Bill 5 - on the Planet of Zombie Vampires (10 page)

“What's up?” called Moe on the intercom from the control room. “Can anybody hear me?”

“Bruiser sniffed a pod,” said Uhuru. “He's wearing an alien for a hat.”

“What?” asked Moe. “Have you lost your brains too? I should have put on a spacesuit. I'm doomed.”

“Time is of the essence,” said Caine. “Let's get them up to the laboratory. Uhuru, you might want to work on the plumbing while we conduct our scientific business. The air is rather thick in here.”

Caine's laboratory was just off the okra room, and they had to move several plants off the potting bench to make enough room to stretch Bruiser out.

“Shouldn't we start with Christianson?” asked Tootsie. “I mean, if we make a mistake I'd rather it was him. Bruiser's no prize, but...”

“Sentimentality has no place in the objective world of science,” said Caine. “It leads to muddled thinking and erroneous conclusions. We start with Bruiser. Pass me the trowel.”

“Trowel?” asked Bill.

“On the magnetboard there, between the rake and the hoe,” said Caine. “As an ex-farmboy, I'm sure you have the residual wit to recognize a trowel.”

“But this is a time for quick-thinking medical action,” complained Bill, nonetheless passing Caine the trowel.

“Exactly what I have in mind,” said Caine. “I want to see if I can pry this attached alien off of Bruiser.”

“Be gentle,” said Tootsie.

“I can assure you I won't harm Bruiser,” said Caine, trying to pry loose a cute little webbed foot.

“I was thinking more of the alien,” said Tootsie. “Even though it's probably really dangerous and could kill us all, it's adorable.”

“More sentimentality,” grumped Caine, laying down the trowel in frustration. “It won't let go. Pass me the pruning shears, Bill.”

“Are you going to cut it off?” shouted a horrified Larry. Or Curly.

“No, I want a blood sample.”

“I wouldn't do that,” said Rambette hastily. “We don't know anything at all about its blood. It could be caustic and the slightest drop might eat its way through the floor and all the other decks below us until it breached the hull and we all died.”

“Shut up,” he implied. “It's Bruiser's blood I need to sample.”

“Oh, that's different,” said Rambette. “Take all you want.”

“Thanks,” Caine said dryly, clipping off the tiniest tip of Bruiser's left earlobe and collecting a few drops of blood in a small clay flower pot. “I'll just run this through my analyzer.”

“I'm impressed,” said Tootsie. “I've never seen real science in action.”

Bill looked at the pruning shears and wondered if he could borrow them when Caine was through. He'd broken two of Rambette's knives trying unsuccessfully to clip the toenails on his elephant foot, and she refused to loan him any more.

“Amazing,” said Caine, punching buttons on his analyzer.

“What did you find?” asked Bill, as the crew gathered around Caine.

“A total lack of chlorophyll,” he said. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“We are talking human beings here,” said Bill. “While Bruiser certainly has his faults, he's probably just a little more animal than vegetable.”

“This is the first time I've run anything but plant stems or crushed-up leaves through here,” said Caine, shaking his head. “I always get chlorophyll.”

“Where me be?” asked Bruiser, sitting up. “What's for dinner? I'm starved.”

“Me too,” said Christianson. “I've never been as hungry as I am now.”

“You're both alive!” cried Bill.

“What else? You nuts?” grumbled Bruiser, holding a now-limp alien in his hand. “What's dis thing? Last I remember I was sniffing a pod.”

“Easy with that!” yelled Caine, rushing over and grabbing it away from Bruiser. “That's a valuable alien creature.”

“I got one too,” said Christianson, holding it out at arm's length by a limp webbed foot. “But I think mine is dead.”

“They're both dead,” said Caine. “How do you feel, Bruiser?”

“Real hungry,” he said. “Besides dat, I feel good — except maybe I got kinda pain in my earlobe. Let's eat.”

“They've been through a lot,” said Rambette. “And I'm starved myself.”

“I shall stay here and examine the aliens,” said Caine. “A true scientist ignores such mundane concerns as food while hot on the trail of unprecedented and electrifying discoveries.”

“Chow time. Let's go,” Bruiser said salivatingly.

“What's that crappy odor?” sniffed Christianson as they started heading for the galley.

“Don't ask,” said Bill, relieved to be free of aliens and back to the normal concerns of plumbing problems and good food.

“Look!” said Tootsie. “Oh, it's gone.”

“What's gone?”

“I thought I saw a mouse. It scuttled around a corner before I could get a good look at it.”

“Better be porkuswine chops left or dere be trouble,” said Bruiser.

Scuttled? Bill thought. Did she really say scuttled?

There were indeed porkuswine chops left, at least, there were until about ten seconds after Bruiser sat down. It wouldn't have taken him even that long except he had to stab his fork into the back of Christianson's hand to make sure he got them all.

Bruiser and Christianson were putting down the food as fast as it appeared on the table. They both had been known to have well above average appetites, but this was ridiculous.

“This is ridiculous,” said Rambette, holding up a limp piece of chicken-fried sea slug. “Tell me, is this supposed to be crisp?”

“What you see is what you get,” said Uhuru, who was seated at the large table, still wearing his spacesuit. “Fresh from the microwave.”

“You can't microwave sea slug,” said Tootsie. “It's supposed to be crispy. You've got to use a deep fryer.”

“The fryer broke when we landed,” said Uhuru. “It was a brave little fryer, but it's junk now. Boy, those rattlesnake caviar blintzes look good.”

“They're delicious,” said Christianson, grabbing a handful and pouring half a bottle of hot sauce on them. “You better dig in right now if you want some. I can't control myself.”

“I'm not getting out of this suit,” whined Uhuru. “Being turned into a zombie doesn't appeal to me.”

“Dat zombie stuff is just Caine's stupid idea,” said Bruiser, pulling all four drumsticks off a roasted Procyon-3 turkey. “Jus' look at me. Normal like always. Pass some more of dat fou-fou.”

“On the way,” whined Captain Blight, who had been assigned kitchen duty and was really chained to the stove. “I'm toasting the fou-fou now. You can't expect me to do everything at once.”

“I'm finishing this one, so I'll have another soylent greenburger too!” said Christianson, bolting the last mouthful then licking his fingers enthusiastically. “I think that dehydrated reconstituted chipped spider-burgers are the best thing in the galaxy. But I'll settle for second best. You sure you don't want some, Uhuru?”

Bill could hear Uhuru's stomach growling frantically as the man stared longingly at the sizzling pan of frying burgers that emitted a luscious green smoke. He reached down beside him and patted Barfer on the head. The dog was happily munching on some okra he'd dug out of the garden.

“Which one of you is Moe?” Bill asked. The three clones were sitting across from him gnawing enthusiastically on broasted archeopteryx wings.

“Him. The knucklehead hogging the lortsauce.”

“What do we need to get us going, Moe?” asked Bill, nibbling a bit of blintz.

“Besides the tape? Some coils of baling wire would help patch things together. And, let's see, steel plates for the bulkheads, screens for the shields, and fuses; we're real short on fuses. We've got all kinds of welding equipment and miscellaneous supplies in the repair bays, but it'll take time.”

“Time is the one thing we don't have,” said Bill. “But I do know fuses. I have a Fusetender's Mate Fourth Class rating so I'll take care of that.”

“I can do the bulkheads,” said Bruiser between gulps. “But I'll need a hand getting the steel plates out of the station.”

“Not me,” said Tootsie. “I'm not going back into that terrible place. Pass the fou-fou.”

“I can't take it!” cried Uhuru, removing his helmet and seizing up a broasted archeopteryx wing two meters long. “I know I'll regret this, but I'm like starving to death.”

“You ought to try chewing your food, Bruiser,” said Rambette. “Goes down easier that way.”

“Chewing slow Bruiser down,” he sputtered around a mouthful of food. “Is waste of eating time.”

“Here's your burger,” said Captain Blight. “Rare. The black bits are spider chitin.”

“Yuck,” moaned Tootsie. “I'll never eat a spider again after the way you cook them.”

“HEY!” bellowed Bruiser.

The dinner conversation stopped cold in its tracks. Everybody froze. Even Barfer quit munching on his okra and stared at the big man.

“HEY!” he cried, slapping the side of his head. “I t'ink I'm losing my mind!”

“I knew it,” wailed Uhuru. “I should never have come out of my spacesuit. There goes my common sense, and here comes zombiedom.”

“Where's my Slasher?” Bruiser roared. “What bowb stole my axe?”

“Cool it,” Bill cozened. “Nobody —”

“Don't you tell what to do, you bowbheaded MP,” snarled Bruiser. “It's all your fault.”

“My fault?”

“It's still down dere — in the pod cavern. Larry said he carry it back.”

“Me? Come off it, Curly. You were supposed get it.”

“Somebody's got to get it,” Bruiser growled. “I t'ink it's MP's job.”

“Me?” asked Bill.

“You got maybe some kinda ear trouble?” barked Bruiser. “If your big-stoop foot hadn't knocked hole in floor none of dis would have happened. Now, get your chunk down hole and get my Slasher — or I get it myself, come back and use axe on you. You no have to worry about your foot no more. You catch on?”

“I think I got the picture,” said Bill.

“Good,” grunted Bruiser with a satisfiedly sadistic smile. “Now dat settled, we finish dis meal. Who's got rest of blintzes?”

“More here, sir,” said a disgusted Captain Blight. “They're just the way you like them.”

While Bruiser and Christianson were dividing up a gigantic pile of half-raw rattlesnake caviar blintzes Caine walked in. He was carrying one of the dead aliens and looked worried.

“We have a problem,” he said.

“I know,” said Uhuru, noshing away. “Bruiser lost his axe and — hey! — get that thing out of here!”

“It is merely a discarded integument,” said Caine. “It's no danger whatsoever.”

“A what?” said Rambette. “It's not nearly so cute now that it's a dead whatever you called it.”

“Integument is the scientific word for skin,” said Caine. “It shed its skin like a snake. I was halfway through the autopsy when I discovered it was empty inside. Bruiser was right, it's nothing but fur and feathers.”

“This is hardly proper dinner conversation,” complained Christianson, though he did not stop eating.

“You, of all people, should be paying attention, Mr. Christianson,” said Caine. “It wouldn't hurt for Bruiser to listen up, either.”

“Me listen good,” mumbled the big man as he cracked the archeopteryx bones with his teeth and noisily sucked out the marrow.

“This isn't going to be pretty,” lectured Caine. “But science — being hard, cold, and objective — often isn't. Pretty might be said to be a luxury that scientific research can't afford.”

“Gee, I'm impressed,” said Rambette unimpressedly. “Slide those latkes over here.”

“Dey good, huh?” asked Bruiser. “Though me feel sorry for all da rattlesnakes.”

“Don't bother,” said Tootsie. “They died in a good cause. Indigestion.”

“Would you people kindly listen?” Caine snapped surlily. “I have deduced that we are dealing with the larval form of an extremely complex creature.” He waved the alien skin to make his point, and a webbed foot fell into the salad. Bruiser picked it out and threw it on the floor. Barfer sniffed it, growled unhappily, and went back to his okra.

“We had firsthand observation of the egg hatchery,” he continued. “That's a good place to start examining the beast's life cycle. After an appropriate incubation period they apparently hatch and wait to attach themselves to any living forms that are handy.”

“This is spoiling my appetite,” moaned Tootsie.

“Not mine,” Bruiser said happily. “Who got da chopped onions?”

“Whereupon they gather nutrients, pass into a dormant stage, and molt.”

“Wait a minute there,” said Christianson, watching the captain throw bits of battered sea slug into the simmering oil. “I don't think I like that gathering nutrients part. Are you trying to tell me it was sucking my blood?”

“Something like that,” said Caine. “But I wouldn't worry about that part. They're pretty small at that point in their life cycle, so they probably don't require much in the way of nutrition. Just a little blood. You can easily spare it. The only complication would be that you might feel a little hungrier than usual afterwards.”

“I haven't noticed anything like that,” said Christianson, chomping half of a spiderburger in one bite.

“Me either,” said Bruiser, dipping his tenth turkey leg into the hot sauce.

“Bloodsucking aliens?” mused Rambette. “Could they possibly be galactic vampires?”

“First we had mummies,” moaned Tootsie. “Next we had zombies and now we've got vampires. We've had every damned monster in the book.”

“I think we're missing trolls,” suggested Bill helpfully. “And dragons.”

“Don't forget werewolves,” said Rambette.

“Maybe they're next,” quavered Tootsie.

“That's hard to predict,” Caine said. “But one thing we can be reasonably sure of is that whatever form it takes next, it won't be little and cute anymore. It's outgrown that stage.”

“That's cheerful news,” said Bill, poking his finger into his midriff to see if he could stow any more chow away.

“So where are they?” asked Uhuru. “If they molted, where did they go off to? They better not be loose on the ship.”

“That's a very real possibility,” said the android science officer. “And there may not be two anymore. There may be four.”

“Four?” asked Larry or Curly or Moe, stealing a latke off another clone's plate. “How come four?”