Гарри Гаррисон - Galactic Dreams

It was a long climb up to the R&R barracks. Made even longer by the truckloads of officers that roared by them, laughing gaily, waving emptying bottles and giving them the finger. They could only plod on in insulting silence.

It was dusk before they reached the summit. Here the road split; a sign reading OFFICERS ONLY pointed to the right. Ahead of them fumaroles steamed out clouds of sulfur dioxide and other poisonous chemicals. There was still enough light to reveal that the trade winds blew the clouds off to the left. Shuffling, wheezing, coughing, crying they found the way to their holiday bungalows, downwind from the volcano of course, and dropped onto the rock-hard bunks.

“Gee this is fun!” Bill said, smiling through his tears, then lifted his arm to ward off the flying boots that came his way.

Even these hardened Troopers found it difficult to fall asleep with the seismic rumblings and acrid VOG, Volcanic Smog. But if they hadn’t learned to sleep under these, or worse, conditions they would all have been long-since dead of fatigue. Within minutes the zizzing of snores, and death-rattles of acid-eaten throats, made live the night. Until the lights gashed on and the sergeant burst through the door bellowing loudly.

“An attack! A Chinger attack!”

They groaned awake, groped for their boots, until the sergeant added, “They’re attacking the officer’s quarters!”

Groans were replaced by cheers as they hurled their boots away and climbed back into the sack. Only to be stirred out again as the sergeant shot holes in the ceiling.

“I share the feeling,” he growled empathetically. “But they may hit us next. To arms.”

This reasoned argument, appealing to their sense of survival-not the officers-sent them to the gun lockers.

Bill, dressed only in natty orange underpants and boots, grabbed up an ion rifle, checked that it was fully charged, then joined the others on the porch to enjoy the fun. Explosions and screams of pain penetrated the clouds of drifting VOG.

“Hear that? Must of got a dozen of the bowbers that time!”

“And I almost volunteered for OCS!”

It was good, clean fun and Bill, smiling with heartfelt pleasure, wandered out onto the grass to see if he could get a better view of the entertainment.

“Psst, Bill-over here,” someone whispered from behind the bushes.

“Who’s that?” he said suspiciously. “I don’t know anyone here.”

“But I know you, Bill. We were shipmates on the battleship Forniqueteur, the grand old lady of the fleet.”

“So what?”

“So I got a bottle of Plutonian Panther Pee I don’t want to share with the others.”

“Good buddy! Yes, I do remember you now!”

Bill walked around the bush and there was just enough moonlight filtering through the clouds of gunge for him to make out the tiny form of a Chinger standing there.

“To arms!”

Bill cried, lifting his rifle.

A small but powerful hand pulled it from his grasp. The Chinger bounded high and a hard fist cracked Bill’s jaw, dropping him, half-stunned, to the ground.

“Come on, Bill — you remember me. I’ve saved your life more than once.”

“Bgr? Bgr the Chinger?”

“You got that in one — after all, how many Chingers do you know? We staged this raid as a diversion-”

“You mean you’re not killing the officers?” he asked, unhappily.

“Of course we are. Now shut up and let me finish. A diversion so I could get through to you. We need your help ….”

“Do you think that I am a traitor to the human race!”

“Yes. You are a trained Trooper who will do anything to save his own hide. Right?”

“Right. But traitoring doesn’t come cheap. What’s the pay?”

“A lifetime subscription to the Booze of the Month Club. Their motto-a barrel first means you’ll never die of thirst. There is no mention, however, of hobnailed livers.”

“Done. Who do I have to kill?”

“Nobody. And you don’t have to be a traitor either. That was just my little trap to expose what bowbheads you humans are. Now let’s get out of here before the diversion ends.”

Bgr led the way to an ornamental fountain crowned by an immense fish spewing out water. The water stopped when he twisted the fish’s tail and a door opened in its side.

“In,” Bgr ordered.

“What is it? A miniature spaceship disguised as a fountain?”

“Well it’s not a subway train. Move — before we’re spotted.”

A sudden spattering of bullets at his heels sent Bill diving through the opening. He was bashed flat by acceleration and when he finally struggled to his feet Bgr was at the controls; stars punctured the darkness outside the window. The Chinger stabbed down a button and the stars began to shrink as the spacer’s Bloater Drive fired up.

“Good,” Bgr said, spinning around in his chair. “Have a cigar and I’ll tell you what’s up.”

Bill took one of the proffered cigars and lit it. Bgr ate the rest of them and belched contentedly.

“Different metabolisms. What we are on is a rescue mission.”

“Kidnapped maidens?”

“Hardly. A Chinger of course. Trapped in his ship when the engines were shot out. He’s very important to us-”

“Why?”

“If I told you that you would sell him out to the highest bidder. Let’s just say important. Spring him and you are drunk for life.”

“Why can’t you do it yourself?”

“For the simple reason, bowb-brain, that I am not human. Mgr, which happens to be his name, is imprisoned on the highly militarized planet of Parra’Noya. Any disguise would be instantly penetrated. You, however, are disgustingly human and can boldly go where we can’t.”

“I want an advance on my salary,” Bill said, beginning to be worried.

“Why not. You can travel just as well smashed. Nothing could possibly improve or hinder your conversational abilities. Here.”

“Here” was a suspiciously green flask of liquid labeled in an unknown language. None of which would deter a determined boozehead in search of escape. The first mouthful tasted preposterously foul and Bill could feel steam leaking out of his ears. But the more he drank the better it tasted and he was soon twanging a tusk with contentment as he slipped into oblivion.

“Disgusting. Chingers don’t drinker have BO.”

The clang of mighty bells awoke Bill, groaning. It was some time before he realized that they were inside his head.

He needed both hands to pry one eye open; it clanged shut and he groaned even more loudly as the light seared and sizzled through his skull.

“Appalling,” Bgr sneered as he plunged a hypodermic into Bill’s arm. Whatever it was took effect almost instantly and the symptoms of the galaxy-sized hangover began to fade. As the blear faded from his eyes Bill saw a grizzled Admiral of the Fleet standing before him. He snapped to attention and saluted with his two right arms.

Surprisingly, the Admiral did the same. Much rapid blinking revealed the fact that he was looking at himself in the mirror.

“My true rank at last,” he simpered, strutting and rattling his medals.

“Come off it. You aren’t intelligently qualified to even make Private First Class. Now listen to instructions and try to remember them. They are very complicated. Almost as complicated as learning to be a fuse tender.”

“That wasn’t easy — but I did it!”

“Indeed. Listen. Your instructions have been mnemonically implanted in your subconscious. To access your orders you must say the word `harumph’ aloud.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s it. Do you think that you can master all the complications and pitfalls of these complex instructions?”

“Harumph.”

Bill said, then hooked his thumbs into his gunbelt and began to speak in resounding tones. “I say, my good man, don’t you realize that you are in the presence of a Grand Admiral of the fleet ….”