Spindown

by Andy Crawford

  SPINDOWN

  Andy Crawford

  Amazon Kindle edition

  Copyright 2018 by Andy Crawford

  Amazon Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

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  Other titles by Andy Crawford:

  Sailor of the Skysea

  The Pen is Mightier

  Untethered (short story)

  For Nina

  2240, Earth Calendar

  ~3 Earth years since departure of colony ship Aotea from Earth system

  ~63 cycles (52 Earth years) until arrival at destination, Samwise, a habitable moon of Abhoth, a gas giant planet orbiting the red dwarf star Gliese 876.

  CHAPTER 1

  Constable Lo spotted the man he was hunting with his head poking out around the corner passageway. “Hey!” he shouted. “Stop!”

  The constable was alone, and this passageway of the colony spaceship Aotea was empty, aside for a lone whirring DustBot. The fugitive made a snap decision and charged. Surprised, Lo shifted his stance and braced himself.

  Too late. The fugitive led with his shoulder and sent Lo bouncing off a bulkhead at the end of the passageway. Earth-bred strength beats these low-gravvers every time.

  “You’re down,” said the fugitive as he scooped up a dropped wearable, eyeing the constable, who remained motionless on the deck. It wasn’t just the difference in gravity from their upbringing — so many Aoteans, even among the constabulary, seemed constitutionally incapable of violence. He stifled a laugh as the little DustBot scooted along and purposefully gave the prone constable a wide berth, obeying its programming — to always stay out of the way of humans — to the letter. Hearing footsteps, the fugitive made a quick scan of the neighboring passageways, located a supply closet, hefted the limp constable, less than half the weight he’d be on Earth, and manhandled him into the cramped space. “You’re still down,” he added before shutting the hatch.

  Peering around the next corner of the passageway, the hunted man finally had a moment to breathe. He used the moment to hate. He hated this ship. He hated the low gravity, simulated by rotation, which left him disoriented every morning, his waking body expecting Earth-normal gravity as he rose to his feet. He hated the windowless views, and the endless and featureless passageways, kilometers and kilometers winding underneath the massive cylindrical inner “surface” on which most Aoteans lived. He hated the surface itself — bland structures, a few stories tall, divided by regular and identical walking lanes, and a mirror-like reflection on the other side of the interior cylindrical surface overhead. He hated the false “suns,” massive, fusion-fired lights at each end of the kilometers-long cylinder, progressively lit and dimmed for the progression of every Aotean “day” and “night.” He hated nearly every one of the twenty thousand souls onboard, and he found that, with the barest effort, even those Aoteans he found tolerable could be rather easily swept into that hated pool. And most of all, he hated himself for making the decision to leave Earth and join the crew, and this endless, hellish voyage, in the first place.

  The hunted man waited for a bit, watching the sparse foot traffic of the passageway from his corner vantage point, one level below Aotea’s interior surface. A shift change was approaching, with an accompanying increase in traffic, down to the scattered watch stations of the machinery spaces below, and back up to the living and recreation spaces on the interior surface. He shook his head at his own luck, for the carelessness of the constable — if the man had just called in his observation, instead of standing there gaping, the hunted man would be cornered by now. He clipped the stolen wearable to his collar, practiced fingers flicking the hard-reset, allowing voice and eye control. With a flick of his eyes he linked it to to his own earpiece, setting the volume low, wondering if they knew he could be listening in.

  “…witness reported the fugitive seen near Hab 13…”

  “… another witness who saw him by aft food service 7...”

  “…description put out is too vague; adult male, just under two meters, brown skin, tear in the jumpsuit leg…”

  “Lo, report?”

  After a pause, the order was repeated.

  The fugitive silenced it and chuckled to himself, looking down at his leg. They handicap themselves. He had already replaced the torn jumpsuit — thievery was trivial among these people, and in such a culture. A few centuries ago, Aoteans would have been called hippies, or peaceniks, or some other forgotten slur … no weapons, no surveillance cams, no currency, everything running on mutual trust. Doors and hatches could be locked, but few bothered.

  And a single nonconformist could blow up the whole thing. How can they hope to survive like this? There would be more noncomformists, undoubtedly. More who cared more for their own whims and desires than the mandates and structures of the routine onboard. And these dupes had no idea how to handle it. They’d learn or die.

  It was time to move — dumb as they were, they’d figure out Lo’s last known location soon enough. The fugitive easily flowed into the growing traffic of the passageway, exchanging pleasantries with a few Aoteans he recognized just getting off watch. Did they even suspect anything? Why would they? They were on a giant spaceship trillions of kilometers from Earth, with twenty thousand hand-picked pacifists onboard. There hadn’t been a single crime worse than petty theft or assault since they departed three Earth-years before. They queued up cordially and climbed the ladderwell to the surface.

  And he had another decision to make. Hide or strike?

  Not much of a choice to make. Checking his mental topography while he weaved between the structures on the surface of the aft Can, as the cylindrical interior of Aotea was commonly known, the hunted man considered his targets. Engineering was too far and would require a pass through the dangerous bottleneck of the Ring at the aft end of the Can. So was Operations, at the forward end. He cringed when he realized the nearest.

  Medical. Not his first choice, but it was the most logical. Just a few “blocks” away, easily accessible from the surface, and with numerous entrances and exits.

  The wide automatic doors of the infirmary, a clean-lined white structure larger than most onboard, were unguarded. A yawning admin tech perked up at the front desk, but the hunted man strode confidently as if he knew exactly where he was going. He rounded the desk, took a lift to the second deck, and headed down the passageway.

  He stepped silently, turning away to examine a display when a doctor passed by. The long-term-patient wing was mostly empty, except for a constable seated at the end of the hall at a corner juncture.

  Damn. There were a dozen doors along the passageway, but it wasn’t clear which one the officer, a junior constable named Khan, was watching over. He ducked back behind the corner before she turned toward him. He took the long way around the perimeter of the level — the other passageway leading to the corner was much busier with a handful of outpatient appointments. An idea came to him, and he looked at the time, then turned and headed for the cafeteria.

  He carried the tray haphazardly as he strode down the outpatient passageway once again. He passed a laundry cart and grabbed a small towel, tucking it into his belt to look more like an orderly. He looked down and angled the tray to obscure his face, but the constable wasn’t paying much attention anyway. Idiots. Finally, she perked up wh
en he stopped in front of her, a quizzical expression on her face.

  “Which room?”

  She looked down at a projection from her wearable. “Isn’t it early for lunch?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t I do a favor for a friend?”

  “He’s in room seven, but—”

  He didn’t let her finish, lashing out with a free hand and striking her neck.

  “Stay down,” he said as she went limp in her seat.

  Idiots. He put the tray down on her desk, and checking that there was no one else in the long-term passageway, sprinted to room seven.

  “That you, Khan?” came the voice as he pushed open the door.

  “No, not Khan,” answered the hunted man. The infirmary room was small — barely big enough for the bed and the medical device, snaked with tubes, that surrounded it.

  The patient chuckled when he saw who it was. “Did you even break a sweat?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  The reclining man sighed. “That’s a shame. I expected better.”

  “Sometimes we can’t tell the difference between what we hope for and what we expect.”

  The hunted man reached out and took hold of the cluster of fluid lines. “Ready?”

  Another sigh and then a nod.

  The hunted man pulled abruptly, setting off a cacophony of electronic complaints. He shook his head to himself and snorted. He had also been expecting more from Aotea’s constabulary.

  Then the alarms started — not the machines, but in the overhead. If he had a lens, the wearable could display directly onto his eyeball. But he didn’t, so he projected the wearable’s display onto the back of his hand — it had an alarm too, just a red pulse, silent since the hunted man had muted it earlier. Huh. Maybe they weren’t quite so bad as he thought. He couldn’t help but grin as he sprinted into the passageway. At the next turn he almost crashed into an orderly, who let out an exhausted exclamation.

  They were waiting for him at the lift bank. Three constables, two armed with stun sticks. Finally brought those out… For a moment he considered fleeing the other way — he was pretty sure there was a ladderwell in the corner of the structure, but he heard footsteps.

  So he made another snap decision and charged, at the same time wrapping the towel around his left fist. Once again the constables were caught off guard, almost bumping into each other in their confusion. The first gave an awkward thrust of the stun stick, which he absorbed with his towel-hand, punching sharply with his right into the constable’s ribs. As that one went to the deck with a grunt, the second waded in, swinging the stunner with more vigor. Not enough. The fugitive blocked it at the handle with his forearm, turning and striking with an elbow to the chin, and wrenched the stunner free of his grasp as the constable collapsed. The last constable had wisely backed away, yelling into her wearable. Not far enough. The hunted man leapt forward, pressed the trigger, and thrust the stunner into her belly, sending her to the deck.

  And then the lift doors opened, six constables charged forward, and upon feeling the unfamiliar shock to his skin, the hunted man went limp and was hauled away.

  He sat in an uncomfortable chair in the constabulary briefing room, meeting the eyes of each of more than a dozen constables and inspectors. They shook their heads, and a few looked down at their feet.

  He stood up. The hatred, at least some of which had been deliberately manufactured in his head, morphed into disapproval.

  “That was pathetic. If that was a real VIP instead of DCI Gregorian, he’d be dead by now, thanks to you.” He eyed the deputy chief inspector, Kiro Gregorian, who just a half-hour before had been the “patient” in the infirmary room, and appeared to be hiding a smirk. Constable Khan met his eyes with a sheepish expression and then looked at the deck.

  He wanted to rail against the culture of Aotea, the idea that non-violence disapproval and discussion could solve everything, that all conflict could be avoided, and the listlessness that resulted from such ideological devotion. But he held that in. “You’ll have my report by tomorrow, and I expect a written report from each and every one of you as well, on what you observed, and the mistakes you made, and how they can be prevented.”

  They were silent.

  There were positives, but he kept silent about them. There were other targets aside from Kiro and the two he’d “killed” earlier, and after stumbling for the first few hours, at least they had reacted quickly enough to subdue him following the attack in the hospital. But there shouldn’t have been more than one successful attack.

  “Is that clear?”

  They responded in unison. “Yes, Chief Inspector!”

  Cyrus Konami knew there was more to say. But the chief inspector suspected he was already on thin ice from the higher ups — he’d had to beg and plead and finagle for months before they agreed to his plan for such a large-scale, ship-wide security drill.

  “Very well,” said Konami. “Back to your duties.”

  He didn’t hate these people, and this ship, and this culture, frustrating as they all were, he decided. It’s not hate, he told himself, just boredom. And perhaps just a slower adjustment than he thought it would be.

  I’m not a hateful man, he thought to himself. He even managed to smile and nod to one of the few constables who had demonstrated some aptitude and ingenuity in the drill.

  Just bored. And tired.

  As he left his office for the day, he yawned, even though he wasn’t tired.

  CHAPTER 2

  Trillions of miles from Earth, on the largest and most advanced spacecraft ever constructed, a shit filter was clogged. Not “evacuate the people spaces and don HazMat suits!” clogged, but “might cause a slight stench once-in-a-while” clogged.

  Data Technician 1st Class Theo Muahe sighed as he scanned the display monitors and past the abnormal readings on the console in the cramped Sewage and Water Control station. If he had been claustrophobic, this particular watch would have been a nightmare, but First Muahe was used to the tight quarters in many of Aotea’s watch stations and machinery spaces. Numbers for gas partial pressures, particulates, acidity, bacteria, and dozens of other details of the complexities of maintaining the potable water systems for every shower, kitchen, and head for the twenty thousand souls onboard the colony ship Aotea danced cleanly over the crystalline display. Technically, everything’s green. But Muahe wasn’t the type to pass off a problem, however minor it might be, to the next watchstander. He looked again at the first few log readings, confirming his suspicions. All the numbers were in the normal ranges, but bacterial and particulate logs had jumped a few ticks, after several hours of nearly identical values.

  “Damn shit filters…” he mumbled.

  A chirping interrupted his log reading, and Muahe turned his attention to his wearable, projecting it onto his lens. The multi-purpose device displayed a simple alert from the NetBug tracer he had started before reporting for his proficiency Sewage and Water Systems watch. Shouldn’t be full yet, he thought as he read the alert. The tracer had noted that hard drive 271w, one of thousands of identical data storage drives, was prematurely full. A black spot took his attention for a moment. Gonna have to re-lens the damn thing. His heart sped up when he realized there were no spare lenses in the watch station; he’d have to wait until he was back in his quarters. S’okay, Theo, you can still see it just fine. A little speck is no big deal… He took a deep breath, recognizing that he sometimes had trouble differentiating between trivial issues and major problems. A half minute of concentration told him that this one was the former.

  He shifted his attention back to the Tracer he had started immediately before he took the sewage watch. The data sponge he was tracking down was just the latest nuisance in his primary duty as part of the team that managed the data systems and automated programming of the massive colony ship Aotea.

  With practiced fingers dancing in the air, DT1 Muahe quickly navigated to the hard drive in question, and found to his surprise that it was mos
tly empty. “Huh,” he grunted. He queried the NetBug again, and after a few seconds, the tracer returned with the same result as before — hard drive 271w was full. Commands through his wearable simply queried the hard drive’s own logs. But the NetBug tracer was much more thorough, actually trawling the quantum-molecular data net itself. So who’s lying? My tracer or the hard drive? He groaned as he realized he wouldn’t be able to go right to sleep when he got off watch; his own nagging sense of duty would compel him to solve this little mystery. His primary responsibility would have to wait, though; as a fully qualified crewmember of Aotea, DT1 Muahe was required to periodically stand watch at most of the major ship’s systems to maintain proficiency. He returned to the sewage system logs.

  “Damn filter clogs,” he grunted. Accumulating debris in the water would occasionally gum up the works of the chemical cleaners that maintained bacterial levels near zero.

  “Where’s the RoverBot?” he muttered to himself as he scrolled through menus on the console as fast as the eye could follow. The sewage station shared a roving maintenance robot with some of the neighboring systems; minor maintenance like cleaning filters was usually left to the Rover. Atmospherics plant? Damn it!

  “Voice: get me the Atmo watch.” Unlike most Aoteans, Muahe routinely switched between voice, ocular, and tactile control of his wearable, finding each method to be more useful for different tasks.

  “Atmo, MT2 Taki,” answered a musical, feminine voice.

  Taki? Oh yeah, that little MedTech. I like the way her hips move… DT1 Muahe cleared his throat. “Atmo, Sewage. Where do you have the Rover?”

  “With a TechBot. Joint servo broke.”

  Jacks-of-all-trades in electronics and delicate machinery, TechBots served as general practitioners and surgeons for other Bots, though it was unusual for a RoverBot to require unscheduled repairs. “How much longer?”

  “Hour or two.”