CHAPTER 2

Bill was in complete total and utter bliss.

Well, not precisely complete. Or utter. What little that remained unobliterated in the way of deep human emotions in Bill twinged ever so slightly, lifted their heads feebly from the abyssal depths of depression and, like frail shoots in April lured on by the siren promise of spring, began to flower with weensy buds of hope.

Barworld!

For all the years — it seemed like centuries — that he had served in the Troopers, in the grueling grapple of combat and the even worse conditions in boot camp on both sides of the boot, stationed on pustulating planets and in stagnant starships that made him want to flip his cookies just thinking about them, doomed to a dark bleak existence of hard beds, hard heads and no hard creds ... for all those years, the concept of R&R was strictly verboten in the Service; leave had long since left. A Trooper's duty was to serve his Emperor twenty-four and a half hours a day, three hundred and sixty-six days a year — and that under the shrunken Galactic Disgustan Calendar, only half as long as the Augustan. The only joys in a Trooper's life were two-credit/two-minute ladies of the morning (the ladies of the evening were far too expensive), and in smoking de-tarred and de-nicotinized cigarettes (in the hopes that they would shorten their miserable, wasted lives in this dubiously pleasurable fashion), Comix (albeit jam-packed with subliminal loyalty reinforcement, like Chingers and Commupops generally being the bad guys) and, of course, booze. However, even the simple joys of Trooper life tended to be watered-down and tepid. The doxies were old and bored and tended to use their creds as down payments on powered wheelchairs. The cigarettes were made of dried tobacco stems, since the real stuff was reserved for the officer classes. Comix doubled for toilet paper; the ultimate literary criticism.

And the booze...

To say that the booze was the pits was to insult underarms and coal mines all over the known universe. It tended to be repulsively flavored, cheaply manufactured ethanol, rumored to be from Undertakerworld, so that in lieu of alcohol embalming fluid was often used.

Bill hadn't known the difference for a long time, but whenever during his various adventures he'd actually tasted some real beer, some real wine, and most of all genuine unsynthetic whiskey, gin and rum, he knew that he wanted to dedicate his life to finding a world where he could sample again the fruits of this delicious alcoholic vine.

Such a world, it was whispered in the darkness, was Barworld.

And the Galactic Feds were actually sending him there!

That was if he could only find this guy whose dossier had been given him in that vanilla folder. (He knew it was vanilla and not manila because he'd gotten drunk at his liquid lunch and eaten it.)

As it happened, the Trooper that Bill had been dispatched to find — Lieutenant Hardtack Brandox, Jr. — was at this moment right here on the same planet as Bill, the main location of Galactic bureaucratic matters and center for the manufacture of women's underwear, Drawerworld.

A good deal of red tape, filing of requests and crossed communications later (to say nothing of stop-offs at bars and latrines to research Brandox's famous drinking habits and, perhaps, maybe a snort or two for himself), Bill found Lieutenant Brandox's squadron to be on jinx Ether Force Base.

"Make it fast," snarled Captain Quarterpounder, looking up suspiciously at Bill from a mountain of paperwork. "Lieutenant Brandy? What a boozer. Sweats pure ethyl. But you're too late, bowb-brains. Should have been here a day earlier. He's just been reassigned to Some Godforsaken Planet."

"Which planet?"

"Some Godforsaken Planet, bowb — don't you hear very well? That's the name. That's what they call it. Deathworld 69 to be more specific. One of the several hundred slaughterhouses of combat between humans and the Chingers, along with the rest of the filthy ETs in the universe, Ahura Mazda rot their alien green bones!"

"Well, perhaps you can call him back. I am on official business." Bill showed him the ID bracelet that the GBI had given him, strapped on the wrist under his communicator.

"Tough termites, Trooper. That bit of bureaucratic bowb means nothing here. Brandox is well on his alcohol-sodden way to the lift-off fields."

The captain gloomily examined a chronometer. Satisfied that the chrono was still metered, he examined the standard issue Trooper Clock bearing the scowling face of the Beloved Emperor. "Should be blasting off in about two hours. If you move your butt you might just catch it." He grinned with cheerful sadism. "Or you can maybe go along for the ride. I hear that Deathworld 69 is really in this year for suicidal tours of duty."

"No thanks. I've got something to live for!" said Bill enthusiastically.

The captain eyed him suspiciously. "Something wrong with you, Trooper? You're supposed to die doing your duty. Come home with your shield or on it. You know the bowb."

"No sir! I mean yes, sir!" Bill realized with horror that he'd almost spilled the beans about being on his way to Barworld — a definite no-no, since not only was the mission top secret but the captain would probably shoot him from sheer jealousy. "I think it was just a spasm of pure joy from beholding our dear Emperor's face there smiling away on the bulkhead."

"Yeah? Well, stow it when you are around here, buddy. It's bowb-your-buddy month here on Drawerworld and we've only got one month per year. Understand?"

Bill sneered, showing his fangs in his best DI manner. He saluted with both his right hands. "Yes sir!"

He trotted off for the takeoff fields to find Lt. Brandox before the starship made its lift-off.

The Happy Trails Takeoff fields were about two hours away by grav-car, but Bill, through breakneck speed, high-reflex steering and the sacrifice of a few dogs, cats, a little old lady and a second lieutenant, managed to make it to them in just a little over an hour and a half.

As always, when he approached the mighty Imperial launching pads Bill gasped an appreciative gasp or two at the sight of the towering behemoth starships reaching imperially toward the sky, their shiny impervium sparkling in the sunlight, the silvery needles of their bows pointed upward toward challenge and adventure.

Then, as usual, he experienced a depressing mood swing as he was admitted by the checkpoint guard past the ceremonial holo-facade of these imaginary vessels into the grungy and smoggy reality of the true Imperial takeoff fields. Greasy smoke poured up from cracks in the ground. The smell of diesel fuel and sulfur permeated the air. Blackened technicians trucked around in dilapidated service vehicles looking like recently nuked worker ants. There were maybe twenty starships in various states of disrepair rising up from the ground like twisted mushrooms in a bed of mold. Their skins were pitted by the craters of interstellar dust, spattered with the bird droppings of countless worlds.

The question was, which one was Brandox's?

Bill stopped a gray-skinned Trooper wearing corporal's stripes on his eyepatch and inquired.

"Deathworld 69? That's like a really hard question. We've got maybe three starships getting ready to heave up mightily through the atmosphere. Hard to tell them apart." The corporal, Bill noticed, had the telltale scars on his forehead of a jobotomy. That was why he wasn't being shipped off himself; he'd probably been a trouble-maker or attempted to go AWO (there was no AWOL or Absent WithOut Leave in This Bowb's Army, since "leave" was a foreign concept). A jobotomy was like a lobotomy, only they stuck a little programmed computer in the place where there used to be about half the gray matter; it kept the victim in line and gave him a preprogrammed duty. The corporal sighed. "Wish I could go with them into glorious battle. Alas, I am but a ground jockey. Gotta serve my Empire here amidst the dirt and gravity. But like the Emperor says, 'They also serve who stand and wait!'"

"Wait? Wait for what? Just knock off that pseudo-romantic bowb and tell me which ship it is."

The corporal just grinned, glassy-eyed.

"Never mind," said Bill. "I'll find it myself."

It shouldn't be too hard, Bill muttered to himself. Starships about ready to take off from the ground look a lot different from the moribund, inactive sort. Like their ports were closed: good clue! And they shake around like a pent-up volcano, spurting steam from their seams and generally looking like water heaters about to blow. Hell, some of them did blow, instantly killing all aboard and anyone in the immediate vicinity. In the past, with atomic drives, there had been nuclear explosions that destroyed whole cities. This was why atomic drives were no longer allowed for lift-off use. Steam catapults hurled them into the air, then chemical booster rockets were used. At least when these blew up, they did so discreetly in the atmosphere where no high-level officers were around.

It didn't take long for Bill to find a likely candidate for the Rocket Ship Most Likely To. There was a particularly noisy and noisome bucket of bolts in midfield that was vibrating like a teakettle at full boil. Its engines were building up to an excited white-hot state of excitement, and lights were spinning wildly everywhere. However, since a large gangplank was still extended and a noncom was standing at its base with a clipboard and an atomic ballpoint, Bill thought maybe there were still a few minutes left until ignition.

"Hey buddy, no way are we going to fit that grav-car you're driving into the BEELZEBUB!" said the noncom, a beefy sergeant with a chip on his shoulder. It was a corn chip, apparently from lunch, but Bill didn't have the time or the patience to tell the guy how stupid it looked.

"I'm not shipping the car, I —"

"Then get it the hell outta here. To one of the satellite lots. Take a right at the abandoned second-stage thruster, and a left at the graveyard till you see the pile of rusty rockets. Move it."

"Look, is this rocket going to Some Godforsaken Planet?"

Sgt. Porky looked at him like he was from Hayseedworld. "Well of course it's going to some godforsaken planet. They all do."

"No, that's the name of the place. Some Godforsaken Planet."

"Look, buddy, if you ain't got a name, I can't help you." A noisy blast of steam drowned out his voice.

"What?" said Bill.

"What's on Second Baseworld," said the guy.

"Who?"

"Who's on Firstworld. Plays shortstop for the Yankee Imperialists. Every sports-loving Trooper knows that, bowbhead." His eyes squinted up with suspicion. "You a Chinger spy or something?"

Bill refrained from killing him on the spot. Teeth grinding, he shoved his official Galactic Bureau of Investigation documents under the corporal's nose.

"Geez. A Fed. Sorry, you excellency. How can I serve you?" said the fat man, suddenly shiveringly penitent.

"Where is this starship going?"

"Deathworld 69, sir. In the Missionary Position nebula."

"That's Some Godforsaken Planet!"

"Yes sir, it certainly is." The sergeant nodded his head emphatically. "It's real hell. Troopers who go there never come back. Alive. Why's the GBI sending you there? Some kind of special mission?"

Bill sighed off his frustration. "No, I'm not going there. I need to get a guy in this ship who has been dispatched there. We need him. You got an officer in there name of Brandox?"

The guard consulted his clipboard. "Yeah. Here we go, sir. Brandox. He's aboard. But we've only got five minutes till we seal the port. Wouldn't do to have a starship lift off into the near vacuum with its barn door hanging wide open, now would it?"

"One more joke and you are dead. Stop all lift-off procedures instantly."

"I can't!" He wailed, vibrating with fear. "You stop the countdown on one of these antique models, they blow up. Energy-saving measure, Emperor's own orders."

"I gotta get in there and get that guy out before the doors close, then. Right. A Trooper's gotta do what a Trooper's gotta do." Namely, get this alcoholic officer out of there so they could both go to Barworld. Bill parked the grav-car (on the check-in sergeant's foot at first, which cost a scream of grief and a wasted forty-five seconds) then galloped up the starship ramp.

That the BEELZEBUB was a "Meat Runner" — Trooper argot for a vessel that dragged the detritus of the military ranks to their dooms — was immediately made apparent by the profound odor de Trooper that met Bill's nose upon entering the hold. The starship itself was clearly an old freighter pressed into service not only long past its prime but well past its expiration date. Its welds were strained, its wiring leaking volts and the whole thing vibrated like a Spican wartdog in rut. Bill slapped his way through a number of hanging cables and plumbing lines, his nose twitching at the visible fug of the interior. The autolifts were welded immobile with rust, so Bill had to climb a series of ladders.

Finally, he reached a large, dark chamber only dimly lit by the starship's reactor core and a few candles.

"Is there a Lieutenant Brandox Junior in here!"

Groans. The clank of tin cups, the slosh of chamber pots, the smell of stale bread and beans, the clank of chains. Dim forms moved in the shadows.

"Lieutenant Brandox Junior didja say?" came a groan.

"That's right," said Bill hopefully.

"Ain't me!"

"Not me!"

"I ain't Brandox, that's for sure!" came the growls in response.

Damn! Time was running out. The doors were going to close on this thing any minute, and Bill would be trapped on the way to Deathworld 69, never to return!

"Well, who the bowb is!"

"He's up in the really nasty part of the ship. He's in solitary along with some other bowbheads."

"Wonderful." Bill didn't question the concept of a shared solitary cell not only because he didn't have time, but because this was a typical Trooper paradox. Bill just scrambled up another ladder into a truly filthy section of the craft, if slightly better lit by the even more radioactive core. That was okay, thought Bill. He'd been getting a bit pale lately and he could use a tan.

"Lieutenant Brandox!" He cried. "Junior."

"Hey pal!" slurred a voice. "Shat's me! What's shup?"

Bill turned. There against a wall was a true wreck of a Trooper holding a liter bottle of clear liquid. His nose was red and his eyes were so bloodshot they looked as though there were no whites in them at all, just pupil and veins. The odor of pure ethanol wafted over to Bill. For the first time in his entire life, Bill was offended by the smell of drink. The overall stink of the place must be getting to him.

"Wanna drink?"

"Not right now. Take a look at this." Bill waved his GBI identification before the unseeing eyes. "C'mon, lieutenant. We gotta move — but fast."

"You betcha — but gotta bring my bottle."

"Do it. That's why we want you."

Bill dragged the drunk after him; he smelled like bargain night in the Dingbat Distillery. Bill took a deep breath and decided maybe to leave off the booze a while, just so that he'd be really primed for Barworld. But even as Brandox took an unsteady step, there was a jarring clang and he was pulled back into an abrupt sitting position.

"Urp!" He said. "Forgot. Little problem." He jerkily indicated the tungsten bar around his chest, chained to the bulkhead by impervium, the hardest metal known. "You got a thermal lance?"

"Two minutes until closing of hatch!" rasped a fiendish voice on the loudspeaker.

Bill squealed. He gave a feeble tug on the chain, but he knew it would be no good, and he sure as hell didn't have time to look for a hacksaw — which even if he found it would be about as useful as an umbrella in a meteor shower.

"Sorry, Brandox. Looks like you're stuck here. Oh well, they say that Some Godforsaken Planet has nice sunsets this time of year."

"Then I hope I get there after Deathworld 69!" said Brandox. "And I hope they've got good Margaritas." The drunken lieutenant promptly passed out.

"Just as well," muttered Bill to himself as he searched for the exit. "I'd have to carry this lush to Barworld."

Bill was just going to have to report that Lt. Brandox was unavailable for Special Mission Duty.

He found the ladder and crawled down it.

He made his way through the murky hold, anxious to get out of this Trooper's hellhole, searching for the exit. So anxious was Bill, in fact, that he did not notice the rusty chain slung along the floor at ankle level. He charged straight into it and went sprawling into the wall. Snap went the chain. However, his hardened Trooper reflexes (and hardened Trooper head) prevented him from tumbling in unconsciousness after his noggin met some metal. As he looked up blearily, looking for the exit, he was still quite aware that unless he got his face through that door in under two minutes, his butt was going to get shipped to Deathworld 69.

Which was, of course, Some Godforsaken Planet any bowbing way you sliced it.

There it was! The way out!

A form reared before Bill, blocking the exit. "Outta the way, you mother bowber!" shouted Bill politely. "I gotta get off this tub!"

The form solidified into a shaggy, bearded man covered with a mass of rags. "Slowly I turn," the man rumbled with a deep, ominous voice. "Step by step ... inch by inch...." The man lifted his leg, from which an old broken chain depended. "I'm free! I don't believe it! You've freed me! I've been in this starship, forgotten, for years! And you've freed me! How ever can I thank you?"

"You can just move it! I've gotta get down this ladder!"

A loudspeaker rattled. "One minute till closing of hatch. Next stop: Some Godforsaken Planet!"

"Oh no! That's Deathworld 69! There is death, only death there!" The man fell to his knees, blubbering miserably before Bill. "Oh, please good buddy! Please take me with you!"

"Get outta my way!"

"Please sir! I'll give you the Secret to the Universe! I know the meaning of Life itself!"

"Look, butt-head, I don't care if you've got the keys to the Captain's liquor cabinet. This boat's gonna blow soon, and I'm not going to be on it!"

"I'm not lying!"

"Thirty seconds to hatch closing.... Last chance for flight insurance. A mere ten million credits per head. Twenty-nine seconds...."

Bill was starting to panic. He gave the guy a hard, quick shove. The ragged man fell backward, rolled and fell straight back and down the hatchway. He grabbed at the ladder which clattered and jerked —

— and then collapsed, cutting Bill off from egress.

Bill stared, horrified.

"Twenty-five seconds. Kiss your Trooper butts good-bye!" came the reassuring rasp of the loudspeaker.

Now, Bill had been in the deep end before, so he knew exactly what worked best in such clearly difficult situations.

Total and complete, mind-destroying panic!

Not thinking about the immediate danger, only thinking about getting stuck on a planet like Veniola again, Bill screamed shrilly and dived headfirst down the hatchway.

He landed surprisingly softly.

"Ooof!" came a cry. "Ouch!" came another. "Hey buddy! You wanna get off us! Like it's not bad enough we're doomed, we gotta get landed on by some fat goofball!"

Fortunately he'd landed on a communal Trooper mattress, complete with communal Troopers.

Bill would have taken exception to the word "fat" but the loudspeaker was reminding everybody smugly that they had exactly ten — no, nine seconds till the hatch closed.

Bill scrambled off the mattress, impeded by various Trooper limbs and faces. "Hey bud, why don't you stick around!"

"Yeah! We could use some company."

Bill distributed a few punches and broke loose of the tangle. He struggled toward the smudgy bar of light that was the hatchway.

"Four seconds. Two seconds."

"Hey wait a minute!" screamed Bill. "You missed 'Three seconds.'"

"Three seconds?" said the intercom voice. "Did I miss three seconds, Madge? I could have sworn I hit three. Oh well, Three seconds. One seconds."

"What about two?" screeched Bill.

"Dammit. I said two! Look buddy, you want me to have to do a playback for you? I can, you know. We've got the equipment!"

The hatchway was right in front of him.

The door was beginning to close. Bill remembered the hellish jungle, the sweat, the horror, the pain of having to shoot off his own foot to get off the last deathworld he had been on. Spurred on by this vision, he leaped forward and through the closing door at the last possible microsecond.

He rolled down the ramp, huffing and heaving, coming to a stop by two pair of feet. One pair was shod, the other bare and calloused and unbelievably filthy.

"Hey, guy," said the guard. "This guy Brandox?"

Bill was about to say, "Hell no!" However, he was halted by a pair of bright eyes beneath the herbiage staring down at him imploringly. Bill was going to say "Hell no!" anyway because he was plenty put-out by his near escape, but something, he didn't know what, a little nagging voice of compassion, perhaps some submicroscopic scrap of conscience and compassion lingering in a dusty corner of his brain from his pre-Trooper days, stopped him. Or maybe it was just heartburn.

"Yeah. That's him. He's coming with me."

"Well, I suggest you get in your grav-car and get the hell outta here because these things go off in an explosion that cinders living things for miles around." The man then shot out of there, running hell bent for leather. Whatever that means.

Blinking with joy, the man that Bill had inadvertently saved scrambled eagerly into the back seat of the grav-car.

Grumpily, Bill leaped into the driver's seat and gunned the anti-grav repulsors. "I don't know why I'm doing this. I just don't know," he said as he raced away.

"You won't be sorry, Bill. I promise you," said the man. He was starting to speak much plainer now. And he sounded positively familiar.

Seconds later Bill felt the heat of the rocket taking off. Light flared all about him and the grav-car bucked. He kept on going and he heard the BEELZEBUB roaring away, cutting through the atmosphere toward its dreadful destination.

When he thought it was safe, Bill stopped and turned to his passenger. "Okay, bowb-breath. That's as far as you go. I got better —"

The back seat was empty.

The guy was already gone.

Bill shrugged, but his hackles were raised with a chill. Where'd the guy go?

A chill breeze of superstitious fear stirred the short hairs on his neck, chilled his large intestine as well. A ghost of Trooper past. He jammed down on the throttle.