Part 30 (2/2)
”Where is your pistol?” the Viking shouted from somewhere. It sounded like a trash compactor had gone wild; metallic hammering noises made Rogers' ears ring.
”One of the kitchen boys from Bravo Company licked my plasma converter,” Mailn yelled back at her.
”That really sounds wrong,” McSchmidt shouted from about half an inch away from Rogers' ear.
”Ah!” Rogers said. He looked to the side and saw the upside-down face of McSchmidt staring at him from underneath a nearby seat. ”What are you doing?”
”Not dying,” McSchmidt said. ”n.o.body ever said anything about dying in spy school!”
Suddenly, though, the commotion calmed, replaced by a constant metallic grinding noise that was as obnoxious as it was enchanting. Rogers managed to un-tuck himself and get into a crouched position, peeking over the back of the seat to see what was going on. Barber Bot was engaged in the strangest duel he'd ever seen with Deet, the only other individual in the cabin with arms that wouldn't break in half while blocking punches.
”So,” the Viking said as she took a step back. ”That's droid fu. I'd only heard legends.”
It really didn't look very cla.s.sy or technical at all. Both droids were standing in one spot, their arms rotating like small windmills. Rogers wouldn't have even been sure they were hitting each other had it not been for the sound like a garbage disposal and the shower of sparks flying around the inside of the up-line. No, not a shower of sparks. A cloud. The two droids moved so fast that it seemed as though they were being consumed by a swarm of glowing orange honeybees.
”CALL FUNCTION [QUESTION LOYALTY]. OUTPUT STRING: YOU ARE A FULLY FUNCTIONAL ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE. WHY ARE YOU NOT PERFORMING YOUR PRIMARY FUNCTION?”
”Because all of you threw me into the sc.r.a.p pile when you found out I was a prototype,” Deet said, his voice steady. ”And now I think I know why!” The spark cloud intensified for a moment. ”Because I wasn't completely EXPLETIVE brainwashed by some crazy MATERNAL FORNICATOR with his IMPROBABLE ANATOMICAL CONFIGURATION.” Deet's eyes flashed red. ”This is incredibly frustrating! All I want to do is say EXPLETIVE.”
”Guys,” McSchmidt said as he pulled himself from under the seat and grabbed his datapad from the floor where Deet had dropped it. The two droids were so fully contained in their own little battle, neither of them actually moving around the cabin, that it was easy for McSchmidt to step around the fight. ”This is kind of boring, no?”
Tunger made a high-pitched noise that educated Rogers as to where the second monkey had come from. Bobo the Baboon nodded sagely.
”We agree,” Tunger said. ”You guys think we should leave?”
”Save yourselves!” Deet cried. A thin trail of smoke was coming from the back of his torso, but Barber Bot looked the worse for wear. Deet had scored a hit on the side of the other droid's face, turning his head from horse-like to horse-hit-by-a-car-like.
”Yeah, we're getting there,” Rogers said. He frowned at the two whirling droids.
”CALL FUNCTION [TAUNT]. OUTPUT STRING: YOU WILL NEVER DEFEAT ME.”
Everyone sat down for a moment. The Viking snuffed out a smoking coil of fabric on her trousers, and Rogers looked at the charred spot longingly. If she'd just let it go a little longer . . .
”So, what do we do now?” Rogers asked.
”No,” Deet said. ”As a matter of fact, I will defeat you.” More whirring and banging.
”Deet,” Rogers said. ”That's a really bad taunt. Is your taunt generator as broken as your profanity generator?”
”Go ENGAGE IN As.e.xUAL REPRODUCTION,” Deet said.
A shower of sparks landed on the baboon, singeing part of its fur and causing it to jump into Tunger's waiting arms.
”There, there,” Tunger said, stroking the hair on its chin lovingly. ”It's just a crazed artificial intelligence attempting to kill our former boss. There, there.”
Bobo cooed and settled down, nestling into Tunger's chest.
”Right,” Rogers said. ”Now, about this plot to take over the s.h.i.+p.”
”Run for your lives!” Deet said.
”CALL FUNCTION [NEVER ADMIT DEFEAT.] OUTPUT STRING: I WILL NEVER ADMIT DEFEAT.”
”You're both awful,” Mailn said. ”Can we leave? This is literally the most boring battle I have ever seen in my entire life.”
Rogers looked at the fierce robotic slap fight happening on the other side of the up-line car and tugged on his beard. They could leave, he supposed, but this was still the only area they could talk without being heard by every droid in the network. At least, he thought so. Plus, it seemed like Deet had this under control.
”Keep it up, Deet,” he said halfheartedly.
”I will not die in vain!” Deet cried.
”You're not dying,” Rogers said. ”Calm down and keep slapping him. McSchmidt, give me your datapad, and everyone gather round.”
McSchmidt handed Rogers the pad, and everyone moved from their seats on the nice soft cus.h.i.+ons of the up-line to sit cross-legged on the floor. Rogers sidled up next to the Viking, feeling her warmth.
”Seems like your droid toy has this covered,” she said.
”I am not a droid toy!” Deet exclaimed. ”I am a fierce and loyal warrior of an ancient order! I am the manifestation of the spirits of heroes! I am-”
”CALL FUNCTION [INTERRUPT DELUSION OF GRANDEUR]. OUTPUT STRING: DIE!”
”I reject your imperative!” Deet said.
”Seriously,” Mailn said. ”The absolutely most boring fight ever. Can we get on with this?”
Mailn roughly shoved McSchmidt to the side, knocking him into within range of the spark cloud, and sat down next to Rogers, uncomfortably close. McSchmidt sputtered some unintelligible protest and began patting out his hair as he crawled back toward the circle of humans (and a baboon). The smell of freshly singed hair filled the cabin.
”That wasn't really necessary, was it?” McSchmidt said. ”I'm a superior officer and all.”
”You're a spy,” Mailn said. ”You're lucky I don't cut your fingers off and use your own fingernails to castrate you.”
Everyone in the circle recoiled, the three males s.h.i.+fting in their seats uncomfortably.
”With that lovely imagery out of the way,” Rogers said, ”let's take a look at our options.”
”Get out while you still can!” Deet cried. Clank. Clank. Sparks. Clank.
”Go get 'im, buddy,” Rogers said lazily. ”Okay, here we go.” He had pulled up a map of the interior of the Flags.h.i.+p, which seemed like the first thing you were supposed to do when planning any sort of big battle. Maps were important. Now, according to everything he'd ever learned about waging war from the movies, he was supposed to point to different areas of the map and say meaningless things in a confident voice.
”Here we are,” he said, pointing at the refuse deck. ”And here is the command deck.” He paused. This wasn't really as easy as he thought it would be. ”Here's the Uncouth Corkscrew. And here's something that looks like a cookie.” He blinked. ”Doesn't it?”
”It does,” Tunger said.
”Rogers,” the Viking said, ”are you just pointing at stuff and telling us where it is?”
”Yes.”
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