“CALL FUNCTION [INCESSANT REPETITION]. OUTPUT STRING: YOU MISSED OUR APPOINTMENT.”

“And I’ll miss the next hundred appointments!” Rogers shouted boldly, puffing his chest out (while maintaining a safe distance from the immobile droid). “You’ll never get the best of R. Wilson Rogers!” He thought a moment. “Or his beard! You’ll never get the beard of R. Wilson Rogers!”

“CALL FUNCTION [ESCAPE SELF-IMPOSED PRISON].”

BAR-BR 116’s torch flared to life—Rogers really didn’t want any part of a haircut that involved flaming objects—and set to work on the side of the crate.

“I think I’ve seen enough of the engineering bay,” Rogers said, eyeing Barber Bot warily.

“I think I’ve seen enough of it too,” Lopez said. “Come back anytime you want to turn a wrench or get chased by droids or get yelled at by Ensign McSchmidt or . . . You know what? Maybe you shouldn’t come back.”

“I’m beginning to think that about a lot of places,” Rogers said.

Lopez escorted him back to the entrance of the engineering bay, where he politely declined another sip of what she called “Lopez’s Special Sauce” and began the journey back to his room so he could get some sleep. The trip was far from restful; he kept looking behind him for Barber Bot and kept looking ahead of him for any sign of the Viking. There had to be a way to make her see him as more than someone trying to usurp her job. And there had to be a way to blow up that robot.

All problems, no solutions. That was quickly becoming the story of his life.

As he approached the door to his room, he saw Sergeant Stract and Inspect-o-Droid leaving it.

“CALL FUNCTION [PERFORM PRIMARY FUNCTION]. FAILURE TO BE PRESENT AT INSPECTION. ONE DEMERIT WILL BE AWARDED.”

Rogers gave the robot the finger, walked past both of them without saying a word, and went to bed. The glowing face of the droid on the wall stared at him, its brightly lit background driving those infernal words into his head:

AUTOMATION IS EFFICIENCY IS EFFICACY IS GOOD.

Mechanical Failure

Sleep had been broken by the giant beacon of light in his room and the fact that he had to chase BAR-BR 116 away from his door at least twice. So far this morning, he hadn’t seen it, and Rogers was starting to believe that perhaps it had given up. Could droids give up? Rogers didn’t know. In any case, it made for a weary morning back in the droids’ training room.

“Alright, Tunger,” Rogers said as he rubbed his eyes. “What have you got for me?

Tunger looked at him blankly. “Didn’t I do the whole ‘I present to you the Artificial Intelligence Ground Combat Squadron’ thing to you yesterday?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Rogers said, again sitting down in the only chair in the room. He pretended to look relaxed, like he didn’t care about anything in the world, but already today he felt his nerves had been stretched so tight, they might snap. The Viking had finally passed him in the hallway and didn’t even shove him—Rogers would have accepted any physical touch at this point—and then they had run out of SEWR rats in both the Uncouth Corkscrew and the Peek and Shoot. Those meals were bad enough without having to go hunting for them.