Waypoint Kangaroo (24 page)

“What did the other guy tell you?” I nod at the screen behind her. “The guy in that security vid.”

Jemison scoffs. “I'm not going to waste time interrogating a cutout. You're the goddamn operator.”

“Wait.” I study her face. “You didn't even talk to him?”

“I want the op-tech,” Jemison says through clenched teeth. She thinks I'm using some kind of agency equipment to do … whatever she thinks I did. “Where is it?”

“Now hold on,” I say. “Both of us were right there when Security showed up. We were both forcibly escorted out of that area. You've got a security breach, fine. Why would you assume I'm to blame? The other guy had just as much opportunity.”

“We didn't catch the other guy doing an unauthorized spacewalk,” Jemison says. “The other guy didn't trick our chief engineer into giving him a centrifuge out of ship's stores.”

My stomach knots up as I realize what I have to do—what I have to tell her to clear my name.

“And the other guy hasn't been acting squirrelly ever since the captain and I learned who he really is,” Jemison continues.

“Whoa,” I say. “Chief. I don't think Danny and Mike are
dog people,
are they?”

I stare hard at Jemison.
These civilians are not cleared for what we need to discuss.

She stares back, then says, “Mike. Danny. Wait outside.”

“I'm not sure that's a good idea, Chief,” Mike says.

“He's tied up. I've got a stunner.” Nobody moves. “Now! That's an order!”

“All right, we're going.” Danny opens the door. Mike pulls himself through, shaking his head. “But if we hear any screaming, we're busting right back in here.”

“You hear screaming, it's going to be him,” Jemison says.

“We don't want
you
killing anybody, either, Chief,” Danny says. “Too much damn paperwork.”

He closes the door, and it's just Jemison, her stunner, and me.

“That was a joke, right?” I ask. “About the screaming and the paperwork?”

“You try using your ‘pocket' and I will crack your skull open,” Jemison says. “Tell me what the hell is going on.”

“Chief, I know it's not what you want to hear, but I honestly do not know—”

I don't even see her hand move. The butt end of the stunner's handgrip hits my cheek, snapping my head to the right. Pain shoots through my jaw.

“Ow!” Did she just fracture a tooth?

“Was it a graph-glove?” Jemison asks. “Mimic film? What did you use?”

Those are both devices used to fool biometric sensors. She thinks I copied someone's fingerprints. Why would I want to do that? “I didn't—”

Jemison smacks me again, with her open palm this time, which brings an entirely different type of stinging pain to the other side of my face. “Who are you working with?”

“Nobody!” I say. “I'm on vacation!”

The third impact knocks my head back to the right. “Why the fuck do you need a centrifuge? And don't give me any of that bullshit you fed Ellie.”

“I'll tell you!” I say. “But can we stop with the hitting and talk like civilized people?”

Jemison is still as a statue except for her right index finger, which moves off the trigger guard of the stunner and onto the trigger. “Talk.”

Cards on the table, Kangaroo.

I take a deep breath and say, “I have nanobots in my blood.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Nanobots,” I say. “They're microscopic machines that—”

“I know what the fuck nanobots are,” she says. “You've got a
swarm
in your
blood
?”

“It's not like that,” I say. “They're tech only. No biologics. Software driven, very limited functionality. I hacked into my stateroom computer to set up encrypted comms so I could talk to my Surgical officer, and I
borrowed
the centrifuge so I could spin down a blood sample and extract some nanobots for Surgical to reprogram.” Jemison's not hitting me, so that's good. “I couldn't tell Ellie because she's not in the loop.”

“And what exactly are you going to do with this classified, experimental, military biotech on my ship?” Jemison asks. Her finger is still on the trigger.

“We're using the nanobots to detect and eliminate precancerous cells.”

Jemison sighs. “I don't know how your Surgical talked you into this, and I don't care how noble your cause is. You're not running unauthorized medical experiments on civilians. How do we stop these crazy robots?”

“This isn't an experiment,” I say. “This is
triage.
To fix the radiation damage from Alan Wachlin's PECC. Surge tested the new program on me first, and now I need to administer the same treatment to you, and Captain Santamaria, and Ellie, and any other crew members who spent more than five minutes in the Wachlins' stateroom after the fire.”

Jemison stares at me, then shakes her head. “No. I'm not an idiot, Rogers. This is an interplanetary spacecraft. We have safety protocols. Everybody who went into 5028 followed procedure to limit their exposure.”

“Only
after
you knew Alan had a PECC implant! How much time did you spend in there before then, checking the crime scene? How long were you and I and the captain in there looking for the murder weapon? How long were you and Ellie in there that first night?” I pause to let that sink in. “Nothing else on the ship can treat this type of radiation damage. I don't do this, and you all die of cancer.”

Jemison's finger slowly moves off the stunner's trigger and back onto the trigger guard.

“I want to check these robots before you deploy them,” she says.

I nod. “I'll tell you how to scan for—”

“No,” Jemison says. “I'm going to draw your blood and run my own damn tests.”

“You can't tell the doctor. You can't tell anyone,” I say. “I told you because I need you to believe that I'm telling the truth. I did not copy anyone's fingerprints!”

Jemison frowns. “How the hell does telling me about your nanobots—”

“Because why the hell would I tell you something that could end my career,” I say, “and
not
admit to picking a damn lock?”

She stares at me for a second, then slides her stunner back into its holster.

“Does this mean we're friends again?” I ask.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Rogers,” she says. “Do you have a lot of practice rolling over and showing your belly, or is it just dumb luck that I got the big show today?”

I glare at her. “Maybe you should visit the casino later.”

“Yeah.” She opens a cabinet. “Right after I test your blood for swarming robots.”

“
Nano
bots.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Dejah Thoris
—Deck D, security office

3½ hours after I opened my big suspicious mouth

Jemison brings Danny and Mike back into the room, but leaves me tied up while she does the blood draw, which means after she's done, I can't apply pressure to the hole she's poked in the crook of my elbow. When Jemison leaves to test my blood, Danny holds a gauze pad against my arm. Mike watches me suspiciously.

“You're probably wondering how a blood test is going to prove my innocence,” I say.

“Not really,” Mike says. “Chief's going to do what she does, and we'll take it from there.”

I study his face, then look at Danny. “You two really trust her that much?”

“She's the chief,” Danny says, as if that explains everything.

“How long have you worked on this ship?”

Danny narrows his eyes. “I think we should all just wait quietly.”

“Come on, guys—”

“There might be some duct tape in one of these storage compartments,” Mike says.

“Okay, okay! I can take a hint.” I turn my head and look straight ahead, at the image still frozen on the main display.

The security camera must be mounted on a wall opposite the Mars display, about three meters up. Jemison froze the image just as I was leaning over to talk to the other guy. I don't remember the conversation very clearly. The vid shows our faces in profile, and I struggle to recall what the other man looks like. I do have some practice recognizing faces, even though my eye can automatically tag and record any suspicious characters in my vicinity. You never know if poor lighting will confuse the face-reco software, or whether you might lose the data link with the office.

This guy, though—I'd be hard pressed to describe his features in any sort of detail. Brown hair, yes, and maybe brown eyes? The face I see in my memory is hazy, as if nothing about him was remarkable or unusual enough for me to notice and remember. How is it possible for a person to look so bland, so—average?

The door opens. Jemison pulls herself inside, her face neutral. That's an improvement.

“Untie him,” she says to Mike and Danny, then continues over to the control console under the vid screen.

“Aye, Chief.” Danny undoes my wrist restraints, and Mike rotates in midair to do the same to the ties around my ankles.

“Just like that?” I ask as I float free of the wall. “You're not even going to ask what she did with my blood?”

Jemison shoots me a look over her shoulder. “We don't have time for this.”

“Chief'll tell us if it's important,” Mike says. “I'm guessing some kind of DNA test to confirm your identity.”

“Nah, those take days to run,” Danny says. “I'm going to say testing for a viral or bacterial infection, to corroborate your alibi or previous whereabouts.”

Jemison turns and glares at all three of us. “Am I the only one here concerned about the security of this vessel and the safety of our passengers?”

“Am I staying here?” I ask. “Or am I staying out of trouble?”

Jemison grumbles and points at the far end of the console. “Foothold.”

I float over and hook my feet into an indentation in the floor, hoping my expression isn't too smug. Mike and Danny push off the wall and join Jemison in front of the screen.

I'll talk to her about distributing the nanobots later. Right now, we've got a possible murder suspect. And I'm part of the team. I'm confident we can wrap this up before dinner, and then I'll really have something to celebrate with Ellie.

“We log all crew accesses through locked doors,” Jemison says, pointing at the screen. “Janice Long, one of the officers on the Promenade that night, started appearing in two places at once later in her shift.”

“Wow,” I say, “it's a good thing somebody suggested investigating the crew, huh?”

She ignores my remark. “This was the first time during that shift when she encountered any passengers. We're going to finish checking this footage, then go on to the next segment.”

Jemison taps a button, and the vid begins playing again. “Rogers. Do you recall your friend doing anything suspicious here?”

“Nothing comes to mind,” I say. “Also, not my friend.”

“It's too bad we don't record audio,” Jemison says, watching me mouth off to the security guards onscreen.

“I can read lips,” Mike says.

“Of course you can,” I say.

“‘I'm … not … drunk?'” Mike says. “And Blevins says, ‘Whatever you say, sir.'”

“You know,” I say, “we can't even see our person of interest from this angle.”

“Just tracking everyone's position,” Jemison says. “It doesn't hurt to be thorough.”

“It might be better to work faster, considering we still have a murderer on the loose.”

Jemison nods. “Do you have the footage from the other camera, Danny?”

“Just scrubbing through now,” Danny says. “Here we go.”

The screen changes to show a view from farther down the thruway, next to the Mars exhibit. Danny touches another control, and the still image goes into motion.

Long breaks away from me and the two other security guards. She pulls my so-called friend back from the globe. He stumbles as she hauls him over the railing, then falls down on top of her. She does a quick roll to get out from under him and drags him up by one arm. He grabs her hand and waist and twirls her as if they're waltzing. It takes Long a few seconds to extricate herself and get behind the man to push him toward the elevators.

“Spin that back,” Jemison says. “Go to where he falls down, freeze, then step forward frame by frame.”

Danny turns a dial, rewinding the vid and then advancing it slowly.

“There.” Jemison stabs a finger at the screen. “Back one frame and zoom in.”

The picture shifts. The security camera's shutter speed is low enough that Long's and the passenger's arms are blurred as they spin around, but the man's hand is clearly visible when she pulls away from him.

“Hold that zoom and advance to the next frame,” Jemison says.

The man's palm streaks across the screen.

“One more,” Jemison says. “Show me that hand.”

His hand flickers to the left and sharpens. Danny taps some controls, and the man's palm expands to fill the screen. There's a faint but distinctive grid pattern covering his skin. It would be invisible to the naked eye, but the security cameras also see infrared and ultraviolet.

“There's something on his palm,” Danny says.

“A tattoo?” Mike says.

“Mimic film,” I say. “He pressed her fingertips against his palm. Copied her prints.” I've done similar lifts before, but never that smoothly. Whoever this guy is, he's a professional.

“Pull up his account,” Jemison says.

“Running facial recognition.” Danny punches some keys, and the display above us changes, shrinking the security vid and adding a grid of more than a dozen unremarkable male faces on the right side of the screen. “That's odd. More hits than usual.”