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“Ehh. Ehhh. Kkkkssss.”
“Come on, buddy. Stay with me.”
Roxeen dropped the med scanner to the floor, where it continued beeping and flashing more intensely, locked on to the patient’s vitals. She broke open her own pack, unrolling it across the still-wet tiles and revealing all manner of emergency medical product.
“Ehhh. Kkkksss.” With an effort, the man raised his blood-stained hands, bringing them up to his face. He tried to put them together, shakily forming a cross with his index fingers.
Roxeen had gotten another QuikStik out of its package and moved Runstom’s hands away so she could apply it. With his hands free, Runstom tried to hold the red man’s head straight.
The man looked into Runstom’s eyes. He crossed his index fingers again, holding them in front of his face for a few seconds before dropping them weakly and going limp. He exhaled one last time and closed his eyes.
The med scanner blared one last mechanical scream and went silent.
CHAPTER 3 (#u86322e4f-2ec9-54f9-b608-3b7eb6eb6b7c)
After several hours, the Modern Policing and Peacekeeping officers, their remotely connected detectives (Porter did eventually call in), and their accompanying medical technicians found thirty-seven residents and one maintenance worker. Two people who lived in the block were later found to be in the Blue Haven dome during the incident and were detained for questioning, but quickly released. Of the thirty-eight found in block 23-D, nine were still alive. Two of those were unstable and died before the med techs could get them out of the block. The other seven were taken to Gretel Hospital and were in various medical conditions, and despite the likelihood of permanent physical and mental damage, all were expected to live.
The twenty-nine found dead were all scanned and recorded. Many had died from blunt-force trauma and lacerations or suffocation. Many had suffered from various other disturbing ailments, the medical names of which Runstom did not care to remember, mostly related to decompression and lack of oxygen. The remains were removed and the ModPol officers were given one more day to comb the desolate block. This time they were without the CamCaps and weighty jackets. They found no other remains and the clean-up crews moved in to go to work the next day.
“Seems like we should be in there for a couple more days,” Runstom said, sitting at a table in a break room in the depths of the Blue Haven Police Department Precinct One. “It’s a crime scene, and they’re already cleaning up all the evidence.”
“Evidence?” McManus snorted, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “What the hell are you talking about, Stanley? Only one guy could have done this and he did it from outside the block.”
“It’s Stanf—”
“Mac is right, Stanley,” Horowitz said. “It’s a pretty open-and-shut case. The dicks like the operator. The sooner they get a confession out of him, the sooner we can go back to base.”
Runstom looked at each of them, frowning. Horowitz wasn’t even looking at him. She was idly flipping through a mag-viewer in front of her on the table, most of her long, straight, black hair pulled into a ponytail, leaving a clump of bangs to fall to one side, obscuring her face. McManus stood rigidly near the counter and peered suspiciously into his coffee cup. Halsey was half-dozing in his chair, startling awake with a snort when he began to tip over. There were three pale-faced Blue Haven officers looming on one side of the room, smiling mildly, thin hands clasped together at their mid-sections. Runstom thought that if he were to try to read their faces, he’d be looking at a blank page.
“Hey, Whitey,” McManus said. “This fucking coffee is cold.”
“Ah, thank you, officer,” the middle one said. “We’re glad you enjoy it.”
McManus looked into his blank, gray eyes and then shrugged as he took a slug from the cup, then grimaced before taking another. Runstom frowned at the other ModPol officer, unnerved by the skin-slang. The residents of Barnard-4 were all extremely pale skinned thanks to low-grade filtration mechanisms and the distance from the center of the solar system. People growing up on B-3 – like the other three ModPol officers in the room – were closer to the star, and by necessity benefited from more expensive filters. They all had skin colors that ranged from pinkish yellow to light brown, closer to the hues of many Earthlings.
“Anyway. I don’t know what you’re complaining about, Runstom,” McManus continued, starting a slow pace around the room. “Are you saying you had a good time combing through a giant trash heap, hoping to find the bloated remains of a B-fourean?”
“They weren’t all B-foureans,” Runstom said, quick to make his argument. “One guy was—”
Halsey interrupted him with a giggle. “Yeah, Stanley wants to go play dick. He wants to in-vess-ti-gate. Maybe go un-der-cov-er. Just like his dear ol’ mum.”
“You got a problem, Halsey?” Runstom stood up.
McManus moved in front of him. “Is that it, Runstom?” he said quietly. “You think you’re better than us? Detective Runstom, is it now?”
Runstom imagined slugging the other man across the jaw, sending him sprawling to the floor, but he was determined not to be baited. “Officer McManus,” he said in a low voice, matching it with an even stare. “Are you attempting to instigate me?”
McManus gave a huffy snort. “No, Officer Runstom.” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m not trying to instigate you.” He took a sip from his cup, bringing it close to Runstom’s nose. “I’m just really, really bitten off about how terrible this fucking coffee is.” He slapped the empty mug down on the table and walked out of the room.
Halsey gave half a laugh and then leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Horowitz continued flipping through her mag-viewer. The Blue Haven officers maintained their indifferent smiles. Runstom stood in silence for a moment, focusing on suppressing his anger. After he’d given himself enough time to calm down, he announced that he was going for a walk. No one responded, so he left the room quietly.
The local precinct was set up like a maze of hallways and rooms, but everything was arranged in a way that made it impossible to get lost. Domes were all designed on paper by engineers, and everything turned out to have an unnatural symmetry that Runstom could never get used to. Even if you tried to get lost, you couldn’t wander long before somehow ending up where you were supposed to be.
There wasn’t much to do in the Blue Haven precinct – they didn’t even have a library – so Runstom stopped when he came upon a door that led to an inner courtyard. It wasn’t very large, but it had some plant life. Even though the trees and bushes were laid out in perfect position, nature still had chaotic reign over the formation of branches, leaves, and bark.
Runstom sat on a bench and tried to breathe deeply. Despite the presence of naturally generated oxygen in the space, the sweet sting of manufactured air was still detectable. He tried to ignore it and think about the case. He was still reeling from the fact that the investigation on the ground was more or less over already. Thirty-one people had died, seven others were injured in the ordeal. How could the investigation of the crime scene be over so quickly?
The detectives, Brutus and Porter, didn’t believe it was an accident. They were charging the block operator on duty with murder. Runstom knew they didn’t have much in the way of evidence. But even so, maybe they were right. As a rule, you look for the simplest explanation and you’ll find your suspect. The only person who could have opened the venting doors was the operator.
So why was Runstom unable to accept such a simple conclusion? He sighed as he sat in the fabricated grove of trees and shrubs. He’d been spending too much time in the outpost library. Poring over old cases with complexities that were just plain absent here.
They did have one key piece of evidence: the operator’s console logs. What they didn’t have was motive. Runstom wished he could be a fly on the wall in the interrogation room at that moment, where they were currently questioning the operator. Would they get a confession out of him? Would they discover the man’s motive for killing thirty-one mostly unrelated people in one fell swoop?
Runstom rolled his head around, stretching his neck. He caught a glimpse of the curved sky above. Maybe the guy just snapped. Dome sickness. It’d been known to happen, although supposedly not very often. Some people just couldn’t take it, living in the confined spaces, never being able to set foot onto the surface of the planet that binds them gravitationally. Runstom had never heard of anyone becoming violent from dome sickness though, at least nothing more than a brief outburst. Malaise, mood swings, depression, even suicide, but never such a calculated act of violence against so many people.
He stood up, but he didn’t go anywhere. He just continued to stare at the trees confined to their perfect little steel planters. He knew the reason he couldn’t accept the simple explanation. He wanted there to be more to the case than there was; he wanted a chance to do something. He wanted a chance to prove himself. McManus’ comment had troubled him more than he was willing to admit. Not the skin-slang – he’d learned to live with that stuff – but the detective comment. Runstom had been working with McManus, Horowitz, Halsey, and others at ModPol for several years now. So many that were officers at ModPol were probably always going to be officers; especially the likes of those three unambitious clock-punchers. They all knew Runstom was determined to make detective. He was getting a little old for an officer, and he’d been passed over for promotion more than once. The others rarely missed a chance to remind him that despite his efforts, he was as stuck as the rest of them.
Of course, he knew that by making waves in an open-and-shut case like this one, he wasn’t going to win any medals. Brutus and Porter already had a less-than-glowing opinion of Runstom. If he opened his big mouth to the detectives, he might never get called for crime-scene duty again. The biggest case he would ever participate in, and all he had to show for it was the cataloging of a handful of bloated corpses.
CHAPTER 4 (#u86322e4f-2ec9-54f9-b608-3b7eb6eb6b7c)
“Look, Jackson. We don’t need anything from you. We’ve got a murder weapon with your fingerprints on it. We have evidence that places you at the scene of the crime at the time it was committed. We’ve even got motive. This is your last chance to make things a little easier on yourself.”
Jax was quiet. Detective Brutus of Modern Policing and Peacekeeping sat across from him, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, elbows on the table. Detective Porter, also of ModPol, leaned against the wall, quietly watching him. Their strange skin, a hue somewhere between brown and pink, reminded Jax that he was in the company of off-worlders. He liked to think of himself as open-minded and free from prejudice, but these two brown-pink-skinned men made him extremely nervous.
Jax’s lawyer, a man by the name of Frank Foster and a B-fourean like himself, sat by his side. Foster leaned over to whisper something to him, but Jax raised a hand to bat away the advice.
“Maybe you should listen to your counsel, Jackson.”
All he could think was that it had to be a set-up. There was no other explanation. He didn’t say it out loud. There was no point, and he didn’t want to sound – or feel – like a cliché. He folded his arms across his chest and stared pointedly at nothing.
“Murder weapon,” Brutus said, pulling a printout from a folder and slapping it onto the table. “The murder weapon in this case is the Life Support system. The trigger on this weapon is an active console. These official logs show that only one active console was connected to block 23-D’s LifSup system at 2602.03.23.02.03, the time at which the incident occurred.” He pointed at the printout with short fingers that sprouted blond hairs the same color as the stubble on his head. “The consoles use biometric authentication to verify operators. This log says the voice of you, Jack J. Jackson, Barnard-4 resident ID 721841695, and the fingerprint, of you, Jack J. Jackson, Barnard-4 resident ID 721841695, were used to activate this console at 2602.03.22.10.06.” He turned the printout around so that Jax and his lawyer could read it. “It remained active until the forced reset at 2602.03.23.02.14.”
The operator continued to stare into space while his lawyer leaned over to look at the printout. After a minute he leaned back. “Mr. Jackson,” he started.
Jax threw up his hands, finally meeting the detectives’ eyes, each in turn. “Why would I hurt so many people?” He felt like he was watching a scene in a holo-vid, unable to believe it was really happening, that he was under arrest, suspected of murder.
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Brutus said evenly. “Why would you kill an entire blockful of people?”
“This is ridiculous,” Jax said, more to himself than anyone else. Visions of crime dramas were filling his head. How many times had he been entertained as the actor cops went on about evidence, profiles, and motives, all while the suspect squirmed in their little metal chair. “You guys must have done a psyche profile on me,” he tried. “This can’t be something that fits my pro—”
“Profile?” Porter laughed from the back of the room. He was tall for his kind, lean, muscular, and had darker skin than Brutus, a color some might describe as bronze. The man looked more like a politician – or a used hover-car salesman – than a detective, and Jax couldn’t wait to get away from him. “Look, Jackson. No one cares about your profile when there’s this much evidence against you.”
“And we have motive,” Brutus added. “You knew two of the victims.”
The detective paused, as if to let Jax try to read him. He seemed to open his face up, letting Jax know he wasn’t lying. The LifSup operator didn’t know who lived in block 23-D. He wasn’t allowed to know. He had access to minimal vital readouts on all the residents in his block, but no names. Just resident IDs. He wasn’t a resident there himself, so he wasn’t allowed in. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that real people lived in there, or in any other block he worked on. Or rather, real in the sense that he might know them personally. The operators rotated around from block to block every week. His only concern while on the clock was the Life Support system, not the list of resident IDs that came with the rest of the block data readout.
Detective Brutus pulled another printout from his folder. “Brandon Milton.” Attached to the printout was a file photo. On top of that, he slapped down a more current photo of the expired resident. “His wife, Priscilla Jonnes.” Again a printout and file photo. Again a postmortem photo taken by a med tech two nights ago. The bodies in the photos looked inhuman, twisted into unnatural angles, skin splotched, bruised, and cut all over. He couldn’t even see their faces, but somehow he knew that the names matched the deceased.
Jax couldn’t breathe. Milton. His supervisor. Priscilla. An ex-girlfriend. He didn’t know she was married. He hadn’t spoken to her in a couple of years. He knew Milton was married, but of course, he didn’t know his supervisor was married to one of his ex-girlfriends. He didn’t like the guy enough to want to know anything about his personal life.
He was frozen, and probably looked like he was going to be sick. The detectives gave each other a knowing look, as if celebrating a silent victory. They probably thought Jax was ready to toss his lunch over the bloated mess of once-human flesh in the photos, but the source of the bile rising in his throat was the same fear that was causing him to feel the walls closing in around him. If there was any doubt in his mind that this was a set-up before, it was gone now.
“Take those away, please,” his attorney said weakly. Jax could feel the man next to him fidgeting and anxious, rattled by the images in the photos.
Brutus ignored him. “You know what?” he said, pointing and wagging two fingers at the operator. “You’re right. I did look at your psyche profile. That’s standard procedure. You want to know what your profile told me about you?” Jax just stared, slack-jawed, so Brutus kept talking. “Too smart to be an operator.” He leaned in closer. “Yeah, that’s right. A smart guy. Smart enough to go to an Alliance University as an engineering student, anyway, until you dropped out. It makes no sense for someone with your brains to be working this thankless, dead-end job. You should be designing LifSups, not operating them. So what’s the deal with that?”
Jax wanted to just be silent, but the detective stared at him, waiting for an answer. He felt railroaded. Worse, he could hear his father’s voice inside his head, as if he were standing over Jax’s shoulder. Tell them, Jax. Tell them why you’re not an engineer like me. Tell them why you failed. Tell them why you turned out to be a grunt like your mother was. He narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t ready to share his life story with these strangers. “I guess not everyone has what it takes.”
Detective Brutus stared at him for another minute, as if he were trying to figure out if the answer revealed anything significant. He shrugged and continued. “Let’s start with the girl, Jackson. We know you had a relationship with Priscilla Jonnes.” Another printout came out of the folder. Jax began to wonder what else was in that stack of coffin nails that he first thought was just for show. “This is a record of a genetic compatibility test. You and Jonnes must have been pretty serious. A genetic-comp test – that’s pretty much a pre-engagement for you B-foureans, right?”
Detective Porter stepped up to the table, leaning over, palms flat on the surface. He put on a concerned face. “What happened, Jackson? There’s no grounds for a break-up in this compatibility report. So what was it? What was the trouble in paradise?”
“We grew apart,” Jax managed to say. Trouble in paradise, indeed. Priscilla had been a wonderful companion and a dear friend. If Jax could figure out why she left, he’d know a whole lot more about women. Or people in general, for that matter. “I haven’t seen her in years,” he said sadly, then creased his forehead in annoyance that these off-worlders were getting into his head.
“Mm-hm.” Porter nodded, as if that was the answer he expected. He smiled, his teeth unnaturally white and perfect, and winked, as if he’d just made a sale or won someone’s vote. He stepped back to his post holding up the wall.
“Milton is your supervisor,” Brutus continued. “Was your supervisor. Must have burned you up, your boss marrying the love of your life.”
“I didn’t know,” Jax said quietly, knowing they weren’t going to listen to him. He looked briefly at his lawyer for help, but the man’s gray eyes were wide and empty. He’d probably never defended any crime worse than vandalism before this day.
“The guy who was constantly on your case. The guy whose signature is on a stack of write-ups that kept you from getting promoted this year.” Another printout, this one on different paper. “The guy you have an official personal debt to for ten thousand Alliance Credits.”
Jax looked at the paper on the table. It was some kind of third-party record, like an escrow company or bank or something. It was covered with official seals and date-stamps, all from the same day, about six months ago. The lawyer took a timid look at the document, and his silence seemed to verify its authenticity.
“What …” Jax started, but couldn’t form any other words. His mind reeled. He never borrowed money – not from anyone, not even his own father. But for some reason someone had forged a document that said he owed money to his supervisor, Brandon Milton. It made no sense to Jax.
“The guy.” Brutus pulled the postmortem photo of Milton back to the top of the pile. “The guy who is dead now. Dead by the commands of a Life Support operator. Commands input at your console.”
“This is not real,” Jax said. The room began to dip and sway in his vision and he placed his hands flat on the table to steady himself. “This is not true. I never owed Brandon Milton any money. I didn’t even know he was married to Priscilla.” He got louder, voice rising in panic. “I didn’t run any commands that opened up the roof of that block! I didn’t kill these people!”
“Well, a confession would have been nice, could have been a straight-to-sentence, no-trial-necessary deal.” Detective Brutus held the door open as Detective Porter came into the break room.
“I know, Mike,” Porter said. “But you know what they say. Everyone on the prison planet is innocent, donchaknow?” They shared a laugh. “But hey, don’t sweat it – that guy is going away for good.”
“Yeah, I reckon so.” Brutus turned to face the officers in the room. “Okay, everybody, listen up. No confession from Jackson, so that means he’ll be going to trial. Now you know we don’t do any ModPol trials on-planet. He’ll be tried at the outpost, out on the outer ring of the system. And, you know we can’t just send a ship out to the edge for one prisoner. But there are a couple of prisoners lining up for trial in Blue Haven right now, so we’ll have a full transport by the end of the week.”
“Excuse me, detective?” Runstom said, hearing apprehension in his own voice.
“Yeah, Officer. Question?”
“Uh. Well, I was just wondering – aren’t we going back to the crime scene at all?” Brutus stared at him expectantly, so Runstom continued. “You know – to make sure there’s nothing we missed. Evidence we might have missed.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Porter responded, walking toward the coffee machine.
“Yeah,” Brutus said, and seemed to leave it at that. He looked at the back of his partner, and Runstom detected a hint of uncertainty on his face, but it quickly vanished. “Okay,” he said with renewed authority. “We’re going to need to keep two of you here to escort the prisoner up to Barnard Outpost Alpha when they’re ready to transfer him.”
“You. And you,” Porter said, fingering Halsey and Runstom. He tilted the coffee cup in his hand, peering at the inside of it cautiously, as if it might suddenly come to life and bite him.
“Okay, good,” Brutus said. “You other two are heading back up to Outpost Gamma. We’ve got some paperwork assignments for you. Any questions?”
They didn’t get much time to respond before Detective Porter banged his cup down onto the counter and said, “Nah, they got it. C’mon Mike, let’s go.” He slapped Detective Brutus on the shoulder and they left the room.
“Bah, paperwork,” McManus grumbled after the dicks left. “Just our luck, eh, Sue?”
“What?” Runstom’s eyes went wide with disbelief.
“Yeah, fuck you, Mac!” Halsey said. “Paperwork, big deal. We gotta sit around here in this fuckin’ dome for three days and then take a ride out to the outer ring! Four days cooped up in a tiny transport vessel with a bunch of cons and—”
“Better check your orbital positioning,” Horowitz said. “Alpha is on the opposite side right now. Tack on an extra day and a half.”
“Oh yeah,” McManus said. “Don’t forget about the trip back too, that’s a couple more days.” He pointedly dropped a half-full cup of coffee into the sink. “Hey, white boys,” he said to the three pale-faced officers still standing quietly at the back of the room. “Been nice knowin’ ya. Thanks for the shitty coffee.”
“It was our pleasure, officers,” the middle one responded cheerfully.
“Have a nice trip, fellas.” McManus and Horowitz gave them each a nod and walked out the door.
“This is just great, Stanley,” Halsey breathed. “Can you believe this?”
Runstom glared at him. “My … name … is … Stanford.”
“Well?” Jax stared at his silent counsel.
Frank Foster looked up. “Well,” he responded quietly.
The lawyer was sitting in the only chair in Jax’s sparse cell. His hands rested idly on a thinly packed paper folder that sat on a small desk. The folder was closed. Jax paced a full circle around the room, which somehow felt familiar. The walls were painted the same blue-green aqua color that his office was painted, but that couldn’t be it. Could it?
Jax shook his head, trying to rattle his brain into focusing. “Well, what are we going to do?” He stopped pacing and stared at the other man. “I mean, it’s bad, right? Is it bad?”
Foster closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “It’s not good,” he said. “Definitely not good. I have to inform you, Mr. Jackson …” His voice trailed off.
“Inform me of what?” Jax snapped. He felt like he should be angry at something, but anxiety eclipsed every other emotion.
The lawyer sighed. “It looks like they’re going to take you off planet while the investi—”
“Off-planet?” Jax couldn’t get his brain to focus. “What do you mean by that?”
“They’re going to take you out to one of the Modern Policing and Peacekeeping outposts.”
Jax covered his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I don’t understand,” he said through clenched teeth. “I thought we paid ModPol for defense. Like against space gangs and whatnot.” He uncovered his eyes and looked at Foster again. “Isn’t that what we pay them for? Why are they even involved in this?”
“Yes, well. Modern Policing – um, ModPol – has automatic jurisdiction over interplanetary issues.” Foster looked away from Jax. He was older, maybe in his mid-fifties. His white hair was long but thin and his face sagged in places as if it had begun melting a few years ago, but then stopped and re-solidified. “They can also be called in to assist with any investigation involving a class-four or class-five crime.”
“Class four meaning murder or rape.” Jax had holo-vision to thank for knowing that classification. Although, with all the crime drama vids he’d seen involving murder or rape, no one ever mentioned ModPol. “What’s class five?”
Foster looked back at Jax. “Mr. Jackson,” he said, his voice wavering. “This is a class-five crime. Are you aware of that?”
Jax was dumbfounded. “But I didn’t do anything! The system malfunctioned, that’s the only explanation. The only reasonable explanation,” he corrected himself, fears of conspiracy creeping into the back of his mind.
