“It’s the breather mask,” she answered. “It failed the pressure test.” HTM Wells demonstrated, closing the test device over the mask, activating it, and pointing to the telltale red “failure” light.
They looked at the locker logs again — MRT2 Gustafson had fully annotated the thinsuit logs, including the pressure test, as did DT1 Muahe.
“So that was it…” said Konami. “The mask couldn’t protect him from the toxic gas.”
“Wait a second — the filter’s in, right?” asked Mattoso. “Because Muahe was wearing it, and already installed it. But wouldn’t he test the mask before he puts in the filter? According to procedure?”
DTM Lopez nodded vigorously. “Muahe would follow procedure. Definitely.”
“Actually, you’re right,” answered Wells, pointing out the steps on the posted procedural guide. She removed the breather filter and tested it again, and this time it passed.
“But that doesn’t make sense.” Wells scratched her head. “The filter shouldn’t make a difference — it’s entirely inside the mask.”
The CI was about to speak when he got a call and stepped aside. He returned a moment later with a grim expression. “I’m sorry, Master Tech,” he said, hand on Lopez’s shoulder. “DT1 Muahe is dead.”
CHAPTER 6
Aotea’s Commanding Officer, Captain Lillin Horovitz, was annoyed. The solidly built veteran spacer didn’t try to hide it — she drummed her fingers, cleared her throat, and stared down each of the department heads, including Konami, who flinched from her gaze just like everyone else. Her silver hair was unusual onboard — most rejuvenated their follicle cells periodically. He wondered what that said about her personality — the chief inspector did not know the captain very well, despite the recurring department head meetings. When the ship’s operational command structure interacted with the civil command structure, in which the constabulary was included, it was usually through the mayor. The few times he’d spoken to her she’d been curt, professional, and entirely unflappable. And notably, she was one of the few onboard in a senior position who didn’t make a point to rhetorically kowtow to the Society. Ship scuttlebutt suggested that there were no veteran spacers within the Society when crew decisions were made, and the Captain was one of those few outsiders, just like Konami, brought in to fill experience gaps.
The captain’s orange cat, Halifax, echoed her owner’s mood, gracefully marching across the meeting table and giving every department head a good stare. The jenji cat’s gaze was a bit easier to meet then Captain Horovitz’s, and she deigned to let Konami rub her belly.
In contrast to Captain Horovitz’s visible vexation, Director-Superintendent Harry Akunle was as positive as ever. The man most Aoteans called “mayor,” or “CE” for civil executive, reminded Konami of career politicians on Earth — always smiling, quick to shake hands, quick with a laugh (and with Society pablum), and reluctant as hell to say anything substantive. Konami knew him well — Mayor Akunle held weekly meetings with each of his department heads, and asked probing questions, even when the Constabulary had little of note to do. And at the end of each meeting, the mayor would slap Konami on the shoulder, praise his work as chief inspector, and say “just remember who we’re doing this for, Cy.” Konami knew it wasn’t sincere, but couldn’t help but like the mayor anyway.
They had been waiting long enough that various side conversations, held in whispered tones lest they incur the captain’s intimidating gaze, had broken out. Medical Director Madani tapped Konami on the shoulder.
“Did you see the ironball game yesterday?” the lanky doctor asked, louder than Konami would have risked.
He said he saw the highlights.
“I was at the Arena,” she bragged with a grin. “Great game — it went to double overtime. You should come with me to the next one.”
Konami raised an eyebrow, recalling distantly, now that he thought about it, that she might have flirted with him at the last meeting. He hadn’t had a date in months, not that he had put much effort into it. He met the medical department head’s eyes for a moment, wondering if he had missed other signals as well. Konami decided that she was attractive, and the decision brought a long-absent feeling of adventurousness. “That sounds nice, doctor.”
“Please, call me Ilsa.”
“Ilsa.” He blinked. “And call me Cy. What time?”
“Two days, evening. I’ll send you an invite.”
He did his best to smile, and she let out a breathy laugh. Konami cut short his grin when he recalled why they were gathered. Ah, crap. Theo Muahe had no family onboard, but according to DTM Lopez, his best friend was a mechanical technician, MCT2 Don Olivier. Second Olivier had been shocked to his core when Konami told him, even trying to call Muahe on his wearable, before breaking down in tears. But Konami tried to let himself feel good for a moment — “If you don’t learn how to compartmentalize the bad shit you see, you won’t be a cop for long,” his first partner had told him.
Madani furrowed her brow at Konami’s expression.
“Sorry,” he said. “Rough day.”
She nodded. “I know. Our first loss…”
They were interrupted by the arrival of the three popularly called the “Bigwigs.” Well into their fifties, the three Sponsors from the Society for a New Humanity were the oldest people onboard, and the only adults actually outside the formal command structure. Nominally, each of them had a day job — Wilson Paramis was a demographer, Mara Ngayabo was a geneticist, and Hamad Maltin was an agro-biotechnologist. But they never stood proficiency watches, and Konami seriously doubted that their department heads gave them any real assignments without their express permission. The fact that Captain Horovitz and Mayor Akunle waited for them to start the meeting was the real proof of their influence onboard Aotea. Even Halifax tended to stay away from them, finally lying down imperiously next to the commanding officer.
The Bigwigs made Konami nervous. They had no formal role — in contrast to all other positions onboard, “bigwig” wasn’t called out in the Charter. Unlike the director-superintendent, they were not elected by the civil section department heads, and unlike the commanding officer, they didn’t serve as one of the operational section department heads and executive officer prior to ascending to command. Each had a formal title of “professor,” but nearly everyone just called them the “Bigwigs.” They had been onboard since the start of construction, and thanks to gene therapies and organ replacements, the Bigwigs would probably be onboard when Aotea reached Samwise. Nobility. That’s the word that the Bigwigs conjured up — unelected nobility, outside of the struggles and challenges of the rest of society, outside of the law. Well, perhaps they were — Konami was thankful he hadn’t had to test that. But it was just another thing about the Aotea that turned his stomach… he wondered if he could ever feel truly comfortable in such a society.
“Inspector?”
It took Konami a second to realize he was being addressed. Harry usually called him “Cy.”
“Inspector?” repeated Mayor Akunle. “The latest with the investigation?”
“Sorry,” Konami cleared his throat. “With the help of the Habitability master tech, we’re looking into the thinsuit breather and filter.” He explained the odd results of the pressure test device.
“So it passed without the filter in, but failed with the filter?” asked the chief engineer, a fussy, wiry commander named Ishi Papka.
Konami answered in the affirmative. “That’s what the test device at the scene told us. One of my deputies is confirming the result with the lab guys as we speak.”
“Now that we’ve determined that there was an equipment malfunction,” said the XO, “I think we can consider this an operational issue, Captain.”
Konami frowned. A fucking jurisdictional argument… God, it had been years since he’d had one of those. He almost felt nostalgic.
“No, we’re not ready to conclude that yet,” answered Captain Horovitz. “We don’t know what caused the ma
lfunction.”
She paused and Konami jumped in. “And we are coordinating closely with one of the XO’s officers, Captain. Lieutenant Mattoso will be involved in every step.”
CDR Criswell looked annoyed, but he stayed silent.
The skipper nodded agreement. “Very well. Any other issues before we adjourn?”
A nasal voice spoke up. “It’s the signal thing, Captain.” Lieutenant Commander Lara Olin, the Comms/Signals officer, spoke nervously.
“Oh no, it’s the Klingons!” mumbled the navigator, Commander Rusk, to nervous laughter around the table. The captain’s cat jumped at someone’s high pitched bark of amusement.
“I know I’ve mentioned it before—”
“Many times before,” was the reply under someone’s breath.
“But my techs aren’t imagining it. We have almost a cycle of these UHF transmissions, and we can’t make—”
Captain Horovitz cut her off with a raised hand. “Keep logging the signals. Report any patterns your team notices.”
Klingons… Konami snorted. He wondered if he envied Lieutenant Commander Olin for having a mystery, until he recalled that he had a mystery of his own. A mystery and a dead man.
“No one’s been inside, right?” the chief inspector asked the deputy guarding the door to DT1 Muahe’s quarters, inside one of the standard four-story habitation structures on the surface of the aft Can. Konami was perturbed since the data master technician had given him the wrong directions to the deceased’s quarters — aft Can, 3rd Rib, forward third, when it was aft Can, 3rd Rib, aft third. He could have easily looked it up himself, of course.
“Right, CI,” answered Junior Inspector Dillon. “I relieved Lee, who reported no one tried to go in since she arrived.”
“Very good. Let’s take a look.” Konami removed the bright yellow vidcam from its case and cleared his throat. Just as he was about to turn it on, the junior inspector’s eyes went wide. “Nothing to worry about, Deputy. Just a vidcam.”
“But… personal vidcams are banned, right?”
This wasn’t the first time Konami had encountered anxiety over recording devices onboard. “No, just nanocams. And unmanned surveillance cams. But vidcams are allowed as long as they’re not hidden, and they conform to specs.” He tapped the casing above the lens, explaining the minimum size and marking requirements.
Imagine being scared of a vidcam. On Earth, of course, they were ubiquitous. Every gadget doubled as a camera, and nigh-invisible nanocams could be purchased by the bucketful, attached to every surface, and continuously upload to the cloud. A restoration of privacy was one of the primary drivers, aside from the desire to eliminate violence, behind the creation of the Society for a New Humanity.
“You okay with this, Deputy? We can get someone else.”
“Yeah, I’m okay. It’s no problem.”
“Good, because you’ll be recording.” Konami handed the fist-sized camera to the junior deputy and showed him how to turn it on. “Get everything, and touch nothing.” Once the red light was blinking, he looked into the lens. “5 May 2240,” he said, and paused. He still thought by the Earth calendar, even though most onboard tracked the three hundred-day cycles since departing from the solar system. “Cycle three, day 261,” he continued, “approximately eight hours since the Emer call for the incident leading to the death of Data Technician First Class Theodore Muahe. We can verify that no one has entered the quarters of the deceased since about one hour after the Emer call.”
Konami opened the door with DT1 Muahe’s key. It was a standard two-room single quarters, and rather than the more common living or sitting area, it was apparent that DT1 Muahe had arranged his front room as a small workshop. Cluttered would be an understatement. Muahe had his very own desk computer, something he’d never seen in someone’s quarters before — with a dozen modifications and additions, it was almost as big as those ancient units he recalled from an old 21st-century vid. The computer desk took up a quarter of the workshop, with the rest of the space taken up by computer gear and bot parts in various states of repair. One bot was operating — it looked like a DustBot at first, but it was larger, with a few extra appendages. It ignored the two inspectors while it fussed over a pile of small parts in a corner.
Konami carefully made his way through the mess, gesturing toward various details for Dillon to record. The bedroom was Spartan, the bunk unmade and slightly sour-smelling. Antisocial tinkerer? Lonely nerd? Quirky inventor? Konami tried to tamp down on his own speculation before everything could be analyzed. Satisfied that the vidcam had captured anything in the quarters that might possibly be useful, he had Dillon shut it off and made a call to Emer.
“Emer, Floros.”
“Floros, it’s Cy. We finished recording in Muahe’s quarters. Detail the baggers — apprentices are fine. Dillon will stay behind and supervise.” Konami noted a grin passing on the junior inspector’s face. “You okay with that, Inspector?”
“Absolutely, CI. We’ll bag and tag everything, clean as the black.”
Konami nodded as he departed. He knew “the black” referred to the clean vacuum of space, but for some reason, the reference made Konami think of a different kind of darkness.
CHAPTER 7
Mattoso used to hate waiting, but cycles into a half-lifetime-long journey had cured her of her impatience. At least, that’s what she thought — now that she was actually waiting for something as important as this, her predilections returned with a vengeance. The diagnostic techs were positively gleeful — she reckoned this was probably the first time they had to investigate a malfunction more severe than a squeaky hinge. At least their enthusiasm was a tiny bit infectious; they explained the workings of the molecular scanner with real zeal, even while waiting for the minute lenses to complete their nigh-undetectable, and seemingly endless, movements across the surface of the faulty breather filter.
She realized she was nigh-buzzing with energy. An actual murder! It should be terrible – and she recognized intellectually that it was terrible – but she was as excited as she’d been in cycles. Well, maybe a murder. Maybe it would just be an accident. That felt disappointing to contemplate, which made her feel a momentary wave of shame.
Mattoso checked a message on her wearable – her girlfriend/boyfriend (Pat alternated which term they preferred) complained about their kids and promised fresh vat-grown duck breasts for dinner. She smiled, well aware that they adored teaching, and especially adored the children in their class.
A bell rang, setting the lab techs back in motion. Chief Chari frowned as she passed — Mattoso had had to pull rank in order to remain in the little diagnostics lab while the techs worked, and the DGT chief had not been pleased. After a two-minute huddle, Chari approached her.
“It was the edge of the filter, Lieutenant,” she said gruffly. “There was enough scoring along one side that it didn’t seal properly when fully installed.” Chari pointed out the scoring on an imager. “Normally it wouldn’t matter, but this one stuck out a few extra microns — enough to sort of stick between the connection.”
She asked about possible causes.
The diagnostics chief shrugged. “Normal wear and tear, a fab error, who knows?”
Mattoso subvocalized, making a note, and saving the images from the scanner. Can’t be a fab error, can it, if this filter was used before? But she recalled that, according to procedure (and according to the breather unit logs), breather filters were only used once and replaced. Then that might argue against wear and tear, right?
Her wearable vibrated — a call from the chief inspector. The department head meeting had completed. She updated him on the results from the lab. “What’s the next step, CI?” she added.
“Cy, please. Next step is interviews.”
Konami beat her to MRT2 Gustafson’s hab, one of a sixteen identical units in a standard Hab near the central Ring. She was pleased to find him waiting in the passageway, examining the ministrations of the blocky TrashBot as it cleaned th
e edges of the walkway — she had been worried he would go ahead and start the interview without her.
She wasn’t quite sure what to make of the Chief Inspector. Earthers made her feel just a bit nervous, but she knew that wasn’t quite fair. Yes, the problem of violence and aggression throughout the solar system was inherited from Earth’s history, but all the teachings of the SNH abhorred any sort of bigotries based on categories like place of origin. He struck her as competent, and his reasoning for the recent drills made logical sense… but just the knowledge that someone onboard was capable of the assaults, even in a drill, she’d read about in the aftermath reports, gave her the willies. Now why would that creep her out, but the prospect of investigating a murder did the opposite?
She asked about the autopsy – there was nothing surprising, just asphyxiation and toxicity from the gas mixture.
She was annoyed that she had to ask, and he apologized and promised to keep her informed.
Gustafson turned out to be a prematurely balding young man in a sleeveless shirt and shorts. “Uh, who are you?” he grunted while a shirtless youth gestured in the air, a cluster of wearables arranged around his head. A yellow jenji dog sniffed the visitors’ feet before returning to the food dispenser.
Gustafson’s eyes went wide when Konami introduced them. They ignored the triumphant shout from the vidgame player.
Konami met Mattoso’s eyes and tilted his head toward the young tech, suppressing a yawn. She swallowed her surprise. He’s telling me to lead the interview! “According to the breather logs, Second Gustafson, you were the last one to use the thinsuit and breather before the deceased.”
“Breather?” The tech scratched his neck. “Guess I was on watch, and had to go into a hazspace.”
A pause, and Konami broke the silence. “Mr. Gustafson. Try to think back. We can pull up your watch records if it would help.”
Damn it, Bea. She was annoyed at herself for waiting too long and allowing Konami to take the lead again.
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