Bill looked around. The android looked considerably more human than the captain, certainly saner. Which wouldn't take much.
"Reporting for duty, sir," shouted Bill. "If you'll direct me to the brig, I'll check on the prisoners."
"What brig?" snorted the captain. "And keep the bowby decibels down. Repair shops don't have brigs. Those criminal prisoners are going to crew this vessel. And you're going to keep them in line and out of trouble, or I'll make a special brig for my so-called MP. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly clear," said Bill, gathering up his crutches.
"Show this Trooper to his quarters, Caine," said the captain. "I'll expect him at my table for lunch after we lift off this execrable excuse for a supply station.
Bill restrained himself and delivered a normal government issue one-handed salute, then hobbled out the door in the wake of the android, into the ship's corridor.
"Science is really wonderful, sir," Bill ingratiated, never missing an opportunity to brownnose, struggling to keep up with Caine. "A blessing to mankind. It can come in handy, too. This is the first ship I've been on with a real science officer aboard, even if it is an android. No offense, sir. Some of my best friends might be androids. I'm not sure that I ever met one before. I don't even know how to identify an android, unless maybe they smell too bad and glow in the dark. Hard to tell, you know."
"Please refrain from addressing me as sir," intoned Caine, with chilling android indifference. "In spite of any working title Captain Blight chooses to assign me, I am a civilian down to my last transistor. It's citizen Caine to you, if you don't mind, you racially intolerant simpleminded bowb-brain."
"Mind? Of course not. I am curious about one thing, though, I mean if it's not too personal a question to ask. You wouldn't be a ... I mean one of those..."
"No," Caine shook his head and sighed deeply. "I'm not one of those cyberpunks. Cy-Pees have given the rest of us androids a bad name. For one thing, they're violent, and I abhor violence, that is unless the circumstances leave no other recourse. They're always plugging themselves into 220 circuits and blowing their logic boards. Juice junkies — no wonder their eyes shine like mirrors and their chips scintillate into the UV range. You will observe my ears are not pierced, my hair is stabilized at a fashionable length and tie-dyed, and my fingernails are clean. The Gibson mark IV with the da Vinci overdrive was the last Cy-Pee model off the assembly line, but it may be forever before the rest of us decent androids get a fair shake. Turn left."
"But you're not like them," said Bill quickly, pivoting smartly around the corner on his crutches. "You're a scientist, an objective observer of all nature's mysteries. A juice junky wouldn't have the attention span necessary to maintain the keen discipline required of all scientific investigation."
"Thank you for what I earnestly believe is a compliment, though I have my doubts because of your reduced brain capacity," said Caine. "But you have, perhaps, slightly exaggerated my experience. I am simply a horticulturist. Turn right."
"A what?" asked Bill, stumbling along in Caine's wake. "A whore what?" His brainpan was running a mile a minute, flooded with the usual Trooper's memories of missed opportunities and alcoholic detumescence, all jumbled up with the occasional opportunity that would have been much better missed than experienced.
"A simple botanist. A grower of plants. Green growies. Kabish paisan? Turn left."
"Plants?" Bill swallowed his bitter disappointment. "Plants aren't so bad. They're a lot like people, only they move slower. I was in the plant business myself once, in a manner of speaking. Fertilizer was to be my specialty."
"Fascinating," Caine yawned in a dry monotone, languidly lifting one eyebrow.
"It was a simpler time," Bill naffled nostalgically, ignorant of any androidal acerbity and all awash with misplaced nostalgia for his home planet Phigerinadon II; remembering the plowing and the planting as some sort of noble back-to-the-earth venture and conveniently forgetting the crunchingly backbreaking pain, the long boring hours staring at the rust-eaten back end of a robomule. He'd never finished the correspondence course for Technical Fertilizer Operator anyway, and that time in the sewers of Helior was an experience better driven from his brain.
"Here we are," said Caine.
"These are my quarters? Great!" The room they faced was huge. Normally a repair bay big enough to hold a small ship, all the equipment had been shoved against the walls, leaving a great expanse of open floor. Open, that is, except for hundreds of beds of green leafy vegetables.
"What's all this stuff in my quarters?" whined Bill. "It's going to be hard for me to move around in there. Gotta clean it out —"
"Shut up," Caine suggested. "This is the captain's greenhouse." He led Bill inside. "It's his hobby, and his obsession. Don't touch that!"
Bill took the leaf out of his mouth and stuck it back in the dirt. "Tastes awful," he said. "What is it?"
"Abelmoschus humungous," said Caine, frowning and patting a little more dirt around the chewed-on leaf. "You might know it by its street name of okra. Big boy okra is what the uncouth call it. This particular variety is rather pulpy when mature, but it thrives under conditions of sandy soil. However, it does not do well when chomped upon before it has reached full growth."
"What's this stuff here?" asked Bill, walking over to the next raised bed, prodded on by transient memories of his agricultural youth.
"Abelmoschus gigantis: Butter crunch okra," said Caine. "Rather misnamed, if you ask my opinion. Not a crunch in the bunch. A soggy mess, no matter how it is prepared."
"And that over there?"
"Abelmoschus abominamus: Honey blossom okra. Tastes like turpentine. One of the captain's favorites."
"It would be. And that?"
"Abelmoschus fantomas: Banana ear okra. Known for its insect-killing properties, if not for its completely unforgettable taste."
"And all the rest of these?" Bill swung one of his right arms, the black one, in a sweep around the room.
"Okra, okra, and more okra. Four hundred and thirty-two raised beds of okra. For an amateur, the captain pursues his hobby with impressive vigor. Of course, he's got me to do the scat-work, so that helps as far as he's concerned." It whined a high-pitched androidal whine of self-pity. "You have no idea how much time it takes to fertilize four hundred and thirty-two raised beds, no you don't, and that's not to mention weeding, thinning, and maintaining a normal cycle of watering...."
Suddenly, about a thousand overhead actinic lights crackled on. The temperature instantly rose thirty degrees and sweat burst in torrents from every pore on Bill's body.
"What's going on?!" he gasped.
"High noon," said Caine with a humorless smile. "Right on time. The captain runs a tight ship and — this is important to you but not to me — it also means we've got liftoff in thirty seconds. Oh, how time does fly when I'm with my plants. Lay down on this bag of potting soil instantly or you'll get squashed flat and you'll be no good for anything but the compost heap."
Bill barely had time to do a belly flop on the bag of stinking potting soil before all the G-forces started piling on top of each other, threatening to turn him into compost-bait. As it was he gasped and gurgled and was okay until the bag broke and he sank into the noisome mass it contained.
"I can't stand it!" shrieked Bill. "The smell!"
"You'll get used to it," smiled Caine, still standing, his tungsten steel skeleton impervious to the acceleration. "The smell goes away after a few days. It's all those wonderful nutrients, you know. Plants just love them."
"I hate them!" yelled Bill, though truth to tell, at the moment he hated phase-loop drive even more. That outmoded method of space travel had gone out with spats and shaved heads. There was no need to get squashed into compost when a modern drive would get you anyplace in no time at all in relative comfort.
Just when he couldn't take it anymore, the crushing forces of acceleration ceased, leaving him weak and sick to his stomach. Being encased in a broken
bag of stinking potting soil did nothing to improve the state of either his mind or his stomach.
"My quarters," Bill moaned, dragging himself to his foot and knocking lumps of poorly sifted, rotting dirt from his uniform. "I've got to shower and disintegrate my clothes. Not to mention I might take a minute off and throw up."
"No time," yodeled Caine gleefully, bent over a raised bed and thinning okra with a practiced, professional hand. "We have a lunch engagement with the captain."
"But —"
'The captain runs a tight ship," smirked Caine. "Everything goes by the book, and the book goes by the clock. Right now the clock says lunch."
After a hurried walk, Bill sat down at the captain's table and eyed his plate with mounting suspicion. The mound of boiled okra looked a lot like the mass of limp steamed okra that snuggled up next to it. He tried the fried okra and almost broke a tusk on it. Everything in front of him was either too soggy to eat with anything but a spoon or too hard to eat period. He sighed and reached for his wine glass, took another sip of fresh-pressed okra juice.
The captain, sniffing the air doubtfully, was eyeing Bill with much the same expression Bill reserved for his plate of so-called food. The other two people at this dubious feast were Caine and the First Mate, a Mr. Christianson who had arrived at the last minute in a personal cruiser bearing the Emperor's seal. Of the four, only the captain had anything but okra on his plate.
"I say, is the air always like this?" asked Mr. Christianson, drawing a scented handkerchief from his ruffled sleeve and waving it in front of his nose. "It smells remarkably like a garbage scow in here." He glared at Bill and took a big spoonful of boiled okra, eating it with relish.
"How come I didn't get any relish?" asked Bill. "Some condiments might make this stuff go down a little easier. Mind passing me that horseradish?"
"I run a tight ship," said Blight, cutting a big juicy chunk off his steak. "Just as there are levels of command and responsibility, there are levels of largess, dispensed, of course, by myself. This is absolutely necessary to maintain discipline aboard my ship. You will notice that Mr. Christianson, by virtue of being First Mate, has full access to the condiment tray as well as having wine with his meals. Caine would be eligible for wine, but not condiments, though his metabolism is such that he cannot partake of spirits. Something to do with the effects of alcohol on his circuit boards, I believe. More's the pity. The wine is quite excellent."
"What about me?" asked Bill, eyeballing the wine and sipping his sour okra juice.
"Being closest to the crew, you get basically the same rations they do," said Blight, tearing a roll in half and dipping it in his mashed potatoes and gravy. "In my experience, that will help you in dealing with them. Keep you lean and mean and on your toes, so to speak. However, since you are the only Trooper aboard who isn't serving out a sentence for criminal activity, I have decided you are eligible for a fringe benefit. It will help remind you of your favored position."
"Benefit — tell me!" Bill slobbered, dreaming of the occasional steak, or maybe even a greasy, succulent porkuswine ham.
"As long as you remain in my good graces, you will be eligible for dessert," Blight said with an expansive smile.
"Dessert?"
"Jelly doughnuts," said Caine. "I think you will find them a welcome palate cleanser after an okra repast. Although I don't require much in the way of food, I enjoy them myself, especially those little raspberry fellows."
"Only one," said Blight, shaking a fork at Bill. "Mr. Christianson and Caine each get two. I get six, on account of it's lonely at the top. You've got to clean your plate before you get any dessert, Trooper. I'd get cracking if I was you, which — thankfully — I'm not."
Bill looked at the mess in front of him. The excess grease from the fried okra was congealing into a semisolid pool of gray matter. He took another slurp of his okra juice and turned to the First Mate.
"Excuse me, Mr. Christianson, sir," he said craftily, changing the conversation and diverting attention from himself. "What was your last assignment?" The First Mate was a dandy-looking man, the chest of his braid-encrusted uniform covered with medals and ribbons. His powdered wig was a little off-center, but that only added to his rakish image. As did his strabismus. Cross-eyes ran in the royal families.
"Assignment?"
"Work, gig, job, station, base," Bill translated, in case the word was too complex for his teeny-tiny officerial mind. "Like what other ships have you served on?" He gnawed on a grease-encrusted sprig of fried okra. "It's possible that I might know some of the crew. Which would sort of make us like maybe ex-shipmates, possibly." He muttered into silence, saw that no one was looking at him, then slipped the indigestible tidbit under his napkin and lifted a spoonful of the slimy boiled stuff. "I get around," he added proudly.
"This is my first ship," said Mr. Christianson, happily raiding the condiments tray, heaping Karbuklian salsa and grated porkuswine's-milk cheese on his okra. "My uncle simply demanded that I take one voyage before I get my captain's commission. Myself, I think it's an old-fashioned idea, but I guess if Uncle Julius feels that strongly about it, I ought to at least try."
"Uncle Julius?" Bill slid a glob of steamed okra down his boot while no one was watching.
"He's the Emperor's four-hundred-and-second cousin twice removed," bragged Christianson, hogging the wine. "He managed to get me this far without having to go through that boring basic training or taking all those complicated tests for officer's candidate school — rank doth have its perks — but he insisted I go out on a space ship before I captained one. Silly man, after all the money my family freely donated under pain of death to the Emperor's war effort against the Chingers, but if I must, I must. By the way, has anyone ever mentioned that you have a most offensive body odor?"
Bill brushed off a few more lumps of potting soil and looked out the viewport at the supply station slowly receding into the distance. Too slowly. It was going to be a long voyage.
It was an even longer lunch. He managed to clear his plate by stuffing all manner of ill-prepared okra in various pockets and hiding places — even slipping a few hunks onto Caine's plate when he was distracted. He eventually disposed of all of it and leaped on his strawberry jelly doughnut like it was the very last supper of all time.
Afterwards, licking jelly from his lips, he followed Caine's directions to his quarters. Captain Blight had offhandedly mentioned that Bill was in dire need of a shower, and if he hadn't had one by the next time their paths crossed, he'd personally stuff him out an airlock and make him breathe vacuum until he learned a lesson or two about personal hygiene. Or something like that.
Bill opened the door of what he thought was his room and gaped at the behemoth who stood, when he was standing, about six foot five, three hundred pounds, sitting on one of the two beds, bending a forged steel lamp like it was made of rubber.
"Excuse me, wrong room," said Bill quickly, backpedaling like crazy.
"You da MP, right?" growled the bear of a man.
"I guess so," Bill said, smiling insincerely as he hopped backwards.
"Then dis da right room," the monster macerated, biting off the end of the lamp and spitting the pieces onto the floor. "We is bunkmates."
"I'm Bill," said Bill, hesitantly hopping into the room. "Pleased to meet you."
"My name Bruiser Bonecrusher," grunted the big ape. "Nice tusks. And — hey! — you got two right arms."
"Good eye, guy," said Bill.
"One of them right arms is black," snapped Bruiser.
"We all can't be perfect," Bill ingratiated, craw-fishing on crutches and foot toward the unoccupied side of the room. "If you're crew, what are you doing time for?" A change of subject might help. It didn't.
"Axe murder," hinted Bruiser, his broad grin revealing surgically implanted canines, two inches long and filed to sharp points.
"Could happen to anybody," said Bill.
"Cut feet off MP an' left him in snow to bleed to death."
> "I know how it goes," said Bill. "Sometimes stuff like that just happens."
"Course, he had two feet. You just got one. Only take half time."
"You got to realize there's no snow on this ship," gasped Bill. "And none forecasted in the foreseeable future."
"That black arm you got remind me of someone," growled Bonecrusher. "Goes way back."
"Well, me and this arm go way back, too."
"Reminds me of big Trooper name of Tembo," grunted Bruiser. "He and I never get along."
"You and I will get along better, I'm sure," Bill implied hopefully. He remembered Tembo, blown apart in that awful battle, and how he awoke with Tembo's arm surgically attached to his body. A bit of news he was determined to keep to himself.
"He drive me bonkers, all that preaching. Voodoo day an' night. I mean to kill him, still got nightmares. But he shipped out while I was in da brig for like doin' something I forgot. I lookin' for him ever since. He ever lay hand on me, I chop it off in a second."
Bill watched his right hand, the black one, clench into a tight fist, and knew for sure it was going to be a long, long trip.
CHAPTER 3
Bruiser Bonecrusher was the meanest-looking human Bill had met in his entire life, right up until the moment Rambette walked in the door about five horrible minutes later.
Rambette was of medium height, medium weight, and had medium brown hair. She stopped being medium right there. Her eyes were a blazing blue, and she carried all manner of knives and menacing weapons strapped in bandoleers wrapped around her attractive, curvaceous — though barely visible behind the armament — body.
"Where's that MP, Bruiser?" she rasped huskily. "We got a problem in Repair Dock Four."
"I'm the MP assigned to this ship, miss," said Bill, staring in awe at a gigantic curved scimitar stuck in her belt. "Bill's my name."
On the Planet of Zombie Vampires Page 2
