CHAPTER 4
Fuck! In thinsuit and breather, Konami squeezed himself into the corner of the purifier lockout space, staying out of the way of the weld tech cutting through the inner hatch. Goddamnit… how long ’til brain death starts again? He decided not to interrupt the doctor, who was awkwardly huddled with the MedTechs, and Konami recalled that more than five minutes was pushing it. The hiss of five breathers, plus the whine of the welding torch, were loud enough that the doc and MTs were nearly shouting back and forth. Konami projected the time from his wearable. Seven minutes, almost eight. Heads are gonna roll when we figure out what caused this damn hatch to stick. Even the hatch-cut had to be delayed; with the inner lockout hatch cut open, there would be no way to clear any potential toxic gases from the purification bank, so they had to rig the length of crawlway outside the space as a sort of extra airlock. Just in case, they stayed in their breathers until they could get a second verification that it was safe.
Konami inhaled sharply through his mask. If he doesn’t make it… Since his predecessor’s suicide, there had not been a single death onboard Aotea. There were occasional crises like choking on food, gestational difficulties, some industrial accidents, and even a short-lived fire, but everyone had been reached by the MedTechs and damage control techs within three or four minutes. Until now. Shit — I might have to tell the family.
He suddenly had a realization — he was enjoying himself. Somehow this was what he had missed. Konami knew he should feel some sort of shame at this, but the elation remained. He knew it wouldn’t last.
“I’m through!” announced the weld tech as he stood up with the big hunk of alloy that used to be the inner hatch. Before he left Earth, Konami would have marveled that the tech lifted it so easily. On Earth, that hatch probably would have been more than fifty kilos; in the reduced “gravity” of Aotea, it was more like fifteen. Konami took the hatch from the weld tech so he could clear out the welding gear, and the MedTechs dove through to pull the prone man into the larger space of the lockout.
Konami informed Emer that they had the patient as he watched the practiced hands of the MedTechs. One stripped off the patient’s breather and replaced it with a forced oxygen system, while the other checked vital signs and cut open the thinsuit. Konami tapped into the medical voice circuits, and while he didn’t understand all the medical jargon, he got the gist that, right now, they were dealing with a dead man. Just how dead are we talking about? Some ancient Earth vid flashed in his memory. “Mostly dead, or all dead?” Konami understood that their primary focus was to get oxygenated blood to the brain. The MTs had attached a bag of super-oxygenated neutral fluid, while the doctor made a small incision in the chest and connected the defibrillator.
Moments stretched to an eternity, and finally the doctor nodded. “Pulse present,” he reported. “Slow but steady.”
If only restarting the brain was that easy… While the MTs set up their collapsible gurney, Konami called Emer. “Maria, are the constables in position?”
“Affirmative, Chief.” Standard procedure would place constables at every junction from Sewage to the infirmary to keep the path clear for the MedTechs and the patient.
Well done, Maria. He hadn’t even needed to tell her to call the reserve constables.
Konami watched as the medical team maneuvered the casualty out the lockout space and down the cramped passageway. He almost chuckled at the absurdity of a clumsy TrashBot trying to contort itself out of the way of the team, but stifled himself and turned his attention to the scene. The crime scene. Maybe. He scowled as he realized part of him wanted this to be a crime, rather than just an accident. But it was more than that, and Konami recognized another feeling in his gut he hadn’t experienced in years. This was not an accident. He couldn’t place why he had that feeling.
He began to survey the deck where the man had lain but a loud whoosh took his attention. Must be the fans; flushing out the space to clean the air. He bent down to inspect the inner hatch, but stood up abruptly. “Oh shit!” Goddamnit, the air itself could be evidence! He looked around wildly and found a sample flask laying in a corner. Konami quickly snatched it up and unscrewed it, shaking it vigorously before re-screwing it shut. He frowned at the absurdity, holding the flask up to the light, as if toxins could be visible.
“Inspector?”
Konami turned around. He must not have heard the lockout hatch open over the fans. A tall, lean figure in thinsuit and breather stood in the hatchway, wearing the khaki cap of one of Aotea’s line officer corps. A smaller figure, also with a khaki cap, stood to the side of the first. Most of the men and women onboard wore the working uniform of the staff and support crew, but the officers in charge of the navigation, power, and propulsion systems of the colony ship maintained their own chain of command and wore khaki uniforms when on duty.
“Uh, good morning, Commander.” Konami had to pick his brain for a moment to translate the rank insignia, a pair of crossed silver pine boughs.
The officer spoke softly into his wearable and promptly removed his thinsuit and breather. “It’s safe now, Inspector.”
“Shouldn’t we get an analysis first?” Konami responded, momentarily distracted by the feminine shape as the other officer slid out of her thinsuit. Is that uniform… he pulled his eyes away when she met his gaze.
The first officer’s name and position were now readily visible on the khaki uniform jumpsuit: CRISWELL on his left breast, XO on his right. Criswell waved his hand dismissively. “The fans. It’s safe now.”
“And Atmo’s sample results are clean,” added the other officer, a Lieutenant Mattoso.
Konami frowned at his sample flask. Probably not much left of whatever it was in here. Konami wanted to tell the XO that they should have waited to flush the space, but he held his tongue. In the formal chain of command, the executive officer only had authority over civil section department heads like Konami in matters concerning operation of Aotea’s systems, but he thought prudence would be wise in this case. At least, at first. Konami had exchanged only a few words with the colony ship’s XO in his five years onboard — he recalled a short meeting in his first few months, and he would see him at the periodic department head meetings, but the chief inspector realized that most of what he knew of the ship’s second-in-command fell in the category of gossip and rumor. Popular opinion held that the XO was a stern, humorless man who commanded more than a little fear in his subordinates.
Konami shrugged and took off the breather and thinsuit. There was the barest chemical tinge to the scent of the air.
“Bag up Muahe’s suit and breather and get them to the lab,” ordered CDR Criswell as he bent to examine the partially melted hatchway. Lieutenant Mattoso acknowledged, and Konami realized they were ignoring him.
“XO?” Konami offered, and after a moment, repeated it louder.
“Yes, Inspector?” responded Criswell from a crouch, almost growling.
Konami ignored the tone of the XO’s voice and tried not to smirk. “I’d like to go over the scene before we move anything else.” This ought to be good.
“Inspector, you’ll have plenty of time in a few minutes. There were at least two system failures here — the breather and the hatch — and I mean to find out what went wrong.”
“Of course. So do I, XO. But please, don’t touch anything until my constables and I have looked everything over.”
The XO stood up straight, crowding Konami without even taking a step. “I don’t think you understand, Inspector…”
“No, XO. You don’t understand,” Konami cut in quietly. CDR Criswell pulled back in surprise. “Section 5.27.3.a.1 of the Charter: the Chief Inspector will have authority over any possible crime scene unless the location or equipment within must be utilized for vital operations as determined by the Commanding Officer.” Konami was far from an expert on the Aotea’s systems, but no one knew the law enforcement procedures of the Charter for a New Humanity Beyond Earth better than him. He studied it for the year-long lead up to his interviews and selection as first alternate, and even in the years afterwards, before he was called up to take the place of the deceased, he recalled most of it. No one but the commanding officer could override Konami at a crime scene.
“‘Possible’ crime scene?” echoed the XO. “What makes you think this was a crime?”
Konami refrained from explaining the feelings a cop might get sometimes. And as out of practice as I am, I’m not sure if I even trust my gut. “Like you said, two unprecedented system failures at the same time?”
The XO remained stone-faced and silent for several seconds. “Very well, Chief Inspector. But I expect to be notified of your progress, and the minute you’re done with the scene.”
Konami tried to quash the little schoolboy surge of delight he felt when the XO instructed Lieutenant Mattoso to stay behind as liaison between ship’s force and the Constabulary before he departed. Luckily, the chief inspector was saved from awkward banter by the arrival of two constables.
“The casualty is through to the Ring, Chief,” one reported.
Konami nodded and called Emer, instructing her to have a constable stationed at the Infirmary to wait for news. Konami doubted a single one of his forty-six constables was not awake and busy right now. Probably for the first time in years.
Konami turned back to the two nervous-looking constables. “Take it easy, guys. Just remember procedure. Like the drills.” He left out his opinion on their performance in the most recent. On Earth, Konami had despised drills. Now he spent weeks making them as perfect as a murder mystery novel, just to have something to do. “First thing’s first. Moby: logs. Peter: images and prints. Especially in the purifier space. What was he doing in there?” The two constables snapped into action, and Konami made a short call to Emer to make sure more were on their way to, among other things, bag up every loose object in the vicinity for analysis. With the first potential crime scene in years, Konami was sure every one of his constables would be eager to assist.
He found himself awkwardly alone with Lieutenant Mattoso once again; he nervously looked at his shoes for a moment after their eyes met.
“So what now, Inspector?” The officer’s question snapped him back into the present.
Gotta think like a cop again. It would be just like exercising a long-dormant muscle. “Now we recreate his steps. Follow me.”