by Zieja, Joe
“Leaning against the wall, mentally filing paperwork,” she snapped. “What are you doing?”
Pudding Face shrugged and held his hands up defensively. “Just getting dinner.”
“Dinner doesn’t start for twenty minutes,” Quinn said. Twenty-two, actually.
“We like to be early.” He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially: “They undercook the bacon if you rush them. Chewy bacon is the best.”
Vilia scowled. The fourth thing she hated was pork, but this wasn’t really the time to go on about it.
“Well then,” she said, her words clipped, “let’s let each other go back to our respective tasks, shall we?” She raised her eyebrows, emphasizing the dismissal. She needed to get out of here before—
“Sandwich Hour was over a long time ago, Council dog,” Zergan said, his eyes narrow, as he rounded the corner.
For a moment, Vilia froze. The troops who had been telling her the secrets of chewy bacon snapped to attention and saluted Zergan sharply, according him a completely different kind of demeanor from the casual flippancy with which they had addressed her. Zergan waved them away, but in the moment of their departure, she was able to get a firm grasp on her composure and rein it in like the stray hair in her bun.
“Oh yes,” she said. “Sandwich Hour was over quite some time ago, wasn’t it? Funny that both of us would be here, then, not getting sandwiches.”
As happened often lately, Vilia was surprised by her own words. Being a career bureaucrat had given her a tight control of her speech, and a mastery of subtlety. Ever since being assigned to the Limiter, however, she’d been prone to acid outbursts and arm-flailing. Controlled, calculated arm-flailing, of course.
Ever the unflappable military man, Zergan took her veiled threat in stride, his mouth barely tightening into a sardonic smile.
“Yes,” he said, almost hissing. “No sandwiches for either of us.”
Vilia was fairly certain that continually discussing their mutual lack of sandwiches was about as useful as a quadratic equation where ‘a’ equals zero. She desperately wanted to simply ask Zergan what he had been doing, who he had been talking to, and why he’d been doing so with his face in the sandwich bar.
A thought occurred to her that perhaps there was no one on the other end. Zergan had been a member of the F Sequence special operations squadron a long time ago—along with the Grand Marshal—and she knew that sometimes such duties could . . . break people. Rumor had it that the Grand Marshal herself was a victim of the mental strain of the F Sequence, which was why she had been transferred to command instead.
The thought unsettled Vilia. Dealing with a sane warmongering Zergan was difficult enough. Dealing with a potentially crazy warmongering Zergan would probably be . . . well, it would probably be exactly the same, really.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” Zergan said with a mocking bow of his head. “I have to go prepare to deal with an inferior force.” He made no effort to keep the disgust out of his voice, his giant, caterpillar-like eyebrows scrunching further together as he scowled. “We’ll see how that goes.”
Then it hit her like the tangent to a parabola. Which, she guessed, was more of a glancing blow by definition, but still! The meeting! Zergan was going to sabotage the negotiations. A slow, secretive smile played behind his lips, but he made strong efforts to hide it. Or did he? Did he want her to know he was going to pull something, want her to know she could do nothing to stop him?
Vilia tried her best to keep her face impassive, but it proved a near-impossible task. She allowed herself a slow swallow, the kind that made her feel like a coward. She desperately wanted to touch her buns, or at least file some paperwork.
Just when she thought Zergan was going to do something violent—there weren’t any other troops around to see him do it, if he’d really wanted to—he gave her another fake bow and walked away.
Vilia watched him go, reaching up to grab her hair buns as soon as he wasn’t looking at her anymore. What was she supposed to do with this information? She couldn’t very well bring it to the Grand Marshal. Keffoule absolutely hated her, and there was no real, hard evidence that Zergan was planning anything.
Glancing at the sandwich bar, she let out a heavy sigh. There was nothing she could do. She couldn’t even get a sandwich. If Zergan managed to bring weapons on board the Ambuscade or something like that, it would be the end of the tenuous peace they’d reachieved after bursting into the system unannounced. What had the Grand Marshal been thinking?
If she couldn’t figure out a way to expose him, it would be all over. The Meridans were in a miserable position already; there was no way they’d attempt to violate the very fragile agreement they’d struck with the Thelicosans. They’d never walk out of there alive.
* * *
“There’s no way we’re walking out of there alive unless we violate the agreement,” Rogers said.
The Viking, looking as beautiful as ever, glared at him.
“Oh, we’re crawling back to the marines, are we, now that your miserable moron pet of a pilot completely screwed up?”
The Viking was staring at him with a look that was at once utterly terrifying and incredibly exciting. She hadn’t spoken to him in the time leading up to the mission, but now Rogers couldn’t afford having her avoid him. It created a void in his life so large that he thought he might collapse. He also might eventually need the Viking’s marines to shoot things, and that was also important.
“I’m saying that I’m about to put my head into the mouth of the lion, and it would be nice to have a team backing me up.” Rogers felt a little silly saying all these things; he was really only repeating things he’d seen in movies. That was about all the introduction he’d received to combat, aside from blowing up a droid or two by accident.
They were standing in the hallway of the training deck—the easiest place to find the Viking—and a few troops passed, offering him salutes. He’d forgotten to deploy his antisalute arm sling and was forced to reciprocate, which was both distracting and slightly exhausting.
“Nice?” the Viking asked, managing to make one word sound very threatening. “Nice? That’s what you think of me and my team?”
Jeez, what is your problem? he thought.
“Jeez, what is your problem?” he said aloud, shocking himself.
The Viking’s eyes went wide. For a moment, she seemed to be speechless. Her usual default aggressive behavior slid away, revealing a moment of what appeared to be confusion. It didn’t last very long.
“I am going to use your face as a battering ram,” the Viking said in a strikingly calm manner.
“Please don’t do that,” Rogers said, ducking reflexively. His muscles really did feel like they were moving faster; even Mailn had said he was getting pretty good at dodging “slow attacks that children would have little trouble avoiding.”
The Viking didn’t exactly throw a punch that a child could have dodged, but Rogers had ducked before she’d thrown it. Since he had already moved, it went wide, sending her off balance. Her impressive mass, combined with the fact that Rogers might or might not have grabbed a piece of her uniform and tugged a little just in an effort to be closer to her, sent her reeling forward. The result was a lot of grunting, some shouts of surprise, and two bodies rolling on the floor.I
When it ended, and Rogers stopped hyperventilating, he was treated to the rare and scintillating sight of the Viking’s eyes, big, brown, and menacing, staring into his from about three inches away. In some faraway place in his imagination, he was certain they were looking at him with love and adoration. In reality, the Viking was reaching for her disruptor pistol. She sure was warm, though.
“You son of a bitch,” she hissed. Rogers could feel her breath on his face like a sweet perfume caressing his skin.
“You tried to punch me!” Rogers protested. Unfortunately, their resultant configuration placed most of the Viking’s weight directly on his lungs, which made for a more strangled protest
than he would have liked to admit. That her free hand was wrapped around his throat didn’t help matters either. Boy, there was a lot of asphyxiation going on. Rogers was mentally confirming that he wasn’t really into that sort of thing when they were—perhaps thankfully—interrupted.
“What’s going on here?” a familiar, slightly robotic voice said. “I am still working on familiarizing myself with human customs, but I am nearly positive this is not the typical or appropriate place for nearly anything.”
“Shut up, Deet!” Rogers yell-whispered. Little black floaty things were starting to dance across his vision and mingle with the little silver floaty things.
The spell was broken, however, and the Viking simultaneously released his throat and rolled off him, an action he’d always dreamed would have been a little more romantic, or at least a little more naked. She stood up, dusted off her uniform, and glared at Rogers as he shakily pulled himself to his feet. Deet, who for some reason was holding a piece of paper with an inkblot on it, was apparently taking a break from analyzing the deactivated droids.
“You’re a miserable excuse for a commander,” the Viking said, her voice ice. She was breathing heavily, and her eyes blazed with fury. Rogers really wished he knew what was making her so angry.
“I didn’t exactly volunteer for the position,” he snapped back. “I’m trying to do the best I can without getting everyone underneath me killed, and right now I have a giant fleet of people with very ambiguous and confusing intentions wanting to have a tea party with me on one of their own ships. I’m asking you if you’d provide some security. Is that such a bad idea?”
“It’s not your ideas,” the Viking said. “It’s your tactics.”
Rogers bristled. “What’s wrong with my tactics?”
“You think you’re so clever. You never know when to charge or when to play it smart. In fact, you do it backward in almost everything.”
“Just because I didn’t let you storm the enemy capital ship doesn’t mean I don’t know when to charge,” Rogers said.
“And you think taking weapons into a negotiation on a completely neutral, perfectly safe ship—”
“The Ambuscade,” Deet said. “You still haven’t looked up what it means, have you?”
“—is a better idea?”
Some troops were gathering to watch the confrontation, which was beginning to make Rogers feel uncomfortable. He had some clout from what he’d done with the droids, but he wasn’t exactly the hero of Merida or anything like that. He didn’t need his troops seeing him get browbeaten by a lower-ranking officer, even if she was more capable and beautiful.
“You just said I had good ideas!”
“No, I said you had bad tactics,” the Viking said. “I never said anything about good ideas.”
This woman was so frustrating! Never mind the fact that Rogers couldn’t tell if she was angry, furious, or just in a rage. Subtle differences mattered.
“So what?” Rogers said. “When am I supposed to charge? Maybe if you educated me a little bit more than just trying to punch me in the face, I could learn a thing or two about tactics.”
“Maybe I don’t want to educate you,” the Viking said. “Maybe I’d just prefer a commander who knew what he wanted and knew how to get it.”
“Well, maybe I’d prefer a marine who knew other ways of communicating than punching people in the face,” Rogers said. “I just wish you’d share with me a little more.” He blinked. “Your tactics. Share your tactics.”
The Viking folded her arms and cocked her hips in a way that was both intensely distracting and possibly the prelude to a right hook.
“Share my tactics?” The Viking let out a bombastic belly laugh. “Don’t patronize me. Commanders don’t want me to share my tactics with them. They’re full of shit if they say so.”
Rogers frowned. “What makes that so unbelievable?” he said. “You’ve got good tactics. Nice, and full. Of wisdom and experience. Nice and full of wisdom and experience.”
For some reason, this seemed to make the Viking even angrier. She leaned forward, her face turning a deep crimson, and spat her words at him.
“Commander or not, if you keep making fun of me I am going to use your robot boyfriend as a sledgehammer for your spine.”
Deet beeped. “Given the number of joints and pivot points, I would be far better use as more of a whipping instrument than a blunting instrument.”
“Shut up,” Rogers growled. “I’m not making fun of you! Why do you always have to take tactical discussions to the next level? Can we please just solve the issue at hand?”
The Viking grunted and pointed at Rogers. “Why do you always have to try to solve everything? Why can’t you just talk about the tactics?”
Rogers paused. He was starting to get a strange feeling that they were talking about different things. Or maybe they were talking about the same thing but neither of them knew it.
“Because I don’t know anything about tactics,” he said slowly. “Didn’t you just say that?”
“And I just said I prefer not having to hold my commander’s hand,” the Viking shot back. “Maybe it would be nice every once in a while if you took the initiative.” She snorted. “Not like it would make a difference. No marine likes a commander with disingenuous tactics.”
“Wait,” Rogers said. “What the hell are we talking about?”
“Just stop bullshitting me, Rogers,” the Viking said, her face relaxing. She looked resigned, maybe even a little bit sad. “Why don’t you go back to the training room and get sweaty with Mailn for a while? Maybe she can teach you a thing or two about tactics.”
“What?” Rogers said, totally caught off guard but recognizing the signs of jealousy instantly. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Wait, do you think Mailn has a thing for me or something?”
Do you have a thing for me? Rogers thought.
The Viking barked a laugh. “And you call yourself a commander! A commander is supposed to know his people.”
“I know Mailn!” Rogers protested. Maybe he liked making the Viking jealous.
“Oh for . . . Mailn doesn’t have a thing for you. She’s gay, you idiot! Forget this. I’m out of here.”
She turned and walked away briskly, and briskly for her was a trot for any normal-sized human being. Rogers was left standing there, his head spinning, wondering what in the world had just happened.
“So does that mean you’re coming with me to the Ambuscade?” he called after her.
The Viking gave him the finger just before she vanished into the in-line.
“Okay,” Rogers said quietly. His forehead hurt from frowning and Mailn hitting him in the face just a while ago during one of their training session. Mailn. Why had the Viking mentioned her, especially if she knew Mailn wasn’t attracted to him? It didn’t make any sense.
“I’m very confused,” Deet said.
Rogers was too, but he was curious about Deet’s reasoning.
“Why?” he asked.
“Well, based on past experiences, I was under the impression that humans only used kitchen terminology to talk around things.”
Rogers cocked his head. “What?”
“You really thought you were talking about tactics?” Deet said.
Rogers nodded slowly. “Deet, I’m about to go meet the enemy commander. I think a tactical discussion is an appropriate thing to engage in.”
Deet was quiet for a long time. So long, in fact, that Rogers thought perhaps there was something wrong with the gravity generator and Deet had lost power. But Deet shook his head in a very human-like gesture and made a disconcerted beeping noise.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I wonder which one of us is the robot.”
A trio of cooks, dressed in their aprons, passed by and offered Rogers sharp salutes and sharp cheddar, which he returned/ate. Come to think of it, his arm was feeling a little stronger. Maybe he’d get used to this after all. The cooks, for reasons Rogers did not understand, turned and ente
red one of the training rooms used for old-style knife combat. He supposed things were a little touch-and-go on stressful days in the kitchen.
“Well,” Rogers said, “whatever you’re talking about isn’t that important right now. I’ve got to get back up to my room and get ready.” He took a deep breath. “Can you handle things while I’m gone?”
Rogers turned and headed back toward the up-line, which would take him to the command deck and his private stateroom, and Deet followed obediently.
“What about CARL?” Deet said, perhaps sounding vaguely jealous. What was up with everyone today?
“I have an unnatural aversion to trusting anyone named Carl,” Rogers said. “And CARL is no exception. Besides, I’ve never met CARL.”
The up-line operator, a spry young woman wearing the traditional train conductor’s hat, smiled and saluted as she opened the door for them.
“You can’t meet CARL,” Deet said. “It’s a computer program.”
“Still,” Rogers said, stepping inside the car. “I’d feel better if my deputy was calling the shots in case anything goes wrong.”
Deet sat down on one of the chairs, another gesture that seemed very un-robot-like. Did he even really need to rest his feet? Next thing Rogers knew, he’d be going to the lavatory to empty his oil reserves.
“That’s fine,” Deet said, “as long as you understand the monumental irony in putting a droid in charge of your ship after spending so much effort trying to prevent droids from taking charge of your ship.”
“Irony noted. Don’t screw it up.”
“Thanks for the faith in me, [EXCREMENT GATEWAY].”
The up-line zoomed through the belly of the Flagship, and they rode in silence for a while. Rogers couldn’t slow his pulse; everything about this meeting sounded like a trap to him. He was meeting a commander he didn’t know on a ship that wasn’t his in a battlespace that was distinctly weighted toward the other side. He reminded himself that if they simply wanted to kill him and the rest of his fleet, they could have done so already.
