On the Planet of Robot Slaves

by Harry Harrison

  The palanquin trotters had trotted out the palanquin with Zots aboard.

  "Yes, sir," the dragon said, looking back to see if the passengers were safely aboard.

  "Shake those alien squishies off at once — that is an order. I don't like any of this."

  "Oh, sir, I hope that you like this better."

  With that the dragon breathed a blast of flame that melted the trotters and the palanquin instantly. Only Zots, being goldplated, survived. He shrieked warmly and ran to safety as the dragon fired up its boilers.

  "Up, up and away!" it yodeled and hurled itself into the air.

  "We're ever so grateful for your aid," Meta said gratefully.

  "Think nothing of it. Ever since I left the egg I have been taught to hate Zots and his lotz. He might be a nice fellow..."

  "He's a metallic meathead!"

  "Good. One enjoys having one's prejudices proved correct. So — lovely flying weather. Next stop the Plateau of Mystery."

  "And give the other plateau a wide miss," Bill cozened. "Remember what happened last time."

  "How could I forget. The new wing still isn't broken in right."

  Fueled by the high octane oil, the dragon flew all night. No one slept, particularly the dragon, for obvious reasons, and it was a bleary-eyed bunch that greeted the rising sun. They blinked into its brightness and there — dead ahead — a plateau rose from the desert wastes.

  "We've made it," Bill said hoarsely.

  "Not quite," the dragon said, yawning out a little fireball. "I'm going to get some altitude in case they are trigger-happy down there as well."

  They soared in circles, riding the updrafts, before the dragon ventured inland.

  "Smoking volcanoes," Praktis said. "Stay away from them."

  "For the moment, if you insist. But I do love lava! Lambent licking flame, fuming fumaroles. My kind of stuff. And that looks like your kind of stuff down there. Is that a war going on?"

  Praktis lifted his eyepatch and his telescopic eyelens whirred out. "Very interesting. There appears to be large structure of some sort, a castle it looks like. Heavily defended because it is being heavily attacked. Details not too clear from this height, but it looks like a standoff. Take us down, dragon."

  "Not to the war," Bill wailed.

  "No, dummy, not to the war. But close to it. There, mighty steed, do you see that tree-covered hill? Set down on the other side, out of sight of the attackers. We can reconnoiter from there."

  With their limbs paralyzed from the long flight they could only slide to the ground and lie there kicking feebly like turned-over beetles.

  "Hope you enjoyed the trip," the dragon said.

  "Great. Wonderful. Whee." They gasped.

  "That's nice. I'm going to leave you here because warring squishies are not my bag. See you around."

  They waved feebly as powerful wings hurled their fiery charger into the air. He roared his farewells and a thin shower of soot descended upon their limp forms.

  Bill was the first to stir, standing and groaning with the effort. They were in a grassy glade across which a merry brook bubbled.

  "I'm going to get a drink from that merry brook," he said and staggered off.

  As soon as they were able the others joined him and they all stretched out on the bank slurping and gulping like crazy. Restored, they were soon sitting up and examining their new home. Birds sang, bees hummed, flowers dipped saucy blossoms in the breeze and the admiral barked commands.

  "You, Second Lieutenant. Take a shufty at the other side of the hill and report back soonest. The rest of you scour the landscape for fruit, berries, anything to eat. And remember, eating yourself is a court-martial offense. All food to be brought to me for evaluation."

  "Some chance," Meta muttered malignantly and the rest of them nodded agreement. They spread out as Bill worked his way up the hill through the brush, until he could see what was happening on the other side. He sheltered under a bush, which just happened to be a blackberry bush, so he really enjoyed himself, watching and munching. When he had eaten his fill he took one last berry, for the admiral, and went back down the hill.

  The others had returned before him and the admiral was bitching them out. "One piece of fruit each you brought back! Do you take me for a dummy? Don't answer that. And what about you, Lieutenant, what have you got?"

  "A berry!" He handed it over and Praktis frothed angrily.

  "A berry! And your face shmeared blue." He glared, but he still popped it into his mouth and munched it. "Report. What's happening over there?"

  "It's like this, sir." He burped purple and the admiral's glare got turned up a couple more notches. "That castle we spotted on the way down, it's completely surrounded by the attackers from what I could see. The drawbridge is up and every once in a while they pour some boiling oil on the army below. There is a lot of shouting and rushing about, but they don't seem to be in any hurry."

  "What kind of guns are they using?"

  "That's the funny part. They don't have any guns. There are big wooden machines that throw rocks, other kinds that shoot out long spears. The troops are armed with spears, as well as bows and arrows and swords, that kind of thing. And, at first, I thought the attackers were all women because they were wearing skirts. Then when I got closer I saw that they had really hairy legs and were all men..."

  "Just save your perverted sexual observations for your barracks mates. Did you see any food?"

  "Did I!" Bill's eyes glowed with passion. "They had a fire going with a carcass roasting on a spit over it. I could smell the cooking meat real good."

  They all swallowed and spat and coughed as the saliva rushed to their mouths.

  "We have to make contact," Praktis said. "And for this we need a volunteer."

  CHAPTER 19

  "Admiral Praktis," Meta said sweetly, "I think that it is time that we got one thing straight."

  She made a fist, strolled over — and popped him in the eye. He sprawled out on the greensward with the shiner already beginning to shine greenly.

  "You struck me!"

  "You noticed?"

  "Troops!" he frothed, saliva buds flying in all directions. "Mutiny! Kill this traitor at once!"

  There was no rush to justice. In fact only Cy moved, yawning as he strolled over and kicked Praktis in the ribs.

  "Are you getting the message?" Captain Bly asked grotesquely. "Seeing the incomprehension lurking behind your glazed eyeballs, I had better spell it out. We are countless light years from our nearest base — which doesn't even know where we are. Our chances of leaving this planet are very slim indeed. So it looks like, as long as we are here, that all rank is suspended for the duration. We will address each other by our first names. Mine is Archibald."

  "I like Captain better," Meta said. "What's your first name, Praktis?"

  "Admiral," he snarled bitterly.

  "Fine, if that's the way you want it. But no more orders or pulling rank or any of that military bowb, hear?"

  "I will never submit to the rule of the proletariat!"

  They all began kicking him in the ribs until he cried out, "Long Live the Peoples' Socialist Republic of Usa!"

  "That's more like it," Cy said. "So what do we do next?"

  "Make a plan?" Bill said brightly.

  "Shut up," Praktis implied. "I am permitted to talk, aren't I, now that I am just one of the gang?"

  "One man, one vote. Speak."

  "There is a war going on here. And there is an army out there. During a war when the army is around it is the civilians who suffer. Okay so far?"

  "Your chains of logic are impeccable."

  "Then we don't act like civilians. We do the military shtick and join the army. And get fed. I suggest that we organize a military unit, elect a commanding officer. Then go volunteer."

  "Any ideas who should be CO?" Bill asked.

  "Probably the ex-admiral," Meta said. "What with the black monocle, balding head and obnoxious manners he looks like officer material.
Also he has had experience of command in a former life. You want the job, Praktis?"

  "I never thought you would ask," he smarmed in dulcet tones. His voice changed and he snarled the command. "Fall in!" Then sweetly, "Please. That is very cooperative of you. We've got to make this look good, so try to keep in step if you can possibly manage it. Backs arched, chins sucked in, chests out — forward HAARCH!"

  He put the little loudspeaker on his shoulder and played the inspiring march, "Rumble of Rockets, Roar of Cannon, Screams of the Dying," which has a very large bass drum beat so even the dumbest of dummies knows when to come down with the left foot.

  Through the meadow they marched and around the hill towards the attacking army. When they marched into sight the battle slowed and ground to a stop as popping eyes and gaping jaws turned their way. The officer who appeared to be directing the operation, dressed in brass and leather armor, turned in their direction as well. The sound of their singing drowned out even the drip-drip of the boiling oil from the castle above. They roared the words into the echoing sky.

  "When you hear the rockets rumble,

  And the cannons' roaring din,

  You can bet that all the troopers

  Have sent their box-tops in!"

  It was a very military display, as long as you didn't know very much about military display. They thudded and marched their way over to the officer and Praktis screamed one last command.

  "Company, HAA-LT!"

  They stamped to a stop before the officer and Praktis snapped a far snappier salute than was his normal practice.

  "All present and accounted for, SIR. Admiral Praktis and his company reporting for duty, SIR."

  The officer first looked plused, then nonplused, at their sudden appearance. He turned and barked — a hoarse command over his shoulder. An elderly man in a filthy robe, sporting an equally filthy white beard, tottered up to face them.

  "Ave atque vale?" the elderly creature quavered.

  "Beats me, Pops," Praktis answered. "I speak the odd language or two but never heard of this one."

  The oldster cocked his hand behind his ear, listened and nodded his head. Turned to the officer.

  "A barbaric mixture of Gaelic tongues, Centurion. A little Anglo, a little Saxon, a guttural drop or two of Old Norse — plus the odd bit of Latin. Pretty boring and not an inflected noun in sight."

  "No lectures, Stercus. You're just a slave around here. Back to work cooking the ox and I'll take over this operation." He looked Praktis and his little band up and down and scowled cruelly. "And just what in the name of Great Jupiter do we have here?"

  "Volunteers, noble Centurion. Mercenary soldiers willing to serve in your ranks."

  "Where are your weapons?"

  "There was a small difficulty..."

  "What was it?"

  The admiral had no ready lies available, but Meta, who was getting plenty of practice, rose to the occasion.

  "It is a matter of honor and our good commander does not want to speak of it. But a short time ago we were caught in a sudden flash flood while crossing a stream. In order not to drown we had to discard our weapons and swim for our lives. Of course for a soldier to lose his or her weapons is a great dishonor and our commander tried to throw himself onto his sword, but of course his sword was gone. So he led us here to enlist and restore our lost honor in the battle's clash..."

  "All right — enough is enough!" the Centurion shouted, wondering if blood was coming out of his ears. "A short, succinct explanation is adequate. In any case I don't believe a word of it." He saw that Meta was starting to speak again and he shouted aloud. "Desist! I believe you, I believe you. And it just so happens I could use some more troops. Pay is one sesterce a day. You will be issued one sword and one shield each and your salaries will be stopped until they are paid for. Which will take about a year, or until you are killed, whichever comes first. Your weapons, being the property of the state, will revert to the state should this occur..."

  "We agree to the terms of enlistment," Praktis shouted, drowning out the military waffle. "We are in your service and when do we eat?"

  "Ox coming off the fire now!" the elderly slave shouted and the newcomers almost got trampled in the rush. But not quite, since they had all been on plenty of chowlines before. Quick work with the elbows and a karate chop or two saw to it that their brave little band was head of the queue when the food was served out. They escaped the starving stampede and carried their sizzling booty to a nearby grove where they noshed it down.

  "That," Cy said, "was fatty, raw, overcooked, gristly and generally repulsive. But good." They nodded agreement and rubbed the grease from their fingers onto the grass. "What do we wash it down with?"

  Bill pointed. "There is a barrel over there and soldiers lining up with cups."

  They joined the line and grabbed cups from the pile. They were made of leather and appeared to be coated with tar. Privilege of rank, Praktis went first and held out the cup for the liquid to be ladled into it. He drank deep then sprayed out the mouthful.

  "Akkkh! This wine tastes like vinegar and water."

  "That's because it is vinegar and water," the KP said. "Wine only for officers. Next."

  "But I am an officer!"

  "Take it up with the union — not my problem. Next."

  Foul as it was, it at least washed down the even fouler meat. They drained the cups and dropped to the grass for a postprandial snooze. Praktis stirred in his sleep as the sun left his face and a shadow fell over him. He opened one eye to see the dark figure standing before him.

  "To arms!" he cried and groped around for his sword.

  "'Tis but I, Stercus the slave," Stercus the slave said. "You are the admiral who is in charge of this unit?"

  Praktis sat up suspiciously. "Yeah. Who wants to know?"

  "Stercus the Slave..."

  "We've already had the introductions. What's up?"

  "Is an admiral an officer?"

  "Highest in the navy."

  "What is a navy?"

  "Is there any point to all of this?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "In the navy you say aye aye, sir."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  "That's better. What's up?"

  "This is the most boring and stupid conversation I have heard in my entire life," Meta said, lying back down and pulling her jacket over her head.

  "Wine is for officers," Stercus said, swinging a bulging skin bottle off his back. "Since you are an officer I have brought you some."

  "I am beginning to like this army," Praktis enthused, raising the wineskin and shooting a dark jet down his throat.

  After being pounded on the back for about five minutes he stopped coughing. They were all awake by this time and Bill tried a bit of wine, a small amount, and his eyes bulged.

  "I've tasted worse. I think," he said hoarsely.

  "But it contains alcohol," Praktis said, even more hoarsely. "Pass it back."

  "May a poor slave ask what brings you warriors to these parts," Stercus asked coyly, seeing that they were all well on the way to getting bombed out of their minds.

  "So that's why you are here," Cy said. "Sent by your officer to spy on us. Deny that?"

  "Why should I," the old man cackled. "It's true. He wants to know where you come from and what you are doing here."

  They all looked at Meta who seemed to have been appointed Liar's Mate First Class.

  "We come from a far distant land..."

  "Can't be too far, this plateau isn't that big."

  She smiled and shifted gears on the lie-machine. "I did not say that we were from this plateau. We are from the other plateau and we fled here across the trackless sands of the endless desert, fleeing the endless war there."

  "You are not the first to seek escape from meshugana Barthroomians. But since you are neither red nor green Barthroomians you must be hideous great white apes."

  "Has that rumor spread this far? Just forget the ape crap. A lot goes on over there that you don't
know about."

  "Nor do I care. I'm just trying to get you drunk to find out where you hid your radium rifles."

  "We didn't bring any."

  "You sure? Last chance."

  "We're sure. Now we have the wine, for what it is worth, Stercus. So just push off. If we had any other weapons do you think that we would enlist in this two-bit army?"

  The old slave stroked his beard and bobbed his head. "Now that, admiral, has the ring of truth to it. So, with no other weapons, you are willing to fight armed only with sword and shield or primitive fighting apparatus."

  "That's it."

  "And that's all I wanted to know. Enjoy the wine." He bobbed his head in slavely humility and they waved condescendingly in his direction.

  Stercus raised the little whistle that he had concealed in the palm of his hand and blew a shrill blast. Soldiers burst from the trees on all sides and in an instant they had myriad sharp spears pointed to their throats.

  "Bring them along," Stercus ordered. "We've got six new volunteers for the circus."

  "Dancing bears, clowns and elephants?" Bill asked happily.

  "Spears, swords, nets, tridents, lions, tigers — and certain death!" the aged slave cackled chastely.

  CHAPTER 20

  At spearpoint the brave little band was driven through the camp, to the jeers and rude cries of the rough soldiers.

  "You'll be sorry!"

  "Morituri te salutamus!"

  "Foreigners!"

  "Barbarians!"

  "Poofters!"

  Ignoring the insults, most of which they could not understand anyway, they marched on to the Centurion's tent.

  "Hail, Centurion Pediculus, hail!" the ancient slave hailed in a cackling gasp. "The prisoners are here."

  Pediculus pushed aside the tentflap and emerged. He had stripped off his armor and donned a loose tunic to better reveal his manly form. He had a potbelly, knock-knees and cross-eyes. "Parade them before me," he ordered looking at everyone and no one at the same time.

  Swords and spears convinced the prisoners to line up while Pediculus inspected them.

  "A handsome big burly fangy chap," he said, looking at Bill.