I pack up the files and send them to her with a brief message.
“Surge, Kangaroo. I’m sending my scans and body logs. We were exposed to a damaged particle emission capture core. Not for very long. The ship’s doctor has already treated us with Genisalin. By the way, what are you wearing? Did you lose a bet or something? Over.”
It’s nearly five minutes before her reply arrives. I’m in the bathroom when my eye lights up, and I watch the vid while still on the toilet. I’ve done worse.
“Kangaroo, Surgical. Stop calling me ‘Surge.’ I’m not a Russian hockey player.” Jessica taps at her computer console while talking, barely looking at the camera. “And I am wearing this ridiculous outfit because I was at the opera, which—why am I telling you this? It’s not important. The auditors are trying to distract me while they interview Lasher and Equipment. They think they can divide and conquer—” She shakes her head. “No. Not important. I need you to tell me how many other people were exposed to the PECC. I will assume the ship’s doctor is not a complete idiot, and that he made you all shower and scrub and incinerated your clothes in addition to administering Genisalin. That will protect you in the short term, but your somatic sensors show signs of bone marrow damage. I should be able to contain it. Wait one. Don’t go anywhere. Over.”
I finish up in the bathroom and, since I have nothing better to do, record another message while I’m waiting.
“Surge, Kangaroo. Look, you don’t need to worry about this too much. I’m not feeling nauseous or losing hair or anything, and it’s been a full day since the exposure. It looked like the PECC was mostly burned out by the time we got there, right? I don’t think this ship has any facilities to synthesize pharmaceuticals, so there’s probably not much more I can do about this—I mean, it’ll be tricky to set up a chemistry lab in my stateroom. Sounds like you have other things to deal with anyway. So just let me know whether I should, I don’t know, avoid greasy foods for the next few days and I’ll stop bothering you.
“And thanks for not telling Paul. He doesn’t need to worry about a minor thing like this. Over.”
I’m pretty sure Jessica doesn’t actually listen to my whole message, because her next burst arrives in barely three minutes and twenty seconds.
“Kangaroo, Surgical. I need to know how many people besides yourself were exposed to that PECC, I need to know if any of them were children under ten or adults over sixty, and I need to know exactly who issued that power core. Eight years ago we were using three different kinds of combination alpha-beta PECCs in military implants, and your eye can’t resolve that kind of detail. Go back and find the serial number if you need to, don’t worry about the added exposure, the nanobots can fix it. Over.”
I’m not sure I heard that last part correctly, so I play the message again, then send a reply with Alan Wachlin’s service record attached.
“Surge, Kangaroo. I’m sending you the army personnel file on the deceased owner of the PECC. That should tell you when he was implanted. Also, did you say ‘nanobots’? It sounded like you said ‘nanobots.’ But that can’t be right, because not only are they highly classified experimental biotech, you also only started being able to program them the day before I left. A week and a half ago. Please clarify. Over.”
She can’t be planning what I think she’s planning. Can she? There’s no way Paul would authorize it. And how would it even be possible? She can’t have made that much progress on the nanobot software in ten days. Manipulating organic matter is completely different from wireless networking, and if anything goes wrong—well, it might not be the end of the world, but it would definitely be the end of our agency.
Three to four minutes passes very quickly when your mind is boggling.
“Kangaroo, Surgical. I have the personnel file, I’ll need to do some more research, but I should be able to find what I need from that. And yes, I said nanobots. I’m reprogramming them to repair your radiation-damaged tissue and chromosomes, and to kill any precancerous cells before they start spreading. The code is almost ready to upload. Do not go anywhere. Wait for my all-clear. Over.”
Okay, this is getting ridiculous.
“Surge, Kay. Let me get this straight. I’ve been on vacation for ten days, and you’ve cured cancer? Over.”
“Kangaroo, Surgical! I am trying to work here, and this is not a cure, this is triage. It will take the bots a few weeks to locate and break down all the affected areas. You’ve got time, but another day and the damage could be too extensive for them to deal with, so I need to figure out how you’re going to help the civilians who were also exposed. You should have called me as soon as this happened. Now just wait.”
She doesn’t even bother saying “over,” just smacks the controls to end her transmission.
“Surge, Kay. I apologize for all these questions, but I wasn’t expecting you to be able to use the tiny robots in my blood to fix cancer.” Sometimes I wonder if Jessica is actually human. “Are there going to be any side effects while they’re doing this? Am I going to feel anything? Is there any chance they’ll modify the wrong things and, I don’t know, take apart my kidney or something? Over.”
Nearly six minutes pass before I get her reply. She’s staring straight into the camera.
“Kangaroo. Surgical. You will not feel anything. The nanobots are manipulating individual molecules inside your cells. These are microscopic changes. Most of the work is preventing further damage. And this is not new science. Medical doctors have been working on oncological detection and prevention for over a century.” Her eyes unfocus slightly. “I had a life before the agency. I developed molecular change agents for twenty years. This type of tissue repair was the core of my proposal to Science Division. I could have deployed the technology months ago if they hadn’t questioned every little detail—” She stops, takes a deep breath, then holds up her palm and exhales. “No. I’m over it. We’re moving on.
“This transmission includes the new nanobot program. Your shoulder-phone should be unpacking it and flashing the bots right now. Leave this channel open in case it needs to re-fetch some data. I will contact you in a few hours about the civilian issue. Over and out.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dejah Thoris—Deck 3, Barsoom Buffet
6½ hours after my delightful conversation with Surgical
Dejah Thoris reaches midway just after breakfast time, following repeated loudspeaker warnings from Cruise Director Logan to make sure all loose items and children are safely secured. The announcements also help wake me up in time to make it to the buffet before breakfast service ends.
Chaperoning four thousand civilians in zero-gravity is no small undertaking. Letting them float around an entire cruise ship for a whole day is just asking for trouble. That’s why certain areas have been sealed off, and every single one of Dejah Thoris’s roughly two thousand crew members appears to be on duty, stationed anywhere a passenger might want to go and ready to assist with moving around while weightless. It appears to be impossible to get away from them, but that’s part of the cruise contract: during midway, safety trumps privacy.
I’m finishing my morning coffee—which has been served in an enclosed drink bulb, in anticipation of our loss of gravity—when Logan makes the final announcement. Three different crew members walk by to offer complimentary pairs of zero-gee slipper-socks, in case we’ve forgotten them in our staterooms. I smile back at them and show off my red-and-white footwear with grippy soles. Then they offer to rent me a cam-bot to follow me and record my weightless adventures. I politely decline. Nobody needs to see me flailing around all day.
A trilling alarm sounds continuously for the last minute before we lose gravity, and red lights pulse gently all around us, drawing attention to the floor, which will very soon be just another wall. Half the passengers around me look apprehensive, and the other half look excited, as the crew lead us in a countdown chant.
“Three … Two … One … Zero-gee!”
At first, it’s a bit a
nticlimactic. Some children near me jump up and down and are disappointed when they don’t go flying away. It takes about a minute for the main engines to fully shut down. Then the dining area fills with screams and whoops and hollers as several hundred people experience prolonged zero-gravity for the first time in their lives. Dejah Thoris passengers only had a few hours on Sky Five during the transfer from the Beanstalk; this is going to be a whole day of being disoriented and possibly terrified.
Crew members move through the crowd, keeping people from drifting away. The maroon stripes on the floor, which I thought were decorative, are actually stick-strips: high-friction material that clings to shoes and socks, keeping people anchored.
I survey the noise and commotion for a few minutes, then turn my thoughts back to the chore I’ve been postponing since last night.
I don’t know how long it will take for Jessica to figure out a radiation treatment for me to sneak to the crew, but I know I won’t be able to administer it on my own. Just tracking down the specific crew members will require access to personnel records.
No, the only way this happens is if I con one of the officers into backing my play. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but Jemison is the mark. The buck stops with her, and if I can get her to swallow my fish story, I’m golden.
All I have to do is convince an OSS war veteran and experienced intelligence operative that she should get several of her crewmates to submit to what is likely to be an experimental medical procedure performed by yours truly.
Right. Piece of cake.
Hmm. I wonder if there’s any cake in the buffet—
“Mr. Rogers?”
I jerk at the sound of Jemison’s voice, and the motion sends me out of my seat. I manage to catch the edge of the table with my fingertips and bob there for a moment until I get my bearings and pull my feet down to a stick-strip. My left hand slips off the corner of my food tray and almost sends it flying. I manage to stop it with my other hand. I re-attach the tray to the friction-grip tabletop.
Jemison is in front of me, her feet anchored to a stick-strip on the other side of my table, wearing the impatient scowl I’ve become so familiar with. Two security guards I don’t recognize float behind her, gripping handholds molded into the planters surrounding the dining area. Like the rest of the crew, they’ve traded their normal uniforms for zero-gee jumpsuits.
“What are you doing here?” I say without thinking.
“Evan Rogers?” Jemison says, more forcefully, glaring at me even harder.
Okay, Chief, I’ll play along. “Yes, that’s me. Uh, is there a problem?”
She waves the two guards forward. “If you’ll come with us, Mr. Rogers, we’d like to speak to you in private, please.”
The guards don’t look like they’re in on this joke. I lean forward and lower my voice. “Should I be causing a scene here?”
“No, sir,” Jemison says loudly. “Just come with us and we’ll sort this out.”
They lead me out of the dining area—Jemison in front, me and one guard in the middle, and the other guard taking up the rear. Other passengers mutter as we move down the corridor toward a service door. I try to remember if I’ve done something since yesterday to get myself into more trouble.
As soon as we’re in a crew-only section and the door shuts behind us, I ask, “Okay, what’s going on here?”
Jemison waves off the two guards, who seem happy to be rid of us, and points toward the elevator. “This way.”
I resist the urge to reply with “If I could walk that way…” and attempt to follow her, with limited success.
The floor and wall surfaces here aren’t covered in red stick-strips like the passenger sections. Instead, there are handholds built into the paneling every meter or so. For some reason, I literally can’t get the hang of moving down this hallway in zero-gee.
I miss half a dozen handholds and managed to crash into all four walls before Jemison stops and turns around. She grabs my collar and drags me into the elevator.
“Thanks,” I say. “It’s been a while.”
“It’s not acrobatics.” She pushes a button. The elevator doors close. “Keep it simple. Small moves.”
“Right. Can we talk now? What was all that with the guards back there?” I ask.
“Sorry about the theatrics,” she says. “I had to get you out of the passenger sections without anybody thinking you’re someone special.”
That seems bad. “What’s going on?”
“David Wachlin’s awake,” Jemison says, “and he says he doesn’t remember anything.”
“Schizophrenic episode?”
“No. Doc Sawhney says Wachlin went to sleep after our first day in space and didn’t wake up until this morning.”
I frown. “He’s been asleep for two days?”
“That’s what Sawhney says,” Jemison says. “He ran blood tests and a basic brain scan, didn’t find anything unusual. Not an episode. He also says Wachlin’s blood sugar levels and other body chemistry are consistent with his last meal being two days ago, followed by a long sleep.”
“You’re not convinced.”
“Which is more likely?” Jemison snaps. “That he sleepwalked his way through a double homicide and into that lifeboat, or that he’s lying?”
The elevator dings, and the door slides open. “So why are you telling me this? And where are we going?”
“Sickbay,” Jemison says. “Doc refuses to give Wachlin any more drugs, so I need your eye to play lie detector.”
I smile at her. “You need my help.”
Jemison pushes me into the elevator. “Not if you’re going to be insufferable.”
“I guarantee plenty of suffering.”
“Already regretting this,” she mutters as the doors close.
* * *
It’s not much of an interrogation. David Wachlin is confused and belligerent at first, but he cracks in less than a minute under Jemison’s barrage of questions. My left eye can detect basic vital signs—skin temperature, heart rate, respiration—and run software to analyze those involuntary responses for possible deception. This guy doesn’t trip any of the thresholds.
As far as David knows, he went to sleep in his stateroom and then woke up in Sickbay, secured to an exam bed with restraining straps. He breaks down completely when Jemison tells him that the rest of his family is dead. She tops it off by showing him the bloody knife from the lifeboat, and he starts bawling like a baby.
My eye confirms he’s not faking. My heart sinks. We still have a murderer on board the ship, and now we have no idea who it could be.
“What’s going on there, Chief?” I hear Dr. Sawhney calling.
He flies around the corner, summoned by David Wachlin’s miserable wailing, and nearly slams into the wall beside me, managing to stop himself on a handhold. I jerk away only to thump into Jemison. The evidence bag holding the knife slips out of her hand.
My arm collides with hers as we both grab for the loose pointy object tumbling away into Sickbay. She elbows me in the side and grabs the knife.
“What the hell!” she says.
“Sorry,” I say. “Zero-gee. But you see this?”
David didn’t even look up. His body convulses with loud sobs.
“Yeah.” Jemison doesn’t look happy, and I’m sure it’s not because she feels any sympathy.
“What happened?” Sawhney asks, glaring at Jemison.
“Just had to ask him a few questions,” Jemison says.
“Are you done now?”
“We’re done,” Jemison sighs. “He didn’t kill them. Right, Rogers?”
“Right,” I say. “I guess that’s the good news.”
“Unfortunately, I may have some bad news,” Sawhney says.
Jemison frowns. “What?”
“I will report to the briefing room in ten minutes,” Sawhney says. “The captain will want to see as well.”
“Fine.”
I follow Jemison out to the elevator. She doesn’t
have to drag me this time, but I still lag a good fifteen seconds behind. Are these handholds just small, or are my hands really that huge?
Jemison pushes the elevator button once I’m inside, then pulls a small canister off her belt and hands it to me. “You know how to use one of these?”
I turn the object over in my hand. It looks like a flimsy set of brass knuckles, molded from aluminum and with a narrow cylinder as the palm grip. A nozzle protrudes from the knuckle-guard between my index and middle fingers.
“Hand thruster, right?” I say.
Jemison nods. “The thumb switch is semi-automatic. One short burst of compressed nitrogen, whether you hold it down or not; recoil pushes you backward. Don’t point it at anyone. That’s two hundred atmospheres in there. The gas kicks out at fifty meters per second.”
“Right. And why do I need this?”
“For moving around the ship. I’m tired of watching you flounder in zero-gee.”
“I don’t work in outer space that much.”
“Thank God.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dejah Thoris—Deck B, officers’ briefing room
16 stupid hours before we get gravity again
I feel underdressed. Everyone else in the briefing room is wearing sleek jumpsuits with colorful rank insignias and department emblems. Captain Santamaria, Commander Galbraith, and Chief Jemison wear PMC’s standard navy blue and gold; Cruise Director Logan stands out in bright orange and yellow; and Dr. Sawhney broadcasts his profession in white and red. I’m wearing denim jeans and a faded T-shirt.
Jemison updates everyone on the situation. “Dr. Sawhney, Mr. Rogers, and I all examined David Wachlin, and we concur that he’s not lying.”
“How is that possible?” Galbraith asks.
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” Santamaria says.
“I never know what you’re talking about,” Jemison mutters.
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