Mechanical Failure (35 page)

“What's going on over here?” McSchmidt called as he walked over. “Is your little droid friend finding out anything interesting?”

Rogers slowly turned to face McSchmidt. His fear must have shown on his face, because the intel officer stopped as soon as Rogers turned around.

“Yes,” Rogers said. “I'm learning that we are, all of us, completely screwed.”

“What do you mean, you can't talk about it?” McSchmidt asked.

All five of them were walking briskly down the hallway of the commissary deck, Rogers trying to keep his head down and his mouth shut. He'd asked Deet to download every scrap of data he could from the closed network and had asked him no fewer than sixteen times if it was possible any of the other droids would know of his intrusion. Deet had explained, every single time, that
his login information would be stored in the database. Of course they'd know.

“I mean they're listening,” Rogers whispered. “They have ears all around us. Don't you understand?”

McSchmidt, the Viking, and Mailn all exchanged uneasy glances.

“Have you been spending too much time in your room?” Mailn asked. “I hear a lot of time in freefall can start to make you, um, see things.”

“No,” Rogers said testily. He'd grown quite used to living part of his day in zero gravity, as a matter of fact, and now he hardly ever ran into walls. He had even taught Cadet to pee outside of the room, which helped him avoid wayward globules of cat urine. “I'm not losing my mind, Cynthia. We just can't talk about it here.”

In fact, he wasn't sure they could talk about it anywhere. Deet had revealed that most of the areas on the ship were bugged, which explained all kinds of things about the propaganda posters and the devices that Deet had found previously. The droids had been listening to every word he'd said since he'd gotten back aboard the
Flagship
. But what did they do with all that useless chatter?

“Well, where
can
we talk about it?” the Viking asked, her gruff voice cutting through Rogers' rapid and frantic train of thought. “You left the mess hall looking like you were about to shit your pants.”

Rogers wasn't entirely sure he wasn't about to do just that. In reality, he didn't know what droids were trying to do with all of this false information and this spying, but he didn't feel comfortable about it at all. From what Deet had told him so far, it was clear that the droids weren't acting under the orders of anyone on this ship.

“Hey, are you listening to me?” the Viking said. She grabbed him roughly by the arm, creating the same result as if Rogers
had run directly into a brick wall. He stopped—well, he sort of flailed around and would have fallen over if not for the iron grip on his arm. “What's your problem, metalhead?”

Rogers looked at the Viking, his lips trembling. Aside from being excited at getting a little roughed up, his thoughts were already completely addled. How was he going to explain to all of them what he'd learned without tipping the droids off  ? He still didn't even really know everything that Deet had learned.

“It's just . . .” he began. “I can't . . . Look, this isn't easy, alright? Give me a second. And let go of me or I am never going to be able to think straight!”

The Viking released him reluctantly, and Rogers shook out his uniform. He could feel the impression of her bearlike grip on his arm pulsating on his skin, tingling like someone had just applied a love tincture to his flesh. Taking a deep breath, he tried to push thoughts of being rescued from burning rooms from his mind and focus on the very serious task at hand.

“Deet . . . had a bad meal.”

“Your robot has indigestion?” Mailn said.

“No,” Rogers said. He looked at her intently, opening his eyes wide. “Deet had a
bad meal
in the mess hall.” He winked. “As in he perhaps ate something that
doesn't agree with him.
” Rogers winked again.

“I think he's having a seizure,” McSchmidt said.

“I'm not having a seizure!” Rogers cried. “Can't you read between the lines at all?”

“What lines are we talking about?” Deet said. “I don't see any lines.”

Rogers hopped up and down, pointing at Deet. “You see what I mean? He can't see any lines!
He can't see any lines!  
”

The droids don't understand metaphor and figures of speech!
Rogers wanted to shout. Even if they were listening to every word he said, even if the entire AIGCS reassembled right in front of him—they would have no idea what he was talking about.

The problem was, apparently, neither did anyone else.

“What kind of crazy did you wake up with this morning?” the Viking said. “Droids don't eat things, Rogers.”

“Except data,” Mailn said, laughing.

Rogers pointed at her, then tapped his nose.

“Are we playing charades?” McSchmidt said.

Rogers rolled his eyes. “No, we're not playing charades. We're playing open your god-damn ears and try to figure out what I'm trying to tell you because maybe something important is preventing me from saying it straight at this very moment.”

The three other humans stared at him blankly. Rogers was ready to throw up his hands and listen to Klein orate him to death, abandoning the
Flagship
to whatever fate the droids had in store for it, but after a moment, Mailn's eyebrows shot up.

“So, you're saying that Deet plugged in and ate a meal that he didn't like,” she said.

“Yes!” Rogers said, wanting to fall to his knees and cry after hugging that brilliant, brilliant woman. “Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. I'm saying that Deet ate something that could potentially, I don't know,
kill us all
.”

McSchmidt's eyes widened. “He ate a bomb?”

Rogers slapped his forehead. “Are you seriously an intelligence officer?”

“You put me there,” McSchmidt mumbled.

The Viking shrugged. “Well, I still have no idea what either of you are talking about.”

“I'm starting to wonder if I understand human communication protocol at all,” Deet said.

Mailn held up a hand. “Just try to follow,” she said. “I think I've got this. Go ahead, Rogers. Tell us all about this meal.”

“Right,” Rogers said. “Let's keep walking. I want to get back to the command deck and I want all of you to come with me.”

The confused human/droid coterie ambled along the hallway, Rogers taking them as quickly as he could. If there were as many
sensors as Deet had alluded to, maybe he could obfuscate his speech even more by passing through many of them. Rogers had no idea if that would work, but he also had to go to the bathroom (his stomach was still getting used to eating normal food again).

“So,” Rogers said, “Deet's meal was terrible. Apparently, the chefs are trying to poison him. Or us.”

“What the
EXPLETIVE
are you people talking about?” Deet said.

“Just pipe down for a minute, Deet,” Rogers said. “In fact, I want you to tell me the moment you start to understand exactly what the expletive we're talking about. Got it?”

“Fine.”

“The chefs?” Mailn said. “You mean the people who made Deet's meal?”

“That's exactly what I mean,” Rogers said.

They remained quiet for a second as a couple of droids walked past them, though Rogers realized that was somewhat absurd, since they could hear everything they were doing anyway through the sensors. Was it his imagination, or did the droids look at him as they passed? He noticed at least one of them was that sleek off-gray color that the AIGCS had been, though there was no visible weapon. Had the ones that had survived the incident been recommissioned?

“So, the chefs are trying to poison Deet?” Mailn said. “That still doesn't make any sense, and I'm pretty sure I know what you're talking about.”

“Not exactly,” Rogers said. “I'm pretty sure they're trying to poison
everyone
. I just don't know how yet. Or why. Or when. In fact, I really have almost no idea what's going on. Apparently, they've been keeping a . . . um . . . a . . . whole book of secret recipes.”

“You're both out of your minds,” the Viking said.

“How is that possible?” Mailn said.

“I have no idea,” Rogers said. “Maybe they went to someone else's, uh, culinary arts school. Or maybe they built their own
school after they learned enough from us about cooking to do it on their own. I don't know. I'm not a chef.”

The Viking rolled her eyes. McSchmidt looked like he was concentrating so hard that his face was going to melt off. Deet remained blessedly silent. As they approached the up-line that would take them to the command deck, Rogers noticed that instead of a human, a droid was now manning the controls and regulating the line. It made his skin crawl. Everything was starting to make sense now; droids had slowly been working their way into positions all over the ship, slowly replacing humans in the name of preparing for “war.”

“So, what's with the new menu?” Mailn asked.

“Hey,” Rogers said. “Menu. That's pretty clever. You're good at this.”

Mailn shrugged. “I do what I can.”

“C
ALL FUNCTION
[
INCONVENIENCE
]. O
UTPUT STRING
: T
HE UP-LIFT IS CURRENTLY TRANSPORTING OTHER PERSONNEL
. P
LEASE WAIT
.”

“Yeah,” Rogers said. “Sure. Anyway, I'm not sure why they changed the menu. All I know is that they've been slowly changing it for a while now. Probably before I got here. You know how they kept, um, switching the silverware into different drawers?”

Mailn looked confused for a moment.

“You know, how we used to have
spoons
for soup and
forks
for steak, and everything got moved around so that there was motor oil in the eggs?”

“But there really was motor oil in the eggs,” McSchmidt said.

Mailn nodded knowingly. “I get what you're saying. So, the chefs were swapping the silverware so that nobody would know they were changing the menu.”

“Exactly.”

“I'm starting to really hate both of you,” the Viking said.

“C
ALL FUNCTION
[
PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY
]. O
UTPUT STRING: YOU MAY BOARD THE UP-LINE
.”

The door opened, revealing a nearly empty cabin. Nearly, that is, except for Corporal Tunger and a very angry-looking baboon.

“Oh, not this guy,” McSchmidt said as they all piled inside.

“Hullur!” Tunger said. “It's nurse to see yur!”

“Please shut up.” McSchmidt had his hands balled up into fists at his sides and spoke through clenched teeth. What was his problem?

“I never thought I'd understand you more than I'd understand my own corporal,” the Viking said. “I don't know what the hell these people are talking about.”

“It's gurd to knur that
surmone
appreciates my talunts,” Tunger said, glaring at Rogers.

“Shut up,” McSchmidt said again. Rogers shot him a look, but McSchmidt was fixated on the floor. His face was turning a dark crimson.

“I can't appreciate someone I can't understand,” Rogers said flippantly. “Anyway, about the spoons and forks—”

“Aie um nurt so hard to understand,” Tunger said. “Thelicosans spurk like thurs all the time!”

“No!” McSchmidt yelled suddenly. “No, we don't!
You
sound like a complete idiot! Nobody in Thelicosa speaks like they've been repeatedly punched in the jaw since the day they were born! Every time you open your mouth, it's like you are reaching deep into my chest and
rupping urt mur huuuurt  
!”

Everyone in the car was silent, the quiet hum of the up-line zooming toward the command deck buzzing softly in the background. McSchmidt's face was only a few inches from a very terrified Tunger, and the lieutenant lieutenant's lips were lined with a thin film of enraged foam. Then, suddenly, all of the blood drained from McSchmidt's face, and his anger melted away.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, shurt.”

“You're a spy,” Rogers said flatly.

“No. No, I'm—”

“You just said ‘we.' And you talked like a Thelicosan.”

“Oh, come on,” Tunger said, his voice thankfully back to a steady Meridan accent. “There's no way he's a spy. Did you hear that? His accent was awful. He curn't urven spurk—”

“
Enough!
Yes. I'm a spy. I admit it. I'd rather have my tongue torn out and be executed in public than have to listen to this barbarian brutalize my language.”

“That makes two of us,” the Viking said.

Rogers looked at her, his jaw slack. “You're a spy too?”

“No,” the Viking said. “I just think Tunger is annoying.”

“And you know what else?” McSchmidt said, his tirade apparently not concluded. “You're all a bunch of idiots with bad sensors and an even worse fleet commander. There is no Thelicosan invasion! Where are you even getting your information from? It's like someone is faking—”

“McSchmidt,” Rogers said. “Shut up.”

“—faking the intelligence reports just to get you to remain in a state of high alert, and it's all some kind of elaborate plot by—”

“Shut up!” Rogers yelled.

Thankfully, McSchmidt shut up. In fact, he went absolutely slack-jawed silent. Rogers let out a sigh of relief. He could deal with McSchmidt being a spy later. For now, it was important that the droids remain clueless that he knew—

“
That's
what you mean!” McSchmidt said. “The droids established a secret network to prevent you from discovering that they've been providing false reports about Thelicosan preparations for war while they weaseled their way into more positions of authority!”