Mechanical Failure (9 page)

“C
ALL FUNCTION
[
TIRELESSLY REPEAT SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS
]. 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
.”

Rogers closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Get out.”

“C
ALL FUNCTION
[
DISMISS
]. T
ARGET
[S
ERGEANT
S
TRACT
]. O
UTPUT STRING: THIS INSPECTION IS CONCLUDED
. Y
OU ARE DISMISSED
.”

“Yes, sir!” The sergeant actually saluted, and the droid exited, though the sergeant didn't follow immediately. He stood, fuming, fists tight. “I hope you're happy. That's the first demerit I've ever received.”

“I hope you lose sleep over it” Rogers growled. “Now get out of my room before I order you to smudge your boots.”

Sergeant Stract's eyes went wide, and he scampered out of the room so quickly that the automatic door clipped his shoulder on the way out, knocking his uniform into an infinitesimal state of disarray.

“No!” the sergeant shouted as the door began to close. “Nooooo!”

Just before the panels shut, the Viking passed by the room, her body filling up the entire frame of the door for a brief moment. She cast a disparaging glance into the room, and Rogers held out a feeble hand toward her.

“Wait,” he called, but the door shut. He continued weakly, “Marry me.”

Alone and filled to the brim with anger and despair, Rogers tore off his clothes and climbed into bed. He fell headfirst into a dream of being trapped in a burning building, but just as the Viking was about to rescue him and carry him off to utopia, she morphed into a red-eyed droid who awarded him a demerit for burning debris on his uniform.

“Ensign Rogers,” the computerized—and thankfully mostly intelligible—voice of his personal terminal called to him. “You have an appointment on the commissary deck in fifteen minutes. Ensign Rogers, you have an appointment on the commissary deck in fifteen minutes.”

Looking at the clock, Rogers had discovered that he'd slept for almost an entire day, which didn't surprise him, considering all he'd gone through. It was 0815 ship time; the inspection
droid must have scheduled the haircut appointment by tapping directly into the data streams.

“Ignore it,” he told the computer. “What's next?”

“Artificial Intelligence Combat Unit, 1000 hours ship time. Training deck, room 654.”

“Great.”

Muscle memory kicked in again as Rogers went through his room, showered, and dressed. It was an exercise he'd repeated every day for ten years, though he wasn't used to doing it so early in the morning. Normally, he reported to the engineering bay at around 1100, after which everyone would sort of sit around and stare at the beer light until it turned on at around noon. Now that there was no beer light, however, he had no idea what the hell he'd do for the rest of the day.

Since he was blowing off his haircut, he had plenty of time to head to one of the ship's mess halls and get some breakfast. A quick exchange of up-line and in-line left him on the commissary deck, where troops could spend their hard-earned credits, go bowling, or participate in one of many other forms of recreation and capitalism.

Somehow, before he even got to the commissary deck, he knew it would be deserted. The harrowing fact that there was no longer a beer light—at least not in officers' quarters—still haunted him like the knowledge that a loved one was dead, never to be seen again. Rogers fondly remembered the glow of the beer light waking him up late in the afternoon on days when the previous night had been particularly good.

Rogers' intuition was right. The commissary deck, normally the center of all activity on the
Flagship
, now consisted of troops walking from the up-line to the mess halls and back again, like some sort of twisted soldier feeding lot. There was no joy in their faces, only the crushing weight of daily routine and the doldrums of a regimented lifestyle. That and, bizarrely, something that Rogers may have confused with devotion to duty.

The mess halls were scattered all over the commissary deck to break up the massive crew of the
Flagship
. It didn't work; everyone usually figured out which were the good ones pretty quickly and went there instead. They had each been unofficially named after combat maneuvers, which served a dual purpose of being easier to remember than “Mess Hall A” and making all of the eateries sound like bizarre old-world taverns. Rogers' favorite was the Uncouth Corkscrew, mostly because he liked ambiguous double entendres, but if the lines were too long, he'd settle for the Peek and Shoot or the Up and Over. Under no circumstances would he ever eat at the Kamikaze or the Frantically Run Away.

The Uncouth Corkscrew was calm so early in the morning, despite the fact that it was occupied by marines and spacers gathered in loose clusters around the dining hall. The long tables and benches, instead of being packed with people trying to talk over each other, were populated more like an electron cloud. Any conversation happening appeared to be just coincidences and courtesies.

And, most shocking of all, almost no one was in the kitchen getting food. Everyone was stopping by the SEWR rat dispenser, grabbing a package or two, and moving to a table to sit down and eat silently. The few times that Rogers had been up for breakfast in the past, he had been treated to eggs Benedict, steak and eggs, and, on one special but rather bizarre occasion, Cornish game hen stuffed with chocolate-covered strawberries.
^I
Nobody would pass that sort of fare up for protein cardboard.

Despite the ominous emptiness of the kitchen, Rogers ventured inside, ordered some eggs and bacon from a very surprised services troop, and found himself a table with a few marines at it.

The moment he sat down, he heard that damn non-word again.

“A-TEN-HOOOAH!”

The entire table jumped up and stood at attention. One of the marines “presented arms” using a fork. To his credit, it looked very snappy.

“Stop that,” Rogers said. “Sit down. Um, carry on. Eat food,
march 
!”

He kept forgetting that he was an officer now. Not only was he not allowed to accomplish anything productive, it was his destiny to continually stop anyone else from doing anything productive simply by walking into rooms or sitting at tables.

The marines exchanged confused, wary glances as they lowered themselves slowly back to the bench, each of them making sure that Rogers' ass touched the surface before theirs did. It felt strange, engaging in a sort of backward ass-race of who could sit down the slowest.

Not feeling very much like conversation, Rogers dug into some very suspicious-looking eggs for about three seconds before his gag reflex kicked in. Before he could get the second forkful to his mouth, Rogers froze where he sat and stared, aghast, at the monstrosity that was breakfast. Spitting out what hadn't already slid down his throat, he pointed at the dish and spoke a little too loud.

“This tastes like motor oil!”

One of the marines choked, though whether it was because of Rogers' comment or because he was eating the aforementioned protein cardboard without drinking enough water, Rogers wasn't sure.

Peeling back the egg on his plate, Rogers saw with horror that a small gray-black pool of drippings lay hidden below the egg, blending in with the natural grease of the bacon in a way that reminded him of the time when, well, he'd accidentally dropped a piece of bacon into a pool of motor oil in the engineering bay.

“It
is
motor oil!” Rogers said, standing up in shock.

“A-TEN-HOOOOAAH!”

“Sit down!”

Rogers grabbed his plate and stormed back into the kitchen, suddenly realizing why everyone was reaching for SEWR rats instead of bacon in a 5W-40 reduction sauce.

“What is this?” he barked as he crossed the threshold into the empty serving area. The single server who was visible jumped, likely more surprised to see someone than at Rogers' question. Through the small windows on the double doors leading back into the larger food preparation area, Rogers saw heads popping up like curious squirrels.

“Is there a problem, sir?” the service troop asked.

“You're damn right there's a problem. I know this ship is infested with droids, but the last time I checked, humans don't operate on chemical lubricants.” He slammed the plate on the counter. “Who made this? No, forget that. Who's in charge here?”

“Hart!” the server called. “I think this ensign wants to talk to you.”

The kitchen door swung open, and a master sergeant in a military chef uniform sauntered out of the double doors, his apron stained with a telltale black grease that certainly hadn't come from hamburgers.

“What's all this about?” he growled.

Rogers gaped. “Hart? What in the world are you doing in the kitchens?”

Master Sergeant Hart—formerly just Sergeant Hart the last time Rogers had seen him—was the first familiar face Rogers had seen during his new tenure on the
Flagship
. That was a good thing. The bad thing was that the last time he'd seen him, he'd been in the engineering bay. Where he belonged. Since he was an engineer.

“You're a sight for sore eyes,” Hart said.

“I'm a little concerned about my sore stomach,” Rogers said. “What are you doing in the kitchens?”

“Cross-trained,” Hart said. “Not my choice.”

Rogers shook his head. “They transferred you to the kitchen?”

Hart nodded. “Me and a couple of the other boys and girls that didn't
either leave the fleet or get reassigned to other squadrons on the other side of the system. I think I'm getting used to it, though. I make some pretty good stuff.”

“There's motor oil in my eggs,” Rogers said.

“Everyone's a critic. Why don't you just eat Sewer rats like everyone else?”

Rogers couldn't believe his ears. Aside from the nonsensical personnel movement, Hart had been one of his best mates, prankster partner, and the only man in the entire fleet who could drink Rogers under the table. He'd also been Rogers' supervisor before Rogers had been promoted to sergeant himself, and Hart had survived that ordeal. Rogers thought nothing could break that man. Now he looked . . . he looked . . .
sober
.

“Didn't you fight them when they reassigned you?” Rogers asked. “You belong elbow-deep in engine components, not spaghetti. And certainly not elbow-deep in spaghetti right
after
you've been elbow-deep in engine components.”

“So sue me. I still like to tinker with engines when I can, and sometimes I don't have time to wash my hands afterward. I can't get down there very often, anyway. That idiot McSchmidt in engineering doesn't let anyone else in the bay when he's around. Besides, they told me cooking food is just like being a grease monkey. You put stuff together until it works.”

“This doesn't work,” Rogers said, pointing to his plate, which had taken on the viscosity of really disgusting pudding as it cooled.

Hart shrugged, then sighed. “I'm not too far from retirement, Rogers. I'm not up for fighting with the brass over trading a wrench for a spatula. At least I still get to set stuff on fire every once in a while. Look, do yourself a favor. Grab a Sewer rat and get the nutrition your body needs. You'll need it if we go up against the Thelicosans.”

“Oh, not you, too,” Rogers said. “There's no way there's a war coming. It doesn't make any sense. Now you're just stuck here wasting your time.”

Hart's face hardened. “Every position is critical to the war effort.”

That made Rogers' stomach turn. Or it could have been the motor oil doing its job inside his small intestine. He wasn't sure.

“Listen,” Rogers said, “I don't know what's going on here. I don't know if I really care. I want to do my time and get out of here. But if you feel like doing something you're actually good at, I might have a project for you. I have a junked ship in the docking bay registered as the
Awesome
.” Hart rolled his eyes, but Rogers pushed on. “It needs a lot of work, thanks to a plasma blast. If you and the crew are looking for something to do, I'll make sure you're authorized to access it. Just promise me you won't cook me any more meals, alright?”

Hart looked skeptical, but his eyes brightened once he realized Rogers was offering him a reintroduction to his old specialty. You could take an engineer out of the bay, but you couldn't take the bay out of the engineer, or something like that. Even Rogers still liked to take things apart and put them back together every once in a while, when he wasn't trying to swindle pirates.

“I'll think about it.”

“That's all I'm asking.”

Reaching under the counter, Hart produced a yellowish-brown vacuum-sealed Sewer rat and handed it over.

“Take care of yourself, Rogers. The 331st has changed.”

“No shit.”

Rogers reluctantly took the proffered package of synthesized horse dung, warned Hart that if he called the kitchen to attention, he'd force Hart to eat his own cooking, and went back into the mess hall feeling like he'd been hit in the face. Metaphorically, this time. Dining in the military was like dining at one of the best restaurants in the galaxy. Diplomats used to make excuses to do VIP visits just to sample the impressive and decadent desserts. This was a travesty, a sham. It was worse than a sham. It was . . . military.

“Hey, speed bag!” someone called to him. “Over here!”

Looking up and wiping his face—he was
not
crying—Rogers saw the source of the voice. Corporal Mailn was sitting with a couple of other infantry arines at a table just outside the entrance to the kitchen. Every one of them had a SEWR rat package torn open in front of them, and exactly none of them looked like they were enjoying it. None of them seemed particularly happy that an officer was coming to sit with them, either.