by Michael Blanding
The morning started out rough, all the hot water had been used by his Platformmates, breakfast was made of food they should have eaten yesterday, and Gonzales and Ford had already been in two fist fights by 10:00, so a normal day all in all. After that things went downhill fast. Most Platformers don’t typically enjoy venturing outside of their assigned platforms if they can avoid it, the ground is too rough, the air, too clean, the lack of constant machinery sounds, unsettling, but Gonzales and Ford are not typical Platformers. Gonzales was out for his 11 hundred hour jog, the Platform treadmills lacked the feel of real groun, when he saw Ford coming from the far end of camp. Gonzales still remembered the first time he and Ford had fought. It was the first week of basic and Ford had spiked Gonzales’s dinner in to make sure he won. Gonzales had even failed the gunners test the next day because of it.
“Come back for more?!” Ford shouted bringing Gonzales back to the present.
“You’ve got nothing left to give!” Gonzales answered. Even standing in the shadow of the ten ton Platform, Gonzales was burning up.
“Let’s see just how much I have left to give, Shrimpy,” Ford responded. They were now nose to nose.
“Bring it, ugly,” Gonzales shouted in his face. They slowly backed away from each other, attaining the room to move freely. A crowd formed around the two Platformers and bets were being placed fast, as soon as the fighting started, all bets would have to stop. The tension built slowly until finally it broke. Gonzales ducked under Fords guard with a quick jab at his ribs. Ford repelled it effortlessly and countered with a left hook to the head, but Gonzales was already gone. Faster than Ford could react, Gonzales was back in with two or three jabs at his ribs and stomach, only one connected with its intended target. Ford quickly countered with an uppercut that caught Gonzales just as he was trying to move out of the way. This pattern continued for the next few attacks, Gonzales jumping in and out of the much bigger Fords range, Ford countering hard and fast, going for the knockout each time. Gonzales’s breaths were coming short and shallow now, his clothes were drenched in his sweat, and he knew that his next jump in might be his last if he couldn’t get under Ford’s guard.
Gonzales jumped in, resolved not to leave this time without getting a good chunk of Ford. As Gonzales swung at Ford’s head, Ford ducked down and stepped in, wrapping Gonzales up in his big strong arms. Gonzales knew he was done for. He was bracing for the fury of cannon fire about to rain down on him, when he heard a gruff voice shout, “ATTENTION!” The crowd quickly straightened into a line, Gonzales and Ford untangled and took their position in line. Hanging on the ladder to one of the biggest platforms in camp was an Antarctician. He descended the ladder slowly. He walked the length of the line twice before he began addressing the tropes. “Who authorized this gathering?” he asked.
“No one, Sir,” they chanted.
“And who gave you the right to hold bets?” he asked again.
“No one, Sir.”
“Then it’s half rations for all of you, except you two,” the colonel said pointing at Ford and Gonzales. “Major, take down these men’s names and serial numbers. You two come with me, I have a special punishment for you.” With that he turned and climbed the ladder again. Ford and Gonzales slowly moved towards the platform the loomed overhead. It’s ginormous figure casting a shadow over the grass. It’s two gun installments gaping like arms reaching out to catch a giant missile.
As they climbed into the belly of the platform, Gonzales went through all the possible punishments the colonel might have for them. KP, latrine duty, 24 hour patrol, maybe even duty as a foot soldier, he was fine with any of them.
When they got into the platform the colonel turned down a hallway to the right and began climbing a second ladder that led to the commons area, motioning for Ford and Gonzales to follow. When they entered the commons the colonel walked into the senior officer’s quarters. He paced behind his desk, letting them stew for a little bit. As Gonzales stood there he noticed a few things about the colonel’s office. On the desk rested a picture of his two little kids, their little black faces poking out of their winter coats. On the wall behind the cornel hung a map of the earth, all of the UCE (United Continents of Earth) shaded in blue, the UNC (United Nations of Africa) in green, the New Chinese Empire in Red, the Australia Republic in Brown, and little dots of all three scattered in the arctic circle where the different governments had set up small colonies.
“Boy’s, how long have you been out of Basic?” the colonel asked.
“Three and a half years, sir,” they responded in unison.
“That’s right, you left top of your class. And yet here you are, still specialists. Do you know why that is?”
“No sir.”
“It’s because you can’t seem to get along. You could both be sergeant at least by now if you could just put this old quarrel to rest. As it is, you’re both just lucky none of your commanding officers have court martialed you for dishonoring the uniform. I have had just about enough of your stupid squabbling, and to end it I have a special assignment for you. At 23:30 a truck will approach the convoy from the west. The driver has been instructed to park in a wooded area 20 clicks outside of camp and wait for a platform to come escort it into camp. You will both be assigned to the platform, any complaints and you will be in front of a court martial so fast your heads will spin. You are not to discuss this mission or the contents of the truck with anyone outside of the platform. The contents are to be protected at all costs. And at any time should you fail to follow these orders you will be put into holding by the MP’s and held until the conclusion of the mission. These orders come from the highest authority. Any questions?”
“Who do we report to sir?” Gonzales asked.
“Until further notice, directly to me,” the colonel answered.
“What platforms do we have and who is the rest of the crew?” Ford followed up.
“You will be on Platform 022, and right now you are the crew. I will try and fill out the other positions as soon as possible, but for the time being learn to live with each other.”
“And what is the cargo?” Gonzales finished.
“All I know is what was in the briefing,” the colonel answered.
“And…?” they asked in unison.
“And all it said was ‘the cargo is the jewel of the President’s eye,’” the colonel answered. “I am to know nothing more. When you retrieve the cargo you are to load it onto your platform and escort the truck into camp. I’ve let the sentries know to let you come and go without any questions at precisely 23:00 and 00:00, if you are not back into camp by then you are on your own. If you aren’t here for morning roll call you will be charged with desertion and treason in the highest degree. One of you is to approach the truck on foot while humming the intercontinental anthem. Understand…?” They indicated to the affirmative. “Good. Dismissed!”
As Gonzales sat down for his last lunch with his platformmates, he couldn’t help but think of the only other time he and Ford had been assigned to the same crew. They’d only barley managed to not kill each other, and that wasn’t from a lack of trying
Gonzales was just finishing his lunch when an announcement was posted on the view screen in the commons. All personnel were to report to the drill grounds to be addressed by Colonel Hogan. Specialists: Bueller, Ford, Franks, Gideon, Gonzales, and Stuart; Corporal Klink and Second Lieutenant Paterson were to report for reassignment after the address. Gonzales dreaded the new assignment, Platform 022 was one of the oldest platforms in the convoy, it was part of the third model produced for army use back in the early 31st century, since then the technology had improved diez veces. It’d be like living in the dark ages, with a cavernícola. Gonzales grabbed his necessities, which he always kept in a burlap sack, a trick his papa taught him, and headed to the drill grounds. Colonel Hogan gave instructions to the camp, nothing Gonzales didn’t already know from his talk with him earlier. No one was to approach Platform 022 because it was under quarantine. He conveniently forgot to mention the new truck coming in. After the gathering, Gonzales and Ford reported with a group of soldiers to Colonel Hogan who proceeded to split them up into other platforms. All the other soldiers came from Platform 022 and were more than willing to be assigned to another platform. When he got to Gonzales and Ford the rest had already gone to get set up in there new platforms, so Colonel Hogan reiterated his earlier warning about how if they slipped up once they would be court marshaled so fast their heads would spin.
On the way over, Ford started singing an off key version of the old American National Anthem. He got about halfway through the second time before Gonzales couldn’t take it anymore. “Would you please stop torturing everyone around you with that awful, old, la paz de estupideces song!” he said. “It’d be one thing if you could actually canta.”
“That’s big talk coming from a lowly, slandering, miniature, piece of trash Mexican,” Ford responded. “I bet your old platformmates are dancing for joy now that you and your stench are off their rig.”
“At least mine aren’t holding a fiesta to celebrate the occasion,” Gonzales retorted.
“Remind me, how’s your mom’s alcoholism coming along? She still using the juice?” Ford redirected.
“At least I have a family who still wants me around. How long did it take them to sell you? A week? Maybe a month just to find someone dumb enough to buy you,” Gonzales said.
“How often does your dad send you letters telling you how disappointed he is that you aren’t a Corporal yet? Once a week, if he can find the money for the postage.” Ford asked.
“Has your first master learned your name yet, or does he still call you ‘Chico’?” Gonzales came back. By then they’d reached the Platform, not much to look at from the outside, but it should get the job done. It was so battle scarred from years of storming beaches and forts that it was unlikely that any of the parts on it were the original, none of the color matched. Its living quarters were rust red. Its upper right propulsion system, or right leg, was wood brown with patches of gray where the paint had chipped off. Its entire right canon mount a forest green. Its lower left leg was sea blue, and both bases, or feet, were a mixture of midnight black and sunshine yellow.
The platform was in the normal position for when it undergoes a complete change in crew, lowered onto the middle of its right leg and its left leg bent out. The ladder fell down between the feet and went straight to the living quarters. “Ladies first,” Ford said with a slight bow.
“In that case, after you,” Gonzales replied.
“No I insist,” Ford said.
“Fine, that just gives me the high ground,” Gonzales pointed out. With that Ford made a break for the ladder. demasiado fácil, Gonzales thought as he walked to the ladder detrás Ford thinking of different versions of the word “dama” to call him, the one he liked the best was the one he got right before he entered the platform, princesa. He never got a chance though, because as soon as his poked out of the hole in the floor Ford had him by the hair and was pulling up so hard he nearly pulled him off the ladder.
“Now that we’re out of the view of the coronel, why don’t we finish what we started?” Ford growled in Gonzales’s ear.
“Whatever you say,” Gonzales responded, twisting as he lowered himself slightly on the ladder to get Ford to release his hair. He dropped a little farther than he meant to, but that just pulled Ford half way out of the platform. Taking advantage of his newly gained upper hand, Gonzales quickly climbed the ladder and slammed his head into Ford’s nose sending Ford careening onto the mess table. Gonzales didn’t waste a second getting in the platform and on top of Ford. He started letting the punches fly aiming for Ford’s newly crooked, red nose.
Ford quickly regained his composure and threw Gonzales over his head and got up. They were still wrestling when they heard someone climbing up the ladder. They quickly untangled themselves and covered the worst wounds; Ford needed a book to stick his nose in and forgot to make sure he could actually read it before Colonel Hogan appeared in the hatch.
“Attention!” he shouted when he got off the ladder and straightened into a standing position. His eyes did a quick once over of the room. It might have passed his inspection if it weren’t for the warped table and few broken chairs scattered across the room. “Good to see you’re breaking in the new platform, making yourself comfortable as it were.” He chuckled a little at his own joke. “Now, to business. I will overlook the obvious fact that it took you less than an hour to break the rules, mostly because right now you are the only ones who know about the operation. But you break any other rule, you will be subject to court martial at the completion of this mission. One more rule, no one, and I mean no one, is to enter this platform without you first contacting me for approval and checking their paper on the ground at the foot of the ladder after tonight, and that includes me. I will try and get you a pilot and mechanic before the week is out, but no promises. Repeat my orders.” After Gonzales and Ford had recited orders and operational procedures to the colonel’s satisfaction, the colonel left with a quick old fashioned four finger salute, which Gonzales and Ford returned awkwardly.
They spent the rest of the day on the opposite side of the platform, checking supplies, hand held guns, ammo for both the handheld and big guns and food rations. They then settled into the Gunners Quarters which had exactly two bunks, a top and bottom, and a desk too small for anything of actual substance to be put on, for the rest of the day. At 22:00 they got up and played a hand or two of cards to decide who would take pilot duty that night. Come 22:55, Ford was in the pilots chair and Gonzales was wishing he was worse at cards.
They got past the guard post with no problem just like the colonel said they would. Ford stopped the platform with a jerk that threw Gonzales onto the hatch, which buckled a little under his weight. “You’re up, try and remember the tune.” Ford said over the com.
“Suavizar pilotaje, idiota,” Gonzales mumbled as he slowly got to his fee. He lowered the ladder and climbed down it as fast as he could, they were on the clock and he didn’t know how long it was going to take to load this cargo up. The walk was long and quiet, too quiet, even with the whistling; Gonzales didn’t like the looks of the forest. Tales had been told of entire platforms that had disappeared into the woods, never to be seen again, and no platformer, not even Gonzales and Ford, liked the woods for that very reason.
It took him longer than he thought it would to make it to the truck, and when he did he was a little disappointed with what he saw. He was expecting a little more ornate than what he found, a plan convoy truck, with room for some supplies and maybe a bed. A man got out of the truck and approached Gonzales. When the man got with ten meters of Gonzales, he motioned for Gonzales to be quiet and stop. He then proceeded to take out a pair of keys, put them on top of a stump, and turn to leave. Gonzales started to shout out before the man quickly made a silencing motion with his hands and continued on his way. Gonzales didn’t know what else to do, so he walked forward and grabbed the keys. Attached to the keys was a note that said, handle with care.
Gonzales didn’t know what else to do, so he got in the truck and drove it back to the platform to unload. Whatever they were charged with was heavy, which made Gonzales even happier that he’d decided to take the whole truck. “Hay, imbecilic! Get out here and give me a hand with this thing!” Gonzales shouted up when he got back to the platform.
Ford appeared in the hatch a few moments later and he shouted down, “How big is it?”
“I don’t know, haven’t looked yet, and I don’t think we’re supposed to. Just lower the heavy lifting gear please, I’ll get it out of the back.” Gonzales opened the door to a surprise. Sitting on a bed was a beautiful young woman, about 21, with flowing brown hair and an extravagant aqua blue dress.
“It’s about time,” she said exasperated. “I’ve been thrown around for the last three month hopping between towns to keep me ‘safe’, but I’ve never had such a ride as the one I got to day. Do you not know how to drive?” She looked, and smelled, like all the pegado para arriba high society women, over doing the makeup, dress, jewelry, and perfume, Gonzales liked the smell of lilies, they always reminded him of his madre, but dumping a whole bottle on yourself just was too much.
“Ford, forget the winch, lower the ladder.” Gonzales yelled up.
“What?” Ford yelled down.
“Lower the ladder, I think this cargo can climb up there on her own. Isn’t that right, Jessie?” Gonzales said, reading the name off a foot locker.
“Yes I can, but I would prefer it if you called me Ms. Premier.” She said obstinately.
“Whatever you say Princesa.” Gonzales muttered.
“Did you say her?” Ford yelled down.
“Yes I did. Specialist Ford meet del president hija Jessica Premier. Ms. Premier meet the extremely stupid Specialist Thomas Ford. And I’m the extremely handsome Specialist Ricardo Gonzales.” Gonzales said, helping Jessica out of the truck.
“Wow, you don’t expect me to climb all the way up there do you?” Jessica asked.
“Ah… sí, that’s how you get into it.” Gonzales replied.
“I know you can make it kneel, I’ve seen it done for my father and his friends all the time.” She said.
“Yes but that’s on special occasions. This is more of a stealth operation and we don’t know who’s watching. Plus, neither of us is actually a pilot and I don’t want to see him try, trust me it wouldn’t be pretty,” Gonzales said.
“Fine, but you have to carry up my stuff: my wardrobe, my cosmetics case, my perfume, my bed, and my bags,” Jessica said after a few more minutes of arguing.
“On second thought, Ford, bring out the winch as well,” Gonzales yelled up. He would have argued that she didn’t need all that stuff, but time was ticking and he didn’t want to be getting back into camp late with a woman on board, bad enough to be getting in late at all.
“Make up your mind already!” Ford yelled exasperated.
“If you’re just going to load my stuff up with a lift can’t I just go up with it?” Jessica asked.
“No! To dangerous, never know when it’s going to sway or jolt, best you climb the ladder,” Gonzales lied quickly. He’d finally convinced her to climb the ladder and cielo le ayude if he wasn’t going to have her climb it. It took them nearly ten minutes to get Jessica and all her things loaded on board and stowed away to her liking in the senior officer’s quarters, which meant they had less than twenty to make it back to camp.
“I’m driving this time,” Gonzales said to Ford.
“Find by me,” Ford responded. “Just watch it on the throttle, it sticks a little.”
“Gracias for the warning,” Gonzales said. The climb to the cockpit was longer than Gonzales thought it would be, and more than once he thought about using the automated ascending tube before remembering that this was the last model that wasn’t outfitted with it. when he finally made it to the top he was greeted with a surprisingly familiar site, a swivel chair with a couple of joysticks and a window, only this one didn’t just look forward, it was more of a dome with 360̊ view. He sat down and messed with the controls until he got a feel for it. “Señoras y señores hold on to something, this will be a bumpy ride.”
Gonzales didn’t know it was possible, but his bout in the pilot’s seat was worse than Ford’s, and Ford was right about the throttle, it liked to get stuck in either the running position or the standing position, but never in between. They made it back to camp just in time to beat the sentries and return to their original position before anyone noticed them gone. That night Gonzales dreamed of a peaceful trip to Lytha and a reassignment to anywhere Ford wasn’t, only to wake up to explosions, panic… and death.
[typography font=”Droid Sans Mono” size=”9″ size_format=”px”]Michael Blanding is is an aspiring writer. He has spent the last five years writing a book that he hopes to publish by this summer, and has written and had ideas for many more stores he hopes to see on the printed page as well. He has attended Bellevue College for the past two years. Recently he was accepted into BYU-Idaho and hopes to finish his education their after serving a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Along with writing and his religion. He also enjoys acting and singing in any capacity and hopes to explore this to more at BYU-Idaho.[/typography]