CHAPTER 9
“It was a one-in-a-million fluke, according to the electronics techs,” Mattoso explained to the executive officer, holding up a small and shiny sliver of metal. Commander Criswell’s office, beneath the command bridge, was Spartan and functional, like the XO himself. He even had his own DustBot clinging magnetically to the wall, programmed to remain in his office and keep it spotless, unlike most of the thousands of little robots that could roam nearly everywhere onboard there might be dirt. In the operational and engineering spaces forward and aft of the ever-rotating Cans, gravity was not quite null due to the constant small acceleration of the Aotea’s propulsion drive, but it was close enough to feel like zero-g. She pushed gently against the fixed desk with her feet to prevent herself from drifting to meet the executive officer, explaining the source of the metallic shard. She handed the XO the culprit. “So that’s quite a coincidence — this shard shorts the circuit at the same time—”
Commander Criswell cut her off, somehow appearing to be standing steady despite the lack of gravity. “Sometimes coincidences actually happen. And maybe not that much of a coincidence, if the rumors about Second Gustafson are true.”
You should know better than to listen to rumors, XO. But she kept her mouth shut.
After a couple of years onboard, she was finally used to the XO’s personality. But it had taken a while. The Societans on Ceres had won her over with their warmth and kindness – the promise that a new humanity wouldn’t just be free from violence, but free from conflict of any kind. That freed from the shackles of Earth culture, by our very nature humans would want nothing more than to love, be loved, create, and recreate.
That might have been a childish hope, but it was effective. And while her joy in joining the crew of the Aotea was still as high as it ever was, she understood now that it was much broader than that childish sales pitch. She’d come to understand and respect that there was indeed more to natural human inclinations than love and pleasure and joy, and that communities needed more rigid personalities like the XO just as much as it needed those like the neo-hedonists of the Cerean Societans.
“The chief inspector is still conducting his investigation,” was all she said.
“Now we know the cause. Tell that to the chief inspector — he can wrap up his investigation, but it should be soon.”
But what caused it to fall and short the circuit? “Aye, sir,” was all she said, and she was dismissed.
Someone was waiting for her in the passageway outside her quarters. The woman’s face was familiar, but it took Mattoso a few seconds to place it — the face at the bottom of every issue of Aotea Today.
“Elena Conneer,” she said.
The journalist oozed energy, even as she stood. The muscular little woman thrust a vidcam forward, a pulsing red light signaling that the device was recording. “Lieutenant Mattoso, what’s the latest on the investigation into First Muahe’s death? Did Second Gustafson’s negligence lead to his death?”
Mattoso took a deep breath. Damn cameras. Escaping the near constant video surveillance of Earth, whether by public or private forces, was a significant part of the Society for a New Humanity’s Charter. The ubiquitous wearables didn’t even have the capacity to record video without modification.
“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.” You know that, Elena, even if you’re out of practice.
The journalist switched off the camera and smiled, the tense energy in her gymnast’s build seeming to evaporate. “I know, Lieutenant. Just need to have some sort of vid in the article — ‘no comment’ is par for the course for a murder investigation.”
Mattoso chuckled. “Okay… wait, murder? Who told you this was a murder investigation?”
Conneer just widened her crocodile grin.
“It’s not,” Mattoso added. “Well, maybe… no comment. Just no comment.” Guess I’m out of practice too.
“Thank you very much, Lieutenant. You’ve been very helpful.” The journalist finally stopped smiling and walked away.
Mattoso shook her head to herself. Nice going. At least Conneer hadn’t recorded Mattoso’s verbal misstep.
She was startled upon entering her quarters to be wrapped up in wiry, strong arms. “I’ve been waiting for this all day…” Mattoso silenced Pat’s husky voice with her own lips.
“How long’ve you been waiting?” said Mattoso, finally pulling away.
“Hours. Cycles.” Mattoso’s companion pulled her in for another kiss. “But I have a qual watch in an hour.”
“Then we gotta be quick…”
She signed contentedly after Pat left. She had that urge to lie in bed forever, but motivated herself to arise and change into off-duty duds. Her door chimed — it was Konami. She caught his eyes darting for the barest moment to her chest.
“I just wanted to give you the latest news.”
She invited him in and offered him a drink.
“No, thank you,” he responded, clearing his throat. “Let me get to the point — Second Gustafson called me. Rumors have already spread. Nothing major, but he’s been getting anonymous emails.”
For a moment she was shocked. Not by the rumors, but by the emails. Aoteans were the cream of the human crop in terms of rational thinking and emotional control, based on the geneset requirements for potential colonists. The millions of individual genomes submitted alongside the submission fees — a substantial part of the funding of Aotea’s construction in the decades prior to launch — were weeded down to the twenty thousand applicants with the right combination of skills, experience, diversity, personality, and genetic tendencies toward health, advantageous behaviors, and other concerns. The ones that didn’t make the cut, but were close, were saved for the sake of genetic diversity — new generations would be largely built off these saved genesets. And all it takes for network vandalism and threats is the death of a crewmate?
“We should assign someone to look out for him. Can your watchbill support?” she asked, finally.
“Taken care of.”
“How about the messages? Can we track down who sent them?”
Konami shook his head. “Maybe, though we’d need the cooperation of the data techs. But none of the messages were direct threats — they wouldn’t violate the Charter, even if we knew who sent them.”
“So what’s the latest from the labs?” he asked.
She filled him in on the shard of metal that short circuited the hatch interlock. And she forced herself to tell him about Conneer’s “interview” — she didn’t want it to be a surprise if he saw the vid on the next issue.
At the mention of the XO’s request, Konami laughed. “You can’t rush an investigation. Didn’t you learn that in class?”
“Of course,” she replied. Please don’t lecture me, CI.
“Tell the XO next time you see him, that it’ll be done when it’s done.”