Mechanical Failure Part 7

The trip to the training deck, an entirely separate level of the Flags.h.i.+p, was just a quick ride on the up-line away, and as they stepped into the car, Rogers noticed that the same "guardwoman" who had blocked his first attempt at riding the in-line was standing watch. She tugged her conductor's hat down further over her eyes, which was unfortunate, because Rogers really wanted her to see him sticking his tongue out at her as they boarded an empty car.

"So, what's your story?" Mailn asked as she stretched out languidly across a row of empty seats. "You don't look fresh enough to be a new ensign out of the Academy."

Rogers chuckled a little as he sat down. "It'd take me longer than an up-line ride to explain it." And he wasn't really into self-incriminating. "Let's just say I had a break in service followed by an unexpected commission. What about you?"

Mailn shrugged. "Eh, you know. Grew up in one of the big cities on Merida Prime, got involved in a few things that maybe weren't good ideas at the time, wanted to start over." She looked vaguely embarra.s.sed but hid it with her c.o.c.ksure grin. "Now I'm a marine, doing some things that maybe aren't good ideas. But at least I get to shoot stuff."

Rogers looked at her. "I guess that's a benefit. I've never been much of a shoot-'em-up guy myself."

Mailn raised an eyebrow. "I never would have guessed."

They traveled in silence for a few moments, the interior of the Flags.h.i.+p zipping by outside the narrow windows of the car.

"It's kind of nice traveling so early," Rogers said, stretching out. "Everyone's still asleep, so there's n.o.body to crowd the cars."

Mailn shot him a sideways glance. "Asleep? Everyone's already at work. That's why n.o.body is in the car."

Rogers shook his head in disbelief. This wasn't the 331st at all.

"This is unbelievable," Rogers said as the up-line came to a stop and let them off on the training deck.

"It's not so bad once you get used to it," Mailn said as they exited the up-line onto the training deck.

"Seems pretty bad to me," Rogers said. "Since I got back, I haven't played a single card game, had a single drink, or slid down any soaped-up hallways on my bare belly."

"It's the trouble with the Thelicosans," Mailn said. "Everyone's on edge."

They walked past a group of dour-faced finance troops, all of whom, for some reason, were wearing old-fas.h.i.+oned karate uniforms and sweating profusely. One of them threw a clipboard into the air and broke it with a devastating spinning back kick.

"This isn't on edge," Rogers said as he brushed a splinter off his uniform. "This is weird. And boring. Why would they transfer an engineer into the kitchens?"

"There have been a lot of transfers lately," Mailn said. "A month ago, they wanted to cross-train me as a pilot."

"What's wrong with that?"

"I'm colorblind and I get airsick. Thankfully, Captain Alsinbury got me out of it. She can be very persuasive."

A flash of heat worked its way through Rogers' body as he thought of what could const.i.tute "persuasive." He knew there had to be some way to break the ice with her, but not before he got himself a good, solid helmet.

"What about Admiral Klein?" Rogers asked. "Doesn't he know about any of this? This is his fleet."

Mailn shrugged. "I hear most of the transfers are happening up at his level, so he must know about it. I know he's under a lot of stress, though, so maybe he's making mistakes."

"How do you know that?"

"Well," Mailn said. "his executive a.s.sistants keep hanging themselves. He's gone through two of them since I've been aboard, and just got a new one the other day. You can always tell how much pressure a commander is under by how bad his execs look."

Rogers whistled. He could remember some of the speeches that Klein gave to the troops while he'd been in the fleet. They were some of the most masterful uses of words he'd ever heard in his life-even Rogers couldn't help but feel a sense of duty when Admiral Klein spoke, and that said something. Whatever the fleet needed-funding for beer, transportation a.s.sets for beer, or new pumping systems to make sure the beer always tasted fresh-the fleet got because the admiral was fighting for them. Although, come to think of it, he did seem to go through execs pretty quickly, even during Rogers' last tenure on the s.h.i.+p. They hadn't been hanging themselves, though.

"With Klein in command," Mailn continued, a look of admiration on her face, "the Thelicosans will think twice about attacking."

Rogers grunted. He didn't want to talk about Thelicosa or their supposed belligerence. He still didn't think it was possible for any system to violate the Two Hundred Years' (and Counting) Peace.

As they walked, Rogers couldn't help but notice yet another poster on the wall. He'd been trying to ignore them, but some of them were just too ridiculous. The loud text on the bottom read, FILL OUT FORMS PROPERLY. Above it was a capsizing frigate, flames shooting out from the many breaches in its hull, and frozen s.p.a.ce-corpses floating around it with dark, horrified expressions on their faces. Pieces of paper, ostensibly incorrectly filled-out forms, were depicted slamming into the side of the s.h.i.+p like plasma cannons.

"Who writes this c.r.a.p?" Rogers said.

"I have no idea," Mailn said. "But they keep popping up everywhere. There's one in the Peek and Shoot that says 'When you slurp soup the enemy wins.'"

They rounded the corner, and there she was: the Viking, in all of her splendor. Baggy uniform, short hair r.i.m.m.i.n.g her round face, monstrous gait carrying her toward them at a tremendous speed even though she was walking casually.

Rogers ducked reflexively.

"Way too early," muttered Mailn.

"What are you doing a.s.sociating with this t.u.r.d?" Alsinbury said as she approached.

Mailn snapped a hasty salute, which the captain returned, and Rogers slowly uncurled from his defensive position to offer one as well. She did outrank him, after all. That was exciting, too.

"I'm escorting him to the droid training room, ma'am," Mailn said. "He's never been there before."

The Viking spared him a distasteful glance. "I don't want to see you a.s.sociating with my troops, metalhead." Rogers was acc.u.mulating a lot of strange nicknames on this s.h.i.+p. "I don't want any of them tainted by your droid-loving ways. We're the ground force around here, and don't you forget it."

"I won't," Rogers said, his heart beating hard. Was there music playing somewhere? "But I'd love to talk to you about it sometime. Maybe I could pick your brain about, ah, fighting . . . things . . . over some drinks?"

"I don't feel like vomiting right now, thanks." She turned to Mailn. "Corporal, I need you to run Bravo Company through their rifle-stripping again. One of those clowns tried to lick one of the plasma converters clean and burned the h.e.l.l out of his tongue."

Mailn sighed. "You got it, boss. I'll head over there now."

The Viking nodded, gave Rogers another glare, and pushed past them, elbowing Rogers in the side as she went. His breath left him for more than one reason.

"Boy, you're really on her bad side," Mailn said after the Viking was out of earshot.

"Thanks for noticing," Rogers said as they continued walking. "What's wrong with Bravo Company?"

Mailn gave a bitter chuckle. "You ever wonder where all those cooks ended up?"

"They transferred them to ground combat?"

"Yup. Said we needed more firepower. But all I've gotten so far is a bunch of fat, sweaty troops that don't know the first thing about shooting anything and won't take off their d.a.m.n chef hats." She paused, considering. "And some pretty good chili dogs."

Rogers shook his head. Motor oil in his eggs was one thing. Pancake batter in rifles was another. Someone in personnel needed to have his head examined, though Mailn had suggested that the orders were coming from higher up. Was Klein really losing it? He was about the only man in the entire fleet that Rogers had confidence in.

"I'd better get a move on," Mailn said. "I don't want to know what I'm going to find when I get to Bravo's training room. The droid training facility is this door right here. Good luck, speed bag. You're going to need it."

The corporal broke into a jog before Rogers could say anything else, and he found himself staring at the door that she had indicated, not wanting to go inside. His hand hovered over the b.u.t.ton to open it, but he couldn't make himself press it. He hated s.h.i.+nies, hated what they were doing, hated these d.a.m.n posters on the walls. But was there any way out of it?

Maybe if he did a supremely awful job, they'd have to transfer him. They were transferring everyone, weren't they? A couple of accidents, hopefully ones that didn't involve Rogers getting smashed by a droid, and they'd put him somewhere else. Finance, maybe. As long as they didn't make him an executive a.s.sistant, anything had to be better than commander of the droid ground combat unit.

That was it. He'd just be bad at his job. It would be easy, since Rogers had no idea how to do it properly in the first place.

Rogers grinned. He felt a little bit like his old self again. No duty was too great that R. Wilson Rogers couldn't find a way to s.h.i.+rk it.

His glee collapsed when he hit the b.u.t.ton and the door opened, revealing a platoon of droids looking straight at him. The only other human in the room yelled at the top of his lungs.

"A-TEN-HOOOOOAH!"

I. Don't knock it till you try it.

Big Orange b.u.t.ton In front of him, neatly arrayed in a perfect formation, was large collection of droids, all looking like they'd just come fresh off the manufacturing belt. Their exoskeletons were clean, s.h.i.+mmering, and of a darker shade than the other droids, though Rogers couldn't quite put a name to the color. Their heads, horse-like if any comparison to any animal could be made, each bore a pair of glimmering blue eyes, all of which seemed to be fixed on Rogers. In total, he counted five by seven rows, making thirty-five s.h.i.+nies under his command. It was thirty-five too many.

"Um, at ease?" Rogers said uncertainly. "Are you all capable of being at ease? Would you melt?"

Nothing happened. The eerie metallic soldiers appeared no more at ease than a group of construction beams that had just been told an awful joke. Rogers wasn't even sure they had noticed him; they stood so perfectly still that he wondered if they were even turned on.

He turned to the only other human in a room, a corporal who, thankfully, responded to his command to be at ease. He was old for a corporal, which didn't bode very well for his competence, but his uniform looked neatly pressed with the exception of a small white stain on his left boot. It surprised Rogers, not because the stain was there but because Rogers normally would have never noticed it. This officer thing was already starting to get to him; soon he'd be measuring his underwear to make sure they were folded four inches across. Or at least ordering an enlisted member to measure it.

"Well, then," Rogers said by way of expressing his complete lack of ideas about what to do.

"Aie present to yur dee Artificial Intelligence Ground Combat Squrdrun," said the corporal, his flat face and very out-of-style mustache turning up into a proud grin.

"Ah, what?"

The corporal, surprisingly, looked as though Rogers' confusion pleased him. "Aie saids, Aie present to yur dee Artificial Intelligence Ground Combat Squrdrun!"

Great. They'd transferred someone from the Public Transportation Announcer Corps to be his second in command. A PTAC was all he needed.

Rogers sighed. "What's wrong with your voice, corporal?"

The corporal looked indignant. "There's nothing wrong with my voice, sir," he said, his speech surprisingly intelligible all of a sudden.

"So, why are you talking like you've stolen all the marshmallows and had nowhere else to hide them?"

"It's my Thelicosan accent, sir. I'm training to be a spy. Can't be a spy if you don't sound like the Th.e.l.lies, can you? I practice all day." He cleared his throat. "Aie means, aie practice allur dee days!"

Rogers shook his head. "What's your name?"

The corporal's speech degenerated into something that Rogers was nearly positive had no vowels in it.

"What?"

"Corporal Albert Tunger, sir! You see how good I've gotten? I can barely understand myself sometimes."

"I'm sure you're the envy of the intelligence squadron," Rogers said. "I'm a.s.suming you're my second-in-command here?"

"Ah, nur," the curpural-corporal-said. "Aie am yur urderly."

"My what?"

"Your orderly. I'm here to tackle the administrative tasks that officers are generally too busy or too lazy to do."

"Right," Rogers said. "Well, the first thing I want you to do as my orderly is ditch that accent. I can't work with someone that sounds like he's always puckering up for a kiss." Not that he wanted to do any actual work. He really just didn't want to listen to Tunger talk.

"But," Tunger whined, his face sagging, "I'm training to be a spy! How am I going to be a spy if I sound like your everyday Meridan man? They'll shoot me the first time I open my mouth!"

"I'm considering shooting you right now. You can practice when we're not in here doing, uh, droid stuff, okay? There are plenty of other people to talk to on this s.h.i.+p other than me."

"Urrrkaaaayy . . ." Tunger said, hanging his head.

Rogers sat down in the only chair in the room, which was pushed up next to a computer terminal, and put his feet up. He tried to adopt a position of nonchalance and comfort, but with his uniform tailored to actually look good when worn, it was a difficult task. It always felt like his s.h.i.+rt and trousers were having a war over his underwear and had reached a stalemate.

"Now," Rogers said, pulling at his crotch to no effect, "if you're not my second, who is?"

One of the droids, front and center in the five-by-eight formation, stepped forward, his metal feet making much less noise on the floor than Rogers was used to hearing. Rogers saw why; the combat droids' legs had a series of shock absorbers that ran from their hip joints down to their ankles, and their four-clawed feet sported some sort of soft rubber on the bottom. Rogers wasn't sure which he preferred: a droid he could hear coming an astronomical unit away or a droid that he didn't know was there until they rubbed noses.

"I am Cyberman First Cla.s.s F-GC-001," the droid said. "I am second in command of the 331st AIGCS." Rogers noticed he p.r.o.nounced it like "eggs" in typical ramrod military acronym style, though he wasn't sure where the "C" had gone.

"Hey!" Rogers said. "You don't sound like a moron!"

"Oh sure," Corporal Tunger said. "He can talk any way he wants." He abruptly turned away and folded his arms, staring at the wall. "Droids can't be spies."

"I must request clarification for this statement," the droid-Rogers decided to call him Oh One-said.

"I mean you're not calling functions or calculating pi in the middle of a sentence or anything."

Tunger, apparently over his short burst of teenage angst, turned around and pointed a finger in the air as he lectured.

"New models. They've got the F Chip."

"What's that?"

"Freudian Chip. Named after a famous old psychologist. This is the first batch of prototype units with it; it adds a bit of human rationality and psyche, and apparently helps with their combat reactions. The first batch of AIGC units spent most of their time comparing casualty calculations and tended to go with solutions that left one guy alive on the side that was supposed to win." Tunger shrugged. "Boolean logic has its limits, I guess."

Rogers angled his desk chair slightly toward Oh One. "So, you're an F Chip droid. A Froid."

"You are correct, though the word 'Froid' does not appear in my vocabulary."