Mechanical Failure (24 page)

“Noooo!” Rogers cried as the movement of his foot caused the pressurized air in his suit to blow outward. He shot rapidly away from the trash pile and embedded his head firmly in another one, this one thankfully full of scraps of cushioning rather than metal rods and sharp edges. He reached up to free himself, and the air pockets in his arm units made sharp hissing noises as they reacted to his movements, sending him spinning around on the floor. The red light of the garbage chute turned the whole thing into a spinning-wheel painting, something out of a zip jack addict's art studio.

He felt the rip in his suit as he grazed a jagged piece of scrap metal, felt it tug on the central air reservoir inside the unit, and
then felt like the Viking had just elbow-dropped him. All of the air exploded out of his suit at once, warning lights flashing on the heads-up display of his helmet to tell him that the integrity of his suit had been compromised and that he was quickly running out of air reserves.

But Rogers didn't really think about any of that, as he was too busy being flung halfway down the corridor by rapidly exiting air deposits.

When he finally came to a stop, feeling like O-71 inside a bingo machine, he couldn't bring himself to move. Every part of him hurt in strange and new ways. Flashbacks of the incident with the droids popped into his head; he instinctively curled into a ball and whimpered, expecting to be stepped on by one of their giant metal legs any second. Thankfully, nothing more serious happened than the last bits of air leaving the tears in his suit and making a flatulent noise.

“Uhh . . .” Rogers said analytically.

Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet and looked back toward the refuse heap he'd been examining when someone had obviously assaulted him. He could see nothing other than a pile of metal, glinting softly in the red glow of the overhead lights. But
something
had grabbed him.

Rogers snuck down the hallway, bracing himself after every step for a team of garbage ninjas to rush out of the shadows and deal him the final blow. The corridor was quiet. No ninjas. Stillness.

“C
ALL FUNCTION
[
ATTACK
!
ATTACK
!
ATTACK
!]”

Rogers squealed and dove to the side of the corridor, expecting the mangled remnants of the AIGCS droids to come to life and begin their zombie/droid assault. But no matter how tightly he gripped his head between his knees and muttered nonsensical gibberish, the Attack! Attack! Attack! never came.

“Ha,” a voice said, “you humans fall for that every time.”

Peeking up from his armadillo defense, Rogers found himself
nearly nose to nose with the disembodied head of a droid. At least, it seemed that way at first. It was actually the disembodied torso—could you really be disembodied if the body was included?—with the head and one arm attached. It might have been a droid that hadn't been disassembled properly before it was dumped down here. It looked older, worn around the edges. A little bit of rust here and there, perhaps, though it was difficult for Rogers to tell in the light.

“Who are you?” Rogers asked, then frowned. “You look too old to be a Froid.”

The droid's head twitched to one side, then made an ambiguous computation noise.

“What's a Froid?”

“Those new droids that have the Freudian Chip installed in them. But they're new.” Rogers pointed at him. “You're old, but you talk like the new ones.”

“Oh, I have one of those. I'm not old,” the droid said. “I'm corroded. There's a difference.”

Rogers walked over to where the droid was peeking out from the pile of metal to get a closer look. It looked similar to the Froids, he realized, but there was something off. Something unfinished about it. The important part of its torso was still intact, if very dented, probably thanks to the mountains of metallic garbage being flung on top of it.

“You ruined my escape plan, you know,” Rogers said.

“Oh,” the droid replied. “I was just having some fun. I don't get a lot of company.”

Raising his eyebrow, Rogers gave the droid an appraising look. “Since when do droids care about company?”

“I don't know. Are you upset that I ruined your escape?”

Rogers sat down and took off his helmet. “No. Yes. I don't know.” He sighed. “I probably wouldn't have made it, anyway. I don't know anything about this adventuring stuff. I just want to drink beer and play cards. Is that so much to ask?”

The droid didn't respond. It didn't do anything much at all, really. Just stuck out of the garbage pile like a weed from a garden of metal, staring at Rogers expectantly. Could droids look expectant? Rogers thought they always sort of looked that way. Whoever had designed their “faces” seemed to favor a look that walked the intersection of boredom, condescension, and expectancy.

“Anyway,” Rogers said, looking up at the ceiling, “what are you doing down here? Droids need to be fully wiped before they're destroyed. And how did you get all that damage?”

“It was those
EXPLETIVE
pieces of
OBSCENITIES
in the maintenance bay!” the droid said in a burst of volume. “They have their heads so far up their
ANATOMICAL REFERENCE
that they can't think straight!”

Rogers frowned. “Are . . . are you trying to swear?”

“Of course I'm trying to swear, you
EXPLETIVE
! How else am I supposed to express myself  ?”

“I didn't really know droids were into expressing themselves.”

“They're not,” the droid said, his anger seemingly gone. “I'm a prototype of the Freudian Chip droids that you call Froids. My serial number is PFC-D-24. What is your serial number?”

This droid was actually trying to introduce itself and make pleasantries. It made Rogers a little uncomfortable. Had it been discarded because the Freudian Chip didn't work properly?

“I don't have a serial number,” Rogers said. “My name is Rogers.”

“I see,” D-24 said, making another ambiguous computation noise. It kind of sounded like an old video game, and, in a way, it was almost pleasant. A lot better than the harsh, guttural noises that the standard droids made.

“So, Serial Number Rogers . . .”

“Just Rogers.”

“So, Just Rogers . . .” The droid made a noise that might have been considered a chuckle.

Rogers paused a moment, frowning. “Are you being ridiculous on purpose?” Rogers asked.

“Yes,” D-24 responded. “Was it funny?”

Funny? The droid was asking him if he was being funny? Since when did droids care about company, and expressing themselves, and being funny? This prototype was strange indeed.

“Actually,” Rogers said, thinking about it for a second, “it kind of was.”

“This pleases me,” D-24 said. “I will add this joke to my database and reserve it for later use.”

“I still don't understand how you ended up down here,” Rogers said, “without being properly deactivated.”

“Part of my memory is corrupted,” D-24 said. “I am unable to recall a significant time period between my arrival on this ship and my abandonment in the trash chute. I assume it has something to do with the unbelievably stupid
MATERNAL FORNICATION
in the maintenance bay who don't know their
ANATOMICAL REFERENCE
from their wrenches!”

Rogers could relate—and that kind of scared him.

“But what I don't understand is—”

“What the hell are you still doing down here?” someone called from behind him. “Does Klein want you to hem all his pants before you throw them out too?”

Rogers leapt to his feet to find both Mailn and the Viking walking toward him. Rogers swore under his breath. Why had they come back? Why hadn't they just gone away?

They stopped short of him, looking at him curiously. Both of them were frowning. A heavy moment of silence built up around the exit of the trash chute as

“Why are you wearing a VMU?” Mailn said.

“It's, um, a safety precaution,” Rogers said brilliantly. “In case someone vents the chute while I'm down here folding Klein's clothes, I'll be able to get back into the ship.”

Ha!
Rogers thought.
Well done!

“And the giant pile of Sewer rats sticking out of the laundry cart encased in cryo-wrap?”

“Klein is on a diet,” Rogers said quickly, “but he doesn't want anyone else to know, so he orders food and then throws it away.” He pointed at his own stomach, which wasn't exactly washboard-flat, either. “He's very sensitive about his image.”

Ha, ha!
Rogers thought.
I am a genius!

“These explanations are confusing given your original assertion that you were trying to escape,” D-24 said.

Rogers and the two marines turned slowly to face the droid.

“That,” Rogers said, “was not funny.”

“Escape?” Mailn said slowly. “You were trying to run away?”

“What kind of yellow-bellied miscreant are you?” the Viking said.

Rogers whirled around, hands up in defense of what he was certain would be another vicious beating. “No,” he said. “It's not like that. I was just going to go clean the space bugs—”

“We're at
war
, Rogers!” Mailn said, her face red and scary-looking. “You're deserting in the face of the enemy! You do realize that's punishable by death, don't you?”

“Deserting in the face of what enemy?” Rogers shouted back, suddenly angry. “There is no enemy! We're in the middle of the greatest interlocking treaty-created peace in intergalactic history! If the Thelicosans so much as fart wrong, they'll have every system in Fortuna Stultus tearing their fleet to shreds!” He threw his hands up in the air. “You've all been addled by stupid posters and morons and droids!”

“My programming suggests that I should take offense at this,” D-24 said.

“Shut up!” Rogers said.

The Viking pointed a long, sausage-like finger at him. “You know, when you spaced all those droids in the training room, I thought, maybe he's not such a piece-of-shit metalhead after all. When you got promoted to lieutenant and made Klein's exec, I thought, hey, maybe this guy's alright. But I was wrong. You've always been a piece-of-shit metalhead, and you always will be.”

She made a motion to Mailn. “Come on, Corporal. Let's leave
this guy in the trash where he belongs. I hope the door gets stuck and you get vented with the rest of the garbage, Rogers.”

“Wait!” Rogers cried as the two women turned their backs on him and started to walk out of the chute. “I'm sorry! I didn't mean to deliberately and carefully plot my escape! I still hate droids!”

“My programming also suggests that I should take offense at this,” D-24 said.

Rogers turned around, ready to grab the nearest piece of wieldable metal and bash the droid over the head. Behind him, he heard Mailn yell something unintelligible but clearly offensive before the chute door closed, leaving him alone.

“You moron!” Rogers said. “Do you have any idea what you just did? Do you have any idea how long I've been trying to get with that beautiful specimen of the female sex?”

“Don't blame me for your stupid
EXPLETIVE
romantic life!” D-24 said. “You were the one standing in the garbage chute with your
ANATOMICAL REFERENCE
half out the door!

“I had it under control,” Rogers said through clenched teeth. “I could have explained . . . Wait, why am I explaining myself to a droid? I should just finish what the maintainers started and press that red button. That'll teach you to ruin my life.”

“If you'd like to find out what it would feel like to have your whole body sucked out of a small tear in your VMU,” the droid said, “go ahead.”

Rogers stood there for a moment, seething, wondering how to best hurt a droid. He wanted to take out all the frustrations of the last few weeks on this one half-broken piece of metal with a strange computer in its brain. The droid was right—it wasn't his fault that Rogers' life had gotten so screwed up—but smashing a partially inanimate object seemed like just the catharsis that Rogers needed.

But he couldn't summon the strength to do it. His arm was just too tired from saluting.

“If I may,” D-24 said, “I'm curious as to why the most powerful man on the ship is attempting to escape.”

Rogers looked up. “What?”

“The large one said that you were the executive officer to Admiral Klein; isn't that correct?”

“I don't see how that makes me powerful. So far, it's just made me want to kill myself and jump out into open space wearing a thin protective suit and become an intergalactically wanted outlaw. Thanks again for screwing that up, by the way.”

D-24 made another computation noise. “But Admiral Klein is widely known to be vastly incompetent. Logic dictates, therefore, that either his deputy or his executive officer would make all of the decisions. Since he has no deputy, that would make you the most powerful man in the fleet, if not directly.”

Rogers thought about that for a second. Maybe the droid was right. If he could convince a helmsman that there were space bugs outside the ship, he could certainly convince the stupidest man he'd ever met to do . . . well, anything. How had he missed that opportunity before? He could have had every water bladder in the ship stocked with Jasker 120 by now.

“Hang on a second,” Rogers said. “What do you mean, Klein is incompetent? He's the admiral of the whole fleet. He has to be competent at something . . .”

Speaking,
Rogers thought.
Public speaking. He has charisma. That's how he got there.

“Oh my god,” Rogers said. “He really is an idiot. I knew it! I knew there had to be some reason why he was asking me for my opinion on battle tactics. He's been hiding the fact that he has no idea what he's doing for
years
.”