Bill 5 - on the Planet of Zombie Vampires (2 page)

“I could sit and count the boxes as the men load them,” said Bill, thinking fast. “I'm real good at counting.”

“No, I think I'll make you an MP.”

“Empee?” asked Bill.

“Military Police, dimschitz,” said the commander. “The Bounty is shipping out tomorrow on a salvage operation with a crew of hardened criminals. They need an MP to go along. Being an official Galactic Hero, you're just the man we need to keep them under control.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I don't see that my presence would be necessary. Using Bloater drive they'll get there instantly. There wouldn't be anything for me to do.”

“Quite the contrary. The Bounty is not one of your more modern ships. The truth is, she's a clunker, a space-going Marie Celeste — not much more than a primitive repair shop with a phase-loop drive strapped on it. The ship's destination is the Beta Draconis region, where our glorious heroic fighting forces have recently waged a fierce battle. The area is full of floating junk and half-destroyed spacers that need to be patched up to get back into the fray.”

“So why send criminals? Why send me?”

“That's the beauty of the plan. It takes care of so many problems at once. By sending all my prisoners along I empty the brig and get rid of a lot of dead weight around here. Phase-loop travel is slow, and by the time you reach Beta Draconis their jail terms will be up and they can go back to work. Plus, your foot will have regrown and you'll be ready for active duty.”

The commander turned back to his window. “I envy you this assignment,” he susurrated insincerely. “You might even see some action. Of course a repair ship doesn't carry much in the way of weapons, so if you do get out there and toe-up to the enemy, it'll be in a losing cause. Such a noble way to die! How I envy you.”

Bill stifled the obvious suggestion to change places and gave up. “I can't wait,” he disgruntled, knowing there was no way out.

“Report to the Bounty in the morning. Captain Blight will be expecting you.”

Bill had a real bad feeling about the whole thing.

The Bounty was nothing to write home about, and from what Bill had heard, Captain Blight was even less. Still, Bill was determined to make a good impression and gave the captain his very best salute, the one using both right hands. Under normal circumstances it was an extraordinary gesture that never failed to dazzle, but its effect was somewhat diminished by Bill having to drop his crutches to execute the complicated maneuver and consequently falling to the ground in a thrashing and undignified heap.

“They send me a crippled MP. Wonderful.” Captain Blight sneered incontinently, scowling down at the struggling Bill. He was a large man, heavyset; husky, thickly rotund, and stout; overabundantly gross to a degree Bill would have thought physically impossible. The man apparently liked to eat. A lot. Often. With seconds of everything. He looked Bill over with growing disgust.

“One foot, two right arms. Highly irregular. And what pray tell are those objects protruding from your mouth?”

“Tusks, sir, your honor,” gasped Bill struggling to his foot.

“Apparently implants,” said a voice from the door. “Not standard issue for homo sapiens. Of course they could be genetically engineered, or perhaps an evolutionary backslide. One should never commit oneself to a diagnosis from strictly visual evidence.”

“That's sufficient, Caine,” said the captain, painfully rotating his ponderous bulk towards Bill. “Oh, the things I put up with,” he whined self-pityingly as he took a sniff of cocaine-snuff. “I've got a crew of criminals, a single, possibly alcoholic, surely decaying ex-Trooper to keep them in line — not to mention a fishbelly android science officer who couldn't make an unqualified statement if his batteries depended on it. It sure is lonely here at the top, being the only sane person around. Not to mention boring.”

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.”