Bill 7 - the Galactic Hero (2 page)

Bill was sitting up front, in the no-moaning section. The door to the first class cabin had been open a teensy crack when they came aboard, though it had very quickly been slammed shut. He was still hoping vainly for a second glimpse at this military paradise. The first had been tantalizing, a hint of all the heady pleasures reserved for officers: the magenta and puce velvet-upholstered couches, the strains of classical jew's-harp music, the elegant original black-velvet artwork, the clink and gurgling of something undoubtedly alcoholic being poured over ice, the bodyguards dropping their weapons and starting to unbutton ... and then the door had been kicked shut. Bill didn't care for ice — it diluted the booze when it melted — but all the rest was akin to heaven. Since he might very well be going to that Trooper's Valhalla in a little while, it seemed only fair that he should have a taste now.

With a burst of light and ear-hurting static the front wall of the transport hold sprang to life in glorious black-and-white. A scattered image of Captain Kadaffi slowly gathered itself together. He was reading myopically from a piece of paper.

“As we head together into glorious battle in the Emperor's name I want you all to know that the hearts of free humans everywhere are here with you at this stupendous moment,” he read in an obnoxious nasal whine. “We are engaged in a terrible battle against the godless” — and here the image paused while another voice filled in, 'Chingers' — “in which the future of civilization itself is at stake. The Emperor himself wants you to know that your sacrifice will not be in vain. Your names will be recorded in the Emperor's Own Big Book of the Glorious Dead. If, by any mistake, any of you happens to survive, he will be given a medal and a twelve-hour pass.”

The captain looked at the paper with disgust, then hurled it aside. “Yeah, yeah. There's a lot more bowb about glory and patriotism and so on. Blah, blah, blah. Now here's your mission.”

The recorded image wavered and was replaced by a new one, in color. Some of the troopers actually looked up at it and almost started paying some attention. Only because one of the bodyguards, a blonde with long, flowing hair, and an open blouse, leaned over Kadaffi's shoulders and blew kisses at the troopers along with revealing a fine display of her cleavage. His eyes crossed as he tried to see the view — then he snapped back to attention.

"We, and of course I mean you, should be reaching the drop zone in a few minutes. There's a big battle down there. You don't need to know where it is or what it's about. Other than that we're coming in behind the Chinger lines in a sneak suicide attack. You're a diversion from the main attack. All you have to do is get on the ground and shoot everything that moves. Try not to kill each other, although it won't matter much.

“You there, Trooper Bill — you're the point man. You other guys will follow Bill forward into glorious combat. Introduce yourself, Bill.”

Bill raised a reluctant hand; no one bothered to look.

“Thanks, Bill. I want you all to know that I'll be behind you all the way. Far behind. Of course, I'll do it all by remote control from right here, but someone has to get back to tell the story of your courage, right? Right.” The blonde ran her hand through Kadaffi's hair. “So long, loyal Troopers.” He yawned and turned away, already forgetting them.

The picture blinked out, then blinked back on. It was almost the same, except the blonde had two more buttons undone. Kadaffi scratched his head and tried to take his eyes off the view. “I forgot to tell you that you better get ready to jump. You might not get much warning.” The wall faded back to its own airsick yellow.

All around Bill, troopers were fastening their helmets and gloves, sealing their face plates, rechecking their ammo, writing their wills, emptying their stomachs.

They were in some planet's atmosphere now because they could hear the sounds of combat outside the transport. Judging by the explosions, lots of very unfortunate things were happening not very far away. Some of the blasts were very large. Some things were blowing up. In fact, lots of things were blowing up, some of them pretty close.

The transport started swerving and swaying and twisting and banking to stay away from the anti-aircraft fire. Which was a good idea, only it did not work very well. For suddenly there was no floor any more.

In that first instant Bill hoped that the floor had been shot away, not retracted. Because that might mean that Captain Kadaffi was not safe and might be wasted along with the rest of them.

Then Bill was plummeting through space.

He screamed for a while, but it didn't seem to help. He kept on plummeting. He went through “Oh bowb, oh bowb!” and “I don't wanna die!” and “Heeeeelp!” and even “Mommy!”, but he just kept falling. He tried activating the antigravity unit in his suit, but that was linked to the same remote control as the weapons, back up in Captain Kadaffi's hot little hand. Or cold little hand since he might be dead and that would be the end of that.

At last Bill tried looking down.

Well, it wasn't as bad an idea as he'd thought it might be. He was still plummeting, but he couldn't see the ground, only clouds. It didn't really feel like falling, except for the wind, and he could hear that, but not feel it. Sealed in the suit he couldn't feel much of anything. He could see out the face plate, and he could smell the sweat — and was that blood? — of the last guy who'd worn it, but he couldn't feel anything.

He looked around and saw the rest of the volunteers. Their radios were remotely controlled as well, so all they could do was wave to each other and plummet, which they did for quite a while.

Then they broke through the clouds.

They were seen at once and the firing started. Bullets and shells and laser blasts whizzed around them — but the entire squad was falling so fast by this time that no one could draw a bead on them.

But the squad could see just fine. And what they could see was lots and lots of tiny little figures that were getting larger very fast. The little figures were pointing up at the plummeting troopers and shooting at them. But the good Captain Kadaffi had other things to think about and hadn't pushed the button on his remote control yet. They couldn't shoot back. All they could do, really, was fall, and they were getting very good at that.

Bill didn't think they needed any more practice at falling. Even he, dense as he was from time to time, had mastered the falling technique in the first few seconds. Of course, there was always the possibility that this was their entire mission. A trooper in an armored combat suit weighed quite a lot, and could probably destroy a small building if he scored a direct hit on it. But that would probably destroy the suit, and suits were expensive — much more so than Troopers. So the captain had probably just forgotten to turn on the antigrav units. That was reassuring. Some.

Bill tried to relax and enjoy the descent and be ready for whatever happened next. Much to his surprise, that turned out to be an abrupt yank upwards, driving all of the lower part of the suit into his crotch.

When he regained consciousness, he was wafting gently downward toward the waiting arms of the enemy. They weren't waiting very patiently. They were sending up a lot of stuff to welcome him, and judging by how it exploded, it wasn't an entirely friendly welcome. And they were getting the range.

Bill looked down at a whole army trying to kill him. He looked up toward the transport, where only one man was trying to kill him.

He figured his odds and made his decision. Kadaffi was more of a threat.

He reached up and felt the helmet. The big antenna would be for the remote control. The middle-sized one would be for the radio to the other troopers, if that ever worked. The little one — here it was! — would be the locater beacon. He got a good grip on it and yanked, but the designers had planned for that, and it did not budge. Even with both hands, he couldn't break it off. He could blast it with his gun, but he didn't want to risk destroying the antigrav unit, or, for that matter, his head.

If only he could get to his Swiss Army Foot! He twisted around until he could reach his foot, tore off the duct tape, and pressed the button that released the tool kit. It was a little gizmo; small enough to fit in his hand, with various tools that folded out of the sides. Small knife, nail file, large knife, scissors, awl, flat-head screwdriver, Phillips-head screwdriver, bottle opener, can opener — where the bowb was it? At last he found what he was looking for — the portable foldout bolt cutter. In an instant he had the antenna sliced off and discarded.

Now that bowbhead Captain Kadaffi couldn't tell where Bill was.

Bill started firing his machine guns at the enemy. He didn't care if he hit anything, but the recoil would push him in the other direction. He started drifting away from the action, but the wind was against him, and he was still going down. By now he was wreathed in smoke and completely alone. Pretty soon now he'd be locked in combat, with the enemy really aiming at him, instead of just shooting blindly. Not at all what he had in mind.

First he used up the rest of his machine-gun ammo. That reduced his weight some, enough to slow down his descent, but not enough to stop it entirely. Then he dropped all his grenades, hoping that there was no one below who would be hit by one. He didn't want to get anyone irritated, especially anyone with a blaster. Still not enough weight, though.

The gloves with the built-in blasters were next. Then the backpack with the dehydrated water pills, fresh disposable underwear made of recycled toilet paper that could also be used as toilet paper, pseudo-meal pills, and Imperial issue last effects. He was still falling slowly.

The armored combat boot may have injured someone when it dropped, and his armored trousers left a small crater. Now Bill was low enough to see the ground — and the gunners on the ground could see him.

But by now he was only drifting slowly towards the ground. He loosened his belt and let fly. His armored pants dropped and thudded to the ground and Bill was flying steady.

Except that the wind was still pushing him over the enemy lines but, with his underwear fluttering proudly in the breeze and his arms held resolutely over his head, Bill hoped that he might be pretty safe. And he seemed to be right. No one was shooting at him, not even the other troopers.

He could see them now, floating below him and well ahead, slipping into a formation for attack. As long as he wasn't involved it looked kind of interesting. They formed into a wedge — with an empty spot at the front where he was supposed to be — and charged into the enemy lines.

Of course, they were charging down, too, and Bill was going down with them. Captain Kadaffi might not have known where Bill was, but he was sure trying to get him killed anyway.

What else could he drop to lighten his weight? His boot was already gone along with his pants. Bill really hoped he wouldn't have to drop his combat foot; he had no idea when he might be able to find a replacement, and he'd spent altogether too much time without a foot on that leg in the last few years.

He did take the foot off, though. The small combat laser built into the Swiss Army Foot was powerful enough to cut away pieces of the remaining armor. Bit by bit, he carved away the entire upper half of the combat suit, sparing only the helmet and the antigrav unit. Taking the straps from the back-mounted antigrav pack in his teeth, he shrugged out of the rest of the outfit.

Ah, stable flight again. Looping the straps through his shorts, he relaxed and watched what he could see of the action below. Which wasn't much, although it looked like the suicide mission was working out as planned. Suicidal. The Imperial Troopers were getting but creamed. For a fleeting instant Bill felt sorry for his former comrades. But the sensation faded quickly and he wished he had some of those dehydrated beer pills.

Bill had been in more than his share of battles, but he'd never had a chance to pay much attention to one before. When you're in the middle of the action, it makes even less sense than it does from the generals' point of view, which was pretty dim at best. There was always a lot of noise and confusion and, of course, people shooting at you. This means you keep your head down and don't see very much. In fact, the less you see, generally speaking, the better. If you can see the enemy, they can see you. For that matter, it's a good idea to stay out of sight of your own side when the bulk of a Trooper's training was how to obey orders and clean latrines. How to aim and shoot various weapons was just an afterthought. Bill had learned how to use a blaster long ago, but he'd done it by reading the Official Imperial Trooper Comix version of the manual. Then he got a lot of practice on Veniola and various other challenging and deadly planets.

But no matter how good he got at gunning down officers and other enemies, he never got the full satisfaction of warfare, of knowing that his work was worthwhile and appreciated, that it was part of some larger effort. Sure, the news comix told all about how the Troopers were sweeping the Chingers from all the planets of the galaxy, but they seemed to keep sweeping them from the same planets all the time. From the ground, which Bill spent a lot of time staying very close to in combat, there didn't appear to be any pattern to it at all.

From here, though, it was all different. Up here in the air with his shorts flapping jauntily in the breeze, waving gaily to the troops on both sides below and wondering where the closest bar might be, Bill could see the whole battle spread out like a map. The Chinger forces were arranged in a long, thin, green rectangle, just like in the news comix, and the Imperial troops were coming at them in the shapes of big, curved red arrows. It wasn't the best way to win a battle, but it did look good on the air reconnaissance photos that the general staff had to send to the Emperor.

The two big arrows moved forward and back, forward and back again, not making much progress toward anything, but getting a little bit smaller each time as the points were blasted away.

A small white arrow was poking ineffectually at the other side of the green rectangle, getting a lot of attention from the green gunners. Bill couldn't tell if any of the volunteers were still alive, because Captain Kadaffi's remote control wasn't concerned with that. The little box just kept the suits in formation so they could be blasted more easily. The captain might not even have been paying attention, as long as that arrow stayed neat and pointed in the right direction and someone was shooting someone else. Anyone, shooting anyone else.