The Magical Bat VI:
#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.
Copyright 2013 - 2014 Kara Anne Kalel: karanne AT gmail DOT com. All rights reserved. No money is made, and no infringement is implied or intended.
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) ), Magical Bat V, and Magical Bat: Imperial Trip (5.5).
A/N: I tried, I really did, to have this posted for the 2013 Holidays. I couldn't. Sorry!
A/N: This features scenes of ground combat, including artillery. You have been warned.
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For disclaimers, please see above.
Chapter II: 1 November ~ 31 December 2003
Saturday, November 1, 2003: 00:06 (relative)
Des, Orbit One (station):
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The watch officer cursed fluently. The system was being invaded, the incoming stream of warships flowing in and then spreading out. He needed information, damn the Source, the invaders were jamming his system monitoring sensors, which left him to rely on the tiny ships of the Assistance Fleet. Never great in number, they were normally tasked to aid ships in distress and enforce the anti-smuggling laws. Now, when they approached the incoming warships, they were only able to transmit a few seconds before going off-comms. The other small ships, realizing this meant their probable deaths, and knowing that they had no chance of standing up to warships, did not answer comm calls.
Spinning, he turned to his comm slave, "I want to speak to the watch officer in the system of Ewan."
"My master, this slave is informed that comm link is disabled by outside forces. The comm section is working to re-establish …" there was a jarring shock and a new alarm started. "What was that?"
"This slave does not know, my master."
Major Tony Smythe smiled to himself through his vac armour. His Marines were well on their way to taking the primary station's command section, while the poor Army bastards were just getting their bit underway. With the ship jamming everything she could of the enemy's comms … he smiled evilly. Unfortunately, he couldn't be up front with the lead elements, he had to sit back and command. No fun a' t-all …
"Airdale six, this is Abbey six. Secured comm section, you can move in."
"Abbey six, Airdale six. Thank your people for me." Whoever came up with the idea of using car marques for code names … He shook his head. At least his assigned marques were properly British. "All Airdales, Airdale six. Let's move in, mates."
Kathy Higginbotham waited with the others in her assault force. She was watching the feed from the nose of her landing craft as it fell toward their target, and she took a deep breath. "I can't believe I'm actually doing this," she said over the tank's intercom.
"I keep seeing my family," Frankie replied. "My friends and neighbors, they're now dust on the wind, and my home in Paris is now a deep hole in the ground. I will follow orders, but I want revenge."
"We will help you gain it," Oskar said as the vibration of the assault craft shook their tank.
Kathy tightened her straps, "I can't believe we'll have an unopposed landing. Nobody's shooting at us – don't they know we're here?"
"Don't complain," Oskar replied as the tank jolted. He added, somewhat un-necessarily, "Look, the fighter-bombers have done their work," as fires and columns of smoke arose from the night-draped city below.
"Thirty seconds," Frankie said, assuming his identity of Vehicle Commander Corporal Rabat. "Prep the explosive bolts. We're first, so we don't get out, the others don't either. ID panels on the back?"
"Checked our ID panels before we closed hatches, and the explosive bolts three different vehicle teams checked before we left," Oskar replied. "That would be embarrassing if they didn't go off." The hold-down chains secured the vehicles to the deck of the assault craft, with the infantry ready to run out in support. For now, they were strapped into jump seats on either side of the cargo bay. Their target, a road intersection, was a few hundred meters from the communication building, a large building that housed the government broadcast stations as well as the newspaper and other periodicals. It wasn't too far from the buildings for the other ministries, so this 'heavy' brigade, with a number of Leopard V tanks, was to secure the road network around the government complex. Other brigades would secure other areas and guard against airborne vehicles. Follow-on forces would set up formal roadblocks and other support for the Terran military coup.
With a loud crunch, the craft landed on the deserted highway. With a bang, the ramp dropped, and the infantry streamed out to either side as Kathy waited for the crunchies to clear the ramp. Oskar checked his readouts as the hold-down chains of other vehicles separated, then triggered their own. "Yowsah!" Kathy Higginbotham said as she engaged the drive, and her tank rolled onto an alien planet.
Oskar swiveled the turret around from the travel position over the rear deck as Kathy pivoted, heading for their designated intersection. It was more of a traffic roundabout, with a small central park with flowers and a few benches with a circular table. She parked on the 'northern' side, being careful not to damage the little park, while two of the APCs deployed to block roads. The first of several heavy trucks parked, unchaining the forklifts from the rear, and started to move concrete 'Jersey' barricades into place while the unloaded assault craft closed hatches and silently lifted off.
She couldn't sleep. She got up, throwing on a light gown and entering her small office at the Governor's Mansion. Idly, she flipped through different screens until she came across the system defense display. Horrified, she saw the icons of hostile warships in orbit around her planet, with the defenses still in stand-down mode. Snapping the switch, she demanded, "System Defense, this is T'bani. Why do we have hostile warships around Des?"
The screen cleared, and an obviously terrified junior officer replied, "M … Mistress, we received orders that required the Ministry of Correct Thought to authorize the expenditure of …"
"Enough! We have barrage ships over Des that are launching, and shuttles descending toward the planet from enemy warships. Sound the alert and fire on those ships!"
"Y … yes, Mistress T'bani. It will require several minutes to …" She snapped off the comm and hurried to her quarters, pulling off her gown and heading into the shower. She didn't give a thought about informing her mate, the figurehead leader who slept peacefully down the hallway.
The alarm finally sounded across the city of Des. Planetary Guards were awakened, cursed, and started to make their way to their duty stations, certain this was simply a drill. On the way, they were shocked to see not only the rebelling Red Collar slaves in the streets, but foreign troops. If they survived to reach their stations, their commanders gave them what information was available, and what their orders were. Some secured the government buildings; some were formed up into improvised companies to strike back, while others launched missiles at the orbiting starships. Some missiles existed only on paper, or were non-functional. The functional ones rose toward the orbiting starships, only to be swatted like expensive insects by lasers and counter-missiles.
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Saturday, November 1, 2003: 00:12 (relative)
Ewan, Orbit Prime (station):
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The Imperials were not having such an easy time with the planet of Ewan. First, the intelligence was massively incomplete; second, the slave rebellion had barely gotten off the ground. The local government was concentrating on crushing the slave rebellion by confiscating and re-collaring every slave girl they could get their hands on. The government believed all of them to be supporters of that partially failed slave insurrection; they would crush it by public torture and execution of the recaptured slaves. For now, the slaves were kept in the government's massive underground slave house.
The planetary curfew was still in effect, and the Imperials were able to land mechanized forces to seize control of parts of the city and the road network. While it was still a large city to take, the vast majority of the population were slaves. Of the free population, the only real threat was the Planetary Guard, and while there were still several thousand of them (Imperial estimates ranged from 5,000 all the way to 250,000), they were not trained or equipped as soldiers, much less infantry.
Due to the intelligence failure, a number of the Guard's facilities were unknown. While some things such as the sports complex, the port and the Governor's Palace were visible and identifiable from orbit, the rest of the intelligence came from things like tourist maps and guidebooks.
The city had four main points to take, three of them in a rough 'A' shape. To the 'north' was the Executive complex. This had the sports complex, the Governor's Palace where Mistress T'asa, the defacto ruler lived and worked. This also had the primary Guard barracks, the rubber-stamp legislature, and the housing where the upper crust lived. To the 'southwest' were the various buildings of the government ministries, most of which were interconnected with sky bridges and underground passages. Around this is where the middle class lived. To the 'southeast' was the port, both space and marine, various industrial and commercial facilities, the lower classes' housing, and a road leading to a series of bridges and islands, several hundred kilometers long, with a natural gas plant and refinery worked by prison labor at the extreme end.
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Saturday, November 1, 2003: 00:18 (relative)
Melotte orbit, Station Prime:
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General Ma'arsh cursed fluently. The perimeter trading station had reported incoming hostile naval ships, and then went out of comms. They had said the ships were large and painted white, and then the connection dropped. How many were there? What was their purpose? He didn't know, and the few remaining patrolling rescue ships did not answer. Was this another probe from the 'h'Saaan? He didn't know, they also flew white ships, and had launched probes of his defenses before. Then, he had enough ships and troops to deny them, but now, with the King sending off so many to take the system of 'Dirt', he did not. He cursed again, and then eyed Thought Leader Y'van. "Have you been able to hear from your people?"
"I have not," the political officer replied. "Mind your tongue. There is only so much I cannot hear, and you come close to criticism of our Beloved King."
Ma'arsh nodded, "Gratitude. What are your orders?"
"We cannot do anything to engage the enemy without orders from higher authority." Left unsaid between the two was the knowledge that if they tried, with it being night on the planet below, and the Ministry of Correct Thought in control of the planetary government, they would be fortunate indeed to simply lose their heads. The Ministry of Correct Thought would not appreciate their stepping out of their place, no matter the situation. "We must wait until they reply, and provide guidance."
Admiral Haley Boyd paced her command deck. Originally a WW II-era US Navy officer, one of the first WAVES and a pilot, she had taken advantage of the biosculpt to become young and healthy again. Now commanding from the Fleet Carrier Anne (CVA-012), she wanted to be in a cockpit, instead of on a command deck.
"Report from Sixth Raiders, ma'am," her comm officer said. "The Marines have secured the comm and computer areas of the prime station, and are about to take Primary and Secondary Control." He smiled, "They add, 'Oo-rah', ma'am.
"Glad to see they're excited," Haley replied. "Any snags so far?"
"No, ma'am. Special Forces have lazed the various targets like the armories, and dive-bombers are in approach. Estimate ninety seconds or so."
"Good."
Brenda McCain bent her fighter, 'The Dweeb', over into final approach. Strapped to her fighter's belly were half-a-dozen 250 kg bombs. Stuka flight was configured for dive-bombing today, and her target was a vehicle armory for the enemy's grav tanks. She had seen the specs on the things, and they were nasty packages indeed. Once she dropped her bombs, she could then do some air-to-mud close air support. She had some special rockets if any of the tanks escaped her flight's bombs.
"Stuka six, I have illumination and capture of the target," her flight leader said from ahead of her. A second later, she replied, "Stuka three, I have illumination and capture as well." The rest of Stuka flight confirmed targeting, and she could hear other flights, assigned other targets, and behind her, just starting their drop, were the assault craft loaded with the Army's tanks and troops.
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Saturday, November 1, 2003: 08:00 (relative)
Des, City of Des, Governor's Palace:
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"What do we know?" T'bani demanded of her Guard Commander.
"Mistress, the enemy is known as the Terran Empire," he replied. "We do not know of them. However, they are allegedly counter-attacking from the Republic's attack on one of their planets. The only attack I know of is the one on Dirt, ordered by our beloved King." He glanced down the table at 'Lord Chichester', the head of Correct Thought and their spymaster.
"This is true, they are apparently behind the Red Collar slave revolt, having supplied arms and training," 'Chichester' said. "They are using the Red Collar slaves as local intelligence, and with the Terran's apparent backing, they have started to massacre free persons, their owners and masters." The rest of the people at the conference table looked nervous - one thing feared was a slave revolt, as they were vastly outnumbered. 'Chichester' continued, "They have also placed a naval blockade in the system and taken over our space-based infrastructure, our satellites and stations. They have …"
"Blockade?" One extremely obese man was sweating. "Does that mean that my yacht …"
"Will probably not clear orbit," the Guard Commander replied. He had never liked the man. "Yes, you're trapped here with us, and since your business is slaves …" He grinned to himself. "No, I do not have sufficient personnel to guard each and every one of you, and your estates. Run for it, and we'll find out how far you get."
"We have sent out six message drones to Aeeloh," 'Chichester' said. "Hopefully at least one will get through. However, we cannot gain reliable information beyond high orbit, where the blockade starts; the FTL line is past that. We can only send them off and pray to the Source."
The Guard Commander nodded to an aide, who put up a large map of the city. "I have needed to send off most of my Guard to aid in the King's attack on Dirt. As such, with the blockade, we cannot expect reinforcements; we are on our own. For now, we must deprive the enemy of the slaves, this is why I have ordered the Guard stations around the Government Complex reinforced, and to continue, and expedite, the confiscation of slaves and their transfer to our slave house. We may kill …"
"NO!" the obese slaver objected. "You will destroy my profit!"
"Then guard your slaves yourself," the Commander replied. "That will save a thousand Guardsmen that I can use elsewhere. For now," he gestured to the large map, "the port complex is mostly in enemy hands, as is the Ministry complex along with water and sewer. We retain the Government complex, including power generating. However, the enemy controls the primary communication building at the Ministry."
"What of it?" the slaver dismissed the concern with a wave of his large hand.
"This allows them to spread their lies and un-truths," 'Chichester' said. "If they can control the Red Collar slaves, preventing them from murdering their owners, they can control the economy and the government." He sighed, "We must use secondary communications, not only to communicate with our Guard forces, but to counter their lies with the truth. It is a secondary war, the war for the minds of the population."
"One other thing," the Guard Commander said. "There is a report from Aeeloh that Lord De'war communicated with the Terran Queen. She reportedly told him that she would collect the heads of the Republic's Governors; otherwise they would boil the seas and turn the land into glass." He glanced at T'bani, adding, "She didn't want the rest of the bodies."
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Saturday, November 1, 2003: 08:20 (relative)
Ewan, City of Ewan:
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The red-collared slave 198a2 was bound and stretched, wrists and ankles pulled on a steel rail; available for any passing master to beat. Her sweat burned the lash-marks on her body as she waited for her next beating. She was one of the captured rebellious red-collared slaves, placed here so any angry (and fearful) free person could take their rage and fear out on her. One had explained to her that they were using a broad-bladed slave whip, which would be extremely painful for her, but give minimal 'marking' to her body. This was to retain her resale value. All she could do was wait and think, wearing a steel mask over a tight slave hood, gag, and blindfold, with her hands and feet locked inside other steel balls. 'At least I've got regular food and suction,' she thought. She could hear the sounds of people passing, the rustle and clink of slave chains, and could feel the occasional vibration of a pump attached to her slave belt for suction. A hand would occasionally grope her breast and the attached bells, and would comment on what they would do to her if they owned her: 'their' rebellious, red-collared slave. Some of the descriptions were creative. 'I wonder what's happening with Kathy and Mom and Dad?' she wondered.
Private Heather Hause and her buddy Sandra O'Reilly lay on their bellies. Behind them a BMD-3 burned, victim of the plasma gun of a hover tank. The crew and the infantry squad aboard had been flash-cooked, but the paint and other consumables still burned, and occasionally something cooked off with a bang. Not far behind them, a Leopard V tank simulated destruction by using smoke grenades, and by very slowly moving into position to fire. They had learned that the main 'gun' of a hover tank was a very fancy plasma generator, with various shield generators. Various delicate generators. Getting close enough to disable that generator was the problem, without getting anyone else killed.
The enemy tank turned and fired at a location. The enemy crew knew as well as they did that this was kill-or-be-killed. Heather thought that Teena Young was over there, and she whispered, "Tee. You okay?"
"Yeah. Zee had a near miss, though. Burn on her right arm. Can we distract those bastards?"
"Throw a grenade at them?"
"Only with lots of overhead cover. Do a rush?"
"What kind of distraction?"
"I can see an RPG that looks intact," Sandra put in. "I'm going to make my way to it, then work my way around the BMD. The heat should mask my thermal signature. If I can take out that bloody plas-gun we can take the bastards."
"I am in good cover," the upper-crust Boston voice of Kiera Winton put in. "I can 'spray and pray' as part of Sandra's distraction. I have not seen anything like a machine gun on the device."
"We've got them bore sighted and lased in," someone from the tank put in. "We're also running out of regular smoke, and then we'll have to go to colored smoke, which will look funny. Between the RPG and us we should be able to trash that plas-gun. Then you can drop a grenade or two in the crew compartment and we can move on."
"Give me a minute to get to that RPG. Kiera, if you can 'spray and pray', I'd appreciate it. On three. One. Two. Three …"
Kiera as well as her wing Jasmine held out their P90's and held down the trigger in full auto, pointing them at the enemy tank. The turret came around, Sandra sprinting at the RPG, grabbing it on the run, and then dropping to one knee as the containment field started to crackle. They knew there were about five seconds before the bolt of star-hot plasma emerged, when the Leopard V fired its main gun, while Sandra's shot curved off, hitting the side of the tank and blowing a hole in it. The plasma cannon exploded, fire coming up and shooting out the hole in the side. The enemy tank started to shudder as it burned; they heard some short screams, and then another explosion.
"Damn. I missed," Sandra complained.
"You cooked the crew compartment," Heather commented. "Now we don't have to waste grenades on it."
"It's not like we're paying for the grenades. We like you ladies," the TC said. "Shall we work together?"
"Yo. You should see us at a fuckin' tea party," Jasmine said. "We rock the fuckin' Bronx."
"No doubt. I can just see you all with white lace gloves, sipping tea and eating dainty sandwiches," the TC said. "We need to party sometime. Let's boogie down the road and see if we can knock on the Governor's door." The TC's hatch opened, and he waved. "Pile on, ladies. One of you needs to connect through the phone on the back. We have a ten meter blind spot around us, so keep your eyes open, please." There was the rattle of a machine gun ahead, and the TC said, "Some of our people need help. Watch the exhaust ports, they get really hot."
"I do not believe this," Guardian Sa'arnow said as he carefully looked down the green passageway toward the enemy. "We, who have never hurt anyone, have been invaded by barbarians!"
"What is worse is that they have the absurdity of female troops, who should be properly collared and kneeling at a master's feet," his friend Po'os replied. He held his weapon out as he lay in the grass alongside Sa'arnow. Behind them, helping to secure the Government complex was one of the few (mostly) functional grav tanks with its crew. They had been told that their maintenance slaves were severely beaten in order to gain functionality for other units. Incredibly, some Guardians at the equipment depot had been sent away because of the non-functionality and missing parts!
The two of them looked down the passageway as they heard an approaching vehicle. Behind them, the grav tank turned toward the vehicle. A whistle, and then a string of explosions around the grav tank. It shuddered, then caught fire and exploded with a loud BOOM, sending fire and thick smoke into the sky. Both of them found themselves standing, jaws open, watching as the large, powerful vehicle shuddered and burned, unable to tear themselves away from the sight.
"Pretty, isn't it?" a female's voice said. "By the way, you can surrender or die where you stand." The two of them slowly turned, seeing hands of the enemy's female troops, spread out with weapons ready and pointed at them. Po'os looked at them, then at where his own weapon lay, a few meters away, under the boot of one of the females.
"I shall repeat. You may surrender or you may die," the cultured tones of the female said. "Your choice, but I do not have all day."
"Surrender? To a female? Are you not sane?" Sa'arnow demanded, forgetting his weapon and bringing up his club to start a proper instructional beating.
"That be a 'no'", Jasmine said, and dropped him with a three round burst in the chest. The other female shifted slightly to one side, and raised her head slightly in question. "Your decision?"
"You … you killed him!"
"Indeed. Step aside, please. For the third and final time, surrender or die?"
He turned to watch, Sa'arnow's body had been dragged to the side, and the darker-skinned female had … they all had rows of … of skin flaps hanging from the bottom of their shields. He watched the female use a long knife to separate the skin from the top of Sa'arnow's face … He turned and collapsed to his knees and was sick in the grass.
"Will you … will you do that to me?"
"Not if you surrender. You will be questioned by our intelligence people and then sent to our prison planet. If you don't … does it matter?"
"No. No it doesn't," Po'os replied. "What would you have me do?"
Sgt. Carter swallowed nervously as he advanced down the dim corridor. He was underground, working his way through the enormous government slave house. At least fifty levels, built to hold half-a-million slaves, only certain areas were lit. Every few meters, he passed another heavily barred slave cell. Every so often, there were the ramps that slaves would take on their way up or down to the sales block in the slave house or for the weekly sales in the planetary stadium. The top underground levels held 'special' slaves and those scheduled for sale. Not surprisingly, slave sales had been halted, with hooded slaves chained wherever they could be secured. Unfortunately, the listings of slave locations were not computerized, but paper-based, and the location of a particular slave were not always known. That meant they would have to inventory each slave cell and make certain they didn't miss any.
With a whistle and 'thump', the corridor shook, and Sgt. Carter checked his watch. He was in one of the best places at the moment. Above, the enemy had improvised a blockade while they massed their remaining forces behind it. He smiled; they had no experience with artillery.
Aboveground, the Terran Infantry and Armor had pulled back from the barricade, made of various vehicles parked in lines with an occasional hover tank parked there for fire support. Lying on the roofs of buses and trucks were Guardsmen who took occasional shots at the Terrans. Behind them, other tanks were laagered together along with command tents, vehicles, and so forth. Behind that were the various government offices including the Governor's complex, where Mistress T'asa was supposedly watching. However, the kilometers long triangular reflecting pool was unfortified and remained filled with water, with the fountains fully functional.
In the FDC(1), near the Terran's space-head, the General nodded. "Our boys and girls are safe. Start the music."
"Yes, sir." He checked one last time, and then as the clock's second hand approached, he said, "Fire."
Field artillery has been called 'the god of war' for a very good reason. There is nothing else that delivers so much firepower on so precise a target so quickly.
Having no experience on the receiving end of artillery, the Planetary Guard had no defenses. No overhead cover (not that it would have made any difference) and the only concealment was tents. The barrage was arranged as a 'Time on Target', which means everything arrived within microseconds of each other. The hover tanks and the grav tanks were concentrated together, parked neatly, with their crews nearby enjoying the morning. There were no slaves nearby, as they did not trust slaves, who might be informing the Terrans or planning a revolt. With no warning other than a whistle, high explosive shells exploded among the parked tanks, turning them into flaming wreckage, with the shrapnel killing and maiming the crews. Other shells impacted the improvised barricade, turning it into twisted, burning steel, killing those Guardsmen who had minutes ago been sniping at the Terrans.
The barrage continued, fifteen and twenty centimeter shells continuing to explode as the barrage walked back and forth, front to back. Among the high explosive were 'beehive' anti-personnel rounds designed to kill unprotected troops. With a 'whoosh' high explosive rockets appeared, adding to the death toll of untrained Planetary Guardsmen as the artillery worked over the vehicles. After what seemed like hours the barrage moved away from the front, working its way through the panicking rear area troops, towards the Executive complex, where Mistress T'asa was standing, mouth open in shock as her Planetary Guard was destroyed. The barrage moved away, leaving her residence untouched, with only smoke moving, the water dancing from the fountains in the reflecting pool, untouched but for the dead bodies' tendrils of blood slowly tinting the water pink.
"Come, Mistress, we must get away!" her personal bodyguard urged, and she let him pull her away. They moved through the complex toward her reserved craft, only to stop when they saw it. The spacecraft parked there were burning and riddled with holes. "Come, Mistress, we can go …"
"Go? Go where?" she demanded. "They control the air, the ground and space. I can hide from them like a frightened slave girl, but they will find me. They will post a reward, a rich reward that will have every free person and every slave on the planet looking for me, and in the end, they shall find me." She shook her hair back, "No. Contact the Terran commander. I shall arrange surrender, but they will not gain me." She turned to look, "I will have one final duty for you. They will not take me alive."
"Yes, my mistress," he replied, realizing that he held good cards in this game. An extremely valuable female that was unarmed and vulnerable. He could almost count the tungsten now. "I know a place with good comms that is secure. We will go there."
Ta'asst watched in horror as the mighty collection of Guardsmen, their weapons, and their vehicles were transformed in seconds from a formidable force that would crush the Terran invaders and properly collar their females into flaming, twisted scrap. At the first whistle, he had instinctively thrown himself under a sturdy vehicle, working his way to its center. He watched as ripples of whistling fire centered again and again around the vehicle parks, causing explosions and death as white-hot fragments were thrown out, cutting arms and legs off men, knocking them down where they lay in the dirt and mud, screaming in agony, blood soaking their grey uniforms. Others lay still, while he could see from his location his friend Fa'alk, his head almost submerged in the fountain, his blood spurting and bubbling from the cut that had almost separated his head, the water turning pink with his blood.
The whistling attacks worked their way up and down the line, destroying vehicles, when with a moaning sound, additional explosions appeared, these bursting thirty meters or so in the air, producing a rattling metallic rain on the vehicle he cowered under. These targeted the open area between the barricade and the Guard's camp, cutting down any who tried to flee the slaughter. He could see thousands of hands of bodies, burning vehicles by the dozens of hands, the screams of the injured were deafening, along with the whistle and moan of the incoming explosions.
He had to move, to get away from this place of death, and slowly, carefully, he escaped from under the vehicle. He knew to try to take it would invite the whistling death, so he worked his way out of the zone of death and past the Governor's Palace. He briefly considered going to the nearby Guard barracks, but a brief start and a long look convinced him that was not a good idea. The building was aflame all along its length as the whistling death visited the large building. He started toward the Governor's vehicle park, but it had been visited by the whistling death as well. Bright blue flames from hydrogen tanks engulfed the park, along with thick smoke as things burned.
He saw a few other escaping Guardsmen on the city's streets; some had discarded parts of their uniform in order to attempt to fool the roving bands of red-collared slaves who had captured free masters. He approached several Guard stations, but they were either burning, or collapsed with numbers of the red-collared slaves outside. Guardsmen hung from street lamps, he watched as one was hung from a lamp while the slaves insulted him, laughing and applauding as he hung by his neck, twisting and fighting for his life.
Public transport was not working, so he had to walk across the city. He hid from roving bands of red-collared slaves, watching as they brutally killed free masters; he did not understand this; their anger.
"Slave? I have arrived. Prepare me a strong drink; I have had a horrible day and must consider my choices," Ta'asst said as he finally arrived at the sanctuary of his home. He peeled off the outer layers of his uniform, dropping them on the floor and paying no attention to his slave, who was, after all, only a slave.
"Yes, my master. This slave obeys," she replied, picking up the filthy outer layers of his uniform and stripping off the accessories. "Does my master prefer a wine or a blended drink?"
He paused with his hand on a door and thought. "Blended. Strong and a large quantity." He bent to pull off his boots, dropping them also. "Clean all that and have it ready for next day. We shall continue to crush the arrogant Terran invaders then." Privately he wondered if the Guard had any forces left, but he didn't admit it. He was the slave's owner, and didn't want to give her any ideas; he didn't know if he would take her with him while he planned his escape.
"Yes, my master. This slave obeys; this slave shall bring my master's drink shortly." He grunted and entered his home office; glancing in the direction of his private, secure strongbox before he stepped into the privacy of his cleansing chamber.
From his bath, he addressed his attending slave: "It has been decided that I shall need to travel in order to assist in interrogating some of the thousands of hands of Terran slaves we have taken." He lied, he had decided to flee, a friend had a small, private space-yacht. "Pack two bags for me, one of several civilian clothes, the other of my uniforms." He could abandon that bag if necessary. "You will clean and organize the home; I shall leave you with a slave house for the duration." Later, if they sold her for unpaid holding fees, he did not care - he would be safely off-planet. "I shall gag and bind you for storage later. Have you finished cleaning my uniform?"
"My master, this slave was ordered to attend my master. This slave will clean my master's uniform while my master rests." He grunted and reached for his drink; finishing it. "Another drink, slave."
"Yes, my master."
"Where am I? Slave!" Ta'asst demanded as he woke, soaking wet. "I cannot see! Slave!"
"Yes, my master. This slave assists you. You cannot see because you are blindfolded and bound, my master." She shifted, "My master is currently floating, and will answer questions."
"Questions? I will answer no questions! You are one of the Red Collar rebel slaves, you have betrayed the Republic! Pain, slave! Pain!"
The slave girl calmly said, "Oww. Oww. It hurts, my master," and took a step back, letting Ta'asst sink to the bottom of the small pond. As he sank, he struggled, but his feet were tied above him, and his wrists were shackled behind him. With a gentle bump, his head impacted with the slimy bottom, a few seconds later the rest of his body did. With his fingertips, he could feel the concrete bottom under the slime coating it. He struggled, fighting to free himself, and then trying to fold himself to reach the surface to breathe. He had thought he was in good physical condition, but was unable to reach the surface. He struggled even more violently, and then felt a hand grip his hair and raise him to the surface.
Breaking the surface, he gulped air, gasping. He felt his head nestled between his slave's large breasts, his ears could feel the cool metal of her nipple bells. "My master is now perhaps ready to listen to this slave?"
"You are one of the rebellious Red Collar slaves!"
"This slave is. This slave, as perhaps my master has forgotten, is a captured slave, not a bred slave."
He snorted. "What of it?"
"My master will keep a polite tone or will take another bath, my master," she warned. He coughed, and then grudgingly nodded. "My master may not be aware of this, but before this slave was captured, biosculpted, collared and Enhanced, this slave was an Oompaasi warrior." Ta'asst stiffened; the Oompaasi Empire was noted for the ferocity and the blood honor code of their warriors. It was also known for holding debts until they were paid, in blood and death. That his little slave girl was an Oompaasi …
"This slave realizes that my master is not the coward who surrendered the passenger ship in which my family and I were traveling. This slave also realizes that this slave is unlikely to find this slave's family and the pirates and slaver involved. This slave understands that my master simply purchased this slave in the public slave market."
"I … I was not aware," Ta'asst said carefully.
"This slave assumes that the information was available in this slave's documentation?"
"Likely," Ta'asst admitted. "I never looked. You were an attractive slave and within my budget. I was quite young at the time, you will recall."
"Truth and this slave is grateful that my master did not sell this slave as the years passed." Her master nodded, and she continued. "This slave does not like the fact that my master had this slave Enhanced, but concedes that in a reversal, this slave would have probably done the same." Her master let out his breath, the Oompaasi were also known to be fair-minded in their honor code.
"I recall that the procedure was a year-turn promotion with one of the larger slave houses," he admitted. "I did it as a gift to myself, it was a good year."
"It also means that this slave can never be freed of this slave's collar," she agreed. "That was unlikely even if this slave gained a dark collar." She shifted, "Enough of history, my master," and he stiffened. "This slave has considered how the honor debt may be paid. This slave concedes that this slave was treated reasonably well, not punished excessively, and was only lightly beaten. Indeed, beyond this slave's introductory beating, this slave only recalls two other beatings, and is willing to grant my master a fairly quick death." She lightly drew a fingernail across his throat, and he shuddered. "An alternative is to simply release this slave's grip on my master, and let him drown. My master would be dead within a minute or two."
Ta'asst swallowed, "Do I have a choice?"
"Indeed, my master. The Source always provides a choice for those willing to travel the Spiral. While these would provide closure of the personal debt, it would not close the wider debt." Her master raised an eyebrow, and she explained, "That owed for the loss of this slave's family, and this slave's initial capture, collaring, and enslavement. This slave considers that the wider debt may be partially paid by my master answering the Terrans' questions. This slave will also work toward the joining of the Oompaasi Empire with the Terran Empire."
Ta'asst shuddered, and then a thought occurred to him. "One moment - I have two questions. How did you capture me, and when I issued the pain command, you did not react as your collar affected you."
"It did not affect me"; she replied. "The Terrans have a collar slicer. I use the Enhanced speech out of habit, and to maintain my appearance as an obedient slave. As to how I captured you, I placed the contents of two Slave Capsules in your second drink, my master. You are large and strong, thus two Capsules. Two other girls assisted this slave with you, as I assisted with their masters' capture and transport." She moved to the side, and removed the blindfold from his left eye. "Your right eye is non-functional; it was probably injured during your escape." He blinked a few times until she came into focus. "I do not know if it is possible to regrow it; this slave is not a healer." Her right arm moved, her index finger tracing a path on his forehead. "You have a wound, likely from a hot fragment that is inside the eye-place. As this slave said, this slave is not a healer." She shifted, "Watch my collar lights, my master"; and she changed them from the yellow of a common slave, to the green of a government slave, to the red of a permanent slave. "I cannot remove the collar, or my Enhancement, but control of them is sufficient." She closed his blindfold again, "I will show-meet my Terran contact. You will answer her questions to the best of your knowledge, my master."
He felt the water as he was moved to the side of the small water-place, and heard a female's voice. "Greetings. My name is Captain Charles Cornish. That is obviously not my real name. I will say from the start that the Terran Empire does not torture. In fact, I am simply sitting here, enjoying the beautiful day. The birds are singing, there is a cool breeze, and if I happen to ask questions, and someone replies to them …"
"My master, after so many years, this slave can tell when my master speaks falsely," his slave girl warned. "This slave, being Enhanced, cannot speak falsely. Imagine yourself as Enhanced, and speak truthfully. If my master does not know, speak of that, and this slave will not punish my master. However, if false speech is heard, this slave will know, and my master's bathing will continue."
Ta'asst swallowed and nodded. "Understood. I will speak of what I know."
"Excellent!" 'Cornish' said. "I understand that you are one of the senior Greys still alive."
Ta'asst shuddered, "After the whistling and the moaning death, I am surprised any are still alive!"
"We understand that a number of the Guard was sent off planet. How many were left after that?"
The slave's frame had been knocked down, and a burst water pipe was spraying on her. Sgt. Carter picked her up and reseated her frame on the stand, one hand on her crotch, the other across her breasts. She whimpered and moaned, twisting in his grip, and he said (in English) "Don't worry, girl, we'll get you back to your owner," and was gone as she tried to free herself, whimpering. Below her, the suction pump sparked and died in the spray of cold water.
At the port, General McClellan paced. The Imperial Army had taken over the terminal building for a command center, while the supply effort continued. The landings had mostly gone to plan, after that; they had to fight for ground they should have been able to easily take. Still, they had taken some damage, some casualties, although far from worst case. The slave insurrection hadn't taken off, as it should have, although there were reports of slaves taking out their anger on their masters, and then running for it.
Someone on the other side had some military training - the Planetary Guard was acting (somewhat) like actual Infantry. Of course, they were also occupying static defensive positions, which would be a serious mistake with artillery. He just wished he had FIST support - those slave girls were supposed to be his forward observers, and they had pretty much vanished with the Special Forces teams. Now, he had to rely on drones for targeting, and in a built-up, urban area with artillery, that was a recipe for civilian casualties.
"General?" His aide-de-camp stood in the door. "Ready for the briefing, sir." He held the door.
"Let's get to this. I've got a planet to take," the General said, striding to the head of the conference table. He sat and pointed. "One."
"Sir," the Personnel chief replied. "We have most of three brigades down now, and are building secure area camps. Casualties and fatalities have been light, less than a full company, but we've not been able to do a simple coup; the existing government is putting up a fight. We may need to request the reserves, or to move personnel from the Alpha system. They apparently had a walkover."
McClellan grunted. "Two."
Intelligence replied, "Sir, we have to cover ground that the Special Forces and the FIST were supposed to. We're trying to make up by reaching out to the slave girl population, but they don't trust us, and the ones with the MP5s that we provided seem to think we're just a different set of masters - they don't trust us either, even our women. We have some maps, but a lot of it is copied from tourist maps issued by the Port master's office. That doesn't have things like armories, vehicle depots and so forth. Once we know about those, we can precision-bomb them, but until then, we're almost literally reading Michelin maps, and the underground transit system is even worse. There are very few street signs down there."
"Leaves a way for enemy forces to pop up in our rear," Operations put in.
"Precisely, Three," the General agreed. "Where do we stand?"
"Better above-ground than below, sir," he replied. "My biggest worry is snipers, and not pissing off the various slave girl gangs. If we can get them on our side, they'll be a huge intelligence and security asset. If we can't …" he drew a deep breath. "It's going to be the Siege of Leningrad all over again, only we'll be playing Army Group North."
"Wonderful. Out of order, then. Five?"
Plans had the duty of civil/military relations, and she replied, "Sir, we've kicked this possibility around, which is why I want to reshuffle some troops. These slave girls don't trust men, especially armed men, with reason. I want to have female troops interact with them, give them medical and dental care, showers, hot food, and not force them in any way, including trying to disarm them. They finally have a scrap of control over their lives; we cannot appear to be taking that away from them. We can also offer them jobs in which we pay them, in cash. Not a direct deposit to a bank account, or freedom cards like our troops use, but cold, hard cash in the form of scrip. If we pay in scrip, we have to be using it too. We must be polite, courteous, and willing to pay fair market value for both labor and information." She turned to Two, "If you want intelligence, you must be prepared to bargain, and to pay for it."
"We can do that, scrip will be easier to handle," Four, the Logistics officer said. "We have to make sure that scrip is valid everywhere we control. Everywhere." He turned, "Sir, its H + 8:00, and we've still got fourteen freighters to offload. We've gotten the Class Five ships combat-loaded, and the troops have MREs and three days of basic load. We've gotten adapter trailers set up for power, comms, water and sewer, a field hospital, which hasn't been particularly busy …"
"Thank God," someone said.
"Hear, hear," someone else agreed, and the General rapped on the conference room table. "Move up the Class VI personal consumables, and put up some more quarters tents with bunks and air conditioning for any slave girls that want to come talk to us." He gestured at Five, "Make sure they know they can walk in and out at any time, and that we pay for good, confirmed information. Once they can shower, get clean, get some clothing and good food, from any of our units, they'll talk to us." He turned to Operations, "I want that emphasized to our troops. They can come in, eat, shower, sleep without worry, but we'll need to get good information in trade. Now then, Six."
"Sir," the Signals officer said. "We've got secure comms set up, including fiber. We have relay balloons up for the off-grid units. To plan so far, sir."
"Training?"
"We've identified several points for unit training, sir," 'Seven' replied.
"Finance?"
'Eight' replied, "Sir, I agree with the others. Have everyone use scrip, but let the slave girls' use Gal-standard chips if they want. They can lose them in the pockets their short skirts don't have."
"Good. Anyone else?" The General looked around. "Dismissed. Back to work, everyone."
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Saturday, November 1, 2003: 08:40 (relative)
Melotte, City of Melotte:
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Jo'ong frowned, looking up from his publication as the public transport vehicle stopped. Why had it stopped early? They had not arrived at the Ministry where he worked. Voices complained, and the driver called, "Masters and Mistresses, this vehicle cannot proceed further. The road is blocked. You will need to leave the vehicle and proceed on foot."
Someone called, "Absurd, slave. Don't you know who is here?"
"Master, this slave only reports what this slave is told." The doors hissed open, and grumbling, Jo'ong, along with the other passengers started to leave. He stopped short, however, as he saw large vehicles with protruding barrels aimed at the road. They were painted in splotches of white, grey, and black, and there were armed females … FEMALES? ARMED? What insanity was this? One of these stood on a small platform and urged them into line. He could see them inspecting his fellow passengers, while females and slaves went through a different line. With a low whine, the large barreled vehicle moved it to point at a grav truck that did not seem to be slowing, despite the female's waving arms. With a cough, a billow of flame appeared at the end and the truck exploded, crashing to the pavement and sliding a few meters.
"Next!" He shook himself, stepped forward, and a strangely clothed male said, "I am Sergeant Atkins. Give me your identification please, and empty your pockets into the buckets, then step forward into the scanning booth. Your binder and other things into a bucket."
"I will not! This is outrageous! What is this?"
"This is the Imperial Terran Army; we have captured this planet," Atkins replied.
"Who? I've never heard of you."
"Your King attacked one of our planets. Last chance to cooperate. Put your things in the buckets and hand over your ID."
"I will not! Do you not know …"
"As you wish," Atkins said, and popped a capture gas capsule under his nose. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed to the floor. Two other males rolled him facedown onto a stretcher, bound his hands behind him, and then carried him out with his other things lying on his back. He turned to the next man, who regarded him warily, then handed over his ID. Nodding his head politely, Atkins said, "Hand in the scanner, there will be a warm feeling as a skin sample is taken for DNA identification. Place your things in the buckets, please; you can pick it all up on the other side of the scanning booth."
"It will not hurt?"
"Not at all. Just move as directed, please. Next!"
Sgt. Cliff Atkins sighed as he was relieved, and walked past the concrete vehicle barricades, past the tent where the un-cooperative (and unconscious) people were being strip-searched, fingerprinted, and photographed. They had access to the previous government's security files, and some of them were being carried off for more intensive questioning. Most would simply have the fear of God put in them and then released back to their homes, but the Intel and psy-war people were in charge of that. He walked into the mess tent, one of the first put up by the engineers, and poured himself a cup of tea. "Bloody hell," he said as he sank onto a bench.
A girl was getting a take-away order. By her uniform, she was Infantry, "Long day?"
"Too bloody long and un-cooperative arses on top of it."
"Unopposed landing, though."
"True. We haven't had to kill too many. Now for the occupation and the new government."
"My first coup … well, my first everything." She picked up her order and left him, and he propped his feet on the bench. "Bloody hell."
Several kilometers away, 2LT Metz surveyed the road intersection with tired pride. Each of the intersections had been converted into miniature fortresses for several hundred people, while still allowing for limited civilian vehicle and personnel movements. They had modified intersections so civilian traffic, confiscating shuttle trams to the buildings after the civilians had passed through security. This particular intersection, a 'T' junction near the building housing the planet's rubber-stamp legislature, had a paired battery of AA guns on quad mounts, along with a small surveillance blimp and a comm mast rose from a vehicle parked next to the command containers, linking this site with the other intersections. Sand and dirt filled Hesco™ barriers rose around the various containers and tents. Adapter trailers had tapped into the city's power, water and sewer systems, and trenches had been dug in the concrete for their own pipes and cables, covered with red-painted steel panels. He saw half-a-dozen supply trucks approach the southern roadblock, escorted by combat cars. That meant that the port was secure, and resupply efforts were in effect. He nodded in approval, and then turned as someone called, "Oi, leftenant! Got a bit o' a snag wi' the civvie transport…"
Sandra Woosan sat back in her chair on the small teashop's patio and watched the mid-day news. One thing was immediately apparent; the regular female announcer was gone, substituted with a man in civilian clothing. "Good afternoon, and welcome to the mid-day news," and she raised a mental eyebrow. Could it be … "… change in government. People are asked to continue with their daily routine and observe current curfews. If you have business at the Ministry complex, please allow an additional hour to clear security, and taking public transport is preferred. Additional vehicles have been scheduled to meet the demand. We go now to the Imperial Terran spokesman, sub … I mean Captain Charles Cornish."
"Good afternoon," the fit blond man in Imperial camouflage said. "On behalf of the Imperial Terran Army, I'd like to thank you. First, let me reassure everyone that we mean them no harm, and this is in response to the previous government's attack on one of our planets, and the murder of several million of our own citizens. While we are searching for a number of people connected with that government, the common citizen has nothing to be concerned with. Please go about your daily lives, and cooperate with any request from Imperial Army troops. We are planning a number of public works projects, and will ask for civilian bids for those projects."
She nodded to herself, the false name and the coded message was clear. However, she continued to sit and watch the news, sipping her tea in order to maintain her cover.
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Saturday, November 1, 2003: 12:00:00 (UTC)
Hour 168.00/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, HIM Offices:
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"Good day," the Empress said from behind her desk, "Before we proceed with the monthly drawing, I would like to say that as we speak, we are counter-attacking several Republican worlds. I would ask you to bow your heads for a minute of silence as we pray for our troops' health, safety, and success." She did so, and the television audience, who had not expected this, waited with baited breath as the camera stayed on the young woman. Some people realized this was her actual working office. The view included those things in anyone's office: photos of family and various trinkets on the credenza behind her, including a small golden ball in a holder. On the glass-covered desk, a large CRT computer monitor with a keyboard set on top, a trackball next to a large coffee mug sitting on a small cloth, pens and pencils of various types, including a large feathered quill, blotter and ink-stand, various colored file folders and envelopes in trays and stands, and a flag behind her against the wall.
"Thank you," she said as she raised her head. She stood, pulling her suit jacket straight, and then beckoned the camera to follow her. She went past a small sink and table with various coffee and tea things, down a door-lined corridor with some framed prints, and one door (holding it for the cameraperson), marked 'Conference D', and between some hanging curtains. The watching television audience saw the studio cameras and lights, the power cords for the five air-driven machines that did the drawing, and the various staffers. The Empress took a seat to the side while a makeup girl touched her up, and the camera view shifted to the set.
The Empress stepped back into view. "Good day. Let's get going," and she moved the red lever. "1969! Let's get the month." She moved to the next machine: "April! And last, the day." For the third time, she moved a red lever. "The twentieth! Therefore, the drawing is April 20th, 1969! As always, you have a month to settle things at home before you visit the Imperial Army recruiting office. Thank you, and have a nice day." The audience view faded to black.
"And … Cut!" The producer held his hand next to his earphone, "Sounds good, ma'am. Let's wrap things up." The Empress sighed, and drifted to the makeup chair, where the girl was putting her things away. The girl looked at her, "We're attacking?" The Empress nodded, and looked at her. The girl sat on the edge of the folding canvas chair, twisting a white cloth in her hands. "My older brother is Navy…" she whispered, and the Empress reached over, gripping her hands.
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Monday, November 3, 2003: 09:09 (UTC)
Hour 237.09/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, HIM offices:
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"So, what do we have?" the Empress asked her Privy Council on their regular 'First Monday' meeting.
Selina raised a finger, "I have something that you're not going to like, Bill. However, it's a possible solution to the manpower crunch. For that matter," her mother added, "I'm rather uncomfortable with it myself; that's why I went to see Father Tim of St. Michaels' in Gotham."
"Now I'm sure I don't like it," 'Big Bill' Morton muttered.
"Shouldn't you see what it is, first?" Albus Dumbledore asked. Morton grumbled, but gave a jerky nod.
"As you know, we were running a genetic analysis to compare and contrast DNA as to why some people have the 'magic gene' (she finger-quoted) and some people don't. We looked at known magic users of different power levels, squibs, muggles, and muggle-born witches and wizards." Selina gestured at the group. "We found that the gene is linked to the respiratory section of mitochondrial DNA, which means it's passed through the mother." She checked her notes, "Later, we found a way to pass what's known as 'nuclear DNA' to update the messenger RNA and have it pass the germ line, which makes it inheritable."
"So if I understand this correctly," Albus said, leaning forward in his chair. "It is possible to … engineer magical ability?"
"To an extent," Selina replied, raising her finger. "To fix these particular genes, we would need to treat the wife, and any future children would have the 'fixed' genes, so Hank would not have the genes, but Misty's children with him would."
"I see …" 'Big Bill' said. "Why will I not like this, and why did you consult with a priest?"
"Because when we did a genetic analysis, it was a complete analysis, and it included several members of the JLA, as well as magic-based species such as elves and goblins." (She nodded at Mr. Griplink.) "I have those analysis for each of you, but the team decided to play a little 'What if?' and it looked so interesting, we didn't think of the possible ramifications until later." Selina settled back on her couch, and then looked at her daughter, "Can you pull up files on this smart wall of yours, or do we need to move to the conference table?"
"We can. It's easier from a laptop or DataPadd, though. There's a feed-through under the flowerpot, and power, USB and network connections under the coffee table."
"That works," Selina said, and got busy. As she connected cables, she commented, "The team started to combine different sections from different people, mixing and matching. Now, we already know that the slavers sell different genetically engineered types of slaves, so we know it can be done. We also know that there are artificial wombs, in which a zygote can be brought to term. The science is there, it's the procedures, the ethics and morals where we have a question." She brought up a directory, while her daughter studied the remote for the smart wall, and then pushed buttons.
"We started with computer simulations, to see what the similarities were with Kryptonian, Amazon, Elf, Goblin, and base Human." She selected a file, and a short young woman with pointed ears appeared on the wall, and started to rotate. "She's about fifteen percent taller than Goblins or Elves because the Amazon gene pulls the average up, it's strong for height - this sample is about 150 cm, about Mattie's height."
"Gee, thanks," her daughter commented.
"You're welcome," her mother replied. "Admittedly, we had a fairly small number of samples, about fifty, but this is representative of the baseline."
"Why is the sample female?" Albus asked.
"Various technical reasons, primarily due to that messenger RNA/DNA combination are X linked. Adding a Y gene (she paused, raising an eyebrow at Albus, who nodded), which is much shorter, weakens the strands much more than having both X. The female version has a lot fewer outstanding problems than the male version, and most of the crew was female."
"I see. Please continue."
"The team started kicking around 'what if' for different things, including military service, like the Infantry. They decided to design the optimal female soldier, including things like reflexes, lung capacity, energy reserves, brain cross-connects and therefore intelligence, disease resistance and so forth." She keyed her laptop, and another young woman appeared and started to rotate.
"They mentioned several existing problems with the design. This sample is 165 cm, but is much faster, with greater endurance, pain resistance, strength, and intelligence." She sat back, tenting her fingers, "Because of that intelligence, our sample 'Eve' can reason that her individual, optimal mode of survival is not to join the military. Loyalty or obedience cannot be bred. They can be enforced, as with slaves, and they can be programmed through charms or implants. They can be reinforced with spells, potions, drugs, conditioning and propaganda, but they cannot be bred into a subject."
"I see …" her daughter, now the Empress said slowly.
"Another point," Sheila Hawking said, speaking for the first time. The family attorney said; "Legally, 'Eve' there is a 'genetically modified object'. She has the same legal status as a glow-in-the-dark fish, or a stalk of modified wheat, with the same rights."
"None."
"Correct. She is a patented object; she actually has fewer rights than a slave, as a slave is a titled animal, legally no different than a horse." Sheila snorted, "There is still legal debate on whether animals such as lobsters can think and feel pain when you cook them alive and tear a claw off."
"Wonderful, thank you, mom, you're asking me to breed military slaves," the Empress said. She sat back, sipping her coffee. "That's a non-starter. Aside from genetic engineering being a big galactic no-no, if we were THAT desperate, we would probably have other options, and we wouldn't have the time." She shook her head. "No. I'm sure it's interesting tech, with other possibilities, but it doesn't pass the Arthur test for me." She looked at 'Big Bill', "That's the 'What would Arthur say about it?' test; although I think he'd be okay with bio-engineering things like wheat and corn, and bioremediation, for polluted soil and water."
"Since when have we cared what the galactics thought?" Selina asked. You DID ask about this tech, Helena Martha," she replied sharply. "Don't be a politician; you can't have it both ways. If you want to use them as soldiers, you have to accept them as Sheila's objects, with those problems. Even if you don't use them in the military, you'll have similar problems if you use them for colony work. Until you can work out a way to give them the same rights you and I have, which includes the right to say 'no', I'm not releasing this tech to you."
Her daughter winced. "Ouch."
"What I have said, that this conscription is slavery," 'Big Bill' Morton put in.
"The courts differ," Ms. Hawking said. "They have held the survival of the state trumps that right, especially since the conscription process is decided based on a person's birthdate and time, not age, race, gender or ethnic background. It is as fair as possible, especially with various exemptions and deferrals available. Those are decided based on local draft boards, who can issue those deferments and exemptions. We have asked you before, based on the need for personnel, and the limited options available, what is YOUR solution?"
"I don't like it."
"So we have noted," Albus put in dryly. "None of us is particularly thrilled with it either." He shifted, "I confess, during my school days, we had no concept of this 'bioremediation', although we did know how to breed plants and animals."
"They just aren't as 'sexy', as tech, though." Sheila commented.
There was some silence as tea and coffee was sipped, until Albus cleared his throat and continued, "I have something that Filius and Severus asked me to pass on to you." He unshrunk two wooden boxes from his robes, "They are working out the 'kinks' for low rate initial production." He passed the larger flask over. "Fifteen liters. Enough to power Europe for a day and six dozen sample vials. Severus thought they might be politically useful."
"Interesting …" the Empress mused. "I thought they needed a black hole to produce Fuel."
"The black hole doesn't have to have eaten a solar system; it could be in a cyclotron," Selina put in. "I would give those vials to your Prime Minister and to your Foreign Minister."
"Good thought." While the larger flask was stoppered with an elaborate wire and wax seal, the others were numbered flat-bottomed test tubes, melted shut. "I assume I can get more if necessary?"
"I would think so, but scarcity will drive up the political value," Albus replied. "If one MA has one on his desk, and another one sees it, and knows he doesn't…"
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Monday, November 3, 2003: 10:13 (ACST:UTC +9:30)
Terra, Northern Territory, Camp Katherine:
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"… current brief. Any questions?" Sgt. Callahan asked, removing her hat and placing it on the table. The company recognized the gesture as 'We're now unofficial.'
Carrie raised her hand and Callahan nodded at her. "Zorbis?"
"Sarge, I've noticed the food's better, and the LT is eating with us."
"That's right. There were several supply officers who were asked to resign their commissions." She paused, "For officers, that's the equivalent of a less than honorable discharge. They didn't break any laws or any regulations; otherwise, they'd be facing a court martial. However, their actions were … (she bounced on her heels) … ethically questionable, let's say. General Shimesa also closed the NCO and officers' messes, so officers eat with their units. He also said he wants our mess to win the next year's Army-wide mess competition, all four quarters, to erase the stain on Camp Katherine's honor."
She placed a hand on her hat, and TC 712 recognized the gesture as the continuation of the brief. The sergeant placed her hat back on her head as TC 712 watched. "First of all, training classes in swimming and water survival has been added. This is because this company among others has been redesignated from straight Infantry to maritime security." She took a few steps, and then turned back the other way. "Even if you already know how to swim, you will be taught the Army way to swim."
Taking a few steps, she switched off some of the lights from her panel, and switched on a display. "Most of the enemy worlds have chains or groups of islands. This is a composite planet, which we call 'Ball', which we are using as an example for training purposes. Notice the larger islands, the arcs of chains, and the smaller, independent groups. These islands cover a good bit of the planet's surface. This is a rough analog to terrestrial places like the Philippines or the Marshall Islands, with one or two larger islands and many smaller islands. We will be performing various duties, including anti-smuggling, anti-piracy, counter-insurgency, fisheries patrols, undersea mapping, and rescue operations."
Sgt. Callahan zoomed the display in. "The keys here are communications and speed, not necessarily firepower. With the primary LZ here, at the planet's spaceport on Island Alpha, we will extend a comms network including fiber, microwave and satellite. While other troops are capturing the other two major islands of Baker and Charlie, here and here, we'll be installing a microwave and radio tower here, on the tallest part of Island One's mountain. The key here is line-of-sight, which is why we're going to be taking other high mountains on other islands for relays and other alpha-level bases. Those are major shipyards, repair and supply dumps."
"On the other hand, most of the boats will be working out of smaller flotilla bases of maybe a dozen boats on smaller islands. You'll have a ship-lift, a traveling crane that can get your boat out of the water, and a mechanic's shop to fix anything your on-board mechanic can't. That base will be commanded by a Lieutenant or Captain, and grouped under the squadron commander, a Major, and perform whatever duties are required."
"Sounds like the Coast Guard," someone commented.
"Essentially," Sgt. Callahan agreed. "The enemy's general tech level is around the 1930's for us, so you'll probably run into fishing boats with sails and a few slave girls aboard. While this will be covered under your Rules of Engagement, you will probably be doing fisheries duty. Fisheries is making sure the catch is of legal size and species, and you'll be passing on news, maybe doing health checks and slave registration, that kind of thing. The 'hearts and minds' approach - why the locals should cooperate with us."
She looked around. "Questions so far? Good." She changed the holo display, flexing her pointer. "This is a sample layout of a small flotilla base. Docks here, close to the barracks, mess hall, water, sewage pump-out on the fueling dock, fuel tanks here next to the dock and the power plant, ship lift and maintenance area, supply dump, sickbay, the radio tower and the admin building. It's resupplied by barges from the alpha-level bases, so you'll have escort duties. This may be part of an existing civilian harbor, but that's not your worry." She changed the display again, "Typical dock. Note the boat is moored bow-out, what's called 'Med-moored'. There's a data and power pylon so the boat's batteries and computers are updated." She looked around, "Questions? Change into the usual sport bras and T-shirts, shorts, booney hat, sunscreen and running shoes; we're going to run over to take a look at these boats."
TC 712 and other companies sat on the temporary grandstand and listened to the lieutenant. "All right, ladies and gentlemen, you've all been designated for maritime security duty. What that means to you is that after training you'll be assigned to one of our gunboats. That means you will know that boat inside and out, with all its quirks. A boat is much like a husband or wife, in that there's always something that needs work. (There was a short laugh.) You will be responsible for the boat from the point that it's offloaded from the orbital lighter. At that point your sergeant will sign for the boat and it's up to him or her, and the crew, to get her through final assembly, certification, and into the water. At that point, it's provisioned and fueled, and you depart for your flotilla base where you report in."
Lt. Mears paced back and forth. "Why doesn't the port do all that? Or an engineer company? One of the quirks of logistics. The trailer that your boat is shipped on will be loaded on a barge and sent out to your base, the engineers are busy building the bases and the support structure. In any case, you'll need to assemble and erect your boat's mast structure, which is shipped as separate parts. There will be some small portable cranes available, I'm told. You also need to decide the boat's weapons layout; you have four positions, which will support both medium and heavy machine guns as well as miniguns, 20 mm autocannon, grenade launchers, a mortar, and a flamethrower. You may be landing Special Forces troops, doing inspections and health treatment, boat and slave registration, fisheries inspection …" She shrugged. "It depends on what your boat is assigned. A flamethrower with napalm won't be very useful if we're doing slave registration and health checks on a wooden fishing boat, will it?"
She then pulled a plastic sheet off a large model. "Can everyone see this? This is a cutaway model of one of our gunboats. Twenty meter length, crew of five, but with a capacity of fifteen hammocks, so those Special Forces troops have somewhere to sleep. Radars, sonar, comms, and two diesel generators with those solar panels here on the roof under the mast, powering two swiveling electric drive pods. Top speed sixty knots, which is damn fast. It's made as quiet and unsinkable as possible, with various types of foam inside a fiberglass and aluminum hull. It runs on 24-volt DC power, and you'll have a water generator for fresh water, along with refrigerators and freezers, and a compact but full mess. Expect to trade off duties, just because you're a gun-bunny doesn't mean you won't learn how to fix those diesels or plot a course. Gun positions fore and aft, and on each side."
Someone raised their hand, "Why not natural gas instead of diesels?"
"Natural gas is heavier than air, which means if it leaks it collects in the bilge. One spark and ka-boom!" she replied. "Diesel doesn't do that, which is why ground vehicles like tanks use CNG, but boats don't."
She folded her hands behind her, "Now then. Your brand new boat has just been off-loaded. Your sergeant checks everything and signs for it when you tell him or her it's all there. You've been on-planet for a few days at this point, so you'll probably have assigned someplace for assembly and checkout. The job at this point is getting your mast and the various modules such as radar and GPS installed and tested." She took a few steps up the stage and used a pointer on the model. "Solar arrays here, so you'll have power if your generators go out and you can't fix them. They're made of glass, so you don't want to damage them. Spread some blankets over them, and try not to walk on them. The mast mounts on top of these rails around the solar panels on the roof, with the wiring coming up through and connecting to the various antennae. GPS, radars, satellite and radio. Cables are marked, and there is an assembly manual."
"Thank god," someone said.
"Yes. While you're all doing this, your sergeant is dealing with admin, getting maps, comm frequencies and codes, your base assignment, the initial armament and ammo load out, picking up rations and other things. You'll put all this into your temporary storage. Once you've got everything assembled and ready, the boats loaded and slipped - put in the water. You'll be accompanied by a checkout officer as you go to the pumping and fueling piers, which are respectively for loading drinking water, pumping out the sewage tank, and then to the fueling pier for loading diesel fuel. You then proceed to an assigned buoy, where you join other boats and supply barges on the way to your new home. Questions so far?"
"Range?"
"Twelve hundred kilometers." She looked around. "Okay, let's go into …"
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Tuesday, November 4, 2003: 20:41 (relative)
Ewan, City of Ewan, stadium:
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The slave 198a2, among other red-collar slaves was carried into the stadium by working slaves. Like the others, she was stretched painfully tight and bolted to a roughly cut two-meter length of steel rail for passerby to whip and beat her. When she reached the front of the queue, her collar and implants were scanned. "Property of Lord Chichester," the Terran said as she scanned the slave's implant. With the general noise and confusion, she missed the double-beep her scanner gave. "Take her over to the medical section, then back down to the high-security cells. Feed and suction her there. We'll want to talk to her, but not now." The head of the five-slave working party whimpered once in acknowledgement through her gag, and with a rustle of chain from their linked slave leashes, they picked up the slave again.
The Terran medical groups (fortunately) hadn't had much to do. Some were supervising the mass burial of the Planetary Guard, some were treating the survivors, but that left most of them able to look over and treat the hundreds of thousands of slaves that were being extracted from the planetary slave house. This led to the subsequent problem of keeping all those slaves healthy, fed, and housed; leading to a typical bureaucratic answer: put them back in the slave house, in the cells where they could be kept fed and secured.
The Intelligence groups were simply overwhelmed, and as a result, the questioning of the slave girls was reset to a lower priority before the military need to interrogate the surviving Planetary Guard and the civilian administrators. While some suggested placing the free persons in empty slave cells, they were over-ruled by Civil Affairs. They wanted to gain the free persons' cooperation, so they were released to house arrest or more comfortable cells at the spaceport.
"Lean her over there," a young woman's voice directed, and 198a2's confining rail was duly leaned against a wall. The red-collar slave's head dropped back; she was exhausted; just a quick nap…
The young doctor was exhausted, so when she did a preliminary examination of slave 198a2, she could be forgiven for missing the double-beep her hand-held scanner gave for the slave's hip implant. She noted the whip marks on her back and breasts, and the penalty brands the slave wore on her left thigh, and the nipple bells on the slave's large breasts. The slave's ankles were encased in steel spheres that were locked around her permanent shackles, riveted on her and security-bolted through one of the ovals in the side of the steel rail. Her wrist spheres were also locked around her wrist shackles, which used another security-bolt to stretch her and secure her wrists. Another steel sphere was locked on top of the canvas hood, all secured with a combination of locks, screws, and seals. After she treated the whip marks on the slave's back and breasts, she tucked the slave's long, dark hair through her left arm, then directed the working party to feed and suction the slave; and then secure the slave for later interrogation. The slaves whimpered acknowledgement.
'A dream. That's what this was, a wonderful dream.' This fuzzy thought ran through 198a2's head as she came to for a minute. She waited as she was suctioned and something was pumped into her feeding tube. She remembered hearing something, and was wondering 'What would you do with a few million slaves? Slaves that you had taken, that didn't cost you anything but maintenance. This slave is a slave girl; this slave would sell all the slaves and make a profit on all those captured slaves.' There was a rustle of chain, and the rail she was bolted to was picked up and carried somewhere. 'Yes, this slave is finally wearing the collar and the body this slave has wanted. While this slave did not like being beaten, this slave loves her collar, and if being beaten is the price; this slave will gladly pay that for this slave's new collar and wonderful new body.' In a lucid moment, her alter ego of Joss Higginbotham thought there were drugs in whatever they pumped into her stomach. She shook her steel-masked head as she remembered something about living on a planet called … Dirt. She remembered dreams about her capture, her biosculpt, her fear on her first entry into a slave market, and her sale in a city called … Cleveland? She thought that was it, but she wasn't sure. Now, she was an experienced slave girl, trained in the arts of the slave, from the mundane keeping of a master (or mistress') house, to dance and giving pleasure. 'Really, why would any female NOT want a slave collar?' she thought, as there was the sound of a slave cell's door being unbolted, the grunts and whimpers of the gagged slaves in the work crew as her rail was secured and hoses connected to her slave belt. She hung from her rail as the door boomed shut and the bolts shot home, she went back to sleep as she dreamed of her upcoming sale to her new owners, the Terrans.
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Wednesday, November 5, 2003: 08:10 (UTC)
Hour 284.10/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, HIM offices:
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"Good morning, everyone," the Empress said as people settled into their usual places in the conversation area with their coffee or tea.
"We're going to need to do a press conference on the military situation," Matt Hagan, the shape shifting Minister of Information said.
"That is acceptable," General von Hesse said as she put down her coffee. "It is mostly good, although a courier ship did get away from the Des system. The slave uprising did not completely get off the ground on the secondary planet of Ewan there, either. Still, it is early days, and we still have a substantial naval presence there, including reserves. We can also move troops and reserves from Des Alpha if needed, although it would take a day or three."
"And Melotte?"
"Their command structure is disrupted," the General replied. She looked sideways at Lady Sarah, the head of IR&S, the intelligence service. "It seems there is a rather competent assassin there."
"Yes, there is," she acknowledged. "I mentioned this a few days ago in the Daily Brief."
"I am scheduled on a TV show Friday," the Empress said. "I will release that status information then."
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Friday, November 7, 2003: 06:38 (UTC)
Hour 330.38/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, Media Centre, Studio 34:
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The show was called Kaffe Klatch, and it was a midmorning show primarily oriented toward women. It was based in Germany, with Frau Helga Zöhller as Hostess; but with French, Polish and Belgian female journalists. While the normal format was a farm kitchen, this had been shifted to a 'parlor set', with a low table with a sofa and comfortable chairs. As most shows were, it was recorded, with the female journalists sipping coffee on the sofa while the Hostess and the Guest took the chairs.
("… so I don't know of any real alternative to conscription,") the Empress said in German, taking a sip of her coffee, then replacing it on the table. ("We have three priorities. First, this is the cold reality of the situation. This system, the Earth system, is the primary source for population, finance and commercial and industrial activity. We are ONE planet against TWENTY-FIVE. We CANNOT lose this planet.")
("If we lose Earth, that's it. Game over. We all die. Therefore, the first priority has to be the defense of this system. We have had two Republican fleets try to take it away. If there's another attempt, or someone manages to land ground troops …") She looked at the other women; ("Second priority is our colony planets. They were promised protection. That means Army troops and bases, and a naval presence. Not only does that help their own economies, it provides a backup of our species and our way of life. Those colonists are also being trained in stay-behind warfare, as guerillas, and boosting their own manufacturing and industrial potential. Just in case.")
("The third priority is taking the war to the enemy. That means ships, both naval ships and cargo ships. It means Army troops, tanks, and artillery, and yes, it means invasion and occupation of those twenty-five planets.") She looked around, ("Since those two fleets appeared, there has been a single ship with an ambassador from the Republic of Sodolokve. His offer was 'Surrender or die'. Our reply was less than polite.") She picked up her coffee mug, taking a sip. ("We asked him when the Republic would apologize and offer compensation for our damages. He found the idea that they should do anything like that insulting and outrageous, and repeated his demand for our total, unconditional surrender. The exchange was less than fifteen minutes; his ship didn't even make orbit.")
She cradled her mug in her hands, under her chin, and continued in German. ("Given those three requirements, the fact that the enemy wants to torture and kill our men to produce an addictive, profitable drug, and to enslave our women, I think most people will understand why we don't opt for surrender. That leaves fighting. That means we need ships and troops. We need weapons; we have to convert to a war economy. That does not mean we won't sell coffee makers, t-shirts and beer, though. It does not mean tourism falls off. It means security has a higher priority; it means that schools add self-defense and martial arts classes for physical fitness. It means our younger citizens have instruction in the military basics, like firearms handling, small-unit tactics, and combat first aid.")
("You have said we have counter-attacked; we have struck back at the enemy,") the French journalist said in her native tongue. ("What are the results so far?")
The Empress tapped her right jaw to change her translator implant. ("Generally in our favor,") she replied in French. ("We attacked three systems. Melotte, which is the closest enemy planet to us and the two habitable planets in the Des system. On all three planets, we emplaced Special Forces troops for intelligence gathering; and to stir up civil unrest with the slave population.")
("A slave revolt? Won't that be hazardous to the slaves?") The Belgian woman asked in French.
("That is an individual slave's choice,") the Empress replied. ("The individual slave could participate or not, as she chose; although we did ask them not to inform their masters,") she commented, behind her mug of coffee. ("We try to minimize the risk to them, the vast majority simply needed to discover, and tell us, where certain locations were, or what an individual's schedule was. Intelligence work. The more … hot blooded individual slaves were given weapons training and led on various raids against the local Planetary Guard troops, to sow disorder and fear among the Guard.") She leaned back in her chair, ("That has worked very well, especially on Melotte, where the upper levels of the Guard and the civilian leadership have been thoroughly disrupted.")
("And on, what was it, Des?") The Frenchwoman asked.
("Des is a binary system, meaning two stars orbit each other. Des Alpha has the planet known as Des, while the Des Beta system has the planet Ewan. We had mixed results there. A courier ship managed to evade our blockade and escape the Des system while on Ewan the Guard got lucky and intercepted most of our Special Forces detachment. As it is, the slave revolt didn't get too far before our main forces arrived.") She took another swallow of coffee, and the hostess turned to the camera, smiled, and said, in German, ("We'll be back with Empress Martha the First after these important messages.") She held her smile until the red lights on the cameras went out, then sat back as flunkies ran out to refill mugs of coffee and tea. ("How bad is it?")
("Actually not that bad,") the Empress replied. ("We have untouched reserves, we can move troops between the different planets fairly easily, and the enemy has no real concept of ground warfare. They are enforcers, official bullies with nightsticks who are most definitely NOT infantry troops. We are employing psychological warfare, and they have NO concept of what artillery can do.")
The Belgian woman shuddered, and the Hostess said, ("We're back in three … two … Welcome back, everyone. We're here with Empress Martha the First who's been talking about our first counterattacks. Your Majesty?")
("Yes, thank you,") the Empress replied in German. ("As I was saying before the break, it's generally good news, although the enemy did get lucky on some things.") She shrugged, ("That's the nature of war. In this case, the enemy got a courier ship through our blockade around Des, and on Ewan they managed to capture and torture to death most of our Special Forces troops.") She frowned, ("I hand-wrote those letters.") She took a calming sip of coffee, ("On Melotte, the upper levels of the enemy leadership is dead, and so we've got our military government in place. With both Des and Ewan, the situation is more … fluid. There have been some revenge killings of both slaves' masters, and civilian males in general; both by slave girls that we've trained, and those we haven't.")
("And what have we done about that?")
("There's not much we really can do, that genie is out of the bottle. Remember, slaves come in two varieties: bred slaves, and captured slaves. Bred slaves expect mistreatment, that's what they were raised to believe, that masters, owners were always right. Captured slaves, on the other hand, mostly remember being free, and they'll take their blood vengeance wherever they can, and with whatever comes to hand, a knife or an AK-47, it doesn't matter. Without the power of the state backing them up, their owners are now vulnerable, and terrified. Remember, they're outnumbered by the slaves. We're seeing this as a pressure relief of a sort, we have offered to have the slaves professionally trained as a militia, and we're seeing some of that come through, but it's still early days.")
("Restrict the captured slave girls,") the French journalist commented.
The Empress shook her head. ("Easy to say, not easy to do. First, if you line up a dozen slave girls, how can you tell which is which? Second, that would put us on the same level as their previous masters, and we're trying to gain their willing cooperation. Third, the technology in general is roughly 1930's or so, some computers, but generally they're mainframes, not hand-held wireless scanners. That's one of our major challenges right now, converting the millions of paper records into searchable databases. That's why we're offering them jobs, PAID jobs, to scan in and enter those records, and help us build and update their local technology. For instance, an individual flat does not have telephone or cable TV, much less anything like the Internet. They have teashops with televisions and printed media, newspapers and magazines. We're replacing thousands of kilometers of coaxial cable with fiber optics and distributing it to homes and apartments, once again hiring locals. They generally have two classes of public transport, an aboveground one for free persons, and an underground, wet, gloomy, poorly lit and ventilated, for slaves. We're merging and updating the two.")
("And how are these public works being paid for? Are we looking at a tax increase?")
("No. Aside from the usual six-and-a-half percent flat tax, most of that money is local.") The Empress sipped her coffee. ("Most of the gross planetary product, ninety-plus percent, was sent off-world to the Republic's capital world of Aeeloh, to line the pockets of the King and his top-level oligarchies. Trillions of grams of Tungsten, and we've cut that flow from three of the Republic's twenty-five planets.") She took another sip, ("That's the planet's money. They should be allowed to keep it and use it as they see fit.")
The Hostess frowned, ("That will lead to massive inflation; as happened in Germany in the 1920's and 1930's.")
The Empress nodded. ("That great an expansion in the money supply is something to be careful about, something we're watching for. We don't want to trash their economy, but the infrastructure upgrade is being paid for out of those funds. We're keeping that money on-planet and investing in the planet. We're also extending health care and education, building public housing, and so forth. Yes, they will be running an import deficit, but they will also have a more diverse economy and will be a part of the Empire's Preferential Trading Area, part of the economic integration of the Empire. That means that they will pay a lower tariff for imports and will therefore keep more of their money on-planet.") She raised a hand, ("I am by no means an economic expert, but I do have them available, and I do listen to them.")
("Changing the subject,") the Belgian woman said in German. ("What about your own schooling?")
("I have tutors,") the Empress replied, also in German. ("There were some people that came up from London for my first examinations. However, as I'm sure you can imagine, there aren't any courses in how to set up and run an interstellar empire, so like all of us, I'm doing the best I can. I do have many advisers on everything from finance to foreign relations, so I listen to them.")
("Finance - specifically your own finances,") the Polish woman asked, also in German.
("I'm paid a salary, just like Chancellors and Presidents and Prime Ministers. That means I pay things like credit card bills, the mortgage on my house here on Luna, and try to tuck a little aside for a rainy day in my investments. However, one difference is that my investments are in a blind trust, so all I get is quarterly summaries. This way, I don't know if I have stock in, oh, Volkswagen or Fiat when a nice Imperial contract is tendered. I also have separate finances as Empress, and many of the properties that I initially financed have been bought by the Empire. Again, my personal investments are hidden from me; all I really know is things like my personal checking and credit cards.")
("You said separate finances as Empress.")
("Yes. The Crown has investments in a number of things as a Crown Corporation. I also have the power to ennoble someone, aside from the usual titles that come with the job of System Governor. This allows us to reward someone who's done something outstanding with a patent of nobility and the funding to sustain it. However, the Governor's titles and nobilities come with the job. They lose an election or leave the position, the title doesn't go with them.")
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Friday, November 14, 2003: 17:53 (relative)
Ewan, City of Ewan, slave house:
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"This is ridiculous," Doctor Olstead commented as he stood in front of the open, heavy door to a slave cell as another working party of slaves went past with yet another slave girl on a cut-off section of steel rail. They squeezed into the open door as a slave maintenance cart trundled by with the odor of shit and piss. "This place is dark as sin, the corridors are narrow and poorly ventilated, we have no certain idea of what slave is in what cell, and we're still just seeing red-collar slaves. We're still working our way down; we're on level eight, out of fifty-plus!" He turned to his aide, who was wearing a miner's helmet and light. "We need better lighting, ventilation, and computer support. We've got upwards of ten thousand slave girls on each level - if the Intel boys want to talk to a particular slave, we have to say 'We think she's on that particular level, in that specific cell.' That's embarrassing, when we're finding a cell is designed for ten girls and there's twenty-five in there."
"Not to mention getting all that hardware off them, and retraining them as members of society, Colonel. Sorry, different members of society than slaves," the aide, Captain Franklin replied. "It would help if we could find whoever ran this place before, but we still have a budget, sir."
"I know, I know. Come up with a graduated plan. Start with the whole thing and then step it down bit by bit that I can negotiate away when I talk to the General. I'll talk to Civil Affairs and see if we can get a civilian contract for it as well."
The slave girl 2f398 didn't concern herself with what the masters discussed outside the door to the cell. They weren't speaking a language she knew, like Trade, and masters in general didn't like it when their slaves knew their plans. Her concern was that they not kick the block-bar that held the cell's door open - if they did, the door would slam closed and lock and she would be locked in here with the restrained red-collar slaves and the very smelly wastes cart. No, she did her job, moving around the room, slave-to-slave-to-slave, suctioning each one, moving the hoses from slave to slave and pumping the handle to suction each slave girl.
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Monday, November 17, 2003: 09:00 (ACST:UTC +9:30)
Terra, Northern Territory, Camp Katherine:
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Lt. Mears paced back and forth; as she watched, the training companies wrestle with the mechanical problems of the diesel generators. Each company of 125 was further broken up into twenty-five crews of five and forbidden to help each other. After all, if their boats were all alone and broken down out on a planet's ocean, they could only rely on their own crew. Other problems they would face later on would deal with holing of their boat hulls, repair of the engine pods (in and out of the water), other emergency procedures, medical procedures, as well as their routine Army training. She watched one of the crews do a happy dance as they started their generator, which turned on a flashing light at their station. She strolled over to them, looked over the operating machine, and frowned. "You've got spare parts left over, and you can hear that it's unbalanced."
"Pardon me, ma'am, but we were told to get it running," one of the trainees, Zorbis replied. "Once the batteries on the boat are charged, we can make it pretty again."
Sgt. Callahan looked over the machine, "Zorbis, I would never have expected you to have mechanical talent. You're first, so you get the live ammo on the firing range tomorrow. Now shut it down and make it pretty for the LT."
"Yes, Sarge."
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Tuesday, November 18, 2003: 07:00 (ACST:UTC +9:30)
Terra, Northern Territory, Camp Katherine:
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"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. I am Sergeant Cletus Ross, formerly US Army Ordinance, and I am here to introduce you to a truly nasty weapon, the M242 Bushmaster autocannon." The extremely muscular sergeant pulled a cloth off a long, single barrel weapon with a bulge on the end.
"This bad boy fires a 25 by 137 millimeter round, is chain-fed, can be operated either manually or through your fire-control system, can shoot down helicopters and other aircraft, take out armored vehicles, including some tanks, has an effective range of three thousand meters, and a maximum range of sixty-eight hundred meters." He smiled, "You got incoming hostiles? Link this puppy to your fire control radar, sit back with some popcorn and watch the show. I am told these will be mounted in your forward gun tub. Two people can install this, there are only three parts: the barrel assembly, the feeder assembly, and the critical receiver assembly. We are recovering the casings and links for recycling and reuse, which is one reason why your ammo is made out of aluminum: it can be melted down and recast, and is lighter than steel." He picked up the gun and slung it over his shoulder. "Let's step over here. I'll show you how to put this together, and then some of you will be able to fire it. There's some junk cars cluttering up my range."
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Wednesday, November 19, 2003: 07:48 (ACST:UTC +9:30)
Terra, Northern Territory, Camp Katherine:
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Carrie Zorbis surfaced for a moment and took a breath. Her crew (and they shuffled people around) had the problem of fixing jammed drive pods. Someone else was on board their 'boat' (an assembly attached to the side of the pool), pumping out the bilges to get to the inside of the pods while she worked on the underwater drive pods. The boats had small secondary rudders outboard of the rounded bottom; she was told that this would keep the boat's bow from rising up, keeping it nearly horizontal at speed. There were port and starboard pods, the port one was jammed, pointed off the starboard quarter, while the ducted propeller on the starboard pod was entangled with some type of green nylon rope.
She spat out the snorkel, "I need a small adjustable wrench, the smallest we've got." One of her crew stopped pumping the bilges for a moment, digging around in the boat's tool chest. "Smallest we've got. Don't drop it, Redmond."
"You're too kind, Dagwood." The girl could eat like a starving wolf, looked anorexic; she never seemed to gain a gram. Carrie hated her. She checked the safety line to her gunner's belt, attached a lanyard to the wrench, blew out her snorkel, and ducked back under the boat.
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Sunday, November 23, 2003: 22:48 (relative)
Ewan, Port of Ewan, Terran Base:
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Lt. George Engalls was the duty watch officer for the Intelligence section. He was also terminally bored. So bored that he was paging through the rough data on captured slaves, when he noticed something - a species entry had a flag. He frowned and looked that particular flag up (nothing else to do) - Terran Security. Now puzzled, he put together a database query for that particular flag. Checking his programming, he ran it, and came back with five hits. Five, out of thousands of slaves they'd examined? Either his programming was off, or there was something strange here. He saved the data and query files to his folder, and ran a printout for good measure. He was off-duty in a few minutes, and after some sack time, would check it out.
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Monday, November 24, 2003: 07:28 (relative)
Ewan, Port of Ewan, Terran Base:
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"Whaddya think, Tracey?"
"I think that you're on to something, Georgie. What, I don't know right now, but I think your logic is solid in the query. I'd change the query to one against the species designation, see if there's some commonality." She threw her favorite blue pencil down on the printout. "What I'm wondering is if some of these are the missing Special Forces types that were captured before we landed. If they were collared and kept as slaves …"
"Yeah. Weren't some of them covered as slave girls?"
"Think so. I'd do some more cross-checking, see if any come up with the species designation but without the flag, then we can pull those slaves out of their cells and take another look at them."
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Thursday, November 27, 2003: 12:08 (relative)
Ewan, Port of Ewan, Terran Base:
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Major Drew Summerfield looked up as two of her under-officers knocked on her door. She clicked 'Save' on her laptop, then asked, "What's up?" as she sat back, reaching out to her coffee mug.
"Two things about the slave girls, Ma'am," Lt. Engalls started. "First, the lower levels of that slave house are flooding. Tracey and I went over there yesterday, we both had it off, we got down to level forty-five of fifty-plus, and the water was ankle deep. We need to pull those slaves that are still alive out of there, as many as we can, before they all drown."
"Horrible death. I'll take your word for it. Let me make a call," and the shorthaired blonde picked up her phone, checked a list, then dialed. "Colonel Olstead, please, this is Major Summerfield. I can wait one." She cradled her handset on her left shoulder, and then motioned, "What else?"
"We think we've found those missing Special Forces troops," Tracey started to say, but the Major held up her hand. "Colonel? Major Summerfield. I have two of my people here who went cave exploring yesterday in the slave house. According to them, there's flooding, ankle deep on level forty-five. We need to pull slaves out of that place. No, sir. No, I haven't seen this myself, but I'm taking their word for it. Sir, we have a nice big stadium there, they'd be out in the open air … sir, we can throw up tents if we need to. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Thirteen hundred, we'll be there. Yes, sir. One other thing, sir, they think they've found those missing Special Forces troops. No, sir, there were three men that were crucified, but the others were apparently female and covered as slave girls. Yes, sir, thirteen hundred." She hung up, "Quick, what about those missing troops?"
"Ma'am, I noticed that some of the slaves had a flag on their database records, we narrowed … (the Major made a 'speed-it-up' motion) … anyway, their species identifier matches their known collar numbers, ma'am." He handed over a printout, "There's about a dozen on this list, ma'am, some of which may not be Terran, but it can't hurt to look them over."
"Some of our people weren't collared, or were male, when they disappeared, ma'am," Tracey said. "We included them, better safe than sorry, y'know."
"We'll talk on the way," the Major said, locking her laptop and standing. She shoo'd them out, then called her sergeant, "Goldman! I need a jeep in five minutes; we're going over to the slave house."
In the light of their miner's lights and lanterns, there was condensation on the walls of the central airshaft and the spiral ramp at level forty. Level forty-three had trickles of water running down the walls, and at the bottom of the ramp leading into level forty-five the rusty steel gate was held open by a shoelace. "Mine," Tracey admitted to the Major's look. "It's a spring-loaded gate; I didn't want to be trapped down here."
"I don't blame you," Major Summerfield agreed. She turned to one of the enlisted soldiers, "Run up, get some engineer support to get these cells open. Also, get some working parties to carry any live slaves up. If they're wearing lit collars, they're alive, anything else we can deal with. We'll leave the dead for now."
"At least two people per cell, we don't want to be trapped. Everyone got markers?" Colonel Olstead said. "Captain Franklin, you're in charge of this gate. Sergeant, you go up with the private, use my authority to get as many soldiers as we can to evacuate this place. Go." He motioned to a private and went off to the left.
General McClellan splashed his way to where Lt. Engalls was working. George noticed him, and turned to salute, but the General waved it off. "Talk to me while you work, son."
"Yes, sir," and continued releasing the slave from where she knelt in a neck ring. "Release, enable voice," he told her, "You're safe, we'll get you medical attention," as the slave girl collapsed back on her heels with a moan. A soldier picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder and using a pencil to open the piss-valve on her slave belt. She moaned in relief, her back-bound hands twisting in her shackles. "Gonna need new boots and uniforms, sir," the soldier said. "I don't think the laundry can get all this out. Come on, girl, stay with me, you're safe," as he carried her out to the collection point.
"How are you doing, son?"
"You can see, sir, this is typical so far," and George waved at the tiny, dark cell. It was lit, barely, by a small hurricane lantern hanging on a peg; all of the eighteen slaves confined in it had the spherical hoods, hand and foot restraints. While the dozen kneeling had air, the six bound and laying on the floor had drowned, unable to move because of their Enhancement. Their bodies lay face down, underwater, their hair drifting in the water, their leashes locked to a central ring, their back-bound wrists in some cases above water. Of the kneeling dozen, nine still had lit collars, indicating life. Another soldier entered the cell, and George wrapped the chain from her leash around her legs. "Release, enable voice," he told her, and the soldier picked her up, throwing her over his left shoulder. George went to the next slave girl, "Sir, these spherical hoods and what-not are fairly recent, just after we started to use them in the pre-invasion events. Notice all the slaves are wearing red collars as well, sir. I'm just glad they decided to manufacture these instead of weapons, but assuming they wanted to collect these girls to sell, this flooding is recent, only a few weeks old. I don't think it's intentional, either. Why would you kill off girls you were going to sell? It doesn't make sense."
"Give me that key, son," and the General started working on the last girl while he thought. "We still haven't found the command office for this place." He added to the girl, "Release, enable voice. Stay still, dear, I'll have you unlocked in a minute." He handed the T-handle key back to Lt. Engalls, "We'd put the office at the top, but if they put it at the bottom of the shaft, and opened a flood valve from there?" He wrapped the girl's leash chain around her legs, and hoisted her onto his shoulder. "Ready? Hand me that lantern, son, we're out of here." He held the girl on his shoulder, letting the cell door close on the locking bars, while the Lieutenant paused, putting his girl down for a minute as he wrote '9/18x' on the door. He picked his girl up again, "This place is a huge spiral, sir, with an outer ring corridor. The cells are only two by three meters. Keep left to get to the central shaft."
"Thank you, lieutenant. I'm going to send down some divers to see if my theory holds water." The general bounced his slave girl on his shoulder as the lieutenant groaned at the pun.
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Sunday, November 30, 2003: 13:41 (relative)
Ewan, Port of Ewan, Terran base:
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"I don't like it, sir." Major Drew Summerfield replied. "Maybe it's because I'm female, but if we've got some of our people back from the dead, I'd like to get all that metal crap off them rather then keep them locked up as slave girls."
"I can understand that, Major," Colonel Alex Ross replied. The Colonel commanded HIMSF(2) detachments in Thirtieth Fleet's Area of Responsibility. "The problem is that if we ship them off without all that metal crap on them, they won't look like smuggled slave girls. They'll be official; there will be a paper trail on them. The Terran Empire will have to acknowledge that we're using slaves, which is against Imperial Policy. Therefore, we have to either free them, or smuggle them off-planet."
"So free them!"
"Then how did we acquire them to free them? The Terran Empire does not hold slaves. Period. Full Stop. We are an empire of law, and slaves are titled property, which means we have to have a buyer and a seller in that transaction. We don't have a seller, so we can't buy them so we can't free them. Now, we can hold them for medical treatment, which is what we're doing, but they are legally owned by this 'Lord Chichester', and until we can find him, or the new proxy government can address the issue, they remain the property of Chichester."
"Sir, with respect, that's bullshit! They're our people!"
"Calm down, Major. No, not on this planet; they're slaves, they were imported as slaves, and their titles were transferred from the importer to this Lord Chichester as slaves. If we simply confiscate slaves without compensation to the owners, it's called theft, and opens up a whole can of legal worms."
"Sir, I say again, that's just legal bullshit. With respect."
"Personally, I would agree with you, Major. They're our people, only with respect to the lawyers in the JAG(3)'s office, there's no legal difference between a slave girl and a ground car. Both are titled objects, in order to transfer that title, there has to be three things, a buyer, a seller, and the transfer of value. It can be one single gram of tungsten for the value, but the other two have to be there, and the current owner of record can't be found. No seller, no sale, and I don't want to be court-martialed."
The Colonel grinned. "Now then, as we've both been in the Army a while, we're both familiar with certain ways around inconvenient rules and regulations. The 'midnight requisition', so to speak. We can't buy the slaves, well; there are other options, ones that would solve some other problems. First, we have some people undercover as smugglers; second, we have evidence of a black market ring operating in the Thirtieth Fleet's AOR. We want to identify some of those black marketers; we can then follow the thread. No, what we'll do is have some of our people 'steal' and 'sell' those particular slaves to our smugglers. At least that's what the slave girls will hear; they don't have need-to-know at that point. Our smugglers will then find out who at the port will grant lift permission to orbit for a civilian blockade-runner, and then who they can get to give outbound flight permission. That gets us two threads to follow to our black marketers. Our smugglers then fly to the Terran system and dock at Eunomia Station. If things go to plan, our girls should be home opening presents by Christmas."
"If…" Major Summerfield said. "No plan survives contact with the enemy. Sir."
"True, and there are things to enhance those odds," Colonel Ross said. "Various passwords and such that you don't have need-to-know."
"Ma'am, I wanted to ask you about some slave girls we've recovered…" Major Drew Summerfield started, but the officer behind the desk held up her hand. "Stop. Stop right there, Major." Colonel Parker locked her computer, and then picked up a pipe and said, "Walk with me, Major." She stopped in the outer office, telling one of her aides "I'm stepping out for a smoke; back in a few."
"Yes, ma'am."
The two of them walked away from the building, toward the security wire, when Major Summerfield stopped, hesitated, and then said, "That looks like Sherlock Holmes' pipe."
"This? This is my multiple-great grandfather's pipe. It's known as a calabash pipe," Colonel Parker replied. "He brought it over from England in 1813, when he settled in New York City." She put it in her mouth, "This conversation never happened, Major. Is that understood?"
"Yes, ma'am, but the girls are our people…"
"And you want to do right by them," the Colonel replied. "Good for you, Major, but let me ask you. You're aware of the 'hearts and minds' policy, to win over the locals. That legally those slave girls are the titled property of their owner, just like a horse would be to us?"
"That's hardly the same thing!"
"No, legally they are EXACTLY the same thing. Both are considered titled working animals, the major difference are that a horse plows the field, the slave is plowed." The colonel stopped to lean against a post as she packed the bowl while Drew groaned. "That's a horrible joke."
"One of my better ones, actually," Colonel Parker folded her right foot up, striking a kitchen match on the sole of her boot. She puffed at her pipe as she re-stowed the baggies of tobacco and matches in the pockets of her grey service uniform. She used the pipe's stem to poke toward the JAG's offices. "One of the things we're doing here is going over the various legal codes." She held up a finger of her right hand, "I know, we invaded, we won, we should be able to say 'Do this' and 'Do that'. Right?" Drew nodded. "We armed the red collar slaves, but once armed, they are going to be very unlikely to be disarmed." Drew nodded again. "Therefore we put them to use, training them as militia, as security forces, and paying them as police officers. That also means that we need to have rules and regulations that they can enforce, and that are as fair and balanced as we can make them. Unfortunately, we couldn't do that pre-invasion, as we didn't have a copy of the different civil, commercial, and criminal statutes, so we do it now. Once we have those, we ram 'em through the local legislature, so it doesn't look like we're imposing them from above. Why, you may ask?"
"Yes, ma'am, why?"
"Two little words, Major: Civil. War." The Colonel fiddled with her pipe, "We want as minimal disruption of daily life as possible. We're already getting complaints regarding the suspension of regular slave sales, although I'm sure private sales are still going on. However, with the local Ministry of Commerce shut down, they can't register the sales, and so they haven't happened, at least officially." She puffed on her pipe, and then tapped it on the sole of her boot. "Not to mention the usual export and import sales. The slave girls in question are a different batch of fish. They, and several hundred thousand other red-collar slaves just like them, are owned by one person, this Lord Chichester. However, Lord Chichester seems to have vanished, and thus cannot give his consent to the slaves' sale." She pushed off the post and took a few steps.
"They were collected and recollared by the Guard," Drew objected.
"Who did it in Chichester's name. Chichester is missing, and seems to be an 'un-person' (she finger-quoted), who while he had lots of property, and wealth, does not seem to have any known relatives. Nor does he seem to have left a will, which means: A, he first has to be declared an actual person; B, he has to be declared dead, and C, his estate, which includes all those hundreds of thousands of slave girls, as well as lots of other property, has to be probated through the courts." She held up a hand, "No, we can't simply seize it all, unless we want a civil war. Rule of law, remember? We want all those slave girls, we have to pay for them. Then we can start them down the road to freedom."
"Um." Drew considered. "Why not at least unbind them? Take off all that hardware."
"That is how their previous owner left them, therefore, unless it is a risk to their life, and thus the value of the property, status quo ante must prevail." The Colonel turned, "Let's say your farm is across the road from your neighbor's farm. He's gone for now, you don't know when he'll be back. He owns a horse, which slips and falls in a stock pond, and starts to drown. You run over and help it out, dry it off, perhaps call a vet to check it out. However, you do not remove the harness, saddle and whatnot the horse is wearing unless it is a risk to the horse's life. Choking, perhaps. Because it's not your horse." The Colonel raised an elegant, sculptured eyebrow. "The hoods, gags and whatnot the slaves are wearing are not risking their life, therefore we can't remove them. Their owner, Chichester, apparently wanted them silent and unseen. The key to this is our coup must be as minimally disruptive as possible. Much easier for this to be a pain-in-the-rump now than the massive expense and labor of rebuilding the planet. Remember the Marshall Plan from school, Major?"
Drew nodded. "If the vet says to take off the harness?"
"Then you've got expert opinion that allows you to take it off. We don't have that. The slaves can breathe, eat and drink, and void waste through suction. Yes, the slaves might be bored, in pain from whip marks and have muscle cramps, but they're alive. That's the key thing - they're alive." The attorney headed toward the door to the office. "I appreciate your coming to me, Major, and I can sympathize with you, but I need to get back to work. Remember, this conversation never happened."
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Wednesday, December 10, 2003: 16:15 (relative)
Ewan, Port of Ewan, Stadium:
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Someone checked her hip implant, "Take her to tent 'M', please," the slave 198a2 heard. The working slaves had made this trip many times, day-after-day-after-day since the decision had been made to pull all the slaves out of the slave house and bring them here. For now, the slave 198a2 was simply pleased to lie on her back for a change.
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Friday, December 12, 2003: 14:09 (relative)
Shaker, Cargo Hold:
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A young woman cleared her throat, and then said in Japanese: ("The Imperial Gardens' beauty is but a pale, insignificant shadow of the Tsaritsa's own.") Like a fog retreating, Joss Higginbotham emerged from the slave girl 198a2, although not completely. She heard, "Well, now. Let's start with the basics. We've kind of … stolen all of you."
"Pull forward, girl," a rough male voice said as he grasped her torso under her breasts and pulled. He held her there as her arms slackened, while she heard wrenches applied. With a 'spang' her wrist shackles came loose, they were quickly pulled behind her and she was re-cuffed. The man let go of her (but patted her shoulder) as she felt the wrenches applied to her ankle shackles. She heard shuffling of feet, and someone started working on the spheres around her feet.
"Here's the situation," another man said. "You girls, some of you at least, are members of Her Imperial Majesty's Special Forces. Because of various bureaucratic types, they were holding you until they could find your owner, one Lord Chichester, who would then sell all the red-collar slaves like you, several hundred thousand, to the Empire. That could have taken months, if not years, as it appears Chichester did a runner. God alone knows how long it would take the lawyers and the local, civilian courts to get around to removing all that metal crap you were wearing, much less free all of you."
"They couldn't be freed, master. They're all red collar slaves, like I am."
"Yes, well, I'll let you get to it, then." They heard footsteps, and then the lighter slap of a slave girl's leather sandals. There was the rustle of cloth, and the girl spoke again. "Hi, I'm Cam, and I'll be your First Girl. Harri is our Healer …"
"Hi, there!" a bouncy, squeaky voice.
"Who is also wearing a red collar. Little idiot."
"Hey! It matches my hair!"
"As I said, she's an idiot. However, as master was starting to explain, we've essentially stolen you girls away from the lawyers, and we're headed inbound to Earth." She paused for a moment, "Yes, we're trying to make it home by Christmas." She paused again, "Yes, you're excited. Let me finish, please." Joss finished shaking in her neck ring and quieted. "We've called in to Luna and passed on a list of your collar numbers, so once we reach Eunomia we'll release you into the tender mercies of the base, which will debrief you and send you home."
"There's no place like home for the holidays…" Harri started to sing, until Cam cleared her throat. "Um. Right. Sorry."
"As I was saying …" Cam paused, and then continued when Harri remained silent. "The reason we haven't gone all the way is need-to-know. You don't need to know our ship name, our real names, any of that, because we work undercover as smugglers and blockade runners." Joss leaned forward, twisting her head in the hood, and Cam continued, "As far as the hoods and gags, it's just simpler to feed you that way. Once we turn you over to Eunomia, I assume they'll take it off. After all, they can't debrief you if you can't see and speak." There was a rustle of cloth, "Now, when we grabbed you, you were all in one tent, so for the girls that are not Special Forces, master, or Captain, has asked me to pass along an offer. We can use some more girls as crew, both to enhance our cover and because we need you. If you're not a member of the Spacer's Guild, we'll train you and offer you a standard Guild contract. However, you will look like a slave and be treated as a ship's slave outside the ship. Outside the ship," she repeated. "Aboard ship, and when we don't have outsiders aboard, you're crew. You're family. Anyway, think about it. That's about it." There was the light slap of a hand on a thigh, and the rustle of cloth as Cam arose, then the 'clank' of a door locking.
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Saturday, December 13, 2003: 07:05 (UTC -5)
Terra, Chagrin Falls, Ohio:
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Irene Higginbotham sighed. This was not going to be a Happy Christmas for her, with her husband and daughter off-planet and in the Army and her son… no, her other daughter Joss missing and presumed dead. This past Thanksgiving had been especially hard, as she was by herself, she had spent it with co-workers, but still…
She had her shower, and the computer gave a 'bing' and the cheerful message 'You've got mail!" Sometimes she just wanted to hit the thing. She walked over, checking her inbox:
To: Mom (Home)
CC: Dad (Army)
From: Higginbotham, Katherine
Date: 13 December, 2003
Subject: Christmas !
Mom:
I was just told that I'm getting some Christmas leave before being re-deployed! I hope I'll be there in time, we were about two weeks getting out here, which shaves things rather tight. We'll see what we see - I know you must be lonely this time of year, especially when I heard about Joss.
Love ya both to pieces!
Kathy
Irene almost squealed - at least one of her family would be home for the holidays! "Christmas dinner! I've got to start planning!" She turned away to start getting dressed when the computer gave another 'bing' and the voice again told her 'You've got mail!'
To: Mom (Home)
CC: Kathy (Army)
From: Higginbotham, Mark
Date: 13 December, 2003
Subject: Re: Christmas !
: Mom:
: I was just told that I'm getting some Christmas leave before being re-deployed! I hope I'll be there in : time, we were about two weeks getting out here, which shaves things rather tight. We'll see what we : see - I know you must be lonely this time of year, especially when I heard about Joss.
:
: Love ya both to pieces!
: Kathy
:
:
:
Well, this is excellent! My unit was lucky enough to also get some Christmas leave before being re-deployed. However, it took us almost a month to get out here, so hopefully the Powers-that-Be will lay on some fast transport. As Kathy said, we'll see what we see.
Dad
Now Irene felt she could decorate for the Holidays!
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Monday, December 15, 2003: 07:05 (UTC +1)
Terra, Port of Hamburg, Imperial Logistics:
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John Fouch, VP of production, had seen warehouses before. Indeed, his company, John Deere, had some of the largest in the state of Illinois. However, the sheer scale of these warehouses, and the associated vehicle parks, were literally kilometers across. He knew that the Phobos warehouses were even larger. Right now, he was driving through just one of those vehicle parks with Jurgen Kempfer, whose duty was apparently to show visiting VIPs (like him) around.
While he appreciated Jurgen's use of one of their M-Gator quarter-ton vehicles, it was snowing with a bitter wind. He would have preferred the enclosed, heated comfort of one of the Kubelwagen II's from Volkswagen. He knew that Deere produced five other lines of half-track truck for the Empire, with both diesel and natural gas engines, in three, six, twelve, eighteen and twenty-five metric ton ratings. All these had a range of accessories that shipped with them, from three different styles of hitch, to water and fuel tanks (and hoses), to simple stake-bed and flatbed styles. Heck, there was even a way to factory-mount anti-aircraft guns on those cargo beds!
His teeth stopped chattering long enough to hold up a hand. "What the hell are those?"
Jurgen braked, looking to the white-plastic wrapped forms in their steel shipping frames. "Ach, those are gunboats. Twenty meters long; I confess I wouldn't mind having one myself."
John got out, walking over to where the boats rested, stacked three rows high and across in their frames; with stretch white plastic protecting the aft part of the keels over to the bow. They rested in trailers with three sets of doubled, military grade tires, parked in the steel shipping frames. Fiberglass strapping held them immobile. The visible part of the hull was a matte white. The rows of gunboats stretched off into the overcast distance.
He got back in the M-Gator, which Jurgen had thoughtfully driven to a few meters away. "Hell, yes. I wouldn't mind one myself. Let's get back in and warmed up, and then we'll see what we at Deere can do to help you boys out."
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Tuesday, December 16, 2003: 11:49 (UTC)
Hour 563.49/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, HIM offices:
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Mattie Wayne was just finishing up before lunch when an icon started flashing on her computer's screen. A program she had forgotten about in the rush of day-to-day life. She clicked on it, read the notice, and then picked up the phone. "Ellen? Sorry to do this with no notice, but I need to cancel the rest of the day, and possibly tomorrow. Something's come up at home. Right, I'll let you know."
"Something I should know about?" Crystal asked from her position across the room.
"A signal, you know I had a computer running an analysis and synthesis program on that poison that took down Arthur?" Her bodyguard nodded. "It just finished a run, with a positive result. It also passed half-a-dozen lab rats."
Crystal's mouth tightened, it had only been a year since her fiancé Steve had been murdered in New York City. "Not the best testing of that antidote."
"True, but we have a very limited supply of that poison. Just an ounce or two; our synthesis of that is still on-going." The Empress finished closing and saving her work, and started packing up.
Crystal stood, "I'll let Major Hilliard know." The officer was one of the 'Alpha-Zulu' cleared Special Forces troops that carried the Command Briefcase and was always within five meters of her. There was another Briefcase with Prime Minister Delacour, and a third, as a backup, was kept at the SF command center. Hilliard, and the other officers, had a seat outside her door. "Who do you want to know?"
"Um. Narcissa, of course, and if Mr. Morton is around. Kara would probably be useful, given her speed and strength…"
"She's still learning to control them, though."
"She managed to juggle three eggs, and Uncle Clark's working. Cyndi, of course." She stood, pulling her suit jacket on. "I'll make the calls; you pack up your stuff."
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Tuesday, December 16, 2003: 13:05 (UTC)
Hour 565.05/708.00
Luna, Grimaldi Crater, Wayne Quarters:
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"Ready?" Dr. Narcissa Black asked, glancing at the young blonde, who nodded.
"I am aware that I have only a few seconds, and I must be firm but gentle in administering the drug," Kara replied. "It will do no good to tear his throat out. I have practiced on throwing eggs in midair while I inject a dye into them."
"Perhaps …" 'Big Bill' Morton started to say, "Perhaps Dr. Black could …"
Dr. Black looked at her patient's nervous father. "We have calculated that we have, at most, a five second window. It will take at least two seconds for the stasis field to drop and the tank to open sufficiently to admit an arm. I am not fast enough, but Miss El is, she is younger, and her arm is a smaller diameter."
"Let them work, Mr. Morton," Mattie said, pulling him back toward the foot of the tank. She took a deep breath, and then Bill unconsciously wrapped his arms around her.
"Ready? Go!" There was a clunk, a hiss, the start of a scream of pain, and then the young blonde moved, her arm blurring forward. "And we have a successful injection!" Dr. Black said. There was a groan from the stasis tank as Dr. Black waved her wand. "Can you hear me, Mr. Morton? The antidote to the poison has damaged your somatic nervous system. You will not be able to speak or move until this is repaired. However, it IS repairable. Your father and your fiancée are here; for now, we're going to move you to a private room." She gestured, and Kara picked him up and transferred him to a gurney.
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Friday, December 19, 2003: 00:04 (UTC)
Hour 648.04/708.00
Luna, Grimaldi Crater, Wayne Quarters:
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"Ohhh…" the patient groaned, and the night watch in the medical bay looked up. The young man in Room A was waking. The nurse took the remote from the desk and walked the few meters to his room, opening the door and stepping next to the bed rail. "Good morning," she said softly as she checked his vitals. The automatic sensors were recording all that, but it was still good patient relations. "I'm Caryn with a C. How do you feel?"
"Hello, Caryn with a C. I feel like I've been beaten with a steel bar. Why can't I move my wrists?"
"You've got monitors placed on your lower arms and the back of your hands that can't be moved. They're very delicately placed; and people have a habit of tearing at them in their sleep. That's why we've strapped down your arms."
"They're sore, and I'm thirsty."
"Let me take care of that." She helped him drink some ice water, and adjusted his painkillers up a bit. "Dr. Black will be by to check on you in a few hours …" He was asleep again.
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Friday, December 21, 2003: 20:03 (UTC)
Hour 692.03/708.00
Luna, Grimaldi Crater, Wayne Quarters:
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"Don't go in yet, please," the duty nurse asked Mattie. She grinned, "I believe Dr. Black is explaining some … what is the phrase … home truths to both Mr. Mortons. Father and son."
Ms. Wayne nodded. "Certainly. I didn't see you at evening prayers."
The nurse gestured, "I went to morning prayers at the mosque, and said some at my break." She grinned, "Thinking of converting?"
"Still a good little Catholic girl."
"At least you're a Believer." A light changed on her panel, and she said, "Go see your husband."
"Good evening, Arthur, Mr. Morton, Dr. Black."
"Good evening, Your Majesty. If you'll excuse me, I'll retire for the evening. Mr. Morton, you have the remote, please call me at home if you need me." Narcissa nodded and left.
"Remote?" Arthur asked.
His father held out a small device with a large red button. "We can talk privately when we have this; they turn off the intercom monitor. If there's an emergency, we push the red button, but otherwise they'll leave us alone." He grimaced, "I don't like the privacy invasion, but for medical monitoring …" He waved a hand at the diagnostic panel behind the bed's headboard.
"I don't like it…"
"And if you were to have a sudden problem, for instance difficulty breathing? We went over this with Dr. Black, son. We agree on a lot of things, but on your health, I'm going to side with Dr. Black." 'Big Bill' Morton crossed his arms, "You're not eighteen, or twenty-one yet, son. You're a minor, sixteen, and I make the decisions. You had a lot of damage done to your nervous system. I'm told that you'll make a full recovery, but it will take time." He glanced at his almost-daughter-in-law, nodded, and passed her the remote. "I'll be back in the morning, son. Anything you want to pass on to your mother and the others?"
Arthur just shook his head, and Mattie waited until he had left, and then said, "I stopped by this morning, but you were asleep. How are you feeling?"
"Like they switched to a baseball bat from a tire iron when they beat me," he said. "I can barely move."
"You're making progress," she replied. "You can speak, I've seen your shoulders and arms move and your fingers twitch," she regarded him. He looked tired, and a hospital gown wasn't flattering on anyone.
"I want to get out of here," he commented.
"You heard Dr. Black," she said. "Your somatic nervous system was damaged, and needs repair and regrowth. That's going to take time. Right now, I doubt you could crawl to the door, much less walk to it. Then there's physical therapy." He grunted, and she asked, "Can you use the TV remote?"
"Somewhat. I don't have a channel listing, and I was stuck watching some political commentary show. I didn't know your portrait was on the money; and I thought you had a line-item veto."
"I do, but it's … oh, it was a compromise," she said, throwing up her hands. "Politics is all about compromise, and that was something I needed to pay in order to get a larger issue passed through the Assembly." She leaned on the bed rail as he asked, "You all right? You look tired."
"My job isn't the easiest," she admitted. "Honestly, I miss Hogwarts, and having to worry about Quidditch and essays for Flitwick and McGonagall. I had tutors for my OWLs and A-levels, but there are some amusing bits. For instance, the finance subcommittee wanted to put YOUR face on the reverse of a bill, with dates of birth and death, but we managed to substitute a series issue - great composers. Bach was the first one, although there was a huge argument in committee about who deserved it more: John Lennon versus Rachmaninoff or Stravinsky."
"At least it was someone worthy," he quipped, and she laughed. "Seriously, how are things?"
"With you? The family knows you're awake, although you can't be moved. We considered having everyone up here for Christmas, but the media have enough of a circus camping out in front of Wayne Manor, even with hellhounds guarding the gates." She snorted, "You know about our Special Forces? They keep putting up satellite dishes and so forth for communications, and the hounds keep peeing on them, shorting the circuits out. It's kind of hard to discipline a big, three-headed puppy."
"Big?"
"Fluffy big."
"Ah."
"Hagrid would absolutely love this little pack. There are eight puppies with the sire and dam. Mom put up a building for them, insulated it, and they have a stock pond to drink from and play in. They generally stay in the grounds, but the puppies have wandered, they've shown up on the neighboring country club's golf courses. They're just curious and playful, but when they play with one of the local hoi-polloi, they scream bloody murder and the puppies weighing in at five thousand pounds each…" She grinned.
"You're enjoying hearing about this," he said.
"Oh, yeah. They tried to get Mom to get rid of them; she's the only one with some control of them. She said that she could summon Lucifer in their names to remove them, but it would cost their soul. They shut up after that." She grinned again, and then sobered. "One thing I wanted to do was get your thoughts on your coming-out. Your resurrection from the dead. The fundamentalists are going to scream 'Dark Magic' and that we're both in league with the Devil …"
"Yeah. How'd that happen?"
"I was so focused in getting you in a stasis tube, which looks like a coffin, that people watching the thing in New York assumed you were dead. I then wore dark clothes in memory of the people killed, and people assumed I was in mourning, with the Widow's Weeds. We couldn't produce you, alive for an exam, or dead for an autopsy, so we just ran with it while we worked on getting a cure. We hid you away while the computers ground away at an antidote. I'm actually a little surprised they came up with something that fast. We've never explicitly stated you're dead, people just assumed, so that leaves you in something of a legal limbo." She gazed at him, "I know we've had our disagreements, and you're uncomfortable with my putting on my 'Empress' hat. However, I have to wear those different hats. Mattie the teenage witch would get no traction on getting things done in the Empire."
"Especially in wartime," he grunted. "I think you're missing a bet with your other hats, there. Tell 'em, if you think it's anyone's business, that I was in something like a medically induced coma while you were trying to figure out how to cure me. Which has the wonderful advantage of being true."
"I don't think that'll go over too well. It'll look like we were... I was... trying to pull a fast one for some cheap sympathy. I have to admit, your 'death'", she finger quoted, "probably helped get the US to sign up with the Terran Empire."
"Definitely a 'you were'. I was in stasis."
"Not helping."
"Mattie, I care just about as much for anyone who can't accept the truth about this as I do about those morons who couldn't accept that Eleanor had a full body cat girl makeover. As long as it's just words, I plan to ignore them. Actions... Way I'm feeling right now; giving them the same stuff they nailed me with sounds about right."
"That's the pain talking."
Arthur shivered and gritted his teeth weakly. "No, that's the pain screaming in my ears."
She frowned, "I thought the pain meds were working. Let me get the duty nurse…"
"No, no, it's not too bad; it's like a muscle pull, or a leg cramp. I can wait a bit, though. I'll tough it out, but please ask the nurse on the way out." He reached for his water cup and she took a step to help him with it. She refilled it, and took a cup of her own. "Dad was saying I had some options."
"Yes. You can disappear if you want to. Go back to school, out-migrate to a colony, and join a merchant ship's crew. New bodies, looks, identities are not a problem, of course."
"Dad mentioned some of the other possibilities that were kicked around for me. Whole body prosthesis, reading my mind into a new, cloned body…"
"The shell people are actually being done. They serve as part of a ship's computer systems; these are people that have major nerve damage. Not too many, they're all volunteers, but I doubt you'd be happy there."
"No doubt. Clones?"
"We'd have to read your mind in before week twenty-six, which is when the fetus starts to develop its own mind and intelligence. That's a little too close, ethically, for me to abortion." She gestured, "I'm still a good little Catholic girl, even though the Assembly decided that abortion was legal, it's not an option I'd choose personally. For that kind of thing, I keep thinking, 'What if that was another modern-day Einstein we killed in that procedure?'." She gave him a crooked smile, "See, I do have a sense of ethics and morals."
"Just not the right ones."
Her smile froze, "And for now, I'm going to let you get some rest. I'll see you later." She swept out, ignoring his confusion and concealing her anger.
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Sunday, December 21, 2003: 08:00 (relative)
Aeeloh, Glavni Grad, Palace briefing room:
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"Seal the room," King Da'nnge ordered. He glowered at his nervous High Council as it was done. "There is a time for the speech appropriate to the populace, there is a time for Truth. This is one such. There will be nothing spoken but Truth in this room, at this meeting." He swept the table with his angry gaze. "We have received reports of the war with the Terrans. Speak this Truth so all may hear."
"My King," the elderly head of the Navy said, "The Terrans have struck three of our planets. Melotte, Des, and its brother Ewan. None of the three, according to merchant reports, had their planetary defenses ready. In each case, the Terrans attacked in two groups, one taking the space-based defenses while the others took the planet."
"They landed spies before their attack," the head of the Republic's Planetary Guard put in after a minute. "They encouraged the slaves with lies and falsehoods to attack their masters, they trained and armed …"
"They ARMED slaves?" the head of the Commerce Ministry asked. "Why? Slaves are content because we have always treated them well; we are more than kind to the slaves…"
"Some of them do not agree with that statement," the Guardsman replied. "They managed to kill thousands of their owners, some in horrible, painful ways." He raised a hand, "I repeat, this is merchant information, but a great deal of it comes from members of the Slaver's Guild. Apparently, the Terrans do not deal in slaves."
"Then how is work performed, if not with slaves?"
"By machines."
"But how…"
"The way the thirty-two civilized galaxies have work done, a slave is given a task, the proper materials, training, and tools to do that task, and she is left alone to do so. What the Terrans do is program a machine to do the task, which the machine will do, unceasingly and perfectly every time, thirty hours out of each thirty-hour day. A slave will become fatigued and make foolish errors during the day …"
"Which is why you Enhance the slave!"
"The slave is still an animal, and like all other living animals, becomes fatigued. Enhancement has nothing to do with this, but a machine is not living, and if supplied with power, parts, and the appropriate programming and tools, can continue until the heat-death of the universe."
"We have examined this before," Commerce said firmly. "Such machines are far too expensive and difficult to maintain. Why, the computing power required for a single such device would require a computer similar to that in a starship!"
The Guardsman raised a hand. "I speak only of what has been reported to me. I make no claim as to its possibility. Indeed, I believe it to be a deliberate lie on the Terran's part."
"ENOUGH!" the King thundered, slamming his fist on the table. "Enough of slaves and fantastic machines! What do we do to stop these Terrans?"
"We do not know where they will strike next, if indeed they strike us again," the Navy quavered. "They may be satisfied with the three planets of ours they have stolen…"
"And the Protection Funds they have taken," the Finance Minister put in. "Trillions of grams of tungsten that were flowing into our vaults to fund our works, and they have cut those off from the three planets. If they continue to attack our planets, I can only assume that they will cut off those Funds as well."
"What will they do with all that money?"
"Fund their own works, I must assume," Finance replied. "I am also concerned about the licensing and registration fees from slave transactions. I have heard, once again from merchant sources that the Terrans do not participate in the slave trade."
"But how do they live?" someone asked among the resultant uproar.
Finance raised his hand, "My King, may I continue?" The King rapped once on the table with his knuckles, and the conversations died an immediate death. "Thank you, my King. I have heard that in addition to their use of machines and computers, the Terrans find the slave trade repulsive, abhorrent." He glared down a few who were about to protest. "This is supported by their theft of the ships and cargos of slavers."
"That must be thousands of hands of slaves," the King said. "What do they do with them, if not use them as slaves?"
"My King, I can see only one use for them, if they are not used properly as slaves." Finance took a deep breath, "The Terrans use female soldiers. I can only conclude that they are taking those stolen slaves and using them against us as their military forces."
There was another outbreak of arguing, once again, the King had to rap them to silence. The Guard commander added, "The Terran military slaves have been ordered to perform a grotesque ritual. When they slaughter an innocent owner, they take a sharp knife and separate the skin from the body (he used a finger to circle his forehead), which they display as a trophy for their new owners."
"I have heard enough about these Terran barbarians," the King said. "I command that the reserves of our forces are brought to action. This is both the ground forces and our navy ships in order to protect our planets. As you can see, they must fight to the death to prevent an even more horrible fate. The enemy Terran slaves will be offered a return to our collars and their simple, correct lives; if they decline, they must die to prevent their abnormality from infecting our planets. What do we know about the Terran planets?"
"Only the location of the one planet, Dirt," Navy replied. "We have sent over a hundred hands of ships there and heard only from a single messenger drone."
"We … we have heard from one other," the Guardsman hesitantly added. "Lord De'war. A private individual who took a ship to the Dirt system to convince them to surrender to himself. He was not successful, and was sent to Reclamation by one of the Foreign Ministry for being unapproved. However, he had a brief conversation with the head of the Terrans." He swallowed, while the King looked at his Foreign Minister.
"The Terrans have a young Queen, my King," the Foreign Minister said fearfully. "I have a recording of Lord De'war's … discussion with her…" The King made a 'gimme' motion, and a record chip was handed over. "I shall view this. For now, you have my orders. Activate the reserves, defend our systems, and enslave our enemies. Fight to the death for the Republic and our way of life!"
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, December 22, 2003: 08:09 (UTC)
Hour 021.09/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, HIM offices:
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"…why zis is called ze technical corrections bill," Madame Fleur Delacour, the Prime Minister concluded. "Ze Assembly, in iz wisdom, has decided to 'fix' certain zings. In honezty, I cannot argue wiz zome of zem." She stopped as Crystal had arisen and was prowling around the offices, a suspicious look on her face. She waved at the three women, Madame Delacour, General von Hesse, and the Empress. "Please continue. Something doesn't smell right to me." With a small 'pop', she transformed into her wolf form and started to sniff around the room.
"Is there something we can do?" Heinrike asked.
Crystal shook her wolf-head, and then headed to the three, sitting in the casual seating area of the office, near the smart wall. It was showing the usual screen-saver of exotic fish, with a very soft 'bloop-bloop' aquatic sound. She thoroughly sniffed first Madame Delacour, then General von Hesse, then lastly the Empress, nudging each to stand and turn with her snout. Snorting, she continued to quarter the office, even going down the side corridor to the various conference rooms.
The three watched her for a moment, and then resumed their conversation. Madame Delacour continued, "The Assembly feels that ze Empire should have ze 'unified command structure' (she finger-quoted), wiz ze identical rankz acroz all of ze forzes. Ze only exceptionz would be ze flag ranks, ze Navy and ze Merchant Marine having ze Admiralz, the Army and ze Marinez ze Generals." She passed over laminated cards. "At ze top, of courze, is ze zingle Crown rank. Zis iz restricted to ze members of ze Royal Family, wiz ze rank being ze shoulder-sleeve of ze white border on ze light-purple field, wiz ze silver five-pointed crown." She reached down into her bag and tossed Ms. Wayne a small plastic bag with a pair of the sleeves, to fit on the shoulder straps of her uniform.
"I'm not comfortable with wearing a uniform," she admitted. "I don't feel I've earned the right."
"You are the commander of a military unit, the Special Forces of the Empire," General von Hesse replied. "You are also the Commander-in-Chief. That gives you the right."
"Still, I think it's better to stay in civvies," she replied. "Otherwise, people will think the Empire is a military government. I'm not ruling out wearing a uniform, just the occasion of it."
"In addition, when ze bill pazzes; and it will, you will be out of ze uniform if you do not wear it," the Prime Minister replied with a grin. "Ze only exceptionz are formal court dress and when you addrez ze Assembly."
"That means that an MP can give you a ticket for being out of your correct uniform," her General joked.
"Then I'm going to issue a Crown Order regarding that. I think for some Empire-wide holidays, like a military appreciation day, or for occasions like graduation and award ceremonies, I'll wear a uniform. Otherwise, we need to reinforce the concept of Crown control of the military."
Fleur regarded the Empress, and then nodded, "Oui. Mon General, we have not forgotten vous. Zere has been revizionz to ze rank structure. We have notized zat zere are zeveral commands where ze General or Admiral also haz ze same zree-star rank you currently hold, and have date-of-rank preceding yourz. Zo, zey out-rank you. Zere are ozzers who are four-stars. We start at ze bottom, wiz ze O-1 offizer. Ze Third-Lieutenant, wiz ze zree silver bars in ze triangle, pointing up on ze black field. Ze border of ze strap is ze same color as ze uniform, grey for Army and zo forth. Ziz replaces ze Ensign and Officer Candidate rankz."
"One change I'd make, if possible, is to change the Third and Second Lieutenant (O-2) insignia to point down, instead of up. A 'V' shape. Better visual recognition," the General suggested.
"Ze bill is on ze second-reading, zo I will make the change," the Prime Minister replied as she made a note. "Ze First Lieutenant (O-3) iz zingle silver bar; ze Senior Lieutenant (O-4) iz two bars, replazing ze army captain rank and ze confusion wiz ze naval rank. Ze Under-Colonel (O-5) iz zree crozzed zords, replazing ze Major and reverzing ze pattern of ze Lieutenant rankz, ze Colonel (O-6) iz two crozzed zords, replazing ze Lieutenant-Colonel, and ze Over-Colonel (O-7) iz one crozzed zord."
"Again, good visual recognition," the General agreed. "A very young officer is likely to be a Third Lieutenant, which will aid in that rank recognition." She tapped the laminated sheet. "Next are the flag officers."
"Oui. Zis iz where ze Navy and ze Army diverge. We keep ze ztars for ze ranks. One ztar, ze O-8 rank iz ze Commodore in ze Navy and ze Brigadier General in ze Army. Ze next, ze Under-General or Under-Admiral (O-9), iz two silver ztars side-by-side. Ze General or Admiral (O-10) iz zree silver ztars in ze upward-triangle; ze Over-General or Over-Admiral (O-11) iz four silver ztars in ze box-shape."
She leaned forward, taking a sip of tea and replacing her cup on the coffee table. "Next we have ze Marshals. Zey are outside ze services, and zey also earn a baton as ze badge of rank. Zere is argument about ze design of ze baton, ze cost and ze number of Marshals' zlots." She gave a very Gallic shrug.
"Ze first is ze Marshal (O-12), wiz one zilver wreath on ze light purple background, ze Grand-Marshal (O-13) wiz two wreaths on ze purple, and finally ze Imperial Marshal (O-14) wiz zree wreaths and ze Imperial purple."
"Impressive, and you want to promote me to…"
"You are currently an O-9, a Lieutenant-General. Wiz zis next invazion, which we azzume will be az successful az ze ozzers, we will promote you to ze rank of Over-General (O-11). Zis should eliminate ze problems wiz ze ozzer Generals. Zey are not on ze current promotion lizt. You are."
"The next invasion is tentatively scheduled for May first. We want to consolidate our hold on the three current planets, and re-work the pre-invasion intelligence, among other things. We've learned a lot."
"How many planets are in this invasion?"
"Five. We're attacking the food sources of the Republic. The first two are in the binary system of Charis, called 'the dinner table' of the Republic. Charis Alpha Three is four-point-three times Earth's size, but has only one-point-seven times our gravity. It has one massive continent, is in the middle of the star's habitable zone, and has only point-two degrees of axial tilt, so minimal seasons. The Republic has had the Charis system for eighteen hundred years; Alpha Three produces truly mammoth quantities of the cereal grains, which are stored in orbital granaries, and shipped out on massive interstellar grain ships to other planets. This system is also a major node on the interstellar convoy routes."
The General continued, "Charis Beta Two is a similar planet physically, but it is more of a general farm planet, exporting vegetables, meats, and beverages including beers, liquors and wines. Defenses are oriented more toward piracy, although the Charis garrison fleet has a substantial deterrent effect. It is headquartered in orbit above Beta Two; their heaviest known warships are a division of heavy cruisers for each planet, and a number of frigates and destroyers. By now the King and his court in Aeeloh has to be aware of our tactics, but not our timing or strategic plans. While giving them five months is not what I'd like, we need it to build up an overwhelming naval force."
"We can shift some forces," the Empress said.
"I intend to, they can be the experienced core of the new forces."
"Ze ozzer planets?"
"The next two are in the Argusian system. The star is a F5, so it is quite a bit larger than Sol, with a larger habitable zone. The FTL limit is 24 light minutes, and it has two habitable planets, Argusia and Dias. Argusia is the fifth planet out, a fertile planet of islands in relatively shallow seas, 1.5 times the landmass of Earth though only 1.09 times as heavy, with an average temperature of 23 Celsius. Their exports are electronics and the produce from their large fish farms."
The General continued, "The planetary governor is Alrik Corase. Argusia is considered the most liberal planet in the Republic, and Corase is liberal for his society. There is hereditary nobility, compromising five percent of the population, nine percent free, which are the middle managers and entrepreneurial class, fifty-seven percent slave, all female, and an unusual thirty-two percent 'serf' class (she finger-quoted), who are exclusively male, and are not all slaves, but are more akin to indentured servants and debt bondage. However, this status can be passed down through the generations, with the sons inheriting the father's debt. A political faction considers slavery of males against the Source, which is one reason why the serfs are not called slaves. Argusia has the largest population of non-slaves, if you include the serfs in that category."
"Due to the warm temperatures and planetary law, all slaves are Enhanced as well as kept naked, with the exception of necessary protective clothing. One other social factor is the inclusion of 'mermaids' (she finger-quoted again), who are genetically engineered slaves, imported from Eta Orionis, the home world of WorkForce and used to maintain the fish farms' tanks. Those tanks are extensive, being placed between islands and kilometers on a side." He changed to an orbital map, "The capital city and primary star port is here, Port Sunshine, on the largest island, Bourne. While there are roads on the islands with electric vehicles, inter-island transportation infrastructure is generally electrically powered small boats and freighters between the various islands. Each island also has STOL or VTOL airports. This island (one blinked in a red circle) is the planetary prison, Saltaire, where prison labor is used to mine sea salt used in fish preservation. Economically, the planet imports the slave gruel used by the majority of the population, as well as the foodstuffs consumed by the serfs, free and the aristocracy. While there are some food reserves, they are strictly short-term, designed for disaster relief. Hurricanes and the like."
"Regarding the assault, we believe we can continue our previous tactics of seizing a space head at the planetary spaceport while enforcing an orbital blockade. The main island is about the size of Manhattan. We can then use our gunboats as a brown-water maritime force to take the islands, along with helicopters for airmobile forces. One problem is the nets for the fish farms are buoyed at or just under the surface."
"How big are these fish and I assumed there are predators, like sharks," Mattie asked.
"The fish can grow up to thirty meters, although most are harvested when they're only ten meters. As far as predators, that's one reason for the surface mooring of the nets. There is a large predator that has been hunted for sport that's up to a hundred meters long, like a very large shark."
The General continued. "Dias. Dias is a colony planet of Argusia, and is just inside the habitable zone and eighty percent the size of Earth. By itself, we would wait on this, but its part of a binary system, so we can't leave it. The planet was colonized twenty-one hundred years ago while the Argusians were still non-FTL. It is an arid planet, with an average temperature of 32 Celsius, so it is a bit like Mars, only considerably warmer. They still consider themselves a colony planet, and are even more liberal than Argusia, with up to sixty-five percent free population, although still an aristocracy in the star port and capital city of Bredda. Exports are electronics, fungal-based wines, spirits, and pharmaceuticals, although their primary industry is conventions and tourism for the local sub-sector. Think Las Vegas or Monte Carlo."
"Roughly 1900 years ago, the Argusian system was attacked and occupied by the Republic. Their existing Royals were tortured to death, their young girls and women were publically enslaved as a celebration of their first victory over another system." The General sat back, "With your consent, ma'am, we'll offer the two Argusian planetary governors the chance to quietly slip away while we replace the existing Republican controllers. While there is a dissident element, it has been crushed by their security forces. Once that's done, we can start reforming the society."
"I'm not comfortable with that. If they've broken existing laws, they should be punished."
"We don't think the odds are in favor of their complete compliance. It does give us the chance to slip on-planet and take control bloodlessly; and if they try a double-cross, we'll be in a significantly better position. The actual decision will be left up to local commanders." The General raised an eyebrow, and the Empress nodded. "The fifth planet is Bismet. This is an archipelago planet orbiting a G5 star, with three moons and upward of fifty-thousand islands poking out of the water from the submerged continental shelf. Their major exports are from fish farms and exotic minerals used in manufacturing, primarily vacuum tubes and other electronics. There are several larger islands in volcanic chains, but the average water depth of the submerged continent is under a hundred meters." The soon-to-be-promoted General smiled. "They will no longer be able to source these minerals like chromium internally to the Republic, but will need to buy them on the galactic market, at significantly higher rates."
"Not the sexiest planetary name, but I would think it would be a very pleasant place to visit," the Empress said.
"Yes, they've kept an eye on pollution, because it affects the health of the fish they export. Because of the three moons, there's some severe weather and tidal currents."
"Excuse me, ma'am," Crystal called. "Can you come here a minute?" she asked from behind Mattie's desk. She moved over, "I smell someone's sweat and fear, and a touch of urine. Do you have a hidey-hole I don't know about?"
"Could it be one of us?" Heinrike asked.
"No. The smells don't match any of the three of you."
Mattie looked at Crystal, "This was supposed to be a secret, in case of an attempted coup. You could be made to talk, you know. (Crystal snorted.) Now the three of you will know." She pulled a small light from a drawer, felt along the bottom of the credenza behind her desk, and then with a 'click', slid part of it to the left. Behind it was the finished grey rock, only the handle-ring of a slave leash, the attached lock, and a few centimeters of chain showed in one corner. Crystal leaned forward, sniffing, then nodded. "Ah-hah! How do you open it?"
"Carefully. It's spring-loaded." She pinched two areas, pushed up, and back, commenting, "In an escape, I would have moved the center of the credenza back after opening this. I found this little service crawlway after I moved in. It's not very big, watch your heads." She held the small hatch open, while Crystal grabbed the stuck leash chain. "There's weight on it," she commented as the four of them crawled in.
The crawlway was narrow, cramped, and low ceilinged, with rough-cut rock, in total darkness. Cables ran from their right, with the smart-wall, and a small monitor tapped into the room's video cameras. To the left were various pipes emerging from the small washroom, and two water pipes led over to where the coffee and samovar were placed. A very small drain ran along the wall and connected to the waste stack from the washroom, those pipes ran down a small manhole. With the small light, Mattie stepped over to the manhole, where the slave leash led. Hanging there, her toes barely on a steel ladder rung was a bound, steel-masked slave girl.
"Up you come, girl," Crystal said, pulling up on the leash chain, which was under the girl's chin. She shooed the others out, using her wand to float the girl out. Mattie closed the hatch, and the credenza, Heinrike commenting, "I have a similar setup in my office. I wonder…"
"I wonder how she got into a secure area," Crystal said. "Ma'am, could you do a quick data search on her collar number, see if we know anything about her?" The slave girl was cowering to the side in the 'inspection' position, head to the ground, left leg up so her penalty brands were visible. Her arms were locked behind her, elbows almost touching, her wrists and hands shackled into a steel sphere, her ankles linked with a chain between the ankle bands she wore. The girl's white slave smock and tiny skirt were cheap and dirty, loosely tied with the traditional yellow cord. "Stand, girl. Let us scan your collar." The girl nodded, then crouched and shoved her arse back.
"Need suction?" Mattie said without identifying herself. The girl nodded silently. "Enhanced? Voice disabled?"
The girl nodded again, but Crystal raised a hand. "Slave, you are under arrest for trespassing in a secure area. I will not enable your voice so you may converse only with a speaker-at-law. If you cannot afford a speaker, one will be appointed by the court for you. I will assist you in having your collar number scanned so we may identify you, and then I will assist in suctioning you. Please nod if you understand this, and your rights."
The slave girl nodded, and the Empress ran a bar-code scanner over the girl's collar. Her computer beeped as it accepted the input, and she waved Crystal toward her private washroom.
After Crystal had taken the captured slave girl to jail, Mattie pursed her lips as she stood, reading the girl's file, while Heinrike and Fleur regarded her in silence. "Well, isn't this interesting," she finally commented. "Our breaking and entering suspect is none other than one of our own, specifically one of our Special Forces people covered as a slave girl. One that went missing and we presumed her dead."
"She did not look dead to me. Nor did she look dangerous, with the amount of steel binding her."
"Non," Fleur agreed. "Le petite chat ees also a witch, wiz a good amount of power in her aura."
"Untrained power. She's from the US, and doesn't have any of the American wizarding schools listed here." The Empress reached back and seated herself. "Fleur, have you heard of accidental apparition?"
"Oui. Common, especially with children in a threatening circumstance. Teleportation," she explained to Heinrike. "Where was La Mademoiselle last seen?"
"The planet Ewan. I don't care how much power you have, you can't apparate over interstellar distances! She was supposed to work with the existing Special Forces team to stir up trouble with the local slaves, but she and all the rest of them disappeared. We found the bodies of our three men, publically tortured to death, and assumed the women had vanished into the slave markets. That's why we marked them 'missing, assumed dead'. Only now…"
"How had she gotten from Ewan to Luna, and specifically to your office?" Heinrike asked.
"The hundred-gram question." The Empress was frowning again. "She's got her father and sister coming in on two different ships. I'm cutting orders for them to be stopped here on Luna before they go on to Cleveland, maybe they can help to sort this out. In the meantime…" She operated her intercom, "Ellen? Would you ask the Special Forces officer out there to step in for a minute?"
The door to the outer office opened, and a young female officer came in, bracing to attention. "Captain Teresa Logue, ma'am."
The Empress returned the salute, "Captain Logue, you saw the heavily bound slave girl that Officer Evans just escorted out of here?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"That slave girl turns out to be one of our missing Special Forces troops that we thought had been captured by the enemy and sold into the slave markets." Captain Logue's mouth twitched. "We will support her. Right now that means making sure, she's cleaned up, given medical attention and a proper uniform, and has a lawyer. Ideally, we can get her out so she can be home by Christmas. Her family, her father and sister, are coming in from out-system before they're re-deployed. Are we on the same page, Captain?"
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Perhaps I can help, Captain. It might be useful to have a three-star general backing you up." Heinrike turned to the Empress, "If there is nothing else?"
"One thing. The Imperial Guard is on our side, people. Please remember that."
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Tuesday, December 23, 2003: 07:19 (UTC)
Hour 044.19/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, HIM offices:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
"Good morning, ma'am," Ellen said as Mattie came in the door. She blinked, and then craned her head as Captain Logue followed the Empress in. "Uniform today, Ma'am; and where's Miss Evans?"
"Crystal is taking some well-deserved time off," she replied. "She should be on a flight to London by now." That had been done (under Crystal's protests) to give her deniability. She continued, asking, "I'm going over to where the Imperial Guard is holding that mysterious slave girl, so I'll be out for a while. I want to know how she got in my office."
"Yes, ma'am," Ellen confirmed. "I'll hold your calls."
"Good, thank you. Captain, if you have a minute?"
"Of course, ma'am."
"Captain, I've reserved two adjoining, connecting rooms at the Shepherd Conference Centre under the 'Smith' name," the Empress said, passing over an envelope. "Lieutenant Higginbotham and his daughter Katherine should be arriving on the ten-o-clock shuttle. The rooms are paid for, please meet them, and book them in. Give me a call when they arrive, please; I'm going to rescue their other daughter Joss from the lawyers and find out how she got into my office."
"Ma'am, I'm supposed to stay with you."
"Until you're relieved; which will happen within the next few minutes. Once the deposition is finished, we can send all three Higginbothams off to Cleveland for Christmas." The young officer smiled, "Yes, ma'am!"
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Tuesday, December 23, 2003: 09:46 (UTC)
Hour 046.46/708.00
Luna, Port Oldridge, Imperial Guard:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
"I appreciate your position, I really do," the Empress said. "However, I think I can clear up some of the mystery regarding the slave girl. My people have found out that she, and numerous other girls were apparently being held on Ewan by the local Imperial forces until a chain-of-custody dispute with the local warlord was resolved. Unfortunately, that warlord has done a runner; and couldn't be found, leaving those girls in legal limbo. Some of our Special Forces people apparently stole her, her sister Special Forces girls, and some other slaves, and got them to Eunomia."
"All very well, Your Majesty, but that doesn't explain how she got from Eunomia to Luna and from the Starport to your office. She's been rather reluctant to cooperate," the lawyer replied.
"Why not more of the same: smuggling? I heard about an empty trunk with wheels and a handle. It was locked and sealed on the outside and in a storage locker less than a kilometer from my offices. Inside there were straps that could have been used to hold a slave girl." She sat back with her coffee. "I wonder if someone here on Luna is dealing with slaves on the side. It would be simple enough to transport them that way; after all, don't Terran governments do the same thing with kidnapped dissidents and spies, through the diplomatic pouch? Just make sure the slave's case is in pressurized and heated cargo."
The lawyer grunted. "You could also smuggle in a small nuke that way. Wonderful. How did she get from the storage locker to your office?"
"Apparition?" At the blank look on the lawyer's face, she explained, "Witches and wizards can do short range teleportation. A witch with normal levels of power could apparate about fifteen kilometers, less if you're carrying someone along or hobbled in some way. Normally you'd want to have a good idea of your origin and the destination; otherwise, you risk splinching. That's leaving body parts behind - a hand here, a butt-cheek there. However it is possible to do blind apparition and risk splinching as well as a totally unknown destination, which might include inside a wall or floor." The Empress stood and apparated to a different corner of the office, then another, then back to her chair. Smoothing her uniform's tunic, she sat again. "Now, I can see where I'm going, and I'm not bound in any way. This girl was, and must have felt it was some sort of extreme emergency - maybe she panicked, and just wanted someplace safe." She raised her hands, and then asked, "Why has she not cooperated? What about her own lawyer?"
"She hasn't moved since we placed her in the cell yesterday. Not a word, not a muscle twitch."
"You do know she's Enhanced? She can't move or speak without permission; someone must have used the word 'restrict' in her presence." The Empress paused, and then asked, "You have at least removed her bonds?"
"She is a threat that was caught in a highly secure location!"
"She was bound like a pig for slaughter!" The Empress set her coffee cup down with a bang, leaning over the desk, into the officer's face. She closed her eyes, taking a couple of deep breaths. "My apologies; I don't see how she could be a threat. When I saw her, she didn't have any explosives on her, like a suicide bomber. She can't see, she can't speak, she can't use her hands, she can't run - the chain on her ankles prevents anything like that. How is she a threat?"
"We don't know - that's why she's being investigated."
"I see. How is she being interrogated when answering yes - no questions is all she can do?" The Empress sat back down. "Clear her, or arrest her, with specific charges, Colonel; not being 'held on suspicion'. I'll wait while you do so." She reached down into her bag and removed a DataPadd. Opening a file, she started to read.
Nervously, the lawyer looked at her, "Um, ma'am, this might take a while."
"I'm sitting right here until she's either cleared or charged." She looked over at her Special Forces officer, "Is her attorney briefed?"
"She should be, ma'am. I'll call in and check."
"There we go, then Colonel. The ball's in your court." She returned her attention to her document, adding, "This lets me catch up on my reading. Eight hundred and fifty-four pages to go."
"Um, what is that, ma'am?"
"Economic treaty," she replied, looking up. "We want to set up Imperial Trade Zones in each Assembly-person's district. It's the first step in the political and economic integration of the different planets with the Empire. Later on, we'll get to fiscal integration with a common currency, like the Euro and the Maastricht treaty. Don't let me interrupt you in your investigation." She returned her attention to her document, typing a comment in at a bookmark.
"Attorney is on her way here, ma'am."
"Good," she replied, distracted. "Thank you."
The attorney's intercom sounded. "General Brinkman is here with Colonel Ortiz, sir."
"Thank you, please show them in," he replied as the Empress looked up, saving her place. She slipped her DataPadd into her case, standing as the two officers entered. Brinkman was a tall, ramrod straight officer, while Colonel Ortiz was a classic Latina beauty, with dusky skin, black hair that fell in waves down her back, and startling blue eyes. On seeing the Empress, both officers came to attention and saluted, she returned the salute. "General. Colonel."
"Ma'am; I understand there's a question about a prisoner."
"Yes, General. It seems that we have a slave girl that was captured in my office, who turns out to be one of our Special Forces troops. The question we have is how she got from the planet Ewan to my office, but the investigation seems to have stalled. Ideally, we'd like to get her home for Christmas, especially as she was reported as presumed dead."
"I see, ma'am," and shot a glance at his attorney. "Having viewed the prisoner, I wonder how she can even move, bound as she is."
"Ma'am, may I suggest a simple deposition," Colonel Ortiz said. "This will allow us to follow up any leads as long as we can maintain a clear chain-of-custody."
"That will work, Colonel. What do you plan to do with her, ma'am?"
"I've got her sister, who's Armor, and father, an Engineer; arriving at the Luna Spaceport shortly. They'll be in a hotel room overnight. He can take custody until she's shipped out to NCO school in Havana on January first; from there to additional Special Forces training on Corfu. After that, we're planning on deploying her by March thirty-first, unless you arrest her, with some damn solid charges to set before a judge - not just 'suspicion'."
"I think that will work for us, ma'am," General Brinkman replied. "As long as she's with her sister or her father until she ships out to Cuba." He glanced at Ortiz and his officer, "Let's get her cleaned up and stripped of all the chains and other crap. Then we can go to that hotel room and record the deposition, where she'll be more comfortable."
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Tuesday, December 23, 2003: 13:13 (UTC)
Hour 050.13/708.00
Luna, Shepherd Conference Centre:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Lieutenant Mark Higginbotham answered the knock. He wasn't sure why he and his daughter were here, but he had taken advantage of the opportunity to call his wife Irene. He just knew that they had been re-routed here by a Special Forces officer, who had simply smiled and said, "All will be explained."
Opening the door, he saw a number of officers in the hallway. "Lieutenant Higginbotham? I'm General Brinkman from the Provost Marshall's office. Neither you nor your daughter Katherine is in trouble. It's your other daughter, Joss we're concerned with."
He shook his head, "My daughter Joss was declared missing, presumed dead."
Brinkman just smiled, stepping aside. "Hello, Dad," a young woman said shyly. "I got better."
"JOSS!" Kathy screamed from across the room, and the two young women collided in a hug, followed by Mark.
"So I wound up in Special Forces after all," Joss said; and she tapped an embroidered badge on the shoulder of her service uniform. It was blood red with white lettering reading 'Sniper' while her body suit was the jungle-green of Special Forces, a few inches below the slave collar embedded on her neck. On the wrap of her grey over-tunic was a green wound badge, with an assortment of 'fruit salad' on her left breast. Her leggings had the blood stripe of a combat veteran. "What these people are here about is how and why I came to be in the Empress' office, a secured location." She shrugged, "I don't know how much I can help them, I was heavily bound and hooded; I couldn't identify anyone."
"Still, you did a good job on Ewan," the Empress said.
"Ewan? I was on Des!" Kathy said, and hugged her sister again.
Brinkman cleared his throat. "Sergeant, we need to get your deposition. If you'll join us in the next room, your attorney is already there." Joss rose, gave her dad another hug, then left the room.
"Ma'am, I can't say how much I appreciate your getting both my daughters back to me, safe and sound," Mark said. "What happens now?"
"Now, once the lawyers have taken her deposition, you get on a shuttle to LEO station and then down to Cleveland," Mattie said. "I'm here to hurry the process along as much as I can, they know I'm waiting on them, so I'll just sit here and study while you call your wife."
"Study what, ma'am?" Kathy asked.
"I'm fifteen pages into an eight hundred and sixty-nine page comprehensive trade bill that's going through the Assembly," Mattie replied. She pulled out her DataPadd and handed it over. Kathy looked at it, winced, and handed it back. "It's not all posing for pictures, this job," she commented. "This is the first step, Imperial trade zones. We're looking for a result of economic, legal, and political unification for the Empire and any other planets or star nations that join us. Each delegation and their home-planet's legislature have to pass this, but there are many advantages to doing so. I need to be able to answer questions about this, so I study the bill. Right now, the Empire is more of a trade group with some standardization and military overtones - remember your American history, the thirteen colonies and the Articles of Confederation?"
"Oh, yeah, but …"
"Kathy," her dad interrupted. "Sorry, ma'am, but my wife…"
The Empress waved it off. "Family is important. Go. We can talk later."
"So, she's cleared?" the Empress asked General Brinkman.
"I don't know what else we could ask her," he replied. "The truth serum and spell should wear off within a few hours." He signed a document, passing one to Joss, one to the Empress and keeping copies. "Lieutenant Higginbotham, Sergeant, Private, have a Happy Holidays. Ma'am?"
"One last thing, General," and she passed over an envelope. "I have orders for the three of you, primarily educational. Sergeant, you have a field promotion, it will become permanent when you graduate NCO school outside Havana. I've seen photos; it's a former Catholic girl's school. From there, you go to Corfu for advanced Special Forces training." She passed an envelope to Kathy, "Trucks, half-tracks, other vehicles. Driving and maintaining them." A third went to Mark. "Engineering cross-training into Signals and comms, where we're short-handed; a last, personal request from me. Please have a safe and happy holiday. Girls, you might want to hit the local malls if you haven't gotten any presents."
Joss cleared her throat, "Ma'am, may I have a minute of your time?" She glanced at the others, "Alone?"
"Certainly," and followed her into the other bedroom.
The Empress took a chair, waving her sergeant to one and casting a privacy spell. Joss started out, "Ma'am, while I was having my deposition taken, I had a visitor that referred me to you. She was able to freeze time, had blue skin and said her name was 'Sayd'. Do you know her?"
The Empress bit her lip. "Long, long red robe?" The sergeant nodded, and the Empress blew out her breath. "Joy. You've just met one of the immortal, all-powerful Oan Guardians of the Universe, the closest you'll probably ever come to meeting a real, live goddess. She's one of the heads of the Green Lantern Corps. What did she want?"
"She said I was to be 'your hand where there was none' (she finger-quoted) and touched my collar, then my right hand, ma'am. Since then, I just feel so … so … alive, and powerful."
"Ah. This is going to require some thought, but for now, this is a state secret," and she removed her right glove. "I'm a Lantern, a reserve one, and my Ring is telling me that the implant in your right hand is now a disguised Ring, and your collar is now a Battery." She crossed her arms, sitting back and thinking. "In your envelope, there's a small wooden focus ring. There's a sheet about it, but in summary, it's a blood-matched wand in the shape of a ring. It's to solve the problem of our people like you, wearing a collar and carrying a wooden wand. Once you put it on, it will disappear from view. When you cast a spell, just think the incantation."
"Um, ma'am, there's a little problem there. I don't really know any."
"You were supposed to have training on that at Camp Katherine."
"Um, yes, ma'am; there was very little training. It was mostly the slave stuff." She unconsciously reached down and rubbed her crotch, then blushed, "Sorry, ma'am. I'm, um, frisky."
"There are various … toys … you can buy for that purpose. I'm sure your sister can help you there." She waved it off, "While I went through five years of a seven year curriculum in magic, you don't have any real, practical training?" She sighed. "Okay, a quick lesson. Magic depends on intent, mood and confidence. You have to feel certain things in order to cast certain spells. You have to believe you can do it. You can't predict how things will work, every time, and nobody knows the limits of magic." She cast a quick Leviosa. "You have to want the table to float. The incantations are based on Latin, but I think its best not to go into that - you'll have less to unlearn. Second point is that magic requires natural gravity to work." She repeated, "Natural gravity, so artificial or rotation, like on a space station, it won't work, but a planet or moon will. Got that?" Joss nodded.
"The Ring is somewhat different; that's based on willpower. The weakness there is the color yellow. I expect Kilowog to make an appearance eventually. He's the Corps' trainer, and he is the meanest S.O.B. I've ever trained with. Once you get past that, he's a great guy and he can drink anyone under the table. With the Ring, just about anything you can think of, the Ring will create." A green energy scissors jack appeared and started to raise the coffee table. "An Oan Power Ring is what's called a 'God Weapon'. With it, you can literally crack planets apart. I don't know how the usual twenty-four hour Ring charge will apply to you, but the Rings are semi-sentient. When you have some quiet time, lean back and have a conversation with your Ring. Any questions so far?"
"Um, probably, but I can't think of any."
"I know," and she pulled her glove back on. "I'll arrange for some remedial combat training with your focus ring. One thing sticks in my mind; Sayd said you would be my Hand. If you're interested, I think we can use you, and maybe a few others, to gather evidence of wrongdoing, but you'd need a whole heap of authority, both civil and military. Something I'll work on."
"Um, ma'am, how would I do that?"
"Good question;" and the Empress sat back in thought. Joss watched her, and after a minute or two, saw an evil grin cross her face. She sat up, "Ever do any writing or photography? Want to do some travel?"
"I worked on the school paper a little in high school, and I have a little point-and-shoot camera."
"Okay. What I'm thinking is to cover you as a reporter for the Imperial Army Times. You've heard of the US military's newspaper, Stars and Stripes? We have regional issues, for each colony and planet we're interested in, and each military theatre." Joss nodded, and she continued, "You'll be an independent reporter, we'll issue you some equipment and you go where something interesting is happening, and I'll arrange some time with two of the best reporters around: Lois Lane and Clark Kent. I'll ask them to set up a backup link through Perry White, the editor of the Daily Planet."
"How do you know them, ma'am?"
"They're two of my godparents. After Christmas, say the following Monday, drive over to Gotham City, we'll arrange for a little apprenticeship with them in Metropolis. Then mid-January, you can go off to sergeant's school in Havana, and then we'll change your posting to London. We'll see if you can get another short apprenticeship with the BBC. Does that work for you?"
"I … I think so. Why both Ms. Lane and Mr. Kent?"
"They have two different styles. Lois Lane is a hard news reporter. She has literally made people piss themselves when she asks for an interview. She has half-a-dozen Pulitzer prizes, but she's a newspaper person, what's known as an 'ink stained wretch'. She doesn't think TV news is real reporting."
"Okay; and Mr. Kent?"
"Mr. Kent is more … rounded. He's gotten both Emmy and Pulitzers, he's known for his feature reporting, but he's also a solid reporter for both the Daily Planet and GNN. His last book brought down the Luthor Presidency. You'll learn a lot from both of them." She sat back, "One other thing. I want you to meet my sister-in-law, Barbara. She's one of the top computer crackers on the planet."
"Isn't that a 'hacker', ma'am?"
"Call Barbara that and she'll hit you. A 'hacker' (she finger-quoted) is a 'black-hat', a bad guy. A 'cracker' (she finger-quoted again) is a 'white-hat', a good guy. Between the three of them, you should learn a few tricks of their respective trades, although I'm sorry to cut your leave short."
"That's okay. What about that link with Mr. White?"
"If there's no way you can publish locally, you can still get the story out through him."
"Won't that cause you, um, political problems?"
"Possibly, but that's my problem, and I can use those problems. The Planet is one of the newspapers I read daily. I'm going to cut orders for you that will allow you to go where a story is. If that pisses off some commanders, tough."
"I'll still be in the Army?"
"Yes. The Times is funded by Public Affairs, but has editorial freedom. One other thing - I want you to be visibly armed. Carry a sidearm. Some locals may think that a reporter is the same thing as a spy; your focus ring and your Oan Ring are your secret aces in the hole if one of them tries to arrest you. Anything else?"
"No, I can't think of anything."
The Empress smiled, "I want you and yours to have a great Christmas, and your first challenge is to dissolve the privacy spell I cast."
The Empress returned to the other room, and pulled her bag onto her shoulder. "I for one am going to the office and dropping this off, then home." She waved, and then walked out the door.
"Wow. Just … wow," Kathy said. "She is so cool!"
Joss walked over to the mirror behind the television. "Do I look okay? I don't know about this shopping thing … remember, I'm not too experienced as a regular girl."
"Don't worry about it; you've got your big sister Kathy backing you up."
Their father had been looking at his orders. "If yours are like mine, we'll be in transit on the thirty-first, so we've only got about a week. I'm going to give your mother another call, then I'm going to check our flight reservations and hit the sack," their father said. "You two take the other room, don't be out too late. I'll leave a note, and remember; the hotel has a free breakfast buffet."
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Tuesday, December 23 2003: 19:45 (UTC)
Hour 056.45/708.00
Luna, Lunakod Lakes mall:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
"This is exhausting," Joss said as she sat in one of the chairs at the mall's food court. A few shopping bags sat next to her, she waved a hand next to her face. "Why were they spraying perfume?"
"To get you to buy it," her shorthaired sister replied. "I still think you need a haircut, or at least a trim."
"I like my hair this way," Joss commented. "Special Forces have a waiver for hair and grooming to allow us to fit in better among the locals. Yes, it's more of a pain in the butt than your short hair, but…"
"Speaking of butts, what about that tail of yours?" she asked.
"Same thing; a haircut might neaten it up, but a lot of masters like their slaves with wild, loose hair, and my hair and tail being ankle-length means I look like a slave." She looked over at her sister, "The enemy thinks that the Empire is confiscating slaves and using them in its military. You have to worry about the helmet of a vac suit fitting, I don't. I've got to look like a slave girl." She gestured at her body, "This is more clothing than I've worn in months, I'm usually wearing sandals and naked or in a skimpy little slave tunic and skirt."
"Well, hello, ladies," one of a group of teenage males said as he scooped a chair and turned it to straddle. "We'll offer you a good time."
"No, thanks," Kathy said. "Not interested."
"Well, now, let's give this a little more consideration," Joss said. "I'll think about it if you can tell me three things about my uniform." She plucked at the jungle-green turtleneck. "Branch?"
"Navy and, um, hydroponics," one guessed.
"Nope. This?" She fingered her wound badge.
"A medal of some kind?"
"Partially right. What kind of medal?" He shook his head.
"It's a wound badge in green. That should make this one easy. What's the red stripe on my leggings for?" The three teenagers glanced at each other, and then shook their heads.
"Oh, come on, guys," Kathy put in. "This should be covered in your ICC lessons." She lifted her leg, "I've got those stripes too, and my turtleneck's black. What branch am I in?" She waited, then said, "Bzzz! Wrong, thanks for playing. We're both Army, I'm Armor, Joss is Special Forces, and the red stripe is known as a blood stripe. It shows we're both combat veterans. I drive a Leopard V tank, and Joss is a deep-penetration sniper. She goes behind enemy lines to kill."
"I'd like to deeply pen…" one started, before the first slugged him, then turned, "Sorry to bother you ladies, we'll be going now…" he said rapidly, then almost ran off.
"Kathy! Do you know how long it's been since I've had a good, satisfying rape?"
"Um, never? We still need to find a holiday dress or something that will fit those J-cup tits of yours."
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Wednesday, December 24, 2003: 09:31 (UTC)
Hour 065.31/708.00
Luna, Grimaldi Crater, Wayne Quarters:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Arthur turned as the door opened, expecting the duty nurse with his nerve potion. Instead, he tried to sit up, "Elena!"
"Hey, there," she replied, and waggled the cup of potion. "Drink up, then we can talk."
"Give it over," and she helped him drink, lowered his bed, and then found a chair. "Blech; tell me why can't potions taste good?" he asked.
"No idea." She accepted the used paper cup; crumpling it and throwing it toward the trash can. "Score! Why won't they let me play basketball for Cleveland?"
"Not bad in a third gravity. Could it be because you're a girl?"
"Sexist. The Cavs sucked last year and I don't know if that James guy can live up to being the number one pick," she replied.
"From what I've seen so far, he looks good."
She grinned, "Not just on the court. You all caught up on sports?"
"Not yet. There's a guy on the Imperial channel that covers quidditch, and I'm kind of ticked I missed the Buckeyes winning the National Championship."
"I'll make sure you get a DVD of the game."
Arthur nodded his thanks as Elena ran a critical eye over her brother. "They tell me how you're doing, you tell me."
"Bored. Mattie left here to go to work, Dad's still around here somewhere. He usually visits in the afternoons. So … (he circled his hand) spill. What about you?"
"I … (she stuck her nose in the air) am a Master Sergeant, in charge of a section of training companies at Camp Katherine." She gave an evil laugh. "I understand they were planning on reading your brain into a newborn's. The poor, poor kid."
"I had heard they were going to melt off everything but my spinal column and plug me into a freighter as the central computer. A slow freighter," he countered. "I'd be real bored."
"We can still do that," a platinum blonde said from the doorway. She offered her hand, "Narcissa Black, the evil one's healer."
"Sgt. Elena Morton, the evil one's sister," she replied, shaking hands. "How's he doing?"
"Moderately well, but not good enough yet to travel. Sorry, Mr. Morton, but you need to put up with Christmas music for a while yet."
"Elena, steal me a wheelchair and we'll escape!"
"Hah. I'll step outside for a moment, Doc." She did so.
Elena re-entered the room, resuming her seat. "Okay, since Dr. Black has said that your escaping her evil clutches is a 'bad idea', is there anything else your big sister can do for you?"
"How serious are you?" He looked at his sister, "I'm told that there's nothing wrong with my muscles; it's their control systems. But the longer I'm flat on my back in low gravity, the longer it's going to take me to get back into shape in a full gravity once everything's working right."
"Which might be a year," she replied. "Why, what do you need?"
"There are a few things. First, in no particular order, nobody seems to know what happened to my wrist comp. I want it back, if for no other reason than to drown out the damn Christmas carols. Second, I'd like to know where my wand is. Third, where my starship is and how soon it can get here."
"I'm not helping you escape."
"When and if that time comes, I won't be asking for your help." She regarded him, and he continued, "Mattie said that 'disappearing' is one option I have. If I do that, I want to set it up on my terms and on my dime, and so she can't find me unless I want her to."
"My first thought was 'What the hell?' I see several problems with that," Elena said. "The last I heard your ship was operating on a supply contract with the planetary government of Windfall. Dad's got your proxy on that. I don't know how much longer that contract has to run, or what the penalties would be to break it. I'll ask him. Second, you'll need a crew to operate it. Third, Mattie has an interstellar government to call on, as well as a very scary private army. Fourth, she can hire bounty hunters. Fifth, she's a Lantern, who can call on other Lanterns for help; don't piss her off. Sixth and finally, I thought you two were tight, but now … now I'm wondering. No, I'm worried."
"I lost a year," he replied, stroking his 'fuzzy' lower jaw. "I'm going to need a shave …" He waved that off, "Elena, everything's hitting me at once. For instance, you're in the best shape I've ever seen you, you're confident, sure of yourself, and you can kick serious ass." He was silent for a minute, "Mattie, though … she's … there are lines, stress lines around her eyes, she's lost muscle tone and weight, the smile lines in her face, and …" He closed his eyes, "… the light and soul in her eyes," he whispered. "She's losing herself, Elena. She's being consumed by Martha the First."
"She doesn't have an easy job," she replied quietly. "Especially since there's still no official Heir, the Assembly is still arguing about that. She can't take time off to recharge, to regain herself. I know Dad's said that she's taken a couple of long weekends, and she works out, but …" Elena sighed, "You know how the press is always into the President of the US for taking time off? Well, as far as I know, she doesn't have the equivalent of Camp David. She's always on duty, Arthur; always. I don't see a way that she's going to avoid burning out. Then you add in the stress of being at war, being a war leader, having to make strategic decisions and hoping that they're the right ones, dealing with foreign star nations, potential allies … I know I'd run screaming from the room if I had to deal with a tenth, a hundredth of what she has to. Roosevelt, Churchill, they could escape to the country, walk in the woods and relax. Mattie can't."
Arthur took a deep breath and winced. "I know. I know, but, damnit, Elena, Martha the First is eating Mattie. I'm not in love with Martha the First, I'm in love with Mattie; and she may be gone forever, all because I was stupid. I have time to think, I was arrogant; I'm kicking myself; I wasn't there for her."
"So you think running away is the solution?"
"I … I don't know, Elena." 'I might ask you to come with me,' he thought.
She regarded her middle brother. "Arthur, what the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm not sure," he confessed. "I'd like to have the card to play, though."
She grunted. "Sweep your lady love off on a white charger? I never knew you were a romantic, Arthur." She stood, "Expect to see me a lot; I'm taking my holiday leave here with you. Did you want your specific wrist comp, or will a replacement do?"
"Ideally my own, but a replacement will work. Programming it will give me something to do besides watch TV. You know what they say, 'ten thousand channels and …'"
"… nothing's on." She chuckled. "I'll scrounge something up, and see about a replacement for your wand. I'll see Dad tonight, and ask about the ship. You, however, bucko, need to rest and repair. I've seen you trying to hide a yawn. What can I talk about with Mattie and the rest of the family?"
"Um, nothing?"
"Bad idea, bucko. You need help, and not just medical. You need second, third, and fourth opinions. I'll talk about this with Dad before he leaves for Columbus, okay?" Arthur reluctantly nodded. "Can I talk about this with Mattie? As an interested third party?"
"Let me think on that, okay?"
"Okay. You get some sleep, now. I'll see you tomorrow."
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Wednesday, December 24, 2003: 12:31 (UTC)
Hour 068.31/708.00
Luna, Grimaldi Crater, Morton quarters:
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"… for covering with Arthur, Elena," Bill Morton said, zipping up his travel bag. "I really appreciate it. I'm just sad that the two of you won't be home for Christmas."
"I don't want to sound sappy, but I've got my snarky brother back, which is one of the better gifts," his middle daughter replied. She glanced at the omnipresent bodyguard, asking, "Can I have a minute with my dad?"
"Certainly, ma'am," the Imperial Guard replied, leaving and standing outside the door. Bill glanced in his direction, "I don't like having them, but someone tried for Becky and Teela …"
"WHAT?"
"On the way back from their recording studio. They're safe, shaken, but safe, and …" Bill didn't say any more, he had his arms full of daughter. "Oh … oh …" she said. She sniffled, wiped her eyes with her palm, and then repeated, "They're all right."
"Yes. That's why I haven't raised a fuss about Arthur. He's helpless now, and for a while yet." He checked his own wrist comp, "I need to get going to make my flight."
"I'll come with you; there are some things Arthur asked about that I need to talk to you about." She reached down, slinging the strap of his carry-on over her shoulder and taking his arm.
"Arthur's planning something Dad. I just wish I knew what," Elena said as they found seats on the equatorial train.
"Have you ever known Arthur not to be planning something? What's he thinking?"
"I don't know for sure, but he wants his wrist comp, his wand, and his starship. I think he's planning a runner of some sort, with or without Mattie."
"His ship's on contract until the middle of February, so he's SOL on that, but it's obvious what he wants." In response to his daughter's look, he replied, "Tools. The most versatile tools he owns."
"That makes sense. Explains a few things he didn't ask about. Like the bazillion bucks worth of jewelry he had on him when he got nailed."
"He didn't actually have them, they were glass samples." He shifted on the upholstered seat; it was about as comfortable as an airline seat. "Wealth is a tool too, just ask Mattie. But it's not one he knows how to use." Her father added, "He thinks he knows how to use it. I doubt he asked about the political power he's got."
"Well, whatever plan he does come up with, come 'go' time, he's gonna 'go' whether me, you or anyone else likes it or not." Elena sighed, "I noticed that he didn't mention trying to get himself declared an emancipated minor; and I tried to get him to bounce his thoughts off me as a second opinion, but he doesn't like that idea. He thinks he's got all his bases covered."
"Why would he be any different than before?" her father asked rhetorically. "He thinks he knows best." He missed the look his daughter sent him.
"Dad get off all right?" Arthur asked his sister.
"Yeah. I talked to him for a while on the Express," she replied. She pulled up a chair, "So, I've already got my present - you, you twit," she added to his confused expression. She gestured to the muted TV, "You're thinking of something. Spill."
"I'm still trying to make sense of the Republic's invasion and I'm not getting anywhere with it." He motioned with a forearm, "Yeah, yeah, they're aliens and they may have motivations that I'm not gonna understand. Different cultures and all that; but from an economic standpoint there are things I'm just not getting. They brought a very expensive big-ass fleet. One they figured should have been more than enough to take the planet. But they landed that slave carrier, with enough medical gear on board to buy a small country, before they had a decent beachhead."
"Strictly speaking, they landed work shuttles," Elena replied. "Not the carrier itself. The shuttles were supposed to capture our people and transport them up for final processing into slaves."
"Really? Hmm." Arthur shuffled a deck of cards as exercise while pondering that. So much had happened while he'd been in stasis; he hadn't yet had near enough time to catch up. "Nope. Still got problems with it. There's greedy and then there's stupid. You're putting a ship worth several billion grams in an unsecured, hazardous orbit for a cargo worth no more than fifty million grams..."
"Where'd you get those numbers?" Elena asked.
"Very rough estimates. A raw, untrained, slave in good physical condition is nominally valued at a thousand grams and that ship had room for fifty thousand. When you build a ship, life support averages twenty kilos a person, so that's a billion grams right there. Then figure on a ship big enough to hold all those slaves, their overseers, the real crew, the medical staff overseeing their Body Works and med gear itself."
She could hear the capital letters in her brother's voice. "Body Works?" Elena asked, frowning. "I thought those were just med tanks."
Arthur hesitated for a few seconds, "They had ten thousand units, ninety percent of which were standard med tanks. A med tank can do cosmetic work, but it's not designed to make major alterations. Eleanor Branstone's cat-girl mod is about as far as you can go with a standard tank and even that takes some serious programming skill. The slave transport also had a thousand more advanced units that could significantly alter your height and build, and ten percent of those could take a six foot six, 250 pound linebacker and eventually cut him down to Mattie's size and build. Way more expensive than a med tank, trust me."
"How much more expensive?"
Arthur mumbled numbers to himself until he replied, "If my math skills haven't deserted me, about sixteen billion grams of medical gear. Even if they turned every captive into a 'ten kilo girl' for a half billion per trip... It's enough to make the trip, but not enough to risk the ship."
"Remember, they thought we were Stone Age tech," Elena pointed out.
"Hey, I'm a ship owner and the Taalah was designed as a slave raider before I had it converted. I know something of what I speak."
"You're doing well," Dr. Black said, stowing her wand. "Any complaints?"
"These things on my arms," Arthur said, waving the two casts on his forearms. "I know the reason for them, but they itch!"
"The alternative is to place them somewhere else, like your foot." She leaned over, "Wiggle your toes for me, please."
"Trying … Sorry, I don't seem to feel them, but my feet are cold."
"The fact that you can feel a temperature variance is a good thing," she replied. "I've cast a warming charm on your feet, and we'll get you some bed socks. I'll just be over here, please resume your conversation."
"Okay…" Arthur paused a minute before taking up where he'd been before Dr. Black came in. "Anyway, the primary limiting factor on starship design is the jump drive. That's why, in the greater galaxy, ships tend to big enough to do the jobs they were designed for and no larger."
"Our ships are a lot larger, physically, than most people."
"I don't know how Mattie got those built so quickly, but I flat guarantee that we're not using the same thing for drives that everyone else does."
Dr. Black looked up, "The omniscient Arthur Morton doesn't know something? I am shocked, simply shocked that you are admitting that."
"Dr. Black... THPBBT!" After waiting out her non-reaction, Arthur continued, "I do have my suspicions, but that is not the subject under discussion."
"Oh, don't mind me Mr. Morton. I'm just your doctor," Narcissa replied as she went back to glancing through the previous day's readouts. Her patient was well ahead of schedule on his recovery, but he'd been pushing himself in the process.
Arthur was strongly tempted to argue about whose doctor she was and decided it wasn't worth it. "Where was I, Elena?"
"Jump drives and why alien spaceships are smaller than you'd think."
"Yeah, yeah. The energy costs to move something FTL are pretty straightforward. But the more mass you move at once, the higher the cost for the drive gets. A stock '1000 ton' freighter costs about 2.4 tons and can haul 700 tons of cargo at once. Non-living cargo anyway. A million ton mega-freighter can haul almost 1300 times as much, but costs about 7000 times as much to build."
"But you only have to crew the one ship instead of 1300 smaller ships. Don't you save your money there?"
"Some, " Arthur admitted. "And for some loads, you need a ship that big. Which is why a few of them actually exist. Big suckers. Plus, if you're not in a hurry, cut the top loaded speed to the 5 ly/hr you have in most convoys, and the mega-freighter is cheaper per ton than the smaller, but now faster, ship."
"So what makes you think Mattie isn't just using slower drives in larger ships?"
"Because warships need to be fast as well as large or they'll get shredded when fighting FTL. Problem is, fast costs more than large. Combine the two, and the jump drives for those ginormous ship's Mattie has out there should cost enough to simply buy the Republic, lock, stock and barrel."
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Wednesday, December 24, 2003: 08:55 (UTC -5)
Terra, Chagrin Falls, Ohio:
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"Coming!" Irene called to the doorbell. She threw the deadbolt, then shrieked, "Mark!" and tackled her husband in a hug. "Oh, I've missed you! Where's Kathy and Joss?"
"Waiting with the cabbie, and the meter's ticking. He won't take Euros and that's all the cash we have. We need twenty, thirty bucks with a tip."
"Let me get my purse …" She disappeared, and Mark waved at the cab. She re-appeared, handing him two twenties. "Go, and get those girls in this house!"
"Mom, I can't breathe…" Joss said as her mother enveloped her in a hug. "Oh, I thought you were dead…" she replied, but then let go, holding her daughter at arm's length. "Oh, look at you, all grown up, but that collar! We'll have it off in a minute!"
"No, mom!" She fended off her mother. "No, mom, it's all right. Remember, I go undercover? Remember? Behind enemy lines to gather intelligence? Mom?"
"I still think it's horrible. Someone else could do it!"
"Mom, I volunteered for it, and for these?" She brushed a hand across her bust. "Remember?"
"Oh, but how can you two be so calm about it?"
"Because we've seen slave girls just like her, mom," Kathy replied. "We've also had a bit more time to get used to her new look. Before, he was my macho, football-playing brother. Now she's my little sister that dodges perfume ambushes with me."
"We hadn't seen each other after we got to the reception station at Camp Katherine," Mark said. "We were preoccupied with training, and then we shipped out. I went to that prison planet and Kathy …"
"I was driving a tank; we were doing gunnery practice…"
Joss pulled a kitchen chair around and straddled it. "Shoot anything?"
"On Des we pretty much had a walkover. Special Forces went in, grabbed the top brass while the slave girl revolt went on. There were a lot of revenge killings of their masters, and it's going to be tough disarming them, but it's not my problem." She pulled her envelope of orders out, "I still haven't had the chance to read these over; Ms. Wayne showed up with Joss yesterday, and we've both seen a number of slave girls, so that wasn't such a shock. Just her new form."
Mark changed the subject. "What can we do to help? Won't you be late for work?"
"Oh, we have a long weekend, the twenty-fourth through the twenty-sixth, but not Monday." Irene replied. "I hate to say it, but things are so much better at the office since Mrs. Thompson was arrested - smuggling drugs, of all things!"
"I think we need another pot of coffee," Joss said as she stood, and stretched up to get down the coffee filters from the cabinet while Kathy rinsed out the remnants of the last pot. "One thing I miss is my height," she commented.
"It went to your bust," Kathy joked over her shoulder.
"Err, just how big are you?" Irene asked.
"Eighty-two centimeters (32"), and a J cup," Kathy replied. "We tried to find a dress or blouse for the Christmas parties, but the only things we could find at the malls on Luna were some camisole tops and halters from an Aussie chain. Thanks, we've seen the Outback."
"Been out in it," Joss said as the coffee pot gurgled. "I shot a dingo in training, though. It was tough, stringy meat; rabbits are better." She stretched, "I'm going to get out of this uniform."
"Oh, my god," Kathy said as she saw Joss' naked back. "You've been … whipped?"
"Of course," Joss replied. "Close the door, please. Mom will freak if she sees them, but I'm just another red-collar slave girl." She turned, holding out her arms, and Kathy stepped closer. "You're … are those brands?"
Joss slapped her upper left thigh. "Yep. Hurt like hell, but it's something you get past. Remember, it's all about fitting in. I'd really stand out if I weren't branded and have whip marks, every other slave girl does." She held out her arms, doing a slow turn as her sister inspected her. "And the slave belt?"
"And …" Joss looked at the door, and lowered her voice. "We're set up with two mental partitions. Joss is in one, 198a2 the slave is in the other. Initially, there wasn't any leakage between the two, but now, there is, and there's some …" She chewed her lip, then knelt in the house slave position, back straight, chest out, palms up on her wide-spread knees and continued. "Some dispute between the two sides. My slave girl side is saying I should go downstairs, cook, and so forth, as a proper house slave would. She's also upset that I haven't received the traditional new slave beating from a new owner since I'm in a new house, and that my new owner hasn't given me clothing, so I shouldn't even think about wearing anything, no matter what the weather. She thinks Dad is my new owner, and the two of you are my new mistresses." She tapped the back of her head, "I'm Enhanced, necessary for my various implants, but I went to a collar slicer, so I have control of that." She changed her collar lights from the Imperial colors (green, light blue and black) to red. "Ahhh; she's happier with that; since a red collar slave won't be freed. That also means the collar's default settings are not active. You know the 'Yes, mistress, this slave' speech."
Kathy nodded. "So your slave girl side is complaining?"
"Yes. She's somewhat upset that the shackle fitting is gone from the back of my slave belt, but at least I'm still wearing that, and my wrist and ankle bands. After all, my new owner can refit those with 'proper' (she finger-quoted) shackles later. She's not happy that I'm not calling you 'Mistress', and the casual speech, though."
"I see, and what does Joss the free girl think?"
"I … she finds it amusing. She's something of a major flirt, remember those guys at the mall on Luna? The slave girl would have happily taken all three on, but Joss? She remembers being one of those hormonal teenage guys, and is going 'Eww; yuck,' at the thought. However, we've got a bit of a problem in picking up the pizzas - you can drive, because Joss isn't licensed, but could you find me something very short to wear? Like upper thigh, and toss it to me?"
"Thanks," Joss said with a smile to the pizza guys as she picked up the Diet Coke bottles. She was wearing a Cleveland Browns football jersey as an upper-thigh-length 'dress' and her leather sandals, her nipple rings visible through the jersey. Her wrists and ankles were still wearing shackles, while her sister was wearing her uniform; she had paid and was driving. Kathy picked up the two large pizzas and fingered the door open, smiling at the pizza guys.
Joss wiggled her way into the car, putting the bottles on the floor. Kathy handed over the pizzas for Joss to carry as she buckled her seat belt and put her head back.
"Comfortable?"
"Yeah. The straps feel … right. My inner slave girl approves."
"Your bust pulls the jersey up in front. You're flashing the slave belt and your crotch."
"Which both sides approve of. Joss is a flirt, and 198a2 thinks it's proper for a slave to show her slave belt." She grinned as Kathy made a right-turn-on-red. "Let's hit the Boxing Day sales on Friday. I'm thinking about getting a bell for my nose. My septum is pierced; threaded actually. For this week, I want to be a wild child. I want to raise a little hell."
"Before we all go off again. What did you talk about with Her Majesty?"
"Can't say. Sorry. I'm going off to Havana for two weeks for Sergeant's school, then off for more training."
"You're looking forward to it."
"Yes, I didn't get to snipe anyone. I'm so disappointed."
"Joss is completely different than my brother Josh was."
"Joss is happy being a girl, even if there are some weird things. Josh wasn't happy, being a boy, which is why this chance was grabbed with both hands. Josh thought about suicide, he was so depressed at times. He played a good game, though."
"I never knew." Kathy reached over and squeezed her sister's knee.
"Josh didn't want you to." Joss waved it away. "So, Boxing Day sales and I'm still not getting this whole shopping thing with women."
"It's … competition. Just like wearing the same outfit, the mindset is 'I can look better than you.' I guess it goes back to capturing the best man."
"Oookay…"
"Like when I talked to Her Majesty … it was so weird to actually have a chance to talk with her while you were in doing that deposition." She shook her head, "You'd see her on the news, but to actually talk to her …"
"What'd you talk to her about?"
"Well, we didn't really have much in common," Kathy replied, waiting for a left turn arrow. "She's a bit younger than I am; royalty, a head of state, and a zillionaire. We talked about shopping, mostly. She gave me some suggestions on getting stuff for you, mom and dad. Des is not exactly a shopper's paradise, especially for a member of the invading army."
"True, true," her sister agreed. "I mostly did intelligence work, until I was captured. They were going to execute me, and …"
"WHAT?"
"I was a red-collar slave girl. They were going to make an example of me, as the 'leader' of the revolting slaves. It didn't matter to them if it was true or not, I was a slave with a red collar." Joss paused for a minute, then added, "Don't tell Mom. She'll freak."
"I'm freaking, here!" The light had turned and someone beeped their horn. Kathy started again, waving her hand in apology, and Joss replied, "Meh; that's water under the bridge. I know what I did wrong. Shouldn't happen again."
"You say!"
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Thursday, December 25, 2003: 05:55 (UTC -5)
Terra, Chagrin Falls, Ohio:
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Joss turned as her mother stumbled a bit, coming into the kitchen. "Good morning," she said cheerfully. "Coffee?"
"Yes, please." A cup was put before her, and after a swallow or two, she blinked, "You're up early."
"Well…" her daughter hesitated. "You know the old cartoon of having a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other?"
Irene took another swallow of coffee. "I think so."
"Well, I've got my slave self, that persona on one shoulder, and a free girl on another." She gestured, "The one side is saying, 'Get up, master didn't buy you to lie around!' and the other wants to roll over and go back to sleep. Today, the 'get up early for master' side won the argument, so I got up, did some cleaning, started the coffee and the laundry … what would you like for breakfast, mistress?"
"Cleaning?" Irene blinked and looked around. "The windows, and …"
"The driveway and walks are clean too. Can't forget them, mistress."
"Wait … and … why aren't you wearing anything?"
"Just say it's gotten to be a habit, mistress," and Joss turned, "Good morning, mistress." She went and knelt in front of Mark. "My master, this slave wishes to submit. Beat me, bind me, collar me, own me."
"Um, yeah," he said absently, grasping her outstretched wrists with one hand. "Coffee?"
"Of course, my master. Please sit, I'll fetch some for you and mistress," she said, springing up. "What would you like for breakfast, master?"
"Whatever's easiest," he replied.
"Is oatmeal good? There will be a large meal at your party tonight, master."
"Fine, fine… newspaper?"
"Let me fetch it, master. I was ironing it for you …"
"Ironing it?" Kathy asked.
"It was cold and wrinkled, mistress. I fetched it when I cleaned the snow off the driveway earlier. Let me get coffee for everyone, then this slave will collect the laundry from everyone's room."
"What's going on?" Irene asked once everyone had a chance to have coffee and start his or her brains. "Joss said something about shoulders?"
"Well, I think it's like this," Kathy started. "Apparently in order to fit in as a slave girl, to really, truly fit in, the girls like Joss have two separate mental partitions. One free girl, one slave girl, and there's apparently some unintentional leakage. Her slave girl half thinks Dad's her new owner, and in order to reduce the mental arguments, Joss is going along with that."
"So why isn't she wearing anything?"
"She IS wearing something, mom. Her slave belt and collar. All a slave girl needs."
"And, as her new owner, I haven't given her permission for clothing," Mark said. He sighed, "You forget, dear, that both Kathy and I saw slave girls on a daily basis. There were more unclothed than clothed." He took a swallow of coffee as Joss' singing could be heard from the laundry.
"What's she singing?" Irene asked.
Kathy held up her hand and listened. "'Cho'wanna Paa'saa'," she answered. "It's a slave ditty, sung in Trade."
"Means 'I love my master,'" Mark said. "One of the more popular ditties my work crews would sing. I just don't like the chorus."
"'Paa'saa, paa'saa, se me to'su, 'to'su, to'su! Se me to'su sapan!'" Kathy sang the chorus. "It means 'Master, master, punish this slave, this slave, this slave! Punish this slave today!'"
"To'su cha'pa se, paa'saa!" Joss said, coming back into the kitchen. "To'saa naa pa'ake?" She shook her head and knelt, "This slave apologizes, mistress. This slave forgot mistress did not speak Trade. This slave will change the sheets later. May this slave fetch anything for master or mistresses?"
"Use English, please," Mark said. "You have a very sweet voice."
"Yes, master. Thank you, master. With your permission, this slave will continue her cleaning today." She glanced at Kathy, "Would mistress like more coffee?"
"I'd like some questions answered," Irene said.
"Those I can, mistress."
"Good. Just from what I've seen, you're rather … schizophrenic. Multiple personalities. I'm worried," Joss' mother said. "Look at you; you're kneeling on the floor!"
"Mistress … mother, this is comfortable for me; a chair isn't, and I'm not particularly cold." Joss chewed her lip, "I can see what you're saying, but I don't know where I'm being posted after my classes. I might need to go back undercover as a slave girl, and Mom, I really NEED to fit in."
"I have to agree. Reluctantly, but …" Mark put in. "Irene, if she's NOT a perfect slave girl and a hint of Joss shows through, at best she'll be tortured. Slave owners are suspicious about slave girls they don't know, they don't own. Out there (he waved at the ceiling), even other slaves would be suspicious, even if there weren't other slaves undercover as informers. She has to play the slave girl perfectly in order to do her job."
"Informers?"
"Yes, mother," Kathy put in. "Remember, slave owners are constantly worried about a slave revolt, because they know they're outnumbered, and there's no way to actually know what a slave is thinking. They've got chains, and collars, and restrictions, but it was easy enough for Joss and her sisters to arm and train slaves."
"A lot of them wanted no part of it," Joss put in. "Others couldn't wait to get their revenge; we even had some volunteer as suicide bombers. Once we solved the problems of the collar, that a girl could put her gun aside and go back to her master, kneel and say 'Yes, master?' just like he expected, to go back to her … (she waved a hand) … her concealment as an obedient slave girl. If I appeared to them as Sgt. Higginbotham, dressed as a slave, it would be bad."
"But you could appear in uniform!" Irene said, a little desperately.
"Yes, mother, but then I'd be in trouble from the free males. As part of an army, yes. By myself, no. I would be safer as a slave girl."
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Thursday, December 25, 2003: 08:11 (UTC -5)
Terra, Gotham City, Wayne Manor:
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"Good morning, everyone," Miss Wayne said as she walked down to the driveway gate, hot mug of coffee in her hand, and wearing a fuzzy pink bathrobe and combat boots. "Everyone get something hot?" She reached up to scratch a muzzle of one of the hellhounds, who whined. "Oh, stop with you. You've got food in your shed," she told it.
"Yes, ma'am, and I do thank you for that, behalf of everyone here," one of Cobblepot's boys said. "O'course, the newsies think it's all fer them."
"Ah, it's Christmas Day and they're working. Let 'em pig out," the Empress grinned. "Maybe I'll get one day of good press out of it."
"These bastards, 'par my French, ma'am?" a GCPD sergeant snorted. "When pigs fly."
"I'll call the caterer and ask them to keep it coming and keep it hot." She looked, "No protesters today?"
"Too damn cold," a Secret Service man said. "Just us poor SOBs. The Army boys at least have their heated Bradleys. (4)"
"Well, tell the newsies that they should at least put the football games on for you. Aren't the Knights playing today?"
"Yes, ma'am, at one-oh-five, against the Raiders, downtown. We're supposed to be blacked out."
"Hah! You know those TV guys can get the game." She grinned. "I'll bill them for the coffee and munchies if they don't show it to you guys... What's the line?"
"Be better if you sicced the hounds on 'em again. I've got Oakland plus five," one of the cops said.
"Really? No way. Knights by seven, easy."
The cop snorted which Mattie took to mean 'Put up or shut up.'
"Okay, I've got…" she pulled out some cash. "All I have is fifty bucks right now, unless you'll take Euros. Knights by seven."
"I'll take Euros, one-to-one," the first Cobblepot man said. "Same line."
"Okay, I've got … sixty Euros, still with the Knights, still by seven points."
"Done," the cop said.
"You got it, ma'am."
"Okay," and she slurped some coffee. "You boys got hot food, hot coffee, and the blacked-out Knights game in a couple hours; anything else I can do for you?"
"Na, I think we're good, ma'am," the sergeant said as the Empress evaded an impressive bit of drool from one of the hellhound's heads.
"Good. Oh, tomorrow, I'm going to see Cobblepot at the Iceberg; just so you guys know."
"Everything going well?" Selina asked her daughter in the kitchen.
"Yes, although the newsies are hogging the hot coffee from the snack truck. I need to call the caterer and tell them to keep it hot and keep it coming." She shivered a bit, "Damn, its cold!"
"Language," both Selina and 'Maggie' Morton said automatically.
"Yes, ma'am," Mattie replied. "I laid off some bets, the Knights game is blacked out locally."
"What's the line?" Hank asked.
"Five points, Raiders. There are two different people taking bets, one of the cops and one of Cobblepot's boys. I put down fifty bucks and sixty Euros on the Knights by seven." She walked over to the bulletin board and unpinned a note. "Call the caterer first before you go talk to them, please."
"Talk to who?" 'Big' Bill asked as he came in.
"Whom," Ami corrected. She grinned and stuck her nose up, "Queen's English, don't you know." She sipped her breakfast tea, "This is bloody …"
"Language!"
"Yes, ma'am. I was about to say this is absolutely smashing tea."
"I'll mix up a kilo or two for you to take home," Selina offered.
"Mix?"
"You didn't think this was just one type? Oh, no, my dear."
"Which reminds me, I need some in case I run into Dr. Isley tomorrow at the Iceberg," Mattie said.
"Poison Ivy?"
"Yes, and Captain Logue, please make a note, all female officers tomorrow. Dr. Isley does not have a great appreciation for men …"
"THAT'S putting it mildly," Selina snorted into her coffee.
"… but she's a Nobel-laureate class botanist and genetic engineer. Some of her plants are already licensed and cleaning the water and the soil on our colony worlds, I wanted to discuss them and some of her other projects with her. She has an appreciation for fine teas," the young Empress said.
"Caterer's called," Hank said, putting down the cordless phone in its base. He re-pinned the note, "I'm going to grab my coat and some cash. You said the line's Raiders and five?"
"I'm getting mine as well," his father said.
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Thursday, December 25, 2003: 20:50 (UTC -5)
Terra, Chagrin Falls, Ohio:
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"Mom, I'm dead," Joss said. "Go to your party, enjoy yourself. I'll be fine."
"Are you sure, dear?"
"Yes, mom. Go. Eat. Enjoy. I've got pizza left over."
"If you're sure…" Irene said, and Joss gently pushed her to the rear door. "I'm sure, mom."
'Okay, you have control of our body,' Joss thought to her slave persona, 198a2 as she stood against a steel pole in the basement. 'Nothing permanent, now.' She felt agreement as her arms were pulled behind the steel pole and bound with steel cuffs above her elbows; her wrists were similarly bound. Her feet arched, her knees and ankles were bound, and her slave belt tightened, forcing a discipline device up inside her while her waist shrank. She was gagged and hooded, and then after a minute, 198a2 expressed satisfaction. 'Now all we need is for our new owner to grant us our introductory beating,' she thought. 'Proceed with your experiments, mistress,' and 198a2 blocked the pain while Joss communed with her Ring and Collar.
'Now that's interesting,' Joss thought as the energy threads reported in. 'I knew the house was old, but I didn't know there were hidden rooms in the basement.'
'Didn't Mistress Irene say the house was built in the early 1800's?' 198a2 thought.
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Friday, December 26, 2003: 04:05 (UTC -5)
Terra, Chagrin Falls, Ohio:
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"Good morning. Pity you can't go out like that," Kathy joked to her sister.
Joss was still letting her slave persona dominate, and was doing laundry wearing only her collar and belt. She knelt to her mistress, "Good morning, mistress, you're up early. This slave is letting the slave 198a2 control, so that Mistress Joss will be able to function while she drives to Gotham," she replied, standing at Kathy's gesture. She hung up an ironed blouse. She shook out another, this one a uniform tunic for Mark. She smiled as she worked, "I must confess that this is much more comfortable than strapping on a bra." She checked the laundry area, and then picked up the ironing. "I wanted to get this all done before we went out to the Boxing Day sales. You still need to teach me how to shop like a girl."
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Monday, December 29, 2003: 10:45 (UTC -5)
Terra, Gotham City, Wayne Manor:
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"Hi, there," Joss said as she pulled her car into the circular drive. She had exercised her Ring and her magic to make it over into a sports car. While winter wasn't the best time to drive a convertible, she was comfortable. "Joss Higginbotham, Her Majesty asked me to drive over." She was a little nervous about the cops running the plates, as it was registered to her male persona, Josh, but simply handed over her Imperial Army ID.
"Nice car," a civilian said from one of the blocking cars.
"Custom body," Joss replied as the cop returned. "I'm not exactly a girly-girl. I was the only girl in my high school auto shop class."
"Yeah, my daughter's like that," the cop said. "She wants to play football, not be a cheerleader." He shrugged. "She says I'm sexist for wanting a cheerleader daughter. I've called in; Miss Wayne said she'd be down in a minute. Put your top up, otherwise the hellhounds will try to crap in the car."
"Hellhounds?"
The civilian had moved to stand next to the passenger side. He gestured as the cop helped unfold the top. "Hellhounds." Joss looked, and an absolutely HUGE three-headed dog sat next to the gate. It must have been fifteen feet at the shoulder, with drool coming from two of the three heads. The third head panted; its tongue flapping. "You can see what they've done to the Fox News van," the cop said. Joss twisted around, the expensive news van was on its side, with one side caved in, and filled with dog poop. The satellite mast still stood, though at an angle, and looked … scorched.
"Their piss is acidic," the civilian remarked.
"They're still cute," Miss Wayne said from the other side of the gate. She reached up and scratched one of muzzles; the hellhound whined. "Welcome to Gotham City. Pull through, and then let Oscar here sniff you. Otherwise, they'll chase you and use you as a chew toy. The others will smell Oscar and let you be."
"Welcome to Gotham City," a raven-haired young woman, said, looking up from a laptop. She put it aside and stood, holding out her hand. "I'm Barbara Gordon, Mattie's sister-in-law. I understand you're going undercover for her?"
"Um …"
"Don't worry about security around here," Barbara said as a small being popped into existence. "This is Peter, he's a house elf. Would you like something to eat or drink?"
"Coffee? I thought we didn't have slaves?"
"Peter is no slave! Peter is a house elf!"
"And Peter does an excellent job," Mattie put in, taking a chair. "Would you find my Aunt Lois and Uncle Clark and ask them to join us here in the study?"
"Peter do!"
"House elves are part of the wizarding world's dirty laundry," Miss Wayne explained. "Think of them as incredibly loyal servants who want to work twenty-two hours a day." She put down her DataPadd as the door opened. She stood, along with Joss, "Aunt Lois, Uncle Clark, this is Sgt. Joss Higginbotham, the girl I was telling you about."
"I see…" Lois said. Joss saw a woman that was just entering middle age. She had dark hair in a short style, eyes that missed nothing, in comfortable, casual clothing. Her husband, Clark Kent, was a tall, broad shouldered man with thick horn rim glasses. They took seats on the couch, accepted drinks from Peter, and then studied Joss, who squirmed slightly.
"Relax," Mr. Kent said with a smile. "We're not going to eat you." He sat back, sipping his coffee. "I understand that one of the Guardians gave you a modified Ring and Battery?"
"Um, yes, sir."
"That should prove interesting," Ms. Lane said. "Along with the focus ring for your magic."
"Considering the convertible you drove was originally a 1999 sedan," Barbara put in. She waved her hand. "Don't worry about the van. We're here to give you a two week apprenticeship, which is not (she glared at the Empress) nearly enough time. I'm leading off, showing you a few tricks of my trade."
"I know its short time, but she needs to go to Havana for NCO school. The class starting January 19th is about the limit I can do for her. I stole the last opening for her until June. After that, it's off to London for twelve weeks of MOS training." She pulled an envelope from her pocket and tossed it to Joss. "Forty-six Q. Public Affairs Specialist. You're going to be issued laptops and cameras, and need to carry a sidearm. Pick up a permit from the London cops. As I said on Luna, you're going to be poking your nose into things that some people would rather keep hidden, and that includes supposedly friendly Imperial worlds. I'm still working on getting the designation of 'Imperial Hand' established with the Assembly." The Empress waved her hand, "That's my problem. For now, I'm going to leave you in the tender mercies of these three." She stood and left.
"Well, now," Mr. Kent said. "The first thing is every journalist develops their own style. My beloved wife here likes to draw blood with every word …"
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Wednesday, December 31, 2003: 13:45 (UTC -5)
Terra, Gotham City:
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Joss turned onto the Interstate toward Metropolis, accelerating to merge with traffic. She pulled her hair free, tossing it toward the back of the white convertible, where it started to flutter in the breeze. Glancing at her passenger, she asked, "You're good with my staying with you for two weeks?"
"No problem," Lois replied. "It gives me more time to work my evil upon you."
Joss snorted, "Okay, sensei, I don't know how or where I'll be posted. How do I start building up a network of contacts?"
"It takes time, and might require some street cash, or the ability to do favors," Lois replied. She tightened her seatbelt straps as Joss accelerated. "For you, I'd start working the bars around base, accepting drinks and letting guys talk to you."
"Take them to bed?"
"I wouldn't, and aren't you wearing a slave belt?"
"Yep. I'll stick to doing favors, but I don't want to come across as a hooker in uniform."
"It can be tough," Lois agreed. "Women have to do things differently than men do. You're a hot young woman and wearing a slave collar. I wouldn't …"
(1): FDC: Fire Direction Center - an artillery company's command and control location.
(2): HIMSF: Her (or His) Imperial Majesty's Special Forces.
(3): JAG: Judge Advocate General - the military legal system.
(4): Bradley: US Army Infantry Fighting Vehicle.
(5): ####
7 January 2014
~30~