Mechanical Failure

by Joe Zieja

  Mailn held up a hand. “Just try to follow,” she said. “I think I’ve got this. Go ahead, Rogers. Tell us all about this meal.”

  “Right,” Rogers said. “Let’s keep walking. I want to get back to the command deck and I want all of you to come with me.”

  The confused human/droid coterie ambled along the hallway, Rogers taking them as quickly as he could. If there were as many sensors as Deet had alluded to, maybe he could obfuscate his speech even more by passing through many of them. Rogers had no idea if that would work, but he also had to go to the bathroom (his stomach was still getting used to eating normal food again).

  “So,” Rogers said, “Deet’s meal was terrible. Apparently, the chefs are trying to poison him. Or us.”

  “What the EXPLETIVE are you people talking about?” Deet said.

  “Just pipe down for a minute, Deet,” Rogers said. “In fact, I want you to tell me the moment you start to understand exactly what the expletive we’re talking about. Got it?”

  “Fine.”

  “The chefs?” Mailn said. “You mean the people who made Deet’s meal?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Rogers said.

  They remained quiet for a second as a couple of droids walked past them, though Rogers realized that was somewhat absurd, since they could hear everything they were doing anyway through the sensors. Was it his imagination, or did the droids look at him as they passed? He noticed at least one of them was that sleek off-gray color that the AIGCS had been, though there was no visible weapon. Had the ones that had survived the incident been recommissioned?

  “So, the chefs are trying to poison Deet?” Mailn said. “That still doesn’t make any sense, and I’m pretty sure I know what you’re talking about.”

  “Not exactly,” Rogers said. “I’m pretty sure they’re trying to poison everyone. I just don’t know how yet. Or why. Or when. In fact, I really have almost no idea what’s going on. Apparently, they’ve been keeping a . . . um . . . a . . . whole book of secret recipes.”

  “You’re both out of your minds,” the Viking said.

  “How is that possible?” Mailn said.

  “I have no idea,” Rogers said. “Maybe they went to someone else’s, uh, culinary arts school. Or maybe they built their own school after they learned enough from us about cooking to do it on their own. I don’t know. I’m not a chef.”

  The Viking rolled her eyes. McSchmidt looked like he was concentrating so hard that his face was going to melt off. Deet remained blessedly silent. As they approached the up-line that would take them to the command deck, Rogers noticed that instead of a human, a droid was now manning the controls and regulating the line. It made his skin crawl. Everything was starting to make sense now; droids had slowly been working their way into positions all over the ship, slowly replacing humans in the name of preparing for “war.”

  “So, what’s with the new menu?” Mailn asked.

  “Hey,” Rogers said. “Menu. That’s pretty clever. You’re good at this.”

  Mailn shrugged. “I do what I can.”

  “CALL FUNCTION [INCONVENIENCE]. OUTPUT STRING: THE UP-LIFT IS CURRENTLY TRANSPORTING OTHER PERSONNEL. PLEASE WAIT.”

  “Yeah,” Rogers said. “Sure. Anyway, I’m not sure why they changed the menu. All I know is that they’ve been slowly changing it for a while now. Probably before I got here. You know how they kept, um, switching the silverware into different drawers?”

  Mailn looked confused for a moment.

  “You know, how we used to have spoons for soup and forks for steak, and everything got moved around so that there was motor oil in the eggs?”

  “But there really was motor oil in the eggs,” McSchmidt said.

  Mailn nodded knowingly. “I get what you’re saying. So, the chefs were swapping the silverware so that nobody would know they were changing the menu.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m starting to really hate both of you,” the Viking said.

  “CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. OUTPUT STRING: YOU MAY BOARD THE UP-LINE.”

  The door opened, revealing a nearly empty cabin. Nearly, that is, except for Corporal Tunger and a very angry-looking baboon.

  “Oh, not this guy,” McSchmidt said as they all piled inside.

  “Hullur!” Tunger said. “It’s nurse to see yur!”

  “Please shut up.” McSchmidt had his hands balled up into fists at his sides and spoke through clenched teeth. What was his problem?

  “I never thought I’d understand you more than I’d understand my own corporal,” the Viking said. “I don’t know what the hell these people are talking about.”

  “It’s gurd to knur that surmone appreciates my talunts,” Tunger said, glaring at Rogers.

  “Shut up,” McSchmidt said again. Rogers shot him a look, but McSchmidt was fixated on the floor. His face was turning a dark crimson.

  “I can’t appreciate someone I can’t understand,” Rogers said flippantly. “Anyway, about the spoons and forks—”

  “Aie um nurt so hard to understand,” Tunger said. “Thelicosans spurk like thurs all the time!”

  “No!” McSchmidt yelled suddenly. “No, we don’t! You sound like a complete idiot! Nobody in Thelicosa speaks like they’ve been repeatedly punched in the jaw since the day they were born! Every time you open your mouth, it’s like you are reaching deep into my chest and rupping urt mur huuuurt  !”

  Everyone in the car was silent, the quiet hum of the up-line zooming toward the command deck buzzing softly in the background. McSchmidt’s face was only a few inches from a very terrified Tunger, and the lieutenant lieutenant’s lips were lined with a thin film of enraged foam. Then, suddenly, all of the blood drained from McSchmidt’s face, and his anger melted away.

  “Oh,” he said. “Oh, shurt.”

  “You’re a spy,” Rogers said flatly.

  “No. No, I’m—”

  “You just said ‘we.’ And you talked like a Thelicosan.”

  “Oh, come on,” Tunger said, his voice thankfully back to a steady Meridan accent. “There’s no way he’s a spy. Did you hear that? His accent was awful. He curn’t urven spurk—”

  “Enough! Yes. I’m a spy. I admit it. I’d rather have my tongue torn out and be executed in public than have to listen to this barbarian brutalize my language.”

  “That makes two of us,” the Viking said.

  Rogers looked at her, his jaw slack. “You’re a spy too?”

  “No,” the Viking said. “I just think Tunger is annoying.”

  “And you know what else?” McSchmidt said, his tirade apparently not concluded. “You’re all a bunch of idiots with bad sensors and an even worse fleet commander. There is no Thelicosan invasion! Where are you even getting your information from? It’s like someone is faking—”

  “McSchmidt,” Rogers said. “Shut up.”

  “—faking the intelligence reports just to get you to remain in a state of high alert, and it’s all some kind of elaborate plot by—”

  “Shut up!” Rogers yelled.

  Thankfully, McSchmidt shut up. In fact, he went absolutely slack-jawed silent. Rogers let out a sigh of relief. He could deal with McSchmidt being a spy later. For now, it was important that the droids remain clueless that he knew—

  “That’s what you mean!” McSchmidt said. “The droids established a secret network to prevent you from discovering that they’ve been providing false reports about Thelicosan preparations for war while they weaseled their way into more positions of authority!”

  The whole cabin went completely silent, with the exception of the witless baboon, who made a hooting noise and swung around on one of the overhead handrails.

  “Yes,” Rogers said, feeling, strangely, both completely numb and murderously violent. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. And now we’re all going to die because the droids just heard every word you said.”

  Deet beeped. “Is that what you’re worried about? I was just going to tell you
that there aren’t any listening devices on the transportation cars inside the ship, but you told me to shut up.”

  Rogers let out a deep breath. “Well, that’s some good news. At least we’re not all going to die.”

  “Oh,” Deet said, “you’re all definitely going to die. But not because the rest of the droids overheard you uncovering their plan. It probably has something more to do with the large boominite explosive device sitting in the engineering bay and ready to blow a planet-sized hole in the Flagship.”

  Everyone on the car looked at Deet.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding. “That will probably kill you first. Long before all this poisoned food you keep talking about will, anyway.”

  * * *

  I. Don’t ask.

  Report: N-1FG-5299-Z-2

  Serial: N-1FG-5299-Z-2

  Distribution: DBS//DSS//DAK//DFR//BB//CLOSED NETWORK A66

  Classification: Special Protocol Required

  Summary: Regarding the previous order to belay the order regarding the order for the preservation of Human 2552’s life.

  Details: Never mind. Kill Rogers.

  Report Submitted By: F-GC-001

  Go Boom

  “How exactly did they manage to build a boominite explosive device in the engineering bay?” McSchmidt asked.

  “They didn’t,” Deet replied. “You did.”

  “What?”

  “I told you not to stack those god-damn containers like that!” Rogers said. “You gave them a bomb, you idiot!”

  “I was just doing what it said to do in the regulation,” McSchmidt said. “If I started failing inspections, I’d get kicked out of the MPF. That wouldn’t make for a very good spy, would it?”

  “A better spy than one running around, quoting military leaders that died two thousand years ago,” Rogers said. “What are you doing on our ship, anyway?”

  “Spying,” McSchmidt said. “Kind of part of the job description, no? Thanks for promoting me to Intelligence, by the way.”

  “I still think your accent sucks,” Tunger muttered.

  “I am going to strangle you if you talk to me again,” McSchmidt said. “I know how to do it, too. They taught me in spy school.”

  “I don’t think I need an instruction manual, you Thellie scum,” the Viking said. She took a large step toward McSchmidt, hands outstretched, the force of her movement rocking the car. Rogers held out a hand, more for the chance to touch her than to try and prevent any harm from coming to McSchmidt. He could really care less about that idiot. Surprisingly, she yielded to his gesture.

  “Let’s not get crazy here,” Rogers said. “McSchmidt let us know that there wasn’t an invasion coming. Maybe we can return the favor by not killing him yet. If what he says is true, then we have bigger problems to worry about than what the best way to choke him is.”

  The tension melted. Well, no, no it didn’t, really. Everyone just sort of looked at each other like they wanted to kill each other but at this point in time also realized it was not in their best interests. Then again, the Viking always looked like she wanted to kill someone, so maybe that was just the way her face was constructed. Her beautiful, beautiful face.

  Rogers shook his head and turned to Deet. “You’re positive that they can’t hear us in here?”

  Deet beeped. “From the data I collected, the surveillance net they’ve implanted is very wide, but they had trouble collecting anything on moving objects. The last information I saw, they were considering stationing droids as operators, but preliminary research through human behavioral schemes revealed that a very unique hat was necessary to make this sort of deception convincing. They were so far unable to discover where to obtain such hats.”

  “Well, that’s good news, at least,” Rogers sad. “But what’s the point of observing us and all that if they’re just going to blow up the ship?”

  “It seems as if the bomb is a failsafe,” Deet said. “If the takeover—and I’m pretty sure it’s a takeover—fails, they can destroy the Flagship, rewrite the records so it looks like the accident was caused by some idiot in engineering who kept stacking boominite containers—”

  “Oh, come on,” McSchmidt said.

  “—and possibly try again on another ship. It’s possible that similar devices have been installed in other ships in the fleet as well.”

  “Great,” Rogers said. “That’s just great. The whole fleet rigged to explode if a bunch of robots don’t take it over. Any idea what their goal is? How did they decide to do this?”

  “I was unable to discover this information,” Deet said. “I did, however, discover what protocol 162 was.”

  “And?”

  “Let me see if I can translate the code properly,” Deet said. He beeped a few times, his eyes flashing. After a moment, the beeping settled. “If I could make an approximation into human language, I would say that protocol 162 is the surreptitious execution of selected organics who are either a threat to the overall plan or who really annoy you.”

  The up-line dinged as it came to the command deck, and a voice crackled through the speakers.

  “Next strp, cmmd dk. Exit on your rfltght.”

  The door opened to reveal a small party of marines waiting anxiously to get on the up-line, probably to go get something to eat. But the inside of the car was the only place they could talk without using a whole slew of ridiculous metaphors.

  Rogers and his companions looked out blankly into the expectant faces of the marines. For a moment, nobody spoke.

  “Uh, going down?” one of the marines said.

  “No,” Rogers said. “Sorry. This lift is broken. We’re, ah, the maintenance crew. We’ll be riding this back and forth until further notice.”

  “If it’s broken, how are you going to ride it back and forth?” asked another marine.

  Rogers chewed on his lip. “It’s just that, ah, there’s a squeaky noise as it passes the zoo deck. We think there might be an animal trapped in there, but we have to ride it past the zoo deck a couple of times to make sure it’s not mechanical.”

  Some of the marines looked convinced—it was a brilliant lie, after all, if Rogers did say so himself—but one of the ones in front squinted and pointed at Rogers’ uniform.

  “You’re not an engineer,” he said. “Shouldn’t the engineers being doing the fixing? And who are all these other people? None of them are engineers either.”

  Rogers cursed to himself. Why was everyone so suspicious? It’s not like there wouldn’t be another car coming along in just a minute to take these meatheads wherever they wanted to go.

  “In fact,” the marine continued, “I don’t even know what that specialty badge is.”

  Rogers looked down at his own collar, remembering that he was still wearing his AIGCS commander badge—execs didn’t change their specialty, since it was only a temporary duty that typically ended in suicide, anyway. Of course the marine wouldn’t know what it was. But that also meant it could be anything.

  “I see you’re not familiar with the new specialty code,” Rogers said. “This is the elevator tech badge. There are only a few of us on each ship.” He patted the edge of the doorframe affectionately. “These babies need a personal kind of love that a general engineer can’t give ’em.”

  “That’s a pretty stupid specialty code,” the marine said.

  “Hey,” Rogers said, somehow feeling genuinely offended at the slight on his made-up profession, “I don’t come into the marine barracks and call you all a bunch of drooling jarheads that shoot about as straight as you piss after sex.”

  “Maybe because that would get your ass kicked, officer or no officer,” the marine growled. “Now, why don’t you get the—”

  “Hey, you,” the Viking said, shoving past Rogers to stand in (and completely fill) the doorframe of the up-line. “Why are you standing there, running your mouth and stopping this elevator tech from getting to work?”

  The marine’s face paled and he took a step back. “Oh, shit, captain.
I didn’t know. I’m—”

  “A drooling jarhead that shoots about as straight as he pisses after sex?”

  “Uh,” the marine said, stammering, “yeah. Sure.”

  The Viking leaned forward and growled. “Sure?”

  “I mean, yes, ma’am! Absolutely, ma’am! Piss like old windshield wiper fluid in the winter, ma’am! I’m sorry for interrupting your ride.”

  The unfortunate marine backed up, saluting no less than three times before he ran into his companions, starting an awkward domino effect of stumbling marines. The Viking took a step back, pressed the button to close the door, and entered the refuse deck as their next destination. As one of the lowest levels on the Flagship, that would certainly give them more time to talk.

  But Rogers wasn’t thinking about that. Rogers was staring at the back of the Viking, watching her impose her will on the marines, and feeling a little bit like a cat in heat.

  She turned around and looked at him, clearly fighting off a smile. “Not bad, right?”

  Rogers found it very difficult to continue speaking while looking at her, so he looked away instead.

  “Anyway, Deet, you were telling us about protocol 162 and them having limited authority to, you know, kill us.”

  “That’s about right,” Deet said.

  “So, what do we do about it?” Mailn asked, putting her hands on her hips. Leave it to a marine to not look disturbed at all that she was potentially within a few seconds of dying at any given moment. The Viking looked similarly unimpressed. Rogers wished he shared this nonchalance about his own mortality.

  “Can we do anything about it?” Rogers asked. “There are shinies—”

  “Hey,” Deet said.

  “—all over the damn ship. They’ve weaseled their way into every squadron, even tried to come up with their own squadron and give themselves weapons. The first chance they get, they’re going to blow a hole in the Flagship and probably kill us all. What are we supposed to do with that?”

  They all thought for a moment. Rogers felt sweat rolling down the inside of his uniform.