Goddamnit. He tried not to let his frustration show through the comms system. “Thanks, Atmo, Sewage out.” Muahe closed the connection and shut his eyes, for some reason feeling a tad more energized. At least we get off watch at the same time. Maybe she’d like to get a drink or a dip in the Pond… Then he recalled the anomaly the NetBug found. Damn.
The bacterial and particulate readings were still technically within specification, so he was not bound by the regulations to do anything but note it in the logs and mention it to the next person on duty. But nothing was more irritating then relieving a watch only to have to solve a problem the last guy was too lazy to fix. If only I had a UI today… Periodically all watchstanders would be accompanied by an Under Instruction watch, usually a youngster still working on their ship’s qualification. And this would be an excellent job for a UI — he vaguely recalled that the Sewage qualification card had a Practical Factor requirement for manual clearance of a filter clog. He shook his head unconsciously. Guess it’s all on me, damn it. He didn’t look forward to squeezing his bulky frame into the maintenance crawlway, and dreaded even more the too-snug feeling of the thinsuit and breather he would need to wear to open up the purifiers.
“Might as well get it over with,” he mumbled as he made his way through the cramped passageways, instinctively ducking his head under various pipes and other obstacles for the tall. He was so busy minding the head-level obstructions that he nearly tripped on an insectile DustBot, and cursed at the indignant squeal from the little fist-sized cleaning robot, ubiquitous throughout Aotea.
The thinsuit locker was unhelpfully placed next to a bulky suction pump, leaving him little room to actually don it. And to add insult to injury, the breather seal was broken, eliciting an involuntary growl of frustration. He projected onto a bulkhead and navigated to the logs for this locker. It was signed by MRT2 Gustafson, dating about three weeks ago. Gustafson, damn it! Every time a breather was used, the regulations said the user had to replace the filter, recharge the tank, and apply a new tamper seal. The seal helpfully turned red if there was any leakage. Cursing, DT1 Muahe hooked the breather up to the pressure test device, only calming slightly when the readout came up clean. Okay Gustafson, you charged it and put the filter in, so that earns you a reprieve… but if you forget the fucking seal again, the brotherhood of the watch be damned, you’re getting reported!
The maintenance crawlway was even more confined than he remembered; he hadn’t had to traverse it for several months. Every step required a contortion — around a pipe, or an electrical box, or a data conduit, or one of hundreds of other components. By the time he reached the purifier lockout space, he was massaging a cramp in his hamstring. As soon as he shut the hatch behind him, he spent a full, luxurious minute stretching his muscles. He pawed through a few choices on the tiny display and temporarily shut off the flow through these filters. It took another minute for the purifier bank to drain with a telltale glug-glug. He took a deep breath and thumbed the release for the purifier bank entryway. Under the thinsuit hood, he barely heard the hiss of equalizing pressure as the narrow hatch opened.
He had to get on his knees once again to access the filters, with nothing but a porous grate between him and the innards of each device. At least this damn breather takes away the stink. The hatch shut automatically behind him. A small click from somewhere nearby took his attention, but nothing seemed out of place when he glanced around. He disconnected the power for the first machine in the bank and removed the grate, then reached in with a snake-like brush, guiding it through to scour every surface of the interior filter, carefully feeling for any lumps or snags. There was only a hint of dust on the brush head when he pulled it back. No clog here. He paused, for barely an instant smelling the fetid odor of the sludge that passed through these filters by the gallon. He took a deep breath as he replaced the grate, but all of a sudden his lungs were on fire. He jerked back involuntarily, slamming his head into the back panel of the next bank of purifiers. Dazed, he tried to stand, gulping the air in great gasps despite the burn. Hand over hand, he tried to pull himself back into the lockout space. The seal… the fucking seal… His left arm began to shake uncontrollably. He awkwardly slurred the voice control for an emergency call. “Sewage… purification bank 7. Can’t… breathe…” he managed to croak, vision blurring. And the blackness took over.
CHAPTER 3
Chief Inspector Cyrus Konami prayed for a murder. He shook his head, admonishing himself — perhaps not a murder, but maybe an assault — even a bar-fight, unheard of for Aoteans — or a burglary, a theft… even just some disorderly conduct. From his small, folding bunk he stared at the wearable, still clipped to his shirt, willing it to produce the report of some interesting emergency. Anything to break the monotony of life aboard Aotea, especially life as the chief inspector. Top cop on a ship of twenty thousand souls… and more than three years outside of Earth, just one crime of note. Only one crime more serious than vandalism. The Case of the Poisoned Cigar.
Well, it hadn’t really been poisoned; a jilted lover from the Bio lab spiked a batch of fobacco with a fungal strain to which his rival was allergic. The next time the poor guy puffed up on a fresh cigar, his throat started to close up. Luckily, emergency response was lightning fast when all the living space inside Aotea consisted of just a few square kilometers. It wasn’t even that hard to solve. The suspect had confessed after being left alone in the interview room for just an hour.
Maybe the SNH guys really were onto something, getting rid of Earth media. Decades before the expedition left the lazy orbit around a medium sized asteroid in the belt, the Society for a New Humanity had laid down specifications for the media that was allowed onboard, even if they couldn’t actually enforce those rules until they left the system. Chief among those restricted were those vids and texts believed to glorify aggression or dishonesty. Even the occasional bored teenage vandal couldn’t seem to dissemble their way past a rookie cop. But that nagging concern remained — Aoteans might be pretty damn agreeable folks… but what happened when someone misbehaved? Humans were the same everywhere, he was convinced — Lagos and Singapore might be two of the most different cities on Earth, but his time working as a cop in both cities had taught him that people did the same awful shit to each other everywhere. Agreeable and honest as they were, and as technically skilled, he was sure that Aoteans were not ready for the real shit that people could do to each other. Especially with the boredom of a decades-long journey.
A whine shifted his attention. His brindle dog Kostya ambled over and licked his fingers. “You want a treat, I guess,” said Konami. “Well, tough. You can’t always get what you want.” He knew he’d give in later, even though the jenji breed, the only dogs onboard, were famously even-tempered; Kostya’s single whine was the extent of her begging. Konami scratched behind her ears and she closed her eyes contentedly, finally strolling over to the waste tray in the corner. He wondered if the amiable canine was his biggest reason to live these days.
“How much can a man sleep?” he muttered to himself and yawned as he rose to his feet. Lately he had been averaging more than ten hours per day; aside from the latest drill, there was rarely more than an hour of work to do at the Constabulary, and he only stood a proficiency watch at a system station once or twice a month. He had taken to volunteering for extra duty shifts, even at the most hated watch-stations like Sewage and Reclamation, just to pass the time. Since he covered someone’s watch the previous day his waking time was reversed, and he felt discombobulated — well rested but awake during the ship’s night. Nights, days, months, years…what do those words even mean to us out here? The only intrinsic rhythm aboard Aotea was the rotation amidships to simulate gravity, and this was just about once per minute. The four-kilometer-long, six-hundred-some-odd-meters-in-diameter cylindrical living space, divided in two pieces commonly called the Cans, steadily rotated to produce the centrifugal force that held everything tethered to its inner surface at a little over a third of Earth’s gravity. D
ay and night were simulated by bright lights, a faux sun and moon, at the ends of the Cans. Will we even stay awake all “day” and sleep all “night” when we arrive? The length of the day would very slowly increase, throughout their long journey, in order to match the multiple Earth-day-long periods of light and darkness on their new home, the moon called Samwise, which revolved around a gas-giant called Abhoth, orbiting a star more than a dozen light years from earth.
Konami had been ecstatic when he got the call five years ago that Aotea had reconsidered his application. That excitement was only tamped down when he learned the reason they reconsidered: the first chief inspector had hung herself. There was no explanation, just a terse farewell note. It had certainly seemed suspicious at first, but after five Earth-years on the job, Konami was starting to sympathize. And she had been on the job for ten years during construction and initial settlement. Though if she really couldn’t take it anymore, why not just bow out of the mission?
The excitement was gone. At the beginning, just the concept of being the first humans to leave the solar system – real pioneers, like no one since the first settlers on Mars – was enough to set his heart beating. Just a few thousand souls in deep space, with nothing but the blackness around them, and if the ship had had windows, nothing to see but the stars. And the dream of a wholly new society, even a wholly new people, to be created at their destination.
But after five years onboard, he still felt like an outsider. Most Aoteans younger than thirty Earth years had spent almost all their lives onboard, and at forty-one, Konami was older than nearly everyone else besides the most senior officers, technicians, and the SNH bigwigs. And now he had fifty-five more years in deep space to look forward to before they reached Samwise. There was a culture here that he still didn’t fully understand. It was more than just the tenets and history of the Society for a New Humanity – it was an earnest optimism and belief in not just a better future, but a wholly new future, unlike any society humanity had ever conceived. Try as he might, Konami had never been able to silent his inner cynic; he believed that people were people, and tended to have the same flaws no matter where they were or how they lived.
He tried to look on the bright side. Ninety-six isn’t so old… a few organ replacements, a month of gene therapy, and plenty of time to raise a few kids, play with the grandkids, maybe spend a few decades in retirement.
It didn’t work. Fifty-five Earth years is a goddamn lifetime — even more than a lifetime, if we go back far enough. He shook off that train of thought as he showered and put on the roomy blue jumpsuit that served as the working uniform for most of the men and women onboard — only the badge on his breast served to distinguish the Constabulary’s uniform from those of his crewmates.
The lack of sky no longer felt disorienting, but looking up and seeing ground, dim as it was in the low lighting of the simulated night, still felt awkward when he was “outside.” On a whim he donned his low-light lenses — feeling a bit silly, since they were fashioned to look just like stylish sun-shades — souvenirs from an Earth stakeout-gone-wrong, years ago. His captain had awarded the goggles to him as compensation for the chronic problems a flash grenade had caused his night vision ever since.
Tiny shapes of ant-like children played ball on a green hundreds of meters above him, defying one’s instinctual sense of up and down. Their minuscule shadows, cast by the dimming fusion-fired lights from along the dividing Ring kilometers aft, danced and merged like inkblots. A spider-like presence on the corner of the green could only be a robot, though Konami could not recall the colloquial used for the handful of landscaping robots onboard to maintain the surface fields and parks. GreenBots? GardenBots?
Even stranger, at least when he first arrived, was the arcing curve of the surface. There was ground “above” him, but also where the horizon should be in the spinward and anti-spinward directions, gracefully curving “upwards” and around. Forward and aft were the massive bulkheads and arches of the Ring dividers, separating the forward Can from the forward Operations section of the ship, and the forward Can from the aft Can. He lowered his gaze and meandered onward, taking a circuitous route to loosen his legs.
He stopped for a minute at the wide windows of a kindergarten, one of the few classes with similarly reversed days and nights to accommodate the handful of parents who routinely worked the night shift. Thirty youngsters, no more than five or six years old, played among the padded furniture of the playroom far more gently than Konami’s memories of the children in Lagos and Singapore, or his own childhood in New Orleans. Two seized the same toy, and after just seconds of a bewildered tug-of-war, a MOMbot was between them. The furry, vaguely humanoid robot distracted one with tickles and the other with a dexterous one-handed juggling act, the toy in question promptly forgotten. The Bot’s cartoon-like countenance gave Konami the willies, but every Aotean who grew up on the huge vessel, including Konami’s youngest deputy, adored the MOMbots. Constable Ginsberg even had a habit of periodically visiting one of the older units — Konami had learned that the robots, a decades-old Mercurian model designed to supervise children while their parents were core-mining, were programmed to form deep attachments to children that could last for decades.
He couldn’t help but have some pity for the children – all their lives, into their middle age, would be spent on Aotea. Was it possible to fully mature in such a limited environment? In such a structured society? They would certainly face challenges, whether on this long journey or on their alien destination. How could a few square kilometers of metal and habitat, and the cult-like strictness of the SNH culture, prepare them for that unknown?
At the cafeteria, Konami tried to respond with more than a grunt to the greetings from others in line; pursed lips and raised eyebrows told him once again that his acting was sub-par. At least it’s pasta day. He doubled up on carbonara, smiled at the faceless ServiceBot, and took a seat at an empty table. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind of everything but anticipation of the food when his wearable chirped to life.
“…purification bank 7… can’t breathe…” was all Konami could make out as he grimaced and dropped his fork, and he sprang to his feet, dashing out of the cafeteria and redonning his goggles.
Who’s on Emer this morning? He voiced a non-emergency call to the watch station. The Emergency dispatch station responded just as he stepped outside, shielding his eyes against the bright white light from the aft end of the ship; his goggles enhanced the gentle moon-like glow of the lighting during ship’s night into a blazing beacon.
“Emer, Loesser.” Good, Maria’s quick on her feet. Inspector Maria Loesser was, for all intents and purposes, third in command of the Constabulary after Konami and Deputy Chief Inspector Kiroshi Gregorian.
“Maria, Cy. MedTechs on their way?”
“Affirmative,” answered Maria. “Call was from Purification Bank 7.”
“Roger, Emer. On my way.” Wait a minute… Konami tried to recall some of the details of his, frankly, slightly less-than-intensive ship’s qualification process. Because of his senior position even as soon as he arrived onboard, he had the distinct impression that his qual watches and qual boards were made easier for him. Nonetheless, he had felt the same distinct surge of pride on being presented with his “star canoe” qualification pin that he imagined all Aoteans felt. For Konami, however, that pride had been short lived, quickly overwhelmed by the boredom and resentment of the long journey.
Nevertheless, he was pleased to find that he actually remembered some technical details of the Sewage and Water systems. “Maria, the Purification banks use hazmat, right?”
“Affirmative. The MedTechs have breathers and thinsuits.”
“Roger. Cy out.” Guess I’ll have to stop by one of the lockers. He made his way through narrow alleys to a maintenance hatch, doffing his low-light goggles once inside the neutrally lit machinery spaces, and climbed down to the moveway level. As big as Aotea was, even the most far-flung watch stations on the C
ans were within walking distance. But for emergencies and convenience, rapid fore-aft moving walkways were maintained every hundred meters or so at a lower level. Konami stepped onto one of these and was zipped along to the aft Ring. He nodded a greeting to a technician taking apart an electrical relay next to the moveway.
The moveways were useful for travel along the longitudinal axis, but not around the polar axis. The Rings were ten-meter-long cylinders, one in between the Cans, and one at each end, between the living spaces and the free-floating null-g operations and engineering spaces forward and aft of the Cans — but separated such that they could rotate freely. Aoteans used the Rings to travel both in the spinward/anti-spinward directions, and between the living space and Operations and Engineering, as well as between the two Cans. Konami thumbed his emergency authorization into the Ring callbox and listened to the whirring rumble as it spun up to match the aft Can’s rotation speed. Anyone else currently needing or riding the aft Ring would have to wait, but everyone onboard was long accustomed to such occasional inconveniences. He felt antsy as he stood there waiting — his instincts were telling him he had to move.
The Ring locked to the Can with a thunderous ka-chunk and the doors slid open. A cheery female automated voice announced “Moveway one two,” and Konami stepped onto the Ring car and took a seat on an overstuffed sofa opposite a sleepy but irritated looking young couple in khaki jumpsuits. Probably just got relieved from reactor watch.
Konami shrugged, pointing sheepishly to the badge emblem at his breast. “Sorry folks, got an emergency in Sewage. I’ll just be a moment.” The young woman scowled at the interrupted journey.
“Please strap in now,” directed the automated voice, and Konami snapped the padded straps over his chest. The Ring disengaged loudly and reduced speed, then sped up again and re-engaged to the Can. The rapidly changing “gravity” made Konami’s guts churn, but less so than his last time on a Ring. Maybe I’m finally an Aotean… “Moveway zero four” said the voice.
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