Platoon F: Pentalogy

by John P. Logsdon

  “Mmmk mmu, mir,” Harr tried to reply.

  “Speak up, soldier!”

  “Sir,” the doctor said, coming to Harr’s aid, “he’s not quite able to speak up just yet. It would cause all sorts of problems with his teeth.”

  “Oh, right, we wouldn’t want that. At ease, Commodore. We’ll have you out of here within the day …”

  “Week, sir.”

  “… within the week. You’ll be off to Platoon F and ready to take on the galaxy in no time. We should probably have dinner to discuss the details of your mission before you leave the station, of course.” Parfait ran his fingers through his gray hair and added, “Maybe a nice little one-on-one at my place, after hours …”

  “He should really get his rest, sir,” the doctor suggested.

  “Of course, of course. Get your rest, soldier. That’s an order!”

  “Mmmf, mir.”

  TRANSPORT

  Commodore Don Harr was a fast healer.

  The docs were expecting that it would run at least a week before he was fully ready to roll out; but when Harr heard that Rear Admiral Parfait had left the station and wouldn’t be back until the end of the week, he had a sudden interest in doubling up his meds and tripled work in his physical therapy sessions.

  At current, he was standing at space dock, in a private room, talking via video with Parfait—which was a far better situation than being in a room with the man.

  “You’re looking tip-top, Lieutenant Murphy,” Parfait said with a stern nod.

  “It’s Commodore Harr, sir,” Harr reminded the Rear Admiral.

  “Indeed it is! I was just testing your mental reflexes. There will be many a person out there that will try to trip you up, Murphy … erm, Harr.”

  The abomination that Harr had become made the likelihood that anyone would ever associate him with Orion Murphy asinine. Even the slight reflection he could see on the vid panel made him shudder. He looked like a superhero. Everything except for the thin nose, and the lack of anything resembling a cape. Still, even he had to admit that the tan idea wasn’t so bad—he had always been too pale in his own estimation, and he had noticed a fair bit more heft in his groin region than he’d remembered, though he couldn’t see the purpose in that alteration.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I wish I could be there to give you a firm handshake and possibly even a long, drawn-out hug. You could even call me father or daddy, if you liked.”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  “Again,” Parfait said with a cough, “just trying to keep you on your toes.”

  “Good one, sir.”

  “You have your crew notes, Commodore?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s going to be an interesting group of soldiers, you know? They’ve all, uh, been washed out of one crew or another. Yes, that’s right. And it could be that a few have even spent time as prisoners of war! You never know.” Parfait got that faraway look again and said, “A POW is a tough thing to be, Commodore. I was one back in the War of Wektrahd. Prison can change a man, Lieutenant. You start out scared, of course, and then they throw you in a cell with one or two other men. It isn’t long before things get a little … physical …”

  “Sir?” Harr said as the familiar clank-clank-clank sounded in the station. “My ship has just arrived.”

  “Hmmm? Oh, yes, of course. Well, good luck to you, Commodore. I will expect a full briefing—or debriefing, if you’re game?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Again, keeping you on your toes. Seriously, though, if you have the need to talk at any point, especially during the evenings, feel free to contact my private line.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Harr said, and then shut down the connection and walked to his transport.

  He returned the salute of the pilot as he entered the vessel. It was a light transport with only a few other soldiers aboard. Each stood at full attention as he sat down. He looked back to find them still saluting.

  The entire ordeal made him feel odd.

  In his mind he was still a Lieutenant.

  “At ease,” he called out, uneasily.

  Great, he thought, now I’m going to be that asshole that everyone hates.

  Sadly, that’s exactly what he would be, true or not. Soldiers may respect his rank, but they’d double-guess him as a commander until he could prove himself. Until then, he’d have to push his own agenda and act the part.

  The golden rule of command, according to the perspective of the SSMC, was that you stood your ground and made sure that everyone in your unit knew who was boss. He’d taken this advice to heart over his years in the corps, and he’d had a number of soldiers at his beck and call throughout his tenure, but there was something altogether different between being a Lieutenant and being a Commodore.

  “Sir?” the Pilot was looking at him.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re ready to depart, sir.”

  “Okay?”

  “With your permission, sir.”

  “Oh, yes,” Harr coughed. “Of course, yes. Depart straightaway. Lots to do and missions to begin and things like that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  For a moment, Harr felt like the idiot that Rear Admiral Parfait was.

  18

  Harr loved the clink-clank of the ship. The sounds were completely pointless since propulsion was handled through magnetization, but it was generally accepted that people liked things that went clink-clank, and so the engineers who had designed the Segnal Space Rail system felt obliged to include it.

  During the trip, Harr studied the details of each of his new team. To say they were a crack team would be overstating it. A cracked team would be more apropos.

  Ensign Brand Jezden was a decorated soldier that had fought in two wars. He was awarded with the Bloody Chain for bravery at the Mendial Hold, the Sliced Razor for sustaining cuts on his buttocks at the battle of Harkwith, and the Steel Bone for his participation at Loose Box Porno Convention on Klood.

  Seemed to Harr that everyone was doing what they could to pad their resumes these days.

  Lieutenant Leesal Laasel was green, according to her record. She’d not seen any combat, she never held a long-term command, and she was … ah, ha … clinically insane. Her last psych evaluation reported her as having multiple personalities, listing two personalities besides her normal one. There was Gravity Plahdoo, who was listed as a stripper, and Hank Moon, who was listed as a male stripper. How she’d gotten to the rank of Lieutenant was anybody’s guess, but based on her photos, Harr determined that he wouldn’t mind seeing any three of her personalities do a pole dance.

  Special Agent Yek’s file consisted only of a photograph and the word “dangerous.” This didn’t worry Harr since all soldiers in the corps were dangerous. There was a sealed envelope attached to Yek’s file. Harr opened it. It read, “Seriously, this guy is —ing dangerous.”

  Commander Kip Sandoo was the only one who had a record that looked relatively normal. He had done basic at Undercard; studied strategy at Hellbent; took advanced weaponry at Cardrail; and underwent molecular manipulation at Cadence Point. A lot soldiers went for the cell swapping, so this didn’t bug Harr. It just meant that Sandoo had quicker reflexes or something. Just in case, though, Harr combed through the rest of the file and found the tarnish he was hoping wouldn’t be there. Turned out that Sandoo had cell swapping done outside of military control, because they had refused to give him the 9 toes on each foot that he’d so desperately wanted.

  “Great,” Harr said as he dropped the files and pinched his new nose. “Everyone on my squad is nuts.”

  And those were only his direct-reports. There was another line of crewmen under them that had undoubtedly housed their own litany of issues.

  He turned to look out the window at the stars, but the lights inside were far too bright, making the only thing he could see his own reflection. His chin was ridiculous, as was his hair. He couldn’t complain about the bottom row of teeth, though, th
at had made it easier to chew.

  “Sir?” said a soldier who had walked up.

  “Yes,” Harr replied, peering up at man who was probably a bit younger than Harr’s 27 years.

  He looked familiar.

  “Commander Kip Sandoo, sir,” the man said and saluted.

  “Ah, yes,” Harr nodded and then looked at Sandoo’s feet. Sure enough, those were some big boots. “I just finished reading your file, Sandoo.”

  “If I may, sir?” Sandoo gestured toward the adjacent chair.

  “Please,” Harr motioned him to sit.

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Almost always, Commander.”

  “It’s just that I see you’ve had some work done too, sir, and it’s rare to find someone with a similar passion.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The chin, sir? The hair? The high cheekbones? The…”

  “Right,” Harr said, stopping Sandoo. “Yes, I get it.”

  “Sorry, sir. Well, it’s just that cell swapping is a small community.”

  “I assure you that what you see is not what I have chosen,” Harr said, pointing at his face.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Were you injured or something?”

  “Well, no,” Harr said.

  “Birth defect, then?”

  “That’s a little personal, but, again, not the reason.”

  “Some type of scarring, maybe? A lot of people do cell swapping because of skin blemishes or acne. It’s really nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Harr took a deep breath and wondered why he OK’d the Commander to sit with him. “Nothing to do with skin issues, Commander.”

  “Then, may I ask, why?”

  “It’s confidential.”

  “Relocation then. I get it. Pretty common.” The Commander crossed his legs, but must have recognized he was getting a bit too comfortable and so he shifted back to a more attentive state. “Sorry, sir, and I’m sorry you were forced into relocation.”

  “I wasn’t exactly forced,” Harr said.

  “So it was relocation,” Sandoo said with a grin and then, again, straightened up. “Sorry, sir.”

  The cat was out of the bag anyway, so Harr leaned forward and said, “I was slated to be executed, so it was either this or death.”

  “So you did choose to undergo cell swapping.”

  “Okay, fine. Technically, yes, I did, but I didn’t want to look like a, well, a …”

  “Superhero?”

  “Right.”

  “A lot of people do it, sir. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m not a lot of people, Commander,” Harr said, hotly. “Now, if you and your 18 toes would be so kind as to get back to your seat, I’ll get back to studying these files.”

  Commander Sandoo stood up, looking a bit hurt. “Sir,” he said as he clomped away.

  Harr sighed, realizing he’d have to make amends for that little outburst at some point.

  THE SSMC RELUCTANT

  She’d been on countless shows regarding the history of the SSMC fleet. Anyone who knew anything about the military would recognize her in a heartbeat. The silver metal, the burn marks, the missing panels, the graffiti … it all rang the name SSMC Reluctant.

  He could only hope that it functioned better than it looked.

  Sandoo was standing to his right as they looked out the glass partition that separated them from the “future.”

  “Seriously?” Sandoo said. “Isn’t that The Reluctant?”

  “It is, Commander,” Harr said, pointing to the large words that were painted in bas relief on the side of the ship.

  “Oh, right.”

  “Listen, Commander,” Harr said, turning toward his subordinate, “I’m one of those soldiers who has a hot head. This sometimes finds me in a bit of a stew. What I said about your 18 toes …”

  “Already forgotten, sir.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt me while I speak.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Anyway, the comment was uncalled for. I was merely …”

  “Angry.”

  “… angry at my current situation. I just haven’t been …”

  “Yourself.”

  “… myself lately. I guess it’s all due to the …”

  “Cell swapping.”

  Harr paused and gave a hard stare. “Are you going to keep doing that?”

  “Doing what, sir?”

  “Finishing my sentences.”

  “I wasn’t doing that, sir. I was just filling in the words for you when you hesitated.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Well, sir, the sentence wasn’t actually finished. At least not all of them … sir.”

  “Mind stopping that, too?”

  Commander Sandoo saluted.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry is all. I can’t promise it won’t happen again, but just know that I do try to keep my tongue in check where possible.”

  “Understood, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Harr gave a tight smile and picked up his bag. “Shall we?”

  They showed their credentials to the gate guard, who looked to be fighting the urge to laugh. Harr grimaced and then walked into the tunnel that connected to the hull of The Reluctant.

  Graffiti was all over the side of the ship.

  Have a nice day!

  Have a shitty day!

  BaDing Wuz Here! ‘27

  …and so on.

  Harr immediately decided to put in a requisition to have the ship cleaned up. There was no way the ask would be granted because The SSMC Reluctant was a historical treasure and these little markings were all part of her past, but, if nothing else, the request would show somebody that he wasn’t happy about being dropped into the archaic vessel.

  The inside of the ship was in about as good a shape as the outside. Filthy wasn’t a dirty enough word to describe it. He slid his fingers along the wall and found a nice metallic sheen where the dirt was wiped clean. At least he could have the inside of the ship cleaned … right? For all he knew there was some rule against that too.

  Navigating the tight hallways was always a problem on smaller vessels, but The SSMC Reluctant was even smaller than most smaller ships. If he hadn’t been carrying a bag, it still would have been tight. With the bag, it was brutal. Sandoo had already knocked off countless knobs and ancient antennas, which sufficed to clear the way a bit for Harr.

  First stop was the barracks.

  He dropped off his bag in his quarters, taking a quick peek around. There was a bunk, a dresser, and a desk, and a number of pinups of nudes on the walls. Fortunately, they were of the female variety, even if they had come from an era that saw the birth of his grandmother.

  Moving back through the halls, he pulled himself up through a tube and climbed the ladder that opened to the main bridge.

  Sandoo had already found his way there as well. He jumped to attention, saluted, and barked, “Commodore on the bridge.”

  Lieutenant Laasel and Ensign Jezden found their feet with relative haste, as did all of the crewmen, but Special Agent Yek merely looked over, sneered, and resumed picking at his nails with the blade he was holding.

  “At ease,” Harr said, counting the members on the ship. Thirteen in all, unless there were some late arrivals or they were otherwise occupied. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

  “Sir,” was the chorused response.

  “Again, at ease. There are a few things I want to go over before we get into our mission.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Commander?”

  “What is our mission, sir?”

  “I’m still awaiting our orders from Rear Admiral Parfait, so for now our orders will be to get this ship cleaned up.”

  A crewman stepped forward and raised her hand. “Sir, I believe that the dust on this ship is under the protection of the Segnal Historical Society.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, sir, section 111c of the Segnal Hi
storical Society states that no artifact is to be cleaned, dusted, or in any way, shape, or manner tidied up as, in doing so, the historical nature and solidity will be jeopardized therein.”

  “Hell of a quote, crewman …”

  “Ooster, sir, and I was paraphrasing, sir.”

  “Right, well, what you just said is all fine and good, crewman Ooster—what I understood of it, anyway—but the Segnal Historical Society is not sitting in here breathing that dust, let alone the mold and gods know what else.”

  “No, sir.”

  “And that means that we’re going to do things my way. If anyone from the aforementioned society would like to have a word with me after all is said and done, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harr paced a bit. “After we’ve cleaned things up, we’re going to take this baby out for a quick ride to see how she fairs under a bit of pressure. I’m assuming that one of you is an engineer of some sort?”

  “That’d be me, chief,” said the digital voice that came from a robot who looked like he belonged aboard The SSMC Reluctant.

  “A bot?”

  “You know it, kahuna.”

  Harr cracked his neck from side to side, trying to relieve the tension. “What’s your designation?”

  “G.3.3.Z.3.R., sir.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Harr said with a laugh. “You’re a Geezer?”

  “Roger that, honcho, and proud of it!”

  “Weren’t you like the first ever line of maintenance bots created?”

  “Second, chief. The first line was the Rusty Bucket line.”

  “Oh,” Harr said in grandiose fashion, “at least the military moved with the times with you, eh?”

  “You got it, boss. You’ll not find another like me in the fleet.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Harr said. “Okay, well, until we get our orders, I want every inch of this boat cleaned and dusted. I want the mags checked and the rotors rotated. I want the runners ran and the fans fanning. The last thing we want is to fly off the tracks on our first day. Also, do a round of verifications on the weapons system. Never know what kind of mission we’re going to be put on, and I don’t want any surprises while we’re out there.”