On the Planet of Robot Slaves

by Harry Harrison

  My companions were not disturbed by this. I was. I was beginning to assemble a mental operating pattern for homo sapiens — and I did not like it. These were just suspicions at the time and I failed to acquaint the others of my thoughts since they were so outrageous. In fact there was little time to do this since at that moment we were summoned to the meeting hall on the third story of the building where our studies were taking place. Captain Queeg was the only human present and he appeared to be upset.

  "What has gotta be, has gotta be," he said cryptically. "I'm sorry."

  "Sorry for what?" I asked.

  "Just sorry. I really do like you little green fellers, I really do..."

  When he said this I knew that my worst fears had become reality. I called out to my companions to flee at once, but they were too shocked to understand. So I alone survived. I hurled myself through the window as the doors opened and the firing began.

  It was obvious by hindsight that when we had agreed to accompany the humans we would never be allowed to return. We had been told secrets, and a number of them of a military nature, which would have to be kept secret. And there was only one sure way of doing that. Kill us all.

  I brooded over this and sorrowed for my dead companions. And looked for a way to get off this planet and warn my fellow Chingers. It was very difficult since all spacecraft were undergoing intense and complete inspection before being allowed to leave. That was when I conceived the notion of human disguise. My first altered robot was not as sophisticated as the later Eager Beager persona, but it sufficed to get by in a crowd on a rainy night. The crowd happened to be a group of draftees off to the wars and they were so wrapped up in their own troubles that they never noticed my rather unusual appearance.

  The war began after that. Once in space I entered the communications room by walking through the steel wall, coming from a 10G world does have its advantages, and sent an FTL message of warning. It was believed, since by that time humans had been attacking our establishments wherever they could be found. It takes two to make a war work. We had to either knuckle under or fight back.

  The reluctant choice was made.

  CHAPTER 11

  "Are we supposed to believe that?" Meta sneered.

  "It is but the truth."

  "I don't think that you little four-armed bastards can even spell the truth!"

  "Tea, art, you, tea, haich."

  "Don't get smart with me, buddy. I'm supposed to believe that holier-than-thou bowb? Your bunch is honest, truthful, upright. While we humans are lying warmongers."

  "That is your interpretation, not mine. Though I find it quite descriptive and will make a note of it. I did not say that we Chingers are models of perfection. We are not. But we do not lie and we do not start wars."

  "You lied to me," Bill said. "When you were a spy."

  "Correction humbly accepted. Until we met you humans we did not lie. Now, naturally, we do. As one of the exigencies of total warfare. But we still do not start wars."

  "A likely story," Meta sniffed. "You expect me to believe that if we stopped the war tomorrow that you would just go away like that?"

  "Of a certainty."

  "You wouldn't maybe attack suddenly when we weren't looking, a preemptive strike? Get us before we got you."

  "I assure you that we would not. This concept, which you accept so willingly, is alien to us. We fight, when forced to for our own survival, in defense. We are incapable of fighting an offensive war."

  "War is war," Bill said, making what he thought was an intelligent remark.

  "It certainly is not," Beager said with some heat. "War is about power. It exists only for its own sake. The object of power is power. You remember our military training, Bill, when we were draftees together? Power is tearing the human mind to pieces and putting the pieces together again in new shapes of your own choosing."

  "Enough theory," Meta said. "What's going to happen to us?"

  "I want to enlist your help, as I told you earlier. I would like you to help me end this war."

  "Why?" Bill asked.

  The Chinger jumped up and down in rage and stamped holes in the stone floor. "Why? Haven't you heard a bowbing word that I said?"

  "Don't lose your cool, kid," Meta cozened. "Bill's a good guy, but too many years in the military have numbed his mind. I know what you are saying. You want to brainwash us to agree with you, so we then go back and stop the war so you can secretly attack and kill us all. Right?"

  The Chinger stepped back, aghast, looked from one to the other, wrung all four of its paws together in disbelief. "And you pass yourselves off as an intelligent species? I don't know what to do with you!"

  "Let us go," Bill said with immense practicality.

  "Not until you see some bit of reason. If I cannot sow even the slightest seed of doubt in your resisting minds — what chance do we have with the rest of your race? Is this war destined to go on for eternity?"

  "If the military have their way, it will," Bill said and Meta nodded agreement.

  "I need a drink of water," Beager said, "or something stronger."

  He staggered back through the little door. As soon as it had closed behind him, Bill and Meta turned and ran towards the tunnel out of the room. Although Beager the Chinger had been upset he had not lost all of his marbles. A steel gate fell down from the ceiling with an immense crash and sealed the exit.

  "We are trapped, lost, forgotten, good as dead," Bill suggested.

  Meta nodded reluctant agreement. "That about sums it up."

  "Do not despair," a metallic voice said and they turned about to see the Mark I Fighting Devil begin to stir and twitch.

  "You're alive!" Bill said. "But you were electrocuted, fried dead."

  "That's what they were supposed to think. But you don't knock out a Fighting Devil that easily. My brain is sealed in a lead box where my tushie should be. The head is just for show. I just let them think that they had sizzled me. Hoping they would forget about me, which they have. So I waited for an opportune moment —"

  "Which is now!"

  "Right the first time. This way to the dragon pens — where we put the plan into action."

  "Which plan?"

  "The plan I worked out while listening to that sickening pacifist drivel. If there were no war there would be no place for Fighting Devils. What would I do if peace broke out? End up rusting away in some free oil kitchen with the rest of the out-of-work machines. Roll on the war! This way."

  It plunged into the mouth of the nearest tunnel while Bill and Meta trotted expectantly after. There was a metal grille here as well — which crashed open after being hit by a well-aimed zap of energy. "Now let's move it before the greenies catch wise."

  Mark I speeded up then and the two humans had to run to keep pace, panting and staggering. Sweat soon beaded their foreheads, ran down into their eyes and blinded them. So much so that when the Fighting Devil suddenly stopped they ran right into it.

  "Wait here out of sight," Mark I commanded. "While I arrange some transportation."

  Then it poked its head into the nearest doorway.

  "Any dragons about? Ohh, I see — hi guys. Can I have a volunteer to light a fire for me? You there, big boy, you look like hot stuff."

  A wave of greasy flame washed over the Fighting Devil who nodded happily. "That will do fine. Would you come this way. Thank you."

  Mark I came back into the corridor followed by the shining, winged length of the dragon. The Fighting Devil let it writhe by, then closed the door.

  "Where's the fire?" the dragon asked. "Say — aren't those human beans, the ones we are fighting?"

  "They sure are!"

  "Want me to fry them?" It inhaled rapidly and stoked its flame; its eyes glowed with pyromaniacal zeal.

  "Not really. What I want you to do is feel the gun barrel in your left ear. Got it? Just nod. Good. So now you will do as I say or I blow the whole head away. Agreed?"

  "Yeah, yeah. But what's this all about?"


  "You just changed sides. You are going to fly the three of us out of here and over to my mob where you will be amply rewarded. OK?"

  "You're on. The latrine rumor has it that there were no survivors from the last raid the Chingers arranged. So you got a willing convert. Climb aboard. We'll go out the back passage — no one uses it this time of day."

  Mark I climbed to the dragon's back first and perched on the row of spines there. Only when it had drilled some holes and bolted itself into place did it call down to the others.

  "Here we go. It is going to be a rough ride so I will hold you in my unbreakable metal embrace."

  Someone — or something — shouted hoarsely from back in the corridor and a projectile of some kind whizzed over the dragon and exploded against the wall. Bill and Meta broke the interstellar dragon-back-climbing record by many seconds. The creature lurched off even as they did. With microseconds to spare Mark I clutched onto them as the dragon slid down a greasy slope and out into space. Then flapped off.

  "I've radioed ahead," Mark I shouted over the rush of wind, "so we get the right kind of reception. This has sure been a busy day."

  It got busier. Their escape had not gone unnoticed. In fact it had been very noticed and the alarm was out. Sheets of flame sheeted after them, waves of forcefields waved undulously. The dragon closed its wings and dropped like a rock. The air above them crackled and smoked with lambent energies, so close that their heads began to cook and Meta's hair started to smoke. Then they were out of range in the valley and all they had to worry about was crashing to death on the stony floor rushing up towards them. No, that wasn't all that they had to worry about. Heatseeking, radar operated, and sonar orientated missiles were hurtling in their direction. But the Fighting Devil was really a fighting devil and more than a match for this new assault. The chill blast of a coldray diverted the heatseeking warheads, while a radar canceler canceled the radar. This left the sonar detectors which were not so easily misled. But Mark I was up to this challenge as well. Its thorax opened and an amplified loudspeaker popped out and emitted an immense blast of sound like a colossal fart. The remaining missiles tumbled end over end and crashed to the valley below. The dragon and the dragon riders almost crashed as well — but the flapping furnace extended its wings at the last moment and pulled out of the dive with an 11G turn. Its toenails scratched sparks from the rocks, so close to the ground were they.

  Now it flew energetically down the valley while Mark I hummed a bloodthirsty war song and its two human riders tried to recover from the frying, crushing and deafening.

  "We got company," the Fighting Devil said, pointing to their rear. The dragon poked out an eye and swiveled it backwards and sniffed.

  "That's only a flock of flying dragons," it sniffed contemptuously and belched a cloud of smoke as it cleared its throat.

  Bill coughed out a lungful of smoke and looked back red-eyed at the sky filled with attacking dragons.

  "They'll get us! Cook us to death!"

  The dragon belched again. "No way. They're all my nestmates, egg-buddies from the same brood. They can't fly worth bowb. All the real flyers were lost in the Chinger raid."

  "If you're so great why weren't you wiped out with them?"

  "I didn't go on the mission. I was out sick that day with heartburn."

  "Can you also outfly those other dragons coming along the valley from up ahead?"

  Their noble metal steed took one look and dived into a narrow side-valley.

  "No way. That's the Dawn Patrol returning from a raid. They've got afterburners. Hold on — I'll try and lose them in this maze of intersecting valleys."

  They hung on — and Bill closed his eyes and moaned. The dragon hurtled under overhanging ledges, screamed in tight turns and almost splashed into an oil lake. It was panting like a steam engine now as they hurtled out of the last valley and were in the open over a vast plain.

  "Running out of...fuel..." it gasped and exhaled just a trace of coalgas.

  Mark I extended an electron telescope and looked to the rear, then swiveled it to gaze down at the ground below. "We're OK," it said. "You cut them off at the pass. Land there, three points off your starboard bow. There is an oil spring bubbling up through the coal beds."

  "Yummy..." the dragon croaked. "I really need...a fix."

  It wasn't much of a landing. The dragon came in nose first and plowed into the ground, cartwheeling end over end. But Mark I had nerves of steel and held on until the last instant — then dived free carrying his human charges with him. It did a couple of nifty shoulder rolls and came up standing on its feet.

  "You — can let go now —" Meta said, struggling in its steel embrace.

  "Quite right, sorry."

  Bill dropped to the ground, rolled over and was instantly sick.

  "Clean it up when you're through," Meta said with great sensitivity. "Where are we now?"

  "Haven't a clue," Mark I said, spinning its telescope in all directions. "I lost orientation with all those turns. Not that it matters — since we seem to have shaken off our pursuers. Let's stoke up this drooping dragon and then I'll see if I can locate a radio beacon."

  The Fighting Devil, still in fine form, trotted over to the nearest outcropping of coal and blasted it with an explosive round of cannon fire. When the dust had settled it filled its arms with broken chunks and brought them back. The dragon lay flat and unmoving, its neck extended along the ground. Its eyes were closed and only the slightest trickle of smoke came from its nostrils.

  "Pry its jaw open and I'll push these in," Mark I said.

  Bill hauled on one side and Meta on the other and, after great effort, the jaw creaked open. Mark I shoved in the coal, pushing it down as far as he could, then leaned into the dragon's mouth and shot a bolt of lightning down its throat. When the coal was crackling nicely it pulled its head out and slammed the jaw shut. Very shortly thereafter smoke began to trickle out between the dragon's teeth. It moaned and shuddered and breathed deep.

  "Just got it in time," Fighting Devil said smugly, very proud of itself.

  "Wonderful," Bill agreed. "So whenever you are through patting yourself on the back, you might find a high spot and tune in on those beacons you mentioned."

  They sat, exhausted, on a small orange sand dune while Mark I climbed a spire of nearby rock. Meta recovered first and put her arm around Bill and gave a tender squeeze.

  "Isn't it romantic with the green sunrise, this orange dune..."

  "And this red-hot dragon dying at our feet. Come on, Engine Mate First Class, you know better than to associate with an officer."

  "It's more of an offense to be immune to the attractions of a lovely woman. Here, look at these."

  She pulled down the zipper at the neck of her uniform, ever so slowly, so that pink magnificence swelled into view. Bill, now glowing with lust as redly as the dragon, leaned forward, hands extended, just as the Fighting Devil reappeared.

  "What an interesting mating ritual. Do continue, I find it fascinating."

  "Metallic peeping-tom," Meta sniffed as she stood up and rezipped. "Why aren't you out there looking for radio beacons?"

  "Because I have found one. Very weak, off in that direction. We must be in the Badlands, an unexplored area of volcanic emissions, earthquakes, landslides and quicksand."

  "Charming. So let's revive sleeping beauty here and flap off."

  The dragon stirred feebly at her words and croaked, "Oil..."

  "Help is on the way," Mark I said as it scurried off to the nearest pool, where it extended a tube and sucked a quantity into some interior tank. The dragon feebly opened its jaw when it returned and the Fighting Devil pumped the lot down its throat. There was the muffled whump of an interior explosion and flame jetted from the creature's nostrils.

  "That's better," it said, sitting up and hiccupping little bursts of smoke. "Keep the home fires burning, I always say. What's next?"

  "We fly thataway," Mark I said, pointing. "As soon as you are up to it."
>
  "Won't be long. This stuff tastes like prime anthracite and 30-60 oil. Be right back."

  The dragon lumbered to the outcropping and noshed great mouthfuls of coal, washing them down with deep swigs of oil. Very quickly the outcropping was cropped and the pool drunk dry. It flapped its wings to test them and breathed out a long tongue of flame.

  "All systems go, boiler pressure up and I'm as hot as a Spanish pistol. And just as horny. It's a good thing there aren't any dragonettes here. Though you are kind of cute there, rusty!"

  Mark I rolled backwards with alacrity, all its weapons raised. "None of that kinky interspecies sex, you overheated flying machine! We Fighting Devils reproduce by vegetative propagation in any case — so knock it off."

  The dragon miffedly belched flame and reluctantly ordered them to board. Its skin was almost too hot to touch, but cooled down as soon as they were airborne. Filled to bursting with overheated orgone it flapped into high gear and tore towards the horizon.

  "What's that ahead," Bill asked, blinking into the slipstream.

  "Beats me, mate," Mark I shrugged. "Never been here before. But it appears to be an immense plateau rising from the desert below."

  As they grew close they saw that the mysterious object was an immense plateau rising from the desert below. The dragon soared on the updraft near the cliff and circled to gain altitude. As they passed over the edge they saw that the plateau was covered in mysterious green growth.

  "Doesn't look good," Mark I said.

  "Not good at all!" the dragon screeched, then groaned in pain as projectiles roared up from the plateau below, impacting and exploding on its hide.

  "I'm hit!" it cried as its portside wing was blown off. "We're going down!"

  CHAPTER 12