Part 29 (2/2)

”I mean, yes, ma'am! Absolutely, ma'am! p.i.s.s like old winds.h.i.+eld wiper fluid in the winter, ma'am! I'm sorry for interrupting your ride.”

The unfortunate marine backed up, saluting no less than three times before he ran into his companions, starting an awkward domino effect of stumbling marines. The Viking took a step back, pressed the b.u.t.ton to close the door, and entered the refuse deck as their next destination. As one of the lowest levels on the Flags.h.i.+p, that would certainly give them more time to talk.

But Rogers wasn't thinking about that. Rogers was staring at the back of the Viking, watching her impose her will on the marines, and feeling a little bit like a cat in heat.

She turned around and looked at him, clearly fighting off a smile. ”Not bad, right?”

Rogers found it very difficult to continue speaking while looking at her, so he looked away instead.

”Anyway, Deet, you were telling us about protocol 162 and them having limited authority to, you know, kill us.”

”That's about right,” Deet said.

”So, what do we do about it?” Mailn asked, putting her hands on her hips. Leave it to a marine to not look disturbed at all that she was potentially within a few seconds of dying at any given moment. The Viking looked similarly unimpressed. Rogers wished he shared this nonchalance about his own mortality.

”Can we do anything about it?” Rogers asked. ”There are s.h.i.+nies-”

”Hey,” Deet said.

”-all over the d.a.m.n s.h.i.+p. They've weaseled their way into every squadron, even tried to come up with their own squadron and give themselves weapons. The first chance they get, they're going to blow a hole in the Flags.h.i.+p and probably kill us all. What are we supposed to do with that?”

They all thought for a moment. Rogers felt sweat rolling down the inside of his uniform.

”What about Klein?” Tunger said. ”He's a military genius. He'd know what to do.”

Rogers bit his tongue before telling them all that their military idol was just a talking head.

”That wouldn't work,” he said instead. ”Remember, there are listening devices all over his room, and they're obviously tapped into the network. Any orders that Klein issued, they'd either countermand or delete. And then, you know, they might blow a hole in the s.h.i.+p.” Rogers made an explosive hand gesture. ”I feel like we keep forgetting that part, guys.”

The overhead system dinged again.

”Next strp, zrm dk. Exit on your rfltght.”

”I don't even know what deck that is,” Tunger said.

Someone must have hit the call b.u.t.ton on the . . . zrm deck. After a moment, the doors slid open to reveal the exterior of the zoo deck, where a couple of off-duty troops wearing safari hats were talking excitedly about their most recent animal adventure.

”No,” the Viking said simply, stepping forward.

The troops blinked, took a step back, and scattered like spit in a sneeze. The door closed, and the Viking turned around, grinning.

”Maybe I should be the new elevator operator,” the Viking said.

”This is an unlikely possibility,” Deet said. ”As already mentioned, there is a lack of the appropriate hats.”

The Viking looked at Deet. ”I'm pretty sure I could bend you into some kind of hat.”

”No,” Rogers said. ”Not now, anyway. If we're going to do something about this, we're going to have to keep it quiet.”

”Sure you don't just want to jump in an escape pod and head for open s.p.a.ce?” Mailn asked, looking at him with narrow eyes.

Rogers turned to her, ready to make a witty retort, but the words didn't reach his lips. He thought about what she had just said for a moment and realized that at no point had he thought about ditching the Flags.h.i.+p and getting the h.e.l.l out of here before any of the real fighting went down. He hadn't even thought about beer in the last couple of hours or so.

”Yes,” Rogers said slowly. ”I'm actually quite sure. I think.” He thought. Dying was kind of permanent, and messy. ”Maybe. Look, don't ask me these hard questions right now, okay? We've got bigger things to worry about. I think the first thing we need to do is-”

The up-line dinged.

”Next strp, mrghfr dk. Exit on your rfltght.”

”Where are all these people coming from?” Rogers cried.

The doors opened, but before anyone could say or do anything, Rogers heard Tunger yell.

”Go, Bobo!”

The baboon shrieked and swung full-force toward the door, hissing and spitting the entire way, its bright red bottom like a red-hot blunt instrument of terror. Rogers never even got to see who had called the elevator. By the time the baboon settled down, the hall-possibly the entire s.h.i.+p-was empty.

”Wow,” Rogers said. ”Nice work, Tunger.”

”Why, thank you, sir,” Tunger said. He clicked his tongue and Bobo the Baboon walked casually back to stand at Tunger's side, who scratched behind his ears affectionately.

The doors closed and they began the rest of the journey toward the refuse deck.

”Anyway,” Rogers said, ”I think the first thing we need to do is come up with a plan.”

”Your plan is to plan?” McSchmidt said.

Rogers frowned at him. ”I'm kind of thinking on my feet here, Th.e.l.ly, so why don't you cut me some slack? They teach you anything in spy school about how to stop a legion of droids from commandeering your s.h.i.+p and beginning a slow takeover of the galaxy?”

”They did,” McSchmidt said, ”but I blew that cla.s.s off.”

”Good job,” Rogers said. ”What would Napoleon do in this situation?”

”I don't know,” McSchmidt said. ”Form a phalanx?”

”That's not even the right century,” the Viking said.

”Yeah,” Tunger said. ”Napoleon used Russian tanks.”

”What?” the Viking said.

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