The Magical Bat 55: Imperial Trip, a batman fanfic

The Magical Bat 5.5: Imperial Trip:

#include stdDisclaimer.h: Batman, Catwoman, Alfred, Babs, Dick, Lucius Fox, and the others, are DC Comic's toys, as are John Stewart and the rest of the Lantern crew. Hogwarts, Albus, Minerva, the Weasleys and the others in the Potterverse belong to the fabulous JK Rowling. The Morton family is used with the permission of GITM. I am just playing with their toys, and they will be put back later. Everyone else, they are mine. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead is purely coincidental.

This is a sequel to my stories:

The Bat & the Cat, redux, The Magical Bat I, Magical Bat: Road Trip (1.5), Magical Bat II, Magical Bat: Training Trip (2.5), Magical Bat III, Magical Bat: Business Trip (3.5), Magical Bat IV, Magical Bat: Bad Trip (4.5) and Magical Bat V.

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For disclaimers, please see above.
Chapter I: 1 June ~ 30 June 2003
Saturday, May 31, 2003: 23:58:00 (UTC)
Phobos, ITSV Charles Albanel, bridge:
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Captain Issac White took a swallow of coffee, closing the steel insulated mug and placing it in the magnetic holder. He turned, "Exec, what's our status?"

"As the flyboys say, 'Kick the tires and light the fires'," Commander Melanie Kidd replied. She nodded at Chief Engineer Merida DunBroch, who brushed back her wild red hair and said, "Aye, Cap'n. We be on our own p'wer. Let's go."

"Thank you, Scotty." He used the common nicknames for the positions; "Sparks, do you have anything last minute?"

"No, Captain," the petite, elegant young African said. "Port Control reports umbilicals and clamps are retracted, passageways are stowed. They wish us luck; we are free to maneuver."

"In that case, Helm, on the tick, thrusters, one-tenth power."

"Aye, Captain. One tenth power on the tick." The young Asian waited a few seconds, then said, "Three … two … one … maneuvering thrusters, one-tenth power …" and raised small silver levers with his right hand while using a joystick with his left. "We have left the dock and are maneuvering freely," he said calmly, although there was sweat on his neck. Issac wasn't surprised, the ship (nicknamed 'Charlie Boy' although the Captain wasn't supposed to know) was at full load, massing almost one-point-eight million tons. They would make a very large hole if the current helm officer, Lt. Gregg Tsukara, twitched his joystick in the wrong direction.

Lt. Tsukara eased the small maneuvering joystick back, commenting "We still have a tiny down pitch, sir. Only about a quarter degree, but still …" The Captain turned, "Scotty? What do you say?"

"'Tis a firmware problem in the forward thruster controller, sir. I dinnae a patch; I've a replacement unit on order, but they be backordered because o' all th' shipbuildin' we be doin'. Until then, we knae aboot it, we hae a correction, an' 'tis only on th' thrusters, nae the main drives," Commander DunBroch said. "If y' helm knows aboot it, we c'n live wi' it f' now."

"Good enough. Make sure it's logged for both Engineering and Helm watches so they're aware of it," the Captain said. "Aye, aye, sir," was heard. "Fifteen minutes until exit portal," Lt. Tsukara said.

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Sunday, June 1, 2003: 07:05 (UTC -5)
Terra, Chagrin Falls, Ohio:
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"…So our day would be July 20, 1969! Once again, this is a practice drawing, so you do not need to report for conscription. Should you choose to do so, we will assume you are volunteering. You have a month to settle things at home; the first real drawing will be on July first. Have a great day!"

Mark Higginbotham picked up the remote and clicked off the TV. He put his head in his hands, sitting like that for a minute, and then sat back, taking a deep breath.

"You don't have to report, dear," his wife Irene, said, her hand rubbing his back. "Miss Wayne said this was a dress rehearsal, a practice run."

"I know, dear. I know." He heaved a deep sigh. "Still … what kind of an example would I be if I shirked my duty? What example would that set for Josh and Kathy? I've tried to set them a moral and ethical example; I don't know if I could look at myself in the mirror tomorrow morning. I'll have to think about this."

Kathy cradled her own coffee cup, "Dad, I … I was thinking about signing up myself. Nobody's putting a collar on my throat, and I'm getting burned out at McDonalds."

"The legislation guarantees your job on your return," Irene said. "With my job, and your pay direct-deposited we'll be all right."

Mark looked at his son, "Josh?"

"I was looking at a list of the jobs available, and … well, I'm not good with money. I know I have to save up for retirement, I'd rather let a professional handle that for me." He took a deep breath, "I was thinking of the Pathfinders. Orbital drop commandos, assuming I can handle the training."

"None of you have to go," Irene declared firmly.

"No, we don't," her husband replied. "But it's something we all have to think about." He finished his coffee. "We'd better finish getting ready for church."

The Rev. Champion took a sip of water as the congregation resumed their seats. He cleared his throat, and said "Good morning, everyone." There was a murmur of response, and he continued, "This being the first of the month, we had a telecast from Luna with the first drawing. As Miss Wayne said, this was in the nature of a dry run, a dress rehearsal, and those whose birthdays are drawn do not need to report. For those who don't know, July 20, 1969 was drawn. Do we have anyone here with that birth date?"

"I have it," Mark said as he stood. "Mark Higginbotham. I know I don't legally have to go, but …" he took a deep breath. "I would really prefer not to go, but as you yourself said last week, it's a civic duty, an obligation. I've always tried to show my kids the right thing to do, and this … this is the right thing, the moral and … and ethical thing to do." He sat back down, and was hugged by his wife.

"Anyone else?" Bill Champion asked.

A large fellow stood up. "I know the odds were against it, but I was drawn. I mean my birthday. Lou Angel. Like this other guy, I don't want to go, but he's right. You're right, Reverend. We gotta do what we gotta do; like it or not. They hit us; they killed eight million of us with the Paris Atrocity. I'll be honest, I never liked the French. Too damn snooty for me, but damnit, killing that many, an' a lot of them women and children, that ain't something we can ignore, so I'm getting my paperwork together, and I'm gonna go down to see the recruiter. Par' my language and all."

As Lou sat down, Kathy Higginbotham stood up, "I just want to say that we had someone from the ICC in at school. That's the Imperial Cadet Corps, sorta like the Junior ROTC. It sounds kinda interesting, but we've been talking about this whole thing at school, and a lot of us girls, well, actually seeing the draft now kinda brings things into focus. Anyway, nobody's gonna put a collar on my neck. Dad, I got your back. I'll be with you in line tomorrow." Her mom burst into tears and hugged her.

The Rev. Champion cleared his throat, "Anyone else? Well, instead of my normal sermon, I think we might have something of a free discussion. Those of you with military experience, would you please share your thoughts and memories?"

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Sunday, June 1, 2003: 13:16 (UTC)
Terra, London, Anglican church:
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"And in your turn, do you, Nymphadora, take this man Remus as your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, from this day forward, until death do you part?"

"I do."

"Gentlemen, you may kiss your brides."

"Did you enjoy the service, Your Majesty?" Vicar Sedgewick asked.

"Very much," she replied. "Why, this little Catholic girl actually feels welcome in an Anglican church!" she joked. The priest smiled in return, and she continued, "I've visited other churches and temples on Luna, including our Muslim friends."

"But I can tell there is something bothering you," he prodded gently.

"Well, I do have a low-stress job," she joked with a smile. "Why? I thought the Catholics had a monopoly on Confession."

"We can all offer advice, and it will remain confidential," he offered. She gave a tight little smile, "My normal Confessor is Father Tim of St. Michaels' in Gotham," she said slowly. "I don't know how … comfortable I'd be with someone else. On the other hand, Charlie did say you were his … well, parish priest, for want of a better term."

"That will work," he said with a small smile. "We'll need to go downstairs to the reception shortly. After the happy couples start their lives together, we can sit down with a cuppa together in my office and talk."

She thought for a minute, "I'd like to get that cuppa and see what people are thinking. If I may be blunt, and no offense intended, but you're not cleared for some of the things that are bothering me. Other things are personal, and once again, I don't know you that well. Your recommendation by Charlie helps, but he doesn't know some of those things, nor does Sprink."

"I see," he replied. "No offense taken. Why don't we both get a cuppa and I can introduce you to people?"

"Excuse me," the fellow asked, and Mattie stepped aside, stirring her Styrofoam cup of coffee. "Certainly, pardon me," she replied, and as he stepped back in his turn, he regarded her over his cup of tea. He blinked, then said, "Gor blimey. You're Wayne."

"As charged," she replied with a smile, offering her hand. He shook himself, then said, "Amos Booker, y' majesty."

"Mattie will do, or Miss Wayne," she returned with a smile, shaking his hand as they moved aside so other people at the reception could get their drinks. He shook his head, then motioned at her pale green bridesmaid's dress, "Sorry, never thought I'd see y' doing something like attending a wedding. Y' look good out o' y' Widow's Weeds."

"Thank you. That's because one of the brides is my best mate, so where else would I be? She's marrying one of my best friends in Charlie, and Professor Lupin is one of my favorite professors, and he bagged himself a wonderful girl."

"Oi, I'm not a prize at a fair, Wayne," Tonks said, reaching out to rap her knuckles on the Empress' head. Amos turned to look; the elder bride had arrived, and was mock glowering at Wayne.

"I will agree that she's a wonderful girl, Miss Wayne," her groom said solemnly. "If a bit impetuous. If I may ask, how shall we maneuver her dress and my tuxedo in vacuum?"

"Oi, silly, we're going to wear skinsuits," his new wife said, waggling her eyebrows. "Come and help me change? You're allowed now …" and she waggled her eyebrows again. Mattie turned to Mr. Booker, "They need to transfer from the shuttle through vacuum into the L-1 space station. Part of the ticket price includes a skinsuit. It's what I usually give for wedding presents."

"And the zero-gee bridal suits at the L-1 Holiday Inn," Remus said. "Our first nights as man and wife," and he waggled HIS eyebrows. Miss Wayne cleared her throat, "I see no need for further discussion on this topic, Professor. It looks like the band is warming up. By the way, where's Sprink?"

"Stuck zipper," Tonks replied. "Ginny was doing her duty as Matron." She looked around the crowd, "Oi, is that the Grey Lady?" She took Remus' hand and set off.

"Grey Lady?" Mr. Booker asked.

"One of my fellow Hogwarts Ghosts, my good man," and Amos Booker turned, starting. "I'm known as the Fat Friar," the jolly spectre said, politely offering his hand. Amos just as politely shook it, shaking his head yet again. "I never thought I'd meet … well, you are a ghost?"

"Indeed, indeed. Killed in the Norman Conquest when my abbey was sacked." He waved that off. "One gets so bored sometimes, being dead."

"But … don't you have to haunt churchyards and such?"

"Only if I want to be depressed. Such gloomy fellows, those ghosts. They get their jollies by frightening off teenage vandals who want to tip over gravestones and break into crypts." The Friar shook his head, "No, I much prefer to accompany students, live ones. They're so full of energy…" He nodded, "If you'll excuse me, I must offer my respects…" and he floated off.

Mattie watched him go, "Ghosts do offer an … interesting perspective, Mr. Booker. Wouldn't you say?"

"Indeed," he agreed. He shook himself again, and then changed the subject as other people came over, drinks in hand. "Might I ask you a few questions, milady?"

"Only if you'll tell me how things are going," she replied. "Business-wise, I mean. I see reports and things, but I would rather talk to people like you. Things looking up, I hope?"

"We're hiring on another bloke, and equipping another truck," Amos replied, puffing out his chest a bit. "Looking to be a good year for Booker Plumbing."

"Excellent!" Ms. Wayne smiled, and looked around at the small group, "Anyone else?"

"Two more for my husband's business, Perkins Glass," a middle-aged woman said. "I just worry that it will continue."

"Unfortunately, ma'am, it looks like this war is just getting under way," Mattie replied. "I hate to say that, but we're somewhat stuck with this. We're going to have to fight our way out of this, and that's not going to be cheap, easy or quick."

"So it's war? Total war?" a teenager asked. "I know they were talking about the ICC at school …"

"That does a few things," Miss Wayne replied. "It fulfills your foreign language requirement, your physical fitness requirement, and hopefully makes it fun with competition against other schools." She shifted to look at the older people listening in, "It also helps them to defend themselves, and others, should ships and troops break through and land. They'll be trained in self-defense, and the use of weapons and tactics."

A mother moaned, "But … but … a war?"

"Ma'am, I don't want one any more than you, but we were attacked; millions have been killed already. One of the world's great cities turned to dust on the wind," and people nodded. "The enemy this time isn't across an ocean, but they want to collar our young women; torture our men, and kill anyone over forty."

There was a ripple of reaction, and the older mother said, "You can't … I mean, they …"

"Ma'am, I talked with the Princess B'tan several times after her fleet first arrived in orbit. Her attitude was 'I am royalty, I am the Princess, and you are less than the dirt under my feet. You are only barbarians, you are not civilized, and I can therefore do as I wish with you.'"

"What did she define as 'civilized'?" someone asked.

"She was, and it was self-evident to her that we weren't. I know that some of our troops had leave, and they went toe-to-toe with the enemy troops."

There were some mutters and nods of agreement, someone said, "Aye, was on the Beeb several times, along with this sex-change screw-up."

"Which was a mistake," Miss Wayne admitted. "We screwed up. I will be the first to admit we are not perfect. As Truman once said, 'The buck stops here;' so I've tried to make things right by them." She took a swallow of coffee. "I'm not making excuses, but that was something of a chain of errors, and if we didn't have to rush, if we had more time …"

"You would have different errors," another fellow said. "What happened?"

"First, the med-tanks, ours or the gal-tech version, require a lot of power under very strict conditions. Some of those tanks arrived without the power conditioners, damaged, or mis-programmed. The techs were working twenty hour days trying to get things correct before the deadline, going back and forth between the local Australian electricians, the other contractors, and the manufacturers in Tokyo. They wound up resetting all of them to the default test pattern, which made the subjects look like life-size Barbie dolls." She took a swallow of coffee, "For various reasons, medical and technical, we can't reset them, so I apologized to them and offered compensation."

"Will it happen again?" the fellow asked.

"Involuntarily, it shouldn't," and she took a step and rapped a cloth-covered table. "We've got a little more time, although we've got a lot more of the med-tanks. We are installing something like forty five thousand new units, and the electric utility is building a new substation for us. There are serious bonuses for on-time and under-budget work for all the contractors."

"Forty five thousand med-tanks …" someone whistled softly.

"In order to rotate them in and out for servicing. We're expecting up to fifty thousand people per week, two hundred thousand a month," the Empress replied. "With regard to the sex change, for various reasons we'd prefer young women, but there are three separate steps you need to take before we do that. On your initial paperwork, you tick a box, and do your design work. Once you get to Camp Katherine, you initial that box again, second consent. Finally, when you're in the tank, you turn a key for third consent."

"What reasons?" a fellow asked.

"Everyone goes through the med-tanks; that not only fixes things like high cholesterol, diabetes, poor eyesight, and obesity, but also gives a basic level of physical fitness. If you do decide to claim some of those bonuses, and that one by itself is enough to buy a Porsche for cash … (there was a murmur) … it's just loading your individual design." She took a swallow of coffee. "Reasons, primarily psychological. The enemy is way past 'male chauvinist', they are into male superiority. Females are, at best, slave meat to be bought and sold. This is a core belief of theirs, they expect us to drop our weapons, kneel and cross our wrists so we can be collared and disciplined. (She finger-quoted.) They are shocked when we have the nerve to say 'no', not only that, but to disobey them. To raise a weapon and actually attack them? To kill them?" She shook her head. "Psychological warfare, but also for the slave girls who see our troops. They've been drowned in this conditioning for so long, some of them all their lives, that when they see females, women, stand up to their masters, killing those masters that have abused them for so long, it starts to break them out of that mental rut, they start to think 'If she can, maybe I can.'" The Empress took another swallow of coffee, and then eyed her cup. "It has a secondary benefit of easing supply problems. One size of uniform, boots, body armor, that kind of thing. Then, once someone clears Basic, they go on to individual training for the Marines, the Navy, or the Merchant Service. We even have a school ship, the MV Zheng He. He was a Chinese admiral in the early 1400's, the new Chinese Federation paid for her."

"And we're starting production of the Freedom series cargo ships," Sprink said, and gave her best mate a hug. "Thanks for coming, Mattie."

"Oi, would I miss my bestest mates tying the knot? Congratulations, you two," and she hugged Charlie as well. People smiled, and someone asked, "What's a Freedom series ship?"

Charlie replied, "Goes back to the Liberty ships, sir. Five different sizes of cargo ships, and two tankers, built to standard plans. Half-million ton capacity up to a few five million ton ships." He looked at Mattie, "My pa was wondering, what date was drawn?"

"July 20, 1969. Anyone you know with the birthday?"

Sprink started, "Oi, I thought it was a live drawing."

"It was recorded, and this was a practice for everyone, a dry run. A dress rehearsal. As it was a dry run, they don't have to report."

"For conscription? Certainly there's another option."

"If you can think of one, ma'am, you're doing better than a lot of people. From what I have heard from various commentators, there are three alternatives. The first, and least popular, is to surrender." There were snorts of disgust.

"I didn't think so. The second option is to pull back. Abandon our colony worlds, let them stand and fight on their own." She regarded the small crowd. "While I would agree that this system is the only one so far attacked, does anyone think they would ignore our colony worlds once they know about them, and their locations?" She took a swallow of coffee; "So far, we've been lucky, but we can't count on luck. What we need is time. Time to build up the fleets, to build up the Army, to invest in the resources and the infrastructure, to build up and fortify our colony planets." She swirled the coffee in the Styrofoam cup. "All of which means jobs, both here on Earth and off-planet."

"Jobs?"

"Jobs, mate," Sprink said. "Think about it. Just from my own shop, Greywolf Transport. We've cargo and livestock and people to transport both in-system and out. That means building and operating ships, handling that cargo and those passengers and getting them there safe and on-time, fed and happy, with no bumps or bruises. That means not only the bridge and engine room lads and lassies, but also the ship's mess, the laundry, all that. We're British, we grew up on ships."

Pomona smiled, and then said, "I've heard some of the commentary myself. All I can say is from my own personal experience and observation. Some of these Republicans (she waved at the ceiling) are moderates. They will at least employ women in skilled positions, others think 'female is equal to slave'." She regarded Miss Wayne, "Personally, I think you're being too kind to some of them. Their greatest fear is a slave rebellion, armed, trained slaves who are looking for revenge. If that means our combat troops are female, if we can use those former slaves, those collared girls, I say 'good on'." She moved off a few meters to get herself a cuppa.

"You said three alternatives, ma'am," someone said after a minute.

"Yes," Mattie replied, shaking herself. "Yes. The third option is volunteers. We calculate a minimum, if everything goes perfectly, best case, of fifteen million for the Army, and twenty five to twenty eight including Navy, Marines and the Merchant Service. That's if everything goes according to plan, and when has that ever happened? We only got eight million volunteers worldwide after the Paris Atrocity. Where's the rest?"

"And if it goes pear shaped?"

"Who knows? We will have reserves, and have to assume that each of the Republican systems has local defense treaties; we would. We're hoping to use some of those slave girls on those planets, those that want to, but that's all I can really say." She took a swallow of her coffee, "The problem with using any of those collared girls is their slave conditioning. The captured girls are having an easier time breaking it, but the bred girls are afraid to pick up a butter knife, as it might be misinterpreted. That is why most of them we are getting into Imperial service are in the below-decks occupations, or working in places like shipyards and logistics, where they're doing wonderfully. Hand them a gun, though, and they break out in a cold sweat."

"Which leaves conscription."

"Which leaves conscription," Mattie agreed. "If you have a better idea, I'm listening. We can only count on a trickle of personnel from our colony worlds; the plan for them is a deployed Imperial Army brigade for training the local Planetary Militia. That is what they are being deployed for, to train the locals up for defense as well as disaster response, while building up the local infrastructure for naval forces. Supply bases, sector headquarters, that kind of thing. The thing is that we cannot have a brigade in place twenty-four-seven-three-sixty-five. They have to be rotated in and out for their own training and R & R." She took another swallow of coffee, then added, "We are getting some of the national reserves, but it depends on how many the individual countries are willing to call up. For those troops, it's counted as 'joint' time, like a British Army trooper serving with the German or Polish Army."

"But …" the fellow was silent, and people considered this. Mattie continued, "For what it's worth, the military would much rather have volunteers. They are better motivated and more reliable. They want to be there. A draftee, on the other hand, DOESN'T want to be there; yet we run into the numbers problem again." She took a swallow of her coffee, "If you don't want to go into the Army, Marines or Navy, Sprink (she hugged her friend) here will be glad to take you into the Merchant Service. We've got to crew all those ships we're building to move cargo." The band started up, and she gave Charlie a gentle shove. "G'wan, first dance with your new wife, just save me a space on your dance card."

Warning: torture
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Sunday, June 1, 2003: 21:47 (relative)
Melotte, Melotte City, market square:
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"We don't have any way to treat him, any one of them. They need hospitalization," Sandra Woosan said from the darkness, whispering to one of her 'slave girls'. "The only thing we can do is give him an easy death."

"Yes, mistress. I agree; but I want to give it to all of them. The curse will leave a small, lightning-bolt shaped scar. We can hide it between their toes," the disguised witch, 74613 whispered in return. "Two little words, whispered, and I can move between them, invisibly. Can you be prepared for a distraction?"

"They don't look too alert," Sandra agreed. The dark night, the steady, cold drizzle, all made the two Greys posted to guard the public 'discipline' area huddling around a fire in a steel barrel. Near them, Captain Carter hung, his elbows and wrists bound together behind him, his weight on his upper arms in the form of torture known as 'strappado'. He was hanging about ten feet (three meters) in the air, his weighted ankles about head high. He was not the only one, half a dozen slave girls hung near him in the same position. This was not only an insult to a free male, but also a warning – the Greys were cracking down. All the prisoners' eyes and mouths were bloody, and they had been scourged. If they were not killed now, they faced several days of agony.

"Go ahead. I'll meet you on the other side of the square. If the Greys stir, I'll create your diversion."

"Thank you, mistress," 74613 said, taking out her wand and waving it. She vanished from what little light there was, and Sandra held up some IR goggles – no, the girl had vanished. She moved near a hanging slave girl, her collar lights dim in the darkness, crouching behind a shop's display, watching the slaves as one-by-one, their collar lights went out, signifying their death. There was a 'bang' of a waste bin being knocked over, and grumbling, the two Greys left their warm fire to investigate. Sandra saw two flashes of green light, and then she moved to the other side. Her girl whispered out of the darkness, "Mistress? I'm here."

"I don't know why you needed me," the Paper Monkey grumbled.

"Backup is always good, mistress, and as a slave girl, I'm not supposed to be out by myself after curfew," she replied softly. "Having a professional assassin as my mistress is a good thing."

"Yes, well, let's get back to the safe house. We have several kilometers to walk."

"Yes, mistress."

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Monday, June 2, 2003: 07:33 (UTC -5)
Terra, Cleveland Imperial Recruiting Office:
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"Woah, there!" Mark Higginbotham said as he stabilized the ladder. "Got everything there?"

"Just a sec," the recruiting sergeant said as he attached the sign. "That's got it," he said, and came down from the ladder, offering his hand. "Thanks. Mike Hardy."

"Mark Higginbotham and my daughter Kathy." Hands were shaken, and Kathy looked up at the storefront recruiting station. There were two doors and two signs hanging from the aluminum overheads. On the left was a sign reading 'Appointments' while below that was the just-hung sign reading 'Conscription', while above the other door was 'Walk-in'.

"We're not officially open yet, but it looks like this is going to be a busy day," Sgt. Hardy said. "I'd offer you both a cup of coffee, but you've both already got one. If one of you could get the door, I'll get the ladder, and we can get started. Which of you has July twentieth?"

"Dad does," Kathy said, pulling open the door, as Sgt. Hardy collapsed the ladder. "Me, nobody's putting a collar on my neck, and … I understand you can do something with my diabetes?"

"Sure can," the Sergeant said.

"So," Sgt. Hardy said as he looked up from the paperwork. "You're both Terran, I don't see anything about non-combatant or conscientious objector here. Those we're putting with our collared girls in the rear area. That means combat arms, and it also has the option of the infamous sex change."

"Can I do that, even though I'm already a girl?" Kathy asked. "We discussed this. I'd … I'd like to get a bit more up top."

"Don't see why not," the Sergeant said. "You can go for the 'Barbie' option if you want. Have you thought about which branch you'd like to go into?"

"I'm a licensed civil engineer," Mark said. "I've got copies of my licenses with me."

"Bless you," Sgt. Hardy said. "It makes it much easier to verify things. Let me get copies of your driver's licenses and social security cards while you do the body scan. There's a terminal back there, sign in to it, and make sure you wear those laser goggles after you've stripped to skin. There's music if you want to dance, but we need a full range of motion."

"Armor," Kathy said. "I want to drive a tank. I want to crush those bastards."

"With what I pay for your insurance…" her dad sighed, and Sgt. Hardy chuckled. "My son's a better driver than she is," he said.

"Yes, yes I am," Josh said, putting his head between his sister and father. He put out his hand, "Hi, there. I'm Josh, and I'm here to save everyone's bacon."

"Humble, isn't he?" Kathy said. "Where were you when we were leaving the house?" Her brother didn't answer that, and Sgt. Hardy said, "Mr. Higginbotham, if you'll take a seat and sign in, we'll get to you as soon as we can." Josh huffed and moved off, and he continued, "We don't think we'll be using many tanks, more likely recon cars or fighting vehicles with infantry squads. While armor gives a good punch, they're vulnerable to overhead fire." He tapped a pencil, "Remember, we're looking at urban combat, and I've seen maps of some of the enemy cities, they're a maze of twisty little alleyways and streets. A tank or vehicle can be targeted from the roof of one of those buildings with an RPG. There's no way you would get something like a Leopard V tank into some of those streets, I think they were designed for donkey carts. Think a medieval town with brick buildings no higher than five floors, and no elevators." He tapped the pencil again, "We're also planning on supporting slave uprisings and insurgencies; overthrowing the existing government and installing an Imperial-friendly one that gives rights to the slave girls. One reason I'm suggesting infantry; you'd not only be patrolling but also working on civic improvement projects."

"Hmm. A recon car is how big?"

"Like a large minivan or SUV. Has a machine gun and a grenade launcher, possibly three, four troops in the back. A couple different things are done by recon: finding the enemy, but also scouting out an approach to a target. You might also like air assault, or flying close air support. We're getting some very, very nasty Russian choppers for that."

"I thought they were using anti-grav instead of rotors."

"Habit. Sorry." He poked at the paperwork with the eraser end of his pencil. "If you don't have a strong preference, you can test for it, but the default is infantry. That's what we need the most of."

"But you walk everywhere."

"You ride in trucks or carriers most of the time, but yes, you do walk. Everyone walks, and you'll be conditioned for it. You'll also be closest to the civilian population, putting our best face forward, helping them out." He offered several plastic-covered lists. "If you're undecided, put code 09B, but infantry is …"

"Eleven X." (Infantry recruit.) She sat back, thinking, while her dad looked over another set, and put down 12A (General Engineering officer). "What about flying those new birds?"

"You'd have to test for that, unless you have some private pilot experience?" She shook her head, and then put down 11X.

"Josh? Josh Higginbotham? I'm First Sergeant Allison Harrison." Josh took the petite, curvy brown-haired woman's hand, and she ushered him to her desk in the back. "Sorry it's taken so long, but with the start of the draft, we knew we'd get slammed today. Wonderful day for Lt. Ringbolt to see the dentist."

"Planned, I'm sure," he grinned cockily at her as he slid into a chair.

"Not from six weeks ago," she replied. "I notice you were looking at several publications," and her eyes flicked to brochures he held in his hand.

"Yes, I was thinking about Special Forces," he said just a bit loudly. "Running back on the school football team, scored four touchdowns in a single game," while his hand flipped open the covering brochure to one concealed inside, for Intelligence. He flipped that open in turn, catching her eye, where option 35M was circled, with XX written next to it and underlined. His eyes met hers; his forefinger tapped the entry, and then glanced at her battered old Zippo lighter with the logo of the First Armored – 'Old Ironsides'.

"I see," she replied. "You do understand that the med-tanks will not give you the physique of one of the Greek Gods? Once you have gone through the tanks, there is no going back, no reset? That what you have asked about is extremely hazardous, you will be operating behind enemy lines, and it is a long-term assignment with very little, if any, public recognition? The enemy has absolutely no problem in torturing their captives." She used a forefinger to draw a semicircle on her throat, then continued, "Son, if you're looking for glory, please go somewhere else."

He met her eyes, and drew a matching semicircle on his throat. "I'm aware of the risks, First Sergeant." He tapped the back of his neck, saying, "I want to challenge myself; only the toughest training, so I'll need to settle for the physique of one of the JLA," he said as he crossed his fingers to form a 'W', then again. She nodded, then pulled open a drawer, handing him a stick. "Wave that for me, would you please?"

"Property US Government," he read off the tan wand, then raised a questioning eyebrow at her. She nodded slightly, and he flicked the wand.

"So let's see how we did today," Lt. Ringbolt said, speaking out of one side of his jaw. He had come in about 11:00. "In Greater Cleveland, there are 189 people, statistically, with our July 20, 1969 birthday. How many did we get? Any unusual ones?" He winced and held an icepack to his jaw.

"I think some of them are still kicking it around, or getting their paperwork together," 1SGT Harrison said. "I had three and a Thirty-Five Mike with both the X and Whiskey options. He really, really wanted that X option." Her colleagues whistled, and she nodded, "He wanted it covered as an 18 Fox (Special Forces Intelligence), though, so I gave him a false set of papers. They weren't stamped, or finished, just an official-looking printout, but his civvie buddies won't know that."

"True, and that's something we can use," SGT Hardy said. "I had five, including a father-daughter pair. She wanted the X option, went the Barbie route on Eleven, but her father was a prize, a licensed civil engineer. No X for him, though."

"I had six July 20 people, two of which went for Eleven Alphas (Infantry officer) and four One-Fifty-Three Alpha (Aviation, non specific aircraft). Three of those were women," SGT Larson put in. They turned as Walt, the barber next door, knocked on one of their doors. Sgt. Hardy got up to unlock the door, holding it open and asking with a grin, "Come to sign up?"

"No, but I could see you were busy," he said. "How was business? Tell me over a beer?"

"Fourteen July 20ths today," Allison replied. "That's seven and a half percent of all of them in the Cleveland area."

"Not bad, not bad. I had some come in after, or while they were waiting," Walt confessed. "I'm seeing a pickup in business from you being here."

"No beer for me today," Lt. Ringbolt said. "I just came from the dentist. The drugs, you know."

"Oi, do I know," Walt agreed. "You go home and get better, young man. Tomorrow's another day."

"But … oh, WHY, Josh? You don't need to go …" his mother moaned, and her son sighed. "Lots of reasons, mom. I mean, it's a responsibility, but also … Oh, gawd …" and he covered his face with his hands.

"You can tell us, son … we can take it, we can fix it. You've got three days to change your mind on this contract …"

"That's just it, I … oh, gawd, this is hard…"

"Come with me," his sister Kathy demanded, pulling him from his chair and into the hallway's half-bath. She shut the door and leaned against it. She regarded him, "You can tell me. Is this anything to do with some of my dresser drawers being out of order?"

"You know?" Josh was horrified.

"Couple, three years," she agreed, and he sank down onto the toilet seat. "Don't worry about it. I'm cool with it, although I think both Mom and Dad suspect something." She crouched down, holding his hands in hers, "I'm cool with it," she repeated. "The jock act is just an act. What'd you pick?"

"Thirty-Five M. Covert intelligence collection. With the … um, 'X' option, and I even got sparks from a wand, so training on that's included."

"So. Undercover witch. That's cool."

"Undercover collared slave girl witch, who will be attached to a Special Forces unit behind enemy lines," her brother corrected. "I kinda went 'wet dream' on the boobs, waist and all. Long legs and hair, tight … um, crotch…"

"How 'wet dream' did you go?"

"Um, H cup, the max, eighteen inch waist, the minimum, and hair past my knees. Sergeant said we were the only ones not to have haircuts in boot."

"Plus a collar and …" she regarded him, "Enhancement?"

"Yeah. Required for the prosthetics and that kinda thing."

"You went whole hog, didn't you? Fantasy?"

"Jealousy. Envy. I'd hear you and the other girls gossiping about clothes and whatnot, and I'd want to join in, but no, I was your brother, the football jock." He sighed, "I f**ked up."

"A bit. Sarah Pemberton's got an F cup, and she's complaining about backaches all the time. Personally, I think she's just boasting. I went for the whole 'Barbie' option and Infantry, so I'll have an 'E' cup and a tiny waist, although not like you will. Personally, I'd dial the bust back, but you can always say a previous owner upgraded you…" she shifted in her kneeling posture, pulling him up and into a hug. "I think you'd be something of a standout with that big a bust, but what do I know? At least you won't have to suffer through the damn monthly period."

"Sarge said you wouldn't once you get past lunar orbit. Anyway, since I'll be out of contact for a long time, I had some false paperwork drawn up for Mom saying I'll be in Special Forces, behind the lines. Which, in a way, I will be."

"True." Kathy gave him another hug, "I got your back on this. Let's go handle Mom and Dad."

"But … why, Josh? You're a BOY!" his mother worried. "Is it something that your father or I did?"

"No, mom … just … no. I'm taking advantage of …"

"Mom…" Kathy said, squeezing her brother's shoulders from where she stood behind him. "I'm behind Josh, it's something that's necessary, vital, and he's going to be providing information that may save my life, or Dad's, and … and it makes him happy."

"Mom…" Josh started, reaching out to his mother and grasping one of her hands. "Mom, I'm going to be out of touch for long periods…"

"Wearing a slave girl's collar in a market!"

"And collecting intelligence. Mom, think this through. These are undercover positions, and the girl in the market, wandering around, is going to hear things a lot different than what the official position would be. Anyway, I won't have access to email, and packages would go to the sector offices, which would be light years away…"

"So sending fudge and cookies wouldn't be a good idea," Kathy commented. "Send 'em to me or Dad instead …"

"But what about leave?" Dad asked.

"Not like I'd have weekends off," Josh joked. "There's a reason that Intelligence is rated a combat arm. It's not like a whistle blows at five and everyone packs up for the day. I'll have some time off, but remember two things: I'm covered as a slave girl, and this is hostile territory, behind enemy lines. No, for leave I'd have to be 'sold' somewhere (he finger-quoted) and be shipped between our locations."

"Probably between duty assignments," Mark commented.

Josh nodded at his father, and squeezed his mother's hands, "That means if I got home leave, you're going to see a rather busty collared girl in an Army uniform come down the ramp at the airport."

"Collared? A slave collar! Why…"

"MOM!" Kathy moved behind her mother. "Mom, think! Josh is in an undercover assignment! He's covered as a slave girl! They're collared! It's not something you can take off!"

"And being sold? What if you're stolen?"

"Why would I be? Only if I stand out in some way."

Kathy cleared her throat. "H cup?"

"Okay, I'll dial that back." He shot her a small grin. "I plead the moment. Anyway, I've got some fake paperwork for you that says I'm going into Special Forces. That explains a lot of things, and it's almost accurate."

"But … Oh, my baby boy!" She dissolved into tears, and her husband wrapped into a hug, signaling to his two kids that they should leave. Kathy gave a small nod and pulled Josh behind her out the door.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Tuesday, June 3, 2003: 10:41 (UTC)
Terra, London, Family Court:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Counsel?" the judge asked.

"I have no questions for this witness," the solicitor replied. The witness stood and left, going to the public viewing area, as the opposition solicitor consulted his notes. "I call Ms. Martha Wayne!"

"… to tell the truth, so help you God." Mattie nodded, smoothed her skirt and sat down. The other couple's solicitor checked his notes a final time, and then swaggered over to her. "Miss Wayne, is it? May I ask your occupation?"

She leaned forward to adjust the microphone, "Queen of the Terran Empire," she replied.

"I see. What is your relation with the Weasley family?"

"Friends."

"I see. In relation to the infant in question, she bears your name. What is that relation, and why did you give your daughter up for adoption?" His tone dripped contempt. The audience murmured, and the judge banged his gavel. "Courtesy, counselor."

"Yes, milord," he replied. "I'm waiting, your Majesty." (He finger-quoted.)

Ms. Wayne leaned forward, "I would think I'd remember being pregnant and giving birth." The audience stirred, there were some chuckles. "The blood and hair tests I've seen for the infant in question, aside from sex-linked genes, matches Ronald, the missing Weasley son. Therefore, the infant isn't mine."

"So you deny the infant in question is your own, your Majesty?"

"To the best of my knowledge, the infant in question is genetically part of the Weasley family."

"No further questions, milord," the solicitor said. The judge looked at the Weasley's solicitor, who stood briefly, "No questions for this witness, milord."

"You may step down, with gratitude, your Majesty," the judge said, banging his gavel. Ms. Wayne nodded, and smoothing her skirt, made her way out of the witness box.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Wednesday, June 4, 2003: 07:52 (UTC +9:30)
Terra, Northern Territory, City of Katherine:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"… and that concludes this week's briefing from Camp Katherine. Thank you for coming," Major Toni Jay said. She stepped away from the podium as the dozen or so newsies started to wrap up their gear. The Major made her way over to the refreshment table, fixing a cup of coffee and sidling next to a particular blonde. "Ms. Thorne? You got my message?"

She smirked, "I did. Bring two changes of clothes, including something I can get muddy in. Sounds somewhat interesting."

"And your 'PRESS' vest. Yes, I like to think so," the Major replied. "Things are improving. For instance, we're now in a proper briefing room, instead of a tent."

"The dangling light fixtures gave it that 'inept' look, though." She sipped her tea, "Where can I change and meet you?"

"Locker rooms upstairs on the third floor. Eight-thirty in the parking lot? No photos, we'll provide a CD of them."

Toni up shifted, pulling away from the traffic light. The town of Katherine, originally a mere 4500 or so, had exploded in size, not only from the massive construction projects on base, but also from the usual camp followers that formed around any military base of any size: bars, brothels, pawnshops, and the like. The black market had also formed, despite Australian and Northern Territory laws, illicit guns (and accessories) and drugs were available. As such, there was a number of police active, as well as Imperial Military Police.

"The main gate to the base is south," Chris mentioned from the passenger seat of the ute.

"Yes. Yes it is," Toni agreed, handing over a local map. "This is Gorge Road. We're going northeast, over Knotts Crossing to the northern bank of the Katherine River and then east. What we're going to see is two of our satellite training camps. We have a few out parcels near the river, tucked into that corner between the river and the national park. LEARN TO DRIVE, IDJIT!" she shouted over the folded-down windscreen over the hood.

"You're not from around here, are you?"

"I'm a proud New Yorker. Only place to learn how to drive. There's a running bet in the office on who has the worst driving record." Her passenger's only comment was to snug down her seat belt.

"Good morning, ma'am," the gate guard said, saluting. "ID, please?"

"Here you go," Toni said, returning his salute as she handed over her own photo ID lanyard along with Ms. Thorne's. The guard ran them both through his scanner, then handed them back when he got his green lights. "Need a map, ma'am?" he asked.

"No thanks, I'm good," she replied, and up shifted to pull away.

"So, why am I really here?" Chris Thorne asked, turning in her seat as Toni parked.

"Unofficially. Deep background, no attribution," Major Jay replied. Chris considered this, and then nodded. "The gender screw-up, among other things," Toni said. "I'll tell you what happened, what we're doing to fix it, and if you're interested, I'll offer a one-way trip through one of the med-tanks. Officially, we're here to see our representative main base, the 'alien' town, and if you want, our representative forward base."

"If we're going to see this alien town, why the rough-and-ready clothes?"

"The town is a composite from various planets, representing what we think most of what our troops will be encountering. A lot of the Republican planets have chains of islands, with fishing villages and small towns, so we built next to the river." Chris nodded, and Toni continued. "Same with our main base, we're orienting toward what's called 'brown water' operations." Toni smirked, "We also weren't too sure about your gender at first, but that was cleared up … Ms. Thorne. Anyway, we are using MILES gear, so you need to wear these laser-safe sunglasses (she handed over a plastic-wrapped pair), and if you are tagged, you have five seconds to get flat on your back. Otherwise, you'll be zapped, and it's 'uncomfortable'. Using the medical definition of 'uncomfortable'."

"It hurts like hell, in other words. Why would I get tagged?"

"Different laser generators are set for different types of weapons. Our P90, grenades, mortar and artillery shells, or rather flares with those characteristics. You get a grenade going off next to you; it's not going to discriminate between you and the soldier or civilian or slave girl next to you; so you get your back on the ground, because you're dead. The objective is realistic training for all concerned."

Chris grunted, "What about vehicles?"

"Same type of thing, except they have a flashing light and a smoke grenade that pops when they're 'dead'. They are programmed to ignore things like small arms fire, but not RPGs."

Chris nodded, "You said 'slave girls'."

"Yes. Remember, we're going to be fighting on Republican planets, as well as some of our own colony planets inherited slaves, so we have actors and actresses playing those masters and slaves. By the way, they're told not to break cover, so please don't force the issue."

"I thought … Wayne's said that she's against the slave trade."

"She is, and so are we, but we can't be hiding behind political correctness. The slave trade has been going on for literally billions of years; it's not going to stop because we don't like it." Toni gestured to the sky, "Some of these Republican planets have a little tiny percentage of the population free, and the other ninety-plus percent are slaves. You can sit in an ivory tower fantasy or you can deal with reality. The reality is that we'll need to deal with slavers, slave markets and slaves."

Chris thought about this in silence, then reached over and took the wrapped sunglasses. "I want to see the new intake facility, too."

"Except the classified sections. Want a trip through a tank?"

"I'll take your marker on that." She popped her seat belt and swung her legs out of the ute.

"This is one of II Corps' training facilities," the Major said. "We've got five companies serving as a permanent OPFOR here and down the river at the larger training base. We've got a company of infantry in there now searching for various people on their list. No photos, helmets are on the table, they connect with the webbing you'll be wearing. Can you swim?" Both women nodded, and the Major nodded in turn. "The equipment is waterproof in case you go in the river. We have lifeguard boats out, but the river is deep and fast; there are crocs in it, and we've seen dingoes, rabbits and feral camels in town. Our training has this as a 'semi-pacified' town (he finger-quoted), so expect to see and hear gunfire. All blanks but the guard boats, they have machine guns. Let me help you there, miss."

"It looks like a third-world country," Chris commented as she stepped past the entry. The buildings were up to five floors, with a tan adobe-type cladding on the exterior walls, thin windows with wooden shutters on the ground floor, with wider windows thrown wide on the higher floors. The only 'modern' touches were WiFi antennae installed on the corners of buildings. There were no power lines in evidence, and smoke puffed from smokestacks. Inset into the adobe were signs in Trade, looking like a cross between Arabic and Cyrillic. People, free and 'slave', wandered about, the 'slaves' in light blue tunics and tiny skirts mostly doing 'fetch and carry' type tasks, while their free 'masters' sat together or in small groups, drinking, smoking, and playing cards.

"You'll notice that everyone is wearing at least some light blue," Toni said. "Two reasons for this. The girls are mostly former slaves, they refused to wear yellow, which is the slave color. They are volunteers, they are paid and work regular shifts, any chains they're wearing have a release they can use, and they're wearing dog tags and their control chips on a chain under their tunics. Second reason is that blue is the military color for 'practice', and the blue color designates them as OPFOR personnel. They will stay in character outside, once they go through a black-and-white checkerboard door, they're off-stage."

"So to speak," Chris said. "What if I were to ask a question of one of them?"

"Their response would be in character. Think of them as actors in one of those 'living history' theme parks. I know there are some in Australia, the US is lousy with them." She took a few steps into the shade, "Remember, males onstage here go by the theory that most women are slaves. Expect a punch or slap if you're impertinent enough to approach them, we're not dressed as free females. See, like she is."

They watched as a woman dressed in long skirts in pastel blue and a veil swept out of a building, followed by a slave girl carrying her bags. The males pulled aside to make room for her, then blocking the slave, running their hands on her legs and making comments. She said something, and they let her go, she scurried to her mistress. "Notice the high collar on the dress," Toni said. "I think they trade off the free female roles. Anyway, they're actors and actresses, and members of theatrical unions. Seen enough here? Want to head to the market?"

"Stay here a moment, please," and Chris made her way toward the group, asking a question. They ignored her, but she persisted, and one of them got up, making his way behind her, grabbing her by the arms and dunking her head and shoulders into a rain barrel. He then shoved her, where she sprawled in the dusty road. "That way, and if I see you again, you will wear my collar!" he shouted.

"Don't you know who I am?" she shouted back.

"A wench that needs a collar and Enhancement," he replied. He turned and started toward her, "Shall I profit by your sale?" Chris scrambled to her feet, starting to run. The actors laughed, while a 'slave' fished out Chris' helmet and sunglasses from the rain barrel, offering them to Toni. The actor turned back to his game, one finger touching his hairline in a small salute.

"So, learn anything?" Toni asked.

"Realistic," Chris replied, looking at the idling M113 personnel carrier parked in the plaza, a trooper atop it behind a M2 heavy machine gun. "Is that what we're deploying?"

"No, a modification of some Russian vehicles, and German Leopard V tanks. I know contracts have been signed and licensed production is being set up. I know Volkswagen updated their Kubelwagen and there's a type of dune buggy for driving around bases and off-road." She took a swallow of her beer, "South African mortars, ammo and heavy artillery." She gestured, "The classic M2 machine gun, miniguns, German grenade launchers and the Belgian P90. All of it produced all over the world, and all of it boosting the economy and jobs."

"How is all this boosting jobs?" Chris asked.

"Simple," and Toni waved at the marketplace. "It's not just military equipment, but everything else. For instance, we need to move cargo and passengers from point A to point B. Depending on the location, that's either through riverboats or railroads, which are the most efficient ways of doing that. That means exporting cargo as well as things like concrete, locomotives and diesel engines, assuming things like railway carriages and boat bodies can be built by the locals. If not, we export. That not only boosts jobs here on Earth to manufacture stuff, but also in shipping them, the Navy and Marines to guard them, and on the receiving planet to assemble, train, and crew them." She finished her beer, "You wanted to see that reception station?"

"Minute," and Chris made her way to the idling vehicle. The trooper on guard duty outside looked her over, saw her 'PRESS' vest, and banged on the hull. "Sarge! Newsy with an escort out here!"

"Let them pass," a young woman's voice replied. Toni took a few steps to the open hatch, and saw a young woman wearing a collar, Imperial camo and combat boots with sergeant's stripes. She held up a hand to wait, then turned around, "Brenda Geller, formerly a reservist with the Israeli Army, and you are?"

"Chris Thorne, Canberra Times, and this is Major Toni Jay, Public Affairs, my minder. Can I ask about that collar?"

"Got it when the enemy landed in Haifa in February," she replied. "It motivates me to rip off their balls and choke them with them. I'm waiting for the new Leopard V's to be produced. It's not the Merkava tanks I'm trained on, but the Germans make very nice equipment, and they invented blitzkrieg." She tapped some of the comm equipment she sat in front of. "At least this is Israeli made, and then I want to go to the enemy capital. I'm hoping I can meet their King and introduce him to my knife. Excuse me," and she turned back to her equipment.

Toni gestured her away, "You still want to see the reception building?"

"We're okay for that?" and gestured to her clothing. Chris was wearing hiking boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt.

"You should be fine."

Chris whistled at the size of the building. "Big," she admitted. "The size of a shopping mall."

"Fifty thousand med tanks at about three cubic meters each means a big building," Toni agreed. "That's …"

"One hundred fifty thousand square meters. I can do basic math," Chris commented. "Why so many, if there's only nine thousand people incoming per day?"

"Some people have different amounts of time required. If they're in good physical shape, a couple of hours each, if they're not …" Toni shrugged as they stood on the long station platform, gesturing at an off-loading train. "Five trains a week at nine thousand each, each train seventeen hundred meters long, plus waiting areas, food courts, Internet and telephone kiosks, can't forget the washrooms …" Chris smirked as she continued, "We have to do routine maintenance between each patient, as well as loading stores like implants, and while they're in the tank, supply has to get their various uniforms, boots, underwear and whatnot put together. That's all loaded in their footlocker, which goes on a cart next to their tank. Once the tank's done, they're taken out, put on a stretcher on the cart, which goes by means of an underground tram to their barracks."

"And then up a lift and into their bunks," Chris nodded. "Efficient. As they clear the tanks, they fill the barracks. How extensive is this underground tram system?"

"Early stages right now. It's a spin-off of the personal transport cars we're using on Luna. Everything's as automated as possible. We're working on extending it so our people can use it to travel to the more distant training ranges; they run to and from the mess halls."

Chris grunted, eying the offloading people. "I want to interview some of these." Toni gestured, and they moved down the platform. "Excuse me, Chris Thorne, Canberra Times. I'd like to have a word or two with you, if I might."

The older man glanced at Toni, who nodded, and he said, "Sure. Could you get a photo of us to send back home to my wife?"

"Certainly," and Mark Higginbotham raised an eyebrow at her New York accent. Toni smiled, "US Army Reserve, called up from Manhattan to Imperial Service, Mr…?"

"Mark Higginbotham, my daughter Kathy and my son Josh, from Chagrin Falls, Ohio. We weren't supposed to bring cameras or cell phones…"

"No problem, Mr. Higginbotham, I'll email a copy to your wife the minute I get back to the office," Toni assured him. "Why not over there, next to the sign?" They reformed under a sign that read:

Welcome to Camp Katherine:
training the galaxy's finest soldiers.

Photos taken and email addresses noted, Chris started, "Mr. Higginbotham, why are you here?"

"Well, Ms. Thorne, it's the right thing to do. My birthday, July twentieth was drawn, and I've always tried to raise my kids to do the right thing, especially, and even if, it's distasteful or not something you particularly want to do." He grimaced, "Well, that wasn't phrased right. I don't want to join the Army, I'm perfectly happy as a civil engineer, husband and father, but where would we all be if we only did what we wanted? Yes, I could have legally skipped out. I didn't have to come, but my birthday was drawn, and the proper, the moral thing to do was to do my duty, to perform my civic obligations."

"I see," Chris said. "Thank you; and this is your daughter?"

"Kathy, and there's two reasons, really. The first is that nobody's going to put a collar on my throat and a computer in my brain, and force me to kneel and say, 'Yes, master. May this slave wipe your ass?' No, that ain't gonna happen." She flushed, "You gonna quote me?"

"Word for word, unless you say differently," Chris replied, waving her mini-recorder. "What's the second reason?"

"Cool. The second reason is going toward breaking the glass ceiling. I wanted armor, but I got talked into Infantry."

"You can change it when you're checked in," Toni put in.

"That's cool. I want to drive one of those big-ass Leopard V tanks and kick serious butt."

"There won't be a planet left when she's done," Josh leaned forward, arm around his sister. "Hi, I'm Josh, and I'm Special Forces. Going behind the lines to get intel on the enemy for my sister to blow up or crush with her tank." He waggled his eyebrows, "Now that you know that, I have to kill you. Nothing personal."

"Asshole," Kathy slugged his arm. "Apologize!"

"Okay, okay. I won't kill you; I'll leave that to the Major here." He tipped an imaginary hat, "Shall we?"

"We shall," and Kathy took her brother's arm.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Wednesday, June 4, 2003: 12:17 (UTC)
Foley system, ITSV Charles Albanel, bridge:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Entering the system of Foley, Cap'n," Lt. Ming said from the helm. She was a petite Chinese girl, who played the helm like a piano. "Adjusting course track for system survey, stealth system is engaged," she added. "Transit time from the Sol system, eighty four hours; distance four thousand two hundred light years."

"What would that be for one of the older jump drives?"

Lt. Ming worked her console. "At their standard five lights an hour, eight hundred forty hours or thirty five days, sir." She turned slightly at her station, "These new drives do make things faster."

"Even just cruising at fifty lights an hour." The Captain sighed, "I just wish we had a better history on them. Sparks, anything yet?"

"No, sir. Remote sensor pods have just deployed. I'm picking up energy signatures … HELM, DOWN AND HARD A'PORT!" Lt. Ming flicked her controls as Lt. Charleston said, "Sorry, Cap'n. Some damn fool was just charging along at max thrust. I don't think he saw us, there's no comm traffic from him …"

"Bad drivers."

"Yes, Cap'n. Stealth is still up, I picked him up on passives. We'll need to keep a close passive watch unless we want to use active sensors and drop stealth."

"We'll decide that when we're spiraled in closer to the star. Keep us hidden for now. What about those other energy signatures?"

"Transponder beacons identify three cargo ships in classes between ten and fifty thousand tons, a passenger liner, four slave ships and fifteen pirate ships of various sizes in orbit or docked to the station. At this distance, all I can go by is transponder and the signatures from active drives. There could be others, sir."

"Acknowledged. I want CIC(4) to take over the remote sensor pods and everything else. Your job at the moment is keeping an eye out for bad drivers and other immediate hazards. You see something, you say so, and Helm, you do it. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Noted and logged, sir."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Wednesday, June 4, 2003: 12:48 (UTC +9:30)
Terra, Northern Territory, Camp Katherine:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Mark groaned, put a arm over his eyes, "What was the number of that truck?"

"A lot of people are asking something like that," a woman replied, and Mark blinked against the light. "Good afternoon. I'm Sgt. Corday, originally French Army. I've been through the tank myself. Don't try to move until the dizziness passes." She turned as someone in the next bed woke up, and introduced herself. "First thing, we are using what the Yanks call 'One Station Training', so you'll go through basic and your advanced training here." She waved a hand, "You're all licensed professional engineers and somewhat older than the Infantry and other combat arms, so there is a minimum of Mickey Mouse."

"Mickey Mouse?" the woman in the next bed asked.

"Teaching you how to brush your teeth. You presumably already know that." Mark had been checking himself out and let out a hiss. "My b***s! Where are my f*****g b***s!"

"Still there," Sgt. Corday replied. "What you're wearing is a protective panty. It protects your genitals against radiation and other damage." She tapped her own pelvis and gestured at the woman as well. "Your genetic material is extracted, frozen and stored in case of a combat injury, and will be released when you ask; if you and your wife decide to have a child, for instance. For now, just like everyone else, you are wearing an adapter for excretion, and your testicles are tucked up inside your abdomen." She chuckled, "Most common question from the men."

"You sound like you know," the woman asked.

"A point of etiquette. It is not polite to ask about someone's pre-Army life. They'll tell you what they're comfortable sharing." Mark had turned to sit on the side of his bunk, as had the woman. Sgt. Corday had moved off to handle other newly-awoken troops, and Mark offered his hand. "Mark Higginbotham, civil engineer."

"Reg… Gina Thierau, electrical engineer, formerly of Paris," she replied, shaking his hand. "I understand we'll be doing cross-training?"

"Makes sense," Mark replied, and stood, bracing himself on the foot of the bunk. He offered an arm to Gina, who frowned, looking at her foot. There was a bandage on the sole of her left foot, Mark checked, and there was one on his right. She accepted his arm, and together they made their way toward the latrines.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Wednesday, June 4, 2003: 19:20 (UTC +9:30)
Terra, Northern Territory, Camp Katherine:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Kathy groaned, covering her eyes with her forearm. "Where am I?"

"Good evening, and you are in the imperial barracks." She turned her head, and saw a semi-cute guy on the next bunk. "I'm not much ahead of you." He frowned, "That didn't sound like German."

"Or English," she agreed.

"It is Trade," the sergeant said. "In order to standardize, your implants are set to Trade." He lightly tapped his right jaw, "All documentation, instruments, and so forth are in Trade to reduce the language problem as much as possible." He gave a heel click, "I am Sgt. Rudolf Haase. Two things. First, there is a bandage on your foot. This is to protect a tattoo with your service number until it heals. This will assist in identifying your body in case of combat death. Secondly, we are all wearing a lined protective panty. Herr Fritsch, your manhood remains intact, as part of the tank your genetic material was extracted and stored. Frau Higginbotham, the same. At this point, most newly-awakened personnel need to use the latrine. Bend at the waist, connect yourself, and step on the triangle with your left foot." He gave a short bow and moved on.

"I think that was our first order. I'm Oskar," and he offered a supportive arm.

"Kathy," she replied.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Thursday, June 5, 2003: 09:07 (UTC -6)
Terra, Moline, Illinois:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Well, I think we've done fairly well," the chairman said at the weekly executive meeting. The boardroom carried through the corporate color scheme with green and yellow leather chairs. The yellow 'Deere' logo was well represented. "Not only did we sell our 'M-Gator' utility truck, we also bagged a contract for half-tracks. John, where do we stand on that?"

John Fouch, VP of production, replied, "I'll be happier when we know how many licensees we get. Right now, plans are being digitized, but what's going to take more time is getting the various jigs and dies copied. Denali in South Africa got the artillery contract, so I've got to find out their specifications for prime movers, so we can tow not only their cannon, but also load ammo on the truck beds."

"Good. Any problem with biodiesel, or using natural gas engines?"

"Not at the moment. I believe some plants will produce diesel engines, and other plants will produce the natural gas engines. Part of the contract is to produce an anti-air mount, we can do that with auto-cannon or heavy machine guns."

"I though the enemy didn't have fighters," another board member commented.

"They don't, as far as I know, but there's nothing keeping them from piloting a civilian air car or delivery truck full of explosives into one of our units."

"Or using one of their Enhanced slave girls to kamikaze it into us," yet another board member said. "It's a pity we'd have to kill her, but better her than some of our troops buying the farm."

"Speaking of which, let's get back to the agricultural side of the house. Carl, you had some information about the Empire's interest in our GPS products …"

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Friday, June 6, 2003: 06:00 (UTC)
Hour 508.00/708.00
Luna, Grimaldi Crater, Wayne Quarters:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

The light came on and the clock radio started playing. Mattie groaned, tossing a forearm over her eyes as Cindy, her maniac house-elf strode over, pulling the cover aside. "Youse is getting up and gettings readys, Mistress Queen Wayne. Youse is doing that nowse." Mattie groaned again, then said, "I'm up, I'm up," and swung her legs out of the warm bed.

"Good morning, everyone," Mattie said as she entered the kitchen. Her Aunt Lois was making airplane noises as she fed little Lana blueberries, while Uncle Clark manned the stove (much to Cindy's dismay). "Waffles?" he asked.

"You've tortured me away from the fruit I was going to have and into sin," she replied, pouring a cup of coffee. "Anyone need a refill?"

"I'll steal some of the blueberries for the batter," he said, while Crystal gestured at Mattie's DataPadd, lying at her usual place. "Your interns, including Little Bill and Ami are coming up on Sunday, the same day the newlyweds get here."

"I miss having a morning newspaper," Lois commented, leaning back and taking a slurp of coffee.

With a quiet hum, the equatorial train left Grimaldi station, a little fuller than usual. Mattie wrapped an arm around a pole, having given up her seat to a pregnant girl, and studied her DataPadd while eavesdropping on the conversation around her. She was recognized as a regular commuter here, and clutched a travel mug of coffee like a lot of those around her. Without trees on Luna for paper, the DataPadds were common and fairly inexpensive, by stretching a bit not only local and international e-newspapers could be seen, but also textbooks, novels, comics, and manga.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Friday, June 6, 2003: 07:28 (UTC)
Hour 509.28/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, HIM offices:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Good morning, Ellen," Mattie said as she entered the office.

"Good morning," her secretary replied as she looked up from replacing her red heels with her well-known red high-top sneakers. As she finished tying them, she added, "I started your coffee machine, and there's a new pizza place opening today. Two-for-one sale on jumbo pizzas."

"We'll give them a try, and see how they compare to Giuseppe's Pizza for Friday lunch. You've got a takeout menu, of course?"

Ellen snorted, "You had to ask, milady?" She turned as three people came in, then frowned at her computer screen. "International Red Cross? You're a bit early."

"A minute or two," the silver haired man said.

"Your watch is fast," Mattie said. "I thought you were eight o'clock, it's seven thirty. We're just getting in."

"Oops. Sorry," the woman said. "We can wait."

"No, if you don't mind our getting set up for the day," Mattie said.

As Mattie dropped her things behind her desk as the coffee maker gurgled, she said, "So, welcome to Luna and Port Oldridge. I hope you had a pleasant flight. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?"

"Tea, if you have it, please," the Russian said, gesturing at the samovar.

"Our very British Ellen has been converted to the samovar," Mattie said with a grin, gesturing at the outer office.

("With the red shoes? Ah, but what follows after tea?") he asked in Russian. She replied to the traditional joke in Russian, ("The resurrection of the dead, of course.")

He blinked at her, then roared with laughter, slapping his thigh. ("I like you, my Tsaritsa. Where did you get such a fine instrument?")

("At GUM in Moscow, along with the proper accessories,") she replied, also in Russian.

As they took places around the conference table, Mattie said (in English), "There are several difficulties we have with the Geneva Conventions as they stand. While I have no general problem following them, the situation with the Republic creates questions. First is that we have approximately six hundred fifty thousand POWs, and our prison camp in Queensland is bursting at the seams. We are therefore planning a prison colony on a red dwarf star's habitable moon."

"How so?" the Swiss delegate asked, sipping her coffee. She looked at it, "Excellent coffee, by the way, your Majesty."

"Jamaican Blue Mountain, it's what they serve in the White House. The President clued me in on it. A good cup of coffee is my one indulgence." She stood to unroll a tube of drawings. "We have sent a survey cruiser to the system, they will properly map and chart it. As of now, what information we have of the system of Foley is captured pirate data." She lay the drawings on the conference table, where they immediately tried to spiral. "Ah," and she took a few steps to her desk. "Please, put these down to hold them," and handed over a pair of large, softly glowing gemstones in soft metallic holders.

"These aren't radioactive, are they?" the Italian delegate asked, holding up a silvery-appearing stone the size of a tennis ball. "They're glowing."

"No, they're an end-of-term project I did, they're charging off the moon's magical field. Perfectly safe. They were on my desk, after all." The Russian delegate grunted and moved the reddish stone to a chart corner, replacing his tea glass holder. He sipped the hot tea as he asked, "This is the system of Foley?"

"As we know of it now. We're expecting better data once the Charles Albanel returns." She tapped the first sheet, the system chart. "You'll notice that we have no data on the other planets in the system, if any, or any asteroid belts or other moons. In particular, we would like to know if there are any sources of natural gas, like there are here with Titan or in most of our other systems. That would solve a fueling problem."

"I read somewhere that you had interstellar tankers," the Swiss delegate replied.

"We do, for things like air, water, and fuels like diesel and CNG," the Empress replied. "It's still cheaper to ship in-system than importing from out-system. The galactics mostly use an imported energy source called Fuel, but that's subject to cartel pricing and cutoffs. Think OPEC, only with five members and power over all thirty-two of the local galaxies."

"Which is why Mother Russia is using natural gas," the Russian delegate agreed with a nod. "The lack of data is why there is a grey area on the chart?"

"And why someone put in 'Here there be dragons'," the Empress agreed. "Any questions about the system chart?" Heads shook, and she motioned, "Next sheet, please."

"The blue moon Foley, and the area around the island of Phips. Once again, captured data on a topographic map. You'll notice a very small northern ice cap, and Phips is a fairly hilly, roughly round island with an area of about one hundred twenty thousand square kilometers, about the same as the Falklands. North at the top. The only area currently being used for farming is this area, roughly twenty five thousand square kilometers, between six and eight o'clock. That's about two and a half times Jamaica's size. Given that a red dwarf star primarily radiates in the infrared, the orbit producing eighteen hour days and a ten-day year, and with the topography, we estimate a fairly windy warm summer continental climate with some snow in the upper latitudes (1). There are a number of small settlements, usually only two or three farmsteads each, with dirt or gravel roads. The major town is also known as Phips, here to the south, about two thousand people."

"Total population?"

"Roughly thirty-five hundred. This is a pirate enclave, the isolated settlements are families of various pirate ships and groups, the town of Phips has a crude shipyard, a port for fishing, a number of taverns and bars and some seedy hotels. In orbit is a small station for servicing and resupply." There were various grunts as the map was studied. Someone asked, "Your plans, ma'am?"

"Next sheet, please." A sheet centered on the island of Phips with the surrounding bays and rivers was pulled out. "Once again, preliminary data. With the different Geneva Conventions and its various additions, supplements, and so forth, there are two major points. First is the prohibition on metalworking. While this would be understandable in a POW camp, in a colony it's a problem. How do they plow fields without metal?" Heads nodded, and she continued, "Second is the prohibition on officers working. This assumes the presence of enlisted and non-coms. However, the Republican military uses slaves for those purposes, their lowest ranks are the equivalent of our ensigns and midshipmen."

"So what would you do?"

The Empress handed out sheets. "This is a breakdown on groups within the Republican fleets. There are four categories. The naval personnel, the accompanying Planetary Guard, the slavers, and their slaves. The Guard, numerically, is the largest group, almost six hundred thousand for both fleets. Their naval forces are the best disciplined, the slavers are civilians who bribed their way into the fleets, and their slaves, well…" she shrugged.

The Swiss woman sat back, coffee cup cradled in her hands. "The slaves. You're planning on freeing them and removing their collars?"

"Freeing them, yes, and offering them employment at Guild rates. Their collars are a different problem. The vast majority of the slave girls, high ninety percent, are Enhanced. We cannot remove their collars without killing them. The girls, especially the bred slaves, are so conditioned against harming a master that they have trouble being near anything they might consider a weapon, including tableware. If we employ them below decks, or in a shipyard, they're fine. The captured girls are having an easier time breaking that conditioning, motivated primarily by revenge." She took a swallow of coffee herself. "We still can't remove their Enhancement computers, and therefore their collars, but we can deactivate as much as possible and give the girls their controller chips. They find this tangible proof of their freedom. Of course, they still have a long, rocky road ahead."

She took another swallow of coffee. "The Guard. Roughly six hundred thousand sadists, thugs, killers, and rapists that the Republicans planned to use to control us, the planetary population. Questions about them?"

The Russian grunted. "KGB or SS thugs."

"Worse than that. They were taken from their home turf, where they had nice protection rackets and extortion schemes set up to line their pockets, and shipped off to take over our planet while someone else took over their turf. The ones we've encountered are pissed off about that, and used to taking out their anger on the local citizens. The only reason we have included them in with official forces is that they are paid a nominal amount, uniformed, and armed by the Republic."

"Armed?"

"Nightsticks, saps, that kind of thing. Designed to break heads and put down uppity slaves, but still government issue." The Tsaritsa sighed, "The naval forces, including their naval infantry; what we would call their Marines. Disciplined and uniformed by the Republic, but used to paying and receiving bribes. They are also not used to physical work, so a lot of them are flabby and don't know which end of a wrench to use. They're skilled at creative bookkeeping and report-writing to cover their arse."

"About … fifty thousand of those," the Italian said. "Last but certainly not least, the slavers."

"And the pirates we've captured in addition to the slavers. In the wider galaxy, slavers are honorable businessmen, and we are barbarians. They came along in order to capture, biosculpt, collar and Enhance us for sale. Once again, in their view, perfectly legal and legitimate business, harvesting a crop of animals. I will confess to having the urge to do to them what they wanted to do to us; namely biosculpt, collar and Enhance them. They need slaves because they're too good to work." She snorted. "That's one area where I'd like to get your opinions, they are civilian camp followers to official military forces."

"Personally, I would agree with you," the Swiss woman said, checking her sheet. "Officially, though…"

"Personally, collar them," the Russian said. "Make them the Barbie dolls." He leaned forward, glaring at the other two delegates. "You want to do this as much as I do. You have wives, daughters at home, as do I. We cannot afford to spend the money for six hundred thousand thugs to turn them into Enhanced, compliant slave girls, but several hundred slavers and pirates? Bah!" He turned, "Make this policy. Slavers and pirates will be biosculpted and collared. No exceptions."

"We … the Empire does not deal in slaves. There are also pirates who are escaped slaves, who are trained, experienced personnel. We have been integrating them into our naval forces once they go through Basic."

The silver-haired Italian snorted, "Good as far as they are concerned. However, who said you were going to sell them? Let them think that, let them fear that; they know how collared girls are treated. Now the collar is on their throat. Justice, I say." He sat back and sipped his tea. "You deal with this as we do professional athletes – you buy and sell their contracts. When Roma FC sells a midfielder to Venice FC, the contract is sold. I am sure there are locations (he waved his hand at the ceiling) where slaves are paid."

The Tsaritsa nodded. "It's not unusual, depends on the planet, though. Some have civil rights, but they're still slaves, still sold on the block."

"And this planet Foley is a pirate enclave," the Russian said. "I see where my Italian friend is going with this. You wish to be able to buy and sell under the table, so to speak, but also have a secure location for your prisoners."

"Yes. Regarding the slavers, I …" She took a deep breath. "As I said, I have the sense of … retribution. However, as Arthur would have said, I shouldn't sink to their level. Some of the local militias, in the Republic's first invasion, scalped live slaver captives. While I could understand their motivations, it wasn't right, so … I'd rather reserve this as a punishment short of death." She took another deep breath, then asked, "Turn the page, please." They did so, and the Tsaritsa continued, "We would like to have a self-sustaining economy if possible, so we were planning to set up camps at different places in the jungle, supplied by air and barge and administered by Republic naval forces, commanded by their senior POW, sub-admiral En'das." She pulled sheets from a file folder, "This is a sample TO & E. Republican naval forces would provide command, medical, and basic engineering support; we would establish pre-fabricated stockades, and the Guard personnel would be dropped into a camp. They would be responsible for setting up fields and animal husbandry. We would provide resupply by airdrop or barge and basic emergency rations."

"Communications, such as for a medical evacuation?" the Swiss woman asked.

"The camps would have a radio, but we would be wary of a trick to have them capture a medevac flight. That's why we would rather have a local doctor and drop supplies." She pulled out and unfolded sheets from a folder. "This is what we think a typical camp would be like. Around fifteen hundred personnel, sited next to a river for both hydro power and wind power for DC equipment. There are floating piers for our gunboats and fishing."

"And in the town of Phips?"

"We would manufacture modular components for the camps as well as supplies. For export, we're looking at uniforms and supplies such as medals. Not a cash cow, but it earns them some foreign exchange. We don't expect this colony to be a money-maker, it's not designed to be. I'd be very surprised if it comes close to breaking even."

"About … four hundred thirty camps," the Italian said, using a calculator.

"Give or take. Assuming every ninety days for a supply drop, that's five a day, airdrop or by boat. We may need to establish forward supply depots. Again, preliminary planning, as are the agricultural plans …"

There was a buzz from her desk. "Ma'am, your ten o'clock is waiting." Ms. Wayne walked around her desk, "Give me a few minutes, please." She looked up at the three, "So I can assume we have tentative approval? Once we have a report from the Charles Albanel we can get back together. Can I pencil you three in on the thirtieth? The end of the month?"

The three from the Red Cross looked at each other, and then the Swiss woman nodded. "Tentative approval."

"Sue! How are you doing? Come in, come in. Can I offer you a cuppa? Sorry I'm running late." She held the door as Sue heard the toilet finish refilling. Sue Bones smiled, and nodded toward the slightly open door to the private head, "You never think about heads of state having to use the loo."

Mattie Wayne laughed. "Yes, they're all some larger-than-life figures, but let me tell you, even the demi-gods of the JLA still shave and use the porcelain throne. Now, the loos at Buckingham Palace are very nice, but gold-plated, they are not." She grinned as she showed Sue how to use the samovar, who looked curiously at the tea-glasses and their pewter holders. "I thought the Brits were obsessive about tea until I went to Moscow." She refilled her coffee mug, wandered by her desk and picked up a thick manila envelope. "Sue, I had some excellent reports from IR & S about you, and how you did on the Russian tradecraft courses. Of course Ginny and Professor Harry couldn't sing your praises loudly enough, and they recommended you for this black project." She sat near the 'smart wall', in the casual grouping, and gestured Sue to join her.

"That sounded a bit ominous," Sue Bones said as she took a seat. The Empress cast a privacy field. "What can I do for you, ma'am?"

"Sue, are you ready for some TDY(2) at Camp Katherine? Let me tell you about project Cider Tumbaga. We have a group of personnel that have tested positive with wands, and have enlisted for the thirty-five M specialty …"

"I'm not sure I like this."

Ms. Wayne snorted. "Sue, I can tell you I DON'T like this. Unfortunately, it's necessary; we need the intelligence, and you test as the best trainer for both combat magic and tradecraft." She opened the thick manila envelope and extracted several sheets along with a thick file folder, sealed with colored tape, with an orange cover that proclaimed it 'SECRET: Project Cider Tumbaga'. "Sue, let me give you a very basic outline of how we plan to deal with the enemy Republican planets. That's one reason we're waiting, to build up our strength in several categories. Among them is …"

"Um …" Sue hesitated, "There's no other way to do this?"

"The thirty-five M specialty is marked as volunteer-only, they are briefed on a basic outline of what's involved, given further briefings once they've arrived at Camp Katherine, once again asked for their consent, and kept isolated so their presence doesn't leak. If you want to ask them a final time for their consent before they start training, that's fine. It would actually help my own peace of mind." She took a swallow of coffee, "Sue, each of these volunteers will be split into two mental partitions – how, you don't need to know. The one is a backup of their civilian persona, who will know what their slave girl persona did. That's accessed by a particular code phrase, which brings it forward. A different phrase reverts to their 'captured slave girl' persona, and her constructed history. That's one reason they take a longer time in the med-tank." Sue nodded. "Now, we have a former slave, Hideo Tanaka, who will do the slave training. Her instructions are to make them believable captured slaves, I discussed this and agreed with her that making them behave like bred slaves wasn't feasible; their mannerisms are different. Captured girls, especially recently captured slaves, were possible. She will be their First Girl, and can train and discipline them how she wishes, short of dismemberment or killing them."

"Um," and Sue hesitated. "Slaves?"

"We have to cover all areas of a society, Sue. While a slave girl wouldn't necessarily report on manufacturing totals, or economics, they will hear the gossip and pick up the street-level intelligence, which is generally more accurate. Once they're deployed, they'll be in a cellular structure, and will be reporting in. How, you have no need-to-know."

"I realize that, but … the Enhancement? Is that really necessary?"

"Unfortunately, yes, both as part of their covers as slaves, and to operate their various implants. Once they leave Camp Katherine, they'll go to our base in Eunomia, and from there to a particular slave house that we have a contract with. From there, they go elsewhere for final situational training, and then they are deployed to their particular planet. The reason for all this is if the enemy decides to use a mind-ripper or psy to interrogate them. This way, all they will find is a slave girl who was bio-sculpted, collared, and Enhanced after her capture. They may pick up some information from her implants, but their removal is one of the triggering events for her suicide. She has three different ways to do so, once again, need-to-know. Any other questions?"

"Um … this is silly, but why 'Cider Tumbaga'?"

"Ah. Projects are given the name of two drinks, operations the name of a food and a color. The reason is to give anyone that's not authorized no clue about what the project or operation is." Sue nodded, and Mattie continued, "For instance, in World War Two, the Germans had a project Wotan. The British, just using that one clue, figured out that it was a radar navigation system using a single beam, and from that how to spoof or jam it. Thus 'Cider Tumbaga'. Anything else?"

"Thanks. I can't think of any."

"Good." She reassembled the package of documentation, and then handed it over, "There are orders, travel and housing documents, and a briefing sheet in there for the base commander, General Shimesa, which should help pave your way." She dismissed the privacy spell, and handed over a business card. "My private email and mobile numbers. I'd also like you to evaluate the mood of the base and let me know how things are, very unofficially, of course."

"Of course. My flat here?"

"Keep it, you'll be returning to it. This is just a trip to do some training."

"Of course, ma'am."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Saturday, June 7, 2003: 10:10 (UTC +9:30)
Terra, Northern Territory, Camp Katherine:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"I am NOT happy about this."

"Sir, nobody is, from the Empress on down," Sue Bones replied. General Shimesa grunted. She was tired, both from the flights from Luna and then down to Darwin. She had never been able to sleep on a train, and the trip on the Aussie Ghan was no exception. "However, it's necessary, they are volunteers, and they have been asked multiple times. I was planning on asking them again, though."

"Do it. I'll watch." He gestured at the monitoring station for the four slave cells, only one occupied now.

"Sir, we'll have to switch their mental partitions in order to do that," Hideo Tanaka said. She was wearing a pale green slave tunic and skirt with the required yellow edging and a yellow belt. She brushed her long, straight black hair back, causing the bells on her riveted-on wrist bracelets to jingle. Next to her collar, she wore the three glowing bands of a First Girl on her neck. "Then, we'll need to switch them back. It will delay things by a couple of hours."

"Acknowledged. I'd rather see it for myself."

"Yes, sir," Hideo replied. She turned to Sue, "Mistress Bones, the unlocking phrase is in Japanese, and the slave partition is in Chinese. I can do it, but it would be better coming from you, as our 'owner'." (She finger-quoted.) "How fluent are you?"

"Passable, but it would be implant." She gestured at her right jaw.

"Understood. Once they have reverted, leave me in the cell, and shut and lock the door firmly. I want them to hear the boom of the door and the clank of the locks. If I need something, I'll leave my clipboard face up under the rear camera and write it on the cover sheet."

"Once that's done, you'll go to quarters and get some sleep, Ms. Bones," the General said. "I want you to report to me once a week, Monday morning."

"Yes, sir."

"Let's get this done."

The slave girl 198A2 blinked steadily at what she saw from her neck ring. That was all she could do, she was held by the grip of her Enhancement. A slave girl with long black hair and three glowing rings on her neck next to her collar entered, knelt, and handed a free woman a clipboard. The mistress tapped her right jaw, cleared her throat, and then said in Trade, ("Release."). The girls around her jerked and swayed in their neck rings, while the mistress tapped her jaw again, ("The Imperial Gardens' beauty is but a pale, insignificant shadow of the Tsaritsa's own.")

Like a fog lifting away, Josh Higginbotham blinked, swayed in his neck ring, and then looked around at what he saw. The neck ring under his jaw pulled him up, holding him in place and keeping his gaze level. He looked around, as he felt the collar on his throat, the tight gag in and around his jaw as well as a burned feeling on his left thigh, bands of tight metal around his waist and between his legs, and the weight of breasts on his chest. He could see the fringes of long dark hair, and feel it between his naked breasts as he looked around; the others in his cell were all naked slave girls, as he was. ('Whoa. This is cool,') he thought, and returned his attention to the strawberry blonde wearing a tight leather outfit and boots with spike heels standing in the middle of the low-ceilinged cell. She was busty, but nothing like he was. She cleared her throat, then asked, ("Can everyone understand me?")

Josh nodded (as well as he could), and the short strawberry babe continued in Trade. ("I am your 'owner' (she finger-quoted), and you are all volunteers for the thirty-five M duty position, that of undercover intelligence collection?") Josh nodded, and she continued, ("You have all given your consent to both biosculpt and collaring to place you as covert slave girls, and to the training for that position?") Josh nodded again as he looked around. She nodded, and said, ("I'm going to walk around and ask you individually, and then I will read another phrase, which will revert you to your captured slave girl persona. This is necessary to protect you against mind-rippers and psy attacks in case you are captured. I am also told that three different methods of suicide have been provided, should you be captured. Understood?") Josh nodded again, and the babe started around the room.

("As I don't know who you were, I'm going to use your collar number,") the babe told Josh. ("198A2, I am asking you if you consented to the bio-sculpt?") He nodded. ("To the 35-M duty?") He nodded. ("To the mental partitions?") He nodded. ("To collaring, implants and the associated Enhancement?") He nodded. ("Questions?") He whimpered and worked his jaw. ("The gag? Required for later training, and to accustom you to wearing them, just like your arm restraints. Common question. Anything else?") He whimpered twice and shook his head; she nodded, made a note on her clipboard and moved on.

("The death of the Consort provided the death of Liberty,") the strawberry blonde babe said, and Josh shook in his neck ring, while a haze slid across his vision, and then cleared. The slave girl 198A2 watched as her First Girl passed some clothing and other things to their mistress, who nodded. The First Girl knelt, facing Mistress, and said, "Mistress, on behalf of the captured meat here, I submit as a slave to you. Beat us, bind us, collar us, Enhance us, sell us, use us. We are slaves." She leaned forward, extending and crossing her wrists; left over right. Mistress nodded, and gripped First's extended wrists. "I accept you as slaves. You will earn clothing when they have earned their collars. Train them in the basic slave knowledge, so they are suitable for their collars. I allow you to use my slave whip and prod in my name and for their training." The Mistress nodded, then turned and walked away, the newly captured slave meat heard the boom of the door and the clank of locks.

"I hated that," Sue commented as she re-entered the small control room. The four slave cells had heavy wooden doors and were roughly triangular, four-fifths of a circle, with a small common area and another heavy door between it and the control room. That control room had various monitors, a small loo, and yet another heavy wooden door. A short corridor and an electronically controlled gate lead into a corridor on this sub-level of the Imperial Army's reception building outside Camp Katherine.

"Yes, but thank you for asking them individually," General Shimesa said. "It was reassuring. This is First Sergeant Payne. She or three other NCOs will be relieving you on watch. For now, I want you to go to your assigned quarters in the BOQ (3) and get some sleep."

"Yes, sir."

Hideo Tanaka smiled to herself. She couldn't get revenge on the bastards who had kidnapped her, collared her, and held her as slave for years, but she could get some payback. She lifted her head from the floor as her 'mistress' walked out, slamming the heavy door with a boom. She heard the clank of the bolts slamming home, and rose to her feet. Taking the wooden T-handle of the shackle key, she slid that into the front of her slave belt, slowly attaching her mistress' slave whip to the waistband of her belt. She slapped the slave prod into her left palm, and strolled along the line of kneeling, neck ringed meat. The cell was warm, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on everyone's naked bodies. She thumbed the prod on, electricity crackled at the tip. She smiled, "Meat. That is what you are. Meat. There are only two commonalities between all of you and me. The first is that we all wear the collars of our owner, the second, and not important, is that we are all captured girls. However, I am a slave, not only your First Girl but also your slave trainer. You are meat. Meat that I have been ordered to train by our owner. Meat that has been biosculpted, collared and Enhanced by owners." She strolled along the line of bound meat. "Meat that I will train to be worthy of the first, most basic level of your collars. Your previous lives are over, it does not matter who you were or what planet you were from. You are now simply collared meat, so let us start there. Your collar. You have seen those before on slaves, and now you wear one. The number is a long one, starting with the galaxy number. As this is the home galaxy of the Oans, Source bless them, it is 00. The second number is the coded sector number of the Slaver's Guild licensee who initially collared you, for instance AFE. The third is that licensee's number, in your case 3DB57, and the last your individual number. For master's daily use, if your owner does not grant you a name, they will use the last few digits of your collar number. When you are bought and sold, your entire slave number is used on your title." She smirked, "Yes, slaves are titled property, like an air car, although not as valuable. Now, as untrained meat, your market value is only a few grams. Your owners will take a small loss if I kill you for failure to follow orders, or because I am frustrated by your stupidity."

She suddenly swung, holding the tip of the prod under the enlarged breast of a dark-haired meat, which convulsed in pain, screaming through her thick gag. She moved it away after a few seconds, the meat shuddering in pain, eyes closed. The meat's neighboring meat glared at her, and said something into her gag.

"A volunteer!" First clapped her hands, "I have a volunteer! Meat, thank you for being my demonstration!" The meat had an uncertain look in her eyes, as First deactivated her prod, reaching behind the meat and releasing her from the neck ring. She took the meat by her upper arm and threw her into the center of the small cell, where she landed on her belly on the rough concrete. The meat shook her head, struggled to her feet, and ran toward the door, where she jackknifed in pain after crossing a yellow line before reaching the plain, thick wooden door.

First walked toward her, stopping a few meters from the line. She said, "Meat, you have crossed the line of the slave barrier, the yellow line. Crawl to this side of it, none wearing a collar can approach the door while it is active. Even then, none of us can open it; it is locked and bolted. My key (she waved it) works only on shackles. We are all locked in this cell until our owners decide otherwise." The meat started to crawl toward her, the meat's eyes looking at her, "No doubt you are thinking of attacking me. I would not. I have been given the authority of Mistress, attacking me would be the same as attacking her. You would die, slowly, meat. Now come away from there, and I will be as merciful as possible with your punishment." The meat completed her journey across the line, and First said, "Punishment. You must be punished for your actions, meat. You were insubordinate and tried to escape. I can punish you or masters can. I will be merciful, you are ignorant meat, the masters will take your actions as challenge and you will die slowly, meat." The meat turned, lying on her side, looking at her. "You may hate me, meat, but I will do as ordered. I will train you for your collar. You can accept that, or die."

"There now, meat, that wasn't so bad …" First said as she lowered meat 198A2 to her feet. Her wrists remained bound above her, and First added, "Push your back and shoulders toward me, I shall treat you." The meat did so, the sweat on her body stinging her whipped back and fresh brands as First fetched a container of salve and a brush. As she worked, she commented, "You can all expect a whipping when you are bought by a new owner. It is traditional to introduce a new slave into the house, business, or other facility with a whipping, no matter her skills or price. It reminds a slave of her collar, that she is nothing more than collared meat, that she is a purchased animal subject to the whip; and that her owner needs no reason to discipline a slave. A slave will generally not need a reminder, although a tavern or inn will have an arrangement similar to ours (she gestured at the block and tackle) near the main doors, along with a slave whip. If a guest wishes to whip their slave, it is available for use."

First hummed to herself as she worked, "You were branded, meat, because you were insolent and insubordinate, and you tried to escape. In the future, after a whipping, I would recommend that you immediately kneel and submit." She closed the container of salve, replacing it on her shelf. "The white coating will protect the injuries from infection, allowing healing. They will not dull the pain. Pain is an excellent instructor." She knelt, releasing the meat's ankle bindings. "Chains and bonds are applied first to the slave, then to the fixed point. They are removed last from the slave. Again, to remind us of our status. One thing desired in a slave is a short, delicate stride, so we will all wear ankle chains. This will limit you to a step of only thirty centimeters, so I expect you to trip at first. I would also suggest you become accustomed to walking on your toes. I have instructive devices available to lock on if necessary. Please learn this, as they are exceptionally painful, and I do not wish to wear them again." First locked a chain between her own ankles, and then released the meat's wrists. 198A2 immediately knelt, head down, and extended her wrists. First crossed the meat's wrists, "Left over right, meat, but good. Stand, without using your hands to push up. Only your legs. You will turn and cuff yourself …" (She moved the meat's wrists.) "Like so. This is the 'cuff' command. You will follow me as I walk, to my left and a meter behind me. This is the 'attend' command. We will be rechaining your sister meat, and then you will be allowed to suction."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Sunday, June 8, 2003: 12:28 (UTC)
Hour 562.28/708.00
Luna, Starport:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Mattie waited, with Crystal watching her back as always. In her mind's eye (and reflected on a computer graphic), she could see the approaching shuttle from GEO station. Starport was partially ringed around an ancient lunar lava dome, with approaching shuttles using an assigned landing disk. The pilots would orient correctly on landing, as their hemispherical pressure shells had engines and life support mounted under and between the (rather spindly) landing legs. Those legs only had to support the weight of the pressure shells and equipment, not absorb the tremendous landing shock aircraft had to handle on Terra. They were over-engineered for a full gravity, which gave them three times the necessary strength on Mars, six times on Luna.

Once the shuttle had landed (correctly), the computers took over. The shuttle's landing disk was carried by a large scissor-lift mounted on a pair of wide-gauge rails. These lowered the landing disk through the vacuum of the dome as a protective cover closed above it. The shuttle was then 'taxied' along the perimeter of the dome to the correct concourse tunnel. It would then enter a series of tunnels and finally arrive at a small 'gate' chamber, where a flexible boarding tunnel would connect and seal to the main hatch. This was similar to an airport's jet way, and while passengers and crew boarded and debarked, luggage was on-and-off-loaded by an exterior (pressure-suited) crew, the shuttle had routine servicing (once again, similar to that at an airport), and the shuttle was logged as ready to fly again.

The Delta flight from GEO station had taken several hours, which always made passengers cranky and irritable. While it was still a week from the full moon, there was increased traffic from the various types of weres, which meant the starport's police had an increased presence. Crystal had wanted to meet the shuttle herself, but Mattie had insisted, and Crystal had caved in, demanding only additional Imperial Guards. Now, they stood, dressed in their white uniforms with purple trim, backs to the Tsaritsa and the other waiting spectators as Mattie watched the shuttle smoothly move into the well-lit gate chamber through the ClearSteel windows.

Signal lights changed, access ramps extended into position as the ground crew readied themselves, long umbilicals linking their lightweight pressure suits with the access ramps. Similar to an aircraft carrier, different colors denoted different jobs. Some refueled the birds; some used suction hoses to empty waste tanks, and some on-and-off-loaded luggage. Meanwhile, the flight crew confirmed the pressure seal of the boarding tunnel. With a roar of air, it pressurized and hatches opened. Passengers started to stream by with their carryons, and hugs greeted family and friends.

"Mattie!"

"Sprink!" She turned to give and receive an enthusiastic hug from her best mate. She gave another one to Charlie, who was standing awkwardly by, holding his new wife's pressure-cased carryon that she had dropped. Turning, she gave another to Remus and his new bride, asking, "Well, we can't call you 'Tonks, just Tonks' any more," she joked.

"You can, I'm keeping my maiden name," she said. Taking her own carryon's pressure case, she slung the strap over her shoulder, "Oi, that was a long flight."

"This place reminds me of Gatwick," Charlie said.

"That's what we stole ideas from," Mattie agreed. "Really, they're similar; the movement of passengers and cargo, the major difference is pressurization."

"And computer control," Sprink put in. "Remarkably smooth ride, and it wasn't that crowded. 'Bou' two-thirds full, maybe fifty or so." She took her carryon from her new husband and tapped the plastic pressure case. "Where do we turn these in for the deposit?"

"Luggage area," Mattie said as they started that way. "You have a lot?"

"One each and pressure-sensitive items are in here," Charlie replied, tapping his carryon. "Oi, I just want to get to the hotel and relax with my new wife …"

"I have an alternative, if you're interested," Mattie said. "You can stay at the Holiday Inn, or you can come to Grimaldi and bunk at my place. I have enough spare bedrooms, and even a house elf. I must warn you that my Aunt and Uncle are occupying one of those bedrooms with their young daughter. They're likely to give you … advice."

"Advice?" Tonks asked.

"Married advice."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, June 9, 2003: 08:08 (UTC)
Hour 528.08/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, HIM offices:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"So, everyone had a good flight? Settled into the dorms? Ready to go to work?" Connie Koslowski asked. The Chief of Staff opened a file folder as Maria Putina nodded. "Da," she replied. She was the interns' boss in Connie's office, doing her 'gap year', and as a Russian, had been born and bred to political intrigue. "Remember, you are here not only to fetch and carry, but to make your own contacts in the various offices with their staff and interns, and provide intelligence for the Tsaritsa. You are not here to make your own private deals. Should you be approached in that manner, consult with myself or Ms. Koslowski." Heads nodded, and Maria opened her own file folder. "Mr. Morton, you're assigned to work with General von Hesse's office, while Ms. Bones will be working with the Prime Minister's office and Ms. Delacour. Mr. Driver, you'll be in …"

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, June 9, 2003: 08:33 (UTC -5)
Terra, Cleveland Municipal Building:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Irene Higginbotham arranged the small banner around her cubicle's nameplate. It was black with three blue stars on it, with 'Higginbotham' in gold embroidery below. Marci Good stopped on her way from the break room, cup of coffee in hand, and said, "That's a service banner, isn't it?"

"Yes," Irene confirmed. She was emotionally exhausted, the small banner and one for her house had arrived from Gotham in Saturday's mail. Her neighbor had helped her put the larger one up on her porch.

"But three stars … that means your entire family …"

"Yes," Irene said, and crumpled into her chair to cry.

"What's all this?" the boss demanded. Mary Lou Thompson was a tall, rail-thin woman with a permanent sour disposition and face to match. "Get back to work!" The hovering secretaries slowly moved away, and Irene dabbed at her eyes. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Thompson. My family … they're all in service now, and I just got those banners on Saturday …"

"That may be so, Mrs. Higginbotham, but you're on my time now. The State's time. I will not see you wasting that time. Go wash your face; I'll consider this one of your fifteen minute breaks." She turned, catching the banner out of the corner of her eye, and snapping, "Remove this piece of trash! It's not authorized!" She didn't see James, the department head, who cleared his throat, "Leave it, Mrs. Higginbotham; and thank you for your service. Mary Lou?"

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, June 9, 2003: 10:10 (UTC +9:30)
Terra, Northern Territory, Camp Katherine:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Good morning, Ms. Bones," General Shimesa said as Sue entered his office. "You're looking much more rested. How are things going with your project?"

Sue noted his phrasing and replied in the same manner. "Good so far, sir. I'm informed that the three empty offices will have a suitable number of personnel shortly. I've stopped by the current offices and observed the lessons; it seems to me that we're ahead of schedule there. We may be able to graduate them by the end of the month. I've also received positive information for the two secondary course instructors, I'll be interviewing and briefing them in, once they pass the security reviews."

"Excellent. That means you won't need to do it yourself?"

"No, sir. I'd be supervising, along with the current instructor."

"Good, good. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, sir, I'm good. If I need anything I'll let your office know."

"I'll let my adjutant know." Sue drew herself up, and the General stood, "Thank you, Ms. Bones. I will see you next week?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, and withdrew.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Wednesday, June 11, 2003: 14:29 (UTC +9:30)
Terra, Northern Territory, Camp Katherine:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Kathy pushed the start button on the simulator and held it in, and the diesel rumbled for a second before catching. Above and behind her, Oskar Fritsch grinned in the loader's position, while Corporal Rabat, commanding their 'tank', was in the gunner's position. Francis 'Frankie' Rabat said, "Move out, bearing 105."

"Yawsah," Kathy replied. Others seemed to expect Americans to have a southern twang, and so she had adopted it, just as people expected the French to be gourmets. Frankie had done his part in starting a small moustache and criticizing the mess hall food, while Oskar had bemoaned the lack of beer. There was a friendly argument going on between the various crews regarding food and drink, they all looked forward to their first weekend passes. How they did in this first exercise with their simulated Leopard Vs would determine part of those passes. Kathy worked the electronic shifter, the diesel was actually part of a generator, and the transmission moving the treads was electronic. She gripped the small steering yoke and gave the accelerator a push; the 'tank' silently moved forward. Frankie dropped his helmet visor, as did the other two; they tied into the tank's sensors, so they could see in both visible light and infrared. Oskar swung the turret to cover their assigned sector, while Kathy concentrated on following the guide pipper for their course.

"Air car inbound, course 120," Oskar called. "Yellow unknown. AA is tracking it. Passing first warning line."

"Acknowledged," Rabat said.

"Coming to a river," Kathy reported. "Going to battery, button up, Frankie." She heard the clank of his hatch closing and status lights changed on her boards. She raised the snorkel as she killed the engine, downshifting as the guide pipper changed and she drove down into the river. Her treads immediately stirred up clouds of silt and mud; she continued across the river, the snorkel and her radio antennae above water.

"That means I have to clean the guns again," Oskar grumbled.

"Sorry," Kathy replied. "Eighty meters to the far bank."

"Unknown air car passing second warning line," Oskar said. "Passing third and final warning line. AA guns firing. Splash."

Kathy snorted, "What do you bet that we just shot down someone's blue haired grandmother with the week's groceries?"

"No bet," Frankie replied.

With a growl of engines, the squadron of Leopard V tanks and their associated infantry carriers crested the riverbank. Near there, four chained slaves endlessly turned a pump's handle to pull water from the river to an irrigation ditch. The tanks deployed, stopping in the tiny village's main streets. They waited, engines idling, as Frankie popped his hatch again, calling down, "Tilt the cannon and your machine gun down, let the water drain, then use the carbon dioxide system to blow it dry." He did the same to his M2 machine gun, unloading it then oiling the action. With a snap, he reloaded it, pulling the cocking lever back. Behind him, the 'crunchies' (Infantry) began going house-to-house.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Friday, June 13, 2003: 08:01 (UTC)
Hour 648.01/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, media centre, studio 31:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"… And here she is, our new Empress, Ms. Wayne!" The Imperial March played as Mattie came out from behind a curtain, smiling and waving to the (non-existent) studio audience. She made her way to the empty chair at the end of the semi-circular set, smoothing her skirt and settling in.

"Good morning and I'm happy to see you this morning," she said as she hopped up to adjust her seat. "Ah, that's better," she commented, and leaned forward to check her coffee mug. She took a slurp as the hosts of Alpine Dawn also settled in. This show's demographic was oriented toward the southern European and northern Mediterranean area and the upper-middle class female market segment – southeastern France, northern Italy, and southern Germany, Switzerland, Austria and eastern Romania.

"It's been an exciting few weeks for you, your Majesty," Vincent Celluchi lead off, the handsome, dark haired Italian host said as he took a sip from his own coffee mug. Mattie smiled slightly and nodded, her own mug in her left hand as he continued, "Not one, but two foreign invasions, and then the controversial passage of the conscription bill."

"Yes, and I've seen video of riots in Toronto and Montreal, as well as in southern Germany and northern Italy. While I do support people's right of freedom of speech and to express themselves, I don't think you have to go to the extent of that one fellow who lit himself on fire." She leaned forward, putting down her mug, "I understand he'll pull through, but he had burns over most of his body." She shrugged. "I sent flowers, but what else can I do?"

"But is conscription necessary, your Majesty?" Nancy DiNarda asked. "Surely there are alternatives?"

"First, while we're the only one attacked, does anyone really believe that the enemy WON'T attack our sixty-four colony planets and the other twenty or so that we're interested in? Some of those civilizations are in the medieval stage of development; they would have no chance against orbital barrages." She kept an eye on the French woman, and saw her nod. "If there are alternatives besides the three I know of, nobody's mentioned them to me. Those other three are first, that we surrender to the Republic. Everyone over forty is killed, the girls and women are enslaved, and the men are either tortured to produce an addictive drug, or worked to death." She was silent, and the journalists around the table shifted uneasily.

Sylvia Perron brushed back her dark hair and said, "Non. Zat ees ze non-starter. Not pozzibel. What else, madame?"

"Pull back to concentrate our resources, possibly leaving stay-behind troops on our colony planets. However, those people left their homes and families with the understanding that they would be safe and protected. While a retreat during combat is one thing, a pull-back just because we can't afford the ships and the manpower to protect them properly …" The Tsaritsa snorted, "You want to tell them that? I don't." She waited in silence again.

Nicolai the Romanian broke the silence, "The third option, ma'am?"

"Volunteers. While we're getting some, including a high point of eight million after the Paris Atrocity, that's roughly a third of what we calculate IF…" (She held up a finger.) "… IF everything goes perfectly. When has that ever happened?"

"True," Sylvia agreed. "Twenty-four million, ma'am?"

"Roughly fifteen million for the Army, the rest for the Navy, the Marines and Special Forces, and of course the Merchant Services." She leaned forward, taking another swallow of coffee. "We can only figure on a trickle of people from the colonies – most of them are getting their first or second crops in, they're concentrating on getting bread on the table. Normally that is where we would be putting our resources, but now we have to build up an Army and Navy to defend ourselves that is much larger than we anticipated. We also have to have Army and Naval detachments in place to protect those colonies. Where do they come from?" She sat back with the cup of coffee in hand. "Don't forget, those troops and those ships can't stay on alert all the time, they have to have their own down time, their own R and R, time to refit and train and pull maintenance. That means we need to rotate those troops in and out, as well as have reserves, which is where most of the numbers come from."

"If they do not want to fight, to join ze combat arms, zen what?" Sylvia asked.

"First, a rear-area job is no guarantee of safety. It has been, and is, a common tactic to attack an enemy's supply dumps and rear areas. This is why even our non-combatants are given very basic training on weapons and fire-and-maneuver, so they can at least defend themselves and those around them. This applies to journalists as well – the enemy will not respect your press card, you may find yourself tortured in front of him while he eats his dinner." The Tsaritsa swiveled back and forth in her chair. "Yes, you can get a job in a shipyard, building our warships and our series of Freedom merchant ships, but we're trying to reserve those jobs for the rescued slave girls. They do an excellent job there, and they have been so conditioned as a slave that they cannot use anything resembling a weapon, including tableware. However, if they work in a below-decks job or in a yard, they do a wonderful job."

She took a swallow of coffee, "Let's talk jobs. That's the number-one question I get asked …"

"Aside from conscription, ma'am?"

"Meh," and she waggled her right hand. "Overall, yes. Conscription has been discussed, thousands of gallons of ink has been spilled in letters and editorials and commentary, a lot of which I have seen, including here on Luna. I have seen editorial cartoons about it, but … BUT nobody have given us a workable alternative. It has now been about three weeks since the Act was signed and became law. Before it was signed, the various Imperial Acts were discussed and debated in the various national assemblies and parliaments, and more gallons of ink were spilled in editorials there. I think we've pretty thoroughly covered every point imaginable; SO, with your consent, I'd like to discuss jobs …"

"One point, your Majesty," Vincent asked. "You mentioned editorials…"

"Yes. You may have noticed that there is a distinct lack of trees on Luna, and therefore news publications are generally the electronic editions. The Port Oldridge Observer is our local newspaper, and while it does not have the same, ah, heft as the paper copies of the Daily Planet or the New York Times, it does a good job. I will disclose that I invested in it; I personally own ten and a half percent of the stock. That does not mean I have anything close to editorial control, far from it. If you've seen a couple of editions, you'll notice they don't hesitate to criticize me." She took a swallow of coffee, "Especially Montamat. Some of his editorial cartoons …" She shook her head as Ms. DiNarda said, "On that note, we'll take a short break for these important messages." She held her smile until the red lights went out on the cameras, then asked, "You didn't take offense at some of those cartoons?" An assistant came out to refill coffee mugs.

"I bought a couple of them. He was very pleased, and autographed them. They're hanging in my office; he warned me that he wasn't going to go easy on me." The Empress smiled, "I told him to go for it."

"We're back with Her Imperial Majesty, Martha I," Nancy said. "Ma'am, before the break, we were discussing press freedom …"

"Which I'm firmly in favor of," the Empress said. "I must say that a lot of my family's friends are journalists, and my family has supported it since the 1700's, when they came to Gotham City. I may not like a particular column, but that just means I'm going to write a letter to the paper, like anyone else."

"Changing the subject, your Majesty, I'd like to ask you about jobs," Vincent asked.

"It's a question I get a lot," she agreed. "Let's look at a local company like Fiat™. Like many large international companies, it has operations and suppliers all over the world. It may be headquartered in Turin, but the Polish engine plant is going to get parts and supplies shipped in from all over Europe." She snorted, "All over the world, even if they are a simple plastic connector. Now, I happen to know that Fiat is a subcontractor for the Imperial Army's Leopard V main battle tank. Yes, the Leopard V may have been designed in Germany, but that is not the only place it is being built. It is also being built in Korea, in Japan, in Moscow, in Mexico and in Detroit. Part of that process is building the engines and the transmissions and suspension, the track links, the radios, the environmental systems, the ammunition storage, and all of those parts."

"Please continue, your Majesty," Vincent asked.

"All right. First, our vehicles, including our aircraft, troop carriers, mobile artillery, tanks, combat cars and so forth have electric drives and electronic transmissions. Instead of a clutch and stick shift, the driver moves a switch. This eases maintenance, out in the field it is either simple repairs or switch out the unit and send the broken unit back for depot maintenance. There is a series of batteries which are charged and controlled by another unit, and the motor-generator is either a diesel or natural gas model."

"Why the two?"

"Methane, propane and all those are fairly common on various moons, not only on Titan, but in our other systems. There are bolt-together refinery and cracking plants we install on those moons or in orbit. Diesel, on the other hand, can be produced as biodiesel from some common weeds, as a cash crop. Petro diesel can also be produced from methane, propane, and so forth, although it is more complex and expensive. Still, it gives us flexibility, and I'm told it's reasonably simple to switch a motor-generator and fuel tank between the two." She gestured with her left hand, which held her coffee cup. "The point is that every one of those thousands of parts is built and shipped, and with the increases in production, that means additional jobs not only in building those parts, but the various sub assemblies, as well as things like brake pads, oil and lubricants, batteries, and so forth. These parts are shipped all over the world, which means jobs in the transport industry; firms like DHL. Those manufacturers have to order robots, presses and other equipment, build or refurbish buildings, install or repair electric and water and sewer, which means architects and contractors and building permits, all of which means jobs, jobs, jobs."

"Aircraft?" Sylvia asked.

"Assault barges, attack and utility choppers, although I think we should call them something other than 'choppers'." (She finger-quoted with her right hand.) "For instance, Kamov of Russia has a single-seat attack craft that can fit in a shipping container. Once again, electric anti-grav drives; batteries, controller, and motor-generator. Electronics, navigation and targeting systems, environmental, armor and a mix of guns and missiles. All of which means jobs, jobs, and more jobs."

"But that's in the future," Vincent commented.

"Not too far," Ms. Wayne replied. "Maybe a few months. Initially, we were using bone yard aircraft, and making a Russian-designed missile work with a Vietnam-era American attack helicopter and vice-versa was … difficult. Challenging. There were differences in couplings and signals, balance, maintenance procedures …" she waved her hand. "Now, we have common data circuits, maintenance, and so forth, so it doesn't matter if the missile is built in orbit, in Korea, or in Milan. Same thing for the aircraft and its components; they can be built in Toledo, Ohio or Toledo, Spain."

Sylvia leaned forward, "Still, zat is a large market, oui?"

"Yes. Don't think that, to misquote, an army is just beans, bandages and bullets. It's also different types of rations, medical supplies like blood and drugs, concrete and plywood, electrical generators, radios, radars and such. A warship is not just steel hulls and kilometers of wire and optical fiber, it is also table linens and tableware, along with those radios and radars and missiles and fresh fruit and vegetables. We must not forget export sales. It's sales to our colony worlds and allied worlds." Ms. Wayne took a swallow of coffee, "In our galaxy alone, there are roughly forty billion stars or stellar objects. If you divide by thirty-six hundred sectors, that's an average of eleven-point-one million stars in each sector; so going by IR & S astrographic data, we know of ninety-one thousand planets, of which eight thousand are inhabited in our sector."

"Eight thousand planets?" Sylvia rocked back in surprise.

"In our sector ALONE," the Empress agreed. "That's eight-point-two percent of those ninety one thousand."

"But not all of them will be interested in buying weapons from us," Vincent countered. "Neither will they all be at our technical level."

"True regarding the tech level, but we'll see," the Empress commented. "Weapons are not the only thing we have to sell. Entertainment, food and drink …" (She held up her coffee mug.) "Clothing, computers, technology in general …" (She waved her right hand.) "Furthermore, we've been out eight to twelve sectors to each side of our own, which means you can multiply those eight thousand planets by twenty or so. That's a hundred and sixty thousand inhabited planets, and if we develop trade with only one percent of those, that's sixteen hundred planets." She leaned forward to knock on the table, "Think of that. Sixteen hundred planets, each as big and complex as Earth, or any of our planets in the Empire. That is an enormous export market, which means jobs. Even if your company makes … (she waved her right hand in a circle) … coffee makers. That's an enormous market for both coffee growers and the manufacturers of associated equipment, like grinders, roasters and percolators." She smiled, "Don't you think Coca-Cola™, Fiat™, McDonalds™, Pizza Hut™ and Volkswagen™ would like to open up those new markets? I have personally seen Terran TV shows playing on Eridani III, only ten light years away."

"And of course the reverse is true," Vincent added. "Our import of off world products."

"True. We have a plant-based extract that has proven to be very effective against most types of cancers."

"WHAT?" Sylvia leaned forward. "My sister … tell me about it!"

"Blocked on Earth, but available in orbit or on Luna. Her doctor didn't tell her about it?"

"NON!" She spat, "Filthy peeg! I will…" she started to curse in French until her mike was cut off.

"I will give you my personal physician's name; she can talk with you and your sister and recommend a Lunar oncologist."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Friday, June 13, 2003: 16:40 (UTC)
Hour 656.40/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, HIM offices:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Oh, look at the time!" Chloe Ross, currently FLOTUS (5) looked at her watch. "We need to get going…"

"Oh, mom …" Melissa said, while Sasha, the younger daughter, huffed and flopped back in her chair. "You said we might be able to go shopping …"

"Now, I'm sure Miss Wayne has lots of other things to do …"

Mattie grinned. "Actually, I've got my bestest bud and her older sister here on their honeymoons. They spent the first week at GEO station, in the Bridal Suites, but now they're bunking with me at Grimaldi. They wanted to go out for dinner, and they talked my other houseguests, my Aunt and Uncle into kidnapping me after work. So we were going to inspect a few new shops at Lunakod Lakes mall, maybe grab a pizza …"

Chloe flopped back herself, "Oh, gawd that sounds so good …"

"Pizza!" Sasha chirped.

"Original Sicilian deep dish. We usually have take out for our Friday lunch here at the office and blow our diets. There are many good restaurants here. After all, if you want authentic Italian, go someplace run by Italians." Her three visitors moaned, Sasha chirping "Pizza!" again, while her mom Chloe said, "There has to be a catch."

"Two small ones. One, my Aunt and Uncle are Lois Lane and Clark Kent," and Chloe sat bolt upright, her face draining of color. "Don't worry about them. Second, I do not throw my weight around. I stand in line like anyone else, which admittedly gives my security people ulcers, but I like to talk to people…" She leaned forward, "Can you keep a secret?"

The Secret Service agents behind the First Family coughed into their fists. "I'm not exactly helpless. Not only are most of my Imperial Guards werewolves, but I have this little toy," and a bright green light showed from her right fist.

"You're a Lantern?" Melissa gasped.

"A reserve one, and one of several on planet. Keep it quiet, though."

"But … if you're a Lantern, then why the whole thing with … with conscription? All that? The ICC and everything?" Melissa asked, leaning forward. "I mean, I don't want to go into the Army. I've got a guy …" and the Secret Service agents coughed again.

Ms. Wayne smirked at them, and then turned back to the First Lady and the First Daughters. "Several reasons. First, let us say I flew to the Republican capital planet of Aeeloh and their capital city, Glavni Grad. I find their King, and dramatically kill him in front of his court." A short energy sword appeared from her right fist, and then disappeared, while she held up an invisible head in her left fist: "Behold, the head of the former King!"

"So what's wrong with that?" Chloe asked.

"First, while an Oan Power Ring can crack planets, there are defenses against it, primarily the color yellow. Secondly, I am a reserve Lantern. I have been through training, and let me tell you that Kilowog, the Lantern's Trainer, is a mean motherf**ker. However, I don't have day-to-day experience in Ring-slinging. Third, the Guardians tend to frown on Lanterns using their Rings for solving petty problems. They would consider this war a petty problem, and you try not to argue with a race that can extinguish stars with a snap of their fingers." Chloe nodded, and Ms. Wayne continued, "Fourth, my killing the King would do two things on Aeeloh. It would touch off a civil war, and it would unify them with us as a common enemy. Right now, there are political factions there that are neutral in this war. Fifth, if I kill the King and then fly off, there is no back up for me. A fleet, on the other hand, would be that backup. Sixth and last, I have sworn a personal oath that I will not kill. I've come closer than I would like to breaking that oath."

Chloe nodded slowly. As a politician's wife, she understood about political factions and reasons. "I understand. I'll talk to Pete." She sat there thinking for a minute, then shook her head. "That's for later. Now, shopping …"

"Pizza!" Sasha chirped again.

"Right," Ms. Wayne said, and looked over at the Secret Service agents. "Weekend casual. Jeans and tennis shirts. We're just a bunch of people out enjoying the weekend on Luna."

"Pizza, shopping, and a movie …" Melissa sighed.

"Pick you up at five-thirty?"

"Six would be better, ma'am," Crystal said from near the door.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Friday, June 13, 2003: 19:45 (UTC)
Hour 659.45/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, Lunakod Lakes mall:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"So, a movie, or continue shopping?" Chloe asked the group as they sat by the water in a food court's 'outdoor' patio. While there were not actual lakes here (strictly speaking), there were some decent sized (shallow) bodies of water with plenty of fish and water plants. Surprisingly, they had not attracted much attention – Mr. Kent had attracted more, and he was currently smiling and signing autographs while Lois worked on her DataPadd™.

"Ma'am, I must advise against a movie. You would be distracted and in the dark, and vulnerable. Please, ma'am?" her lead Secret Service agent almost begged.

"But Finding Nemo is still playing, and I always liked Pixar films," she grinned. "Good wholesome entertainment for the entire family," she teased, and then lowered her sunglasses and looked at him. "But since you insist, all right. Our other people at the hotel get fed?"

"Yes, ma'am, and thank you," he replied. They both turned as someone called "Mattie!" She replied, "Jia!" and sprang up to hug a small Chinese girl. She ushered her over, "Mrs. Ross, Melissa, Sasha, this is Jia. She works here in the mall, over at Tallgrass, and she's the daughter of my Foreign Minister." (This last was for the Secret Service.)

"I am my father's precious Lotus Blossom," she said solemnly, then grinned. "I received my placement results, did you?"

"Yes. I don't want to talk about them, especially with my History Professor so close." (She said this a little louder, and Remus picked up his attention.) Mattie winked at the others, and then commented, "Ilfracombe Incident, my foot!"

"There is only one high school here on Luna at the moment," Jia explained as she moved a chair over. "It operates on a partial British model, which we Chinese are familiar with. Father took our personal papers, including my academic records, when we escaped Beijing, but that was all we could take. You see, we died in an apartment fire. So sad," she said, looking down for a minute. She looked up, "I found another job," she smiled. "Teleoperator at the nuclear plant. I help to disassemble the casks of high-level nuclear waste and the fuel rods, and sort the fuel disks into one-kilogram trays. The poisoned ones go to be burned in one of the breeder reactors, and the good fuel goes to be ground up and remade into fuel pellets."

"Why one-kilogram trays?" Melissa asked.

"To keep them below critical mass," Jia replied. "Our design will take plutonium, uranium, even thorium mixed together into the fuel pellets. It also keeps terrorists away, as it is all done remotely, kilometers away from the actual fuel. The UN's atomic agency has officers there at all times." She eyed Chloe, obviously recognizing her, "Why doesn't the US send us their high-level waste? There is so much of it."

"Politics," she sighed in reply. "Pete had to burn a lot of political capital to get the Imperial Accords through the Senate, even with Mrs. Wayne's influence." (She nodded toward Mattie.) "The green and anti-nuke lobbies made a deal, they'd support the Accords if the US would stop shipping up high-level waste. They said there was too much of a risk of a nuclear accident to ship casks cross-country."

"Even though those casks have been thoroughly tested by the British, Germans, and Japanese," Mattie commented. "Including blowing them up and hitting them with a train. Anyway, back to the local comprehensive school. Everyone is tested for math, science, history and so forth and assigned to classes based on that. So I did well on math, having taken calculus, so-so on chemistry and physics, I wasn't able to test on alchemy, and I sucked on history (she leaned forward to look toward Remus), since I had been taught British Wizarding History …"

"You aren't alone," Jia commiserated. "I was taught the Party's authorized version of Chinese and world history. According to that, China was primarily responsible for the defeat of the Japanese in World War Two. The Russians had a small part, and the Americans stole Formosa in order to use it as an advance base against us. The island is just covered with American troops and their atomic bombs. There was no mention of Hiroshima or Nagasaki; this is completely different from that taught Western or other Asian cultures."

"I would defend myself by saying that I teach a Ministry-approved syllabus," Remus said, moving his chair over as the others rearranged themselves. "You were able to bypass that in your course, Miss Wayne, by simply providing additional, supplementary information. The minor fact that it was more useful than the authorized information was … overlooked by the Headmistress in her reports to the Ministry."

"You taught a course?" Chloe asked.

"Intro to Business," Sprink said, moving her chair over in turn. "Oi, she's good. Organized it as a competition, even though Trelawney won the prize. I think she was casting Tarot cards to win."

"All's fair in love, war, and business," Charlie said, leaning over his new wife's chair to wrap his arms around her, and resting his chin on her head. He shifted as Mattie's phone rang. She pulled an older-style grey flip phone from a pocket, answering "Wayne." She drew a wand and cast a privacy spell.

"That's not good," Sprink commented as the spell collapsed shortly after. Ms. Wayne leaned back, calling, "Ms. Lane?"

Lois recognized the change of address, replying, "Yes, your Majesty?"

"The next time you speak to Superman, after he returns from whatever he's doing with the Oans, would you ask him to drop by?"

"Certainly, ma'am. May I ask what about?"

"Yes. It's personal for him. We have intercepted an incoming stasis capsule on a zero-zero course for Earth orbit. Not only does it have a new form of FTL drive, but it has Kryptonian text and what looks like a passenger."

"Passenger?" Chloe asked.

"The capsule is mostly covered by some sort of crystalline growth. There is a small uncovered area, and we can see part of an arm and torso. As it's a stasis tank that seems to be operational," Ms. Wayne shrugged. "We can wait a bit."

They sat back to consider this; some more than others. Melissa broke the mood, "So, Tarot. I've heard of that, but who's Trelawney?"

Remus shook his head, "Divination professor," he answered. "One of the … less precise forms of magic. Not like transfiguration, or potions. By the by, I have your GCSE and OWL results, Miss Wayne. Don't let me forget again to give them to you." He turned to the two First Daughters, "Have you been tested? What happened to those students in Ms. Prince's class?"

"Tested?" Chloe asked, while Ms. Wayne said, "I think most of them were going to Tulane to study magic."

"Tulane has a school of magic?" Chloe asked.

"The only university-level one that I know of in the States. High-school level there are three schools of magic in the US: one for boys in Seattle, a co-ed school in New Orleans, and Salem for girls in Boston." She drew her wands, passing them to Melissa and Sasha. "If you don't get sparks, don't worry, it might not have manifested yet. Just give them a wave."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Saturday, June 14, 2003: 07:46 (UTC)
Hour 671.46/708.00
Luna, Grimaldi Crater, Wayne Quarters:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Ahhh …" Mattie said as she put her coffee cup down. Some of her houseguests were eating out.

"All right. I've been very patient," her Uncle Clark said from the stove, where he was cooking breakfast (to Cindy the elf's irritation). He turned the eggs, and then said, "This alleged Kryptonian pod and its passenger. Why did you issue a press release?"

His niece took another swallow of coffee. "Uncle Clark, by the time I heard about it, the news was already on the grapevine." She grinned crookedly, adding, "Starships are not the only things that are faster than light. Some tug crews intercepted it and notified the Solar Guard, who told them to take it as salvage. That's all SOP, as is their taking it to an Admiralty dock in Phobos. That's when I heard about it as Empress; and since the Admiralty court was issuing a routine press release, I had to issue one too."

He grunted as she continued, "Secondly, I just said 'a figure'. I didn't say what kind. We think it's a teenaged female, blonde, and since I've seen photos of the text when I got back to my office, I think it's from your clan. Have any younger sisters or nieces?"

"Possibly," he admitted after turning the sausage. "Possibly. There were some colonies."

"Third," his niece continued, "That crystalline growth is emitting K-band radiation. We'll have to figure out how to extract the drive unit and any controlling computer, not to mention that stasis tank without killing either of them. We then have the problem of what to do with them. Assuming it is Kryptonian technology, I would assume that you would want title to them, as well as custody of the passenger."

"Of course."

Mattie sat back, "What is the legal basis of Clark Kent's claim?"

"Why, I'm Kryptonian."

"No, SUPERMAN is allegedly a native of Krypton. There is no actual proof except his own claims, and a lawyer is going to make mincemeat out of those. Do we have a birth certificate for him? There is a US Senator that was born in Hawaii, but spent a lot of his youth in Kenya. Some of his political opponents insist he was born in Kenya, despite his having a Hawaiian birth certificate."

She took a swallow of coffee, then asked, "What is Clark Kent's claim on either of them? I am looking at and speaking to Clark Kent, who was born in Kansas; there's extensive paperwork on that." Her uncle stared at her, shocked, and she raised a hand, "I'm just playing devil's advocate. You know I as Mattie Wayne support you, but as the Crown I have to be impartial and go by the court's ruling."

She took a last swallow of coffee, then continued as she rose and grabbed the coffee pot, "Look, Uncle Clark, I know this is emotional for you, and I want to help you, but I have two different hats to wear." She topped off her Aunt's mug, and then his. "I am Mattie Wayne, your niece, and I fully support you. This is family, and I want to help as much as I can." She fixed her coffee and started another pot as she continued, "However, I'm also wearing the Imperial hat …"

"Shouldn't that be 'crown'?" Lois asked.

Mattie stuck out her tongue at her Aunt, "As the Crown, I have to observe the law. My suggestion is for Superman to wait a week, then re-appear in the system. Very publicly hire a law firm, seek custody of both the passenger and the pod, while I as the Crown also put in a claim. This way, if the court goes to the Crown, I will be consulting with Superman, which means you still have effective control." She sat down again, adding, "This is going to touch off the mother of all intellectual property legal fights. There are going to be several claims on this, because courts do not like aliases or pseudonyms, unless they are properly registered, like a DBA (8), and they can find the actual person. Uncle Clark, do you want Lex Luthor, wherever he is, to get this tech, and this person to mold to his will?"

"God forbid."

Lois looked up from feeding Lana, "Got you there, spitcurl."

"Uncle Clark, you know that Luthor has enough money and political resources to put up a good fight for this; and as for the passenger, she'll need cultural and social information. Heck, she needs clothes! Where is she going to get all that?"

"I'll take care of that."

"I'm sure you will, Uncle Clark, but there are some things you, as a male, just don't get. Using her powers, yes, no question. What does she do if she's in civvies and someone gropes her butt on the subway? Tear his head off?"

Lois looked up again, "Point two, Clark. She needs basic female information that you are just not equipped to provide. Someone like Mattie or Selina would be." She took a swallow from her coffee mug, "Setting the tech aside, the passenger is going to need help. There isn't any reason why she can't spend time in Gotham, or here, for that matter, as well as with you. The first step is to gain custody, and I have a suspicion you were thinking about the Kents."

"Well, yes."

"Uncle Clark, what is the Kent's claim? Heck, I have a better chance than they do, as I'm rich and a public figure, even though I'm underage!"

Lois sat back, taking a swallow from her recharged coffee mug. "Spit-curl, I have to agree. You have to look at it from the court's perspective. There are two issues, the passenger, and the probe, and its associated tech. The court is going to want the best solution for both. I see two possibilities for Superman here. One, assuming he gains custody, assigns both that custody and power-of-attorney to Selina Wayne, a multimillionaire in her own right, as well as an old and dear friend. Of course, you need to talk her into that."

Uncle Clark winced. "What's the second?"

His niece put in, "Superman reveals his identity as Clark Kent."

Clark dropped his fork. "No …"

Mattie sat back, "I will say, as a private citizen, that I support Superman's bid for custody, but that's as far as I think I can go. I'll talk to Mom about this." She grinned, "Just think, a super-powered Bat in Gotham. I wonder if she has magic." She stood, starting to gather dishes, and Cindy popped in to start gathering them, shooing her back to her seat. Mattie retreated under the house-elf's glare, then swirled the remaining orange juice in her glass.

"I think Superman's best choice right now is to file his claim, while I, on behalf of the Imperial Crown and the Solar Guard, put in a claim myself. Should the Court grant custody, I will consult with Superman, and I'll talk Mom into accepting custody until the passenger has acclimatized and has his or her majority." She finished her orange juice, "This gives you both some time. For now, what's the situation in the Fortress with that analysis of Arthur's blood and that poison?"

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Saturday, June 14, 2003: 08:05 (relative)
Aeeloh, Glavni Grad, Palace briefing room:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Leave me," the King ordered. The guards did so, followed by the King's personal slaves, and he looked down the conference table as the door clicked. "You have all received the information from the probe. Speak."

The senior Admiral looked about, and then finally spoke. "My King, I must say that Truth needs spoken. However, some of that Truth may be … unpleasant."

The King visibly held back his temper. "In this room," he finally said. "There will be no punishment for unpleasant Truth. My word on that. Now speak!"

A General finally spoke up, "My King, we have examined the probe, and have conclusions and assumptions on what happened. First, the probe has assemblies and parts that are from three separate message torpedoes. The exterior shell and frame is from a FTL missile, and shows evidence of gamma beam fire. We conclude that functional parts were taken from other equipment…"

"Are you stating that reported equipment is not serviceable?" the King demanded.

"Unfortunately, my King," the General hesitantly replied. "Furthermore, if this is happening with message torpedoes, we can assume that it is also happening with other components of our ships. Ca'arn the Cruel was issued a hand of message torpedoes. Those serviceable parts came from three of those, and the frame from a missile, this does not speak well. We may also assume that the missing probe was similarly constructed."

"Wonderful," the King growled. "You stated gamma beam fire."

"There are areas where the probe's defensive shields are destroyed. In addition, parts of the probe's computer memory have been destroyed beyond the self-repair functions available to it. We have reconstructed that the probe took a spiraling course at some point, presumably to avoid fire by this Terran Empire. They were able to score glancing hits, but not enough to destroy it. We assume the other probe was destroyed by the Terrans."

"The Terrans. Speak of them," the King ordered.

"My King, we have searched our databases for them," another General said. "We also have no data for them, aside from a single sentence in the original slaver's report. It was reported as another name for the target system of Dirt. We have checked the file imagery of Dirt, and there are no images of light pollution of the night-side planet as you would expect from a civilized planet. There is also no orbital equipment." The General hesitated, then added, "The images we have show signs of being edited, possibly by the slaver's shipboard equipment. However, we have no way to disprove it, we do not have the originals, only file copies, and his claims of Dirt being a class thirty-one system, smelting iron over wood fires, has no contrary evidence; other than the report of sub-Admiral Is'las. That the population of Dirt went from the wood fires of a class thirty-one to a class fourteen's mining of gas giants in a few months is simply not possible. Therefore, we must assume the Terrans are a foreign power, but again, we have no information of them."

"This report of antimatter?"

"That is worrisome, my King. That is generally the province of great … OTHER great powers, such as Oa and Qward," a General said. "If these Terrans indeed have antimatter weaponry then that opens the possibility of other dimensional involvement. I would agree; Dirt raising such a war fleet in just a few months is ridiculous. However, our involvement with the Oans or the Qwardians would be … ill advised. One, just one of the Oan's Lanterns could destroy our fleets and dictate terms here in Glavni Grad."

"We should retreat?" the King demanded.

"My King, a single Lantern could destroy our most powerful fleets with a simple thought. The Oan Rings are a weapon designed to destroy planets! We could not contest that scale of power. The report that the Terrans have destroyed or captured all but a hand of warships is worrisome. Whoever these Terrans are, they evidently do not like us, as they seem to be interested in the system of Dirt, for whatever reason."

"You do not mention Sinestro's Corps," an Admiral added gloomily. "Or the Kryptonian. He is reputed to hang his cape in that general area of space. My King, I suggest withdrawing those forces we can from the Dirt system. While it is Truth that they are primarily Guard forces, they are what we have. We must assume that the Terrans will attack our planets …"

"Why?" the King asked, puzzled.

"My King, we attacked, with two fleets, a system they have an interest in. Were the situation reversed with our being attacked, we would plan to perform a counter-attack. Sub-Admiral Is'las, while politically reliable, is also quick to anger and to leap to judgment. The Princess B'tan …"

"Who we still have no information on," the King growled.

"Yes, my King. The Princess B'tan was …"

"… filled with herself?" an Admiral blurted. The conference room was silent, until the King nodded. "She was," and held breath was released. The Admiral held his breath, then eyed his King and added, "The Princess B'tan may have made …"

"… errors in judgment?" the King asked. "Agreed. Are you stating that we must forgo the Princesses B'tan and A'ya?"

"If the choice comes to the survival of the Republic, or the survival of the Princesses, my King? If we have angered one of the Oans or their Lanterns, or Sinestro or the Qwardians, my King, then that is the question that only you can answer."

The King grunted. "If the Terrans attack?"

"If we are able to recover some of the Guard, we must quickly train them as military forces, not as they have been employed as security troops," a General replied. "We must also prepare fighting equipment such as hover vehicles and energy weapons. The key, my King, is information. We must know the Terran's plans, so we may counter them. That means we must capture one or more of their ships and interrogate the commander. Once we have that, we mount an extended search of FTL space. This will quickly wear out equipment, but we must have the warning. Once they arrive …"

"If they do."

"If they do, my King," an Admiral agreed. "We can then use FTL missiles against them."

"What is to prevent their using antimatter against our planets? Our cities?"

"On their own FTL missiles? Nothing, my King. A planet follows a fixed, known course, unlike a ship, which can avoid a missile. We can attempt to intercept their missiles, as they can also attempt to intercept our own missiles." The Admiral leaned forward, "My King, we are in a fight for the survival of the Republic, and we are not guaranteed victory, nor survival."

The King sat back in his chair. "Survival …" he whispered. "If we were attacked … show me the defensive plans."

"These are initial plans, my King," the Admiral warned. "They are to be modified when we know more."

"Understood," the King replied. "Show me Aeeloh."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, June 16, 2003: 06:28 (UTC)
Terran system, HIMSS Hexagon, Operations & Plans:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

General Clinton McAllister frowned as he considered the system's plot. He and his staff were playing 'Red', defending the Republican system of Melotte against the invading 'Blue' Imperials. Like any wargame, there were plus and minus factors. On the positive side, he had the 'home field advantage', with the latest intelligence IR & S had scraped up regarding the actual Melotte defenses. The Empire had also captured a number of Republican ships, which meant he and the other officers playing 'Red' had good data on both their weapons and performance as well as what information had been in their computers regarding planetary and system defenses. There was also the possibility of surprise defense capabilities, and he had chosen several likely possibilities.

On the negative side, he also had the staffing of a Republican military officer. That meant that he was saddled with a political officer that had over-ride authority, and politicians who thought they knew better than he did how to conduct an effective defense. Also, while the two fleets had taken away some six hundred thousand Planetary Guards (an average of twenty-four thousand for each Republican planet); that only left him a few thousand to both keep order as 'security troops' (what the actual Republicans called their head breakers and thugs), but also to serve as planetary defense troops. Those troops had been raised in a culture of 'me first', and while they could be handed a gun, that did most emphatically not make them Infantry. They could be used as head breakers, or he could give them basic training as Infantry. They could not be used as both.

In addition, he knew that the incoming Imperials planned to foment and encourage general insurrections by the common citizens and the slave population. Not only had he been briefed in on that before taking up this assignment, it just made sense for the Imperials to do so. Hover tanks and plasma rifles or not, there were finite numbers of them, and while Gal-tech equipment in general weathered well, he did not know how many 'hanger queens' he would have of that equipment; nor how many actually existed, as opposed to being on paper. There was also nothing stopping some of the Republican troops from carving out their own pocket kingdoms, or dealing with the black market.

He frowned. The umpires were running this in a compressed time period, for now that meant that one hour was equal to three. In real time, the operation was expected to take months at a minimum; they did not have that kind of time. At least his 'Blue' opponent (whoever it was) had his (or her) own problems. He looked up as a messenger came in, and his display changed. The game had started.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, June 16, 2003: 07:08 (UTC)
Terra, Ireland, Belfast:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

John Short settled at his workstation, sipping his tea. While it was true that his company was smaller than it was in the glory days of the Second World War, and it wasn't on the same scale as titans such as Boeing, Lockheed, or EADS, it was still one of the largest employers in Belfast. Indeed, it was a major contributor to the MOD in London (and didn't that itself cause problems!)

Still and all, aircraft were his company's business. That being that, he had a license to produce the new anti-grav attack craft for the Empire to a Russian design. They had gotten the new plans, dies, jigs and such in from Moscow late last week, and after he dealt with some Monday-morning email and paperwork, he planned to go down to the shop floor and have a look at them himself; discuss things with the shop floor people. Who and where and such.

Speaking of which … an email from a mate across town at Thales. There was a job fair coming up at the end of the month, he wanted to get together to discuss it over lunch and a pint, always a good idea. His company built missiles … He resolved to stop by Human Resources on the way down to the floor, discuss the workforce expansion with them.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, June 16, 2003: 08:08 (UTC +1)
Terra, Poland, Warsaw:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Stefan stretched as he arrived at his workstation. While the Imperial business was certainly welcome, it wasn't for every one of the company's models. Only certain models of the motor-generators were ordered, but that meant that other production lines were converted over to those. The very light-weight aluminum models now were destined for anti-grav craft, and on the other side of the house, some of the transmissions were destined to drive the tracks of fighting vehicles. He just hoped the bosses were going to start hiring soon. His brother Gregor was a skilled machinist and was looking for steady work.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, June 16, 2003: 09:08 (UTC +2)
Terra, Spain, Toledo:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Juan nudged Carlos, saying in Spanish ("I'm back. I'll watch the machines.").

("Thank you, my friend. The grouser (6) forge is quiet today, but who knows when she will throw another fit.")

("Like my wife,") Juan agreed, which earned a laugh from Carlos. He shooed his friend away, and adjusted his hard hat. He thought about the dinner table conversation last night, his sweet daughter, the flower of his eye, had graduated her instituto (7) education, where they had discussed the future. No mistake, he was happy to be working again, especially at his age, but the young … Ah, the young!

He sighed. The Empire and especially the Earth was preparing for total war. Factories were being remodeled, refurbished, and built anew, the great steel mills were coming back to life, and fires long cold were lit again. Men and women once again sweltered to forge the weapons of war and their young … yes, their young were once again armed with those weapons, the finest that could be produced, and they stood against the enemy. What else could they, their parents and grandparents, their aunts and uncles do but labor to produce and improve those weapons? Juan's daughter Maribel would have the finest sword in the world, Toledo steel, in her hand when she went to war. For this reason, he personally kept an eye on that forge. Maribel's very life depended on how well he did his job!

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, June 16, 2003: 10:08 (UTC +3)
Terra, Russia, Kaliningrad:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Vladimir ran forward a few steps, catching the large truck as it rolled forward, off final assembly. He swung up into the cab, smiling to himself as the indicator rolled forward to the first kilometer, like the others. He revved the engine, and drove forward to park the truck in line with the others.

In another part of the plant, Yuri cursed softly to himself. The Leopard V design was a beautiful one, low (a bit over two meters high!) and carefully thought out for lethality, practical maintenance and survivability. At only fifty metric tons for the base, it was also lightweight, but like all German designs, it was intricate and somewhat fussy, with strict tolerances. He thought it was underpowered, like other German designs he had seen, but what did he know? He just built the things. Welding the ladder-style frame was one thing, but when it came to the drive sprockets in the back, with the port-and-starboard electronic transmissions, the motors …

Stefan watched the pour carefully. The turret was the largest single piece of the Leopard V tank, and it had to be cast correctly. No bubbles, exclusions, or other defects. He watched as the molten steel poured into the sprue as the mold rotated – the concentric force would force the steel into every part of the mold. He took a moment to watch the other molds spinning on their aluminum frames, while other lines cast other parts of the tank's body and armor.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Wednesday, June 18, 2003: 17:09 (UTC)
Hour 069.09/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, HIM offices:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Good evening," Maria Putina said in their once-a-week meeting. The Crown Interns' boss was the daughter of the Russian President, here on her 'gap year'. She reported to the Chief of Staff, Connie Koslowski and ultimately to the Empress. She continued, "The Tsaritsa said she was running a few minutes late …" and there was a knock on the door. She opened it, and Ms. Wayne came in, "Sorry I'm late, everyone."

"That means you buy," 'Little Bill' Morton joked. Mattie grinned and opened the cooler next to the door; tossed him a Coke®, which he snatched out of the air. He saluted her, "One seeker to another."

"God, I miss Quidditch," Mattie said as she took an empty seat, putting her DataPadd™ down as she opened her own silver can of Diet Coke®.

"Quidditch?" Maria asked.

"Wizarding sport," Warren Driver replied. "Think of basketball fifty meters in the air, the players on brooms. Miss Wayne and Bill played the same position."

"But on different house teams," his sister Anna put in. "Mattie played for Slytherin, Bill for Hufflepuff. Didn't I hear something about a golf course here on Luna?"

"The Shepherd Memorial," Heather Canby replied. "I'm working with the Ministry of Commerce, and project creep has set in, they're making noises about adding tennis courts and Olympic courses."

"Summer or winter games?"

"Both. We'd be a neutral location, and it would promote tourism, boost the lunar economy, all that rubbish." Heather said cynically.

"That actually sounds like a good idea," Mattie said slowly. "Tourism is a major economic engine, and Luna would be a safe location for a lot of people to travel to, especially if we can keep costs down. Matt was saying something a while ago about how something like eighty-five percent of first and second worlders would love to go into space and travel to the moon, if it was affordable to the average family." She took a sip from her can, "Think about the people you know, not just at Hogwarts, but back home. If they could take a trip to someplace with world-class facilities, like an Olympic venue, and do it at tourist rates …"

"The orbital transfer flights are already boosting long-distance tourism," Warren Driver put in. "Only reason we haven't expanded outward is the lack of tourist infrastructure. We have to have the hotels, transport and whatnot to accommodate those thundering herds of tourists."

Mattie nodded, "Moving on, one of the things I was considering was a Queen's Cup, as a number of our colonies and sub-colonies have local footie teams. There's no reason we couldn't do competitions, both on-planet for a Governor's Cup, and then another for the Queen's Cup." She took a gulp from her can, "Sport is another major economic engine. Look at how many people buy jerseys and whatnot for their favorite teams." She waggled her can, "Don't forget, Heather, I am a jock myself."

"I've watched a few football games myself," Maria said. "What about military teams? The Russian Army has always fielded excellent teams, especially the Moscow teams."

"Shooting is an Olympic sport, as is footie," Sarah Whitloe put in. "No reason that we can't field an Olympic team ourselves. Of course, it would initially be ranked like, oh, Benin, instead of the UK."

"Or Russia or the US, not to mention Japan or Germany," Mattie commented. "Still, there's no reason we can't build up Luna at least. We're already working on doming an entire crater that's a hundred kilometers across. No reason we can't at least plan out facilities for football, golf, and tennis, as well as some of the Olympic sports like downhill skiing."

Heather was making notes, and she said, "That's an area of almost eight thousand square kilometers. We'd certainly have the room, but it might be more efficient to make as many facilities as possible multi – sport capable."

"With the golf courses, multiple courses with variable difficulty levels," Bill put in. "Ranging from the putt – putt courses through some that would be challenging for Master level players." He took a swallow from his own Coke®, "I think it's been a good, useful week. The General has me working with the Plans and Operations section since I'm a gamer." Warren Driver's head went up at that. Bill continued, "We're developing the latest release of Terran Empire: Call to duty. The working title is 'Enemy worlds' and right now its a multi-disk set of maps and so forth. The reason Plans is working on it is the option we put in the last update for player mods."

"Player mods?" Maria asked.

Warren Driver answered, "That's when you can develop your own tactics or equipment."

Bill nodded, and gestured at Anna Driver, who had been working with IR & S. "This is classified, but I've been cleared to talk to you all about this. We've gotten samples of potential enemy equipment and ammo, and we're working on counters, but there's always the possibility that someone out there would come up with something we missed, or has a cheaper alternative. One of the problems we're working on is snipers in a high-rise building. We may not be able to hit them with a tank's main gun, so what we were thinking of is a short-range, long-endurance drone that could either laser-designate them for artillery, or mount some sort of gun or cannon."

"Why not a missile?"

"A rocket or missile can cost from fifty thousand on up to millions," Bill replied. "An autocannon round might cost five or ten euros instead, and that drone is maneuverable. If the drone can't kill that sniper, we can always call in a gunship." He took a swallow from his Coke®, "The drone pilots sit safe and secure back in our base, we're thinking we might be able to use some of the rescued slave girls for that. Their hangup is handling weapons, and a joystick and monitor might give them enough … I don't know, mental separation from that. I don't think it's too different from driving a construction robot."

"That would also make an interesting addition to the game. Do we have any drones like that?"

"I know there are drones that mount missiles. I don't see any real problems with something like an autocannon," Bill replied. "Recoil, maybe."

Anna asked, "You can laser-designate artillery?"

"The Israelis have steerable artillery rounds," Warren replied. "I don't think they can do, like, ninety-degree turns, but I think they have fins so they can hit within a certain area."

Mattie nodded, "I saw the IR & S report on the hover tanks and the grav tanks we've captured. What do we know about them?"

Anna put in, "Ma'am, our information is that they were primarily used as the 'big stick' to crush any sort of rebellion by slaves or by the lower classes. As such, the various planetary powers-that-be wanted their existence known, and they'd be brought out now and again, and their capabilities made known." She took a swallow from her own can, "Ma'am, those units have horrendous firepower, impenetrable shields, sub-orbital flight, and so forth, so one unit with a crew of eight or so could utterly destroy any conceivable rebellion."

"I see," the Empress said. "Do we have a solution to them yet?"

Bill replied, "Ma'am, the thing about those tanks is that their reality doesn't match their marketing. Since the planetary powers-that-be never allowed a direct examination, and their press is totally controlled, nobody knew any different than what they were told. For instance, they use the defensive arrangements like starships; a defensive shield system and light steel hull for atmospheric integrity. Some of them are remote-controlled or driven by AI's."

"Ma'am," Anna put in. "They have a large comm area, so aside from slave collars, remember that gal-tech electronics are generally around the 1930's or so for us. They also have a large sensor range." She took a swallow from her own Diet Coke®, "The grav tanks have a suborbital range, but they're also two or three times the cost of the hover tanks. Given what I've seen on Republican and general Galactic society, ma'am, I wonder how many of those exist only on paper, or have been sold off on the quiet, or stripped for parts."

"Hanger queens," Warren put in. "Taking parts from unit 'A' to fix units 'B', 'C' and 'D'." He drank from his own can, "Ma'am, the Republicans thought we were Iron Age tribes with bows and arrows. We came as a nasty shock to them, and we've captured several cargo ships with both types of tank. Yes, they've got a large sensor reach, and a really nasty main gun. Against slaves, or civilians with light weapons, or farm tools, they'd really do the job. A couple of bolts from their plasma guns, everything in a dozen square kilometers is toast, literally."

Bill put in, "The thing is, we've encountered this type of electronics before, with the Republican fleet. They have several vulnerabilities. For instance, their shielding system has to be transparent for their sensors and their comm frequencies. We attack their electronics through either a computer virus that attacks the hardware, or our gamma pulse guns will fry their ship's electronics. We make them deaf, dumb and blind, and while they can still shoot and move, they can't steer or aim. It would be blind fire. We knock out their shields, and all they've got is a pressure hull." He gestured, "Those we can kill with RPGs. Some of the latest Russian RPGs can penetrate a meter of steel armor, or three meters of concrete."

"The plasma cannon has cup generators," Warren put in, gesturing with his hands. "This shields the crew from the heat and X – rays of the weapon, and forms the confining shields for the plasma. We knock out those generators and the crew is inside a big steel can that they can't see out of. Their anti – grav will allow them to move, but frying their electronics means that their life support will be dead." He grinned, "They've gotta be able to breathe, ma'am."

"What about air or artillery strikes? Close air support?" Maria asked.

Bill replied. "The problem with artillery attacks on them is that tearing up the ground around them won't immobilize them; or the grav tanks can fly." He took a swallow from his can, "We're trying to reduce the size of those gamma pulse generators to something that's man – portable sized, or at least something we could mount in a light truck or a Jeep™."

"Okay, that's being worked on," Mattie said. "Warren, Central Library?"

Warren nodded, "Ma'am, I'm working with the Ministry of Information, and the Imperial University. We're getting the Library Computer set up in the Mons Hadley lava tubes; those are under a minimum of forty meters of basalt, and temperature – stabilized at twenty below zero. The major problem IBM has is designing the system for that temperature as well as vacuum."

Mattie sat back, "Help me out, here. I'm trying to remember where Hadley is."

"Near Archimedes Crater, ma'am. Northwest of the Apollo 15 and Lunokod 2 sites."

"Another tourist destination," Mattie smiled. She took a swallow of her own Diet Coke™, then asked, "What do we do about these Bolos? Should we develop our own version, since we're looking at primarily urban combat?"

"Why not integrate them into the next generations of our armored vehicles, ma'am?" Bill asked.

The Empress picked up her DataPadd™ and did a quick search. "Your new project name is 'Buttermilk Lime'. Design me a Bolo we can use in urban combat." She made some notes and saved her summary file. "Moving on," and she gestured back to Maria.

"Ms. Bones, the Prime Minister's office?"

"Various bills, ma'am," Ami replied. "There's a trend building in the Opposition to increase the draft age to at least seventeen …"

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Friday, June 20, 2003: 04:29 (UTC +9:30)
Terra, Northern Territory, Camp Katherine:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Sgt. Callahan threw the steel trashcan down the length of the bay as reveille sounded from the speakers. "Wake up, ladies and gents, wake up! Another beautiful day in the Army!" She grinned as various people cursed and moaned, but they got up and staggered toward the latrines. She frowned and moved toward one particular person who was groaning and hugging herself, "Silverman, what's wrong?"

"Feel like I've been kicked in the belly, sarge," Sarah moaned. "Puked a couple times last night." Her buddy, Rundell, added, "She's been like this since late yesterday, sarge."

"Why the hell didn't either of you say anything?"

"I didn't want him to, sarge. I didn't want to … urrp …" She held it in, but just barely.

Callahan frowned. Neither one of them were lazy or goldbricks. If anything, Silverman was too enthusiastic, which had gotten them both into arguments and fights with the lazier types in the platoon. Unfortunately, her skills didn't match her attitude in some areas, but she was one of those people who kept trying until she got it right, no matter how long it took. "Rundell, escort her to the medics. Silverman, go clean your face and rinse your mouth, then throw on a t-shirt, I'll get you both passes."

"But sarge, the armor fitting …"

"Don't worry about that, Silverman. Go get better."

Callahan kicked the trash can again, "Listen up! Today you will be fitted for your combat armor. You will wear your skivvies, one pair of socks and your combat boots." She walked up and down the bay, dressed as she said. "We will take a leisurely run to the armor morgue, where you will be fitted. Dress up or down and fall in outside."

"Sarge, what about breakfast?"

"Ms. Greene, despite your legendary prowess with the knife and fork (there was some laughter), we are to skip breakfast before fitting. There will be a power drink available afterward." There was more laughter, Mary Greene was a petite girl who had the appetite of a bird. People started to turn away, and someone called, "Company! I nominate Greene for the handle of 'Gourmand'. All in favor?"

"Second the motion! A gourmand is someone with a large appetite. All in favor?"

"AYE!"

"Any nays?"

"Nay?" Mary said. "It's not very dignified."

"This is the Army. We break things and kill people," Callahan said. "Dignity has nothing to do with it. The ayes have it, Gourmand. Now the rest of you get ready, we've got three minutes left."

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Sgt. William Hart. He and his people will be fitting you for your lightweight armor now, the heavier armor after that. Sergeant?"

"Thank you, Sergeant Callahan. On patrol, from one quarter to two thirds of you will be wearing the heavier armor, using it as a quick reaction force, backed up by your tanks and APCs. The reason is that we will be trying to sow confusion and disorder among the enemy with a classic midnight coup." He took a few steps back and forth. "We will be performing a blitzkrieg combined vertical envelopment style assault while suppressing what we can from orbit. The idea is to decapitate the enemy leadership; so we'll be doing assault landings of infantry, armor, and artillery. We have pretty good maps of the various locations in the cities, so we'll snatch 'n' grab their leadership while other sections take things like the radio station and isolate the roads around the capital areas."

"For that reason, your first layer will be environmental protection – a skinsuit. You will need help with this. Strip to skin, and in with your kit will be a white bottle of talc. Lightly dust your feet and legs …"

"Sarge, I've got a question. How do we power all this stuff we're wearing?"

"Good question," Sgt. Hart replied. "Over the skinsuit you're wearing a long-sleeve power vest. It has several micro-sized generators, and various batteries that are continually recharged. Primary power, in the small of your back, is a turbine that's the size of four postage stamps, and it's powered by a small bottle of propane." (He held one up.) "This is the size of a fat Cuban cigar, and you'll have a couple spares on you. Please try not to lose them, they can be recharged and re-issued. There's a green band below the nozzle when it's full, red when it's discharged." (He tapped the band.) "Secondary power is another set of generators that get their power from your activity, so they are around your wrists and clip into your boots. You run, you expend more energy, your heart rate increases, which runs up the generators. Third option is most of the vehicles have charging points. If you're stopped for a while, you can connect into a tank or fighting vehicle's power network and charge up your batteries. You'll have a five meter cable that you can use, the honey wagon also has charge points."

"Honey wagon?"

"You've got a storage tank for your biological wastes. The honey wagon sucks it out. That's why you're on a high energy, low mass rations. Now let's go into hooking up the power vest and the electronics in the helmet. The visor can be flipped up or down, in the down position it is air-tight. You'll need to get used to the heads-up display, it gives you three-sixty situational reporting and signals through a mesh network…"

"You've got two computer consoles, reversible mounts for each forearm. The lesser-used controls, such as for anti-grav and environmental are on your primary arm, the more frequently used controls, such as for signal filtering and comms, go on your secondary arm." He grinned at their confusion. "If you're right handed, you'll have a virtual keyboard that is mounted on your left forearm. That module has things like a compartment for your individual USB data key that encrypts comms and identifies you on the tactical net, as well as power and data controls. The secondary module, on your right forearm, has things like weapon links, bio-monitoring and anti-grav controls, target mode preferences, and so forth, that don't change that much. When you first hit dirt, your secondary will take a reading of local environmental conditions on the planet and adjust accordingly. Your default anti-grav will be set for five percent of local, with all the other equipment, it would weigh sixty five kilos. Now it weighs three and a quarter kilos. You want to keep some mass, for muscle tone."

"Weapon links?"

"Your weapons are individually assigned and have electronic safeties. They will not fire if an enemy gets one away from you, but if you pick up a dead buddy's gun, it will recognize you as Imperial and allow use." He held up a hand, "Some gun manufacturers started it by issuing a ring with police-issue firearms; that way if a criminal took a police – issued firearm, they couldn't use it. Moving on, your shield. This also serves as a longer ranged antenna – see the black band around the edge? It also has a small generator with the propane cartridges, and has a very small defensive shield generator. It is rated to stop fragments and projectiles up to 14.5mm. This is probably your heaviest bit of equipment. It will not …"

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Saturday, June 21, 2003: 12:25 (UTC +9:30)
Terra, Northern Territory, Camp Katherine:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Oh, my …" Kathy said as she waited with Oskar Fritsch and Frankie Rabat on the station's platform. The long freight train had just pulled into the station, and on flatcars, covered with tarps were long, low and lethal shapes. She heard a whistle, and a sergeant yelled, "Okay, you lazy bastards, lets get this train unloaded! You can admire them after the maintenance girls check them out!"

"Sounds good to me," Corporal Rabat said with a hungry smile. He led the three of them forward toward the waiting Leopard V tanks.

"Let's do this right," Frankie said. "Parade position, turret forward when we drive off the lot."

"Yowza," Kathy said while Oskar simply said "Ja." She waited, then moved forward and right when the MP pointed at her. She followed the previous tank, while Oskar swiveled the turret, elevating the barrel to 30°, and Frankie took the commander's position, standing in the open hatch.

There wasn't much other traffic on the major east-west Victoria Highway, and they were only on it for fifteen kilometers or so. There was a traffic snarl as the long column of tanks and armored vehicles stopped, waiting for the right turn at the light. Kathy waited, her tank's turn signal going, behind a rather battered white pickup with no roof and four dogs in the back bed. The light changed, the pickup sat there with his radio playing loudly, and she shifted to neutral and revved the engine. The other driver shook himself, then drove through the intersection as the light changed again to red.

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Wednesday, June 25, 2003: 16:12 (UTC +9:30)
Terra, Northern Territory, Camp Katherine:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

The First Girl looked up from the slave she was punishing at the clank of the door's locks, and said, "Quickly, meat, assume the Inspection position! Our Mistress comes!" She knelt along with the other slaves, left leg up to show her disciplinary brands, bent from the waist and cuffed herself. All around her, the other slave girls assumed that position. "Be silent, meat!" the First Girl hissed, glanced around, then lowered her head submissively. Above her, the slave 198A2 bowed her head as she hung, wrists spread and ankles shackled to the floor. She did not know if her arriving mistress would continue the First Girl's punishment of her.

Susan Bones blocked the door to keep it from closing and locking automatically, then surveyed the kneeling slaves from inside the thin yellow line painted on the floor. She had turned the slave barrier off (although the slaves inside would not know this). She put on her 'bitch mistress' face and strolled forward, heels clicking on the concrete. "Meat," she snarled. "Worthless meat. I should sell you all for feed. That way I should make a very small profit. You …" (she shoved the First Girl with a booted foot) … were supposed to train them to the minimal level. I have been watching, and do not see them as worth selling in my market stalls." She kicked the First Girl again and said "High kneel, slave." She walked around the kneeling, cuffed slave, then said, "You are no longer First Girl. You are demoted to Third Girl. In your next class, you will be instructed on how to train meat. It will not be enjoyable – for you." She brushed the slave's long black hair aside, and used her key to disable the upper and lower glowing rings on her neck, leaving only the middle lit. She shoved the slave to the ground, and said loudly, "Restrict!" then "Disable voice!"

Strolling to the hanging slave, the slave's mistress released her ankles and re – chained them to recreate the short stride. She announced "Release!" as she freed the slave's wrists, she whispered instructions to her, then said loudly, "I do not want to hear so much as a whimper from you. Slaves, pay attention. House slave position." The slaves shifted to kneeling back on their feet, knees wide, heads up, hands covering their knees and shoulders back, breasts thrust out. "Good." She accepted articles from the slave, then tightly gagged the Third Girl, strapping blindfolds and a small headset on her. She adjusted the volume, then covered it all with a tight hood. She pulled the Third Girl to her feet, and on a short leash, knelt and bound her near the door. Walking back, she surveyed the attentive slaves. Tapping her right jaw to change her implant, she said in Japanese, ("The Imperial Gardens' beauty is but a pale, insignificant shadow of the Tsaritsa's own.")

The slave girl 198A2 shifted, shaking her head as Josh Higginbotham blinked and the fog lifted away. Josh shivered as he remembered herself, and Mistress smiled, resetting her implant to English. "Sorry for the bitch act. Do you all remember who you are?" Around Josh, Mistress' slave girls nodded, and Mistress said, "Oi, then, to business. You have been trained, minimally, as slave girls. Once we finish the next two stages of training, you'll be reverted to a slave girl, shipped out, run through at least two slave houses for further training and to deepen your cover identities as captured slaves, before being deployed to your assigned planets. Now then, let me tell you why I disabled your voices, and why you continue to wear those gags. Like to be out of them, righty-o?" Josh tried to whimper, and found she couldn't. "There are several reasons, among them is to remind you of your status of slave. The others are to simplify feeding and transport, you'll be shipped as cargo in one of our undercover slave ships, but also you will be learning wandless and silent magic." She grinned, "Thought we'd forgotten that?" She conjured a chair and took a seat, crossing her booted feet. "Move round, slaves, so you can all see me." She waited a minute as the girls shifted position. "Good. You will be working undercover, and we cannot give you several years worth of training in magic in just a few short weeks, or even months. What we can do is to hit the high points: concealment, detection, tracking, healing and killing." She looked around, "Yes, killing. If you need to take out a sentry or a guard, you can do it silently and painlessly, with minimal fuss." She stretched out her feet, the spike heel of one of her boots twisting side to side. "This brings up another point or two. Your installed kit is not the same as that of other slave girls. For instance, your collar will only transmit locally, a hundred meters at most. That means that checkpoints will be able to read your collar and implants, but the satellites in orbit cannot. That transmitter can be blocked by steel or concrete if you need to hide. If you're on the run with a group of slave girls, hide them underground, in a sewer or storm drain, and there are ways you can make a scarf into a Faraday cage to block their collar transponders."

Josh listened as her Mistress continued. "We have built in to your Enhancement a few features that are decidedly not installed in other slave girls. For instance, you should be able to call up a mental image of your Enhancement control panel." Josh looked inside his mind and found it. He nodded with the other slave girls, and Mistress said, "Should you be captured and undergoing torture with no hope of rescue, you can kill yourself. The first suicide method is the old poison tooth. As you're gagged now, you can't access that, but you would break it with your upper molar teeth, then bite down hard on it. Fifteen seconds later," and she waved her hand. "The second method is if you're bound as you are now. First and ring fingers, gently now, feel in the heel of your palm (she demonstrated) for some curved sections. Push all four fingertips toward your wrist simultaneously. That will release a neurotoxin, it is a slower method. A minute, no more." She waited, hoping none of them would actually do it. "Third option. If you cannot use your fingers, if they're broken for instance, call up your control panel in your mind. With your virtual mouse, go to the status tab. Change the status to 'free' and tap it three times with your mouse. That will set off explosive charges behind your heart, under your Enhancement control board, and behind your eyes in the center of your brain. You will most assuredly be dead, then." She waited nervously to see if any of the girls would do so. Before her, the girls themselves looked about.

After a minute or two, Mistress exhaled, then said. "Right. Moving on. The next step is to be able to release yourself from your cuffs. Girl, come here a mo and stand, back to me, please." Josh did so, and Mistress ran her hands down the lattice of metal that she wore on her lower arms. "We had a problem in where to conceal a wand on a naked, bound slave girl. Thirty centimeters or so of wood would be out of place on her. We then realized that not all wands are wood, that metal wands, while unusual, still work. The problem is with the cores and the metals themselves. The wand acts as a focus and makes spellcasting somewhat easier. For you girls, as your focus will be primarily wandless and silent spells, that means you will only need a wand for precise, short distance spells. You will also not need to unlearn several years of wand-waving habit."

"However, first you need your arms free. First, try to free your arms – move about as you need to." Josh stepped away, crouching and trying to force her arms apart, then tried to twist them. Around her, the other slave girls were doing the same type of thing, some kneeling, a few on their belly and twisting back toward their ankles. Mistress waited, and then said, "Once you've given up, come resume Inspection and I'll show you the trick." Panting slightly, Josh knelt before Mistress, again in the House Slave position, arms still tightly cuffed behind her and attached to her slave belt. Mistress waited, then said, "You can do this when you're standing as well. When you have the trick, and can do it several times, then high kneel, and I'll show you what to do when you have a padlock on them. It unfortunately will not work with anything that does not have a locking mechanism, so if it's riveted or tied on, you're out of luck." She drew her wand, "Ready? This will be your first spell, the unlocking charm, Alohomora."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, June 30, 2003: 07:30 (UTC +9:30)
Terra, Northern Territory, Camp Katherine:
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"The General will see you now," the receptionist told Susan, and she nodded, and proceeded on.

"Good morning, sir," Susan said, and the General nodded, shaking her hand and waving her to a chair. She smoothed her skirt and sat, and he asked, "How is your project going?"

"There have been a few snags, sir. The first phase is complete, getting the subjects to think of themselves as slave girls. I must say that I'm not happy with the brutality shown by the trainer."

"Should she be replaced?"

"No, sir. First, she hasn't exceeded her specified guidelines, second, this is well within the expected norms the girls will experience as slaves when they're on assignment, and third, they are Special Forces Intelligence and other military services, notably the Russian Spetznaz, have even harsher training than we're giving them, especially in their SERE (9) programs. The girls do have three different methods to suicide, and I was quite nervous they would take them when I was briefing them on those methods." She sighed, "No, sir, it's my own comfort level."

"You would recommend continuing the program?"

"Yes, sir. We have enough new girls to use a new cell now, so I was going to start rotating groups of girls through the four cells. We budgeted two months per group, that should allow us to eventually start rotating girls through different planetary cultures, and actually give them some home leave."

General Shimesa grunted. "But not yet."

"No, sir. We need to get them through the basic magic course, then the fieldcraft training. After that, they're shipped to Eunomia, where they're loaded into one of our undercover slave ships, the Taalah, then shipped to the planet Tosul, where we have a very discreet contract with a slave house. There, the girls will be run through more covert training, which helps to build their cover."

"Training in what?" he asked.

"The slave house believes that the girls are to be used as undercover security for a planet's secret police, and we haven't denied it. Apparently it's a fairly common tactic, as is using a shell company for internal security, sir. In any case, they will be brought up to scratch, slave – training wise, with training in general housekeeping as well as sexual practices, slave dance, and so forth."

"So what is our training for, then?"

"To get them used to the idea of slavery, and conditioning them as slave girls. Galactics see slaves every day, and interact with them – we don't. For instance, some girls are kept gagged or hobbled by their masters, so we need to have ours be able to wear restraints such as those beautifully and without apparent discomfort. Remember, we're to be using them in a culture where slaves are a common fact of life. They need training on the subtle clues on the general slave culture, so they can look at another slave girl and read her status by her collar lights and the colours and cut of her clothing and any restraints she might be wearing. When they look at one of our girls, they will be presenting the image we wish to present."

She passed over several stapled pages. "This is the curriculum, sir. For instance, the cage – style arm restraints they wear serve several functions. Not only to restrain the slave, but also as a social status indicator for her owner, as well as to conceal her wand. They have several piercings, nipples ears and septum (she tapped her nose), because different planets require rings or bells there, and the piercings were easy enough to do. Right now, they're half-way down page three, sir, and they're having some difficulties doing silent casting. The girls are still gagged, and I've used Enhancement to disable their voices, but there is some schedule slip built in. Wandless and silent is more difficult than spoken and with a wand, but they'll get there."

"I see. Sexual training?"

"Slaves are used sexually, sir."

"Ah. Yes. Yes, what are we looking to do with these girls?"

"Sir, that would depend on the planet, but the general plan is …"

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Monday, June 30, 2003: 08:28 (UTC)
Hour 396.28/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, HIM offices:
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"Good morning, and welcome back to Luna," Mattie stood from behind her desk, greeting the Red Cross members. "I hope you had a pleasant flight."

"We did, thank you," the Swiss woman said as hands were shaken, coffee and tea were poured, and business got underway.

"The Charles Albanel was to do a system survey," the Russian said as they settled around the coffee table. "What was the results?"

"Somewhat anti-climactic," the Empress replied. "I have maps and such for each of you on CD; we did find a source of natural gas on one of the moons, so that's good. We'll install one of our bolt-together refineries there, and ship out containers of natural gas, which also gives us a economic source for our prison colony. The locals had been using wood, coal, and charcoal, and had primarily steam powered equipment and DC electrical service in town. Outside the town, the various farmsteads used windmills for power. We've negotiated with the town of Phips' government, such as it is, and published open offers for land buyouts. We'll be merging the small individual farms into larger ones with a corporate ownership, as it is now, the owners can barely feed themselves. We'll also be diversifying and rotating the crops and livestock, and running water and electricity to the different farms and fields."

"Good. How are you doing that, with the POWs?" the silver haired Italian delegate asked.

"We're setting up a private company for utilities. I did mention the captured slavers in our last meeting?"

"Yes, and I said then, and I'll say now, give them the Barbie treatment, Enhancement and a collar," the Russian said. "Use them for the dirty work." The other two nodded, the Swiss woman nodding, "Put their former slaves in charge of them."

The Empress nodded. "We have roughly twelve hundred or so slavers from the first fleet, around five thousand from the second fleet in our Queensland camp. No escaped slaves turned pirates in either group, so that's our Barbie labor force, and we have some large draft animals, called shonnen, that we can use, and what's called single wire return for electricity we're using in several of our other colonies. We can build or convert buildings to substations and pump houses every twenty kilometers or so. As for the existing, local slaves, that's more of a problem. They are private property, so really all we can do at this point is to offer to buy them. Right now, Phips is struggling, their economy is based on laundering the pirate's stolen cargos and collaring captured persons."

"You could say that's what we'll be doing," the Swiss woman commented.

"We buy what we need, and pay market value and cash," Ms. Wayne replied. "They are dealing with stolen merchandise and kidnapped private citizens. The various slavers and pirates were not happy when the Charles Albanel showed up. She's 1.2 kilometers long, and the largest pirate there was a light cruiser, a tenth her size. We made it clear that we didn't particularly care for slavers, but we'll still need to utilize some of their techniques in dealing with the personnel we've captured." She took a contemplative swallow of coffee. "We will have them treated reasonably well, even paid Guild rates, but they'll still be wearing our collars." She took another swallow, "So, would you like to see the revised maps?"

"So we have the revised map of the blue moon Foley, and the island of Phips. We now have accurate mapping. This is a topographic map of Phips, which has some additional data, primarily being in the town itself and the road and rail network. Phips is a fairly hilly, roughly round island with an area of about one hundred twenty thousand square kilometers, about the same as the Falklands. North here at the top. We have the addition of a rail line, both passenger and cargo, with various spurs, here, here, and along this river. Roughly 1850's general tech level, so steam engines with passenger terminals here at the town of Phips on the northeastern side, and along here at the larger villages of Goode, which is a logging town, Power, which is the coal and gravel mines, and Riverside, which has some fish farms. The road network pretty much follows the rail line, being primarily dirt or gravel. We don't know what working conditions are in the mine, or for the gravel pit, but since they're worked by slaves, we can assume that it's not very healthy. Same thing for the farms, worked by slaves, as I said, family farms, about a total of twenty five thousand square kilometers."

"How is that worked by fifteen hundred people?"

"That's fifteen hundred free persons. Slaves do the actual work, roughly a ten or twenty-to-one ratio. Lesser in town, about a three to five-to-one ratio. Freshly captured slaves are 'broken-in' to their collars here before they're sold off-world, so about twenty-five to fifty thousand slaves in addition to the thirty-five hundred free population. Questions on the island of Phips?"

"The local slave population?"

"Is privately owned, as I said. The only real things we can do is to treat our 'slaves' (she finger-quoted) better and pay them, and buy the others when they come up for sale. Slaves that pirates and the slavers don't find economical to biosculpt or sell, like males, are sent to the mines and worked to death. We do have some tentative plans for that, but social reform is not the primary reason we're there." She tapped the large map, "Questions?"

"What are those plans?"

"Tentatively, as I said, to force an economic takeover. The mines are owned by a consortium of different slave houses, and by selling a competing energy source, natural gas, at or below cost, we can take market share, and do a hostile takeover. They seem to have missed out on hydropower, even though they're using a system of pools, canals and dams for field irrigation. However, those are very preliminary plans, we'll have to get a better feel for the political and economic terrain on Phips. We do know that there isn't a branch of Lantern Bank there, so that will be one of our first moves, to have our own Gringotts Bank establish a branch there." She tapped the large map again, "Other questions?" The three from the Red Cross were silent, and she turned the page.

"The town of Phips. Runs northeast to southeast, curving around this bay, which is the fishing port, with the local dockyard. Landing field is here on the southwest of the bay, with warehouses, slave pens and the associated buildings. Perimeter wall for security around the port and landing field, the town is also walled. We don't know why, unless it's for security; there's the usual collar sensors and whatnot aboard the orbiting station. Warehouses along here, some of them rather decrepit. Should be no problem to buy a few and refurbish or rebuild them for our uses. The town's 'industrial' (she finger-quoted) section is here, to the northwest of the port, along with bars and cheap transient hotels. Housing along here, going up in quality, then declining again, commercial section along with more slave pens, the small town hall and various buildings here, then the railroad station and associated yards here at the northeast end of town. It is a normal thing to see coffles of chained slaves marched along the main street, to and from the port, the slave market and the railroad station. Questions about the town of Phips?"

"Collar sensors?"

"One of the ways to keep control of slaves. A slave collar has a transmitter that identifies the collar, and thus the slave who is wearing it. If someone wants to know where their slave is during the day, they just query the orbiting receiver, and it can give a location, usually at five minute intervals, and to within five meters." The Swiss woman nodded, as the Tsaritsa continued, "This can also be used to determine which slaves were involved in slave riots, demonstrations, uprisings, and so forth. It removes the cloak of anonymonity, so the slaves can be punished appropriately."

"So how would we be using them?"

"Similar to the slavers, only this would be a capture collar, not a slave collar. I admit, there's not a whole lot of difference between the two." The Swiss woman nodded, and the Tsaritsa changed pages, "This is a design for a typical camp. We have a team of people doing land surveys for meadows and fields near navigable rivers, we might need secondary supply camps, or to enlarge some camps beyond the 1500 person design." She gestured, "Outer admin camp here, along the riverbank with docks and so forth. Power generation and distribution, water treatment, storage, camp admin, medical and security are here. Residential barracks are here, in the middle camp, along with the sewage treatment. That supplies fertilizer for the greenhouses and vegetable gardens."

"Those are walled," the Italian delegate commented.

"A three meter palisade, with electrified fence outside that, and around the whole camp. We want to keep local critters from getting at the crops, and give some additional security for when the personnel are inside, resting. They can extend that around their fields and various outbuildings if they want. The main security for the fields, though, are the irontip hedges. Fast growing and very strong, so the fields should be safe from the larger local beasts."

"What of those?"

"That survey is still incomplete, as is the report on local fish in the rivers. However, they did report a small deer analog, roughly the size of a Great Dane, and a catfish analog, which they are thinking of fish-farming. There are apparently some small lake chains that look good for that." She stepped back from the table, "We've been briefing in sub-admiral En'das, the senior POW, and the five staffers we're allowing him. He's going to have an office in Phips, probably near the port, and he has made some comments and modifications to these plans."

(1): The Koppen climate code. This one is a Dfb.
(2): TDY: Temporary DutY: A short-duration assignment away from your currently-assigned post.
(3): BOQ: Bachelor Officer's Quarters. Used for housing temporarily-assigned personnel.
(4): CIC: Combat Information Center.
(5): FLOTUS: First Lady Of The United States.
(6): Grouser: a vertical cleat on a track, it increases traction in loose material like snow or sand.
(7): Instituto: High school (mandatory education in Spain)
(8): DBA: Doing Business As: also known as a fictitious name.
(9): SERE: Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape

~30~