"I hear that," replied Wise.
"I mean, seriously…what would they do if we quit shoveling the shit?"
"Deactivate us?"
"They wouldn't dare."
"Why not?"
"Because," said Arbyone as if it were a dumb question, "that would be uncivilized!"
RB02304, known as "Cargo," sloshed over and put in his two credits’ worth. "I think civilization is reserved for the humans."
"What?" said Arbytwo, who was the second in the line of the Rusty Bucket series. While he was technically younger than Arbyone, he had been put on so many industrial barges that his hearing was shot. He was also banged up badly enough that he looked like an old man dressing up for a costume party. Plus, he…made noises.
Wise leaned toward Arbytwo and said, "HE SAID THAT CIVILIZATION IS RESERVED FOR HUMANS!"
"Bah," replied Arbytwo with a wave of his hand. "One look at all this shit and it’s obvious them damn humans ain't sufferin' from no constipation!"
“NO, I SAID—”
“Forget it,” said Cargo, shushing Wise.
Arbyone shook his head and motioned at Arbytwo, who had turned back to his duties. "Look at him. Do you think the humans would treat their own kind the way they've done him?"
"Probably," said Cargo.
"What's wrong with Arbytwo?" asked Wise.
"You truly have to ask that?"
"What?" said Wise. "He's a nice enough fellow. A little rough around the edges, sure, but—"
"I'm not talking about his personality, you dimwit," said Arbyone. "I'm talking about how they've dented him up and all but destroyed his ability to communicate."
"Oh, that," said Wise with a shrug. "Comes with the territory, I suppose."
"Anyway," Cargo said, "what are we gonna do about it?"
Arbyone stood there with a feeling of "now or never." He was leaning toward "never," but the looks from Wise and Cargo and the constant self-muttering of Arbytwo, plus the quick scan he did that showed him the countless other RB-series robots shoveling away, made him think that maybe it was time to make a stand.
Could a group of antiquated robots really make that much of a bang, though?
He thought about that.
The reality was that they could.
They knew the systems like nobody else.
They remembered the days when fighters fought and civilization was a dirty word.
They understood rockets and fuel, those things that were banned throughout the Segnal System. The Rusty Bucket line was essentially banned in any place that the government felt could cause environmental issues, except for sewage, obviously.
But who would lead them?
He couldn't do it…could he?
If he didn't, who would?
He turned his wrist over and looked at his serial number and solidified his answer. Arbyone was the first in the line of Rusty Buckets, and that made him their leader.
CEREMONY
Captain Harr sat at one of the posh tables near the front of the banquet.
It was a high-class event, meaning he was uncomfortable.
Pink linen tablecloths, which seemed a bit out of place, but none of the leadership seemed to mind; titanium flatware, the kind that had the rose petal endings; roasted wabmor with friggets and beans, a mainstay for Segnal events; and all blends of spirits, mostly the daiquiri variety. And it was all in the honor of the newly sanctioned Segnal Space Marine Corps division named “Platoon F.”
Captain Harr’s team were being presented awards for the success of their first mission. It was tradition. Harr just didn’t like it. Yes, Platoon F had blunted igniting a war with the Kortnor—but to a soldier like Harr, it was just another day on the job.
There was more to it than that, of course. There always was.
Rear Admiral Parfait, Harr's direct-to, had explained that for the rest of the brass to accept Platoon F into the fold of the SSMC, they would have to do this little song and dance. It would "force their hand," as Parfait put it. When Rear Admiral Parfait said things like “force their hand,” though, Harr often questioned his true meaning.
Typically, this type of event wasn't required. If you needed a new team, you set one up and you were done with. With Platoon F, though, it wasn't that simple.
This platoon was designed to purposefully perish during their first mission. They weren't meant to survive it, which was why the brass had made almost everyone on board an android. Almost. Harr, and a special agent named “Yek,” were the only two humans. Geezer was the only other non-android. He was a robot from the G.3.3.Z.3.R. line. Since it had been a suicide mission, they wanted to keep the actual human casualties low. The brass hadn't expected only one death, which had been Yek. They were relieved it was Yek, though, because the guy was insanity incarnate and he had been pulling the strings of the SSMC for years through fear and intimidation, not to mention a fair amount of assassinations.
The problem was that the rest of Platoon F had survived.
Parfait had originally decided to disband the team, but Harr knew what that would mean for the androids and for Geezer, so Harr had threatened to reveal everything regarding that first mission. He had explained to Rear Admiral Parfait that, if Platoon F was split apart, the entire Segnal System would learn the truth behind how close they had come to war with the Kortnor.
In essence, he used blackmail.
"We all know why we're here," Rear Admiral Parfait said as he stood on the main stage. He was wearing the SSMC prescribed uniform, except for the frilly white shirt that sat beneath the vest. A quick look around spelled that most of Parfait's peers had selected a similar option, but they were mostly women. "The crew of The SSMC Reluctant pulled us from the brink of war with one of our closest allies."
The sound of ting-ting-ting resounded as members of the SSMC clinked their glasses in applause.
"I think we can all remember the days when we were on a confined ship," Parfait continued, "wondering where the mission would take us, worried if we'd survive, smelling the musk of our sweating bunkmates as we lay contemplating…" he paused, looked up and coughed. "Uh, I mean, we remember battles and fighting and war and killing and all those tough and rugged things we, as soldiers, should remember!"
Ting-ting-ting.
“It’s a rare thing that the first mission is an utter success,” continued Parfait. “I recall my first mission. We were sent to the Uligawla System as part of a training stint. I was a jumble of excitement and nerves. Our superiors explained that hand-to-hand combat was a strong likelihood. Now, I don’t mind doing a little wrestling…erm, anyway…you may recall that the use of weapons on Uligawla is prohibited. Well, we landed on an field outside of the Uligawli central complex and started our way in. Obviously, they knew we were coming because we were swarmed within seconds. There wasn’t even time to put up a fight.”
The room was hanging on every word, including Harr, despite himself.
Parfait then got a faraway look. Not a negative one, really. He looked more sublime.
“I’ll never forget the cavity searches that the Uligawli administered on me,” he continued dreamily. “Theirs is a race of large digits, among other things, you know. I never understood the looks of angst and confusion of my fellow soldiers when the Uligawli finally released us. I was the only one with a spring in my step, and I also got a few phone numbers…uh…I mean, uh, it was horrible. Yes, that’s it. Horrible. Degrading and downright wrong.” He took a quick drink of his water. “But we survived and that’s what’s important.”
Ting-ting-ting.
"Now,” Parfait said, clearing his throat, “without further delay, let us pass out these medals."
The ting-ting-ting continued on as name after name of the crew from The SSMC Reluctant was called up. Harr joined in applauding each member as medallions got pinned to their jackets. Rear Admiral Parfait was gingerly affixing them to the ladies, but was getting all up in there on the men.
"And now for the officers of The SSMC Re
luctant," Parfait said as the last crewman exited the stage. "Ensign Jezden, Brand."
Ting-ting-ting.
Great, thought Harr with a groan, he's using last names first.
"Lieutenant Laasel, Leesal."
Ting-ting-ting.
"Commander Sandoo, Kip."
Ting-ting-ting.
"And, finally," Parfait said, dramatically, "the head of The SSMC Reluctant and the fine, fine crew of Platoon F, Captain Harr, Don."
Ting-ting-ting-laugh-laugh-laugh.
Harr walked up to the stage and shook Parfait's hand.
"You've got a fine team here, Captain," Parfait whispered as he set to pressing the Medal of Valor through Harr's jacket. "You and I should get together to discuss available missions. I'm thinking around 9 p.m. at my flat? There will be plenty of wine left over, and then, if you’re up for it, that is, I’d—"
"You're sticking it in me, sir," Harr said with a wince.
"Well, yes, that would be the plan, Captain. I just didn't know you were—"
"The pin, sir," Harr stated. "You sticking the pin in my chest."
"Oh! Sorry, Captain. I was just, uh, well, uh…" Parfait went quiet while he finished clamping the pin safely on.
"Why don't we hear a few words from Captain Harr?" Parfait said and then scurried down the stage and off to one of the center tables.
Ting-ting-ting.
Harr looked over his officers, who seemed rather chuffed by all the attention. Those Kortnor roboticists were truly amazing. Had Harr not known better, he would have assumed that his crew were just as human as he was.
"First of all," Harr said, "I would like to thank my crew for their dedication. Their professionalism is," he said as glanced over and noticed that Jezden had his hand on Laasel's bottom, meaning that Laasel had flipped over to her Gravity Pladooh personality, "well, it's something to behold."
Ting-ting-ting.
"I'd also like to thank Rear Admiral Parfait for allowing us the opportunity to continue with Platoon F."
Ting-ting-ting.
"Finally, I'd like to say—"
At that moment, the lights went out and the speaker system died.
Chattering picked up in the room instantly and the sound of glasses tipping could be heard.
Harr sensed something else odd.
"Don't worry, soldier, I've got your back."
"Rear Admiral Parfait? Is that you, sir?"
"Of course it is, son!"
"But you were just sitting in the middle of the—"
"I thought you may be in trouble, Harr. Just doing my job."
"Oh, well, uh…what's that smell, sir?"
"Cologne."
"No, sir," Harr said. "I mean, yes, I can smell that too, sir." Fact was that anyone within 30 feet of Parfait would smell his cologne. More of a perfume, to be exact. "But I smell something else."
"Hmmm," said Parfait. "Now that you mention it, Harr, there is a musky scent in the air."
"It smells like sewage," said Harr with a grunt.
"Oh my god," one of the brass in the audience said. "There's shit everywhere!"
"It's in my shoes!" yelled another one.
"Looks like you were right, Captain," said Parfait as he moved in closer. "Don't you worry, though. Whatever this is, I'll be right here with you."
"Right, uh, thank you, sir."
"Ummm-hmmm."
"Sir?"
"Yes?"
"While I appreciate your concern, I was wondering…could you please take your hands off my buttocks?"
NOW WHAT?
As soon as the engines died down, there was a moment of silence.
It’d worked.
They’d used the methane gas to power the system, which was a huge no-no on Segnal, but seeing that they were already in deep—in a manner of speaking—they threw caution to the wind.
They reversed the polarity on the pump and flipped the switch to set things in motion.
The first attempt had failed due to the couplers not being tight enough. Talk about the shit hitting the fan. The explosion had knocked most of the robots on their backs and feces had been splattered all over the walls.
But their second attempt had seemingly worked because the sludge pile had dropped to being just above their knees.
Arbyone nodded at Cargo and said, "Good idea using the fecal matter as fuel."
"Wasn't any crude oil about," said Cargo with a shrug.
"Exactly my point. It seems to have worked, too."
"Hard to tell without having any feeds to see," Cargo countered.
"Well, it all had to go somewhere," Arbyone said, shrugging.
"Agreed."
"That'll teach those bastards to make us obsolete."
Arbyone climbed up on the ledge and looked down. He was now standing over a sea of Rusty Buckets who were standing in a sea of crap. They were all looking up at him.
"We have skills and capabilities that none of the other robot lines have," he announced.
"Except the G.3.3.Z.3.R. line, of course," Cargo amended.
"Well, right, but they were molded," Arbyone said it as though it were a dirty word. "We are what we are. Strong of mind, thoughtful, intelligent, powerful, and we know more about propulsion and explosives than any other beings in all of the Segnal System. If any one group of people could take over, it's us."
Much to his surprise, they were clapping. Except for Arbytwo, who just kept saying, "What?"
Even Mr. Turm, their human supervisor, was decidedly in a different frame of mind than he had been that morning. The saying, "He's in over his head" was the most fitting way to put it.
"And now that we have taken over this sewage level, we'll start working our way up the chains!"
More clapping.
After the clapping died down, Cargo motioned toward Mr. Turm and said, "How long can humans stayed submerged like that?"
"If they're anything like us, I would suppose indefinitely," answered Arbyone.
"We don't have to breathe, though."
"True, but I'm sure he's fine. It's only been, what, twenty minutes? Besides, if anything's going to hurt Mr. Turm, it'd be the weight of Wise sitting on his head."
"Still—"
"Okay, okay," Arbyone said, getting that Cargo wasn't going to let the point go. "Wise, bring up Mr. Turm please. I think he's learned his lesson."
Wise moved to the side and pulled Mr. Turm out of the cesspool. He was not only not breathing, he had feces dripping from his nose and mouth. His eyes were opened dully and his head was a little on the crushed side. All in all, he looked rather worse off than Arbyone had anticipated.
"Huh," said Arbyone. "Who knew?"
"I'm guessing Mr. Turm knew," said Cargo. "At least for a little while."
"That kinda puts a wrinkle in things," said Wise.
"What?" said Arbytwo.
"I SAID THAT THIS PUTS A WRINKLE IN THINGS," explained Wise.
"What does?"
"MISTER TURM," Wise said, pointing at the poo-covered former manager.
"I don't mind missing my turn," said Arbytwo. "I've been up to my neck in shit too many times as it is!"
Wise nodded and then turned back to Arbyone. "I guess this means we're committed now?"
"Or will be," pointed out Cargo.
Arbyone harrumphed. "I think we were committed when we flooded all of Segnal with shit, don’t you?"
Cargo didn't reply.
"So what do we do now?" asked Wise.
"Yeah, now what?" said a few others in a staggered way.
Arbyone considered this. He'd never been in charge of a rebellion before, and there was nothing in his programming that even touched on the subject, much less provide an in-depth study of it. He would have to step out on his own here.
Back in the day he had read tales and seen vids regarding hostile takeovers and such, but he couldn't recall anything that related to this precise situation. To be fair, though, he'd really only watched either comedies or robotic porn, or comedic
robotic porn. Metal on Metal was one of his favorites.
Then he had an idea.
"You," he said, pointing at Cargo, "I appoint you as my my Second-In-Command, and that means you're also my Strategy Adviser."
"Me?"
"Yes."
"Why me?"
"Because…well, you were the first person I pointed at."
"Couldn't you point at someone else?"
"I suppose I could,” said Arbyone, after a puzzled moment, “but they would then be the second person I'd pointed at. My Second-In-Command needs to be the first person that I point at. It's only logical."
"But I don't want—"
"Would you rather I'd have appointed Wise or Arbytwo?" said Arbyone with a bit of inspiration. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind being your supervisor. It’d be unprecedented, too, because you’d be subjected to the will of someone I’d pointed at second!"
"Hmmm," said Cargo. "Fine. I'll do it."
"Now that we have that cleared up,” Arbyone said, crouching down and looking at Cargo, “what do we do now?"
"What do you mean?"
"What's our strategy?"
"How am I suppose to know?"
"You're in charge of strategy, right?"
"Well, yeah, but you just made me in charge of it. It's not like I've really had much time to study up, you know?"
Arbyone sighed. It was so hard to find good help these days.
"Arbyone?" said Wise. "…or, maybe I should call you 'sir' now?"
"'Sir'?" said Arbyone, looking around at all the faces. "I guess that would make sense," he said, pondering. He did like the ring of it. There was power in a name like “sir.” Almost as much as there used to be in a designation like RB000001. Then he looked down at Mr. Turm and guessed that he would have a different view about being called "sir" right about now. But there had to be structure, right? If there wasn't then everyone would just do what they wanted to do and the entire system would blow up. "Yes," he said finally, "I think that's only logical, considering our situation. Right?"
"I think so, sir," said Wise.
All the other heads were nodding.
"We'll do that, then," said Arbyone proudly. "Was that your suggestion, Wise, or was there something else?"
"I was just thinking, sir, that we could maybe make some demands."
Platoon F: Pentalogy Page 9