Communication Failure

by Zieja, Joe

  Pulling the blankets over Keffoule, who was still wearing her uniform and boots, Rogers sat for a moment at the edge of her bed.

  “This is a real mess,” he said. “You know that? A real mess.”

  “Alandra Keffoule doesn’t make messes,” Keffoule said sleepily. Her eyes were half-closed, resulting in a look that didn’t do good things for her face. It didn’t help that there was a small bead of drool on one side of her mouth, either.

  “I see,” Rogers said.

  He was getting a little bit more of a sense of who this woman was. Now to figure out how to use that to get the hell out of here.

  “You’ll come around,” Keffoule said. “You will. I . . . I . . .”

  Standing up, not without some difficulty, Rogers shook his head. “Just do yourself a favor and don’t buy any dresses or anything. I’m not sure what Thelicosans do for weddings.”

  Keffoule muttered something unintelligible, but Rogers’ mind was elsewhere. He remembered cruising through the guts of the Limiter in the Chariot, and passing through a refrigerated section. There had been a giant pastry in one section that had gone by too fast for him to really be able to tell what it was, but now that he thought about it . . .

  “Wait, was that giant cake in the refrigerator . . . ?”

  Keffoule smiled. “A towering one-point-six-one-meters-high wedding cake with each layer one point six one times the radius of the layer below?”

  “Ugh,” Rogers said. “Go to sleep.”

  The Bun of Power

  Complete disregard for the welfare of her troops, Vilia wrote. Rampant narcissism and unchecked ambition combine to add fuel to a dangerous fire. Grand Marshal Keffoule endangered the lives of everyone in the fleet to fulfill what at first may have been an attempt to seize glory, but has turned out to be nothing more than a chase after a childish fantasy to wed a man she’d never met.

  Vilia relaxed for a moment, sitting back in her chair and tapping a finger against her lips. She wondered if she’d been too harsh on the Grand Marshal. Keffoule had received intelligence that indicated some form of Meridan aggression, but she should have gone to far greater lengths to confirm it before rushing into enemy territory, setting up a jamming net, and asking Captain Rogers to marry her. No doubt Zergan’s hawkishness had been a factor in pushing her over the edge as well.

  No, Vilia thought. She must be held to account. At the very least, Vilia owed the Council an accurate, unadulterated, and properly filled-out report of the activities that had occurred. Once the jamming net was lifted, she could send this and be done with it. No doubt the Grand Marshal would receive an official censure; she might even be removed from command. The major problem with that scenario, however, was that Zergan would be the next in line, at least temporarily, until they could appoint someone new. Vilia was almost sure that would be worse.

  Rubbing her eyes, Vilia slumped and let out a deep breath. She’d been working nonstop over the last few days, trying to get whatever she could in order. She’d also been trying to dig up whatever information she could on Zergan after her observations in the mess hall. Repeated trips to the sandwich bar during and after Sandwich Hour had yielded nothing. Well, except sandwiches, but that was kind of expected. Vilia was unable to find any sort of hidden communications device, nor did she know how Zergan was communicating with anyone given the radio silence. Unless he was sending messages to someone actually aboard the ship, it didn’t make much sense.

  Leaning forward again, she resumed typing. Commodore Zergan displayed behavior that can be called at best suspicious and at worst a clear sign of his mental decay. He spoke repeatedly into kitchen furniture, recited what appeared to be ceremonial words regarding full and empty chairs, and acted in a manner consistent with someone being super-duper sneaky.

  She erased the last three words.

  . . . in a manner consistent with someone concealing their actions and intentions.

  That was better. It was important that she also document what was going on with him. She made sure there were copies in the ship’s central database that would automatically forward to her superiors when a network connection became available. If anything happened to her—Science forbid—then at least she could rest peacefully knowing that her final, properly filled-out reports would make it to the right people.

  Still, though, it wasn’t enough. A couple of paragraphs detailing her suspicions and her displeasure with Keffoule wasn’t really doing the whole situation justice. Something more was going on here, she knew it. She just wished she had any idea how to uncover the rest. She’d submitted information requests through all the proper channels on the ship to try to glean more insight into Zergan’s activities—requests for communications logs, door access times, and the like—but for some reason paperwork didn’t seem to be solving this problem. Every report she got back was about as interesting as, well, a report on someone’s day-to-day activities.

  Voices outside disrupted her thoughts, and she sat back in her chair, rubbing the bridge of her nose with the tips of her fingers. She would have thought that in this age they would have designed doors and walls that did a better job of blocking outside noise. Vilia’s accommodations were simple, organized, and efficient, which was precisely the way she liked it, but she would have appreciated a little more insulation from the stupidity that regularly happened outside their confines. The command quarters held only the highest-ranking officers on the ship, with a special place reserved for Vilia as Secretary, but that didn’t mean it was peaceful.

  Last night she’d been given a real treat: the opportunity to listen to Rogers shouting loudly as he stumbled, presumably drunk, down the hallway, with Xan nattering at him incessantly to go this way, not that way, to present himself in a manner befitting a commander of a fleet, and so forth. Vilia respected Xan—he was quiet and efficient, efficiency being the pinnacle of human character as far as she was concerned—but she couldn’t say it didn’t give her a little pleasure to hear him ruffled a bit.

  The voices outside grew louder, and words started to trickle through the cracks.

  “Get out of my way!” Zergan—giving an angry shout she would recognize anywhere—yelled. His room was just two doors down from Vilia’s.

  “Sir, sorry, sir, I have cleaning duties.” That was a voice she didn’t recognize, but the speech was difficult to understand. Perhaps it was a muffling effect accomplished by the door, but it sort of sounded like he was holding a pillow up to his face as he talked.

  “I don’t need cleaning duties,” Zergan said. “I’m more than capable of cleaning my own room, thank you very much.”

  “But sir, this isn’t your room.”

  Zergan hesitated. “I know that. I’m doing our guest a favor.”

  Vilia perked up. Zergan didn’t do favors. What was going on out there?

  Standing, she walked over to her door and listened. A few buttons brought up the security system so she could use the external camera as well. It was indeed Commodore Zergan, standing next to a man in a floppy, dirty-looking hat and coveralls. He was holding a mop that really wasn’t suited for cleaning rooms; it looked more suited to kitchen duty. Currently, this janitor—a brave man indeed—was using the handle of the mop to bar Zergan’s entrance to what Vilia thought had been designated as Rogers’ room.

  “I have been assigned to do these favors,” the muffled man said. He wasn’t holding a pillow to his face after all, but he had a massive, unruly beard that looked like it was composed of cotton balls soaked in black dye. The picture on her security camera wasn’t very good. He also had a very thick accent, one she couldn’t place. Schvinkians’ accents were fairly light; perhaps he was from one of the seedy little places on Urp.

  “Well, I’m giving you the day off,” Zergan said, making another move to get past the janitor.

  “I must decline. You have duties,” the janitor said. “I will be doing the favors of cleaning.”

  Vilia frowned. The man didn’t even sound like he had a good gra
sp of Standard. What was stranger, however, was the fact that Zergan was arguing with him and, apparently, trying to get into Rogers’ room to clean it. Zergan’s and Rogers’ rooms were next to each other. At the moment, Zergan’s door was open, perhaps since he’d just come out.

  “Don’t make me repeat myself,” Zergan said, his voice tight but restrained. Was he afraid of being overheard? “Get out of my way.”

  “I must clear this with the Grand Marshal,” the janitor said. “She approves my cleaning schedules and I am fearful that if she discovers I have deviated she might . . .” The janitor paused, swallowing. “You know. Do that.”

  Vilia snorted. Undoubtedly he was referring to Keffoule’s spinning back kick. What a barbarian.

  Zergan appeared on the verge of delivering a spinning back kick himself.

  “Fine!” Zergan said finally, throwing up his hands. “Fine. I was going to do it myself, because I’m such a servant-officer like I’m supposed to be. But you know what? I’m going to inspect this room later—thoroughly—and if I see so much as one speck of dust, I will personally see to it that you are demoted to Personnel.”

  The janitor said something so fast and so muffled that Vilia had no idea what it was. Whether he understood the man or not, Zergan didn’t respond. He spun and stormed away toward where his Chariot was docked and vanished from the view of the camera. The janitor waited by Rogers’ door for a while, then walked off.

  The cleaning must not have been that urgent—and it was likely that Rogers was still inside sleeping off the previous night. What had happened between him and Keffoule? He’d probably succumbed to her wiles, the fool. Did Keffoule even have wiles? Vilia certainly did not. At least, she didn’t think so. Wiles were unpredictable and inefficient. Undependable. Unmathematical.

  But maybe it would be a little entertaining to have just a tiny bit of wiles.

  Something else drew Vilia’s attention away from wondering if wiles were worth having and whether or not she had them. Zergan had left his door open. He never left his door open, even for a moment. Yet there it was, a gate to the unknown and secret life of the commodore. And perhaps some answers involving secret sandwich bar conversations.

  Staring at the screen, she wondered if she should. Would she even uncover anything interesting? If she was caught, could she argue that she had probable cause? As a civilian overseer of sorts, she had ways to request warrants and do some digging, but with the network down it would be impossible to do so.

  Vilia knew Zergan was up to something, and she knew that this might be her only chance to find out what it was. Yet going in there without submitting the paperwork first was tantamount to using a computer with someone else’s log-in information. The thought filled her with disgust, but . . .

  Turning around and making sure everything in her room was in order—it wouldn’t do to leave things out of order—she casually opened her door and looked outside. The hallway was empty, which wasn’t surprising considering that at least two of its inhabitants were hungover and unconscious. An eerie silence crept up and settled over Vilia’s ears, making her very aware of her elevating heartbeat, which was, since even before she’d entered Zergan’s room, at quite an unprecedented level.

  She really hoped Zergan didn’t regularly review security vids; there would be no way for her to erase the surveillance camera’s footage of her slowly padding across the hallway, getting in one last look to make sure nobody was coming, and slipping into the room. As soon as she crossed the threshold, she tapped the controls on the wall to close the door, leaving her alone inside Zergan’s room, and turned on Zergan’s security camera display so she could see anyone before they came into the room.

  One look into the room and Vilia nearly fainted. Unlike her room, which was a pristine paradise of order, Zergan’s was a miserable hell of chaos. Clothing was littered across the floor, draped across furniture, gathered up in piles. A display case full of military paraphernalia and awards was marred by food wrappers and a pair of underwear hanging off a plaque. The smell was educational. Together, it was something out of a nightmare.

  Suppressing a gag, Vilia forced herself forward. It felt like she was physically pushing herself against an invisible membrane, all her instincts telling her to either get out or grab a vacuum or at least a moist towelette. For someone so eager to clean Rogers’ room, it certainly didn’t look like Zergan had any experience doing the job.

  Focus, Vilia thought. Efficiency. Zergan’s personal terminal had to be hidden somewhere in this mess. It would be the key to unlocking this mystery. He might have other sources of information hidden in the room, datapads and such, but there wasn’t the time to look for them. Buried in the corner under a pile of dirty uniform shirts and several stuffed animals, including a teddy bear with a purple cape that looked particularly grumpy, she could see the hardware of a personal terminal sticking out from the top of a desk.

  Vilia felt her whole body tense as she walked over to the desk, not because she was nervous about the highly illegal activity in which she was participating, but because she knew that when she did get to the desk she was going to have to touch Zergan’s dirty clothes. She didn’t even touch her own dirty clothes; she used a forked instrument to deposit them in the laundry bin. It would have been silly to touch dirty clothing after one had showered; it would only make one dirty again.

  With no forked instrument available to her, she steadied her trembling hand and began to pick the shirts off the desk, one by one. She used the very tips of her nails, which were due to be trimmed soon anyway, and placed the shirts gingerly on the floor next to her. She knew she’d have to replace the shirts if she was to conceal the fact that she’d been in Zergan’s room, but at the same time she wondered if that would really be necessary. She wasn’t sure Zergan would have noticed a pair of zebra carcasses strewn across the floor.

  The terminal was well used, greased with fingers that had probably had their hands in bags of chips or melted cheese. Vilia was convinced as soon as she sat down that Zergan had no other hidden terminals in the room. Much like squirrels with their nuts, he’d never be able to find them again. Vilia pulled up the chair and then absolutely did not sit in it.

  What was she supposed to do with this opportunity? She wasn’t much of a computer hacker, and these terminals were all keyed to the individual user. It wasn’t the days of old when you could just steal someone’s password after they idiotically left it written on a note on their desk. Hoping that Zergan had left his terminal unlocked turned out to be too much of a pipe dream; the terminal wasn’t even turned on. Strange, for someone who had so many administrative duties as the Grand Marshal’s second-in-command. Had Vilia been on this computer, the keys would have been red-hot from overuse. A tingle of excitement ran through her as she daydreamed a bit about the sheer amount of paperwork such a position would involve. How organized she could make it; how beautifully checked all the boxes would be.

  Focusing on the task in front of her, Vilia began scheming how she could get access. Tapping her hands on the desk idly, she frowned as she thought. She could send a phony message down to IT requesting that the biometrics be disabled, allowing for a password reset, and then send another spreadsheet down to accounting and have Finance improperly reroute it so that the password would end up on the return spreadsheet, and then she could have it routed to the Grand Marshal’s office but then have a form submitted telling the mail clerk to—

  Her hand brushed a loose pair of pants that had been on top of Zergan’s desk, which completely derailed her train of thought. It was, as all things were in this room, dirty, and she’d lost her composure thinking of ways to subvert the terminal security. In her surprise, she pulled her hand back, knocking the clothing off the desk and onto the floor.

  Keep calm, she thought. They’re only pants. Back to the task at hand.

  Only, something had changed. Where the pants had been a moment earlier, Vilia saw an old-fashioned piece of lined notebook paper taped to the desk. On
it were several lines of text under the heading PASSWORDS.

  Vilia sighed. Some people just refused to take information security training seriously. Obviously she would have to file a TH-46 Security Incident Report, which would go in Zergan’s permanent file and probably come up during his next background investigation right after they asked him about betraying the entire fleet to an unknown third party.

  She couldn’t deny the luck in Zergan’s being so careless, and it would be wasteful not to put it to use. She tapped on the power control for the terminal and it instantly came to life; the password list allowed her unrestricted access to the commodore’s system. Vilia started browsing immediately, telling the computer to simultaneously make a copy of as much useful data as it could find and route it to her own personal terminal, erasing traces of the data transfer as it did so. By Science, she was good at paperwork.

  She didn’t find anything useful at first. Typical deputy commander things, such as crew schedules, navigational charts, and contingency plans, dominated most of the time Zergan spent on the computer. There were angry messages to the Finance Squadron about some errors in the accounting records, angry messages to the kitchens for their unauthorized rearrangement of sandwich bar furniture, angry messages to Zergan’s mother for tricking him into eating oatmeal raisin cookies when he thought they were chocolate chip.

  Zergan had a lot of anger.

  After ten minutes of browsing, it seemed as though there was nothing unusual about Commodore Zergan after all. He was just an angry, cantankerous deputy commander who was inordinately passionate about chocolate chip cookies and who had missed his chance at true glory by following Grand Marshal Keffoule to a remote assignment. Why had he done that, anyway?

  Then an icon buried deep in the recesses of the angry messages caught her eye. It was a small picture of a chair, under which was written the word “empty.” It reminded her of the strange utterances Zergan had been making to the sandwich bar when he’d communicated with someone or had been going completely crazy. Vilia hurriedly opened the icon, and she knew she’d hit pay dirt when it revealed another password input prompt, one that didn’t look like a standard program. Nothing she’d heard of, anyway. Perhaps some military tactics simulator?