“Well, either is possible I suppose,” Jax said. Apparently, Halsey’s relaxed manner extinguished any previous anxiety, because the operator again spoke freely. “I guess it doesn’t seem likely that they would beam it down and let it just sit there on the system for long. In fact, it probably sat hidden in volatile memory, so it would be wiped clear during a reset and no trace of it would ever be found.”
Halsey nodded and ran his fingers through his short, blond hair. “Clever,” he said. He looked at Runstom. “I’m thinking traffic logs.”
“What traffic logs?” Jax asked.
“ModPol keeps record of all space traffic coming in and out of the system, orbiting the planets, going into the asteroid belts, and so on,” Halsey said, turning to Jax again to answer the question. He looked back at Runstom. “We could access the logs, find out who was out there at the time of the transmission – alleged transmission – and get their approximate position.”
“Right.” Runstom knew Halsey was going to give him an earful when they left the interrogation room, and yet the other officer seemed to be happy to play along. Then it clicked as to what Halsey was talking about. “Because you would need a direct line of sight from a ship to the receiver dish at block 23-D in the Gretel dome on this planet.”
“Exactly. We plot all the coordinates of ships in the system at that time, and then we can isolate just the ones that would be in position to beam a signal down to his LifSup,” Halsey said, waving a finger at Jax. “Allegedly beam a signal.”
“He goes by Three-Hairs Benson. Bluejack is his game. I know he’s been here, so you might as well make it easy on yourself.”
The proprietor of the card-house smirked. “Listen, lady. We got a strict policy here at the Grand Star Resort.” He raised a yellow finger. “We don’t ask for names, and we don’t give out names. We protect the identities of our clients.” He took the raised finger and bent it down, poking the flat palm of his other hand. “You come to a bluejack table, you lay down cash, you get a color, and that’s what we call ya.”
“I know how to fucking play fucking bluejack, pal,” Dava said. She waved her arm in an arc. “You got four tables in this tiny, little shit-hole. At most eight players to a table, and looks like you ain’t exactly packin’ a full house.” She looked around the filthy hovel. “Let’s face it. Most of your customers are pale-skinned domers. If a guy came in here with bright-red skin, you’d notice him.”
“Hey, I don’t judge,” the owner said with a used-hovercar-salesman smile. “Alleys are Alleys. Money is Money. I’d even let you play, if you wanted to.”
Dava’s eyes narrowed. “Even a brown-skin like me, huh? I’m touched. You’re a fucking saint.” She put a firm hand on the shorter man’s shoulder. “Benson had money to play with. And knowing his luck, he probably started losing. Then he thought he had to play some more to make back his losses. That’s how gamblers think.”
“Read the sign lady. This ain’t gambling. The bluejack tables are for entertainment purposes only.” The man was sticking to his routine, but Dava could hear the faint touch of fear seeping into his voice. She could almost smell the perspiration emerging from his skin.
“So he was probably in here more than once,” she continued, ignoring his fine-print line and tightening her grip. “This stout, tattoo-covered, red-skinned man with a fat wad of Alliance Credits.” She leaned in close and got quieter. “You know, I understand what you’re doing. He was a good customer, I’m sure. Lost lots of money on your tables. But you should know: that wasn’t his money to lose.”
The man swallowed and blinked slowly. Dava could see beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He turned away from her and wiggled out from under her hand. “I told you,” he said weakly. “It’s our policy.”
Dava frowned. “That’s unfortunate.” She walked over to one of the bluejack tables.
“Orange, what’s your bet?” the dealer-bot droned as she approached.
“Uh,” said one of the three skinny, white-faced players at the table. “Twelve?” He watched Dava nervously. “I mean, I’m um. I’m out.” He turned his cards over.
“Green, wha-zzzzZZZTTT—”
She drove a small blade into the top of the dealer-bot’s head and pushed a trigger, generating a series of shinking sounds. She removed the blade and a thin lick of smoke followed it out of the now lifeless hunk of metal.
“Aww, awww,” the owner of the Grand Star Resort whined. “Come on, you know how much those dealer-bots cost? Aww, right in the central processor. Come on!”
She walked over to another table and waggled the knife in her hand as she moved. “Maybe you wanna call the cops?”
“Oh come on, lady!” The man ran up and grabbed one of Dava’s arms. “Please!” She looked at him for a moment, saying nothing. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I saw the man you’re looking for.”
“And he’s a regular?”
“Yeah,” the owner said, defeated. “Comes in every night, right about seven. Before the third shift comes on, so’s he can get a good spot at a table.”
Dava nodded, inspecting the man’s face. He seemed just frightened enough to be sincere. “Thanks for your time.” She looked around. “Sorry about the dealer.”
As she walked out the door, she heard the owner say, “Goddammit, Suzu, go get an out-of-order sign for that table! And while you’re at it, get the bot-tech on the phone and see when he can get over here.”
Dava found a dark corner to disappear into, just off the large corridor where the Grand Star Resort and a few other squat gambling shacks clustered like mushrooms. Dark corners were easy to find in the massive maze of underground maintenance tunnels beneath Blue Haven. Skinny white B-foureans flitted about like bits of paper, disappearing into the mobile storage units that had been converted into bars and card-houses. The domed cities above looked so pristine and perfect, but every beautiful rock in the sky has a dark side.
She turned her arm over and looked at the small screen that was embedded into the bracer she wore. It was a RadMess; Rad meaning radio wave, and therefore relatively short-ranged. Mess meaning message; the device had a voice module, but she and her mates mostly used the small keyboard to send text-based messages back and forth silently.
Space Waste was a gang that oozed brash confidence and chaos on the outside, but internally the organization strove to be efficient and careful. When you flaunt the fact that you’re persistently circumventing the planetary laws, you have plenty of reason to be paranoid at every opportunity. Quite often, the gang found itself in possession of military-grade equipment, including communication devices with near-unbreakable encryption.
Dava started punching a message into her RadMess bracer. The reason they didn’t bother with that military-grade comm stuff was pretty simple. Any dome like Blue Haven was going to have scanners all over the place monitoring radio waves on any frequency. The local authorities wouldn’t be able to decrypt any military comm chatter, but its presence would set off a bunch of red flags and attract immediate attention. So when in domes, they used the cheap-as-shit, consumer-grade RadMess.
Of course, being Space Waste, they were still adequately paranoid about it. Rather than trying to layer on more encryption – the RadMess had a base level of encryption that wouldn’t stop any authorities, but kept civilians from eavesdropping on each other – they used a manual code. It was a pretty dead-simple