Platform Man

Platform Man

By D. A. Krikorian




Old tapes. That's what I do, watch old tapes.

Ten thousand kilometers from the closet living thing, I pass my time, watch old vids mostly trek epics from the last two centuries. It's the technology. Their picture of the future. Makes me laugh.

I've seen a thousand flicks. Nothing ever depicted me. My job. My role in the scheme of System's Defense.

Just maybe, if old Rodmon stayed alive long enough. Maybe he would have produced something about the way things really happened. Let me juice up a classical Bowie-aud. Then I'll explain.

First. Big doesn't work. Big ships - like they guessed - can't fire at super light. Slow down and you're nothing more than a big goose. BANG! Anti-emitters vac-bang you're mass into stardust. Proton torpedoes my ass.

Think. All it takes is two shifts of six bodies tucked into a flagchip sphere about the size of an old boxcar, yeah boxcar, with switchmen who do no more than serve as manual overrides in case the chips lock under fire.

Platform guys like me begin as switchmen.

See? I'm the manual override for this platform. The only one out here.

Fun.

Righto. I'd be the highest paid techno-guy on Earth, except I'm about 90 million klicks from that reality. I'm paid big because it's hazardous. Scary. Absolute alone. And dangerous since our main foe out here never learned to shoot at the head to kill the body.

I'm weapons platform Eight. The Eightball. The newt that designed this array never knew shit about pool. This Eightball is the point of the triangle. You guessed it, the first to go.

Hey I'm greedy. Next in line they make less money and so on.

Star Control to Major Tom...

Naw. They don't talk to me much. I'm usually under silence. Anyway who wants to talk to a very likely dead man? That reminds me. Who was the newt who dreamed up talking computers in the flicks? Well, jerko. It stuck. They give us total vocal choice now. It means I can select a voice from a list of three hundred. Today I'm in love with Ellie May. Three months from now my shift will be over. I'll have divorced her twice by then...

Hey y'all, Granny tells me to wake ya up and to fetch your bar rifle.

Code? I respond.

High Yeller. Thar's a bunch of bogie men arcin' down northeast 309 'bout to trail into your hollow 'spect about twenty seconds from...NOW!

Coords in mind, I draw a bead on Ellie's warning. I can only wait for the platform to begin fire. Bogies from the northeast can only mean Firsters, mean folks who were to first to de-planet about 150 years ago during the heatup. They figure they still have a more than legitimate claim to Earth. Especially since things turned out to be so much sweeter back home.

Platform's too small to anti-quate. Likewise them. Life and death now rely on surprise and reaction. We'll see who winds up the first pitch.

Gattle-drivers burst from the platform.

Earth wins this round.

Y'all come back now. Ellie confirms ten hits on six fighters. Not bad for a burst of two-fifty - 250,000 rounds at super-light.

I receive visual confirmation from Ganymede.

Nothing but fizzling wreckage.

Hey darlin', we're locked.

I unstrap from the lounger and perform the first action to restart the system. I bang the main box.

Doesn't work this time. I have to push keys.

Jeeze, seven of your kinfolk just bit the dust.

Confirm?

Five left and the Q-ball.

Code?

Red hot, darlin'. Best get crackin'.

The restart will take a minute. I push the keys then turn to the drive console and flare the engine. How many? I remember to ask.

Baker's dozen plus 'bout sixty more.

Coords?

This is a mess. All at your behind.

The engine light comes on. Restart fails.

I throttle the engine turreting the platform slowly around.

Weapons override.

Darlin', you do know them bogies are way out there. How do you think you're gonna hit 'em all?

I repeat the override command.

Okaay, y'all. I aint gonna tell you how dumb this is.

Next I full throttle the engine.

Ellie screams, Paw, Paw, Jethro just let everybody know where we're hidin'!

I cancel the voice option. This chick's too much for me just now. It's because she's right. There's no way to fire manually and come within a thousand clicks of anything. Recalling an episode from trekdum, I figure all the other platforms are lost. I pray I'm right. Because if'n I am, they're all gonna hi tail it over to me.

I strap back in revving my pressure suit.

Visual confirms. Here they come.

Seventy to one, blood on their hands, they'll be cocky.

My last guess is how long they'll hold fire.

I turret right, pointing the gattles and squeeze...

The burst causes the platform to spin at near light speed.

Out of ammo, the platform's auto assist adjusts the spin. I regain senses about an hour later. The first thing I do is run the visual replay in slo-mo. Fire hitting fire. Two hundred million rounds. The fighters disintegrate.

I re-select the voice option. Well done, captain.

I reply, Set course for home, Mr. Spock. Warp factor two.

fin

Copyright 1998 by D.A. Krikorian

Bio:Dave krikorian really appreciates input about his stories.

E-mail:dave@m-linc.com

URL: http://www.teamduluth.com
OR : http://www.ecez.com


Read more by D.A. Krikorian

Visit Aphelion's Lettercolumn and voice your opinion of this story. Both the writer and I would love to read your feedback.

Return to the Aphelion main page.