Waypoint Kangaroo (22 page)

The three-minute run lasts for an eternity, and when I hear the centrifuge spinning down, I realize that I was holding my breath.

I open the lid of the centrifuge and pull out both vials. I take the blood—now separated into a thick red layer at the bottom and translucent yellow liquid at the top—into the bathroom. This next part might be tricky.

The nanobots in my blood have short-range wireless radio transceivers. They communicate with my other tech implants to form a mesh network. As long as I keep the nanobots within about half a meter of some part of my body, they'll remain connected. They're programmed to stay close to blood serum proteins, some of which they use as raw materials or fuel. That means they're all floating in the top layer of yellow liquid in this vial.

I work fast, because the blood won't stay separated for long in zero-gravity. First I use another eyedropper to suck up all the blood plasma. Then I squeeze the plasma into an empty vial and close it tightly.

The vial of plasma goes into the zipper pocket on the upper left arm of my souvenir zero-gee jumpsuit, just below the round
Dejah Thoris
logo patch. Everything else that's touched my blood goes into a biohazard bag. I start to unstrap the centrifuge, then decide to try Jessica one more time, just in case I've done something wrong.

Still no answer. I pack up the centrifuge and put it back into the pocket.

Now, where am I going to find some booze that absolutely everybody will want to drink?

*   *   *

There's some kind of a very loud parade going through the Promenade, complete with dancers in colorful outfits and performers in animal costumes with giant heads. Very unsettling. I ride the elevator past that deck, get out near the casino, and look for the nearest bar.

It must be happy hour or something right now, because the first five bars I visit are bustling with literal barflies. Passengers are hanging off every surface, herded by uniformed crew members, and apparently having a great time. I wonder if people get intoxicated more quickly in zero-gravity for some reason.

The sixth bar, a lonely outpost near the Barsoom Buffet—currently closed until dinner service opens, I mean what is even the point of having this here?—has attracted only a few patrons. I approach the bartender, who has his back turned.

“Excuse me. What's the most expensive bottle you've got?” I ask.

He turns around. It's Ward again. I cannot believe my luck.

“That is an excellent question,” he says, smiling like I imagine Satan would. “Are you looking for liquor or wine, sir?”

I attach my feet to the stick-strip under the bar and extend a hand. “Call me Evan.”

He shakes my hand. “Ward.”

“Yeah, I know.” I have to admit, he was right about me seeing a lot of him this week. “How many jobs do you actually have on this ship?”

Ward shrugs. “I'm paying off some student loans.”

“Right,” I say. “Anyway, I'm thinking wine. Something to enjoy with dinner tonight.”

“I see.” Ward turns to his bartop computer and taps at the screen. “Tonight, the dining room is offering a variety of pasta entrées—”

“Actually, we're eating at that Silk place tonight.”

“Fête Silk Road?” Ward purses his lips. “I see.”

“Table for two. Seven-thirty. You can make that happen, right, Ward?”

He smiles. “I'm sure I can work something out, Mr. President.”

It's nice to know we're on the same wavelength. “Good. Now about the wine. I want the most expensive bottle you've got on board. Price is no object.”

Ward taps his screen a little faster. “Our best wines would exceed the daily charge limit on your account. You'd have to make a separate purchase. Cash or credit.”

I hold up my platinum credit card. It's the one that Paul issued from his personal accounts, the one that won't be declined by any merchant in the Solar System, the one I'm only supposed to use for emergencies. I've already decided to worry about my debriefing later. Much later. Or maybe I'll just run away from home. I'm honestly not sure which choice will be less excruciating.

Ward raises an eyebrow, then nods. “Just so you know, this is going to run into the low five figures.”

“That's not a problem.” I lean forward. “Here's the situation, Ward. I really want to impress a lady friend, and nothing but the absolute finest will do. I want the most interesting thing you've got. Something that is so rare, so unique, that it's guaranteed to impress anybody. Something that even a teetotaler can't resist taking a sip of, just for curiosity's sake.”

“What's a ‘teetotaler'?” he asks.

I frown. “Really?”

“Nah. I'm just pulling your leg. You want the Red Wine.”

I can't tell if he's still joking. “What kind of red wine?”

“No.
The
Red Wine,” he says. “From Meridiani Planum.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Dejah Thoris
—Deck 3, Barsoom Buffet

6 hours before my outrageously fancy dinner with Ellie

Ward has to call his supervisor, one of the ship's sommeliers, for approval to sell me the bottle. Even after seeing my platinum card, the sommelier seems hesitant. He arches an eyebrow as I repeat my weaksauce cover story. I really should have come up with something better.

“I thought it would be a nice treat for dinner tonight,” I say. “You know, fine wine, zero-gravity, doesn't that sound like a magical experience?”

“Certainly,” the sommelier says drily.

“And the fact that this is wine from prewar Mars, well, that's just icing on the cake. So to speak. Sorry, I'm bad with metaphors.” I appear to be bad at many things. “You know what I mean.”

“I understand, sir,” the sommelier says. “If I may, just to clarify: you wish to purchase our single bottle of Meridiani Planum Cabernet Mitos?”

“Yes.”

“And you understand
this
is the price of that bottle?” He raises his display tablet.

“I do.” Why do I feel like he's about to make me sign a contract in blood?

“And you wish to purchase just this one bottle.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Of course not, sir,” the sommelier says. “Perhaps you and your companion would like to enjoy the wine with a meal. I can arrange for you a table in the observation dome. Tonight we offer a special
prix fixe
menu—”

“We've already made dinner arrangements,” I say, giving Ward a glance. He gives me a discreet nod.
Good man.
“At Fête Silk Road.”

The sommelier only pauses for a second. “Very good, sir. But if I may, their cuisine may not be best suited to this particular vintage. I could recommend a cheese pairing. Or some seafood. We have a special today on raw oysters—”

“Just the wine, thanks.”
Would you please shut up and take my money?

The sommelier stares at me for a moment, then nods. “Very good, sir. If you'll just wait here, I need to verify your credit with the issuing bank. It will take a few minutes, due to lightspeed transmission delays. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“No worries,” I say. “You can't change the laws of physics, right?”

“That is not my job, sir.”

“You know, that wine's aging inside the bottle as we speak.”

He turns and disappears through a service door. Ward and I look at each other.

“Is he always like that?” I ask.

“Only on days ending in -AY,” Ward says. “Make you a drink? On the house.”

“Sure.” I look over his shoulder at the backlit wall of liquor bottles. “Surprise me.”

Ward starts assembling a cocktail. “Anyway, don't take it personally. Abdi's just doing his job.”

“I thought his job was to sell wine.”

“It is,” Ward says, squirting clear liquid from a squeeze bottle into a transparent shaker. “But he's selling to
everyone.
The drinks are as much for show as they are for personal enjoyment.”

He adds another clear liquid to the shaker. In zero-gravity, the air bubbles stay suspended, making the mixture look like a gelatinous ooze. Ward rattles the shaker, and the gel swirls around. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“And no offense, Evan,” Ward says, “but you don't seem like the kind of guy who regularly drops five figures on liquid refreshments.” I wonder how he's going to get that liquid out of the shaker. “There's been some crew chatter about you. Federal employees aren't exactly known for their deep pockets.”

“I've actually been saving up for a long time. You only live twice, right?”

Ward frowns at me. “I think the saying is ‘You only live
once.
'”

“No, I'm pretty sure it's twice. One for sorrow, two for joy?” Or am I thinking of something else? I've never been good with poetry.

“Well, in any case. I hope you're enjoying the cruise.”

“Best vacation of my life.” It's not a lie.

Ward stops agitating the shaker and holds it up between us, one hand at each end. He twirls it on its long axis. The liquid inside becomes a cylindrical vortex. Ward plucks off the shaker lid, and the liquid spirals out of the container. He puts down the lid and picks up half of a drink bulb, placing it opposite the open end of the shaker to catch the liquid as it crawls sideways. With his other hand, he pulls away the shaker and picks up the other half of the drink bulb. He lines up both halves of the bulb with the ends of the floating liquid, then brings them together, sealing the cocktail inside the transparent sphere.

“Nice trick,” I say as he pokes an olive and then a straw through a valve in the bulb.

“It's all for show,” Ward says, handing me the drink. “The company wants you to see other passengers enjoying the various amenities aboard and then wanting those things for yourself. If you order a fancy drink, we make sure everyone around you knows about it. Cheers.”

“I get it. That's why Sour Grapes wanted me to take the wine up to the observation dome.” So I could advertise the existence of ridiculously expensive fermented grape juice, and hopefully entice others to shell out for their own bottles. I sip my mystery beverage. “What am I drinking here?”

“Vodka martini.”

I've never had one before. “It's good. Thank you.”

Ward nods. “It's about advertising luxury. Do you know the history of the Red Wine?”

Probably better than you do.
“Yeah. One of the first viable vineyards on Mars.”

“
The
first,” Ward corrects me. “The Yarrow family built their habitat dome in Airy Crater specifically to grow wine grapes. The soil was already rich in iron oxides and volcanic basalt, but the vines also needed the right atmosphere and bacteria to thrive. It took them years to get the environment just right, but when they finally produced, it wasn't just drinkable. It was revolutionary. The Yarrows pioneered techniques that influenced not only vintners back on Earth, but also farmers and gardeners everywhere.”

“Don't tell me,” I say. “You have a degree in botany.”

“Molecular biology, actually,” Ward says. “I minored in botany.”

If that was a joke, it's terrible. “And you're working odd jobs on a cruise ship because…?”

“I told you. Student loans.”

Oh no you don't. “Green Sky has been hiring botanists like crazy for the last decade. You could pay off an Ivy League education after two years with any of their asteroid belt subsidiaries. And you wouldn't have to sell things to drunk people.”

Ward shrugs, not looking at me. “I like selling things.”

That's when it hits me. “It's Mars. You wanted to go to Mars. That's it, isn't it? And working a cruise liner is the easiest way to get there, if you have more time than money.”

He picks up another drink bulb and wipes it with a rag. “I wouldn't call it
easy.
But it's at least possible to get through customs to the surface with the cruise line vouching for us.”

I realize I don't know Ward's full name. “Your last name wouldn't happen to be Yarrow, would it?”

“No,” he says, splitting the empty drink bulb open. “My cousin's was.”

“Your cousin.”

“Matthew Yarrow.”

Well, this just became really awkward. “I'm very sorry for your loss.”

“What happened during the war was horrible,” Ward says. “The loss of life alone would have been bad enough, but to also lose all those cultivars, and all that research—that was the real tragedy.”

If he tells himself that enough times, he might even start to believe it.

My martini is very strong and very dry.

I know who the Yarrows were. I know because I researched them during the war. The agency assigned me to write up threat analyses and tactical assessments for Arabia Terra and bordering settlements. Paul kept me on Earth as long as he could, but he needed me to be useful. And I've always been a good spotter.

Probably less than twenty people ever saw the raw footage from the final battle in Airy Crater. I'm one of those people. I was assigned to review the vid from Earth troops' helmet cameras and summarize it for the agency's report to the Joint Chiefs. I wanted to erase the worst of those recordings, so nobody would ever have to see or hear any of it again.

Meridiani Planum is where the NASA rover
Opportunity
landed in the early twenty-first century to collect rock and soil samples. The Yarrows staked a claim there during the second wave of Martian settlement, when living in a dome was no longer life-threatening on a daily basis. The new colonial government wanted businesses to exploit the unique opportunities available on Mars. They wanted to show that Mars could be a better home than Earth.

Some people say they succeeded too well. Some people say that's what started the war. Some people are idiots.