Part 17 (1/2)

”What do you need this for, anyway?” Tunger asked as Rogers took the cart from him and wheeled it so that its widest side was flush against the doorway to his room. It was just about the heaviest laundry cart that Rogers had ever moved, but it yielded to his bulging muscles soon enough.

”Routine work for Admiral Klein,” Rogers lied. ”He's so busy being a brilliant tactician that he doesn't have time to put his laundry in the chute. In fact, every time he gets up to drop off his underwear, the Thelicosans win.”

Tunger's eyes went wide. ”Really?”

”Really,” Rogers said. ”It's on one of the posters.”

That wasn't a lie. There really was a poster that said that.

”Oh.”

”Anyway,” Rogers said, ”that will be all. I want you to take the rest of the day off, Tunger. You've been working hard for me since I became the executive officer, and I want you to know how much I truly appreciate it.”

”I've barely done anything at all, sir,” Tunger said.

”I know,” Rogers said. ”And I can't tell you how thankful I am about it. It's a lot easier for me to scheme . . . I mean, get things done when I don't have to wonder which window I am going to throw you out of the next time I hear your Thelicosan accent.”

”Aw,” Tunger said, ”it's nur sur bad.”

”Yes,” Rogers said. ”Yes, it is. Now, dismissed!”

Tunger saluted, and Rogers returned his salute, which suddenly became a salute for a Meridan Marine major, who was already saluting a corporal approaching from the in-line entrance, who had a droid behind him of undiscernible rank who may or may not have saluted Rogers back. Since n.o.body really knew who had saluted who, everyone's arm stayed in the air until the major realized he was the highest-ranking in the exchange and shouted for everyone to carry on.

”G.o.d, I hate this place,” Rogers said, shaking out his arm. Turning back to the cart, Rogers grabbed the thin piece of fabric that covered the top of it and pulled it back.

”CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY DUTY].”

He barely heard the sudden whirring of an electric razor before he saw cold metal hands reaching up at him from the bowels of the laundry cart.

”No!” Rogers screamed as he felt the distinct pulling of a poorly maintained electric razor on his beard. A great, searing pain traveled through his jawline, and, he swore, he could hear a ripping noise not unlike the tearing open of the sky during a raging thunderstorm.

Time froze. Three curled beard hairs drifted slowly from his chin and landed with a rumble atop a dirty sheet that Tunger had forgotten to take out of the bin.

”CALL FUNCTION [a.s.sERT MINOR VICTORY]. OUTPUT STRING: YIELD TO MY INSTRUMENTS, LIEUTENANT ROGERS. THERE IS NO ESCAPE.”

”You son of a b.i.t.c.h!” Rogers screamed, and, in a feat of strength he was thoroughly unable to comprehend, flipped the laundry cart in one fluid motion. Barber Bot, his arms flailing like the contents of an upturned bathroom vanity drawer, spilled backward into the zero gravity of Rogers' stateroom.

”CALL FUNCTION [ISSUE DISTRESS BEACON]. OUTPUT STRING: NOOOOOOO.”

Barber Bot tumbled and rolled, bouncing off the walls, though its hard metallic exoskeleton didn't seem to be taking much damage. For good measure, Cadet the Cat, identifying an apparent interloper, attached itself to the droid's face in a flurry of relatively ineffective claw swipes. He suffered a smoky tail at the hands of Barber Bot's welding torch but otherwise remained uninjured.

Barber Bot continued to flail in the unfamiliar setting for a few moments, its tracked base spinning with a whirring noise not unlike that of its instrument-laden hands. After a few moments, however, it began to slow. Cadet the Cat, encouraged, redoubled its efforts to claw the robot's eyes out. Rogers was beginning to think he might actually miss that cat.

”CALL FUNC . . .” The annoying robotic voice slowed and trailed off like a piece of machinery that had run out of lubricant. A moment later, a small ding noise resonated through Rogers' room.

”Low battery,” said a familiar voice-Rogers realized it was the same one from the datapads.

”Ha!” Rogers said, adrenaline flowing through his body and making him a little crazy. ”Ha! HA HA HA! Guess you shouldn't skip meals, you worthless, stupid, good-for-nothing s.h.i.+ny!”

Barber Bot's eyes flashed red for a brief moment, then went completely dark. Rogers stood there, his chest heaving, sweat pouring down the sides of his face, wondering what he'd done to exert himself so thoroughly. He'd only screamed a little and flipped over a laundry cart.

It took him a moment to get the cart right side up again, but once he did, he pulled on a couple of ropes that had been dangling-floating, really-from beyond the top of the doorframe. Attached to each of the ropes was a piece of his critical equipment-the SEWR rats and the VMU, mostly-which were far too heavy for him to lug all the way down to the garbage dump. A series of tugs positioned each of them just on the other side of the door, and one final tug tossed them effortlessly into the cart as they reentered gravity. No real physical exertion needed. Rogers allowed himself a triumphant smile as he re-covered the cart and pushed it toward the up-line.

It was time to get out of this madhouse.

The ”dump” was actually just a series of hatches on the refuse deck of the Flags.h.i.+p, utilized exclusively for the jettisoning of trash, bio-waste, and finance paperwork. It consisted of a single hallway, the in-line system on this deck replaced by conveyor beltlike moving walkways to transport anything that wasn't directly pushed into the release chambers by the Flags.h.i.+p's pipe system. The hallways were huge, round, and empty, the soft hum of the conveyor belt serving as the only real noise. There weren't even any propaganda posters. In fact, Rogers was starting to consider putting in a request to move his office down here if this plan didn't work out. The smell wasn't exactly inviting, but that was a small price to pay for a lot less saluting.

A group of Meridan Marines pa.s.sed him, moving what appeared to be cases full of spent disruptor cartridges. Those wouldn't be shot into s.p.a.ce but stored in one of the special chambers until a cargo s.h.i.+p picked them up to be exchanged for fresh ones. Rogers wondered what they were using all of that ammunition for, but he supposed the marines still needed to practice. Thankfully, absolutely none of them saluted him.

”Where is it?” Rogers wondered aloud as he rubbed his eyes. The buzz from the fight with Barber Bot had worn off, leaving him feeling fatigued and a little addled as he searched for the door that would take him to the correct chute. If he screwed this up, the VMU wouldn't have enough compressed air to get him to the Awesome, and he'd quickly learn what it was like to be a piece of s.p.a.ce debris. It actually probably felt just like being in his stateroom but with a lot less oxygen.

He looked at his datapad. It read 1436 hours s.h.i.+p time. He had just a few minutes to get into the chute, put on his gear, and get out of here. Freedom. He could almost taste it-and it tasted absolutely nothing like a SEWR rat.

”There,” he said as he saw the sign that said CHUTE 12. He'd used his special accesses as Klein's executive officer to get to some of the more detailed schematics of the s.h.i.+p, and it had listed out Chute 12 as the one closest to the hangar where the Awesome was stored. From there, he'd have a short flight to the Un-s.p.a.ce point that would take him the h.e.l.l out of here. He checked the datapad again, though only a few seconds had pa.s.sed.

Pulling the laundry cart off the conveyor belt, Rogers. .h.i.t the b.u.t.ton for the door and was promptly greeted by a giant red X on the display panel followed by a rude noise.

”s.h.i.+t,” he said. Why would they lock the garbage chutes? He should have come down here to do a practice run before all of that ”In the Zone” s.h.i.+t. If he couldn't get this door open, he'd have wasted valuable Zone time, and that wasn't something he really liked doing.

”What the h.e.l.l are you doing down here?” someone said from behind him.

He squealed like a little girl and jumped, spinning around to see the two people he wanted to see the absolute least at the moment.

Well, it was Mailn and the Viking. He guessed he wanted to see them. Rogers could certainly think of other people on the s.h.i.+p he would have liked to see less, so really, that whole thought pattern had been invalid.

”I could ask the same of you,” Rogers said, swallowing. He hoped he had that sort of c.o.c.ksure, I'm-authorized-to-be-here tone. He'd practiced it many times, but he'd never done it in front of the most beautiful woman in the world and her corporal.

”We're taking out the plasma cartridges,” the Viking said, the tremors of her full, Siren-like voice sending vibrations through Rogers' body. Could he really leave her?

”With your whole unit?” Rogers asked.

”Marines do everything as a team,” Mailn said. It sounded like a rehea.r.s.ed line, but it also sounded like she meant it. Rogers wondered what they'd do to him as a team if they found out what he was planning.

”And you?” the Viking asked. She eyed the laundry cart. Did she look suspicious? Or just wonderful? Rogers decided it was just wonderful.

”Klein's laundry,” Rogers said.

You're at the garbage dump, not the laundry! he realized too late.

Mailn raised an eyebrow. ”His clothes that dirty, eh?”

Rogers shrugged, playing it off smoothly. ”He's the boss,” Rogers said. ”He wears his clothes once and then gets rid of them. That way, he always looks fresh. Can't stand loose threads on his uniform, and all that.”

”Ah,” Mailn said. ”Well, if Klein says it helps, then it helps. Whatever keeps him doing all the great work he's doing up top.”