On the Planet of Robot Slaves Read online

  "You got a real foot — a real giant mutated chicken foot. And let me tell you, not that I want to brag, but there isn't another surgeon in the known universe that could have done that. And they complain about my so-called illegal experiments! They'll come crawling to me when they have foot trouble — you wait and see."

  "I don't want to wait and see nothing. Except a real live human foot there."

  "You know the drill, trooper, so don't come whining to me with your petty problems. There is a war on, soldier — or haven't you heard? There are shortages. And one thing in really short supply is spare feet."

  "Isn't there anything you can do?"

  "I could give you a rabbit's foot instead. They are supposed to be very lucky."

  Bill howled, "I want a real foot!"

  His howl went unheard because at that moment there was a loud explosion that blew away most of the roof of the hospital.

  CHAPTER 2

  While Dr. Praktis vibrated with fear, gaping vacantly at the gaping hole and falling debris, Bill dived under the metal table. Once his personal ass had been saved he thought of the future, and his chicken foot, so out of pure selfishness reached out and dragged the doctor to safety. A great lump of masonry fell on the spot where Praktis had just been standing and he gurgled with horror. Then bathed Bill with spaniel eyes of gratitude.

  "You saved my life," he whimpered.

  "Just don't forget that when the next shipment of frozen feet arrive. I want first pick."

  "It will be yours! If you are in a hurry I have a very dainty size three foot that was all that was left of a nurse eaten by guard dogs."

  "No, thanks. I'll wait. The one I got now has great combat possibilities until Mr. Right Foot comes along."

  "Why are you talking about combat?" Praktis squeaked.

  "Because we are in it right now. Or don't those bombs, shells, and screams of the dying mean anything to you?"

  Praktis's moan of agony was drowned out by a thunderous flapping as a shadow passed over them. Bill chanced a quick look out from under the table and saw that a ponderous dragon was flying in circles above. The dragon saw his movement with its beady eye, opened its mouth and belched out a tongue of flame. Bill jerked his head back and the smoky fireball sizzled the floor all around them. Praktis groaned and quivered. Bill just felt angry.

  "This is no way to run a military base. Where are the defenses? The antidragon guns? I am going to get that scaly mother before it gets me!"

  As soon as the dragon had flapped off he scuttled from under the table and dived through the opening where the wall had been. He wasted just one second admiring the great amount of damage that the dragon had done so quickly — then dived for cover again as one of them soared overhead and ejected a stick of bombs from its cloaca. When the last bits of debris had clattered to the ground he rushed to the nearest arms locker and tore the door open with a kick with his clawed heel.

  "Great, really great!" he chortled and grabbed up the black tube inside that was lettered SAM in white.

  "SAM," he said settling the rest onto his shoulder. "Surface to Air Missile."

  His index finger caressed the trigger as he squinted into the sight. A lovely sight of crosshairs on the round belly of the nearest dragon.

  "Here's one from the troopers!" he ejaculated happily as he squeezed the trigger.

  The SAM clattered and clicked and a metal arm popped out of the barrel with a flag flapping from the end. YOU MISSED was embroidered daintily on the flag.

  "This bowby thing is nothing but a training dummy!" Bill howled and hurled it at him.

  But the dragon had caught the motion of the flapping flag and wheeled about in a tight turn. It dived. Smoke blew back from its gaping nostrils as it opened its mouth to exhale the tongue of lambent flame that would cook Bill like a chop on a spit.

  "This is it," Bill muttered bravely. "To die so far from home — with a chicken foot."

  Closer the flame came and closer — and the dragon blew up as a missile got it right in the belly button.

  "At least someone found a SAM that works," Bill grunted as the thing crashed onto the latrine roof just before him. It made a great clanging sound, instead of the splatting sound that he had expected. This was explained when the dragon's head was torn off by the impact and crashed to the ground. Wires and rods projected from the severed neck, while hydraulic fluid rather than blood spurted from the broken pipes.

  "Should have known," he said smugly. "A machine. Flesh and blood dragons are for the birds. Aerodynamically unsound. Wings too small for one thing."

  And while he pondered these eternal mysteries he looked on with interest as the top of the dragon's head split and opened like a lid. This was very familiar. Particularly when the seven-inch-high, four-armed green creature looked out at him balefully.

  "You are a Chinger!" Bill gasped.

  "Well I'm not a dragon's cerebellum if that's what you are thinking," the Chinger sneered.

  Bill groped up a chunk of broken concrete to crush the little green bastard but he was too late. The enemy alien kicked open a hatch in the dragon's neck and dragged out a tiny rocket harness which it slipped into.

  "Up the Chingers!" it squeaked as tiny rockets flared and it shot off into the sky. Bill dropped the concrete and looked into the control room in the skull. Just like the one in Eager Beager's head, with an operating console and tiny water cooler. There was even a metal label above the commode with a serial number on it. Bill leaned over and squinted at it.

  "MADE IN USA, that's what it says. I wonder what that means?"

  He wasn't the only one who was interested. Now that the attack was well and truly over, Dr. Praktis came crawling out of the ruins of the hospital. His quivering terror faded as scientific curiosity took its place.

  "What on earth is that?" he said.

  "Ain't nothing on earth. It is what is left of a bomb-laying, fire-spraying, Chinger flying-dragon machine."

  "What does this mean — MADE IN USA?"

  "The same question that I was asking, Doc." Bill looked around, then went and dug a gurney from the rubble. "Here, help me load this head aboard and we'll take it to the CO and see what he thinks."

  Which proved hard to do since the headquarters buildings had taken a real pasting. An admiral, with the golden fouled anchors and soldering irons of a technical officer on his shoulders, stood staring gloomily at the smoldering remains when they approached. He looked up and nodded at Praktis.

  "They missed you and me, Mel, but got all the other officers. Every one. They were holding an orgy here for a Red Cross benefit."

  "At least they died doing their duty."

  "A good way to go." The technical officer sighed deeply — then looked very suspiciously at Praktis. "How long have you been an admiral, Dr. Mel Praktis?"

  "And what's that to you, Prof. Lubyanka?"

  "Because whoever has got seniority is in command. And I have been an admiral for two years, six months and three days come nine o'clock tonight."

  "I don't bother keeping track of petty things like that," Praktis sneered.

  "Which means you're a short-timer, you butchering medical bastard."

  "Circuit-board wiring dingbat!"

  "Trooper, kill this mutineer."

  "Is that an order, sir?"

  "It is."

  Bill grabbed Praktis by the neck and began to throttle him. "Finns!...Uncle!" Praktis gasped and the new CO signaled for his release.

  "Bring that dragon decapitation with you. We have got to tell Fleet HQ what happened. And find out where this attack came from. This sector was supposed to have been pacified long ago."

  Because of its location, behind the sewage treatment plant and distant from the HQ buildings, the electronic lab was untouched. Admiral Lubyanka's engineers hurried to their master's call and carried the dragon debris away. Praktis and Bill were ignored for the moment and, with true trooper's instincts, they scuttled out of sight.

  "How about you inviting me to the Of
ficer's Club for a conference, sir?" Bill insinuated sanguinely.

  "Why?" Praktis asked suspiciously.

  "Drink," was the instant reply.

  They were well into their second bottle of Olde Paint Dissolver before the messenger found them.

  "Admiral wants you both in his office instantly if not sooner."

  "Bowb off!" Dr. Praktis sneered. The messenger drew his gun.

  "I was ordered to shoot you both if you gave me a hard time."

  The double-time running had sobered them a bit and they stood panting and swaying and holding each other up in front of Lubyanka's desk. He was growling and muttering as he shuffled through the reports before him. He glanced up and shuddered.

  "Sit down before you fall down," he ordered, then waved a readout at them.

  "SNABU," he grated through gritted teeth. "Situation normal — all bowbed up. Our satellite stations have managed to get an electronic tracer on the track of the spacer that dumped those dragons on us. It headed off in the direction of Alpha Canis Major, a sector which has, up until now, been neutral. We need to know what is going on — and where this planet Usa is."

  "Well you are the electronic genius, not me." Praktis sniffed. "There is no work for a tired old sawbones here."

  "Oh yes there is. I'm putting you in charge of the pursuit ship."

  "Why me?"

  "Because you are about the only officer I have left — and rank does have its responsibilities. And this nerd goes with you since we are short of combat-experienced troopers as well. I'll scratch up a crew for you — but I can't promise very much."

  "Oh thanks a bunch! Any other bad news?"

  "Yes. The attack knocked out every spacer we had. Except for the garbage tug."

  "I used to work in garbage disposal," Bill said brightly.

  "Then you will feel right at home. Pack your bags and be back here by 0315 at the latest. That's when I send the assassination squad after you. We'll have the tracking equipment loaded aboard by that time."

  "Any way we can drop out of this?" Praktis asked gloomily as they picked their way through the rubble-filled base.

  "Not a one. I did the research the first day we got here. Easy enough to get off the base — but no place to go after that. Local plantlife inedible. Ocean all around. No place to hide."

  "Whee. Then come with me and carry my bags."

  "You won't need me, sir," Bill said, pointing behind the doctor's back. "Those three medics should be able to help you."

  Praktis turned to look and saw nothing. Turned back and saw the same thing. He howled with anger but Bill was well out of sight.

  Out of sight and filled with a sense of dark despair as he shuffled towards the barracks. All right, the troopers were never a laugh a second, and this planet was for the pits, but at least he could stay alive here. But this garbage scow to the stars gig with the mad doctor in charge had a very bad smell to it. He groped about in the interstices of his brain cells but could not find a feasible plan of escape. Blow off the other foot? No, he would end up with two chicken feet — and tail feathers — if he knew Praktis. It looked like it was time for a trip.

  Covering the combination lock on his footlocker with his free hand he punched in the number. Then pushed his thumb against the fingerprint detector plate before using his key. You could never be too secure, not in the troopers. He stirred the contents of the tray with his fingers and wondered what he should take with him on ship. He doubted if he would need the gross of condoms. The knuckle-duster knife with poison darts might come in handy. Something to read? He gloomily flipped through the pages of Combat Comics: explosions sounded weakly from its pages, the cries of tiny voices. There was the very good chance, as always, that he would never see this base again. Not that he would miss it. Better take everything then.

  Bill dug his barracks bag out from under his bunk and packed carefully by dumping everything from his footlocker into it. There was still plenty of time before he had to board. He touched his sonowatch and it whispered dimly, "Senator McGurk, the trooper's friend, is pleased to tell you that the time is now twenty-three hundred hours." It was a cheap watch, a gift from his mother.

  A few hours to drown his sorrows before they left. But he was completely broke. Bill looked around at the empty barracks and wondered who had any booze. Not the recruits, certainly. The sergeant's cell was in the corner and he went and rapped on the door.

  "You in there, Sarge?"

  The answer was only silence, which was fine. He wrenched the metal end off the nearest bed and broke the door in. The place was a pigsty — but this pig was a real boozer. Bill selected two of the most lethal looking bottles. Hid one in his barracks bag and cracked the seal on the other. As soon as the steam had stopped rising he drank deep and sighed happily. Before he got too zonked he set the alarm on the sonowatch.

  When McGurk, the trooper's friend, told him it was time to wakey-wakey Bill was just finishing the bottle. He staggered to his feet and shouldered his barracks bag. That is he made a feeble attempt to shoulder it, but instead of him pulling it up it pulled him down.

  "Wosha," he said, watching the lights go round and round as he leaned on the bag for support.

  "You like it down there, sir?" a voice said. After much blinking Bill made out the form of one of the recruits standing over him. Bulging of eye and strong of shoulder. After a few failed attempts to speak Bill managed a coherent and fairly articulate sentence.

  "I do not like it down here."

  Muttering sympathetically, the recruit helped Bill to his swaying feet, steadied him until he stayed vertical.

  "Name..." Bill said with slow precision.

  "Name's Wurber, your honor. Ahh just arrived..."

  "Shut up. Pick up that bag. Hold me up. Walk."

  In this manner they weaved their way to the landing pad. Bill shuddered at the sight of the battered tug, then permitted Wurber to support him as they climbed painfully aboard.

  The recruit's generosity was well rewarded by his being drafted to load supplies, drafted a second time to fill out the depleted crew. Thus does the military render swift justice to those who break the first commandment:

  Keep the mouth shut and don't volunteer.

  CHAPTER 3

  Give her that, the grand old lady of the garbage fleet, the Imelda Marcos, was a workhorse, yes she was. Maybe she was wider than she was long, pitted and rusty, stained black by coffee grounds, gaily festooned with toilet paper, speckled with potato peels, maybe she was all those things. But she could puff and toot and really do her job. The garbage container had never been made that she could not lift into space. No sewage tanker existed that she could not swing into orbit. She was a worker.

  Her commander wasn't. Captain Bly had once been first in his class in the Space Academy, had had all of the promise of the best and the brightest. But he had thrown it all away with one small mistake, one moment's dallying where he should not have dallied, one moment's surrender to lust. Unhappily, his commanding officer had, tragically, returned to his quarters early that same day. He had found young Bly in bed with his wife. And his nephew. Not to mention a sheep, and his favorite hunting dog. The commander had really loved that dog.

  Needless to say things did not go well for Bly after that. There are some things that are just not done. Even in the navy. Which says a lot. For a moment's indiscretion a career had been ruined. He lived to regret it. If only he hadn't taken on the dog too! But it was far, far too late for recriminations. A gentleman would have done the Right Thing. But he was no longer a gentleman. The officers of the fleet had seen to that. He had been shuttled from ship to ship, ever sinking lower, ever moving on. Until he had ended up here in command of the Imelda Marcos.

  She was a good old tug and did her job with gruff efficiency. Even though her captain was high or stoned, or both, most of the time. But now, for the first time that any of the crew, even the oldest compacter's mate, could remember, he was sober. Unshaven stubble smeared the pasty gray of his jow
ls, as shaky of hand, bright red of eye, he stood at his post on the bridge and glared at Admiral Praktis.

  "You just can't tramp into my ship without a word, weld that great ugly machine to my control console, take command where you are not wanted..."

  "Shut up," Praktis implied. "You will do as you are ordered."

  Admiral Lubyanka snarled agreement as he pulled his head out of the depths of the machine in question. "And don't you ever forget that, Bly. You take orders from him. You can fly this junker — but Praktis is in command. The electronic tracker is tracking electronically, which is what this entire damn operation is about. My technician here, Megahertz Mate 2nd Class Cy BerPunk, will follow the escaping ship. He'll give you your course. Your assignment, should you decide to take it, and you have no choice, is to track those damned dragons back to their nest — then report the location to me here. Ready, BerPunk?"

  The technician soldered one last connection and nodded, his coarse black hair swinging freely over the white pocked skin of his forehead, brushing the black glasses that concealed his eyes. "On line. Systems go," he said coarsely. "RAM is ramming, electrons zinging. All systems go — or already gone."

  "And about time too," Lubyanka snarled, then stabbed Praktis in the chest with a sharp finger. "Do this job, Praktis, and do it well — or it's your ass."

  "It's already my ass so I have nothing to lose. Heave anchor, Lubyanka, or you will blast off with us to the big garbage dump in the sky. Is the ship secured for takeoff, Captain Bly?"

  Bly treated him to a look of withering contempt and cracked his knuckles.

  "Good," Praktis said. "I see that we are going to get along real nice."

  Bill had to step aside, or rather stagger aside since he wasn't that sober yet, when Admiral Lubyanka made his exit. Captain Bly watched until the spacelock indicator changed from red to green, then thumbed the takeoff warning. The alarm sounded through the ship like a gargantuan eructation and the crew hurried to buckle in. Bill dropped into a vacant seat and pulled the straps tight just as Captain Bly switched on full power. Gravity sat on their chests with the 11G takeoff. Except for Bill who had a rat sitting on his chest as well as gravity, for it had been hurled from the pipes in the ceiling by the blast. It glared at Bill with gleaming red eyes, its lips pulled back by the drag of takeoff blast to expose its long, yellow incisors. Bill glared back, eyes equally red, his yellow fangs equally exposed. Neither could move and they glared in futile hatred until the engines cut out. Bill grabbed for the rat but it leaped to safety and ran out the door.