Bill, the Galactic Hero Read online

  Bill, the Galactic Hero

  HARRY HARRISON

  VGSF

  VGSF is an imprint of Victor Gollancz Ltd

  14 Henrietta Street, London WC2E 8QJ

  First published in Great Britain 1965

  by Victor Gollancz Ltd

  First VGSF edition March 1990

  Second impression May 1990

  Third impression September 1990

  Fourth impression April 1991

  Copyright © Harry Harrison 1965

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Harrison, Harry, 1925 —

  Bill, the galactic hero.

  I. Title

  813.54

  ISBN 0-575-04701-1

  Printed and bound in Great Britainby Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading

  For my shipmate BRIAN W. ALDISS who is reading the sextant and plotting the course for us all.

  Contents

  Book I Bill, the Galactic Hero

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Book II A Dip in the Swimming Pool Reactor

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Book III E = mc2 or Bust

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  ENVOI

  Book One

  Bill, the Galactic Hero

  CHAPTER ONE

  Bill never realized that sex was the cause of it all. If the sun that morning had not been burning so warmly in the brassy sky of Phigerinadon II, and if he had not glimpsed the sugar-white and barrel-wide backside of Inga-Maria Calyphigia while she bathed in the stream, he might have paid more attention to his ploughing than to the burning pressures of heterosexuality, and would have driven his furrow to the far side of the hill before the seductive music sounded along the road. He might never have heard it and his life would have been very, very different. But he did hear it and dropped the handles of the plough that was plugged into the robomule, turned and gaped.

  It was indeed a fabulous sight. Leading the parade was a one-robot band, twelve feet high and splendid in its great black busby that concealed the hi-fi speakers. The golden pillars of its legs stamped forward as its thirty articulated arms sawed, plucked and fingered at a dazzling variety of instruments. Martial music poured out in wave after inspiring wave and even Bill's thick peasant feet stirred in their clodhoppers as the shining boots of the squad of soldiers crashed along the road in perfect unison. Medals jingled on the manly swell of their scarlet-clad chests and there could certainly be no nobler sight in all the world. To their rear marched the sergeant, gorgeous in his braid and brass, thickly clustered medals and ribbons, sword and gun, girdled gut and steely eye which sought out Bill where he stood gawking over the fence. The grizzled head nodded in his direction, the steel-trap mouth bent into a friendly smile and there was a conspiratorial wink. Then the little legion was past, and hurrying behind in their wake came a huddle of dust-covered ancillary robots, hopping and crawling or rippling along on treads. As soon as these had gone by Bill climbed clumsily over the split-rail fence and ran after them. There were no more than two interesting events every four years here, and he was not going to miss what promised to be a third.

  A crowd had already gathered in the market square when Bill hurried up, and they were listening to an enthusiastic band concert. The robot hurled itself into the glorious measures of STAR TROOPERS TO THE SKIES AVAUNT, and thrashed its way through ROCKETS RUMBLE and almost demolished itself in the tumultuous rhythm of SAPPERS AT THE PITHEAD DIGGING. It pursued this last tune so strenuously that one of its legs flew off, rising high into the air, but was caught dexterously before it could hit the ground and the music ended with the robot balancing on its remaining leg beating time with the detached limb. It also, after an ear-fracturing peal on the brasses, used the leg to point across the square to where a tri-di screen and refreshment booth had been set up. The troopers had vanished into the tavern and the recruiting sergeant stood alone among his robots, beaming a welcoming smile.

  "Now hear this! Free drinks for all, courtesy of the Emperor, and some lively scenes of jolly adventure in distant climes to amuse you while you sip," he called in an immense and leathery voice.

  Most of the people drifted over, Bill in their midst, though a few embittered and elderly draft-dodgers slunk away between the houses. Cooling drinks were shared out by a robot with a spigot for a navel and an inexhaustible supply of plastic glasses in one hip. Bill sipped his happily while he followed the enthralling adventures of the space troopers in full colour with sound effects and stimulating subsonics. There was battle and death and glory though it was only the Chingers who died: troopers only suffered neat little wounds in their extremities that could be covered easily by small bandages. And while Bill was enjoying this, Recruiting Sergeant Grue was enjoying him, his little piggy eyes ruddy with greed as they fastened on to the back of Bill's neck.

  This is the one! he chortled to himself while, unknowingly, his yellowed tongue licked at his lips. He could already feel the weight of the bonus money in his pocket. The rest of the audience were the usual mixed bag of overage men, fat women, beardless youths and other unenlistables. All except this broad-shouldered, square-chinned, curly-haired chunk of electronic cannon-fodder. With a precise hand on the controls the sergeant lowered the background subsonics and aimed a tight-beam stimulator at the back of his victim's head. Bill writhed in his seat, almost taking part in the glorious battle unfolding before him.

  As the last chord died and the screen went blank the refreshment robot pounded hollowly on its metallic chest and bellowed, "DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!" The sheeplike audience swept that way, all except Bill who was plucked from their midst by a powerful arm.

  "Here, I saved some for you," the sergeant said, passing over a prepared cup so loaded with dissolved ego-reducing drugs that they were crystallizing out at the bottom. "You're a fine figure of a lad and to my eye seem a cut above the yokels here. Did you ever think of making your career in the forces?"

  "I'm not the military type, shargeant...." Bill chomped his jaws and spat to remove the impediment to his speech, and puzzled at the sudden fogginess in his thoughts. Though it was a tribute to his physique that he was even conscious after the volume of drugs and sonics that he had been plied with. "Not the military type. My fondest ambition is to be of help in the best way I can, in my chosen career as a Technical Fertilizer Operator and I'm almost finished with my correspondence course...."

  "That's a crappy job for a bright lad like you," the sergeant said while clapping him on the arm to get a good feel of his biceps. Rock. He resisted the impulse to pull Bill's lip down and take a quick peek at the condition of his back teeth. Later. "Leave that kind of job to those that like it. No chance of promotion. While a career in the troopers has no top. Why Grand-Admiral Pflunger came up through the rocket tubes, as they say, from Recruit Trooper to Grand-Admiral. How does that sound?"

  "It sounds very nice for Mr. Pflunger but I think fertilizer operating is more fun. Gee — I'm feeling sleepy. I think I'll go lie down."

  "Not before you've seen this, just as a favour to me of course," the sergeant said cutting in front of him and pointing to a large book held open by a tiny robot. "Clothes make the man and most men would be ashamed to be seen in a crummy looking smock like that thing draped around you or wearing those broken canalboats on their
feet. Why look like that when you can look like this?"

  Bill's eyes followed the thick finger to the colour plate in the book where a miracle of misapplied engineering caused his own face to appear on the illustrated figure dressed in trooper-red. The sergeant flipped the pages and on each plate the uniform was a little more gaudy, the rank higher. The last one was that of a Grand-Admiral and Bill blinked at his own face under the plumed helmet, now with a touch of crow's feet about the eyes and sporting a handsome and grey-shot moustache, but still undeniably his own.

  "That's the way you will look," the sergeant murmured into his ear, "once you have climbed the ladder of success. Would you like to try a uniform on? Of course you would like to try a uniform on. Tailor!"

  When Bill opened his mouth to protest the sergeant put a large cigar into it, and before he could get it out the robot tailor had rolled up, swept a curtain-bearing arm about him and stripped him naked. "Hey! Hey...!" he said.

  "It won't hurt," the sergeant said, poking his great head through the curtain and beaming at Bill's muscled form. He poked a finger into a pectoral (rock) then withdrew.

  "Ouch!" Bill said as the tailor extruded a cold pointer and jabbed him with it, measuring his size. Something went chunk deep inside its tubular torso and a brilliant red jacket began to emerge from a slot in the front. In an instant this was slipped on to Bill and the shining gold buttons buttoned. Luxurious grey moleskin trousers were pulled on next, then gleaming black knee-length boots. Bill staggered a bit as the curtain was whipped away and a powered full-length mirror rolled up.

  "Oh how the girls love a uniform," the sergeant said, "and I can't blame them."

  A memory of the vision of Inga-Maria Calyphigia's matched white moons obscured Bill's sight for a moment, and when it had cleared he found he was grasping a stylo and was about to sign the form that the recruiting sergeant held before him.

  "No," Bill said, a little amazed at his own firmness of mind. "I don't really want to. Technical Fertilizer Operator..."

  "And not only will you receive this lovely uniform, an enlistment bonus and a free medical examination, but you will be awarded these handsome medals." The sergeant took a flat box, offered to him on cue by a robot, and opened it to display a glittering array of ribbons and bangles. "This is the Honourable Enlistment Award," he intoned gravely, pinning a jewel-encrusted nebula, pendant on chartreuse, to Bill's wide chest. "And the Emperor's Congratulatory Gilded Horn, the Forward to Victory Starburst, the Praise Be Given Salutation of the Mothers of the Victorious Fallen and the Everflowing Cornucopia which does not mean anything but it looks nice and can be used to carry contraceptives." He stepped back and admired Bill's chest which was now adangle with ribbons, shining metal and gleaming paste gems.

  "I just couldn't," Bill said. "Thank you anyway for the offer, but..."

  The sergeant smiled, prepared even for this eleventh hour resistance, and pressed the button on his belt that actuated the programmed hypno-coil in the heel of Bill's new boot. The powerful neural current surged through the contacts and Bill's hand twitched and jumped, and when the momentary fog had lifted from his eyes he saw that he had signed his name.

  "But..."

  "Welcome to the Space Troopers," the sergeant boomed, smacking him on the back (trapezius like rock) and relieving him of the stylo. "FALL IN!" he called in a larger voice, and the recruits stumbled from the tavern.

  "What have they done to my son!" Bill's mother screeched, coming into the market square, clutching at her bosom with one hand and towing his baby brother Charlie with the other. Charlie began to cry and wet his pants.

  "Your son is now a trooper for the greater glory of the Emperor," the sergeant said, pushing his slack-jawed and round-shouldered recruit squad into line.

  "No! it can't be...." Bill's mother sobbed, tearing at her greying hair. "I'm a poor widow, he's my sole support...you cannot...!"

  "Mother..." Bill said, but the sergeant shoved him back into the ranks.

  "Be brave, madam," he said. "There can be no greater glory for a mother." He dropped a large and newly minted coin into her hand. "Here is the enlistment bonus, the Emperor's shilling, I know he wants you to have it. ATTENTION!"

  With a clash of heels the graceless recruits braced their shoulders and lifted their chins. Much to his surprise, so did Bill.

  "RIGHT TURN!"

  In a single, graceful motion they turned as the command robot relayed the order to the hypno-coil in every boot. "FORWARD MARCH!" And they did in perfect rhythm, so well under control that, try as hard as he could, Bill could neither turn his head nor wave a last goodbye to his mother. She vanished behind him and one last, anguished wail cut through the thud of marching feet.

  "Step up the count to 130," the sergeant ordered, glancing at the watch set under the nail of his little finger. "Just ten miles to the station and we'll be in camp tonight, my lads."

  The command robot moved its metronome up one notch and the tramping boots conformed to the smarter pace and the men began to sweat. By the time they had reached the copter station it was nearly dark, their red paper uniforms hung in shreds, the gilt had been rubbed from their pot metal buttons and the surface charge that repelled the dust from their thin plastic boots had leaked away. They looked as ragged, weary, dusty and miserable as they felt.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It wasn't the recorded bugle playing reveille that woke Bill, but the supersonics that streamed through the metal frame of his bunk that shook him until the fillings vibrated from his teeth. He sprang to his feet and stood there shivering in the grey of dawn. Because it was summer the floor was refrigerated: no mollycoddling of the men in Camp Leon Trotsky. The pallid, chilled figures of the other recruits loomed up on every side, and when the soul-shaking vibrations had died away they dragged their thick sackcloth and sandpaper fatigue uniforms from their bunks, pulled them hastily on, jammed their feet into the great, purple recruit boots and staggered out into the dawn.

  "I am here to break your spirit," a voice, rich with menace, told them, and they looked up and shivered even more as they faced the chief demon in this particular hell.

  Petty Chief Officer Deathwish Drang was a specialist from the tips of the angry spikes of his hair to the corrugated stamping-soles of his mirror-like boots. He was wide shouldered and lean hipped, while his long arms hung, curved like some horrible anthropoid, the knuckles of his immense fists scarred from the breaking of thousands of teeth. It was impossible to look at this detestable form and imagine that it issued from the tender womb of a woman. He could never have been born; he must have been built to order by the government. Most terrible of all was the head. The face! The hairline was scarcely a finger's-width above the black tangle of the brows that were set like a rank growth of foliage at the rim of the black pits that concealed the eyes — visible only as baleful red gleams in the Stygian darkness. A nose, broken and crushed, squatted above the mouth that was like a knife slash in the taut belly of a corpse, while from between the lips issued the great, white fangs of the canine teeth, at least two inches long, that rested in grooves on the lower lip.

  "I am Petty Chief Officer Deathwish Drang and you will call me 'Sir' or 'M'lord'." He began to pace grimly before the row of terrified recruits. "I am your father and your mother and your whole universe and your dedicated enemy, and very soon I will have you regretting the day you were born. I will crush your will. When I say frog you will jump. My job is to turn you into troopers, and troopers have discipline. Discipline means simply unthinking subservience, loss of free will, absolute obedience. That is all I ask...."

  He stopped before Bill, who was not shaking quite as much as the others, and scowled.

  "I don't like your face. One month of Sunday KP."

  "Sir..."

  "And a second month for talking back."

  He waited, but Bill was silent. He had already learned his first lesson on how to be a good trooper. Keep your mouth shut. Deathwish paced on.

  "Right now you are
nothing but horrible, sordid, flabby pieces of debased civilian flesh. I shall turn that flesh into muscle, your wills to jelly, your minds to machines. You will become good troopers or I will kill you. Very soon you will be hearing stories about me, vicious stories about how I killed and ate a recruit who disobeyed me."

  He halted and stared at them, and slowly the coffin-lid lips parted in an evil travesty of a grin, while a drop of saliva formed at the tip of each whitened tusk.

  "That story is true."

  A moan broke from the row of recruits and they shook as though a chill wind had passed over them. The smile vanished.

  "We will run to breakfast now as soon as I have some volunteers for an easy assignment. Can any of you drive a helicar?"

  Two recruits hopefully raised their hands and he beckoned them forwards. "All right, both of you, mops and buckets behind that door. Clean out the latrine while the rest are eating. You'll have a better appetite for lunch."

  That was Bill's second lesson on how to be a good trooper: never volunteer.

  The days of recruit training passed with a horribly lethargic speed. With each day conditions became worse and Bill's exhaustion greater. This seemed impossible, but it was nevertheless true. A large number of gifted and sadistic minds had designed it to be that way. The recruits' heads were shaved for uniformity and their genitalia painted with orange antiseptic to control the endemic crotch crickets. The food was theoretically nourishing but incredibly vile and when, by mistake one batch of meat was served in an edible state it was caught at the last moment and thrown out and the cook reduced two grades. Their sleep was broken by mock gas attacks and their free time filled with caring for their equipment. The seventh day was designated as a day of rest but they all had received punishments, like Bill's KP, and it was as any other day. On this, the third Sunday of their imprisonment, they were stumbling through the last hour of the day before the lights were extinguished and they were finally permitted to crawl into their casehardened bunks. Bill pushed against the weak force field that blocked the door, cunningly designed to allow the desert flies to enter but not leave the barracks, and dragged himself in. After fourteen hours of KP his legs vibrated with exhaustion and his arms were wrinkled and pallid as a corpse's from the soapy water. He dropped his jacket to the floor, where it stood stiffly supported by its burden of sweat, grease and dust, and dragged his shaver from his footlocker. In the latrine he bobbed his head around trying to find a clear space on one of the mirrors. All of them had been heavily stencilled in large letters with such inspiring messages as KEEP YOUR WUG SHUT — THE CIIINGERS ARE LISTENING and IF YOU TALK THIS MAN MAY DIE. He finally plugged the shaver in next to WOULD YOU WANT YOUR SISTER TO MARRY ONE? and centred his face in the O in ONE. Black-rimmed and bloodshot eyes stared back at him as he ran the buzzing machine over the underweight planes of his jaw. It took more than a minute for the meaning of the question to penetrate his fatigue-drugged brain.