How it all worked was that they had purchased and installed some kind of high-tech system that used cameras and machine vision to notice human-shaped objects moving around on the property, and then attempted to perform “IFF” on them. Rufus knew from the military that this meant “Identification Friend or Foe.” If the imagery was good enough, facial recognition would do the trick, but lots of times it wasn’t, and in any case people frequently wore earthsuits that got in the way of the optical path. So everyone was encouraged to wear a little device called an “iffy,” which seemed to be a cross between an ID badge and the kind of transponder typically installed on aircraft so that air traffic controllers could tell one blip from another. The iffy, which was about the size of a phone, was apparently complicated and expensive. So you could get along without one if you were just working inside a building that had the usual security barrier at the entrance. But anyone roaming around the property at large needed to have an iffy that was up and running. When the high-tech system noticed a free-ranging humanoid life-form on the property who was not so equipped, drones would head that way with Black Hats in hot pursuit. Naturally all the net runners, sail chasers, et cetera had iffies as a matter of course.
What applied to humans applied to drones as well. Rufus was welcome to fly his drones around but they had to be registered and he would have to install transponders on them. “T.R. has spoken to me with great admiration of your skill with drones,” Tatum said drily.
Rufus nodded. He had to suppress a smile as he imagined what that conversation must have been like.
“He refers to you as . . .”
“The Drone Ranger. I know, sir.”
“Well, that being the case, I’ll leave it to you to interface with your tech staff about making the necessary modifications to your equipment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“T.R. says you are self-sufficient in your trailer. You can park it anywhere you like.”
“You mean Nine or Four or Noon?”
“I mean
“Yes, sir.”
“What kind of weapons you packing?”
“My job until recently has been killing feral swine. To a first approximation, those are similar to humans,” Rufus pointed out.
This phrase “to a first approximation” he had picked up from Alastair, and he liked it.
“So,” Rufus continued, “by and large . . .”
“You are equipped with firearms designed for killing humans. In other words, military. I get it.”
“Yes, sir. Simplifies the decision-making process by a good deal.”
“All right then.”
“But only three pieces. An AK. A bolt-action with infrared scope. And a plain old nine mil Glock.”
“Nothing weird. Nothing full auto.”
“Oh, no sir.”
Tatum nodded. “We’ll set you up with a two-way radio that works on an encrypted channel. But to be honest, phones work almost everywhere on the property and they usually work better.”
Tatum’s sensible attitude around “weird” firearms now emboldened Rufus to bring up a topic that had been somewhat on his mind. The drive from Cotulla to the Flying S Ranch had been long enough that the old mental hobgoblins had been able to get some purchase in Rufus’s brain. He’d called Carlos Nooma, a half-Mexican, half-Comanche lawyer in Dallas whom Rufus had met in the army when Carlos had been working off his student loans in the JAG. Now he was part of a firm. He’d helped Rufus over a few of the humps associated with his separation from Mariel and starting his business. Once he and Carlos had spent a few minutes catching up and shooting the breeze, Rufus had explained the nature of what was happening at the Flying S Ranch, and of his proposed role.
Carlos gave Rufus due credit for never having a dull moment in his life and promised to look into it. This had taken a little longer than expected because Carlos had had to reach out to attorneys in his firm who knew about things like the Federal Aviation Administration. But yesterday Carlos had called him back and briefed him.
“Legality-wise,” Rufus began.
“A contract should come through with your name on it,” Tatum said with a shrug. “Not my department.”
“Of, of course not, sir, that’s understood.”
“Then what is your question?” Tatum asked.
Rufus stuck his tongue out briefly, then remembered his manners and pulled it back in. “In terms of T.R.’s overall strategy here—which has a bearing on our jobs, yours and mine—as I understand it . . .” And at this point all he could do was repeat what Carlos Nooma had told him over the phone. “There’s no actual law against what T.R. is doing here.”
“If you have ever met a legislator in the flesh . . .” Tatum began.
“I have not had that honor.”
“Let’s just say it is not in their nature to even conceive of something like Pina2bo. Much less concoct a law making it illegal.”
“Right. Understood,” Rufus said. Again quoting Carlos Nooma: “And if they did? It would be a bill of attainder.”
“I have no idea what that means, Red.”