"Harrison, Harry - Bill, the Galactic Hero 5 - on the Planet of Zombie Vampires" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

"How come I didn't get any relish?" asked Bill. "Some condiments might make this stuff go down a little easier. Mind passing me that horseradish?"
"I run a tight ship," said Blight, cutting a big juicy chunk off his steak. "Just as there are levels of command and responsibility, there are levels of largess, dispensed, of course, by myself. This is absolutely necessary to maintain discipline aboard my ship. You will notice that Mr. Christianson, by virtue of being First Mate, has full access to the condiment tray as well as having wine with his meals. Caine would be eligible for wine, but not condiments, though his metabolism is such that he cannot partake of spirits. Something to do with the effects of alcohol on his circuit boards, I believe. More's the pity. The wine is quite excellent."
"What about me?" asked Bill, eyeballing the wine and sipping his sour okra juice.
"Being closest to the crew, you get basically the same rations they do," said Blight, tearing a roll in half and dipping it in his mashed potatoes and gravy. "In my experience, that will help you in dealing with them. Keep you lean and mean and on your toes, so to speak. However, since you are the only Trooper aboard who isn't serving out a sentence for criminal activity, I have decided you are eligible for a fringe benefit. It will help remind you of your favored position."
"Benefit - tell me!" Bill slobbered, dreaming of the occasional steak, or maybe even a greasy, succulent porkuswine ham.
"As long as you remain in my good graces, you will be eligible for dessert," Blight said with an expansive smile.
"Dessert?"
"Jelly doughnuts," said Caine. "I think you will find them a welcome palate cleanser after an okra repast. Although I don't require much in the way of food, I enjoy them myself, especially those little raspberry fellows."
"Only one," said Blight, shaking a fork at Bill. "Mr. Christianson and Caine each get two. I get six, on account of it's lonely at the top. You've got to clean your plate before you get any dessert, Trooper. I'd get cracking if I was you, which - thankfully - I'm not."
Bill looked at the mess in front of him. The excess grease from the fried okra was congealing into a semisolid pool of gray matter. He took another slurp of his okra juice and turned to the First Mate.
"Excuse me, Mr. Christianson, sir," he said craftily, changing the conversation and diverting attention from himself. "What was your last assignment?" The First Mate was a dandy-looking man, the chest of his braid-encrusted uniform covered with medals and ribbons. His powdered wig was a little off-center, but that only added to his rakish image. As did his strabismus. Cross-eyes ran in the royal families.
"Assignment?"
"Work, gig, job, station, base," Bill translated, in case the word was too complex for his teeny-tiny officerial mind. "Like what other ships have you served on?" He gnawed on a grease-encrusted sprig of fried okra. "It's possible that I might know some of the crew. Which would sort of make us like maybe ex-shipmates, possibly." He muttered into silence, saw that no one was looking at him, then slipped the indigestible tidbit under his napkin and lifted a spoonful of the slimy boiled stuff. "I get around," he added proudly.
"This is my first ship," said Mr. Christianson, happily raiding the condiments tray, heaping Karbuklian salsa and grated porkuswine's-milk cheese on his okra. "My uncle simply demanded that I take one voyage before I get my captain's commission. Myself, I think it's an old-fashioned idea, but I guess if Uncle Julius feels that strongly about it, I ought to at least try."
"Uncle Julius?" Bill slid a glob of steamed okra down his boot while no one was watching.
"He's the Emperor's four-hundred-and-second cousin twice removed," bragged Christianson, hogging the wine. "He managed to get me this far without having to go through that boring basic training or taking all those complicated tests for officer's candidate school - rank doth have its perks - but he insisted I go out on a space ship before I captained one. Silly man, after all the money my family freely donated under pain of death to the Emperor's war effort against the Chingers, but if I must, I must. By the way, has anyone ever mentioned that you have a most offensive body odor?"
Bill brushed off a few more lumps of potting soil and looked out the viewport at the supply station slowly receding into the distance. Too slowly. It was going to be a long voyage.
It was an even longer lunch. He managed to clear his plate by stuffing all manner of ill-prepared okra in various pockets and hiding places - even slipping a few hunks onto Caine's plate when he was distracted. He eventually disposed of all of it and leaped on his strawberry jelly doughnut like it was the very last supper of all time.
Afterwards, licking jelly from his lips, he followed Caine's directions to his quarters. Captain Blight had offhandedly mentioned that Bill was in dire need of a shower, and if he hadn't had one by the next time their paths crossed, he'd personally stuff him out an airlock and make him breathe vacuum until he learned a lesson or two about personal hygiene. Or something like that.
Bill opened the door of what he thought was his room and gaped at the behemoth who stood, when he was standing, about six foot five, three hundred pounds, sitting on one of the two beds, bending a forged steel lamp like it was made of rubber.
"Excuse me, wrong room," said Bill quickly, backpedaling like crazy.
"You da MP, right?" growled the bear of a man.
"I guess so," Bill said, smiling insincerely as he hopped backwards.
"Then dis da right room," the monster macerated, biting off the end of the lamp and spitting the pieces onto the floor. "We is bunkmates."
"I'm Bill," said Bill, hesitantly hopping into the room. "Pleased to meet you."
"My name Bruiser Bonecrusher," grunted the big ape. "Nice tusks. And - hey! - you got two right arms."
"Good eye, guy," said Bill.
"One of them right arms is black," snapped Bruiser.
"We all can't be perfect," Bill ingratiated, craw-fishing on crutches and foot toward the unoccupied side of the room. "If you're crew, what are you doing time for?" A change of subject might help. It didn't.
"Axe murder," hinted Bruiser, his broad grin revealing surgically implanted canines, two inches long and filed to sharp points.
"Could happen to anybody," said Bill.
"Cut feet off MP an' left him in snow to bleed to death."
"I know how it goes," said Bill. "Sometimes stuff like that just happens."
"Course, he had two feet. You just got one. Only take half time."
"You got to realize there's no snow on this ship," gasped Bill. "And none forecasted in the foreseeable future."
"That black arm you got remind me of someone," growled Bonecrusher. "Goes way back."
"Well, me and this arm go way back, too."
"Reminds me of big Trooper name of Tembo," grunted Bruiser. "He and I never get along."
"You and I will get along better, I'm sure," Bill implied hopefully. He remembered Tembo, blown apart in that awful battle, and how he awoke with Tembo's arm surgically attached to his body. A bit of news he was determined to keep to himself.
"He drive me bonkers, all that preaching. Voodoo day an' night. I mean to kill him, still got nightmares. But he shipped out while I was in da brig for like doin' something I forgot. I lookin' for him ever since. He ever lay hand on me, I chop it off in a second."
Bill watched his right hand, the black one, clench into a tight fist, and knew for sure it was going to be a long, long trip.

CHAPTER 3

Bruiser Bonecrusher was the meanest-looking human Bill had met in his entire life, right up until the moment Rambette walked in the door about five horrible minutes later.
Rambette was of medium height, medium weight, and had medium brown hair. She stopped being medium right there. Her eyes were a blazing blue, and she carried all manner of knives and menacing weapons strapped in bandoleers wrapped around her attractive, curvaceous - though barely visible behind the armament - body.
"Where's that MP, Bruiser?" she rasped huskily. "We got a problem in Repair Dock Four."
"I'm the MP assigned to this ship, miss," said Bill, staring in awe at a gigantic curved scimitar stuck in her belt. "Bill's my name."
"I'm Rambette," she said, looking down below his belt and laughing. "You seem to be missing a piece or two."
In horrified shock Bill looked down - his zipper was closed! He relaxed and the cold sweat cooled on his brow. "Oh, my foot you mean. The doc said that it'll grow back."