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Gunnery Sergeant Miles McAllister strolled toward the news stand situated at the northern end of ISO Plaza. It had never been easy, growing up with a name like Miles. People expected someone with a name like that to be thin, white and bookish with an ambition to someday head the local chapter of the Butlers' Union (an organisation which held the neatest and most courteous picket lines in the history of industrial relations.) Miles McAllister was not thin, nor was he white, and whilst he enjoyed a good read as much as the next person, he preferred sport. Having a name like Miles had led him to learn to defend himself at an early age. He'd played football, joined the Marine Corps and achieved the rank of Gunnery Sergeant before losing an eye and half a leg in one of the first Spectran attacks on Riga.
Cyber-prosthetics enabled people with a variety of disabilities to lead relatively normal lives, and were no barrier to employment in many civilian careers, but the risk of rejection at any point in the patient's life disqualified recipients of such medical miracles from flight or combat duty. Gunny McAllister had been retrained as part of his rehabilitation and been temporarily assigned part time work assisting in the administrative section at Galaxy Security whilst awaiting his medical clearance to go back on active duty as an instructor.
It turned out, though, that he had a flair for administration. His prodigious memory made filing and managing documentation easy. His nimble fingers could type at almost one hundred and twenty words per minute with ninety-nine percent accuracy. He could make computer software jump through hoops. And he didn't have to shout at anyone.
The big advantage was that he went home every night to his wife and daughters, and that was easy to take.
When Chief Anderson's administration officer retired in 2161, McAllister had applied for the job and got it. His secondment from the Marine Corps to Galaxy Security became effectively permanent. Anderson was no more stupid than any of the officers McAllister had been required to deal with during his career and a good bit more intelligent than most of them. The Chief of Staff was polite, well-spoken and knew what a good cup of coffee was all about. Anderson rarely lost his temper when he got angry. He had a look that made you wish he'd just lose his temper and get it over with. The look was downright scary. It suggested that rending people limb from limb was for sissies. McAllister approved of a Chief of Staff who could make senior officers look as though they were about to wet themselves.
Walt, who ran the news stand, was complaining to a customer about the pigeons again. The architects of ISO Plaza had inadvertently created a wind tunnel when they built the tower, and the effect petered out roughly where the news stand was. This meant that any pigeon or seagull careless enough to fly into the turbulent air of the plaza was obliged to surf the violent swirls and eddies until they either hit a building or tumbled free into clear air over the news stand, where they inevitably relieved themselves and stopped for a rest. There was an animal welfare lady who trawled the plaza a couple of times a day to collect shocked and concussed birds. The animal welfare lady ran the gauntlet of Walt's verbal abuse on a regular basis, since he was the constant target of a sustained barrage of guano and she was seen to encourage the perpetrators.
"Damned flying rats," Walt complained as the previous customer made good his escape. "Hey there, Sarge," he said.
"You mentioned earlier that The Galactic Times should be in by now," McAllister rumbled.
Walt handed over the dead tree editions of the requested paper. “Yeah, it was real late today. Your boss really does prefer reading the old fashioned way, huh?”
“He does,” McAllister said, and touched a Galaxy Security corporate card to the transaction reader that Walt held out to him.
“Didja see that latest story doing the rounds on line?” Walt asked. “Says they’re putting dihydrogen monoxide in the water supply! Is that true or is it some kinda joke?”
“Got a piece of scrap paper, Walt?” McAllister asked.
“Sure.” Walt found an old fuel docket in his pocket and held it out.
McAllister placed the docket on top of the folded newspaper and took out a pen. “Dihydrogen,” he said, and wrote ‘H2’ “monoxide,” he concluded, and wrote ‘O.’ “Aitch-two-oh.”
“Aitch-two… Oh! I get it. Figured you’d know,” Walt said. “Huh. Good one.”
“See you Monday, Walt,” McAllister said, and headed back toward the looming edifice of the ISO Tower.
When the elevator door opened on to the Galaxy Security Executive Suite on the 100th floor, McAllister headed toward the Chief of Staff’s office, only to pull up short at the sight of Chief Anderson’s daughter, who was carrying a large carton full of short white cylinders.
“Er… Lieutenant Anderson?” McAllister ventured. “Is that toilet paper?”
“Yes, Gunny,” Princess said. “Don’t ask.”
“Okay, ma’am, I won’t.”
“I found more tape!” Shay Alban, Chief Anderson’s newly-appointed Security Coordinator, strode down the corridor wielding several rolls of masking tape. “Hey, Gunny,” she said.
“Morning, Major Alban,” McAllister said. “Looks like it’s going to be an interesting day.”
“Come on, Mark,” Jason said. “You have to admit, I got you. And at least I didn’t really sign you up for an internet dating service. I’d never expose you to that kind of risk.”
Mark and Jason were drinking hot chocolate at Disco Doc’s, where Jason had offered to pay the tab to make up for his prank earlier that morning.
“I should have checked the calendar,” Mark grumbled. “You always do something stupid on April First.”
“Funny,” Jason corrected. “I do something funny. Or hilarious. Or scathingly brilliant. Never stupid.”
“It was stupid,” Mark said, sticking to his guns.
“Oh, man!” Jason finished his chocolate. “You really need to lighten up!”
Both young men glanced at their wristbands as they began to sound with a scramble.
“G-Force,” Chief Anderson said over the priority channel. “Report to the ISO Tower immediately!”
“On our way, Chief!” Mark said.
As Mark and Jason rode up in the express elevator, Mark paced in a restless circle. His bracelet sounded.
“Mark!” Princess said. “Where are you?”
“We’re almost there, Princess,” Mark said. The elevator doors opened and Mark nodded to his second. “Go,” he said.
Jason sprinted out of the elevator car with Mark close behind him, raced passed the security checkpoint – and panicked as his field of vision filled up with what appeared to be a brick wall.
He attempted to halt his mad dash, but he had too much momentum and tripped on a piece of lumber which had been left on the floor of the corridor.
He flew forward, hands outstretched to take the impact, and fell through the wall to land on an air mattress.
His pointed visor punctured the vinyl of the mattress and Jason sank face first to the floor in an ignominious hiss of escaping air.
“What the hell?” he sputtered, pulling the flaccid vinyl off the end of his visor. He pushed himself up into a sitting position.
Jason glanced around to see that the brick wall was in fact constructed out of cheap shiny paper toilet roll and masking tape which had a holo projection of a brick wall pattern beamed up against it. Shredded pieces of paper and sticky lengths of tape fluttered around him as Mark strolled through the wreckage to fold his arms and grin.
“April Fool!” Princess told him triumphantly. She was standing next to Gunnery Sergeant McAllister’s desk, green eyes glinting. Behind her, Security Chief Anderson appeared to be doing his best not to laugh.
“You have to admit,” Mark said, “We got you. This time, it really was hilarious!”
Jason shook his head and shrugged in defeat. “Okay,” he conceded with a smile, “turn-about’s fair play. You got me. Just you wait until next year.”