Mechanical Failure

by Joe Zieja

  “The only thing I’m going to file are my nails,” Rogers said, “and I’m going to leave the dust all over Sergeant Stract’s boots.”

  “Sir!” Sergeant Stract exclaimed, scandalized.

  “Now get the hell out of my room before I threaten to do something really crazy,” Rogers said, pointing at the door.

  With one last look of something mixed with fear and disgust, Sergeant Stract left the room, the droid shortly behind him. Rogers was going to find some way to get back at those two. He just didn’t know how yet. And he didn’t know if he really felt like putting forth the effort.

  Sighing, he sat down on his bed and put his face in his hands, his fingers barely able to block out the light coming from the poster. He hadn’t been so tired in all of his life, and he’d barely done anything at all. The fact that he didn’t want to put forth the effort to mess with Sergeant Stract made it all the more clear that this stint in the military was doing bad things for him.

  Rogers needed . . . something. He needed a drink. He needed to get out of this starchy, uncomfortable uniform and sew a couple of pockets on the inside so he had somewhere to put his hands instead of around someone’s throat. He needed a really big crowbar to take that damn poster off the wall. In fact, any kind of tool in his hand would feel really good right now. It had been far too long since he’d done any meaningful engineering work.

  So, he headed down to where he knew he belonged: the engineering bay.

  * * *

  An immediate feeling of relief washed over him as he emerged into the familiar surroundings of the Pit, their affectionate nickname for the noisy, dirty hovel that was the home of the engineering squadron. Unlike the rest of the Flagship, the engineering bay was a tangled mess of ventilation shafts, machinery, and dark corners well suited for just about anything fun. Aside from that, it was mostly made up of the giant area that was the Pit, the maintenance bay, and its own hangar. He couldn’t wait to see the old wrench-turners in their greasy coveralls—if there were any not in the kitchens—though he hoped he didn’t see any of the ones he owed money.

  The Pit was unusually busy, people running to and fro with tools and datapads, though Rogers noticed that almost none of them were wearing their utility uniforms. Come to think of it, nobody on the entire ship seemed to be dressed in anything except the semiformal wear normally worn only by administrative personnel.

  “Alright, folks,” came a shout. “Inspection in two hours. Remember what Winston Churchill said. ‘Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.’ ”

  Despite Rogers’ expectation that wrenches would be thrown at the gross incongruity, nobody seemed to care that Russia had vanished from old Earth—along with old Earth—a thousand years earlier and had absolutely nothing to do with engineering or inspections. The mismatched quotation had come from a serious-looking ensign with dark, mud-colored hair. He tucked the datapad he was carrying behind him as he pulled aside a tired-looking female engineer and muttered what appeared to be some encouraging words. He patted her on the back and nodded, though she didn’t look very encouraged, and finally noticed that Rogers had come into the Pit.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I was going to ask you the same question. What’s this about an inspection? We don’t have those in the Pit.”

  The ensign laughed. “I didn’t know they were sending a comedian to Engineering. We have them every day.”

  Rogers suppressed a shudder. It appeared that the charade that was the Morale, Health, and Welfare inspections had made its way into the engineering bay, too. Though he shouldn’t have been surprised. This whole ship was going crazy.

  “I’m not a comedian. My name is Rogers. I, ah, used to work here.”

  The ensign’s eyes widened. “You’re Rogers? I’ve heard of you. I thought you’d abandoned ship to be an entrepreneur, or something.”

  “I did,” Rogers said. “I’m back, though apparently I’m not working here anymore.”

  “Well,” the ensign said, “welcome to the place you’re not working.” He extended his hand. “I’m Ensign McSchmidt, engineering squadron commander.”

  Rogers shook his hand hesitantly. He remembered Oh One saying something about this guy. “McSchmidt? That’s kind of an odd name.”

  “Half of my family was German, the other half was Irish.”

  Rogers blinked. “I’m not sure that’s how it works.”

  McSchmidt didn’t seem to want to argue about it. “Well, welcome back. But, if you’ll excuse me, I have an inspection to prepare for. The droids will be here in two hours, and I want good marks.”

  “Good marks aren’t good for much if you blow up the engineering bay,” Rogers said, pointing to where some boominite containers had been stacked in a very pretty, if stupid, pattern. “That’s not how to store those. If someone farts near them too loudly, you could blow a hole in the side of the ship the size of a small dreadnaught.”

  McSchmidt’s expression turned cold, but he didn’t spare the boominite containers a glance. “I know how to do my job, Rogers. The instructions for stacking tri-plasma rods is clear in the manuals.”

  “Those are boominite containers. What the hell are tri-plasma rods? Did you just make that up?”

  McSchmidt turned up his nose. “I’m the engineering commander here. I know my business. I hope you don’t have any aspirations to take over your old unit, Rogers. I worked hard at the Academy to get where I am now, and I’m not ready to turn it over to a smooth-talking gambler like you. Are we clear?”

  Rogers let the weak attempt at an insult slide off of him. “You’re an Academy officer?”

  Academy officers were known for being a little arrogant, if competent. But this McSchmidt looked more like a lost puppy who had just learned how to bark. Normally, these kinds of dopes were easy meat for the experienced enlisted corps, but nobody seemed to have done their job of putting McSchmidt in his place.

  “Yes,” McSchmidt said, suddenly frowning. “I just said that, didn’t I? Why would I say that if it wasn’t true? I went to the Academy, making me an Academy officer.”

  “Okay, okay,” Rogers said. “Calm down. The Academy has a great academic reputation. What did you major in?”

  “Of course I had a major! Of course I majored in something! Why wouldn’t I major in something at the Academy that I went to? I majored in political science. That’s obviously why I’m in engineering.” McSchmidt was breathing rather heavily, and he appeared to be breaking out in a sweat.

  Rogers raised an eyebrow. “What the hell does political science have to do with engineering?”

  “Everything!” McSchmidt snapped in a sudden burst of indignity. “It’s the engineering of people, of cultures, of nations!”

  “Yeah,” Rogers said, “but do you know which way to turn a wrench?”

  “Engineering über alles!” the ensign shouted. “Now if you don’t have any business in the Pit, I’ll thank you to get out of the way.”

  Without another word, McSchmidt turned and walked away, directing his anger toward a pair of corporals who were using a hoverlift to move a small fusion generator from one side of the room to the other, where a whole array of generators were arranged in a totally useless and potentially hazardous pyramid formation.

  “Don’t mind him,” someone said.

  Rogers turned to find the young woman the ensign had been “encouraging” standing next to him. She was stocky but not exactly heavy, her sandy brown hair tucked up in a bun. Her uniform didn’t quite fit properly, giving him the impression of a girl in her mother’s clothes. She looked at him with a pair of dull brown eyes set in a walnut-colored face, her mouth turned up in a wry smile.

  “What’s with the walking anachronism?” Rogers said, jerking a thumb at McSchmidt.

  “Academy funding for political science is in the tubes, thanks to the Two Hundred Years’ (and Counting) Peace,” she said. “The only thing they study anymore is old world history textbooks. You should hear
him talk about Napoleon.”

  “It requires more courage to suffer than to die!” McSchmidt shouted.

  “Anyway,” the engineer said, “you should come back later if you want to tour the facility. Almost everyone you knew when you were here has been transferred, but I’ll show you around. I’m Sergeant Lopez.”

  “R. Wilson Rogers,” Rogers said, and extended his hand. “You don’t know anywhere on this ship where I can get a drink, do you?”

  Lopez grinned. “This is the engineering bay, Ensign.”

  Rogers let out a sigh of relief. “Thank god. I think you and I are going to get along just fine, Lopez. Just fine. I’ll be back later for my tour.”

  * * *

  Now we’re talking! Rogers thought as the Jasker 120 slid down the back of his throat, smooth as butter. Finally, a good card game, a cigar, and a bottle of fine Scotch. Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all.

  . . . Was what he wished he was thinking as he sipped from the dirty canteen cup that held some of the most vile swill he’d ever come across. He sat with Lopez in the engineering bay on top of a couple of empty crates, watching the last remnants of the crew fill out paperwork and curse at the results of their inspection. They’d failed with flying colors; the boominite containers had been stacked in the wrong pattern and they found a raccoon in the engine of one of the starfighters. McSchmidt had apparently left in tears and hadn’t been seen since.

  Rogers grimaced at his cup. It tasted like someone had boiled their feet in a vat of spoiled eggs and vinegar, but there was definitely the distinct bite that told Rogers it was at least alcoholic.

  “Puts hair on your chest, doesn’t it?” Lopez said. She smacked her lips and wiped them on the back of her hand.

  “Or my dinner on the floor,” Rogers replied, swallowing his body’s attempt to eject the drink.

  “Hey,” Lopez said, “I made this myself. It took me months to get the materials together and figure out a good spot to brew it without the Stan/Eval droids getting all over me for it.” She forcibly clinked her cup against Rogers’, sending some of the moonshine—if you could call it that—over the side of the cup. Rogers was not at all upset that some of it had been wasted.

  “Clearly, you’ve been an engineer for a while, then?” Rogers said. Or an alcoholic.

  “Twelve years a wrench-turner,” she said, burping.

  “How did you manage not to get put to work in the kitchens with the rest of the crew?”

  Lopez shrugged. “Who knows the reasons they do anything around here? Maybe they’re getting an apron ready for me right now. Bah!” She threw her empty cup on the floor.

  “I know how you feel,” Rogers said. “They put me in charge of ground combat droids.”

  Lopez’s eyes went wide. “I heard about them. I can’t believe they’re giving them weapons. Do you think it’s safe?”

  Rogers thought back to his experience with the control pad and the droids deconstructing part of the ship.

  “No.”

  “So, why are you doing it?”

  “Don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Rogers said, a little more aggressively than he’d intended. “What are you going to do if they tell you to grab a chef hat and make a mousse?”

  Lopez thought for a moment. “Make a really shitty mousse, I suppose.”

  “Exactly. And I’m going to make a really shitty ground combat unit.”

  The sergeant stood up, yawning loudly, and motioned for Rogers to follow her. “Come on. No use grousing. I’ll show you around.”

  Rogers wasn’t exactly sure what she was going to show him; he’d worked in the Pit for nearly a decade and knew every nook and cranny of it. But it was nice to talk to someone who wasn’t insane, even if she did try to pass off hog’s piss as alcohol.

  “Pretty busy around here,” Lopez said as they passed by a wall of crates and entered into the spaceship maintenance section of the Pit. This was an area reserved mostly for starfighters and small transport craft, stuff that was small enough to be moved from the docking bays if they were damaged. Most of the complicated work on larger ships was done in the docking bays themselves or even outside the ship using Vacuum Mobility Units.

  “Pretty busy?” Rogers asked. “How? There was never anything going on. We repaired burnt-out engines and replaced parts every time one of the fighter pilots ran his ship into something on patrol, but it was always pretty calm.”

  “Yeah,” Lopez said, “but you didn’t have McSchmidt and a legion of droids breathing down your neck, telling you to put this there and put that here. I feel like all I ever do is move stuff around.”

  Rogers shook his head. “Where did all the droids even come from?”

  “It’s the war,” Lopez said.

  “There is no war!” Rogers said, throwing up his hands.

  “It’s the war that’s coming, then,” Lopez said. “People said the MPF wasn’t professional enough to take on the Thellies, so Klein started making changes. More rules, more droids. Less alcohol. It’s a different fleet.”

  “And you believe it?”

  Lopez shrugged. “What am I supposed to believe? The intelligence reports go to Klein, not the engineering crew, but I hear it from the fighter jocks every once in a while. They’ve been going out on patrol more often too. Another reason we’re pretty busy.”

  Rogers rubbed his beard. Maybe there was something going on with Thelicosa. Admiral Klein wasn’t one to scare easy; he was a Real Military Man, if there was such a thing. If Klein thought war was coming, maybe it was true.

  “But that doesn’t mean we have to have a bunch of shinies running everything,” Rogers said.

  Lopez ducked her head, looking around. “You shouldn’t say that word.”

  “Shinies?”

  “Shh!” She shoved him, hard, sending him stumbling back, and he felt a flash of indignation. Only the Viking was allowed to push him around like that.

  Oh, the Viking. Captain Alsinbury. If only . . .

  “The droids don’t like it, and you’ll find yourself getting paperwork dropped on you if they hear you throwing it around like that. You’ll have to go to counseling.”

  “Counseling?”

  “Yeah,” Lopez said. “Racial reeducation counseling.”

  Rogers balled up his fists. “They’re droids. They don’t have a race.”

  “Tell that to the counselors. They’re droids, though, so they probably won’t agree with you.”

  As they were about to leave the maintenance area and head over to where the barbeque pit used to be—which was now just a bunch of filing cabinets and posters—Rogers caught sight of a ship at the far back.

  “Hey,” he said. “That’s my ship!”

  Lopez stopped and looked, squinting. “Your ship?”

  “Yeah,” Rogers said. “That’s the Awesome.”

  “That’s a stupid name for a ship. Looks a whole lot like an MPF cargo speeder to me,” Lopez said slowly. “Have I seen that ship before?”

  “The paint is different.”

  Behind the Awesome, Rogers could see a couple of figures moving around, dressed in what Rogers thought were coveralls. But they didn’t look quite right. Taking a few steps closer, he realized that they weren’t coveralls—they were aprons.

  “That’s Hart,” he said, a little tingle of excitement working its way through him. “He’s fixing my ship!”

  “Master Sergeant Hart?” Lopez said. “What’s he doing here?”

  “I asked him for a favor,” Rogers replied.

  The ship already looked in better shape than it had been when it had been towed to the Flagship. Those folks would have it up and running in no time. Though what Rogers would do once it was fixed was still a mystery. But at least when this tour was over, he’d have something to fly away on. Fly away fast.

  “Well, aren’t you something?” Lopez said. “Your own ship and everything. What are you still doing in the military?”

  “It’s a long story,” Rogers muttered.
<
br />   “Well why don’t you—”

  “CALL FUNCTION [SURREPTITIOUSLY FOLLOW]. TARGET [ENSIGN ROGERS].”

  Rogers and Lopez stopped in their tracks.

  “What the hell was that?” Lopez asked.

  Rogers spun around, looking for the source of the voice, but couldn’t find anything. They were in a mess of shipping crates and other random detritus, the only open view heading out toward where the Awesome was being repaired.

  “CALL FUNCTION [MAINTAIN CLEVER HIDING PLACE].”

  “Shiny,” Rogers muttered. Lopez whacked him on the arm.

  “I’ll say it if I want to say it.”

  “CALL FUNCTION [MAINTAIN CLEVER HIDING PLACE].”

  Rogers whirled. Where was the damn thing? Why was it hiding? Why was it so hard to find it even though it kept announcing its presence?

  “Come out, you hunk of scrap metal!” Rogers said. “What are you doing following me around?”

  “CALL FUNCTION [MAINTAIN CLEVER HIDING PLACE].”

  Rogers leaned toward one of the crates. “Is it coming from here?”

  “I don’t see it.” Lopez said. “Boy, you’re on the droids’ shit list, aren’t you?”

  “They’re droids,” Rogers said, creeping around a corner, crouching low. “They don’t have—”

  “CALL FUNCTION [SPRING TRAP AND PERFORM PRIMARY FUNCTION].”

  One of the nearby crates burst open, the metallic lid flying through the air and nearly knocking Rogers unconscious. Rogers ducked, screaming, and Lopez let out a stream of curses. He barely saw the flash of a pair of scissors before Lopez tackled him to the ground.

  “Barber Bot!” he cried.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Rogers stood up, prepared to find a heavy object to swing at the oncoming droid, only to find that BAR-BR 116 hadn’t moved. It was still stuck in the crate from the waist down, its hydraulic midsection pumping up and down uselessly as it tried to dislodge itself. The crate was barely big enough at the base to allow the droid’s treads enough room to stand.