Op File Treason Page 9

“A battleship and escorts,” came the feared answer.

  “Open a channel to Commander Maricor.”

  “On the line, Captain,” communications announced a few seconds later.

  “Datu. Unfortunately, we have company,” Chulpan said. “I’m going to lead them off. Beach the clippers and the gun boats to get them off the radar. Your shuttles should be able to assist the boats into orbit when the area is cleared. I’ll be back for you.”

  “I understand Captain,” the XO acknowledged. “Give the Galactic Council Navy a merry chase. We’ll be here when you get back.”

  “Helm, an emergency exterior evolution is authorized. Get us away from the moon fast,” Chulpan ordered. “Navigation, estimate a course to the Dos sector. When we evolve, you’ll have three minutes to get a fix on our location and get the adjustments to the helm. Then we’ll evolve again and lose the Navy at the divide.”

  “Stand by for an emergency evolution,” communications announced as blue ions folded back around the light cruiser.

  Blinded by the ion flow and shooting on a straight line away from the moon, Chulpan strolled to the navigation station to give encouragement to the team. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded his head in appreciation of their work. Mixing authority with confidence was how a Constabulary Captain had gained the trust of his crew and convinced them to become pirates.

  Twenty hours later, Chulpan sat in his chair and called to Navigation.

  “You’ve got three minutes to get a fix and send our course to the helm,” he reminded them. “But try for two minutes and take some of the pressure off of the helm.”

  Polite chuckles rippled around the bridge. It did help break the tension although none of the crew was in a festive mood. They were being hunted and had left half their crew stranded at a moon, millions of kilometers from civilization.

  “Stand by for interior evolution,” communications announced.

  As the blue ions cleared, Navigation frantically spun dials and took readings. Just as they sent the heading to the Helm, Combat Control called.

  “Multiple contacts. I repeat multiple contacts,” the weapon’s officer warned.

  “Helm. Get us out of here. Exterior evolution,” Chulpan shouted.

  “Inbound torpedoes. Impact area is our aft port,” Combat Control announced.

  Blue ions flowed from the forward tube and wrapped the bridge in blue just as the torpedoes impacted at the thin plates. Exploding deep in the partially evolved light cruiser, they disrupted the switch from interior drive to exterior drive. A flash of blue light lit the black of space for two thousand kilometers. The atoms of the warship stretched and flared. When the blue ions faded, the light cruiser was gone.

  “Scratch one Constabulary light cruiser,” Combat Control of the Galactic Council Navy heavy cruiser radioed the bridge.

  “Good shooting weapons. We finally got him,” the Captain said. Then, he explained to the bridge crew and his XO. “It’s pure luck. The battle group had evolved to change headings to meet us. If the Constabulary Captain hadn’t run from the battleship and given away his position, the group would have gone right by him. Nice work everyone. Secure from battle stations.”

  ***

  Commander Datu Maricor watched as the three clippers drifted downward and settled in clouds of moon dust. His gun boats, as directed, settled between the big transports. Partially to hide them from orbital surveillance and to provide connections between all the ships. He didn’t know how long until Captain Chulpan returned and he planned to make the crew as comfortable as possible.

  “Shuttles, let’s join them,” he directed as his shuttle dipped for the surface.

  Within a day, Datu had reinforced airlock tubes connecting all the vessels. By day two, he had an area designated as a mess deck, another as a storage deck for the merchandise from the cargo sleeves, and to keep the crew busy, a salvage and parts area. They dismantled the ion walls from the three clippers and hauled the parts to the area. It was busy work or so they thought.

  A month later, a crippled clipper sending a distress signal received an answer from an isolated moon. Once in orbit, they negotiated for parts and mechanical help. When the repairs were completed, half the former Constabulary sailors boarded for a trip to the nearest port.

  As tramp steamers seem to do, a couple found the moon and traded for parts. They left food, water and chemicals and Datu further expanded their base.

  Two months later, a shipper hauled an old vessel to the moon and dropped it on the surface. Better there, explained Datu Maricor, then set it adrift to become a navigational hazard. It only cost a small fee for the shipper as the moon’s occupants would salvage the alloy and parts to offset the cost. The next month, two other shippers discarded their old vessels on the moon and more trading vessels used the moon base for resupply.

  In its tenth year, the Salvage Moon bought old and wrecked spaceships and sold a few refurbished ones. As the only trading center, transfer hub, and repair facility in that sector, it was fast becoming an oasis in the void of space.

  Chapter – 13 Graveyard of Ships and Souls

  “It’s worse then it looks,” Walden stated.

  Diosa continued to stare out the port of The Talon’s gunship. Far below and coming up fast were five rings of rusty metal tubes. The interior tubes were roughly circular surrounding straight lines of the tubing in the center. On the outer ring which defined the extent of the huge moon base, five large nodes butted against the ring. Fanning out from each node, kilometers of spaceship hulls littered the moon’s surface. Where sections of discarded hulls remained attached, they curved up like the ribs of dead animals. Cutting arcs flashed in the hulls and ground carts stacked with parts raced from the hulls to the nodes. As they dropped lower, she could see the nodes were actually large warehouses.

  “Explain again why we aren’t using the shuttle?” Diosa asked as the ion cannons pounded in the back.

  “Because the law is almost nonexistent here. It’s founded on rogue commerce where possession is nine tenths of the law,” Walden replied. “We took the gunship because I want to be able to defend The Talon if someone tries to claim it while we’re away. Besides, I couldn’t raise flight control so I wanted guns.”

  As they closed with a landing pad, the ugly construction became more apparent.

  “And I’m supposed to find a Captain Iska Maricor in that mess?” Diosa questioned while pointing down at the rough welds holding the sections together.

  “Yes, ma’am. Iska is the manager and a descendant of Commander Datu Maricor. Datu founded the moon base after the Great Schism,” Walden answered. “If Enyd Kealan is here, Iska will know. If she’s shipped out, he’ll know on what ship. Just be nice because there are no clean up teams on Salvage Moon.”

  Diosa pulled her pistol and checked the charge in the magazine. Then she shifted the combat knife to a more comfortable position.

  “I’m ready,” she announced as Walden flared the gunship so it sat down next to an airlock tube.

  As the airlock tube closed with the hatch and locked on, Walden advised, “It’ll take me twenty minutes to do a combat insertion and another five minutes to reach a pad. If you stir up trouble, be sure to figure that into your extraction timing.”

  “No trouble,” Diosa promised. “Information is all I’m seeking.”

  “And I believe you,” Walden said as she stepped out of the gunship and into the tube. “But, do you?”

  Diosa didn’t hear him. She had closed the hatch and was three bounding steps away, moving towards the salvage base’s airlock.

  ***

  Diosa went from the light-footed walk of the airlock tube to her feet slamming down as she passed into the base. Ships’ decking composed the flooring and with it the artificial gravity of a spaceship. It took a few seconds to adjust and she used the time to study the bulkheads. Curved alloy arched high overhead and sloped down to the floor. It was a tube as she’d seen from the aerial view. Except, the area was more the size
of a transport’s hull than a claustrophobic tunnel. Water dripped from wet spots on the walls and from pipes running below the ceiling.

  That’s one way to assure proper moisture in the air, she thought, just leak it and let the H2O evaporate into the atmosphere.

  Despite the rust and liquid water, the humidity combined with a spicy scent created a pleasant breathing experience. Warlock removed her hand from the rebreather where it rested since she got off the gunship. Looking around, she didn’t see anyone stationed at the airlock to greet her. Diosa faced right and began walking down the corridor. Lights shone on the wall and soon a small flatbed vehicle zoomed into view. She raised a hand attempting to flag it down while shielding her eye from the bright headlights with the other hand. She couldn’t see the driver beyond the glare.

  The truck shot passed her and disappeared around the curved corridor. Figuring the truck came from a populated area, she kept walking looking for an internal communications screen, a phone or a body to give her directions.

  Another set of headlights announced the arrival of a second vehicle and Diosa stepped into the center of the deck. Waving her arms to draw attention to herself, she stood waiting for the truck to round the bend.

  The headlight beams illuminated her and the vehicle raced forward. Breaks squealed and the truck screeched to a halt a couple of meters in front of her.

  “Keep your hand away from the pistol,” a voice called out.

  “It wasn’t my intention to draw on you,” Diosa replied. “I’m looking for Captain Maricor.”

  “So are we,” the voice said and several other voices laughed uncomfortably at the comment.

  Then one of the headlights exploded followed by the report of a rifle from behind Diosa. She leaped to the side of the passageway as rifles and pistols from the vehicle returned fire. When the truck began to back up, Warlock with no desire to remain in the middle of a gunfight ran to stay beside the front bumper. It started to outpace her and she doubled her efforts. Just as the vehicle was pulling away, the curvature of the corridor took them out of the direct line of fire. Rounds bouncing off the bulkhead still made it dangerous but at least the shooters in the vehicle had checked their fire.

  The truck backed through a break between broken crates. A few of the crates rested against the walls with others pushed aside. Shattered pieces of crates in the center passageway showed where the first truck crashed through the barricade. It appeared to be an escape. But an escape from what or whom?

  “Put your hands up,” a voice directed. Diosa watched as an armed man came around the bumper. “Don’t move.”

  “Hands up or don’t move?” inquired Diosa putting a smile on her face.

  “Just don’t. Don’t go for your gun,” he said while four people climbed from the truck bed and pointed their weapons at her torso.

  “Okay. But can you tell me what’s going on?” she asked. “I arrive here and suddenly people are shooting at me. It makes a girl feel unwanted.”

  “I’m taking you to see Ryo,” the man announced.

  “Oh, Ryo? Sure, it’ll be good to see him,” Diosa added.

  “You know Ryo?” inquired the man.

  “No,” Diosa admitted. “But if he can tell me what’s going on, it’ll be good to see him.”

  The man tilted his head in confusion, indicated a direction with the barrel of his rifle and followed Diosa as she strolled towards the back of the vehicle.

  As she moved between the armed people, a woman reached down and took her pistol. All four fell in behind Diosa and the man giving orders. Six people standing off to the side began shoving crates back into position to reclose the barricade.

  Further down the passageway, Diosa and her party marched by an opening in the corridor. A warehouse stretched from the opening to a faraway air curtain. Alloy segments and shaped items were displayed on rows of shelving. As they passed, a truck nosed through the curtain and turned around. The driver jumped down from the cab and pulled off a helmet. Two men joined her and they began unloading ion cannons, sections of an ion wall and other parts from a spaceship’s drive.

  “Shouldn’t we be helping?” asked one of Diosa’s escorts.

  “And let them pour in and take over,” answered the woman with Diosa’s pistol. “We’ll get back to it once the labor dispute ends.”

  “I’ve been here ten years and we’ve never had to negotiate with guns,” another commented.

  “They’ve never had so many new people on their crews,” another added. “It’s the new ones causing the trouble.”

  “And Luz is letting them,” said the man who wanted to go and help unload the truck.

  A general grumbling of agreement was the reply to his statement.

  They left the entrance to the warehouse behind and passed parked trucks and enclosed four-person vehicles lined up against the bulkhead. A little further down the wide corridor, the man behind Diosa indicated for her to take a left down a hallway. When she neared an arrow and a sign pointing towards a medical clinic, the man shoved her into a treatment room.

  “Bagwis. Who is this?” inquired a man sitting on the edge of a treatment table. His arm was in a clean and obviously new sling.

  “We found her when we chased the woman,” replied the man who had guided Diosa. He moved by Diosa and deeper into the room. While Bagwis approached the treatment table, the four escorts came in and spread out in a semi-circle. “I figured she was another one.”

  Warlock noted the positions of the man on the table and Bagwis and the location of the four weapons pointing at her. Terrible prisoner security, she thought, they have me in the center of a circular firing squad.

  “I’m right here. Why don’t you ask me?” suggested Diosa.

  “I would but I’m a little busy,” the man in the sling said. “We’ll lock you in a supply closet until I have time to question you. Bagwis, take her to…”

  Warlock leaped with her left knee jutting forward. It speared the back of Bagwis’ right leg. As the leg folded, she reached around with her left hand and cupped his chin. Off balance and on one leg, the violent pull on his head caused Bagwis to spin and stagger off to the left. While the man flayed his arms trying to right himself, Warlock wrapped her right hand over the barrel of the man’s pistol. Jerking it hard, she bent his wrist and snatched the weapon from his fingers.

  It happened so fast the four escorts didn’t have time to react. If they had, they would have shot Bagwis. And now to hit the woman, they would have to shoot through the man with the sling on his arm, as the woman stood behind the treatment table.

  Warlock had jumped the treatment table, reached out and crushed the man’s left ear in her fingers. He found himself trapped between the agony of an earache on his left and the barrel of a pistol in his right ear.

  Wrapping an arm around a throat was good for control but would leave Warlock open to fire from the escorts. By controlling the man’s ears, she could extend her arms and use his body for cover.

  “Let me introduce myself,” Warlock said removing the pistol from his ear so he could hear. “I’m Master Sergeant Diosa Alberich, Galactic Council Marine Corps, Retired. Your turn?”

  “A Marine? Are there more with you? Did you bring a squad?” the man asked hopefully.

  “No. I’m alone. Let’s get back to the original question. Who are you?”

  “Ryo Sota. Section Supervisor,” Ryo replied. He visibly relaxed. Warlock took advantage of it to lift the pistol and shove the goggle off her eye with the back of her thumb. Then she returned the barrel to the Supervisor’s ear. “Another woman showed up yesterday. She claimed to be a Realm citizen and we welcomed her. Even showed her our defenses and introduced her to some of my crew members. This morning, she grabbed a pistol and shot two of my people. Then, she shot me, jumped into a truck and broke through our barricade.”

  Warlock sampled his respiration and found no excess carbon dioxide or additional ammonia in his perspiration. His heart rate didn’t require her sensors as she
had her little finger extended and resting on his neck. After Ryo adjusted to her original moves, his heart settled into a normal rhythm and remained at that level.

  “Did you get her name?”

  “Enyd Kealan is the name she gave,” Ryo reported. “She fooled us. How can we trust you?”

  “How do I convince you to trust me?” Diosa pondered out loud. “Let’s start with having your people holster their pistols and the other two switch the rifles to their left hands.”

  “How is that gaining our trust?” inquired Ryo.

  “It’s the easy way,” explained Warlock. “You’ll keep your weapons and see, I’m a nice person.”

  “That’s not very convincing. You still have a pistol pointed at my head,” commented Ryo. Then he asked. “What’s the hard way?”

  “I shoot everyone and walk out of this room,” Warlock stated as she poked his ear with the barrel.

  “Do what she says,” instructed Ryo.

  With the weapons no longer targeting her, Warlock stepped back and typed on her PID. No connection. Switching to an alternate frequency, she tried again. No connection.

  “I was going to pull up my information, but there doesn’t seem to be any net,” Diosa informed Ryo.

  “Pablo Luz and his thugs must have taken control of communications,” he guessed. “That means he has Iska and the operations staff. This is getting worse by the hour.”

  “Iska Maricor? I was supposed to speak to him about locating Enyd Kealan,” Warlock exclaimed.

  “You can find them both on the other side of the base,” Ryo said pointing over his head as if she could see through the walls. “Behind the gunmen brought in by Pablo Luz.”

  “Back up,” suggested Diosa. “tell me what’s going on here.”

  “We have five warehouses and five harvesting yards,” Ryo explained. “I supervise three. Or I did, until they took over one. My warehouses service Galactic Council Navy ships, legitimate clippers and trading families. Luz services notable pirates, independent shippers, although you can’t always tell the difference, and trading families. Four months ago, he brought up servicing Empress Constabulary Navy ships and denying the GC Navy service. I was against it and thought we put the discussion behind us. Then, new men, hard guys began arriving and joining his crews.”