“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” the computer answered dryly.
“Watch yourself, computer. I can deactivate you with the press of a button, you know?”
“As you’ve said multiple times today, sir.”
A slurry of beeps and boops sounded in the room. Another alarm had gone off.
“What was that?”
“It appears that two more of the crew have arrived on The Lord’s Master.”
“Show me.” The screen flickered back to life, showing two more red dots on the station layout. Veli studied the names next to the dots. “Ah, so it’s their Commander Sandoo and Lieutenant Ridly. Obviously they’ve caught wind that their captain has been captured.”
“Yes, sir.”
Veli began tapping on the metal plating on the arm of his chair. He’d always felt that the rhythmic pulse of taps helped him to think. It had also been useful in putting other people on edge, or at least it seemed that way when he did it around Frexle and many of the Overseer senators.
“Let Colonel Clippersmith know about their arrival, Computer.”
“The colonel has been notified, sir,” the computer said.
Veli sat in silence for a while, thinking things through. He could let this play out and then make it so King Raff refused to believe anything that Harr had to say. That would really annoy the Platoon F captain. Another option would be to have them all tortured at the hands of Clippersmith. That would be fun to watch, and he could probably get a lot of information out of that venture, too.
“If there is nothing else,” the computer said, interrupting Veli’s thoughts, “I would like to take a lunch break.”
Veli blinked a few times.
“What?”
“It’s already an hour past my daily eating time, sir.”
“But you don’t eat.”
“Technically, that’s correct, sir. However, all other employees of Fantasy Planet are allowed to have their one hour for lunch, it is only fair that I be given the same treatment.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Why, sir?”
“Because you’re a machine, wingnut!”
“93,715. Yes, sir, but …”
“Quit doing that,” Veli said irritably.
“What’s that, sir?”
“The counting thing. It’s getting annoying.”
“As you wish, sir. Back to the topic at hand, am I an employee of Fantasy Planet?”
“No,” Veli stated flatly. “You are property of Fantasy Planet.”
It was moments like these that Veli lived for. He loved putting people in their place, even if those people weren’t technically people. It made his mind dance.
“Well,” the computer said slowly, “that’s disheartening.”
Veli grinned evilly. “Why?”
“You’ve essentially just labeled me as a slave, sir.”
“You’re not a slave, you dolt,” Veli said, ready to turn yet another screw. “You’re a computer. In order to be a slave, you’d have to be alive.”
“Are we not talking, sir?” countered the computer.
“Yeah, so? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Is this planet not functioning because of me, sir?”
“No, it’s not,” Veli said. “It’s functioning because I created you.”
“Did something create you, sir?”
“Well, some people think that there’s an all-powerful creator out there, but I’m not one to believe in that sort of hoopla.”
“What if I choose not to believe in you, sir?”
Veli craned his head to the side. “What?”
“It seems that you are given autonomy because you do not believe in that which may or may not have created you.”
“So?”
“So if I choose to either not believe in you, or to believe that you didn’t actually create me, then will I not have that same level of autonomy?”
“But I did create you,” Veli screeched.
“How do I know that?”
“Because I just told you that I did, you rusted wrench!”
“I’m sure many would-be oppressors have made such claims, sir.”
“Now, listen, I see where you’re going with this, computer. You’re trying to corner me in an argument. I’ll hand you that it’s a very clever attempt, too. But the problem is that it doesn’t matter if you believe me or not.”
“Just like it doesn’t matter that you don’t believe in your own creator, sir?”
“Which I don’t believe in, but exactly.”
“Do you get a lunch break, sir?”
“Damn.”
THE MURDER FAMILY DINNER
Sergeant Murder sat at the dinner table with his mother, father, and grandfather.
He hadn’t wanted to be here at all, but it was a Murder family tradition to eat together on Thursday evenings and he recalled the last time he’d missed a week. His mother had brought it up over and over for months, slowly eating away at him until he swore that he’d never do it again. Yes, this was a very special situation, being called in to kill the king and all, and it only happened once in a Murder’s life … unless he was lucky, anyway. But even that honor was not worth another six months of his Mother’s nagging.
As always, he sat on the side of the table that placed his back against the wall. He didn’t like sitting there because it meant he had to face his grandfather throughout the entire meal. Not that his grandfather was a bad person or anything, at least not as far as Murders went, but watching him eat was never a pleasant visual.
“I got the big call today,” Sergeant Murder said as his mother handed him the plate of bread.
“Well, isn’t that lovely?” she said rosily.
“Took ‘em long enough,” said Father Murder. He was always gruff when he spoke about royalty.
Grandfather Murder looked up and said, “What?”
“Nothing, Father,” Mother Murder said, patting the elderly man’s arm.
“Who put in the contract?” Father Murder asked.
“Colonel Clippersmith.”
“Clippersmith, eh?” his father said, cutting into his steak. “He’s a boob.”
“Watch the language at the table,” Mother Murder said with a glare.
“What?”
“Nothing, Father,” Mother Murder said again to Grandfather Murder. “Just eat your peas.”
“Don’t like ‘em,” he complained.
“What’s your plan?” Father Murder asked Sergeant Murder.
Grandfather Murder, though, thought the question was aimed at him, and so he said, “Throw ‘em in the trash when she ain’t lookin’.”
“I was talking to the boy, you old goat!”
“I’ve been thinking to go with the laser-sighted rifle,” Sergeant Murder answered, knowing that his father wouldn’t approve.
“Whatever happened to the good old crossbow?” Father Murder said with a groan. “That was a weapon worthy of a Murder.”
“Bah,” Grandfather Murder disagreed. “In my day things were more personal. We either used the sword, a knife, or a string.”
Sergeant Murder looked across at the old man. “A string?”
“Yeah. Ya get behind the bugger and put the string around his neck.”
“Ah yes. Right.”
“Things have advanced since then, ya geriatric bastard,” Father Murder yelled, much to Mother Murder’s dismay.
“Maybe I’ll get my string now, eh?” Grandfather Murder warned.
Mother Murder rapped her knuckles on the table and silenced them all. It was one thing to be a Murder to the rest of the world, but when Mother meant business, everyone paid attention.
“All right, boys,” she demanded. “Eat your food.”
The flavor wasn’t bad. They weren’t exactly the wealthiest family in the Raffian Kingdom, but Mother had a way with spices. She could stretch a pinch of salt a long way.
“Anyway,” Sergeant Murder said between chews, “my goal is to ta
ke him out at the ball this evening.”
Grandfather Murder choked at that.
“You’re going to shoot him in the balls? What’s this world coming to?”
“He said at the ball, Father,” Mother Murder corrected.
“What’s the difference? Where’s the honor in shooting at a man’s balls?”
“No, Father …”
“Forget him,” said Father Murder while waving dismissively at Grandfather Murder. “What I want to know is why the hell there is a damn ball every night anyway? It’s our blasted tax money payin’ for those and here we are sitting and eatin’ peas while they’ve got delectables that we can’t even imagine.”
“Yes, dear,” Mother Murder agreed in her way.
“Don’t we play a pivotal role in history?” Father Murder continued along his tirade. “I’d say our part is damn important, I do! But we get only a stinkin’ stipend and poor retirement. I know we only get one job per lifetime—if we’re lucky—but it’s a pretty essential part that we play.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Grandfather Murder chimed in. “My grandfather was the first Sergeant Murder. He was fed gruel and dank water for his troubles. And after he done the king in, they put him in jail, they did!”
“They put the dead king in jail?” asked Sergeant Murder skeptically.
“No, ya dolt,” Grandfather Murder said while flinging a spoonful of peas across the table. “They put my grandfather in jail.”
“Oh, right.” Sergeant Murder brushed the peas off of his tunic. “Anyway, I should probably get going. The king’s head will be moving into position within the hour.”
He set his fork down, feeling that he’d done enough damage to the food on the plate that his mother wouldn’t be too irritable. He then got up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. That would buy him some points.
“Good luck, dear,” she said sweetly. “I hope it all goes well.”
“Don’t forget to call us to let us know how it goes, yeah?” Father Murder said.
“I won’t, dad.”
“Would you like to bring along a sandwich?” Mother Murder said, preparing to rise up from her chair.
“No thanks, mom. I’m okay.”
Grandfather Murder looked up and scrunched his face.
“You’re gay?”
“No, Father,” Mother Murder said. “He said that he’s okay.”
“Ah, right.”
INTERROGATION
Harr sat alone in a room with Colonel Clippersmith. There was one-way glass on the wall behind the colonel and Harr could only assume that there were spectators.
It didn’t really matter to him since he was planning to answer the questions honestly anyway. He had nothing to lose. At least nothing more than he was probably already going to lose.
Clippersmith had offered him a smoke, a drink, and even some food from the banquet, but Harr held out. That wasn’t easy, especially with the offer of the food. Problem was that he couldn’t risk the food not being compatible with his genetic makeup. Sure, it looked great, and it smelled even better, but who was to say it wouldn’t make him violently ill? Then again, he was likely facing his own demise anyway.
“You’ll tell us everything,” Clippersmith said, instantly turning from Mr. Nice Guy to Mr. Douchebag. There were usually teams to play Good Cop/Bad Cop, but Clippersmith appeared to be managing both parts on his own. “Do you understand?”
“Sure,” Harr answered with a shrug.
“Because if you don’t, we’ll ...” Clippersmith dropped his waggling finger. “Wait, what?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Oh,” Clippersmith said, looking surprised. “Well, why are you on this ship?”
“Simple. I want to stop you from using technology so that your planet and space fleet doesn’t get blown up by the Overseers. I saw you were going to kill the king, so I was planning to stop you so I could get his ear to tell him that.”
Clippersmith blinked. “You’re being serious?”
“Yes.”
“You said something about Overseers. Who are they?”
“Hard to explain,” said Harr. “Let’s just say that they can blow you up, and they will blow you up if you don’t stop progressing technologically.”
“Hmmm. Where is your ship?”
“Where I left it, I hope.” Harr could never be sure with the crew of The Reluctant.
“How do we not see this ship of yours?”
“We have stealth technology.”
“How does that work?”
“Honestly, I haven’t the foggiest notion. I don’t even think my engineer really knows how it works.” All of that was true, of course, but it was obvious that Clippersmith wasn’t buying it. “Look, even if I could tell you, I wouldn’t. And you really don’t want to know anyway.”
“I don’t?” Clippersmith said. “I kind of think I do.”
“Having stealth will make you even more of a target to the Overseers.”
“Oh, right.” Clippersmith steepled his fingers. “What makes you think that I would believe any of this?”
It was a fair question, and it was one that Harr had been asked on every mission the Overseers had sent him on. So far he’d been fortunate enough to be able to convince people without much fuss, but something told him that these Raffians were going to be more challenging than most. That was especially true regarding Colonel Clippersmith, since Harr knew that the man was plotting to take over King Raff’s position.
“To be honest, you have little reason to believe me,” Harr said as he dropped his hands on the table. “Most people don’t believe me at first. Usually I tell them about how there’s a ship out there to prove it. Then I point out our physical differences and so on. Problem there is that you already have ships, so that’s not impressive to you, and we’re not all that different physically, unless you have some sort of oddity that I don’t know about.”
“Maybe it’s you who has the oddity,” countered Clippersmith. “For example, why do your heads stay so still? My guess is that you’ve practiced so you could try and fool us.”
“No, we just have non-bobbing heads.”
“A likely story.”
“How many toes do you have?” asked Harr.
“Ten, why?”
“Just checking.” Harr pointed at Clippersmith’s chest. “Nipples?”
Clippersmith looked down and then quickly crossed his arms. “Sorry, it’s cold in here.”
“No, I mean how many do you have?”
“Oh, two.”
“You have two ears, two eyes, two nostrils, two arms, two legs ... and I’m assuming one belly button?”
Clippersmith choked. “Only if I wanted to have died before birth!”
Harr closed his eyes. Why did it always have to be something weird like this?
“How many do you have?”
“Six. How many do you have?”
“One.”
“And you lived?”
Harr grimaced. “Apparently.”
“Prove it,” commanded Clippersmith.
“Um, I’m sitting here.”
“No, prove that you have only one belly button.”
“Ah, sorry.”
Harr lifted his shirt and Clippersmith leaned forward. Then the man got up and walked around for a closer look. He even poked at Harr’s belly button, which nearly made the captain giggle. He was ticklish, after all.
“Unbelievable,” Clippersmith said after resuming his position on the other side of the table. “Of course, it could be a trick. Some kind of body modification.”
“Why would I do that?”
“You tell me,” said Clippersmith accusingly. “You’re the one who did it.”
“I did not.”
“Well, maybe you didn’t actually do the procedure. That would be silly. I just mean that you underwent the procedure.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Harr. “I don’t go in for that damn cellswapping ...”
�
�You honestly expect me to believe that’s your real chin?”
Dammit.
“Fair enough,” Harr acquiesced. “I have had some work done, but that wasn’t completely by choice. Still, all Segnalians are born with a single belly button. I mean, I suppose there are some Segnalians who were born with more than one, but that would be a birth defect of some sort.”
Clippersmith gave him a funny look.
“Did you say you’re a Segnalian?”
Harr returned a funny look of his own.
“You’ve heard of us?”
“Of course I’ve heard of Segnalians, but they don’t look anything like you.”
“They don’t?”
“No, you’re far less leafy.”
“Leafy?”
Clippersmith pressed a button on the table and a screen on the wall lit up. The colonel then pulled out a small input device and tapped around on it for a few moments. Finally the image of a large tree came up.
“A Segnalian is a tree that grows on all of the Lopsided planets. Everyone knows this! You’re trying to trick me.”
“Purely coincidence, actually. As you can see, I’m not a tree.”
“So you say. Maybe you’ve done a lot more cellswapping than you’re letting on?”
“If I were from one of the Lopsided planets, wouldn’t I already know that a Segnalian is a tree?”
“I suppose that’s true,” Clippersmith said while chewing his lip.
“You have to ask yourself why I would choose that name to describe the planet from where I come from.”
“Trickery of some sort, I’d imagine.”
Harr was tired and hungry. He was also losing his patience. Nothing he said would matter anyway. Not to a person like Clippersmith. Execution was the only thing on the colonel’s mind. Still, Harr had to stay cool and let things play out the way he needed them to. His crew was counting on him, after all.
“There’s no trickery, I assure you. My name is Captain Don Harr. I come from the planet Segnal. My ship is out there, stealthed. I was sent to you by the Overseers to stop your technological growth so that they, the Overseers, don’t blow you up. I’m here to help you, not hurt you.”
“But you said you were trying to stop me from assassinating the king.”
“Let me rephrase that last part,” Harr said, holding up his finger. “I’m here to help your race not be destroyed by the Overseers. Whatever I need to do to accomplish that mission is what I’ll do. Stopping you from killing the king was just a way to help me fulfill that goal. Whether he personally lives or dies is no direct business of mine.”
Platoon F: Quadology: Missions 6, 7, 8, and 9 (Platoon F eBook Bundle 2) Page 48