Flinx Transcendent_ A Pip & Flinx Adventure - Alan Dean Foster [31]
She might well be making a fool of herself for following up on the observation, she knew. There could be any number of perfectly rational explanations for the vessel's continued inaction. She debated with herself for one more day before deciding that the prudent course of action would be to find a colleague to concur with her opinion. The reason she delayed was that if additional action was taken on her recommendation she would be the one to garner all the blame, but if anything positive resulted, she would have to share the credit with her defender. After wrestling with the conundrum for part of yet another morning, she finally decided there was no way she could plausibly proceed without at least one corroborator. She found herself turning to Arubaat DJJKWWE, the monitor who was stationed next to her.
“I have a requesst: run a sstock ssafeguard on the vessel occupying thesse coordinatess.” Without waiting for a response she reallocated the relevant information to his station. Tail tip barely flicking the floor behind his seat, he complied without looking over at her.
“A class twenty-four cargo craft, with minimal if any passenger-carrying capability,” he reported with becoming swiftness. “Onboard life ssupport appearss to be active. When queried, it resspondss appropriately.”
“But alwayss electronically.” She leaned slightly though not provocatively in his direction. She wanted confirmation, not a fight. “I have been querying the craft for sseveral dayss now and have yet to receive a ssingle vissual of any member of the crew.”
Her colleague's dismissal was unapologetically sarcastic. “Perhaps the crew iss sshy. They need only resspond appropriately to formal queriess. Nothing requiress that they sshow themsselvess.” The third-degree gesture of apathy he flipped in her direction matched his tone. “For thiss you interrupt my own sscanning?”
“In the time that I have been monitoring them,” she replied frostily, “they have done nothing but acknowledge presscribed ssignalss. They have initiated no application for landing, forwarded no requesst for cusstomss clearance, ressponded uninteresstedly to repeated offerss to clear cargo. Do you not find thiss odd? Or possibly you think they have come all thiss way ssolely to drift in orbit around the homeworld and admire itss landsscape?”
Reluctantly, Arubaat found himself somewhat drawn to his colleague's disquiet. “They have not yet requessted permission to ssend down a sshuttle, or to validate their bussiness here?”
“Nothing,” she told him firmly. “All codess and queriess are ansswered with a promptness that iss only undersscored by their lack of detail.”
“Not likely a ssecretive thranx warsship, then. What elsse can it be?” Returning his attention to his own station, the now intrigued Arubaat sent skyward a series of electronic requests. They were answered without delay—and without a hint of elaboration. His carefully formatted queries had generated the minimum response required to satisfy regulations. The automated files were completely satisfied.
He, however, was not. At least, not entirely. Much as he hated to admit it, his coworker and natural work-rival might be on to something. How could he make the most of her apparent insight to benefit himself? Much depended on what she wanted to do next, on how she wanted to proceed. So he asked her. After first formally registering his own interest in the matter, of course.
Distastefully but not unexpectedly, she recorded his official acknowledgment of support before elaborating. “The sship'ss crew musst have ssome agenda in mind, whether commercial or otherwisse. It iss incumbent upon uss”—and she took care to emphasize the “uss”—“as Imperial monitorss to find out what it iss. There alsso exisstss the possibility that thosse aboard have ssuffered a collective injury either to themsselvess or to