Op File Treason

by J. Clifton Slater

  “Where was the ship before that?” inquired Warlock.

  “Nowhere in that configuration,” Walden said. “They’d just completed the refit. And the ship has lots of add-ons. It has…”

  Both of their PIDs buzzed, cutting off Walden’s enthusiastic description.

  ‘Warlock, I hope you didn’t go too hard on Poet?’ Special Agent Eiko typed.

  Diosa glanced at the pilot and inquired, “Poet? Do you write verse?”

  “No. I picked up the call sign in Navy flight school,” Walden explained. “My scores in Gunship handling were sheers poetry, according to my classmates.”

  Eiko’s message broke into their conversation, ‘Are you two there?’

  ‘Both here,’ Warlock typed back.

  ‘Your first assignment is Op File Treason,’ Eiko informed them. ‘Question Emil Maraike at Master of Transit, Orbital Station. Merchant routing is a sieve and we need to know the extent of the leaks. And who is receiving the information.’

  ‘Level of force authorized?’ asked Warlock.

  ‘Unrestricted Field Agent Alberich. Try not to leave too many bodies for our clean-up crews,’ Eiko replied. ‘Walden. Travel is also unrestricted. Bottom line, get me answers. I’ve got to go.’

  The connection broke and Warlock looked across the table at Poet.

  “Where do I start?” asked Warlock. “I haven’t been through a secret agent academy or a spy school or had any training on how to do investigations.”

  “The Agency has lots of professionals who are methodical and by the book. I’ve reviewed your file Master Sergeant Alberich. As far as I can figure out,” Walden explained. “I believe you’ve been brought in to shake things up. The Galactic Council Realm is at war. Someone needs to kick doors, even if bodies end up on the floor. Your job is to pluck answers from the blood and gore.”

  “Did you do that on purpose?” inquired Diosa looking closely at the pilot.

  “Do what?” replied Walden.

  His vitals showed no spikes. Walden Geboren had no idea he’d rhymed words. Based on the personality swings from slovenly letch to cleaned up, yet slightly drunk, professional, Warlock had to assume her pilot was unstable. While she pondered his ability to function, Walden began scrolling through his PID.

  “Emil Maraike, fifty-five. He’s been with Master of Transit for fifteen year,” Walden reported with his head down speaking while still scrolling. “Three years ago, he was promoted from a technical position to Shipping Coordinator. An odd jump in responsibilities. Four years ago, he married a woman named Enyd. They have no children. I’ve sent his office location and home deck to your PID.”

  “That’s fast work,” admitted Warlock.

  “I’ve just started. Once I move my things to The Talon, I’ll have access to more information,” Walden said with a big grin. “I’ve got to move out of my apartment anyway, it’s uninhabitable. Filled with unimaginable filth. Not an environment conducive to good health.”

  Warlock had seen this type of behavior before and it settled some of her doubts about Walden. Many people accustomed to high stress occupations, such as combat Marines, Strikers, Navy Fighter and Gunship pilots, fell apart between missions. They needed an assignment and the action to focus. However, no one demonstrating Walden’s wide variety of personality issues could be on active duty. Then it hit her, her pilot couldn’t be active military as he’d fail the mental health examinations. Although some of her reservations lifted based on his performance so far, she would keep an eye on Poet.

  “What else do we need to know?” inquired Warlock.

  “His high school and college transcripts, close friends and acquaintances,” Walden listed. “Plus, hobbies and groups where he’s a member. I’ll move to the ship tonight and do the deed. You’ll see, you can count on me.”

  Again, Walden exhibited no outward signs that he was aware of his speech pattern. But he did seem to be enamored with deep research and that was good. Warlock was more the kick a door or break a nose type. Special Agent Eiko had paired them for obvious reasons. Still, she was unsettled about Poet’s mental quirks.

  “If you are moving to The Talon,” asked Warlock. “Where’s my rack?”

  “You have room sixty-two on the guest deck on the Station,” Walden informed her.

  Everything had been set up in advance as if Eiko and the Agency knew she’d join them. It was disheartening to be that predictable, she thought as she and Walden left the coffee shop.

  Chapter – 6 Assisted Intuition

  Diosa was sound asleep. The familiar hum of the Station’s air handling units and the vibrations from the ion wall gave her a sense of comfort. Then her PID buzzed. Glancing at the device, she noted it was the middle of fourth watch and a message from Walden waited to be read.

  This better be important was Warlock’s first thought. Then she realized, Poet must have been up all-night working.

  ‘Emil Maraike is on a suspect list due to six out of the ten Clipper Ships he routed recently, being attacked by pirates at their turning points. Not a true sign of any crime but, there is a mathematical probability Emil was passing on transport information.’

  “Is that all?’ sent back Warlock.

  “Further data will corrupt your impression of Maraike and restrict your intuition,’ came back the reply.

  Upset at being woken early in the morning for almost no information, she typed, ‘What makes you think I have intuition?’

  ‘Warlock, the empirical evidence of your instinct is based on ten years surviving as a Striker and knowing when to duck.’

  Diosa smiled at the response because Poet was correct. Being up at this hour usually meant training. If she had workout gear, she’d hit the deck’s gym.

  ‘Poet. What time do the shops open on Orbital Station?’

  ‘I double checked the inventory. Did I miss an item? Please advise and I’ll bring it to you.’

  Inventory? What was the crazy pilot talking about? Then she got out of bed and went to the chest of drawers. Last night, after a sleepless night before and a nap on the orbital shuttle, Warlock had come into the room, stripped and carefully laid the scrubs over the back of a chair. Now she opened the top drawer. Toiletries, and, oh for pity’s sake, Waldon had folded her underwear and bras. Shaking off the image of her first impression of Poet, she grabbed a sports bra, underwear and located sweat gear and athletic shoes in another drawer.

  After dressing, she slid back the closet door. Hanging in precise order by color were blouses, suit jackets, slacks and skirts. Boots and shoes lined the floor. A strong box shared the floor space with the footwear. Warlock lifted it out.

  Her palm print opened the box and Diosa peered inside. A forty-five kinetic pistol and holster nestled between a combat knife and a telescoping baton.

  I have to give it to Waldon and Special Agent Eike, they knew the way to a girl’s heart, she thought relocking the box. It went back in the closet and she headed out the door for a workout.

  ***

  All civilian ships filed their routes with the Master of Transit offices. In turn, the Master of Transit sent schedules to Naval Movement Command. The Navy merged their ship movements with the schedule and sent back a list of any ships whose routes intersected. The system worked as there hadn’t been an on-route collision in years. All ships adhered to the system, except for BattleShips. Then, the Master of Transit simply received orders from the Navy to empty a huge area of a sector. The big red monsters traveled and occupied any area of space they desired.

  Emil Maraike sat in a semi enclosed cubical. The headset partially hidden under long graying hair but visible on his bald spot. His fingers comfortably flew over a keyboard. Warlock stood and watched him work as she waited for the supervisor to pull Emil’s flights. Once cleared, the Shipping Coordinator would be free to speak with the Field Inspector from Naval Movement Command.

  Warlock decided on the title after realizing she could select from a long list and the PID would report her choice as her o
fficial occupation. It was her first attempt at being a spy.

  Diosa studied the efficiency of the man as he worked. While he made sure keystrokes in response to messages and sent messages asking for details or updates, between activities, Emil slumped as if he was a blow-up doll running low on air. Not the posture of a criminal or a pirate spy. But what did Diosa know? He could be acting.

  Walden could be right, Diosa might have instinct. What the pilot didn’t know was the sensor in her eye gave her physical readings if her intuition failed. When Emil Maraike pulled the headset off, she lifted the goggle and let her sensors sample stimuli from the man.

  “Field Inspector Alberich. My supervisor said you have questions for me?” Emil asked.

  Warlock’s first sense from him was his nervousness. The Haller Organ Receptor gaged the level of carbon dioxide he exhaled and how much he perspired by the ammonia in his sweat. Both were high but, judging by his shaking hands and downcast eyes, she assumed it was a natural state for Emil Maraike.

  “That’s right Emil. We sometimes like to interview our Master of Transit partners,” Diosa replied. “It’ll take a few minutes and you can get back to work. I only have a few questions.”

  “Alright. What questions?” he inquired.

  His heart rate rose at her words. But not in panic. Diosa watched the soundwaves coming from his heart. Then, she peered at his neck and watched the blood in the artery just beneath the surface. It wasn’t deep in, just where the flesh was backlit by the room’s lighting. After her sensor collected the scattered light, it transmitted the impulses to her neural interface, through her mutated optic nerve and created images in her brain.

  “Emil Maraike, is that your name?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he replied and his signs remained the same.

  “And you’ve been a Transit Coordinator for five years?” Diosa asked.

  “Oh, no ma’am. Three years,” Emil corrected the inspector. “Before that, I was a technician. These terminals and the core are delicate. Lives and the safety of merchant ships depended on them. I kept them online and operating at their peak.”

  This time Emil’s vitals spiked. Not because he was lying. It was his animation caused by the enthusiasm for the subject of being a technician.

  “I bet you were good at it,” ventured Diosa. “Why did you leave an obviously important job that you enjoyed, to take on the responsibilities of a Transit Coordinator?”

  “Well, I got married. And we decided that I needed to make more money,” Emil offered while holding out his hand to display his wedding ring.

  It was an innocuous answer and expected. Except it was a lie. Or at least part of it was making Emil’s vitals climb.

  “Did you receive a large pay increase?” Diosa inquire.

  “Actually, I took a pay cut,” admitted Emil. Then he defended the decision. “But I have more chance of advancement as a Coordinator.”

  This time his carbon dioxide, ammonia, heart rate and blood flow remained steady. Warlock wasn’t a trained interrogator and had no idea how to probe a suspect. So as a Striker whose preset was to attack, she did.

  “Emil Maraike. Have you been selling or giving unauthorized personnel transit data?” she demanded. “Don’t lie to me or it will go harder on you.”

  She’d heard the last part in a Blockbuster video. In the movie, the suspect broke down and confessed. Emil’s eyes popped open in surprise, his hands went to his neck in a defensive move, and he stammered out a reply.

  “Of course not,” he assured her in a loud voice. “Lives and property depend on us. If criminals had the transit information, the loss of life and property would be horrible.”

  Every word from Emil Maraike’s mouth was the truth. Despite his raised voice, his vitals were steady.

  “Let me apologize for the shocking nature of the question,” Diosa requested. “The Galactic Council Realm is at war and I’m charged with keeping our transit systems safe.”

  From behind her, another voice joined the conversation.

  “As am I, Field Inspector Alberich,” Emil’s supervisor challenged. “And that includes preventing the harassment of my Coordinators. This interview is over. Please leave my control room.”

  Diosa looked over her shoulder. The supervisor stood with his arm raised and pointing straight at the exit hatch.

  After making a hasty retreat, Diosa stopped in the corridor outside the Master of Transit offices.

  ‘Poet. Cross Emil Maraike off the list of suspects,’ Warlock typed.

  ‘Noted. Suggest you come inspect The Talon, review additional data, and have lunch,’ came back the reply.

  ‘On the way to your position,’ she sent before heading to the lifts.

  ***

  Maybe it was apprehension of what Diosa would find on The Talon. Based on her brief history with Walden Geboren, the space craft could already be filled with trash. And, yet, she had agreed to eat lunch with him. If they were forced to travel together, she’d need to find out his ship board habits and, if necessary, install another remedial lesson. This one on cleanliness. Or, it could have been her sense of failure when questioning Emil Maraike. It left a nagging feeling she had missed something.

  In any case, Diosa delayed reaching The Talon. She stepped out of the main lift and crossed the lower observation deck. Orbital Station had three. One at the top of the station was used by officials for viewing movement in the surrounding space. Another, at mid Station near several lounges, restaurants and nightclubs, provided large windows for the staff to enjoy the stars and ships while off duty. And the lower one, where she stood, was for crews coming up from the landing bays. They could stop and, out of the large portals, catch a view of space they passed through on the way to the station.

  Far out, Sloops and Clipper Ships, at least those reflecting sunlight, exchanged cargo. Tugs moved cargo containers from Sloops to cargo sleeves. Or removed containers from sleeves and hustled them to the smaller transports. A cargo sleeve, full and sealed, floated like a giant donut as a Clipper maneuvered into position. Once lined up, the Clipper backed through the hole, threading the cargo sleeve until it could be attached to the body of the large transport.

  Walden waited with lunch and she couldn’t delay any longer. Before the Clipper finished with the complicated maneuver, Diosa turned and walked past the lifts to the different docking areas. Beyond the military, the private and the planet shuttle bay lifts, she stopped in front of the lift for the commercial docks. Still unsettled about her poor interview technique, Diosa pushed the call button for the lift.

  ***

  The Talon appeared to be a patrol boat or yacht with its bottom half sunk into the deck. But the taxi sled held the entire altered space ship. At the ramp from the dock, Diosa approached a closed hatch.

  ‘Poet. Knock, knock,’ she sent from her PID.

  The hatch slid open and Diosa strolled into a gleaming passageway. Turning right, she strolled through a hallway past closed doors leading to staterooms. On a military patrol boat, the corridor would be an open gun deck with huge quads rotated inboard and crowding the bulkheads. On The Talon it was a simple corridor. At the end of the passageway, Diosa entered the command deck for the modified patrol boat.

  As she expected, the raised pilot’s seat and controls were three steps up from the actual deck. But the navigator’s panels had been raised so the pilot could reach them. The deck below held a couple of comfortable swivel chairs. Apparently, the modifications allowed for a single pilot to work the important stations without additional crewmen. On the other side of the deck, banks of screens and computers took up the bulkhead. A comfortable chair on a track allowed a user to slide from side to side in order to center on each stack of monitors.

  ‘Galley in the aft,’ a message directed her to Poet’s location and lunch.

  Before turning from the flight deck, Diosa noted the spotless condition of the area. It was unexpected as all the monitors had information, graphs or searches running. Unexpected beca
use it seemed Walden had been busy here all night, yet there was no sign of food or beverage containers.

  ***

  Down the passageway spanning the ship, Diosa found Walden standing and smiling.

  “I hope you like beef stew,” he said.

  The smell coming from a pot mixed with the aroma of French bread made Diosa’s stomach rumble.

  “It smells delicious,” she replied while taking a seat at the single table. “I didn’t know you could cook?”

  “It’s a hobby of mine,” he explained while dishing out thick stew into two bowls. After placing them on the table, he pulled a loaf of French bread out of a warmer. “I thought it would be better to talk here instead of a public place.”

  “What have you discovered?” Diosa inquired as she took a spoonful and held up a hand for him to wait. Then she announced. “You talk. I’m eating.”

  Walden smiled at the compliment and stated, “I didn’t think the interview with Emil Maraike would yield much. From my research, he’s a tech guy. Belongs to a couple of clubs but rarely attends meetings. Until four years ago, he ordered manuals and did net searches for specifications on new systems. No other outside interests. He seemed to be a man who avoided public interaction. After getting married, his entertainment is more varied but I have to believe it’s his wife’s taste. Also, I believe she’s the one dragging Emil to social functions. His attendance at club meetings has dropped to zero but the couple are active at public events.”

  “From my talk with him, I didn’t get the feeling that he’s capable of committing a crime,” added Diosa. “In fact, he’s passionate about protecting the ships and shipping routes. Who else is on our list?”

  “We have one more Transit Coordinator but his routing to attacks ratio is at twenty-five percent,” Walden responded. “I’ll send my research to your PID.”

  “I’ll have to catch him away from the Master of Transit office,” admitted Diosa as she tore off a piece of bread. “I seemed to have burned that approach.”