Part 18 (1/2)

”Stop that!”

Another poke.

”When I find you, I'm going to press that red b.u.t.ton and-”

Click.

The mobility switch on the back of his helmet had been turned on.

”Congratulations on activating the mobility mode of your Vacuum Mobility Unit!” a voice intoned in his ear. ”You are ent.i.tled to one free-”

”Noooo!” Rogers cried as the movement of his foot caused the pressurized air in his suit to blow outward. He shot rapidly away from the trash pile and embedded his head firmly in another one, this one thankfully full of sc.r.a.ps of cus.h.i.+oning rather than metal rods and sharp edges. He reached up to free himself, and the air pockets in his arm units made sharp hissing noises as they reacted to his movements, sending him spinning around on the floor. The red light of the garbage chute turned the whole thing into a spinning-wheel painting, something out of a zip jack addict's art studio.

He felt the rip in his suit as he grazed a jagged piece of sc.r.a.p metal, felt it tug on the central air reservoir inside the unit, and then felt like the Viking had just elbow-dropped him. All of the air exploded out of his suit at once, warning lights flas.h.i.+ng on the heads-up display of his helmet to tell him that the integrity of his suit had been compromised and that he was quickly running out of air reserves.

But Rogers didn't really think about any of that, as he was too busy being flung halfway down the corridor by rapidly exiting air deposits.

When he finally came to a stop, feeling like O-71 inside a bingo machine, he couldn't bring himself to move. Every part of him hurt in strange and new ways. Flashbacks of the incident with the droids popped into his head; he instinctively curled into a ball and whimpered, expecting to be stepped on by one of their giant metal legs any second. Thankfully, nothing more serious happened than the last bits of air leaving the tears in his suit and making a flatulent noise.

”Uhh . . .” Rogers said a.n.a.lytically.

Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet and looked back toward the refuse heap he'd been examining when someone had obviously a.s.saulted him. He could see nothing other than a pile of metal, glinting softly in the red glow of the overhead lights. But something had grabbed him.

Rogers snuck down the hallway, bracing himself after every step for a team of garbage ninjas to rush out of the shadows and deal him the final blow. The corridor was quiet. No ninjas. Stillness.

”CALL FUNCTION [ATTACK! ATTACK! ATTACK!]”

Rogers squealed and dove to the side of the corridor, expecting the mangled remnants of the AIGCS droids to come to life and begin their zombie/droid a.s.sault. But no matter how tightly he gripped his head between his knees and muttered nonsensical gibberish, the Attack! Attack! Attack! never came.

”Ha,” a voice said, ”you humans fall for that every time.”

Peeking up from his armadillo defense, Rogers found himself nearly nose to nose with the disembodied head of a droid. At least, it seemed that way at first. It was actually the disembodied torso-could you really be disembodied if the body was included?-with the head and one arm attached. It might have been a droid that hadn't been disa.s.sembled properly before it was dumped down here. It looked older, worn around the edges. A little bit of rust here and there, perhaps, though it was difficult for Rogers to tell in the light.

”Who are you?” Rogers asked, then frowned. ”You look too old to be a Froid.”

The droid's head twitched to one side, then made an ambiguous computation noise.

”What's a Froid?”

”Those new droids that have the Freudian Chip installed in them. But they're new.” Rogers pointed at him. ”You're old, but you talk like the new ones.”

”Oh, I have one of those. I'm not old,” the droid said. ”I'm corroded. There's a difference.”

Rogers walked over to where the droid was peeking out from the pile of metal to get a closer look. It looked similar to the Froids, he realized, but there was something off. Something unfinished about it. The important part of its torso was still intact, if very dented, probably thanks to the mountains of metallic garbage being flung on top of it.

”You ruined my escape plan, you know,” Rogers said.

”Oh,” the droid replied. ”I was just having some fun. I don't get a lot of company.”

Raising his eyebrow, Rogers gave the droid an appraising look. ”Since when do droids care about company?”

”I don't know. Are you upset that I ruined your escape?”

Rogers sat down and took off his helmet. ”No. Yes. I don't know.” He sighed. ”I probably wouldn't have made it, anyway. I don't know anything about this adventuring stuff. I just want to drink beer and play cards. Is that so much to ask?”

The droid didn't respond. It didn't do anything much at all, really. Just stuck out of the garbage pile like a weed from a garden of metal, staring at Rogers expectantly. Could droids look expectant? Rogers thought they always sort of looked that way. Whoever had designed their ”faces” seemed to favor a look that walked the intersection of boredom, condescension, and expectancy.

”Anyway,” Rogers said, looking up at the ceiling, ”what are you doing down here? Droids need to be fully wiped before they're destroyed. And how did you get all that damage?”

”It was those EXPLETIVE pieces of OBSCENITIES in the maintenance bay!” the droid said in a burst of volume. ”They have their heads so far up their ANATOMICAL REFERENCE that they can't think straight!”

Rogers frowned. ”Are . . . are you trying to swear?”

”Of course I'm trying to swear, you EXPLETIVE! How else am I supposed to express myself?”

”I didn't really know droids were into expressing themselves.”

”They're not,” the droid said, his anger seemingly gone. ”I'm a prototype of the Freudian Chip droids that you call Froids. My serial number is PFC-D-24. What is your serial number?”

This droid was actually trying to introduce itself and make pleasantries. It made Rogers a little uncomfortable. Had it been discarded because the Freudian Chip didn't work properly?

”I don't have a serial number,” Rogers said. ”My name is Rogers.”

”I see,” D-24 said, making another ambiguous computation noise. It kind of sounded like an old video game, and, in a way, it was almost pleasant. A lot better than the harsh, guttural noises that the standard droids made.

”So, Serial Number Rogers . . .”

”Just Rogers.”

”So, Just Rogers . . .” The droid made a noise that might have been considered a chuckle.

Rogers paused a moment, frowning. ”Are you being ridiculous on purpose?” Rogers asked.

”Yes,” D-24 responded. ”Was it funny?”

Funny? The droid was asking him if he was being funny? Since when did droids care about company, and expressing themselves, and being funny? This prototype was strange indeed.

”Actually,” Rogers said, thinking about it for a second, ”it kind of was.”

”This pleases me,” D-24 said. ”I will add this joke to my database and reserve it for later use.”

”I still don't understand how you ended up down here,” Rogers said, ”without being properly deactivated.”

”Part of my memory is corrupted,” D-24 said. ”I am unable to recall a significant time period between my arrival on this s.h.i.+p and my abandonment in the trash chute. I a.s.sume it has something to do with the unbelievably stupid MATERNAL FORNICATION in the maintenance bay who don't know their ANATOMICAL REFERENCE from their wrenches!”

Rogers could relate-and that kind of scared him.

”But what I don't understand is-”