Waypoint Kangaroo (6 page)

The pocket universe is hard vacuum. Without the barrier in place, the air in our universe will rush through the opening, and won't stop until I close the portal. The first time I ever opened the pocket, I accidentally sucked a bag of peanuts into the void and almost spaced the squirrel I was feeding. Kind of freaked out my best friend, too. He wouldn't talk to me for a week, until I realized the pocket was a perfect tool for shoplifting ice cream. Then we had to figure out how to get the frozen treats back out.

I was able to rotate the pocket before I first manifested the barrier. Priorities, you know. The barrier didn't help us retrieve our ice cream. But rotating the pocket 180 degrees around whatever item fell in will make the same item fall back out. Later on, I realized that being able to
put
things in the pocket, instead of just using the vacuum to suck them in, was much more versatile.

It took months of practice to figure out how to make the barrier semipermeable: thin enough to move items through, but not so thin that too much atmosphere leaks into the pocket. I need to concentrate harder than usual to get the field strength just right.

My mouth feels dry, and I struggle to pull my notebook through the barrier. Really shouldn't have downed that beer so quickly. Alcohol plus pocket use equals prizewinning pocket hangover later.

The screen casts barely enough light for me to make out the carrier code for the agency comsat relay. I mouth the numbers to myself silently, repeating them until I'm sure I can remember them for a few minutes, then put the notebook back in the pocket.

Revealing agency access codes would be bad, so I continue hiding under the jacket as I route my call through a military communications satellite. The last mile from the comsat to the Beanstalk will still be transmitted in the clear, but it's a short enough distance that the risk is minimal.

The screen flickers, and Paul's face appears. He's not in his office. The view behind him looks like Oliver's workshop.

“Kangaroo to Lasher,” I say, using our respective code names. I don't want him to think this is a personal call.

Paul interjects before I can continue. “You're not walking the dog.”

He means I'm transmitting in the clear. Reminding me that our conversation may not be private. It's a fair point, but I'm not planning to discuss any state secrets.

“Fido's taking a nap,” I say. “But another mutt is following me.”

Paul leans forward. “Did you take him to the vet?”

“Just got him X-rayed.” I describe Donald's physical appearance and implants. “The data pod's new; surgery scars are recent. Commercial unit, available to civilians, but it's been modded with a military-grade hard crypto unit. I verified the—why are you looking at me like that?”

Paul's frown has shifted from concern to consternation. “Did you learn his name?”

“Donald,” I say. “Wait, do you know this guy?”

“I do.”

“Then you can find out who else is on his team.” I'm getting excited now. “These auditors are playing dirty pool. They're probably setting up ‘off-site meetings' for you and Surge and EQ too. But if you can identify the actors—”

“Stand down, Kangaroo,” Paul says, his face once again a stoic mask. “We're not being targeted.
I
sent Donald to talk to you.”

My excitement vanishes. “What?”

“I apologize for the subterfuge,” he says. “Our friends at the office wanted a current psychological profile. You've never enjoyed those evaluations.”

“So you decided to
trick
me into getting psychoanalyzed?”

“I was hoping you wouldn't notice.”

Now I'm insulted. “And you couldn't find anyone better than Donald, the second-rate con man? Or do you just think I'm a moron?”

“We should talk about this later. After your vacation.”

I feel anger heating my face, but the professional part of me knows raising my voice would attract unwanted attention. And I look silly enough already, hiding under my jacket to make a vid call.

“You really want me to sit on this for four more weeks?” I say. “Maybe I'll go back to the bar and get really drunk and start telling all sorts of people about my horrible boss.”

His face doesn't change. Of course not. Paul's been playing this game a lot longer than I have. He's not going to lose his cool just because I am.

“I shouldn't have rushed this. I apologize. We'll have you sit down for a normal evaluation when you get back. Donald will not follow you onto the cruise ship. Nobody else will bother you on your way to Mars.”

It's hard to be angry at someone when he's already addressed all your concerns with reasonable solutions. I try to summon some sort of indignation, but can only come up with a general platitude.

“People lie to me all the time,” I say. “I don't want you to be one of them.”

“I made a mistake. I hope you can forgive me.”

And there it is. I should feel better about the tables being turned like this: it's Paul who screwed up, not me. But I just feel deflated. He's not supposed to screw up. He's supposed to protect me. He's supposed to protect all of us.

The silence is more than awkward; it's oppressive. I give up and change the subject.

“How's everything at the office?” I ask.

“Fabulous,” Paul says, his lip curling. “You'll notice I'm hiding in Equipment's workshop.”

“I thought you'd just redecorated.”

Paul's eyes flick up for an instant. “I'm afraid I have to go answer more uncomfortable questions,” he says. “If you call again, I expect there to be blood and interplanetary armageddon at stake.”

“So you're saying don't call.”

“Please try to enjoy your vacation.”

The screen goes dark. I sit there for a moment, until the animated—dog? cat? weasel? what the heck
is
that thing?—bounces back into view and tells me how much my little chat just cost. I am so glad I'm not paying for this vacation myself.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

Earth orbit—Sky Five docking station

1 hour before the food court stops serving brunch

The Princess of Mars Cruises' flagship passenger liner
Dejah Thoris
is even larger than the Beanstalk climber, but a smaller portion of its interior volume is used to house passengers. The rest is the fuel supply, power plant, main engines, and cargo bays. It's one of the largest civilian spacecraft ever built, and that says a lot about human civilization: we have slipped the surly bonds of Earth, now let's party hearty.

I watch from Sky Five's main observation lounge as small tugs and spacesuited workers load supplies and freight onto
Dejah Thoris.
The ship is shaped like an egg, with a rectangular section cut out of its midsection on one side. Cargo containers are secured in that niche with scaffolding and latches and cables. At the small end of the egg is command and control. The large end hides the main drive reactor, which reveals itself in a honeycomb of engine bells.

This is going to be my home for the next week. I don't think I've ever spent that long on a civilian ship.
Vacation.
What do people actually
do
on vacation?

I suppose I'll start with heavy drinking and take it from there. Maybe I'll consider this a research trip: practicing how to camouflage myself within a civilian population.

My boarding group is called just after lunchtime. A bellhop in a ridiculous outfit, apparently intended to look like a nonspecific navy uniform, leads me to my stateroom. We weave past other passengers adrift in zero-gravity and service robots trundling luggage up and down the corridors. I do not laugh out loud at the lopsided beret attached to the bellhop's head. I do not sneer at the faux-luxurious decorations that cover every square centimeter of the vessel's interior: Rubenesque cherubs, brushed-metal abstract sculptures, oversaturated astronomy photos. I am playing the part of a clueless tourist who
wants
to be here.

I do tip my attendant generously, in cash, because I feel sorry for anyone who has to look like he does all day, especially floating through these garish hallways in zero-gee. We won't have gravity until the ship starts moving, just before dinnertime.

My stateroom is far too spacious for one person. I imagine that's why all the crew members kept raising their eyebrows when they saw that I was in an executive suite. It's four fully furnished rooms, each with a vid wall masquerading as a window. The walls show views of Sky Five that are all wrong for my current location, ten decks below the bridge and halfway to the centerline of the ship.

I find the wall controls and change them to display the Las Vegas Strip at night. If my view's going to be unreal, it might as well be fabulously unreal.

In the front room, next to the doorway leading to the bedroom, are a work desk and a wet bar. Velcroed to the top of the bar is a large basket filled with fresh fruit, candy, and liquor. I pluck the card from the basket and open it.

Kanga:

Welcome to your home away from home. Enjoy the trip. Don't forget to exercise.

—Christopher Robin

P.S. I've arranged a dinner seating for you at the Captain's Table. Please do your best not to embarrass your country.

Paul's sense of humor is more like a humor singularity, from which nothing funny can escape. But the booze in the gift basket is pretty good.

I take a mini-bottle of rum over to the computer built into the work desk. Now that I know where I'm going tonight, I can't resist doing some reconnaissance.

*   *   *

Edward Gabriel Santamaria, the captain of
Dejah Thoris,
stands nearly two meters tall. He towers over everyone else in the dining room as he strides toward the table where I'm seated for dinner with eight complete strangers. Even in this huge, multilevel space filled with people and noise, he stands out. Also because of the cam-bot hovering at his shoulder for passenger photo-ops.

I've read up on the captain. Not in depth—without a secure communications link, I don't have access to the agency's full data warehouse—but the promotional materials provided in my room were a start. An omnipedia search on the public Internet provided additional background.

It might seem silly for me to do all this, when I'll just have to pretend I don't know these things later. I'm sitting at the Captain's Table every night at dinner. Wouldn't it be easier, and less confusing, to ask about his life instead of investigating him in secret? Especially when I'm not even on the job, and there's no need for me to do the extra legwork?

I mean, it's not like I have anything to prove here. It's not like I want to demonstrate to Paul and Donald and the Secretary of State and anyone else who might be watching—now or later—that I can fly solo, that I can complete a mission without a babysitter. It's not like I'm going out of my way to show off my operational skills so everyone can see that I am, in fact,
not
the weakest link in the chain.

And I'm certainly not doing this because it's easier to think of “Kangaroo on vacation” as a cover identity than to figure out what I would actually enjoy doing as myself, without orders or instructions, without any kind of direction.

Boy, whichever agency shrink draws the short straw when I get back is going to have a whale of a time. At least they won't be able to grill me about my mother. I suppose that's one of the few benefits of being an orphan.

“Good evening, everyone,” the captain says as he arrives at the large circular table. Up close, his white dress uniform isn't quite as ridiculous as the bellhop's was, but the huge shoulderboards and thick gold braids dangling under his arms look like they could lead a parade all by themselves.

We go around the table and introduce ourselves once again. I was the first one here, and I've heard some of these spiels three or four times now. It's interesting to watch how people puff up in the captain's presence. The man sitting directly across from me, Jerry Bartelt, said he was a salesman when he first sat down, but now he's a “regional sales director.” Whoa there, slow down, big man. I won't be surprised if Jerry pulls out a cosmetics sample case or a set of steak knives for a demonstration at some point.

The captain politely gives everyone their fifteen seconds in the spotlight, including a handshake or hug for the cam-bot to record as a souvenir holo. He's got a pretty good mask on, smiling and nodding with great sincerity, but I can see in his eyes that he's done this a lot, and it's a bit too soon since the last time for him to really enjoy it. But he's not distracted, not preoccupied or thinking about something else. He is actually listening to each person, quietly validating their claim that they're important or interesting enough to be sitting at the Captain's Table. I wonder how much my seat here is costing the department.

I'm sitting to the captain's right, on purpose, so I'm the last to introduce myself.

“Evan Rogers,” I say, extending my hand. I'm normally not much for excessive touching, but this is part of the role I'm playing.

The captain shakes my hand. I feel calluses on his palm and thumb. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rogers. How are you enjoying your journey so far?”

“Oh, it's fantastic,” I say, gushing just a little, not wanting to sell it too hard. “This is my first time on a cruise spaceship. I can't wait to try out all the different activities.”

“And what do you do for a living?” he asks.

“Oh, I work for the U.S. State Department,” I say, waving a hand, drawing attention to myself while pretending to be dismissive. “I'm a trade inspector.”

“What kind of trade?” asks the captain. The question comes a fraction of a second too quickly. He's not just being polite; he's actually interested in the answer.