Communication Failure

by Zieja, Joe

  “Ah,” Zergan said as the bartender put the drinks in front of them. Before Rogers could grab his, however, Zergan picked it up and handed it to him instead, which Rogers found kind of awkward, kitty glass aside. “The Iron Morgan. To men!” Zergan said, raising his glass to Rogers.

  “To men?” Rogers said, clinking the glass. Before he could take the first sip, however, the bartender snatched the glass out of his hand, appeared to examine it, and removed a spot from the side using a towel.

  “Thanks,” Rogers said hesitantly as he took the glass back, taking an obligatory first sip. It tasted like fairy dust and sparkles.

  “Right,” Zergan said, putting down the glass and smacking his lips. “Captain Rogers, I’m glad you agreed to meet me.”

  “I always try to drink with people who’ve shot at me if I get the chance,” Rogers said, never having drunk with anyone who had shot at him before, ever. “It helps calm the waters, if you know what I mean.”

  Zergan nodded and took another sip. Rogers scooped up his own glass to drink again and couldn’t help but notice that his drink was fizzing a little bit, probably from passing it back and forth between him and the bartender. The Iron Morgan actually wasn’t that bad, frilly accoutrements aside.

  “I suppose you know what I wanted to talk to you about, then,” Zergan said.

  “No,” Rogers said. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  “It’s about the Grand Marshal.”

  Rogers paused with the glass up to his lips. Boy, he was drinking fast; he tended to do that when he was nervous, and something about a deputy enemy commander who clearly had the hots for a woman who loved Rogers made him nervous. Rogers took another long sip, giving himself time to compose his thoughts, and put the glass down nearly empty.

  “You must know that—”

  Zergan raised a hand and shook his head. “You don’t have to say anything else. I understand the position you’re in. You are unable to resist her womanly charm, and I absolutely cannot blame you for that. But I think you fail to understand her history. Bartender! Another.”

  Rogers had barely realized he’d finished his drink, and was about to protest—he didn’t mind lots of alcohol, but lots of fructose was another thing—but the drink was already half made before he was able to open his mouth. The bartender was quite fast. In another very odd exchange, the bartender handed the glass to Rogers but was intercepted by Zergan, who then handed it back to Rogers, who was about to drink before it was taken from him by the bartender again for a brief moment before being returned. Rogers hesitated. Was this some kind of Thelicosan bar custom? Was Rogers insulting Zergan by not juggling Zergan’s drink?

  Trying to let it slide past him, Rogers took another sip of the fizzy, fruity drink. The sugar was almost overpowering, but perhaps it was a good thing. Behind there, very faint, he could taste something absolutely awful, like a mixture of metal and feet. The impression was barely there before it vanished, swallowed by the fruitiness.

  “Alandra . . .” Zergan stopped. “The Grand Marshal’s history is . . . colored. I am sure you know she was a prominent special operations soldier at one point.”

  “I guessed,” Rogers said.

  Zergan nodded gravely. “That alone should make you tread lightly. She and I were in the same unit for a long time.”

  Eyeing Zergan up and down, Rogers could easily believe this leather-chewing soldier had been involved in some really shady stuff, though he still had no real idea what that would entail in a military that had supposedly been at peace for the last two hundred years.

  Zergan didn’t appear to know how to approach whatever it was he was trying to say. He looked at Rogers, then at his drink, then back at him, frowning. Was Rogers doing something wrong? Drinking cultures were so widely varied, you never really knew when you were insulting someone. The bartender, his cap still pulled low, busied himself with cleaning glasses, though he’d left all the components of the Iron Morgan out. No doubt he expected to be making another.

  “There’s more to it than that,” Zergan said. “You must be wondering how she ended up with command of this fleet instead.”

  Rogers shrugged. “The thought had crossed my mind, but it’s really none of my—”

  “There was an accident.” Zergan’s voice dropped, his tone ominous.

  “Very sorry to hear that,” Rogers said, making his way through the latter half of his second drink. He barely felt anything at all, though the fruit juice was helping with the remnants of the hangover headache from the night before.

  “You’re probably wondering what the accident was,” Zergan said.

  “Actually,” Rogers said, “I’m sure the Grand Marshal wouldn’t appreciate—”

  “It was at the end of a long campaign,” Zergan said, settling back on his stool and motioning for the bartender to give them another round. Rogers hadn’t finished his yet, so he drained it in one quick gulp and put the empty glass on the bar. This time, he didn’t even reach for the finished drink. Zergan picked it up and handed it to him, and then the bartender took it back for a moment to clean the glass. Why was Rogers’ drink so fizzy? Zergan’s appeared to be as calm as open space.

  Zergan raised his glass a bit in a toast, and Rogers did the same. This was a lot of sugar. He was starting to feel jittery, as though he’d just consumed a few cups of coffee.

  “We deal with a lot in the F Sequence,” Zergan said, then laughed at himself. “I probably shouldn’t even be telling you the name.”

  “Then don’t,” Rogers said, squirming. “I’d really prefer to avoid any of those ‘you know too much’ scenarios, if you don’t mind. I’ll forget all about the F Sequence.”

  “It’s headquartered in a small village on Schvink,” Zergan continued.

  “That’s very interesting,” Rogers said, burying his face in his drink.

  “Anyway,” Zergan said, “this campaign we were on, it was just before the accident. We’d spent months tracking a zip jack cartel through the jungles on some planet I probably shouldn’t tell you.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “It was Urp.”

  Rogers gulped at his drink.

  “Urp has a lot of jungle on it, so it’s easy for them to hide, and there are a lot of animals there that prey on humans. Alandra got separated from the main group and spent most of her time pretending to be a leopard to try to not get eaten.”

  Zergan paused.

  “Are you feeling okay?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Right as rain,” Rogers said. “Aside from, you know, being given a lot of classified information that I don’t need to know.”

  Zergan thought for a moment, his face blank. Then he shook his head and continued.

  “It took us a long time to recover her—we actually thought she was a leopard for the longest time—and when we did, she’d changed. She barely spoke, wouldn’t even look me in the eye. She wouldn’t eat anything except raw meat thrown at her, and she’d developed a level of paranoia I haven’t even seen in a schizophrenic.”

  “That sounds awful,” Rogers said. “So terrible we probably should move on to something else. Say, where did the name Zergan come from, anyway? Is it Old Earth or a new planetary dynasty?”

  “So paranoid,” Zergan said, “that we had to keep her in isolation for weeks.” He sighed. “I thought we’d lost her completely.”

  The man genuinely seemed concerned about his compatriot. Rogers supposed those sorts of war buddies tended to form a unique bond, though he still had no idea why Zergan was sharing that with him.

  “Alandra recovered a bit, and . . .” Zergan trailed off, forgetting himself for a moment. “We jumped the gun on reintegration. The next day, she saw a mirror for the first time since the mission.”

  Rogers, who was really starting to feel kind of shaky from all the sugar, pushed away his empty glass. He noticed that Zergan, despite his garrulousness, had finished his drink as well, and the mustached bartender went to work making them a new ro
und without instruction. Rogers sort of wanted to tell him he’d just like some water, but he didn’t want to insult Zergan.

  Another glass on the bar. Another interception by Zergan. Another reinterception by the bartender. And finally Rogers had another drink. This was so weird.

  “What’s so bad about a mirror?” Rogers finally asked.

  Zergan looked up, his eyes blazing, piercing. “She didn’t recognize herself. She thought she was one of the cartel members, or, worse, one of the feral leopards.” He paused. “Her instincts kicked in, and she did the only thing her body knew how to do. She kicked herself in the face.”

  Rogers gaped. “What? That’s not even possible. How is that possible?” He tried to imagine an anatomical configuration that would have allowed him to kick himself in the face. He could barely touch his toes!

  Zergan just shrugged. “The force of it put her into a coma. When she woke up, she was more herself, but she was . . . broken. They kicked her out of the F Sequence—our top secret organization, headquartered on Schvink, if you needed a reminder—and put her out to pasture here.”

  “Kicked herself in the face,” Rogers repeated. “Do you realize how not possible that is?”

  “I followed her out here to look after her,” Zergan said. “Turned down the biggest promotion of my life to become her deputy.” He didn’t sound happy about it. In fact, he was gritting his teeth so hard that the veins on his neck were bulging out. Suddenly, he looked at Rogers, and looked at his drink again.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked. Angrily.

  “I feel fine!” Rogers insisted. “Look, I appreciate the concern and the camaraderie and the attempts at reconciliation, Commodore Zergan, but this all seems a little strange. Why are you telling me all this information? Why can’t you just let me grab my own drink? Why is the bartender’s mustache a different color than it was when I walked in?”

  It was true—at least he thought it was true. The mustache had been black when Rogers had walked in, he was sure of it. Now it was brown. Was it a different style, too?

  “Trick of the light,” the bartender said, but it came out more like “truck of the lurt.”

  Rogers shook his head. “Whatever. Look, Commodore Zergan . . .”

  “Really, though,” Zergan said. “How do you feel?”

  Raising an eyebrow, Rogers sat back. “Do you need me to sign some kind of affidavit testifying that I am in good health? Are you worried about the legal ramifications of kidnapping me and all that? Because I can do that if you want.”

  This didn’t seem to be the right answer. Zergan stood up so fast that it nearly made Rogers jump off his stool and run for the door.

  “Fine!” Zergan shouted. “I am very glad you feel good. This is excellent news.”

  It didn’t sound like excellent news. Rogers made allowances for differences in culture, but he didn’t think shaking a fist in someone’s face was recognized as friendly on any planet.

  “I have to go!” Zergan yelled, his eyes wide. “It has been a pleasure sharing this time with you! We should do it again sometime since you are feeling so healthy! ”

  “Yes!” Rogers yelled, trying to fit in. “We should definitely have more Iron Morgans sometime in this bar, right here!”

  “Great!” Zergan shouted, extending his hand, his face red. “I bid you good night!”

  “Wonderful!” Rogers said, taking Zergan’s hand and regretting it immediately. He’d never received an angrier, more painful handshake in his life. He wasn’t completely sure that Zergan hadn’t broken a few bones.

  And with that, Zergan amicably stormed out of the room, cheerfully throwing a stool as he exited.

  “Remember what I told you about the Grand Marshal!” he barked affably as he vanished from sight.

  What a friendly guy.

  Rogers turned around to thank the bartender for his service and calmly explain that he had no money and therefore could not pay for anything that had just transpired, never mind leave him a tip. It was a conversation he’d had many times, and one that had nearly succeeded once. In this case, however, it was true. He didn’t have access to his credit reserve while a prisoner on an enemy ship.

  The bartender was staring at him. Did he look familiar?

  “Surr,” he said quietly.

  “You don’t need to call me ‘sir,’ ” Rogers said, waving the word away. “I just wanted to tell you that I’ve run into a bit of an unfortunate circumstance, and it appears that my drinking companion has left prematurely without giving me the opportunity to talk him into paying my bill for me.”

  “Surr,” the bartender said, placing some sort of special emphasis on the word for some reason. Probably because he was pissed off since he’d just been told he wasn’t getting paid.

  “I know, I know,” Rogers said. “If you’d just allow me some time—”

  “Put everything on my tab,” came a voice from behind him. The voice he really didn’t want to hear at that moment. He was going to do the whole whirl-around-in-shock thing, but if Keffoule really was a paranoid leopard lady, he didn’t want to make any sudden movements.

  “Grand Marshal,” he said slowly. “I’m so glad you found me.” Had Zergan been right? Was she really crazy? Well, Rogers knew that already. She was crazy. But Rogers hadn’t thought she was dangerously crazy or anything. She’d promised never to kick him in the face again. Could he trust her?

  She came into his field of view as she sat where Zergan had been a moment earlier, and appeared to be on the verge of saying something before changing her mind.

  “Who was here?” she asked tightly. “Was it another woman?”

  Rogers blinked. “How did you know someone was here?”

  “The seat is warm. Answer me!” she shouted, looking at him with eyes that might as well have just set him on fire. Wow, her tone had changed.

  “It was your d-d-deputy,” Rogers said, trying to keep his calm. Why was he stuttering? He shouldn’t be stuttering. It was all the damn sugar; he remembered times from his youth when he’d sounded similar after eating too much cake. He thought he’d outgrown it by oversaturating his system for years, but the New Flagship Diet had obviously done poor things for his sugar tolerance.

  “Zergan?” Keffoule said, her face relaxing slightly into something that mixed hot, unreasonable rage with sudden confusion. “What was he doing here?”

  “He invited me for some d-d-drinks,” Rogers said, then hiccupped. Sheesh.

  “Why are you so nervous?” Keffoule asked, her eyes narrow. “Are you hiding something from me?”

  “I’m n-n-not hiding anything,” Rogers said. “It’s all this damn f-f-fruit juice!”

  Keffoule looked at him sideways as she turned back toward the bartender and ordered something that Rogers had never heard of called water. Come to think of it, she did look a little worse for wear. She had “lost” the duel, after all.

  “So,” Rogers said, “do you come here often?”

  It was a lame line, and he really had no interest in flirting with her, but he was genuinely curious.

  “No,” she said. “Almost never. I’m tracking your datapad.”

  Rogers nodded. Of course she was.

  They sat next to each other, not saying anything for quite some time. Keffoule sipped her water, and Rogers sipped nothing. He really didn’t want anything else with sugar in it, but he always felt awkward not having a drink when the person with him was drinking.

  “I’ll have a water, too,” he said finally.

  The bartender put a glass on the bar, and Rogers waited for Keffoule to pick it up so that they could do this strange drinking ritual. It became apparent after a moment, however, that it wasn’t going to happen. Eventually Keffoule turned and frowned at Rogers.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Rogers hesitated. “I’m waiting for you to pick up my drink to hand it to me so that the bartender will take it and then hand it back to me?”

  Keffoule’s eyes nar
rowed. “I may be unaware of Meridan relationships, but I can assure you that in Thelicosa there is no such servant-like attitude toward wives or wives-to-be.”

  Her voice could have cracked diamonds. Rogers felt himself scooting back on his barstool, trying to put space between him and this woman. If that wasn’t some sort of tradition, what the hell had Zergan been doing the whole time? Rogers looked at the bartender for some sort of hint, but the bartender actually shook his head, like Rogers was some sort of idiot.

  “Don’t blame me,” Rogers said. “I don’t know what the hell you crazy people do here.”

  He was talking to the bartender, of course, but Keffoule seemed to think it was directed at her. At least, that was what he assumed, since she looked about ready to kill him at that moment.

  “No, no,” Rogers said, holding up a hand defensively. “That’s not what I m-m-meant. Damn it!”

  Keffoule’s mouth tightened. “You know, I came down here to express admiration for the way you handled yourself last night, Captain Rogers, but I am feeling disinclined to compliment you. You have lied to me twice since I have sat down. Who is the other woman who was here with you?”

  “I told you,” Rogers said. “It was your d-d-deputy.”

  “You are stuttering like a fool!” Keffoule said, slapping her palm against the bar. “You think I believe any word you are saying?”

  Rogers was about to protest further, but he could feel his lips trembling before he even opened his mouth. If Belgrave had been here, he would undoubtedly have psychoanalyzed Rogers’ stutter, since it was tied to his childhood, and come up with some sort of explanation like he was infantilizing himself on purpose to avoid making mature decisions. And then Rogers would have punched him. Or at least ordered the Viking to punch him.

  The Viking. Just the thought of her made him flush a little. He’d been silly to think he could just toss his love for her aside for a couple of drinks and a one-point-six-one-meter-tall cake.