Bill 5 - on the Planet of Zombie Vampires (6 page)

But as Bill opened the door to Captain Blight's office, his foot was the least of his concerns. He was worried. Why had the captain taken the unusual step of summoning him to his quarters? Attention from officers is always bad news for the troops. Blight usually had Christianson deliver his orders. It couldn't be aphids again; the crew was so hungry that the bugs never had a chance.

“At ease, Trooper,” said the captain from his chair, almost invisible behind his rolls of fat. Sure enough, Christianson was standing at his side, sipping a glass of ice water.

“We have a serious problem,” said Blight, looking grim. “A catastrophe of grave proportions has befallen us.”

Bill's mind raced. No more water? An outbreak of mosaic rust virus in the okra beds? An endemic plague of Space Clap? Out of fuel? Lost in space? Marooned?

“A critical turn of events,” said Christianson somberly. “Most severe.”

“Are we going to die?” moaned Bill. Maybe they were being sucked down a black hole.

“Doughnuts,” said Blight, the muscles in his jaw tightening, his hands gripping the arms of his chair, his fat all a-jiggle with barely controlled rage. “My doughnuts!”

“Doughnuts?” gurgled Bill.

“Gone,” said Christianson, evilly clinking the ice in his glass. “Every last one.”

“That's your catastrophe!” cried Bill, relieved they didn't have a black hole in their immediate future.

“I assure you this is most serious,” Blight muttered darkly. “Somebody broke the computer code to the lock on the vault where the doughnuts were stored.”

Bill gulped. That must have been Larry. Or Moe. Or Curly.

“Then the criminal wiped the protective magnetic strip clean,” said Christianson. “Whoever did it knew what they were doing.”

Tootsie. It must have been Tootsie.

“Then the thief sliced the main alarm cable,” said Blight. "It's a very thick cable encased in steel. It would take an axe and a lot of muscle to get through

Bruiser! Oh no, not Bruiser!

“Next the vile perpetrator of this criminal act blew open the vault door,” cried Blight, shaking his fist in the air. “A crude, but effective bomb. Probably homemade.”

Uhuru!

“All the sealed bags of doughnuts had been sliced open,” said Christianson. “Whoever did it must have used a razor blade or a very sharp knife.”

Rambette!

“Gone,” shouted Blight. “All gone, down to the last speck of powdered sugar! The vault looks like it's been licked clean.”

Barfer! Was the dog in on it too?

“What do you think, Trooper?” asked Blight. “Do any suspects come to mind?”

“No,” Bill lied instantly. “But if you want my opinion it sounds to me like a multitalented rabid psycho nutcase is on the loose.”

“That kind of opinion I can live happily without. A psycho, maybe — but psycho or not, I want the culprit delivered to me in two hours,” snarled Blight. “I will not tolerate the theft of my personal property on this ship! Am I making myself clear, Military Policeman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm going to toss the perpetrator of this heinous crime out the airlock — without benefit of trial or spacesuit!” Blight roared, pounding his desk. “And if I don't see the guilty party standing right here in two hours, I'm going to start tossing people out into the vacuum until someone confesses. And I'm going to start with the MP. If you'd been doing your job, this would never have happened. Am I getting through to you? Get cracking.”

Bill got cracking. He found the crew assembled in the room he shared with Bruiser and the dog. There were crumbs all over the floor.

“I can't imagine who could have done such a thing,” said Rambette, wiping strawberry jelly off one of her knives with a rag.

“It was probably Mr. Christianson,” said Uhuru, who smelled like cordite and had a fine dusting of powdered sugar on his shirt. “I never did trust him.”

“Caine,” said Bruiser, licking blueberry filling off his fingers. “He probably a factory second. Reject.”

“Most likely Blight took them himself,” said Larry or Moe or Curly. “That way he could have them all.” The three clones had identical flakes of pastry glaze on their identical chins.

“Yeah, Blight,” said Tootsie, brushing crumbs off her lap. “He's not one to share.”

The dog Barfer crawled out from under Bill's bunk, looking guilty as only a smelly, flatulent dog with a big dab of raspberry filling on its nose can.

“It's got me stumped,” Bill lied with heroic sincerity. Just then Caine walked in the room.

“I believe we have a problem,” said the android, sitting on the edge of Bill's desk and politely ignoring the evidence of a recent pastry banquet.

“I'll say,” said Bill. “I've got an hour and a half to come up with a volunteer for a space walk.”

“The dog!” hooted Bruiser gleefully. “Blame it all on dat dumb dog.”

“Barfer couldn't light a fuse,” said Uhuru. “It'll never work.”

“I'm afraid you don't have any more time,” said Caine. “Captain Blight has become quite irrational. He has decided to jettison the entire crew and tell the authorities it was an accident. I think his metabolism is in disorder as a result of sugar withdrawal.”

“I think he's plain bonkers,” said Rambette. “He's a fruitcake. It's time for Plan Nine.”

“Oh boy,” said Bruiser, hefting Slasher to his shoulder. “I dig Plan Nine. Outer space!”

“Plan Nine?” said Bill. “What's Plan Nine?”

“Just like Plan Eight, but quicker,” said Tootsie. “Mutiny!”

“Maybe we should just talk to him first,” Bill equivocated. “I'm pretty sure he'll come around. Let's not be hasty. Mutiny is serious business and it looks bad on your military record.”

“Stuff the military record! It's the only answer,” said Larry or Moe or Curly.

“I've got it all down in my book,” said Tootsie, waving a jelly-stained spiral notebook. “I wrote down every time he abused a crewmember. Remember that time Larry was too sick to climb the robot arm and Bruiser got him a cup of water and Blight caught him and locked him up for a week? I got that down. And that time he made Rambette scrub out the compost bin with a toothbrush? I got that down too. I got it all down. If we get out of this, no court in the universe would convict us.”

“I don't know,” said Bill, completely unconvinced. “Military courts always side with the highest-ranking officer and make sure the enlisted ranks never stand a chance. They're funny that way.”

“How long has it been since you've had a cold glass of water?” asked Rambette.

“Well...” said Bill.

“And when was the last piece of meat you ate?” asked Tootsie. “I'll bet you can't even remember that far back.”

“Well...” said Bill.

“Are you with us or against us?” asked Bruiser, standing up and towering over Bill, flipping Slasher from hand to hand like a pocket knife.

“Since you put it that totally logical way,” said Bill, “I'm with you one hundred percent.”

“I am also convinced,” said Caine. “It's a somewhat logical answer to a totally illogical situation. And you, Bruiser,” he added, looking at the axe, “do have a point.”

“More like edge, har-har,” grinned Bruiser.

“But that makes it unanimous!” cried Rambette. “Okay, Caine: Mutiny! Let's go!”

Captain Blight and Mr. Christianson were attempting to update the autopilot in order to find a good stretch of empty space to jettison the crew when Bill walked in alone, having drawn the short straw. Or rather, the short plastic tube.

“You're too late,” snarled Blight. “Everybody goes, including you and that stupid foot of yours.”

“Are you sure you won't change your mind?” asked Bill. “There's still time.”

“There's no time,” chortled Mr. Christianson. “This ship is infested with thieving vermin, and we are about to exterminate all of you rats and roaches.”

“I guess you leave me no choice,” said Bill with grim determination. “I hereby inform you that a mutiny has taken place and you have been relieved of command.”

“Mutiny?” laughed Blight. “Don't be silly.”

Bruiser walked in and stood next to Bill, tapping Slasher's broad axe head against the floor.

“Mutiny?” gulped Mr. Christianson.

Rambette walked in, bristling with cutlery. “Mutiny,” she said firmly. “Mutiny.”

“Throw 'em out the airlock!” cried Tootsie, leading the rest of the crew into the now-crowded room. “Make 'em suck vacuum! Or into the hydroponic tanks — force them to walk the plankton.”

“Wait!” said Bill.

“Yes, wait!” cried Blight desperately. “Please wait.”

“How about a lifeboat, Bill?” asked Larry or Moe or Curly. “Let's set them adrift. It'll be a long, slow, humane death.”

“There are no lifeboats on this scow,” said Bill. “That's military economy at its very best.”

“I don't see what you've got against killing them,” said Rambette, “but if you're that set on it, let's just drop them off on some barren planet and get out of here.”

“But how are we going to pilot the ship?” asked Bill, staring at the bewildering array of dials, gauges, and switches. “It's too complicated.”

“Simple,” said Larry, or maybe Moe.

“It's just another big computer,” said Curly, or maybe Larry.

“One thing we know...” said Curly or Moe.

“...like the back of our hands...” said Larry or Curly.

“...is computers,” finished Moe or Larry. Bill was getting confused.

“It's the only thing we agree on,” they said in unison.

“Okay,” said Bill with sudden determination. “Rambette, you and Bruiser lock them up in the okra room. Larry, Moe, and Curly, you all get busy on the autopilot.”

“The okra room?” wailed Mr. Christianson.

“That way you won't starve,” said Bill with a wicked grin.

“But will they ever be miserable!”

“But I'm allergic to okra,” whined Blight, all aquiver with fear and loathing.

“Den you can eat da bugs,” Bruiser susurrated, pushing them out of the room.

“How about that planet over there?” asked Tootsie, pointing out the viewscreen.

“The angry red planet?” asked Larry or Moe. “Good choice. It doesn't have any atmosphere. They'd go croakers in a second.”

“No,” said Bill firmly. “We turn them over to the authorities.”

“No way,” said Tootsie.

“Here's one,” said Moe or Curly. “Not far, either, only a few days. It's ideal, an uninhabited barren planet with a communications station on it. We can leave them there.”

“That sounds good,” said Bill. “Head for it.”

“A piece of cake,” said Curly or Larry. “They've even got a message beacon transmitting for us to home in on.”

“A message beacon?” asked Bill. “What is it saying?”

“I'm not sure,” said Moe or Curly. “I can't quite make it out. It's either WELCOME or KEEP AWAY.”

“What a desolate place, Larry,” said Bill, as they orbited the barren planet.

“It sure is, but I'm Curly,” said Curly, happily punching numbers into the autopilot control board. “Larry's over there, programming the ship into landing mode.”

“Then Moe —”

“You got it,” said Curly. “He's the coward strapped into his chair with all that emergency webbing, the one wearing the crash helmet. He picked out our landing site.”

The planet spun below them, a windswept derelict planet half a galaxy away from anything even rumored to be civilized. A continuous sandstorm boiled around the equator, the wild churning winds broken only by jagged mountain peaks jutting above the chaos. It painted a bleak picture: a dead world, lifeless and dismal.

“Is there anyone at all down there?” asked Bill.

“I can't tell,” said Curly. “The only transmission we get is the message beacon, and it hasn't changed. They may have abandoned the station.”

“Or they just might not be in a talkative mood,” said Tootsie. “Can you really land a ship this big?”

“This is an old clunker of a workhorse,” said Curly. “They don't make 'em like this anymore. It'll go anywhere.”

“Yeah — but can you take it there?”

“And assuming that it holds together,” groused Moe. “I don't like that storm.”

“You don't like anything,” said Larry. “Hey, Tootsie. How about passing me another baked porkuswine ham sandwich? On knakbread if it's no trouble. Lots of volcano sauce and maybe some of that tingleberry preserve. Programming is an energy-consuming operation.”

Uhuru had spearheaded a frontal assault on the officers' mess, liberating a freezer full of exotic edibles and a pantry crammed with staples and luxuries. It had been carnivore heaven, meat with every meal and never an okra in sight. And full access to the condiment tray all the way to the nameless planet. Captain Blight and Christianson had settled down to a monotonous diet of okra and aphids, but not without wails of protest, said protest instantly overridden by Bruiser and his constant companion, Slasher.

“What do you think, Caine?” asked Bill, watching the storm below with all the fascination of a mouse staring down the throat of a hungry snake.

“It could be better,” said Caine, shaking his head. “I would have preferred a planet with a somewhat more benign climate, not to mention botanical diversity. I'll be lucky if I even have some lichen to look at, which, as plants go, and they don't go far, are pretty boring. I don't mind saying that we may be making a big mistake by kidnapping and abandoning the captain and Mr. Christianson. Mutiny has traditionally been frowned upon with great enthusiasm by military authorities. On the other hand, a decision, once made, should be acted upon.”

“In other words, you can't make up your mind,” said Bill.

“Yes and no,” said Caine.

“Going down in five minutes,” said Curly. “It may get a little bumpy, so strap in and hang on.”

A little bumpy? Curly proved himself to be a master of understatement, a veritable guru of erroneous prediction, and a pilot with a heavy and equally clumsy hand.

The Bounty hit the atmosphere with an earsplitting creak and an ominous groan. Every joint and rivet in the old bucket seemed to be under maximum stress. Bill hung on for dear life.

“More pitch!” yelled Larry. “Moe! We need more pitch!”

“No, it's yaw we need!” cried Moe. “Yaw!”

“I'm the one pushing the buttons!” roared Curly. “Don't confuse me! I'm having enough problems with the vector analysis.”