Mechanical Failure by Joe Zieja Page A

his plate, Rogers saw with horror that a small gray-black pool of drippings lay hidden below the egg, blending in with the natural grease of the bacon in a way that reminded him of the time when, well, he’d accidentally dropped a piece of bacon into a pool of motor oil in the engineering bay.
    â€œIt is motor oil!” Rogers said, standing up in shock.
    â€œA-TEN-HOOOOAAH!”
    â€œSit down!”
    Rogers grabbed his plate and stormed back into the kitchen, suddenly realizing why everyone was reaching for SEWR rats instead of bacon in a 5W-40 reduction sauce.
    â€œWhat is this?” he barked as he crossed the threshold into the empty serving area. The single server who was visible jumped, likely more surprised to see someone than at Rogers’ question. Through the small windows on the double doors leading back into the larger food preparation area, Rogers saw heads popping up like curious squirrels.
    â€œIs there a problem, sir?” the service troop asked.
    â€œYou’re damn right there’s a problem. I know this ship is infested with droids, but the last time I checked, humans don’t operate on chemical lubricants.” He slammed the plate on the counter. “Who made this? No, forget that. Who’s in charge here?”
    â€œHart!” the server called. “I think this ensign wants to talk to you.”
    The kitchen door swung open, and a master sergeant in a military chef uniform sauntered out of the double doors, his apron stained with a telltale black grease that certainly hadn’t come from hamburgers.
    â€œWhat’s all this about?” he growled.
    Rogers gaped. “Hart? What in the world are you doing in the kitchens?”
    Master Sergeant Hart—formerly just Sergeant Hart the last time Rogers had seen him—was the first familiar face Rogers had seen during his new tenure on the Flagship . That was a good thing. The bad thing was that the last time he’d seen him, he’d been in the engineering bay. Where he belonged. Since he was an engineer.
    â€œYou’re a sight for sore eyes,” Hart said.
    â€œI’m a little concerned about my sore stomach,” Rogers said. “What are you doing in the kitchens?”
    â€œCross-trained,” Hart said. “Not my choice.”
    Rogers shook his head. “They transferred you to the kitchen?”
    Hart nodded. “Me and a couple of the other boys and girls that didn’teither leave the fleet or get reassigned to other squadrons on the other side of the system. I think I’m getting used to it, though. I make some pretty good stuff.”
    â€œThere’s motor oil in my eggs,” Rogers said.
    â€œEveryone’s a critic. Why don’t you just eat Sewer rats like everyone else?”
    Rogers couldn’t believe his ears. Aside from the nonsensical personnel movement, Hart had been one of his best mates, prankster partner, and the only man in the entire fleet who could drink Rogers under the table. He’d also been Rogers’ supervisor before Rogers had been promoted to sergeant himself, and Hart had survived that ordeal. Rogers thought nothing could break that man. Now he looked . . . he looked . . . sober .
    â€œDidn’t you fight them when they reassigned you?” Rogers asked. “You belong elbow-deep in engine components, not spaghetti. And certainly not elbow-deep in spaghetti right after you’ve been elbow-deep in engine components.”
    â€œSo sue me. I still like to tinker with engines when I can, and sometimes I don’t have time to wash my hands afterward. I can’t get down there very often, anyway. That idiot McSchmidt in engineering doesn’t let anyone else in the bay when he’s around. Besides, they told me cooking food is just like being a grease monkey. You put stuff together until it works.”
    â€œThis doesn’t work,” Rogers said, pointing to his plate, which had taken