Free Mechanical Failure by Joe Zieja Page B

PRIMARY DUTY ]. I NSPECTION COMPLETE, ” the droid said. “A REPORT WILL BE FILED IN YOUR PERSONNEL RECORD, WHICH YOU CAN ACCESS BY FILING A REQUEST WITH THE PERSONNEL SQUADRON AFTER A MANDATORY FIVE-DAY WAITING PERIOD . A LL INFRACTIONS MUST BE RECTIFIED WITHIN ONE STANDARD DAY .”
    â€œHow am I supposed to know what to fix?” Rogers asked flatly, despite having no intention of fixing anything at all.
    â€œC ALL FUNCTION [ TIRELESSLY REPEAT SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS ]. A REPORT WILL BE FILED IN YOUR PERSONNEL RECORD, WHICH YOU CAN ACCESS BY FILING A REQUEST WITH THE PERSONNEL SQUADRON AFTER A MANDATORY FIVE-DAY WAITING PERIOD .”
    Rogers closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Get out.”
    â€œC ALL FUNCTION [ DISMISS ]. T ARGET [S ERGEANT S TRACT ]. O UTPUT STRING: THIS INSPECTION IS CONCLUDED . Y OU ARE DISMISSED .”
    â€œYes, sir!” The sergeant actually saluted, and the droid exited, though the sergeant didn’t follow immediately. He stood, fuming, fists tight. “I hope you’re happy. That’s the first demerit I’ve ever received.”
    â€œI hope you lose sleep over it” Rogers growled. “Now get out of my room before I order you to smudge your boots.”
    Sergeant Stract’s eyes went wide, and he scampered out of the room so quickly that the automatic door clipped his shoulder on the way out, knocking his uniform into an infinitesimal state of disarray.
    â€œNo!” the sergeant shouted as the door began to close. “Nooooo!”
    Just before the panels shut, the Viking passed by the room, her body filling up the entire frame of the door for a brief moment. She cast a disparaging glance into the room, and Rogers held out a feeble hand toward her.
    â€œWait,” he called, but the door shut. He continued weakly, “Marry me.”
    Alone and filled to the brim with anger and despair, Rogers tore off his clothes and climbed into bed. He fell headfirst into a dream of being trapped in a burning building, but just as the Viking was about to rescue him and carry him off to utopia, she morphed into a red-eyed droid who awarded him a demerit for burning debris on his uniform.
    â€œEnsign Rogers,” the computerized—and thankfully mostly intelligible—voice of his personal terminal called to him. “You have an appointment on the commissary deck in fifteen minutes. Ensign Rogers, you have an appointment on the commissary deck in fifteen minutes.”
    Looking at the clock, Rogers had discovered that he’d slept for almost an entire day, which didn’t surprise him, considering all he’d gone through. It was 0815 ship time; the inspectiondroid must have scheduled the haircut appointment by tapping directly into the data streams.
    â€œIgnore it,” he told the computer. “What’s next?”
    â€œArtificial Intelligence Combat Unit, 1000 hours ship time. Training deck, room 654.”
    â€œGreat.”
    Muscle memory kicked in again as Rogers went through his room, showered, and dressed. It was an exercise he’d repeated every day for ten years, though he wasn’t used to doing it so early in the morning. Normally, he reported to the engineering bay at around 1100, after which everyone would sort of sit around and stare at the beer light until it turned on at around noon. Now that there was no beer light, however, he had no idea what the hell he’d do for the rest of the day.
    Since he was blowing off his haircut, he had plenty of time to head to one of the ship’s mess halls and get some breakfast. A quick exchange of up-line and in-line left him on the commissary deck, where troops could spend their hard-earned credits, go bowling, or participate in one of many other forms of recreation and capitalism.
    Somehow, before he even got to the commissary deck, he knew it would be deserted. The harrowing fact that there was no longer a beer light—at least not in officers’