Mechanical Failure by Joe Zieja Read Free Book Online Page A

pilot,” Rogers said under his breath as he sat down and fastened his seatbelt. Crossing his arms, he grumpily looked out the window and watched as the docking bay swallowed the tiny shuttle like a whale swallowed plankton, padded clamps fastening around the hull like baleen. As Rogers had suspected, the whole procedure was as smooth and automated as it had been when he left the military. Seatbelts . . . pfuh.
    Speaking of droids, Rogers couldn’t help but notice that the docking bay had quite a few of them running around. Almost humanoid, their tin-can bodies moved around on either a wheeled base or a convincing pair of bionic legs with the knee joints reversed to offset their heavy torsos. Some of them wielded welding torches or wrenches, and some others had their data extension cables plugged into consoles operating cranes and various machinery. Rogers had expected to see some of his old engineering troops running around, but there was barely a human in sight.
    â€œDamn,” Rogers said. “Shinies everywhere.”
    The pilot cleared his throat.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’d thank you not to use that term on my ship,” the pilot said. “I don’t tolerate racism.”
    â€œRacism? They’re droids! They don’t have a race.”
    The pilot made some final adjustments on the control panel, and Rogers felt a rush of air as the passenger stairway extended down to the docking bay floor.
    â€œEnjoy your stay,” the pilot said coldly.
    Shaking his head, Rogers collected his meager belongings—most of his stuff was still on the Awesome and he hadn’t been allowed to retrieve it—and made his way down the plank and through the docking bay, carefully avoiding any contact with the droids. Not only did they creep him out a little, but they were boring.
    According to Tuckalle, his orders had been transmitted to the Flagship , but he didn’t tell Rogers much more than that. The first stop, of course, would be the supply depot. He’d need to be reissued everything from uniforms to hygiene supplies to flashlights and tools for his engineering duties. The supply depot had always been his favorite place; it was where he moved the best contraband and where he had the most friends. Of all the people on the ship he wanted to keep happy the most, the supply clerks were of the highest priority, which is why Rogers never, ever gambled, swindled, or dated any of them.
    The manifest technician monitoring personnel entry and exit from the ship wasn’t actually a manifest technician at all. It was a droid, plugged into the central computer system via a cable that extended from its torso to the wall, and it held up a shiny steel-alloy arm to indicate that Rogers was to wait.
    â€œC ALL FUNCTION [ PERFUNCTORY GREETING ]. T ARGET [ HUMAN, UNKNOWN NAME, UNKNOWN RANK ]. PROMPT: N AME . P ROMPT: DESTINATION . P ROMPT: PURPOSE OF VISIT .”
    The rough, broken speech of the droid was like biting into a cookie full of nails. Rogers wondered how, in a few thousand years of speech recognition and replication technology, they hadn’t been able to make the droids sound like anything other than brain-damaged gorillas. Even the personal computer terminals sounded better than shinies.
    â€œR. Wilson Rogers,” he replied, not feeling comfortable at all that he was having a conversation with a robot. “Reinstatement and reassignment.”
    A moment passed, the droid’s glowing blue eyes staring at Rogers.
    â€œR EJECT FUNCTION [ MESSILY DESTROY INTRUDER ]. C ALL FUNCTION [A-156 AUTHORIZED ENTRY AND COURTEOUS ADMISSION ]. O UTPUT STRING: A PPROVED . E NJOY YOUR STAY . P LEASE REPORT TO S UPPLY FOR UNIFORM ISSUE .”
    Rogers rolled his eyes and walked away, wondering why they would trust something so important as personnel manifesting to a machine with no human oversight. It made him uncomfortable.
    That unsavory encounter behind him, all of a sudden Rogers was