Part 25 (2/2)
”Me?” Rogers said, his voice squeaking. ”I'm not the admiral of the fleet! I have no practical experience in-”
”Everyone!” Klein said. The room went silent. ”I'm required in my stateroom to . . . a.n.a.lyze things. For the war effort. Communications must be sent to Meridan headquarters to inform them of recent happenings. In the meantime, I'm leaving Lieutenant Rogers in command of the bridge.”
”What?” Rogers said.
”What?” the Viking said.
”Fear not, valiant soldiers of justice!” Klein said, puffing up his chest as he slowly began backing out of the room. ”Rogers can handle everything in my absence.”
”He's a lieutenant!” McSchmidt said. ”I mean, not a lieutenant lieutenant, but still a lieutenant. He's like . . . six ranks below you!”
”For victory!” Klein shouted as he reached the door. ”For glory! For honor! Galactic agility! Synergistic battles.p.a.ce effects! Slide shows!”
The door closed, leaving the bridge a quiet s.p.a.ce of emotional confusion as Klein's charismatic effects mixed with the utter strangeness of it all and lingered in the air like the clash of two cheap colognes. One particularly dense starman second cla.s.s actually clapped a few times from the back of the room, and the corporal next to her did that slow, dramatic salute thing.
And then Rogers realized the entire bridge was looking at him.
”You can't be serious,” he said, though he wasn't sure to whom he was speaking. The lights on the communication tech's dashboard were still blinking rapidly, and he could hear him telling someone to please stop trying to climb out the window, and that pillows were not critical items to transport in the event of an emergency, anyway.
”Um,” the communications tech said, placing a hand over his headset microphone. ”Lieutenant Admiral Rogers?”
”That's not even a real rank,” Rogers said. ”What is it?”
”Well,” he said, ”I thought I should bring to your attention the following.” He took a deep breath. ”There are people in the kitchen screaming about a fire, there is a group of droids that seems to have been knocked over in the mess hall and can't get up, several animal cages have broken open on the zoo deck, the IT desk in the communications squadron is rebooting itself and I don't know what that means, and it sounds like there is a group of finance troops running toward the escape pods with their pillows.”
Red-faced, the communications tech gasped for breath, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
Rogers just stared at him. What the h.e.l.l was he supposed to do with all of that? He wasn't a fleet commander. He wasn't even a real lieutenant. He was an ex-sergeant who liked to drink alcohol, play rigged games, and trick people into doing silly things for amus.e.m.e.nt. This was insane. This was completely insane.
Deet, who had been quietly standing next to him, piped up.
”Can I make a suggestion?”
Rogers nodded dumbly.
”In light of the extremity of the situation, you should probably get off your EXPLETIVE POSTERIOR BODY SECTION and put out that EXPLETIVE fire.”
Rogers blinked. ”Expletive,” he said. ”You're right.”
”You don't have to censor yourself,” Deet said, sounding dejected. ”It's not your fault I can't express myself properly.”
”I was just trying to show some solidarity,” Rogers said. He turned to the Viking. ”Captain Alsinbury.”
”What?”
”Can you take a small group of your marines down to whatever pods those idiots are running for and keep them from jettisoning themselves into s.p.a.ce?”
The Viking cracked her knuckles, a sound that did strange things to Rogers. ”My pleasure.”
”And afterward . . .” he said before his brain could stop his mouth, but he trailed off.
The Viking raised an eyebrow.
”Never mind,” he said, swallowing. ”Just keep those troops inside the s.h.i.+p.”
She gave him a nod and bulldozed her way out of the room, knocking everything from people to heavy equipment aside in her haste to get into a situation where she might actually get to hit someone.
”Get Hart from engineering on the line,” Rogers said to the tech. ”Tell them to get some of the heavy lifters over to the mess halls and see if they can't flip those droids before they start an electrical fire. Bring fire foam. And find out why the fire-suppression systems in the kitchen haven't gone off yet.”
”Yes, sir.”
”Bring up the zoo deck so I can see what's going on,” Rogers said.
The display technician changed the screen, and Rogers' heart jumped into his throat. In the middle of one of the camera's views was Tunger, lying on his back with a giant, full-grown male lion on top of him. The unfortunate corporal was trying futilely to fend of the claws of the powerful savannah feline.
”Oh my G.o.d,” Rogers said. ”We need to get him out of there! Turn on the audio so we can tell him help is on the way!”
The communications tech flipped a switch, but before Rogers could get a word out he was surprised to hear a cacophony of giggling coming from the two-way system.
”Stop!” Tunger t.i.ttered. ”Es nur fair! Nur fair! Yur cheated!”
McSchmidt, for some reason, groaned.
”Never mind,” Rogers said slowly. ”They're just playing.”
The whole bridge relaxed as a single unit. n.o.body wanted to see a man mauled by a lion on live video. Well, maybe some of them did, but n.o.body would admit to wanting to see a man mauled by a lion on live video.
”McSchmidt,” Rogers said, turning to the intelligence officer, who was looking much more worried than everyone else on the s.h.i.+p. ”I want to talk to you outside. Everyone else, you are to continue with your duties or at least continue looking busy until the admiral returns.”
Everyone snapped to, engaging in the important-looking activities of picking things up and putting them down again, walking briskly from one station to another to examine a console that had nothing to do with their jobs, and pointing curiously at blinking lights on panels.
Rogers left the briefing room, immediately followed by both McSchmidt and Deet. When they were out of earshot of the rest of the bridge, Rogers motioned for McSchmidt to come closer so he could talk privately, but McSchmidt was looking over his shoulder.
”What is that?” McSchmidt said.
Rogers turned around and saw a brand-new propaganda poster plastered on the wall, but there was something different about it, something he couldn't quite place.
Oh, that was it. It was a picture of a giant panda bear with a melted face wearing overalls, sitting in the branches of a lemon tree. Underneath was written I CAN TASTE THE COLORS.
Rogers choked back a laugh. ”I have no idea,” he said. ”But more importantly, McSchmidt,” he said, lowering his voice, ”I think there's a spy aboard the Flags.h.i.+p.”
The intel officer's eyes widened. ”A spy?” He swallowed. ”Why would you think something like that?”
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