Free Waypoint Kangaroo by Curtis C. Chen

assignment after getting my field agent certification, and the post I vacated on the first day of what turned out to be the Independence War. I didn’t want to stay, but I still felt bad abandoning my fellow station officers in the middle of a crisis.
    I never saw any of them again.
    â€œAre you staying in Capital City?” Jerry asks.
    I shake my head. “Polar ice cap tour. One of those package deals. You?”
    â€œI … haven’t decided yet,” Jerry says.
    His expression is thoughtful as he studies the thermal view of Mars, and it suddenly occurs to me to be suspicious. What kind of divorced, middle-aged salesman takes a multiweek vacation on impulse, without planning, and without any traveling companions? No girlfriend, no drinking buddy, not even a destination he’s been dying to see since childhood?
    Just as suddenly, it occurs to me that I could easily be describing myself—at least, my cover story. But I’m playing a tourist. I have somewhere to go and something to do. Jerry seems to have neither in mind.
    â€œWhat are you running from, Jerry?” I ask.
    He hangs his head. “Is it that obvious?”
    â€œI should also add that I’m not looking to hook up,” I say.
    We stare at each other, then both burst out laughing.
    â€œSorry,” Jerry says after catching his breath. “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea.”
    â€œâ€™Sokay,” I say. “Comes with the territory when you look as good as I do.”
    I have trouble finishing the sentence. Jerry doubles over with laughter, and I clutch the railing next to the control panel to keep from falling over. It feels good to laugh. Even if it did take two or three liters of alcohol to get here.
    An elderly couple walks past and looks at us as if we’re crazy. I point at the display and call out to them. “Mars! It’s hilarious!”
    I feel something at my elbow and turn to see a uniformed crew member giving me the stink-eye. He’s young, early twenties maybe, and his slim build belies his strength. He gets a firm grip on my arm and stands me upright.
    â€œCan I help you gentlemen find your way back to your berths?” he says.
    At first I think he’s saying “births” and I wonder why he’s being so philosophical and metaphorical. My alcohol-soaked brain rolls the first coherent words it finds down to and out of my mouth.
    â€œI never knew my mother,” I say. “Not really. I mean, maybe I was an orphan and maybe I wasn’t. Who’s to say? You don’t know. Who are you again?”
    The crewman stares at me impassively, and some small, quiet part of my brain wonders how often he has to do this. He taps his glowing blue earpiece with one hand and says, “Guest assistance in Promenade section four, please.”
    Two more crewmen appear behind him. One is a taller, bulkier fellow, and the other is a woman, about the same height as Blue-Ear but more muscular. The new arrivals are wearing the same blue earpieces, so I decide I need to make up different nicknames for them.
    â€œI’ll call you ‘Chunk,’” I say to the bulky fellow, pointing a finger past him down the corridor. I turn and smile at the woman. “And you’re ‘Daisy.’”
    Daisy frowns at Blue-Ear. “Didn’t I see these two at the Captain’s Table tonight?”
    Blue-Ear nods. “Yeah. Captain must have been feeling generous with the vino.”
    Something clatters behind me. I turn my head to look at the same time that Blue-Ear spins us both around, and the effect is more than a little dizzying. Have I really drank that much? Drunk that much? Is it “drank” or “drunk”? Shit.
    Suddenly I’m staring at the high ceiling of the Promenade and I have a very strong sense of vertigo. There’s no up or down in space, right? But I’m feeling gravity. That ceiling is very far away. This is all