Proving True: A Sonia MacTaggert Novel

by Robert Culp

  “Welcome aboard Cutlass, I am Captain Sonia MacTaggert, are you Captain Jones?”

  “I hope so, dear. I’m wearing her clothes,” she says with an impish grin. “Good day, Captain, please call me Wilma. Pardon any impertinence, but what in blue blazes are you kids doing out here ten light years from anywhere?”

  “Wilma it is, I’m Sonia. May I offer you a cup of coffee? Incidentally, somewhere on the planet below, the sun is below the yardarm. So I can also offer a glass of wine, a mug of ale or a shot of whiskey. Or some combination thereof, if you’ll accompany me to our lounge, I’ll share our tale of woe,” I tell her with a smirk.

  “If you’ll pour a shot of strong whiskey into a cup of hot, stronger coffee, I’ll consider that a good start.”

  “I’m pretty sure I can make that happen.” In the lounge I give her a condensed version of how we got to the situation in which we find ourselves. It takes more than a few rounds of ethanol-enhanced beverages. She nods and supplies “I see”s and “How horrible”s at the appropriate times.

  “Ah, Grinning Jack Grangiere. It has been my great displeasure to run afoul of him a few times myself. Quite the character that one. I gather you never laid eyes on him?”

  “No one, I had a crewmember on his ship, but she didn’t see him in person. Or if she did, she didn’t recognize him.”

  “Oh, she’d have recognized him. Make no mistake about that! There are many things I have forgotten, many more I’d like to forget, but that man’s face will attend me the rest of my days. This is very delicious ale, by the way.”

  “Thank you, but it’s your turn. From whence come you and whither are you traveling?”

  “Much like you, we are explorers. We seek out worlds that have human-friendly biospheres and communicate their locations for consideration as colonies. We prefer unpopulated ones. If there’s a population we usually make contact and request immigration privileges. Some are amenable, some aren’t, some do, some don’t, so what? There’s always another world waiting around another star. You may have been curious as to what I could possibly be doing that would take up two hours of my time prior to coming here. It was relaying our findings of Dubus III to the rest of the expeditionary fleet. They should be here in less than twenty four hours.”

  My yeoman approaches us with a message tablet in her hand. “Forgive the intrusion, Captain. The exec felt like you should be made aware of this.”

  Taking the tablet from her, I read…a message from Star Chaser!

  Captain MacTaggert, please terminate any sample gathering operations you may be conducting within the next thirty-six hours and store all specimens for a long trip. Make your best speed to Neptune in the Ramaris sector. My associate, Angela Baron, will contact you there and take control of the specimens for further research. I understand that Gallagher has been lost and is considered irretrievable. That is unfortunate, but cannot be changed. I also understand you have acquired a vessel to replace Gallagher to which I can only say ‘Congratulations.’ Upon reaching Neptune station, all personnel under your command are considered to have completed their contract with Star Chaser and are released to pursue any path they desire. Ms. Baron will be prepared to offer further employment to any who desire it.

  When we left you at Dubus III, it was with the vision that we would be returning and begin continuous operations at the outpost which you established. Sadly, that doesn’t look like it is going to be possible as our own timetable has been advanced and Star Chaser is no longer Transit capable. I have tasked the crew of Oedipus with manning said outpost, as Oedipus is not Transit capable either, they have been given the option to put anyone in TMOD who may desire such. They may request a pair of troopers from you to assist in protecting themselves. I cannot order you to do so, but I hope you will give the request careful consideration. Of course the contracts of any personnel who transfer to Captain Rankin’s command will be transferred to him as well.

  Time does not allow you the option of recovering the outpost. If Captain Rankin determines he is unable to adequately occupy it, he has been empowered to destroy it, but that will be his last resort.

  I wish you safe travels, Captain and hopefully we will serve together again.

  Very Respectfully,

  Horatio R. Pipper

  Star Chaser

  Commanding

  I look up from the tablet. “Good news I hope?” asks Wilma, pouring fresh coffee into each of our cups.

  “Indeed, we just got clearance to depart. Please excuse me, Wilma. I have to dash off a few orders.”

  “Oh the burden of command. I suppose I’ll entertain myself with some of that divine malbec you think you’re hiding over there.”

  I hand her the bottle she points at before advancing to a blank page on the tablet. With the stylus attached to it I write:

  Verify that Captain Rankin received a message from Captain Pipper. If they haven’t, send them a copy of the one we got. Ask them to top off all tanks and then replenish their supply. Have the Smart Kids wrap up anything they have going on planetside with the next twenty-four hours. If you haven’t done so already, acknowledge receipt to Star Chaser. Offer TMOD transport to any non-essential personnel, they will draw seventy percent of their salary for the duration of their suspended journey for accepting. Anyone that wants to transfer to Oedipus may do so with the understanding their contract goes with them. Off load anything that will slow our trip to Neptune. Make any and all preparations to get underway. We engage the transit drive in thirty-six hours.

  I hand the tablet to the yeoman, “Please take this to the exec.”

  “Yes ma’am,” she tucks it under her arm and departs.

  I take a sip of my coffee and look at Wilma. “Sorry about that, but our departure window is coming up and there’s a lot to do between now and then.”

  “Hey, I get it. If you need me to leave, just say so. It won’t hurt my feelings. You’re not that important to me,” she says with a grin.

  “Oh, it isn’t that. I just needed to get things in motion. Now, back to you. Explorers? I envy you. The thought of exploration thrills me, but every time I try to do something that vaguely resembles exploration, some jackass pops up to ruin my day. Actually, I do hope to run into Jack again. I want to bend him in half so he can chew off his own testicles. We have an outpost below, I’d offer to sell it to you, but I don’t know for a fact that I’m empowered to do so.”

  “An outpost already assembled? Ask the question of your superiors, I’ll give you half again fair market value for all materiel in place provided you sell it as is. While we’re on the subject of purchases, what about your fueler? I’m just guessing, but by the look of it, it isn’t Transit capable.”

  “They have been tasked with manning the outpost until a recovery ship can come get them.”

  “When you’re asking about the outpost, ask about them. We can certainly use another fueler in the expeditionary fleet. The commodore is certain to offer contracts if they’re willing to transfer.”

  “Hell, it can’t hurt to ask. The worst thing they can do is say ‘no.’”

  “That’s true,” Wilma says sipping her wine. “And if they hit you, you get to hit them back. It’s in the rules. I looked it up.”

  We both laugh.

  The following day, Wilma and I dine together. This time it’s aboard Luminario as we agreed it was her turn to wear the hospitality hat. I can see why she was dragging her feet with the invitation. Cozy is the kindest adjective that comes to mind.

  “That was delicious, Wilma,” I say finishing my meal. “And if it wasn’t lamb, I don’t want to know what it was.”

  “Let’s say I have a cook who has skills that border on the miraculous and leave it at that. So you’re leaving soon?”

  “We are. All of my scientists have volunteered for Transit in TMOD. They want me to believe they’re exhausted. For smart people, they aren’t always very bright. If you go into a TMOD tired, you’ll come out of it tired. I guess they’re afraid they
won’t be able to contain their curiosity about what they’ve collected. And you’ll be happy to know that I have been authorized to sell you the outpost as well as Oedipus at fair market value plus fifty percent, just as you said. I took the liberty of adding some numbers up.” I have them written on a piece of paper and slide them across the table.

  “Hmm,” she says as she looks at them. “I’ll have to run them in front of the commodore of course, but I feel safe in saying you have yourself a deal. I suppose this is the account into which you want the money ordered?”

  “Yes, please.” It’s the number that came with permission to sell the materiel.

  “Your health,” she raises her glass.

  “Your prosperity,” I clink mine with hers.

  “Well, now that the unpleasantness is out of the way—I hate business, that’s why I’m in exploration—we are at the subject of Captain Rankin.”

  “Are we now?” I pour more wine into both glasses. “What’s on your mind about Captain McDreamy?” He was invited but declined citing some issue he had which required his personal, immediate attention.

  “I really only have one question,” she sips her wine then levels her gaze at me. “You bangin’ him?”

  “Like a big bass drum,” I manage to reply with a straight face. Then we both start laughing.

  We are six hours from breaking orbit for Transit space. Captain Jones is paying me one last visit. She has a going away present for me as well as a credit chip. “The purchase was approved, no real surprise there. But for reasons that I didn’t really care to remember, they weren’t able to affect a direct deposit. So here is a chip with right at ninety nine million credits on it. As agreed, it’s the fair market value of the ship and outpost plus ten percent. You can do what you want to, but if I were you I’d put it in a very safe place.” Someone in Wilma’s chain of command actually balked at half again. The negotiations settled at ten percent over fair market value. Governor Pipper didn’t object.

  “Thank you, Captain. I will do just that. So do you think your people will colonize here?”

  “Oh, they’ve already started. The first hundred people went down about eight hours ago. We got them out of TMOD, balanced their electrolytes, briefed them on the planet—which was made much easier because of research done by your people, thank you very much—then put them on the shuttle with a boat load of seeds and farm implements. Better them than me. The commodore says we—Luminario—will be punching out of here for the next potential colony within the week.”

  “Is there a reason I haven’t met your commodore?”

  “There are a few, actually. One, as you can imagine he keeps pretty busy. Two, when he does get some spare time, he guards it very jealously. Three, he’s not a homo sapiens and he doesn’t breathe an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. And it’s a royal pain in the ass to move his tank around.”

  “Makes sense,” I give her a hug. “Thanks, perhaps we’ll see each other again.”

  “Perhaps,” she hugs me back. “The universe really isn’t that big when you have a starship. And this,” she hands me a brightly wrapped parcel which is clearly a bottle, “is a gift from me. It’s a personal favorite from my family’s vineyard. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. Perhaps you’ll think of me when you drink it.”

  The days in Transit turn into weeks and the weeks turn into months. On the estimated day, Athena gives the report: “We have arrived at Neptune and are being hailed by the Star Port Authority.” The communications technician redirects the message to the loudspeaker.

  “Greetings unidentified corsair, this is Neptune SPA, please send your USC and state your intentions.”

  “Do so, please,” I direct the communications tech. While Neptune is not the biggest planet in the Ramaris sector—in fact it’s only about half the size of Atlas—it is well developed considering its frigid climate. There are thirteen moons and an orbital class B starport with a class AA starport on the planet itself. But it is a cold world with a very dense atmosphere. There are forty-four domed facilities that the locals call “cities” but each is capable of supporting fifty million people. Magtrain tube hubs connect all the cities. In an ideal situation, there would be a tube from each city to each city, but the construction and maintenance costs soon became unreasonable in the planning process. As is, one can get from one dome to any other in mere hours.

  I hear her speak into the holoCom, complying with their directions. “Hello Neptune SPA, this is Cutlass, Captain Sonia MacTaggert commanding, late of Gallagher. USC codes of both ships are en route to you. Our mission is delivery of planetological survey data to Ms. Angela Barron, at the local United People for Science office. We request clearance to a docking port or a landing platform, please.” Off comm I ask the tech to inform Ms. Barron that we have arrived.

  Typically, any delay would be a few seconds while a tech found a port to accommodate the needs of the ship in question, those being identified by the USC. It takes them five solid minutes to reply to us. This isn’t the tech we had been talking to previously. In common parlance, she was “little SPA” this is “big SPA” and he speaks with a voice unaccustomed to refusal.

  “Cutlass you do have a recognized USC that does not correspond to the ship you are in, furthermore that ship has been identified as visually consistent with a vessel of interest in several incidents of piracy. You are provisionally cleared for docking at bay 119 of the orbital starport. Security will board and inspect your ship and verify your claim of planetological data and/or specimens. Your patience and cooperation are appreciated. Acknowledge.”

  Oh gods above, another one of those. “Cutlass is moving to bay 119 of the orbital starport and awaiting port security elements.”

  “You have a good copy, SPA out.”

  “Captain,” Athena reports. “Ms. Barron has sent me the location of her offices, Buckley Manor, 4343 Farther Street, Kingstown dome. We are expected between 0900 and 1400 local time. Kingstown has a shuttle port, so we can go there directly rather than use the magtrain but she emphasized we could fly only for the initial visit. The actual movement of the specimens would be by commercial transport.”

  “At least something is going smoothly here. What’s the local time where she is now?”

  “It is currently 0600 ma’am.”

  “Understood. Is she still on the holoCom?”

  “Yes, I will route her to your station.”

  “Thank you,” I tell Athena. “Ms. Barron, good morning.”

  “Good morning, Captain. Is there something else I can do for you?”

  “First, I have been advised of your invitation and will be there as soon as I can get there. Secondly, if you have any friends at the SPA I would appreciate a good word on our behalf. You may already be aware but the ship I started this mission in got shot out from under me and the SPA is justifiably concerned that a suspected pirate corsair has shown up at their doorstep. That is certain to generate a few acres of red tape. And having soil, plant and animal specimens will do nothing to ease the process.”

  “I can see where all of that would be problematic. I will put in a call to the SPA office. I will also have a personal envoy meet you and your ship at the platform. Did I overhear correctly that you are going to bay 119 on the orbital station?”

  “That is correct, ma’am.”

  “Very well, play the game and jump through the hoops. The cavalry is saddling up and help is on the way. Barron out."

  Athena is back at my side, “That should help things,” she opines. “The conscious science team members have assured me that all specimens are in sealed containers and nothing can escape.”

  “Let us hope they are correct. Put this order throughout the ship: stow all weapons. Safe and secure all WARBOTs. Operation Friendly is in effect.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Shawna maneuvers Cutlass into the platform with her usual finesse and aplomb. If she ever gets tired of small craft, she definitely has a future with large ships. But I don’t see that happening. As
the outer doors are closing and Cutlass’s engines and other systems are spooling down, we see through the view ports the “security” team of the SPA outside waiting for us to open our ship. To a one, they are in a black, sinister looking armor and carrying assault rifles. The “rank and file” members look like professional athletes, rugby or something else involving hitting and moving people. But they aren’t the problem. I’ve found that typically such people, as we can see men and women in the group, can be reasoned with and are just looking for the best way to get through the day and their jobs. The problem is the guy who looks to be in charge. He’s literally half the man that most of his charges are. He stands about a meter and a half and would do well to tip the scales at a hundred pounds. Under his too small black cap, wisps of red hair peek out over the shaved sides of his head. Perfect.

  “I’m bored, skipper,” says Shawna. “May I join you to welcome little lord Imajerk and his straphangers?”

  “Yeah, why not, that situation can’t get any worse, can it?”

  These eager beavers don’t even wait for the door to finish opening, as the bottom lip of the ramp is still extending, they stomp aboard.

  “Welcome aboard, I’m Captain MacTaggert…”

  “Then you’re under arrest, bitch. Up against the wall!” the little man yells and points. While I was talking one of his thugs grabbed Shawna’s waist and threw her against the bulkhead. He runs his hands over her body. In some places it would be called a “search,” in societies that aren’t misogynistic it would be called “taking indecent liberties.” He kicks her heels back and apart and stands between them. He pushes, pulls, and manages to rotate her pelvis downward.