by Robert Culp
“What do you mean?”
“Groupthink. Every trooper on this ship, if he or she came across you in that situation, would have done the same thing.”
“Close the viewer,” I ask. He does. “The four that died. Tell me about them.” He knows more about the troopers than he does the spacers, no surprise there, but he knows a fair amount about them too. Or has learned it recently. He tells me what they were like; who they liked to be around, if they were good card players, who they leave behind. I can’t help it. By the time he’s finished—or stops out of pity for me—tears are streaming down my face. I bury my head into his shoulder. He strokes my hair while my heart breaks. “I can’t do this anymore,” I say between sobs. “Every time I turn around; someone is dying or my ship is getting shot out from under me. I’ve stopped counting how many people I’ve led to their deaths.” Rikk slides his hand into mine, interlocking our fingers.
“That’s not entirely accurate, Sonia.” Celeste says as Shawna wheels her into my room. She comes to a stop at the foot of the bed. “I’ve read the after action reports. You’ve basically commanded four starships. Of those four only, Gallagher, was ‘lost.’ And that crew was transferred to the ship you gained in the exchange. Of the other three, two were safely berthed, Night Searcher and Cutlass. And Prophecy is on her way home.”
“Sonia,” Shawna says softly, “there is no doubt that you’ve lost people. You—we—have lost friends. Gwendolyn—practically your daughter—was taken and returned to her parents, you’ve lost potential husbands. Although, Avi always struck me as a little flaky, so that may not be a total loss.” I can’t help but smile and nod in agreement. “Freddie was probably one of the few men you knew that wasn’t trying to…” Is she struggling for words? “But what you haven’t lost is a crew. Your record isn’t perfect, but it’s one you can be proud of. If it weren’t the Academy would never have trusted you with this ship.”
Her logic is irrefutable. “The question,” Celeste says, holding up a finger for emphasis. “The question is: have you lost your confidence to command?” Her finger is now pointing at me.
“That is the question.” I look around the room. “Wait a minute. Who’s in command now? You and I,” I point to Celeste, “are both in the hospital so who’s running the ship, Athena?”
“She wouldn’t take it,” says Rikk. “She kept going on about Academy regulations forbidding command by an artificial intelligence. Sounds a little racist to me.”
“So…Jenkins?” That was how I got command of Night Searcher. I was the chief engineer when the Captain died and the XO revealed a spine of jelly.
“We tried that too. His confidence isn’t where it needs to be,” Shawna says then looks pointedly at me, “either. And he made a very convincing argument that there is a staff officer in whom you have shown great trust and confidence.”
“You?” I can’t help it. My voice rises in pitch and volume and my mouth falls open.
Everyone else is trying not to snicker. Rikk is the only one who succeeds. Shawna stands up straight and puts both fists on her hips. “Well, you needn’t look so damn surprised!” It takes a second, but I can’t help agreeing with the logic that was laid out. “And anyway, it’s more of a plussed up XO position. Celeste wasn’t comatose nearly as long as you were. She’s been available for help and questions. And Athena had already given the command that we’re heading back to Atlas. So I haven’t had to do that much commanding.”
“Had I known it was an option,” Celeste says “I would have been phoning in command long ago and just stayed on the beach. Drinking coconut cocktails and winking at waiters.”
“Well congratulations, Captain Landers. May I make a recommendation for a new SOP?”
“Thank you, very much, Captain MacTaggert. And yes, you may.”
“In the future, if you encounter any people in TMOD capsules on otherwise abandoned ship, leave them there and get out of the area ASAFP.”
Everybody laughs and nods their head in agreement.
“Sage advice indeed, my best of friends. But I have to confess: I’m looking forward to going back to Flight Ops. That’s about as much command as I want.” She looks pointedly at the clock on the wall. “And I believe my shift is about to start. XO?”
“Take me back to my room, please.” Celeste says. “I’m tired and I smell a conversation brewing between these two.”
“Bye kids,” I say as Shawna wheels her out.
“Have you thought about what’s next?” Rikk asks as the door closes.
“The doc says I’ll have a few months for surgery, recovery, and therapy. If I can wrangle any convalescing or R&R I’m going to Angus’s house. I’d like you to come with me, if you can see your way to it.”
“I’m not going to lie, darlin’. From where I’m standing, you’re definitely triple A.”
“Oh?” I say, playing his game. “And what does that mean?”
“A-vailable, A-dorable and A gazillionaire. I’d love nothing more than to make an honest woman of you.”
“And yet, I hear a ‘But’?”
“But if the Sureman Corporation is even close to what I think it is and doing what I think they’re going to, there is going to be a war very soon. It’s going to involve cyborgs and mercenaries. And the governments that hire mercs are going to pay them a metric butt-load. Please don’t misunderstand me. I want you. Hell, Sonia, I love you. But I can’t see myself sitting idly by and letting Atlas’s candy-ass Navy defend us. And, while we’re on the subject, I have a pretty strong feeling they are going to try to get you to sign on as well. And I can’t speak for you, but I won’t be able to concentrate on my job if we’re on the same ship.”
“I…see.” Just like Avi, not the answer I was expecting. “I understand what you’re saying. I’m not going to lie either. I was hoping for a different answer. But I suppose you have to do what you have to do.”
“Yep. At the end of the day, I have to do what I do. And as much as I love you, and I do, the military had my heart first. And let’s be honest, I’m pretty good at it. Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” I say scooting to my right, “I do not.” He climbs onto the bed beside me. “I wonder if I’ll be able to find a nice, safe, boring merchant ship that needs an engineer.”
“Oh?” he looks at me. “Not ten minutes ago you were going to give it all up.”
“Well, like you said, if a war is coming what kind of person would I be if I—with my skill set—stayed on the porch with the old dogs?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I know we’ve put in at Atlas when I start seeing unfamiliar faces. Three people come into my room. “Good afternoon, Captain, I am Dr. Miranda Calhoun, this is Dr. Miles Wellesley. We lead the team that is going to get you shipshape,” says a tall blonde woman. “I believe you know Dr. Avinoam Took?”
“It is my pleasure to meet you, Doctor Calhoun,” I nod to her. “Doctor Wellesley,” I nod to him. “It’s good to see you again, Avi. My congratulations on your success in medical school.”
“The privilege is ours, Captain,” Dr. Calhoun says. I’m not an expert, but I’d peg her age at 43 plus or minus two. But Wellesley? He doesn’t look like he’s old enough to have graduated college, let alone medical school. Avi looks like he’s aged a year at the most. “What comes first?”
“Well,” Wellesley says, “you’ll be transferred to the civilian side of the Central Danfellows Hospital. In the interest of time, we’re going to take you directly to a room in the Intensive Care Unit. You’ll stay there between surgeries.”
“Surgeries?” I ask. “How many?”
“At least two, possibly three,” Doctor Calhoun says. “Our plan is to remove your leg in the first. If things go as well as we hope and plan, we will install your cybernetic replacement in the same surgery. But among other factors, should there be complications, the team, like you, will need some recovery time. So we’ll do your skull cap in hopefully a second surgery. Worst case it will be a third.�
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“I get the feeling you think the leg may take two surgeries?”
“It could,” says Dr. Wellesley. “It probably won’t. Dr. Calhoun won’t tell you, but she is not only the Chief Surgeon in the hospital she is also the most capable on several planets.”
“I’ve been told that,” Calhoun says, flashing a smile at him. “I’m not sure I believe it. But as long as we’re shining spotlights on each other, Dr. Wellesley is the best in cybernetics and bionics on Atlas. But, ‘why would we need two days for your leg?’ I hear you thinking. I’ve reviewed your scans. I’m not anticipating horrible problems, but you suffered some pretty significant injuries in what can only be called a horrific fight. There is always the possibility that something unexpected will reveal itself once we get the muscles revealed and the—I’ll spare you the details. Let’s just say you may have a few surprises for me.” She advances her reader a few pages. “The good news is your skull cap will be comparatively easy. Again, I’ll spare you the grisly details but I am certain that if you had anything to hide from me there, it would have presented itself already. So,” she closes the viewer and holds it behind folded hands, “we’ll get you transferred within the hour and your surgery should start about 1800 this evening.”
“And Dr. Took? What role will he play in this?” Maybe I’m still a little mad at him for dumping me.
“Strictly observational,” Dr. Wellesley says. “He’s currently in a fellowship under me, so he’s still learning.”
“And Dr. Wellesley is the best in this sector at what he does,” Avi says. Still a suck up.
Athena knocks on the doorframe. Dr. Calhoun waves her in. “Captain,” Athena addresses me from the foot of the bed. “We have orders from the Academy. Prophecy will berth for maintenance and resupply. You and your staff will remain in command through your recovery and completion of Prophecy’s maintenance. The crew is on an unpaid leave status. They are free to pursue other employment if they desire. It so happens I have conducted an unofficial poll and a majority says they will remain with us for as long as they are able and allowed. You will be given all the time you need for recovery. I believe the forecast has been communicated from the hospital to the Academy?” Athena looks back and forth between the two doctors.
“It has,” Dr. Wellesley says.
“Following that,” Athena continues, “you will be given a two-week furlough. Pending a comprehensive medical evaluation, you will be fully reinstated and receive complete back pay. Have you any questions?”
“No questions, I do have a request. You have access to my perCom. Please get in touch with my Uncle Angus’s point of contact, a Mr. MacDougall on Earth. I would like Angus transported here. I really believe he would like to be here for my recovery.”
“I will see to it, Captain. Anything else?”
“No, I think that’s all.”
“Very well. Your transportation has arrived. I will see you when you come out of surgery, Sonia.”
Two men, I think they are nurses rather than doctors come in from the hall. The three doctors help them prepare me for transportation and they roll my bed into the hall. “So will I,” says Rikk who walks up as we’re rolling out. “See you after surgery, that is.” He gives me a kiss and leaves with Athena.
When Rikk and Athena are gone I ask Dr. Calhoun, “Why am I on the civilian side? I thought I was a military operative? Have I been medically discharged?”
She defers, “Doctor Took, care to field this one?”
“Not at all, Captain. And while you are a ‘military operative,’ you are legally a civilian contractor. You have the freedom to leave the service at any time. Although,” he stops what he’s doing—injecting something into one of my IV lines—long enough to look at me and smile, “it would have been bad form to walk off the job billions of miles from home.” Then I fall asleep.
I wake up in a room very similar to the ICU room I was in. But I don’t think it’s the same one, the window is in the wrong place relative to the door. Doctors Calhoun and Wellesley are there, looking like they’ve had a rough go of things. “How long?” I ask.
“We put you under three days ago,” Dr. Wellesley says. “Give or take a few hours. I’m happy to report everything went well.”
“Indeed,” says Dr. Calhoun. “You have a new bionic leg. It’s going to ache for a few days. It’s going to be real unpleasant when it starts introducing itself to your nervous system.”
“Is my uncle here yet? Where are my friends?”
“We made reports to them after your surgeries, I haven’t seen anybody who wasn’t on your ship,” Dr. Wellesley says. “The good news about your leg, you’ll be able to turn off the pain reception nerves by pressing your right ear lobe. You’ll be made very familiar with that during your therapy. You won’t be able to turn off the motor nerves. No one can imagine a scenario in which that’s a good idea.”
“The skin covering your leg actually has false cilia embedded. We patterned it after your other leg,” says Dr. Calhoun. “The good news is you don’t have to shave, wax, or whatever depilation method you prefer, your right leg anymore.”
“The bad news is,” says Dr. Wellesley, “it doesn’t grow. So if you skip a few days, weeks, whatever, your legs won’t match. And the skin won’t tan.”
“Interesting,” I say. I run my fingers around my head, my hairline. “I thought you were going to replace a portion of my skull?”
“We did,” Dr. Wellesley says. “I told you she was one of the best. The scar is at your hairline on the back. According to that soldier fellow, you wear your hair long, usually. Your hair will hide the scar until the skin finishes regenerating. Call it a week and then you can wear your hair up and no one will be the wiser.”
“‘Soldier fellow’?” I ask him. “Rikk? Chief Sergeant Okkam? Has he been here?”
“Has he! Could barely get him to leave your room if you were here.”
“Back to business,” Dr. Calhoun says. “The top of your skull is now made of the same stuff that they make the superstructure of fighter craft.”
“Really?” I look in the mirror behind her. “So if I get hit in the head with a hammer…”
“You won’t suffer any brain damage,” Dr. Calhoun says.
“But you will suffer significant compression of your cervical spine,” Dr. Wellesley finishes. “So stay out of head butting contests.”
Physical therapy starts the next day. When the therapist introduces herself she says what came to be a great truth. “Captain MacTaggert, it is a privilege to meet you. And it is my sad duty to inform you, this is the last time you will be happy to see me. The next time you smile in my presence, will be the day I pronounce you rehabilitated.”
“I find that hard to believe, Miss—”
“I’m sure you do, Captain. But rest assured, it’s the truth. Now, let’s get you out of that bed.”
Therapy goes on for four weeks. And my therapist was correct. Every time I saw her during those four weeks I either grimaced or swore. However, she always had a smile on her face. Sadistic bitch.
I’ve been in regular contact with Shawna and Athena. Both assure me that MacDougall has been informed of my status and said that Angus would come. But he hasn’t arrived yet. I offered to buy his ticket on any ship; surely that stubborn old goat didn’t get on the slowest barge he could find? When Angus gets here I’ll tell him I’m going to start mass-producing armor, both variants. If war really is coming, it will soon be a booming market and the marauder and wraith suits should sell like hot cakes. I'll pick his brain on where to put the plant, what kind of resource chain to set up. And I’ll want him to run one of the factories. Whether I'm off saving the galaxy or just making cargo runs, I'll want someone I can trust tending my interest. And there's not anybody I can think of within nine parsecs that I trust more than I do him.
On the day of my discharge from the hospital another man I don’t know walks into my room. “Miss, are you Sonia MacTaggert?” He’s dressed in a well-ta
ilored suit. I smell barrister.
“I’m Captain Sonia MacTaggert, commander of the Academy of Ancients Starship Prophecy. Who are you and how can I help you?”
He transfers his very large attaché case to his left hand and extends his right to me. I take it the way Freddie taught me, firmly. “I’m Miles Bruce, Her Majesty’s Secret Service.” We finish our handshake and he fishes a business card out of his jacket pocket. “This is my contact data, my office is in Queensland, Kanada. Yes, Atlan Secret Service has an office on Earth. But that’s a separate issue. I must discuss your great uncle, Angus MacTaggert, with you, please.”
“Has something happened to him?” I take the card from his hand and drop it unread into the valise I’m packing. “I’ve been expecting him here. You have piqued my interest, Mr. Bruce. Why is a retired battery builder on Earth of any interest to Atlas’s Secret Service?”
“Call me Miles, please. I’d rather we do this out of earshot, with your permission?” I nod. He closes the door then sets his attaché on the bed and opens it. I had expected file folders and there is one. The rest of it is taken up with electronic equipment. He presses a button and the case starts humming. “White noise generator,” he says. “By design, these rooms have listening devices. This will keep our conversation private. Your uncle left his home twenty-eight days ago at or about 1600 hours. He advised us through his contact officer, one Mr. MacDougal, of his movement as is standard for former agents. He has not been seen or heard from since. We have been looking for him. We have approached our counterparts on Earth. He is nowhere to be found. We are left with the conclusion that he has been abducted. What we don’t know is by whom or why. As you have pointed out, he is a retired battery maker now. He is not current on any security or intelligence protocols. He is not involved in any intelligence operations as far as we know. You are his only living relative. We are hoping you may know something.”
“Have you been to his house?”
