“Captain Harr told us to come up here,” Vlak said.
“Inkblot said she didn’t have time to muck about with us,” Grog agreed.
“That’s no concern of mine. Once I have gathered up Harr and the rest of the Platoon F crew, I will be transporting them back to the ship and then off to the Overseer base. At that point, you won’t be joining us, so you’re coming down with me now.”
Grog and Vlak shrugged at each other.
“Starting to think that we should have stayed on Mugoog,” said Grog.
“They’d have killed us,” Vlak noted.
“Maybe, but at least they wouldn’t be tools about it.”
“What’s that?” said Frexle.
“What’s what?” replied Grog innocently.
This was the perfect diversion for Frexle to verify something he’d believed to be true. He knew that asking Geezer anything outright would only suffice in getting him either a lie or a vague enough answer that would leave Frexle ever in the dark. But with Geezer distracted by all the happenings, it was time to use some of that Overseer guile.
“Transport us down, if you would, Mr. Geezer.”
“You got it, big cat.”
“Ah hah!” Frexle said, pointing at Geezer.
“Shit.”
“I knew you were holding something back from me regarding your last mission. You have transporter technology!”
“Busted,” said Geezer as his head dipped forward.
“Why would you hold back such knowledge from me?”
“We thought it’d be another thing that your bigwigs could use as a reason to wipe us out.”
Frexle pursed his lips. “Actually, that’s probably true. Note this, though, I’m your superior here and so I need to be kept informed of these matters. Is that clear?”
“Yep.”
Frexle glanced around the ship. Fact was he’d already known that they had a transporter. It was simple deduction. There was little sense in ferrying shuttles back and forth from space and if these people had instantaneous travel, cloaking, and time travel, they assuredly had the ability to transport matter. What he didn’t know was what else they were hiding. Edict or not, this crew would only tell him what they felt like telling him.
“Continue with the transport,” Frexle commanded.
The tingling feeling was not something Frexle was used to. Obviously, the algorithms used in the robot’s software were less than exacting. He would have to take a look at some point, if time allowed for it. Frexle did so enjoy a good puzzle now and again. He couldn’t help as much on the schematics front, but he had a way with computer programming.
After the world faded back into view, Frexle found that they were standing in what appeared to be a control room of sorts. There were a few desks and monitors, and there were a couple of connected rooms that were behind darkened glass doors.
“Hello?” said a bearded little man who was looking up at Frexle.
“Inkblot?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, okay. Sorry, they told me you were female.”
“I am.” She looked past Frexle and noted that Grog and Vlak were standing there. “I’m assuming you’re from the Reluctant?”
“Heavens, no,” Frexle replied as if slapped. Then, he thought that he was being, as the cavemen had put it, a tool. He softened. “Sorry, I’m not a member of the crew, per se. My name is Frexle and I’m the commander of Platoon F.”
Inkblot raised her eyebrows. “You’re Captain Harr’s commanding officer?”
“That’s correct.”
“Sorry,” she said while looking him over again, “it’s just that you don’t look very military.”
“Different kind of military than you’re used to, I suppose. We don’t have all the outfits and jangly medals. See no point in that. We already know how important we are as Overseers.”
“Ah,” said Inkblot.
“Hey,” Frexle yelled out to Grog, “don’t touch that.”
Grog frowned. “What? I’m only looking at the screen.”
“Your hands are on the keyboard.”
“So?”
“So that’s touching,” Frexle pointed out. “I’m sure Mr. … erm … Ms. Inkblot here is not all that fond of you touching things in here.”
“It’s okay,” Inkblot said, coming to Grog’s defense. “He can’t do any harm without knowing the password.”
“That’s easy,” said Vlak. “The password is f@nT@sYPl@n3t.”
Inkblot’s jaw dropped open. “How did you know that?”
“Written right here on a piece of paper,” Vlak answered, holding up a yellow sheet. “Says, ‘The password is f@nT@sYPl@n3t’ and it even has some basic commands listed.”
“Damn interns. Fine, well, stay away from that keyboard then. I’ll have to change the password ... again.” She grumbled something under her breath and then looked back at Frexle. “So are you here to help Captain Harr?”
“Actually, I’m here to retrieve him.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, but first I wanted to get a look at your operation.”
Inkblot lifted her shirt and showed Frexle her appendectomy scar.
“No, I mean I want to understand how getting a fantasy on this planet works.”
Inkblot’s demeanor changed yet again. She went from looking like a cadet to looking like a salesperson. She’d even whipped out a datapad and attached an Intergalactic Credit Card reader.
“What kind of fantasy would you like to book?”
“None,” Frexle said with a sigh. “I just want to understand how everything works.”
“Oh,” Inkblot said resignedly while tucking the datapad back into its case. “Not much I can tell you beyond the clerical, if that’s what you mean. They don’t give us access to the code or anything. That’s what the kidnappers are demanding.”
“I see. Well, may I at least see how you go about creating a fantasy?”
“Sorry, no,” Inkblot stated. “That’s classified.”
“I’m an Overseer,” Frexle said, which in his estimation should have been authorization enough.
“So?”
Apparently it was not authorization enough. He grunted.
“So I can have your planet destroyed with a simple request.”
Grog coughed, but Frexle could have sworn that it wasn’t a true cough as the sound the caveman made was most certainly, “Tool.” Vlak coughed an instant later, his clearly saying, “Knob.”
“Why would you want to do that?” asked Inkblot as Frexle gave the cavemen the stink-eye.
“I wouldn’t want to do it,” Frexle answered Inkblot, “but my point is that I’m capable of it, and that means that there is nothing in your little system that is beyond my basic knowledge.”
“Then why do you want to see it?” she asked.
“Got ya there, Frex,” Grog said.
Frexle turned towards Grog while putting his hands on his hips. “The name is Frexle, not Frex, and why don’t you mind your own business?”
“Frex sounds better,” Grog suggested.
“I don’t know if I’d go with that, Grog,” countered Vlak. “Frex is too easy to make fun of.”
“How do you figure?”
“Frex, Frex, he’s the wrong sex. That kind of thing.”
“Ah, yes, that’s true, Vlak,” Grog said with a laugh. “Of course we could make fun of his actual name in the same way. Frexle, Frexle, he’s the wrong sexle.”
The cavemen shared a laugh.
“Are you two finished?” Frexle said with a glare.
“I’m sure we can come up with more ways to make fun—”
“And I’m sure, Grog,” Frexle interrupted, “that I can come up with ways to pick you both apart, atom by atom, in a horrific show of pain and anguish.”
“Knob,” coughed Vlak.
“Tool,” coughed Grog.
Frexle took a moment to steady himself. It was a wonder that Captain Harr could manage to put up with people like thi
s. They were incorrigible, aggravating, and often incomprehensible. Honestly, they weren’t much unlike the Overseers who sat upon the senate with the possible exception being that the cavemen were smarter.
“Anyway,” he said, returning his attention to Inkblot, “a demonstration, if you please?”
“Fine,” Inkblot said, clearly giving up. “Follow me.”
She walked to the door at the back of the room and put in a security code on the keypad. Then she placed her hand over the device and then went through an eye scan. Once that was done, she pushed through the door and everyone funneled in.
“Okay,” she said sternly, “what you see in this room is confidential, and I don’t care if you’re an Overseer or not.”
Frexle decided to let that remark go. “We understand.”
Inkblot took a deep breath and shook her head. It was clear that she wanted no part of this, but that only solidified Frexle’s belief that as an Overseer, he held the cards.
“Computer,” Inkblot said, “I’d like to initiate a new fantasy, please.”
“Computer here,” came the response in a voice that was all too familiar to Frexle. “What kind of fantasy would you like?”
“That voice,” Frexle exclaimed. “I know that voice!”
“That may be,” the computer replied, “but I do not recognize your voice. Only authorized voices may make fantasy requests.”
Inkblot looked at Frexle. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s in my programming to—” began the computer.
“No, no, not you, computer,” Inkblot said, cutting off the machine. “Please cease for a moment.”
“Affirmed.”
“This is exceedingly interesting,” said Frexle as his mind raced. “Why, it’s unfathomable.”
“What is?” Inkblot asked.
“Hmmm?” Frexle said, jolted from his thoughts. “Oh, nothing,” he said quickly. “Nothing at all. Just reminds me of a, uh, voice that I’d heard on an old piece of software from, uh, many years ago.”
Inkblot gave him a tired look. “Right. What kind of fantasy do you want me to create?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Frexle replied. “Anything will do fine.”
“Hey, Inky,” said Grog, “you got any options that include Early Evolutionary Humanoid chicks that I could, you know, get busy with?”
“I’m sure that could be arranged,” Inkblot said, “and I kind of like that.”
“You dig Early Evolutionary Humanoid chicks?” Vlak replied, taken aback.
“No, I like the nickname Inky.”
“Oh, right,” Vlak said and then turned to Grog. “Why would you want that fantasy, Grog? Chicks these days are much hotter.”
“I know, but it’d be nice to get some closure on that. You know, have them dig us and not the muscle-heads for a bit, yeah?”
“There’s no time for this,” Frexle replied. “Just create a simple fantasy of a person who wants to sit in a quiet field. I sure as hell know that I’d like that right about now.”
“Knob.”
“Tool.”
Neither of them had bothered to disguise the words with a cough this time.
THE PARFAIT CELL
Harr kept his eyes on the clock that sat on the wall down by the guard station. It was nearing 7pm and he had to get down to the Parfait Cell, whatever the hell that was. Honestly, he was more than a bit concerned, knowing who it was named after.
A guard was doing the rounds and Harr stopped him.
“Yeah?”
“Uh, I’m in need of … release,” Harr said with some difficulty.
The guard didn’t skip a beat, though. He simply pulled out his keys, unlocked the cell door, and motioned Harr out.
“That way,” said the guard.
They moved along until they reached a darkened area of the cell block. There was a short line of prisoners already waiting as Harr joined them. Jocco and Runk filed in right behind him.
“Good,” Jocco said, “you made it.” He scanned the area for a few moments. “Not safe to talk in the cafeteria. Lot’s of ears there.”
“Seems to be a few here, too,” Harr said as the line moved forward.
“Yeah, but nobody’s listening here. They’re too busy seeking some release.” He spun back towards Runk. “Will you quit bumping into me, you idiot?”
“Sorry, boss.”
“I checked with some of my contacts,” Jocco said irritably, “and it seems that your guy is being held at the Boa’s main HQ.”
“Where’s that?”
“Underground tunnels. Only way to get there is through the entrance by the dump.”
“Figures.”
“Here,” Jocco said, pressing a piece of paper in Harr’s hand as they took another step forward in line, “this has the coordinates for the entryway. Don’t go during the day, you’ll be shot. Get to the door around one in the morning and wait for a shift change. It’s the only time there’s an empty slot. It’ll be unguarded for ten minutes; sometimes less.”
“Out of curiosity,” said Harr while pocketing the paper, “why is there a lapse in coverage?”
“Prayers.”
“Prayers?”
“Yeah,” Jocco replied. “The Boas do prayers at one in the morning and seven in the morning every day. It’s in The Book of Yummy.”
Harr nodded and then stopped. The Book of Yummy? The last time he’d heard the name Yummy was when he’d put in a call to then Rear Admiral Parfait on a late night many years ago to discuss mission details.
He squinted at Jocco and they took another step, bringing Harr closer to the front of the line.
“Did you say The Book of Yummy?”
“It’s the Boa’s main book. We live by it.” He spun back towards Runk. “Stop bumping into me. I don’t much enjoy feeling your aroused state hitting me in the back, yeah?”
“Sorry, boss.”
“Who exactly do you pray to?” Harr ventured.
“We don’t actually pray to anyone,” Jocco answered. “We simply get on our knees for ten minutes or so.”
“Ah,” Harr said, not daring to ask why. Mostly because he believed he already knew the answer. “Okay, so one in the morning.”
“Next,” called out a burly guard.
“That’s you,” Jocco said. “Go ahead, we’ll talk after.”
“After what?”
“Release.”
Harr gulped and pulled back the curtain. There he saw a wall that had a hole in it, about waist high. Stenciled at eye-level were the words The Parfait Cell. That’s when he put two and two together.
“Uh, no thanks,” he said disgustedly.
“Come on, pal,” the guard said. “Hurry up, will ya?”
“No, I’m okay, really,” Harr said with a grimace. “Thanks, though. I thought this was a different line.”
“Suit yourself,” the guard said with a grunt. “Take this one back to his cell.” Another guard stepped up to lead Harr away when the first guard said, “Wait! Everyone stand at attention, it’s time for the Parfait Cell shift change.”
The guard completely pulled back the curtain and unlocked the cell door. Harr’s original cellmate, Grunt, stepped out, looking rather upset.
“I don’t know how the hell you expect my doing that would serve to make me tougher,” Grunt said disgustedly.
“Sorry, pal,” the guard said with shrug. “Was your turn.”
“Ridiculous!”
The guard glanced at another guard who was holding a datapad. “Who we got next?”
“Prisoner number 977236.”
“Oh, that’s this guy,” Harr’s guard said, pointing at the number on his chest.
“What?” Harr replied. “Me? I’m not going in there.”
“Interesting,” Jocco said, giving Harr a wink.
“Ha,” Grunt said, smiling gruffly. He then turned towards the guard. “Hey, I suddenly feel the need for release.”
“Get in line,” the guard said, shoving Gr
unt away.
Harr crossed his arms. “No way I’m going in there.”
“It’s your turn, pal,” the burly guard said. “Into the cell.”
“Not a chance,” Harr replied firmly.
“Attention,” called out a stern voice, “Warden on deck!”
All of the guards came to immediate attention, as did the prisoners. Harr wasn’t sure how to respond, but decided it best to follow along with the others. He stood up straight.
“Yes, Warden Cloy?” the burly guard said in a soldierly way.
“I’m looking for prisoner 977236.”
Everyone pointed at Harr, including the prisoners. Harr had always been taught that you didn’t rat people out in prison. So much for those TV shows.
“It’s his turn in the Parfait Cell, sir.”
“Well, you’ll have to pick someone else, I’m afraid.” The warden then pointed at Jocco. “Take this guy instead.”
“What?” said Jocco.
“Interesting,” said Runk, giving Jocco a wink.
RIDLY'S FANTASY
Brekka Ridly stood at the window, overlooking the cityscape. Her office was situated at the top of the Ridly Enterprises building. From where she stood, she could see all the way down to the docks.
It was a beautiful view, but her mind was currently occupied with the gentleman sitting behind her.
“Explain to me why we’re not going to make our scheduled release date, Mr. Sandoo,” Ridly said without bothering to look back.
“There are too many bugs in the system, ma’am,” Sandoo replied. “We’ve had our best and brightest working on it for the last week, but to no avail.”
“Bring them all in.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ridly spun around and sat at her desk. She pulled up the latest code and projected it on the main screen while simultaneously activating the light dampening chips inside of the windows. The room darkened as a bunch of developers entered and took their seats.
She pointed at the wall and said, “What’s the problem?”
“I’d better let Hank explain it, ma’am,” Sandoo said.
“There are multiple memory issues that we’ve found,” Hank Moon stated without a lisp. “I don’t want to name names, but someone was too busy looking at porn and not thinking about their memory deallocation routines.”
Platoon F: Quadology: Missions 6, 7, 8, and 9 (Platoon F eBook Bundle 2) Page 29