“I’m sorry.”
Pat met her lips and rotated their hips. “You know, there’s one thing I’m gonna miss about the freefall when we get gravity back.”
“What’s that?”
“Let me show you…”
Her lover was snoring softly, loosely drifting under the blanket-wrap that kept them from floating away from the bed, but Mattoso couldn’t sleep. In the mystery vids, she recalled, they always missed something. It’d been a long time since she had seen one — most old Earth-system vids were banned onboard, unless they had been deemed “educational.” Especially ones with any violence. Supposedly, there was a small but thriving black market for banned media on Aotea, but there was no time for that.
A scene came to her from some old vid — the detective poring through old news articles; so old that they were actual physical clippings.
She recalled the list that her and Konami had come up with — one hundred and four names. She almost jumped out of the bed when she remembered that she had seen Gregorian’s name in that list. In all the chaos of recent days, she had forgotten all about it.
Under the loose blanket, she pulled up the names on her wearable, and started digging.
CHAPTER 49
Loesser reported that a surge team hadn’t checked in for three hours.
Konami just grunted, continuing to pore over the evidentiary report from Gregorian’s quarters. Goddamn it. If there had been anything in his quarters that might point toward other conspirators, Konami’s former best friend had hidden it awfully well.
“Cy,” repeated Loesser. “You said to tell you when it’s been three hours. Well, it’s been three hours.”
And where the hell was that vid? The Data techs hadn’t found a single remnant or even evidence of his recording during Gregorian’s last moments alive. “Three hours since what?”
“Since Surge Team Bravo checked in.”
Konami looked up, eyes wide. “Dead zone?” Loesser didn’t think so. Their last check in had been near Aft Supply.
In the immediate aftermath of the latest Spindown, the surge teams had been able to gobble up big chunks of territory and clear them of hostile Bots and equipment — but as the safe, Bot-free territory regained expanded, the manning necessary to guard every access expanded even more, slowing further gains. It’d sure be nice if the MOMbots were ready… The leadership had yet to approve the use of MOMbots to augment the surge teams, and they were still undergoing tests and evaluations. Even a dozen MOMbots, set loose with coding sticks and green markers, might double their rate of expanding the safe zones.
Konami pushed away from the big display and hauled himself out of his office. “Call up the offgoing Bravo team. We’re going after them.”
Suiting up for a search called up memories of that killer in Singapore. Konami was just a junior Sargent then, assigned to lead ten deputies into the ruins of the abandoned skyscraper where, according to an anonymous tip, the psychotic they were searching for had stashed his latest victim.
The metal-mesh body-armor that Fabrication had hastily fabbed, useless against slugs but hopefully resistant to slashing bot limbs, was heavier and more awkward than the sleek, fitted vests on Earth, and in freefall it didn’t weigh down his shoulders in the slightest, but he recalled the exact same nervousness and worry in the pit of his stomach from Singapore. He patted himself down and maneuvered over to the weapons locker.
He turned his head — it was Loesser again. “What’s that?”
“Offgoing was Constable Ginsberg, a Data tech, and a MedTech — Kunayak and Taki are their names. But Kunayak is sick, or something, so Master Tech Lopez sent a substitute.”
The sub turned out to be Master Tech Lopez himself. Konami scratched his chin and opened the weapons locker, sorting through the pieces they’d need. He watched Loesser go until she was around the corner before turning back to the weapons.
Shit. For the first time, he considered that he’d actually have to replace Gregorian.
Squad tactics were different in freefall — so different, in fact, that during the first few forays of the surge teams, they were caught off-guard by hostile Bots oriented contrary to the ‘normal’ up and down.
They eventually standardized the team size to three or four, with each member oriented ninety to one-hundred twenty degrees away from each other. As they made their way down the passageway toward Aft Supply, Konami had to continually order a slow-down to readjust Master Tech Lopez’s orientation — he kept drifting to the “natural” up-down position. It turned out, to Konami’s great frustration, that the Data department Master Tech had never actually been called up and deputized yet.
While distributing sidearms, Konami had asked Lopez why he was here instead of a junior tech. Lopez said that everyone else was exhausted. It was an unsatisfying answer that came back to Konami’s mind as they slowed down once again to readjust Lopez’s orientation. At the next passageway junction, he decided to just swap Lopez with Constable Ginsberg so the Master Tech would have the “natural” orientation.
Konami spoke softly into his wearable, reaching out to the missing surge team, but with no response.
At the next passage intersection, Ginsberg held up a hand for them to stop. The constable had heard something, pointing to a hatch.
Konami checked the ship layout on his projection. “Supply bulk storage space,” he read softly, looking at the oversized hatch his constable pointed out. After signaling everyone to stay quiet, he put his ear to the hatch. “Nothing.” Shit. He tentatively knocked. “Dillon? Anyone?”
There was no answer, and he nodded to Ginsberg.
Konami fingered the slugthrower’s safety as the constable spun the hatch’s manual wheel, grunting and wincing with effort. It seemed to take forever — the oversized hatches for bulk storage spaces must have deeper, and stiffer, locking mechanisms.
Suddenly the door burst free, swinging on its hinge and sending Ginsberg soaring through the passage. A thick, jointed metal appendage thrust out of the dark space. Why’s it always gotta be dark? Two shots rang out. “Cease fire, damn it!” The shots came from the MedTech, Second Taki, who spread her hands apologetically. “LoaderBot, stay where you are!” ordered Konami.
“It was pushing out, I swear!” said Ginsberg, rubbing his head as he crawled back next to the others. “The Bot. I didn’t even get the wheel to fully open.”
Just bruises, thankfully. The Bot appeared to be abiding by Konami’s orders. The only visible portion was the reinforced lifting appendage — the rest remained shrouded in the darkness of the storage space. Damn LoaderBots… The largest Bots onboard, LoaderBots would’ve been extremely formidable opponents in gravity. But in freefall, they were almost immobile — their tracked wheels were useless without a surface, and their huge, ungainly limbs were too clumsy to move by guycable.
And it was sitting in a dark storage space, between the surge team and whatever was inside. Damn it… Clumsy or not, those limbs were more than strong enough to break bones. He considered trying to shut the hatch, but that would put them within reach of the Bot. He projected a map of the spaces.
He ordered Ginsberg and Taki to make their way to the other side of the space, which according to the specs had another access hatch.
Konami watched them go back around the corner, the way they came. When he heard a hatch open and shut, he turned to Lopez, drifting a few meters away.
“So, Master tech, any recommendations on the next step?”
The Data department master tech raised his eyebrows for the barest instant, then his hand shot out. Konami felt something hit his chest — glancing down, it was some sticky mass, now covering his vidcam.
When he looked back up, it was down the barrel of Lopez’s gun.
CHAPTER 50
The Society for a New Humanity was founded on Ceres in the aftermath of the Martian Civil War, the year 2141 by the old Earth calendar. Paola Rahmon’s open letter to all the governments in the Solar System laid out the cold,
hard facts of Earth’s bloody history, advocating for a “clean start” for humanity, free from the poisonous influence of Earth’s culture of violence, however peaceful it may have seemed at the time.
Pat snored beside her, and Mattoso skipped ahead — she knew all this from Cerean grade school and the post-secondary lessons she got onboard from when she first arrived. Upon the rush of that familiar and comforting feeling from the words of Rahmon, she paused. As much as she trusted and believed in the Society, she knew logically that any chance at a successful investigation would require objectivity. Harder than it sounds.
She had started with the list of names, but that got her nowhere. Her aunt used to tell her to “start from the beginning — retrace your steps,” when something was lost. And she was swayed by Cy’s opinion that whatever was happening onboard had been in the works for a long, long time. With that in mind, as far as Mattoso could tell, the beginning of this expedition was Paola Rahmon’s letter.
In 2184, the SNH announced plans for an unprecedented expedition — the first manned vessel to leave the Solar System — a new start for humanity, completely separated from Earth and the rest of the Solar System. The response was overwhelming — hundreds of millions across the System responded with donations and applications to join, whether in person or in the future by way of a genetic sample. In 2191, funded by this massive individual support, construction of Aotea began.
She ended the projection. Shit. This didn’t tell her anything. Almost nothing about the people, beyond Rahmon, who started the SNH — certainly nothing beyond the sanitized propaganda about their real vision for the future. Propoaganda… she had never applied that word to what she learned before.
But there was nothing about the debates within the Society — and she recalled, clearly, that there had been such spats. Back on Ceres, or anywhere in the Solar System, she could call up any of a thousand investigative articles and reports written about the Society over the years, both positive and negative. But not here — the SNH Charter mandated a “clean break” from Earth’s culture, including most of the media produced through the Solar System. “To avoid repeating the mistakes of the past,” Paola Rahmon had written — the network history link displayed her letter prominently at the top of its entry on the Society for a New Humanity. “We must cease, once and for all, any glorification of these so-called heroes of the past, most of whom were little more than thugs and misguided killers. Never more should we teach our children of supposed triumphs on the battlefield, no matter the nobility of the cause, lest our children believe that battlefields can be places of honor, or killers heroes to be emulated.”
This wasn’t getting her anywhere, she decided. She needed another source of information — the official history wouldn’t tell her anything. She shocked herself a bit at this realization – that some necessary truths might be found outside the bounds of the SNH. But somehow it was obvious in her mind. Quietly, she slipped out from under the blanket, kissing Pat on the forehead before she drifted out of the bedroom.
Journalist Conneer wasn’t in her quarters. She wasn’t on watch, either — Mattoso checked the watchbill. She didn’t want to send her a message or a call. No matter the privacy rules of the Charter, someone might be monitoring internal comms, and what she was looking for was well outside of normal rules or practice onboard.
Finally, just before she was ready to break down and call, she spotted the journalist in one of the few cafés still in operation. Freeze-dried ration coffee in hand, Mattoso sat down a couple of tables over from Elena Conneer. She almost laughed to herself — all this trouble to find her in secret, but how could they talk without being spotted together by any observers, even as sparsely attended as this café was?
Conneer finished her coffee and abruptly got up and left. Mattoso start to rise to follow, screaming inside in frustration, but sat back down when she noticed a slip of paper by her foot.
Classroom 7, 15 min, it said, scribbled hastily.
The fifteen minutes went by excruciatingly slowly, and Mattoso dropped her mug off with the ServerBot and left the café. This early, the classrooms were dark and empty. Mattoso wedged herself into an undersized chair, bolted down in the zero-g, in classroom number seven to wait, and before she could project a game or an article to fight the boredom, a closet door swung open and Conneer drifted out.
“What’s with the hush-hush?” asked the Journalist, shutting the classroom’s door and curtains.
“I need something.”
Shhh… mimed the journalist. “I figured,” whispered Conneer. “What?”
“History files and news articles. From the Solar System, not the ship’s propoganda.”
The journalist looked genuinely surprised. “Can you be more specific?”
Mattoso leaned toward Conneer and lowered her voice further. “The Society and its founders. The disagreements behind the scenes. Anything that could shed some light about what might be going on.”
Conneer met Mattoso’s eyes blankly.
“Well? Does that even exist onboard, or is it hopeless?”
“Give me a minute.” The journalist squeezed her forehead with both hands. “How do I know you’re not setting me up?”
“How can I prove I’m not?”
Conneer tapped her chin rhythmically. “Tell me something confidential,” she whispered. “Something about the investigation.”
Shit. She thought for a minute or two. “The conspiracy is deep. It has to be — much too involved.”
“No shit. Tell me something a child couldn’t figure out.”
“MOMbots. We’re considering adding MOMbots to surge teams — they’re immune from the malfunctions.”
“Better. But I had heard that one already too. Try again.”
Is she just fishing? Not that it mattered — the journalist held all the cards here. At least she had what Mattoso was looking for, or so it appeared.
“Off the record?”
“Sure. Off the record. With the promise of more tidbits, similarly off the record, to come.”
“So no articles about it?”
“Right. This is just for my edification.”
Goddamnit. But she needed help. She decided she might as well trust her gut, and her gut told her that the journalist was no more than she appeared to be — someone who wanted to discover truths, whatever they might be.
“CHENG Papka dissents constantly. He’s always pushing against anything that might help the investigation, or speed up the territory surges.” She felt overwhelmingly dirty about criticizing a fellow officer for her own benefit, however annoying Papka might be.
“Okay,” sighed the journalist. “Not much, but that’ll do. For now, at least.”
“And…?”
“Café, two hours.”
It was going to be another sleepless night under the covers with Pat snoring beside her. But this time, instead of worry, it was excitement — the gigabytes of data the journalist had provided seemed like a treasure trove unlike anything she’d seen since before she came onboard. And despite her giddiness, there was a smidge of shame — like the rest of the crew, she had signed the Charter, which included a clause on “rejecting the bloody history and culture of Earth, and all it had influenced.” No, she told herself. Truth doesn’t have an ideology. Maybe someone had told that to her once before.
She scrolled through the article list, downloaded from the encrypted data chit Conneer had left her, picking out the first to pique her interest:
THE FACTIONS WITHIN THE SOCIETY FOR A NEW HUMANITY
by Lodz, Galilean Gazette, October, 2160
Paolans, Experimenters, and Shiners. No, not the latest zip-hop groups, but factions within the Society for a New Humanity, arguing about the best way to create a brand new human culture. All three accept the exhortations of its founder, Paola Rahmon, shortly after the Martian Civil War — that, because of the constant violence in Earth’s history, every culture “spun off” from Earth, throughout the Solar System, is doo
med to repeat this violence whenever conflicts and differences of opinion arise. But after Rahmon’s sudden death in 2147, the remaining ‘New Humans’ disagreed about the best way to achieve her goals, and even her ultimate goals themselves. The group has split into three basic factions. The Paolans insist that a new society must be founded, entirely cut off and separate from Earth and even the rest of the Solar System. Any contact could lead to contamination, they say. The Experimenters agree that a fresh start is necessary, but aren’t so insistent on total separation. They advocate for multiple, smaller societies, each experimenting with different social systems — the most effective can be exported and emulated. And the Shiners want to be that ‘shining city on a hill’, as an old Earth nation-state leader put it. They want the new society to serve as a beacon of progress and peace for the ‘old’ humanity to emulate — mandating some level of contact. So far, the three factions maintain an uneasy but peaceful (could it be any other way?) rhetorical stalemate.
Mattoso was almost beside herself with excitement — how had she not known about these factions? Just by skimming the article titles, she could see that there was far more about the SNH that wasn’t taught in Aotean classrooms. At the same time, it felt like something old was starting to crack inside her, but not necessarily in a bad way.
It was going to be another long and sleepless night, but for once she was excited at the prospect, no matter how tired she might be for her next watch.
CHAPTER 51
The sticky mass fizzled and popped on Konami’s chest. He started to wipe it away but it burned his fingers. “What the hell is this stuff?”
Lopez glanced to both sides, but maintained a steady hold of the slugthrower. “Corrosive mix with solid lubric — damn it! Slowly, take out your guns — yeah, the slug gun and the dart gun — and throw them in the space. Yeah, through the hatch.”
Konami considered disobeying — but he wanted the man to talk, not fight. He shoved the weapons through the hatch into the storage space with the LoaderBot.
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