"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."
CHAPTER 16
"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 Pacif
ists."
"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."
"We would starve to death since there isn't any food," Meta said with great practicality.
"And you would go through life with a great big yellow chicken foot at the end of your ankle," Cy observed with sadistic intent.
"That doesn't bother me," Bill said stretching his leg out in front of him and arching his toes. "It's not that bad once you get used to it."
"And great for scratching up worms!"
"Shut up, Cy," Meta said, "this is a serious conversation. There are some things that we must consider. If we desert now, our mission will have failed and this secret Chinger planetary base will never be discovered."
"So what?" Bill observed with impeccable logic. "What difference will it make? No one is ever going to win this war — or lose it. It is just going to go on forever. I have nothing against deserting and scratching out a precarious living with my chicken foot. But can we get away with it? There is plenty of food on the plateau. Maybe we can flap over there. We could trade with them. Send them junked machines so they won't have to shoot them down anymore."
"One thing that you are forgetting," Meta remembered. "We will be trapped here for the rest of our lives. No bright lights of the cities, theatre and posh restaurants afterward..."
"No foul wind off the bay replete with smells of decay and industrial waste blowing through the filthy streets of the Spunkk!" Cy chimed in with nostalgic longing. "No communal shoot-ups, orgies, juice-joints, reefers, rasters, suppositrods, rooster-boosters..."
"You're both mad," Bill huffed. "When was the last time you enjoyed any of those civilized pleasures? We are in the military and in it for life. We could make our home here, turn our backs on the mundane world, build log cabins, raise our children..."
"Knock off the male chauv crap! You are going to have me cooking and cleaning and wearing an apron next. No way! Since I am the only female person around here, and since I see that you want to enslave me in domesticity — I vote out. Sex for fun, that's my motto, and I got a lot to spare."
To prove her point she threw Bill to the ground, seized him in her tight embrace and gave him a soul kiss that raised his body temperature by seven degrees.
"May I take notes?" Fighting Devil said emerging from the tunnel. "To go with all my other notes about this bunch of commie traitors. I have carefully noted your talking about desertion, which I will report to your CO who will have you shot, or worse, for even considering it."
"Would you rat on your buddies?" Bill asked.
"Of course! I'm not called Fighting Devil for nothing, you know. The gods of war are my gods! Endless war stretches into the endless future and I marched forward into it triumphantly!"
It extruded its loudspeaker and began to play a hideous marching tune, stamped and strode around the ledge crying out war cries as it went.
"We have to get rid of this fruitcake before we talk about deserting again," Bill whispered.
"Bang on," Cy whispered back, then jumped to his feet and shouted, "You are so right, repellently warlike Fighting Devil! Your impeccable, logical arguments have convinced me. Reenlist! Fight on! Death to Chingers!"
"Death to Chingers!" Bill and Meta echoed and they all followed Fighting Devil around and around in a triumphant march until they dropped down exhausted.
"Weak fleshies," Fighting Devil exulted. "But at least you will fight now and there will be no more sniveling talk of desertion. We will march together into the future, into the sunset of eternal war. Sieg heil!"
It turned to face the sunset, arms and other appendages raised in salute, sieging and heiling away like mad. Bill noticed that its toes were projecting over the edge. He tapped his companions on the shoulder, pointed and they nodded instant agreement. They all leaped to their feet, arms raised in victorious salute, marched forward with military precision to join Fighting Devil.
Then pushed it over the edge.
CHAPTER 17
After a while the splintering and crashing sounds died away in the valley below.
"Scratch one Fighting Devil," Bill mused.
"Who will miss him?" Meta said as she started to undress. "Time for a sunlit orgy, guys."
"On a full stomach?" Bill complained.
"On the hard rock! No way," Cy whined.
She sighed and rezipped. "Not only is romance dead but so are your libidos. I got to find myself a live one."
"I'm thirsty," Bill observed.
"The message is clear, numbnuts," she said disgustedly. "Back we go."
When they reentered the central hall the meeting was just ending. There were rusty cheers and creaking salutes at the conclusion. Happy rattled forward and welco
med them effusively.
"Dear soft, unmetallic companions, the vote has been taken. We offer you refuge — and we will make plans at once to open a squishy section of the PLDP. We are filled with elation at the thought. Our simple movement will now spread to the stars. We will carry the word to all the planets — speak, convert and convince. Entire armies will desert at our behest, great fleets will grow silent and dark as their crews rally to our noble cause. The bright future begins. Peace in our time! In our metallic hands we hold the future! The end to all war..."
It broke off the inspiring speech as the creaking door creaked open and a squad of machines with red metal crosses welded to their chests stamped in. They staggered under the weight of a stretcher that bore the badly crunched form of a Fighting Devil. But this devil would fight no more. It looked like it had come through the wars. Its right leg had been torn off and replaced with one of its cannons. Most of its weaponry was broken or missing and it wore dark glasses over its crunched optics.
"Another victim of the endless wars," Happy observed. "How tragic. Welcome to the PLDP, no longer fighting Fighting Devil. Your travails are at an end and you have found safe harbor at last. Is there anything you would like to say in greeting?"
The fractured Fighting Devil lifted one trembling arm and pointed a bent and broken finger at the humans present.
"J'accuse!" it grated.
"I thought it looked a little familiar," Bill mused, then continued brightly. "Why say, if that isn't our old friend Fighting Devil itself. Had a little trouble? No, don't talk about it, we'll all feel too depressed. Just let me be the first to welcome you to the ranks of the PLDP and a long and happy retirement."
"Let me be second. Welcome," Meta smiled.
"Third. Welcome..."
"You did it!" Fighting Devil screeched mechanically, then dropped back onto the stretcher. "Cut down in my youth. Pushed off the cliff by squishies. What an ignoble end to a Fighting Devil in its prime. To end my days here, among all these wrecks. A wreck myself...It is too awful to contemplate. If I had a working weapon left I would blow myself away. No, not yet! Justice must be done first. They did it! The soft-ploppies who stand guiltily before you. They pushed me off the cliff and must be made to pay for their crime. Shoot them down! Kill them while I laugh, ha-ha, at their deserved fate..."
On the Planet of Robot Slaves Page 13
