divide what we got five ways and fix packs or something that we can carry the stuff in."
"But — there are six of us, sir."
"I issue orders, I don't take them. Five. Report to me when this task is done." He rooted about in Bill's barracks bag as he spoke and emerged triumphant with the remains of Bill's spare bottle of booze. "And while you are doing that I am going to do a little catching up with you teaheads, dopeheads and boozeheads. Work!"
The sun was high in the sky before the job was done. The admiral was snoring happily, the depleted bottle clutched in his limp fingers. Bill pried it away and drained the little booze that was left before waking him up.
"Whuzha?"
"All done, sir. Ready to march."
Praktis started to speak, coughed instead, then held his head in both hands and moaned. "Well...I'm not. Not until I've had a handful of pills." He fumbled through his wallet for a bottle, shook out a dozen tablets and ordered water in a cracked voice. The pharmaceutical dynamite worked its wonders and he finally permitted Bill to help him to his feet.
"Load up. Get Cy over here at once with the compass."
The heavily laden technician staggered up and passed over the instrument, pointing out the heading to be followed. Praktis plugged his pocket computer to a small speaker, mounted this on one epaulet, then searched the digitalized molecular memory for music. Found a merry marching tune, then played it at full scratchy volume while he led his brave little band out into the desert.
As soon as they were gone the rats emerged from hiding, searched what had been left behind for edible remains, then turned their eager attention to the mountain of garbage which was well cooked and finally cooled enough to be consumed. The shuffle of feet and the sound of music soon died away. The only sound to break the desert stillness was the crunch of rodent jaws.
Into this gustatory paradise something penetrated. A new sound perhaps, a new presence. Rat after rat lifted its furry head, twitched ears and whiskers. Leapt down from the mountain of mashed munchies and sought shelter.
Something dark and ominous, low and broad and metallic whirred into sight over the top of a dune. Metal clanked against metal and there was a quick burst of sharp bleeping. Something passed beside the mountain of steaming garbage, past the burnt out spacer, and slowly up the dune beyond.
When silence once more wrapped the garbage in its pristine mantle the rats reemerged and resumed noshing.
Ignoring the trail of footprints that led away through the sand. A trail now obscured by the tracks of something that pursued the valiant little band of survivors.
CHAPTER 6
Admiral Praktis marched proudly at the head of his brave little band, marching to the jolly drumbeat of the music that was deafening his right ear. Up dune and down dune and up dune once again. Until he looked over his shoulder and saw that he was alone in the desert. His burst of panic was allayed when the first of his straggling followers stumbled into sight. It was Meta striving manfully, womanfully rather, under her load. The others weren't doing quite as well. Praktis sat down and tapped his fingers on his knee and muttered to himself until they had all managed to stagger up.
"We are going to have to do better than this."
"Watch that royal We, Praktis," Captain Bly sneered. "Your We is not carrying packs while our We is."
"You are being subordinate, Captain!"
"You bet your sweet ass I am, sawbones. I was in this man's navy when you were still in premed. We are in a live and die situation here. Probably die. So I don't move until you carry your share."
"This is mutiny!"
"Sure is," Meta said aiming her blaster between his eyes. "Ready for your pack?"
Praktis saw the merits of her argument and only muttered in protest when another pack appeared — had this been planned from the start? — and was loaded onto his shoulders. After this redivision of their burdens they proceeded if not at a smarter pace, at least at a continuous one. Bill walked in an offcenter and lurching manner because his right foot was so much bigger than his left. And his toes hurt, scrunched inside the boot. He wondered why the hell he was wearing it. Because it had been issued to him and he would be out of uniform without it. Fury rose at the thought and he tore off the boot, hurled it out into the desert and stretched his toes — sharp claws gleaming in the sunlight. This was more like it. He hurried to catch up with the others, walking comfortably now.
When the sun was overhead Praktis groaned an order to halt and they all fell down. Bill, goaded perhaps by the responsibility of his new rank, dragged a water container around and doled out a ration to each of them. Those with strong stomachs squeezed out a little Yumee-Gunge. Praktis watched them and tried some himself.
"Yekh!" he retched.
"And you are being complimentary," Captain Bly said. "It is not edible."
"Something has got to be done," Praktis said hurling the tube out into the desert. "I was going to wait — but we need food now or we can't go on." He rooted in his pack and dragged out a flat case. "Bill — get me a cup of water."
"What the hell are you doing?" Captain Bly complained. "You have had your water ration."
"This is not for me — but for all of us. A little product of my original research. Illegal they said! Legality is for weaklings. All right, there were a few accidents, not many died, the buildings were rebuilt quickly enough. But I persevered — and won! Here it is!"
He held high something that looked like a plastic-wrapped goat turd. Cy put his finger to the side of his head and made a rotating motion.
"I saw that!" Praktis screeched. "You laugh, just like the rest of them. But it is Mel Praktis who will have the last laugh! Here is a seed, a mutated seed containing growth accelerators never dreamed of by myopic, pedestrian researchers. Watch!"
He kicked a hole in the sand and placed the seed within it, then poured the water over it. There was a puff of steam as the water dissolved the plastic wrapping — followed by a rapid crackling. "Step back! There is real danger."
The ground burst open and green tendrils sprang into the air, blossomed with leaves in an instant. At the same time the sand stirred and rose as powerful roots shot out in all directions. Bill, ignoring Praktis's warning, touched one of the leaves that had appeared almost under his nose. He yiped and sucked his finger.
"Serves you right," Praktis said. "Life and growth generate heat — and at this speed there is far more heat than can be dissipated normally. Look how the ground cracks open as all of the water is absorbed, the sand heated by the burgeoning life within."
It was indeed spectacular. The broad leaves absorbed solar energy to supply the enzyme-driven furnaces within. A thick stem emerged and a gourd swelled out, growing and crackling before their eyes. When it was almost a meter long it grew bright red, sizzled and broke open just as all the leaves and stems turned brown, shriveled and died. The entire process had taken less than a minute.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Praktis gloated as he opened his pocket knife and plunged it into the melon. Steam hissed out and a succulent smell filled the air. "Like lichen, the melon has both animal and vegetable cells within it. The animal cells are mutated beef so that — as you can see — the flesh within has been cooked by the heat of growth so that the melon-steak is ready to eat."
He sliced off a succulent pink slice and popped it into his mouth. Then jumped for safety as the others dived forward.
It was an hour at least before the last chaw was chawed, the final belch belched, the penultimate sigh sighed. Only broken bits of rind remained, while stomachs were filled to the bursting point.
"You got more
of those seeds, Admiral?" Bill asked with humble admiration.
"You betcha. So let's dump the iron rations and the rest of the government-issued junk and press on. Let us see if we can reach the lights by nightfall."
There were groans but no real complaints. Even the dimmest of the bunch knew that they had to get out of this desert before their water ran out. Onward they went, and onward still, until the sun was close to the horizon and Praktis called a halt.
"That's enough for today. I think that we are going to have steak again for dinner, so that we may go on refreshed in the morning. And we will get a good sight on those lights tonight.
Tummies full, they sat in a ruminant row on the dune's summit as darkness fell. The first mutters of worry turned to happy shouts as the huddle of lights appeared on the horizon. Strange rays like distant searchlight beams swept the night sky, changing color before flicking out of sight.
"That's it!" Praktis shouted. "And closer too. We'll get there soon, believe me."
They did — and they were wrong. They did not get there the next day nor the one after that. The lights grew brighter but appeared no closer. And the water was half gone.
"We better be halfway there," Bill said gloomily kicking aside the empty container. The others nodded unhappy agreement.
They had eaten their steaks and sipped the small ration of water and it was still early.
"Shall I play some music?" Praktis asked.
On the Planet of Robot Slaves Page 4
