Waypoint Kangaroo (18 page)

The transmission delay will be an issue. We're almost halfway to Mars now, which means it'll take over one hundred seconds for a radio signal from
Dejah Thoris
to reach Earth. That's more than three minutes between each of my messages and Jessica's responses.

On the bright side, she won't be able to interrupt me like she usually does.

First I login to our department's shared workspace to see if I can find out how the audit's going. Not surprisingly, nobody's been posting status updates. I wonder if that's by choice.

I start recording a vid message to Jessica, don't like how I sound, and stop and start over. I do this at least six times before deciding that the less I say, the better.

“Kangaroo to Surgical. I am transmitting and receiving via Echo Delta. I need to know about the effectiveness of civilian anti-radiation meds. Please respond soonest. Over.”

Three to four minutes is a hell of a long time when you're waiting to get yelled at. I was half hoping Jessica wouldn't still be in the office, but I'm not surprised that she is. I've never actually seen her arrive in the morning or leave at the end of the day. Sometimes I wonder if she sleeps on that bed in the exam room.

I am, however, surprised to see her with her hair piled up high and wearing flawless makeup and a strapless evening gown. She looks like a fashion model. I'm so distracted, her words don't register at first, and I have to replay the message.

“Kangaroo, Surgical. I don't know what the hell you're doing, but since you're calling
me
and not Lasher, I'm going to assume that this is
not
an actual emergency. And I'm not going to ask—no, actually, I
am
going to ask why you're using your emergency comms dish. Because someone is going to notice the signal, and more likely than not—” She shakes her head and takes a breath. “No. That's fine. I'm going to let Equipment give you that lecture.”

“That'll be fun,” I mutter.
Later.

“To answer your somewhat disturbing question,” she continues, “the effectiveness will depend on which medication we're talking about and exactly what radiation the patients were exposed to. The cruise ship should have given you a general radioprotective inoculation when you boarded. They'll probably have Genisalin or Tribetaine on hand, but those are not effective against all types of radiation. If you can get close to the emission source, send me a scan. And if
you
were exposed, I want your somatic sensor logs, too. As soon as possible! Over.”

I pack up the files and send them to her with a brief message.

“Surge, Kangaroo. I'm sending my scans and body logs. We were exposed to a damaged particle emission capture core. Not for very long. The ship's doctor has already treated us with Genisalin. By the way, what are you wearing? Did you lose a bet or something? Over.”

It's nearly five minutes before her reply arrives. I'm in the bathroom when my eye lights up, and I watch the vid while still on the toilet. I've done worse.

“Kangaroo, Surgical. Stop calling me ‘Surge.' I'm not a Russian hockey player.” Jessica taps at her computer console while talking, barely looking at the camera. “And I am wearing this ridiculous outfit because I was at the opera, which—why am I telling you this? It's not important. The auditors are trying to distract me while they interview Lasher and Equipment. They think they can divide and conquer—” She shakes her head. “No. Not important. I need you to tell me how many other people were exposed to the PECC. I will assume the ship's doctor is not a complete idiot, and that he made you all shower and scrub and incinerated your clothes in addition to administering Genisalin. That will protect you in the short term, but your somatic sensors show signs of bone marrow damage. I should be able to contain it. Wait one. Don't go anywhere. Over.”

I finish up in the bathroom and, since I have nothing better to do, record another message while I'm waiting.

“Surge, Kangaroo. Look, you don't need to worry about this too much. I'm not feeling nauseous or losing hair or anything, and it's been a full day since the exposure. It looked like the PECC was mostly burned out by the time we got there, right? I don't think this ship has any facilities to synthesize pharmaceuticals, so there's probably not much more I can do about this—I mean, it'll be tricky to set up a chemistry lab in my stateroom. Sounds like you have other things to deal with anyway. So just let me know whether I should, I don't know, avoid greasy foods for the next few days and I'll stop bothering you.

“And thanks for not telling Paul. He doesn't need to worry about a minor thing like this. Over.”

I'm pretty sure Jessica doesn't actually listen to my whole message, because her next burst arrives in barely three minutes and twenty seconds.

“Kangaroo,
Surgical.
I need to know how many people besides yourself were exposed to that PECC, I need to know if any of them were children under ten or adults over sixty, and I need to know exactly who issued that power core. Eight years ago we were using three different kinds of combination alpha-beta PECCs in military implants, and your eye can't resolve that kind of detail. Go back and find the serial number if you need to, don't worry about the added exposure, the nanobots can fix it. Over.”

I'm not sure I heard that last part correctly, so I play the message again, then send a reply with Alan Wachlin's service record attached.

“Surge, Kangaroo. I'm sending you the army personnel file on the deceased owner of the PECC. That should tell you when he was implanted. Also, did you say ‘nanobots'? It sounded like you said ‘nanobots.' But that can't be right, because not only are they highly classified experimental biotech, you also only started being able to program them the day before I left. A week and a half ago. Please clarify. Over.”

She can't be planning what I think she's planning. Can she? There's no way Paul would authorize it. And how would it even be possible? She can't have made that much progress on the nanobot software in ten days. Manipulating organic matter is completely different from wireless networking, and if anything goes wrong—well, it might not be the end of the world, but it would definitely be the end of our agency.

Three to four minutes passes very quickly when your mind is boggling.

“Kangaroo, Surgical. I have the personnel file, I'll need to do some more research, but I should be able to find what I need from that. And yes, I said nanobots. I'm reprogramming them to repair your radiation-damaged tissue and chromosomes, and to kill any precancerous cells before they start spreading. The code is almost ready to upload. Do not go anywhere. Wait for my all-clear. Over.”

Okay, this is getting ridiculous.

“Surge, Kay. Let me get this straight. I've been on vacation for ten days, and you've cured cancer? Over.”

“Kangaroo, Surgical! I am trying to work here, and this is not a cure, this is triage. It will take the bots a few weeks to locate and break down all the affected areas. You've got time, but another day and the damage could be too extensive for them to deal with, so I need to figure out how you're going to help the civilians who were also exposed. You should have called me as soon as this happened. Now just wait.”

She doesn't even bother saying “over,” just smacks the controls to end her transmission.

“Surge, Kay. I apologize for all these questions, but I wasn't expecting you to be able to use the
tiny robots
in my
blood
to fix
cancer.
” Sometimes I wonder if Jessica is actually human. “Are there going to be any side effects while they're doing this? Am I going to feel anything? Is there any chance they'll modify the wrong things and, I don't know, take apart my kidney or something? Over.”

Nearly six minutes pass before I get her reply. She's staring straight into the camera.

“Kangaroo. Surgical. You will not feel anything. The nanobots are manipulating individual molecules inside your cells. These are microscopic changes. Most of the work is preventing further damage. And this is not new science. Medical doctors have been working on oncological detection and prevention for over a century.” Her eyes unfocus slightly. “I had a life before the agency. I developed molecular change agents for twenty years. This type of tissue repair was the core of my proposal to Science Division. I could have deployed the technology months ago if they hadn't questioned every little detail—” She stops, takes a deep breath, then holds up her palm and exhales. “No. I'm over it. We're moving on.

“This transmission includes the new nanobot program. Your shoulder-phone should be unpacking it and flashing the bots right now. Leave this channel open in case it needs to re-fetch some data. I will contact you in a few hours about the civilian issue. Over and out.”

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dejah Thoris
—Deck 3, Barsoom Buffet

6½ hours after my delightful conversation with Surgical

Dejah Thoris
reaches midway just after breakfast time, following repeated loudspeaker warnings from Cruise Director Logan to make sure all loose items and children are safely secured. The announcements also help wake me up in time to make it to the buffet before breakfast service ends.

Chaperoning four thousand civilians in zero-gravity is no small undertaking. Letting them float around an entire cruise ship for a whole day is just asking for trouble. That's why certain areas have been sealed off, and every single one of
Dejah Thoris
's roughly two thousand crew members appears to be on duty, stationed anywhere a passenger might want to go and ready to assist with moving around while weightless. It appears to be impossible to get away from them, but that's part of the cruise contract: during midway, safety trumps privacy.

I'm finishing my morning coffee—which has been served in an enclosed drink bulb, in anticipation of our loss of gravity—when Logan makes the final announcement. Three different crew members walk by to offer complimentary pairs of zero-gee slipper-socks, in case we've forgotten them in our staterooms. I smile back at them and show off my red-and-white footwear with grippy soles. Then they offer to rent me a cam-bot to follow me and record my weightless adventures. I politely decline. Nobody needs to see me flailing around all day.

A trilling alarm sounds continuously for the last minute before we lose gravity, and red lights pulse gently all around us, drawing attention to the floor, which will very soon be just another wall. Half the passengers around me look apprehensive, and the other half look excited, as the crew lead us in a countdown chant.

“Three … Two … One …
Zero-gee!
”

At first, it's a bit anticlimactic. Some children near me jump up and down and are disappointed when they don't go flying away. It takes about a minute for the main engines to fully shut down. Then the dining area fills with screams and whoops and hollers as several hundred people experience prolonged zero-gravity for the first time in their lives.
Dejah Thoris
passengers only had a few hours on Sky Five during the transfer from the Beanstalk; this is going to be a whole day of being disoriented and possibly terrified.

Crew members move through the crowd, keeping people from drifting away. The maroon stripes on the floor, which I thought were decorative, are actually stick-strips: high-friction material that clings to shoes and socks, keeping people anchored.

I survey the noise and commotion for a few minutes, then turn my thoughts back to the chore I've been postponing since last night.

I don't know how long it will take for Jessica to figure out a radiation treatment for me to sneak to the crew, but I know I won't be able to administer it on my own. Just tracking down the specific crew members will require access to personnel records.

No, the only way this happens is if I con one of the officers into backing my play. I don't know how I'm going to do it, but Jemison is the mark. The buck stops with her, and if I can get her to swallow my fish story, I'm golden.

All I have to do is convince an OSS war veteran and experienced intelligence operative that she should get several of her crewmates to submit to what is likely to be an experimental medical procedure performed by yours truly.

Right. Piece of cake.

Hmm. I wonder if there's any cake in the buffet—

“Mr. Rogers?”

I jerk at the sound of Jemison's voice, and the motion sends me out of my seat. I manage to catch the edge of the table with my fingertips and bob there for a moment until I get my bearings and pull my feet down to a stick-strip. My left hand slips off the corner of my food tray and almost sends it flying. I manage to stop it with my other hand. I re-attach the tray to the friction-grip tabletop.

Jemison is in front of me, her feet anchored to a stick-strip on the other side of my table, wearing the impatient scowl I've become so familiar with. Two security guards I don't recognize float behind her, gripping handholds molded into the planters surrounding the dining area. Like the rest of the crew, they've traded their normal uniforms for zero-gee jumpsuits.

“What are you doing here?” I say without thinking.

“Evan Rogers?” Jemison says, more forcefully, glaring at me even harder.

Okay, Chief, I'll play along.
“Yes, that's me. Uh, is there a problem?”

She waves the two guards forward. “If you'll come with us, Mr. Rogers, we'd like to speak to you in private, please.”

The guards don't look like they're in on this joke. I lean forward and lower my voice. “Should I be causing a scene here?”

“No, sir,” Jemison says loudly. “Just come with us and we'll sort this out.”

They lead me out of the dining area—Jemison in front, me and one guard in the middle, and the other guard taking up the rear. Other passengers mutter as we move down the corridor toward a service door. I try to remember if I've done something since yesterday to get myself into more trouble.