System Failure

by Joe Zieja

  “Better figure something out now, old chap!” Tunger said. He took a couple of shots to discourage a more enthusiastic entry, and managed to hit one of the Jupiterians in the shoulder.

  “Um,” Rogers said, the panic rising inside him. What the hell was he supposed to do here? How did he deal with any piece of electronic equipment that he no longer wanted to deal with?

  Reaching over, Rogers unplugged it, then cut the power cable with his utility knife.

  Tunger gave him a look in between disruptor shots.

  “What?” Rogers said. “We only need to disable it for a little bit while we win the space battle. It’ll take like, twenty minutes to fix that cord.”

  The machine beeped.

  “Congratulations on disabling the Galaxy Eater!” came the Voice. “You are entitled to Life Beyond Tomorrow, the new book out by Snag Publishing, redeemable at any of the many Snaggardir’s Sundries locations across the galaxy! Remember, whatever you need, you can Snag It at Snaggardir’s™.”

  “See?” Rogers said. He pointed the rifle that Tunger gave him in the general direction of the breached wall and managed to shoot the ceiling behind him. “It worked!”

  “Bloody brilliant!” yelled Tunger. “Now if you could start working on a way out of here, that would be fantastic.”

  Rogers nodded, shooting the floor in the next room, which had no people in it.

  “Deet!” he yelled into his datapad. “It’s down! It’s down! ”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

  “And how does that make you feel?” Deet asked.

  “For fuck’s sake, Deet, send in the things that will make the other things explode!”

  “Fine,” Deet said. “But just this once. Okay, everyone, it’s time for showing!”

  “It’s ‘showtime,’ ” Belgrave said in the background.

  “Whatever,” Deet said. “For [EXPLETIVE]’s sake, just send in the things that will make the other things explode.”

  Identity Theft

  The full power of the Joint Force barreled through Un-Space, disgorging trillions of credits and millions of tons of metal into the now desperately confusing and large battlespace. Instantly, Jupiterian fighter patrols swarmed the area, shooting wildly. Ships exploded. The radios lit up with the cries of battle and rapidly disseminating orders.

  The only problem was that almost none of the good guys were shooting back. And Deet thought that this was a suboptimal battle configuration.

  “What is going on?” he asked from Rogers’ command platform. Despite being ordered to do this many times, this would be his first attempt at actually directing the fleet’s tactics. “Why are there so many of our capital ships and frigates not employing weapons?”

  S1C Brelle, who really should have been promoted by now, spoke up. “Um, sir. Droid. Guy in charge. I’m not really sure what to call you.”

  “I assess that the semantics of military protocol are of little importance at the current moment.”

  “Right,” Brelle said. “Deet. Anything above a fighter-size aircraft requires authorization from the command echelons to actually execute combat orders.”

  “And?” Deet said. “I’m giving authorization!”

  “Well, according to this”—Brelle indicated her screen, which Deet could not see—“no authorization has been given.”

  Great. Rogers forgot to actually execute the battle plan before he left. Well, in truth, Rogers hadn’t built the battle plan before going into Snaggardir’s. He’d told Deet to make, and then execute, the battle plan.

  It seemed like every problem could be solved by shoving his dongle in something, so he figured now was as good a time as any to give it a shot. Plugging in and sorting through multiple layers of orders and routing data, he found that there was indeed no signatory in place for any of them. Deet was listed, yes, but . . . according to the Meridan military database, Deet didn’t exist.

  That presented a problem, because Deet really, really needed to not exist in the Meridan military database. Getting thrown out was the best thing that had ever happened to him. If he was registered as a piece of Meridan property, it would make leaving the Flagship after this battle exceedingly difficult. Maybe impossible. Rogers would have to execute the order remotely.

  “Hey, uh, boss?” Zaz was asking. “We’re going to get creamed out here unless we start shooting.”

  “Please wait,” Deet said. “Your call is important to us and will be answered in the order it was received.”

  Why wasn’t Rogers answering his datapad?

  • • •

  “Don’t shoot the machine, you idiots!” General Szinder bellowed.

  Tunger and Rogers huddled next to the machine like it was a great, big, life-giving blanket, which, at the moment, it was.

  “It makes no difference, sir!” one Jupiterian troop yelled. “They’ve already unplugged it.”

  “See?” Rogers hissed. “Told you it would work.”

  Tunger responded by scattering the latest influx of Jupiterian soldiers with a few blasts of his disruptor rifle.

  “Plasma core is getting low, chap,” Tunger said. “We’re not going to be able to hold them off for much longer.”

  Rogers swallowed. Datapad communication with the other team had been lost ever since Keffoule made the last report. And ever since Rogers’ datapad had been blown to pieces by enemy fire. Hopefully they were too busy with their own problems to talk to Rogers, and not too busy being dead. They could try to hold out until the Viking, Keffoule, and Mailn came to support them, but there were no guarantees that they were coming. Even if they did show up, it was impossible to see how many Jupiterians had gathered outside the Retro Room. Enough time had passed now that the entire Jupiterian army was likely lined up out there, waiting for their chance to burn a hole in Rogers.

  General Szinder himself poked his head through the breach and took a couple of shots.

  “I thought you said to hold our fire, sir.”

  “I thought you said they unplugged it already!”

  Rogers reacted about three seconds too late and shot the wall somewhat near where Szinder would have been, had he entered the room and taken three steps to the left, then stood still and waited to be shot.

  “Very nice,” Tunger said.

  “I warned you about this.”

  “Give me that!” Szinder said. “Why didn’t you idiots use one of these ten minutes ago?”

  Before Rogers could wonder what Szinder was yelling about, he heard something clink and clatter against the floor. A small, cylindrical object rolled into their little alcove, glinting in the light of the arcade.

  “Flash!” Tunger yelled.

  “Where?” Rogers yelled.

  In response, Tunger picked up the object—which Rogers now realized was a flash grenade, not Flash the pilot, which would have been far more dangerous—and hurled it back out of the room. His throw was absolutely perfect, landing the grenade right outside the breach of the Retro Room. A moment later, Rogers felt himself being pressed against the floor by a Tunger-shaped object, and a gigantic bang rattled the room, accompanied by a blinding light.

  Rogers made a noise that anyone would expect someone to make while being crushed by a Jupiterian, then being yanked to his feet by that same Jupiterian and shoved out of the only reasonable cover they had.

  “What are you doing?” Rogers cried.

  “Taking advantage of the opportunity, mate. We’re not going anywhere in this little room. This way!”

  The Retro Room wasn’t very big, but it was certainly bigger than the room that housed the Galaxy Eater. Rogers felt like he could breathe a little easier as they started weaving between Skee-Ball machines and pinball machines. Groans and yells were still coming from the breach, and Tunger grabbed another disruptor rifle from one of the fallen soldiers.

  “That’ll do for now. Come on!” Tunger said.

  “Where? This room only has one door!”

  “You d
on’t need a door.”

  They finally reached the back corner of the Retro Room, which Rogers thought was the side that would have conjoined it with the larger part of the Fun Zone, had there not been an entire wall full of stuffed animals and vintage toys in the way.

  “I don’t think we’re going to be able to hide in the stuffed animals,” Rogers said.

  Ignoring him, Tunger grabbed the side of a pinball machine and, with miraculous strength, shoved it over against the wall. Climbing atop, Tunger began fiddling with something in the ceiling.

  “Air vent,” Tunger said before Rogers could ask.

  “I am not going in there,” Rogers said.

  “Then do me a favor, mate, and lie down somewhere far from me so I don’t get any pieces on me when you die.”

  Rogers grumbled. He’d only been doing any measure of physical activity for a short time now, and it mostly consisted of ducking and running away from death. He wasn’t even confident he could fit in the damn air vent, never mind crawl around in it.

  All of this happened in just a few seconds, but it was enough time for the troops outside to begin recovering.

  “Which one of you threw that thing?” Szinder asked. “You’re supposed to wait until the timer is almost done so that doesn’t happen!”

  “You did, sir!” someone yelled. Rogers heard the sound of a rifle butt hitting someone in the helmet.

  “Get inside!” Szinder yelled. “And fire at will!”

  “Tunger . . . ,” Rogers said.

  “Up you go!” Tunger responded, forcefully guiding Rogers on top of the pinball machine. It wobbled underneath him.

  “I don’t think both of us should be standing on this at the same time,” Rogers said.

  “Oh, right then. You’ll just pop on up there by yourself, won’t you, you great physical specimen?”

  Tunger offered him his cupped hand, not at all worried by the thought of the pinball machine collapsing underneath them, and knelt down.

  “Why is everyone calling me fat today?” Rogers muttered as he put a boot in Tunger’s hand and felt himself propelled upward. The vent, as it turned out, was larger on the inside than the opening, which Rogers barely fit through. It wasn’t very tall, but it was wide enough that he could turn his body around and shimmy backward to help Tunger up.

  Only he didn’t have a chance to help Tunger up. When he finally reoriented himself and got his disruptor rifle out of an unpleasant location, he couldn’t help but notice that the air vent grate was back on the opening, and Tunger was definitely not inside.

  “Hey!” Rogers said, poking his face above the grate so he could see. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “No time,” Tunger said. “One look and they’ll see where we’ve gone, then they’ll just be able to shoot us from underneath.” He slapped a couple of locations on his newly acquired disruptor rifle and looked down the sight. “I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”

  Rogers swallowed. What did this mean?

  But of course he knew what it meant.

  “Tunger,” he said. “I don’t—”

  “Better start crawling, Captain Rogers,” Tunger said. “Do take good care of the animals for me, will you?”

  Without another word, Tunger kicked the pinball machine to the side and charged back toward the entrance to the Retro Room.

  For a moment, Rogers couldn’t bring himself to move. What had just happened? Why had Tunger, after all this, just done that?

  The first shots of the new skirmish rang out, snapping Rogers out of utter confusion and into utter panic. If Tunger was going to sacrifice everything to give him this chance, then he was going to take it. He started crawling.

  It only took a few seconds to realize that he was, unfortunately, not adept at navigating air vents and had no idea where he was going. A moment later, he came to another realization that he probably, at the very least, should have been crawling away from the sounds of the fighting, and not toward them. The fact that there were such sounds, however, meant that Tunger was still putting up a fight. Another few feet, and he reached a new grate that led back down into the Retro Room, this time in the direct center.

  Rogers could see the mess they’d made clearly now; debris from the breach explosion littered the floor, and there were Jupiterian soldiers lying there as well. Tunger had established cover somewhere outside Rogers’ field of view and was expertly picking off soldiers as they came through, using a minimal amount of ammunition. How had a man so skilled convinced the world that he was such a blithering idiot?

  Then Rogers could see the disruptor pulses coming from Tunger’s direction stop. He heard the telltale sound of a rifle that was out of juice; Tunger was out of ammo again. In a moment, Rogers was going to watch Tunger die. His breath caught.

  “Gerd, you old dog,” came Tunger’s voice. He sounded tired all of a sudden, maybe hurt. “Still playing the part of the rabid-wolf’s teeth, are you?”

  Tunger stepped into Rogers’ view. He had indeed taken a shot to the hip, but it didn’t look too bad.

  “Hold your fire!” Szinder said. “Wait! I know that voice.”

  Now, into the mess of what used to be a very fun room with a lot of really cool games, General Szinder stepped through and stood right under Rogers. He held a disruptor pistol pointed at Tunger. Due to the angle, Rogers couldn’t see much of his face, but his stature exuded military authority. It reminded him a bit of Zergan, but with two eyebrows.

  “You!” Szinder said, laughing. “Oh, this is rich. First his most trusted assistant, and now his brother-in-law. Sal is going to be furious when he hears about this.”

  “Then it was all worth it,” Tunger said. Rogers could see that he was no longer holding the empty rifle, and there were none in reach. Szinder had him at his mercy—and Rogers didn’t really think “mercy” was an often-used word in the general’s vocabulary.

  “Where’s your friend?” Szinder said, looking around.

  “Spies don’t have friends,” Tunger said.

  “They also don’t have trials.” Szinder put his finger on the trigger of his pistol.

  “History will be quite enough of a trial for me,” Tunger said. “Doesn’t matter if you put a hole in me or not, Gerd. It’s all over.”

  Szinder made a noise that perhaps indicated that Tunger was right, but he didn’t want to admit it. Keffoule had mentioned that the Jupiterians had an escape plan, hadn’t she? What else were the Jupes keeping in reserve?

  It was then that Rogers remembered that he had a disruptor rifle with him. The vent had an opening wide enough. But Rogers couldn’t shoot the broad side of a barn-shaped space cruiser. And the rifle was currently trailing behind him. Slowly, Rogers turned over and started pulling the rifle, collapsing the stock so that he could better maneuver it in the vent.

  “It wasn’t over two hundred years ago,” Szinder said through clenched teeth. “It’s not over now. It won’t be over as long as any Jupiterian is living under the oppression of a galaxy that didn’t keep a place for them.” He looked around him for a moment. “What is that noise?”

  Rogers froze.

  “Probably your ego bouncing around in your skull, mate,” Tunger said.

  “Fine. There’s no point in debating politics with you.”

  “Clearly not,” Tunger said. “If we could hurry this along, then?”

  Rogers got his hand around the rifle and tilted it so that the barrel pointed downward. The grate wasn’t quite big enough to poke the barrel of the rifle through, but if he positioned it just right, the pulse should go through. If he was wrong, he’d blast the grate, potentially burn his face off in the process, and maybe collapse the entire vent.

  Szinder took a step closer, forcing Rogers to re-aim and clang all over the inside of the vent. This was never going to work.

  “Well then, I suppose that’s it for two traitors today. Ms. Hiri gets a cell, because Sal is such a softy, but no quarter for you, Tunger.” His voice darkened, and he grinned. �
�It’s time for me to burn you to—what in the hell is that goddamned noise?”

  Szinder looked up. Rogers pulled the trigger.

  General Szinder hit the floor like a bag of bad puns about burning things.

  Holy shit, he’d done it! He’d pointed a gun at someone and shot them, and then that person died! In that order!

  Tunger looked up and cleared his throat. “Crawled the wrong way?”

  “Yup.”

  “Right. Well, cheers, mate!” He ran forward, picking up a pair of discarded rifles, grabbed Szinder’s key to the Galaxy Eater—hopefully for safekeeping—and dove through the breach out into the hallway.

  • • •

  “This isn’t working!” Deet yelled. “I can’t authorize the orders!”

  “Any idea why?” Commander Rholos asked.

  “This isn’t working!” Deet yelled again to avoid attempting to tell a lie. “I can’t authorize the orders!”

  SHQ’s sector of Grandellian space was packed to the brim with Jupiterian ships, all marked by Deet’s automated IFF program. At least that still seemed to work properly. But without a synchronized battle plan, all of the ship commanders had to input instructions into their systems manually, losing the ability to coordinate properly. It resulted in a mess of combat, none of which seemed to be doing any good for the Joint Force. The Jupiterians, on the other hand, fought like they’d been working together for the entirety of the Two Hundred Years (and Counting) Peace.

  With the Galaxy Eater disabled, the Jupiterians poured every ounce of their effort into defeating the Joint Force. And without executed combat orders, the Jupiterians were going to succeed.

  Making a very grumpy huffing noise, Rholos turned away from the command platform, motioned to Zaz, and went over to Brelle’s station. They talked to each other loudly, their windbreakers scraping with every wild gesticulation of their arms. Apparently the Flagship couldn’t employ its large offensive weapons without authorization either, another thing that Rogers really should have dealt with before he went on his mission to the Galaxy Eater.