Harry Harrison & Jack C. Haldeman - Bill the Galactic Hero 5

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Bill, the Galactic Hero on the Planet of Zombie Vampires
HARRY HARRISON & JACK C. HALDEMAN II
Bill, the Galactic Hero on the Planet of Zombie Vampires
A Byron Preiss Book
VGSF
ISBN 0-575-05320-8
For Lori,
a true fan of aliens everywhere, especially those slimy ones.
In space, no one can hear you dream
CHAPTER 1
Bill kicked the bucket. Then he kicked a chair, reducing it to splinters. It wasn't that he was angry —
though he had good reason to be teed-off and touchy. Stuck here on this puny supply station in the middle
of nowhere. He, a Galactic Hero, now reduced to the most menial of menial labor. He sniveled self-
pityingly at the faded memories of past glories, for he had been reduced to driving a forklift, loading giant
boxes of multipurpose paper onto outgoing spacers. It was sandpaper on one side, toilet paper on the
other, and woe befall he who did not read the instructions on the box. No, crappy as this job was, his real
concern was a physical problem of a most personal nature. His right foot was turning to stone, and he was
losing control over it. He sniveled again, stamped with sudden, bitter anger, then pulled his foot out of the
hole in the floor.
It had started out as a real nice foot. Bill even got used to all the extra toes, but this turning-to-stone
business was getting out of hand. Or rather out of foot. It currently weighed in at thirty-five pounds and
was gaining weight fast. Bill felt like he was dragging a cinder block around with him, and once he got it
moving it was hard to stop, short of crashing it into something. The crew aboard the supply station gave
him plenty of room, and repair robots followed him around like mechanical puppy dogs.
Bill realized that he had a bad habit of losing body parts. The thought depressed him greatly, and he
flicked a tear from one moist eye. He had lost what used to be his left arm through no fault of his own
while becoming a Galactic Hero. That's what war is all about. That it had been replaced with a right arm,
a nice black one that had belonged to a friend of his — it gave Bill something to remember him by — was
something he had grown quite used to, even fond of. He was attached to his new arm, and was always
inventing new fun things to do with it.
The foot, however, was another matter. Bill had blown his original foot away himself in a flash of self-
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preservation designed to keep all of his body parts from being even more disastrously blown away in a
hopeless battle against the dreaded Chingers.
The official military line was that the crazed Chingers were the cause of almost every horrible thing that
had ever happened in the universe. Reptilian in nature and bad to the bone, it was said they stood seven
feet tall and ate human babies for breakfast. With Tabasco.
Bill knew better.
Seven inches was more like their physical size, and before the Space Troopers had started blasting them
away, the Chingers hadn't even had a word for violence. Although they were peace-loving and friendly,
they were not stupid. They were also quick learners. And hated Tabasco. So the Emperor had an
intergalactic war to keep his troops busy, and Bill had two right arms, a cinder block for a foot, and an
enlistment contract with an automatic extension clause.
This was not the first foot transplant Bill had ever had. All of them had been disastrous. Though maybe
not the first one, a giant chicken foot. He had become attached to that foot, and vice versa of course. But
while it was handy for scratching in the sand for bugs, it wouldn't fit in his boot and hurt all the time. The
fact that his new foot was turning into solid rock probably wasn't anyone's fault. Sometimes bad things
just seemed to happen.
Bill kicked open Doctor Hackenslash's door and followed his careening foot into the office.
"You could have knocked, Trooper," squealed the doctor from underneath the desk. "I thought we were
under attack."
"No Chinger in its right mind would give this bowby little post a second glance," said Bill, skidding his
foot along the floor to stop its momentum. "I've got a more serious problem."
"Possibly your nose this time?" said the doctor hopefully, crawling out from under the desk and brushing
chunks of the splintered door off his chair. "Nose problems are my speciality."
Perhaps this was because the good doctor possessed a hooter like an anteater, a great flaring, projecting
nose with cavernous nostrils, gloomy hair-filled canyons. He pointed this impressive proboscis at Bill and
sniffed.
"You want your nose examined?"
"Only if you have to get to my foot that way. Look at it, doc! It's getting heavier."
"Feet are so boring," sniffed Hackenslash, tapping his own nose with his finger so that it flapped in a most
interesting manner. "All those little pink toes wiggling all the time. Give me a nose any day. Deviated
septums! Sinus cavities! Postnasal drip! Nobody knows the nose better than those who know the nose
know."
"My toes aren't pink anymore, and they sure aren't wiggling. They're more like granite. We got to do
something."
"How about we wait?" said the doctor, breaking into a sneezing fit on account of all the door dust floating
around the room. Bill was knocked back three feet by the force of this nasal blast.
"Wait?" yelled Bill. "I'm dragging a boulder around, and you want to wait?"
"Think of it as a scientific experiment — be brave," said Hackenslash, grabbing a handful of tissue from
one of the five boxes on his desk and blowing his nose. Bill cowered under the white blast of shredded
Kleenex. "Maybe if we wait it'll spread. Next your knee could turn to stone. Then your whole leg. Maybe
even your you-know-what — interesting possibilities there! Perhaps even those two right arms you're so
proud of. It might even spread to your nose. As a scientist I would be remiss to pass up this opportunity to
study such an unusual occurrence."
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Bill watched the doctor double over with a seemingly endless attack of the sneezes, and as the physician
gobbled up a bunch of antihistamines Bill decided enough was enough. He'd take the hard line.
"As a Trooper with a stone foot I am unfit for battle," said Bill, choking on the word "battle." "As the base
doctor it is your sworn and solemn duty to make every soldier in this command shipshape, sturdy, and
ready for"— gulp —"warfare. How can I jump into action dragging this boulder around?"
"I like your tusks," said Dr. Hackenslash. "Some elephants have tusks, you know. And nothing beats an
elephant when it comes to noses."
The end run from scientific curiosity to flattery didn't work, although Bill was quite fond of his three-inch-
long tusks, which he had inherited from the sadistic Deathwish Drang. He felt they gave him a fearsome
appearance when he snarled.
"I want a new foot," Bill snarled. "I want to be ready to leap into battle," he lied.
Impressed by the gnashing fangs, the doctor nodded reluctantly.
"As you yourself pointed out, this isn't exactly a sizzling war zone." Dr. Hackenslash pulled out a giant-
economy, coffin-sized box of tissue. "Consequently, we have a regrettable lack of replacement parts. In
my last assignment we had arms and legs all over the place, boxes of pippicks, bales of ears. But not here.
And noses! You should have seen my collection; all kinds, shapes, sizes. I even had one —"
"Wait!" Bill whipped up an especially ferocious snarl. "Does this mean I'm stuck with this rock?"
"Don't do that!" shouted the doctor. "You're making me awfully nervous, and I might botch the surgery. It
is quite a delicate procedure. Took years of training."
"So I do get a new foot?"
"In a manner of speaking. Medical supply made a clerical error and sent me eighty-three cases of
regenerative foot-buds. I've got thousands of the little suckers, so I suppose I can spare you one. Though I
really would like to see if your nose turns to stone."
"Let's get with it," growled Bill, tired of dragging the albatross of a stone foot around with him. "Which
way's the operating room? Will I have to be prepped? What kind of anesthetic are you going to use? Will
it hurt?"
The doctor put a box on the floor and pressed a red button marked WARM UP.
"When the green light comes on, put your foot in the hole on top. I'll give you a hand."
"It's a foot I want!" screamed Bill as the light flashed green and Hackenslash grappled up his foot and
dropped it down the hole.
"Just a little professional joke," chuckled the doctor. "We physicians do have a sense of humor beneath
our always coolly confident and skillful exteriors."
With exasperating illogic Bill was already getting ready to miss his old foot. The extra toes had been nice.
And after it had turned to stone, it had been real handy for propping doors open and kicking things out of
his way.
"When will you start the operation?" asked Bill, gritting his teeth in anticipation of the long and involved
and certain-to-be-excruciatingly-painful procedure.
"All finished," said Hackenslash proudly. "Take a look."
Bill pulled his foot out of the hole. The first thing he noticed was that he was missing a foot entirely.
"You moron medico!" screamed Bill, waving his stump in the air. "My foot's gone!"
"That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
"But I wanted a replacement, too. What I got now is nothing," he sobbed.
"What you've got is a military grade Mark-1 regenerative foot-bud, Trooper. Take a close look."
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Sure enough, there at the end of Bill's stump was a tiny pink bud about the size and shape of a baked
bean.
"I did a good job, didn't I — why don't you admit that?" The doctor stood up, bloated with pride, red nose
wavering in the air like a giant tomato. "Can I keep your old foot? It'll make a nice paperweight."
Bill was staring at the tiny bud. It still looked like a baked bean.
"Of course, you'll have to stay off that bud until the foot grows out," said Hackenslash, handing him a pair
of crutches. "I'm sorry I couldn't make you battle-ready in a jiffy. You'll just have to wait until it grows."
"How long will that take?" smirked Bill gleefully, taking the crutches, which were dented and about
twelve sizes too short.
"Quite a long time, I'm afraid. You can't rush mother nature."
"That's really too bad," Bill smarmed insincerely, with visions of weeks of no duty, months of lolling
around, years of recuperation. "It pains me not to be able to get back into the fight right away. I guess I'll
have to go on permanent sick call."
"That will be up to Commander Cook," said the doctor. "Take this note to him and don't forget to mention
that I need a new door."
Bill left Hackenslash's office feeling about thirty-five pounds lighter, and he was halfway to Commander
Cook's quarters before his back started killing him from bending over the too-small crutches.
The commander was staring out the window with his hands clasped behind his back when Bill arrived and
tried to salute, managing to get all tangled up in his crutches so that he tumbled to the floor and rolled on
his back like a beetle.
The commander bulged his eyes at this repulsive sight, then decided to ignore it. "At ease, Trooper," he
ordered. As always, he was wearing his full-dress uniform, complete with saber, shotgun, sashes, ribbons,
bullwhip, and medals that were really contraceptive holders, all this topped with an ornate gold-braid-
covered tricornered hat. Reluctantly, he turned from the struggling Trooper and sighed.
"It's lonely at the top," he implied. "Just look out that window, Trooper. What do you see?"
"Stars, sir," said Bill. "That's about all anyone can see from this miserable place."
"Stars, son? Well, I guess some short-sighted un-imaginative son of a bowb like you would only see stars,
but I see glory. Yes, glory — and conflict! Warfare that pits man against Chinger. Great battles just filled
to overflowing with heroic acts and doomed, selfless sacrifices. Facing death on a daily basis, doing what
a man has to do, tests a man's mettle, wouldn't you agree?"
"If you say so, sir," said Bill, who fervently thought no such thing.
"Makes men out of boys, women out of girls, heroes out of cowards, dogs out of cats. Nothing like death
to make a person feel alive. Of course, some of us, besieged by circumstance, must stand back and serve.
Without us supplying them, the frontline troops wouldn't stand a chance against the enemy. Take toilet
paper. Have you ever considered the strategic ramifications of toilet paper, Trooper?"
"Can't say as I have, sir," said Bill, who was beginning to wonder, and not for the first time, if the
commander was playing with a full deck.
"Too much toilet paper and they'll have to jettison ammunition or fuel to make room to store it. Too little
and they'll spend all their time looking for substitutes when they should be fighting. We could lose the
war because of toilet paper. Sink the entire operation because they had to make room — make room! Just
think about that, son."
Bill did, and decided on the spot that the commander's elevator didn't go all the way to the top floor.
"Making command decisions about toilet paper is a terrible burden. With one forged requisition slip the
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Chingers could destroy our entire armed forces."
Bill nodded, firmly convinced now that the commander was one brick shy of a load.
"Consider the mighty decimal point. With one slip of a decimal point.... Say, what happened to your foot?
Aren't you the bowb who's been trashing my installation?"
"Doctor Hackenslash needs a new door," said Bill hastily. "And he said for me to give you this."
Commander Cook took the note and shook his head as he read it, his lips moving reluctantly as he spelled
out the harder words.
"I guess I ought to go on sick leave," Bill said quickly. "Some extended bunk time would be best, just
until my foot grows back, which — unfortunately — will take a long time."
The commander frowned. "I can't use a partial soldier at this station. You might get all worried about your
foot-bud and load too much toilet paper for our troops fighting bravely on the front line and cause us to
lose the whole ball of wax to those despicable Chingers."
"Bunk time sounds fine to me," Bill smarmed hopefully. "It'll be a sacrifice not to be involved with the
war effort, but I'll just screw myself to the sticking place, grit my teeth, and endure it."
"I'm not sure that I like this screwed sticking place, bowb. Sounds subversive. So suggest an alternative,"
said the commander. "Something that would be right up the alley for an ambitious cretin like you."
"I could sit and count the boxes as the men load them," said Bill, thinking fast. "I'm real good at
counting."
"No, I think I'll make you an MP."
"Empee?" asked Bill.
"Military Police, dimschitz," said the commander. "The Bounty is shipping out tomorrow on a salvage
operation with a crew of hardened criminals. They need an MP to go along. Being an official Galactic
Hero, you're just the man we need to keep them under control."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but I don't see that my presence would be necessary. Using Bloater drive
they'll get there instantly. There wouldn't be anything for me to do."
"Quite the contrary. The Bounty is not one of your more modern ships. The truth is, she's a clunker, a
space-going Marie Celeste — not much more than a primitive repair shop with a phase-loop drive
strapped on it. The ship's destination is the Beta Draconis region, where our glorious heroic fighting
forces have recently waged a fierce battle. The area is full of floating junk and half-destroyed spacers that
need to be patched up to get back into the fray."
"So why send criminals? Why send me?"
"That's the beauty of the plan. It takes care of so many problems at once. By sending all my prisoners
along I empty the brig and get rid of a lot of dead weight around here. Phase-loop travel is slow, and by
the time you reach Beta Draconis their jail terms will be up and they can go back to work. Plus, your foot
will have regrown and you'll be ready for active duty."
The commander turned back to his window. "I envy you this assignment," he susurrated insincerely. "You
might even see some action. Of course a repair ship doesn't carry much in the way of weapons, so if you
do get out there and toe-up to the enemy, it'll be in a losing cause. Such a noble way to die! How I envy
you."
Bill stifled the obvious suggestion to change places and gave up. "I can't wait," he disgruntled, knowing
there was no way out.
"Report to the Bounty in the morning. Captain Blight will be expecting you."
Bill had a real bad feeling about the whole thing.
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CHAPTER 2
The Bounty was nothing to write home about, and from what Bill had heard, Captain Blight was even less.
Still, Bill was determined to make a good impression and gave the captain his very best salute, the one
using both right hands. Under normal circumstances it was an extraordinary gesture that never failed to
dazzle, but its effect was somewhat diminished by Bill having to drop his crutches to execute the
complicated maneuver and consequently falling to the ground in a thrashing and undignified heap.
"They send me a crippled MP. Wonderful." Captain Blight sneered incontinently, scowling down at the
struggling Bill. He was a large man, heavyset; husky, thickly rotund, and stout; overabundantly gross to a
degree Bill would have thought physically impossible. The man apparently liked to eat. A lot. Often. With
seconds of everything. He looked Bill over with growing disgust.
"One foot, two right arms. Highly irregular. And what pray tell are those objects protruding from your
mouth?"
"Tusks, sir, your honor," gasped Bill struggling to his foot.
"Apparently implants," said a voice from the door. "Not standard issue for homo sapiens. Of course they
could be genetically engineered, or perhaps an evolutionary backslide. One should never commit oneself
to a diagnosis from strictly visual evidence."
"That's sufficient, Caine," said the captain, painfully rotating his ponderous bulk towards Bill. "Oh, the
things I put up with," he whined self-pityingly as he took a sniff of cocaine-snuff. "I've got a crew of
criminals, a single, possibly alcoholic, surely decaying ex-Trooper to keep them in line — not to mention
a fishbelly android science officer who couldn't make an unqualified statement if his batteries depended
on it. It sure is lonely here at the top, being the only sane person around. Not to mention boring."
Bill looked around. The android looked considerably more human than the captain, certainly saner. Which
wouldn't take much.
"Reporting for duty, sir," shouted Bill. "If you'll direct me to the brig, I'll check on the prisoners."
"What brig?" snorted the captain. "And keep the bowby decibels down. Repair shops don't have brigs.
Those criminal prisoners are going to crew this vessel. And you're going to keep them in line and out of
trouble, or I'll make a special brig for my so-called MP. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly clear," said Bill, gathering up his crutches.
"Show this Trooper to his quarters, Caine," said the captain. "I'll expect him at my table for lunch after we
lift off this execrable excuse for a supply station.
Bill restrained himself and delivered a normal government issue one-handed salute, then hobbled out the
door in the wake of the android, into the ship's corridor.
"Science is really wonderful, sir," Bill ingratiated, never missing an opportunity to brownnose, struggling
to keep up with Caine. "A blessing to mankind. It can come in handy, too. This is the first ship I've been
on with a real science officer aboard, even if it is an android. No offense, sir. Some of my best friends
might be androids. I'm not sure that I ever met one before. I don't even know how to identify an android,
unless maybe they smell too bad and glow in the dark. Hard to tell, you know."
"Please refrain from addressing me as sir," intoned Caine, with chilling android indifference. "In spite of
any working title Captain Blight chooses to assign me, I am a civilian down to my last transistor. It's
citizen Caine to you, if you don't mind, you racially intolerant simpleminded bowb-brain."
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"Mind? Of course not. I am curious about one thing, though, I mean if it's not too personal a question to
ask. You wouldn't be a ... I mean one of those..."
"No," Caine shook his head and sighed deeply. "I'm not one of those cyberpunks. Cy-Pees have given the
rest of us androids a bad name. For one thing, they're violent, and I abhor violence, that is unless the
circumstances leave no other recourse. They're always plugging themselves into 220 circuits and blowing
their logic boards. Juice junkies — no wonder their eyes shine like mirrors and their chips scintillate into
the UV range. You will observe my ears are not pierced, my hair is stabilized at a fashionable length and
tie-dyed, and my fingernails are clean. The Gibson mark IV with the da Vinci overdrive was the last Cy-
Pee model off the assembly line, but it may be forever before the rest of us decent androids get a fair
shake. Turn left."
"But you're not like them," said Bill quickly, pivoting smartly around the corner on his crutches. "You're a
scientist, an objective observer of all nature's mysteries. A juice junky wouldn't have the attention span
necessary to maintain the keen discipline required of all scientific investigation."
"Thank you for what I earnestly believe is a compliment, though I have my doubts because of your
reduced brain capacity," said Caine. "But you have, perhaps, slightly exaggerated my experience. I am
simply a horticulturist. Turn right."
"A what?" asked Bill, stumbling along in Caine's wake. "A whore what?" His brainpan was running a
mile a minute, flooded with the usual Trooper's memories of missed opportunities and alcoholic
detumescence, all jumbled up with the occasional opportunity that would have been much better missed
than experienced.
"A simple botanist. A grower of plants. Green growies. Kabish paisan? Turn left."
"Plants?" Bill swallowed his bitter disappointment. "Plants aren't so bad. They're a lot like people, only
they move slower. I was in the plant business myself once, in a manner of speaking. Fertilizer was to be
my specialty."
"Fascinating," Caine yawned in a dry monotone, languidly lifting one eyebrow.
"It was a simpler time," Bill naffled nostalgically, ignorant of any androidal acerbity and all awash with
misplaced nostalgia for his home planet Phigerinadon II; remembering the plowing and the planting as
some sort of noble back-to-the-earth venture and conveniently forgetting the crunchingly backbreaking
pain, the long boring hours staring at the rust-eaten back end of a robomule. He'd never finished the
correspondence course for Technical Fertilizer Operator anyway, and that time in the sewers of Helior
was an experience better driven from his brain.
"Here we are," said Caine.
"These are my quarters? Great!" The room they faced was huge. Normally a repair bay big enough to hold
a small ship, all the equipment had been shoved against the walls, leaving a great expanse of open floor.
Open, that is, except for hundreds of beds of green leafy vegetables.
"What's all this stuff in my quarters?" whined Bill. "It's going to be hard for me to move around in there.
Gotta clean it out —"
"Shut up," Caine suggested. "This is the captain's greenhouse." He led Bill inside. "It's his hobby, and his
obsession. Don't touch that!"
Bill took the leaf out of his mouth and stuck it back in the dirt. "Tastes awful," he said. "What is it?"
"Abelmoschus humungous," said Caine, frowning and patting a little more dirt around the chewed-on leaf.
"You might know it by its street name of okra. Big boy okra is what the uncouth call it. This particular
variety is rather pulpy when mature, but it thrives under conditions of sandy soil. However, it does not do
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well when chomped upon before it has reached full growth."
"What's this stuff here?" asked Bill, walking over to the next raised bed, prodded on by transient
memories of his agricultural youth.
"Abelmoschus gigantis: Butter crunch okra," said Caine. "Rather misnamed, if you ask my opinion. Not a
crunch in the bunch. A soggy mess, no matter how it is prepared."
"And that over there?"
"Abelmoschus abominamus: Honey blossom okra. Tastes like turpentine. One of the captain's favorites."
"It would be. And that?"
"Abelmoschus fantomas: Banana ear okra. Known for its insect-killing properties, if not for its completely
unforgettable taste."
"And all the rest of these?" Bill swung one of his right arms, the black one, in a sweep around the room.
"Okra, okra, and more okra. Four hundred and thirty-two raised beds of okra. For an amateur, the captain
pursues his hobby with impressive vigor. Of course, he's got me to do the scat-work, so that helps as far as
he's concerned." It whined a high-pitched androidal whine of self-pity. "You have no idea how much time
it takes to fertilize four hundred and thirty-two raised beds, no you don't, and that's not to mention
weeding, thinning, and maintaining a normal cycle of watering...."
Suddenly, about a thousand overhead actinic lights crackled on. The temperature instantly rose thirty
degrees and sweat burst in torrents from every pore on Bill's body.
"What's going on?!" he gasped.
"High noon," said Caine with a humorless smile. "Right on time. The captain runs a tight ship and — this
is important to you but not to me — it also means we've got liftoff in thirty seconds. Oh, how time does
fly when I'm with my plants. Lay down on this bag of potting soil instantly or you'll get squashed flat and
you'll be no good for anything but the compost heap."
Bill barely had time to do a belly flop on the bag of stinking potting soil before all the G-forces started
piling on top of each other, threatening to turn him into compost-bait. As it was he gasped and gurgled
and was okay until the bag broke and he sank into the noisome mass it contained.
"I can't stand it!" shrieked Bill. "The smell!"
"You'll get used to it," smiled Caine, still standing, his tungsten steel skeleton impervious to the
acceleration. "The smell goes away after a few days. It's all those wonderful nutrients, you know. Plants
just love them."
"I hate them!" yelled Bill, though truth to tell, at the moment he hated phase-loop drive even more. That
outmoded method of space travel had gone out with spats and shaved heads. There was no need to get
squashed into compost when a modern drive would get you anyplace in no time at all in relative comfort.
Just when he couldn't take it anymore, the crushing forces of acceleration ceased, leaving him weak and
sick to his stomach. Being encased in a broken bag of stinking potting soil did nothing to improve the
state of either his mind or his stomach.
"My quarters," Bill moaned, dragging himself to his foot and knocking lumps of poorly sifted, rotting dirt
from his uniform. "I've got to shower and disintegrate my clothes. Not to mention I might take a minute
off and throw up."
"No time," yodeled Caine gleefully, bent over a raised bed and thinning okra with a practiced,
professional hand. "We have a lunch engagement with the captain."
"But —"
'The captain runs a tight ship," smirked Caine. "Everything goes by the book, and the book goes by the
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clock. Right now the clock says lunch."
After a hurried walk, Bill sat down at the captain's table and eyed his plate with mounting suspicion. The
mound of boiled okra looked a lot like the mass of limp steamed okra that snuggled up next to it. He tried
the fried okra and almost broke a tusk on it. Everything in front of him was either too soggy to eat with
anything but a spoon or too hard to eat period. He sighed and reached for his wine glass, took another sip
of fresh-pressed okra juice.
The captain, sniffing the air doubtfully, was eyeing Bill with much the same expression Bill reserved for
his plate of so-called food. The other two people at this dubious feast were Caine and the First Mate, a
Mr. Christianson who had arrived at the last minute in a personal cruiser bearing the Emperor's seal. Of
the four, only the captain had anything but okra on his plate.
"I say, is the air always like this?" asked Mr. Christianson, drawing a scented handkerchief from his
ruffled sleeve and waving it in front of his nose. "It smells remarkably like a garbage scow in here." He
glared at Bill and took a big spoonful of boiled okra, eating it with relish.
"How come I didn't get any relish?" asked Bill. "Some condiments might make this stuff go down a little
easier. Mind passing me that horseradish?"
"I run a tight ship," said Blight, cutting a big juicy chunk off his steak. "Just as there are levels of
command and responsibility, there are levels of largess, dispensed, of course, by myself. This is
absolutely necessary to maintain discipline aboard my ship. You will notice that Mr. Christianson, by
virtue of being First Mate, has full access to the condiment tray as well as having wine with his meals.
Caine would be eligible for wine, but not condiments, though his metabolism is such that he cannot
partake of spirits. Something to do with the effects of alcohol on his circuit boards, I believe. More's the
pity. The wine is quite excellent."
"What about me?" asked Bill, eyeballing the wine and sipping his sour okra juice.
"Being closest to the crew, you get basically the same rations they do," said Blight, tearing a roll in half
and dipping it in his mashed potatoes and gravy. "In my experience, that will help you in dealing with
them. Keep you lean and mean and on your toes, so to speak. However, since you are the only Trooper
aboard who isn't serving out a sentence for criminal activity, I have decided you are eligible for a fringe
benefit. It will help remind you of your favored position."
"Benefit — tell me!" Bill slobbered, dreaming of the occasional steak, or maybe even a greasy, succulent
porkuswine ham.
"As long as you remain in my good graces, you will be eligible for dessert," Blight said with an expansive
smile.
"Dessert?"
"Jelly doughnuts," said Caine. "I think you will find them a welcome palate cleanser after an okra repast.
Although I don't require much in the way of food, I enjoy them myself, especially those little raspberry
fellows."
"Only one," said Blight, shaking a fork at Bill. "Mr. Christianson and Caine each get two. I get six, on
account of it's lonely at the top. You've got to clean your plate before you get any dessert, Trooper. I'd get
cracking if I was you, which — thankfully — I'm not."
Bill looked at the mess in front of him. The excess grease from the fried okra was congealing into a
semisolid pool of gray matter. He took another slurp of his okra juice and turned to the First Mate.
"Excuse me, Mr. Christianson, sir," he said craftily, changing the conversation and diverting attention
from himself. "What was your last assignment?" The First Mate was a dandy-looking man, the chest of
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Bill, the Galactic Hero on the Planet of Zombie Vampires
his braid-encrusted uniform covered with medals and ribbons. His powdered wig was a little off-center,
but that only added to his rakish image. As did his strabismus. Cross-eyes ran in the royal families.
"Assignment?"
"Work, gig, job, station, base," Bill translated, in case the word was too complex for his teeny-tiny
officerial mind. "Like what other ships have you served on?" He gnawed on a grease-encrusted sprig of
fried okra. "It's possible that I might know some of the crew. Which would sort of make us like maybe ex-
shipmates, possibly." He muttered into silence, saw that no one was looking at him, then slipped the
indigestible tidbit under his napkin and lifted a spoonful of the slimy boiled stuff. "I get around," he added
proudly.
"This is my first ship," said Mr. Christianson, happily raiding the condiments tray, heaping Karbuklian
salsa and grated porkuswine's-milk cheese on his okra. "My uncle simply demanded that I take one
voyage before I get my captain's commission. Myself, I think it's an old-fashioned idea, but I guess if
Uncle Julius feels that strongly about it, I ought to at least try."
"Uncle Julius?" Bill slid a glob of steamed okra down his boot while no one was watching.
"He's the Emperor's four-hundred-and-second cousin twice removed," bragged Christianson, hogging the
wine. "He managed to get me this far without having to go through that boring basic training or taking all
those complicated tests for officer's candidate school — rank doth have its perks — but he insisted I go
out on a space ship before I captained one. Silly man, after all the money my family freely donated under
pain of death to the Emperor's war effort against the Chingers, but if I must, I must. By the way, has
anyone ever mentioned that you have a most offensive body odor?"
Bill brushed off a few more lumps of potting soil and looked out the viewport at the supply station slowly
receding into the distance. Too slowly. It was going to be a long voyage.
It was an even longer lunch. He managed to clear his plate by stuffing all manner of ill-prepared okra in
various pockets and hiding places — even slipping a few hunks onto Caine's plate when he was
distracted. He eventually disposed of all of it and leaped on his strawberry jelly doughnut like it was the
very last supper of all time.
Afterwards, licking jelly from his lips, he followed Caine's directions to his quarters. Captain Blight had
offhandedly mentioned that Bill was in dire need of a shower, and if he hadn't had one by the next time
their paths crossed, he'd personally stuff him out an airlock and make him breathe vacuum until he
learned a lesson or two about personal hygiene. Or something like that.
Bill opened the door of what he thought was his room and gaped at the behemoth who stood, when he was
standing, about six foot five, three hundred pounds, sitting on one of the two beds, bending a forged steel
lamp like it was made of rubber.
"Excuse me, wrong room," said Bill quickly, backpedaling like crazy.
"You da MP, right?" growled the bear of a man.
"I guess so," Bill said, smiling insincerely as he hopped backwards.
"Then dis da right room," the monster macerated, biting off the end of the lamp and spitting the pieces
onto the floor. "We is bunkmates."
"I'm Bill," said Bill, hesitantly hopping into the room. "Pleased to meet you."
"My name Bruiser Bonecrusher," grunted the big ape. "Nice tusks. And — hey! — you got two right
arms."
"Good eye, guy," said Bill.
"One of them right arms is black," snapped Bruiser.
file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Ha...%20The%20Planet%20of%20Zombie%20Vampires.htm (10 of 85) [10/16/2004 2:07:42 AM]
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Bill,theGalacticHeroonthePlanetofZombieVampiresHARRYHARRISON&JACKC.HALDEMANIIBill,theGalacticHeroonthePlanetofZombieVampiresAByronPreissBookVGSFISBN0-575-05320-8ForLori,atruefanofalienseverywhere,especiallythoseslimyones.Inspace,noonecanhearyoudreamCHAPTER1Billkickedthebucket.Thenhekickedachair,redu...

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