On the Planet of Robot Slaves

by Harry Harrison

  "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."

  CHAPTER 9

  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!"

  "Awwwrk? What does that suppose to mean?" Praktis asked, turning towards the door just in time to see the sand boiling around her legs.

  "Awwwrk!" he said himself. Then popped his eyes as she sank into the ground and vanished from sight.

  "Help will be here soon," the guide machine said, extending an arm with an electronic eye on its tip to look into the hole.

  It was right, too. The outer door burst open and Wurber was knocked to the floor by a torpedo-shaped machine that whizzed in on rows of little wheels. It nose-dived head first into the hole and vanished as quickly as Meta had done.

  "What happened to Meta?" Bill asked, running into the courtyard.

  "Beats me. The ground just opened up and she went down into it, zingo."

  "I am getting reports now," Zots said as he entered the room. Still lounging on his gold lounger, now carried by six little carrying machines. "The tunnel is quite long and extends out under the outer wall. As far as the foothills. Ahh, yes. It emerges into a pleasant sunlit valley where your companion is being loaded onto a flying dragon. Our machine has been seen..."

  Zots's throat was rasping and he took a quick slug of oil. "And that is it for the moment. The machine has been destroyed. I have dispatched warrior machines but I am afraid they are already too late. The lookouts report a dragon departing at great speed."

  "Don't tell me — in the direction of the mountains," Praktis sneered. "Does your hospitality always
include kidnapping?"

  "I am mortified, dear guests, believe me. I am so dishonored that if I had an electric drill handy I would commit seppuku. But perhaps my presence alive is better than dead for I shall organize pursuit and rescue. A combat machine is on the way here even as I speak. Might I suggest that one of your number accompany it to advise on matters fleshly in obtaining the freedom of the captive? Do we have a volunteer?"

  There was a quick shuffle as they all moved back.

  "I'm a garbage tug commander."

  "I just got drafted, right off the farm."

  "Electronics only — I never learned to shoot a gun."

  "Rank, admiral. Occupation, scientist. Which leaves our only combat veteran."

  All eyes were on Bill who chewed his lip worriedly and tried to figure a way out of this one.

  "Congratulations, Third Lieutenant," Praktis said, stepping forward and clapping him on the shoulder. "Our hopes ride with you. To help you on your way — you will thank me next payday — I now commission you as a second lieutenant. And here is an extra charge for your blaster, should you need it. So — do not hesitate but go forth bravely. Because if you don't I'll shoot you between the eyes."

  Bill saw the logic of this argument and stepped forward. There was a tremendous clanking as a squat, ugly and dangerous looking machine stamped into the room. It bristled with guns, spikes, grenade launchers, ray guns. It even had, horror of horrors!, a water hose sticking out where its bippy should be.

  "A Mark I Fighting Devil," Zots said proudly. "It has been taught to talk your language and is at your disposal."

  "I am at your disposal," it said in a gravelly voice. "Suggest reentry of chamber for all to avoid instant crushing."

  It herded the puzzled humans inside — the machines had already zipped out of the way. The sky blackened and there was a great flapping as a silver ornithopter dropped into the courtyard. It hit the ground with a crash, sank low on its shock absorbers then bounced and swayed to rest. A folding ladder rattled down its side.

  Bill looked at it with deep suspicion. "I don't believe it," he muttered. "Birds fly by flapping their wings. Machines can't. They are too heavy to fly by flapping."

  "You have just got to believe your eyes," Zots said. "It is an aluminum-based lifeform, not iron. In any case — good luck, newfound companion Bill. Such a brave fleshling sallying forth and soon to face death seeking a comrade. Defend him well, Fighting Devil."

  "To the final erg of energy, the last drop of lube oil," it rasped.

  When Bill hesitated it kindly lifted him onto the ladder and clambered up behind him.

  Feeling more than slightly put-upon, Bill climbed into the saddle on the ornithopter's back and slipped his feet into the stirrups. Behind him Mark I bolted himself into place. Zots called up to him.

  "May the weak nuclear force and the strong nuclear force be with you."

  Their metallic mount buzzed and the four wings rose slowly, then began to beat, faster and faster. The thing vibrated like crazy and when it seemed like it would shake itself to pieces it finally stirred and lifted from the ground. Bill held on for dear life and clamped his jaw shut so his teeth would not be crashed together and splintered from his head.

  "This is terrible!" he gritted.

  "If you know a better way to fly — tell me about it," the Fighting Devil said with total machine indifference. "Now, if you look ahead you will see the peaks of the mountain range of Prtzlkzxyñdlp-69 coming into view now. In your language Prtzlkzxyñdlp-69 might be translated as mountains where hope is lost, despair triumphs and it snows all summer..."

  "Listen, Mark, I could do without the travelogue. Have you heard anything more about what is happening?"

  "But of course. I am in constant radio communication with base. Our spies report that the dragon has landed and your companion has vanished from sight. A combat squad has been sent out to destroy their observation posts. That mission has now been accomplished, with great losses of course, but no sacrifice is too great for our new comrades in arms. Now we will be able to land, without being seen, very close to the enemy. Hold tight — we're going down!"

  It wasn't the going down that bothered Bill. In fact it was kind of fun, a little like one of those rides in an amusement park. It was when they leveled out and flew up the valley that the hair stood up on his neck. The machine fluttered and flapped along, bouncing off the rock walls, slithering down the slopes, then staggering on. With a last crunching impact that bent one of its wings in half, it side-slipped into a cul-de-sac and crashed-landed among the rocks. It lay there steaming, one wing bent up into the air. With shaking hands Bill climbed down to the welcome ground.

  "Thanks for a great ride," he muttered, sarcasm dripping from his lips.

  "Oh, thank you," the ornithopter said in a high, squeaky voice. Its eyes creaked as it rotated in its socket to look down at him. "I regret that I have but one life to give to my comrades — and new, wet friends..." Its voice croaked into silence, the eye dulled and closed.

  "It was a far better thing it did than it had ever done..." the combat machine intoned.

  "All right, I know the rest of the quote. What next?"

  "We penetrate the enemy stronghold."

  "We do, do we? Just like that. Has it ever been done before?"

  "No. But the Mark I Fighting Devil has never seen action on this front before."

  "Great. If your fighting skills are as impressive as your ego we can't lose."

  "We can't. This plan has been developed by CBTATC, the Central Brain Trust and Tactics Committee. It goes like this. Their observation posts have been wiped out so an attack can be made unobserved. And here come the attackers now."

  It pulled Bill aside an instant before the wheeled, tracked, and legged battle machines swept by. Bristling with weapons, rugged and formidable, the ground shook as they advanced. They sang too, a battle song, that Bill could not understand, which was probably just as well. As soon as they had passed, Bill and Mark I hurried in their wake. The canyon they followed twisted and turned — and gave an occasional glimpse of the Wankker citadel up ahead. Then the distant singing ended in a mighty explosion and clash of metal against metal.

  "Battle has been joined," Mark said. "The defenders have emerged to beat off the attackers. We must hurry for this attack is fated to fail. Here we are."

  The battle machine ran up to the rocky wall of the canyon, apparently no different from the rest of the rock. But very different it proved when Mark I poked a metal finger into a crevice and a slab of rock swung out like a door to disclose a dark opening. Before Bill could protest he was pushed inside and the rock swung shut again. There was just enough room for them to stand. And look out because, by some application of alien science the rock, so solid looking from the outside, was transparent from inside.

  Once more the ground shook under the metallic tread of the attacking army. Except this time it was the retreating army. Their diminished numbers swept by outside — pursued closely by an equally obnoxious herd of enemy fighting machines. Shells whistled and exploded, lightning bolts flashed. Then the attackers hurtled out of sight, though many of their gallant fighters lay dismembered and smoking in their wake. The defenders crunched over and around the casualties and disappeared in hot pursuit.

  "What now?" Bill asked.

  "Wait. It is almost time."

  The camp followers began to appear and trundled by in the wake of the victorious army. Ammunition carriers, tankers and battery rechargers. And salvage carriers. The last of these rumbled by outside, then stopped to extend a long arm and lift a dismembered warrior aboard. Dropping it with a clang on others of its kind in the large hopper at the rear. By the time it started forward again all of its combat comrades had carried the counterattack around the bend and out of sight.

  The Fighting Devil opened the rock door a crack, extended an insulated arm — and shot a lightning bolt into the vehicle outside. It crackled with surging volts, shuddered and died.

 
"Its central control circuits are cooked," Mark I said with metallic pleasure. "Otherwise it is perfectly functional. We must quickly board and hide under the wreckage. Now!"

  They scuttled out and Mark I pushed aside some junk, then dropped it behind them. Enough light filtered down for Bill to see a flexible rod slip out of its armpit and drill into the machine. A moment later the salvage carrier quivered, then hummed to life. Spun on its treads and started back in the direction from whence it had come.

  Bill was not happy, not happy at all.

  CHAPTER 10

  "We must cease conversation when we approach the wall," Mark I said. "This creature had a mighty small brain and it will take all of my concentration to act extremely stupid when the entrance guardians contact me. We approach."

  Tension very quickly gave way to boredom since Bill hadn't the slightest idea what was happening. They moved, slowed, stopped, went on. The light that trickled down dimmed, then brightened again.

  "What's going on?" he whispered.

  "We are safely inside the enemy's fortress. Would you like to see what is happening?"

  "That would be great."

  A panel opened in the machine's side and a flat TV screen slid out and lit up. On the screen a roughly finished tunnel streamed by. Then it opened out into a stone-walled chamber that was being enlarged by small, pick-bearing machines. To encourage them in their labors a whip machine, bristling with barbed wire flails, rumbled along behind them whipping as it went. The clash of wire on bare metal elicited metallic moans of pain.

  "Robot slaves," Mark I intoned grimly. "What agonies they suffer. How evil the Wankkers are. They must be wiped out, destroyed down to the last nut and bolt."

  There were more corridors, but nothing else was to be seen anywhere as interesting as the robot slaves. And Bill was beginning to get carsick, what with the motion, dust, spilled oil and everything. He fought hard not to flip his cookies. Then they stopped — and the floor dropped out from under him and Bill almost lost the regurgitant battle. An instant later he forgot his sickness as the cargo shifted and began to fall in on them. Only a rapid extension of one of Mark I's arms saved him from being crushed.