by Joe Zieja
“What are you doing here?” Rogers asked. “And where did you get that megaphone?”
“Corporal Suresh issued it to me,” Tunger said proudly. “He said it would help me keep things orderly.”
Rogers squinted at him. “Tunger, do you even know what an orderly actually does?”
“Not even remotely, sir,” Tunger said brightly. “But I know chimpanzees!”
“Great. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a hunch I’m wanted on the bridge. Go back to Suresh in Supply and tell him I can’t work in zero gravity with all of my stuff flying around. See if he can’t find anything to help me fasten stuff to the walls or at least tie them down. And give him back that damn megaphone.”
“Yes, sir!” Tunger saluted and made his way back to the up-line, hopefully to get to Supply and get some of this idiocy sorted out. Tunger’s arm didn’t look like it was faring any better than Rogers’; as an enlisted man on the command deck, he had to salute every officer that passed him, and the deck was rapidly filling with bureaucracy-loving troops. Rogers retreated into his room for a brief moment, waiting for a clear shot to the bridge.
Just as he was gathering his nerve—and a brief space was opening up in the hallway that Rogers could run through if he was quick enough—his datapad beeped at him. He removed it from his holster and saw that he was receiving a call from another troop on the ship. At first, he didn’t recognize the face displayed, but that was because the name had been misspelled in the database. It was the ensign from engineering, but his name read “McSchmurdt.”
“Yeah?” Rogers said as he accepted the call.
“Hey, Rogers,” McSchmidt said. He hadn’t enabled video, so all Rogers could see was the database photo of the man. By the background noise, however, he was clearly in the middle of the Pit. Rogers could hear the hum of hoverlifts and the clanking of crates being stacked atop one another.
Rogers waited for McSchmidt to continue, but the ensign didn’t say anything.
“What is it?” Rogers said. “I’m kind of busy right now.”
“I was just calling to see how you were,” McSchmidt said.
Rogers paused. “I’m fine. Since when do you care?”
McSchmidt sighed. It sounded like he blew directly into the microphone, because the sound crackled fiercely.
“I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” McSchmidt said. “These inspections have been rough on me lately. Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Rogers said in the most disingenuous form of gratitude he could muster.
“So . . .” McSchmidt said. This was starting to feel like an awkward phone conversation from high school. “You’re pretty close to the admiral now, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Rogers said. “Some guy called me to ask me how I was before I had a chance to talk to him. What do you want, McSchmidt?”
“Nothing,” McSchmidt said. “Nothing at all. Look, maybe later you and I can get to know one another over a STEW or something. I could use a friend on this bucket, and, well . . . maybe I don’t know a whole lot about engineering, after all. Some advice would be nice.”
Rogers frowned. What was up with this guy? First he quotes dead dictators and practically throws Rogers out of the Pit; now he wants to be humble and buddy-buddy?
“Sure,” Rogers said. “Whatever. But right now, I need to go to the bridge. Let’s continue being awkward later. Good-bye.”
Clicking off the datapad and setting it to reject any more incoming calls for the next hour, Rogers set his jaw and walked toward the gigantic double doors that led to the command center of the Flagship and the entire 331st ATBU. He’d gone there only once before, on his initial orientation of the Flagship during his first tour of duty, and he remembered it as a hectic place that wasn’t any fun at all. It was filled with people who were gray far before their time, and lots of pointing at things. Rogers was less than excited to return to it, never mind actually work in it.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door into chaos.
Situated inside a tumor-like bubble on the top of the Flagship, the bridge had the disorienting luxury of a three hundred sixty–degree view of open space, broken often by monitors, hologram displays, and the occasional propaganda poster. One that caught Rogers’ eye had a picture of an actual bridge—the sort of bridge you’d find over a body of water—with a squadron of droids standing tall on one side against an approaching enemy force. The caption DEFEND THE BRIDGE was written underneath, and Rogers couldn’t help but think that someone in the information operations squadron had missed the point.
So many blinking lights, knobs, and levers dotted the control panels that Rogers felt dizzy looking at them. The horde of personnel sitting at the various terminals pressed and pulled and swiped and pounded them with rapid enthusiasm. In Rogers’ opinion, this advanced age of space travel should have produced battleships that practically flew themselves, but everyone here seemed so enveloped in simply keeping the ship floating in free space that Rogers wondered what the bridge would look like in combat. He had a feeling he could get a taste by going down to the zoo deck and opening all the cages at once.
Despite all of the activity, the bridge was nearly silent. The only man speaking was the man himself, Admiral Klein, standing in front of a stylish leather swivel chair on a raised platform in the center of the room. And boy, was he speaking.
“We are the shield of Merida,” he was saying. “The hands of this great fleet hold the straps and brace ourselves, spears in hand, ready to strike whomever dares to break their forces on our wave of tenacity, duty, and patriotism. We are the epitome of synergy. We will employ galactic agility, responsive, multi-tiered facets of strategy, diplomacy, and perseverance to repel any enemy.”
He paused for a moment, looking around the room. Anyone that wasn’t engaged in furious button-pressing and lever-pulling was staring at him with their heads held high, their chests out, their eyes shining. Including Rogers. Every time Rogers heard the admiral speak, he could feel a little tiny bit of energy inside him that might, had Rogers the diligence or introspection to cultivate it, have been duty. Never had he felt it so strongly as he did now, here in the heart of the 331st. Rogers could take on the Thelicosans himself, should it come to it. Even if it meant picking up a weapon and shooting at something.
“In short,” Klein said, “we will fight. And we will win.”
There were no cheers. No fists in the air. But every troop on the bridge slowly extended an arm in a dramatic salute.
Rogers tried, but his arm was so sore from walking through the command deck the previous day that his hand barely made it to his chest before he dropped it with a quiet whimper.
Klein sat down, and, as though that had been the cue to charge headlong into a superior enemy force, everyone doubled down over their consoles, necks bent, backs up like angry cats. Rogers desperately wanted to find a button to press just to please that man.
That man was looking straight at him.
“Rogers, I presume,” he said. Conversation in the room had picked up again, with various spacers delivering reports, but it was still as though Klein was the only person talking for a thousand light years.
“Y—yes, sir,” Rogers said, hurrying forward to ascend the few steps leading up to the command platform. “Lieutenant R. Wilson Rogers reporting for duty.”
“Good. It’s been rough around here without any help for the last few days. I’m glad to see you’ve fully recovered.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I assume you understand that there are matters of great responsibility that are about to be levied onto your shoulders.”
“I do, sir.”
“I assume you will execute them to the utmost of your ability.”
“Absolutely, sir.” Rogers even meant it. A little, anyway. At least while there was no beer light to call him to something more interesting. He felt the tingle of duty that had risen during the admiral’s speech fade a bit.
> “Great,” Klein said, sinking back into his chair, his eyes suddenly becoming very tired. “I’ll be needing it.”
Rogers blinked, not knowing what to say to that. It looked as though the admiral had aged ten years in just a few seconds. The moment he stopped speaking to the troops, his fatigue cut through his stoic image, and there sat before Rogers a tired old man. Rogers couldn’t help but feel an intense desire to help him; this man had the burdens of thousands upon thousands of lives on his shoulders, and if there was a war coming—there was not a war coming—he would need all the support he could get.
“What can I do for you, sir?” Rogers asked, only mildly dreading the response. It was a personal policy never to ask for more work, but in this case, he felt somewhat obligated.
The admiral handed him a datapad. “Take this,” he said. “It’s got all of the orders of the day on it.”
Rogers took hold of it like he was grabbing a viper by its teeth. “All of the orders of the day, sir?”
“Yes. Everything that’s come to my level for approval. I want you to go through and approve everything.”
Blinking, Rogers looked down at the datapad. It was a basic task queuing system, but the total number of items on the “actions required” list was over a thousand.
No, Rogers realized. It was over two thousand. The number was increasing as he was looking at it.
“Sir,” Rogers said. “This is a lot of action items. Are you sure you don’t want to review them? I mean, I haven’t had any administrative training, and—”
“I’m telling you to go and give everything the green light, Rogers,” the admiral said, not looking at him. He almost appeared to be sleeping, with his head in one hand as he slouched in the fine chair. “It’s the same thing every day. Just approve it.”
Rogers swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“And make sure your datapad is connected to your new messaging server,” Klein said. “I want you by my side every moment of every day, but in the event that I have to send you somewhere to do something, I want to make sure I’m in constant contact with you at all hours. Do I make myself clear?”
Taking out his datapad from its holster around his belt, Rogers looked at it, fumbling while holding two of the bulky devices in his hands at the same time. He had read something that had appeared late last night about changing over his messaging server, and he hastily pulled it up now. The instructions were easy—tapping “OK” on the pad and waiting, for example—and in a few moments, his messages had switched over to his new position. In a few more moments, the amount of messages dwarfed the amount of tasks he had to approve. Every single one of them was from Admiral Klein.
Rogers gaped, wondering how many things Klein could need his exec’s input on. He saw shortly that a good portion of the messages were sent to the exec during the interim between the last one hanging himself and Rogers taking the position. The subject lines ranged from “remind me about my 0800 meeting at 0730” to “remind me to remind you to remind me about my 0800 meeting at 0730” to “hang up blue streamer in Peek and Shoot” and “take down blue streamer in Peek and Shoot, replace with red streamer.”
“Sir,” Rogers said slowly. “I can’t possibly do all of this in one day. There are thousands of action items to review and messages to read. I’m going to at least need a couple of days to catch up and pick up where your last exec left off.”
Slowly, Klein peeked up from his hand. “Days?” he said.
Rogers took a small step back, inching precariously close to the edge of the command platform. “Um.”
“You have two hours to catch up,” Klein said. “Meet me in my stateroom when you’re done.”
Two hours later, Rogers felt like he’d been punched in the face by the Viking again. His eyes were made of old, crackling glass. His fingers were numb from tapping incessantly on the surface of the multiple datapads. His vertebrae were starting to separate from extended periods of time trying to do all of this in the null-g environment of his stateroom.
Rogers had never seen such an incredible amount of minutiae in all of his life. Amidst requests from the captains of the other ships for approval regarding menial, stupid things like inspection schedules and whether or not it was authorized to pet droids on their heads, Rogers could discern almost nothing of actual strategic value. Messages flew in quicker than Rogers could delete ones that he’d already taken care of or didn’t really contain any useful information at all. Admiral Klein had a habit of using the messaging system as an internal monologue; many of the notes were clearly stream-of-consciousness and couldn’t possibly be applied to anything Rogers could do. One particularly cryptic one said something about whether or not sandwiches tasted the same if made upside down.
Some of the messages actually were orders for Rogers to make a sandwich, though they had been sent days before. Apparently, in addition to secretary, Rogers was also going to function as the admiral’s valet, housekeeper, and chef.
His network terminal beeped and reminded him that in three minutes, he was to remind himself that in two minutes he needed to be in the admiral’s stateroom. Rogers stared at the screen, blinking tears out of his eyes. Had he really set that absurd of a reminder? How quickly was he going to transform into a soulless bureaucrat?
When the second reminder went off, he gathered up his things and prepared to head into the lion’s den. Already he was feeling exhausted after only a few hours of work, namely because he wasn’t very accustomed to doing work at all. How was he going to get out of this?
As he turned around to float over to the doorway, he noticed that at some point someone had put an entire rack of uniform jackets in his room, all with the admiral’s rank on them. Some of them had floated off their hangars and were now decorating his room like tasteless drapes. To the rack itself had been attached a coarse brush. The instructions were so obvious, they needed no accompanying message or task order.
Two of each came through at that moment, anyway.
“Two strokes right shoulder,” one of them said. “Three strokes left shoulder. Turn jacket around. Repeat.”
Rogers shut his eyes tight, ignored the task for the moment, and left his room. Instantly, he was surrounded by people attempting to salute him or requiring salutes of their own because of their rank, and the vigorous physical activity/monotony actually helped Rogers take his mind off his situation for a moment. By the time he got to Klein’s door and rang the buzzer, he was sweating.
The door slid open, and Rogers was treated to an opulent scene. Where Rogers’ room was luxurious—albeit floating—the admiral’s room bordered on ridiculous. It appeared as though Rogers had stepped into a palace on the lavish colonies of old Saturn, complete with marble floors, ornately detailed columns, and narrow swaths of soft, velvety carpet making walkways between the various spots in the room. Rogers wondered if the room’s architect had come from Grandelle, the system where all the gaudy Saturnites had relocated post-collapse. Every piece of furniture, every piece of command paraphernalia and memorabilia cried out, “Leadership.” “Power.” “Authority.”
Literally. There were actual pieces of décor that said those words in giant, bold letters. In fact, it was like the whole room was filled with military magnetic poetry. Everything was made from dark wood or gleaming bronze. Thick, bulky memorabilia from Klein’s other assignments before being transferred to command the 331st were on glass shelves, each of which had their own spotlight like some kind of art museum. Rogers felt a little bit like he’d stepped out of a command ship and into some sort of shrine.
“It’s about damn time,” Klein said from behind a massive thick desk. He looked more like a king on a throne than the commander of a fleet, entirely different from the impression of him on the bridge.
“Sir, you said two hours,” Rogers said defensively as he made his way through the spotless room toward the admiral’s desk. He felt his knees shaking. “I wasn’t able to complete my review of everything. There were a lot of orders that—”
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“I didn’t tell you to review the orders,” Klein said. “I told you to approve them. How am I supposed to get anything done on this ship at all if I have to review orders all day?”
You don’t, Rogers thought. You told me to do it instead.
“Some of them were pretty important,” Rogers said, “like complaints about strange things going on with the communications array and—”
“I don’t like repeating myself, Lieutenant,” Klein said. He was wearing a somewhat anachronistic pair of half-moon reading glasses and scribbling away on paper, and had yet to look Rogers in the eye. “I’m trying to keep everyone happy. When they ask me for things, I approve them. That’s all. That’s the goal of command.”
Rogers frowned. “I’m a little behind on my officer professional education,” Rogers said, “but is that really the goal of command?”
Klein finally looked up, the slightest raising of his eyes to give Rogers a “you’re walking on thin ice” look. “Didn’t I just say something about repeating myself ? That’s the goal of my command, and in case you haven’t noticed, this is my ship. Now, if you’re not done doing the simple task I asked of you, you can finish after you make me a sandwich. I have things to do.”
The admiral patted a book on the table with a sort of motherly affection, and Rogers noticed for the first time just how many books were lying around. The one Klein had under his hand was a notebook, in which was a whole mass of insane scribbling. At the bottom, Rogers saw a couple of words upside down and bold.
We Will Be The Fighters of Fighting. We Will. We Will Seize. We Will Fight. We. Will. We Will Be The Winning People. We Will Be Victory.
We Will Fight. We Will Win. Those two sentences were underlined. The date on the top of the paper, Rogers noticed, was almost four standard months old.
Some of the other books stood out to Rogers. Public Speaking in a World Where the Public is Everywhere. You Schmooze, You Lose. Saying Things that Get People to Do What You Want.
And above the admiral’s desk was a large, elaborately framed document on which was written the curious epithet: