Bill 7 - the Galactic Hero (10 page)

“General,” asked a reporter (and Bill noticed that this time the cards with the questions had been handed out in advance), “does this mean that you are urging the Eyerackian people to rise up in rebellion against the despicable Grotsky?”

“Not at all, nudge nudge, wink wink. Although we do hope that they will choose to return to the loving protection of their emperor. The government of Eyerack is leading its people down the path of perdition and destruction, and is lying to them, as well.” He turned and looked directly into the camera. “Your emperor, and we as his servants, would never do such a thing. We are the friends of all humans, and only reluctantly — and as gently as possible — chastise those who require correction.” He turned back to the reporters. “And, of course, as we proceed — strictly in our own self-defense, you understand — to obliterate the vast war machine that the madman Grotsky has imposed on the Eyerackian people, it is entirely possible that at some point, through a combination of bad weather, human error, metal fatigue, and the efforts of the Eyerackians themselves, we might accidentally injure an Eyerackian civilian, despite our massive efforts to avoid just that. Should that happen, I want everyone to know that it's not our fault. It's all Grotsky's fault!”

Grotsky was evil? He was despicable? He was a madman? Grotsky was the reason Bill was here? A steady rage started to build, until Bill realized that here was the most comfortable he'd been in a very long time.

So Grotsky was an evil, despicable madman. So was every military officer he had ever met. Bill had dealt with worse. Grotsky probably wasn't any worse than, say, Captain Kadaffi. At the worst, Grotsky would want to kill Bill. He didn't like it, but Bill was starting to get used to the idea that almost everyone he knew would try to kill him at some point or another. How bad could Grotsky be?

The two repulsive goons might have been twins.

They burst into the room with no warning, flinging the door back so hard that it thudded into the wall and all the windows rattled. One stayed in the doorway, blaster at the ready, while the other stomped up to Bill's roommate, glared at him, then rasped quick instructions into his ear. The man trembled as he gathered himself up, pulled himself out of the bed and stumbled from the room.

The goons came toward Bill, menace in their every movement.

They didn't look like the civilians who had been taking care of him for two days. They didn't look like civilians at all, in fact. The blasters were a giveaway, if the uniforms weren't.

Two days of rest, even without recreation, weren't nearly enough to dull Bill's combat skills. Dr. Presume had said that Bill could walk now, but he hadn't tried it yet; this looked like it might be an interesting test.

The goons stationed themselves at either side of Bill's bed.

“This the guy, Sid?” one of them said.

“This is the guy, Sam.”

Bill had to look at their mouths to make sure who was speaking. Sid and Sam were both the same height and build, smaller and more compact than Bill but with fully developed muscles. They wore the same uniform, with the same conspicuous lack of the Civil Defense insignia. They had the same close-cropped dark hair, the same trim mustache, the same look of grim determination. Except for being more muscular, they looked a lot like the “enemy leader” icon from the TAIL GUNNER! training game.

But there were only two of them. Two Eyerackians with blasters against one Imperial Trooper who might or might not be able to use his legs. It seemed fair to Bill.

Sid or Sam called out, “Stu! Sheldon!” Two more goons came in. They looked just like the first two. One of the four called out, “Sherman! Steve!” And then there were six.

Could they be clones? Bill had worked with clones before, and hadn't much liked the experience, but he looked carefully at the six men standing around his bed and realized that they weren't quite identical. Someone had picked them very carefully, but there were little differences like the size of the nose and the bushiness of the eyebrows, Bill wondered if they'd really been picked, or maybe put together, sort of like himself. But he didn't get the chance to ask.

“OK, Brevet Lance Corporal Bill, you're coming with us. No questions.” Even if they weren't identical, the six men were so much alike that it didn't matter which of them had spoken, and Bill had no idea in any case. It hardly mattered, since these had to be the men from the interrogation and torture division. And even if Bill could handle two of them easily, and four with difficulty, taking on all six was a surer death than going with them.

Unless —

Bill swung his legs over, out of the bed and toward the floor — or toward two of the Eyerackians. As his right foot came close to the nearest one, he activated the Poison Knife Blade.

A condom popped out of its slot and skimmed across the room. The twins, startled, watched its flight.

While they were distracted, Bill activated the built-in laser in his Swiss Army Foot and swung it around the room. The end of the tape measure swept out and poked a couple of the twins, forcing them to back off or risk a nasty cut.

Bill leaped to his feet and swung out with his fists, to take out two of the twins in one stroke.

Unfortunately, while the treatments had restored his legs to their usual strength and muscle tone, they had also made them very, very tired. Bill collapsed in a heap on the floor.

One of the twins collected the condom and put it back in the foot. “You won't be needing this just now,” he said. Another reeled the tape measure back into its slot. A third went into the corridor and returned (Bill thought it was the same one, but it could have been yet another one of them) with a wheelchair.

It took four of them three tries to get Bill off the floor and arranged neatly, if not comfortably, in the wheelchair. And at last the entire group formed up around him; one in front, one behind, pushing, and two on each side.

As they passed through the door and into the corridor Bill saw that there was a small crowd gathered, doctors and orderlies and patients and Bill's roommate and even several nurses. When Bill and his escorts emerged, the hallway erupted into applause.

Bill cowered into the wheelchair.

The goons stopped and struck poses, basking in the admiration of their comrades, accepting the glory for (as Bill saw it) subjugating a fearsome and dangerous foe. After a minute or so of heroic basking, one of the twins leaned down to Bill. “You don't want to overdo the aloof thing. The crowd loves to get an acknowledgement from their celebrities.”

Bill looked around at the crowd. They weren't screaming for his blood after all. “This is for ... me?”

“Of course. Give them a little wave and we can get going.”

Cautiously, limply, Bill waved one hand.

The noise in the corridor doubled. One doctor fainted and had to be carried away.

Bill blew a kiss.

The noise doubled again. Dr. Presume and the impressive nurse came up and presented a bouquet of roses to Bill.

“I'd like to thank all the little people who made this possible,” Bill began.

A twin leaned down. “No speeches. We've got our orders, and we're on a schedule.”

Bill waved once more to his fans, and he and his escort sailed down the corridor to a waiting elevator.

“What now?”

“Weren't you briefed?” The speaking twin shook his head ruefully.

“You were supposed to get a full itinerary for today,” another twin said.

“You're going to be interviewed on ENN,” said another — or maybe the first again.

“But first,” said some twin, maybe one who had already spoken and maybe not, “we've set up a photo opportunity.”

“You're going to meet our President.”

“You mean?” said Bill.

“Yes,” all the twins said in unison. “Millard Grotsky himself.”

Bill's emotions were in turmoil. Without his ever knowing it, so much of his life had been shaped by this nefarious Millard Grotsky.

Millard Grotsky had started this war, without which Bill would be — well, actually, he'd be fighting someone else, namely the Chingers. But he was supposed to hate Chingers; hating humans who weren't officers was something new, and hard to learn.

Millard Grotsky had made him a celebrity, which hadn't paid off in any concrete terms just yet but might at any moment. Bill knew about groupies, and had never expected to acquire any, but now they seemed to be almost within his grasp. Metaphorically, anyway. Physically, all that was almost within his grasp was his bodyguards.

Because of Millard Grotsky, Bill had met General Weissearse, who, now that he could do Bill no harm, seemed much less crazy than a lot of officers Bill had known, and a lot more colorful.

Millard Grotsky was still worth a half-million points in TAIL GUNNER!, which would go a long way toward a twelve-hour pass if Bill ever got repatriated.

Millard Grotsky was, according to Bill's friend and mentor (absence and distance do make the heart grow fonder, and particularly quickly in one as slow on the uptake as Bill) General Weissearse, the root of all vileness, the most evil man since whoever the last one had been.

Bill was profoundly ambivalent about meeting the President of Eyerack.

All the way over to the Presidential Palace, he wrestled with what was, for him, a deep and complex moral question: Do I take the chance and try to off this guy, or what?

Grotsky had thoughtfully sent over this honor guard to bring him, and that was nice. But he didn't meet Bill at the entrance to the palace, and that wasn't nice. He provided a nifty motorized wheelchair to get Bill through the halls of the palace, and that was nice; but then Grotsky's people wouldn't let Bill race the wheelchair around, and that wasn't nice.

So Bill was still uncertain what to do when he reached the President's private office, down in the fourteenth subbasement of the palace.

He spun around in the chair a few times while he and his escort and the team of photographers waited for the security checks to be completed, and for the blast-proof doors to open. Then a voice came from inside: “Bill, why don't you come in alone for a moment first, so we can talk?”

Bill knew that this had the potential to be a great moment. As he rolled through the doorway, he knew that he had the opportunity to justify General Weissearse's faith in him. He could surpass his previous status as a generic galactic hero and become one of the greatest galactic heroes of this year, and maybe last year too!

He was alone in a sealed room with the leader of the enemy. It would be relatively simple to kill Grotsky right there. And that would put an end to the war, right?

His strong right hands twitched with the urge to close around Grotsky's throat. He swiveled around to face the man. His arms reached out —

And encountered something hard and round and cold.

“Would you like a beer, Bill?”

Bill paused only long enough to note that the cap was already off the bottle. After a long swallow he put the empty on the desk, held out his hand again, and said, “Yes, please.”

The second beer took the edge off his thirst, and with the third in hand he relaxed and looked around.

The office was tiny, by the standards of the Empire: smaller, even, than an officers' latrine. It lacked the opulent decorations of an Imperial office, or latrine, as well. Instead of the classic Old Master paintings, such as Sad-Eyed Clown, Little Girl With Big Round Eyes, or Dogs Playing Poker, the walls were covered with computer screens, holovision tanks tuned to the news channels, and funny-looking rectangular objects that looked like they were made of paper. (“Books,” someone explained later. “Like comix, but without pictures.”)

Behind the desk was the biggest surprise of all. There sat another of the twins.

Bill blinked.

No, not quite a twin. This man wasn't as imposing as the others; less muscular, not as well groomed, not as good posture. But he definitely looked a lot like the bodyguards.

“You're the despicable Grotsky?”

“Yes,” the man said, “I suppose I am.”

“You started this war,” Bill said sociably, between swigs of beer.

“In a manner of speaking, I suppose so,” the madman Grotsky said. “It wasn't really my idea, but, well, yes, I guess I can take the credit.”

Bill thought about it. “General Weissearse said that everything was your fault.”

“The General is a generous man,” the misguided Grotsky said. “Would you like another beer?”

“Sure.” Bill sipped and thought some more. “The war wasn't your idea, you say?”

“No, not really.” The evil Grotsky leaned forward in his chair and spoke confidingly to Bill. “We're not very good at this war stuff. Not much practice.”

Bill tried to reassure the Eyerackian President. “You're not doing badly for beginners. I mean, you've lasted four days now against the military might of the Empire and the genius of Wormwood Weissearse...”

“Yes, yes,” the despicable Grotsky interrupted. “We get the press briefings live on cable holovision here, too. Actually, I'm not sure who's shooting down more of your ships, you or us.”

“Well,” Bill explained, “I can't say about any of the other ships, but you guys definitely got the Heavenly Peace. That was my ship.”

The madman Grotsky brightened. “Really? That is good news. Our own lads shot you down? The Heavenly Peace? I remember hearing that name somewhere. Wasn't that the lead ship in the attacks?”

“You bet,” Bill said proudly. “The General said I was god's own tail gunner on the ship, even if he never quite explained which god.”

“The General?” The misguided and evil Grotsky looked thoughtful. “He wasn't on the ship, by any chance, when we shot it down? Gee, I would so like to meet him, you know. I'm a big fan of Stormy Wormy.”

“Really? I never would have guessed. But it's too bad — he was on the ship when it got hit, but his escape pod got away. It was very heroic, for an officer.”

“Yes, too bad.” The slightly less-despicable Grotsky put another bottle of beer up on the desk to replace the empty one Bill had just put down.

Bill got a bright idea. “Why don't you just surrender? Then you could meet General Weissearse, and the war would be over, and I could go home to Camp Buboe and my foot locker. I really miss my feet.”