Mechanical Failure (4 page)

“No, no, no!” a drill sergeant exploded, jumping out of his seat and bearing down on the unfortunate recruit. “How do you expect to inconvenience people if you're asking them if you can help them all the time? Give me twenty pushups and then
ignore me properly
!”

Administration stations were always a little weird.

Only after the last turn in the hallways did Rogers notice that the almost-pleasant hum of people had died down to a whisper. An unsettling silence crept up from the polished metal of the walls, and for a moment, Rogers could only hear three sets of footsteps, the beating of his own heart, and, strangely, the clucking of a chicken. They came to a door, and, without saying anything, one of the sergeants opened it and roughly shoved him inside.

“Hey,” Rogers said. “You could have just told me to go in.”

“Shut up and sit down,” one of the sergeants said. “They'll be with you shortly. And someone get this chicken back to the zoo deck!”

Without saying who “they” were, the grunts locked the door behind him, and Rogers was left alone in a small room that was clearly built for either interrogation or a very serious game of checkers. Some welcome for a guy who was only being charged with littering. A square, plain table in the center of the room was bolted to the floor, with a pair of chairs on either side. The room was devoid of decoration, but Rogers did notice the security cameras mounted on the ceilings in all four corners. Their unblinking eyes made him want to find a stick to poke them with.

Sitting down with a heavy sigh, Rogers stared at the surface of the table and ran his fingers through his short beard. He hadn't had a chance to trim it since he'd been arrested. He wondered how it looked now. A fair-skinned man with a cherub face, he had taken quite some time to grow it, and taking good care of his beard was Priority Number One. Well, maybe Priority Number Fourteen; he had lost his list somewhere on the
Awesome
(and he rarely paid attention to it, anyway). Maybe he could get “them” to bring him a trimmer and a mirror, whoever “they” were. By god, he hated putting pronouns in imaginary quotes.

The room was eerily silent, and after a moment, Rogers realized it was soundproof. He didn't really want to think about why, but for some reason, rubber hoses kept popping into his head.

For that reason, he didn't hear anyone coming before the door slid open to reveal two men in uniforms—sector police this time, not Meridan military. One of them, a grizzled older man with a pale, pockmarked face and yellowed, watery eyes, barged into the room in a huff and, before Rogers could say anything, began shouting.

“You scum,” he snapped. “You worthless pile of trash. How dare you show your face in our facility?”

“You brought me here!” Rogers said, but the man didn't seem to hear him.

“You are a disgrace to Meridan society!” The officer pointed a long, bony finger at him, inches from Rogers' nose. “In fact, you're a disgrace to all humanity. People like you make me wish we had stayed monkeys!”

Inexplicably, the other man, a younger officer with charcoal skin and dainty little eyebrows, stood at the doorway politely and rapped on the edge of the doorframe.

“Hello, Mr. Rogers. May we come in?”

Rogers wordlessly gestured to the other officer who had been shouting at him. The younger man took this as acceptance of his request and tiptoed gingerly inside the room, smiling the whole way.

“It's
so
good to finally meet you,” he said. “I'm Officer Atikan, and this is Officer Brooks from the sector police. I've read so much about you from the report.”

“I've read your report,” the older officer—Brooks—spat. “I wiped my ass with your report, and it
added character
. How can you look at yourself in the mirror?”

Rogers didn't know what to do. He looked back and forth between the two police officers, clutched feebly at the arms of his chair, and hoped he never touched Brooks's datapad.

“But,” he said, pointing at Atikan, “he just said . . .”

“I don't care what he said,” the mean officer shouted. “I don't care what anyone says. I know what you're about. I've seen hundreds of so-called ‘men' like you. I know your type.”

“And we could use more men like you,” Atikan said.

“You . . . need more scum?” Rogers said.

“Oh no,” the younger officer said. “No, we need more men of valor and honor, with the constitution and fortitude you displayed.”

“That's right,” the older officer said, and Rogers thought it had finally been settled until he continued. “You
are
scum. You only
look out for number one, and you'd stab your mother in the back for an extra dime.”

“Well,” Rogers said, bristling a little, “who the hell else is going to look out for number one? Who is number two? How many numbers are there?”

“Don't get arithmetic-ish with me,” Brooks said. “I know how to count!”

“Oh yeah? Let's use our fingers to find out. Here's one—”

“I should explain,” the younger officer broke in.

“I wish you would!” Rogers shouted, his face red. Who was this idiot to come in here and start telling him who to look out for? And who the hell used dimes anymore?

“You see,” Officer Atikan said, “you're being commended.”

“You're in deep shit,” the older officer said. “Neck deep. Eyeball deep. You'll be wearing shit for mascara.”

Rogers pointed at the younger officer. “He just said—”

“Don't talk back to me!” The older man slammed his hand down on the table. “I ought to bust you right on the lips if I could find them behind those dog shavings on your face. What kind of glue did you use to get that stuck on there?”

“You watch your god-damn mouth,” Rogers said, pointing at the police officer, but before he could defend his facial hair any further, Atikan waved a hand in the air.

“The Meridan judicial system is in a bit of a pickle,” Atikan said.

“And you're in hot water.” Brooks snorted.

“The intelligence gathered from where you were picked up showed that both the Purveyors of Vitriol and the Garliali Mercenaries were nearly totally obliterated in a space battle at which you were the center. The records on your ship filled in only some of the remaining details.”

“Dealing with pirates,” Brooks said. “Despicable.”

“Hang on a second,” Rogers said. “I thought I was picked up for littering!”

“Littering, too?” Brooks said. “On top of the rest, you're an eco-terrorist! I've
got your number, Rogers. I've got it right here.”

Brooks slid a piece of paper across the table with “40R” scrawled on it.

“What the hell does this have to do with anything?” Rogers asked.

“I found it in your personal effects. What do you have to say about that?”

“It's my coat size?”

“It's your number!” Brooks said, a smug smile blossoming across his face. “And I've got it!”

“But, on the other hand,” Atikan said, not at all moved by the mood of his compatriot, “you
did
rid the system of two very dangerous groups of people that had been plaguing the Meridan fleet for some time. Really, brilliant work. Just stupendous.”

“I don't understand,” Rogers said.

“Like hell you don't!” Brooks leaned over the table, the intensity in his eyes so fierce, Rogers thought he might be set ablaze.
“Talk!”

“You haven't asked me any questions!”
Rogers squealed.

“We're having a difficult time, as you can see,” Atikan said. “It's not fully clear what your motives were; they don't know whether to prosecute you or reward you.” A wide grin split his face and he put both palms out in a gift-giving gesture. “So, until we figure this out, we're doing both!” Atikan looked absolutely thrilled.

“This is your number!” Brooks said, pointing at the tag again. “I've got it!”

Rogers shook his head. “Wait a minute. So, you're not going to prosecute me for littering. You're going to prosecute me for dealing with pirates and then give me a medal for destroying them?”

“Now you've got it!” Atikan said.

“The gallows,” Brooks muttered.

Leaning forward in his chair, Rogers looked between the two officers helplessly. “But that doesn't make any sense! Don't I get
a trial or something? What about my due process?” He paused. “And how am I going to wear a medal on a prison uniform?” He turned to Brooks. “Did you say
gallows
?”

“Oh, don't worry,” Atikan said. “We're only doing both
right now
. I'm here to congratulate you and treat you with the utmost of honors.”

“And I'm here to tear your pirating heart out with my bare hands!” Brooks roared as he made a vicious tearing motion with his hands. “Do you know how many innocents have died in Garliali raids? The blood of children is on your hands, Rogers. How does that make you feel?”

Rogers thought it was a rhetorical question, but both of the officers seemed to be looking at him expectantly. Atikan folded his hands in his lap and smiled pleasantly.

“. . . Bad?”

Atikan clapped his hands and laughed. “And a pure conscience, to boot! You really are a marvel, Mr. Rogers. A real marvel.”

Rogers put his face in his hands for a moment and tried to squeeze his head hard enough that he would pass out and maybe both of these people would leave him alone.

“Don't I get a lawyer or something?” he said.

“Oh, lawyering up now, are you?” Brooks laughed. “A sure sign of a guilty conscience. What do you need a lawyer for?”

“The magistrate is coming to see you in a moment,” Atikan said. “Until then we're here to interview—”

“Interrogate!”

“—you. What made you finally decide to rid the system of these pirates? Did something happen to you in your childhood that involved the Purveyors or the Garliali?”

“No, it wasn't—”

“How much were they paying you? Was it worth selling your soul, you bastard?”

“They didn't—”

“How did you come up with such a brilliant plan? The records didn't tell
us everything. I want to hear it in your own words.” Atikan whipped out a datapad and began typing.

“It was just—”

“Talk!” Brooks slammed his fists on the table again.

“You won't let me!” Rogers shouted. “This is insane! I want to see the magistrate. I don't want to talk to either of you.”

“Clamming up, eh?” Brooks said. “A sure sign of a guilty conscience.”

“I don't have a guilty bone in my body,” Rogers said, glaring at the officer.

“Oh, now we're bringing anatomy into it, eh? A sure sign of a guilty conscience.”

Atikan was typing furiously on his datapad, despite Rogers' not saying anything of substance. He wondered if this pair of officers was his karmic payment for all the things he'd pulled in his lifetime. It was starting to make him wonder if any of it was worth it.

“Great,” Atkins said cheerfully. “Absolutely wonderful. Good stuff. This will all appear in your commendation records, of course, and the news media. They'll want to interview you on live broadcasts, when your parade schedule lightens. There will be lots of parades!”

Atkins put down the pad and swung his arms in what was either an approximation of marching in a parade or an attempt to scratch his back on the chair.

“I don't want a parade,” Rogers muttered. “I want to see the magistrate. What was his name again?”

The door slid open.

“Tuckalle,” came a voice that Rogers recognized. “Magistrate Tuckalle, you slick son of a bitch.”

In the doorway stood the magistrate, resplendent in an official uniform that had golden cords wrapped around a black double-breasted coat bearing the Meridan symbol in the middle of the chest. A sash around his waist showed a golden picture of
an ancient glyph of justice, a tipped weight scale with a dagger through the middle of it.

“Tucky!” Rogers said, brightening. He knew he'd recognized that name. The last time he'd heard it, however, it had the word “colonel” in front of it. Finally, someone he knew from his military days. What a stroke of luck! Tucky would get him out of this; Rogers was sure he would.

The magistrate, his hair gone from salt-and-pepper to full gray in the year or so since their last meeting, made a dismissive gesture toward the two officers.

“I have all I need to know. I'll take it from here.”

Atikan stood, tucking his datapad under his arm, and reached across the table to vigorously pump Rogers' hand.

“It's been a pleasure, sir, a real pleasure. Wow, a genuine hero. I have goose bumps!” He and Brooks swiftly exited the room. “I'll see you on the parade grounds!”

“I'll see you in hell!”
Brooks called as the door closed.

Rogers let out a tremendous sigh of relief and made to hug his old mate. “Thank heavens it's you, Tucky. I thought I was space dust. You won't believe—”

“Sit down, Rogers.”

The magistrate's face was something resembling a stone slab, if a stone slab also had a big nose, thin, crescent lips, and thick-rimmed spectacles around a pair of beady black eyes. Rogers tried to picture this old, ruddy-looking man back in his marine uniform.

Rogers slowly sat down. “Come on,” he said. “It's me, Rogers. You know me. Help me out here.”

“Of course I know you,” Tucky said as he moved to the other end of the table and sat down, adjusting his sash when it got caught on the edge of the chair. “Didn't you hear me call you a slick son of a bitch when the door opened?”

“I thought it was a compliment.”

“It wasn't.”

Rogers started to sweat. Well, continued sweating. He was going to need a shower and another change of clothes at the end of the day. What was Tucky's problem?