Mechanical Failure Part 5

In the haze of pain, delirium, and oxytocin, that image of her walking away quickly morphed into a vision of himself sitting trapped inside a burning building, totally helpless with a beam of wood crushing his leg. The heat of the intense flames lapped at him like a reckless tongue searching for a gulp of water. And then, suddenly, the captain was there, kicking down the door with those big boots.

"You came!" he said. "You came!"

She lifted the beam of wood off his injured leg as though picking a wayward twig from the fabric of her clothing and scooped him up into the secure bulk of her arms.

"Hold on to your hat," she said. "We're getting out of here."

Rogers didn't know if it was the heat of the flames, but he felt like melting.

"I knew it," he said. "I knew it . . ."

"If you knew it," came a voice from somewhere outside of this delicious fantasy, "why didn't you duck?"

The real world snapped into focus, only to start to spin again a few moments later. Rogers re-ate a SEWR rat and blinked tears from his eyes. In front of him crouched a female corporal who couldn't have left her early twenties behind her yet. A pair of crystalline blue eyes ringed with amus.e.m.e.nt looked at him with nothing at all approaching concern. Her name tag said Mailn, and her uniform showed her as a marine.

"I see you've met the captain," she said. "What did you do to p.i.s.s her off?"

Rogers groaned, feeling some of his faculties returning to him. "They put me in charge of the ground combat droids."

"Oh, you're the new ensign she's been going on about," the corporal said. "She's been looking for a picture of you to throw darts at for half a week now. You picked the wrong position, buddy. Ah, sir."

The corporal stood up and saluted, and Rogers waved it away.

"Please don't do that," he said. "Rogers is fine." He held out a hand, forcing the corporal to bend down to shake it.

"Cynthia Mailn," she said. "marines. The Viking is my CO."

"Who?"

"Captain Alsinbury. The lady who just put that fist-shaped impression on your forehead."

The Viking. Perfect.

Grasping the corporal's hand after their handshake, Rogers accepted the steady help of the fit young woman. Once standing, he noticed that she was quite pet.i.te, an inch shorter than Rogers, who wasn't exactly a tall gla.s.s of water to begin with.

"I have to ask, corporal," he said, "what's with this ship?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I didn't leave the military that long ago. When I was in service, things were . . . different, that's all. Things were looser. Not as many droids. You know."

Mailn shrugged. "Lots of new faces around the Speedb.u.mps in general, I guess," she said. "I've only been here a little over six months. They moved our whole unit here from another buffer unit after the talk of war with the Thelicosans started, and-"

"Wait," Rogers said, the blood draining from his face. "Did you say war?"

The corporal nodded. "That's what the rumor is. Things are tightening up around here. We can't spend all our time s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around anymore. Uh, sir."

"Just Rogers. But what makes anyone think that the Two Hundred Years' (and Counting) Peace is going to fail? The treaties are airtight."

"They're as airtight as any treaty is," Mailn said with a shrug. Unlike Rogers, she didn't seem at all perturbed by the fact that the military actually might do some fighting. Did the 331st even know how to conduct a war? Rogers didn't think they'd be fit to conduct a small chamber orchestra.

He supposed that would explain some of the att.i.tude change, but . . . it didn't seem right. And leave it to Rogers to rejoin the military right on the cusp of a Thelicosan invasion. Tuckalle's deal didn't seem so good anymore.

"I've got to get going," the corporal said. "I was only up in the quarterdeck because I needed to deliver something to the Viking's room. Next time you feel like being a punching bag, maybe I could take you down to the unarmed combat training room and throw you around a bit." She winked at him. "I could at least teach you how to duck."

Rogers touched the bruise on his forehead again and winced. "I appreciate that. Right now I think I need a couple of painkillers and a coma."

Mailn grinned at him and walked away, leaving Rogers to punch in the code that Suresh had given him into the keypad and enter his room.

An ensign's room was, apparently, not much better than a sergeant's bunk. Though it was decorated with the same vintage tastes as the quarterdeck hallways, the room held only a bed, a wardrobe built into the wall, and a small desk with a network terminal and some other administrative paraphernalia arrayed neatly on its surface. His personal datapad was slung neatly into its charging holster on the side of the desk, and, instead of a window, there was a tacky porthole-shaped painting of a bland starscape hanging on the wall. In the background was a painted planet, which, strangely, looked like Jupiter from the old Milky Way. Considering that Jupiter had become the only planet that didn't get their own system when humanity migrated to Fortuna Stultus, it seemed a strange choice for art.

The first thing he did, however, was take down the poster on the wall that said REGULATIONS: THE KEY TO SUCCESS above which was portrayed a maniacal parade commander lording over a group of soldiers standing in formation. As he took it down, however, he noticed something peculiar. The nametags on the soldiers in formation were all legible, and one of the soldiers apparently was named "Droids."

In fact, reading the soldiers in formation from left to right gave the strange imperative: "Love Your Droids." Maybe the poster creator had a sense of humor, after all. Rogers might like to have a drink with him.

Shoving the poster under his bed, Rogers began to open drawers and cabinets to see what he'd been furnished with. It was all plain. Uniforms, emergency SEWR rats, a med kit and, strangely, two toothbrushes. One of them was so coa.r.s.e he was sure it would cut his gums to ribbons, but he noticed after a moment that it wasn't a toothbrush at all. Engraved into the handle were the words SPECK CLEANER 2000. TAKE YOUR SPECKS STRAIGHT TO HECK!

"Oh, h.e.l.l no," he said, and tossed the toothbrush under the bed with the poster.

Boring. He felt like he wanted to lie down in the middle of his room and die. This wasn't part of the bargain at all. And it still felt wrong. There was something missing in the room that he couldn't quite place. Obviously, all the modifications he'd made to his sergeants' quarters for hiding alcohol, weighted dice, and other contraband were missing, but he'd remedy that soon enough. There was something else.

Then he noticed the time on the small clock on his desk. It was 12:41 PM ship time. The beer light should have been on for forty-one minutes.

Rogers spun around, panicked. It wasn't here. It wasn't here. The beer light was gone.

Just as he was about to have a breakdown and start throwing furniture, a knock came at his door.

"Open up," came a voice. "It's time for your inspection!"

I. Not eyegla.s.ses, though there was one portrait of General Nelson Rockshaft holding a stylish pair of lenses. He had become famous for removing said gla.s.ses while observing tactical displays, resulting in strategic maneuvers that were almost always unpredictable and almost certainly ineffective.

White Gloves It was a testament to his mental state (or the recent powerful blow to the head) that it took several seconds for Rogers to realize he was trying to climb into a painting and not out a window into open s.p.a.ce. The picture fell to the floor, the extinct Jupiter landing facedown.

"Well, that'll be a demerit," a voice came from behind him.

Turning around, fists balled, Rogers found not one but two members of the Standardization and Evaluation squadron aboard the Flagship. One of them, of course, was a droid. Carrying a clipboard. Wearing white gloves.

The other was a lean, full-cheeked sergeant with a uniform tailored so tightly around his body that it looked more like an elaborate tattoo than clothing. Aircraft could have landed on the airstrip of hair that was on the top of his head, closely buzzed on either side. His b.u.t.tons and medals had been blindingly polished to the point where they could have been used as independent sources of illumination. In short, he looked like a major tool.

"What's this all about?" Rogers asked.

"CALL FUNCTION [TIRELESSLY REPEAT SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS]. TARGET [ENSIGN ROGERS]" the droid said, "OUTPUT STRING: YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR A MORALE, HEALTH, AND WELFARE INSPECTION. ALL PERSONNEL ARE SUBJECT TO MHW INSPECTIONS TO BE CONDUCTED BY STANDARDIZATION AND EVALUATION-"

"Yeah, great," Rogers said. "Whatever. But I just got here."

"Then you shouldn't have anything to worry about," the sergeant said.

"Look, sergeant, uh . . . " Rogers peered at his name tag. "Sergeant Stract. Really?"

"I was born to be Stan/Eval," the sergeant said with the utmost seriousness.

"Right," Rogers said. "And I was born to acknowledge radio transmissions. I've been in the service a long time. Inspections don't really happen in this fleet."

"CALL FUNCTION [REPEt.i.tION AND a.s.sURANCE]," the droid said-boy, this one was a talker-"OUTPUT STRING: INSPECTIONS HAPPEN ACCORDING TO A REGULAR AND REGIMENTED SCHEDULE TO WHICH ALL PERSONNEL MUST ADHERE."

Rogers looked at Sergeant Stract. "Do you always let droids do your talking for you?"

The sergeant frowned. "Insults aren't going to help you much, sir. Now, if you'll please stand at attention in the center of your room, we can conduct the inspection."

"Yeah, I'm not really into standing at attention, either," Rogers said. "Look, I'll just sign the bottom of your sheet, and you can mark everything as acceptable, and we can both get on with our day."

"CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. OUTPUT STRING: REFUSAL TO ABIDE BY MILITARY PROTOCOL," the droid said. "ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED."

Back in Rogers' day, a "demerit" was a penalty in a drinking game that necessitated a shot of alcohol. Somehow, he didn't think that's what the droid was talking about.

"CALL FUNCTION [ISSUE ORDER]. TARGET [SERGEANT STRACT]," the droid said. "a.s.sUME CONTROL OF THE RECORDS."

"Wait," Rogers said. "The droid is leading the inspection?"

The sergeant snapped to attention and grabbed the clipboard like a rifle with a resounding crack.

"I have a.s.sumed control of the records, sir!"

"Did you just call that droid sir?"

The sergeant glared at Rogers. "As you don't seem to be familiar with military protocol, sir, I will explain that it is customary for us to address those who outrank us by sir or ma'am."

Rogers stared, dumbstruck, at Sergeant Stract as the droid began walking around the room, its metallic legs clanking against the pseudo-wood floor of the officer stateroom. Stract followed the machine in lockstep, duck-walking in the ridiculous fashion that someone, somewhere along the line had decided looked "official." Had Stract been wearing a black-and-white outfit, Rogers would have confused him with a penguin.

"No," Rogers said. "No, absolutely not. There's no way this droid has a rank."

"CALL FUNCTION [DECLARE IDENt.i.tY]. OUTPUT STRING: I AM CYBERMAN FIRST CLa.s.s A-155. CALL FUNCTION [SMUGLY CITE REGULATION]. IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE MERIDAN RANK AND ORGANIZATION REGULATION MR-613, I AM SUPERIOR TO ALL ENLISTED PERSONNEL RANKED E-5 AND BELOW. SERGEANT STRACT'S RANK OF SERGEANT IS E-5 IN THE MERIDAN GALACTIC NAVY."

"Absolutely, sir," the sergeant said, nodding. "An excellent reference to the regulations."

"Do the regulations say you're supposed to kiss his a.s.s, too?" Rogers asked. "How do you even know it's a sir and not a ma'am? Does it have an extra pair of turbines between its legs?"

Sergeant Stract didn't seem to find that amusing, though he declined to comment. The droid wiped a gloved hand over the edge of Rogers' bed frame and brought it up to its face.

"CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. DUST PRESENT ON BED. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED."

"What?" Rogers blurted. "I just got here! How was I supposed to dust everything?" He shook his head, as if to rattle the absurdity out of it. "Why should I even bother dusting at all? The Meridan Fleet doesn't dust!"

"CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. WARDROBE NOT ARRAYED IN PROPER ORDER. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED."

"I didn't even put that stuff in there! Give a demerit to Suresh in Supply!"

"CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. DESK CHAIR WHEELS IMPROPERLY ROTATED. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED."

"What does that even mean?"

Sergeant Stract was scratching away on the archaic note-taking device with a pencil and following the droid as it made its rounds.

"This is stupid," Rogers said. "This is really, really stupid."

The droid came to the spot on the wall where the propaganda poster had been and paused, its long, horse-like head scanning over the empty spot.

"CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. OUTPUT STRING: INSUFFICIENT MORALE. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED."

Sergeant Stract made a mark on the clipboard, and Rogers was about to break it over his head. All of the events of the past week were building up inside of him to the point of overflow; he found himself fantasizing about visiting tremendous violence on inanimate objects and various people he'd met since he'd come aboard the Flagship. It pushed him to the brink. It made him want to chew off the droid's arm.

Then he broke and did something that no self-respecting military man ever did. He pulled rank.

"Sergeant Stract," Rogers said, "as your superior officer, I order you to put that d.a.m.n thing away and get the h.e.l.l out of my room."

Both the droid and the sergeant froze where they stood. Rogers grinned. He had them!

"But," the sergeant said.

"No buts," Rogers said, moving to stand in front of Sergeant Stract. "Get out. Right now. And never come back."

Sergeant Stract's left leg twitched, as if to move. Rogers took a deep breath to bark the order a second time.

"CALL FUNCTION [SMUGLY CITE REGULATION]. AUGMENTED FUNCTION [FRUSTRATE SUPERIOR OFFICER]. OUTPUT STRING: MERIDAN STANDARDIZATION AND EVALUATION REGULATION MR-415 STATES THAT ALL PERSONNEL ARE SUBJECT TO INSPECTION AND MUST COMPLY WITH THE INSTRUCTIONS OF THE INSPECTION STAFF IN ORDER TO MAINTAIN GOOD ORDER AND DISCIPLINE IN A MILITARY FASHION. YOU HAVE ISSUED AN ILLEGAL ORDER."

Sergeant Stract stood taller behind the protective shield of his regulation-spouting "superior," and the droid turned around to face Rogers.

"CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. OUTPUT STRING: IMPROPER FACIAL HAIR GROOMING. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED. AUGMENTED FUNCTION [VEILED INCONVENIENCE] AN APPOINTMENT WITH CYBERMAN SECOND CLa.s.s BAR-BR 116 HAS BEEN SCHEDULED FOR TOMORROW AT 0830."

"Go galvanize yourself," Rogers said. "It'll be a cold day in h.e.l.l before anyone touches my beard."

"CALL FUNCTION [REQUEST CLARIFICATION]. THE IMPROBABLE AMBIENT TEMPERATURE OF A FICTIONAL AFTERLIFE LOCATION DOES NOT MITIGATE YOUR VIOLATION OF REGULATIONS."

"Get out of my room!" Rogers shouted, pointing at the door. "I'm not going to stand here and be lectured on military protocol by a G.o.d-d.a.m.ned shiny!"

The word rebounded off the walls through an instantaneous, tense silence. Sergeant Stract dropped the clipboard and gasped. The droids "eyes," two hollow sockets that glowed a soft blue, flashed red for a moment. For some reason, that sent a chill down Rogers' spine.

"REJECT FUNCTION [PROTOCOL 162]. CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. RACIAL SLUR," the droid intoned. "FIVE DEMERITS WILL BE AWARDED." He then turned to Sergeant Stract. "TARGET CHANGE [SERGEANT STRACT]. LOSS OF MILITARY BEARING IN THE HEAT OF COMBAT. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED. CALL FUNCTION [ISSUE ORDER]. PLEASE RETRIEVE THE NOTE-TAKING DEVICE."