“Right. Otherwise, they’d know something was up, because you couldn’t just start mining rocks and throwing them into the cargo bay with your big ol’ transmitter in there. And someone would notice when they got home and didn’t get paid for a full load of ore.”

“Now if it’s the cruise ship,” Runstom said, flipping a page over in his notebook. “Then you don’t have to have any ship operators even in on the act. The cruise ship passes through the cone of contact for a couple of days. Including the day of the incident, making it possible to deliver the code and have it execute immediately on arrival.”

“And it’s closer,” Halsey said, pointing back at the model. He tapped at the console. “Close enough that you’d only need … three and a half megasparks to power the transmission. If you had a clean shot. And those superliners have plenty of wide-open deck space where the only thing between you and space is clear splexiglass.”

“Right, and a sat-transmitter will go right through that.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Halsey flipped off the holo-screen and then stood up to stretch. “Honestly, Stan. I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?” Runstom didn’t look at Halsey, but stared off into nothingness, trying to envision a scene where someone was lugging a large device around the deck of a cruise ship.

“Don’t know if it’s worth it.” Now Runstom turned to look at the other officer. Halsey continued, “I mean, don’t get me wrong. Playing around with traffic logs has been a lot more fun than sitting around watching the crap that passes for vid on this shitty planet.”

“But you saw the console logs,” Runstom said. “You saw what Jackson was talking about.”

“Yeah, but Stan, come on.” Halsey spread his arms out. “It’s a great story, but how can you trust that guy? I mean, he’s a suspect.”

“I know he’s a goddamn suspect,” Runstom muttered.

“He could be making the whole thing up.”

“He’s not.” Runstom still wasn’t exactly sure of it, but he had a tendency to irrationally take a stand when challenged.

“Oh.” Halsey scratched his head, ruffling his short curls of hair. “But how do you know?”

“Okay, maybe I don’t know.” Runstom stood up to face the other officer. “You’re right. He could be making it all up. But you know this whole thing doesn’t add up. George, I talked to that guy in there. He’s not a murderer.”

“And what, you’re psychic?”

“No, I’m not psychic. But you watched me talk to him. You talked to him. He’s just an operator. He’s not crazy. And he’s not a criminal.”

Halsey sighed heavily. “Look, Stan, I get it. I know what this is about. Okay? I know you, man. We’ve been working together for a long time. As soon as the dicks wanted to close this thing, you wanted to open it wider.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Runstom began to raise his voice, but something held him back.

“You’ve been getting the shit end of the stick for years, Stan. You should be a detective by now but they keep finding reasons to hold you back. Reasons to say you’re not there yet. To say you’re not good enough.”

Runstom pursed his lips together and narrowed his eyes at Halsey. “I am good enough.”

“Yeah, you are fucking good enough,” Halsey said, pointing a finger at Runstom’s chest. “That’s what I’m saying. You should be a goddamn detective. But you’re not. Are you?”

“No.”

“So you got something to prove. You’re always looking for a chance to prove that you should be a dick.”

Runstom frowned. “So what? So what if I have something to prove. The dicks got this one wrong, George. Brutus and Porter aren’t even trying. We’re officers of Modern Policing and it’s our duty to make sure every angle of this thing is looked at.”

“Oh spare me,” Halsey said, rolling his eyes. “Shit like that comes out of your mouth so much, sometimes I think you actually believe it.”

Runstom crossed his arms. “George, you know something’s not right with this case. I know you know.”

“Stan, seriously.” Halsey took a step back. “I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you’re not making detective. Okay? It’s not your ability or your dedication. You’ve got plenty of both. It’s your skin. It’s your—”

“Don’t even fucking go there, you sonova—”

“Stan, listen to me.” Halsey took another half-step back. “All I’m saying is you know there are people in ModPol that have a problem with your mother. They’re gonna hold you back as much as they can. And some of them are just looking for an excuse to bust you down even farther into the shit. If you go trying to play detective on something big like this, and you’re wrong, it’s over, man.”

“People don’t know shit about my mother.”

“I know, Stan. Believe me, I know. They don’t know shit. But they think they do. And those people that think they know something are always watching you. Always looking for a way to make you the fall guy.”

Runstom swallowed and looked down at nothing. He clenched his jaw and swallowed a few more times before speaking. “Okay, George. You’re right.” He spoke so quietly that the other officer had to step forward to hear him. “But there’s a limit to how much longer I can do this, you understand? I don’t have something like – like becoming a dispatcher to look forward to. If I don’t make detective – I mean, there’s a limit to the number of times I can be passed over for promotion before I can’t …” He trailed off, unable to find the words.

Halsey put a hand on his shoulder. “I know, man. I know. All I’m asking is that we just think this shit over before you go doing something rash. We should have a couple more days before the transport gets here. We’ll talk to Jackson some more and see what else we can come up with. Let’s just not go crazy, okay? We gotta play by the rules just enough to try to minimize the amount of trouble we get in.” He shook Runstom’s shoulder lightly. “Okay, Stan?”

“Yeah.” Runstom met the other officer’s eyes. “Okay.”

CHAPTER 8

The next morning it became apparent to Jax that the prisoner barge had arrived when a new set of guards began filtering into the cells and escorting prisoners out. He counted sixteen pairs of cuffs going out before it was his turn, and then he was secured into a wall restraint in his new cell on board the transport. He couldn’t move his head after that. In the cell corridor, the guards loudly read off case numbers as they brought in each defendant, and he counted twenty-one of those.

Thirty-eight defendants in all (including himself) for the week, which to Jax seemed relatively low considering the population size of Blue Haven and its sub-domes. Of course, B-foureans were in general a peaceful people, mostly thanks to a well-established culture of passive good will, which was reinforced by holo-vision public service announcements and audio/visual media broadcast all around the domes. In parks, in mag-trains, in elevators – it was hard to get away from the stuff.

Some off-worlders called it brainwashing, but Jax wouldn’t go that far. They still had free will. A person could choose to drown out the barrage of messages. They could choose to read books – particularly, off-world books – instead of watching holo-vision. But most people didn’t have the motivation to, and Jax couldn’t fault them too much. Life in the domes might have been mundane, but it was easy. That was more than you could say for a lot of other places in the known galaxy.

Those who knew Jax always wanted to know why he wasn’t living up to his potential. He had good skills with math and science, and with his father’s connections, he could have sailed through engineering school. Forgoing that, he could have at least earned himself a promotion or two in the Life Support operations world. Jax didn’t hold some kind of personal grudge against his supervisor – the now deceased Brandon Milton – nor vice versa. Milton didn’t like Jax for the same reason most people didn’t. Jax just tended to rub some people the wrong way.