"I'm Rambette," she said, looking down below his belt and laughing. "You seem to be missing a piece or two."
In horrified shock Bill looked down — his zipper was closed! He relaxed and the cold sweat cooled on his brow. "Oh, my foot you mean. The doc said that it'll grow back."
"Nice tusks, though," mused Rambette, reaching over and twanging one suggestively. "Well, back to work. Bruiser, you better bring your axe. Larry's in one of his wild moods and strong measures might be called for."
"Dat's great!" grinned Bruiser, dragging an oversized door-busting axe out from underneath his bunk and swinging it in whistling arcs through the air. "Not used old Slasher in some long time."
Bill looked at the razor-sharp blade with dismay. He saw something that might have been a spot of rust, or, with a tiny bit of imagination, could possibly have been a few drops of dried blood.
"C'mon, Bill, we better get hopping," said Rambette with a saucy grin.
"Har, har!" grunted Bruiser. "Hopping! I get it. Har, har!"
Bill failed to see any humor in that comment, but he hopped along with the dynamic deadly duo, thinking that only in the military would the prisoners be armed to the teeth and the guard equipped only with a pair of bent, rubber-tipped crutches. Head of the list of things to do was getting a weapon or weapons soonest.
The repair docks were several levels down, and Bill struggled to keep up with Rambette and Bruiser. He was beginning to wish he had his stone foot back again. For all the trouble it had been, that hunk of petrified foot was a weapon of sorts. This Larry character must be one mean bowb if Rambette thought Bruiser needed more than a scowl to get him under control.
"Who's Larry?" asked Bill.
"Just another criminal slob serving out his term on this scow like all the rest of us," said Rambette, turning right.
"What did he do?"
"He might not have done anything," said Rambette. "You see, he's a clone."
"No, I don't see," said Bill.
"There are three of them. Larry, Moe, and Curly. All clones. Three peas out of the same pod. Three nuts off the same tree. One of them busted into the base computer and gave everybody a weekend pass. They've got the same fingerprints and identical retinal patterns, so the brass couldn't figure out which one of them had done the dirty deed. They court martialed them all for it. It was kind of a family package plan."
"That doesn't sound fair to me."
"Been a Trooper long, Bill?"
"Too long."
"Then you ought to know fair ain't got one thing to do with it."
Bill could only sigh retrospectively in agreement.
Bruiser was mumbling incoherently and affectionately to his beloved axe, Slasher, when they entered Repair Dock Four. This was as large as the okra chamber, but filled with massive equipment instead of potting soil, which, to Bill's eyes, was a definite improvement.
"Hop this way," said Rambette, leading them down a metal staircase to the floor, where a group of people were standing around arguing. "Believe it or not, Larry's the one waving the crowbar in the air."
Bill found it easy to believe. His luck was going from bad to worse.
"It went that way," yelled Larry. "And I ain't tracking that beast down for nothing, no way. I got more sense than that."
Larry was a thin man with light brown hair and a sharp, angular face creased with so many wrinkles and worry lines that Bill knew he was a Lifer for sure. Moe looked just like Larry and Curly looked just like Moe who looked like Larry and so on.
"It's all your fault," said Moe, or maybe Curly. "You got careless. Let him get away."
"Who you calling careless?" cried Larry. Or Curly. "I swear, Dad should have dropped your test tube when you were just a bunch of undifferentiated cells. I just can't believe I'm related to you."
"Leave Dad out of this," said Curly, or maybe Moe. "That thing is out there somewhere. We got to do something."
"Everybody split up," said Rambette. "Find the creature."
"Ugh! Not me," said a heavyset muscular black man, shaking his head. "Count me out."
"Everybody!" said Rambette, brandishing a particularly vicious-looking knife. "And that includes you, Uhuru. That's a direct order from Bill, our new MP, isn't it?"
"Uh, sure," said Bill, who was still trying to figure out Larry, Moe, and Curly. He'd lost track when Larry set the crowbar down. He thought Curly had it now, but it might have been Moe.
"A week of bread and water for any cowardly slackers. Right, Bill?"
"No less. We want no slackers here," said Bill, who was beginning to suspect that Larry himself had picked the crowbar up again just to confuse him. Confusing MPs had a long and honorable tradition behind it.
"Go!" cried Rambette. "Look everywhere."
Bill was jolted into action, dropped one crutch, and grabbed a wrench from a tool box. Everyone had scattered and he was alone, armed with a wrench and a crutch, staring down a long, deserted corridor. He started out slowly, quietly.
The ceiling of the repair dock was far above him, almost lost in a maze of suspended walkways, elevated tracks, and all sorts of massive equipment. Huge loops of chains hung down like giant spider webs, clinking softly as they swayed back and forth.
Bill was wondering if the wrench would be enough to handle the ... the...
Agh! He didn't have any idea what kind of a monster he was chasing, or even how big it was. Fangs? Claws? Bigger than a bread box? Smaller than a tank? It could be hiding anywhere. Sweat burst from every pore, which made it even worse. Now the thing could track him by smell!
Maybe it was some horrible alien creature covered with scales, lurking right around the next comer, ready to pounce and tear him limb from limb. Maybe it was a deadly praying mantis grown to impossible size and at this very moment was staring coldly down at him from above, all set to strike. Giant ants and killer bees as big as a man were also possibilities Bill considered, cursing his overactive imagination and trembling with fear, eyes darting every which way, nostrils flared. Very busy. He pressed on, figuring the odds were better if he kept moving.
He turned a corner and looked up. A drop of water hit his face, then another. The floor was wet and slippery. The water tasted faintly of okra.
Bill was facing a long series of lockers, all closed tightly save one, which was slightly ajar. He approached it warily.
Where was everybody else? Bill had never felt so alone, so vulnerable. The repair dock was quiet as a tomb, save for the soft metallic clinking of the chains, the rhythmic dripping water, and the sound of labored breathing.
Labored breathing!? His heart began to pound like a trip-hammer, so loud he knew that the creature of evil out there could hear it!
He stopped, his crutch an inch away from swinging the locker door open, his wrench at the ready in his other right hand. He held his breath and the soft, muffled labored breathing stopped. He exhaled and it started again. An echo? Once more he held his breath. This time the breathing got louder, became a growl.
Suddenly the locker door burst open and something wet and slimy covered his face, blinding him. He was knocked backwards by a huge, crushing weight. A horrible rotting smell engulfed him.
"Help!" he yelled, smothering in slime. "I'm a goner!"
"Bill found the dog!" cried Larry, Moe, or Curly. "Boy, does he stink!"
"Dog?" said Bill, wiping dog slobber from his eyes. "Dog?"
"We tried to get a ship's cat," said Rambette, "but all the cats were checked out and this is what they stuck us with. Barfer is an awful dog."
Bill sat up and stared into the baleful eyes of an oversized sheepdog kind of a mongrel. His multicolored, hyenalike fur was coming out in mangy handfuls. The creature had a stupid, grinning expression and his huge tongue was lolling out of the side of his mouth, dripping copious amounts of dog slobber. He gave Bill another big lick across his forehead, wagging his tail happily.
"Barfer likes you," said the large black man, giving Bill a hand and helping him to his feet. "
That makes you a majority of one, on account of none of us can stand to be around him. My name's Uhuru, and I'm pleased to meet you. Looks like you got yourself a dog.
"I what?" said Bill.
"He stays your side of da room," Bruiser snarled, leaning on Slasher. "I find him on my bunk, chop his smelly legs off. Then start on yours."
"He does kind of stink," Bill admitted. "Thanks for the offer — but I don't need a dog."
"He needs you, and that is a law of nature that cannot be changed," a short and zoftig woman intoned ominously. "It is also Barfer's nature to roll around in the compost bin in the captain's okra room. We can't keep him out of there. Maybe you'll have better luck."
"Thanks," said Bill. "What's your name?"
"Tootsie, big boy. And what's yours?" She ran delicate fingers through her short-cropped blond hair and took a deep breath that impressed Bill immensely. She didn't look like a dangerous criminal, not in the slightest.
"Bill. With two L's. The same as the officers spell it." Then he remembered the call of duty. "What are you in for?" he asked, putting on his serious MP face.
"They say I deserted. Went AWOL. Over the hill. Hit the road."
"Did you?"
"Of course not. My time card got demagnetized by a broken drink machine so it didn't register. I was at my desk the whole time."
Duty still called, like it or not. He forced his attention away from Tootsie.
"And you, Uhuru. What did you do to get stuck here?"
"They charged me with blowing up an orphanage," he said with a wide grin. "I'm a big fan of gunpowder."
"Gunpowder?" asked Bill, staring at the heavily muscled arms of the huge man. "Orphanage? Little kids and all that?"
"I was framed," said Uhuru. "All I really did was accidentally drop a homemade firecracker down the officer's latrine. It made a big bang, but there weren't no orphans in sight, just a lot of exploded waste products and a very nervous lieutenant."
"Rambette?"
"They say I have a violent personality, believe it or not. And all on account of a little misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding?"
"A corporal took me out to dinner. How romantic, I thought, I was so young and innocent. He embraced me, rained kisses on my fresh lips, ran his fingers down my ... that kind of thing. Filled with fear and trepidation I threatened to cut one of them off for him and he got a little upset. But would not desist. In self-defense I rejected his advances. He was out of his cast inside two months. I didn't do anything but protect myself. It was nothing to get all excited about."
"That sounds reasonable," Bill adjudicated. "Larry?"
"Ask Moe."
"Moe?"
"Ask Curly."
"Curly?"
"I don't know nothing. And if I did know something, I'd blame it on Larry. Or maybe Moe. As far as I know, we are all innocent, just victims of a passing bad time. Of course, I can only speak for myself. I can't remember the last time we three agreed on anything. Larry's dumb as a rock, and Moe's a blight on the family tree."
"All these sound like minor infractions," said Bill. "Or maybe no infractions at all. I don't think we'll have any trouble this trip. All we've got to do is keep our noses clean until we get to Beta Draconis. That sounds pretty simple."
Barfer the dog leaned heavily against Bill's good leg and farted. Bill, unthinkingly, scratched the creature's smelly head — then drew his hand away and wiped his fingers on his pants leg.
"Me," said Bruiser. "You forget me."
"Just coming to you, good buddy," Bill smarmed. "What did you really do?"
"Cut legs off MP," grinned Bruiser. "Me and Slasher did right fine job."
Bill swallowed hard and smiled ingratiatingly.
"But I had good reason," leered Bruiser, hefting Slasher up to his shoulder.
"I'm sure you did," said Bill with relief.
"Bowb made me mad," smiled Bruiser. "And he had smelly, ugly dog."
CHAPTER 4
Bill stirred the last of his steamed okra around on his plate. It was cold, and had the consistency of month-old celery that had been cooked in a nuclear reactor and then left in the desert sun to decompose.
Five weeks of okra so far, and no end in sight! Bill shuddered. He would even have welcomed some loathsome Trooper chow as a change of pace. The only consolation was that his foot bud was finally beginning to grow out. That was the good news; the bad news was that it was growing out a little strange. For starters, so far it was gray in color, rather than a healthy pink. And there wasn't the hint of a toe yet; just a gray lump a little smaller than his fist. But at least it was long enough so that he could stumble on it, and he had packed away his crutches, hopefully forever. He'd give it time. One thing the military had was plenty of time.
"So how is the crew, Trooper?" asked Captain Blight, greedily downing a porkuswine chop.
"All in order, sir," lied Bill.
He'd learned another lesson: don't rock the boat. Only last week he had tremblingly brought the captain the crew's demands that a change of diet could possibly be in order. The end result of that fiasco had been the withholding of Bill's jelly doughnut for three meals and an imposed day of fasting for the crew. The whole episode had done nothing to improve anyone's morale.
The truth was the crew was getting angry, hot-tempered, short-fused, balky, and sullen. That was on even-numbered days. On odd-numbered days they were obstinate and grouchy and testy. At the best of times they were simply cranky. Bill was caught in the middle and blamed it on bad vibrations, the okra — and their criminal records.
Bill slid the last spoonful of slime into his pocket. Just about the only good thing about his new dog was that Barfer liked okra, loved it, drooled and slobbered over it in a disgusting manner. He was, besides Christianson and Caine, the only creature aboard who could stand the stuff. Of course, Christianson would eat anything, and the reliability of Caine's android taste buds, if he even had any, were open to question.
A dog was the last thing Bill wanted or needed, but he was stuck with Barfer, at least for the duration of the trip. No one else would have anything to do with him. The only saving grace was that the beast had just enough residual sense of survival to stay on Bill's side of the room. Bruiser tended to sit, fondling his axe and glaring at the sordid hound. A steady vegetable diet had done nothing to improve Bruiser's state of mind.
"Aphids," said Caine as the jelly doughnuts were being distributed. "And little green caterpillars, too. Sorry, Captain."
"Say what!" yelled Blight. "Not again!"
"It's a natural progression in a closed environment such as we have aboard ship," said Caine. "They have no predators to kill them off."
"I've got a whole ship full of predators," said Blight, taking a second doughnut. "Bill, get another bug-picking crew together."
"Pepper," suggested Bill. "Back on the farm we used to use a mixture of soap and pepper to control pests. It's easier than picking them off one by one. That's the way we did it when I was young...."
"Enough of your sickening bucolic memoirs," sneered Blight. "Easier! Who said anything about wanting it easier? Prisoners aren't supposed to have it easy. There is crime, therefore punishment."
"It's ecologically sound and mostly organic," said Bill hopefully. There was a very real possibility the crew might string him up if he had them picking bugs again.
"I do not wish to have pepper sprayed on my plants," said the captain. "It would destroy their tender and delicate flavor."
Bill refrained from mentioning the obvious: that Blight never ate okra and wouldn't have the faintest idea what it tasted like. The addition of copious amounts of pepper could only improve its palatability. Even the soap would help.
Bill was proved right. The crew frothed with anger when he told them they were pulling bug-picking duty. The only thing that saved him this time was the captain's threat of solitary confinement for malingerers, lasting for the rest of the trip with nothing but watered-down okra juice for sustenanc
e, plus a doubling of any protester's prison sentence.
"Can't they at least turn down the lights while we're working in here?" asked Uhuru, who was stripped to the waist and sweating heavily.
"I talked to Caine about that," said Bill. "He's willing, but the captain said changing the light cycle would ruin his experiment."
"My back hurts," moaned Tootsie, leaning over an okra bed to get to the aphids in the middle. "And if you want to know — I'm rooting for the bugs. They can have all this green gunk they want."
"Be thankful we don't have an infestation of thrips," Bill suggested. "Or white flies. They're so small we'd be picking them off with tweezers."
"Aphids aren't exactly giant-sized," said Larry or Moe or Curly. "They're hard to get a good grip on without bending the leaves."
"Don't hurt the plants!" yelled Bill, remembering how a broken stem had brought fifty laps around B Deck with full packs.
"Quit complaining," said a grinning Bruiser. "I like squashing bugs. It almost as much fun as bashing heads. I just wish caterpillars bigger; it hard to pull legs off these little bowbers."
"We're supposed to be squashing, not torturing," said Rambette.
"Each to his own," Bruiser suggested sadistically, holding out a caterpillar and watching it squirm. "Wonder what they taste like."
"Yuck!" said Tootsie. "Eating bugs?"
"It's all protein," said Curly. Or maybe it was Larry. "They probably taste better than the okra." On the other hand, it could have been Moe.
Bruiser started making a pile of smashed, legless bugs, chuckling gleefully to himself. Bill shuddered.
"This is no way to win a war," said Rambette, dropping aphids into a jar. "I'd like to know what a bug hunt has to do with ridding the universe of those rotten Chinger lizards."
"I'm with you," said Uhuru, collecting caterpillars. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't set off that little explosion. Me, a trained Trooper, reduced to picking insects off plants! We should be fighting, not playing in a garden."
"I don't know," said Bill. "Maybe those Chingers aren't all that bad."
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