Part 11 (1/2)
”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 h.e.l.l 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.
”CALL FUNCTION [REa.s.sESS CLEVER HIDING PLACE].”
”How did you even get in there in the first place?” Rogers asked. ”You know what? Never mind. I don't care. I told you you're not touching my beard, and that's final.”
”CALL FUNCTION [INCESSANT REPEt.i.tION]. OUTPUT STRING: YOU MISSED OUR APPOINTMENT.”
”And I'll miss the next hundred appointments!” Rogers shouted boldly, puffing his chest out (while maintaining a safe distance from the immobile droid). ”You'll never get the best of R. Wilson Rogers!” He thought a moment. ”Or his beard! You'll never get the beard of R. Wilson Rogers!”
”CALL FUNCTION [ESCAPE SELF-IMPOSED PRISON].”
BAR-BR 116's torch flared to life-Rogers really didn't want any part of a haircut that involved flaming objects-and set to work on the side of the crate.
”I think I've seen enough of the engineering bay,” Rogers said, eyeing Barber Bot warily.
”I think I've seen enough of it too,” Lopez said. ”Come back anytime you want to turn a wrench or get chased by droids or get yelled at by Ensign McSchmidt or . . . You know what? Maybe you shouldn't come back.”
”I'm beginning to think that about a lot of places,” Rogers said.
Lopez escorted him back to the entrance of the engineering bay, where he politely declined another sip of what she called ”Lopez's Special Sauce” and began the journey back to his room so he could get some sleep. The trip was far from restful; he kept looking behind him for Barber Bot and kept looking ahead of him for any sign of the Viking. There had to be a way to make her see him as more than someone trying to usurp her job. And there had to be a way to blow up that robot.
All problems, no solutions. That was quickly becoming the story of his life.
As he approached the door to his room, he saw Sergeant Stract and Inspect-o-Droid leaving it.
”CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY FUNCTION]. FAILURE TO BE PRESENT AT INSPECTION. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED.”
Rogers gave the robot the finger, walked past both of them without saying a word, and went to bed. The glowing face of the droid on the wall stared at him, its brightly lit background driving those infernal words into his head: AUTOMATION IS EFFICIENCY IS EFFICACY IS GOOD.
Mechanical Failure Sleep had been broken by the giant beacon of light in his room and the fact that he had to chase BAR-BR 116 away from his door at least twice. So far this morning, he hadn't seen it, and Rogers was starting to believe that perhaps it had given up. Could droids give up? Rogers didn't know. In any case, it made for a weary morning back in the droids' training room.
”Alright, Tunger,” Rogers said as he rubbed his eyes. ”What have you got for me?
Tunger looked at him blankly. ”Didn't I do the whole 'I present to you the Artificial Intelligence Ground Combat Squadron' thing to you yesterday?”
”That's not what I meant,” Rogers said, again sitting down in the only chair in the room. He pretended to look relaxed, like he didn't care about anything in the world, but already today he felt his nerves had been stretched so tight, they might snap. The Viking had finally pa.s.sed him in the hallway and didn't even shove him-Rogers would have accepted any physical touch at this point-and then they had run out of SEWR rats in both the Uncouth Corkscrew and the Peek and Shoot. Those meals were bad enough without having to go hunting for them.
”Sir, if I may,” said Oh One, who had stepped out from formation to greet him.
Rogers cut him off with a wave. ”Look, I know you've been appointed my deputy and that you technically outrank Tunger with all this new rank bullc.r.a.p that they've published, but I want you to step back in formation and stay there until I give you an order.”
Rogers wasn't sure where the outburst had come from. Maybe it was the fact that even the coffee in the Uncouth Corkscrew this morning had tasted like motor oil-he willed himself to believe it was actually just bad coffee-or maybe it was the fact that after less than a week on the Flags.h.i.+p, he wished he'd been s.p.a.ced by the Garliali. And that made him think of calamari. And that made him sad.
Oh One stood there for a moment, as if considering what to do. Rogers scowled. Oh One was a droid; there should be no considering about it.
”Back in formation,” Rogers said again.
Oh One's eyes flashed red-Rogers was absolutely positive he saw it this time-and he stepped back into formation without another word.
Turning back to Tunger, Rogers leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. Being grumpy was helping him be just the sort of commander he was trying to be: bad.
”You were supposed to charge the control pad and figure out what to drill today so that we don't build another one of those.” Rogers pointed at the column of steel that was still in the middle of the training room. ”You do remember me telling you that, don't you?”
”Yes, sir,” Tunger said. He moved to the cabinet and retrieved the control pad. ”I charged it up for you all night. Should be good for the whole day. And I spent some time looking at the manual.”
”The piece of paper with nothing on it but an unlabeled chart of the b.u.t.tons?”
”That's the one,” Tunger said. ”I think maybe we should focus on some target practice. I had Corporal Suresh in Supply bring up some targets for us.” He gestured to the far side of the room, where a modified shooting range had been constructed. That hadn't been there the day before; Rogers was sure of it. Now, long rows extended down the opposite end of the training room, ending in target silhouettes.
Rogers leaned forward. ”Tunger, why are all the target silhouettes shaped like animals?”
Some of them weren't easily identifiable, but Rogers was almost positive that the shadows of ostriches occupied the first few targets, followed by some sort of gorilla and, strangely, a m.u.f.fin. Rogers could recognize the shadow of a m.u.f.fin anywhere.
Tunger blushed. ”It's all I could find, sir.”
”I'm kind of surprised these exist, honestly.”
”They're actually not targets. They're visual recognition training for zoo personnel,” Tunger said. ”You need to know the difference between a red-footed b.o.o.by and a blue-footed b.o.o.by at two hundred meters in the dead of night in case the power goes out.”
Rogers squinted. ”Why would you ever need to know such a thing?”
”Can't just let the b.o.o.bies run around, sir,” Tunger said seriously. ”Can't do that at all.”
Rogers felt like perhaps there was some real, sage advice in that statement, but he couldn't figure it out at all. He just nodded slowly. ”I suppose you can't, at that. Well, at least if there's ever a jailbreak in the zoo and the AIGCS has to hunt them down, we'll know what they're capable of.”
”Sir!” Tunger said, scandalized.
”I'm only kidding,” Rogers said. ”I'm curious what you found out by looking at the, uh, manual.”
”Absolutely nothing, sir.”
Rogers rubbed his eyes again. d.a.m.n, but he was tired. ”Right. Well I hope you found it personally fulfilling anyway.”
He looked up at the droids all standing perfectly still, their blue eyes s.h.i.+ning back at him like a little constellation through the expanse of the ma.s.sive training room.
”I suppose a little target practice wouldn't hurt,” Rogers said. ”I'll have to figure out how to get them to fire weapons sometime, I guess. Let's take a look.”
Taking the control pad in his hands and unlocking it, he was presented with the maze of unlabeled green b.u.t.tons again. If the orange b.u.t.ton was a sort of speaking command b.u.t.ton, the green b.u.t.tons must be able to do things without him talking into the device. Maybe then it wouldn't be so easy to confuse these buckets of bolts, Freudian Chip or no. For droids, they did seem rather stupid.
Rogers figured he'd start with the top left, and tapped the screen to engage the first green b.u.t.ton. Instantly, the screen s.h.i.+fted to a display of what appeared to be the training room. A thick silver outline traced the edges of the room, and he could see each droid represented as a blue dot in perfect formation.