by Joe Zieja
“I am fine,” Deet said. He turned his hearing back up and called up his protocol for feigning ignorance, which was very similar to asking for clarity. “What ship are you talking about, exactly?”
“The Rancor, idiot. I’m staring right at it on my screen,” Rogers said, wiping his mouth. He looked a little pale. “Come on, Deet. You think I don’t know you come in here sticking your thingy in my terminal every time I look away? I’m not stupid.”
“I thought this angered you?” Deet asked.
“No,” Rogers said, sitting down in his chair, his whole body slack. Sweat dripped down his face. “What pisses me off is when you do this instead of something I’ve told you to do. Or when you endanger me or the fleet. Or when you get arrested and make me come to the jail. Or—”
His face went slack, his mouth and eyes wide open. Shortly after, he sprinted back to the bathroom, where he shouted in a high-pitched, panicky voice, “Or—hurk—when you don’t tell me that we’ve all been intentionally—huuuurk—poisoned!”
This bout of vomiting was much shorter than the last, and Rogers returned momentarily, limping toward the desk. He looked like he’d been through a bar fight, or perhaps maybe two minutes of actual physical exercise.
“Yep,” Rogers said, leaning heavily on the back of his chair. “I wouldn’t even attempt to negotiate. I’d send every available weapon, and maybe even Flash, to destroy that ship and any other ships with it.”
Deet considered that perhaps his instinct to hide this information from Rogers was based on past experience and, on the whole, was the right thing to do.
But right for whom?
“What are you looking for?” Rogers said. “What’s that, there?” He pointed to the rapidly moving text flying by on the screen. Deet rerouted the output so it was only going through his internal processors, and not being displayed.
“Just some ships’ communication,” Deet said. “Captains logs, manifests . . . blah, blah, blah.”
Rogers squinted. “Oh. Alright. Did you find anything else useful while you were in there? I told you I don’t mind you doing existential research, or whatever, but I want you to be looking for ways for us to win this war as well.”
“Not really,” Deet said. “Pretty much everyone all over the galaxy is losing their [EXPLETIVE] minds. There’s nothing very constructive going on at all. Nobody knows where the Galaxy Eater is located, but everyone is pretty enthusiastic about pirates right now. Oh, and Flash did a news interview. He’s pretty popular.”
“What?” Rogers said. “With who? He’s still on the ship!” For a moment, Rogers didn’t say anything as he stared off into space. “He is still on the ship, right?”
Pulling out his datapad, he made a quick call. Deet couldn’t hear the voice on the other end.
“Yeah. It’s Rogers. Is Flash there? . . . No, I don’t want to talk to him. . . . No, I don’t want him to do anything. . . . No, I do not want his autograph—what the hell is wrong with you?”
Huffing, Rogers hung up the call and let out a long breath, something that he did often. Perhaps he had respiratory issues that Deet was unaware of. A quick vital scan of Rogers revealed that, although his VO2 was at the same level as a seventy-year-old, he was fine.
“I swear, something is going on with that guy. Everyone seems to think he’s this hotshot pilot who keeps saving the day, but it’s taking all of my effort and energy just to keep him from blowing up the ship.” Rogers shook his head and limped away. Deet thought perhaps he was going to vomit again, but instead he removed his clothes, throwing them in a laundry basket he had near the entrance to his stateroom’s bathroom.
“I feel like this is something better done in private,” Deet said. “I am feeling embarrassed. Addendum: you are hairy.”
“You don’t have feelings,” Rogers said, stepping into his bathroom. “You also don’t have genitals, so I’m not really sure if I should be modest around you or not. Besides, you’re in my room and you won’t leave, and I need to shower. This is no time for protocol.”
The shower started running. Deet understood the basics of human hygiene, but the idea of soaking himself in something that could make parts of him arc wasn’t very appealing. Then again, he’d never tried it. Maybe it would be fun. Any joy Deet might have derived from fantasizing about naughty electrical currents, however, was quashed when Rogers began singing a tuneless, unintelligible song about women with large posteriors. Briefly, Deet considered turning down his auditory sensors again, but he didn’t want to be surprised.
Re-extending his dongle into the network terminal, Deet called up the last records he’d been examining and tried to extrapolate a bit. The last time the droids had functioned as a single entity, they’d formed their own closed network that rode on the back of the Flagship’s systems, hijacking bandwidth to keep their communications secret. Yet, despite how many different ways Deet tried to approach the quarantined message, he could find no evidence of anything that might let him into any kind of new intranet. If they were talking to anyone, they were doing it in a way that Deet couldn’t discern from his current location on the net. And, if that was the case, it likely meant they weren’t talking to anyone. It was easy to hide the contents of communication, but it was almost impossible to hide that some communication had occurred.
It wasn’t even possible to tell who they were working for. The likeliest scenario, of course, was that the droids in the Rancor’s fleet were working for Snaggardir’s, but something about that didn’t make sense to Deet. Why not communicate with them? Why attempt to build a fleet by capturing other ships? The droids couldn’t reproduce as far as Deet knew—and, just based on the number of computer terminals Deet had put his dongle in, he really hoped he was correct—so once they reached minimally effective staffing for each ship, any further expansion would be pointless.
So, why were they doing what they were doing? And who were they doing it for?
Deet took a long couple of microseconds to run this through his circuits, making several guesses and following them along a long, branching logic train to their conclusions. Unfortunately, none of them made much sense. In one configuration, which he was sure was incorrect, he concluded that the droids had been grossly misunderstood and had actually been trying to open a bakery. It was important to consider every possibility, but perhaps next time he could filter out some of the real time wasters.
Rogers was already done with his shower, and, thankfully, done with his singing. Deet didn’t have very much time to grab as much information as he could. Not that more time would really have helped him; there simply wasn’t a lot of information out there. Just one half-completed distress call and the telemetry data associated with it. There wasn’t anything he could do with this unless he wanted to do something ridiculous like . . .
Like send the droids a message.
“Deet,” Rogers called from the shower. “Will you get me a towel?”
“No.”
“If you don’t, I’m going to have to walk out there bare-assed and—”
“Stop!” Deet said. “Do not [EXPLETIVE] move!”
“Jeez,” Rogers said, sounding offended. “Come on, man. I’m not that out of shape.”
It wasn’t that Deet didn’t want to see Rogers’ wet, hairy body. Well, it was in part because Deet did not want to see Rogers’ wet, hairy body. But it was also because Deet was in the middle of sending an encoded message over open channels to the last known position and frequency listed on the distress signal’s report. Deet felt as though Rogers might not appreciate this. Finishing the message as quickly as he could, Deet sent it off, tried to erase as many traces of the message being sent as possible, and unplugged from the system. A tiny tendril of smoke came from the top of the machine.
“Seriously,” Rogers said. “Shriveling up over here.”
Not wanting to ask for clarification of that statement at all, Deet ambled over to the bathroom, grabbing a towel along the way. Rogers muttered thanks and began going abo
ut the strange human ritual of making oneself look presentable. That was something Deet would probably never understand no matter how much empathy Belgrave helped him develop.
“Can you check my messages?” Rogers shouted, his voice all funny as he stretched his chin and lips around to trim his beard. “I want to have a meeting with everyone as soon as they’re settled in. Suresh should have checked in everyone by now.”
“Affirmative,” Deet said.
“Affirmative?” Rogers said. “Are you feeling especially droidy today, Deet? That sounds weird coming from you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I meant to say ‘Yes, [REAR ORIFICE].’ ”
“That’s better.”
But it was hard to focus, which in and of itself was surprising. Focus was an organic convention; Deet could rapidly shift focus to thousands of small processes. Still, the thing at the forefront of his contemplation was one fact: Deet had his first secret. It made him feel . . . he wasn’t sure what it made him feel. And, as Rogers would say, he wasn’t even totally sure he had feelings. But something changed in that moment, and it was more than Rogers’ underwear.
The messages on Rogers’ terminal mirrored those on his datapad, so Rogers could have done this himself. Apparently the commander of the Joint Force was feeling a little power hungry if he felt the need to order a droid to do something simple like read messages.
According to the terminal, all new personnel had reported in, saying that their deputies were firmly in place in their own fleets; they’d settled into their new rooms, and they were officially part of the Flagship’s crew. Thrumeaux had already put in sixteen formal complaints about her living conditions, ranging from inadequately fluffed pillows to poor acoustics in her own shower. Krell’s and Keffoule’s reports were much more functional and simple.
The only thing Deet didn’t see was anything about that ridiculous Astromologer. Hopefully he’d decided to jump out an airlock. Deet was still struggling with the concepts of instincts, but something told him that he hated that man and wanted him to die. Maybe it was his pretentiousness, maybe it was his always talking about harmony and the waves of the universe and all that.
“Everyone’s ready,” Deet said. “It looks like the last of the . . .”
Deet trailed off, something he’d learned that humans did when some interesting new information came to light in the middle of a communication.
“Deet?” Rogers said, emerging from the bathroom, thankfully fully clothed. “What’s the matter? Are you out of power? Oh, shit, did we lose gravity again?” He began hopping up and down to see if he would leave the deck.
“Sometimes I have serious doubts about your ability to command yourself, never mind several fleets at once.”
“You and me both,” Rogers said. He wiped the last of the water off his face and threw the towel over his head back into the bathroom. Deet wasn’t totally sure about the nesting habits of humans, but he was fairly certain Rogers would be considered a slob. “So what is it?”
Rogers came up behind Deet and sat in his chair, leaning forward so his elbows could rest on the terminal desk. For a brief moment, Deet thought he looked rather official, the way Holdt had looked at his own desk. The picture on the screen wasn’t strange in and of itself. It seemed like just a shot of empty space, perhaps from one of the maintenance cameras located on the outer hull of the ship. The strange part about it, however, was the man dancing in it.
“Oh, great,” Rogers said. “It’s the Astromologer. What the hell is he doing now?”
“Based on my calculations,” Deet said, “he is about to experience a massive embolism, and his lungs will likely burst from the rapid decrease in pressure.”
“No,” Rogers said. “He’s got some sort of special VMU. I saw it when he came in. But why the hell is he on the outside of the ship . . .” Rogers leaned forward, squinting at the screen. “And why is he dancing?”
The datapad now on Rogers’ desk rang, and Keffoule began speaking in a rush as soon as Rogers answered.
“Rogers,” she said, sounding a little bit like she’d either just engaged in extreme physical exercise or had rapidly depressurized, “you need to come to the war room as soon as possible. You will never see such a sight for the rest of your life.”
Divine Calculations
The war room looked so different from the last time Rogers had been inside that Rogers almost didn’t know where he was. Someone had gone through it with gusto, clearing out all of the refuse, emptying the garbage barrel that had been burning just a week ago—Rogers had been the one to set it ablaze, actually—and replacing the half-broken conference table with a deep mahogany monstrosity that ate up almost the entire space. The walls had been repainted, the chairs had been replaced. A holographic projector of a similar make and model to the one that Rogers had seen and admired on the Thelicosan ship Ambuscade was suspended from the ceiling above the middle of the table, ready to make abundantly clear in three dimensions exactly how hopeless their situation was.
And, worst of all, the masterfully constructed blanket fort was now completely gone. That was almost too much to bear.
Rogers sat down at the only available seat; the other seats at the table were filled with the new members of the Joint Force. Scanning the room, he couldn’t find the Viking, or even Tunger. Aside from Deet, who was only barely tolerable, there wasn’t anyone in the room he actually liked.
It seemed like lately Rogers was always walking into rooms filled with people he didn’t like. And now this one had a way to deliver presentations. Rogers hated presentations.
“Alright,” he said. “Would someone please explain to me why the newest member of our motley crew is doing the space boogie?”
He looked up, examining the faces of everyone in the room. Thrumeaux looked distinctly unimpressed, maybe even bored. She’d completely changed her uniform into something that Rogers could only describe as aristocratic, a blue double-breasted jacket with surprisingly nothing on the front that indicated achievements, or even her name. Nothing about it looked comfortable, though Thrumeaux didn’t seem to mind. Krell puffed his chest out, posturing himself like some kind of ape vying for dominance.
Keffoule, on the other hand, looked daggers at him. Thankfully, Xan wasn’t there to contribute to the dirty looks.
“He is not doing the space boogie,” Keffoule said. “Please, sit down and observe before you make any judgments. We are about to discover the location of the Galaxy Eater.”
Rogers tapped his fingers on the table, staring at Keffoule. He could have continued to banter with her, continued telling her that all of this math/psychic crap was as crazy as, oh, maybe, asking someone to marry them the first time you met them. But, in the effort of moving all of this along so he could either retire or be dead, he waved a hand ambiguously in the air, indicating that whatever was happening should continue to happen without any further interference from him.
Nothing happened.
“Well?” Rogers asked.
“Well what?” Krell asked. “All you did was wave your hand.”
“You think you can just come in here, wave your hand, and make things happen?” Thrumeaux asked. “You didn’t even tell us what you wanted us to do when you waved the hand.”
“Just because you’re the boss—” Krell said.
“First among equals,” Thrumeaux interrupted.
“—doesn’t mean that you can just wave hands to accomplish wide-reaching strategic objectives.”
Rogers ground his palms into his eye sockets. “I mean how about we get on with watching the non–space boogie?”
“Oh,” Krell said. “Well, why didn’t you just say that?”
Krell reached forward and tapped a few buttons on the integrated console built into the table in front of him, bringing the holographic projector to life and dimming the lights. Whoever had re-outfitted the war room had really outdone themselves; one might even believe that a war could be run out of here. They still might all die in a fireball, but
maybe they could do it in an organized way.
The projector brought to life a stunningly clear display rendered from the outboard ship cameras. The lenses put out so many lumens, focused in such a precise way, that it was impossible to see the other side of the table. It was as though there really was a tiny version of the Astromologer doing zero-gravity ballet in the middle of the table. Singing some kind of song that was coming through via his radio transmitter. And, apparently, dealing a game of poker? Maybe he wasn’t so bad.
“Does someone want to expl—”
“Shh!” Keffoule hissed from the other side of the table. “Genius is happening!”
Rogers, knowing that Keffoule couldn’t see him and therefore couldn’t kick him in the face, stuck his tongue out. He resigned himself to watching this spectacle. Next to him, Deet made a noise that clearly indicated displeasure.
“Shh,” Rogers whispered to him. “Genius is happening.”
“I’ll show you [EXPLETIVE] genius,” Deet said.
The outboard cameras on the ship weren’t designed for observing enemy movements, or anything dynamic really, so they were mostly fixed in position with minimal controls available to the Engineering crew. It didn’t, however, impede the Astromologer’s performance, and Rogers realized after a few seconds that the Astromologer had specifically chosen his position in space so as to be viewable. It seemed a sort of arrogant thing to do; if he was so psychically powerful, why did he need people watching him when he utilized his power? He could just have easily done it outside of the trash chute without all this pomp and circumstance.
It also made Rogers a little uncomfortable that the Astromologer was so familiar with the layout of a ship that he had never been on that he knew exactly where to go. Maybe it was part of his skill set? He would have to ask Keffoule later.
Meanwhile, the cameras were doing a fine job of watching this man do all kinds of spins and turns. The song he was singing was unintelligible. If it had any words, Rogers couldn’t understand them, and nobody else at the table gave any indication that they could either. He spun and sang, producing large, black cards and laying them out carefully in the zero-gravity environment of space so they wouldn’t fly away.