CHAPTER 12
Konami yawned as he scrolled through the logs from fabrication. He was tired, but it was almost a welcome tiredness. Tired from honest police work for change, rather than from extreme boredom.
For the first time in at least a year, he considered that perhaps it wasn’t a mistake to join the crew. Maybe they did really need him.
The breather filters were ubiquitous onboard Aotea, stored in bulk anywhere breathers were found — and considering that, in emergencies, specifications called for the ability for every single soul onboard to be able to don a breather at once, that meant that they were stored all over the ship. But why do we use so damn many filters, when there hasn’t even been smoke, much less a fire, in months? A quick query revealed all the various events that could result in someone putting on a breather — training, various practical factors for qualifications, hazmat and hazspace evolutions, and more. And every time someone used one, they ordered a replacement, to keep the stocks full. All breathers shall have no less than three clean and unopened filters stored with them at all times, according to the specs. Practically speaking, this meant that most breathers had five or six filters stored alongside them to account for any delay in ordering new filters when one was used.
So that added up to a few dozen filters ordered each month. So far almost all of them were ordered through the Supply system, which meant that the individual making the order was recorded. And the department that the filter was ordered for — which often didn’t match the rate of the ordering individual — was recorded as well. But there were a handful that were ordered in person, at the fab controls, with no delivery recorded — they must have been delivered and replaced by the ordering crewmember.
Fingers dancing in the air, Konami started two lists — one of all the filters that were delivered to the Sewage department, and one of all the fabrication techs on duty when the anonymous orders were made. Thinking about it further, and considering how easily filters could be swapped out, he made a third list of all the filters that were ordered by habitability techs, since the defective filter was in a Hab space. He sighed when he realized how many records he’d have to pore through to account for each and every one of these filters. Maybe someone could make a NetBug that could do it for him. He promised himself that at the next personnel review, he’d request that a Data Tech be permanently assigned to the Constabulary.
He was well into the records when the door to his office chimed. “Sorry, Cy, but he insisted,” announced the Constabulary’s duty secretary, Administrative Technician Second Class Yok-Sing, sticking his head in the door.
MRT2 Gustafson was pouring sweat, wiping it from his head with a rag. The young second’s lip quivered before he spoke.
“Maybe… maybe it was my fault,” said Gustafson, looking at the deck. “I just don’t remember.” The young tech physically deflated, but somehow looked relieved, despite the tears in his eyes.
Konami’s guts twisted. He’s being honest, he decided. But something still didn’t feel right. He put his hand on Gustafson’s shoulder, directing him down the passageway. “Let’s take a short walk, Second,” he directed, and the young man meekly followed.
The disciplinary process could be very fast, it turned out, contrary to the glacial place Konami recalled from past crewmember misbehavior. He made two calls — a brief one to Lieutenant Mattoso, and then to Gustafson’s department master tech. Within a quarter-hour the master tech met them at the Constabulary. Mattoso and the XO arrived shortly afterwards.
Gustafson listened silently as he was taken off duty, after the XO and master tech made sure that Maintenance and Repair Department had enough manning to make up for his absence. The master tech walked the young man out, quietly consoling him; Gustafson would be confined to his quarters until a requalification plan was developed.
Commander Criswell turned to Konami, with an expression as close to a smile as he had ever seen on the executive officer. “Our mystery is solved, Chief Inspector,” said the lean commander. “Not two random malfunctions, but one — the solder shard in the hatch circuitry. The breather filter mishap was caused by personnel error — a failure to follow procedure.”
“We don’t know that for certain,” answered Konami, well aware of how weak his protests would sound. “Second Gustafson said he doesn’t remember—”
The XO cut him off with a swipe of his hand. “I think that’s enough grasping at straws, CI. I’ll have a writeup tomorrow for you to sign. You can feel free to add any objections you may have. But officially, this case will be considered solved once the captain signs it.” Criswell nodded to Lieutenant Mattoso, who had been sharing a sympathetic glance with Konami. “Your dedication is commendable,” he said with what Konami took as a sneer, and walked out, with Mattoso close behind.
Konami sat and put his head on his desk. He wasn’t even sure if it was worth going to Mayor Akunle to protest. He should be happy, he thought, with the case solved. So why does it turn my stomach?