Mechanical Failure

by Joe Zieja

  Deet, who had been quietly standing next to him, piped up.

  “Can I make a suggestion?”

  Rogers nodded dumbly.

  “In light of the extremity of the situation, you should probably get off your EXPLETIVE POSTERIOR BODY SECTION and put out that EXPLETIVE fire.”

  Rogers blinked. “Expletive,” he said. “You’re right.”

  “You don’t have to censor yourself,” Deet said, sounding dejected. “It’s not your fault I can’t express myself properly.”

  “I was just trying to show some solidarity,” Rogers said. He turned to the Viking. “Captain Alsinbury.”

  “What?”

  “Can you take a small group of your marines down to whatever pods those idiots are running for and keep them from jettisoning themselves into space?”

  The Viking cracked her knuckles, a sound that did strange things to Rogers. “My pleasure.”

  “And afterward . . .” he said before his brain could stop his mouth, but he trailed off.

  The Viking raised an eyebrow.

  “Never mind,” he said, swallowing. “Just keep those troops inside the ship.”

  She gave him a nod and bulldozed her way out of the room, knocking everything from people to heavy equipment aside in her haste to get into a situation where she might actually get to hit someone.

  “Get Hart from engineering on the line,” Rogers said to the tech. “Tell them to get some of the heavy lifters over to the mess halls and see if they can’t flip those droids before they start an electrical fire. Bring fire foam. And find out why the fire-suppression systems in the kitchen haven’t gone off yet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bring up the zoo deck so I can see what’s going on,” Rogers said.

  The display technician changed the screen, and Rogers’ heart jumped into his throat. In the middle of one of the camera’s views was Tunger, lying on his back with a giant, full-grown male lion on top of him. The unfortunate corporal was trying futilely to fend of the claws of the powerful savannah feline.

  “Oh my god,” Rogers said. “We need to get him out of there! Turn on the audio so we can tell him help is on the way!”

  The communications tech flipped a switch, but before Rogers could get a word out he was surprised to hear a cacophony of giggling coming from the two-way system.

  “Stop!” Tunger tittered. “Es nur fair! Nur fair! Yur cheated!”

  McSchmidt, for some reason, groaned.

  “Never mind,” Rogers said slowly. “They’re just playing.”

  The whole bridge relaxed as a single unit. Nobody wanted to see a man mauled by a lion on live video. Well, maybe some of them did, but nobody would admit to wanting to see a man mauled by a lion on live video.

  “McSchmidt,” Rogers said, turning to the intelligence officer, who was looking much more worried than everyone else on the ship. “I want to talk to you outside. Everyone else, you are to continue with your duties or at least continue looking busy until the admiral returns.”

  Everyone snapped to, engaging in the important-looking activities of picking things up and putting them down again, walking briskly from one station to another to examine a console that had nothing to do with their jobs, and pointing curiously at blinking lights on panels.

  Rogers left the briefing room, immediately followed by both McSchmidt and Deet. When they were out of earshot of the rest of the bridge, Rogers motioned for McSchmidt to come closer so he could talk privately, but McSchmidt was looking over his shoulder.

  “What is that?” McSchmidt said.

  Rogers turned around and saw a brand-new propaganda poster plastered on the wall, but there was something different about it, something he couldn’t quite place.

  Oh, that was it. It was a picture of a giant panda bear with a melted face wearing overalls, sitting in the branches of a lemon tree. Underneath was written I CAN TASTE THE COLORS.

  Rogers choked back a laugh. “I have no idea,” he said. “But more importantly, McSchmidt,” he said, lowering his voice, “I think there’s a spy aboard the Flagship.”

  The intel officer’s eyes widened. “A spy?” He swallowed. “Why would you think something like that?”

  Rogers pointed his thumb at Deet. “Deet here has noticed that there are listening devices in Klein’s stateroom. I think there might be listening devices in other places as well. Do you think it’s a coincidence that two times in a row, the Thelicosans changed their battle formations immediately after we suggested it?”

  “Yes,” McSchmidt said. “I do.”

  Rogers looked at him flatly.

  “Okay, so maybe it’s a little suspicious,” McSchmidt said. “I just don’t want us to rush into anything rash, like a giant, ship-wide spy hunt or anything.”

  Rogers hesitated. “I wasn’t suggesting that.”

  “Good,” McSchmidt said. “Because it would be a bad idea. I don’t think you’d find him.” He cleared his throat. “Or her. Or it. Maybe it’s a droid?”

  “Why in the world would anyone have a droid as a spy?” Rogers said. “It wouldn’t make any sense. They’d be saying things like CALL FUNCTION [SPY ON MERIDANS] and crap like that. Do the Thellies even have droids?”

  “Sir!” The door to the bridge opened, and the defense tech popped his head out. “I wanted to let you know we received the damage report.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing was damaged, sir.”

  Rogers frowned. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. Our shields didn’t even take an impact.”

  “Do we even know what was fired at us?”

  “It appears that nothing was fired at us at all,” the tech said. “But some of our sensors picked up targeting emissions from that ship that came by. So, it almost looks like they were about to attack us but didn’t. Lieutenant Commander Belgrave said it was probably just a pirating ship with its munitions armed that got lost.”

  Something about that didn’t sound right to Rogers at all.

  “So, what’s up with the explosion and the fire in the kitchen? What hit us?”

  “It appears that one of the engineering personnel made a mistake in the Kamikaze.”

  “But I transferred all of those people back to engineering,” Rogers said.

  “He enjoyed cooking, sir.”

  Rogers pulled at his beard. He didn’t know whether he was enraged, relieved, or just tired. Probably a little bit of all of them. But the Flagship had definitely been targeted, and a ship had definitely come into and out of Un-Space without announcing itself. Maybe one of the other ships in the ATBU had picked it up. One that hadn’t had its targeting computer shut down for days. He’d have to get Klein to ask the other ship captains later.

  “Thanks,” Rogers said to the tech. “Anything else?”

  “No, sir.” The tech saluted and returned to the bridge.

  “I don’t like this, McSchmidt,” Rogers said, feeling very dramatic all of a sudden.

  “I don’t like it either,” McSchmidt said.

  “I’m sort of indifferent,” Deet said.

  Rogers shot him a look. “This is all too coincidental,” Rogers said. “Changing formations, a feinted attack that turned into a kitchen explosion. Even if they didn’t fire anything, the THEY’RE ATTACKING US light definitely went on. That’s something, right?”

  McSchmidt nodded. “I’ll start combing through more of the reports and let you know what I find. Maybe there’s something we’re overlooking.”

  “Fine,” Rogers said. He wiped his forehead. He hadn’t sweated so much in years. “I’m going to go make sure that Klein isn’t summoning the entire Meridan Galactic Navy to put out our kitchen fire.”

  * * *

  “What do you mean, you summoned the entire Meridan Galactic Navy to put out our kitchen fire?”

  Rogers was pretty sure if his jaw was any lower to the ground, it could have been used as a dustpan. How could one head contain so much stupid?

  “We need help,” Klei
n said. “They can’t expect us to be a buffer against the Thelicosan invasion all by ourselves.”

  “That’s exactly what they expect of us,” Rogers said. “We’re the 331st Anti-Thelicosan Buffer Unit!”

  “So what?” Klein said. “Nobody expected an actual war. We’ve been hearing rumors about this stuff for months, and now this is getting a little more than I want the 331st to handle on its own. Thelicosa is going to charge across that border and turn Merida into the next Jupiter. There won’t even be another War of Musical Chairs this time.”

  “It was a kitchen fire, Klein. A kitchen fire. And the passing ship was probably just a pirate ship with its targeting systems on,” Rogers said. “You have to cancel that message. We don’t need the central government getting involved.”

  He couldn’t imagine the kind of bureaucracy that would come flying in with such a giant military presence. There would be inspections every five minutes, droids everywhere, and Rogers doubted the alcohol quantity would improve.

  “I don’t see why it matters,” Klein said. “I’ve been sending the same message for the last four months.”

  Rogers looked up. “What do you mean?”

  Klein motioned to his computer terminal. “Every day, they keep telling me that the Thelicosans are invading. So, every day, I keep sending messages to MGN headquarters, asking them to bring reinforcements. They never answer.”

  “Hold on a second,” Rogers said. “You’re telling me you’ve been sending emergency reinforcement messages to headquarters every day, and nobody has gotten back to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that doesn’t strike you as strange?”

  “Why would it strike him?” Deet asked. “Is there a physical manifestation of this situation that strikes people?”

  “Figure of speech,” Rogers said. “Do I really need to explain that to you every time?”

  “Send a complaint to my programmer,” Deet said.

  “It seems like standard protocol to me,” Klein said. “Nobody ever answers anything I send them, so why should this be any different?”

  Rogers let that sink in for a second. Why wouldn’t anyone at MGN headquarters answer any of Klein’s messages? It was possible that the MGN simply didn’t want to get involved. They’d placed the 331st here for a reason, after all. Was there something wrong with the communication systems? But other members on the ship must be sending and receiving messages, too. Troops would notice if all of a sudden they stopped receiving messages from their families. So, what was different about Klein’s requests? Why would MGN HQ ignore them? If they were being jammed, the communications squadron would definitely know. And how could you jam only one person’s correspondence?

  “Admiral,” Rogers said, standing up and walking over to the terminal. “Can you send a message to MGN HQ for me?”

  Klein looked at him sideways. “But you just told me I can’t send messages anymore.”

  “Well, we have a problem” Rogers said, thinking rapidly. He had to test his theory, had to send a message to MGN HQ that he knew they weren’t going to ignore. “Some of the troops have been talking to me lately, and it appears . . .” He hesitated a moment. “It appears that all of them have been receiving double their pay.”

  “Double their pay?” Klein said, aghast.

  Rogers nodded gravely. “And unfortunately, if we don’t stop this immediately, the whole ship is going to go bankrupt.”

  “Rogers,” Deet said, “this information doesn’t appear to have any basis in—”

  “Deet, I put those arms and legs back on you, and I can take them off again.”

  Deep beeped contritely but remained silent.

  “Anyway,” Rogers said, turning back to Klein, “it’s very important that you transmit that message right away before all of the money goes away.”

  Klein looked at him for a moment, his eyes narrow. It actually looked like the man might have been thinking. Or pooping. It was sometimes difficult to tell the difference.I For a moment, Rogers thought Klein was about to see through his hastily but brilliantly concocted ruse.

  “Fine,” Klein said. “I’ll send the message. And I’m docking half your pay.”

  Now the only thing left to do was wait.

  * * *

  I. But let’s be honest—it’s that way with everyone. Right? Right?

  Report: N-1FG-5299-Z

  Serial: N-1FG-5299-Z

  Distribution: DBS//DSS//DAK//DFR//BB//CLOSED NETWORK A66

  Classification: Special Protocol Required

  Summary: Erratic information operations.

  Details: Nude, multicolored portraits of famous human scientists were not authorized in the information operations campaign. If you see such posters, you are to remove them immediately.

  Report Submitted By: F-GC-001

  Stick This in You

  “We’re being jammed,” Rogers said.

  “Jammed?” McSchmidt asked with half of a piece of chicken hanging out of his mouth.

  McSchmidt, Rogers, Mailn, and the Viking were enjoying some of the first bit of real food they’d had on the Flagship since Rogers had arrived. All the transferring of personnel seemed to finally be working out; instead of empty, desolate places of depression, the mess halls—except the Kamikaze, since it had been charred by the fire—were starting to get a little livelier. The troops were actually talking to each other. Rogers even thought he might have heard someone laugh.

  “What makes you say that?” the Viking asked.

  “Let’s just say that there’s no way in hell headquarters would ignore the messages I’ve been sending . . . I mean, Klein has been sending. The strange thing is, it seems to only be official communication. People are still getting messages from friends and family. And our supply runs are still happening, so we’re still getting materiel. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Wouldn’t Communications know that we’re being jammed?” Mailn asked.

  Rogers shook his head. “I talked to them. According to their records, all messages are going out like they should. But I’m positive that Klein’s aren’t going anywhere.”

  “Maybe they’re being intercepted?” McSchmidt suggested.

  “What kind of intelligence guy are you?” the Viking said. “It’s data. You don’t just catch it in a net and put it in your pocket. If someone was intercepting them, they’d still get to headquarters.”

  McSchmidt shot her a dirty look, but at a growl from the Viking, his face took on a much more subdued expression. Rogers felt his heart beat faster.

  “Any more on the ‘invasion’?” Rogers asked.

  McSchmidt wiped a pair of greasy hands on his pants and pulled out his datapad, slapping it down on the table. “Yes and no.”

  “Those two statements are mutually exclusive,” Deet said.

  McSchmidt raised an eyebrow.

  “Ignore him,” Rogers said. “They don’t understand the subtleties of human speech.”

  “Anyway,” McSchmidt said, “the intelligence reports coming in about the Thelicosan fleet have probably doubled in the last few days. The sheer volume of information is huge, but it doesn’t seem to mean anything.” He started tapping away on the datapads, and reports flashed by.

  He stopped, placing his finger on the center of a mess of text and symbols. “This, for example, is describing how much closer the Thelicosan fleet has moved to the Meridan border in centimeters.” He flipped reports again. “And this here is supposed to be intercepted radio transmissions from their flagship.”

  “What does it say?” Rogers asked.

  “It says, ‘Is everything ready for the imminent attack on the Meridan fleet? Please make sure everything is prepared so that we can take our ships and use them to cross the border and attack the Meridan ships using plasma cannons and other weapons, like our secret weapons that are very powerful, weapons that will make the Meridans blow up because they are clearly unprepared for an attack with those weapons because they are weak and disorganized.’ �
�

  A silence settled over the table. A group of droids that had been “eating” at the table behind them finished charging their batteries and got up, clanking noisily out of the mess hall.

  “That seems pretty clear,” Rogers said.

  “It does and it doesn’t,” McSchmidt said.

  “Please stop doing that,” Deet said.

  “For one thing, why would anyone ever send a transmission like that on an open channel?” McSchmidt explained, glaring at Deet. “It sounds like a drunk pirate talking in his sleep. Second, Thelicosans don’t call us Meridans.”

  “They don’t?” Mailn asked.

  “No. They call us Galactics. Ever since the Pythagorean War,I they haven’t internally recognized Meridan sovereignty.”

  Rogers frowned. “How do you know that?”

  McSchmidt blushed and cleared his throat. “I’m a political science major from the Academy,” he said. “You know, the Meridan Military Academy. The one I’ve been talking to you about that I went to. You know?”

  “Yeah,” Rogers said. “Sure. Whatever. So, what does that mean? Are we intercepting someone else’s communication?”

  “I have no idea,” McSchmidt said, leaning back and shaking his head. He looked tired. Snatching up another piece of chicken, he took a bite and chewed noisily as he mumbled through a mouthful. “I curn’t imurgine who wurd say surmthing like thurt.”

  “Hey!” came a voice from behind Rogers. “That’s really good!”

  He turned to see Tunger approaching, a tray of food in his hands. None of it, however, looked fit for human consumption; Rogers saw soon that they were scraps, probably for the animals. Tunger looked a lot happier than he had a week or so before. The zoo deck was agreeing with him, it seemed, and he hardly had any gouges on his face from the lion at all.

  “Dur yur spurk Thelicosan too?” he asked.

  McSchmidt’s face turned red and he swallowed hurriedly. “I don’t—ack!”

  McSchmidt started coughing. The Viking gave him a powerful blow on the back, dislodging the food stuck in McSchmidt’s throat (and also perhaps a vertebra).