Waypoint Kangaroo (14 page)

“All we have are cameras in public areas, and door lock sensors,” Santamaria continues. “I'd like you to go with Chief Jemison and scan for heat signatures, but first we'll need to narrow down the range of likely hiding places.”

Jemison walks out of the exam room, grimacing. “I forgot how horrible that medicine tastes. Yuck.” She gets a paper cup and fills it with water from the cooler while the captain asks her about a search plan. I make a mental note to look up the effectiveness of civilian anti-radiation meds.

Jemison gulps down her water and says, “Security's been on alert since last night. He had maybe a two-hour window to find a hiding place. It can't be any of the restaurants or activity areas. Staff would have found him when they opened.”

“Where does a schizophrenic suffering a psychotic episode want to go?” I wonder aloud.

“We don't have any sensors in the service stairwells,” Jemison says. “That's as good a place to start as any. We'll see what we can think of as we go along.”

Santamaria nods. “Proceed, Chief. I'll be on the bridge.”

We leave Sickbay. Santamaria walks to the passenger elevator. Jemison leads me the other way, to the service elevator.

“So, after we don't find anything in the stairwells, where do we look next?” I ask.

Jemison's radio beeps before she can answer. “Security to Chief Jemison,” says a tinny male voice.

Jemison squeezes the radio button on her collar. “Jemison here, go ahead.”

“Chief, this is Blevins. I've got a search detail on deck eight and we've found something.”

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Dejah Thoris
—Deck 8, restricted area

Hopefully not minutes before somebody else gets killed

Jemison and I step out of the crew elevator to find four security guards clustered around a large access door marked LIFEBOAT. We're at the perimeter of the ship, one circular hallway out from the nearest staterooms, next to a vending machine alcove. Two of the security guards have their stunners drawn. Another one is holding a hand scanner. Out of habit, I read their name tags as soon as I get close enough. More information is never a bad thing.

The guard named Blevins walks out to meet Jemison and me as we approach. His face looks awfully familiar, and after a second, I remember. He was one of the guards who interrupted my inebriated stroll that first night—the one I nicknamed Blue-Ear. He doesn't appear to recognize me, fortunately.

“Friend of ours?” he asks Jemison, nodding at me.

“Name's Rogers. He's cool,” Jemison says. Apparently that's enough for Blevins. “What did you find?”

“This section is vacant,” Blevins explains. “We were sweeping it just in case the missing person managed to sneak into a crew area, like your friend here did last night.”

Okay, so he did recognize me. I suspect Danny and Mike have been spreading vicious lies about me through the ranks of ship's security.

“What did you find?” Jemison repeats, not even acknowledging Blevins's attitude.

Blevins stops giving me the eye and straightens up. “That.” He points to the controls next to the lifeboat door. A mess of red streaks covers the not-quite-closed plastic panel.

I know blood when I see it, and so does Jemison—her hand moves to the stunner on her hip. “Someone's inside?”

“Heat signature matches one adult male. He's not moving.”

“Rogers,” Jemison says to me, “is that David Wachlin in the lifeboat?”

“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 running 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