Mechanical Failure Part 17

"What do you need this for, anyway?" Tunger asked as Rogers took the cart from him and wheeled it so that its widest side was flush against the doorway to his room. It was just about the heaviest laundry cart that Rogers had ever moved, but it yielded to his bulging muscles soon enough.

"Routine work for Admiral Klein," Rogers lied. "He's so busy being a brilliant tactician that he doesn't have time to put his laundry in the chute. In fact, every time he gets up to drop off his underwear, the Thelicosans win."

Tunger's eyes went wide. "Really?"

"Really," Rogers said. "It's on one of the posters."

That wasn't a lie. There really was a poster that said that.

"Oh."

"Anyway," Rogers said, "that will be all. I want you to take the rest of the day off, Tunger. You've been working hard for me since I became the executive officer, and I want you to know how much I truly appreciate it."

"I've barely done anything at all, sir," Tunger said.

"I know," Rogers said. "And I can't tell you how thankful I am about it. It's a lot easier for me to scheme . . . I mean, get things done when I don't have to wonder which window I am going to throw you out of the next time I hear your Thelicosan accent."

"Aw," Tunger said, "it's nur sur bad."

"Yes," Rogers said. "Yes, it is. Now, dismissed!"

Tunger saluted, and Rogers returned his salute, which suddenly became a salute for a Meridan Marine major, who was already saluting a corporal approaching from the in-line entrance, who had a droid behind him of undiscernible rank who may or may not have saluted Rogers back. Since n.o.body really knew who had saluted who, everyone's arm stayed in the air until the major realized he was the highest-ranking in the exchange and shouted for everyone to carry on.

"G.o.d, I hate this place," Rogers said, shaking out his arm. Turning back to the cart, Rogers grabbed the thin piece of fabric that covered the top of it and pulled it back.

"CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]."

He barely heard the sudden whirring of an electric razor before he saw cold metal hands reaching up at him from the bowels of the laundry cart.

"No!" Rogers screamed as he felt the distinct pulling of a poorly maintained electric razor on his beard. A great, searing pain traveled through his jawline, and, he swore, he could hear a ripping noise not unlike the tearing open of the sky during a raging thunderstorm.

Time froze. Three curled beard hairs drifted slowly from his chin and landed with a rumble atop a dirty sheet that Tunger had forgotten to take out of the bin.

"CALL FUNCTION [a.s.sERT MINOR VICTORY]. OUTPUT STRING: YIELD TO MY INSTRUMENTS, LIEUTENANT ROGERS. THERE IS NO ESCAPE."

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h!" Rogers screamed, and, in a feat of strength he was thoroughly unable to comprehend, flipped the laundry cart in one fluid motion. Barber Bot, his arms flailing like the contents of an upturned bathroom vanity drawer, spilled backward into the zero gravity of Rogers' stateroom.

"CALL FUNCTION [ISSUE DISTRESS BEACON]. OUTPUT STRING: NOOOOOOO."

Barber Bot tumbled and rolled, bouncing off the walls, though its hard metallic exoskeleton didn't seem to be taking much damage. For good measure, Cadet the Cat, identifying an apparent interloper, attached itself to the droid's face in a flurry of relatively ineffective claw swipes. He suffered a smoky tail at the hands of Barber Bot's welding torch but otherwise remained uninjured.

Barber Bot continued to flail in the unfamiliar setting for a few moments, its tracked base spinning with a whirring noise not unlike that of its instrument-laden hands. After a few moments, however, it began to slow. Cadet the Cat, encouraged, redoubled its efforts to claw the robot's eyes out. Rogers was beginning to think he might actually miss that cat.

"CALL FUNC . . ." The annoying robotic voice slowed and trailed off like a piece of machinery that had run out of lubricant. A moment later, a small ding noise resonated through Rogers' room.

"Low battery," said a familiar voice-Rogers realized it was the same one from the datapads.

"Ha!" Rogers said, adrenaline flowing through his body and making him a little crazy. "Ha! HA HA HA! Guess you shouldn't skip meals, you worthless, stupid, good-for-nothing s.h.i.+ny!"

Barber Bot's eyes flashed red for a brief moment, then went completely dark. Rogers stood there, his chest heaving, sweat pouring down the sides of his face, wondering what he'd done to exert himself so thoroughly. He'd only screamed a little and flipped over a laundry cart.

It took him a moment to get the cart right side up again, but once he did, he pulled on a couple of ropes that had been dangling-floating, really-from beyond the top of the doorframe. Attached to each of the ropes was a piece of his critical equipment-the SEWR rats and the VMU, mostly-which were far too heavy for him to lug all the way down to the garbage dump. A series of tugs positioned each of them just on the other side of the door, and one final tug tossed them effortlessly into the cart as they reentered gravity. No real physical exertion needed. Rogers allowed himself a triumphant smile as he re-covered the cart and pushed it toward the up-line.

It was time to get out of this madhouse.

The "dump" was actually just a series of hatches on the refuse deck of the Flags.h.i.+p, utilized exclusively for the jettisoning of trash, bio-waste, and finance paperwork. It consisted of a single hallway, the in-line system on this deck replaced by conveyor beltlike moving walkways to transport anything that wasn't directly pushed into the release chambers by the Flags.h.i.+p's pipe system. The hallways were huge, round, and empty, the soft hum of the conveyor belt serving as the only real noise. There weren't even any propaganda posters. In fact, Rogers was starting to consider putting in a request to move his office down here if this plan didn't work out. The smell wasn't exactly inviting, but that was a small price to pay for a lot less saluting.

A group of Meridan Marines pa.s.sed him, moving what appeared to be cases full of spent disruptor cartridges. Those wouldn't be shot into s.p.a.ce but stored in one of the special chambers until a cargo s.h.i.+p picked them up to be exchanged for fresh ones. Rogers wondered what they were using all of that ammunition for, but he supposed the marines still needed to practice. Thankfully, absolutely none of them saluted him.

"Where is it?" Rogers wondered aloud as he rubbed his eyes. The buzz from the fight with Barber Bot had worn off, leaving him feeling fatigued and a little addled as he searched for the door that would take him to the correct chute. If he screwed this up, the VMU wouldn't have enough compressed air to get him to the Awesome, and he'd quickly learn what it was like to be a piece of s.p.a.ce debris. It actually probably felt just like being in his stateroom but with a lot less oxygen.

He looked at his datapad. It read 1436 hours s.h.i.+p time. He had just a few minutes to get into the chute, put on his gear, and get out of here. Freedom. He could almost taste it-and it tasted absolutely nothing like a SEWR rat.

"There," he said as he saw the sign that said CHUTE 12. He'd used his special accesses as Klein's executive officer to get to some of the more detailed schematics of the s.h.i.+p, and it had listed out Chute 12 as the one closest to the hangar where the Awesome was stored. From there, he'd have a short flight to the Un-s.p.a.ce point that would take him the h.e.l.l out of here. He checked the datapad again, though only a few seconds had pa.s.sed.

Pulling the laundry cart off the conveyor belt, Rogers. .h.i.t the b.u.t.ton for the door and was promptly greeted by a giant red X on the display panel followed by a rude noise.

"s.h.i.+t," he said. Why would they lock the garbage chutes? He should have come down here to do a practice run before all of that "In the Zone" s.h.i.+t. If he couldn't get this door open, he'd have wasted valuable Zone time, and that wasn't something he really liked doing.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing down here?" someone said from behind him.

He squealed like a little girl and jumped, spinning around to see the two people he wanted to see the absolute least at the moment.

Well, it was Mailn and the Viking. He guessed he wanted to see them. Rogers could certainly think of other people on the s.h.i.+p he would have liked to see less, so really, that whole thought pattern had been invalid.

"I could ask the same of you," Rogers said, swallowing. He hoped he had that sort of c.o.c.ksure, I'm-authorized-to-be-here tone. He'd practiced it many times, but he'd never done it in front of the most beautiful woman in the world and her corporal.

"We're taking out the plasma cartridges," the Viking said, the tremors of her full, Siren-like voice sending vibrations through Rogers' body. Could he really leave her?

"With your whole unit?" Rogers asked.

"Marines do everything as a team," Mailn said. It sounded like a rehea.r.s.ed line, but it also sounded like she meant it. Rogers wondered what they'd do to him as a team if they found out what he was planning.

"And you?" the Viking asked. She eyed the laundry cart. Did she look suspicious? Or just wonderful? Rogers decided it was just wonderful.

"Klein's laundry," Rogers said.

You're at the garbage dump, not the laundry! he realized too late.

Mailn raised an eyebrow. "His clothes that dirty, eh?"

Rogers shrugged, playing it off smoothly. "He's the boss," Rogers said. "He wears his clothes once and then gets rid of them. That way, he always looks fresh. Can't stand loose threads on his uniform, and all that."

"Ah," Mailn said. "Well, if Klein says it helps, then it helps. Whatever keeps him doing all the great work he's doing up top."

You mean all the great work I'm doing up top, Rogers thought bitterly. His suspicions about Klein had been growing every moment he saw the man work. From what he could tell, Klein hadn't been doing anything other than writing speeches and polis.h.i.+ng his Toastmasters' certificate.

"Yep." Rogers said.

"Yep."

They stared at each other for a few long moments, before Rogers realized that they were expecting him to open the door.

"Oh," he said. "Right. I have a little bit of a problem. My keycard doesn't seem to work down here. I guess Admiral Klein forgot to add the codes while he was, ah, memorizing enemy battle formations." Or making me memorize enemy battle formations.

"That's no problem," the Viking said, covering the distance between Rogers and the doorway in about a fifth of a step. A t.i.tillating sense of excitement washed over him as she came near, and he felt his resolve waver for a brief moment. She swiped her card in the reader and pressed the b.u.t.ton, and the door opened to reveal a giant pile of trash and a very interesting smell.

"There you go," the Viking said. "Smells like a sand dragon's a.s.shole in there."

Even her profanity was exciting. Rogers took a deep breath-something he regretted immediately, given his surroundings-and slowly pushed the cart into the room.

Then he just stood there. He turned around. Mailn and the Viking were just standing there too, looking at him. Mailn raised her eyebrows.

"Well," Rogers said, "I'll see you later?"

"Just dump the stuff," Mailn said. "Some of the marines are getting together on the training deck to throw each other around for a while. We thought you might like to come."

Mailn stabbed a secretive finger at the Viking and winked at him. Was she trying to help Rogers' romantic inclinations? Would it work?

Briefly, a vision flashed by of him and the Viking in the training room, alone, bodies sweaty and dressed in those old-fas.h.i.+oned karate uniforms, their belts loosely tied around their waists. She would throw him but not let go, landing on top of him as they rolled around on the mats while the room caught fire. Suddenly, the Viking would be outside, and she would kick down the door to rush in and rescue him from certain peril.

"Are you alright?" she would ask.

"Are you alright?" she really was asking.

"Um," Rogers said, swallowing hard. He could feel a new layer of sweat coating his entire body. "No. I mean, yes. I'm fine. It's just that I'll have to, ah, catch up with you later. The admiral's instructions were very specific. I need to take all of the clothes out of the laundry and fold them before I throw them away."

"That seems kind of pointless," Mailn said, frowning.

"He's a very particular man," Rogers said, realizing how stupid he must sound. "You should see what he does with his straw wrappers." He held his hand up to his neck. "Stacks this high. Whatever it takes to be a genius, I guess, right? Ha? Ha?"

The Viking shrugged. "Whatever, metalhead. We'll be in there for the next six or seven hours, so come by when you're done and I'll have Mailn here show you a thing or two."

"That sounds great," Rogers said. "I think. Thanks for helping me open the door."

The two marines left, leaving Rogers with only his rapidly beating heart and a bunch of junk for company. The standby light overhead came on as the door closed, giving the whole place an eerie brown-red glow. The ambience-and the smell-made him feel like he was in one . . . particular district of Aaskerdal, an infamous city on Merida Prime. Rogers kind of wished he was there now, except that the Viking wouldn't be there.

"Okay," Rogers said. "Okay. Deep breath. Regroup."

Who the h.e.l.l was he talking to? First the random counting in his room before he'd tried to hang himself, now giving these strange instructions to someone who wasn't there. This place was making him crazy.

Taking a quick glance around the room, he saw that this particular chute contained mostly metallic parts, which didn't explain at all where the smell was coming from. As his eyes pa.s.sed back over the doorframe leading to the corridor, however, he saw a small piece of cardboard-like material hanging from a string. On it were written the words HARD-BOILED EGGS AND SPOILED BEEF STEW. SCENTS BY SNAGGADIR'S.

The distance between the door and the hatch leading to open s.p.a.ce seemed like a monstrous distance, and, in truth, it was. Rogers was basically walking through a large cylinder, the far end terminating in what looked like the three-toothed maw of a metallic giant. Above, wide tubes connected this room to different locations all throughout the s.h.i.+p where items could be discarded. Rogers wondered how they separated all the garbage, but if a computer could (almost) control a squadron of armed robots, it could probably tell the difference between one type of trash and another.

After one of the longest walks in his life, Rogers eventually found himself at the end of the corridor. The three-toothed door was infinitely larger than it had seemed when he'd entered the chute, and the task before him certainly didn't seem any smaller either. Uncovering the laundry cart, he pulled out the components of the VMU and his provisions, which he'd sealed in cryo-wrap and tied together in manageable bundles. Once he got into open s.p.a.ce, he'd have no problem loading them onto the Awesome.

The VMU wasn't exactly his size-beggars couldn't be choosers, after all-but thankfully, it was a little on the big side rather than too small. The thick layer of protective covering would fit snug against his skin when he vented the air pressure, anyway.

Vented the air pressure. Opened the chute to vacuum. Jumped out of a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p and floated to the Awesome with a bunch of packaged food and a prayer. Rogers felt his body shaking a little as he put his helmet on and started checking the suit's systems. He really wasn't meant for this kind of life. Sneaking around, running away, jumping out of s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps. It was just too adventurous. Rogers preferred the quiet life, the cla.s.sy drinks, cheating very discreetly at cards.

All the more reason to be done with this soon, he thought. He snapped the last clasps into place and turned on the VMU. The suit, reading the ambient pressure in the area, didn't change anything, but he could hear several air gaskets opening as the suit prepared to do its job. Out in s.p.a.ce, once he flipped the mobility switch on the back of his helmet, it would excrete little puffs of air, triggered by reading Rogers' body movements, to get him where he wanted to go. It was a comfortable, familiar thing; he'd worn these thousands of times while making repairs on the outside of the s.h.i.+p. So, it was a terribly confusing feeling now, since he felt like he was about to s.h.i.+t himself.

He moved over to the control panel to the side of the door, making sure that the SEWR rats weren't going to fly out the hatch as soon as it opened, and examined the controls. It wasn't overly complicated; there was one large red b.u.t.ton and one large green b.u.t.ton. Above the red b.u.t.ton was printed the word SHOOT, and above the green b.u.t.ton was printed the word CHUTE. Rogers thought there might have been a better way to label it.

Underneath the control panel, a warning was issued in yellow lettering. ALL PERSONNEL MUST ENSURE ANY ITEMS AND PERSONNEL NOT INTENDED TO BE JETTISONED ARE FIRMLY SECURED, AND ALL VMUS ARE IN WORKING ORDER BEFORE MANUALLY VENTING THE CHUTE.

Under that sign was another warning.

FIRING THE CHUTE SUPERVISOR OR HIS PRIZE-WINNING BONSAI PLANT COLLECTION INTO FREE s.p.a.cE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.

And another, this one printed on actual paper.

TRICKING THE CHUTE SUPERVISOR INTO FIRING HIMSELF OR HIS PRIZE-WINNING BONSAI PLANT COLLECTION INTO FREE s.p.a.cE IS ALSO STRICTLY PROHIBITED. ALSO, WHOEVER STOLE THE LABEL-MAKER, PLEASE BRING IT BACK TO ME ASAP.

Rogers' finger hovered over the red b.u.t.ton as he looked at his datapad. 1502 s.h.i.+p time. If the helmsman had listened to him, the targeting computer would have been off for two minutes and would remain off for the next twenty eight. Just enough to push the Awesome to full burn and get to the Un-s.p.a.ce point. If Hart had moved his s.h.i.+p like he said he would. If the engines were fixed like Hart said they were. If the MPF hadn't confiscated all the credits stored locally on the Awesome's systems.

So many ifs. But there was only one way to find out.

Then someone slapped him on the a.s.s.

"Ah!" Rogers jumped in the air and turned around-no small feat with the added weight of the VMU-expecting to find Admiral Klein, or, worse, Barber Bot standing behind him.

But there was nothing. n.o.body. Just piles of trash.

"What the h.e.l.l?" Rogers said, his voice reverberating through the interior of his helmet.

Though . . . as he peered into the nearest pile of junk, there was something about it that looked familiar. He stepped forward and realized that it wasn't just a pile of sc.r.a.p metal; it was a pile of droid parts. A graveyard of s.h.i.+nies, as it were. And these weren't just any s.h.i.+nies; some were the former members of the AIGCS that had been destroyed during the incident in the training room.

Rogers couldn't remember the details, having been wounded during the courageous execution of his duty, of course, so he'd never gotten to see the extent of the damage. Now he could see it looked like a twisted surgeon suffering from tremors had taken a plasma cutter to them in the middle of an earthquake. They were barely recognizable; in fact, Rogers wouldn't have known they were the droids at all except for one head that had somehow remained intact. Thick, jagged cuts ran all the way down their midsections, spilling their metallic and silicon interiors onto the floor, and a sort of strange engineering curiosity made Rogers bend down and examine them. How did they make these, anyway?

He saw computer boards, hydraulic systems, wires, actuators. Standard stuff, stuff you'd see in just about any piece of computer technology in modern times. One thing, however, stuck out to him. It was an open-faced cube of old-looking parts integrated with magnetic coils and other sophisticated tech, but Rogers had seen it before. It was a power generator that fed off the inertial motion and magnetic charges of artificial gravity generators. Really technical, smart stuff. The droids would never run out of power as long as they were inside a s.h.i.+p that had a modern gravity generator on it.

A question nagged at Rogers' brain, but he was too busy screaming like a wounded lemur to focus on it at the moment, because something had grabbed him again.

He tried jumping up-jumping up just sort of seemed like what you do when you were startled-but he'd been squatting by the pile of destroyed robots. He succeeded, instead, in falling backward hard and doing a very poor impression of an inverted turtle, arms and legs flailing as he forgot how to control his own body.

"Who's there?" he yelled, and received a poke in the kidney as an answer.