Mechanical Failure

by Joe Zieja

  “This tastes like motor oil!”

  One of the marines choked, though whether it was because of Rogers’ comment or because he was eating the aforementioned protein cardboard without drinking enough water, Rogers wasn’t sure.

  Peeling back the egg on his plate, Rogers saw with horror that a small gray-black pool of drippings lay hidden below the egg, blending in with the natural grease of the bacon in a way that reminded him of the time when, well, he’d accidentally dropped a piece of bacon into a pool of motor oil in the engineering bay.

  “It is motor oil!” Rogers said, standing up in shock.

  “A-TEN-HOOOOAAH!”

  “Sit down!”

  Rogers grabbed his plate and stormed back into the kitchen, suddenly realizing why everyone was reaching for SEWR rats instead of bacon in a 5W-40 reduction sauce.

  “What is this?” he barked as he crossed the threshold into the empty serving area. The single server who was visible jumped, likely more surprised to see someone than at Rogers’ question. Through the small windows on the double doors leading back into the larger food preparation area, Rogers saw heads popping up like curious squirrels.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” the service troop asked.

  “You’re damn right there’s a problem. I know this ship is infested with droids, but the last time I checked, humans don’t operate on chemical lubricants.” He slammed the plate on the counter. “Who made this? No, forget that. Who’s in charge here?”

  “Hart!” the server called. “I think this ensign wants to talk to you.”

  The kitchen door swung open, and a master sergeant in a military chef uniform sauntered out of the double doors, his apron stained with a telltale black grease that certainly hadn’t come from hamburgers.

  “What’s all this about?” he growled.

  Rogers gaped. “Hart? What in the world are you doing in the kitchens?”

  Master Sergeant Hart—formerly just Sergeant Hart the last time Rogers had seen him—was the first familiar face Rogers had seen during his new tenure on the Flagship. That was a good thing. The bad thing was that the last time he’d seen him, he’d been in the engineering bay. Where he belonged. Since he was an engineer.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Hart said.

  “I’m a little concerned about my sore stomach,” Rogers said. “What are you doing in the kitchens?”

  “Cross-trained,” Hart said. “Not my choice.”

  Rogers shook his head. “They transferred you to the kitchen?”

  Hart nodded. “Me and a couple of the other boys and girls that didn’t either leave the fleet or get reassigned to other squadrons on the other side of the system. I think I’m getting used to it, though. I make some pretty good stuff.”

  “There’s motor oil in my eggs,” Rogers said.

  “Everyone’s a critic. Why don’t you just eat Sewer rats like everyone else?”

  Rogers couldn’t believe his ears. Aside from the nonsensical personnel movement, Hart had been one of his best mates, prankster partner, and the only man in the entire fleet who could drink Rogers under the table. He’d also been Rogers’ supervisor before Rogers had been promoted to sergeant himself, and Hart had survived that ordeal. Rogers thought nothing could break that man. Now he looked . . . he looked . . . sober.

  “Didn’t you fight them when they reassigned you?” Rogers asked. “You belong elbow-deep in engine components, not spaghetti. And certainly not elbow-deep in spaghetti right after you’ve been elbow-deep in engine components.”

  “So sue me. I still like to tinker with engines when I can, and sometimes I don’t have time to wash my hands afterward. I can’t get down there very often, anyway. That idiot McSchmidt in engineering doesn’t let anyone else in the bay when he’s around. Besides, they told me cooking food is just like being a grease monkey. You put stuff together until it works.”

  “This doesn’t work,” Rogers said, pointing to his plate, which had taken on the viscosity of really disgusting pudding as it cooled.

  Hart shrugged, then sighed. “I’m not too far from retirement, Rogers. I’m not up for fighting with the brass over trading a wrench for a spatula. At least I still get to set stuff on fire every once in a while. Look, do yourself a favor. Grab a Sewer rat and get the nutrition your body needs. You’ll need it if we go up against the Thelicosans.”

  “Oh, not you, too,” Rogers said. “There’s no way there’s a war coming. It doesn’t make any sense. Now you’re just stuck here wasting your time.”

  Hart’s face hardened. “Every position is critical to the war effort.”

  That made Rogers’ stomach turn. Or it could have been the motor oil doing its job inside his small intestine. He wasn’t sure.

  “Listen,” Rogers said, “I don’t know what’s going on here. I don’t know if I really care. I want to do my time and get out of here. But if you feel like doing something you’re actually good at, I might have a project for you. I have a junked ship in the docking bay registered as the Awesome.” Hart rolled his eyes, but Rogers pushed on. “It needs a lot of work, thanks to a plasma blast. If you and the crew are looking for something to do, I’ll make sure you’re authorized to access it. Just promise me you won’t cook me any more meals, alright?”

  Hart looked skeptical, but his eyes brightened once he realized Rogers was offering him a reintroduction to his old specialty. You could take an engineer out of the bay, but you couldn’t take the bay out of the engineer, or something like that. Even Rogers still liked to take things apart and put them back together every once in a while, when he wasn’t trying to swindle pirates.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s all I’m asking.”

  Reaching under the counter, Hart produced a yellowish-brown vacuum-sealed Sewer rat and handed it over.

  “Take care of yourself, Rogers. The 331st has changed.”

  “No shit.”

  Rogers reluctantly took the proffered package of synthesized horse dung, warned Hart that if he called the kitchen to attention, he’d force Hart to eat his own cooking, and went back into the mess hall feeling like he’d been hit in the face. Metaphorically, this time. Dining in the military was like dining at one of the best restaurants in the galaxy. Diplomats used to make excuses to do VIP visits just to sample the impressive and decadent desserts. This was a travesty, a sham. It was worse than a sham. It was . . . military.

  “Hey, speed bag!” someone called to him. “Over here!”

  Looking up and wiping his face—he was not crying—Rogers saw the source of the voice. Corporal Mailn was sitting with a couple of other infantry arines at a table just outside the entrance to the kitchen. Every one of them had a SEWR rat package torn open in front of them, and exactly none of them looked like they were enjoying it. None of them seemed particularly happy that an officer was coming to sit with them, either.

  “Keep your seats,” Rogers said. He looked at Mailn, who was grinning at him. “And don’t call me speed bag.”

  “Don’t get hit in the face,” she said. “Speaking of which, it kind of looks like a bunch of little girls just shook you down for lunch money. What’s on your mind?”

  Rogers sat down, grimacing. “Just missing the old days, I guess.”

  “Old days?” Mailn chuckled. “What are you, sixty?”

  “Just forget it.” Rogers opened the SEWR rat and started unpacking the contents, grabbing a glass of water that one of the other marines had courteously poured for him from the pitcher in the center of the table. “Bon appétit,” he said, and hoped he didn’t chip a tooth.

  He valued the silence the marines offered him as he choked his way through the disgusting meal. It was almost instantly interrupted, however, by a fast-approaching and massively distracting symphony of metallic noises coming in from the hallway.

  “What’s that?” Rogers asked. “The scrap-pile drum corps?”

  “Shin . . . Droids,” Mailn said, making no attempt to hide the venom in
her voice, though Rogers couldn’t help but note the near-use of his favorite term.

  Turning, Rogers witnessed a small platoon of droids, all marching in formation, as they came into the dining facility. They moved—thankfully—to the far corner of the room, where a special table had been outfitted for their peculiar bodies. There were no chairs, of course, but droids also, as far as Rogers knew, didn’t need to eat, so their arrival seemed a little silly in the first place. Instead of ordering food, however, which would have really been absurd, they each extended a cable from their torsos and plugged into the power system.

  “Is that really necessary?” Rogers asked.

  “Gotta eat too, I guess,” Mailn muttered. “Wish they wouldn’t do it here, though.”

  A dim part of Rogers’ subconscious thought briefly what it would be like to involve the droids in one of his famous food fights, which used to be a highlight of just about every meal in the Uncouth Corkscrew. The thought of hydraulic arms firing baked potatoes at him at half the speed of light, however, buried the idea quickly. Droids were no fun at all.

  “Well, I think that’s killed my appetite,” Rogers said. He almost pushed himself to his feet but stopped when he thought of the consequences of standing up surrounded on all sides by seated enlisted troops.

  Was this the fate of every Meridan officer? Scared to enter rooms, scared to stand up at tables, one shoulder much larger than the other from saluting so much? He imagined himself walking down the hallway, the knuckles of his right hand dragging against the floor, and the bitterness inside almost dove headfirst into full-on depression.

  “Everyone listen to me. I have an appointment on the training deck, and I’m about to stand up,” Rogers said slowly, looking around the table. “I want you all to act like absolutely nothing has happened and continue eating your meals. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” shouted nine marines at the top of their lungs. Only Mailn was grinning.

  Rogers sighed and sagged his shoulders. “Someone shoot me now.”

  One of the marines reached for her pistol.

  “That’s not an order!” Rogers yelped, and jumped out of his seat.

  “Come on, speed bag,” Mailn said, getting up and stretching. “I’ve got business down there. I’ll walk with you.”

  “My name is Rogers.”

  “I could call you ‘sir,’ ” Mailn said slowly.

  “Oh, shut up. Let’s just get out of here before I have to eat anything else.”

  * * *

  The trip to the training deck, an entirely separate level of the Flagship, was just a quick ride on the up-line away, and as they stepped into the car, Rogers noticed that the same “guardwoman” who had blocked his first attempt at riding the in-line was standing watch. She tugged her conductor’s hat down further over her eyes, which was unfortunate, because Rogers really wanted her to see him sticking his tongue out at her as they boarded an empty car.

  “So, what’s your story?” Mailn asked as she stretched out languidly across a row of empty seats. “You don’t look fresh enough to be a new ensign out of the Academy.”

  Rogers chuckled a little as he sat down. “It’d take me longer than an up-line ride to explain it.” And he wasn’t really into self-incriminating. “Let’s just say I had a break in service followed by an unexpected commission. What about you?”

  Mailn shrugged. “Eh, you know. Grew up in one of the big cities on Merida Prime, got involved in a few things that maybe weren’t good ideas at the time, wanted to start over.” She looked vaguely embarrassed but hid it with her cocksure grin. “Now I’m a marine, doing some things that maybe aren’t good ideas. But at least I get to shoot stuff.”

  Rogers looked at her. “I guess that’s a benefit. I’ve never been much of a shoot-’em-up guy myself.”

  Mailn raised an eyebrow. “I never would have guessed.”

  They traveled in silence for a few moments, the interior of the Flagship zipping by outside the narrow windows of the car.

  “It’s kind of nice traveling so early,” Rogers said, stretching out. “Everyone’s still asleep, so there’s nobody to crowd the cars.”

  Mailn shot him a sideways glance. “Asleep? Everyone’s already at work. That’s why nobody is in the car.”

  Rogers shook his head in disbelief. This wasn’t the 331st at all.

  “This is unbelievable,” Rogers said as the up-line came to a stop and let them off on the training deck.

  “It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” Mailn said as they exited the up-line onto the training deck.

  “Seems pretty bad to me,” Rogers said. “Since I got back, I haven’t played a single card game, had a single drink, or slid down any soaped-up hallways on my bare belly.”

  “It’s the trouble with the Thelicosans,” Mailn said. “Everyone’s on edge.”

  They walked past a group of dour-faced finance troops, all of whom, for some reason, were wearing old-fashioned karate uniforms and sweating profusely. One of them threw a clipboard into the air and broke it with a devastating spinning back kick.

  “This isn’t on edge,” Rogers said as he brushed a splinter off his uniform. “This is weird. And boring. Why would they transfer an engineer into the kitchens?”

  “There have been a lot of transfers lately,” Mailn said. “A month ago, they wanted to cross-train me as a pilot.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I’m colorblind and I get airsick. Thankfully, Captain Alsinbury got me out of it. She can be very persuasive.”

  A flash of heat worked its way through Rogers’ body as he thought of what could constitute “persuasive.” He knew there had to be some way to break the ice with her, but not before he got himself a good, solid helmet.

  “What about Admiral Klein?” Rogers asked. “Doesn’t he know about any of this? This is his fleet.”

  Mailn shrugged. “I hear most of the transfers are happening up at his level, so he must know about it. I know he’s under a lot of stress, though, so maybe he’s making mistakes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Well,” Mailn said. “his executive assistants keep hanging themselves. He’s gone through two of them since I’ve been aboard, and just got a new one the other day. You can always tell how much pressure a commander is under by how bad his execs look.”

  Rogers whistled. He could remember some of the speeches that Klein gave to the troops while he’d been in the fleet. They were some of the most masterful uses of words he’d ever heard in his life—even Rogers couldn’t help but feel a sense of duty when Admiral Klein spoke, and that said something. Whatever the fleet needed—funding for beer, transportation assets for beer, or new pumping systems to make sure the beer always tasted fresh—the fleet got because the admiral was fighting for them. Although, come to think of it, he did seem to go through execs pretty quickly, even during Rogers’ last tenure on the ship. They hadn’t been hanging themselves, though.

  “With Klein in command,” Mailn continued, a look of admiration on her face, “the Thelicosans will think twice about attacking.”

  Rogers grunted. He didn’t want to talk about Thelicosa or their supposed belligerence. He still didn’t think it was possible for any system to violate the Two Hundred Years’ (and Counting) Peace.

  As they walked, Rogers couldn’t help but notice yet another poster on the wall. He’d been trying to ignore them, but some of them were just too ridiculous. The loud text on the bottom read, FILL OUT FORMS PROPERLY. Above it was a capsizing frigate, flames shooting out from the many breaches in its hull, and frozen space-corpses floating around it with dark, horrified expressions on their faces. Pieces of paper, ostensibly incorrectly filled-out forms, were depicted slamming into the side of the ship like plasma cannons.

  “Who writes this crap?” Rogers said.

  “I have no idea,” Mailn said. “But they keep popping up everywhere. There’s one in the Peek and Shoot that says ‘When you slurp soup the enemy wins.’�
��”

  They rounded the corner, and there she was: the Viking, in all of her splendor. Baggy uniform, short hair rimming her round face, monstrous gait carrying her toward them at a tremendous speed even though she was walking casually.

  Rogers ducked reflexively.

  “Way too early,” muttered Mailn.

  “What are you doing associating with this turd?” Alsinbury said as she approached.

  Mailn snapped a hasty salute, which the captain returned, and Rogers slowly uncurled from his defensive position to offer one as well. She did outrank him, after all. That was exciting, too.

  “I’m escorting him to the droid training room, ma’am,” Mailn said. “He’s never been there before.”

  The Viking spared him a distasteful glance. “I don’t want to see you associating with my troops, metalhead.” Rogers was accumulating a lot of strange nicknames on this ship. “I don’t want any of them tainted by your droid-loving ways. We’re the ground force around here, and don’t you forget it.”

  “I won’t,” Rogers said, his heart beating hard. Was there music playing somewhere? “But I’d love to talk to you about it sometime. Maybe I could pick your brain about, ah, fighting . . . things . . . over some drinks?”

  “I don’t feel like vomiting right now, thanks.” She turned to Mailn. “Corporal, I need you to run Bravo Company through their rifle-stripping again. One of those clowns tried to lick one of the plasma converters clean and burned the hell out of his tongue.”

  Mailn sighed. “You got it, boss. I’ll head over there now.”

  The Viking nodded, gave Rogers another glare, and pushed past them, elbowing Rogers in the side as she went. His breath left him for more than one reason.

  “Boy, you’re really on her bad side,” Mailn said after the Viking was out of earshot.

  “Thanks for noticing,” Rogers said as they continued walking. “What’s wrong with Bravo Company?”