Platoon F: Pentalogy

by John P. Logsdon

“We used to have an RB unit that was with us on Klood. His designation was RB00666, so the crew thought it’d be funny to call him The Devil and to paint him up and everything.”

  Everyone just stared at the Rear Admiral.

  “I didn’t partake! I thought it was awful. I figured some nice pink shades and a flower or two would have been far better. Maybe a little red around the lips to make them pop. Some blues around…”

  Everyone stared harder at the Rear Admiral.

  “I mean, uh, they should have just left him alone. Seemed nice enough to me, until they did all that to him. Then he just kind of went mental and seemed to really accept the who Devil moniker as his own.”

  “Right,” said Muzzin. “Anyway, captain, you were saying that these robots were helpful in some way?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Harr. “And, sir, I think that you should consider letting them run the sewage department on their own.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is, sir. The way I see it, and smell it, there’s not a single reason I can think of for any person to want to go down into the sludge pits other than to bully around these robots.”

  “Hmmm. Interesting.”

  “Plus, sir, let’s face it, they work harder than humans do. They work longer than humans do, too, and they don’t require the same monetary needs—”

  “But we would expect at least fair compensation,” Cargo piped up.

  “Fair?” said Daily. “What do you consider fair?”

  Arbyone said, “We honestly don’t know.”

  “Minimum wage it is, then,” said Senator Muzzin, much to Harr’s chagrin. “I think we can work something out. Excellent work, Captain Harr, and to your crew as well. I’m glad we were able to solve this issue without too much force.” Muzzing stopped and looked around. “Where’s Johnson?”

  At that moment, the lid to the access tunnel where Platoon F had originally started down into the tubes popped open and Johnson crawled out. It took him a moment to get to his feet, but when he did he purposefully strode over to the Senator.

  “Johnson,” said Muzzin with a fake smile. “You made it. Yay.”

  “We thought we’d lost you, Johnson,” said Harr.

  “Sorry, sir,” Johnson responded seriously. “I tried to get in through that first tunnel, but I just couldn’t do it. So I set about trying to find another way in. After running from countless sewer rats, I finally gave up and start climbing back to freedom.”

  “Well, well, well,” Senator Muzzin said, “not even good as a soldier, I see.”

  Johnson’s shoulders drooped.

  “With all due respect, sir,” Harr said, turning fully to face the Senator, “Johnson here did as well as any cadet I’ve seen. He followed directions smartly, he stood his ground when he felt something was right to stand up about, and, most importantly, he managed to get out alive…and that’s with no formal training at all.”

  “I see.”

  Harr looked at the Senator with eyes that says, “I can’t believe I’m going to do this,” and said, “With your permission, sir, I’d like to request that Johnson be sent through basic training and then assigned to my unit, assuming that he has such interest in doing so, sir.”

  The Senator crossed his arms for a second and gave a brief laugh. “A man who cares is rare, captain.”

  “Makes for the best leaders, sir, or so I’m told.”

  “Indeed. Well, if Johnson is interested—”

  “I am, sir!”

  “Then I guess we have an understanding, captain. I’ll release him from his duties effectively immediately. From here on out, both he and his uncle are your problem.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harr said with a tight salute. “Sir, if I may, who is his uncle?”

  “I am,” said Rear Admiral Parfait with a wink.

  Harr looked at the Rear Admiral, then at the Senator, and then at Johnson and thought of the only word that seemed fitting to close this mission.

  Crap.

  Mission 3 from the files of

  Platoon F

  ORDERS

  Top secret was a way of life in Platoon F.

  As Captain Don Harr sat outside of Rear Admiral Conster’s office waiting for orders, he was filling out an electronic document that stated that everything he was about to hear was to be kept in the strictest of confidence. His crew, an extension of the captain himself, would be allowed to hear the details, of course, but everyone else was to be kept in the dark.

  To a man like Harr, who didn’t have anyone else to talk to outside of his crew, this seemed a pointless exercise. Besides, wasn’t the very fact that he commanded the only special operations force in all of the Segnal Space Marine Corps (SSMC) enough to say that he’d keep his trap shut?

  But, like any good soldier, Harr dutifully filled out the form, attached his finger print and submitted to the eye scan and dental check, and then, slipping into the privy, lowered his pants and held the device low so it could complete its identification process. He never quite understood the point of that final check, but he assumed that Rear Admiral Parfait was the impetus for its inclusion in the process.

  How the device worked on Harr at all was anyone’s guess. He supposed that the the team of doctors who had originally altered his face, fingerprints, eyes, and, well, essentially everything else, had created a new series of records that could be used to verify is new identity. His old identity, Orion Murphy, had long been considered dead…executed for a militaristic mistake that he had been forced to pay for. Recognizing that they (the military) were wrong, they made Orion Murphy publicly pay for the incident, but behind the scenes they merely changed everything about him, including his name and rank, and put him in charge of Platoon F.

  It had been tough to deal with at first, but he’d slowly gotten used to his new persona. His physicality, however, was somewhat ridiculous. He had been given platinum blond hair, a permanent tan, perfectly aligned and whitened teeth, enhanced genitalia—though he had no idea why—and a jutting jaw that made him look like a superhero.

  That brought his attention back to Rear Admiral Parfait, the man who had set the specifications for Harr’s anatomical alterations.

  The Rear Admiral was on vacation, though Harr did not know where. Chances were that Harr didn’t want to know where, either. Parfait, to Harr’s—and everyone else’s—estimation, was a bit of an oddball.

  Normally, the absence of Parfait would be welcomed, but Rear Admiral Conster had been assigned to oversee Platoon F until Parfait’s return, and that was bad.

  Conster was known to be somewhat of a hardass. He was prone to violent outbursts when he didn’t get his way, he yelled a lot, even when things were going swimmingly, and he consistently attempted to steer the SSMC toward battle wherever possible. In a nutshell, whereas Parfait was weird, Conster was a jerk. Worse, he was a by-the-book jerk.

  “Captain Harr, Don, sir,” announced an ensign who stood before Harr at the doorway to Conster’s office.

  “Unfortunate name, Captain,” said Conster. “Disgrace to the uniform, if you ask me.”

  “Agreed, sir,” Harr replied. “Wasn’t my choice, sir.”

  “I’m aware of your past, Captain,” Conster said, tightly. “That idiot Parfait really did a job on you, didn’t he? You look like a goddamn superhero!”

  Harr didn’t reply. He simply stood at attention, allowing the Rear Admiral to continue his scanning, grunting, and mumbling.

  “Embarrassing,” Conster said, finally. “No time to fix it, unfortunately, so it will have to be what it is.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harr said.

  He grunted again and then said, “Sit your ass in this chair and put your ears on, soldier.”

  Harr moved to the chair and dutifully sat.

  “We got an intelligence feed two days ago about a vessel that entered Segnal space,” he said, flipping his screen toward Harr. “It looked damned familiar, so the science boys did a bit of digging and we found that it’s an almost perfect replic
a of The SSMC Voyeur.”

  That’s a name that Harr recalled from his youth. The SSMC Voyeur was a space exploration satellite that had been sent out about 500 years ago by the Segnal Space Agency (SSA). It was outfitted with an ARC (Advanced Recon Chipset) series robot that was placed on a large platform at the top of the craft. The robot used its camera-like eyes to take video captures of anything it deemed interesting, sending the footage back to the home planet. The ARC series, though, were very basic in their capabilities, so much of the original footage that was sent back consisted of videos of itself looking into the camera curiously. It had taken Segnal scientists another 400 years to build up their technological chops enough to create the Rusty Bucket line, which reminded Harr of just how archaic the ARC series had to have been. But they were also learners, so over the course of 500 years, Harr though it possible that the ARC unit could be somewhat intelligent by now…if it had survived.

  “Are we sure it’s not the actual SSMC Voyeur, sir?”

  “Of course we are,” Conster replied in his typical hot way. “Do you see any goddamn robots on top of this?”

  “No, sir,” Harr admitted, “but it could just be that the robot has been lost.”

  “You don’t think I’ve thought of that, Captain?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Indeed you are, Captain. I don’t need some big-chinned golden boy to tell me what to look for in my job. I was pissing on cadets before you were even a twinkle in your daddy’s eye, boy!”

  Harr had to wonder whether or not the Rear Admiral was being literal. Based on the few interactions he’d been in with the man over the years, he decided it best to take Conster at his word.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, our science boys…and, much to my dismay, let me tell you…girls, have studied the craft since it arrived. There were two recorded messages that came along with it. Do you want to hear what they said, Captain?”

  “Only if it will be helpful to the mission you have planned for my crew, sir,” Harr said, knowing that Conster was a stickler for keeping knowledge locked up.

  “Good answer,” said Conster without even a trace of pride. “The first message says, ‘Have you accepted Soenso as your Savior?’ and the second one, ‘Send more space bars, please.’”

  Harr digested both messages, but awaited the Rear Admiral’s questions.

  “Well?”

  “Sir, do we know who Soenso is?”

  “How the hell would we know who Soenso is, Captain?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Harr replied, calmly. “I didn’t know if the science crew had found any supporting intelligence regarding that persona, sir.”

  “Right. What else?”

  “What are space bars, sir?”

  Conster flipped his screen around. “According to the records, they’re some sort of nutrition item that was the rage some 500 years back. Had the perfect balance of proteins, fats, and carbohydrates.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “Then you’re the first person that does, Captain. Makes no goddamn sense to me.” The Rear Admiral pushed up from his chair. “I don’t like it, Captain,” he said. “This entire Soenso savior thing makes me think that they want war.”

  Harr couldn’t help furrowing his brow at that leap of logic until he remembered who he was talking to. Rear Admiral Conster was the man known for wanting to blanket the Kortnor Hegemony with Ground Shaker Missiles because they’d sent a stack of laser weapons with a note that read, “batteries not included.”

  “War, sir?”

  “Can you think of any other reason that these bastards would insist that we accept their savior while simultaneously demanding that we send them more space bars?”

  Harr replayed the messages in his mind. How Conster had gotten all of that angst and anger out of them was anyone’s guess.

  Instead of arguing the point, Harr kept as blank a visage as he could manage.

  “From that look on your face, Captain, I can see we’re in agreement. And that brings me to your orders.” The Rear Admiral sat back down. “We have the originating coordinates for the craft, Captain. You’re going to take your crew to that planet and blow the goddamn place up. I won’t be having any world trying to come in and dictate terms to me, I’ll tell you that. Segnal didn’t get where it is by backing down in the face of adversity!”

  Actually, that was exactly how the Segnal System had survived over the years. It was through strategic “backing down” that had set up the “not a threat” status that surrounding systems attributed to Segnal and its assigns.

  “Sir?” Harr said.

  “What?”

  “Do we know the distance to this planet?”

  “It’ll take The SSMC Reluctant roughly fifty years to get to the planet, Captain.”

  “Fifty years!”

  “Do not raise your voice to me, young man,” said Conster, throwing a pen in Harr’s general direction.

  “Sorry, sir, but fifty years is, well, a very long time.”

  “Indeed, but since your crew is all made up of androids, I don’t see that this will be a problem.”

  “Excepting the fact, sir, that I am not an android.”

  “You’ll have to have a successor, then. Just make sure you write it up in your report for when you return.”

  Harr’s mouth was hanging open.

  “Also, we’re going to outfit your ship to the teeth with weapons. Ground Shakers, Planet Poppers, Mayhem Missiles, and Rat-a-tat-tat Sidewinders will be strapped on. I don’t want any survivors. And, before you ask, Captain, no, I won’t be sending any space bars along.”

  Harr’s mouth continued hanging open.

  “Dismissed!”

  RESEARCH

  Geezer sat at his desk in engineering, studying a slurry of mathematical equations that would cause most human brains to melt.

  He’d been working for months on a way to improve the speed of The SSMC Reluctant. There had been minor improvements, but nothing noteworthy enough to be considered a breakthrough.

  Until now.

  “So you’re saying that this new technology of yours can transport us instantaneously to any place we want to go?” said Lieutenant Leesal Laasel.

  “Correct,” answered Geezer.

  “How does it work?” asked Commander Kip Sandoo, while scratching his android head in a very human way.

  Geezer had been hoping nobody would ask for the ins and outs regarding the tech behind his invention. The truth was that he’d only learned so much before he just started sticking various things together, hacking and tweaking time and again until he finally garnered some success.

  “Well, it all starts with really small stuff,” he started, “such as—”

  “Ah, good, you’re all here,” Captain Harr said, interrupting the lesson as he walked in.

  “Except for Ensign Jezden, sir,” Sandoo pointed out.

  “Even better,” said the captain. “We’ve been given a new mission that’s going to take us pretty far from Segnal. Based on the projections of The Reluctant’s current propulsion capabilities, we’re looking at about a 50 year journey to our destination.”

  “Wow,” said Sandoo.

  “Shit,” said Geezer.

  “That means we’re going to need to have some type of stasis system set up, Geezer. I don’t have any intention of growing old and dying on this ship.”

  Geezer pointed across the engineering bay to a series of telephone-booth shaped boxes. They were dark and looked to be carrying their fair share of cobwebs.

  “Just those hibernation pods, chief.”

  “Do they work?”

  “Hmmm…there was a bit of an issue that stopped us from using them in any serious capacity.”

  “What issue?” asked the captain.

  “Well, honcho, they actually aged everyone in them at double the speed instead of slowing down the aging process.”

  “Oh, that’s bad.”

  “Yeah, there was one time that we’d gone on a 10 year tr
ip and we used them. When we’d arrived at our destination, our captain, who was already 75 at the time we’d left, had aged 20 years.”

  “Goodness,” said Harr, “I’m surprised he was even alive.”

  “Oh, he wasn’t. He was kind of husk.”

  “Then how do you know he was 95?”

  “Because everyone else in the pods had aged 20 years also.”

  “Oh, right. That makes sense, but it begs the question: why do you keep the darn things around if they don’t work correctly?”

  “Because they’re great for things like aging cheese and fine wines.”

  “I see,” said Harr while running his hand through his platinum blond hair. “Another question, then: why would a robot care about aging wine and cheese?”

  “A fella has to make a little side cash when he’s living off the meager pay of the SSMC.”

  “Ah,” said Harr.

  “There’th good newth, though,” said Lieutenant Laasel’s alter ego, Hank Moon, who often popped up whenever divisiveness was needed. Her other personality, Gravity Plahdoo, tended to arrive when there was either a dramatic requirement, such as something lovey dovey, or when there was a sexual requirement, of the hetero type. But she’d been hiding away lately due to some type of argument she and Hank had had.

  “What’s that, Hank?” asked Harr.

  “Geether wath jutht exthplaining a new mode of travel that he thinkth will revoluthionithe everything.”

  Geezer cursed to himself, hoping that everyone found Hank’s lisp too complex to follow.

  “So you can get us there faster?” asked Harr.

  Dammit.

  “Possibly,” said Geezer. “It’s not been tested, but it should work.”

  “What is it?”

  “I haven’t really named it yet. Have a few ideas in the hopper, of course, but nothing solid. Click-n-Arrive, Dot-to-Dot, Zippy-Quick, The Geezer Drive—”

  “Sorry, I mean how does it work?”

  “Oh, right, well, I was just about to explain that to these two when you arrived.”

  Geezer knew that none of them were highly technical. They were more like battle drones than science types. At least that’s what he was hoping because he had no clue how he would explain the details to someone who did know what he was talking about.