Mechanical Failure Part 4

"CALL FUNCTION [PERFUNCTORY GREETING]. TARGET [HUMAN, UNKNOWN NAME, UNKNOWN RANK]. PROMPT: NAME. PROMPT: DESTINATION. PROMPT: PURPOSE OF VISIT."

The rough, broken speech of the droid was like biting into a cookie full of nails. Rogers wondered how, in a few thousand years of speech recognition and replication technology, they hadn't been able to make the droids sound like anything other than brain-damaged gorillas. Even the personal computer terminals sounded better than s.h.i.+nies.

"R. Wilson Rogers," he replied, not feeling comfortable at all that he was having a conversation with a robot. "Reinstatement and rea.s.signment."

A moment pa.s.sed, the droid's glowing blue eyes staring at Rogers.

"REJECT FUNCTION [MESSILY DESTROY INTRUDER]. CALL FUNCTION [A-156 AUTHORIZED ENTRY AND COURTEOUS ADMISSION]. OUTPUT STRING: APPROVED. ENJOY YOUR STAY. PLEASE REPORT TO SUPPLY FOR UNIFORM ISSUE."

Rogers rolled his eyes and walked away, wondering why they would trust something so important as personnel manifesting to a machine with no human oversight. It made him uncomfortable.

That unsavory encounter behind him, all of a sudden Rogers was back aboard the bustling hive of activity that was the MPS Flags.h.i.+p. It smelled like carbon, processed air, and home. The first two were expected; the latter was a bit of a surprise to Rogers. Maybe he had missed being in the military just a little bit. He wondered when the beer light would go on, signaling the noontime cessation of all work-like activities and the commencement of binge drinking and carousing. The peacetime military was hard to beat for work-life balance.

Someone jostled Rogers as they rushed by him, nearly knocking him back out into the docking bay.

"Hey!" Rogers said indignantly. A female s.p.a.cer, whose rank he couldn't see, kept walking down the corridor without looking back. Rogers shook his head. Some troops had no manners.

The jolt brought him out of his semi-nostalgic reverie, anyway. Rogers gave another head shake and let his legs take him the direction he needed to go. It had only been a little over a year since he'd left the military, so there was still a bit of muscle memory left. He had spent so much time in the supply depot that he was pretty sure he could have, for example, stumbled there in a state of blacked-out drunkenness with no problem. Just as an example.

The supply depot and most of the docking bays were located on the same level of the Flags.h.i.+p, so there was no need for Rogers to take the larger up-line intra-s.h.i.+p transportation cars that went between decks. There was a smaller system of zipcars, the in-line, that moved along through the center of each level, and Rogers set his course for the nearest terminal. The depot wasn't that far of a walk, but Rogers preferred simplicity over . . . well, most physical exertion. As he approached the terminal, however, he was met by a stern-faced young woman who he didn't recognize, dressed in a typical dress uniform and wearing an old-style train conductor's hat. There seemed to be an awful lot of new folks around for only being gone for a little over a standard year.

"Hi, there," he said. "I'm headed to Supply."

"It's that way," she said, pointing down the hallway. She didn't move to let him into the boarding area.

"Right. I'd like to ride."

The woman-a starman first cla.s.s, someone with only a couple of years in the Meridan Navy-looked him up and down with a disdainful eye. "These are for official use only."

Rogers fought to keep the smile on his face. "It is official use. I'm being reinstated and I need to go to the supply dock for my official equipment issue."

"Do you have orders?"

Rogers' smile almost slipped. "Since when do you need orders to ride the in-line?"

"It's the regulation. If you have business, you should have been given orders or at least be wearing a uniform. That's the way we do things."

In no way was this the "way they did things" from what Rogers could remember. h.e.l.l, they used to ride the in-line back and forth just to get back to the beginning of the "landing strip," which is what they used to call the section of the hallway they slicked down with cleaning fluid in order to slide along it on their bare chests for fun. Walking back was dangerous-you might get plowed over by a wayward soldier t.i.ttering with glee as he spun out of control.

"Just once," Rogers said. "I need to get my stuff."

"No."

The woman looked at him with such implacable indifference that Rogers wondered if she would have reacted had he stripped naked in front of her. What was wrong with these people?

Rogers sighed. "Come on, it's just-"

"These transportation systems are for the orderly movement of personnel and supplies through the loading deck. If I let every joker on, what would happen if fighting broke out? The cars would be crowded with loitering slobs like you."

Letting the insult slide off him, Rogers pressed on. "What fighting? There's no fighting."

The woman narrowed his eyes at him. "That's not funny. Are you really that dense? Now, if you don't mind, I'm very busy."

"You're not doing anything at all!"

"My position is, as all positions are, crucial to the war effort. Please make your way down to the supply depot that way"-she pointed again-"or go and find whoever a.s.signed you here and get orders to use the in-line."

Resisting the urge to make an obscene gesture, Rogers turned in a huff and stomped down the hallway. War effort! That was like saying you were stationed on a communication station to help with the heat wave.

He realized he was starting to sweat after the first couple of minutes of speed walking, and he slowed his pace, shoving his hands in his pockets and grumbling to himself. A pair of droids rolled down the hallway, their incessant beeping and whirring making him want to knock their metal faces off (if he had been wielding a torque wrench or had ever visited the gym).

A poster on the wall made him stop for a moment to examine it. There was nothing strange about having motivational posters on the wall-every organization Did it despite its utter ineffectiveness-but something about this one seemed different. It read, in all capital letters, EVERY POSITION IS CRUCIAL TO THE WAR EFFORT. Above it was a dramatically shaded portrait of a young soldier licking envelopes, a look of fierce determination in his eyes. Rogers shook his head and moved on.

The supply depot finally came into view ahead of him, an unremarkable door bearing the inscription SUPPLY above it in yellow letters. Rogers punched the door lock with the bottom of his fist, and the door opened into a small waiting area packed with s.p.a.cers and marines sitting in rows of chairs and looking annoyed. He couldn't remember a time when there had been so many people in the waiting area. In fact, he couldn't remember a time when there was anyone staffing the desk, either. The supply room was just sort of the place where you went to get stuff. You went in, got stuff, and got out. There was no need for waiting.

The broad counter stretched the length of the back wall, behind which Rogers could see various cargo crates being moved back and forth through the different warehouses. It all seemed very busy, and he could have sworn that the same container was being moved over and over again.

A bored-looking corporal stood behind the terminal at the counter, not doing anything apparently useful. A sign above his head showed NOW SERVING 103, and a vidscreen off to the side was streaming a muted news channel with no subt.i.tles.

"Can I help you?" the corporal asked in a voice that absolutely crackled with nonchalance.

"Yes," Rogers said. "I'm here for my equipment issue."

"Are you a new recruit?"

"Not exactly. I've been reinstated after a . . . break in service. R. Wilson Rogers, sergeant."

The clerk asked Rogers for some additional personal data and started typing away at the terminal keypad.

After a moment, the clerk paused and frowned. "Roger Wilson Rogers? Your name is Roger Rogers?"

"R. Wilson Rogers," he replied tightly. "Are you new here? Where's Quintal? He was in charge here last time I was around."

"Sergeant Quintal was transferred," the clerk said. "I'm Corporal Suresh, the new supply chief."

"Who put a corporal in charge of Supply?" Rogers said. In the Meridan Navy, corporals were just barely above starmen, who mostly had achieved the dubious accomplishment of being able to lace their boots properly.

That didn't brighten Suresh's day at all. "I am fully capable of the duties a.s.signed to me, Mr. Rogers."

"Sergeant Rogers."

The clerk ignored him and continued typing away at the terminal for what Rogers thought was a very long time.

"Is there a problem?" Rogers asked. "I know where everything is back there. I'll just go and get what I need, and-"

"n.o.body not in the supply corps is allowed back there," the clerk said.

"What are you talking about? Just about everyone in the whole d.a.m.n s.h.i.+p has been back there at one time or another."

"Not on my watch," the corporal said.

Rogers bit the inside of his cheek. He had been betting on his old pal Quintal being here so he could reestablish all his old connections. Things were not going to go well for him at all if he couldn't have a hand in the goings-on inside the supply depot. He changed his approach.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot," Rogers said. "A corporal as chief of Supply is a very prominent achievement. I mean, for you to be put in a position of such power and influence at your rank is very impressive."

"I'm just doing my duty," Suresh said, his voice flat and his face expressionless.

Well, flattery didn't seem to work. Maybe Rogers could bribe him.

Without warning, however, Suresh pressed a b.u.t.ton on the keyboard and began shouting.

"Supply room, A-TEN-HOOOOAAH!"

Instantly, everyone in the room jumped to their feet and stood at strict attention, arms at their sides, feet together, their spines as rigid as engine support braces. Papers and personal effects tumbled to the floor. He felt his muscles stiffen in reaction to the command but realized that since he was still in civilian clothes, it didn't really matter. Rogers spun toward the supply room entrance, positive that the charismatic and powerful Admiral Klein, fleet commander of the 331st and the only military man Rogers had ever feared, had walked through the door. But n.o.body was there.

Moments of silence pa.s.sed as all activity completely stopped. Rogers, the only unfrozen body in the room, looked around. Everyone's eyes were locked straight ahead, their limbs like stone. One young starman was clenching his fists so hard that they were trembling.

Finally, Rogers turned around and asked the supply clerk.

"Who are we standing at attention for?"

"You, sir!" Corporal Suresh shouted.

"Me?" Rogers said incredulously. "I'm only a sergeant. Wait, did you just call me 'sir'?"

"I did call you sir, sir!" Suresh said. His arms rigid at his sides, he pointed ridiculously toward the computer screen in front of him by moving only his index finger. "Your records list you as Ensign Roger W. Rogers, a.s.signed to the 331st ATBG, and regulations say that when an officer enters the room, you are to call the room to attention."

"I told you I'm a sergeant. And it's R. Wilson Rogers." He heard someone behind him groan and hit the floor as he pa.s.sed out. "d.a.m.n it, everyone relax! And tell that guy not to lock his knees."

The whole room let out a sigh of relief, and a pair of marines rushed to help their fallen comrade, who was looking very pale. Rogers turned back to Suresh.

"There has to be some mistake," he said.

"Perhaps you forgot your rank during the break in service, sir?" Suresh offered.

"Don't be an idiot. Can you look up the personnel records from here? What's my date of rank?"

Suresh whipped through the database. "It says effective today. Congratulations, sir! It was awarded in conjunction with the Anti-Pirating Combat Valor Medal. Very impressive, sir."

Rogers barely heard him. He felt blood rising to his cheeks. Tuckalle, that b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He knew that Rogers never wanted to be an officer. He knew that Rogers never wanted responsibility or accountability, people calling him "sir" and saluting him, people asking him to fill out paperwork.

"All of your supplies and uniforms have been delivered to your room, sir. You should find everything you need there already unpacked for you."

"Great," Rogers said dryly. "And where is that, exactly?"

"Room 101G in officer berthing area C, quarterdeck."

Rogers' fists clenched. That wasn't the engineering unit's berthing area. He had a bad feeling about this.

"Suresh," he said. "Does it, by any chance, say what unit I'm a.s.signed to?"

Suresh glanced down, and his eyes widened. "Congratulations again, sir! It says here you've been a.s.signed as Commander, Artificial Intelligence Ground Combat Squadron."

Droids. He was in charge of droids.

"That son of a b.i.t.c.h," Rogers said.

After making Suresh print out the paperwork required for him to ride the intras.h.i.+p transportation system, Rogers shoved it in the in-line guardwoman's face and went as fast as he could to the quarterdeck. He wasn't a huge fan of delaying the inevitable, and lying down on his bed sounded pretty good right now anyway. The sooner he got settled, the sooner he could start figuring out how to get out of this a.s.signment and back to something easy like fixing engines and drinking beer.

A quick transfer from the in-line to the up-line to another in-line left him in the quiet, clean officer living area known as the quarterdeck. He'd used to joke it was because officers only had a quarter of a brain, but that didn't seem quite as funny now. Unlike the enlisted quarters, in which most troops under the rank of sergeant shared a room with one or two others, each officer had his or her own room. The hallways, instead of sporting the same drab, austere metal surface, were tastefully decorated with a combination of artificial wainscoting and various works of art depicting historical wartime spectacles.I It had that upper-cla.s.s, old-world aristocratic feeling, like someone was about to emerge from a reading room in a smoking vest holding a pipe and challenge Rogers to cribbage.

It even smelled different, though that could have been a subtle contribution from the zoo deck, which was located directly below. Every command s.h.i.+p in the fleet had a zoo deck for morale purposes (and a biosphere to help generate oxygen, but that was generally regarded as secondary).

Rogers immediately didn't like it, though he was thankful that the artwork already on the walls prevented the display of any more of those strange motivational posters. He particularly didn't like the fact that after exiting the in-line, he saw no fewer than six s.h.i.+nies rolling down the hallway, one of which seemed to be carrying a disruptor rifle in a holster on its back. Rogers frowned; giving weapons to AI was a big no-no in the military. He'd learned that the hard way when he'd distributed bubble guns to a bunch of droids to see if he could stir up trouble. It was probably the only prank he ever regretted.

But now here they were, with real, no-kidding weapons. They were considered unstable, if useful, and they'd never been programmed for combat before. And Rogers was supposed to command them?

All thoughts vanished from his mind as he turned the last corner on the way to his quarters. Outside his door was a hulking monster of a woman. Gargantuan in stature, she must have stood well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and hands that looked like they could crack open a coconut without a hammer. Her dark hair was cropped shorter than Rogers', and Rogers was almost certain he wouldn't have been able to fit in her boots without stuffing socks in them. She wore the uniform of a Meridan Marine and the rank of captain, two ranks higher than Rogers' new rank.

She was perfect.

Forcing himself to stop staring and start walking, Rogers put on his best smile. For some reason-divine blessing, he thought-she was standing right outside his door, clearly waiting for him. Had she heard about the das.h.i.+ng young ex-sergeant-turned-ensign that had come back to liven up the Flags.h.i.+p? Word always did travel fast on a giant hunk of metal on which most people had nothing to do but gossip.

"Well, h.e.l.lo there," he said, his smile widening. His palms were actually sweating. He'd barely been sweating when he'd thought he was going to jail. G.o.d, she was beautiful. "What can I-"

"Is this your room?" the giant vixen interrupted. Rogers looked at her nametag, and saw that it said Alsinbury on it. Captain Alsinbury. R. Wilson Alsinbury. Hmm . . .

"As a matter of fact," he said, "it is. Would you care to come inside for a-"

She hit him in the face so hard that for a moment, he thought that someone had opened the airlock and turned off the gravity generator, because he couldn't breathe and he was no longer touching any hard surfaces. He had a brief, fleeting sensation of landing on the ground before the not-so-brief and not-so-fleeting sensation of head trauma settled in and filled the world with a thousand gossiping old women with shrill voices and sledgehammers.

"That's what you get for trying to put robots in a human's job." Captain Alsinbury's voice somehow cut through the rus.h.i.+ng river of pain flowing in between Rogers' ears.

"Mrrrh," Rogers began, but at the moment, forming words was about as easy as standing up after being hit in the face by a marine.

"Take your droids and stuff 'em. n.o.body goes on the ground but me and my marines, and don't you forget it."

Rogers dimly registered the fading footsteps of the captain and looked up just in time to see her rumble away to another part of the s.h.i.+p. He thought about following her, trying to explain why she had misconstrued his intentions and shouldn't they drink themselves silly and talk about their future until they sorted all of this out, but his muscles didn't quite feel like functioning at the moment. He held the image of her walking away in his head as he pulled himself to lean against his door and tried to stop the s.h.i.+p from spinning.