Proving True

I don’t have a gown, in the strictest sense of the word. I have my little black dress, but I’m sure there would be professional repercussions if I wore it. I pick out a long skirt and a blouse with long sleeves, both of conservative cut and colors. At 1930 I leave my stateroom and head for the banquet hall. The feast site isn’t hard to find, there are literally hundreds of people moving towards it.

There are several atria around the building, which is enormous. These gardens have wildlife in them. Not only birds and insects, but also what would be called “vermin” anywhere else: I see squirrels, raccoons. I think I see deer. The flowers and shrubs are beautiful. The birds are brightly colored and chirp softly. There is a small stream running through this area, the burbling it adds to the background noise is as soothing as it is out of place on a starship. At the entrance is a very good-looking man in a black suit, we make eye contact and he steps in my direction. He bows slightly as he speaks. “Good evening, Miss MacTaggert, my name is Reese and I have been granted the opportunity of being your escort tonight. If you will accompany me, please?” He presents an arm, which I accept. We walk inside the…arena is the best term to describe it. Or maybe stadium, it is absolutely huge. There are discrete knots of people everywhere engaged in conversation, the buzz provides the background noise. He directs me to our table. Some of the other lead engineers are already at one side. The women are seated while the men continue to stand. I suppose that makes sense, it would save wear and tear on the knees from having to stand every time a woman approaches. All of the men nod at me as we approach. The table itself is huge, I haven’t counted but I’m certain that a score of people could sit around this one. Reese pulls out my chair. I sit and he assists me in scooting it to the table. I had initially figured it to be a collection of tables arranged in a ring with a gap left for servers. But it isn’t, from my seat I don’t see any angles. The table is a continuous arc. A chime sounds and the conversing groups break up and move to their seats. Roy sits across from me, our eyes meet and he waves. I wave back as Reese sits to my left. “So, Miss MacTaggert, what do you think of Star Chaser?” Reese asks as water and appetizers are served. We both consult the menus in front of us.

“This ship is a marvel,” I say. The stewards are moving around the inside of the table, collecting orders. I make my selection for entrée; she takes my order and moves to the next diner. “The atria are truly beautiful, breathtaking even. And not only plant life, but animal as well. I suspected I heard insects at one, but I supposed they just snuck aboard. But when I saw birds and squirrels outside those had to have been purposely planted. I’m in the Engineering department, oh wait; you know that because of where we’re sitting. I meant to say I’m on the Transit drive team.”

My perCom bleeps to announce an incoming text message from Shawna.

Hey Sweetie, I’m about 15 degrees left of your straight ahead, distance about 160 meters.

I look in the proscribed direction and can see her waving at me. I smile and wave back. I’m overjoyed I left my LBD hanging in my closet, because that’s what the serving girls are wearing. Theirs are considerably shorter than mine, but the similarity would have made me very uncomfortable.

As the meal progresses, I can’t help but make a reasonable observation, which I share with Reese. “I’ve noticed that the majority of the servers are very similar in appearance. Are they, or you, androids?”

“Not androids,” he answers, “clones. A prototype was perfected in 9,989. We, my cousins and I, are the results of it. There are three hundred of us aboard Star Chaser. I’m sure you’ve been given a tour of your department, would you care for a more thorough tour of the ship? I am at your disposal until you weary of me. We must remain here until after the Captains address, however.”

“That would be appreciated,” I tell him. And I’m certain that leaving prior to his address would be a Career Limiting Move. We won’t be the last to leave, but we won’t be the first either. As the entrées are served various conversations begin around the table.

The chime sounds again as the Captain rises and approaches the podium. His voice is amplified by a public address system, “If you haven’t finished your meal, please do so.” The podium levitates to about fifteen meters, so all in the room can see him. Captain Horatio Rodney Pipper is an older man, probably Angus’ age, but his voice is very clear, very strong, and unless I miss my guess, has a Lemurian accent. His attire—I can’t tell if it’s a tuxedo or a uniform—is very clean and expertly tailored. He begins to speak about exploring the unknowns of the universe, the endless possibilities, and the need for technological advances across all aspects of our culture, but how Common Sense and Compassion must provide direction. While they will not replace the gods, they will be the rules, the moral compasses. I am enraptured by his speech.

He surprises me by explaining Star Chaser will at the end of its voyage cease to be a starship and instead become a space station, similar to Rigg’s. The Transit drives will continue life in other vessels, but Star Chaser will not be used for traveling anymore after that. This is, in effect, her final voyage.

He speaks for another thirty minutes then sits down to a round of thunderous applause. The stewards were clearing plates as he was speaking and the tables are empty now aside from coffee for those who desire it with the odd snifter of something that is probably brandy here and there. All across the hall people leave their seats. I turn to Reese, “I suppose the physical sciences department on a ship with a mission just described would be very large. Would you introduce me to some of my counterparts in the physics group, please?”

“My pleasure, ma’am.” He stands and assists me from my chair and presents his arm to me, which I take. He escorts me to a table not far from ours and introduces me to a short, older man. “Professor Jenkins, it is my pleasure to introduce to you Miss Sonia MacTaggert, one of our Transit Engine team leaders. Miss MacTaggert, this is Professor William Jenkins, chairman of our division of physical sciences.”

Professor Jenkins stands, he’s barely taller than a meter and a half. Despite the certain availability of ocular surgery, he has a pair of glasses perched on his nose. The lenses are very thick and due to refraction give him what used to be known as a “google-eyed” expression. But they work to support his image, if “bookworm” is the look he desires.

I hold out my hand to shake his, instead he bows his head to my hand and plants a kiss on my knuckles. “Miss MacTaggert, it is indeed my pleasure to meet you. Please just call me William, how can I be of assistance to you?”

I display my winningest of smiles, “Only if you call me Sonia. It is a pleasure to meet you. I have a few projects I’ll be working on in my spare time, but I will probably need some help defining theory and putting it into practice. Is there a theoretical or experimental physicist I can contact for assistance?”

“Most assuredly,” he says. “But let us discuss it over lunch tomorrow, I and a few associates will meet you in lounge A starboard at 1330. Keep your schedule clear from then until 1500.” William and I discuss a few more coordinating details then I look to Reese.

“I think you can take me on that tour, now,” I say. He nods and after we say our goodbyes to William directs me through the door.

For the next two hours, we walk all over the ship. We go into and out of various buildings and through acres of carefully tended grassy knolls. After the first hour I take off my shoes as they are hurting my feet. At midnight I’m exhausted and ask Reese to help me get back to my stateroom. Outside the door he asks, “Would you like me to massage your feet, Miss MacTaggert?”

“No, thank you, Reese, that won’t be necessary.” Nor will it happen.

“Shall we continue tomorrow? I would recommend different footwear, if you have anything a touch more ‘athletic.’” he says with a smile.

“I don’t know for certain, but I reserve the right to call you,” I tell him. “I can’t wrap my brain around how big this ship is.”

“We covered about a third of it.”

“How long would it take to run the circumference of this beast?”

“A moderate jog would take seven or eight hours.”

Good grief! That’s over twenty miles! “Good night, Reese.”

“Good night, Miss MacTaggert.” I start to tell him not to call me “Miss MacTaggert,” but I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again. And I want our relationship to remain professional.