by Zieja, Joe
“Can’t you just please try to swear instead?” Rogers said.
“[ENGAGE IN SELF-FORNICATION].”
“Actually, I think it’s a valid question,” Belgrave said suddenly. “But you’re starting with the wrong fundamental question. It’s better to start with consciousness, then droid consciousness, and work your way up to collective consciousness theories like moral relativism.”
Time flowed like a river of molasses cooled to near freezing with a philosophical droid sailing on it in a small rowboat.
“Get me Mailn,” Rogers said into the radio, standing up. “Tell her to meet me in the training room. I need someone to hit me.”
* * *
“I don’t know what kind of semaphore class this fella was in,” Skokum said over the radio, his “s” noises whistling loudly through the gaps in his teeth. “But he’s as sloppy as an abacus with its strings cut. I can barely make out what he’s saying.”
“Do your best, Skokum,” Zergan said over the radio. “What does it look like to you?”
“Well, the first letter he put out looks like it should have been a ‘B,’ but then he corrected it to an ‘L,’ and then an ‘H.’ He’s done that with every letter of this first word. So right now, he could be saying ‘butter,’ ‘hellos,’ or ‘locust.’ ”
The Limiter’s bridge was silent, everyone staring tensely at the screen that showed the Meridans’ semaphore troop on the top of their ship. Alandra wasn’t very well versed in this form of communication, but she was pretty certain it didn’t involve a lot of dance-like moves. In the last few letters, it appeared that the Meridan communicator had attempted to twirl around at least twice.
“You see?” Zergan said, looking at Alandra sharply. “They’re saying they’re going to swarm us like locusts. Do you really think these are the kinds of people we should be calmly communicating with?”
Alandra didn’t look at him, but Quinn was quick to jump in.
“I think barring any other evidence, we should probably assume that the first word was ‘hello’ and not ‘locust.’ Unless you think it was ‘butter’ and this is just going to be a conversation about toast.”
A stifled chuckle stopped short in Alandra’s chest, which surprised her for at least two reasons. First, she never chuckled. It was a diminutive form of laughing, which she also never did. Second, she was almost certain that the career bureaucrat Quinn had no capacity for humor and—though she was not entirely familiar with the concept—she was almost positive that Quinn had just made a joke.
Zergan’s face turned tomato red, but Alandra could read the expression on his face. He knew Quinn was right, and so did Alandra.
“Let us assume that the first message was indeed ‘hello.’ Skokum, I want you to transmit the word ‘meeting.’ ”
* * *
Rogers regretted his request to be hit when he got back to the bridge and found it hard to focus on what was going on. Mailn hadn’t gone easy on him, but he had successfully dodged at least one halfhearted punch to the face. He’d also dodged several other strikes that Mailn hadn’t launched; mixing dodging instincts with being a complete coward made for interesting ducking technique that was, maybe, more exercise than required. She’d remained tight-lipped about all the emotional, touchy-feely stuff she’d been talking about the last time they’d sparred. He also didn’t have much opportunity to ask while being hit in the face.
“You know,” Belgrave said as Rogers sat down, sweating, in his commander’s chair, “getting up and leaving to get thrown around by a girl while in the middle of a complicated exchange with a deadly enemy is typically considered poor command style.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Rogers said. “Why don’t you fill me in on all the activity I missed while I was off being aloof and irresponsible?”
Belgrave said nothing.
“I rest my case.”
Rogers looked at the viewscreen and saw that the Thelicosan atop the Limiter was performing what Rogers hoped was the response to his greeting. Rogers had never seen this sort of thing done before; it looked like the man was having a very dramatic seizure one small move at a time.
“This is the most ridiculous form of communication I have ever seen in my entire life. Are we sure this is an actual language?”
“This guy is moving really fast,” Guff said over the radio. “One letter every minute or so. It’s blinding speed. He’s really good.” A moment of silence. “I’m going to signal him to start over.”
Rogers shook his head. Guff could see the viewscreen’s depiction of the Thelicosan flag-waver via a small projection in his helmet, and he was supposed to be relaying the messages back to the bridge. Instead, he seemed to just be getting confused.
“ ‘R’?” he said. “ ‘L’? This doesn’t make any sense.”
“Can you tell him to slow down?” Rogers asked, not really believing that he was making the suggestion.
“What?” Guff said, sounding confused. “Who cares if your eyes are brown?”
“I asked if you could tell him to slow down,” Rogers repeated more loudly.
“The message ‘slow down’ would take a solid thirty minutes,” Guff replied.
“Oh.”
After a few more minutes of Guff muttering to himself, Guff said, “Urinary.”
“What?!”
“Sorry.” Guff paused. “ ‘Meeting.’ The word is ‘meeting.’ They want a meeting.”
“I think they want to meet you,” Belgrave said.
“I think they want you to urinate,” Deet said.
“Everyone shut up!” Rogers said. He was clutching the armrests of his chair tightly. The Thelicosans wanted to meet with him? That didn’t make any sense.
“If they wanted to talk to me,” he said out loud, “why not lift the jamming net and just send me a message? Why all the flag-waving?”
“Because it’s fun?” Deet offered.
“Because they wanted to see how amazing I am?” Guff said.
“Sir,” Belgrave interrupted. “They’re waiting for our response.”
“Ask them where,” Rogers said. “Transmit ‘location.’ ”
* * *
“They say ‘romantic,’ ” Skokum said over the radio, and Alandra’s heart nearly ripped through her chest. “At least I think that’s what they’re saying. The Meridan dialect is very peculiar.”
“How can there be a dialect in semaphore?” Zergan wondered aloud.
Alandra barely heard him. Captain Rogers had just transmitted the single most hopeful message she’d ever received in her life. Romantic? As in romantic pursuits? Was it a question? Perhaps he was asking if the meeting was going to be romantic. She very badly wanted to tell Skokum to simply answer “yes, please,” but that seemed almost too easy. Captain Rogers was clever, skilled, smooth. He’d want her to play it careful, be coy.
“There must be some mistake,” Quinn said, tapping her finger against her lip. “There’s no reason for anyone to be romantic.”
Alandra felt her anger boil up. How dare this woman say there was no reason for anyone to get romantic! There was every reason! The numbers! The ratios! Those intimate, incredible intelligence reports that had taught her so much about the man in charge of that fleet!
And why shouldn’t he transmit romantic intentions? Wasn’t she, the Grand Marshal of the Colliders, enough of a reason for any man? Captain Rogers should count himself lucky that she had directed her affections at him. And now he dared insult her by having Quinn publicly doubt his possibly erroneous message of romance?
Steeling herself, Alandra forcibly began to control her breathing, closing her eyes. The knowledge that almost nothing she had just thought made any sense at all fell like a blanket of reason over a smoldering fire. She needed to be like any two numbers that could be expressed as a fraction: rational. Calm. And do her best not to kick anyone in the face.
The only thing she could think of to do—other than jump into a shuttle and fly to the Flagship with the
traditional Thelicosan betrothal gift of a protractor—was to set the meeting location. The closest thing she could think of to neutral ground was a Thelicosan cargo ship that had minimal personnel and no armament.
“Skokum,” Alandra said. “Transmit the name of the ship Ambuscade and then give them the ship’s alphanumeric coordinates.”
* * *
“They just transmitted a phone number, I think,” Guff said. “And they say ‘accordion.’ ”
“That’s just mean. They’re jamming our communications, and they send us a phone number?” Rogers harrumphed. “That can’t be right. Tell them to repeat the message.”
“Eh? What? Boy, this helmet is foggy,” Guff said absently.
* * *
“Something appears to be wrong with their interpreter,” Skokum said. “He keeps asking me to repeat myself. At least, I think so. He’s giving me the signs for both ‘repeat’ and ‘snuggle.’ ”
Hope blossomed in Alandra’s chest.
“Keep transmitting until they get it,” Zergan snapped.
* * *
“A bunch of numbers again, I think,” Guff said uncertainly. “And I don’t know what the hell the word was. Is ‘soupsoups’ a real thing?”
“No, it is not a real thing,” Roger said. “Ask them again.”
* * *
“Bumfuzzle.”
Rogers remained silent.
“I’ll try again,” Guff said.
* * *
After the better part of a day of flag-waving, and one very hastily constructed rescue mission when an overenthusiastic wave from Guff sent him careening off the surface of the Flagship, it seemed as though they had reached an understanding with the Thelicosans. They’d agreed on a place, a time, and some terms. The captain of the Flagship would meet directly with the commander of the Thelicosan fleet. No weapons. No tricks.
There were also two other messages that seemed like outliers, one of which seemed to be a euphemistic sexual suggestion and the other of which was just the words “eat poop you cat.” Everyone agreed to dismiss them both as errors. Guff had certainly made enough of those.
“The Ambuscade?” Rogers said. “That’s a funny name for a ship.”
“No way, man,” Flash said. “That’s an old Thelicosan word that means ‘neutral ground.’ That’s the best place to have a little powwow.”
Rogers looked at him, puzzled that such an utter idiot would have any etymological knowledge at all.
“That’s not what that word means,” Deet said.
“Shut up, bolt brain,” Flash said. “I don’t need you computing me, or anything like that. Why don’t you throttle back a bit? Check your six.”
“Alright, alright,” Rogers said. He pointed at Deet. “You, relax for a minute.” Then Flash. “You, stop speaking in code. I’m not done yelling at you for attacking floating metallic cows. The Thelicosans want to meet, and it doesn’t seem like we have much of a choice. Commander Zaz, did you get a readout on that ship?”
“Yes, sir,” Zaz said. “The Ambuscade is a Thelicosan cargo ship, commissioned and built two decades ago and attached to the Colliders a little over a year ago. We don’t have any information on the identities of the crew, but it wasn’t built for combat. It doesn’t even appear to have any defensive systems other than warning systems and some countermeasures.” He blinked and, looking off into the distance, placed his hands over his gigantic headphones. “It seems like as neutral a place as we’re going to get for a meeting with the Thelicosans.”
Rogers sat back, thinking. Did he really have a choice?
“I think you really need to devote a little more time to researching the meaning behind the name of that ship,” Deet said.
“I really don’t need a vocabulary lesson right now, Deet,” Rogers said tiredly. Could anyone around him do anything without nagging him about something inconsequential? It seemed like ever since he’d become acting admiral of the fleet, he was busier dealing with personalities than he was with duties. Even more confusing, he’d just mentally given Deet personality, despite the fact that he knew Deet was just a droid with a Freudian Chip. Even that wasn’t that special; he’d met plenty of other F Chip droids (Froids), and they’d tried to kill him. Several times.
Rogers stroked his beard, then looked around the bridge, scanning the faces of the crew waiting for him to make a decision. The one face he missed was the Viking’s. Her broad forehead and thick eyebrows would really have been a sight for sore eyes at the moment, even if she was screaming at him for being a poor excuse for an admiral.
“Any thoughts? If you have ideas, speak them now.”
“Pick up a dictionary,” Deet said.
“Any other thoughts?”
“Yeah,” Flash said, “I got one. We go in with guns, right, and then we give ’em a Split S”—he held up his hands—“like this, and then I totally splash some bandits.”
Rogers gave him a long, hard stare. “Are you sure your last name isn’t Klein?”
Flash looked at him sideways. “Dude, no. My name is Flash.”
Unable to really comprehend that statement, Rogers mentally erased “Flash” from the room and looked around expectantly. Apparently, everyone was just as dumbfounded as he was, as there were no other comments. Even the garrulous Commander Belgrave didn’t seem to have any leadership textbook quotes to throw at him.
“Fine. Everyone take some time to relax after that really intense day of space miming. Then let’s put together the crew. Someone tell Captain Alsinbury to get up here so that we can put together the strike team.”
“Strike team?” Belgrave said, breaking his silence. “We agreed there would be no weapons.”
“I’m desperate, Belgrave, not stupid. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the mess hall to get me some soupsoups.”
Sandwich Hour
There were three things that Secretary Vilia Quinn—as official, documented policy—did not like. The first thing was lint. Despite their being a marvelous example of the properties of electric charge, nothing marred a newly pressed pantsuit like those little static ninjas. The second was improperly filled-out forms. The instructions were always right there at the top. The third, obviously, was discovering treason.
Vilia’s pulse wasn’t used to racing very much—she’d spent a considerable amount of her bureaucratic career discouraging any kind of excitement—so the sensation she was feeling at the moment was particularly foreign to her. She also abhorred the sound of heavy breathing, so the fact that she was panting like a dog was not a little unsettling.
She didn’t know what had compelled her to follow Zergan through the corridors of the Limiter, but it was certainly paying off now. Zergan had finished speaking with the Grand Marshal and had sneaked off through the ship in a way that told Vilia something was going on. Call it bureaucratic intuition, if there was such a thing. In general, she suspected everyone of ulterior motives—she was a politician, after all—but something about Zergan felt different. Especially now that he’d spent the better part of the last ten minutes talking into an empty cafeteria buffet.
“No, that’s not . . . I see. Well, I suppose . . .” What was Zergan talking about? Everyone knew that Sandwich Hour—actually called Snaggardir’s Sandwich Hour, in honor of the company that made the sandwich bar—had ended quite some time ago, so there was nobody around. There certainly weren’t any sandwiches. And until now, Vilia had also been sure there were no hidden communications devices in the sandwich bar. That meant there was an incorrect record someplace. This would have to be fixed.
Idly, she felt the back of her head, where her triple hair buns sat as both a symbol of status and a source of comfort. One hair was out of place by an inch and a half; she quickly tucked it back into order and took a deep breath. She would have to remember later to make a note of that. It wouldn’t do to repeat mistakes.
“No, of course not,” Zergan continued. “It’s not like that. It’s just that Alandra and I have worked together for a
long time. I would rather nothing happen to her if it didn’t have to.” He paused, waiting for a response. “I think I can make it work . . . Rogers? He’s an idiot. At least so far there has been every indication that he’s an idiot . . . Well, he blew up our milk containers instead of our jammers . . . No, I don’t think that was part of a larger strategy . . . Yes, we have ample reserves, thank you, and we did get the cookies.”
Vilia’s heart quickened, and a sensation that bordered perilously close to excitement crept up inside her. Was Zergan even talking to anyone in the fleet? Was he talking to someone in the Meridan fleet? Surely the comment about any harm coming to the Grand Marshal was an indication that he was working for someone else. But who? He was far too bellicose toward the Meridans to be working for them behind the scenes, unless he was an exceptional actor.
“Really?” Zergan said. “Rogers did? Well, how would I have known that? It’s not my fault. I’m not a programmer. Then it’s all the more important that we take care of this soon. Fine. I’ll make the arrangements. The meeting isn’t far off. I’ll report back once it’s complete. Until the chairs are empty. Out.”
Until the chairs are empty? What was that supposed to mean?
She didn’t have much more time to think about it, as a couple of Thelicosan soldiers—at least, she thought they were soldiers, and not sailors, or spacers, or whatever—came stomping down the hallway unexpectedly.
“Oh, hello, Madam Secretary,” said one of them, a short, stocky man with a face like a bowl of pudding into which several pieces of fruit had been dropped. She wasn’t sure why she conjured that particular image, but it fit, particularly in the way his face shook when he spoke. He raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
Vilia frowned at him. She was in far too high a position on this ship for someone of such low rank to be questioning her activities, but the Grand Marshal had made a bad habit of treating her like a rodent. It set a poor example for the troops. She would have called him down for it, but all this uncharacteristic sneaking around had rattled her a bit.
