Proving True

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.

I can feel my blood boiling. “What in the hell are you doing?” I scream at him. “We are not criminals, I explained all of this to the SPA.”

“Ma’am, please,” one of the guards gestures at the wall. He must know that what he’s doing is wrong and is trying to get through it with a minimum of confrontation. But his boss is having none of it.

“What part of ‘under arrest’ did you not understand?” He stomps to me. “Up against the wall! Forget that, you move too slow! Face away from me and put your hands behind your back!” He produces a pair of handcuffs from a pouch on his belt. I cross my arms and stare at him. With a roar, he throws a punch at my face. With the hand holding the open cuffs! He’s trying to rip my face open!

An attribute of Shra Kuhn is that under attack, the student learns to spot the attack and determine how to avoid, stop, or counter it. I decide to—keeping my arms crossed across my chest—move into him and blend with his movement. The guard who was trying to be nice to me isn’t so fortunate. The dipwad’s unprotected fist crashes into his shoulder armor. I’m pretty sure I hear finger bones break inside the armored glove. Saliva flecking his lips, he screams, “Enough!” With his injured hand he draws his sidearm, the cuffs now abandoned and skittering across the deck plates.

Then all hell breaks loose. I hear armor being smashed into bulkheads. Glancing toward the entryway, I see two men—one is the biggest I have ever seen in my life—join the melee. And apparently, they are on my side. “Marshal’s office! Stand down, lieutenant!” the smaller one of them yells. Both have badges on lanyards hanging from their necks, and expandable batons in each hand. They are swinging the batons like swords. As fast as it started, the “fight” is over. And these two unarmored men are the victors.

The taller man shouts, “SPA personnel, stand down! The Marshal’s office claims jurisdiction here! You are invited to clear the area.” Most start making their way off the ship voluntarily. The lieutenant holsters his weapon and, trying to regain some dignity, walks out under his own power.

Not all of the SPA personnel are so fortunate. Many are on their backs; a few require help getting off the ship. As the able ones help their cohorts move, the shorter one asks us collectively, “Is there a Captain MacTaggert in the area?”

I raise my hand, “Here, sir.”

He approaches and gives me a polite nod. “Ms. Barron sends her greetings. Time and pending circumstances forbade her attending. I hope you were not too inconvenienced by our counterparts’ overly zealous…enthusiasm?”

“Enthusiasm?” He calls assault with intent to commit grievous bodily harm “enthusiasm?” “Believe it or not, we have been through less pleasant circumstances. But these boys apparently saw fit to make a bad situation worse. I’m happy you showed up when you did. Someone could have been hurt, or worse.”

The other man, the tall one who says something I don’t quite catch. I look at his partner who says, “He has a tendency to mumble when he’s not shouting. Let’s leave it at ‘cork soaking ice holes’ and call it a day.”

It’s hard not to laugh, but I manage it. “About the search of the ship, I’m sure that still has to happen?”

“Indeed ma’am. We’ll stay here until the Customs representatives—the Real Customs representatives—arrive. It would be…unfortunate if the SPA decided they were in charge again.”

“Marshal, I really like you. Is there any chance I could hire you or the pair of you onto our ship?” I extend my hand to shake his. He takes it gently.

“Sadly, no. We each have contracts and families on Neptune but we do appreciate your offer.”

“Understood, Marshal. By the way, I’m not made of glass, I’m an engineer by trade.”

“The handshake? Blame my parents ma’am. I was taught that a gentleman shakes a lady’s hand only after she offers it and then daintily.” His partner coughs at the word “gentleman” but no one wants to make an issue of it. Aside from the glare it generates.

“Fair enough,” I say. “If it’s within regulations and suits you, I’d like to have someone bring you each a cup of coffee or tea.”

“Why thank you so much, Captain, that is very generous of you. Coffee please, black for me, two sugars and a splash of cream for Myron.” I relay the appropriate instructions to the galley. “And now ma’am, I believe Ms. Barron is expecting you. If you wish, you may use our shuttle, I ask only that you return it when your task is complete.”

“Fair enough, am I free to go? Myself and my pilot, Lieutenant Landers?” I gesture at Shawna.

“Of course, ma’am, it’s the Balder class shuttle, dock 119-C, tail number 19B.”

“Thank you, gentlemen. Shawna, shall we?”

“Right behind you, Boss.” She answers.

As we make our way to the indicated shuttle, we walk past the SPA people as they continue to struggle to their feet. I see the man who was assaulting Shawna try to stand. So I kick his ankle out from under him. He falls into two of his less wobbly teammates. The lieutenant with them puffs up to protest until Myron thunders at him, “The pussy-boy fell, lieutenant. He’s fortunate he didn’t fall on either Captain MacTaggert or Lieutenant…or the lieutenant! You keep your cock holster shut or I’ll shut it for you. Again!” Apparently, there’s a history there.

As we walk, I call Athena to apprise her of the situation emphasizing that Shawna and I are on our way to Ms. Barron. “Thaw the rest of the scientists. Tell them I’m reserving rooms at the nearest five star hotel I can find for the entire crew. Pass that word and indicate that anyone who wants to stay elsewhere is welcome to do so—at his or her own expense—but they’re to coordinate with you where they are. But no one goes anywhere until after my conference with Ms. Barron. After meeting with her. I’ll communicate to you her instructions about off loading the samples and we’ll go from there. Sound good?”

“SLAP,” I’ll never get used to slang from her.