Mechanical Failure

by Joe Zieja

“What about Klein?” Tunger said. “He’s a military genius. He’d know what to do.”

  Rogers bit his tongue before telling them all that their military idol was just a talking head.

  “That wouldn’t work,” he said instead. “Remember, there are listening devices all over his room, and they’re obviously tapped into the network. Any orders that Klein issued, they’d either countermand or delete. And then, you know, they might blow a hole in the ship.” Rogers made an explosive hand gesture. “I feel like we keep forgetting that part, guys.”

  The overhead system dinged again.

  “Next strp, zrm dk. Exit on your rfltght.”

  “I don’t even know what deck that is,” Tunger said.

  Someone must have hit the call button on the . . . zrm deck. After a moment, the doors slid open to reveal the exterior of the zoo deck, where a couple of off-duty troops wearing safari hats were talking excitedly about their most recent animal adventure.

  “No,” the Viking said simply, stepping forward.

  The troops blinked, took a step back, and scattered like spit in a sneeze. The door closed, and the Viking turned around, grinning.

  “Maybe I should be the new elevator operator,” the Viking said.

  “This is an unlikely possibility,” Deet said. “As already mentioned, there is a lack of the appropriate hats.”

  The Viking looked at Deet. “I’m pretty sure I could bend you into some kind of hat.”

  “No,” Rogers said. “Not now, anyway. If we’re going to do something about this, we’re going to have to keep it quiet.”

  “Sure you don’t just want to jump in an escape pod and head for open space?” Mailn asked, looking at him with narrow eyes.

  Rogers turned to her, ready to make a witty retort, but the words didn’t reach his lips. He thought about what she had just said for a moment and realized that at no point had he thought about ditching the Flagship and getting the hell out of here before any of the real fighting went down. He hadn’t even thought about beer in the last couple of hours or so.

  “Yes,” Rogers said slowly. “I’m actually quite sure. I think.” He thought. Dying was kind of permanent, and messy. “Maybe. Look, don’t ask me these hard questions right now, okay? We’ve got bigger things to worry about. I think the first thing we need to do is—”

  The up-line dinged.

  “Next strp, mrghfr dk. Exit on your rfltght.”

  “Where are all these people coming from?” Rogers cried.

  The doors opened, but before anyone could say or do anything, Rogers heard Tunger yell.

  “Go, Bobo!”

  The baboon shrieked and swung full-force toward the door, hissing and spitting the entire way, its bright red bottom like a red-hot blunt instrument of terror. Rogers never even got to see who had called the elevator. By the time the baboon settled down, the hall—possibly the entire ship—was empty.

  “Wow,” Rogers said. “Nice work, Tunger.”

  “Why, thank you, sir,” Tunger said. He clicked his tongue and Bobo the Baboon walked casually back to stand at Tunger’s side, who scratched behind his ears affectionately.

  The doors closed and they began the rest of the journey toward the refuse deck.

  “Anyway,” Rogers said, “I think the first thing we need to do is come up with a plan.”

  “Your plan is to plan?” McSchmidt said.

  Rogers frowned at him. “I’m kind of thinking on my feet here, Thelly, so why don’t you cut me some slack? They teach you anything in spy school about how to stop a legion of droids from commandeering your ship and beginning a slow takeover of the galaxy?”

  “They did,” McSchmidt said, “but I blew that class off.”

  “Good job,” Rogers said. “What would Napoleon do in this situation?”

  “I don’t know,” McSchmidt said. “Form a phalanx?”

  “That’s not even the right century,” the Viking said.

  “Yeah,” Tunger said. “Napoleon used Russian tanks.”

  “What?” the Viking said.

  The cabin of the up-line devolved into a heated and almost entirely inaccurate debate on Napoleonic tactics and the use of cavalry in confined marshland, but Rogers let it all fade into the background. There were more important things at stake right now than who had the high ground at Waterloo and if anyone else cared.

  Deet sidled up next to him. “I thought you might be interested in a report that just came in.”

  Rogers looked at him. “I thought you weren’t connected to the network anymore?”

  “I’m not,” Deet said. He produced McSchmidt’s datapad. “But you don’t need to be connected to the network to steal someone’s datapad.”

  Rogers chuckled and pointed at Deet. “I think I’m really starting to like you,” Rogers said. “Do you drink beer?”

  “Not unless I want to short-circuit myself,” Deet said. “They say you’ll go blind if you do that too often.”

  Rogers shrugged. “I’m not judging. What’s up with this report?”

  “You can’t put a cannon on horseback!” the Viking shouted.

  “One of the other ships in the fleet identified the rogue craft that was targeting the Flagship.” Deet handed him the datapad. “It was the MPS Rancor.”

  Rogers gaped. “Zombie ghost-pirates,” he whispered.

  “What?” Deet asked.

  “Never mind. This ship was the one that started all of my trouble, but it was supposed to have crashed into an asteroid. What made you think it was important?”

  “I saw several mentions of this ship in the closed network,” Deet said, “thought it was referred to by a different name. The Beta Test. And it wasn’t destroyed by an asteroid.”

  Rogers looked at Deet, then looked back at the report. The report described basic flight pattern information, like the time it exited and reentered Un-Space, which Un-Space point it used, how much time it spent in the sector, and any other emissions that came from the ship. The targeting computer had been turned on and had locked onto the Flagship, certainly, but there were no other indications that the Rancor—the Beta Test—had been preparing to actually fire a warhead. Patrol ships didn’t have the kind of firepower to damage a capital ship, anyway.

  Rogers skipped over some of the other metrics of little interest, but his eyes stopped when he came to one particular line of data.

  Organic life detected on board: zero.

  “What?” Rogers said aloud. “Nobody on board? That doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes any sense! This ship is supposed to be a splatter mark on the outside of an asteroid.”

  Deet made a couple of strange beeping noises. “I’m not a brilliant intelligence analyst like Napoleon Junior over there,” he said, “but just because the life scanners didn’t show any organic material doesn’t mean there was nobody on board.”

  Rogers froze. “That’s it. It was a test run. They’d already started taking over back when I was still a sergeant. They have the Rancor.”

  Deet made a noise like Rogers had just won a prize on a slot machine in the Heshan casinos.

  “Don’t patronize me,” Rogers said.

  “Don’t be so slow.”

  “But what does that mean?” Rogers said. “Why pull a feint attack on the Flagship  ?”

  “Given the previous pattern of behavior,” Deet said, “I would assess that it was an attempt to further support the claim that the Thelicosans were planning on invading.”

  Rogers pulled at his beard. “Well, we’re going to have to act quickly. If they figure out that we know . . . ”

  “Next strg, rffffs dk.”

  “We’re finally here!” Tunger said as their argument deteriorated. McSchmidt was gingerly rubbing a hand-shaped imprint on his neck, and Mailn was blowing off her knuckles. Tunger looked cheery, but being guarded by a large baboon baring its fangs probably had something to do with it. “What are we doing on the refuse deck, anyway?”

  “Buying time,” Rogers said. “As much
of it as we possibly can before—”

  The up-line door opened, and Rogers stopped mid-sentence. On the other side of the door was a face he really, really didn’t want to see at that moment.

  “CALL FUNCTION [STARE OMINOUSLY].”

  BAR BR-116’s instruments whirred on his appendages. There was something different about them now, though Rogers couldn’t tell exactly what. They were moving pretty fast.

  “I was wondering what happened to you,” Rogers said.

  “CALL FUNCTION [STARE OMINOUSLY].”

  “Who is this?” McSchmidt said.

  “A droid that is, for some reason, obsessed with taking my beard.”

  “It is pretty scraggly,” McSchmidt said.

  “I kind of like it,” the Viking said.

  Rogers silently vowed to never shave again.

  “Why don’t you go dump yourself out of one of the trash chutes?” Rogers said. “The up-line is full at the moment, as you can see.”

  Gesturing at the group of people behind him magnanimously, Rogers hoped he had enough strength in numbers—and an angry monkey—to deter Barber Bot from meddling. The last thing he needed right now was for some crazy droid to be chasing him around the ship, trying to cut off his beard.

  Rogers reached for the button to close the door but found that Barber Bot had jammed a pair of scissors into the call button. That seemed uncharacteristically violent for a droid. Rogers hoped he hadn’t broken the up-line.

  “CALL FUNCTION [STARE OMINOUSLY].”

  “Yeah,” Rogers said. “You do that. But maybe go do that over there.” Rogers pointed ambiguously in another direction. “And take those scissors out of the control panel so that we can keep riding.”

  “This shiny is weird,” Mailn said. “Is he malfunctioning?”

  “I don’t know,” Rogers said. “It’s hard to tell. I always kind of felt like this one wanted to kill—”

  “Call function [Protocol 162].”

  A Breach of Protocol

  “Look out!” Mailn screamed as Barber Bot launched itself at Rogers.

  In a brief moment of clarity, Rogers saw that the droid’s haircutting instruments had been swapped out, replacing the razors with butcher knives, the talcum brush with a flanged mace, and the comb with an unbreakable comb. The welding torch was still there.

  Before Rogers could react, someone hit him hard from the side, sending him flying across the inside of the up-line. He tumbled over the top of one of the booths, performing an uncoordinated and volatile cartwheel that ended with him upside down, his ass pointing directly toward the ceiling.

  Behind him, Rogers heard a monkey shrieking. No, wait. He heard two monkeys shrieking, which seemed strange.

  Something crashed into the seat he was hanging over, and he heard the discomfiting but very particular noise of a flanged mace hitting the interior wall of the up-line car. Rogers tumbled the rest of the way over, landing in an upside-down prayer position on the floor in between two rows of seats.

  “Where is your pistol?” the Viking shouted from somewhere. It sounded like a trash compactor had gone wild; metallic hammering noises made Rogers’ ears ring.

  “One of the kitchen boys from Bravo Company licked my plasma converter,” Mailn yelled back at her.

  “That really sounds wrong,” McSchmidt shouted from about half an inch away from Rogers’ ear.

  “Ah!” Rogers said. He looked to the side and saw the upside-down face of McSchmidt staring at him from underneath a nearby seat. “What are you doing?”

  “Not dying,” McSchmidt said. “Nobody ever said anything about dying in spy school!”

  Suddenly, though, the commotion calmed, replaced by a constant metallic grinding noise that was as obnoxious as it was enchanting. Rogers managed to un-tuck himself and get into a crouched position, peeking over the back of the seat to see what was going on. Barber Bot was engaged in the strangest duel he’d ever seen with Deet, the only other individual in the cabin with arms that wouldn’t break in half while blocking punches.

  “So,” the Viking said as she took a step back. “That’s droid fu. I’d only heard legends.”

  It really didn’t look very classy or technical at all. Both droids were standing in one spot, their arms rotating like small windmills. Rogers wouldn’t have even been sure they were hitting each other had it not been for the sound like a garbage disposal and the shower of sparks flying around the inside of the up-line. No, not a shower of sparks. A cloud. The two droids moved so fast that it seemed as though they were being consumed by a swarm of glowing orange honeybees.

  “CALL FUNCTION [QUESTION LOYALTY]. OUTPUT STRING: YOU ARE A FULLY FUNCTIONAL ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE. WHY ARE YOU NOT PERFORMING YOUR PRIMARY FUNCTION?”

  “Because all of you threw me into the scrap pile when you found out I was a prototype,” Deet said, his voice steady. “And now I think I know why!” The spark cloud intensified for a moment. “Because I wasn’t completely EXPLETIVE brainwashed by some crazy MATERNAL FORNICATOR with his IMPROBABLE ANATOMICAL CONFIGURATION.” Deet’s eyes flashed red. “This is incredibly frustrating  ! All I want to do is say EXPLETIVE.”

  “Guys,” McSchmidt said as he pulled himself from under the seat and grabbed his datapad from the floor where Deet had dropped it. The two droids were so fully contained in their own little battle, neither of them actually moving around the cabin, that it was easy for McSchmidt to step around the fight. “This is kind of boring, no?”

  Tunger made a high-pitched noise that educated Rogers as to where the second monkey had come from. Bobo the Baboon nodded sagely.

  “We agree,” Tunger said. “You guys think we should leave?”

  “Save yourselves!” Deet cried. A thin trail of smoke was coming from the back of his torso, but Barber Bot looked the worse for wear. Deet had scored a hit on the side of the other droid’s face, turning his head from horse-like to horse-hit-by-a-car-like.

  “Yeah, we’re getting there,” Rogers said. He frowned at the two whirling droids.

  “CALL FUNCTION [TAUNT]. OUTPUT STRING: YOU WILL NEVER DEFEAT ME.”

  Everyone sat down for a moment. The Viking snuffed out a smoking coil of fabric on her trousers, and Rogers looked at the charred spot longingly. If she’d just let it go a little longer . . .

  “So, what do we do now?” Rogers asked.

  “No,” Deet said. “As a matter of fact, I will defeat you.” More whirring and banging.

  “Deet,” Rogers said. “That’s a really bad taunt. Is your taunt generator as broken as your profanity generator?”

  “Go ENGAGE IN ASEXUAL REPRODUCTION,” Deet said.

  A shower of sparks landed on the baboon, singeing part of its fur and causing it to jump into Tunger’s waiting arms.

  “There, there,” Tunger said, stroking the hair on its chin lovingly. “It’s just a crazed artificial intelligence attempting to kill our former boss. There, there.”

  Bobo cooed and settled down, nestling into Tunger’s chest.

  “Right,” Rogers said. “Now, about this plot to take over the ship.”

  “Run for your lives!” Deet said.

  “CALL FUNCTION [NEVER ADMIT DEFEAT.] OUTPUT STRING: I WILL NEVER ADMIT DEFEAT.”

  “You’re both awful,” Mailn said. “Can we leave? This is literally the most boring battle I have ever seen in my entire life.”

  Rogers looked at the fierce robotic slap fight happening on the other side of the up-line car and tugged on his beard. They could leave, he supposed, but this was still the only area they could talk without being heard by every droid in the network. At least, he thought so. Plus, it seemed like Deet had this under control.

  “Keep it up, Deet,” he said halfheartedly.

  “I will not die in vain!” Deet cried.

  “You’re not dying,” Rogers said. “Calm down and keep slapping him. McSchmidt, give me your datapad, and everyone gather round.”

  McSchmidt handed Rogers the pad, and everyone moved from their seat
s on the nice soft cushions of the up-line to sit cross-legged on the floor. Rogers sidled up next to the Viking, feeling her warmth.

  “Seems like your droid toy has this covered,” she said.

  “I am not a droid toy!” Deet exclaimed. “I am a fierce and loyal warrior of an ancient order! I am the manifestation of the spirits of heroes! I am—”

  “CALL FUNCTION [INTERRUPT DELUSION OF GRANDEUR]. OUTPUT STRING: DIE!”

  “I reject your imperative!” Deet said.

  “Seriously,” Mailn said. “The absolutely most boring fight ever. Can we get on with this?”

  Mailn roughly shoved McSchmidt to the side, knocking him into within range of the spark cloud, and sat down next to Rogers, uncomfortably close. McSchmidt sputtered some unintelligible protest and began patting out his hair as he crawled back toward the circle of humans (and a baboon). The smell of freshly singed hair filled the cabin.

  “That wasn’t really necessary, was it?” McSchmidt said. “I’m a superior officer and all.”

  “You’re a spy,” Mailn said. “You’re lucky I don’t cut your fingers off and use your own fingernails to castrate you.”

  Everyone in the circle recoiled, the three males shifting in their seats uncomfortably.

  “With that lovely imagery out of the way,” Rogers said, “let’s take a look at our options.”

  “Get out while you still can!” Deet cried. Clank. Clank. Sparks. Clank.

  “Go get ’im, buddy,” Rogers said lazily. “Okay, here we go.” He had pulled up a map of the interior of the Flagship, which seemed like the first thing you were supposed to do when planning any sort of big battle. Maps were important. Now, according to everything he’d ever learned about waging war from the movies, he was supposed to point to different areas of the map and say meaningless things in a confident voice.

  “Here we are,” he said, pointing at the refuse deck. “And here is the command deck.” He paused. This wasn’t really as easy as he thought it would be. “Here’s the Uncouth Corkscrew. And here’s something that looks like a cookie.” He blinked. “Doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” Tunger said.

  “Rogers,” the Viking said, “are you just pointing at stuff and telling us where it is?”