by Joe Zieja
In fact, reading the soldiers in formation from left to right gave the strange imperative: “Love Your Droids.” Maybe the poster creator had a sense of humor, after all. Rogers might like to have a drink with him.
Shoving the poster under his bed, Rogers began to open drawers and cabinets to see what he’d been furnished with. It was all plain. Uniforms, emergency SEWR rats, a med kit and, strangely, two toothbrushes. One of them was so coarse he was sure it would cut his gums to ribbons, but he noticed after a moment that it wasn’t a toothbrush at all. Engraved into the handle were the words SPECK CLEANER 2000. TAKE YOUR SPECKS STRAIGHT TO HECK!
“Oh, hell no,” he said, and tossed the toothbrush under the bed with the poster.
Boring. He felt like he wanted to lie down in the middle of his room and die. This wasn’t part of the bargain at all. And it still felt wrong. There was something missing in the room that he couldn’t quite place. Obviously, all the modifications he’d made to his sergeants’ quarters for hiding alcohol, weighted dice, and other contraband were missing, but he’d remedy that soon enough. There was something else.
Then he noticed the time on the small clock on his desk. It was 12:41 PM ship time. The beer light should have been on for forty-one minutes.
Rogers spun around, panicked. It wasn’t here. It wasn’t here. The beer light was gone.
Just as he was about to have a breakdown and start throwing furniture, a knock came at his door.
“Open up,” came a voice. “It’s time for your inspection!”
* * *
I. Not eyeglasses, though there was one portrait of General Nelson Rockshaft holding a stylish pair of lenses. He had become famous for removing said glasses while observing tactical displays, resulting in strategic maneuvers that were almost always unpredictable and almost certainly ineffective.
White Gloves
It was a testament to his mental state (or the recent powerful blow to the head) that it took several seconds for Rogers to realize he was trying to climb into a painting and not out a window into open space. The picture fell to the floor, the extinct Jupiter landing facedown.
“Well, that’ll be a demerit,” a voice came from behind him.
Turning around, fists balled, Rogers found not one but two members of the Standardization and Evaluation squadron aboard the Flagship. One of them, of course, was a droid. Carrying a clipboard. Wearing white gloves.
The other was a lean, full-cheeked sergeant with a uniform tailored so tightly around his body that it looked more like an elaborate tattoo than clothing. Aircraft could have landed on the airstrip of hair that was on the top of his head, closely buzzed on either side. His buttons and medals had been blindingly polished to the point where they could have been used as independent sources of illumination. In short, he looked like a major tool.
“What’s this all about?” Rogers asked.
“CALL FUNCTION [TIRELESSLY REPEAT SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS]. TARGET [ENSIGN ROGERS]” the droid said, “OUTPUT STRING: YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR A MORALE, HEALTH, AND WELFARE INSPECTION. ALL PERSONNEL ARE SUBJECT TO MHW INSPECTIONS TO BE CONDUCTED BY STANDARDIZATION AND EVALUATION—”
“Yeah, great,” Rogers said. “Whatever. But I just got here.”
“Then you shouldn’t have anything to worry about,” the sergeant said.
“Look, sergeant, uh . . . ” Rogers peered at his name tag. “Sergeant Stract. Really?”
“I was born to be Stan/Eval,” the sergeant said with the utmost seriousness.
“Right,” Rogers said. “And I was born to acknowledge radio transmissions. I’ve been in the service a long time. Inspections don’t really happen in this fleet.”
“CALL FUNCTION [REPETITION AND ASSURANCE],” the droid said—boy, this one was a talker—”OUTPUT STRING: INSPECTIONS HAPPEN ACCORDING TO A REGULAR AND REGIMENTED SCHEDULE TO WHICH ALL PERSONNEL MUST ADHERE.”
Rogers looked at Sergeant Stract. “Do you always let droids do your talking for you?”
The sergeant frowned. “Insults aren’t going to help you much, sir. Now, if you’ll please stand at attention in the center of your room, we can conduct the inspection.”
“Yeah, I’m not really into standing at attention, either,” Rogers said. “Look, I’ll just sign the bottom of your sheet, and you can mark everything as acceptable, and we can both get on with our day.”
“CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. OUTPUT STRING: REFUSAL TO ABIDE BY MILITARY PROTOCOL,” the droid said. “ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED.”
Back in Rogers’ day, a “demerit” was a penalty in a drinking game that necessitated a shot of alcohol. Somehow, he didn’t think that’s what the droid was talking about.
“CALL FUNCTION [ISSUE ORDER]. TARGET [SERGEANT STRACT],” the droid said. “ASSUME CONTROL OF THE RECORDS.”
“Wait,” Rogers said. “The droid is leading the inspection?”
The sergeant snapped to attention and grabbed the clipboard like a rifle with a resounding crack.
“I have assumed control of the records, sir!”
“Did you just call that droid sir?”
The sergeant glared at Rogers. “As you don’t seem to be familiar with military protocol, sir, I will explain that it is customary for us to address those who outrank us by sir or ma’am.”
Rogers stared, dumbstruck, at Sergeant Stract as the droid began walking around the room, its metallic legs clanking against the pseudo-wood floor of the officer stateroom. Stract followed the machine in lockstep, duck-walking in the ridiculous fashion that someone, somewhere along the line had decided looked “official.” Had Stract been wearing a black-and-white outfit, Rogers would have confused him with a penguin.
“No,” Rogers said. “No, absolutely not. There’s no way this droid has a rank.”
“CALL FUNCTION [DECLARE IDENTITY]. OUTPUT STRING: I AM CYBERMAN FIRST CLASS A-155. CALL FUNCTION [SMUGLY CITE REGULATION]. IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE MERIDAN RANK AND ORGANIZATION REGULATION MR-613, I AM SUPERIOR TO ALL ENLISTED PERSONNEL RANKED E-5 AND BELOW. SERGEANT STRACT’S RANK OF SERGEANT IS E-5 IN THE MERIDAN GALACTIC NAVY.”
“Absolutely, sir,” the sergeant said, nodding. “An excellent reference to the regulations.”
“Do the regulations say you’re supposed to kiss his ass, too?” Rogers asked. “How do you even know it’s a sir and not a ma’am? Does it have an extra pair of turbines between its legs?”
Sergeant Stract didn’t seem to find that amusing, though he declined to comment. The droid wiped a gloved hand over the edge of Rogers’ bed frame and brought it up to its face.
“CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. DUST PRESENT ON BED. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED.”
“What?” Rogers blurted. “I just got here! How was I supposed to dust everything?” He shook his head, as if to rattle the absurdity out of it. “Why should I even bother dusting at all? The Meridan Fleet doesn’t dust !”
“CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. WARDROBE NOT ARRAYED IN PROPER ORDER. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED.”
“I didn’t even put that stuff in there! Give a demerit to Suresh in Supply!”
“CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. DESK CHAIR WHEELS IMPROPERLY ROTATED. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED.”
“What does that even mean?”
Sergeant Stract was scratching away on the archaic note-taking device with a pencil and following the droid as it made its rounds.
“This is stupid,” Rogers said. “This is really, really stupid.”
The droid came to the spot on the wall where the propaganda poster had been and paused, its long, horse-like head scanning over the empty spot.
“CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. OUTPUT STRING: INSUFFICIENT MORALE. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED.”
Sergeant Stract made a mark on the clipboard, and Rogers was about to break it over his head. All of the events of the past week were building up inside of him to the point of overflow; he found himself fantasizing about visiting tremendous violence on inanimate objects an
d various people he’d met since he’d come aboard the Flagship. It pushed him to the brink. It made him want to chew off the droid’s arm.
Then he broke and did something that no self-respecting military man ever did. He pulled rank.
“Sergeant Stract,” Rogers said, “as your superior officer, I order you to put that damn thing away and get the hell out of my room.”
Both the droid and the sergeant froze where they stood. Rogers grinned. He had them!
“But,” the sergeant said.
“No buts,” Rogers said, moving to stand in front of Sergeant Stract. “Get out. Right now. And never come back.”
Sergeant Stract’s left leg twitched, as if to move. Rogers took a deep breath to bark the order a second time.
“CALL FUNCTION [SMUGLY CITE REGULATION]. AUGMENTED FUNCTION [FRUSTRATE SUPERIOR OFFICER]. OUTPUT STRING: MERIDAN STANDARDIZATION AND EVALUATION REGULATION MR-415 STATES THAT ALL PERSONNEL ARE SUBJECT TO INSPECTION AND MUST COMPLY WITH THE INSTRUCTIONS OF THE INSPECTION STAFF IN ORDER TO MAINTAIN GOOD ORDER AND DISCIPLINE IN A MILITARY FASHION. YOU HAVE ISSUED AN ILLEGAL ORDER.”
Sergeant Stract stood taller behind the protective shield of his regulation-spouting “superior,” and the droid turned around to face Rogers.
“CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. OUTPUT STRING: IMPROPER FACIAL HAIR GROOMING. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED. AUGMENTED FUNCTION [VEILED INCONVENIENCE] AN APPOINTMENT WITH CYBERMAN SECOND CLASS BAR-BR 116 HAS BEEN SCHEDULED FOR TOMORROW AT 0830.”
“Go galvanize yourself,” Rogers said. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before anyone touches my beard.”
“CALL FUNCTION [REQUEST CLARIFICATION]. THE IMPROBABLE AMBIENT TEMPERATURE OF A FICTIONAL AFTERLIFE LOCATION DOES NOT MITIGATE YOUR VIOLATION OF REGULATIONS.”
“Get out of my room!” Rogers shouted, pointing at the door. “I’m not going to stand here and be lectured on military protocol by a god-damned shiny!”
The word rebounded off the walls through an instantaneous, tense silence. Sergeant Stract dropped the clipboard and gasped. The droids “eyes,” two hollow sockets that glowed a soft blue, flashed red for a moment. For some reason, that sent a chill down Rogers’ spine.
“REJECT FUNCTION [PROTOCOL 162]. CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY]. RACIAL SLUR,” the droid intoned. “FIVE DEMERITS WILL BE AWARDED.” He then turned to Sergeant Stract. “TARGET CHANGE [SERGEANT STRACT]. LOSS OF MILITARY BEARING IN THE HEAT OF COMBAT. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED. CALL FUNCTION [ISSUE ORDER]. PLEASE RETRIEVE THE NOTE-TAKING DEVICE.”
Sergeant Stract looked more mortified at receiving a demerit than at Rogers’ comment about shinies. He hurriedly stooped down and picked up the clipboard, returning to attention with a loud clicking of his boots. That didn’t prevent him from glaring at Rogers.
“CALL FUNCTION [CONCLUDE PRIMARY DUTY]. INSPECTION COMPLETE,” the droid said. “A REPORT WILL BE FILED IN YOUR PERSONNEL RECORD, WHICH YOU CAN ACCESS BY FILING A REQUEST WITH THE PERSONNEL SQUADRON AFTER A MANDATORY FIVE-DAY WAITING PERIOD. ALL INFRACTIONS MUST BE RECTIFIED WITHIN ONE STANDARD DAY.”
“How am I supposed to know what to fix?” Rogers asked flatly, despite having no intention of fixing anything at all.
“CALL FUNCTION [TIRELESSLY REPEAT SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS]. A REPORT WILL BE FILED IN YOUR PERSONNEL RECORD, WHICH YOU CAN ACCESS BY FILING A REQUEST WITH THE PERSONNEL SQUADRON AFTER A MANDATORY FIVE-DAY WAITING PERIOD.”
Rogers closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Get out.”
“CALL FUNCTION [DISMISS]. TARGET [SERGEANT STRACT]. OUTPUT STRING: THIS INSPECTION IS CONCLUDED. YOU ARE DISMISSED.”
“Yes, sir!” The sergeant actually saluted, and the droid exited, though the sergeant didn’t follow immediately. He stood, fuming, fists tight. “I hope you’re happy. That’s the first demerit I’ve ever received.”
“I hope you lose sleep over it” Rogers growled. “Now get out of my room before I order you to smudge your boots.”
Sergeant Stract’s eyes went wide, and he scampered out of the room so quickly that the automatic door clipped his shoulder on the way out, knocking his uniform into an infinitesimal state of disarray.
“No!” the sergeant shouted as the door began to close. “Nooooo!”
Just before the panels shut, the Viking passed by the room, her body filling up the entire frame of the door for a brief moment. She cast a disparaging glance into the room, and Rogers held out a feeble hand toward her.
“Wait,” he called, but the door shut. He continued weakly, “Marry me.”
Alone and filled to the brim with anger and despair, Rogers tore off his clothes and climbed into bed. He fell headfirst into a dream of being trapped in a burning building, but just as the Viking was about to rescue him and carry him off to utopia, she morphed into a red-eyed droid who awarded him a demerit for burning debris on his uniform.
“Ensign Rogers,” the computerized—and thankfully mostly intelligible—voice of his personal terminal called to him. “You have an appointment on the commissary deck in fifteen minutes. Ensign Rogers, you have an appointment on the commissary deck in fifteen minutes.”
Looking at the clock, Rogers had discovered that he’d slept for almost an entire day, which didn’t surprise him, considering all he’d gone through. It was 0815 ship time; the inspection droid must have scheduled the haircut appointment by tapping directly into the data streams.
“Ignore it,” he told the computer. “What’s next?”
“Artificial Intelligence Combat Unit, 1000 hours ship time. Training deck, room 654.”
“Great.”
Muscle memory kicked in again as Rogers went through his room, showered, and dressed. It was an exercise he’d repeated every day for ten years, though he wasn’t used to doing it so early in the morning. Normally, he reported to the engineering bay at around 1100, after which everyone would sort of sit around and stare at the beer light until it turned on at around noon. Now that there was no beer light, however, he had no idea what the hell he’d do for the rest of the day.
Since he was blowing off his haircut, he had plenty of time to head to one of the ship’s mess halls and get some breakfast. A quick exchange of up-line and in-line left him on the commissary deck, where troops could spend their hard-earned credits, go bowling, or participate in one of many other forms of recreation and capitalism.
Somehow, before he even got to the commissary deck, he knew it would be deserted. The harrowing fact that there was no longer a beer light—at least not in officers’ quarters—still haunted him like the knowledge that a loved one was dead, never to be seen again. Rogers fondly remembered the glow of the beer light waking him up late in the afternoon on days when the previous night had been particularly good.
Rogers’ intuition was right. The commissary deck, normally the center of all activity on the Flagship, now consisted of troops walking from the up-line to the mess halls and back again, like some sort of twisted soldier feeding lot. There was no joy in their faces, only the crushing weight of daily routine and the doldrums of a regimented lifestyle. That and, bizarrely, something that Rogers may have confused with devotion to duty.
The mess halls were scattered all over the commissary deck to break up the massive crew of the Flagship. It didn’t work; everyone usually figured out which were the good ones pretty quickly and went there instead. They had each been unofficially named after combat maneuvers, which served a dual purpose of being easier to remember than “Mess Hall A” and making all of the eateries sound like bizarre old-world taverns. Rogers’ favorite was the Uncouth Corkscrew, mostly because he liked ambiguous double entendres, but if the lines were too long, he’d settle for the Peek and Shoot or the Up and Over. Under no circumstances would he ever eat at the Kamikaze or the Frantically Run Away.
The Uncouth Corkscrew was calm so early in the morning, despite the fact that it was occupied by marines and spacers gathered in loose clusters around the dining hall. The long tables and benches, instead of being packed with pe
ople trying to talk over each other, were populated more like an electron cloud. Any conversation happening appeared to be just coincidences and courtesies.
And, most shocking of all, almost no one was in the kitchen getting food. Everyone was stopping by the SEWR rat dispenser, grabbing a package or two, and moving to a table to sit down and eat silently. The few times that Rogers had been up for breakfast in the past, he had been treated to eggs Benedict, steak and eggs, and, on one special but rather bizarre occasion, Cornish game hen stuffed with chocolate-covered strawberries.I Nobody would pass that sort of fare up for protein cardboard.
Despite the ominous emptiness of the kitchen, Rogers ventured inside, ordered some eggs and bacon from a very surprised services troop, and found himself a table with a few marines at it.
The moment he sat down, he heard that damn non-word again.
“A-TEN-HOOOAH!”
The entire table jumped up and stood at attention. One of the marines “presented arms” using a fork. To his credit, it looked very snappy.
“Stop that,” Rogers said. “Sit down. Um, carry on. Eat food, march !”
He kept forgetting that he was an officer now. Not only was he not allowed to accomplish anything productive, it was his destiny to continually stop anyone else from doing anything productive simply by walking into rooms or sitting at tables.
The marines exchanged confused, wary glances as they lowered themselves slowly back to the bench, each of them making sure that Rogers’ ass touched the surface before theirs did. It felt strange, engaging in a sort of backward ass-race of who could sit down the slowest.
Not feeling very much like conversation, Rogers dug into some very suspicious-looking eggs for about three seconds before his gag reflex kicked in. Before he could get the second forkful to his mouth, Rogers froze where he sat and stared, aghast, at the monstrosity that was breakfast. Spitting out what hadn’t already slid down his throat, he pointed at the dish and spoke a little too loud.
