“What do bears have to do with going to prison?” asked Vlak. “Unless you’re doing something weird with them, too?”
“Poor bears,” Grog said, shaking his head. Then he looked disappointedly at Harr. “Pervert.”
Inkblot was clearly not in the same frame of mind as the two cavemen, since she said, “Grisly, eh? Like blowing up an entire town or something?”
“That may be too extreme,” noted Harr.
“True. How about murder? Maybe you’re a serial killer.”
“Again, that’s a little much. Do the Boas have a rival gang, by chance?”
“Yes,” Inkblot answered. “They call themselves the Ascots.”
“You’re kidding,” Harr said.
“Nope.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Okay. Why don’t we say that I was arrested for beating up a bunch of Ascots in a bar brawl?”
“Why would that help?” asked Inkblot.
“Think about it,” said Harr, “if the former head of the Boas hears that I was roughing up members of his rival gang, he’ll probably find me as more friend than foe.”
“Smart,” said Inkblot with an appraising look.
“Thanks. Now, can you keep these two busy while I’m in prison?” He saw the look on Inkblot’s face. She was clearly someone who already had too much on her plate. “Alternately, I can send them back to my ship for the time being?”
“Honestly, I’d prefer if you sent them back for now. We’ll discuss placing them in jobs if you’re able to free Mr. Parfait.”
“Fair enough.” Harr tapped his wristband. “Geezer, please beam back Grog and Vlak for now.”
“Seriously?” Geezer said. “What the hell am I supposed to do with them, big cat?”
“Honestly not feeling the love,” said Vlak miserably.
“Reminds me of home,” Grog agreed with a sad nod.
WEEKLY UPDATE
Frexle had been far happier since Platoon F’s success during their last mission. It demonstrated to the Lord Overseer that Frexle had been correct that taking on the crew of the SSMC Reluctant was a good choice. It didn’t hurt that the HadItWithTheKillings political party had lightened up on Veli and the remaining senators—those who were still among the living, anyway.
“I know we’re still a week away from the monthly report, Frexle,” said Veli from the shadows that kept his looks veiled, “but how are we doing with that hippie party these days?”
“Approval with the HadItWithTheKillingsGroup is continuing to rise, my lord,” Frexle answered. The slope of the increase had lowered considerably, but it was still on a positive trend and that’s all Frexle was worried about.
“Good, good,” said Veli. “I’m … uh … pleased to know that the people are happy with me and my regime.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Okay, point number two on my agenda is to ask about the Platoon F crew and the Mugoog people. Has your crew destroyed those people yet?”
“They have stopped those who were propagating the technology, Lord Overseer,” Frexle answered.
“Excellent,” Veli said with what sounded like an almost cheerful voice. “How did they assassinate them? Ropes? Laser beams? Bludgeoning? Maybe they sent a video? Would love to see some video, especially if there are lasers involved. Not much more fun than watching creatures twitch under a burning beam of light.”
“Sorry to disappoint, my lord,” Frexle said with a wince, “but I believe that they merely asked those involved to cease their advancement.”
“What?”
“According to the software that you created, my lord,” Frexle said hastily, “Mugoog is no longer a potential threat.”
The room was silent, except for the rhythmic tapping on Veli’s desk. Frexle couldn’t see the Lord Overseer, obviously, but the power of that clicking brought visions of an enormous claw to mind. To be fair, though, it could have been the acoustics in the room. Everything in Veli’s office did have a tendency to reverberate, especially an hour or so after lunch.
“Huh,” Veli said after a time. “So they used diplomacy instead of destruction, and that actually made a difference? I’ve got to say that I’m rather shocked to hear that, Frexle, not to mention disappointed. Was really hoping for some video footage.”
“Sorry, my lord. It seems that intellectuals, such as those who proliferate the growth of technology, often have a knack for accepting logically valid arguments.”
“Maybe on your home world of Duckshit, Frexle. On my home planet, logical arguments had better be accurate or you end up on the community dinner table.”
“My home world is pronounced ‘Dooksheyt,’ my lord.”
“What did I say?”
“Duckshit, sir.”
“I don’t hear the difference,” Veli stated. “Anyway, where are your people now?”
“You blew up our planet, sir.”
“No, I mean the Platoon F crew.”
“Ah,” Frexle said, nodding. “Seeing as how we have nothing for them to do, my lord, I told them to do as they wished, as long as they kept me notified of their whereabouts.”
“And?”
“Apparently a friend of theirs has been kidnapped, so they’re going to help free him before he’s killed.”
“Oooh,” said Veli, tapping faster now. “That sounds exciting. What else do we know about it?”
For the Lord Overseer to be excited about the happenings of Platoon F spelled that it was a slow week in Overseerland. Veli had always been an overbearing, look-over-your-shoulder kind of boss, but Frexle could not imagine a scenario where Veli would have cared about something as inconsequential as the kidnapping of a friend of Platoon F’s.
“Well, sir,” Frexle said, slowly, “the person who was kidnapped was their previous commanding officer. He was a gentleman from their homeworld of Segnal.”
“Must have been a good commander to warrant their desire to assist him,” Veli said. “I doubt you would come to my rescue were I in that situation, eh Frexle?”
“Uh …”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Veli said with a laugh. “It’s always wise to get your superiors out of the way so you can take the next step up the leadership ladder.”
“I assure you that I have no designs on ever being the Lord Overseer, my lord.”
“Good thing,” Veli said, his voice turning dark, “because I would kill you faster than you can blink.”
Now that was the Veli that Frexle was used to.
“Of course, sir.”
The tapping resumed at its standard pace. Frexle assumed that it was how the Lord Overseer calmed himself enough to think without the need to act out violently. Whether that was the case or not, Frexle couldn’t say, because there were other times that the tapping happened when Veli seemed excited.
“So where are they?”
“Fantasy Planet, my lord.”
The tapping stopped.
“Sorry, what?”
“The are on Fantasy Planet, Lord Overseer.”
There was no immediate response. The room was dead-silent, and, though Frexle couldn’t explain how, it felt as if the temperature had dropped to the point of freezing. He couldn’t see his breath or anything, but he just had this feeling that he was suddenly standing in an icebox. He shivered.
“Why the hell are they on that planet, Frexle?”
The question was posed in such a way that Frexle couldn’t help but gulp.
“It seems that their previous commander is now the head of Fantasy Planet,” he replied shakily.
“He is?”
“Yes, sir,” Frexle answered, fighting to maintain his resolve. “It appears that the man’s captors are demanding to know how the software that runs the planet works or they’re going to kill him.”
There was now a low grumble coming from the shadows.
“Frexle, I want you to listen to me very carefully,” Veli said calmly, though the grumbling continued. “I want that crew of yours off that planet
immediately.”
“But, sir, I told them—”
“Immediately, Frexle.” The calmness in the Lord Overseer’s voice was somehow more terrifying than when he yelled. “I never want them on that planet. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not now, not tomorrow, not a year from now, not ever!” He raised his voice on that last part.
“May I ask why, sir?” Though it had scared the hell out of him to ask, he couldn’t help himself.
“Because I said so,” Veli replied.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Now, Frexle,” Veli repeated. “Get them off of that planet, now.”
“As you wish, sir.”
MIDDLETON'S FANTASY
Miles Middleton sat in a high-backed director’s chair, sipping a glass of bourbon. There was no real point to him sipping bourbon since he was incapable of getting drunk, but he’d seen a number of videos where the wealthy did things like that and he found it to be relaxing. Of course, he’d had to shut off both his taste and smell programs because the liquid was rather jarring.
The chair was positioned at the edge of his patio, which was perfectly centered between two cliff-faces. The cliffs extended from his property out about one-quarter of a mile into the ocean. From his perch, the view was unfettered all the way to the horizon, and he could even look down to watch the crashing waves below.
Behind him was a shimmering pool that contained a number of miniature waterfalls and even an attached hot tub, and behind that sat a mansion that offered twenty bedrooms, each with its own ensuite.
But Middleton didn’t care much about all of this luxury at the moment. He was too focused on the show that he’d configured as part of his fantasy.
On the cliff to his right was Grover Curr. He was standing on the edge of a diving board. Or, more accurately, a plank.
“Okay, Curr,” Middleton called out, “who is smarter, you or me?”
“Me,” Curr spat back, and then added, “dumbass.”
Middleton took a sip of his drink, smiled, and said, “Wrong answer.”
He leaned back and looked at the little console that was attached to his chair. There were a number of options that he’d already engaged, but there were still a few hundred left to go. He clicked the Surprise Me button and then looked up to enjoy the scene.
Three seconds later, a gigantic hand burst through the side of the cliff, snagged Curr and threw him straight up into the air. The android had been thrown with such force that he nearly touched the atmosphere. Then, ignoring all physics—as the world of Platoon F was known to do—Curr began his return toward the water without reaching a maximum velocity. He fell faster and faster until he finally impacted the water with such force that the spray from the impact actually cleared the lip of where Middleton was sitting.
Middleton giggled and waited for the scene to rebuild itself.
Moments later, Curr reappeared on the plank.
“Curr,” he called out again, “do you think you’re smarter than me?”
Curr rolled his eyes. “I don’t think it, you dumbass; I know it!”
“Wrong!”
The hand came out again, but this time it only lobbed Curr a few hundred feet into the air. At the same moment, a missile launched from the ground below and tracked its way directly towards Curr. Middleton laughed out loud as he saw Curr cross his arms in defense an instant before the missile detonated, blowing him to bits.
The scene reset and Middleton looked over the remaining options. His eyes fell on one particularly sinister one.
“Oh, Curr,” Middleton yelled, “I think you’re an idiot. Do you agree?”
“You’re the idiot, Middleton!”
“Oooh … nope.”
No hands this time; instead, the plank extended farther and farther from the wall until Curr was hovering over the middle of the water. The plank then disappeared and Curr began succumbing to gravity. About halfway through his fall, two gigantic sharks jumped from the water, heading in opposite directions. They passed each other in mid-flight, one ripping through Curr’s legs and the other taking the android’s computer upper-body.
Middleton stood and applauded as his nemesis was cut firmly in two.
He sat back down, savoring the image.
“I love Fantasy Planet,” he said. Then, he clapped his hands in staccato fashion and yelled, “Towel boy! Oh, towel boy! My brow is damp again!”
ENTERING PRISON
He’d seen the prison bus ride on a number of movies in his time, but watching it on the big screen and living it in person were entirely different things.
This bus was laid out with three rows instead of the standard two. On the left sat Boa gang members; on the right sat members of the Ascots. In the middle, where Harr was situated, were those who were not affiliated with either group.
There was only one other guy seated in the middle section with Harr. He was small and thin with greasy black hair, ruddy skin, and he had the look of a man who wanted trouble. He’d already grunted sinisterly at Harr more than once.
The bus wasn’t full of quietly brooding men, either. They were all yelling slurs and insults across the aisles at each other. Were there no chains involved, there would have been mayhem.
Actually, it wasn’t really a bus at all. It was a space ship that was made to look like a bus. Harr assumed that was Parfait’s idea since the man loved watching prison movies for reasons that made Harr shudder.
The bus-ship came to a stop on the landing pad of an industrial-sized prison. Obviously there was a lot more crime on Fantasy Planet than one would have imagined. A facility this large must have the capacity to hold thousands of inmates. He surveyed the area through the bus-ship’s windows and noted that it was actually two buildings. One was pink and the other was blue. Obviously, they had been separated into his and hers penitentiaries.
A guard stepped on to the ship and yelled, “Get your asses off this bus, pronto! Move it, move it, move it!”
The Ascots were shuffled off first, followed by the Boas, and finally Harr and the grunting guy that were in the neutral row.
There were guards all over the place and they looked like they meant business.
Standing at the front was another man who was dressed in a suit. He was a big, burly sort of man who looked like he enjoyed this part of the job. The grin he wore spelled that he may have found it a little too enjoyable. Harr had seen his type before. His look and his suit fit the mold of every over-the-top, nasty prison warden ever shown in a movie. That’s when Harr remembered that he was at the entrance to a Fantasy Planet prison, which meant that everything about the place was going to be somewhat cliche.
“Each of you had a life before,” said Warden Cloy, “but your asses are now a part of the Joe Simon Memorial Correctional Facility of Fantasy Planet.” He walked up and down, looking over each new inmate. “Nobody cares what you did or didn’t do; nobody cares if you really didn’t do what you did or didn’t do; and nobody cares if this is your first time in the joint or your tenth time.”
“What about us guys who’ve been here more than ten times?” asked one of the Ascots.
In response, the warden pulled out a nightstick from inside his jacket and crushed it into the guy’s stomach, buckling him over in a heap.
“You’d think that this idiot would have stopped asking that question after all the times he’s been here,” said the warden, neatly tucking the club back into its holster. “Some people never learn.”
Another inmate asked, “How many times has he been here, sir?”
After doubling that guy over and replacing the stick yet again, the warden answered, “More than ten.”
“Sir,” said another man, “what if I really did do what I did or didn’t do?”
The warden held up from slugging this guy. “What?”
“You said that nobody cares if you really didn’t do what you did or didn’t do, right?”
“Yes,” the warden answered while eying the man du
biously.
“Well, sir, I really did do what I did or didn’t do.”
“So?”
“Only asking if you care about that or not, sir?”
“No,” the warden replied and then followed that up with a quick rap to the side of the man’s head. He then looked from face to face, stopping momentarily on Harr’s while giving him an almost imperceptible nod. “Any more questions?”
There were none.
“Good,” Warden Cloy stated as he padded over to a gate that led to a stairway. He stopped, glancing back once more, and disgustedly commanded, “Process ‘em.”
The rest of the guards moved into position with one of them taking up point. He was tall and lanky with a five-o-clock shadow, reflective sunglasses that sported gold rims, and he was chewing on a toothpick. It took everything Harr had to not roll his eyes. The name on the top of his badge read, “Jeffers.”
“Here’s how it’s gonna work,” Jeffers said at full volume. “Ya’ll are going to go in nice-like. Ya ain’t gonna fight and ya ain’t gonna cause my guards any problems. Anybody who does is going to get five days in the pit.”
One of the Boas raised his hand.
“I know what you’re going to ask,” Jeffers stated, “so I’ll just tell ya. The pit is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a hole in the ground that’s cold, dark, and full of rats. We got twenty of them on site. Man can go crazy in one of them things, so don’t push me.”
The glares between the Ascots and Boas dulled at that. Good thing, too, as Harr had been through isolation training back in his Segnal Space Marine Corps days. It was under controlled circumstances with the SSMC, of course, but he still recalled the moment his brain switched from being able to handle the lack of sensory input to creating its own. He’d seen old friends, colors that he didn’t know existed, and even felt the heat of the sun. All of this was obviously impossible, but his mind didn’t care. Fortunately, he’d been brought out the moment that the scientists were aware of the issue. Well, almost, anyway. Apparently, he’d been disrobing to lay out fully nude in the “sun” and Rear Admiral Parfait, who had been watching the entire ordeal via dark-cam, instructed the scientists to wait a few more minutes.
Platoon F: Quadology: Missions 6, 7, 8, and 9 (Platoon F eBook Bundle 2) Page 26