by Joe Zieja
Rogers looked around him at all the people holding weapons trained toward Tunger and nodded slowly, motioning with his hand for them to put them down. He felt like the less mortal peril involved in this situation, the better. Tunger, however, made no move to lower his pistol. For a man who had saved his life no less than three times while they’d both been aboard the Limiter, Tunger seemed pretty set on keeping Rogers one sneeze away from death.
“You’ll excuse me if I’m not very comfortable putting this thing down, won’t you? Perhaps you and I could chat somewhere more intimate. I wouldn’t be a very good spy if I let all of these people spy on me while telling you about my spying, would I?”
Rogers didn’t say anything for a moment, looking Tunger in the eyes and trying to employ some of his poker senses to get an idea for what the man was thinking.
“Where do you suggest?” Rogers asked. How in the world was he feeling so calm right now? Perhaps he’d had so many near-death experiences in one day that he was starting to get used to it. That was kind of more disturbing than anything else.
“How about your stateroom?”
Rogers nodded. That seemed fine, and also it didn’t have any airlocks. The suggestion told Rogers a lot about Tunger’s intentions; once they went into his room, they’d be in a private setting with no exits.
“Alright, Tunger, we’ll do it your way. Everyone, I am going to my stateroom with the corporal here. Please, nobody shoot him on the way out. He might be pointing a pistol at me right now, but let’s be honest, most of you have wanted to do this at one point or another. You should be admiring him for actually having the guts to do it. He also apparently saved us from total destruction. More on that later. Carry on!”
Most of the troops on the bridge, surprisingly, followed his order. Rogers found this a little bit disheartening. He would have thought, given his popularity, they might have put up a bit more of a struggle when it came to handing him over to a smooth-talking spy. Belgrave, however, seemed a little more reticent.
“Um, Captain Rogers,” he said. “I hate to interrupt, but I’d like to call your attention to the fleet of droids that may or may not be preparing to kill us.”
Rogers shot him a look. “Now that sounded pretty pessimistic, Belgrave. Not something you should say in front of all these troops.”
Belgrave frowned. “Your orders, sir?”
“Blow them up,” Rogers said. “It shouldn’t be too hard, even with our losses.” The droid fleet was able to ignore some of the laws of physics that bound humans to certain maneuvers—even with inertial dampeners—but the combined strength of Rogers’ fleet and the pirates would make short work of the droids’ ragtag group. He would be happy to see the Rancor as space dust.
“What?” Deet yelled. “That’s my family! I called them here to get answers to questions, not murder them.”
“Family? You don’t even know them, Deet. Also, you’re possibly guilty of espionage. Besides, what questions are they going to answer? You’ve been plugging your dongle into members of your own species for weeks and weeks and haven’t found anything more out. What did you hope to do by inviting them here to possibly blow us all up with their newly acquired fleet? They still work for Snaggardir’s.”
“Then why did they attack the Jupiterians?” Deet asked. “That seems like a pretty [FECAL MATTER] programming job on Snaggardir’s part.”
Rogers considered this for a moment. Truthfully, he was so furious with Deet that he wanted to order him to be scrapped on the spot. How could he have done something like this without at least talking to Rogers about it first? But that didn’t negate the fact that Deet was right. Not only had the droids come when Deet had called them, they’d attacked the people who had supposedly created them. Now they were just floating around in space, not continuing their assault on the rest of the humans around them. Could they understand the futility of fighting a battle against a superior force? Or had they found some way to disable protocol 162?
“Fine,” Rogers said. “Let’s see what they want before we destroy them. Starman Brelle, I want you to plug Deet in and see if he can communicate with the Rancor. But at the very slightest indication that there is any funny business going on, I want you to open fire on the droid fleet and disconnect Deet’s dongle and arms.”
“[SACRED EXCREMENT]!” Deet yelled. “You’re going to castrate and dismember me? That’s insane!”
“I don’t want you hacking into, or droid-fu-ing, anything if you get corrupted by their systems. This is your last chance, Deet. Don’t blow it.”
Several attempted expletives accompanied Rogers’ exit from the bridge, Tunger patiently walking behind him. Rogers could practically feel the business end of the pistol pointed at his back, one slippery finger away from putting a permanent hole in Rogers’ hull. The door to the bridge slid closed, exposing both of them to the happenings of the command deck. Out of habit, Rogers deployed his antisalute sling and wondered why nobody around him was the slightest bit worried that he was being marched at gunpoint.
“I put the pistol away, old friend,” Tunger said, as though reading his mind. “No sense in causing any more trouble and making you give more of those smashing speeches.”
“Right,” Rogers said. “I guess we’re trusting each other now, aren’t we?”
“I think it is to both of our distinct advantages that we trust each other for the time being, yes, despite evidence that might convince you to do otherwise.”
“You know I kind of preferred the version of you that couldn’t get a competent sentence out?”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that, old boy.”
“Please stop calling me versions of old. You want to start explaining what we’re doing here?”
They slid into Rogers’ stateroom, which seemed very awkwardly silent given the last couple of hours of complete chaos on the bridge. Well insulated and filled with soft things like the bed and some tasteful rugs, there was a deadness to the room that drew Rogers’ attention to the ringing in his own ears. It had been a hell of a day. It also, based on the fact that he now had presumably a Jupiterian spy in his room, wasn’t even close to over yet.
Sitting down at his desk, Rogers motioned to one of the chairs on the opposite side of it. Tunger, who even walked differently now, gave him a charming smile and a nod of thanks before sitting down and crossing his legs.
“Do you want a Scotch?” Rogers offered.
“Why, I’d love one! I didn’t know you had anything aboard.”
“I don’t,” Rogers said, leaning back. “I just wanted an opportunity to disappoint you.”
“Very petty of you.”
“It’s one of my better qualities.”
They spent a moment looking at each other. How was one supposed to go about something like this? Rogers was playing it cool—really, he always played it super cool—but that didn’t mean he had any idea what he was doing. That seemed to be a running theme with him lately. Maybe for the entirety of his life. He made a mental note to go over this later and take a good, long look at how much of an impostor he’d been.I
“So why don’t you just tell me what you want and we can get back to figuring out how to spend the last five days of our lives.”
Tunger’s grin broadened. In a weird way, he reminded Rogers of Flash just then, which was not a flattering comparison. “Ah yes, the deadline. I do believe old Snag will do it too. He’s never liked losing.”
“Old Snag? You and Sal Snaggardir are buddies now, are you?”
“Buddies for quite some time, actually,” Tunger said. “He married my older sister.”
Rogers raised an eyebrow. Tunger looked like he could have been the Snaggardir CEO’s grandson. “Robbing the cradle a bit? Isn’t Sal Snaggardir in his sixties?”
Tunger’s smile flinched, almost imperceptibly. A sore spot, for sure.
“Do you think the Galaxy Eater is real?” Rogers asked.
“Most definitely. I saw it when it was mostly complete. Before I came into the
field, that is.”
Having his ship referred to as “the field” made Rogers want to squirm in his chair. Knowing that the Galaxy Eater was real and was capable of doing what the Jupiterians said it could do . . . well at least it answered a few of Rogers’ questions, the most important of which was the fate of his command of the Joint Force.
He’d lost.
Tunger was still smiling.
Rogers narrowed his eyes as he looked at the man sitting in front of him.
“You know where it is,” Rogers said slowly.
“I do indeed,” Tunger said.
“And you’re going to tell me.”
“I am indeed,” Tunger said.
Rogers tried to contain his shock and excitement. Actually, it was fairly easy to contain, because the implications here were obvious. First, Tunger wanted something in return, likely something Rogers wouldn’t want to give him. Second, that meant that Rogers would probably have to do more real, no-kidding work to get to it and disable it before the deadline.
Rather than cut to the chase, Rogers wanted to see if he could tease out some information for free, first, like making sure you packed away a little bit of the salad bar in a to-go container before your steak came.
Rogers was also a little hungry.
“Why don’t we start from the beginning,” Rogers said, then took a deep breath. “Who are you, what are you doing here, who is the Astromologer, why did he try to blow up the ship, and why did you stop him?”
Tunger switched the legs that were crossed and leaned back, the hint of a smile still on his face. In a weird way, it reminded Rogers of Flash’s shit-eating grin, but with more credibility behind it.
“It’s not that fancy of a story at all,” Tunger said. “I was attached to the Flagship as an observer, at first, back when good old Klein was still in charge. But you made short work of him, didn’t you?”
“You make it sound like I killed him,” Rogers said.
“Well you certainly hastened along his end, didn’t you, old boy?”
“Please stop calling me that. Okay, so you were an observer like McSchmidt.”
Tunger snorted. “Compare me to that bucket of codswallop, do you? He wasn’t Jupiterian, just a buffoon with delusions of grandeur. I maintained my cover with him.”
Rogers looked up at the ceiling for a moment, thinking. Just when he thought he might have everything figured out, something like this happened. He should have known better by now.
“And then one day you decided to turn on the Jupes?” Rogers said, looking back down at Tunger, who seemed to have unending patience about all of this.
“Well, let’s just say that old Snag and I had a bit of a falling-out when he started getting serious about destroying the galaxy. Not my cup of tea, if you understand. I thought it was all a ploy, you see, until I, ah, intercepted some transmissions that talked about the location and the timeline.”
“And you’re sure this thing works?”
“Very sure,” Tunger said.
So at least Tunger had some sense of the value of human life versus the deranged plans for revenge of an old man. In a way, Rogers was thankful for the Snaggardir’s CEO for taking such drastic measures; if he had offered a more reasonable ultimatum, maybe the Jupiterians would have had a chance at reintegration. And now Rogers had one of their longest-working spies on his side. Supposedly, anyway.
“Wait,” Rogers said. “If you were working with the Jupiterians, why not let Zergan kill me? He had ample opportunity, and it likely would have sent the galaxy straight to the war that you were looking for to shake things up.”
Tunger actually laughed, as though the three incidents aboard the Limiter in which Rogers had almost been murdered were totally hilarious.
“I actually had no idea that Zergan was one of us!” Tunger said, slapping his knee. “I thought he was trying to kill you because of your proximity to his lady friend’s lady parts.”
“That was one of the grossest things you’ve ever said. But I suppose I am grateful about the whole not-letting-me-die thing. Thanks.”
Tunger nodded graciously. “I do hope you might do me the courtesy of extending the same thoughtfulness to me in my current situation.”
Rogers raised his eyebrow. “That’s it? That’s all you want?”
Laughing, Tunger leaned forward in his seat, putting his elbows on his knees. He grinned at Rogers.
“I’m a spy who has blown my cover, now likely unwelcome in every system in the galaxy. I could go to ground the old-fashioned way, I suppose. Disappear, grow a different facial hair pattern every time I’m discovered, get fake bank accounts and all that.” He sighed. “But the truth of it is, old boy, I’m a bit knackered.”
Rogers rubbed his eyes and took a moment to think. The Meridan government would undoubtedly want to prosecute Tunger, though they would also undoubtedly give him some leniency for switching sides at such a crucial moment. There were, he guessed, stipulations for giving turncoats political asylum. What more could Rogers do for Tunger that the government wouldn’t already take care of once the war was over?
“Speaking of which,” Rogers said, deciding to switch topics while he considered all of this, “the Astromologer. What’s going on there?”
Tunger shrugged. “I think that part should be obvious, old boy. He’s the cleanup crew. Every Astromologer has been. They get fed data from Snaggardir’s spy network and leak little bits of information masked in mathematical hocus-pocus in order to keep the Thelicosans convinced he’s some sort of divine Galileo. It’s been working for well over a hundred years.”
So, the art of Tau/Rho was actually just the art of an incredibly advanced, pervasive intelligence network. Who would have thought that deductions based on actual information might be more reliable than psychic math powers? Keffoule was going to be excited about this part.
“And you stopped him?”
“Well, stopped the self-destruct sequence,” Tunger said. “He shoved off quite quickly afterward.” He laughed. “Understandably, you see.”
Rogers was still having trouble picturing Tunger doing anything more complicated than shoveling animal poop, but he supposed that if there was anyone he’d chronically underestimated, it had been Tunger. Between Tunger’s riding lions and being a master of disguise/poison remedies, maybe Rogers should have seen this coming. Or at least been a little nicer to the man.
“Alright,” Rogers said. “Let me lay this all out so that I’m sure I understand you correctly. You’re going to tell me all the information that we need to stop the Galaxy Eater from destroying Fortuna Stultus like it did the Milky Way, and in return you want my protection?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Tunger said.
“If you’re the smartest man on this ship,” Rogers said, “you must realize that I am very much flying by the seat of my pants, so to speak, and I barely have enough power to remain continent, never mind protect a Jupiterian spy.”
Tunger’s smile didn’t waver. “I have confidence in you, old boy. And besides, what are my other options? Turn myself in to Holdt? Or go running to the Viking and get punched in the face?”
“Hey,” Rogers said, his face getting red, “nobody on this ship gets punched in the face by the Viking except me.”
Tunger snorted. “That’s quite true, it seems.”
What would be the best way for Rogers to prevent anyone from taking revenge on Tunger for being a Jupiterian spy and holding Rogers at gunpoint on the bridge? He could throw him in the brig, which might be the safest place for Tunger at this point. But all it took was one angry marine on guard duty, and there might be a few smoking holes in Tunger. Rogers could confine him to his own stateroom, of course, but then he’d have to like . . . live with him, and stuff, so that was out of the question. Even if he managed to keep him alive, there would be a hell of a lot of explaining to do once they got back to Merida Prime. Holdt would expect Rogers to turn Tunger over for interrogation and probably a trial, even if the outco
me was clemency at the end.
And that all sounded like a whole lot of work. Rogers didn’t like work. And what was the best way to avoid work?
“I think I’ve got it, Tunger,” he said, and stood up.
“I knew you’d do it, old boy,” Tunger said, following his lead and standing up as well. “What’s the plan, then? Smuggle me out in a milk container?”
“I’m going to do what I do best,” Rogers said. “Lie.”
• • •
“What the hell is he doing back down here?” Master Sergeant Hart said.
They stood in the center of the Pit, which linked several areas of the engineering bay together. The last time Rogers had been down here, he’d been trying to get to the Awesome, heroically fighting through squadrons and squadronsII of droids. It had been one of the finer moments of his time on the Flagship, not only because it hadn’t been a problem that had directly resulted from his mismanagement of the fleet, but because halfway into it the Viking had rescued him from a burning building. The hangar control room that had previously housed Rogers’ greatest fantasies looked as though nothing had ever happened to it, except for one missing display from the ceiling.
“Take it easy, Hart,” Rogers said, stepping between Tunger and the engineering chief. Hart was always ready to hit someone, even when he wasn’t a Jupiterian spy, so Rogers would need to be extra careful.
“Why should I?” Hart asked, rolling up his right sleeve and making a fist.
“There’s no reason to get upset at our zookeeper,” Rogers said, jerking a thumb to point at Tunger behind him. “It was all a big misunderstanding. He was down here looking for a couple of loose golden lion tamarins. It was pure coincidence that he and the Astromologer were down here at the same time.”
Hart’s face looked like it had been carved out of old, grumpy stone. Instead of looking at Rogers, his focus was over Rogers’ shoulder.
“I’m sorry I tripped on the self-destruct machine,” Tunger said in his old voice. “It won’t happen again. The little monkeys can just get so scared when they’re alone.”
“See?” Rogers said. “Total misunderstanding.”