Part 30 (1/2)
The cabin of the up-line devolved into a heated and almost entirely inaccurate debate on Napoleonic tactics and the use of cavalry in confined marshland, but Rogers let it all fade into the background. There were more important things at stake right now than who had the high ground at Waterloo and if anyone else cared.
Deet sidled up next to him. ”I thought you might be interested in a report that just came in.”
Rogers looked at him. ”I thought you weren't connected to the network anymore?”
”I'm not,” Deet said. He produced McSchmidt's datapad. ”But you don't need to be connected to the network to steal someone's datapad.”
Rogers chuckled and pointed at Deet. ”I think I'm really starting to like you,” Rogers said. ”Do you drink beer?”
”Not unless I want to short-circuit myself,” Deet said. ”They say you'll go blind if you do that too often.”
Rogers shrugged. ”I'm not judging. What's up with this report?”
”You can't put a cannon on horseback!” the Viking shouted.
”One of the other s.h.i.+ps in the fleet identified the rogue craft that was targeting the Flags.h.i.+p.” Deet handed him the datapad. ”It was the MPS Rancor.”
Rogers gaped. ”Zombie ghost-pirates,” he whispered.
”What?” Deet asked.
”Never mind. This s.h.i.+p was the one that started all of my trouble, but it was supposed to have crashed into an asteroid. What made you think it was important?”
”I saw several mentions of this s.h.i.+p in the closed network,” Deet said, ”thought it was referred to by a different name. The Beta Test. And it wasn't destroyed by an asteroid.”
Rogers looked at Deet, then looked back at the report. The report described basic flight pattern information, like the time it exited and reentered Un-s.p.a.ce, which Un-s.p.a.ce point it used, how much time it spent in the sector, and any other emissions that came from the s.h.i.+p. The targeting computer had been turned on and had locked onto the Flags.h.i.+p, certainly, but there were no other indications that the Rancor-the Beta Test-had been preparing to actually fire a warhead. Patrol s.h.i.+ps didn't have the kind of firepower to damage a capital s.h.i.+p, anyway.
Rogers skipped over some of the other metrics of little interest, but his eyes stopped when he came to one particular line of data.
Organic life detected on board: zero.
”What?” Rogers said aloud. ”n.o.body on board? That doesn't make any sense. None of this makes any sense! This s.h.i.+p is supposed to be a splatter mark on the outside of an asteroid.”
Deet made a couple of strange beeping noises. ”I'm not a brilliant intelligence a.n.a.lyst like Napoleon Junior over there,” he said, ”but just because the life scanners didn't show any organic material doesn't mean there was n.o.body on board.”
Rogers froze. ”That's it. It was a test run. They'd already started taking over back when I was still a sergeant. They have the Rancor.”
Deet made a noise like Rogers had just won a prize on a slot machine in the Heshan casinos.
”Don't patronize me,” Rogers said.
”Don't be so slow.”
”But what does that mean?” Rogers said. ”Why pull a feint attack on the Flags.h.i.+p?”
”Given the previous pattern of behavior,” Deet said, ”I would a.s.sess that it was an attempt to further support the claim that the Thelicosans were planning on invading.”
Rogers pulled at his beard. ”Well, we're going to have to act quickly. If they figure out that we know . . . ”
”Next strg, rffffs dk.”
”We're finally here!” Tunger said as their argument deteriorated. McSchmidt was gingerly rubbing a hand-shaped imprint on his neck, and Mailn was blowing off her knuckles. Tunger looked cheery, but being guarded by a large baboon baring its fangs probably had something to do with it. ”What are we doing on the refuse deck, anyway?”
”Buying time,” Rogers said. ”As much of it as we possibly can before-”
The up-line door opened, and Rogers stopped mid-sentence. On the other side of the door was a face he really, really didn't want to see at that moment.
”CALL FUNCTION [STARE OMINOUSLY].”
BAR BR-116's instruments whirred on his appendages. There was something different about them now, though Rogers couldn't tell exactly what. They were moving pretty fast.
”I was wondering what happened to you,” Rogers said.
”CALL FUNCTION [STARE OMINOUSLY].”
”Who is this?” McSchmidt said.
”A droid that is, for some reason, obsessed with taking my beard.”
”It is pretty scraggly,” McSchmidt said.
”I kind of like it,” the Viking said.
Rogers silently vowed to never shave again.
”Why don't you go dump yourself out of one of the trash chutes?” Rogers said. ”The up-line is full at the moment, as you can see.”
Gesturing at the group of people behind him magnanimously, Rogers hoped he had enough strength in numbers-and an angry monkey-to deter Barber Bot from meddling. The last thing he needed right now was for some crazy droid to be chasing him around the s.h.i.+p, trying to cut off his beard.
Rogers reached for the b.u.t.ton to close the door but found that Barber Bot had jammed a pair of scissors into the call b.u.t.ton. That seemed uncharacteristically violent for a droid. Rogers hoped he hadn't broken the up-line.
”CALL FUNCTION [STARE OMINOUSLY].”
”Yeah,” Rogers said. ”You do that. But maybe go do that over there.” Rogers pointed ambiguously in another direction. ”And take those scissors out of the control panel so that we can keep riding.”
”This s.h.i.+ny is weird,” Mailn said. ”Is he malfunctioning?”
”I don't know,” Rogers said. ”It's hard to tell. I always kind of felt like this one wanted to kill-”
”Call function [Protocol 162].”
A Breach of Protocol ”Look out!” Mailn screamed as Barber Bot launched itself at Rogers.
In a brief moment of clarity, Rogers saw that the droid's haircutting instruments had been swapped out, replacing the razors with butcher knives, the talc.u.m brush with a f.l.a.n.g.ed mace, and the comb with an unbreakable comb. The welding torch was still there.
Before Rogers could react, someone hit him hard from the side, sending him flying across the inside of the up-line. He tumbled over the top of one of the booths, performing an uncoordinated and volatile cartwheel that ended with him upside down, his a.s.s pointing directly toward the ceiling.
Behind him, Rogers heard a monkey shrieking. No, wait. He heard two monkeys shrieking, which seemed strange.
Something crashed into the seat he was hanging over, and he heard the discomfiting but very particular noise of a f.l.a.n.g.ed mace hitting the interior wall of the up-line car. Rogers tumbled the rest of the way over, landing in an upside-down prayer position on the floor in between two rows of seats.