Bill, the Galactic Hero

by Harry Harrison

  "That's not true," Bill hissed to his lawyer. "The facts are —"

  "Don't worry about facts, Bill, no one else here does. Facts can't alter this case."

  "...and we will therefore ask the supreme penalty, death," the Trial Judge Advocate said, finally dragging to a close.

  "Are you going to waste our time with an opening statement, Captain?" the President asked, glaring at O'Brien.

  "Just a few words, if the Court pleases..."

  There was a sudden stir among the spectators and a ragged woman with a shawl over her head, clutching a blanket-wrapped bundle to her bosom, rushed forward to the edge of the table.

  "Your honours —" she gasped, "don't take away me Bill, the light of me life. He's a good man, and whatever he did was only for me and the little one." She held out the bundle and a weak crying could be heard. "Every day he wanted to leave, to return to duty, but I was sick and the wee one was sick and I begged him with tears in my eyes to stay..."

  "Get her out of here!" The gavel banged loudly.

  "...and he would stay, all the time swearing it would be just for one more day, and all the time the darlin' knowing that if he left us we would die of starvation." Her voice was muffled by the bulk of the dress-uniformed MPs who carried her struggling towards the exit. "...and a blessing on your honours for freeing him, but if you condemn him you black-hearted scuts may you die and rot in hell..." The doors swung shut and her voice was cut off.

  "Strike all this from the records," the President said and glowered at the Counsel for the Defence. "And if I thought you had anything to do with it I would have you shot right alongside your client."

  O'Brien was looking his most guileless, fingers on chest and head back, just beginning an innocent statement when there was another interruption. An old man climbed on to one of the spectator's benches and waved his arms for attention.

  "Listen to me, one and all, justice must be served and I am its instrument. I had meant to keep my silence and allow an innocent man to be executed, but I cannot. Bill is my son, my only son, and I begged him to go over the hill to aid me, dying as I was of cancer; I wanted to see him one last time, but he stayed to nurse me...." There was a struggle as the MPs grabbed the man and found he was chained to the bench. "Yes he did, cooked porridge for me and made me eat, and he did so well that bit by bit I rallied until you see me today, a cured man, cured by porridge from his son's loyal hands. Now my boy shall die because he saved me, but it shall not be. Take my poor old worthless life instead of his...." An atomic wirecutter hummed and the old man was thrown out the back door.

  "That's enough! That's too much!" the red-faced President of the Court shrieked, and pounded so hard that the gavel broke and he hurled the pieces across the room. "Clear this court of all spectators and witnesses. It is the judgment of this court that the rest of this trial will be conducted by Rules of Precedence without witnesses or evidence admitted." He flashed a quick look around at his accomplices who all nodded solemn agreement. "Therefore the defendant is found guilty and will be shot as soon as he can be dragged to the shooting gallery."

  The Officers of the Court were already pushing back their chairs to go when O'Brien's slow voice stopped them.

  "It is of course within the jurisdiction of this court to try a case in the manner so prescribed, but it is also necessary to quote the pertinent Article of Precedent before the judgment is passed."

  The President sighed and sat down again. "I wish you wouldn't try to be so difficult, Captain, you know the regulations just as well as I do. But if you insist. Pablo, read it to them."

  The Law Officer flipped through a thick volume on his desk, found his place with his finger, then read aloud.

  "Articles of War, Military Regulations, paragraph, page, etc. etc...yes, here it is, paragraph 298-B.... If any enlisted man shall absent himself from his post of duty for over a period of one standard year he is to be judged guilty of desertion even if absent in person from the trial and the penalty for desertion is painful death."

  "That seems clear enough. Any more questions?" the President asked.

  "No questions, I would just like to quote a precedent." O'Brien had placed a high stack of thick books before him and was reading from the topmost one. "Here it is, Buckassed Private Lövenvig versus the United States Army Air Corps, Texas, 1944. It is stated here that Lövenvig was AWOL for a period of 14 months, then was discovered in a hiding place above the ceiling of the mess hall from whence he descended only in the small hours of the night to eat and to drink of the stores therein and to empty his potty. Since he had not left the base he could not be judged AWOL or be a deserter and could receive only company punishment of a most minor kind."

  The Officers of the Court had seated themselves again and were all watching the Law Officer who was flipping quickly through his own books. He finally emerged with a smile and a reference of his own.

  "All of that is correct, Captain, except for the fact that the accused here did absent himself from his assigned station, the Transit Rankers' Centre 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 will 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 on to 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 labour in military prison for one year and one day and order that he be reduced in rank to Fusetender Seventh Class. Tear off his stripes and take him away, I have to get to the golf course."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The transit stockade was a makeshift building of plastic sheets bolted to bent aluminium frames and was in the centre 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 stoppe
d 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 my 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, close-set 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 bicep. 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 13 Chingers single-handed 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 stencilled message BE CLEAN NOT OBSCENE — DIRTY 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 Dobbin-burger?" 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 grey 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 labelled 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's 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 pyramids 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 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 re-enlisting 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 asses shot off, the civilians at home get their asses 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 fileclerk you're safe. Who ever heard of them shooting at a fileclerk? I'm a great fileclerk. But that's just in wartime. Peacetime, whenever they make a mistake and there is peace for a while, 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 favour 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 centre 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 be taken 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 Blackey 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 half-stoned from the previous evening's drinking bout. "I like it here."

  "It's going to be 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. Hell-hole 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 dry! Do you think I would ship us to a place like that? That's just the way it is on the teevee 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 Fusetender which is a suicide job to driver, and here is your driver's licence 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 were 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 get 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 Veniola where all the fighting is going on — we're heading for combat!"