Bill, the Galactic Hero btgh-1

by Harry Harrison

  “All of that is correct, Captain, except for the fact that the accused here did absent himself from his assigned station, the Transit Rankers' Center, and was at large upon the planet Helior.” “All of which is correct, sir,” O'Brien said, whipping out yet another volume and waving it over his head. `But in Dragsted versus the Imperial Navy Billeting Corps, Helior, 8832, it was agreed that for purposes of legal definition the planet Helior was to be defined as the City of Helior, and the City of Helior was to be defined as the planet Helior.” “All of which is undoubtedly true,” the president interrupted, “but totally beside the point. They have no bearing upon the present case and I'll ask you to snap it up, Captain, because I have a golf appointment.” “You can tee off in ten minutes, sir, if you allow both those precedents to stand. I then introduce one last item, a document drawn up by Fleet Admiral Marmoset-” “Why, that's me!” the president gasped.

  “-at the onset of hostilities with the Chingers when the City of Helior was declared under martial law and considered to be a single military establishment.

  I therefore submit that the accused is innocent of the charge of desertion since he never left this planet, therefore he never left this city, therefore he never left his post of duty.” A heavy silence fell and was finally broken by the president's worried voice as he turned to the law officer. “Is what this bowb says true, Pablo? Can't we shoot the guy?” The law officer was sweating as he searched feverishly through his law books, then finally pushed them from him and answered in a bitter voice. “True enough and no way out of it. This Arabic-Jewish-Irish con man has got us by the short hair. The accused is innocent of the charges.” “No execution…?” one of the court officers asked in a high, querulous voice, and another, older one dropped his head onto his arms and began to sob.

  “Well he's not getting off that easily,” the president said, scowling at Bill.

  “If the accused was on this post for the last year then he should have been on duty. And during that year he must have slept. Which means he slept on duty.

  Therefore I sentence him to hard labor in military prison for one year and one day and order that he be reduced in rank to Fuse Tender Seventh Class. Tear off his stripes and take him away; I have to get to the golf course.

  Chapter 2

  The transit stockade was a makeshift budding of plastic sheets bolted to bent aluminum frames and was in the center of a large quadrangle. MPs with bayoneted atomrifles marched around the perimeter of the six electrified barbed-wire fences. The multiple gates were opened by remote control, and Bill was dragged through them by the handcuff robot that had brought him here. This debased machine was a squat and heavy cube as high as his knee that ran on clanking treads and from the top of which projected a steel bar with heavy handcuffs fastened to the end. Bill was on the end of the handcuffs. Escape was impossible, because if any attempt was made to force the cuffs the robot sadistically exploded a peewee atom bomb it had in its guts and blew up itself and the escaping prisoner, as well as anyone else in the vicinity. Once inside the compound the robot stopped and did not protest when the guard sergeant unlocked the cuffs. As soon as its prisoner was freed the machine rolled into its kennel and vanished.

  “All right, wise guy, you're in any charge now, and dat means trouble for you, “ the sergeant snapped at Bill. He had a shaven head, a wide and scar-covered jaw, small, closeset eyes in which there flickered the guttering candle of stupidity.

  Bill narrowed his own eyes to slits and slowly raised his good left right arm, flexing the biceps. Tembo's muscle swelled and split the thin prison fatigue jacket with a harsh, ripping sound Then Bill pointed to the ribbon of the Purple Dart which he had pinned to his chest.

  “Do you know how I got that?” he asked in a grim and toneless voice. “I got that by killing thirteen Chingers singlehanded in a pillbox I had been sent into. I got into this stockade here because after killing the Chingers I came back and killed the sergeant who sent me in there. Now-what did you say about trouble, Sergeant?” “You don't give me no trouble I don't give you no trouble,” the guard sergeant squeaked as he skittered away. “You're in cell 13, in there, right upstairs…

  . “ He stopped suddenly and began to chew all the fingernails on one hand at the same time, with a nibbling-crunching sound. Bill gave him a long glower for good measure, then turned and went slowly into the building.

  The door to number 13 stood open, and Bill looked in at the narrow cell dimly lit by the light that filtered through the translucent plastic walls. The double-decker bunk took up almost all of the space, leaving only a narrow passage at one side. Two sagging shelves were bolted to the far wall and, along with the stenciled message BE CLEAN NOT OBSCENEDIRTY TALK HELPS THE ENEMY!, made up the complete furnishings. A small man with a pointed face and beady eyes lay on the bottom bunk looking intently at Bill. Bill looked right back and frowned.

  “Come in, Sarge,” the little man said as he scuttled up the support into the upper bunk. “I been saving the lower for you, yes I have. The name is, Blackey, and I'm doing ten months for telling a second looey to blow it out…” He ended the sentence with a slight questioning note that Bill ignored. Bill's feet hurt. He kicked off the purple boots and stretched out on the sack.

  Blackey's head popped over the edge of the upper bunk, not unlike a rodent peering out the landscape. “It's a long time to chow-how's about a Dobbinburger?” A hand appeared next to the head and slipped a shiny package down to Bill.

  After looking it over suspiciously Bill pulled the sealing string on the end of the plastic bag. As soon as the air rushed in and hit the combustible lining the burger started to smoke and within three seconds was steaming hot. Lifting the bun Bill squirted ketchup in from the little sack at the other end of the bag, then took a suspicious bite. It was rich, juicy horse.

  “This old gray mare sure tastes like it used to be,” Bill said, talking with his mouth full. “How did you ever smuggle this into the stockade?” Blackey grinned and produced a broad stage wink. “Contacts. They bring it in to me, all I gotta do is ask. I didn't catch the name…?” “Bill.” Food had soothed his ruffled temper. “A year and a day for sleeping on duty. I would have been shot for desertion, but I had a good lawyer. That was a good burger, too bad there's nothing to wash it down with.” Blackey produced a small bottle labeled COUGH SYRUP and passed it to Bill.

  “Specially mixed for me by a friend in the medics. Half grain alcohol and half ether.” “Zoingg!” Bill said, dashing the tears from his eyes after draining half the bottle. He felt almost at peace with the world. You're a good buddy to have around, Blackey.” “You can say that again,” Blackey told him earnestly. “It never hurts to have a buddy, not in the troopers, the army, the navy, anywheres. Ask old Blackey, he knows. You got muscles, Bill?” Bill lazily flexed Tembo's muscles for him.

  “That's what I like to see,” Blackey said in admiration. “With your muscles and my brain we can get along fine…” “I have a brain too!” “Relax it! Give it a break, while I do the thinking. I seen service in more armies than you got days in the troopers. I got my first Purple Heart serving with Hannibal, there's the scar right there.” He pointed to a white arc on the back of his hand. “But I picked him for a loser and switched to Romulus and Remus' boys while there was still time. I been learning ever since, and I always land on my feet. I saw which way the wind was blowing and ate some laundry soap and got the trots the morning of Waterloo, and I missed but nothing, I tell you.

  I. saw the same kind of thing shaping up at the Somme-or was it Ypres?-I forget some of them old names now, and chewed a cigarette and put it into my armpit, you get a fever that way, and missed that show too. There's always an angle to figure I always say.” “I never heard of those battles. Fighting the Chingers?” “No, earlier than that, a lot earlier than that. Wars and wars ago.” “That makes you pretty old, Blackey. You don't look pretty old.” “I am pretty old, but I don't tell people usually because they give me the laugh. But I remember the pyra
mids being built, and I remember what lousy chow the Assyrian army had, and the time we took over Wug's mob when they tried to get into our cave, rolled rocks down on them.” “Sounds like a lot of bowb,” Bill said lazily, draining the bottle.

  “Yeah, that's what everybody says, so I don't tell the old stories any more.

  They don't even believe me when I show them my good luck piece.” He held out a little white triangle with a ragged edge. “Tooth from a pterodactyl. Knocked it down myself with a stone from a sling I had just invented…” “Looks like a hunk of plastic.” “See what I mean? So I don't tell the old stories any more. just keep reenlisting and drifting with the tide…” Bill sat up and gaped. “Re-enlist! Why, that's suicide…” “Safe as houses. Safest place during the war is in the army. The jerks in the front lines get their heads shot off, the civilians at home get their heads blown off. Guys in between safe as houses. It takes thirty, fifty, maybe seventy guys in the middle to supply every guy in the line. Once you learn to be a file clerk you're safe. Who ever heard of them shooting at a file clerk? I'm a great file clerk. But that's just in wartime. Peacetime, whenever they make a mistake and there is peace for awhile, it's better to be in the combat troops. Better food, longer leaves, nothing much to do. Travel a lot.” “So what happens when the war starts?” “I know 735 different ways to get into the hospitals.” “Will you teach me a couple?” “Anything for a buddy, Bill. I'll show you tonight, after they bring the chow around. And the guard what brings the chow is being difficult about a little favor I asked him. Boy, I wish he had a broken arm!” “Which arm?” Bill cracked his knuckles with a loud crunch.

  “Dealer's choice.” The Plastichouse Stockade was a transient center where prisoners were kept on the way from somewhere to elsewhere. It was an easy, relaxed life enjoyed by both guards and inmates with nothing to disturb the even tenor of the days.

  There had been one new guard, a real eager type fresh in from the National Territorial Guard, but he had had an accident while serving the meals and had broken his arm. Even the other guards were glad to see him go. About once a week Blackey would betaken away under armed guard to the Base Records Section where he was forging new records for a light colonel who was very active in the black market and wanted to make millionaire before he retired. While working on the records Mackey saw to it that the stockade guards received undeserved promotions, extra leave time, and cash bonuses for nonexistent medals. As a result Bill and Blackey ate and drank very well and grew fat. It was as peaceful as could possibly be until the morning after a session in the records section when Blackey returned and woke Bill up.

  “Good news,” he said. “We're shipping out.” “What's good about that?” Bill asked, surly at being disturbed and still halfstoned from the previous evening's drinking bout. “I like it here.” “It's going to get too hot for us soon. The colonel is giving me the eye and a very funny look, and I think he is going to have us shipped to the other end of the galaxy, where there is heavy fighting. But he's not going to do anything until next week after I finish the books for him, so I had secret orders cut for us this week sending us to Tabes Dorsalis where the cement mines are.” “The Dust World!” Bill shouted hoarsely, and picked Blackey up by the throat and shook him. “A world-wide cement mine where men die of silicosis in hours.

  Hellhole of the universe…” Blackey wriggled free and-scuttled to the other end of the cell.

  “Hold it!” he gasped. “Don't go off half cocked. Close the cover on your priming pan and keep your powder dryl Do you think I would ship us to a place like that? That's just the way it is on the TV shows, but I got the inside dope.

  If you work in the cement mines, roger, it ain't so good. But they got one tremendous base section there with a lot of clerical help, and they use trustees in the motor pool, since there aren't enough troops there. While I was working on the records I changed your MS from fuse tender, which is a suicide job, to driver, and here is your driver's license with qualifications on everything from monocycle to atomic 89-ton tank. So we get us some soft jobs, and besides the whole base is air-conditioned.” “It was kind of nice here,” Bill said, scowling at the plastic card that certified to his aptitude in chauffeuring a number -of strange vehicles, most of which he had never seen.

  “They come, they go, they're all the same,” Blackey said, packing a small toilet kit.

  They began to realize that something was wrong when the column of prisoners was shackled then chained together with neckcuffs and leg irons and prodded into the transport spacer by a platoon of combat MPs. “Move along!” they shouted.

  “You'll have plenty of time to relax when we got to Tabes Dorsalgia.” “Where are we going?” Bill gasped.

  “You heard me, snap it bowb.” “You told me Tabes Dorsalis,” Bill snarled at Blackey who was ahead of him in the chain. “Tabes Dorsalgia is the base on Veneria where all the fighting is going on-we're heading for combat!” “A little slip of the pen,” Blackey sighed. “You can't win them all.” He dodged the kick Bill swung at him, then waited patiently while the MPs beat Bill senseless with their clubs and dragged him aboard the ship.

  Chapter 3

  Veneria… a fog-shrouded world-of untold horrors, creeping in its orbit around the ghoulish green star Hernia like some repellent heavenly trespasser newly rose from the nethermost pit. What secrets lie beneath the eternal mists?

  What nameless monsters undulate and gibber in its dank tarns and bottomless black lagoons? Faced by the unspeakable terrors of this planet men go mad rather than face up to the faceless. Veneria… swamp world, the lair of the hideous and unimaginable Venians…

  It was hot and it was damp and it stank. The wood of the newly constructed barracks was already soft and rotting away. You took your shoes off, and before they hit the floor fungus was growing out of them. Once inside the compound their chains were removed, since there was no place for laborcamp prisoners to escape to, and Bill wheeled around looking for Blackey, the fingers of Tembo's arm snapping like hungry jaws. Then he remembered that Blackey had spoken to one of the guards as they were leaving the ship, had slipped him something, and a little while later had been unlocked from the line and led away. By now he would be running the file section and by tomorrow he would be living in the nurses's quarters. Bill sighed, let the whole thing slip out of his mind and vanish, since it was just one more antagonistic factor that he had no control over, and dropped down onto the nearest bunk. Instantly a vine flashed up from a crack in the floor, whipped four times around the bunk lashing him securely to it, then plunged tendrils into his leg and began to drink his blood.

  “Grrrrk…!” Bill croaked against the pressure of a green loop that tightened around his throat.

  “Never lie down without you got a knife in your hand,” a thin, yellowish sergeant said as he passed by, and severed the vine, with his own knife, where it emerged from the floorboards.

  “Thanks, Sarge,” Bill said, stripping off the coils and throwing them out the window.

  The sergeant suddenly began vibrating like a plucked string and dropped onto the foot of Bill's bunk. “P-pocket… shirt… p-p-pills…” he stuttered through chattering teeth. Bill pulled a plastic box of pills out of the sergeant's pocket and forced some of them into his mouth. The vibrations stopped, and the man sagged back against the wall, gaunter and yellower and streaming with sweat.

  “Jaundice and swamp fever and galloping filariasis, never know when an attack will hit me, that's why they can't send me back to combat, I can't hold a gun.

  Me, Master Sergeant Ferkel, the best damned flamethrower in Kirjassoff's Kutthroats, and they have me playing nursemaid in a prison labor camp. So you think that bugs me? It does not bug me, it makes me happy, and the only thing that would make me happier would be shipping off this cesspool-planet at once.” “Do you think alcohol will hurt your condition?” Bill asked, passing over a bottle of cough syrup. “It's kind of rough here?” “Not only won't hurt it, but it will…” There was a deep gurgling,
and when the sergeant spoke again he was hoarser but stronger. “Rough is not the word for it. Fighting the Chingers is bad enough, but on this planet they have the natives, the Venians, on their side. These Venians look like moldy newts, and they got just maybe enough I. Q. to hold a gun and pull the trigger, but it is their planet and they are but murder out there in the swamps. They hide under the mud and they swim under the water and they swing from the trees and the whole planet is thick with them. They got no sources of supply, no army divisions, no organizations, they just fight. If one dies the others eat him. If one is wounded in the leg the others eat the leg and he grows a new one. If one of them runs out of ammunition or poison darts or whatever he just swims back a hundred miles to base, loads up, and back to battle. We have been fighting here for three years, and we now control one hundred square miles of territory.” “A hundred, that sounds like a lot.” “Just to a stupid bowb like you. That is ten miles by ten miles, and maybe about two square miles more than we captured in the first landings.” There was the squish-thud of tired feet, and weary, mudsoaked men began to drag into the barracks. Sergeant Ferkel hauled himself to his feet and blew a long blast on his whistle.

  “All right you new men, now hear this. You have all been assigned to B squad, which is now assembling in the compound, which squad will now march out into the swamp and finish the job these shagged creeps from A squad began this morning.