Waypoint Kangaroo (20 page)

“Now listen carefully. There's a blood sampler in your emergency medkit, in the pocket. Get that out, then find a centrifuge and some very expensive liquor. Do this within the next twenty-four hours. We wait too long, and the tissue damage will be too extensive to repair. Please acknowledge. Over.”

I have an inkling of what she's asking me to do. Except that can't possibly be right; it's completely insane.

“Surgical, Kangaroo. Please tell me you're not asking me to do what I think you're asking me to do,” I say. “Over.”

“How the hell do I know what you're thinking?” Jessica replies, scowling at me across time and space. “And I'm not asking, Kangaroo. I'm telling you, if you don't do this, everyone who was exposed to that PECC radiation will develop some form of somatic cancer within the next decade. Acknowledge. Over.”

There's a murderer on the loose, and she wants me to go on a scavenger hunt? And then deploy experimental biotech into a civilian population? This is worse than any idea I've ever had. And that's saying a lot.

“Okay. I'm not going to say the N-word, but is that what we're talking about here, Surge? And how the hell is it okay in any way to dose
civilians
with that tech? Over.”

“Yes. I am talking about the nanobots. You're going to separate a batch of them, then I'm going to reprogram them to function outside your body for thirty days. That, along with the standard meds, should be long enough to heal any major radiation damage. After a month, the nanobots' hardware failsafes will shut them down, and they'll get metabolized by the liver. Even if someone's looking for them, there will be no evidence they were ever there.

“I can't order you to take this action,” Jessica says, her expression softening. “But this is why we created nanobots in the first place, why we didn't abandon the research after the Fruitless Year. The potential rewards are tremendous. We can use this tech to repair any living tissue precisely and reliably. We can use it to save lives.

“You are the only person who can do this, Kangaroo. Nobody else can help those people resist radiation poisoning. This is the only chance they have. And in twenty-four hours, not even you will be able to save them.”

I shake my head, trying to dismiss the names and faces running through my head: Captain Santamaria. Chief Jemison. The firefighting crew. Anyone else who went into that burned stateroom.

Ellie.

“I'll contact you with a full procedure soon. Get the equipment. Over and out.”

Goddammit.

Special doesn't always mean better. Being unique means having responsibilities that other people don't. I'm the only one who can possibly do this. And I can't ignore the one thing I can do to help right now.

I hover in the stairwell, first wondering how I'm going to get access to a centrifuge, then racking my brain for another way. After fifteen minutes, I give up. Anything else will take too long to execute.

I have to go tell more lies to the woman I slept with last night.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Dejah Thoris
—Deck B, crew stairwell

23½ hours before my nanobots can't help these civilians anymore

Unlike the passenger areas, the crew sections of
Dejah Thoris
don't have large directional signs or maps displayed prominently every few meters, and there are no large touchscreen kiosks to help guide a person to the nearest bar or other desired attraction. PMC must train their crew members to know what these alphanumeric codes painted on the bulkheads mean. Deck number is easy to figure out, but the rest is tougher to decipher. I remember the code I saw displayed in main engineering, but it takes me a few trips up and down the stairwell and peeking in other sections to figure out the pattern.

Before leaving the stairwell, I pull my State Department legend out of the pocket. Most of my fake papers are just simple cards or badges that look plausible when flashed in front of a guard or receptionist. I use this one quite a bit, so it's actually tied to a full cover identity that will pass even the most rigorous background check. Just in case.

A jumpsuited crewman accosts me as soon as I enter main engineering, the large chamber overlooking the ionwell I toured earlier. His name tag says XIAO. “Sir! I'm sorry, sir, you can't be in here right now.”

I hold up my phony identification. “I need to speak to Chief Engineer Gavilán.”

Xiao's eyes widen. He looks from my ID to my face and back again. “Is there a problem, Mr. Rogers? Perhaps I can assist you?”

I briefly consider bluffing this guy instead of Ellie. He looks young, certainly not older than I am, probably just out of the military or trade school. The way he responded to my show of authority implies the former. If I can get what I need from him, then I won't have to lie to Ellie.

But I want to see her again. And what's one more little white lie on top of the mountain I've already built?

“Thank you … Xiao?” I'm not quite sure how to pronounce that name.

“Xiao,” he says.

“Xiao,” I do my best to repeat.

“Xiao.”

“Xiao?”

“Close enough, sir.” His expression tells me I should just drop it. “How may I help you?”

I tuck my ID into the back pocket of my jeans. “I just need to talk to the chief.”

Xiao nods. “Very well, sir. What should I say is the issue?”

“Tell her it's about photosynthesis.”

Xiao's face lights up with a grin. “Right! I thought your name sounded familiar. Chief Gavilán said she had a very nice walk through the arboretum with a young man last night.”

I blink at him while processing this information. “Is that, uh, common knowledge, then?”

“Only among supervisors. She mentioned it during our morning briefing.”

“Ah.”

“I love the arboretum. So romantic.” Xiao holds up his left hand, showing me the silver band around his ring finger. “I proposed to my husband there.”

“Mazel tov,” I say reflexively. “By the way, just curious, what else did Chief Gavilán say about last night?”

Xiao winks at me. “Don't worry, Mr. Rogers. She's not one to kiss and tell. Wait here, please.” He caroms off the floor and spins toward one of the consoles.

I notice he didn't actually answer my question. I do my best to appear nonchalant as I look around the compartment to see if anyone else is eyeing me now.

Most of the engineering personnel are wearing small jetpacks. The shoulder straps and belt blend in well with their uniform jumpsuits, but I can see and hear the tiny blue-white plumes pushing them around the open space. Probably some kind of compressed gas, like the hand thruster Jemison gave me. I've seen astronauts who can perform entire acrobatic routines in spacesuits. These engineers aren't quite that graceful, but they're good at holding position, which is most of the trick. All the little twitches and shifts that don't matter in gravity push you all over the place when you're weightless.

A hissing sound catches my attention, and I grab a handhold on the wall and turn to see Ellie, parking herself in front of me by manipulating a control paddle in her left palm.

“Hello, stranger,” she says, smiling. “You know you're not supposed to be down here, right?”

“I just couldn't stay away.” I return the smile but make no move to touch her. If I start, I won't want to stop. “So I hear we're the talk of the town.”

“Sorry about that. My colleagues like to gossip.” She shrugs. “They don't get out much.”

“Right. Listen, I need to ask you for a tiny little engineering-related favor.”

Her eyes twinkle. She uses her jetpack to move down to my eye level. “This sounds interesting.”

“Yeah, you don't know the half of it.”
And I can't tell you.
“I need to borrow a centrifuge.”

Her smile falters for a split second. “A centrifuge.”

“Just for, like, an hour or so.”

“There are so many issues with that request,” she says, “I'm not even sure where to start. Why do you want a centrifuge?”

“It's kind of a long story. I don't suppose you could just trust me?”

We stare at each other for a long moment. She does trust me—I can see that—but only up to a certain point. That's fair. She's only known me for one day, and the most personal thing I've told her is about my abiding love of coffee. Not exactly a deep dark secret.

“Are you actually going to use it?” Ellie asks.

I consider lying, but decide against it. “Yes.”

“What are you spinning down?”

Well, now I have to lie. “I don't know.”

She frowns. “Okay, I'm going to need a little more here, Evan.”

I thought up a ridiculous story on my way down here. I was hoping I wouldn't have to use it. I don't usually devise my own legends, and this one is pretty over the top. But that's what the agency teaches us: the more outlandish the lie, the better. Make the target laugh if you can. Elicit her sympathy without explicitly asking for it. Encourage her to underestimate you.

“I made a bet,” I say. “At the bar. With a chemist.”

Ellie folds her arms. “You bet him you could get a centrifuge from engineering?”

I make a show of sighing, as if I'm preparing to reveal some particularly embarrassing details. “You know the drink of the day? The ‘Zero-Gravity Football'?”

“I'm not really much of a drinker.”

“Well, it's today's mystery drink. The bars advertise a different one every day, because booze has the highest profit margins—”

“I know how cruise ships work,” Ellie says. “So you enjoyed a few too many of these drinks and made a stupid bet?”

“No,” I say, “I made a stupid bet about the drink.”

She's smiling again. That's a good sign. “Do tell.”

I give her the most pathetic expression I can summon. “Because it's a mystery drink, the servers and bartenders won't tell us exactly what the ingredients are. The chemist thought he could distinguish at least two different types of liquor. But I think the crew are going to keep it simple, because they're making a lot of these drinks all day. I'm thinking there must be some kind of premixed flavor packet—to make it taste more complicated than it actually is, right? That would be cheaper than using more booze.”

“I'm still waiting for the part where you need a centrifuge.”

“Well, the guy at the bar—the chemist—said he could analyze the ingredients if we separated them by—I think ‘specific gravity' is what he said—”

“Hold on,” Ellie says. “You're talking about an alcoholic solution. You'd have to boil off most of the water to do any useful analysis.” She narrows her eyes. “Please do not tell me one of our passengers has built a still in his stateroom.”

“I didn't ask a whole lot of questions,” I say. “To be honest, there was a lot of yelling. I think some of those guys were pretty drunk.”

“Let me smell your breath.”

I clutch my free hand to my chest. “You wound me, sir! I am of sound mind and body.”

“This is a sobriety test, not a cute test.” She taps her jetpack controls to nudge herself closer to me. I can't find another nearby handhold to escape, and honestly, I don't want to. “I want to know how drunk
you
are.”

“Well—”

Before another lame excuse can escape my mouth, Ellie kisses me.

Her eyes are shut, and I look around frantically to see if anybody's watching. Fortunately, Ellie's smart: she maneuvered me into a niche between the control console and one of the side access doors. We're completely hidden from view of the rest of main engineering.

Might as well enjoy it, Kangaroo.

I let my eyelids close. Her lips are incredibly soft. Her tongue dances over mine. She pulls away long before I'm ready to stop. “Yeah, you're good,” she says, smiling.

“Are you sure you don't want to check again?” I ask.

She pats my chest, pushing herself backward. “I'll have someone deliver a portable spinner to your room.”

“Oh, I can move it myself,” I say. “I know everybody's pretty busy today. Wouldn't want to interrupt anyone's work.”

Ellie frowns. “It's a large piece of machinery.”

“We're in zero-gravity. It'll be fun.”

She shakes her head and taps at her wristband. “If you say so. But you break it, you buy it, mister.”

“I'll be careful. I'm very good with my hands, as you know.”

She actually blushes. “All right, you need to leave now, Casanova. You know where ship's stores are?”

I don't. She gives me directions to one of the upper crew decks and a requisition number to repeat to the chandler.

“Also,” she says, “I'm off duty at 1800 hours today. That's six o'clock to you. And I'm free from then until midnight.”

I do my best to keep my grin merely stupid and not entirely shit-eating. “Do you already have plans for dinner?”

“Why, no, I do not, Evan.”

I try to recall the name of the fanciest restaurant on the ship. “Have you tried the food at that Silk place yet? I hear it's new.”

Ellie's eyebrows threaten to lift her entire face. “Are you talking about Fête Silk Road?”

“That's the one. Say seven o'clock?”

“I'm not sure you can get a reservation this late.”

“Let me worry about that.” I'm confident President Maitland and his brothers can get us in.

“If you say so.” She taps her jetpack controls, spinning away from me slowly. “Make it seven-thirty. That'll give me more time to get ready.”

She gives me one more dazzling smile over her shoulder before she flies away.

I float, literally and figuratively, up to ship's stores. The chandler gives me a funny look, but the chief engineer's signature on a requisition isn't something he's prepared to argue with. He brings out the centrifuge in a bulky, padded bundle, a cube roughly one meter across on each side. I wrestle it down the corridor until I'm sure nobody's watching, then think of a fuzzy blanket with a colorful zigzag pattern and push the centrifuge into the pocket with a nudge.