by Joe Zieja
“Yes.”
The Viking punched him in the arm. He felt the impact all the way down to his foot. “Don’t be an idiot. Give me that and leave the battle planning to the marines.”
Rogers thought his heart was about to pound out of his chest, and not at all because there were two droids fighting over his life a few feet away. The Viking turned the datapad upside down so that the orientation was backward for her but correct for everyone else.
“Alright,” the Viking said. “We need to disable two things: the droids and the bomb, and we need to do it at almost the exact same time. We know the bomb is in Engineering, so that’s easy. But what about the droids?”
“Hey, Deet,” Rogers called over his shoulder. “Any idea where the droids’ central database is located?”
“Well, that’s not going to help you much,” Deet said as he battled furiously onward. “They can back up their systems using the closed network they built through the mess hall power ports. If I wasn’t over here sacrificing myself for your lives, I might be able to concentrate enough to come up with a better plan.”
Rogers twisted around in his seat, raising an eyebrow. The Up-Line still hadn’t moved, thanks to Barber Bot jamming his scissors in the call button, and Rogers was slowly learning to appreciate the flame-retardant construction of the car, with all the sparks flying around.
“Don’t be stupid,” Rogers said. “You’re a droid. You can’t concentrate. You’re one big deferred procedure call.”
“I’ll defer your EXPLETIVE EXPLETIVE!” Deet said.
Rogers shook his head and turned around, leaving Deet to continue playing the role of divine aegis. “Well, back when the droids first started coming in, they stared putting a lot of new equipment in the mainframe room of Communications. That seems like as good a place as any.”
“So, we’ll have to plug into the mainframe and erase the droids’ memory banks but make sure that their secret network is disabled when we do it, and also make sure that they don’t find out about it so they don’t blow up the ship.” The Viking pointed at the three points on the Flagship’s map: the commissary deck, the communications center, and the engineering bay.
“Deet will have to be the one to plug in,” Rogers said. “He’s the only droid not programmed to try killing us all.”
“If I get out of this alive,” Deet said.
“CALL FUNCTION [CONTINUE VALIANTLY BATTLING].”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Rogers said. “I’ll put you back together if Barber Bot knocks something off. In fact, why haven’t you beaten him yet? He’s a barber.”
“Because you put me back together with random parts you found in the garbage!” Deet said. “I’m like an EXPLETIVE kitchen tool!”
“Hey, that was a simile,” Rogers said. “Almost a metaphor. Good job.”
“Are you done?” the Viking barked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Rogers said sheepishly.
“Now,” she said, pointing at the communications deck. “We’ll have to figure out how to get Deet into the IT room without alerting any of the other droids. We’ll also have to disable the droid network—”
“CALL FUNCTION [FEINT LEFT].”
“It’s not a feint if you announce it,” Deet said. Clank. Clank. Spark. Clank.
“CALL FUNCTION [RETRACT PREVIOUS FUNCTION]. CALL FUNCTION [FEINT RIGHT].”
“Still not working,” Deet said. Clank. Clank.
Rogers could barely see through the cloud of sparks and, now, a little bit of smoke, but Deet appeared to be winning. The little dent on Barber Bot’s face had now become a big dent, and one of his glowing blue eyes was hanging from its socket. A thick river of black lubricant was sliding down the side of the droid’s cheek.
“Can you guys pipe down?” Rogers asked. “We’re trying to plan a coup here.”
“I can’t EXPLETIVE go any faster,” Deet said. Boy, he sounded angry. “It’s just EXPLETIVE EXPLETIVE OBSCENITY EXPLETIVE FECAL MATTER SEXUAL ALLUSION EXPLETIVE!”
“Wow,” Rogers said. “Calm down, buddy.”
The blur of robot arms became impossibly more blurry. The speed at which Deet was raining blows down upon Barber Bot intensified, turning the image into something almost solid, like one giant arm was frozen in space as it tried to vanquish a determined foe.
“Calm down?” Deet said. “I can’t EXPLETIVE calm down! Oh, for EXPLETIVE’S sake, why can’t I just . . . say . . .”
“Oh, screw this,” the Viking said. “I’m not going to keep trying to plan a battle if you’re going to keep interrupting me.” She pointed at Rogers. “You take your bucket of bolts and get to the IT desk. Us marines’ll make sure that the network in the mess halls gets shut down. Baboon boy and Thelly spy, you do what you can to distract the droids. Is everyone clear?”
“No way,” McSchmidt said. “There’s no way I’m working with someone who makes such a mockery of my language.”
“Ur, curm onnnnn,” Tunger whined, Bobo the Baboon chirping in agreement. “We cun talk of the old country!”
McSchmidt raised a fist, but Bobo bared his fangs. Bobo didn’t have to do anything, however, as the Viking stepped so close to McSchmidt that it was no longer possible to see him anymore. She put her hands on her hips, widening her sphere of influence even further, and looked down at what was—Rogers guessed—a probably extremely scared Thelicosan spy.
She didn’t bark at him, didn’t reach for her pistol. Didn’t even really move.
“Who are you working with?” she asked quietly.
“Tunger,” McSchmidt whispered.
“And what are you going to do?”
“Distract the droids.” His voice was like a deflating tire.
Rogers felt his whole body heat up listening to the Viking browbeat McSchmidt, and he was, maybe, a little jealous.
“CALL FUNCTION [MRR MRR MRR].”
“What was that?” Rogers asked, turning around to view the droid fu match once again.
Barber Bot didn’t look so good. His other eye had stopped glowing.
“It’s . . . this . . . is . . . I . . . don’t . . . why . . . can’t . . . I . . . say . . .” Deet was muttering.
The spark cloud was starting to create its own gravity. Rogers was a little scared that a white dwarf star might start to form in the middle of the up-line.
“Deet,” Rogers said. “Take it easy.”
“. . . express . . . myself . . .” Deet was saying.
“CALL FUNCTION [BLUBBER]. OUTPUT STRING: BLUBBER BLUBBER BLUBBER.”
“This is getting really weird,” Mailn said. “Not as boring, though.”
“Maybe we should get out of here,” Rogers said. “Give them space for a—”
Deet’s eyes turned red as he screamed:
“Fuck you!”
With one final powerful blow, Deet the prototype Froid brought his hands rapidly across Barber Bot’s face, apparently seeing an opening somewhere in the blur of droid-slapping. The impact took Barber Bot completely off its feet, its head partially separating from its body. The droid tumbled once, twice, and then landed back on its treads, bobbling precariously from side to side.
“CALL FUNCTION [DIE]. OUTPUT STRING: BOING!”
Barber Bot’s head sprang upward, then stopped, wobbling at the end of a two-foot-long springlike piece of steel extending from its torso. The light in its eyes completely died, and the welding torch attached to its hand gave one final burst of flame.
Everyone in the up-line stared at the undulating corpse of the peskiest robot Rogers had ever seen. Deet panted vigorously, his arms shaking.
“Deet,” Rogers said, “you don’t have lungs. Or muscles.”
Deet froze, reassuming his robot stance. “Oh,” he said. “Right. Shall we move on?”
“. . . Yeah,” Rogers said. “Yeah, let’s.” He turned to face the group. “Everyone ready?”
The Viking pounded a fist into her palm. “Let’s go bust some shinies open.”
“It’s like I’m
not even here and didn’t just save all your lives,” Deet said.
Rogers left the up-line for a moment to retrieve the scissors, which were jammed in there pretty good, and then re-boarded the car to get them moving again. He turned to Deet, who looked pretty good for having been in a slap fight.
“Are you alright? Do you need new arms or anything?”
“Not at the moment,” Deet said, stretching out his arms and inspecting them. “I don’t know who donated these to me in the trash heap, but they must have been lifting weights.”
Rogers shot him a look. “Joke?”
“Yes.”
Rogers nodded. “Not bad, Deet. Not bad.”
The Legend of Ticket
“Are you absolutely sure we need to talk to him?” Rogers asked.
“I am certain,” Deet said as they plodded along the command deck towards Klein’s room, Rogers hurriedly deploying his anti-saluting sling. “Had I not been occupied with other matters at the time, I would have advised you during the planning phase of this operation. Admiral Klein is the only person on this ship with the access codes to perform such a large override.”
Rogers sighed. “Fine. But it’s going to be really hard to convince him to come along with all the, uh, bugs.”
“Bugs,” Deet said. “Right. I think I can help with that.”
Someone who wasn’t paying attention attempted to salute Rogers, noticing the sling too late. She—a starman third class—stood there, frozen in the hallway with her arm up, unsure of what to do. Rogers gave her an apologetic shrug.
“I hope you’re as brilliant as you think you are,” Rogers said, his hand on the door control, “because if I have to listen to one more string of buzzwords, I am going to go light a match in the engineering bay.”
Admiral Klein’s face leapt out of nowhere as the door slid open.
“Gah!” Rogers cried, jumping back.
“Rogers!” Klein said. “Where have you been? Do you have any idea what I’ve been going through up here?” He looked at Rogers’ sling. “Agoraphobia acting up again?”
“Yes, sir,” Rogers said, his heart slowly going down to a normal rate. “Why were you standing so close to the door like that?”
“I was trying to see if I could open it with my mind,” Klein said as though it should have been very simple. He turned around and motioned for Rogers to follow him into the room. “I’ve got all of these new posters around here that say that I can open my mind and open new doors or something. I don’t understand them. Did you ever talk to Ralph?”
Rogers stopped as soon as he stepped into the room, his mouth open. All of the propaganda posters—every single one—had been replaced, somehow, though Rogers was almost certain that Klein and his execs were the only ones that entered Klein’s stateroom. Rogers immediately realized why Klein had been trying to open doors with his mind; there was a poster of a giant bleeding eyeball surrounded by pastel rainbows which said exactly that: YOU CAN OPEN DOORS WITH YOUR MIND.
“As a matter of fact,” Rogers said, closing the door behind him, “I did talk to Ralph. He was charming.”
Deet was hurriedly walking around the room, his metallic legs clanking against the floor. Rogers assumed he was setting up some sort of sophisticated net of interference transmitters to jam the listening devices posted all over the room. How many were there? Was it really safe to try and do this here? The up-line was an option, but he also wanted to avoid being ambushed by any more haircutting personnel.
“Did Ralph answer your questions?”
“Uh, no, sir,” Rogers said. “But I found my answer somewhere else. Which is exactly what I came here to talk to you about.”
“You mean you’re not here to make me a sandwich?” he asked.
“No,” Rogers said. “I’m not here to make you a sandwich, but—”
“Didn’t we talk about priorities, Rogers? If I’m going to run this fleet, I can’t do it on an empty stomach.”
“You’re not running this fleet,” Rogers said though clenched teeth. “You abandoned the fleet in the middle of an attack and gave command over to an ex-sergeant engineer. If you’re trying to keep up appearances, you’re not going to do a very good job of it if you keep disappearing when people need you the most.”
“Look, Lieutenant,” Klein said, sitting back in his chair. “If you’re going to berate a superior officer and you want him to stop interrupting you, it’s probably better that you put something in his mouth. Like a sandwich.”
Throwing his hands up in the air and giving a wordless shout, Rogers walked over to the small kitchenette inside Klein’s stateroom, slapped some mayonnaise onto two pieces of bread and stuck them together. He put the improvised sandwich on a plate and handed it to the whining admiral.
“There,” he said. “Sandwich. Now I really need to—”
“What kind of sandwich is this?” Klein asked, turning it over in his hands. “There’s nothing on it.”
“It’s a phantom sandwich,” Rogers said. “New craze. Very popular on Parivan.”
Klein took a suspicious bite. “Bunch of crazy Parivani hippies will do anything if it’s weird.”
Rogers sighed. “Now can I talk to you?”
The admiral didn’t answer, since his mouth was full of a fake bite of the fake sandwich. He simply waved Rogers on and took a sip of water.
Rogers turned around to find Deet ostensibly practicing his droid fu in the corner. At least, that’s what it looked like for all Rogers could tell. Deet’s arms were moving in a blur and not accomplishing anything, which was pretty similar to what Rogers had seen before.
“Are we safe to talk?” Rogers asked.
Deet’s arms slowly wound down, clicking wildly. “Oh, that,” he said. “I’ve set up a noise jamming net. Let me activate it and then you’re free to say whatever you’d like. Are you ready?”
“Ready.”
Rogers was expecting Deet to turn on some sort of force field or at least make a beeping noise and wave his arms a little to show that something happened. Instead, the loudest noise Rogers had ever heard started coming out of Deet’s body. It wasn’t quite like a scream, and it wasn’t quite like a siren. It was something in between having your spine ripped out with fishhooks and finding out that all the beer lights were gone.
“Go ahead!” Deet shouted over the noise.
Rogers supposed it made sense; it would be hard to pick up what he and Klein were saying if they talked close enough to hear each other. Rogers had just never quite heard this interpretation of noise jamming before.
“I’m not sure how long I can keep this up,” Deet shouted over his incredibly, incredibly annoying noise. “I may kill myself.”
“I may kill you,” Rogers muttered.
Klein, surprisingly, considering his earlier response to stress, seemed unconcerned. He slowly put down his sandwich and looked at Rogers.
“Lieutenant,” he said, loudly, though his face showed no effort from shouting. “What the hell is your droid doing and how do we make him stop doing it?”
“Admiral,” Rogers said, moving closer. The only way they could hear each other was if they kept their faces about three inches away from each other, and Rogers could smell a distinct and unpleasant mixture of mayonnaise and aftershave. “I need you to listen. The entire fleet is in jeopardy and we need your help.”
Klein didn’t interrupt him as Rogers related absolutely everything he knew about the droids, their impending takeover, and the role that Klein must play for their counterattack to work properly. When he finished, Rogers was out of breath and his ears were ringing.
“Alright,” Klein said.
Rogers blinked. “Really? That’s it? You’ll do it?”
Klein shook his head. “No, but it sounds like a perfect job for my executive officer.”
For a moment, Rogers thought he was about to go In the Zone again. That moment when something snapped inside of him, and all of a sudden he became a different person, someone who could move e
ffortlessly through any social situation, steal a watch off a man for whom time was as important as blood, and make a horse think it was a zebra with a little paint. Then he realized that, no, it wasn’t Zone time at all. It was the point at which one becomes so frustrated, so annoyed, so desperately done with it all that murder suddenly looks like a viable option.
But, since Rogers wasn’t very good with violence, he instead reached forward, grabbed the Toastmasters certificate off the wall, and threw it to the floor. He followed with a sweeping arm gesture that knocked just about every notepad and book off the admiral’s desk. For good measure, he made one of those really dramatic, wordless roar sounds.
Klein’s reaction was much as he anticipated.
“What have you done?” the admiral shrieked, jumping out of his chair and putting his hands on the sides of his head.
“Do you see this?” Rogers said, gesturing grandly. “This is what’s going to happen to your fleet if you don’t take the huge amounts of stupid out of your ears and set it aside for ten minutes. I need your codes to erase the droids’ memories, and that means I need your biometrics to come with me to the communications bay with Deet so we can stop these over-technical tin cans from taking over the ship and waging an unexpectedly sentient war against humanity with our own ships !”
Klein looked like he was about to hyperventilate. He made several feeble attempts to bend down and pick up a pen to start writing something but couldn’t seem to figure out what to write. For a moment, he stood up straight, put his hand on his heart, and took a deep breath to begin a pep talk, but his chest deflated like a balloon.
“Now, are you coming to the mainframe room, or should I just go find the nearest AIGCS droid and call him a shiny?”
“You really shouldn’t say racist things.”
“Klein!”
“Alright,” the admiral said. “Alright. Let’s go. But I want a real sandwich first. I might be dumb, but I am not dumb enough to fall for such a stupid trick as a phantom sandwich.”
* * *
“This is really good,” Klein said as he munched two pieces of bread with a thin layer of mayonnaise in between them. “Really excellent, Rogers. What did you say it was called again?”
