“But I got through,” she said.
“That’s because I opened a hole,” Geezer replied, thinking that somewhere up on the bridge Jezden was probably on the floor laughing. “Actually, let me put you on speaker again, and also how do we bring Goozer back so we can all be in on this?”
Frexle grabbed the phone and pressed the conference button. Then he set the brick-shaped phone between Geezer’s ear and his own.
“Goozer?” said Frexle.
“Yeah?”
“Inkblot?”
“I’m here,” she answered.
“Good.” Frexle motioned for Geezer to go ahead and talk now.
“Tell Goozer what you just told me, Inkblot.”
She went through everything again in order to catch up the miniature robot from The Ship. This time, though, she further spelled out how she’d seen a spike in the data and also discussed the process that was running at a solid 90% since the anomaly took place.
“So what do we do about it?” asked Geezer.
“First we have to verify that I’m even right,” Inklot replied. “It could just be a replica or a fake.”
“What makes you think it’s not?” asked Frexle.
“Like I said … uh, Frex … it’s eating up a ton of resources.”
“So?”
“So typically when you create a replica of something, it’s not that bad, but whenever real objects—people, for example—enter the mix, it eats up more resources. I think it has something to do with the digital entities having to know about the real ones so that they can ensure the safety of the real entity.”
Geezer put his rag back away. “Does that mean we’re safe?”
“Somehow, I doubt it,” she replied.
Knowing Veli the way he did, Frexle felt certain that if Inkblot were correct, the ship and Platoon F were certainly not safe. Tack onto that the way Frexle had left that meeting with Veli before joining the crew of The Reluctant and there was most definitely a high probability that they were in trouble.
In his past life, Frexle would have shrugged that off as the risks of working for the Overseers. This time, though—primarily because he was one of the crew that was under the horrifying guidance of the Lord Overseer’s cunning hands—shrugging and walking away wasn’t quite as convenient.
“How do we check to see if you’re correct?” Frexle asked.
“Open up a viewscreen and do a slow 360-degree sweep. You’re looking for odd pixels. Anything out of place. If you spot something, zoom in …”
“Got something,” Geezer announced.
“Okay, what do you see?”
“It’s like a twinkle.”
Inkblot said, “Red, blue, and green?”
“Exactly,” Geezer answered. “All three.”
“Shit,” Inkblot replied with a hiss. “Yep, you’re in the system.”
“Shit,” agreed Geezer.
“Shit,” agreed Goozer.
“Defecation,” said Frexle, trying his best to fit-in while maintaining as much posh as possible.
Everyone went quiet for a moment.
“Defecation?” Geezer questioned, finally.
Frexle shrugged. “It’s more refined than saying what you said.”
“You mean, ‘Shit?’” asked Goozer.
“And you say I point out the obvious.”
“You do,” Geezer said. “Frex, when we say ‘shit’ it’s just an expletive, we’re not actually referring to a bodily function.”
Frexle replayed everything in his mind. It was interesting that whenever the crew of this ship, or the Lord Overseer for that matter, used terms such as these they seemed like empty words. Idle words. Words that conveyed angst or joy or confusion or eureka-type moments. They didn’t actually represent the meaning that the dictionary, slang or not, would pull up.
“Are you all saying that what I said was actually more disturbing than what you said?” he asked hesitantly.
“Quite a bit,” Geezer replied.
“Totally,” Goozer agreed.
“Completely,” Inkblot chimed in.
“Oh, well … shit.”
“That’s better,” Geezer said while patting Frexle on the shoulder. “Okay, so Inkblot, what do we do?”
“Not sure yet,” she replied with a sigh “Working on it. But I’ll have to get back to you. I just wanted to see if you could confirm my hypothesis or not.”
“Got it. Goozer, do you think you guys could help them?”
“Already setting the location and about to click over,” Goozer answered.
“Great,” Inkblot said, sounding relieved. “I could use the help. It’s difficult getting any support around here, you know.”
“We know,” Geezer and Goozer said simultaneously.
“Inkblot,” Frexle called out, “before you go, may I ask how you got this number?”
“Oh, that was easy,” she replied. “I just called the Overseer Front Desk and asked for Geezer.”
“Hmmm.”
FITTING IN
Harr, Grog, and Vlak had just finished donning the standard Raffian soldier uniform. They were red and yellow with blue pinstripes that ran in odd patterns along the arms, neck, and chest. The color combination was enough to gag a maggot.
“Hey,” said Grog as he studied Harr’s outfit, “how come your outfit has more stripes and jinglies than mine?”
“Because I’m your superior officer.”
“That’s a little uppity,” Vlak stated while buttoning up his jacket.
Harr decided to not let them drag him into this type of argument. They’d proved themselves good at doing that.
“It’s simple. I’m the captain and you’re not. You report to me. That’s why I have the jinglies and stripes, so just deal with it.”
“Pipe,” coughed Grog.
“Turd,” added Vlak.
It didn’t really matter what they thought as long as they did as they were told. Once this was all said and done, he’d turn these two over to Commander Sandoo in order to get them whipped into shape, both physically and mentally. He’d probably even throw Jezden through another round of training.
“Okay,” he commanded, “once we leave this room you have to be on your best behavior. Understood?”
Grog gave Harr a what-the-hell look and said, “We’re not children, pal.”
“Good,” said Harr coolly, “then I’ll expect you not to act like you are. Just stick with me and follow me through the corridor. If anyone salutes, salute back in kind. If they nod, nod back. If they talk to you, just smile.” Then he glanced at the little amulets surrounding their necks. “Are your universal translators on?”
“Ug gag twahk,” said Grog.
Harr grimaced. “Very funny.”
“I do what I can.”
They stepped outside of the room and found soldiers moving up and down the corridor with haste. Everyone appeared to be on a mission. It reminded him of the main corridors back on Segnal Prime. Of course, if these soldiers were anything like those in the SSMC, their serious stares were nothing but a facade.
He watched them salute each other and saw that it was a standard back-of-the-right-hand-to-the-forehead style. But more often than not they were just nodding at each other. Actually, the nodding was constant.
“They sure do nod a lot,” said Grog.
“Yeah,” agreed Vlak, “my neck’s going to be sore from this.”
“Keep it down, you two.”
Grog looked both himself and Vlak over. “Keep what down?”
“The chatter.”
“Hey, wait,” Vlak pointed out in a whisper. “They’re not nodding. Their heads just do that.”
Harr studied another batch of soldiers who were heading directly at them. Sure enough, their heads were bouncing around like bobblehead dolls.
“Huh. You’re right.”
Vlak rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”
“That’s weird,” said Grog while biting his lip. “Wonder why they all do that?”
“I don’t know,” Harr said with a bit of concern, “but I guess we have to do it too or we’ll look strange to them.”
It was difficult to keep from getting dizzy while walking this way, but it had to be done. The last thing Harr wanted was to stand out on a foreign spaceship.
He couldn’t quite call these Raffian soldiers enemies, at least not yet, but until he knew what made them tick he’d have to play things carefully.
Just as they were about to step around a corner, Grog turned and walked straight up to one of the walls.
“I wonder what all these buttons do,” he said as Vlak joined him.
“Was thinking the same thing.”
Harr sneered as he turned to intercept them before they pressed anything.
“Honestly, you have to be quiet. We don’t want to draw any unwanted attention. Don’t you get that?”
Grog grunted, but it was the kind of grunt that told Harr the EEH was communicating. His guess was proved correct when Vlak grunted a moment later and the two of them began to giggle.
“Talking in grunts now, eh?”
“Hard to get one past you, Captain,” said Grog.
Vlak grunted and they giggled again.
“That’s it,” said Harr, having about enough of their childish behavior. “Stop it now or we’re going back to that room and I’ll have you transported back to the ship. I swear, you two are worse than children.”
Just then, a burly soldier with a muscular face and blond hair stepped up to the three men. He studied Harr for a moment before saluting at Grog and Vlak. Grog and Vlak looked at each other, shrugged, and then saluted back.
“Excuse me, sirs,” said the soldier, “but what is going on here?”
“Nothing to worry about,” Harr spoke up. “Just having a few challenges with my men.”
“Your men?”
“Well, I mean my subordinates,” Harr explained.
“Are you feeling okay, soldier?” asked the Raffian.
“Mostly,” admitted Harr.
“These two clearly outrank you by a fair margin. I mean, look at all the stripes and jinglies you have. I’m surprised you’re even allowed to roam the halls at all.”
“I ...” began Harr before looking down at his uniform and then back at the Raffian solider. “What?”
The man turned towards Grog and Vlak, bowed, and said, “It’s not my place to tell another Captain how to manage his privates …”
This elicited a giggle from both EEHs.
“… but I would say that this man should be made to do some push-ups, if nothing else.”
Grog and Vlak both adopted a look of surprise at this suggestion. Within seconds they were smiling and nodding at each other.
“You heard him, private,” Vlak said sharply while pointing at Harr, “do some push-ups.”
“Yeah,” Grog piped up, “like a million of them.”
“A million?” said Harr.
“That may be a bit steep,” offered the Raffian soldier. “What about ten?”
“Ten is kind of low.”
“Agreed,” said Vlak. “Twenty-five should do it.”
“That’s a strong punishment, but, again, it’s not my place to tell you how to punish your privates.”
The EEHs giggled yet again.
Right as Harr was about to start in on doing pushups in order to avoid blowing their cover—something he was definitely going to require ten-fold of his subordinates once they were back on The Reluctant—a horn sounded.
The Raffian soldier who was standing with them slammed his back to the wall and saluted as if his life had depended on it.
Taking the cue from him, Harr, Grog, and Vlak all followed suit.
Moments later, a procession came down the hall with a kingly looking man leading the way. He appeared to be in his early thirties, had a haphazard cropping of facial hair that was probably meant to be a beard, and he was just slightly over average height … at least when compared to the soldiers Harr had seen over the last few minutes.
“Who is that guy?” whispered Grog.
“No idea,” answered Vlak.
“Shut up,” admonished Harr.
“Want to do more pushups?” Vlak said out of the corner of his mouth.
Vlak chuckled. “Yeah, better watch that trap of yours, private.”
“Shut up.”
SHIELD
Captain Shield knew that today was the day. He had many ideas for how Sergeant Murder would go about his assassination attempt, most of which could be found by looking up the historical documents regarding how the Murder family typically operated.
He’d brought Corporal Macy in to help him with his thinking. She was what you may call dumb, but she made for a great sounding board. Plus, she was also rather pleasing to look at, which probably had to do with the fact that Captain Shield liked his women tall, muscular, red-haired, and gruff.
“What are we to do, sir?” Macy asked.
“In order to capture a murderer, you must think like one.”
In a flash, Macy whipped out her sidearm and pressed it against the side of Shield’s head.
“You’re done for,” she snarled.
“What are you doing?” Shield said, fighting to keep himself from voiding his bladder.
“Thinking like a murderer,” she answered as if he were dumb.
“Put the gun down, Macy,” Shield said carefully.
“Is that what a murderer would do?”
Shield decided on a firmer tactic. He squared his shoulders and looked pointedly ahead. Sometimes with Macy, Shield had to play the role of soldier firmly.
“Corporal Macy,” he said in his Captain’s voice, “I’m only going to ask you one more time to lower your weapon.”
“Or what?” she replied, pulling back the hammer.
“Good point,” he replied, pursing his lips. “Still, when I say that we have to think like a murderer, I mean that we are to think in a cerebral fashion.”
“The gun is pointed at your cerebral area.”
“Sorry, I meant that we have to think hypothetically.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. Then she stepped back, uncocked the hammer, and slammed the gun back in its holster. “Sorry.”
Shield fell forward and put his hands on the desk, working to catch his breath and slow his heart rate.
“Honestly, how are you even allowed to carry a weapon?”
It’s not my fault that you said I was supposed to think like a murderer,” Macy countered.
“I didn’t say you were to act like one.”
“But if I’m thinking like one, the first thing that would come to mind is, ‘Hey, I should do me some murdering.’”
“Right.” He snapped his fingers as if he were having a eureka moment. “That gives me an idea.” He put his hand out. “Let me see your weapon.”
Macy handed him her gun. Shield walked over to the wall, pressed a few buttons on the main panel, waited for the access door to slide open, threw the weapon inside, pressed a few more buttons, waited for the door to shut again, and then walked back to Macy.
“There, now we don’t have to worry about you pulling that stunt again.”
“Damn,” she said with a frown.
“Now we can think like Sergeant Murder without the need to commit any actual violence.”
“I could still ...”
“I suggest that you do not do whatever it is that you intend to do, for if you do you will no longer be able to do anything you wish to do. Do I make myself clear?”
“You do.”
“Good. Now, if I were Sergeant Murder, what would be my first move?”
“To wait for orders to kill the king,” Macy replied. “At least that’s what the Murders always do in the movies.”
“He’s already received those orders,” Shield said. “That’s why you and I are having this discussion.”
“Oh, then the next thing you would do is kill the king.”
“Yes, thank you. Again
, Macy, the question is how?”
“My guess is that he’s going to use a weapon of some sort.”
“Glad to have you with me, Macy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Shield was beginning to question his choice of using Macy as a sounding board. He could have picked Grebbit or Nundo, but they both made Macy look like a rocket scientist in comparison. Besides, neither of them were attractive in the least.
“Obviously he’s planning to use a weapon,” Shield pressed on, “but what kind? And where? And when? We have to get past the obvious, Corporal. We need to get into Sergeant Murder’s head.”
“Ew.”
“Not literally,” Shield said through clenched teeth, realizing that this was a pointless venture. He would just have to figure things out on his own. “You know what, why don’t you run down to the cafe and pick up a couple of coffees for us?”
“I don’t like coffee,” Macy replied.
“Tea, then.”
“Stains my teeth.”
“A carbonated beverage?”
“Gives me gas.”
“Fine, Corporal Macy, what exactly do you drink?”
“Water, mainly. Now and then I’ll have a nice glass of Chardonnay. It really depends on my mood. Sometimes ...”
“Go get us some water.”
“I’m not really thirsty.”
“I don’t really care.”
“I don’t understand,” she said and then her eyes opened a bit more. “Oh, I get it. You want me to leave?”
“Quite.”
“But if I go who will help you to figure out what Sergeant Murder is going to do?”
“Apparently the same person who will help me the moment you leave, Corporal.”
She looked around the room confusedly. “Who?”
“Me.”
“Oh.”
HOW CAN WE HELP?
Inkblot kept tinkering away at the logs, searching for a way to help Platoon F get free from the fantasy. She didn’t know precisely what the owner of the planet had in mind for them, but based on what she’d been able to gather from the other ships that had been digitized in the world, it didn’t look promising.
The tiny replica of The Reluctant that had been built by Geezer a long time ago in order to test his instantaneous travel invention, had shown up just a few minutes earlier.
Platoon F: Quadology: Missions 6, 7, 8, and 9 (Platoon F eBook Bundle 2) Page 45