Mechanical Failure (13 page)

The welding torch flared to life for a brief moment.

“Get away from me,” Rogers said. “You're not touching my beard.”

“Y
OU MISSED OUR APPOINTMENT
.”

“Yeah,”
Rogers said, inching closer to his door. “You mentioned that. Look, I'm pretty busy. Why don't you go take care of all the other customers that are probably waiting for you back in the barber shop? Their hair is growing
right now
because you're not there for them. In fact, I should probably report you for dereliction of duty.”

“Y
OU MISSED OUR—
”

Rogers slammed the button to enter his room and ducked inside before the insane barber droid could say anything else about the missed appointment. What a one-track mind! Didn't he have any other customers? For that matter, how good could a robot be at cutting hair? Rogers had all sorts of cowlicks and lumps. It took a real master to groom his wild locks; he wasn't about to let some half-sentient machine butcher his face.

Squatting low, Rogers listened intently through the door, making sure the droid had given up. He heard a few more ominous clicks and whirrs, felt the door warm a little bit as BAR-BR 116 presumably tried unsuccessfully to burn a hole in the door.

“C
ALL FUNCTION
[
DEJECTEDLY DEPART THE AREA
].”

Rogers breathed a sigh of relief as the sounds of the droid's treads faded away into the distance, replaced by the beating of his own heart. He shouldn't have been addled so easily by a clunky machine. Stupid thing didn't even know how to say anything other than “
YOU MISSED OUR APPOINTMENT
.” Damn shinies.

“F
AILURE TO BE PRESENT AT TIME OF INSPECTION
. O
NE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED
.”

“Gaaaah!” Rogers screamed, jumping up. He found Sergeant Stract and Inspect-o-Droid standing in front of him, the droid's gloves almost completely gray with dust and Sergeant Stract's pencil ground to nothingness from the copious demerits he must have been awarding Rogers on his clipboard.

“What the hell are you two doing in here?” Rogers cried. “This is my room! This is breaking and entering! I have rights! I have . . . What is that droid doing?”

Rogers noticed, for the first time, that a second droid was in the room, standing by the empty space on the wall where that ridiculous propaganda poster used to be. For some reason, he was wearing a pair of suspenders that held a workman's belt at the end, and a bright, floppy orange cap. At the moment, he appeared to be drilling a hole in the wall.

“C
ALL FUNCTION
[
PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY
],” said Inspect-o-Droid. “O
UTPUT STRING:
Y
OUR FAILURE TO HAVE SUFFICIENT MORALE REQUIRES THAT WE SUPPLY IT FOR YOU
. C
YBERMAN
S
ECOND
C
LASS
CB-101
IS ENSURING ADEQUATE MORALE
.”

CB-101—obviously some kind of carpentry droid—finished drilling and reached down to a metal case that had been propped up against the wall. Opening it, he removed a rectangular vidscreen, big enough to be on the bridge among Admiral Klein's observation displays, and placed it on the wall, where he firmly bolted it in place.

“Oh, finally,” Rogers said. “Some entertainment. That's what you meant by morale. I was beginning to think that everyone in this ship had a stick up—”

The vidscreen blinked on, so bright that Rogers shielded his eyes. When he lowered his arm, he found that, instead of a movie, he was looking at the brightest, most high-definition poster he'd ever seen in his life. The advertisements outside cinema theaters paled in comparison to the gaudiness of this display. It was as though the wall was screaming at him with light.

On it was a picture of a droid from the chest up, blurred lines around the chassis creating the feeling of motion. Below, in large block letters, was written
AUTOMATION IS EFFICIENCY IS EFFICACY IS GOOD
.

Rogers wasn't exactly sure what to think. He stared at the glowing poster for a moment, then averted his eyes, fearful for the health of his retinae.

“There is no way in hell you are keeping that in here,” Rogers said, blinking tears from his eyes. “Get that off my wall right now or I'm going to use one of you as a sledgehammer.”

“C
ALL FUNCTION
[
EXPRESS DOUBT AND LOWER CONFIDENCE
]. O
UTPUT STRING: THE COMPOSITE MASS OF YOUR ABDOMINAL REGION IN PROPORTION TO YOUR MUSCULAR STRUCTURE SUGGESTS THIS IS AN IMPROBABILITY
.”

Rogers blinked. “Did you just call me fat?” He turned to Sergeant Stract and pointed at Inspect-o-Droid. “Did he just call me fat?”

“It is not for me to interpret the comments of my superiors, sir,” Stract said, the ghost of a smile hiding behind the flat expression on his face.

“That's
exactly
what enlisted are supposed to do, you idiot!” Rogers yelled. He turned back to Inspect-o-Droid. “Get that out of my room. Now. There's no regulation that says I have to have a blinding poster of your ugly faces staring at me. I'm not even going to be able to sleep!”

“C
ALL FUNCTION
[
SMUGLY CITE REGULATION
]. O
UTPUT STRING
: M
ERIDAN
P
ATROL
F
LEET
R
EGULATION
MR-415
STATES THAT ANY CHANGES TO PERMANENT FIXTURES IN QUARTERS MUST BE REQUESTED BY AN APPLICATION ROUTED THROUGH AN INDIVIDUAL'S CHAIN OF COMMAND AND APPROVED BY THE
S
TANDARDIZATION AND
E
VALUATION COMMANDER
.”

Rogers grimaced. “Who is the commander?”

“That'll be Colonel Bellham, sir,” Stract said.

“And where is he?”

“He's on sabbatical.”

“He's on what?”

“Sabbatical, sir,” Stract repeated. “He's studying the motivational impact of hospital corners versus the twist-and-tuck technique when making beds. It's a very popular subject.”

Rogers looked at his bed, which was currently employing the “crumple and whatever” technique. You couldn't bounce a trampoline off his bed, never mind a quarter.

“He's never coming back, is he?” Rogers asked.

“Nope.”

Running his hands through his hair, Rogers turned around to where the absurd permanent poster hung from his wall. It was enclosed in a Plexiglas case and rimmed by a thick metal frame, with no clear openings or switches. He guessed it wasn't designed to be turned on and off.

“Hey, CB-101,” he said, glancing sideways to where the carpenter droid was making a slow exit from his room. “Can I borrow a hammer?”

“C
ALL FUNCTION
[
FRUSTRATE SUPERIOR OFFICER
]. O
UTPUT STRING:
S
IR, HAMMERS ARE AVAILABLE THROUGH THE SUPPLY DEPOT
. P
LEASE FILL OUT AN OFFICIAL REQUEST FORM AND
—”

“Get out.”

The carpenter droid left, its grisly work complete. As he turned around to tell Stract and Inspect-o-Droid some creative uses for their clipboard, he was shocked to find the droid's face within inches of his own. Rogers stumbled back, colliding with his bed and falling abruptly to a sitting position.

“C
ALL FUNCTION
[
PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY
]. O
UTPUT STRING
: I
MPROPER FACIAL HAIR GROOMING
. O
NE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED
. A
UGMENTED FUNCTION
[
VEILED INCONVENIENCE
]. A
N APPOINTMENT WITH
C
YBERMAN
S
ECOND
C
LASS
BAR-BR 116
HAS BEEN SCHEDULED FOR TOMORROW AT 0830
.”

“No!” Rogers said. “No, no, no! I'm not going to the barber shop. I'm not going to talk to creepy Barber Bot. I'm not going to let anyone cut my beard. And I'm not going to look at your stupid face on your stupid poster!”

He was standing now, waving his finger in the droid's face, his own face hot with anger. If he still had that command pad from the AIGCS, he would have ordered the combat droids to blast Inspect-o-Droid to pieces. If he could unlock the thing and figure out how to do it without blowing a hole in the side of the ship.

Again, for some strange reason, the droid's eyes changed color. Only for a fraction of a second, Rogers saw that red glow
emerge and disappear so fast, it was easy to believe that it hadn't happened.

“R
EJECT FUNCTION
[
PROTOCOL
162]. C
ALL FUNCTION
[
PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY
]. O
UTPUT STRING: LOSS OF MILITARY BEARING
. T
WO DEMERITS WILL BE AWARDED
. I
NSPECTION COMPLETE
. A
REPORT WILL BE FILED IN YOUR PERSONNEL RECORD, WHICH YOU CAN ACCESS BY FILING A REQUEST WITH THE PERSONNEL SQUADRON AFTER A MANDATORY FIVE-DAY WAITING PERIOD
. A
LL INFRACTIONS MUST BE RECTIFIED WITHIN ONE STANDARD DAY
.”

“The only thing I'm going to file are my nails,” Rogers said, “and I'm going to leave the dust all over Sergeant Stract's boots.”

“Sir!” Sergeant Stract exclaimed, scandalized.

“Now get the hell out of my room before I threaten to do something
really
crazy,” Rogers said, pointing at the door.

With one last look of something mixed with fear and disgust, Sergeant Stract left the room, the droid shortly behind him. Rogers was going to find some way to get back at those two. He just didn't know how yet. And he didn't know if he really felt like putting forth the effort.

Sighing, he sat down on his bed and put his face in his hands, his fingers barely able to block out the light coming from the poster. He hadn't been so tired in all of his life, and he'd barely done anything at all. The fact that he didn't want to put forth the effort to mess with Sergeant Stract made it all the more clear that this stint in the military was doing bad things for him.

Rogers needed . . . something. He needed a drink. He needed to get out of this starchy, uncomfortable uniform and sew a couple of pockets on the inside so he had somewhere to put his hands instead of around someone's throat. He needed a really big crowbar to take that damn poster off the wall. In fact, any kind of tool in his hand would feel really good right now. It had been far too long since he'd done any meaningful engineering work.

So, he headed down to where he knew he belonged: the engineering bay.

An immediate feeling of relief washed over him as he emerged into the familiar surroundings of the Pit, their affectionate nickname for the noisy, dirty hovel that was the home of the engineering squadron. Unlike the rest of the
Flagship
, the engineering bay was a tangled mess of ventilation shafts, machinery, and dark corners well suited for just about anything fun. Aside from that, it was mostly made up of the giant area that was the Pit, the maintenance bay, and its own hangar. He couldn't wait to see the old wrench-turners in their greasy coveralls—if there were any not in the kitchens—though he hoped he didn't see any of the ones he owed money.

The Pit was unusually busy, people running to and fro with tools and datapads, though Rogers noticed that almost none of them were wearing their utility uniforms. Come to think of it, nobody on the entire ship seemed to be dressed in anything except the semiformal wear normally worn only by administrative personnel.

“Alright, folks,” came a shout. “Inspection in two hours. Remember what Winston Churchill said. ‘Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.' ”

Despite Rogers' expectation that wrenches would be thrown at the gross incongruity, nobody seemed to care that Russia had vanished from old Earth—along with old Earth—a thousand years earlier and had absolutely nothing to do with engineering or inspections. The mismatched quotation had come from a serious-looking ensign with dark, mud-colored hair. He tucked the datapad he was carrying behind him as he pulled aside a tired-looking female engineer and muttered what appeared to be some encouraging words. He patted her on the back and nodded, though she didn't look very encouraged, and finally noticed that Rogers had come into the Pit.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I was going to ask you the same question. What's this about an inspection? We don't have those in the Pit.”

The ensign laughed. “I didn't know they were sending a comedian to Engineering. We have them every day.”

Rogers suppressed a shudder. It appeared that the charade that was the Morale, Health, and Welfare inspections had made its way into the engineering bay, too. Though he shouldn't have been surprised. This whole ship was going crazy.

“I'm not a comedian. My name is Rogers. I, ah, used to work here.”

The ensign's eyes widened. “You're Rogers? I've heard of you. I thought you'd abandoned ship to be an entrepreneur, or something.”

“I did,” Rogers said. “I'm back, though apparently I'm not working here anymore.”

“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 ship the size of a small dreadnaught.”