Platoon F: Pentalogy

by John P. Logsdon

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Did you catch what I just said?”

  “Yes, sir, but it doesn’t make any sense. You just asked me how much I enjoyed working here and you told me what an asset I was to the company. Now you’re firing me?”

  “No, no, no, Bob, we’re not firing you,” Pezder said with a grimace. “Terrible to be fired, you know?” Then Pezder scrunched his greasy brow. “I said you were an asset?”

  “Well, you said you were glad to have me.”

  “Not quite the same thing, is it?” Pezder put his sandaled foot up on the desk and briefly tugged free a piece of his largest toenail, which he proceeded to eat. “Regardless, we’re not firing you, Bob,” he said between chews. “We’re letting you go. Different thing entirely. See, if we fired you then it would be harder for you to find another job. Imagine us firing you after you’ve worked here for…what…ten years?”

  “Thirty.”

  “Thirty years? Wow, seriously?” Pezder referred back to his VizScreen. “That’s a long time, Bob.”

  “I know. I’ve lived it.”

  “Well, it would be hard for you to get a job if you got fired. And there is no cause for us to fire you. You’re a good worker.”

  “Then why?”

  Pezder clearly wasn’t expecting this kind of reaction. He had even stopped itching and poking at himself.

  “Why? Well, I guess you haven’t heard of the recent Atquire/Ruptickle study conducted on Purmizeth in the Gall sector that pointed out by letting go of middle management and other lower-level workers, upper management was able to increase their personal intake. Who knew, eh Bob?”

  Bob sat forward and tried to keep his voice from quavering. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to let go one person in upper management and still get the same increase?”

  “That’s not funny, Bob,” Pezder said and then sat back. “Look, you’re upset so I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that. It’s pure logic any way you cut it. If we started firing the higher ups, who would run the company?”

  “You mean ‘letting go,’ right?” Bob said, as he thought how idiotic it was to believe the higher levels ran the company.

  “Right, of course. Slip of the tongue, Bob.”

  “Who are you planning to have do my work, sir? Upper management?”

  “Good one, Bob,” Pezder said, slapping his knee and causing a particularly robust pustule to dispense its contents on the wall. “You’re clearly a man that can roll with the punches. No, we in the more elite roles of the company are much too busy with meetings, travel, and surfing the GalactiNet. Anyway, another part of the study showed that if you let a few people go the others will work twice as hard at their same pay in order to keep their jobs.”

  “But...”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Bob,” Pezder said as he stood up, “but, you see, it’s a win-win for the company. Those at the top get rewarded financially and via accolades from investors, and those at the bottom are so focused on keeping up that they are unable to rationalize what has happened to them. Make sense?”

  Bob shook his bell-shaped head. “Not in the least, sir.”

  “Good, good,” Pezder said with a smile.

  “I’m assuming that you’re profiting from this, sir?”

  “Of course I am!” Pezder was always honest, as were most Neflirians. It was one of the many things they were known for. “Wouldn’t have agreed to letting one of my best go if I didn’t get something out of it, now would I?”

  “I suppose not, sir.”

  “You’re a sharp one, Bob. If you could only have hung on for another couple of years you would have made it in to upper management.”

  “I don’t think I would be qualified, sir,” Bob responded.

  “Probably not, no,” Pezder agreed. “All the best to you, Bob. If you need a referral or anything like that, just contact my assistant and we’ll work something out. Oh, and take all the time you need to gather your things. No hurry at all, Bob. No hurry at all.”

  As Pezder left, a couple of maintenance bots rolled in with hover boxes and started packing up Bob’s personal effects while two security guards appeared in the doorway. One projected a holographic image of a stopwatch on the wall; the other kept alternating between looking at Bob and the virtual countdown.

  Bob just sat there.

  His world had crashed.

  There was nothing to hang on to.

  No family. No job. Nothing.

  And due to his new programming and upgraded equipment, he was horny as hell.

  STARLINER

  CHAPTER 3: I HATE MEETINGS

  Even in these tense economic times, a business must endeavor to put its best foot forward. For 250 years The Conglomerated Conglomeration of Planets has added to its membership, allowing us to cater to the needs of hundreds of planets inhabiting The Clark Galaxy. Where there is money to be made, the CCOP will be involved. Our elite Space Marine Litigation Unit is constantly working to maximize revenue by ensuring that all of our partners fall within the acceptable practices and procedures that our members have come to expect. It is our goal to ensure that all parties take comfort in the fact that at the Conglomerated Conglomeration of Planets, our mission is your business.

  The lights came back on as Promotions Prime Pletiff and the rest of the sales and marketing staff stood and clapped. With each clap bits of spittle popped off of Pletiff’s mouth and onto various skin tags and bumps surrounding his face and hands.

  After some expressive handshaking, and hand wiping, the team sat back down.

  Adam Dresker, head of the Internal Research Bureau (IRB), and one of the many Humans on station, was, as usual, struggling to stay awake.

  Dresker hated these meetings. Nothing good ever came of them. What did he care if the company had a new slogan or motto or, well, whatever? If bad things happened to good people—or good things happened to bad people, for that matter—he and his crew dealt with it regardless of the company’s latest window dressing. The mission of the CCOP did not impact him in the least, barring a complete change in concern of security.

  But his position within the organization held little impact on why he was included in these meetings. Zarliana, president of the CCOP, had Dresker attend because he was blunt. He didn’t beat around the bush. Zarliana would allude to the stupidity of dreadful ideas, but she was sly about it and only a handful of her underlings ever caught on. If she couldn’t lead a person to the conclusion that they were in error, she would rely on the assistance of someone that would state the obvious. Dresker was most often that someone.

  Zarliana remained impassive. She had the perfect poker face. All Hyzethians did. Oddly, they weren’t known for playing poker or engaging in games of chance at all, unless one considered running the largest multi-tiered, universe-wide corporation a chancy proposition. Dresker assumed that there was no challenge for Hyzethians in the more menial games of chance.

  “Your best work to-date, Mr. Pletiff,” Zarliana said while adjusting her collar. Hyzethians didn’t like showing much of their transparent skin. Zarliana’s neck and head were mostly opaque, but under all of that garb was the equivalent of a see-through model. Dresker had seen pictures on the Net and had rather wished he hadn’t. “I dare say it’s almost an improvement over last month’s effort.”

  “Yes?” Pletiff said as his eyes darted about. “You liked it, then?”

  “Liked it?”

  Pletiff puffed out his chest and smiled the smile that conveyed he had no clue that Zarliana had not made a statement. “I worked very hard on that.”

  “So it seems. I can just imagine being a freight hauler and thinking to myself how I would find working with the CCOP quite beneficial since they—being us—do the same thing I—being them—do.”

  “Exactly!”

  “And how they—meaning us—could certainly undercut my prices being that they’re such a large conglomerate and I—again referring to them, I do hope you’re catching on—am just a small sh
op.”

  After a few moments, Pletiff unwrinkled his brow and a few flakes drifted toward the table. “Right!”

  Yixee, Pletiff’s executive assistant and the only worker within marketing with any sense, continued shaking her bushy-haired head. She sat mere inches above the top of the table. Dresker had noted Yixee’s look of disgust since about half way through the promotional video. He caught her eye and shrugged, knowing that all Yixee could do was hope that if the CCOP ever did replace Pletiff she would be salvaged or at least moved into another department where shiny objects did not play such a pivotal role in daily distractions. If he could open an extra slot on his team for administration, something that all Gheptians seemed to thrive at, Dresker would hire her on the spot.

  “What are your thoughts on this, Mr. Dresker?” Zarliana asked.

  And here was his monthly call to duty.

  It was annoying, frustrating, and every other “ing” word that he could muster to think but not say.

  “You know how we are in the IRB, ma’am,” Dresker answered. “We spend more time being suspicious than creative.”

  “We have had this discussion many times, yes,” Zarliana replied. “Each month, I believe. Still, I would appreciate your insight. You do, after all, have a...critical eye.”

  Dresker sighed and gave a stern look at Pletiff. He would never understand how a Neflir, one of the more truthful races, could have been put in charge of a department that many believe had refined the art of misdirection and skirted the edge of falsehoods to a degree that one wondered where reality actually lay.

  “If I were a freight hauler, as you mentioned,” Dresker started, willing his mind to stay in the game, “I wouldn’t want to work with the CCOP, based off of that mission statement. You’re basically saying that you’re going to either take over my contracts, run me into the ground, or both, and, knowing the history of the CCOP, I’d wager both.”

  “But we wouldn’t do that,” said Pletiff with a look of shock.

  “And how am I going to believe that?” Dresker asked, crossing his arms and settling back into his chair. “Everyone within a million units knows that the CCOP owns pretty much everything. There are thousands of subcontractors out there barely hanging on as it is and now you’re about to tell them how we’re going to do everything they already do?”

  “See? That’s it,” Pletiff said with the look of a professor who had gotten through to a rather dense student.

  Dresker shrugged at Zarliana, avoiding direct eye contact with her. Anyone with even a modicum of sense knew that looking into the president’s eyes was not a good idea. There was something controlling about the glowing orbs of the Hyzethian race.

  Metallic bits that flecked the table-top began to pulse in various hues, a little light show that temporarily mesmerized Pletiff and the rest of the marketing crew, except for Yixee. It signaled the end of the meeting.

  “There’s no getting through to him,” Dresker said as if Pletiff had already left the room. “That’s the one you should be paying attention to,” Dresker added, pointing at Yixee, whose sunken eyes, a Gheptian trait, widened considerably as she looked suddenly put upon. “I’m sure she corrected most of the problems before this ever got to Pletiff’s desk anyway.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dresker,” Zarliana said with her typical smoothness. “I believe we’ve come a long way, Mr. Pletiff, yes?”

  Pletiff blinked a few times as he poked at a pimple. “Yes? Yes. Yes! A long way!”

  “Good,” the president smiled and looked at her iPane, which, as Dresker had been told, was a more solid piece of technology than the VizScreen.

  Of course, that depended greatly on whom you asked.

  As Dresker understood it, you either went with the VizScreen or the iPane. There were other options, if you wanted to go on the cheap, but they were hardly worth the effort. The VizScreen was manufactured by NegligibleSoft. It was upgradeable, expandable, and cost about half the credits as the iPane. Fruit, the company that created the iPane, was a fair bit smaller than NegligibleSoft, but they made up for their size with tenacity and marketing. Fruit’s iPane product was sexier than the VizScreen, had far more Trinkets, required full replacement if you wanted to upgrade, didn’t have any means of expandability, and cost about twice the credits as the VizScreen. He wasn’t quite sure why anyone would want to spend double for something so limited, but those who had the iPane swore by its stability and ease of use, while those who owned the VizScreen mostly just swore.

  “Now,” Zarliana said as her iPane faded away, “I do have another meeting so I’ll bid you all adieu until the next presentation.”

  “So, is this good, then?”

  “What is, Mr. Pletiff?”

  “Er, the presentation.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is it good, then?”

  “I will leave that for you to decide, Mr. Pletiff,” she replied, looking into his eyes.

  The Neflir seemed to numb up a bit. Dresker shook his head, feeling the slightest twinge of sympathy for the dimwit.

  “Until next time, then,” Zarliana said after a few moments and then reopened her iPane.

  Everyone filed out of the room with Dresker at the rear. It was only a few more steps and he’d be out the door. She never let him go, though. Never. She always waited until he’d almost slipped into freedom and then she would call him back.

  So he slowed down.

  “Mr. Dresker,” Zarliana said as if on cue, “if you have one more moment?”

  It had to be on purpose. He could only recall one time that she didn’t call after him and even then he had turned around in a Pavlovian way to find Zarliana grinning at her iPane.

  This time she wasn’t looking up. “Are you aware of anything untoward going on at our manufacturing division on Third and Zupe?”

  There were hundreds of manufacturing divisions on this massive, floating space station.

  The one on Third developed Cheskian Crowns, which he knew because of a petty theft case his team had dealt with when he’d first come to the CCOP. There was nothing fancy about the crowns aside from their being used for royalty on the planet Chesk. Hundreds of the tiny tiaras poured out daily since Cheskian kings had the life expectancy of less than one standard click, and with there being only twenty-four clicks in a day, that was a very short time indeed. Dresker remembered reading that the longest standing record for a Cheskian king was seven clicks, and that was because he had fallen into a hole and the assassins had to spend the first six clicks of his reign digging.

  “Nothing that I’ve heard of, no.”

  “It seems that they have been laying off a number of mid-level managers,” she said with a look of concern.

  It never ceased to amaze Dresker how much Zarliana knew about the CCOP and all of its internal issues.

  The entirety of the station spanned two major cities on each side and served as home for over 30 million residents. It was huge, housing thousands of production buildings, manufacturing lines, and every other kind of business imaginable, and somehow Zarliana was able to keep up with all of it.

  “Well,” Zarliana said as she sat back, “I’m sure you’ll look into it.”

  “I don’t recall layoffs being a security issue, ma’am.”

  “Nor should you,” Zarliana said, and then she rose and glided to the window. “I’m sure there’s no mystery there. Nothing to pique the interest of a solver’s mind, as it were.” She rubbed a gloved hand at a smudge on the window. “Don’t let me further delay you from your duties, Mr. Dresker.”

  He wanted to leave, but she would just call him back again. It was her way. So, instead of turning, Dresker began backing away toward the door.

  “Oh,” Zarliana said, “one last thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “You know how I do so enjoy your unique perspective on things,” she said and then asked, “Tell me, what do you think of the Mechanicans finding religion?”

  That was an odd question.

  “I g
uess it seems harmless enough,” Dresker said cautiously.

  “Does it?”

  Dresker moved his gaze to a point roughly a foot above her head. “I find anything to do with religion odd, ma’am, but I suspect it was only a matter of time before robo…” he cleared his throat, “...Mechanicans found some higher purpose.”

  “I see,” she said slowly. “Do have a good day, Mr. Dresker.”

  “Ma’am.” Dresker inclined his head and then fled.

  STARLINER

  CHAPTER 4: WORKING 9 TO 5

  Dresker acknowledged a number of familiar faces as he strolled the corridor back to his office.

  It wasn’t easy being the head of security.

  Everyone was a suspect.

  There were even times when he’d had his ex-wife under home investigation for things as minor as mixing whites with darks. Truth was that she never did any domestic chores anyway. They had a robotic butler for all the chores, as was the norm. Still, Dresker was certain she would occasionally sneak in and drop a newly purchased dark towel in with his dress whites just to irk him.

  During their divorce proceedings, she had admitted to doing that very thing on multiple occasions.

  The fact that he focused so much on the clothing case and missed the multiple affairs she had been having over their ten year marriage was a bit deflating, but at least he hadn’t been entirely wrong.

  After a few moments of hand scans, eye scans, card placement, and ID entry, Dresker walked into his department.

  The measures required to enter the room were a bit of overkill, especially when compared to the often lackadaisical security procedures on sensitive areas throughout the CCOP, but when you have an Uknar as your second in command, overkill is a way of life.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Bintoo, the team clerk, said as Dresker passed his deck.

  “Bintoo,” Dresker said and nodded as he shuffled through the papers in his mail slot. It was supposed to be a paperless society, but it never seemed to get there. Dresker preferred the touch of real paper over the digital anyway. “Anything exciting going on this morning?”

  “Not really, sir,” Bintoo replied. His resemblance to Yixee was quite remarkable. He had the bushy hair, petite stature, and a complexion so flawless that it likely gave the willies to Neflirians. Being a male Gheptian, though, Bintoo was a little shorter than Yixee. “The financial investigation on Plindoon-7 finished up last night,” Bintoo added as he adjusted his plain black tie.