Waypoint Kangaroo (13 page)

We don't find anything. Jemison and I search the two other bedrooms as well, but there's nothing unusual, either added or missing.

At 0600 hours ship time, Santamaria tells us to take a break.

“We have a staff meeting in three hours,” he says to Jemison. “Chief, can you prepare a briefing?”

“Yeah. Not much to say, though.” Jemison looks at me. “Rogers, would you mind joining us for the meeting?”

I wait for the captain to say something, but he doesn't. Of course not. The chief wouldn't have suggested it if she didn't know he would approve. These two have known each other long enough to make accidental disagreements unlikely.

“What do you want me to say?” I ask.

“Just tell them what you saw in here,” she says. “Don't worry about blowing your cover. What's the standard story these days? State Department researcher?”

“Interplanetary trade inspector. It's a classic.” Obscure enough to explain my implants, boring enough that nobody asks.

She nods. “The eye's unusual, but not implausible. If anyone asks about where you hide your gun, we can hand-wave that.”

“Sure. I'll tell them I'm a ninja.”

“Don't quit your day job,” Jemison says without missing a beat. “Go take a nap or get breakfast or something. I'll send a security escort for you at 0900.”

 

CHAPTER TEN

Dejah Thoris
—Deck B, officers' briefing room

30 minutes after room service delivered an unsatisfying omelet

I'm glad it's not Danny and Mike who show up to escort me to the staff meeting. No awkward conversation required. The security guards lead me into a crew elevator, which takes us to a conference room near the top of the ship.

The elliptical chamber is located directly behind the ship's main command and control center, commonly called the bridge. There's one door leading to the bridge, and one door leading to a hallway connecting to the service elevator. A large circular table occupies most of the floor space. Monitors and control panels cover the walls. There are no chairs.

Santamaria and Jemison are already in the briefing room, standing next to a slim woman with red hair and freckled skin. On the other side of the redhead is a square-jawed man tapping at a computer tablet.

Santamaria introduces the woman as Commander Erica Galbraith, the ship's executive officer. Her smile is friendly and open as she shakes my hand, and I'm pretty sure the stripes on her uniform shirt are purely decorative. A cruise ship doesn't need to have all ex-military personnel as officers, but passengers probably enjoy the illusion of rank and implied authority.

The man with the tablet is Jefferson Logan, the ship's cruise director. I've heard his cheery voice making announcements several times a day over loudspeakers. I notice something precise, but not military, about the way Logan moves. Acrobat, maybe? Definitely some zero-gee movement training there. According to the cruise brochures, he's in charge of all midway activities and excursions.

The door from the hallway opens, and a bald, dark-skinned man enters. He's wearing a white lab coat, and his pockets are bulging with equipment. The captain introduces him as Dr. Rahul Sawhney. I shake the doctor's hand and wait patiently, trying to look nonchalant, as Santamaria explains who I am and why I'm joining their briefing.

“We've been broadcasting David Wachlin's face on all the information kiosks throughout the ship,” Santamaria says. “Jeff, has anybody come forward with information yet?”

“Nothing that we can confirm,” Logan says. “Twenty people reported to security that they saw someone who might have been David Wachlin, but we couldn't verify using cameras or internal sensor logs.”

“Doctor,” Santamaria says, “were you able to contact the Wachlins' physician back on Earth?”

“Yes,” says Sawhney. “Dr. George LaMori. He said that David has experienced episodes of confusion before, but nothing that ever suggested he was capable of violence, much less murder. Doctor LaMori prescribed the Stelomane and Dalazine—and, more recently, also the alpha wave generator, at the family's request.”

“Could the alpha wave generator have triggered the psychosis?” Galbraith asks.

“It's unlikely,” Sawhney says, almost sighing. “Alpha wave generators have never been conclusively shown to produce the calming effects that their manufacturers claim. They're a homeopathic remedy, a placebo. It's more likely this trip into space is confusing David's body, and the unfamiliar discomfort is aggravating his mental state.”

“It's a long way from spacesick to double homicide,” Jemison says.

Sawhney raises his hands and shoulders in a shrug. “Schizophrenia is still poorly understood. We can treat certain symptoms, but it's impossible to know what's going on inside David's head.”

Santamaria nods. “Chief, why don't you tell everyone what you and Mr. Rogers found in the stateroom.”

Jemison describes the scene in the Wachlins' suite. I watch the reactions around the table. Logan hasn't heard any of this before, and he's horrified. Galbraith is hearing some of the details for the first time. The doctor seems preoccupied.

“Still no sign of the murder weapon,” Jemison concludes. “Doc estimates it was about fifteen centimeters long, a smooth, sharp blade. Probably some kind of knife.”

“That's right,” Sawhney says. “Both Emily and Alan were killed with the same weapon.”

My head jerks upward. “Wait. You didn't tell me that.” I look over at Jemison, then Santamaria.

Jemison says, “Sorry. There was a lot going on last night.”

She's lying. They were testing me, seeing if I would notice on my own, ascertaining just how useful I might be overall. I can tell from the apologetic expression in Santamaria's eyes. But even he's not that sorry.

I'm not angry at them. I just have something to prove now.

“Alan Wachlin's body also had third-degree burns all over,” Sawhney continues. “Post-mortem damage. He was killed before the fire started.”

“So why burn one body, but not the other? David killed both of them with the same knife. Why not finish the job the same way?” I ask.

“Maybe the fire scared him,” Galbraith says.

“It was pretty severe,” Jemison says. “Fire suppression was in progress when Ellie and I arrived—”

“Our chief engineer responded to a fire alarm in a passenger stateroom?” Santamaria says.

“We were in the neighborhood,” Jemison says. “Long story. Anyway, we grabbed handheld extinguishers and ran in to assist.”

Something's bothering me about this scenario. Something doesn't add up.

“Doctor.” I turn to Sawhney. “How long does it take for third-degree burns to develop?”

“It could be less than a second, if the temperature is high enough,” he says.

Temperature.

“The sprinklers would have triggered immediately,” Galbraith says. “The sensors respond to heat.”

I remember my trip outside the ship, the sight of the cargo containers, and the disassembled microwave oven. I also recall what my left eye was originally designed to do.

“What if he wasn't burned by the fire?” I ask. “What if something else caused that tissue damage?”

Jemison glares at me. “What the hell are you talking about, Rogers?”

“Did you determine what started the fire in the first place? Was there a lighter, a book of matches, a nearby source of open flame? A plasma leak?”

“That's not possible,” Galbraith says. “The EP conduits don't pass anywhere near any passenger staterooms or crew quarters.”

Santamaria and Jemison exchange a glance. “Mr. Rogers, what are you suggesting?” the captain asks.

“Something started that fire,” I say. “Something hot enough to give a human body third-degree burns in the short time before the sprinklers could activate. Something that internal sensors didn't register as fire before then.”

There's a moment of silence while everyone stares at me.

“Ionizing radiation,” Santamaria says.

“What?” Jemison shakes her head. “All the passenger decks are shielded. We sail with the cargo sections turned toward the Sun. And even that's not anywhere near enough exposure to cause visible burns.”

“It didn't come from outside the ship,” I say. “Captain, with your permission, I'd like to take a closer look at the body.”

*   *   *

Dr. Sawhney takes a detour to Sickbay, then meets Santamaria, Jemison, Galbraith, Logan, and me in the hallway outside suite 5028, carrying a radiation detector. The rest of us watch as the doctor switches on the device and points it at the door. Security already cleared the hallway, so there are no gawking passersby to be alarmed by the high-pitched, staccato beeping that bursts forth from the detector.

“Good Lord,” Sawhney says, “that's nearly ten curies! What could be producing that much radiation?”

“Jeff, evacuate all passengers in this section, and one deck above and below,” Santamaria says. “Move them to empty staterooms in other sections. Chief, we'll need crew in hazmat gear to collect the Wachlins' belongings and decontaminate what we can.”

A thought twitches in my head as Logan leaves and Jemison steps away to issue orders by radio. The crew only has civilian hazmat gear. They'll be shielded from biochemical contaminants, but what about radiation? A ship like this doesn't normally have any heavy emission sources on board, not even in engineering. Ionwells burn clean.

“Mr. Rogers,” Santamaria says to me, “would you mind looking up Alan Wachlin's military service record?”

“Already on it,” I say. I powered up the dish and began inputting my query as soon as the detector started making noise.

“He wasn't active military,” the doctor mutters, almost to himself. He's taking readings from either side of the door. “And all passengers and luggage are screened before boarding. How could he smuggle any radioactive material on board? Why would he?”

“You're searching through classified military records?” Galbraith asks me.

“They're not all classified,” I say. “Just looking for more detail on exactly what he did in the service.”

“Doctor,” Santamaria says, “did Alan's medical records say which branch of service he was in?”

“United States Army. Special Forces.”

Santamaria nods and says to Galbraith, “Special Forces are often involved in unconventional warfare operations. They may be outfitted with special equipment to help them deal with extraordinary situations.”

“But what equipment would he still have with him? Wouldn't he—” Galbraith stops, then stares at me. “You're talking about surgical implants.”

“Yes,” Santamaria says. “Many soldiers are implanted with battery packs to power their in-body equipment. Communication gear is the most common. A few decades ago, the army experimented with more powerful technologies. Atomic energy cores, for example.”

Galbraith frowns. “Isn't that, uh, insanely dangerous?”

“To say the least,” Sawhney says. He shakes his head and turns off the detector.

“Which is why they stopped doing it after the Independence War,” Santamaria says. “But it turned out to be impossible to remove some of the atomics without killing their owners.”

A declassified military service record flashes into my eye. “Alan Wachlin was deployed on Mars,” I say. “Olympus Base, eight years ago. Prewar peacekeeping unit. He received a field implant package with a particle emission capture core.”

Nobody speaks for a moment.

“Is it still burning?” Santamaria asks.

“Still burning?” Galbraith's voice comes out as a squeak.

I switch my eye to sensing mode and peer into the stateroom. I wasn't looking for this type of radiation before, but now I can see it everywhere, splashed all over the walls where the visible char marks are. There's a fizzing sphere in the center of the bed, right around where Alan's heart would be.

“Yes,” I say. Everyone starts talking at once.

“Nobody goes into that stateroom until we reach Mars orbit,” Santamaria says.

“We all need to start radiation treatment right away,” Sawhney says. “Everyone who was in that room. My God!”

“We have some extra baffle shielding in storage. I'll send serv-bots to seal off the contaminated areas,” Galbraith says.

Jemison finishes her radio call and walks back into the babble of voices. “I'm guessing this isn't good news,” she says.

“Alan Wachlin had a PECC in his chest. It's still burning,” I say.

Jemison blinks. “Shit.”

*   *   *

While everyone else runs around, doing their jobs, I play back my data recording of the crime scene from my earlier inspection. There's definitely blood on Alan's bed, so he was still alive when his power core went critical. I can't tell from the vid whether he had any knife wounds other than the one across his throat.

It's hard to trace the microcables implanted in his body through all the damaged tissue, but it doesn't look like any of the major lines have been cut. And that wouldn't have caused a meltdown anyway. Either his attacker—his brother, David—stabbed him in the chest and cut into the circuitry of the power plant, or David's weight on Alan's chest pressed the core against his spine, and the fifteen-year-old outer casing cracked.

I report my findings to Santamaria as we stand in Sickbay, waiting for Jemison to finish her radiation treatment. We've all changed out of our clothes and showered, scrubbing our skin to remove as many irradiated cells as we can.

“David's probably scared out of his mind,” I say. “He's been off his medication for, what, twelve hours now? I can't believe nobody's run into him yet. Where's he hiding?”

“We don't have complete internal sensor coverage,” Santamaria says. He sounds more thoughtful than annoyed. What does it take to make this guy lose his cool? His service records say he fought at Elysium Planitia, in one of the most brutal battles of the Independence War. I wonder if he grew the beard to hide his scars.