Waypoint Kangaroo by Curtis C. Chen

ask.
    â€œFabulous,” Paul says, his lip curling. “You’ll notice I’m hiding in Equipment’s workshop.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œSo you’re saying don’t call.”
    â€œPlease 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.
    â€”Christopher Robin
    P.S. I’ve arranged a dinner seating