Waypoint Kangaroo (17 page)

“Do you spend a lot of time here?” I ask. I might know even less about plants than I do about children.

She gives me an exasperated expression. “Come on, Evan. I expected something better than ‘do you come here often.'”

I smile like an idiot because she's smiling and I don't know what else to do. “Maybe you could share some of these expectations with me, so I can make sure to live up to them.”
Please help me, I'm dying here.

“Attention arboretum visitors!” Cruise Director Logan says. I just about jump out of my skin before I realize his voice is coming from a loudspeaker hidden in the floor. “Please stand clear of the flashing yellow lights…”

“Something you forgot to tell me?” I ask Ellie as the announcement continues.

“I wouldn't say ‘forgot,'” she replies, smiling.

Streaks of yellow flash along the edges of the walking path. A second later, the deck below us shudders and starts moving. I don't realize I'm clutching Ellie's shoulder until she pries my fingers away and elbows me in the side.

“Surprised?”

“One of us probably thinks this is hilarious.”

She chuckles. “It gets better.”

“Is ‘better' the right word?”

“Come on, landlubber.” She tugs me forward down the path.

My inner ear finally decodes what I'm feeling: the entire, disk-shaped deck surface is rotating around the central elevator shaft. Ellie leads us in the direction of the rotation, toward one of the walls that divide the arboretum into wedge-shaped regions. The translucent panel—looking for all the world like a less glowy version of the pocket's air barrier—pops open a circular opening as we approach, puffing forth warm, dry air.

We step through into another world: a desert oasis, surrounded by sand dunes as far as the eye can see, all the way to a flat horizon below a clear blue sky. The air is definitely drier here, and even the sunlight feels warmer on my back. Or is that just my imagination?

Hey, funny story about the last time I was in a desert …

The divider closes behind us. A moment later, the deck rotation stops. I'm still racking my brain for a new, nonclassified conversation topic when Ellie guides me to a tall palm tree.

“Here we go.” She points at our shadows on the sand. “Watch.”

It actually looks like a sunset, albeit in fast-forward. Our shadows lengthen in front of us and stretch up to the nearest sand dune in less than a minute. But turning the ship just to change its angle toward the Sun for this effect would push
Dejah Thoris
off course. What's the trick?

“Okay, that must be a vid wall out there,” I say, “but how—”

“You tell me,” Ellie says. “And no peeking behind you. That's cheating.”

“I didn't realize there was going to be a quiz.”

“Did I mention there's a time limit, too?”

I know she's joking. But I'm also relieved, because this is a task I know how to perform. I know how to beat a test. I know how to backsolve a system to figure out the fastest way to defeat it without setting off an alarm.

I can do this without pretending to be somebody else.

“All right,” I say. “That's actual sunlight behind us. It's coming in from the far side of this deck, and through the divider behind us. The ship itself isn't turning, so there must be something else redirecting the light. Something
inside
the ship. Mirrors?”

Ellie makes a loud buzzing noise. “Nope. Try again.”

I frown at our shadows, which continue to expand across the ground. “Right. The deck rotates, so each section faces the Sun at some point—simulating day and night. Clever. Something just needs to
block
the light. Am I on the right track?”

She responds with a noncommittal humming noise and a shrug.

This isn't an
actual
test, is it? That would be way too weird. Even for an engineer. I imagine Ellie bringing all her potential suitors up here, shoving them into the desert and shouting math questions at them to separate the worthy from—

“The dividers,” I say. “The panel that irised open to let us in here. It's some kind of programmable material. It was translucent before. It can be fully opaqued in specific, timed patterns to mimic environmental effects—like sunsets.” I give Ellie a sideways glance. “Can I turn around now?”

She grins. “Absolutely.”

I turn and see that I was right. Most of the divider panel has darkened to blackness, shutting out all but a single stripe of sunlight, and that stripe is moving downward. It's an illusion, but then, so is this whole ship.
Dejah Thoris
was designed to evoke the romance of a luxurious past that never existed.

Everything around me is a lie. I should feel right at home.

“Nice deduction, Sherlock,” Ellie says.

“Thanks,” I say. “And the walls and ceiling here are vid screens too?”

“Transductile display crystal,” Ellie says. “The latest in materials science. Filters cosmic radiation, projects holographic images, resists fatigue. Every window on
Dejah Thoris
is a TDC panel. They do require constant power, but we don't have to worry about passive radhaz.”

The desert section is completely dark now. Slowly pulsing red lines trace the edges of the walking path. As my eyesight adjusts, I notice something about the night sky.

I point at the horizon. “Those are real stars in front of us, aren't they?”

“Yeah,” Ellie says, sounding surprised. “The sunset program depolarizes the hologram, and then you can see through the crystal into outer space. How did you—”

“The stars above us are twinkling,” I say, “because that image was recorded on Earth. But the ones straight ahead aren't. No atmosphere.”

“Good eye.” I feel her take a breath, her side pressed against my arm. This tuxedo wasn't designed for a desert environment, and I'm sweating like crazy. My shirt is plastered to my torso. I hope Ellie can't smell it.

“So tell me.” She nudges me forward down the path. “How did Evan Rogers come to work for the State Department?”

I got my best friend killed and almost started a war. You know, the usual.

I have to lie to her. I have to lie about this.

“I wanted to know why coffee was so expensive,” I say.

This speech, I've rehearsed. I've recited this legend so many times I'm starting to improvise embellishments just to keep it interesting for myself. Sometimes I find strange coins inside a bag of whole beans; sometimes it's a hand-carved wooden toy. But I never touch the core story, which was carefully crafted by a team of agency specialists to be unverifiable. And the more I use their words, the more I can believe that it's not really me lying to Ellie.

“Wow,” she says when I'm finished. “That may be the nerdiest reason I've ever heard for wanting to travel abroad.”

“You think that's nerdy? I know this woman who goes to the arboretum to watch a hologram show.”

That gets me a playful punch on the arm. That's good, right? I'm sure that's good. Should I punch her back? No, probably not.

We walk through the next divider, into a cooler and more humid section of the arboretum. This portion has also converted to nighttime, so I can't see the foliage very clearly, but it looks like ferns.

“So why are you
really
going to Mars, Evan?” she asks.

“I'm on vacation.” It's not a lie.

Ellie shakes her head. “You're not on vacation. Or you're the worst tourist ever.”

“I'm a pretty bad tourist.”

She stops walking and fixes me with a stare. Did I say something offensive? Does she have strong feelings about tourists?

“Okay, Evan,” she says. “Seriously. If you don't start putting the moves on me soon, I'm going to have to seduce you.”

I wasn't expecting anything that direct, so it takes a moment for me to comprehend her meaning, and a longer, sweatier moment for me to figure out a response.

“I'm going to kiss you now,” I say.

“Good.”

My eyes close before our lips make contact. It's been a long time since I kissed anyone, and even longer since I kissed anyone without an ulterior motive. Maybe never.

At first I'm just glad I can find the target. Then a strange sensation sizzles through my entire body, and I'm falling, floating, flying.

I can't breathe, and I don't want to. I want to stay here forever.

After the longest and shortest four seconds of my life, Ellie pulls away. “Now that wasn't so bad, was it?”

“I can't complain,” I say, inhaling deeply. I smell something that reminds me of ice cream. “Are there vanilla plants in here? Or is it your fragrance?”

She wrinkles her nose, and it's so adorable I could die. “I don't do perfume. You've been using that fancy shampoo in your bathroom.”

I shake my head. “I didn't smell it before now.”

She smiles. “I guess you weren't sweating much before now. It reacts to perspiration.”

I should really pay more attention to product labels. “Or maybe it's just humid in here.”

“If you don't believe me,” she says, leaning forward again, “we can go back to your room and I'll show you.”

I may be stupid, but I'm not that stupid. I take her hand and practically run back to the elevator.

It's only after we're in my stateroom and half-naked on the bed that I think about contraception. Ellie shows me there's a stockpile of condoms in my mini-bar. I guess this particular late-night situation isn't too uncommon on cruise ships.

Ellie knows what she wants. Fortunately, I want pretty much the same thing.

She's amazing. I hope I'm adequate.

We both fall asleep afterward. The beeping of her wristband wakes me. I sit up in bed and see her closing up her uniform jacket in front of the mirror. She silences the alarm, then notices me and turns back to lean over the bed.

“Duty calls,” she says, and kisses me. “I'll see you later?”

I don't see why she thinks that should be a question. “You won't be able to keep me away, Chief.”

Her smile lights up the whole room. “We're civilians. Call me Ellie.”

“Ellie,” I say.

“Evan.”

That's not my name.

Another kiss, and then she's gone.

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Dejah Thoris
—Deck 6, stateroom 6573

33 minutes after Ellie left

Here's a terrible thing: I always have nightmares after I have sex. Always. It doesn't matter if I stay awake for days afterward; the next time I sleep long enough to dream, I'll have a bad night. The first few times I chalked it up to anxiety, because those were not good experiences, but after that—after Paul put me to work—I couldn't ignore the pattern.

It's never about the person I just slept with, and it's never explicitly sexual. Some kind of baked good usually makes an appearance. I try not to analyze it too deeply. And I certainly don't tell Surgical about it.

This time, the horrific nightmare that wakes me involves being trapped inside a microwave oven and being cooked to death while a group of robots watches. It also reminds me that I was going to research the effectiveness of civilian anti-radiation meds.

After an unproductive half-hour of omnipedia lookups, I realize that I have no idea what I'm searching for, and I wouldn't know how to interpret the results anyway. I know who I need to ask about this. I need to ask for Chief Jemison's sake, for Captain Santamaria's sake, for anyone else who's set foot in stateroom 5028 since the fire.

I need to ask for Ellie.

The comms dish on the hull outside will let me interface with the agency's internal phone system, but I'm a little apprehensive about calling Jessica. Then again, she's several hundred thousand kilometers away. What's the worst she can do? Yell at me? Must be Tuesday.

I sit down at the work desk in my room and wave my hand to bring the computer out of standby. The twenty-four-hour clock reads 0058 hours. Until we reach Mars,
Dejah Thoris
operates on the time zone of our departure port, so it's the same time here as back in D.C.

I'm not sure what is actually involved in an internal agency audit. Whoever is investigating our department doesn't have to physically visit our office. Someone who can call heat down on D.Ops surely has a high enough security clearance to remotely access any data he wants. If I can do it from interplanetary space, they can do it from within the same city.

The only reason I can imagine for auditors to visit in person is to conduct interviews. Interrogations. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Paul, Jessica, and Oliver are being threatened right now, and I'm not there to help them. Why would Paul send me away? Why wouldn't he want me there?

I know the answer. Paul doesn't want me there because I'm the weakest link in the chain. I am his ace in the hole, the secret weapon that gives him leverage over more powerful people. But I'm also the least experienced and most likely to go off-script. He doesn't want me audited because he doesn't think I can protect myself, much less any of them.

Well, I'm all alone on this cruise ship—no support, no prep—and I've already helped apprehend a murder suspect. I can handle flying solo. This is my chance to demonstrate that I'm not dependent on Lasher and Surge and EQ.

Right after I make one phone call.

It takes me a few minutes to figure out how to securely connect my shoulder-phone to the desktop computer. There's no disputing the miraculous efficiency and total-concealment advantage of having a complete display built into your body, but my eyes get tired after too long focusing on things that aren't there. And if this isn't a very short conversation, it's going to be a very long one.