Free Waypoint Kangaroo by Curtis C. Chen Page A

very confusing.
    My free arm, the one not being held by Blue-Ear, swings out, searching for something solid to brace against. My hand clutches at a shoulder. I pull myself upward and see that it’s Daisy, not looking very happy about this interaction.
    â€œSorry,” I say. “Seem to be having trouble with my balance—”
    She pushes my hand away, but it swings back toward her—that arm appears to be even more confused than the rest of my unsteady body. Daisy deflects it again, this time grabbing my forearm and using my momentum to spin me back around to face Blue-Ear. He grabs my collar and yanks me forward, away from Daisy.
    â€œThat’s great,” she says. “I was wondering if I’d get groped tonight.”
    â€œOn the bright side,” Blue-Ear says, “just two more and you’ll get your self-defense stripes.”
    â€œFunny.”
    â€œWas an accident,” I say over my shoulder. The dizzy feeling intensifies, and my face smacks into Chunk’s palm. He pushes me back up and grabs my disobedient arm. “Oh, hey, thanks.”
    â€œLet’s move out of the thruway, sir,” Blue-Ear says.
    Daisy eyes me as I struggle in his and Chunk’s grip. “You want any help there, Mac?”
    â€œWe got this one,” Chunk says. “You might want to grab that other guy before he puts his head through the screen. Or worse.”
    â€œFrozen crap on a stick,” Daisy mutters, then goes after Jerry, who’s crawling over the railing and into the display alcove.
    My uninhibited male brain can’t help but admire Daisy’s backside as she leans forward and pulls Jerry back from the edge, and I’m momentarily envious of him. Why aren’t I the one being manhandled by the athletic Valkyrie?
    â€œHey,” I say to Chunk and Blue-Ear as they drag me away. My legs don’t seem to be working, and my feet drag along the deck, making occasional squeaking noises. “I’m not drunk, you know.”
    â€œWhatever you say, sir,” Blue-Ear says.
    â€œI’ve got a hollow leg!” I think I’m singing now. Jerry appears to be dancing with Daisy, or possibly wrestling. Hard to tell from here.
    â€œJust another Sunday night, huh, Greg?” Chunk says to Blue-Ear.
    Blue-Ear shakes his head. “Glad I joined the navy.”
    *   *   *
    There are no clocks anywhere on this ship. Well, not literally, but there are no time-telling devices in most places where they would actually be useful to passengers. No clocks in my stateroom, no clocks in the elevators, no clocks in the dining areas. It’s somewhat counterintuitive, considering how tightly scheduled all shipboard activities are. For example, breakfast service ends at 11:00 a.m. precisely—and I mean precisely ; there’s actually a metal shutter that closes over the buffet area—and lunch doesn’t start until 11:30, so there’s a whole half-hour when the only food option available appears to be vegetation from the cocktail bars.
    Okay, it’s probably not quite that bad, but that’s how it feels when I stagger out of bed at 11:05, wondering just how much alcohol I consumed last night. I shamble from one dining area to another, watching other passengers finish off their meals and gazing forlornly at the closed-off serving sections where, mere minutes ago, heaping piles of hot, salty, possibly deep-fried foods were just waiting to be shoved into my face.
    I spend probably a full minute staring at a half-eaten strip of bacon on someone’s discarded plate, at war with myself over whether to stoop that low, until a boxy cleaning robot comes along and clears the table. My stomach rumbles. My head hurts. A lot.
    I have many important questions to consider. Why Paul put me on this ship. What it means that the captain is also in the loop. But most important, where the hell I’m going to find some goddamn food right