Mechanical Failure Part 9

Everyone stood still and did nothing, and he counted this as a minor victory.

Perhaps simply changing formation types would work; if they were supposed to go to combat, surely they knew things like wedges, columns, staggered lines, and all that, right? At least, that's what they did in the movies. Rogers wasn't exactly a resident expert on combat.

"Alright," he said. "Alright. Let's see."

Swiping his keycard-he was going to have a copy made and permanently glued to this d.a.m.n machine-he pressed the command b.u.t.ton. What were all those other little green squares for?

"Command?"

"Form a column."

The droids snapped into action immediately, and Rogers stepped back with a satisfied grin as the whole orchestra started to play the same tune with Rogers on the conductor's stand. Despite his feelings about droids, he couldn't help but feel a little bit of pride as the droids started smoothly interchanging positions, not running into anything at all, and . . .

Tearing the metal panels off the walls.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" Rogers cried. "Stop!"

The inert command pad didn't help him, since it had locked itself again. Slamming his card through the reader, he was greeted only with a crudely drawn-not rendered like regular graphics, but drawn as though by a five-year-old-picture of a battery with a line through it. It was out of charge.

"Tunger," Rogers shouted, "this is your fault!"

"My fault?"

"This isn't very orderly at all. The d.a.m.n thing is out of batteries!"

The droids, in the meantime, had convened in the center of the training room, bringing with them pieces of the walls, exposing part of the vast network of pipes, wires, cables, and whatever else made up the guts of the Flags.h.i.+p. Arms flas.h.i.+ng in silver-gray blurs, they extended and retracted, the droids' legs telescopically reaching higher until they were at the ceiling. In moments, a crudely but solidly crafted shaft of metal ran from floor to ceiling in the center of the room, like one of those senseless metal sculptures in backwater museums.

"What have you done?" Rogers cried once the noise settled down. "You've ruined the training room!"

"We have formed a column, sir," Oh One said. "Utilizing the best available strategy."

Rogers stared blankly at the almost certainly laughing eyes of the Froid, wondering if they could do things out of spite, wondering if this was all a joke and Magistrate Tuckalle was about to burst through the door, red-faced with laughter, and tell him that the Awesome had been repaired and he could go on his merry way.

But that didn't happen. Instead, the AIGCS stood around their newly formed monument of stupidity, looking at Rogers to give them their next command.

"Low battery," chirped the command pad.

Rogers looked at the command pad, looked at the tangled mess of metal, and looked at Tunger.

"Charge this," he said, throwing it at Tunger, who caught it and saluted with a snap. "And get me an instruction manual. I'm going to go eat a Sewer rat."

"The presence of rodents, while a viable food source, is unlikely in this s.h.i.+p's waste disposal system, sir," Oh One offered helpfully. "It is unlikely that you will find one."

"I'll use the best available strategy and see what happens," Rogers said, and left.

Barber Bot Picking the last traces of a SEWR rat out of his teeth and wondering how much money he would pay for a good slab of steak, Rogers slowly plodded through the halls back to his room on the quarterdeck. He felt like someone had taken everything good about life and used it as toilet paper. Like he could still see the traces of a life full of drinking and gambling and fun, but there was a lot of p.o.o.p in the way. Was this automated technology really the future of the Meridan Patrol Fleet? Was it really his future for the next three long, long years?

Rogers attempted to put his hands in his pockets and adopt a brooding walk, but he found that his pants pockets had been sewn shut. Another archaic rule said that it looked unprofessional to put your hands in your pockets, so apparently Stan/Eval and Supply had gotten together to rob everyone of a place to put anything in their pants. Rogers thought there might have been something philosophically different between not breaking rules and not being given the opportunity to break them, but he realized very quickly that he didn't care. He missed his pockets.

"CALL FUNCTION [ABRUPTLY GREET]. TARGET [ENSIGN ROGERS.] OUTPUT STRING: GOOD AFTERNOON, SIR."

Rogers' arms flailed in the air as he screeched to a halt in the hallway. A few inches from where he stopped stood an older model droid, mostly indistinguishable from any other droid on the s.h.i.+p. It was one of the tracked variety, and from its relatively dirty exoskeleton wafted the distinct odors of talc.u.m powder and alcohol-based cleaning solution.

"What do you want?" Rogers snapped. "What are you doing on the quarterdeck?"

"CALL FUNCTION [STATE INTENTIONS]. OUTPUT STRING: I AM CYBERMAN SECOND CLa.s.s BAR-BR 116. YOU FAILED TO ATTEND AN APPOINTMENT AT 0830 s.h.i.+P TIME THIS MORNING."

Rogers gaped. Then he noticed the droid's hands; instead of the standard three-clawed grip, the droid was equipped with rotating discs to which were attached various barbaric instruments, such as scissors, razors, a comb, and a tiny welding torch, which Rogers didn't understand at all.

"So, you're Barber Bot," Rogers said, taking a slow step back. "I don't need an appointment. I didn't even make the appointment."

BAR-BR 116 inched forward, its rotating instrument discs clicking ominously.

"CALL FUNCTION [PRESENT EVIDENCE]. OUTPUT STRING: IT WOULD APPEAR THAT YOUR FACIAL HAIR IS NOT IN ACCORDANCE WITH REGULATIONS SET FORTH BY MERIDAN PATROL FLEET STANDARDIZATION AND EVALUATION. YOU ARE REQUIRED TO COMPLY. I AM HERE TO a.s.sIST YOU. YOU MISSED OUR APPOINTMENT."

The welding torch flared to life for a brief moment.

"Get away from me," Rogers said. "You're not touching my beard."

"YOU MISSED OUR APPOINTMENT."

"Yeah," Rogers said, inching closer to his door. "You mentioned that. Look, I'm pretty busy. Why don't you go take care of all the other customers that are probably waiting for you back in the barber shop? Their hair is growing right now because you're not there for them. In fact, I should probably report you for dereliction of duty."

"YOU MISSED OUR-"

Rogers slammed the b.u.t.ton to enter his room and ducked inside before the insane barber droid could say anything else about the missed appointment. What a one-track mind! Didn't he have any other customers? For that matter, how good could a robot be at cutting hair? Rogers had all sorts of cowlicks and lumps. It took a real master to groom his wild locks; he wasn't about to let some half-sentient machine butcher his face.

Squatting low, Rogers listened intently through the door, making sure the droid had given up. He heard a few more ominous clicks and whirrs, felt the door warm a little bit as BAR-BR 116 presumably tried unsuccessfully to burn a hole in the door.

"CALL FUNCTION [DEJECTEDLY DEPART THE AREA]."

Rogers breathed a sigh of relief as the sounds of the droid's treads faded away into the distance, replaced by the beating of his own heart. He shouldn't have been addled so easily by a clunky machine. Stupid thing didn't even know how to say anything other than "YOU MISSED OUR APPOINTMENT." d.a.m.n s.h.i.+nies.

"FAILURE TO BE PRESENT AT TIME OF INSPECTION. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED."

"Gaaaah!" Rogers screamed, jumping up. He found Sergeant Stract and Inspect-o-Droid standing in front of him, the droid's gloves almost completely gray with dust and Sergeant Stract's pencil ground to nothingness from the copious demerits he must have been awarding Rogers on his clipboard.

"What the h.e.l.l are you two doing in here?" Rogers cried. "This is my room! This is breaking and entering! I have rights! I have . . . What is that droid doing?"

Rogers noticed, for the first time, that a second droid was in the room, standing by the empty s.p.a.ce on the wall where that ridiculous propaganda poster used to be. For some reason, he was wearing a pair of suspenders that held a workman's belt at the end, and a bright, floppy orange cap. At the moment, he appeared to be drilling a hole in the wall.

"CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]," said Inspect-o-Droid. "OUTPUT STRING: YOUR FAILURE TO HAVE SUFFICIENT MORALE REQUIRES THAT WE SUPPLY IT FOR YOU. CYBERMAN SECOND CLa.s.s CB-101 IS ENSURING ADEQUATE MORALE."

CB-101-obviously some kind of carpentry droid-finished drilling and reached down to a metal case that had been propped up against the wall. Opening it, he removed a rectangular vidscreen, big enough to be on the bridge among Admiral Klein's observation displays, and placed it on the wall, where he firmly bolted it in place.

"Oh, finally," Rogers said. "Some entertainment. That's what you meant by morale. I was beginning to think that everyone in this s.h.i.+p had a stick up-"

The vidscreen blinked on, so bright that Rogers s.h.i.+elded his eyes. When he lowered his arm, he found that, instead of a movie, he was looking at the brightest, most high-definition poster he'd ever seen in his life. The advertis.e.m.e.nts outside cinema theaters paled in comparison to the gaudiness of this display. It was as though the wall was screaming at him with light.

On it was a picture of a droid from the chest up, blurred lines around the cha.s.sis creating the feeling of motion. Below, in large block letters, was written AUTOMATION IS EFFICIENCY IS EFFICACY IS GOOD.

Rogers wasn't exactly sure what to think. He stared at the glowing poster for a moment, then averted his eyes, fearful for the health of his retinae.

"There is no way in h.e.l.l you are keeping that in here," Rogers said, blinking tears from his eyes. "Get that off my wall right now or I'm going to use one of you as a sledgehammer."

"CALL FUNCTION [EXPRESS DOUBT AND LOWER CONFIDENCE]. OUTPUT STRING: THE COMPOSITE Ma.s.s OF YOUR ABDOMINAL REGION IN PROPORTION TO YOUR MUSCULAR STRUCTURE SUGGESTS THIS IS AN IMPROBABILITY."

Rogers blinked. "Did you just call me fat?" He turned to Sergeant Stract and pointed at Inspect-o-Droid. "Did he just call me fat?"

"It is not for me to interpret the comments of my superiors, sir," Stract said, the ghost of a smile hiding behind the flat expression on his face.

"That's exactly what enlisted are supposed to do, you idiot!" Rogers yelled. He turned back to Inspect-o-Droid. "Get that out of my room. Now. There's no regulation that says I have to have a blinding poster of your ugly faces staring at me. I'm not even going to be able to sleep!"

"CALL FUNCTION [SMUGLY CITE REGULATION]. OUTPUT STRING: MERIDAN PATROL FLEET REGULATION MR-415 STATES THAT ANY CHANGES TO PERMANENT FIXTURES IN QUARTERS MUST BE REQUESTED BY AN APPLICATION ROUTED THROUGH AN INDIVIDUAL'S CHAIN OF COMMAND AND APPROVED BY THE STANDARDIZATION AND EVALUATION COMMANDER."

Rogers grimaced. "Who is the commander?"

"That'll be Colonel Bellham, sir," Stract said.

"And where is he?"

"He's on sabbatical."

"He's on what?"

"Sabbatical, sir," Stract repeated. "He's studying the motivational impact of hospital corners versus the twist-and-tuck technique when making beds. It's a very popular subject."

Rogers looked at his bed, which was currently employing the "crumple and whatever" technique. You couldn't bounce a trampoline off his bed, never mind a quarter.

"He's never coming back, is he?" Rogers asked.

"Nope."

Running his hands through his hair, Rogers turned around to where the absurd permanent poster hung from his wall. It was enclosed in a Plexiglas case and rimmed by a thick metal frame, with no clear openings or switches. He guessed it wasn't designed to be turned on and off.

"Hey, CB-101," he said, glancing sideways to where the carpenter droid was making a slow exit from his room. "Can I borrow a hammer?"

"CALL FUNCTION [FRUSTRATE SUPERIOR OFFICER]. OUTPUT STRING: SIR, HAMMERS ARE AVAILABLE THROUGH THE SUPPLY DEPOT. PLEASE FILL OUT AN OFFICIAL REQUEST FORM AND-"

"Get out."

The carpenter droid left, its grisly work complete. As he turned around to tell Stract and Inspect-o-Droid some creative uses for their clipboard, he was shocked to find the droid's face within inches of his own. Rogers stumbled back, colliding with his bed and falling abruptly to a sitting position.

"CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. OUTPUT STRING: IMPROPER FACIAL HAIR GROOMING. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED. AUGMENTED FUNCTION [VEILED INCONVENIENCE]. AN APPOINTMENT WITH CYBERMAN SECOND CLa.s.s BAR-BR 116 HAS BEEN SCHEDULED FOR TOMORROW AT 0830."

"No!" Rogers said. "No, no, no! I'm not going to the barber shop. I'm not going to talk to creepy Barber Bot. I'm not going to let anyone cut my beard. And I'm not going to look at your stupid face on your stupid poster!"

He was standing now, waving his finger in the droid's face, his own face hot with anger. If he still had that command pad from the AIGCS, he would have ordered the combat droids to blast Inspect-o-Droid to pieces. If he could unlock the thing and figure out how to do it without blowing a hole in the side of the s.h.i.+p.

Again, for some strange reason, the droid's eyes changed color. Only for a fraction of a second, Rogers saw that red glow emerge and disappear so fast, it was easy to believe that it hadn't happened.

"REJECT FUNCTION [PROTOCOL 162]. CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. OUTPUT STRING: LOSS OF MILITARY BEARING. TWO DEMERITS WILL BE AWARDED. INSPECTION COMPLETE. 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. ALL INFRACTIONS MUST BE RECTIFIED WITHIN ONE STANDARD DAY."

"The only thing I'm going to file are my nails," Rogers said, "and I'm going to leave the dust all over Sergeant Stract's boots."

"Sir!" Sergeant Stract exclaimed, scandalized.

"Now get the h.e.l.l out of my room before I threaten to do something really crazy," Rogers said, pointing at the door.

With one last look of something mixed with fear and disgust, Sergeant Stract left the room, the droid shortly behind him. Rogers was going to find some way to get back at those two. He just didn't know how yet. And he didn't know if he really felt like putting forth the effort.

Sighing, he sat down on his bed and put his face in his hands, his fingers barely able to block out the light coming from the poster. He hadn't been so tired in all of his life, and he'd barely done anything at all. The fact that he didn't want to put forth the effort to mess with Sergeant Stract made it all the more clear that this stint in the military was doing bad things for him.

Rogers needed . . . something. He needed a drink. He needed to get out of this starchy, uncomfortable uniform and sew a couple of pockets on the inside so he had somewhere to put his hands instead of around someone's throat. He needed a really big crowbar to take that d.a.m.n poster off the wall. In fact, any kind of tool in his hand would feel really good right now. It had been far too long since he'd done any meaningful engineering work.

So, he headed down to where he knew he belonged: the engineering bay.

An immediate feeling of relief washed over him as he emerged into the familiar surroundings of the Pit, their affectionate nickname for the noisy, dirty hovel that was the home of the engineering squadron. Unlike the rest of the Flags.h.i.+p, the engineering bay was a tangled mess of ventilation shafts, machinery, and dark corners well suited for just about anything fun. Aside from that, it was mostly made up of the giant area that was the Pit, the maintenance bay, and its own hangar. He couldn't wait to see the old wrench-turners in their greasy coveralls-if there were any not in the kitchens-though he hoped he didn't see any of the ones he owed money.

The Pit was unusually busy, people running to and fro with tools and datapads, though Rogers noticed that almost none of them were wearing their utility uniforms. Come to think of it, n.o.body on the entire s.h.i.+p seemed to be dressed in anything except the semiformal wear normally worn only by administrative personnel.

"Alright, folks," came a shout. "Inspection in two hours. Remember what Winston Churchill said. 'Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.'"

Despite Rogers' expectation that wrenches would be thrown at the gross incongruity, n.o.body seemed to care that Russia had vanished from old Earth-along with old Earth-a thousand years earlier and had absolutely nothing to do with engineering or inspections. The mismatched quotation had come from a serious-looking ensign with dark, mud-colored hair. He tucked the datapad he was carrying behind him as he pulled aside a tired-looking female engineer and muttered what appeared to be some encouraging words. He patted her on the back and nodded, though she didn't look very encouraged, and finally noticed that Rogers had come into the Pit.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I was going to ask you the same question. What's this about an inspection? We don't have those in the Pit."

The ensign laughed. "I didn't know they were sending a comedian to Engineering. We have them every day."

Rogers suppressed a shudder. It appeared that the charade that was the Morale, Health, and Welfare inspections had made its way into the engineering bay, too. Though he shouldn't have been surprised. This whole s.h.i.+p was going crazy.

"I'm not a comedian. My name is Rogers. I, ah, used to work here."

The ensign's eyes widened. "You're Rogers? I've heard of you. I thought you'd abandoned s.h.i.+p to be an entrepreneur, or something."

"I did," Rogers said. "I'm back, though apparently I'm not working here anymore."