Waypoint Kangaroo

by Curtis C. Chen

  “How is he going to know?” Blevins asks.

  “I’m a U.S. State Department trade inspector,” I say. “I have a cargo scanning implant. It might not work in this situation, but it’s worth a try.”

  “Go ahead, Rogers,” Jemison says.

  I switch on my HUD and activate my eye’s radiation sensors. I see the heat signature as I cycle through scanner modes. The size, shape, and temperature are consistent with an adult human, sitting on the floor at the far end of the lifeboat.

  But that could be anyone. I change the detection spectrum, and the image becomes a splotchy pink outline of a torso, head, and arms. David Wachlin might have cleaned himself up, but he can’t get rid of the radiation damage from his brother’s broken PECC.

  “It’s him,” I say.

  “Does he have a weapon?” Jemison asks.

  “I need a radio source.”

  Jemison taps her radio button. “All security personnel, this is Chief Jemison. I’m going to transmit a long squawk as a test signal. Turn down your speaker volume and stay off this channel for the next thirty seconds.

  “Repeat, I am squawking a long and loud test signal, starting in three, two, one, now.”

  She taps her wristband while talking. The four guards nearby do the same. After Jemison says “now,” I hear a soft, rhythmic beeping from her radio button.

  All sorts of metal objects and magnetic fields light up in my HUD. It takes me a few seconds to locate the knife. I’m confused by the shape at first, because I was imagining a kitchen knife, like a chef’s knife, which would be long and roughly triangular. But why would someone bring a kitchen knife onto a cruise? That might seem suspicious during a luggage search.

  On the other hand, Alan Wachlin was in the army, and it wouldn’t be unusual for him to keep souvenirs from his military service.

  “I see the knife,” I say. “It’s on the first bench against the wall, on the left, near the entry hatch. He’s sitting on the floor, all the way in the back on the right.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rogers,” Jemison says. I step back to let her put my intelligence into operational action.

  She silences her radio and motions for the two closest guards, Scotton and Beseda, to stand back and cover the door with their stunners. The one with the heat sensor, Yang, puts his equipment down and draws his own stunner. He and Blevins follow Jemison and position themselves on either side of the hatch. Blevins puts one hand on the handle and looks at Jemison, who’s aiming her stunner directly at the lifeboat hatch. She nods.

  I’m looking at an infrared view when Blevins yanks open the hatch. Jemison stays where she is while Yang snaps his body into the open doorway, brandishing his stunner. Blevins mirrors him on the other side of the hatchway, barely a second behind. The man inside the lifeboat doesn’t react at all.

  I switch off my HUD to get a better, stereoscopic view. The sensors are useful, but it can be tiring, not to mention disorienting, to see a different image in each eye for too long.

  The lower part of the man’s face is wet, as if he’s been drooling. His head is tipped back against the wall, and his eyes are unfocused. His knees are bent up to his chest. His arms are wrapped loosely around his legs. His hands are shaking.

  I couldn’t see the blood through my scanner view. It’s all over his chest, soaked through his shirt, covering most of his neck and the lower part of his face. I’m surprised he didn’t track more of it through the ship on his way here.

  “David Wachlin,” Jemison calls into the lifeboat. “Can you hear me?”

  The man says nothing.

  “Mr. Wachlin, I’m Security Chief Jemison. We’re here to take you to Sickbay. Can you understand me?”

  No answer. Would disorientation from space travel really affect a schizophrenic this badly?

  “We’re coming into the lifeboat now,” Jemison says. “We’re going to help you.

  “Yang, get the knife,” she says in a quieter voice. Yang pulls himself out of the doorway, retrieves a plastic pouch from the equipment kit lying on the floor of the corridor, and steps into the lifeboat just far enough to bag the knife. It’s an army survival knife, standard issue for infantry. The blade is nearly thirteen centimeters long and coated with dried blood.

  Jemison enters the lifeboat, followed by Blevins. It’s a long, narrow space, with benches along either wall. Yang covers them from the hatchway. Blevins stands over David Wachlin, stunner at the ready, while Jemison rolls him onto the floor and binds his wrists together. She tries to be gentle, but he’s a heavyset guy, and it doesn’t help that his body is completely limp. He’ll probably have bruises tomorrow.

  “Okay,” Jemison says. “Let’s get a nurse down here with a stretcher.”

  Scotton calls Sickbay. Inside the lifeboat, Blevins and Yang sit down on the benches on either side of Wachlin, watching him. Outside in the corridor, Beseda and Scotton holster their stunners. Jemison walks back to me.

  “Any idea how he got inside without tripping the alarm?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “No. The seal was definitely broken, so the circuit must have been opened.”

  I look back down the empty corridor. “Is this section powered down? To conserve energy when you don’t need full life support, something like that?”

  “The lifeboat alarms are on a different system,” Jemison says. “They’re always on.”

  “And it’s pretty unlikely that Wachlin could have bypassed it,” I say.

  “Not in his current state,” Jemison says, looking back at the glassy-eyed, catatonic man lying on the floor of the lifeboat. “Even if he had, we’d be able to tell. The locking mechanism is purely mechanical, so there’s no electrical…”

  She trails off and walks past me, heading back toward the elevator. I follow her. She stops in the middle of the corridor, kneels in front of an access panel, and pulls it open.

  “Shouldn’t that be locked?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. “But it’s a mechanical lock. No alarm.”

  She pulls a small flashlight from her belt and shines it into the recessed area. I can see switches and wires and little yellow tags. She traces her fingers along one bundle of wires, finds a tag, and leans in to read it.

  “Goddammit,” she says. “Bad cable. Tagged for maintenance six months ago, never repaired. I am going to have somebody’s job for this.”

  She slams the panel shut and stands back up.

  “So, no tampering, then,” I say.

  “Power was on, but the comm line was out. The alarm tripped, but the signal didn’t go anywhere. I swear to God, heads are going to roll.”

  She doesn’t raise her voice, but her eyes are on fire. I try to imagine how she feels. Probably something like how Paul feels when I screw up. It’s not his mistake, but it’s his responsibility.

  * * *

  While Blevins and company take David Wachlin to Sickbay, Jemison and I check more lifeboats, then report back to the captain in the briefing room. Commander Galbraith and Dr. Sawhney are also at the conference table when we arrive.

  “Three other access points in that section,” Jemison says. She taps her wristband against the conference table. The surface lights up with data. “Same inspection date, no later service date. The cable tags don’t agree with the maintenance logs, which say they were fixed a week later. But we checked the cables themselves, and they’re definitely worn.”

  Santamaria looks over the table display. “We need to review all our maintenance logs and work schedules for the last six months. Erica, sorry, but that’s yours.”

  Galbraith shrugs. “You know how much I love paperwork, Captain.”

  Santamaria smiles, but it fades quickly. “Doctor, how’s our patient doing?”

  “Stable, and in restraints,” Sawhney says. “We put him on a sedative drip for now. We don’t want to risk any of his current medications, in case they trigger another episode. Unfortunately, we can’t do a full blood panel here. We don’t have the right equipment. We’re run
ning a tox screen, but it won’t be finished until tomorrow.”

  “Very well.” Santamaria turns to me. “Mr. Rogers, thank you for the assistance.”

  I nod. “I’d say it was my pleasure, but that seems a little inappropriate.”

  “Chief Jemison will escort you back to the passenger sections. Enjoy the rest of your cruise,” he says.

  Santamaria and Galbraith return to the bridge. Sawhney disappears down the hallway. Jemison leads me back to the elevator.

  We ride down to deck six in silence. When we arrive, I step out into the corridor, then notice she’s not following. I turn around and look back into the elevator.

  “Good working with you, Rogers,” she says, extending her hand.

  We shake hands, and I suddenly don’t want her to go.

  No—it’s not Jemison I want to stay. It’s this feeling of having something to do. I actually enjoyed that meeting just now, and I hate meetings.

  Being in the meeting meant I was on the job. I don’t want to be a civilian again.

  Jemison releases my hand, and I raise my arm to hold the elevator door open.

  “Can I ask you for a favor?” I say.

  She hesitates for the briefest of moments. “Sure. You want an extra mint on your pillow? We get that a lot.”

  She’s not smiling, but I am. No matter how much she might deny it, working with me today wasn’t a complete pain in her ass. I can tell.

  “I have a dinner seating at the Captain’s Table,” I say. Her expression tells me that she sympathizes. “But I don’t really feel comfortable there. I’m not a tourist. Is there any chance I could eat in the crew mess instead?”

  “You don’t appreciate the wide selection of fine dining options available on the lido deck?”

  “The small talk is killing me,” I say. “I’m not antisocial, I’m just—not a tourist.”

  “You could do a better job of pretending,” she says, smiling.

  “I’m on vacation,” I say. And apparently I suck at being on vacation.

  “I’ll talk to the captain,” she says. “Now, if there’s nothing else?”

  I drop my arm and step backward. The elevator doors close. Something else is bothering me, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. I go back to my room and dig into my gift basket. It takes several miniature bottles of whiskey and a few hours of sleep for me to suss out the bother.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dejah Thoris—Deck 17, crew mess hall

  4 hours after the unsatisfying omelet

  Captain Santamaria agrees to let me eat in the crew mess, and Chief Jemison leads me there for lunch. She’s on her radio when she knocks on my stateroom door, sorting out something to do with children polluting swimming pools, and all my attempts at interrupting her during our walk are met with increasingly hostile glares. I decide to wait until we sit down to talk to her about David Wachlin.

  That tiny alarm bell in the back of my head has been jangling all morning. It’s an awfully big coincidence that out of all the places someone could hide on this enormous ship, the guy suffering a violent schizophrenic episode just happened to stumble into a lifeboat with its alarms disabled. Too many unlikely occurrences piled into one incident.

  Maybe it’s nothing. But what if it’s not nothing?

  I don’t imagine the Dejah Thoris security staff normally conducts many criminal investigations. And I’m undoubtedly better trained in analysis than any of the crew; that’s what I did for the duration of the war, when the agency wouldn’t let me travel off-world. They didn’t want to risk their only access to the pocket getting captured or killed. I learned a lot sitting behind that desk.

  Jemison can use my help, whether she wants it or not. Especially if she also has to deal with the normal passenger shenanigans all week. How did those kids sneak so much soup out of the buffet and all the way over to the hot tub?

  * * *

  The crew mess hall is utilitarian and sparse, all bright, flat, off-white surfaces—nothing like the ornate and gilded main dining room. I imagine Santamaria up there, making small talk with a new group of folks who feel special just because they get to sit next to a guy in a costume. I look around the slightly dingy but entirely functional mess hall and take a deep breath, inhaling the smells of steamed rice, curried meats, and stewed vegetables. Nothing fancy or gourmet. Just good, basic, square meals.

  Jemison leads me through the food service line and then the moderately crowded seating area—it’s dense enough that I have to maneuver to avoid people, but not so bad that collisions are inevitable. We wind our way to a table against the back wall while I consider the best way to start this conversation.

  Hey, Chief, that looks like a tasty sandwich. Speaking of sandwiches, are you familiar with the term “suspicion sandwich”? What Intel calls a PBJ: Possible But Janky?

  “That’s going to be a laugh and a half,” Jemison grumbles, turning off her radio and dropping her tray on the table. “Hey, stranger.”

  “Hey yourself,” says a familiar voice. I step out from behind Jemison, toward one of the other chairs at the table.

  I don’t recognize the woman sitting in front of me for a few seconds, until she lowers her reading tablet and looks up. Her hair is down, and it frames her face and just touches the shoulderboards on her dress uniform. She looks like she’s ready for a parade.

  It’s Ellie Gavilán.

  Jemison waves a hand at me. “Ellie, this is Mr. Rogers, an observer from the State Department. Rogers—”

  “We’ve met,” I say.

  Jemison frowns. “Where?”

  “Oh, Evan took the engine room tour yesterday,” Ellie says. “I didn’t know his last name, though. Rajah?”

  “Evan’s fine,” I say. “Just call me Evan.”

  We shake hands. Her palm feels soft and warm. I don’t want to let go.

  I must have a stupid grin on my face, because Jemison kicks me in the shin. She’s already taken her seat and started eating. I release Ellie’s hand and sit down. Ellie puts her tablet aside. I also start eating, so my sudden inability to make small talk will be less obvious.

  “What’s with the whites?” Jemison asks, nodding at Ellie’s outfit.

  “VIPs,” Ellie says, raising one hand and twirling her index finger. “I have to give a full power plant tour, then choke down a formal dinner in the main dining room at five.”

  “A fate worse than death,” Jemison agrees.

  Ellie turns to me. “So Evan, you’re with the State Department? Trade inspector, I think you said?”

  Of course my mouth is full. I nod. “Mm-hmm.”

  “I hope we’re not in any trouble,” Ellie says, and winks at me. I can feel my heart melting.

  “Rogers is on vacation,” Jemison says. “Captain asked me to show him around. As a professional courtesy.”

  “Hmm.” Ellie seems dubious. “Why is a trade inspector so interested in spacecraft engines?”

  “Always wanted to be an astronaut. Couldn’t tough out the higher math, but I turned out to be okay at bean-counting.” All this fake disclosure is starting to make me uncomfortable. “What about you? How did you get into space?”

  She shrugs. “The usual way. Joined the navy.”

  “Ellie served six years in US-OSS,” Jemison says. She pronounces the acronym “you-sauce,” like a proper spaceman, and I nearly choke on my food.

  If Ellie served in OSS, she was in the same branch of service as my standard off-world cover identity. She almost certainly knows more than I do about actually being in the military.

  My heartbeat races before I remember that I’m not using that legend right now. I’m a different person, on vacation, not on mission. I hope my smile doesn’t look too fake. I didn’t prepare at all for this outing, and I feel like I’m sinking in the deep end of the pool.

  “Well,” my lizard brain says, “thank you for serving.”

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Ellie taps at her wristband controls. “Andie, we need to reschedule the
maintenance in 5028.” She glances at me. “Can we talk about this now?”

  “We can talk,” Jemison says. “Rogers knows all about it. But we can’t reschedule. Tomorrow’s midway.”

  “And you don’t know how many sections we still need to secure before zero-gee,” Ellie says. “Our last turnaround was way too short.”

  “The passengers can do without a few extra activity spaces,” Jemison says. “5028 is a crime scene. That takes precedence.”

  “Okay, law-and-order, but do you really want me to pull an entire sanitation crew for one stateroom?”

  Jemison leans forward and lowers her voice. “Your guys will be in full hazmat gear. It’s going to take them twice as long to do anything. And we’ve got less than twelve hours.”

  “Security already imaged every square centimeter of that stateroom,” Ellie says. “We’re going to make more of a mess packing everything away than zero-gee will.”

  “Fine.” Jemison jabs at her own wristband. “I can give you four people at 1600.”

  Ellie cocks her head. “I’m guessing these aren’t going to be volunteers.”

  “Nope, so you’d better have some leave vouchers handy.”

  “I can live with that. Are you coming to join us in the soup?”

  Jemison shakes her head. “Other duties.”

  I remember what Jemison said in the briefing room: that she and Ellie first responded to the fire in 5028. How long did they spend in there? How long were they exposed to the radiation they didn’t know was leaking from Wachlin’s damaged PECC?

  I blink my eye into sensing mode. Both women are silhouetted in pink, just like David Wachlin was. That can’t be good. The less time anybody spends in that stateroom, the better. I turn off my eye.

  “Can’t the maintenance robots handle the cleanup?” I ask.

  “Not without supervision,” Ellie says. “Robots are good at repetitive, predictable tasks. This is going to require human initiative.”

  “So how long do you reckon it’ll take?”

  Jemison squints at me. “Why do you care, cowboy?”

  “I could help,” I say.