Mechanical Failure Part 10

"Well," the ensign said, "welcome to the place you're not working." He extended his hand. "I'm Ensign McSchmidt, engineering squadron commander."

Rogers shook his hand hesitantly. He remembered Oh One saying something about this guy. "McSchmidt? That's kind of an odd name."

"Half of my family was German, the other half was Irish."

Rogers blinked. "I'm not sure that's how it works."

McSchmidt didn't seem to want to argue about it. "Well, welcome back. But, if you'll excuse me, I have an inspection to prepare for. The droids will be here in two hours, and I want good marks."

"Good marks aren't good for much if you blow up the engineering bay," Rogers said, pointing to where some boominite containers had been stacked in a very pretty, if stupid, pattern. "That's not how to store those. If someone farts near them too loudly, you could blow a hole in the side of the s.h.i.+p the size of a small dreadnaught."

McSchmidt's expression turned cold, but he didn't spare the boominite containers a glance. "I know how to do my job, Rogers. The instructions for stacking tri-plasma rods is clear in the manuals."

"Those are boominite containers. What the h.e.l.l are tri-plasma rods? Did you just make that up?"

McSchmidt turned up his nose. "I'm the engineering commander here. I know my business. I hope you don't have any aspirations to take over your old unit, Rogers. I worked hard at the Academy to get where I am now, and I'm not ready to turn it over to a smooth-talking gambler like you. Are we clear?"

Rogers let the weak attempt at an insult slide off of him. "You're an Academy officer?"

Academy officers were known for being a little arrogant, if competent. But this McSchmidt looked more like a lost puppy who had just learned how to bark. Normally, these kinds of dopes were easy meat for the experienced enlisted corps, but n.o.body seemed to have done their job of putting McSchmidt in his place.

"Yes," McSchmidt said, suddenly frowning. "I just said that, didn't I? Why would I say that if it wasn't true? I went to the Academy, making me an Academy officer."

"Okay, okay," Rogers said. "Calm down. The Academy has a great academic reputation. What did you major in?"

"Of course I had a major! Of course I majored in something! Why wouldn't I major in something at the Academy that I went to? I majored in political science. That's obviously why I'm in engineering." McSchmidt was breathing rather heavily, and he appeared to be breaking out in a sweat.

Rogers raised an eyebrow. "What the h.e.l.l does political science have to do with engineering?"

"Everything!" McSchmidt snapped in a sudden burst of indignity. "It's the engineering of people, of cultures, of nations!"

"Yeah," Rogers said, "but do you know which way to turn a wrench?"

"Engineering ber alles!" the ensign shouted. "Now if you don't have any business in the Pit, I'll thank you to get out of the way."

Without another word, McSchmidt turned and walked away, directing his anger toward a pair of corporals who were using a hoverlift to move a small fusion generator from one side of the room to the other, where a whole array of generators were arranged in a totally useless and potentially hazardous pyramid formation.

"Don't mind him," someone said.

Rogers turned to find the young woman the ensign had been "encouraging" standing next to him. She was stocky but not exactly heavy, her sandy brown hair tucked up in a bun. Her uniform didn't quite fit properly, giving him the impression of a girl in her mother's clothes. She looked at him with a pair of dull brown eyes set in a walnut-colored face, her mouth turned up in a wry smile.

"What's with the walking anachronism?" Rogers said, jerking a thumb at McSchmidt.

"Academy funding for political science is in the tubes, thanks to the Two Hundred Years' (and Counting) Peace," she said. "The only thing they study anymore is old world history textbooks. You should hear him talk about Napoleon."

"It requires more courage to suffer than to die!" McSchmidt shouted.

"Anyway," the engineer said, "you should come back later if you want to tour the facility. Almost everyone you knew when you were here has been transferred, but I'll show you around. I'm Sergeant Lopez."

"R. Wilson Rogers," Rogers said, and extended his hand. "You don't know anywhere on this s.h.i.+p where I can get a drink, do you?"

Lopez grinned. "This is the engineering bay, Ensign."

Rogers let out a sigh of relief. "Thank G.o.d. I think you and I are going to get along just fine, Lopez. Just fine. I'll be back later for my tour."

Now we're talking! Rogers thought as the Jasker 120 slid down the back of his throat, smooth as b.u.t.ter. Finally, a good card game, a cigar, and a bottle of fine Scotch. Maybe life wasn't so bad after all.

. . . Was what he wished he was thinking as he sipped from the dirty canteen cup that held some of the most vile swill he'd ever come across. He sat with Lopez in the engineering bay on top of a couple of empty crates, watching the last remnants of the crew fill out paperwork and curse at the results of their inspection. They'd failed with flying colors; the boominite containers had been stacked in the wrong pattern and they found a racc.o.o.n in the engine of one of the starfighters. McSchmidt had apparently left in tears and hadn't been seen since.

Rogers grimaced at his cup. It tasted like someone had boiled their feet in a vat of spoiled eggs and vinegar, but there was definitely the distinct bite that told Rogers it was at least alcoholic.

"Puts hair on your chest, doesn't it?" Lopez said. She smacked her lips and wiped them on the back of her hand.

"Or my dinner on the floor," Rogers replied, swallowing his body's attempt to eject the drink.

"Hey," Lopez said, "I made this myself. It took me months to get the materials together and figure out a good spot to brew it without the Stan/Eval droids getting all over me for it." She forcibly clinked her cup against Rogers', sending some of the moons.h.i.+ne-if you could call it that-over the side of the cup. Rogers was not at all upset that some of it had been wasted.

"Clearly, you've been an engineer for a while, then?" Rogers said. Or an alcoholic.

"Twelve years a wrench-turner," she said, burping.

"How did you manage not to get put to work in the kitchens with the rest of the crew?"

Lopez shrugged. "Who knows the reasons they do anything around here? Maybe they're getting an ap.r.o.n ready for me right now. Bah!" She threw her empty cup on the floor.

"I know how you feel," Rogers said. "They put me in charge of ground combat droids."

Lopez's eyes went wide. "I heard about them. I can't believe they're giving them weapons. Do you think it's safe?"

Rogers thought back to his experience with the control pad and the droids deconstructing part of the s.h.i.+p.

"No."

"So, why are you doing it?"

"Don't have much of a choice, do I?" Rogers said, a little more aggressively than he'd intended. "What are you going to do if they tell you to grab a chef hat and make a mousse?"

Lopez thought for a moment. "Make a really s.h.i.+tty mousse, I suppose."

"Exactly. And I'm going to make a really s.h.i.+tty ground combat unit."

The sergeant stood up, yawning loudly, and motioned for Rogers to follow her. "Come on. No use grousing. I'll show you around."

Rogers wasn't exactly sure what she was going to show him; he'd worked in the Pit for nearly a decade and knew every nook and cranny of it. But it was nice to talk to someone who wasn't insane, even if she did try to pa.s.s off hog's p.i.s.s as alcohol.

"Pretty busy around here," Lopez said as they pa.s.sed by a wall of crates and entered into the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p maintenance section of the Pit. This was an area reserved mostly for starfighters and small transport craft, stuff that was small enough to be moved from the docking bays if they were damaged. Most of the complicated work on larger s.h.i.+ps was done in the docking bays themselves or even outside the s.h.i.+p using Vacuum Mobility Units.

"Pretty busy?" Rogers asked. "How? There was never anything going on. We repaired burnt-out engines and replaced parts every time one of the fighter pilots ran his s.h.i.+p into something on patrol, but it was always pretty calm."

"Yeah," Lopez said, "but you didn't have McSchmidt and a legion of droids breathing down your neck, telling you to put this there and put that here. I feel like all I ever do is move stuff around."

Rogers shook his head. "Where did all the droids even come from?"

"It's the war," Lopez said.

"There is no war!" Rogers said, throwing up his hands.

"It's the war that's coming, then," Lopez said. "People said the MPF wasn't professional enough to take on the Th.e.l.lies, so Klein started making changes. More rules, more droids. Less alcohol. It's a different fleet."

"And you believe it?"

Lopez shrugged. "What am I supposed to believe? The intelligence reports go to Klein, not the engineering crew, but I hear it from the fighter jocks every once in a while. They've been going out on patrol more often too. Another reason we're pretty busy."

Rogers rubbed his beard. Maybe there was something going on with Thelicosa. Admiral Klein wasn't one to scare easy; he was a Real Military Man, if there was such a thing. If Klein thought war was coming, maybe it was true.

"But that doesn't mean we have to have a bunch of s.h.i.+nies running everything," Rogers said.

Lopez ducked her head, looking around. "You shouldn't say that word."

"s.h.i.+nies?"

"Shh!" She shoved him, hard, sending him stumbling back, and he felt a flash of indignation. Only the Viking was allowed to push him around like that.

Oh, the Viking. Captain Alsinbury. If only . . .

"The droids don't like it, and you'll find yourself getting paperwork dropped on you if they hear you throwing it around like that. You'll have to go to counseling."

"Counseling?"

"Yeah," Lopez said. "Racial reeducation counseling."

Rogers balled up his fists. "They're droids. They don't have a race."

"Tell that to the counselors. They're droids, though, so they probably won't agree with you."

As they were about to leave the maintenance area and head over to where the barbeque pit used to be-which was now just a bunch of filing cabinets and posters-Rogers caught sight of a s.h.i.+p at the far back.

"Hey," he said. "That's my s.h.i.+p!"

Lopez stopped and looked, squinting. "Your s.h.i.+p?"

"Yeah," Rogers said. "That's the Awesome."

"That's a stupid name for a s.h.i.+p. Looks a whole lot like an MPF cargo speeder to me," Lopez said slowly. "Have I seen that s.h.i.+p before?"

"The paint is different."

Behind the Awesome, Rogers could see a couple of figures moving around, dressed in what Rogers thought were coveralls. But they didn't look quite right. Taking a few steps closer, he realized that they weren't coveralls-they were ap.r.o.ns.

"That's Hart," he said, a little tingle of excitement working its way through him. "He's fixing my s.h.i.+p!"

"Master Sergeant Hart?" Lopez said. "What's he doing here?"

"I asked him for a favor," Rogers replied.

The s.h.i.+p already looked in better shape than it had been when it had been towed to the Flags.h.i.+p. Those folks would have it up and running in no time. Though what Rogers would do once it was fixed was still a mystery. But at least when this tour was over, he'd have something to fly away on. Fly away fast.

"Well, aren't you something?" Lopez said. "Your own s.h.i.+p and everything. What are you still doing in the military?"

"It's a long story," Rogers muttered.

"Well why don't you-"

"CALL FUNCTION [SURREPt.i.tIOUSLY FOLLOW]. TARGET [ENSIGN ROGERS]."

Rogers and Lopez stopped in their tracks.

"What the h.e.l.l was that?" Lopez asked.

Rogers spun around, looking for the source of the voice, but couldn't find anything. They were in a mess of s.h.i.+pping crates and other random detritus, the only open view heading out toward where the Awesome was being repaired.

"CALL FUNCTION [MAINTAIN CLEVER HIDING PLACE]."

"s.h.i.+ny," Rogers muttered. Lopez whacked him on the arm.

"I'll say it if I want to say it."

"CALL FUNCTION [MAINTAIN CLEVER HIDING PLACE]."

Rogers whirled. Where was the d.a.m.n thing? Why was it hiding? Why was it so hard to find it even though it kept announcing its presence?

"Come out, you hunk of sc.r.a.p metal!" Rogers said. "What are you doing following me around?"

"CALL FUNCTION [MAINTAIN CLEVER HIDING PLACE]."

Rogers leaned toward one of the crates. "Is it coming from here?"

"I don't see it." Lopez said. "Boy, you're on the droids' s.h.i.+t list, aren't you?"