The Displacement - Ch. 4

4. A Message from the Boss

         The Commander of the Pillar Enterprises Ground Operations Unit was a man by the name of Rodney Canterwelt. Canterwelt held his position with pride. Since the fateful day of his promotion, he had never once hesitated to boast whenever the opportunity came; amid the microcosm of Pillar Enterprises’ staff, it was a well-known fact that you couldn't know Rodney Canterwelt without knowing that he was the Commander of the Ground Operations Unit.

         That, however, was not to say that nothing else was known about him, for indeed, a good number of other things were. For one, Canterwelt was a hulk of a man; not overweight, but simply large in every general sense of the word. He was barrel-chested like a gorilla and had limbs the relative width of tree trunks, so he never failed to be noticed as he lumbered through the hallways. Those more personally acquainted with him, few as they numbered, might have known further still: that, for instance, he had an affinity for the more violent types of televised team sports and a physiological addiction to barbecue chips. But in the end, above all else, what mattered the very most to Canterwelt himself was one thing and one only. He was the Commander of the Ground Operations Unit, and he went about that job with a sadistic enthusiasm unmatched by any force in the multiverse.

         This, however, did nothing to change the one last fact that must be known about Rodney Canterwelt: that, to put things simply, he was not the world’s most exceptional ground commander. He was in fact quite substandard. It was not that he was a callow man, for Canterwelt had held his position for years. The truth was something simpler -- he had been bad from the start and never fully acknowledged any need to improve.

         The only definition of commanding that Canterwelt had ever maintained went something like this: Commanding (noun); a mindless, methodical business of issuing orders to a squadron of brainless drudges, and, should said drudges disobey, yelling loudly into their faces or cutting off their access to liquor for a good bit. Whatever happened to his troops in the end, he gave no concern, for as long as he did his own job, he was praised and rewarded. And Lord knew he was capable of doing his job. So, in general -- in his own ways of schadenfreude -- Canterwelt was a happy man.

         It so happened, however, that on that day, Canterwelt was not so happy. In fact, he was furious. It was his birthday, for one, and for the third year in a row no one had remembered; that is, no one save for his next-door neighbor, who may have been the one person he wished wouldn’t remember. Each year on that day, the man -- Tick, or Blick, or whatever his name was -- rung his doorbell at six in the morning, clothed only in a bathrobe and his hand-knitted fuchsia hat, to bring him a gift he neither wanted nor needed. Past years had seen him receiving a flame-retardant blanket, a set of high-end egg beaters, and two life-sized dolls of Kitish pop singers. And this time around it had been a cachepot -- a shiny, pinkish thing, decorated with crude drawings of sea oats and Thelan pictograms. Canterwelt loathed the sight of it. It reminded him of Tick’s hideous hat. So, naturally enough, it was currently resting under his futon, where he couldn’t see it, and the commander planned to transfer it to the nearest dumpster as soon as he found an opportunity to do so without Tick noticing.

         But that was only the first ingredient simmering in Canterwelt’s choleric stew. In the present, as he sat at a small, digitally generated Heavy Light table in the break room of the Pillar Enterprises headquarters, he was coming very close to losing his third game of Krygax -- a board-based strategy game popular among Skaylia’s most clever minds -- to a younger Ground Operations officer by the name of Eubie Slangan. Slangan was one of the so-called drudges that Canterwelt commanded, and, like all of the rest of said drudges, he looked on the ground commander with a certain abhorrence. If Slangan had anything to be proud of in his somewhat uneventful life, it was that he had been the one to come up with most of the staff’s preferred nickname for Canterwelt: Can’t-command-welt.

         Canterwelt had been looking away from the Krygax board as he waited for Slangan to make his move, indulging in a pleasant thought of smashing ten thousand pink cachepots with a huge, spiked Sloggzang mallet, when suddenly an abrasive click rang through the room. A dull thud followed thereafter as something hit the floor. When he looked back, he saw that Slangan's hyperspace warlord had just taken out his mothership -- not simply by tapping against it, as was the intended method, but by shunting it so hard that it flew off the table and clattered to the floor several feet away.

         “Lose again, Commander,” Slangan said cockily, leaning back in his chair and giving a wide, toothy grin. A far younger man than Canterwelt, Slangan sported a slim and lanky frame. He had a messy shock of yellowish hair that he never bothered to groom, and his facial features made him look, embarrassingly enough, the tiniest bit like a girl. But for Canterwelt, this fact only made the sight of his snobbish, sniggering face more infuriating as he reveled in his victory.

         As he sat there being sneered at, the commander began to feel his anger rising to a boil. For him, used as he was to being in control, the whole Krygax business was a complete and total humiliation. Though he had always played a formidable game, in the last few weeks Slangan had been keeping up no slouch of a winning streak, and today that streak seemed to have come to a climax. As hours passed, Slangan won game after game, and Canterwelt’s fury blazed like ten thousand white-hot suns. Though little did he know it, in fact, he was so angry on that day that he had come closer than ever to breaking a record of sorts. Rodney Canterwelt was almost the very angriest man on the planet Skaylia -- behind only an electric jammstick player named Antron McDeavor, who had just been kicked out of his celebrated rock group, the Irrationally Strung-Up Band, in favor of another jammstickist who went, quite coincidentally, by the name of Steve Hackett. But Canterwelt knew nor cared about any jammstickist. All he knew then was that the only thing stopping him from charging Slangan like a bull was the knowledge that such a deed would likely get him fired, and even that wasn’t going to hold him back for much longer.

         “Well... uh... good game,” he grumbled, puffing like a steam engine as he forced the words out of his mouth.

         “Gee,” mused Slangan, holding a finger to his chin and gazing off in mock pensiveness. “I wonder... how many times have I beaten you by now? Five? Sixteen? A hundred and seven?” Canterwelt grunted in exasperation and tried to think about commanding, barbecue chips, cachepots, or anything at all that would have any effect on his anger. But none of it was holding him.

         “Just admit it, Can’t-command-welt!” Slangan leapt up onto his chair and raised his fist like he’d just won a 500-prism bet at the Evoran kangrump races. “You’ll never beat me! I’m better than you! I’m the king of Krygax!” At this, he swept his arm across the board, sending every last metal piece careening down to join Canterwelt’s mothership on the floor. The sound proved enough to attract the attention of everyone in the break room, and soon Canterwelt realized the unsettling fact that everyone was watching him.

         It was then that he knew it: if Slangan was to remain alive that day, the commander would have to leave, and soon.

         With a sudden haste, Canterwelt pushed away his chair and stood up straight. “Gotta... go,” he grumbled. “Refreshments... Need some tea.” It was a mere excuse and a flat-out lie, for Canterwelt did not drink tea, but the more he thought about it, the more he found himself craving it. If anything, it would help him relax after all that had happened on this hellish morning. This hellish birthday morning. Of all the days that all this could have happened, it had to be his birthday!

         Canterwelt turned to begin his hurried march to the refreshments room, wherein lied his salvation. But it was then that something, yet another thing, decided to happen. This, however, was a very different sort of thing -- a pleasant one; one that, in one fell swoop, took away everything that taxed the ground commander and replaced it all with a feeling of flat-out joy.

         This wondrous thing had, in fact, been almost nothing: a small buzz from the Pillar Enterprises multi-processing omnicuff on his wrist. But Canterwelt had been in Pillar’s ranks long enough to know that such a thing often meant much more than it seemed. This particular buzz was no exception -- it was one that he had awaited for days, and to say the least, it meant a hell of a lot.

         With a newfound excitement, Canterwelt turned his gaze downward toward his omnicuff, which had begun to display a new message from Pillar in its green, holographic letters. It was composed of only two small words:

         It's time.

         The ground commander smiled smugly.

         “Officer Slangan,” he said, turning back around. “Come with me.” The younger officer, still standing among the wreckage of the Krygax board, suddenly seemed remarkably puzzled.

         “For... tea?” he asked, tilting his head in confusion.

         “No, you brainless son of a dalsk!” snapped Canterwelt. “For the mission! It’s time!” Before Slangan could even think about responding, the commander charged forward, grabbed him by the shoulder, and began to drag him forcefully out of the room. He had only enough time to squeak out a half-hearted “Bye... everybody!” before the Pillar Enterprises break room was long gone.

         It was only after a good few seconds of dragging that Slangan found the courage to ask the essential question. “Commander... What’s going on?” At this, Canterwelt stopped in place and turned his head back toward Slangan, leering like a wolf.

         “You don’t remember?” he bellowed. “Not anything? Not that important talk from the boss? Not the warning about the message? None of that got through to those packing-peanut brains of yours?!” Slangan shook his head. He didn’t remember. For someone like him, such was often the case.

         “Well,” said Canterwelt, letting out a deep breath. “At least this mission’s going to be easy. Because if you do anything -- ANY ONE THING -- to screw this up, then guess who gets the blame.” He stood back, crossing his arms. Slangan had to think for a moment before he got it.

         “You, Commander,” he mumbled. Canterwelt grinned sadistically.

         “Right you are, Officer Slangan,” sneered the commander. “And I suppose you know what’ll happen then. Am I right?”

         “Well, Commander... you’ll be fired, I guess.”

         “EXACTLY!” bellowed Canterwelt. “That’d be the end of the good life for me! No more money, no more break room, no more chips, no more Krygax. Just a cold, dusty, high-security prison cell. And as for you, Officer Slangan... well, it’s probably best if you don’t think about where you’re going to end up.”

         Slangan swallowed. The horrible thought of Commander Canterwelt storming his apartment with a tri-plasmoid gack accelerator had entered his mind and refused to leave. “So, then...” he said, his voice feeble. “What exactly is this mission?”

         “Now’s not the time to fill you in,” explained the commander. “That’s for later. We have other things to get done first.” Canterwelt gestured toward the door to the ground unit armory. “Grab your favorite gun and get to the truck,” he instructed. “We’re going to the Eclectic Cowhand.”

         “To get a drink?” asked Slangan, feeling hopeful for the moment.

         “No,” said Canterwelt. “To get Marvey and Screed.”

•••••••••••••••

         When Commander Canterwelt opened the door to the Eclectic Cowhand, what ensued was something like a scene out of the Old West. You wouldn’t have needed to see him to know he was there, for as soon as he burst through the door, every man ceased talking on the spot, and the whole of the bar became as silent as an ancient Egyptian tomb. Every regular customer at the Cowhand knew exactly who he was, and indeed, as the commander moved through the bar, he heard a few murmurings of “Canterwelt!” and even one “Can’t-command-welt!” being exchanged between the occupants of the tables. But today he paid them no heed. He charged toward the bar like a cocky gunslinger, and soon enough he had caught sight of the two men he had come for.

         Screed was the first of the two to turn around and look Commander Canterwelt in the face. Marvey, who had been talking and guffawing with a few other drunkards, was less inclined to respond. Finally, Screed punched his shoulder, and he turned his head back.

         “Commander!” Marvey said, surprised.

         “Shut your trap, Marvey,” snapped the commander. “I want to talk to the one of you who hasn't been filling himself up with liquor.” At this, Screed paid a newfound attention to Canterwelt.

         “What's it this time?” he asked, flashing a grin that Canterwelt did not return.

         “Just get in the truck,” he commanded, shoving his thumb behind him to indicate the vehicle parked outside the window. “It's parked outside. And make sure Marvey gets there, too.” Screed nodded, but the last part of Canterwelt’s order had him unsure. Make sure Marvey gets there too. He would sooner have been tasked with herding rhinos -- a rhinoceros, at least, would be sober. He knew Mip Marvey, and he knew that in this state, no force in the universe was going to move him from his stool.

         It was for that reason that it took so long for the Pillar Enterprises Ground Operations Unit to leave the Eclectic Cowhand. Every time Screed had Marvey starting to slide out of his stool, it seemed one of his cronies had something new to start talking about, and this sent him back up into his seat to continue the conversation. At one point, much to Screed’s dismay, he even tried to order another drink. Soon Screed had no choice but to resort to “the hard way” -- by which he signed Marvey’s bar tab, paid up, and then proceeded to drag Marvey off of his stool and across the floor. While this made quite the scene, no one in the bar seemed to care. This was the Eclectic Cowhand, after all. Most of them had seen worse.

         Finally, Screed managed to wrestle Marvey out of the bar and into the back seat of the truck, after which, knowing that he’d lost, Marvey gave up the struggle. As they settled into their seats, not even bothering to use their seatbelts, Canterwelt turned toward Slangan, who was seated in the shotgun seat and currently occupying himself by tossing his laser pistol from hand to hand like an office toy. He began to speak as he started up the truck.

         “Gimme a reason why I shouldn't put an eighteen-megawatt laser rifle to that moron Marvey's head and pull the trigger.”

         Eubie paused, turned toward the commander, and gave him an awkward look. When a few seconds of silence had passed, he looked back down and resumed toying with his gun.

         “That's right,” Canterwelt muttered to himself. “None.”

         Meanwhile, Screed and Marvey were yammering back and forth about the bar tab, which had cost Screed something of a small fortune. “Two whole yellows?” said Screed, incredulous. “That's 100 prisms! I don’t even spend that kind o' cash on rent!”

         “It doethn't matter!” Marvey retaliated. “It'th all worth it for the goodneth that ith Harmony. It thoothes the thoul.”

         By then, Canterwelt had already had it. “Give that nimrod a slap, will you, Screed?” he commanded, trying not to yell and only barely succeeding. “If he says one more word about his blasted liquor, there'll be one less passenger in this truck.” Screed did as he was told.

         “What wath that for?” Marvey spat.

         “For bein' a nimrod,” Screed answered, then promptly tacked on: “I guess.”

         As Canterwelt slammed down onto the acceleration, the old ground unit truck shot forward with a loud screech, gluing all of its passengers to the backs of their seats like astronauts in a rocket launch. But Canterwelt’s men, who had been using the truck for ages, were well accustomed to such a thing. To call the vehicle ancient was an understatement -- it had seen better days even before Pillar Enterprises had bought it for the ground unit. Once Canterwelt had gotten his hands on it, he had spared no expense in modifying and customizing it to his heart’s content. In fact, in its current state, it was almost injustice to call it a truck it all, for it looked more like a modernized chuck wagon. What had long ago been the bed of the truck was now covered by a canvas tarp, and Canterwelt had devoted this entire portion to what may have been his most favorite thing in the universe: guns. It was no military vehicle, though the ground commander had done his best to make it look the part with a custom camouflage paint job, achieved with several cans of spray paint, and a few stenciled letters, which spelled out a meaningless TNF-404. More so, with Canterwelt steering the thing, it certainly felt like an engine of death and destruction -- with the commander’s horrific road rage and his tendency to drive at ludicrous speeds, its passengers often doubted they would live through the ride.

         Needless to say, no one felt much need to talk throughout the trip -- save for Marvey, that is, but when he did so, Screed didn’t hesitate to shut him up. The radio in the truck, which could very well have been outdated by a good few decades, was only still functional enough to receive two channels: Ginjese techno-pop, which none of them could understand a word of, and the local round-the-clock opera station, which Canterwelt, like most Skaylians with any taste, hated to high heaven. Anything else yielded nothing but a static buzz that was no use listening to at all, even if arguably more palatable than either of the other stations. So -- for the moment, at least -- silence remained golden.

         For quite a while, they drove through the city, with Canterwelt dodging pedestrians, careening into trash cans, and zipping through red lights and all the while. Soon the city gave way to the wide, flat plains of the Honourvillian District. With every passing minute, signs of civilization became sparser and sparser as they moved into the grassy nothingness of North B’duderlin. Soon Honourville was only barely visible on the horizon. Yet the commander kept driving.

         Finally, Slangan asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Where are we going?” Again, Canterwelt leered at him -- Slangan was growing quite sick of being leered at on that day.

         “You don’t even remember that?” said the exasperated commander.

         “Um... well... no.”

         “It was somethin’ with numbers, right?” Screed chimed in, pulling back his sleeve to show the numbers he had written on his arm.

         “Hippopotamus!” yelped Marvey, pointing out the window at a large, sub-Saharan mammal that was not there. Screed gave him a slap.

         “None of you?!” belted Canterwelt. “Well, at least Screed’s on the right track. We’re going to the COORDINATES!” He looked down onto the truck’s digital map display. “In fact, we’re just about there.”

         The truck lurched as Canterwelt brought it to an abrupt stop. They had reached a peculiar locale -- a place where, in one small corner, the grasslands ended, giving way on one side to a massive coniferous forest and on the other to the white sands of a beach, beyond which the ocean stretched out for miles. This, they all knew, could have only been one place: the Northern Coast, the very edge of B’duderlin. In the utter absence of civilization, there was an eerie silence; not another soul was present for as far as the eye could see.

         Canterwelt smiled, satisfied. It was time to work.

         “Unload!” ordered the commander. “We're already running short on time!” He eyed the time display on his multi-processing omnicuff. It was one-forty in Skaylian rotational hours. They had truly arrived in the nick of time.

         The men leapt from the truck in near unison, then wasted no time in their rush to the back compartment. “Grab your guns!” ordered Canterwelt. Screed was the first to obey; he climbed under the canvas like a rat and scurried out with two Honouran laser rifles in his hands. He slung the first over his back; the other he tossed to Marvey, who, not having been expecting it, jumped instinctively out of its path. The big gun fell down to the sand.

         “Pick it up, idiot,” Screed said.

         Marvey shrugged as he bent down to take the rifle. “Well, what was I thupposed to do?” he mumbled under his breath.

         Canterwelt resumed. “We’re going into the woods,” he said, hoisting up the rifle that he himself had just taken. “Just stick close behind me. And not a word. Especially from you, Marvey.”

         Marvey nodded. “Aye-aye, capt- I mean, yeth thir!” Canterwelt gave Marvey a look, but decided to say nothing as he began to trudge into the expanse of trees. The men kept silent as they followed close behind.

         It took almost twenty minutes of hiking through the cold forest to reach their destination. Canterwelt brought the party to a stop when he was certain he had reached the right place. It was a large, circular forest clearing, ringed by dense brush. The ground was completely covered with a thick, soft pink foliage. Canterwelt could not help but wonder if Pillar had chosen the spot for a reason. The surrounding bushes would be perfect for hiding -- as long as Marvey could keep his mouth closed, they would be able to stay perfectly concealed. It was the perfect spot for an ambush. All that was left to do now was wait.

         Canterwelt checked his omnicuff again. Two o’clock on the dot. “Perfect timing,” he said to himself. Then, turning around, he shouted to his squadron.

         “Get behind the bushes and stay down! Our business is going to be starting any minute now. I’m sure you all know what to do.” He hoped so, anyway; if they didn’t know, he would be well inclined to shoot something -- or, perhaps, himself. At their commander’s orders, the men scurried to their spots and laid low, guns at the ready. Canterwelt too got into hiding.

         “Any minute now,” he thought. “Any minute and the little bugger's gonna show his face.” He powered up his laser rifle, put his finger on the trigger, and smiled cunningly, thoughts of his reward already dancing about in his mind.

         Perhaps this birthday wasn’t going to be so bad after all.