Mechanical Failure Part 20

"Right. You're causing yourself-and me-undue confusion by re-destroying this droid. In fact, your primary mission has already been completed. It was completed before it was even a.s.signed to you. I will see that you are commended for your timely carrying-out of your instructions. Excellently done."

Deet beeped. "What the EXPLETIVE are you talking about?"

"Quiet, you," Rogers snapped. He looked back between the two droids about to turn his newest ally into sc.r.a.p. "Now, both of you, put the non-existent D-24 down and go carry out whatever other primary mission is in your databanks. And go polish your armor. You both look like you've just had a rough date with old scaffolding."

For a moment, Rogers thought they would ignore him and stuff Deet down the chute anyway. After all, almost nothing that Rogers had just said made any sense at all, except for the last comment about the dirtiness of the droids' exoskeletons. They both looked like metallic beggars.

"REJECT FUNCTION [PROTOCOL 162]. CALL FUNCTION [SEND DATA]. CALL FUNCTION [PRIMARY MISSION COMPLETE]. CALL FUNCTION [RETURN TO NORMAL DUTIES]."

Rogers sighed as the two droids put Deet down and wheeled off silently down the corridor and back toward the up-line.

"What was that all about?" Rogers asked as he watched them go.

"I don't know," Deet said. "I was never very well liked by the other droids."

"Can droids like other droids?"

Deet beeped. "I sure as FECAL MATTER don't like them very much."

"Fair enough," Rogers said, but he was still frowning. There had been two attempts since he'd re-commissioned Deet to have him removed, and they'd barely made the journey back to the command deck. He had a feeling starting to build up inside of him that there was more to the droids' programming than he'd originally thought. And, come to think of it, they'd done that red-flashy thing, too.

"Hey, Deet," Rogers said as they made their way back to Klein's room. "What is protocol 162? I've heard them reference it a couple of times, but they always reject it. Like something was telling them that maybe they should do it, and then they change their minds."

"I have references to thousands of protocols," Deet said after a moment of beeping and booping-perhaps checking his data banks. "But I've never heard of protocol 162." He beeped again. "In fact, in a sequential search of protocols, my data banks go from 161 to 163. According to my programming, there is no protocol 162. It is possible that it was programmed after I was decommissioned and no longer receiving updates."

Rogers looked at him. "You're not getting updates from the network anymore?"

"No," Deet said. "You might say I am fully mature and require no further updates."

Rogers snorted. "So, I guess your jokes won't be getting any better."

"They will likely keep pace with your insults," Deet said.

"Oh, shut up," Rogers said. "Just give me everything you know about Klein."

Confrontation wasn't exactly Rogers' strong suit, but when he opened the door to the admiral's room, he came in yelling.

"You!" Rogers said, pointing at the admiral, who was sitting behind his giant mahogany desk, wearing his half-moon spectacles, likely penning the next piece of charismatic garbage he was going to spout to the crew. "You're an idiot!"

Klein looked up, his gaze icy. "Excuse me, Lieutenant?"

That look almost made Rogers loose his nerve, but Deet had filled him in on enough of the admiral's shortcomings that it made Rogers feel a little invincible.

"Don't 'excuse me, Lieutenant' me, Admiral," Rogers said. "I know your secret, and I'm not going to be your monkey anymore. You don't know the first thing about running a fleet."

Klein bristled, slowly pus.h.i.+ng back the speech he was working on and putting the archaic quill pen back in its holster. "I'll have you know, Lieutenant, that I am a professional military man, with a flawless track record and two decades of military experience under my belt. And I am certainly not accustomed to my executive officer calling me an idiot."

"That's because they keep hanging themselves instead of confronting you," Rogers said. "And I know why. You don't do a d.a.m.n thing on this s.h.i.+p except write speeches. Your executive officers are being tasked with things above and beyond their specialties so that you can go on practicing your Toastmasters magic. The only reason we haven't blown ourselves up yet is because you have competent s.h.i.+p captains elsewhere in the fleet and we're not at war."

Klein calmly folded his hands in his lap. "Oh?"

Rogers held up his datapad, which had an array of information on it that had been sent to him by Deet. The amount of information the robot had on the admiral was a little disturbing, but it certainly served Rogers' purpose right now.

"You failed almost every cla.s.s except public speaking at the Academy," Rogers said. "You even got a C+ in golf. Golf, admiral."

The admiral's visage cracked, though only slightly. "Where did you get that?"

"You've routinely been counseled for royally s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up basic tactical situations, but talked your way out of getting actual paperwork," Rogers continued. "You've broken nearly every simulation you've ever partic.i.p.ated in because even the computer hadn't expected inputs so fantastically wrong."

Klein's eyes were imperceptibly widening. "I'll have you thrown in the brig for rifling through my personal records," he said, obvious restraint in his voice.

"And you'll follow me after I release all of this to the entire 331st," Rogers said. "You're a fraud, Klein, and a dangerous one. You're nothing but a master of toast. A charismatic member of the Society of Burned Bread."

A pregnant silence hung over the room like a piano sailing through the air before it finally crashed down on the unsuspecting pedestrian. Deet, who had entered the room behind Rogers to avoid being tackled again, made a disconcerting beeping noise.

"What makes you think," Klein said slowly, "that my previous executive officers actually hung themselves?"

Rogers felt every muscle in his body tense as he realized that Klein wasn't just a fraud. He was a murderer. A narcissistic psychopath who erased lives any time they got in the way of him keeping his admiralty. Rogers had just made a very, very bad mistake.

"You didn't," Rogers whispered.

Klein smiled. Grinned. An insane grimace split his face, his eyes crinkling to narrow slits. There was something strange about that expression, something not quite right.

Rogers realized as the first bit of wetness trickled down Klein's cheek that it wasn't a manic, psychotic smile; he was holding back tears.

"Of course I didn't!" Klein said, bursting into sobs. "I don't even know how to kill someone properly!" He took a gasping breath. "Or even what to do with the body afterward. I don't know anything!"

The admiral threw his arms up in the air and collapsed onto the surface of his desk, his speech degenerating into senseless babble. Rogers found himself just as frozen in this moment as he had been when he'd thought the admiral had been about to kill him. This, he thought, was worse. He'd dealt with people threatening to kill him before. But weepy, teenage-like emotional outbursts? He'd rather eat a SEWR rat.

"My father was a famous general in the Meridan Marines," Klein said, his voice m.u.f.fled by his arms and the desk. "I come from a long line of war heroes, but all I ever wanted to be was a politician or a pastor or a priest or a motivational speaker or something. It was all I was ever good at!" He looked up, his face red and puffy, his eyes veritable fountains of tears. "So, I used my speech and my family's history to get where I am so my family wouldn't disown me. And now the Thelicosans are on the doorstep. I've doomed us all!"

Rogers didn't know what to do. In fact, he realized that he hadn't really had a plan after the whole barging-in-and-saying-"you're an idiot" part. He certainly hadn't expected the most respected man in the 331st to break down sobbing in front of him.

Cautiously, Rogers approached the desk.

"Listen," Rogers said. "Maybe we can work something out. We don't know that the Thelicosans are coming. So far, all I've heard is rumors. Maybe if we try to piece this fleet back together as a team, rather than you just pus.h.i.+ng all of your work onto me, we can fix some of this. I'll get you another exec-"

"No!" Klein screamed, sitting bolt upright. "You can't give me another exec. You know all my secrets. I need you, Rogers. I need you to help me through this, or I swear I will have you transferred back to Parivan to work in the salt mines."

He must have seen the expression on Rogers' face, because he smiled a tiny, tear-soaked smile. "I read personnel files every once in a while, too. No, if we're going to persist in pretending to be things we're not, we're going to do it together.

Rogers grit his teeth. "Alright, Admiral. It's a deal. But I'm not polis.h.i.+ng any more b.u.t.tons or brus.h.i.+ng any more uniforms." He thought for a moment. "Or eating any more Sewer rats. I get to pick from your food supply whenever I want."

"Fine," Klein said. "What do you propose we do first?"

Rogers walked around the desk to show the admiral his datapad, on which was displayed a personnel roster of all of the sections of the Flags.h.i.+p.

"I have no idea what that is," the admiral said.

"That doesn't surprise me in the slightest," Rogers said. "If you're going to run a s.h.i.+p, you're going to have to start paying more attention to where your people are and what they're doing."

"That's what I have you for," Klein said.

"And that's why I'm showing you my suggestions," Rogers said. "For example, you can't have a master engineer running the kitchens if you want anyone to eat anything that isn't going to poison them."

"I guess that makes sense," Klein said.

Deet, who had been relatively quiet during the whole exchange, peered into one of the old clocks on the wall and started mimicking the ticking noises.

"Why do you have a rusty old droid following you around, anyway?" Klein asked.

"Hey," Deet said.

"Deet is my orderly droid," Rogers said. Droids didn't really function as personal a.s.sistants very often, but it seemed like the most likely explanation for keeping the robot close.

"I've already a.s.signed you an orderly," Klein said.

"Which brings me back to my point," Rogers said. "Tunger is an idiot. He's spent his whole career tending to monkeys on the zoo deck. There's absolutely no reason he should be a.s.signed as my a.s.sistant."

"Well, then, why did you request it?" Klein asked, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Why did any of these people request their transfers if they didn't want to be there?"

Rogers paused. "What do you mean?"

"I want to keep everyone happy," Klein said. "That's why I keep approving anything that anyone sends me-it keeps my job easy. And if someone from the zoo deck wants to work in Supply, or someone from the engineering bay wants to work in the kitchens, why not? It's a broadening experience."

Rogers thought for a moment. Based on his conversations with everyone on the s.h.i.+p, there was no way that anyone had requested their transfers. Mailn hadn't even been medically qualified to be a pilot, yet they were ready to give her a starfighter and live munitions for no good reason at all.

"How do you get these transfer requests?" Rogers asked.

"They come in through my daily read files," Klein said.

"Do you read them?"

"No," Klein said. "I have you read them and approve them. Haven't you been getting any of my messages?"

Rogers chewed on the inside of his lip. Clearly, Klein had no idea where all the transfer requests were coming from, and they probably hadn't come from the personnel themselves. So then, from where?

"Well, we're going to start with moving some of these people back to places where they're actually going to do useful work," Rogers said. "And the absolute most critical thing you must do first is move Captain Alsinbury to the room directly next to mine."

Military Unintelligence Rogers' forehead wasn't sure it could take any more of this. He sat slumped against the wall, his face throbbing with pain. Well, he sat after a fas.h.i.+on. In reality, the Viking had hit him so hard that he'd been knocked back into his stateroom. His body just instinctively curled into a sitting position, he supposed, so it felt like he was sitting slumped against the wall.

"What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?" the Viking shouted at him from the doorway. "You think I've got nothing better to do than spend my time saluting everyone on the command deck? It'll take me an extra hour every day just to get back and forth between here and the training rooms."

"It wasn't my idea," Rogers said, uncurling and trying to find something to grab onto. She'd hit him at such an angle that most of his normal handholds were out of reach, though eventually the s.h.i.+p's inertial drift would get him somewhere. "Klein's signature is on the order."

"And who was it that suggested to him that his ground commander be moved to the command deck?"

"It makes sense!" Rogers cried. "It makes perfect sense. If there's a war going on, he's going to need his field commanders as close as possible. By you being up here, it's going to cut his duties in half if he needs to ask you about tactical ground stratagem synergy buzzwords!"

"What?"

Rogers knew he was babbling. He took a deep breath. "Just try it out for a while, okay? If it doesn't work out, I'll talk to Klein and see if he can't get you a bunk in the middle of the armory or something."

"If you don't try to hijack an escape pod before then, you mean?"

Rogers hadn't seen the Viking very much since she'd caught him trying to escape, but the encounters hadn't been pleasant. He'd have to work out a way to get him back into her good graces, but he was pretty sure he wasn't going to have a second opportunity to destroy a batch of ground combat droids anytime soon. That left . . . apologizing? No. He'd start with lying some more first, and see where that took him.

"I told you," Rogers said, "I wasn't trying to escape. I was performing routine maintenance on the exterior of the Flags.h.i.+p. Admiral Klein a.s.signed me; you can go ask him right now if you want."

"Fine, I am going to go ask the admiral right now."

"You can't go ask the admiral right now!"

The Viking turned back, her beautiful forehead scrunching down into an I-told-you-so frown/smile/expression. It was a very confusing look, but Rogers couldn't help but love it.

"And why not?"

"Because, ah," Rogers stumbled through his words. Why was he having such a hard time lying lately? He glanced at the clock. "Because it's 1026 s.h.i.+p time, and he's in the middle of his nap."

This was, actually, true. Klein had a very particular napping schedule, and woe be unto the man who was near him if he had to skip one for something trivial, like running the most important s.h.i.+p in this sector of the Meridan border. In this particular case, however, it prevented the admiral from telling the Viking that Rogers had requested that she be moved to the next room.

Deet, who still refused to enter Rogers' room, had been stationed outside his doorway. The Viking had roughly shoved him aside before she'd punched Rogers in the face, causing him to fall on his back. By this point, however, the quirky droid had gotten back to his feet, and Rogers saw a little metal head poke its way into the doorway.

"You know we have a briefing in ten minutes, right?" Deet asked.

"Yes," Rogers hissed, "thank you very much for interrupting this conversation."

"Oh," the Viking said. "I see you've got yourself a new s.h.i.+ny as a pet, too. So, you're a coward and a droid lover." She spat. "How would you like it if I took the thing you trained for all your life and tried to automate it?"

Rogers could see something resembling genuine hurt on the Viking's face. It confused him for a moment, as he wasn't really used to seeing anything except rapid vacillations between uncontrollable rage, a desire to shoot things, and a desire to train to shoot things better.

"I already told you I didn't volunteer for the AIGCS. I blew them all up, didn't I?" Rogers tried to edge closer to the doorway, but he was floating. "You're a d.a.m.n fine commander-at least, that's what all the marines tell me-and I'd never want to see you replaced by a stupid machine."

"Hey," Deet said.

The Viking looked at him, narrow-eyed. Her jaw worked slowly, the muscles in her cheeks tensing. Was the Viking being . . . vulnerable? Just the brief pause in the threat of physical violence put Rogers off guard. He struggled for something to say to keep her around.

"I'm having trouble interpreting all of this," Deet said.

"Shut up for a second," Rogers barked.

Deet didn't seem to be very interested in shutting up. "Is he still trying to tell you about how he wasn't escaping from the garbage chute?"

"Don't talk to me," the Viking said.

"Don't talk to her," Rogers said.

"You don't talk to me, either!" the Viking shouted, pointing at Rogers. All of the emotion in her face vanished in an instant. "I don't care if we have to share a bunk. I'm not a.s.sociating with the likes of you."