Waypoint Kangaroo (34 page)

“Stand down, Mr. Fisher.”

“What exactly do you expect to learn from reading this crap?” Fritz smacks the tablet. “We're wasting time here. We need to figure out how to stop the ship.”

Santamaria lowers the tablet and glares at Fritz. “Mr. Fisher, my offer to relieve you of duty still stands. Any time you feel you need to return to your quarters—”

“No,” Fritz says. “I told you, I'm here until this is done.”

“If you choose to remain on duty,” Santamaria says, “I expect you to conduct yourself like a professional.”

“I am giving you my best analysis, Captain,” Fritz replies in a tight voice.

“No, you're not,” Santamaria says. “You're angry. That's what they want. They want anger to cloud our judgment. This is not some random misfortune we're fighting. This is evil. And evil is predictable.” He holds up the tablet. “We discover what they were planning, and we can stop them. We can make sure no one else dies today. Understood?”

Fritz inhales sharply. “Yes, sir.”

Santamaria turns to me and nods. “Carry on, Mr. Rogers.”

I force myself to continue reading. I remind myself how I got through my most gruesome analyst duties during the war, when I was processing raw troop helmet feeds from Mars. Don't empathize. Don't look at the individuals. Look at the big picture. Think strategically. Even if you hate yourself in the morning, you've got to get the job done.

I feel sick and furious and helpless, but I scroll through messages until I get to the end, when Santamaria knocked Bartelt unconscious. His last message to Wachlin was a string of numbers. Another code. I don't recognize the format. Neither does Santamaria.

“He could have told Wachlin he'd been captured.” I stare at the glowing numbers, searching for a pattern, seeing nothing.

“That's unlikely,” Santamaria says. “An abort signal would be short and simple. This is a large amount of data.”

“Sixty-four digits,” Fritz offers. “Could be a passphrase, or an encryption key.”

“He already has access to everything in Main Eng,” Santamaria says. “If it is a key, it unlocks something Wachlin brought with him.”

“Bartelt was giving Wachlin specific instructions at each step,” I say. “Wachlin could have been carrying a data payload—an encrypted file stored on his phone or some other personal device. It wouldn't be useful until it was decrypted with the key, but it also wouldn't be suspicious if he was searched.”

“Fuck me,” Fritz says. “It could be software.”

I gape at him. “He can reprogram the ship?”

“Not entirely,” Fritz says. “Critical infrastructure like the main reactor and life support are locked down. But he could interfere with other systems.”

“Like what?”

“Public display walls. The touchscreen maps in the stairwells. Telephones. The PA system.”

“The lockpad on his stateroom door?” I ask.

“Maybe.”

“None of those things is life-threatening or crippling to operations,” Santamaria says. “What can he do to make our situation worse than it already is?”

Fritz frowns. “I don't know.”

Santamaria looks at me. “I guess you'd better ask him, then.”

Fritz does a double-take. “Wait.
He's
going to pretend to be this guy”—he points at Bartelt—“and talk to the hijacker through their comms?”

“Now would be the time to suggest a better idea,” I say, reviewing Bartelt's outgoing messages for repeated words or phrases.

“All their messages are text only,” Santamaria says. “Rogers just needs to mimic his writing style.”

“And he has some kind of special State Department training for this?” Fritz asks.

“Mr. Rogers is more than qualified to perform this task,” Santamaria says. I'm not sure that's true, but I appreciate the vote of confidence.

“The messages will be buffered,” I say, bringing up the messaging interface. “You two will be able to see what I'm typing on that tablet before I send it to Wachlin. Feel free to, you know, brainstorm.”

“This is insane,” Fritz says.

“We're ready when you are, Rogers,” Santamaria says.

I place a timer in the corner of my left eye HUD to remind myself not to take too long crafting each response. Then I take a breath, exhale, and type:
Give me a status update.
I hit the send button.

It feels like forever before the reply appears:
About time you got back. Where hell you been?

Was detained by crew
, I type.
What is your status?

Why detained?
Wachlin asks after a few seconds.

Misunderstanding. Not important.
I wait for Fritz or Santamaria to object, but they say nothing.
Status update. Now.

Nearly fifteen seconds pass before Wachlin's next message:
Where are you

“He's checking the cameras,” Fritz says. “He wants visual confirmation that Bartelt's free.”

“Well, that's going to be a problem,” I say, looking at the unconscious man next to me.

“Tell him you're still hiding,” Santamaria says. “You don't want anyone to see you sending these messages.”

“Right.”
Staying out of sight in restroom. No cameras. Give me a status update.

This time, the delay's almost half a minute.
Tell me about the rabbits george.

“What the fuck?” Fritz says.

“Must be a challenge phrase,” I say. My pulse is racing. “I don't recognize it.”

“I do,” Santamaria says. “Type this phrase exactly.” He spells it out for me.

They'll be a little patch of alfalfa, Lennie
, I type and send. “Does this mean something to you, Captain?”

“It was his favorite book,” Santamaria says. His tone of voice indicates he doesn't want to elaborate.

Wachlin's reply comes back.
Is david still alive?

“His brother?” Fritz says. “He's going to kill everyone on this ship, but he's worried about his brother?”

“I'm going to lie to him,” I say.

“Agreed,” Santamaria says.

No.
My finger pauses above the send button. I'm certain Bartelt would express no sympathy, but would he rub it in just to be mean?

No. He'd want to keep Wachlin focused on the mission. I hit send.

I watch almost twenty seconds tick past before Wachlin responds:
Its better this way. You understand right? Why I had to do it?

“Really?” I say out loud. “We really need to do this now?”

“Stay on topic,” Santamaria says. “Bartelt is single-minded.”

“Right.” I send:
Yes. Let's move on. Tell me your status.

Wachlin doesn't buy it.
Tell me you understand.

“What the hell does this guy want?” I say.

“He knows he's holding all the cards right now,” Fritz says. “You saw how Bartelt was abusing him in those earlier messages. Now he's got control of the ship, he wants Bartelt to apologize to him. Just say you're sorry.”

“No,” Santamaria says as I start to type. “Bartelt wouldn't apologize.”

“Yeah, that's not his style,” I agree. “Wachlin knows that. So what does he want Bartelt to say?”

“Tell him he did the right thing,” Santamaria says. “Wachlin wants acknowledgment. Give him that.”

I nod and type:
Yes. You did the right thing.

Wachlin replies:
I want you to say it

“They must have talked in person at some point,” Santamaria says.

“And we have no idea what they said to each other,” Fritz says.

“We can figure this out.”
We have to figure this out.
I stare at Bartelt's unconscious face. “Why
did
Wachlin kill his mother?”

“Um, because he's a psychopath?” Fritz offers.

“Even psychopaths have reasons,” Santamaria says. “Best guess, Mr. Rogers.”

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and concentrate. Alan Wachlin didn't
need
to kill his mother and frame his brother. What would have happened if he hadn't? If he and Bartelt had faked Alan's death only, using the cloned corpse and the spare PECC, then Emily and David would have thought—

“Got it,” I say.

You spared your family
, I type.
They didn't need to see any of this.

“Sound good?” I ask Santamaria and Fritz. They nod. I hit send.

A few seconds later, Wachlin replies:
Yes. They wouldnt have understood our mission.
I hear Fritz exhale loudly.

“Speaking of the mission,” I mutter.
What is your current status?

Engineering compartment secure
, Wachlin says.
Software uploaded.

“Dammit. We need to know which system he's tampering with,” Fritz says.

“Right.”
Did you test the new program?

How do I test it? Is there a different command?

“A little help here?” I say.

“I'm thinking!” Fritz paces in a tight circle. “Ask him what the output was from the reprogramming operation. What did it show on his screen when it finished running? Result code! Ask him for the result code.”

“Got it.” I type in the message as fast as I can, keenly aware of seconds passing, and hit send. “That'll tell us which system it was?”

“No,” Fritz says. “We're just buying some time. We need to ask him something else. Let me think for a second.”

“Think faster, please,” I say.

The screen lights up again:
Result code was 0. That means it worked right? Thats what you told me

“Okay, what are we doing here, Fritz?” He's holding his head with both hands.

“The test suite would depend on the system,” Fritz mumbles.

“Is there something that would work on all systems?” I ask.

“Maybe. Yes! Tell him to run a memory diagnostic.” Fritz spells out the command code for me. “Then tell him to transcribe its output precisely, word for word. That will tell us which system he's looking at.”

I type the message and send it. Wachlin writes back:
Computer says 30 seconds to complete diagnostic

“What if this doesn't work?” I ask Fritz.

He frowns. “It's just a diagnostic. If it doesn't work, it means his software bricked the system.”

“No,” I say slowly, “I mean, what if this doesn't tell us what we need to know? What do we ask him next?”

Fritz considers this. “Maybe ask him which console he's looking at.”

“Good,” Santamaria says. “If we know where he is in the compartment, we can plan our breach better.”

“I thought we couldn't cut through that bulkhead,” I say.

“There are other ways into Main Eng,” Santamaria says.

Fritz shakes his head. “You know if we even attempt a breach, he's going to…” He doesn't finish the sentence.

“I can ask if she's still alive,” I say.

There's a long pause before Santamaria says, “First you have to ask Wachlin if he took a hostage. Bartelt wouldn't know.”

I steady my fingers before typing.
Did you take a hostage?

Yes. Shes alive. For now
, Wachlin replies.

A surge of emotion churns my stomach. I remind myself to stay in character.
Is she cooperating?

She will …

Fritz bangs a fist against the wall. “For the record, Captain? I fucking hate this guy.”

That makes two of us, buddy.

“So noted,” Santamaria says.

I'm just about to ask what we should do next when my display lights up, as if I'm typing another message. But I'm not doing it. The screen fills with a single word:

AVUNCULAR AVUNCULAR AVUNCULAR

“What is that? Why are you sending that?” Fritz says.

“It's not me!” I reply. “I don't know what—”

I snap my head up and look at Bartelt. He's awake. He's blinking his eyes and moving his fingers. I yell this information to Santamaria and Fritz.

My tablet goes dark. Something flashes across the display for an instant, some kind of error message. I feel a warmth in my chest, kind of like heartburn, but not.

Before I can pull the data cable out of my shoulder, the portacomp connecting me to Bartelt sparks, and an unprecedented pain explodes through my torso. Through my suddenly hazy vision, I see Bartelt's chest belching smoke.

The next moments are a bit of a blur. The door slams open. I smell melting plastic and burning flesh. A high-pitched electronic whine joins a din of shouting voices. Someone yanks the cable out of my shoulder and slaps something cool over the skin there. I welcome the familiar numbing sensation of an anti-burn gel pack.

After I wipe the tears from my eyes, I see a charcoal-colored mess where Jerry Bartelt's heart and lungs used to be. His face is slack and lifeless. I might have allowed myself to be happy about that, if he hadn't found one last way to fuck us over before he died.

*   *   *

“You two actually thought that ridiculous plan would work?” Jemison asks.

She and I are back in the corridor outside the captain's quarters, waiting while he changes into a clean uniform. Dr. Sawhney has patched me up, though my shoulder's going to hurt like hell for the next few weeks.

“It did work. For a few minutes,” I say. “We almost got what we needed.”

“But you didn't,” she says. “And now Bartelt is dead, and we have no way to communicate with Earth.”

She doesn't say it accusingly—she's just stating the facts, coldly and efficiently—but I still bristle. “We have more information than we did before. We know Ellie's alive.”