by Jason LaPier
Jax stared at the note thoughtfully. Then something struck him. “Did you just suggest we’re going to go digging through the trash?”
“That’s right. We need that package. It’s our only lead.”
Jax’s first instinct was to get all incredulous about the notion that an empty package was a lead. He caught himself, and tried to think like his partner for a moment. “Um. Because it was delivered. By a delivery company. And we could figure out where it came from and maybe even who sent it?”
“Hey, not bad,” Runstom said, still looking at some notes. “You could almost pass for a cop.”
CHAPTER 12
A few of their last Delirium-G’s and they had earned themselves a pair of Trash Operator uniforms and a full shift of work. Working in the trashitorium wasn’t as dirty as it could be; Gar-bots did most of the heavy lifting. The TrashOps supervised the bots, inspected the containers, regulated the amount of trash that went into the incinerator; that kind of thing. Despite being on a superliner, the trashitorium wasn’t much different than what the domes had back on B-4. Jax was surprised to find out it wasn’t even much smaller.
The incinerator didn’t actually have fire in it. It was a high pressure, high temperature structure that a trash container was emptied into and then bombarded with a particular kind of amplified cosmic radiation. All the material was broken down into individual molecules, which could then be sorted by various methods. First, the smallest microscopic holes would open in the structure and vacuums would suck out the smallest molecules – gases and the like. Then a series of increasingly larger holes opened in the sides of the structure while it spun around, creating artificially high gravity and pulling out molecules in groups of one element at a time.
Jax would have found the whole process interesting if he hadn’t already seen it. He’d worked in a trashitorium back in Gretel, before he managed to crawl his way up the ladder to the glorious position of LifSupOp. It was a good thing too, because though they traded for the uniforms, they still needed to pretend to know the job, and Runstom had no clue.
With little in the way of hands-on work to be done, Jax and Runstom managed to get themselves a shift all alone, and Jax was showing Runstom the ropes, in particular the intake and outtake schedule.
“This is obscene,” Runstom said as they checked out the data on a console. “It’s completely backed up.”
“Trashitoriums are always behind schedule,” Jax said. “Even with such a refined process, it still takes time. And the people on this ship are outputting garbage non-stop.”
Runstom nodded and hummed. “That’s good then. That gives us better odds that the package is still around, right?”
“Yep,” Jax said and tapped at some keys. “The oldest stuff in the containment queue is a little more than two weeks old. Now we just track Linda Parson’s refuse.”
Another feature of the average trashitorium that gave them an advantage was the almost malicious attention to detail. The bureaucracy enjoyed by TrashOps made them feel extremely important in an otherwise extremely banal job, but it also meant that any particular refuse container spent a significant amount of time in processing.
“Every container is meticulously labeled and verified,” Jax explained as they dug through the database. “You want to know which containers have trash that came from room 1468 between this date and that date? It’s like going to the library. We don’t even really need this database. Someone who knows the system could just walk through the containers on the staging deck and find anything they wanted to.”
“Then why are we looking in the database?”
Jax shook his head. “Come on, man, you can’t expect me to remember everything from a job I had like eight years ago.”
Before the end of their shift, they were down in that maze of refuse containers, following the hints that Jax managed to dig out of the console. After the better part of an hour, they found the container that had the garbage from room 1468 on the given week they calculated, based on Parson’s story. The massive container was further broken into smaller cubes, perfectly packed and wrapped in plastic, each labeled with a unique identifier. Jax had to keep hitting the remote to divert the confused Gar-bots that periodically came around to attempt to clean up the mess they made as they dug through the stacks.
Finally they found the bag with the label they were looking for.
“Here goes,” Runstom said and tore it open with a pocketknife.
They spread the contents out onto the floor. They’d been compressed and vacuum-sealed, so there was little decay among the organic matter – not that it made it any less repulsive – and the various plastic-based materials were flattened at odd angles.
“That,” Jax said, pointing at a brown wrapper. “It says TerroPac, doesn’t it?”
“TerroPac Express,” Runstom said, flattening it out. “From Terroneous.”
“The moon?”
Runstom ran his hand across the empty packaging, either to flatten it out more or to verify it was real and not a figment of his imagination; Jax wasn’t sure which. Then the officer lifted his head. “This is it, Jax. This is a real lead.”
It hit Jax then how significant the find was. They’d gone from chasing an impossibility to grasping something so tangible it refused denial.
They stood up and moved aside while the Gar-bots undid the mess they’d made.
“Well, shit,” Jax said. “Now what do we do?” He wondered if it was time to contact the rest of ModPol, but he hesitated in suggesting it. As solid as the lead felt, he couldn’t imagine a scenario in which they would let him off the hook on just a lead.
“I don’t know,” Runstom said. “We have options. Come on.”
“Officer Stanford Runstom. This is Captain Inmont. A ModPol patroller scanned Royal Starways Interplanetary Cruise Delight Superliner #5 last week and according to their docking logs, your credentials were used as identification there a few weeks ago.”
“We understand you came aboard the superliner with an unidentified passenger. We’re sending a wagon out to pick you up. Along with whomever you’ve got with you, if it’s another ModPol employee or a prisoner. Of course, that’s assuming the person listening to this message is Officer Stanford Runstom. If you’re not Runstom, and you’ve illegally used his credentials, you will be arrested immediately.”
The audio clip crackled and then died out. Runstom stared at the speaker in silence. Jax stood behind him and turned the empty package they retrieved from the trashitorium over and over, as if he hadn’t already examined every centimeter of it.
Finally, Jax said, “Well, I guess you can’t stay dead forever.”
Runstom didn’t look up. “Get everything together. We’re leaving very soon.”
“How long do you think it will take them to get here?” Jax said weakly.
Runstom ignored him, punching a button on the com.
“ComOp,” the speaker said, after a few pops.
“This is Runstom, one of the guests staying in the spare servants’ quarters. Room C-28.”
“Yes, sir, I’ve got your room number on the display here. What can I help you with?”
“I just listened to a message. Can you tell me when it was received?”
“Yes, sir.” Some tapping came through over the speaker. “The only message you got today came in about two and a half hours ago. It was listened to by you about three minutes ago.”
“Please reset its status to ‘unlistened’.” Runstom’s voice took on the tone it adopted when he wanted to be clear that he was issuing a non-negotiable command.
“Um, okay,” the ComOp said. “I guess I can do that.”
“Then do it.”
“Um.” Tapping sounds. “Okay, Mister Runstom. You have one message received approximately two and a half hours ago. It has not been listened to. Is there any—”
Runstom stabbed the disconnect button on the com. Jax looked at him curiously. “What was that all about?”
“We don’
t have a lot of time before they get here.” Runstom began rummaging around the room, pulling out a bag and throwing it on his bed. He began pulling notebooks off the desk and tossing them at the bag. “We need to get our shit together and get out of here.”
“Wait, what? You’re not going to wait for your captain?”
Runstom stopped packing and looked at Jax. “We’re too close now. We have the data chip and the package it was delivered in.”
“And Linda Parson is still on board. With the chip and the package, don’t you think that’s enough evidence to—”
“No, dammit!” Runstom’s olive skin was flush, turning it a strange color. “Listen to me, Jax. If they catch us here, they’re going to shut down this investigation. They’re going to toss this evidence into a locker and forget about it.”
Jax put his hands over his face and began rubbing his eyes. “Look, Stanford. If you leave now, you’re going to be in real deep shit.”
“What do you know—”
“Don’t give me that shit, Stan.” Jax pulled his hands away from his face and glared at the officer. “I’m not an idiot. You could just sit and wait for ModPol to get here and tell a harrowing tale of how you managed to escape the attack on that prison ship. They won’t be happy that you didn’t report in right away, but you’ll get off without much more than a warning.” He stepped forward, pointing a long finger at Runstom. “This is your last chance, though. If you take off now, they’re going to say you’re aiding a fugitive. And then you’re not going to be a cop anymore. You’re going to be a criminal. You can’t risk your career – and your freedom – for someone like me.”
Runstom was quiet for a minute. He stared at Jax long and hard. The only sound in the room was a low hum coming from the air vent and time seemed to stand still. “Jackson, it’s not just for you,” the officer finally said in measured tones. “You’re innocent. I know that now, beyond the shadow of a doubt. And if you’re innocent and they convict you, then they’ve locked up the wrong man.” His voice began to slowly get louder. “When the wrong person is convicted of a crime, that in itself is a travesty. But it’s not just injustice for the wrongly convicted. It’s injustice for the victims.” Now it was Runstom’s turn to point, and Jax reflexively took a step back. “And right now if they haul your ass to prison, it means there’s a murderer out there roaming free and they are just pretending he doesn’t exist. The real murderer is responsible for the deaths of thirty-two people and I’m not going to let him get away with it. Proving your innocence means bringing someone else to justice.”
Runstom turned away and started furiously grabbing clothes out of the closet. “Now get your shit together because we need to get off this goddamn superliner ASAP.”
Less than half an hour later, they were back in the stolen personnel vessel. It was repainted and stocked up on food and fuel. Over the weeks they’d cleaned it out a little, but there wasn’t much in it that had needed disposing of. They’d kept all the weapons, the armor, and the spacesuits. They brought a few changes of clothing with them, a couple crates of wine, and the opened package that Linda Parson’s cookies came in.
By the label they could see that it was delivered by TerroPac Express, a delivery company located on Terroneous, one of the moons that orbited Barnard-5. There were some other data on the label, but Jax and Runstom couldn’t make heads or tails of it, other than the number of the office on the moon that the package was shipped from. No matter what, getting to Terroneous was the first step; from there, they’d have to find the next.
Jax wasn’t really sure about how much trouble Runstom had gotten himself into by this point. He was not convinced that the officer would get off with simply a strict talking-to from his captain, and he was still feeling the pangs of guilt about it as they prepped the ship for takeoff. He knew this was the last chance that Runstom had to turn back and forget the whole thing and live his life just like he did before he met the operator.
Whenever Jax tried to broach the subject, in those last few moments docked in the superliner, he would look at Runstom and see the determination on his face. The officer was capable of making his own decisions. It would be an insult to question his courage or his dedication. Runstom was a detective stuck in a dead-end officer position, much like Jax was stuck in his dead-end life. Except Runstom actually had the will to move up. Jax had the talent, and had always allowed himself to wallow in mediocrity. Just because he’d always been content to be stagnant, he didn’t have the right to discourage Runstom from taking control of a situation. Even if it did mean cutting off the easy route.
“Fuck the easy route,” Jax said, not exactly to himself as they sat in the cockpit of the vessel, about to undock from the superliner.
Runstom gave him a look, but it wasn’t a look like he wondered what the hell Jax was muttering about. It was more of a look that said, It’s about damn time.
CHAPTER 13
It was probably a day, or a couple of days, maybe, before they reached Barnard-5. Xarp time was hard to gauge. They didn’t have the benefit of cryo-sleep, like an interstellar ship would, and they couldn’t do a whole lot of moving around. Jax wanted to bring up the point that this was why the gangbangers had Delirium-G on board, but it wouldn’t do him any good anyway; they bartered the whole supply away on the superliner. Eventually, countless hours into the trip, he started to mention it out loud anyway. Whether it would do any good or not, he needed something to gripe about to keep from losing his mind. Runstom mostly ignored him.
“What did you say?” Jax asked after they’d come out of Xarp speed and set a course for the moon orbiting the nearby planet.
“Huh? I didn’t say anything,” Runstom said groggily. “I thought you were talking.”
“Oh. I thought you said ‘approximate a yurt’.”
“What’s a yurt?” Runstom said, raising an eyebrow.
“How the hell should I know?”
“Approximate a yurt.”
“What?” Jax looked at Runstom, trying to focus on the other man’s face with intense concentration. It blurred in and out of focus elusively.
The whole cockpit turned red. “Warning,” said someone other than Runstom. Jax watched the other man’s lips not move. “Proximity alert.”
A rushing, screaming sound came out of nowhere with an alarming crescendo and the whole vessel shook. After a second or two the sound died out and a streak of white crossed the black of space visible through their front viewport.
“Warning,” mentioned an electronic voice. The red light of the cabin pulsed with each syllable. “Proximity alert.”
“What the fuck was that?” Jax tried to shake himself awake. “Was that another ship? What the hell were they doing?”
“Goddamn. Yeah, it was. I don’t know what they’re doing. Where’s that contact map, goddammit?” Runstom asked himself as he poked and prodded at some controls. The small holo-vision screen in the middle of a panel just below the viewport in front of them lit up with a series of concentric ovals on two axes. A pair of green arrows floated about on the screen.
“Looks like there’s two of them,” Jax said. The green arrows were on opposite ends of the holo-view. “Are they trying to circle us? Can the computer tell us who they are?”
“They’re friendly,” Runstom said, allowing himself to relax a little, which only made Jax more anxious, afraid that his partner was letting his guard down. “Don’t worry about it. If they were hostile, they’d be red.”
“Oh. Um. How does the – uh – contact map – know when another ship is hostile or not? I presume from your overwhelmingly calm demeanor that it knows sometime before they start shooting at you …”
“Yeah, you know.” Runstom talked through a yawn. “Drive signatures and stuff. The contact computer has a little database of the stuff that makes ships unique. Green means it’s a vessel your contact computer knows to be a friendly. Red is a known hostile. Yellow is a vessel it can’t identify.”
“Okay.” Jax tried
to keep his breathing steady, but then he stopped breathing altogether. “Tell me you had this contact database reset back when we were docked with the superliner.”
“Huh? Why would—” Runstom bolted upright suddenly, straining against the seat restraints. “Oh, shit. We’re in a Space Waste ship! Green means friendly to Space Waste!”
Runstom grabbed for the throttle. Suddenly, a series of high pitched waves of sound could be heard all around them, and the cockpit shook violently.
“What the hell do we do?” Jax screamed over the ship’s steady stream of sudden warning messages.
“I gotta get us out of here,” Runstom yelled, yanking on the throttle. “They’re firing on us. They must recognize this ship as the one that was stolen during the prisoner-barge episode.”
“Can we Xarp away?”
“We’re too close to Barnard-5,” Runstom said, still trying to wrestle with the throttle. “You need as close to exactly zero Gs as possible to hit Xarp or you’ll rip yourself apart.”
“Primary thrusters are off-line,” stated the ship’s disembodied voice. The viewport showed the planet in the distance slowly moving from side to side.
“All I got left is stabilizers.” Exasperated, Runstom slapped the control stick away.
“Doesn’t this thing have any guns?” Jax said desperately.
“There’s an auto-turret.” Runstom flipped a switch. Nothing happened.
“Auto-turret inactive,” the computer said. “No hostile targets available.”
“Motherfucker, are you kidding me? The contact computer is still showing them as friendly!” He looked at Jax. “Activate the terminal in front of you! You have to tell that thing that those bastards are hostile!”
Jax fumbled with the controls at his station. A panel rolled over exposing a keyboard and one of the larger monitors lit up. It read “SYSTEM READY.”
“What do I do?”
Runstom was poking at other controls at his own station. “I’m patching you in to the central computer. You gotta talk to it. I don’t know how to reprogram it.”
