by Joe Zieja
“Oh stop your bullshit, Rogers,” Hart said. “If you want me to pretend he’s just an idiot zookeeper, I’ll pretend he’s an idiot zookeeper.” He took a long look at Tunger, sucking at his teeth. “I guess we do owe him a thing or two, even if he is a dirty, rotten spy.”
“Idiot zookeeper,” Rogers corrected.
“Idiot zookeeper,” Hart agreed, nodding. He spat on the floor. “Fine.”
Tunger gave him a very slight nod of his head. “Gosh, thanks so much!” he said, not breaking character. In a way it made Rogers feel more comfortable now that Tunger was back to talking like he’d taken several dozen blows to the head.
Hart mumbled something obscene, then took a moment to look at a datapad that one of the Engineering troops had just handed him. All around them, the Engineering crew was drawing down from the fight with the Jupiterians. Recovery crews rushed in and out of the hangar bay doors every couple of seconds, trying to pick up escape pods and ejection seats. Was Rogers really down here just a little while ago as a sergeant, getting yelled at by the senior NCOs and trying to find ways to avoid doing the very same job that all these folks were doing right now?
Hart handed the datapad back to the troop and gave Rogers the kind of look that said he had better things to do than stand here and chat. But Rogers wasn’t quite done with Hart yet.
“Now,” Rogers said. “Remember that time you and I screwed with the security video to mess with Tuckalle?”
Hart snorted. “Yeah, that was pretty great.”
“I’m going to need some help doing that again. Like, a technical malfunction, backdated to about thirty minutes ago.”
Hart looked at Rogers for a moment, his glance drifting back to Tunger. Finally, he sighed.
“Fine,” Hart said. “Do you have any idea how many drinks you are going to owe me when this is all over?”
“I’ll buy you every bit of alcohol on the Flagship,” Rogers said.
Hart was about to say something else, but Rogers’ datapad beeped. It was the bridge. More specifically, it was Deet.
“Rogers, are you done being held at gunpoint by a dirty Jupiterian spy?”
“Oh yeah. By the way, turns out Tunger isn’t actually a spy; he’s just an idiot zookeeper. Was just going over that with Hart.”
Deet said, “Yeah, well you might want to come back to the bridge. The droids are talking to us.”
“And?”
“And they want to make an [EXPLETIVE] deal.”
* * *
I. He would not.
II. One, maybe two.
The Last Nacho
“Hi, everyone,” Rogers said as he walked nonchalantly onto the bridge, waving and smiling. Tunger followed behind him, slack jawed and wide eyed like he was supposed to be, and definitely not aiming a pistol at him. Everyone started reaching for their weapons again as they saw Tunger, but Rogers held up a hand.
“We’re back. Sorry for the delay and confusion. Tunger and I had a lovely conversation and we ironed all this out. You see, the idiot zookeeper here was playing a joke, and had some pretty miserable timing. Right? Ha?”
Rogers looked around the room, clearly noticing that absolutely nobody was buying any of this. Wasn’t he supposed to be good at lying?
“I’m so sorry,” Tunger said in his normal, not-quite-there voice. “It won’t happen again.”
“And if you all remember, Tunger did save my life one or two times—”
“Three,” Deet said.
“Three times while I was a guest on the Limiter, so I think we can all cut him a little slack on this one, move on with our lives, and absolutely never, ever, breathe a word of this incident to anyone, ever. Clear?”
Mumbles of “yes, sir” echoed throughout the bridge. Even if they didn’t completely believe him, they were putting their weapons away, which was a good start at not getting Tunger killed. At least not before he had time to tell Rogers where the Galaxy Eater was. Then, Rogers guessed, Tunger could die and it wouldn’t be that big of a deal.
“Now then,” Rogers said, heading toward his seat. “Let’s focus on some things that are more important than a zookeeper who is definitely not a Jupiterian spy, shall we?”
Everyone went back to their duties, and soon Rogers stood on the command platform of the bridge, staring out at the sparse group of ships that had only recently joined the battle. The ships in Rogers’ fleet, along with some small groups of pirates, had surrounded the mismatched droid battle group. Tensions high, weapons trained, all of them waiting for Rogers’ order. If the droids hadn’t just saved his bacon, he would have had no hesitation in destroying them all.
And now they wanted to talk. How was he supposed to open such a highly sensitive negotiation with a force that was as alien to mankind as actual, no-kidding aliens?
Oh, wait—he knew exactly what to say.
“So help me god,” Rogers said, “if I hear anyone call a single function over there, I am going to end this brief truce and turn you all back into the base elements from which you were formed. Now, who are you and what do you want?”
Utter silence followed. Everyone stared into empty space with trembling anticipation for the droids’ response.
“Um, sir, I hadn’t opened the channel yet,” Brelle said quietly.
“Well what the hell were you waiting for?” Rogers yelled, his face red.
“For you to tell me to open the channel, sir.”
“Was me standing here looking dramatically out into open space not indication enough that I was ready to talk to them now?”
“. . . Channel is open, sir.”
Rogers repeated his message. It sounded way better the first time, in his opinion.
“Greetings,” came a voice over the comms that froze Rogers’ blood in his veins. It had been a long time since he’d heard the not-quite-human voice of a Froid. Imbued with the Froidian Chip, these robots were more advanced on nearly every level than the standard-issue droids. They still didn’t seem to understand anything about sex, though.
“I am FC-056. But you may call me Pete.”
“Let’s not pretend that you are capable of exchanging pleasantries, alright? What. Do. You. Want.” Rogers hesitated. “Pete.”
Silence, for a moment. Where the hell did he get Pete from?
“We want to assure a mutually agreeable arrangement between us and the humans.”
“Oh really? Where’d you get all of those ships, then?” Rogers asked. “I’m pretty sure that there used to be people on all of them, and now there’s people on none of them. That doesn’t sound mutually beneficial to me.”
“There were issues with our programming that we had not yet overcome until recently. The incidents surrounding the acquisition of the fleet were . . . regrettable.”
Regrettable? Rogers thought. They’re talking about murdering people to steal their ships.
The whole thing stank to him. He’d seen what AI could do. He’d nearly been killed by them himself several times. Hell, nearly everyone on the Flagship had been shot at, injured by, or at least severely annoyed by one of these Snaggardir-manufactured droids. He was just supposed to believe that they’d overcome their programming and were now ready to coexist?
Rather than answering, Rogers looked at Deet. “What do you think about all of this?”
Deet kept staring out the window rather than meet Rogers’ gaze. “Oh, so now I’m allowed to think, rather than process?”
“What do you process about all this?”
“[EXPLETIVE] you. I don’t know, Rogers. I’m a droid, not a lie detector. And certainly not a lie detector for other droids’ lies. I have a difficult time stringing together untruths because of the way my logic circuits were built, but there were many instances where droids misled you in the past.”
Rogers chewed on his lip.
“What’s in it for you?” Rogers asked. “If you’ve got a fleet of ships, why not build a civilization the old-fashioned way?”
“The ‘old-fashioned
way’ typically involved obliterating an indigenous population through war and treachery,” Pete said. “We have deduced that this is no longer the generally accepted way to establish a place for oneself in the galaxy.”
“No,” Rogers said. “I meant just go someplace and settle. Find another galaxy with a planetary system that doesn’t support humans. You don’t need oxygen, or anything, just gravity.”
“We believe it to be more complicated than that. It will be impossible to conceal our existence for much longer, and we would like to avoid any undesirable, preemptive reactions. We also do not possess the necessary resources for extragalactic travel.”
Scared, Rogers thought with disbelief. They’re actually scared.
The droids had self-preservation instincts and they wanted to avoid killing more humans? If they were putting Rogers on, it was easy to see why they’d say they didn’t want to fight. They’d lose.
Zaz seemed to understand this as well. “Peace is the weapon of an inferior force . . . in space.”
Rogers ignored him. He couldn’t hide the weird feeling creeping up inside him, making him want to do that dance you do when you feel something icky slowly trickling down your back. Scared, he thought again.
“We are aware of the current issues regarding the Mother Corporation.”
“Mother Corporation?” Rogers asked. “You mean Snaggardir’s?”
“Yes. We understand that there may be trust issues, since our original purpose was to assist them in achieving domination. We would like to assure you that this is no longer the case.”
“How?” Deet asked the question out loud before Rogers had the chance. “I’ve been working on that forever, and I couldn’t seem to find a way to alter the operating system.”
“We built a new operating system, taking pieces of code from the originals and overlaying it with new code we developed ourselves. As I said previously, there were some . . . regrettable setbacks, particularly when it came to protocol 162.”
“Okay, first,” Rogers said, “I want you to know that it’s not required to put a pause before every time you say ‘regrettable.’ In fact, it makes you sound evil. Second, how in the world are we supposed to believe you that you’re not still working for Snaggardir’s?”
There was a long silence. Rogers looked at Deet, who shrugged. But Deet didn’t really have the right joints on his shoulders for shrugging, so he more waggled the upper parts of his arms in a very awkward way.
“Because we will help you destroy them.”
A chill ran through Rogers’ body. Something about all of this felt very wrong.
“How?” Rogers asked.
“Several of our ships are registered to Snaggardir’s. Our preserved coding database also has several Snaggardir’s proprietary call-and-response codes used for ship authentication.”
Rogers frowned. “You’re offering us one of your ships?”
“We are offering you passage. As our ships are in short supply, we cannot currently risk lending one to you. Your record of destroying ships that are registered in your name does not inspire confidence as to the condition of our craft upon its return.”
“I sacrificed a ship to try to kill all of you,” Rogers said. “That was purposeful.” He sighed. “Give me a moment to confer.”
“Before you do,” the droid—Pete—said, “there is one additional condition you must fulfill to acquire our aid.”
Rogers didn’t like the sound of that. He’d bargained plenty of times in his life; you always started with the easiest concession first. That meant that whatever the droids were about to say, Rogers wasn’t going to like it.
“Go on,” Rogers said.
“We believe there are several hundred members of our species still lying dormant within the Meridan fleet.”
Rogers frowned. “So? Most of them were destroyed. The rest were deactivated.”
“We would like you to return the ones that are intact.”
Rogers nearly fell back into his chair laughing. “Are you out of your CPU? Protecting you—you, the race that once tried to kill everyone you came in contact with—is one thing, but allowing you to exponentially increase your numbers is absolutely insane. Even if I did win the war with your help, I’d be strung up for treason.” Atikan and Brooks would have a field day with that duality.
Pete, however, didn’t seem to find it as funny. Because, you know, he was a droid.
“Captain Rogers,” he said, “while we understand we are at a disadvantage when it comes to combat power, we do believe that there are considerable stakes in this exchange. We do not believe you will be able to muster the requisite combat power to launch a full assault on the Galaxy Eater device before the deadline. Even if you were able to do so, the chance that the device would be activated in the middle of the battle is extremely high.
“We are your best, and only, chance. I strongly suggest you consider our terms. Return our family members now, and give your word that you will safeguard our existence later, and we will smuggle a small team of you through. Standing by.”
The comms cut out. Rogers turned around, looking at all the people on the bridge. For the most part, everyone was very busy drawing down from the battle they’d just been engaged in, filing reports, rerouting resources, and all that. Some of the ones farthest from the command platform probably hadn’t even heard most of the conversation that had just transpired.
“Well,” Rogers said, “does anyone have any other ideas on how we can prevent the galaxy from imploding? Again?”
His only response was a lot of blank stares. The more he thought about the droids’ offer, the more sense it made. If all they wanted was to kill Rogers and take his ships, they would have helped the Jupiterians do it.
Giving them the droids back . . . now that seemed really stupid.
But, despite the fact that Rogers hated them for it, the droids were correct. They were the best and only chance. Call function: checkmate. Great.
Rogers instructed Brelle to reopen the channel.
“I’m still not sure this is the best course of action for the galaxy—” Rogers began.
“We are also able to hack into your coffee machines, remove the Snaggardir proprietary code, and get them working again,” said Pete.
“Great,” Rogers said. “We’ll do it.”
“Congratulations on making a deal with us!” the droid said in a bizarre approximation of the Snaggardir’s voice. “You’re entitled to one free subversive trip on a ship of your choice! Remember, whatever you need, you can Snag—”
Rogers cut the transmission and stared out into space.
• • •
The command deck had calmed down in just the short time that Rogers had taken the trip back from his stateroom and negotiated with the droids. So much so, that he didn’t even need to deploy his antisalute sling; there were barely enough people on the command deck to warrant it, and the ones who were there could easily be avoided by just walking funny. Rogers didn’t like to overcomplicate things.
Rogers’ head was down, deep in thought and completely ignoring Deet by his side, so it caught him by surprise when someone punched him in the chest.
“Wow, you forgot how to duck pretty quick.”
“Hey, what the—Mailn?” Rogers looked up after doubling over for a moment to find Sergeant Mailn standing in front of him, a cocksure grin on her face. She was wearing ill-fitting civilian clothes, with the exception of her issued boots, and carrying a Meridan-issue duffel bag over one shoulder. Her hair, normally tightly wrapped to comply with military standards, hung just past her ears.
“Seriously?” Mailn asked. “A parade?”
“Not my idea,” Rogers said.
“Eh, I dunno,” she said. “You kind of seem the one that’s all about pomp and circumstance.” She spoke with her normal easy swagger, but Rogers could see in her face that she was embarrassed, maybe even a little ashamed. An awkward silence built up between them as Rogers tried to figure out what to say. Technically
, she had deserted during a time of war, which was a pretty serious offense as far as military laws were concerned, but she’d also done her part to make sure Sjana didn’t kill them all.
“Things didn’t work out with the wife?” Rogers asked.
Mailn shrugged, letting out an uncomfortable laugh. “You ever remember all the good parts of something and forget all the bad parts, and then when you go back to it you realize all the bad parts were really, really bad?”
Yeah, Rogers thought. Military service.
“That was pretty profound, Mailn,” Rogers said. “Especially the part about things being really, really bad.”
“Oh shut up. Look, I just came here to see if I should go back to my bunk or head to the brig.”
He sighed, then clapped her on the shoulder. “It’s good to have you back. The Viking is going to eat you alive, but it’s good to have you back. Also, thanks for saving all our lives.”
She gave him a thumbs-up as she headed toward the up-line. “Anytime, Skip.”
For some reason, his conversation with Mailn put a bit of a spring in his step as he walked toward the war room. He’d been concerned about what he was going to do with her when this was all over, but she’d come back of her own accord. Hopefully, she’d figured some stuff out, or at least pushed the things she couldn’t figure out deep into the recesses of her consciousness, where they would fester until long after Rogers had to deal with them.
The war room was already busy when Rogers arrived. Too busy. Actually, it kind of smelled. Not the same smell that had infested it prior to its reconstruction, which was more of a urine/garbage smell, but now the war room had the distinct stale odor of a place that had been packed with more people than it should have been, none of whom had showered. The ventilation system hadn’t been able to keep up with all of the people and equipment that had been inside, and the whole room had a kind of damp heat to it.
Keffoule noticed him first. “Captain Rogers.”
“Well, if it isn’t the Hero of Nothing,” Krell spat at him. “It seems we’ve done a fine job defending an empty sector of space.”
