Mechanical Failure Part 32

"I'm not sure how long I can keep this up," Deet shouted over his incredibly, incredibly annoying noise. "I may kill myself."

"I may kill you," Rogers muttered.

Klein, surprisingly, considering his earlier response to stress, seemed unconcerned. He slowly put down his sandwich and looked at Rogers.

"Lieutenant," he said, loudly, though his face showed no effort from shouting. "What the h.e.l.l is your droid doing and how do we make him stop doing it?"

"Admiral," Rogers said, moving closer. The only way they could hear each other was if they kept their faces about three inches away from each other, and Rogers could smell a distinct and unpleasant mixture of mayonnaise and aftershave. "I need you to listen. The entire fleet is in jeopardy and we need your help."

Klein didn't interrupt him as Rogers related absolutely everything he knew about the droids, their impending takeover, and the role that Klein must play for their counterattack to work properly. When he finished, Rogers was out of breath and his ears were ringing.

"Alright," Klein said.

Rogers blinked. "Really? That's it? You'll do it?"

Klein shook his head. "No, but it sounds like a perfect job for my executive officer."

For a moment, Rogers thought he was about to go In the Zone again. That moment when something snapped inside of him, and all of a sudden he became a different person, someone who could move effortlessly through any social situation, steal a watch off a man for whom time was as important as blood, and make a horse think it was a zebra with a little paint. Then he realized that, no, it wasn't Zone time at all. It was the point at which one becomes so frustrated, so annoyed, so desperately done with it all that murder suddenly looks like a viable option.

But, since Rogers wasn't very good with violence, he instead reached forward, grabbed the Toastmasters certificate off the wall, and threw it to the floor. He followed with a sweeping arm gesture that knocked just about every notepad and book off the admiral's desk. For good measure, he made one of those really dramatic, wordless roar sounds.

Klein's reaction was much as he antic.i.p.ated.

"What have you done?" the admiral shrieked, jumping out of his chair and putting his hands on the sides of his head.

"Do you see this?" Rogers said, gesturing grandly. "This is what's going to happen to your fleet if you don't take the huge amounts of stupid out of your ears and set it aside for ten minutes. I need your codes to erase the droids' memories, and that means I need your biometrics to come with me to the communications bay with Deet so we can stop these over-technical tin cans from taking over the s.h.i.+p and waging an unexpectedly sentient war against humanity with our own s.h.i.+ps!"

Klein looked like he was about to hyperventilate. He made several feeble attempts to bend down and pick up a pen to start writing something but couldn't seem to figure out what to write. For a moment, he stood up straight, put his hand on his heart, and took a deep breath to begin a pep talk, but his chest deflated like a balloon.

"Now, are you coming to the mainframe room, or should I just go find the nearest AIGCS droid and call him a s.h.i.+ny?"

"You really shouldn't say racist things."

"Klein!"

"Alright," the admiral said. "Alright. Let's go. But I want a real sandwich first. I might be dumb, but I am not dumb enough to fall for such a stupid trick as a phantom sandwich."

"This is really good," Klein said as he munched two pieces of bread with a thin layer of mayonnaise in between them. "Really excellent, Rogers. What did you say it was called again?"

"Ghost sandwich," Rogers said. He pulled his datapad from his pocket and pressed a couple of b.u.t.tons. "How are things going with you two?"

The crackling voice of McSchmidt came back at him through the datapad. "Lots of cooks in the kitchen," he said. "We think we have a good idea about how to keep them busy. We're heading to engineering now."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Uf curse it is!" Tunger's voice came through. "We're a team!"

"Shut up!" McSchmidt barked. Rogers thought he heard the sound of someone being slapped in the face, then the howling of a monkey, the high-pitched scream of someone absolutely terrified of said monkey, and then the transmission cut out.

"I hope they know what they're doing," Rogers muttered. He switched communication channels, and Mailn's voice came through.

"What do you want?" she asked. She sounded irritated.

"Just checking in," Rogers said. "Is everything okay? You don't sound too happy."

"Because I'm friggin busy," she said, "and some b.o.o.b is calling me to check up on me. How would it feel if someone was breathing down your neck every ten seconds of every day?"

Rogers paused. ". . . Normal?"

"Ugh," Mailn said, and the transmission went out.

They exited the up-line onto the communications deck, which was mostly an unnavigable maze of hallways leading to various offices, server rooms, and one Popsicle stand that had been shut down during Rogers' leave of absence from the military. As the electronic nerve center of the Flags.h.i.+p and the entire 331st, the communications deck was a huge, important, incredibly complex section of the s.h.i.+p. Rogers had always avoided it like the plague; Communications was the red-headed stepchild of Engineering. The personnel were also notorious for being teetotalers, which was one step above politician in Rogers' book.

He pulled up a map of the comm deck on his datapad and tried to figure out how the h.e.l.l to get to the IT center that connected to the mainframe room. The whole layout of the deck literally looked like someone had crumpled up a long piece of string and thrown it on the floor. It was nearly impossible to figure out which way led to which room.

"I can't make heads or tails of this stupid map. Deet, can I short-burst transmit this thing to you so you can use your, uh, droid powers to automatically navigate us to the IT desk?"

"What do I look like, an EXPLETIVE tour guide?"

"No," Rogers said, "you look like a piece of machinery specifically built to help humans with tasks. And I thought your profanity generator got fixed?"

"EXPLETIVE you."

"Right. I'm sending this to you now."

After a couple of b.u.t.ton presses, Deet's eyes flashed and he beeped a couple of times, and Rogers waited impatiently for him to finish whatever processing he needed to do. For an automated life form, he certainly was slow.

Klein had finished his sandwich and was licking his fingers contentedly as they marched down the hallway in the direction that Rogers guessed was the IT desk. The hallways were almost ridiculously narrow, so much so that as a couple of pale, beady-eyed comm troops pa.s.sed, everyone had to turn sideways just to avoid grinding up against each other. Even they, however, looked just a bit less uptight than Rogers was used to seeing folks on the Flags.h.i.+p since he'd returned. It was amazing what some real food and some fluorescent pictures of farm animals riding on the backs of rocket s.h.i.+ps could do. Rogers wondered how Ralph was doing; if he'd gone through all the tainted coffee, he'd probably be cras.h.i.+ng pretty hard right now.

"This way," Deet said suddenly, turning down an unmarked corridor and running smack into a sleek gray droid that Rogers hadn't thought he'd see again.

"What are you doing here?" the droid-the Froid-asked. It was Oh One, former second-in-command of the recently disbanded AIGCS. Rogers hadn't seen him since he'd nearly torn the training deck apart. He was easily recognizable due to the painted badger pattern on his face.

"It's, uh, I . . ." Rogers stammered.

Oh One looked at Deet, and his eyes flashed. For a moment, Rogers thought there would be another droid fu contest, but neither of them moved to slap each other. Rogers started to sweat; did Oh One know about Barber Bot's attempt on Rogers' life? Had he ordered it, perhaps? Obviously, he would know by now that Barber Bot had failed.

"This location is not in concordance with your essential duties as executive officer to Admiral Klein," Oh One said. "It seems highly irregular that you would be present here."

"Um," Rogers said. His knees started to shake. A droid armed with a welding torch and a butcher knife was one thing; he knew that Oh One had a deadly disruptor rifle hidden in his chest and knew how to use it. Where was that big orange b.u.t.ton when he needed it?

"Are you in the habit of questioning your superior officers' motives for carrying out their duties?" Klein suddenly bellowed. His voice completely changed, taking on the character that happened whenever he gave speeches to the fleet, but now it had a force to it that sent vibrations all throughout the long hallway. "Do you know who I am?"

Oh One didn't speak for a moment, but his gaze appeared to s.h.i.+ft from Rogers to Klein.

"You are Admiral Klein, commander of the Flags.h.i.+p and of the 331st ATBU."

"You are correct," Klein said. "And I'll thank you to stop impeding the progress of my official duties. What is your alphanumeric designation?"

"I am F-GC-001," Oh One replied. "Former second-in-command of the AIGCS."

"And now you are a.s.signed to roaming the halls and hara.s.sing personnel?"

"I am unaware that such a position exists aboard this s.h.i.+p," Oh One said. "If you wish to have me a.s.signed to such duties, please fill out a general request form-"

"I don't fill out forms," Klein said, pointing to Rogers. "I have him fill out forms. And n.o.body messes with the guy that fills out my forms."

"That's right," Rogers said, feeling bold. "Now get out of our way before I rub my feet on the carpet and touch you."

Oh One spared him an irritated glance, that red glow flas.h.i.+ng in his eyes for a brief moment. Rogers tried not to show the fact that he was currently considering where the nearest bathroom was if he happened to p.o.o.p his pants. What would they do if Oh One decided to draw his weapon? Deet might be "a fierce and loyal warrior of an ancient order" or whatever, but he didn't have a disruptor pistol. He barely had matching arms.

Just when Rogers thought he was going to have to do something desperate and heroic, like die in a pool of his own blood on the floor of the communication deck in complete and utter obscurity, Oh One abruptly shouldered past all of them and continued walking toward the up-line. Rogers let out a breath that kind of sounded, maybe just a little bit, like a whiny sob.

He turned to Klein, feeling a little ashamed of himself. He'd done nothing but berate this man for being a complete and utter imbecile for as long as he'd known him, and that man had likely just saved their skins.

"Sir," Rogers said. "I didn't know you had it in you."

Klein looked at Rogers, his face unreadable. His lips parted as if to say something, but he closed his mouth and swallowed. Slowly, he shook his head.

"Let's just get this over with," he said.

"Deet," Rogers said, "lead the way."

Their droid companion began walking forward at a brisk pace, leading them through the twists and turns of the bowels of the Flags.h.i.+p. Rogers felt even more confused and disoriented than when he'd visited Ralph, who had really been in the bowels of the Flags.h.i.+p. It was like they had constructed this place specifically to be confusing. Maybe it was a defense mechanism in case the s.h.i.+p was ever boarded-though communications troops didn't exactly have a reputation for defending things to the last man and all that.

"What is with this place?" Rogers said out loud. Despite being surrounded on all sides by claustrophobia-inducing metal surfaces, his voice seemed to echo as though he was in a large cavern.

They pa.s.sed a room with an old-fas.h.i.+oned latch-and-hinge construction, composed entirely out of thick bands of riveted metal. The room was marked ROOM 01010110. Someone had scratched out two of the numbers and changed it to ROOM 01011110, and someone else below that had scribbled "That's disgusting." Rogers didn't understand any of it.

Deet made a sound that only vaguely reminded Rogers of laughing.

"That's a good one," Deet said, pointing to the room.

"I don't get it," Rogers said.

"It's a binary thing," Deet said. "Either you get it or you don't."

They turned a corner, and all of a sudden, the whole area opened up. What was formerly a narrow corridor that seemed more at home in a submarine than a s.p.a.ce cruiser was suddenly a grandiose hallway, almost bulbous. The ceiling must have extended some twenty or thirty feet above them, tattooed with elaborate drawings and frescoes of things that Rogers didn't really understand. There were ones and zeroes, of course, but there were also other drawings that seemed both archaic and modern at the same time, perhaps paying tribute to an era long gone. Something that appeared to be a partially eaten pie was chasing around blue dots. Rogers wondered if zip jack was really that rare on this s.h.i.+p after all.

"This place is weird," Rogers said.

"I concur with your a.s.sessment," Deet said.

The strangeness didn't end at the ceiling, however. The door to the IT center wasn't just your average hydraulic-powered sliding door with a keypad and that really comforting hissing noise that told you that you were home. It was a giant set of double doors made entirely out of iron that ran nearly all the way to the ceiling. Swirls of intricately patterned dark wood had been embossed on the door, though there wasn't any clear meaning behind it.

And, for some reason, Rogers heard organ music.

"Really weird," Rogers said.

They approached the door, and without any door control to use, Rogers rapped on it using the thick knocker hanging from a well-oiled, fist-thick hinge.

A small window opened with a resounding clack, revealing a set of charcoal eyes set in a face as pale as sheep's wool.

"Yes?"

Rogers hesitated. "Um, we need to come inside and see the mainframe room," he said. "I have the admiral here with me. We're conducting a random inspection."

The eyes darted between Rogers, Klein, and Deet, and then vanished for a moment. When they returned, Rogers was almost certain they were the same eyes, but the voice was entirely different.

"Yes?"

"I just told the other pair of eyes that we need to come in and get to the mainframe room," Rogers said, trying to remain patient. "I have the admiral here and we're conducting a random inspection."

The window slammed shut, and for a moment, Rogers thought they'd been ignored. He probably would have done the same thing had someone come by and told him he'd be having a random inspection. In fact, he'd tried to do just that several times. Rogers wished his old room on the quarterdeck had been equipped with a window like this he could slam on people whenever he wanted.

Rogers pulled out his datapad and paged the Viking while he was waiting for another set of eyes to appear and say, "Yes?"

"How are things going down there? We're almost at the mainframe."

"Move, you fat-bellied sons of wh.o.r.es!" the Viking barked.

"That well, huh?" Rogers asked.

"Rogers," the Viking said, her voice sounding much closer to the microphone now. "You're all set for the moment. Good luck."

"What did you do?" Rogers asked slowly.

The microphone clicked off. Rogers was about to slip it back into his holster when a light came on, indicating he had a message from Tunger.

"Sir," Tunger said. "We're still working on a way to, uh, employ all of the chefs, but we just heard that all the kitchens are on fire!"

Rogers thought for a moment. "Is that a metaphor?"

"No," McSchmidt called back at him. "No, it's not."

"I love that woman," Rogers muttered.

"What was that?"