Mechanical Failure by Joe Zieja Read Free Book Online Page B

back aboard the bustling hive of activity that was the MPS Flagship . It smelled like carbon, processed air, and home. The first two were expected; the latter was a bit of a surprise to Rogers. Maybe he had missed being in the military just a little bit. He wondered when the beer light would go on, signaling the noontime cessation of all work-like activities and the commencement of binge drinking and carousing. The peacetime military was hard to beat for work-life balance.
    Someone jostled Rogers as they rushed by him, nearly knocking him back out into the docking bay.
    â€œHey!” Rogers said indignantly. A female spacer, whose rank he couldn’t see, kept walking down the corridor without looking back. Rogers shook his head. Some troops had no manners.
    The jolt brought him out of his semi-nostalgic reverie, anyway. Rogers gave another head shake and let his legs take him the direction he needed to go. It had only been a little over a year since he’d left the military, so there was still a bit of muscle memory left. He had spent so much time in the supply depot that he was pretty sure he could have, for example, stumbled there in a state of blacked-out drunkenness with no problem. Just as an example.
    The supply depot and most of the docking bays were located on the same level of the Flagship, so there was no need for Rogers to take the larger up-line intra-ship transportation cars that wentbetween decks. There was a smaller system of zipcars, the in-line, that moved along through the center of each level, and Rogers set his course for the nearest terminal. The depot wasn’t that far of a walk, but Rogers preferred simplicity over . . . well, most physical exertion. As he approached the terminal, however, he was met by a stern-faced young woman who he didn’t recognize, dressed in a typical dress uniform and wearing an old-style train conductor’s hat. There seemed to be an awful lot of new folks around for only being gone for a little over a standard year.
    â€œHi, there,” he said. “I’m headed to Supply.”
    â€œIt’s that way,” she said, pointing down the hallway. She didn’t move to let him into the boarding area.
    â€œRight. I’d like to ride.”
    The woman—a starman first class, someone with only a couple of years in the Meridan Navy—looked him up and down with a disdainful eye. “These are for official use only.”
    Rogers fought to keep the smile on his face. “It is official use. I’m being reinstated and I need to go to the supply dock for my official equipment issue.”
    â€œDo you have orders?”
    Rogers’ smile almost slipped. “Since when do you need orders to ride the in-line?”
    â€œIt’s the regulation. If you have business, you should have been given orders or at least be wearing a uniform. That’s the way we do things.”
    In no way was this the “way they did things” from what Rogers could remember. Hell, they used to ride the in-line back and forth just to get back to the beginning of the “landing strip,” which is what they used to call the section of the hallway they slicked down with cleaning fluid in order to slide along it on their bare chests for fun. Walking back was dangerous—you might get plowed over by a wayward soldier tittering with glee as he spun out of control.
    â€œJust once,” Rogers said. “I need to get my stuff.”
    â€œNo.”
    The woman looked at him with such implacable indifference that Rogers wondered if she would have reacted had he stripped naked in front of her. What was wrong with these people?
    Rogers sighed. “Come on, it’s just—”
    â€œThese transportation systems are for the orderly movement of personnel and supplies through the loading deck. If I let every joker on, what would happen if fighting broke out? The cars would be crowded with loitering slobs like you.”
    Letting