Some people will live their whole lives on this planet and never see its surface, his mother used to say. It’s dull, gray, and ugly. But without it, we would just be drifting through space.
The world was a smaller place without Irene Jackson. It was a world as small as the room Jax was locked in. It was a world without a surface.
The next day, Stanford Runstom and George Halsey sat in the Blue Haven Police Department break room watching bombball highlights. Runstom fidgeted with his uniform’s snaps and Halsey sat stone-faced, staring at the holo-vid, not napping for once.
“And Sommerset breaks another trap …” announced the HV set in a thin but enthusiastic voice.
“He’s at the shot zone,” Halsey said in chorus with the announcer, his mocking voice dead and monotone in contrast to the energetic sportscaster. “He jogs left, dodging Caruso. He fires. He scores. Krakens take the lead at the half.”
“This is the fifth time they’ve played the same sports show with the same highlight sequence,” Runstom said with a groan. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I can’t stand this anymore, George.”
“You’re the big bombball fan,” Halsey said without turning away from the holo-vision.
“No, I mean just sitting here doing nothing.”
“What else are we gonna do?” Halsey poked idly at the remote and hopped around a few channels, all of which were playing advertisements.
Runstom didn’t have an answer. He wanted to do some police work. They couldn’t go back to the scene of the crime; the cleaning staff were already all over block 23-D, scrubbing it down. He knew they might be able to talk their way back into the operator room outside the block, but what evidence they might find there, Runstom had no idea. If the whole crime was committed from the console, he wouldn’t even know what to look at. There was only one decent avenue of investigation he could think of at the moment.
“We could go interview the suspect,” he said.
Halsey finally turned to look at him, mouth hanging open for a moment before curling into a smile. “Yeah, right. Good one.” He turned back to the holo-vision. “Can you imagine, though? The dicks would be pissed,” he said, drawing out the last word.
“Yeah,” Runstom agreed quickly. He blew out a long sigh as Halsey continued flipping channels. “Well,” he said. “I’m going for a walk.”
Halsey turned around again and gave him a funny look. “Yeah, okay,” he said tentatively. “Well, don’t go too far. We might have to leap into action at a moment’s notice.”
“Right.”
Officer Runstom found himself standing in the viewing area just outside an empty interrogation room. The B-fourean officers in charge of the holding cells had offered very little resistance when the ModPol officer had requested to have a prisoner brought out for questioning. Technically, they weren’t supposed to bring out any prisoners without permission from the detectives that brought them in. The local officers were either blindly submissive to anyone wearing a ModPol badge or they just didn’t really care that they were being asked to bend the rules – Runstom wasn’t sure which.
A few minutes later, Jack Jackson was led into the interrogation room and Runstom went in. A B-fourean guard stood quietly against one of the smooth, blue walls after plunking Jackson down in a small, metal chair in front of a long, empty metal table. Runstom quietly took a seat in the comfortable office chair opposite the prisoner. He’d watched a few interrogations go down in his time, and he’d seen many more go down on holo-vid, but he’d never conducted one himself. He hardly knew where to begin.
“Hi,” Runstom said. “I’m Off—” he started, then stopped, wondering if he should call himself Detective for the purposes of the interview. He shook off the thought as ridiculous. “I’m Officer Runstom, Modern Policing and Peacekeeping.”
The other man stared back in silence. He was tall, slender, and pale-skinned, like an average B-fourean. He looked afraid. His mouth moved slightly as if to make some kind of greeting, but no noise came out.
Another officer came into the room carrying a cup and set it down in front of Runstom. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need, Officer.”
After thanking the B-fourean officer and watching him leave the room, Runstom got out his notebook. He had tried to make relevant notes about everything he knew about the case so far, but unfortunately he knew very little. He poked at the coffee cup absently.
Jackson spoke suddenly, breaking the silence with a quiet voice. “You don’t have to drink it, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The coffee. Off-worlders tend not to care for it. We coldcook our coffee here. Most off-worlders want it hot.”
“I see.” Runstom picked up the cup. “It’s okay. I don’t mind it so much.” He set the cup back down without taking a drink. “Did you, uh, did you want some?”
“No, thanks,” Jackson said plainly. “I only drink coffee at work. And, as you can see, I won’t be going to work for a while.”
“There was a lot of evidence, Mr. Jackson,” Runstom said. “But you maintain your innocence.”
“Don’t tell me this is another lame attempt at getting a confession out of me.” Runstom knew there was anger in the statement, but the man’s voice was shaky and unsure, riding on a current of fear more than any other emotion.
“Actually, Mr. Jackson, I was just—”
“Please,” the prisoner said. “Call me Jax. My friends – I mean, most people – call me Jax.”
“Okay. Jax.” Runstom watched the other man for a moment. Maybe he wasn’t as average a B-fourean as he first thought. Jackson’s brown hair dangled haphazardly down the sides of his head. He had the same dull, gray eyes the others had but there was something else behind them. Fear, for sure, but something else – a glint of pride, a spark of independence. A fire that the other B-foureans Runstom had met seemed to lack. Runstom put his hands flat on the table and drummed his fingers lightly. He tried to remember transcripts of suspect interviews he’d read in the outpost library. “What do you think happened, Jax?”
Jax looked at him quietly for a moment, as if he didn’t understand the question. “I don’t know what happened.”
“The venting doors in the block were opened,” prodded Runstom. “But you claim that you didn’t intentionally open them.”
“I didn’t open the doors,” Jax said, leaning forward in his chair. “Intention’s got nothing to do with it. I did not open them.”
“But the console logs say you were logged into the console at the time of the incident.”
“I was. But I did not open those doors.” He made a fist at the word not, and began to make a motion as if he might bang it down on the table, but instead held back and just flexed his long fingers. “I couldn’t have even if I wanted to.”
Runstom studied the operator for a moment. The B-fourean’s eyes were steady as he spoke. “Why not? The engineers say that someone issued the commands to open the doors from a console.”
Jax sighed. “It doesn’t make sense. There’s a reason there are two sets of venting doors. You can’t open one without the other being closed. The system won’t let you. Especially not from an operator console. Operators are human and it could easily happen by mistake if it wasn’t for the safety checks in the system.”
“I see.” Runstom wished he knew whether