Waypoint Kangaroo (15 page)

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.

The squinting continues. “We wouldn't want to waste your talents.”

“It's not a problem.”

“Let's keep it that way.”

Ellie chuckles. “So. Evan. How long have you and Andie known each other?”

“What?” Jemison and I say in unison. We exchange puzzled glances, then look back to see if Ellie's joking. She's not.

“We don't,” Jemison says.

“We just met,” I say, overlapping her.

“Yesterday,” Jemison adds.

“Oh,” Ellie says. She seems disappointed.

“Why would you think—I mean, no offense, Chief, but why would you think that?” I ask Ellie.

She shrugs, and she makes even that tiny motion look cute. “It's just the way you two talk to each other. It feels like you've, I don't know, been through something together.”

Normally, I would be panicking now. She's just made me, seen through my cover to something real underneath, and that usually means I've been compromised and need to get the hell out of the situation.

But instead of panic, I feel … unburdened. Ellie just gave me permission to relax my disguise.

“You know what it is,” I say. “It's because we were both stationed on Mars for a while. Before the war.”

We weren't there at the same time or anywhere near the same place, but I hope Jemison plays along. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her hand curling into a fist under the table.

“Stationed?” Ellie raises an eyebrow. “As what, a street urchin? Were you even out of school before the war?”

“Absolutely.” It's not a lie. “I'm older than I look.”

“And I didn't know you were on Mars, Andie,” Ellie says to Jemison.

“I don't like to talk about it,” Jemison says. There's an edge in her voice.

Ellie nods and turns back to me. “So what were
you
doing on the red planet, Mr. State Department Trade Inspector?”

There's a lilt in her voice. She expects me to be evasive, too.

“Spying,” I say.

Ellie bursts out laughing. “No, seriously.”

“I am serious,” I say. “What, you don't think I could be a spy?”

Ellie shakes her head, smiling. “Evan, I think you would be the worst spy in the entire Solar System.”

I force my own smile to remain in place. Does this mean I'm doing my job really well or really badly?

I turn to Jemison and ask, “And what do you think?”

She's been frowning and pursing her lips this whole time, but now she loses it, doubling over with laughter. Ellie starts laughing again too.

“Okay, yeah, that's hilarious,” I grumble. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Sorry, Rogers,” Jemison says, recovering her composure. “It's just such a ridiculous thought, you know?”

She wipes some post-guffaw tears from her eyes and grins at me. I chew my food and give her a blank stare.

“I'm sorry,” Ellie says. “I didn't mean to destroy one of your childhood dreams.”

“Don't worry about it.” I turn toward Jemison. “People underestimate me.”

“I can believe that,” she says, chuckling.

Ellie reaches across the table and puts her hand over mine. I do my best not to stare, but my heart rate shoots up, and the display in my left eye pops up a medical warning, just in case I didn't notice my pulse skyrocketing. I twitch my other fingers—the ones not being held by Ellie—and turn off the display.

“She does this with everyone,” Ellie says, patting my hand. “It's nothing personal.”

I feel lightheaded. “Thanks,” I manage to say through my happy haze.

“Have you been to Mars recently?” Ellie asks. “Since the war, I mean?”

I shake my head. “I've been pretty busy elsewhere.”

“Sometimes,” Ellie says, and stops. She lowers her voice. “Sometimes I feel very glad that US-OSS discharged me before the shooting started. Is that wrong? Is that selfish?”

“No,” Jemison says. “You should never feel bad about staying out of a war.”

I don't know what to say.

Ellie's wristband beeps. “Oh, boy. Are you seeing this, Andie?”

Jemison raises her wrist and frowns. “Seriously? Where are the parents?”

Ellie stands up. I reflexively do the same. “Sorry to eat and run, Evan, but I need to go take care of this.” She smiles. “It was nice to see you again.”

“Likewise,” I say, hoping she'll offer to shake my hand. She doesn't.

“We should go, too,” Jemison says. “Get a box for that, Rogers.”

“Where are we going?” I watch Ellie walk out of the mess hall, admiring how the uniform flatters her figure.

“I'm going back to work. You're doing whatever you want.”

I turn back to Jemison. “I thought you wanted my help.”

She shakes her head. “You're on vacation, Rogers. Enjoy it.”

I lean close to her and lower my voice. “We need to talk about David Wachlin.”

“Don't worry about him. We're dealing with it.”

“I can help.”

“I'll tell you if we need your help.”

“I have tools that nobody else on this ship has.”

“And we don't need any of them right now. Go. Have fun.”

I don't know how.
“Okay, well, how about the radiation thing? I can use my eye—”

“What part of ‘go away' do you not understand? We actually do know what we're doing around here, Rogers. I appreciate the offer, but it's going to be more trouble adding you to the mix than just letting the crew do their jobs. Now come on.”

She picks up both our trays and heads for the exit. I follow her reluctantly.

It's pretty clear I'm not going talk Jemison into deputizing me to help with anything. But there is someone else I can talk to. Someone who can get me back into Jemison's good graces after I demonstrate my usefulness on another task. Someone who ought to care a lot more about radiation hazards.

Someone who's having dinner with some VIPs tonight.

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dejah Thoris
—Deck 10, Promenade

4 hours before Ellie's VIP dinner

I say good-bye to Jemison at the elevator, go to the excursions booking desk on the Promenade, and flip through the offerings on the automated kiosk. I don't see any listings for a VIP dinner with the chief engineer. Maybe it's a private group.