I. Don't ask.

Report: N-1FG-5299-Z-2

Serial: N-1FG-5299-Z-2 Distribution: DBS//DSS//DAK//DFR//BB//CLOSED NETWORK A66 Cla.s.sification: Special Protocol Required Summary: Regarding the previous order to belay the order regarding the order for the preservation of Human 2552's life.

Details: Never mind. Kill Rogers.

Report Submitted By: F-GC-001 Go Boom "How exactly did they manage to build a boominite explosive device in the engineering bay?" McSchmidt asked.

"They didn't," Deet replied. "You did."

"What?"

"I told you not to stack those G.o.d-d.a.m.n containers like that!" Rogers said. "You gave them a bomb, you idiot!"

"I was just doing what it said to do in the regulation," McSchmidt said. "If I started failing inspections, I'd get kicked out of the MPF. That wouldn't make for a very good spy, would it?"

"A better spy than one running around, quoting military leaders that died two thousand years ago," Rogers said. "What are you doing on our ship, anyway?"

"Spying," McSchmidt said. "Kind of part of the job description, no? Thanks for promoting me to Intelligence, by the way."

"I still think your accent sucks," Tunger muttered.

"I am going to strangle you if you talk to me again," McSchmidt said. "I know how to do it, too. They taught me in spy school."

"I don't think I need an instruction manual, you Th.e.l.lie sc.u.m," the Viking said. She took a large step toward McSchmidt, hands outstretched, the force of her movement rocking the car. Rogers held out a hand, more for the chance to touch her than to try and prevent any harm from coming to McSchmidt. He could really care less about that idiot. Surprisingly, she yielded to his gesture.

"Let's not get crazy here," Rogers said. "McSchmidt let us know that there wasn't an invasion coming. Maybe we can return the favor by not killing him yet. If what he says is true, then we have bigger problems to worry about than what the best way to choke him is."

The tension melted. Well, no, no it didn't, really. Everyone just sort of looked at each other like they wanted to kill each other but at this point in time also realized it was not in their best interests. Then again, the Viking always looked like she wanted to kill someone, so maybe that was just the way her face was constructed. Her beautiful, beautiful face.

Rogers shook his head and turned to Deet. "You're positive that they can't hear us in here?"

Deet beeped. "From the data I collected, the surveillance net they've implanted is very wide, but they had trouble collecting anything on moving objects. The last information I saw, they were considering stationing droids as operators, but preliminary research through human behavioral schemes revealed that a very unique hat was necessary to make this sort of deception convincing. They were so far unable to discover where to obtain such hats."

"Well, that's good news, at least," Rogers sad. "But what's the point of observing us and all that if they're just going to blow up the ship?"

"It seems as if the bomb is a failsafe," Deet said. "If the takeover-and I'm pretty sure it's a takeover-fails, they can destroy the Flagship, rewrite the records so it looks like the accident was caused by some idiot in engineering who kept stacking boominite containers-"

"Oh, come on," McSchmidt said.

"-and possibly try again on another ship. It's possible that similar devices have been installed in other ships in the fleet as well."

"Great," Rogers said. "That's just great. The whole fleet rigged to explode if a bunch of robots don't take it over. Any idea what their goal is? How did they decide to do this?"

"I was unable to discover this information," Deet said. "I did, however, discover what protocol 162 was."

"And?"

"Let me see if I can translate the code properly," Deet said. He beeped a few times, his eyes flashing. After a moment, the beeping settled. "If I could make an approximation into human language, I would say that protocol 162 is the surrept.i.tious execution of selected organics who are either a threat to the overall plan or who really annoy you."

The up-line dinged as it came to the command deck, and a voice crackled through the speakers.

"Next strp, cmmd dk. Exit on your rfltght."

The door opened to reveal a small party of marines waiting anxiously to get on the up-line, probably to go get something to eat. But the inside of the car was the only place they could talk without using a whole slew of ridiculous metaphors.

Rogers and his companions looked out blankly into the expectant faces of the marines. For a moment, n.o.body spoke.

"Uh, going down?" one of the marines said.

"No," Rogers said. "Sorry. This lift is broken. We're, ah, the maintenance crew. We'll be riding this back and forth until further notice."

"If it's broken, how are you going to ride it back and forth?" asked another marine.

Rogers chewed on his lip. "It's just that, ah, there's a squeaky noise as it pa.s.ses the zoo deck. We think there might be an animal trapped in there, but we have to ride it past the zoo deck a couple of times to make sure it's not mechanical."

Some of the marines looked convinced-it was a brilliant lie, after all, if Rogers did say so himself-but one of the ones in front squinted and pointed at Rogers' uniform.

"You're not an engineer," he said. "Shouldn't the engineers being doing the fixing? And who are all these other people? None of them are engineers either."

Rogers cursed to himself. Why was everyone so suspicious? It's not like there wouldn't be another car coming along in just a minute to take these meatheads wherever they wanted to go.

"In fact," the marine continued, "I don't even know what that specialty badge is."

Rogers looked down at his own collar, remembering that he was still wearing his AIGCS commander badge-execs didn't change their specialty, since it was only a temporary duty that typically ended in suicide, anyway. Of course the marine wouldn't know what it was. But that also meant it could be anything.

"I see you're not familiar with the new specialty code," Rogers said. "This is the elevator tech badge. There are only a few of us on each ship." He patted the edge of the doorframe affectionately. "These babies need a personal kind of love that a general engineer can't give 'em."

"That's a pretty stupid specialty code," the marine said.

"Hey," Rogers said, somehow feeling genuinely offended at the slight on his made-up profession, "I don't come into the marine barracks and call you all a bunch of drooling jarheads that shoot about as straight as you p.i.s.s after s.e.x."

"Maybe because that would get your a.s.s kicked, officer or no officer," the marine growled. "Now, why don't you get the-"

"Hey, you," the Viking said, shoving past Rogers to stand in (and completely fill) the doorframe of the up-line. "Why are you standing there, running your mouth and stopping this elevator tech from getting to work?"

The marine's face paled and he took a step back. "Oh, s.h.i.t, captain. I didn't know. I'm-"

"A drooling jarhead that shoots about as straight as he p.i.s.ses after s.e.x?"

"Uh," the marine said, stammering, "yeah. Sure."

The Viking leaned forward and growled. "Sure?"

"I mean, yes, ma'am! Absolutely, ma'am! p.i.s.s like old windshield 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 Flagship, 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 shinies-"

"Hey," Deet said.

"-all over the d.a.m.n ship. 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 Flagship 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 ship." 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 Flagship 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 ship-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 ship 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.