Colonel John Clements was your average military man. Bluff face, short-cropped hair that had never grown much longer than two centimeters since his eighteenth birthday. Piercing blue eyes, with fine lines going off from the corners. His entire face was fine lines, though they were only apparent if one was truly looking for them. His mouth was a slash in his face, thin lips covering perfect white teeth. Standing at five feet six inches, he was not a physical threat to many, but his presence was such that he would dominate a room in rags, with no titles, money, or even a known name.
He was just that kind of guy: forceful.
Well, he had been that kind of guy, until the day his armored transport was hit by some Lane Hackers while he was en-route from a station to the distant battleship that he was about to be stationed on. An entire influx of new soldiers, engineers, and officers to reinforce the waning crew that was under constant battle.
During the attack, the passenger compartment was decompressed and it was a matter of sheer luck that a piece of debris had flown into the small crack and stopped it up. It was also sheer luck that a Navy patrol had happened by, engaging the Lane Hackers whilst the transport fled the scene. However, Johns luck ran out in that a huge piece of machinery had fell on his leg, making it useless, and almost requiring amputation.
So John, a fifty-year old wounded Colonel, went into retirement early. It was either that or ride a desk jockey job for the rest of his career. He had been looking at a shot to Rear Admiral, but instead found himself in a condo on Manhattan. Then a bank-fraud scam drained his account and pension, making him broke. So, with no where to go, he used his past experience and connections and joined the LPI: where retired soldiers go to die.
Due to Johns experience in the military, and his useless leg notwithstanding, he was instantly put into the Commander rank. Because of the new lack of physical activity, he started putting on weight. He didnt like it, but then again, he didnt like much about his new life. The incompetence level in the LPI was so high that he felt like taking them by the scruff of the neck and shaking some sense into them. He even did once or twice, but it never worked.
Then he saw them in a training exercise, and felt like shooting himself in the head.
A swarm of Liberators streaked towards a few Wolfhounds. The Wolfhounds would have died fast if the Liberators had had any coordination, or skill, or anything. However, the Liberators fought like a bunch of five year olds having a temper tantrum with space-superiority fighters. Two collided in a fiery explosion, escape pods launching. Still others show erratically, being hunted down as they screamed into their comms.
John stood leaning on a cane, staring out the window of the training base in amazement. Matt Myers, the Deputy Chief, stood next to him, wiping a tear from his eye.
Its so beautiful. Normally they do a lot worse.
John was dumbstruck. Then the SWAT training started, and his jaw hit the floor. The Havoc 2s were worse, being cumbersome and armed with light LPI weaponry, not the military-grade Supernova cannons. They never stood a chance, the lone Rogue Gunboat ripping them apart with Basic turrets.
Youre joking, right? THIS is the LPI? John was a tad overwhelmed. He sat down in the chair behind him hard.
Ayup. We be da worst o da worst, n our SWAT be pathetic. Does me proud, it does.
John already could tell he didnt like Matt, but he kept it to himself.
Later that same day, John sat in his cheap, run-down apartment on Fort Bush, phone in hand. It was one of those older models, where you actually had to dial in a number instead of just press a button and say the name of who you wanted to call. From memory and old habit, he dialed the number of his old friend, Colonel Bill Phillips.
John, How you liking the retired life? What can I do for you? his jovial voice clearly audible, even to someone who stood across the room.
Retirement aint all its cracked up to be, his Texan accent coming through strong. I got my money stolen, so I had to join the LPI.
Ha, where our kind goes to die, right?
Exactly. Anyways, Ive seen how these sorry slobs operate, and I feel sorry for them, and more importantly, for the civilians theyre supposed to be protecting.
That bad? I heard talk, but I didnt think
Bill, they couldnt take down a single cardamine smuggler with their entire force, and I do use the word force in the loosest manner possible. Anyways, I need some military-grade firepower for them, but with no more standing, Im reduced to calling up favors and begging. Think you can spot me something? Some Guardians at the least?
No promises, but I think I can, if they know its not going to some pirates.
Thanks. Bye.
John hung up the phone, and dialed again, calling all his old Navy buddies, including a few admirals.
The LNS Amsterdam didnt so much slide through space as it lurched through space, the engines obviously about to give out. The armor was rusted, a few turrets were missing, and the shields werent as shiny as they should have been. The crew was skeletal and morale was low. They were serving on the worst Dreadnought in the fleet, and the crew knew it, and figured, whats the use?
Admiral Scholls sent out a communication to the Captain of the Amsterdam, telling him that he was being reassigned to the LPI, of all things. He was dumbstruck, as he hadnt thought their ship had fallen that far. Before going on the intercom to inform the crew, he took a deep breath. His words resounded throughout the ship.
Ahem Admiral Scholls just called and informed me that we have been ahem reassigned to the LPI his voice growing weaker by the end.
That was it. The already demoralized crew broke; it was the 16-wheeler that broke the camels back. A fierce mutiny ensued, everyone against the captain, no one staying loyal. Their ship altered course, heading for the border systems, however a group of Mammoths loaded with Navy Shock Troops moved to intercept. The weak fire from the Amsterdam did nothing to slow them, and as they boarded there was no resistance; the already demoralized mutineers quickly fell to the quick tactics of the Libertonian troops. Sentenced via court martial, each and every one was hung as an example.
Those who took command of the Amsterdam quickly realized that it was a sinking ship, so they took it apart piece by piece: turrets, seat cushions, soda machines, the whole nine yards. They took everything but the floor boards and what was necessary to run the ship, and dropped it off five kilometers from Fort Bush before flying off on Rhinos in the docking bays.
The Armored Transport with Matt Myers, John Clements, and a few other LPI officers including Tom Jonas and Cesar Fezini flew from Fort Bush to the now-defunct LNS Amsterdam. Cesar was the first to get a look out the window, and his comment on first seeing it will live through the ages, will outlive time itself.
Thats one big rusty donut.
Matt quickly waddled up and slapped Cesar upside the head. Only I get ta name it, foo! Now, lez see He looked out the window and put on a show of thinking. I knows, lez call it da Rusty Donut!
Cesar rubbed the back of his head and muttered something noncommittal. Matt took it for agreement. As John got a look, he knew that calling in favors could only give so much, and he also recalled the sardonic sense of humor Scholls had. Still possessed, apparently.
The Armored Transport docked with the Amsterdam, and as they disembarked, they stared down a barren hallway, graffiti lining the walls.
Well, it be a fixer upper, Matt said.
Apparently the Navy lads had decided to empty the tank and drive it to Fort Bush on fumes, so that when they went to start it up and moor it, they had to drag it in. Hundreds of Patriots were attached by lines to the newly-christened Rusty Donut, engines straining as the cockpits strained to contain their obtuse pilots. On the command deck of the Rusty Donut, Matt stood with in bondage gear and with a whip, cracking it over the speakers.
Move faster, ya tubs o lard!
John stood behind Matt, looking at him as if he had never seen the man before. OK, when did you change costume, and why?
Matt spun around as if he had thought he had the bridge to himself which he hadnt and barked a laugh.
Oi, dis be fer dramatic affect!
Imperceptibly at first, the large beast of a ship inched forward. Soon it aligned with Fort Bushs main moor and was connected by an umbilical. Matt and crew went to meet the boarders, and got there right as the door slid open. First through were a few round LPI officers, two-by-fours and hammers in their chubby arms. Matt immediately barked at them that those were not what they needed to fix the ship up they forgot the nails!
They apologized while tripping over themselves in a haste to get to the hardware store back on Fort Bush. Next in was a clown a Mr. Floppy Pants, by the name tag. After viewing his juggling skills, Matt let him pass. Next was the bearded lady, which passed without contest. A giant bear, a shifty-looking man that resembled a human gerbil and was probably a drug dealer, two-dozen midgets of undetermined gender, a seven-foot tall woman that was pure muscle, a pair of mustachioed twins that had on red-and-white vertical-striped pants, shirts, and hats, and any number of other miscreants passed in a flood of people. It almost seemed that Fort Bush had spat up every freak it had ever held.
All the while, John had developed this nasty twitch. Tom Jonas poked him, and he almost fell over stiff as a board.
Over the next few months, the LPI slowly fixed up the Rusty Donut, in fact not improving it at all combat-wise. The inside, however, was completely transformed.
Because of the mental scarring John had taken on the first visit, he didnt return until it was done. In that time, he grew hard and callused, a grade-A jerk. He started putting on more pounds, to his dismay, but he soon stopped caring by compensating with several shots of 80-proof whiskey, with a coffee chaser. By the time he reboarded the Rusty Donut, he resembled a miniature Matt Myers, though much tougher on the inside.
To his amazement, the Rusty Donut had undergone a complete metamorphosis.
The first thing seen on entering was a giant shopping mall. Stalls for everything, from fortune telling to dollar-fifty dry cleaners; there was even a stall set up in which a shifty-looking Spanish man sold knick knacks, though it was no secret that he sold Cardamine and Synth Pot to anyone, including a few of the LPI. As long as it was on the ship, the illegal activity was ignored.
Behind the shopping mall, which of course had a food court, was the circus, complete with real-live elephants and small boys with large brooms that cleaned up after them, and the ever-present peanuts. Oh, the peanuts anyways! Behind that was the movie theater, currently featuring Jaws 1574: Sharks in Space, and behind that was the parking garage, and behind that was the arcade, and next to that was the Sunbucks, one of seven.
The graffiti that had been left behind by the Navy boys had been left up, and indeed expanded on. As John watched, several young men with spray paint were decorating the walls in a vulgar fashion, while the LPI officers watched, indeed commenting on who had the best technique. John wisely kept his silence as he walked to the bridge.
He stepped onto the bridge. Along both sides of the room were rows of computer terminals, each manned by a fat and balding LPI officer that could have come off a factory line. His eyes were bloodshot, and the scent of alcohol and coffee rolled off him in waves. Everyone jumped from their seat from playing Pac Man as soon as he stepped inside. One of them tripped over his own feet and landed on his butt. Taking long, hobbling strides, John walked over, picked him up by the front of his shirt with one hand, and started slapping him all upside the face a couple dozen times with the other.
It would have been funny on a cartoon, the large mans chubby cheeks absorbing most of the blow, his face being all bouncy because it was huge. Only, this was no cartoon, and the blows were coming hard enough to snap his spinal cord. Its OK though; the big man had enough padding to survive. When John was through, he released the large man, who promptly fell back on his butt. He looked around the bridge, angry.
Anyone else wanna dsrespect me? he asked, slurring his words the way Matt did now. Satisfied that the rest of them were too scared to do anything but wet themselves, he hobbled off the bridge, his routine surprise inspections catching another poor LPI.
A huge container transport was docked with Fort Bush, giant crates moving through the industrial-sized umbilical spewing them out quickly by means of huge forklifts. A red-in-the-face Matt was staunchly denying ordering a couple dozen Guardians, waving his arms emphatically at the teenager with the bored expression that said hed rather be anywhere else but here and the clipboard that needed a signature. Apparently their delivering company had a staunch, We dont care if its yours, we just need to drop it off somewhere policy that they held to rigorously.
John hobbled up, and patted Matt on the back. It be OK, I ordered em fer da boys in SWAT.
Whuzza?
Ayup, figured dey needed da help, soes we cn get em to kickin some arse. I called in some favors, and also got dis lad, he finished, indicating a Navy Lieutenant.
Whuzza? Matt repeated.
Lieutenant Paul Langst, flight instructor. Pleasure to meet you sir said the young man, who was obviously put off from how much John had changed from his files picture.
Pleasure be mine, boy. Now get ta work! he said, pointing him off to go train the dubious SWAT team.
One month later
Lieutenant Langst lay on his bed, in the fetal position. He cradled his head in his arms, alcohol vapor coming off him in waves the thing he had turned to to get away from the LPI. A month of teaching the LPI how to fly their ships was pure and unadulterated torture of the worst kind. His head pounded hard, and it took him awhile to realize it was coming from the door to. Fumbling himself up, he took two steps to the door, threw up all over the floor, and finally wrestled the door open.
Johns hulking form towered over the hunched Langst. The large man took Langst by both shoulders and lifted him to an upright position, slapping him upside the head a couple of times.
Get a hold o yerself, man! Look at whatcha becomin! Yas gotta teach dese foos how ta
fly!
Sir, with all due respect, itd be easier to teach a bunch of five-year-olds how to fly than these incompetent. Incompetent his slurred speech stalled out as he was racking his mind for an insult strong enough, but he couldnt hold the thought long enough to find one.
Listen, ya daft foo! Ya gotta try! With that, John pulled Langst out of his room and pushed him towards the training deck. Suffice to say, half the days Langst taught he was drunk as a fish.
* * * *
A month later, John and Matt stood watching the same set of pilots fight the same simulated battle they had watched oh so long ago. They had come a long way, and they actually blew up a few Wolfhounds before their old habits started kicking in. John resolved to beat em a bit more so that the training would stick it always seemed to fall right off.
Matt wiped a tear from his eye. It does me right proud to have a bunch o foos dat cn fly like dat. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew on it.
As the first simulated battle came to a close, the SWAT team in their new Guardians came into view. How would they perform? It would all rest on this. If they did well, theyd be able to keep them, if not, theyd go right back to Navy stores. That was one of the conditions they had had to agree to. Both Matt and John watched with bated breath...