***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
For disclaimers, please see Chapter One.
Chapter XI: 1 ~ 15 February 2003
Saturday, February 1, 2003: 08:03 (GMT)
Terra, London, Imperial building auditorium:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Connie stepped to the podium and tapped on the mike. "If we can get started? Thank you. I am Ms. Koslowski, the Tsaritsa's Chief of Staff. Ms. Wayne is currently under doctor's orders to rest; she's suffering from a mild case of exhaustion." She gave a small smile, "Given her world tour, that's not really surprising. Yes, Ms. Lane?"

"When will she be up again?" Lois asked.

"The doctor is predicting she'll be up again by the middle of this coming week. We are also modifying her schedule somewhat. We are squeezing in an economic meeting in Geneva after her physician releases her, probably at the end of next week." She gave a small smile, "We're not big fans of deficit spending, and we want the Empire on a rock-solid financial basis." There was a brief round of applause. "As always, we will post this information on the Empire's web site. After Geneva, and at the request of the people in Warsaw, she'll be stopping by at a job fair they're holding to discuss jobs and employment and answer people's questions. I am also announcing a revision to the licensing for Imperial content. For now on, broadcast media such as television and radio is restricted due to the insecure means of transmission. Print and web media will continue much as before, however, they are prohibited from sharing that content with affiliated media. Revised license terms have been sent to your legal departments." There was a storm of protest, and Connie held up her hand. "People, we don't want to tip our hand to our enemies. If you want content, get hold of your legal departments, and they'll fill you in. I would ask you to turn off any live TV or radio equipment, and then I'll introduce Generalmajor von Hesse who will discuss plans for the defense of the Terran system. General?"

A woman in her apparent early thirties rose; pulled her Imperial Army uniform straight; placed her binder on the podium. She wore an impressive array of fruit salad, including the Knight's Cross at her neck over her command-gold body suit, and her service stripes reached to her elbow.

"Guten Morgen," she said. "I am Generalmajor Heinrike von Hesse; I have the honor of serving the Empire as C-3, the head of the planning and operations department. You may ask my qualifications, I joined the Heer in 1935 as a simple rifleman, retiring in 2000. I am obviously no longer an old man," she said, gesturing to herself with a small smile. "Nor did I take part in any war crimes; I was severely wounded in the war, taken prisoner by the British in hospital and later pensioned out. My biography, as all my colleagues, is available on the Empire's web site." She assumed a parade-rest position, "Frau Koslowski has informed you of the revised license information. Do not complain to me, instead consult with your firm's legal department. Lights, seventy percent!" The lights came down, and she touched controls, bringing a large holo display to life. "Can everyone see? Gut. This is a map of the Terran system to the Oort Limit, which is the outer boundary of the Oort Cloud, represented as a white haze, one-point-five light years from Sol. That is the gravitational outer boundary of the system. The inner boundary is right on one light year's distance, so obviously this map is not to scale."

The General changed a control, "Kupier Belt in green haze, from thirty to fifty-five AU. Planetary positions are as of the beginning of the month, with orbits marked by blue lines. The asteroid belt is also marked as a green haze." She changed slides. "System entry and exit traffic lanes in the Oort Cloud are designated by appropriate buoys with green arrows. We have emplaced minefields and missile batteries for system defense." She changed slides, "We anticipate several different attack scenarios, depending on the composition of the enemy ships. On the low end, a single slave ship, on the high end, several modern warships."

"What class warships?" Lois called.

"We do not anticipate anything heavier than cruiser-class, Frau Lane," the Generalmajor replied. "The enemy is operating off a single slaver's report, and while he has sensor data, a larger deployment of warships would be expensive. A government would not expend the funds based on single-source data, however, they would send one or two ships from their navy to provide additional data. We must block that transmission of data by destroying or capturing those ships in order to give us time to build up our own defenses. With the loss of that scouting party, they will reconsider. They will abandon the idea completely, or send in stealthed units instead of or with naval units."

"The single slaver?" Lois persisted.

"Is a businessman," the Generalmajor replied. "Most likely our previous ... guest. While we may consider him social scum, in the greater galaxy, he is regarded as a legitimate businessman, providing a service. However, unless a larger dealer appears, it would be a small businessman, possibly with connections to others with greater resources. Think of an auto dealer who tries to convince a King or President. Unless that businessman convinces his legislator, or a criminal contact, he will not be believed, and brushed off. He may convince some of his business colleagues to join him, which is why we believe the most probable force would be a collection of slave ships with a few warships." The Generalmajor smiled slightly. "We have the light cruiser, the Wisdom, which we have taken apart and studied most thoroughly. We have identified several weaknesses in her design, which we have addressed in our own warships. However, while the warships must remain in space, the slavers must land, to collect their victims to sell and recoup their costs. They have their own vulnerabilities, such as..."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Saturday, February 1, 2003: 09:12 (GMT -5)
Terra, Cincinnati, McCain home:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Walt McCain sat back and thought about the press conference he had watched on his computer. He had gotten into the habit of checking the Arrowhead and Imperial web sites at the beginning of each month, he was turning into a regular fan. However, the threat of invasion was something that Miss Wayne had mentioned before; having an experienced General delineate the threat was something else. He didn't want his kids, his son Chris and especially his daughter Brenda, to wear a slave collar. He was a single dad, his wife having died years ago, yet ... what could he do? His eyes fell on a white cardboard folder, and he picked it up, thinking. "Terran Empire: Call to duty" he read aloud.

'Is that it?' He thought. 'Is this an actual call to duty for the people of Earth? I remember my own Army service, and what's his name...' He pulled the sheet of legal paper from the DVD sleeve, the notes from his call. 'Bill M. He said he went out running with Miss Wayne every day, and they had a class together. She's known as a witch, so he must be a wizard. What was that school's name again?' He turned back to his computer to do a little research.


"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Scotland," he told himself a few minutes later, looking at the school's web site. "Mailing address, what the hell is a floo address, faculty bios, famous alumni..." he clicked on the link, "Holy crap, the Queen of England? Prince Harry? Who is Tom Riddle?" He clicked on another link, "The four Houses of Hogwarts..." He clicked again, "Gryffindor... who's in the 'M' list? MacDonald, Mary is a seventh-year and Morton, Julia is a third-year..." He clicked links, "Ah, Miss Morton has two brothers in this school, older brother Arthur, a fifth-year Hufflepuff and younger brother William, a second-year Hufflepuff, and Bill is a nickname for William." More link-clicking, and Walt went back a few pages. "Arthur Morton, who's engaged to ... hot damn, one Miss H. M. Wayne. Hmm, doesn't have a date of death, but didn't I read he was killed in New York? Ah, a revision date on his page, but he's still listed as a student... Hmm, no email address listed for him, but it should be easy enough to figure out..." He clicked back to Mary MacDonald's page, noted hers, then went forward again. "So, Miss Wayne, let's see which House you're in..." More link clicking, "Slytherin. Hmm... Characteristics of a Slytherin... One word, ambition. That's helpful." He compared it to the much greater quantity of information on the Gryffindor page. "Hmm... you like to keep secrets, don't you? Let's see who's listed as a Slytherin ... Ah, Ms. Ami Bones... (he clicked), 'Daughter of Amelia Bones'. That's useful. Let's see, Ms. Koslowski, I recognize you... (he clicked again), 'Native of New York'. You're all tight with words, aren't you?" He scrolled down the page, "Ms. S. Tonks... (click) 'Spokeswolf for Greywolf'. And finally we come to Ms. Wayne, and we click ..." the page forwarded to her official bio on the Imperial web site. "Damn it!"


"Arrowhead publishing help line, this is Bill M, how can I help you today?" 'Little' Bill Morton said as he worked his terminal in one of Hogwarts' empty classrooms that had been converted into a small call center.

"Hi, Bill, this is Walt McCain in Cincinnati, I talked to you a couple of months ago about the 'Call to duty' software."

"All right, Mr. McCain. Is there a problem with the software? How can I help you?"

Bill heard the rustle of paper, "You said you were going to school with Miss Wayne, and I just watched the recording of the press conference with the German lady general and Miss..."

"Connie? Koslowski?"

"Yes, thank you. I'd like to know just how much of a threat there is. I'm a single dad, with two kids in school..."

"I've got a sister that's going through Army basic now in Corfu, Mr. McCain, and she spent several months aboard a construction ship that belongs to Parkinson Construction. While I haven't been off-world, my Dad and several members of my family have been. It's not a nice place out there is what they tell me, and I believe them. How did you..."

"I did a little research on the Internet, and found the school's web site. I'm worried about my kids..."

"Of course. All I can tell you, Mr. McCain, is that everything I've seen says that it's a viable threat since that judge let the slaver go free. We wonder if he got his palm greased with some gold, which isn't worth that much off-world." Walt heard Bill sigh. "The best thing I can tell you, Mr. McCain, is that we're in the situation of a family with some valuables living in a rough neighborhood. It's not IF we're expecting trouble, but WHEN. Does that help?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it does. I remember my own Army service, and I'm thinking about re-upping with the Empire, but I'm not particularly ... eager to become a girl."

"That was a program that got abused, Mr. McCain. There are people here at school with family members that have gotten injured in Northern Ireland and Afghanistan, arms and legs blown off. They, and military retirees like that general were pitched as 'be a healthy young woman, or a crippled man'. They'll still do that but you've got to ask for it. Your time-in-service with the US Army does transfer over." Bill added, "You're not the first call I've had today regarding that press conference, I had one two calls ago from Japan. Translation spells do help."

"Yeah, I'm sure they would," Walt said with a chuckle. "I'll let you go, Bill, but what's the deal with your brother Arthur? His school web page hasn't been updated."

"Ah, thanks for letting me know. I'm sorry, sir, but that's a family matter. I'm sure you understand."

"Yeah, thanks. Have a great day."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Saturday, February 1, 2003: 19:15 (GMT +2)
Terra, Corfu, Kavos, Agios Gordis Beach:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Tourists screamed and panicked as the armored figures emerged from the water. The watching police officer didn't. He simply set his cup of tea down as the figures formed ranks, making his way down to the boardwalk, where the lead figure saluted him, then removed her helmet, revealing a short-haired dark woman. They conversed for a few minutes, then he went back to his car while she replaced her helmet, and they walked through previously-arranged showers.

"Excuse me," one exceptionally courageous tourist asked one figure, tapping on the arm. "Who are you?"

Elena undogged her helmet, holding it under her left arm, and offered her right. "Elena Morton, Imperial Army. This is our combat armor, we've just had a nice stroll on the seabed. It's interesting to watch ships pass overhead. Hope we didn't frighten you, but we thought you'd like to see what you're getting for your euro."

"Oh. Oh, your pardon, Artie Teasdale, from Lancashire. You sound like a Yank."

"Born and raised, Mr. Teasdale. Now, if you'll excuse me, if I don't wash the salt water off, I'll have to scrub it off my armor tonight." He nodded, and she got in line for the showers, while he wandered back to his wife and the other watching tourists. "Imperial Army in training," he reported. "Good thing, too. Never would have stood a chance if I had to get involved... Ki-ya!" he shouted, and made karate moves. Elena smirked, Mr. Teasdale didn't know she was one of the company's 'long guns' and could shoot the eye out of a chicken at three thousand meters. They'd eaten the chickens.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Saturday, February 1, 2003: 21:09 (GMT)
Seconday, 20 Tertius, 163, 22:22 (WFT +2)
Windfall, Island, the Farm:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Dr. George Brenner stretched, then asked 73536, "That's the day for me, would you like a bit of air?"

"I thought I had heard thunder, master, but …" she noted his raised eyebrow, "I have always enjoyed the rain, master. May this slave accompany you, master?"

"I would enjoy that."


George sat on a picnic table under an overhang, while the soaking-wet girl stood next to him. "At lunch, err, half-meal, I went back to my quarters and found this email from Sir Cuthbert, the Lieutenant Governor." He pulled out a folded sheet of paper, and said, "Essentially, it invites me and my personal slave to High Town for a meeting." She shook back a strand of wet red hair and regarded him; her hands cuffed behind her, wearing a soaking wet pale green slave smock and skirt, her feet shoulder-width apart. She moved to lean against the rough brick wall, her doubled-back leash chain denting the front of her smock and skirt, and asked, "Personal slave, master?"

"My own slave, Yuki, is in Riverside, and she's a long story," he said. "Will you trust me to act as the agent for you and your sister-slaves, including the fish-slaves? If so, we can join a delivery that's going out, and be in West Port by Fifthday, and then High Town by Seconday. I'd be the sole free male there, and you'd be chained with our cargo slaves we're delivering. We drop off a dozen in West Port to be shipped to Riverside, and take the rest to High Town. I can have Yuki delivered to West Port, and pick her up at the same time we drop the others off."

"I can tell, master, you are looking forward to seeing your own personal slave Yuki," she said with a small smile. "She is your love-slave, as you are the owner of her heart." She shook her hair back again, "I can be your serving-slave, master, if it will get me out of here."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Sunday, February 2, 2003: 09:07 (GMT -5)
Terra, Cincinnati, McCain home:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Sunday was the day to sleep in, and Walt was working his way through breakfast while his kids read the paper. "Who's up for more waffles?" he asked, and his daughter Brenda waved her hand, while his son Chris just grunted. He put two on her plate, then two more on his, slathering on butter and syrup while Chris went through the Enquirer's comics. He sat down, taking the front section and looking for the review of yesterday's press conference.

Brenda poured more orange juice for herself and him, ignoring her brother. She took her place, tilting her chair back and gestured with her fork, "Dad? What do you think about that?"

He folded the paper, "I'm not sure," he admitted. "You know that Call to duty game?" She nodded, "When we got it, I called their help line and talked to one of their techs. I called him back yesterday, and he said the threat was legitimate." He noticed Chris was paying attention, "His name was Bill Morton, his older brother Arthur is the one that was killed in New York, when Miss Wayne blew her stack?"

"Oh, yeah," she nodded after a moment. "So what did he say?"

"The threat was legit, dim-bulb," Chris put in. "I wonder how you'd look with a collar on your neck. Can we sell her, dad?"

"No, and that wasn't nice, Chris. Apologize to your sister..." Chris mumbled "Sorry..." and Brenda hissed, "Later..." Walt decided to ignore whatever she did to him, as long as it wasn't that much over-the-top, and continued, "I'm thinking of re-upping into the Imperial Army, but the question would be what about you two?"

"We traveled with you when you were in the Army, dad," Brenda said. "I've been thinking about joining myself, I'll be old enough soon. I could do it now with your consent. This dweeb, though, I don't think they'd take him," she said, pointing at her younger brother. Chris stuck out his tongue at her. "See?" she asked. "Total dweeb. How do you get into Hogwarts?"

"That I don't know," her father replied. "I've got the school's web site, I'm sure there's an email address somewhere on it. However, what do we do with you two if I join up? Do you go to Aunt Sophie in Boston, and what about college?"

"Baaa-sss-tone," Chris said with an exaggerated accent.

"Dweeb," his sister replied. "Army service, dad. What's it like?"

Walt got up, he needed to refill his coffee anyway, and Brenda waggled her own cup. He poured, then handed over the folder he had brought into the kitchen to his daughter. "What I've got on the Imperial Army. Wash your hands so you don't get it sticky." She got up to fix her coffee, then plopped back down and opened the folder.


"Well, dad," Brenda said, putting the folder down and picking up her coffee cup. "It looks interesting to me, but you never answered what Army life is like."

"Basic is going to be tough for you," he replied. "You're going to be doing running, with a pack, and if the Imperials are anything like the US Army, a combat tour is a seven day week." He gestured at the folder, "It looks to me like the Imperial Army is more tail than teeth, although they do have some garrison troops. What that means to you is that if you pick up a noncombat assignment, like in a machine shop or as supply, it will probably be a Monday through Friday gig, you'd have a quota to get done, and then seventeen hundred rolls around and you're off. You'd qualify on small arms, and that would include a sword, because like the US Marines, they're promoting every soldier a warrior."

"A sword?"

"Yeah," he replied. "They're looking at the majority of any fighting would be close combat, room to room, or in something like a bar fight. It makes sense if they're thinking about shipboard actions, where some pirate tries to board, and you'd be fighting in a small room, like someone's quarters. A rifle wouldn't be much good, but a sword would." He regarded her, "That's going toe-to-toe with someone, so close you can see them sweat and smell their breath. Can you do it, Brenda? Could you kill someone that close? He's going to be trying his damnedest to kill or enslave you - it's you or him. Shooting or stabbing him, then going on to the next pirate, and for damn sure these are going to be aliens, and you're going to be wearing their blood."

"I'd be trained, though."

"In hand to hand? Yes, and you'd need to keep that proficiency up. Each of those species has a weak point or two, like we do. You'd need to guard yours while correctly identifying the other and remembering their weak points. Body armor is a help and a hindrance, it impairs your mobility while it offers better protection, but it's not perfect." He reached out to tap her forehead, "That's where it comes down. When you go through Basic, it's not just getting you equipped and physically trained, it's giving you a mental realignment. Civilians are taught that it is wrong to kill. Soldiers are taught and trained differently, that you have to kill the enemy to protect your buddies. You protect the members of your squad, they protect you. That's combat, and some of you will die, and you raise a glass in their memory and go on."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Sunday, February 2, 2003: 10:11 (GMT)
Terra, Hogwarts, Infirmary:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

("So if the...") Mattie looked up from her discussion in Russian with Maria. "Mom!"

"You stay in bed, young lady," Selina told her daughter. Holding out her hand, she said, "Good morning, I'm Selina Wayne."

"Maria Putina, from Moscow," she replied, standing and bowing slightly in the European fashion as she took Selina's hand. "My father Vladimir wishes me to assist in tutoring the Tsaritsa in politics, as well as reporting to him."

"And you are a dutiful daughter, unlike my own," Selina replied with a small smile. Maria smiled in return, "Will you excuse me? I wish to see more of the library." With a small heel click of her own, she left the infirmary, and Mattie complained, "Mom..."

"Don't you 'Mom' me, young lady!" Selina said, taking the chair Maria had been using. A house-elf popped in with a cup of coffee for her, she sipped it and set it on the small bedside table. Poppy looked in-between the curtains, sniffed and nodded, then left. "I'm sorry I'm late getting here, I was just on a trip to Brussels."

"What is WayneTech doing in Brussels?"

"Just the center of the global arms trade, which you should know, Tsaritsa Wayne," her mother replied. "Exports of defense electronics, and remember the Terran Empire is recognized as a government, which means you can issue end-user certificates to yourself. Enough business," and she reached out to grab her daughter's left hand, enclosed in the black glove. "Where's your finger, and why did you prevent Clark and Crystal from protecting you? You have to know he's feeling miserable."

"So is Crystal, but they were at least happy to see me armored. That's why I'm wearing this (she gestured to her outfit), and as to why, it was necessary politically, although the lesson doesn't seem to have stuck with the Traditionalists on Windfall."

"So that's why you're wearing a white bodysuit and a black leotard in bed?"

"Well, that and because they're really, really comfortable," she admitted. "At least I can take the boots off now, I have the spell's password," and she reached over to touch the boots where they stood next to her bed. "The goblins were reluctant until Crystal 'reasoned' with them, and I've promised to wear the body armor in return, which I would anyway, like I said, it's really comfortable. Madame Pomfrey has the passwords necessary to remove or work around them, so..." She waggled her right hand. "As far as where the finger itself is, Madame Pomfrey has it, I don't really miss it, and it's a good move politically, shows that the Tsaritsa is willing to put her neck on the line like her subjects."

"That may be true, but oh... no mother wants to see her child injured," Selina said softly.

"I know, mom, but..." Mattie sighed. They were both silent for a few minutes, then she asked, "Mom, what does my Privy Council say?"

"They, we, are not happy with this latest move of yours. That's one reason I'm here, to schmooze the European Union in Brussels and beat some sense into your head. You are the Queen..."

"Empress, or Tsaritsa..."

"Whatever. Your job is to provide strategy, not get involved in swordplay."

"Yeah, the Queen has already told me that," Mattie said. "I've even got homework from her, to do strategic planning in both the short term and long term." She sighed, "But it's not fun..."

"But it's your job, now," her mother replied. "It's part of growing up, dear. You think everything I do is fun? No, but I do it, because it's part of my job, and it needs to be done. That's why I still put on a batsuit, because it's stress relief, and now that Eddie has retired, and has a family, he's saying the same thing. He misses it, but he doesn't miss the broken bones."

"Except Crystal would pitch five kinds of fit if I went out as the Pimpernel again. She doesn't like my having an Oan Power Ring..."

"And I can't blame her, either. Remind me to slap Dick upside the head for that little brainstorm. Where's Arthur's Ring, by the way?"

Her daughter raised her left hand, "Mine is my right hand, Arthur's is on my left middle finger, next to his ring. When Alfred and the McCoy get back, we're going to have to open his stasis tube to get a blood sample for analysis. I've mentioned that to Julie, and Little Bill has said he's gotten questions about Arthur's 'death' (she finger-quoted)."

"I'll let Maggie know," Selina replied. "Now, as to your job, and we need to consider what we're going to do about college."

"College is a tough one," her daughter acknowledged. "I could do correspondence courses, except there's something about sitting in a classroom... And which school would I go to? What would I major in?" She shrugged, and Poppy reappeared. "Time for a nap, and I want to speak to your mother. I'll wake you for lunch, Miss Wayne."

"Yes, ma'am," and she put her various books to the side, while Selina re-arranged her pillows. Leaning over, she kissed her daughter's forehead, "Later, dear," and Poppy lowered the lights.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Sunday, February 2, 2003: 13:25 (GMT)
Terra, Hogwarts, Infirmary, private rooms:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"We've figured out how to modify some of our passenger and colony ships for water-breathers," Amy Johnson put in, as the meeting circled around Mattie's bed. "Basically a plug-in module to replace some cargo space. We can retrofit some of the cargo space allocated to livestock transport to accept those modules as well, and while it wouldn't be on the same decks as air-breathers, it would be decent. Tile or wood decking instead of carpeting. Food supply is still an issue, and getting the room's electronics sealed well enough to work underwater is a challenge. However, water heating, filtration, oxygenation, all that's off-the-shelf parts. It's doable."

"I'll say," Pansy Parkinson agreed with a snort. She had come up from London, and added, "Those fish-slaves are a bloody godsend. There's only sixty of them? I want more, even though they're going to be doing construction with hand tools, we'll still save gobs of dosh."

"They are slaves," Connie reminded her. "Changed by force, according to the reports. We don't know if they can be changed back, but I'm not going to sign off on changing more slaves so you can have a larger work force."

"Well, yes, of course," Pansy said, somewhat sheepishly. "It was the businessperson in me talking..."

"O... kay..." Mattie dryly replied. "If I remember the reports correctly, they can survive out of water, so they're more amphibians than true fish. The problem is their moving around on land, but something like a wheelchair should work." She caught Connie's look, and sighed, "I do want that transformation researched, though, and if it's possible to do the transformation ourselves, preferably without the collar and Enhancement, and if it's possible to switch them back to two legs."

She glanced at Ginny, who shook herself. "Sorry, I was just thinking of the intelligence possibilities." She took a sip from her tea, returning it to the levitating tea-tray, then checked her notes. "I'll be flooing back to Moscow tomorrow, once I leave this meeting Connie and I will floo to the Leaky and then to Hyde Park, where we'll meet our new colleagues. That's only a block from the Russian Embassy on Kensington Palace. We then go to the Imperial Building where we get them checked in and started on background checks and so forth."

She glanced at Amy, "As far as the Explorer class survey ships, I've touched base with Aurora, and they'll be 'white' ships, but they will have covert modules. We're planning on operating on a total unknown when we enter a star system, no idea as to stellar types, orbits, planets, anything. However, we'll be equipped for population surveys and ..."

"First contact," Connie put in. "We'll have everything from stellar and planetary specialists to exobiologists and linguists, using mapping and survey drones and stealth shuttles. That's why the ships are so large, we're looking at heavy cruiser or battlecruiser hulls."

"Long endurance ships, too," Amy put in. "We're not just looking at a quick 'in and out' survey, but the possibility of colonization or trade relationships. We'll also leave survey satellites in orbit..."

"Good," Mattie said, checking off her agenda. "Speaking of shipbuilding and small craft..."

"One of the things you'll be doing next week in Poland is visiting the Shipping Office outside Warsaw," Connie replied. "They're dealing with everything from drones and buoys to various small craft, they'll have a presentation for you. We're looking at several kinds in two categories, atmospheric and FTL, as well as both military and civilian. Thank God we have people that have done government contracting before." She shifted in her seat, adding, "We're doing this on fixed-price contracting, so John Deere™ can bid on things like drones and buoys and they've got an equal chance against Boeing™, Messerschmitt™, Lockheed™ or Tanaka Heavy Industries™."

"Who's John Deere and who are the other people?" Ginny asked.

Pansy covered her snicker with a cough as Connie replied, "Companies, not people. John Deere makes agricultural equipment, while the other three are aerospace and manufacturing companies, like Rolls-Royce™. The point is that it generates business and jobs and boosts the economy, because our survey ship would deploy drones to cover a star system."

"Don't forget the mapping drones and satellites, and any sort of installation we might build, either on-planet or on a moon, and those installations would require shuttles," Pansy put in.

"Right now, we're looking at two kinds of fighters, atmospheric and FTL, possibly with a catapult launch like the Navy has. The US Navy, that is," Connie clarified. "We're also looking at both assault boats and gunboats for warships, shuttle or helicopter sized," she added. "Last, there's 'tween-ships cutters and dirt-to-space shuttles."

"Don't forget work pods," Amy put in.

"Right, right, lots of those."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Sunday, February 2, 2003: 14:55 (GMT)
Terra, London, Hyde Park:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Dana watched the two young women as they approached. They needed training, she glanced at Yuri, on an opposite bench, who rolled his eyes. One of them, a redhead sat on her bench, opened a copy of the Sun, and started to read. "Why look, the East is Red," she said.

"Sunrises usually are," she replied with the agreed-upon phrase.

"If it starts to burn off the snow," she agreed.

"That is truly terrible, the snow is lovely," Dana replied, which wasn't in the script, but was true. "I am Dana, you are Ginevra?"

"Ginny, please. I hate that name." She folded her newspaper as Dana said, "Your tradecraft is non- existent. You need training, fortunately Yuri and I are here."

"Your orders?"

"Assume command of counter-intelligence for IR & S, with our loyalties to the Empire, not to Mother Russia, directly from President Putin. We are setting a nodal arrangement?"

"We are," Connie agreed as she sat next to Ginny. "Local fleets, local intelligence, if you can consider something the size of a stellar cluster of several hundred stars 'local'. It's a big job."

"That's true, and conditions on each planet are going to vary tremendously," Dana mused, then shook herself. "A question, do your Imperial passes require a photograph?"

"For general access, not for IR & S," Ginny replied. "Why?"

"I am wearing a glamour charm," the normal-looking young woman replied. "Cover identities?"

"Generic, secretaries, maintenance workers, accountants and bookkeepers," she replied.

"Good. One way to catch a spy is when they are foolish with money. Buying an expensive car when their income does not support it, that type of thing." She reached down and picked up a generic backpack, nodding to Yuri. "Let us get started with your education," she said.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Sunday, February 2, 2003: 18:04 (GMT)
Deimos, Test platform (vacuum):
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Chantal watched the monitor as the incoming target drone bobbed and weaved as it followed an evasion program. Her laser mount tracked it, then fired a three-shot burst. The first laser missed, the second grazed the drone, the third exploded it. The integrated subspace tracking radar continued to rotate for a minute, then swiveled with the laser to the 'standby' position. She input the 'safe' command, and the glowing Fresnel lenses of the subspace field faded from their generator brackets above the emitter crystals as the status lights changed on the mount.

"Not bad shootin', Beaver," Tex commented.

"Y' want to fly a manned test?" she asked with a grin. "That's ten successful tests, I think it's ready for deployment. Let me go unplug it and fetch the data cartridge."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, February 3, 2003: 04:48 (GMT)
Fourthday, 22 Tertius, 163, 08:03 (WFT +2)
Windfall, Island, coastal road:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Woah," George called, pulling back on the reins, and slowly the two paired teams of shonnen came to a halt. He turned and called, "Slaves, halt!" and the two lines of leashed slaves stopped before they impacted the trailing supply cart. He set the brake, jumping down and inspecting the three large wagons of stasis-tubed slaves, then going back to eye the hooded, leashed slaves who knelt in the Inspection position. "Slaves, release. Time to suction," he told them, even though they couldn't reply.


"You're next," and the slave 10181 felt a tug on her leash. A hand on her arm guided her, she placed her ankles in the correct brackets and leaned far forward, allowing her present master to connect her for suction. She felt a steadying hand on her body, and the presence in her mind was outraged. 'He's ... groping me!' he said in shock.

'No, he is a master and we are slave,' she replied patiently as she relaxed. Her cuffed fingertips moved slightly as she continued, 'This is why I do not allow you control. You still think like a free male, when we are a bred, Enhanced female slave. Even if that is not what we started out as, and my memories are very different than yours, that is what we are NOW. If we are to succeed in our master's assigned task, that is how we must behave. You may offer advice, but unless our masters decide differently and place you in control, we are slave and that is how we must behave.'

'But he was ... handling us,' he protested.

'Certainly, as far as he knows we are an off-planet bred slave,' she replied. 'This is like your complaint about not having clothing. Slaves being transported are shipped naked. Why should masters pay the expense of shipping clothing which will only become dirty? It is similar to your objections to our being gagged and hooded. We are more easily fed and controlled, and it keeps road dust out of our eyes. You will become accustomed to it, do not be concerned. I am wondering if we have already been sold, or will still need to mount the block and perform for our sale.'

'Our sale?'

'Of course! We are slave, slaves are sold. To use one of your phrases, Terran, D' oh!'

Steven Murchinson, formerly of CIA and now biosculpted and Enhanced into the slave girl 10181, grumbled into the recesses of their shared mind. The Enhancement put the slave girl firmly in the metaphorical driver's seat, and as a professional agent, he knew the value of a solid cover identity. He was just having problems with the more physical aspects of that cover. 'All right, all right,' he thought. 'I'm just not used to this.'

'You had best become adjusted to it,' she replied. 'We have finished suction, and are ready to move forward.' Not knowing of the internal byplay, George replaced the slave's 'tail' in her belt's anal socket, pulling her back upright and giving her a gentle push on the shoulder. She stepped forward with a soft jingle from her ankle and wrist bells, her body fur soft under his hand, her wrists locked behind her in her slave belt's cuffs. She wore a white canvas hood locked on her head; and her leash chain clinked softly as it looped up to the preceding slave, and another took her place. Her leash reached up to 10181's leash collar, the slaves' fur and skin dirty from road dust.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, February 3, 2003: 06:48 (GMT)
Fourthday, 22 Tertius, 163, 09:03 (WFT +1)
Windfall, north Riverside, greenhouses:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

The slave 90144, once known as Yoshi, then as Yuki Fukuda, now simply a tightly hooded, nameless slave girl, knelt in the Inspection position, left leg up to show her brands, bent forward at the waist to show her cuffed hands, her leash attached to the back of her mistress' cart. She could hear the noise and feel the vibrations as her former sister-slaves unloaded mistress' cart. She knelt and wondered, 'Is Mistress taking me to my Owner, George?' She remembered her owner as a kind master, and shuddered as she remembered the horrible dreams, of her uncollared, wearing the clothing of a free female, and even worse, of her being a free male, dealing with reams of paper. She fixed on the mental image of herself as a free female, wearing a properly short skirt, and for some reason it calmed her. She remembered running her hands down her legs, feeling the smooth, silky sensation of ... of stockings, of shoes that elevated her heels, made her legs look so attractive, and almost lurched as something unlocked in her mind. 'I ... I love my collar, it is something I have wanted, in secret, for so long. I ... I love the feeling of being properly bound, of being a slave girl, of being obedient to masters, but the feelings of the free female's clothing...' She almost lurched again as phrases came into focus, along with images of slaves, her sister slaves, and she felt the gag riveted in her mouth, the tight hood locked on her head, her leash chain as it swung next to her raised left leg. 'I want my owner George...' she thought, and heard the loading bay door rolled down. Her mistress' steps were heard on the gravel, she was pulled her up by her leash, "We're ready to go, girl."


Bella checked the last of the supplies against her clipboard, then shooed the slaves off into the greenhouses, rolling the door down. Walking down the invisible steps, she turned to inspect the hidden complex, admiring once again the job Yuki had done. With a crunch of gravel, she pulled the slave 90144 up by her chain, the former Yuki Fukuda, now a mind-controlled slave leashed to the right rear of her wagon, and told her, "We're ready to go, girl." She walked around the harnessed hexataurs, climbed into the driver's seat and released the brake. Cracking the reins, she called, "Go!"


With a jerk on her leash chain and her mistress' command, the slave 90144 started walking. She could smell the animals, and hear the creak of the wagon, and she started to think about the phrases and the images of herself and her sister-slaves in the greenhouses.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, February 3, 2003: 12:08 (GMT)
Terra, Hogwarts, Infirmary, private rooms:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"So, when will you get out?" Sprink asked as she dropped off her notes and homework for Monday morning's classes.

"Last I heard, tomorrow's my last day, unless Warden Pomfrey decides on an extended sentence..."

"I heard that, Miss Wayne," Poppy said as she sailed into the room. "I'm sure you remember the taste of Skele-Gro®? I've potions that taste worse..." She waggled her finger, then flicked her wand over her patient, as Sprink tried to sneak out. "Stay right there, Miss Tonks. I want to look you over too."

"But I feel fine..."

"That's what your sister used to tell me, and with the new, revised Wolfsbane® potion, even though you brew it under Severus' supervision..." She pointed at a spare bed, "Lie down, I'll be with you in a moment."

With a sigh, Sprink complied, taking off her boots. "Now my skirt will get all wrinkled for class..."

"I find it difficult to believe that in the wonderous Slytherin library you don't have any ironing spells," Poppy replied over her shoulder. "I know we did in Ravenclaw. Now lie there quietly, I have more than enough potions for the both of you."


Looking up from her homework, Mattie called, "Come in, Professor. You too, Headmistress."

Albus peeked around the door frame, "How are you feeling, and how did you know we were here?"

"Perimeter spell, and I'm feeling fine," she replied, lifting a hand and two visitor's chairs zoomed next to the bed. She shifted to sit up cross-legged in bed, the sheets and blankets under her. Albus paused, "I did not mean to visit with you in your underthings..."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Minerva said, taking one of the seats. "Sit down, dear. She's not in her underwear." Somewhat cautiously, Albus took a seat on the bed, observing "Your spellcasting seems to have improved," nodding at the floating textbook.

"Except my conjuring and transfig still needs help," Miss Wayne said, and tapped her wooden lap desk. "Madame Pomfrey had to change this from a pillow." She shifted, bookmarking her place, and asked, "What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to discuss your visit to Russia and the meeting with Mr. Rasputin. May I look at your memories of the event?"

"If you limit yourself to that. There are things related to the Empire that are need-to-know, Professor."

"Of course," he agreed, and they gazed at each other for a minute or so. Eventually, they broke the connection, and he nodded to himself. "Most interesting," he offered. "Mental combat as a basis of blind alleys and traps, followed by spell-casting. You've vastly improved, Miss Wayne."

"I worry about going dark, though," she confessed. She held up her textbook, her place held by a pencil, and said, "These are not fluffy-bunny spells."

"As you yourself have observed, it is not a nice galaxy we are entering," Minerva said. "You asked about formal training in mental defense as part of the school curriculum?"

"Yes," Mattie said. "Witches and wizards are going to be in sensitive positions in the Empire, and the Institute for the study of Magic in Moscow includes training in Legilimency and Occlumency, which is useful on various levels, primarily in security and intelligence work." She shifted in the bed, adjusting the covers on her crossed legs as she sat against the bed's headboard. "We're already looking at training courses for our special forces and covert agents, and defending the minds of our muggle personnel in sensitive positions, and there are the cases of Eleanor and Marie. We should have someone in at least the sector headquarters able to fix that kind of situation."

Albus grunted, "I can see your point," he admitted, adding, "I do so miss teaching. The law can be so tedious and dry. What of the young ladies who you have found on other worlds that will come here?"

"Those are the disposable seventy-series slaves, similar to Emma Sinestra," Mattie replied. "The last I heard they were being educated in the basics, reading, writing, and arithmetic on Tosul," Mattie said. "I've got the Stockwell orphanage that I'm acting as sugar momma to, they're remodeling, while a Church of England orphanage will be moving in with them. That can be their legal residence while they attend Hogwarts, and if they're adopted, great. Right now, they're owned by the government of Windfall, I don't know how many of them will want to come to school."

"If all of them come?" Minerva asked.

"A hundred or so, I think," Mattie replied. "Right now they're being trained in office work, filing, answering the phone, typing letters, that kind of thing. They don't know they're witches, they're just glad to be alive and not experimental animals for something. However, several of them got red and yellow and blue sparks, but like I said, they don't know they're zarroji. Roughly twelve percent of the girls we tested, the others went on to Windfall. I don't know how we're going to inform them and keep the actual existence of zarroji secret."

"Well, we have a few months to consider that," Minerva said. "I'll bring that up at the staff meeting, which I want you to resume attending, Miss Wayne."

"That ... might be difficult, with the schedule of appearances I've got," she hedged. "This week, I'm supposed to be in Geneva to address the Imperial economy with Gringotts, central bankers and finance ministers. Tax rates, tariffs, that kind of thing, which I should be studying, only I got caught up in looking up a curse in Moste Nastye," (she tapped the book). "We still need to figure out who my Heir Presumptive is, right now I'm leaning toward Connie, my Chief of Staff." She gazed at Minerva, one of her Privy Council, who snorted, "You forget your 'twin', Miss Wayne."

Albus snorted in amusement, and Miss Wayne waggled a finger at him. "I have an assignment for you, Mr. Dumbledore. No more lazing about in pubs for you, I'm putting you to work. I want you working on expanding tremendously the instruction on Legilimency and Occlumency. Ideally, every witch and wizard we send off world should be trained, especially if they're working in security or intelligence. Do you need an introduction to the heads of KGB or Mossad?" Albus blinked, and Miss Wayne nodded once. "Good. Dress warmly, the Russian winter is fully on Moscow. When I was there it was twenty below zero, centigrade. I'll expect your report." She returned her focus to Minerva, who subconsciously straightened up. "Headmistress, about those girls..."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Tuesday, February 4, 2003: 06:34 (GMT +2)
Terra, Corfu, Holo training #3,
M/V Jacksonville:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Elena chewed her lip inside her combat armor. She knew it was a training holo, but god, was it realistic. The Terran merchie Jacksonville had been taken by pirates, who had flooded the ship with capture gas. The pirates had slaves who were wearing breathing masks as they worked to find, collect and collar the ship's crew, she was following one of these working parties. Unfortunately, their small frigate, the Alwernia, didn't have much crew aboard, and had to take two hostile ships, the pirate ship P'tah and the Jacksonville, which was considered hostile while captured.

Furthermore, the pirates were a short, naturally armored species, pale blue, with overly large heads and a preference for Van Dyke beards. They were also suited up, although in normal skinsuits. Her partner for this exercise, Dan Phillips, made a hand gesture after examining the passage through a fiber-optic viewer. She advanced, sword in her right hand, shield (which they had just received) in her left, partially covering her body, and moved to the next intersection of passageways. She crouched, hiding behind her shield and checked the display she had velcro'd into her shield. She turned the pickup sensor this way and that, not forgetting to look up at the deckhead, then waved Dan forward. He passed her, and she took a paint stick, marking the wall at knee level, then sliding the stick back into a cargo pocket as Dan waved her forward.


Elena had a quick glimpse inside the mess hall when the work party maneuvered their (overloaded) antigrav cart full of bodies through the doors. She crouched against a wall behind her shield, extending the pickup's sensor as she activated a stealth field which echoed the wall onto her field. As long as one of the slaves or a pirate didn't actually walk into her, and didn't see the black hemisphere of the pickup (the size of a pencil eraser), she could hide. A click, and Dan whispered into his short-range com, "You good?"

"Yeah," she replied. "You hear from the others?"

"Just heard from the LT. We've got this deck, I want to clear some of these side corridors once we take this room. Got any locking sticks left?"

"Two." They heard the 'bing' of the lift, and she crouched lower as she waited. A locking stick penetrated into a door, clamping and locking the sliding doors together, using micro-welds to stay in place. It could also be used to clamp a door into the frame, the major problem was disabling the door sensor field which automatically opened the doors. However, the easiest way around that was to slide into place against the wall, then a simple knife thrust into the enunciator panel; slapping the stick into place before anyone inside could react to the alarm. She saw on her pickup the waddling stroll of a suited pirate officer, Dan whispered "He's mine!" and she watched him uncoil from behind his shield, a quick thrust into the pirate's side, followed by a swing and his head bounced off, trailing a spatter of orange blood.

"That was stupid!" she hissed over her comm. "They could be on a timetable, he could have check-in times!"

"Oh. Yeah," he said belatedly. "Well, we need to take out the mess anyway. I've got a flash-bang we can use."

"Great, we capture a sergeant, when we could have taken an officer!" she snapped. "Which would have better information?"

"Okay, okay, I screwed up," he admitted. "Mea culpa and all that. Do we take the mess or not? We've still got the rest of this deck to clear."

"Yeah, yeah," she said. "Let's go."


The pirate looked up as the doors slid open, a small cylinder sailing into the chamber. It exploded with a bang and an intense white light, but his suit automatically filtered these out. He drew his personal weapon, shoving the slaves aside as two suited figures advanced under cover of the thick smoke. His spread-needle weapon spoke, the projectiles whining off the walls and burrowing into the unconscious slaves on the tables. One of the figures replied with his own weapon while he called on his comm, "Intruders! We missed some of the crew!"

"There is a Terran naval ship!" one of his crewmates replied from another deck. "They are fighting us and on the P'tah! Why have you not heard?" He ignored this, firing again at a shadowy figure, when one other figure used a long blade to slam into his helmet. It cracked, and it used the edge of the blade to cut his air line, he naturally breathed in capture gas, and staggered, dropping his weapon and collapsing as the gas did as it was designed.


Elena sheathed her sword, twisting off the pirate's helmet and inspecting him. Aside from orange slivers of blood on his face from cut glass, he was fine, and she used plastic binders to secure his hands behind him, and then his ankles around a table's supports. Dan looked around the mess, then said, "We can leave them, let's check the other compartments."

"Yeah, yeah, swashbuckler," she said as he locked the doors behind her, scribbling on the door with his own paint stick.


Lieutenant Hearns watched her display from the holodeck's control room as her platoons worked their way through the Jacksonville and the pirate ship, the P'tah. Making a note on her clipboard, the former Royal Marine changed her display to a different deck.


Freshly showered and in utilities, the platoon gathered for the after-action review by their LT. She entered, and they jumped to their feet, standing at attention. Lt. Hearns looked them over, finally saying, "At ease. Be seated." Some of them noted she had not said 'Please be seated,' and started to worry. "After-action review, recapture of Jacksonville from pirates by Alwernia. Let us start with an overview of the situation. Alwernia comes upon Jacksonville transmitting a code 17-A on the secondary guard channel, which means what, A'bama?"

"I have been taken by pirates, ma'am," the tall, rail-thin Kenyan man replied.

The LT grunted, "How is that different from a 17-C, M'afsa?"

The other Kenyan replied, "Charlie is an automated signal, ma'am, when a live crew cannot be detected. It will blow the pile and the ship."

"How so?"

"By lack of authorized computer usage, ma'am. If a ship's officer is compromised, they are to use a secondary login instead of their primary. Ten hours later," he gestured with his hands, "Ka-boom."

"Ka-boom indeed," the LT replied. She turned to another page in her notes, "Beez, rendezvous and assault of the Jacksonville from Alwernia. Why did you decide to ..."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Tuesday, February 4, 2003: 12:03 (GMT)
Terra, Hogwarts, 2nd year Mathematics:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Bill, wait up!" Ami Bones called as her possible-maybe-if-she-got-really-lucky-because-he-was-a-good-bloke boyfriend left their Math class. He paused, waiting in the corridor outside the classroom as her sister Susan, their replacement (and not nearly as good) instructor packed her stuff together. Ami slid one last book into her bag, then hurried out, catching his elbow with her hand. "Ever since we came back from Christmas break, you've been avoiding me, and I want to know why. It's been driving me strange, is it something I've said or done?" she asked, chewing her lip as they made their way down the Mathematics corridor.

"Well, I … um," and he tapped his wand on a classroom's doorframe, pulling her in. He sat her in a chair, pulling another one close as he pulled their book bags off, dropping them to the floor. He didn't notice the other two occupants of the room stop their own snogging to watch. "Y'see, Ami, I've wanted to tell you now, but … I couldn't. It's about Arthur…"

"What, he … he supports his own team?" she asked. He blinked, and she rephrased, "He likes guys instead of girls? Is that why Mattie became so angry, because he was leading her on? There are potions to fix that…"

"No, no, no," he said. "He's not gay, it's that, well, it's a family matter, and I've been trying to figure out how to tell you without breaking my word…"

"Oh, you're the one who likes boys!" she said, in a 'It's all plain to me now' kind of voice. "I … I understand, I'll … I won't trouble you again …" she added in a small, pain-filled voice. She rose, then sobbing, ran out the door.

"Go after her, mate, and apologize," Charlie said, clapping his hand on Bill's shoulder as Sprink hurried after Ami.

"But I… I didn't do anything," he said.

"I know that, and you know that, but if you want her, go apologize to her for making her cry. It's how women are, mate. G'wan, hurry. Sprink will try to get her ready for you." He gave Bill a friendly shove, then bent over to collect everyone's book bags.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Wednesday, February 5, 2003: 06:06 (GMT)
Terra, Hogwarts, Faculty lounge:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Mattie-alpha yawned as she entered the faculty lounge. Professor Harry nodded to her, and Hagrid grunted as he filled his massive tea mug (draining a pot to do it). He filled another, equally large mug with coffee for her, which she gratefully accepted. "Thank you," she murmured, and he grunted again. "Norbert came ta visit," he said. "Y' wanna arrange a field trip f' th' orphans y' keepin' an eye out f'?"

"Some of them are rather young," she replied, taking a gulp of coffee. "We don't want to frighten them with beasties that are too … interesting."

"I weren't thinkin' 'bout a Nundu," he said. "Somp'in like Fluffy, 'r m'be a salamander, an' Buckbeak likes ta meet new friends…"

"I'll pass on the suggestion," she said. "I don't know why the Headmistress wanted me here, I'm not teaching anymore…"

"Because of two reasons," Minerva said as she sailed in the door. "Formal meetings with an agenda instead of your on-the-fly method are best, and I had a job offer for you." Severus and Pomona had followed her in, while Filius put down his own tea mug. Aurora Sinestra came in, hiding a jaw-cracking yawn in her hand. "Job offer?" she asked as she accepted a mug of tea from Callista Vector. "That's what she said," Callista confirmed.

"Ma'am, with respect, I really don't think I have time, no matter what the job is," Mattie protested. "I had to twin myself as it is."

"Yes, I know," Minerva replied. "However …" she took a deep breath, "I would count it a favor if you would consider it. Ms. Susan Bones has informed me that yesterday's class was her last, she has been hired for an off-world position, and I am thus in need of an instructor for second-year Mathematics. You are known by the student body, are a decent instructor, your Business class was a success, the students made quite a bit of money…"

"Which reminds me, I'll need to award the prize," she said, tenting her fingers as she considered. The assembled faculty waited with baited breath, a small smile appeared as she said, "Let's negotiate…"


"I cannot speak for Albus!" Minerva protested. She sputtered, "I may be married to him, but…"

"That's got it," Severus stage-whispered to Harry, who nodded. "What else, the Crown Jewels?"

"I have some, thank you," Miss Wayne stage-whispered back. "Diamonds the size of basketballs, remember? No, I was working on a project with Professor Dumbledore, but that's something I'll discuss with him." She cracked her knuckles, "Now, then, Headmistress, we need to discuss salary and benefits…" Pomona made a 'whoop, whoop' sound, circling her fist in the air, and Callista, the Deputy Headmistress (and Slytherin) inspected her fingernails. "You should have asked me first, Minerva. You remember the old saying, 'Bring your own Slytherin to a negotiation,' I'm sure…"

"Whose side are you on?" Minerva muttered, and Callista smiled. "My own, at the moment."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Wednesday, February 5, 2003: 07:55 (GMT)
Terra, Hogwarts, 2nd year Potions:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Bill waited outside the Potions lab with the rest of his class. Ami was frostily ignoring him, and he wasn't having a good week. Professor Snape finally sailed into view, and ripples of shock spread - he was smiling! "Good morning," he said, tapping the door with his wand and muttering a password. The door unlocked, and he threw it open. "My apologies for my lateness. The faculty meeting went longer than planned, but oh, what a wonderful meeting it was." He settled down on a corner of his worktable, completely uncharacteristic behavior, "I am sure some of you have heard the phrase 'Bring your own Slytherin to a negotiation,' and I have just had a sterling example of it. As you will no doubt hear at lunch, Miss Wayne has consented to teach your mathematics class, as Miss Bones has accepted another position." He glanced at Ami, then at Bill. "In short, Miss Wayne, as part of her contract negotiations, has also kindly negotiated a very nice bump in the staff's pay packet. A very nice bump, indeed." He took a deep breath, then clapped his hands. "On to business. Monday morning, we discussed the Swelling Solution, which you brewed, successfully I presume. We shall brew the Deflating Draught today in the first hour, the second in which you shall test with Monday's brew." He unlocked a cabinet, fetching out a rack of vials. Not all of them looked correct, and Bill swallowed nervously.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Wednesday, February 5, 2003: 08:46 (GMT)
Tosul approach,
IMV Ngthsestr, Flight deck:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Good morning, Mr. Donaldson," Yael said from her command chair. "I have quite a bit of mail for you, a Mr. Kevin Whitbey as passenger out from Earth, and some light cargo." He nodded on her screen, "I've been in touch with the Portmaster's office, and I'll offload at the station here."

"You can't offload down here?"

"Unfortunately, all but one of my crew are Enhanced slaves like C'ari here (she gestured at the helm), and it would be a major pain in the arse to do that. They would need to be registered and tagged if they set one toe off the ship, the Portmaster has to have a witness present…" She waved a hand. "At the station, it's unloading at the transit docks, Mr. Whitbey will escort the cargo down to you once it clears Tosul Customs."

"I see…" Gene replied. "Is the mail electronic?"

"It is, but it's burned onto some DVD's, and part of that light cargo is additional equipment to send and receive mail properly with passing ships like the Ngthsestr." (She patted the command chair.) "It apparently was not included in your original kit. Mr. Whitbey has additional information for you."

"I see…" Gene said again. "Very well. I'll look forward to Mr. Whitbey's arrival. Is he temporary or permanent?"

"Permanent, I understand," Yael replied. "He's working for the Empire now, he'll be taking over as a site manager for the people coming from Earth. You've got some staff there?"

"Yes, some seventy-series slaves the government of Windfall bought, roughly a hundred. They're being trained as secretaries and so forth." He paused, then said carefully, "My understanding was that they were going to be sent off to school…"

"That was my understanding, but we still have seven months before school starts in September," she replied equally carefully. "Mr. Whitbey has more information on that, classified information." C'ari turned to look at her, and she smiled at her crew-person. "In addition, this is a notice that your employer, Parkinson, needs to have you shipped out to another planet, P'wheel, where you'll be installing and upgrading another network."

"Not without some help," he almost snapped. "I'm taking some of my girls here with me. How many can you carry, and what's the weather like there?"

"I've been there, it's a tropical island, Mr. Donaldson. Think a trade port in the Caribbean, although there is also an orbiting station. Very relaxed, and we can take six, including you, if you don't mind doubling up."

"I don't, although I'll need a single cabin for myself. I'll take four girls, we'll be ready when Mr. Whitbey arrives. I'll need time to brief him, though."

"I've got a thirty hour window to make my departure, Mr. Donaldson, although I would prefer sooner rather than later. What is the US Mail phrase? 'Neither snow, nor rain…'"

"'…keeps these carriers from their appointed rounds,'" he finished. "I'll get started arranging Mr. Whitbey's housing. I presume he has a Gringotts account?"


Gene Donaldson sat back in his chair, and looked over at Rhonda 375, his assistant where she knelt off camera. "Now you know a bit more," he said.

"Some, master," she replied. "What school is this? Who is going?"

"There is a school on Earth, my son is going to start there in a few months," he replied. "I don't know what I can tell you, we'll have to wait until this fellow gets here." He slapped the arms of his wheely chair, then said, "Call our residential building, we're getting a new free male to live there. I'll need someone who's learned the city the best assigned to help him out, show him where places are, that kind of thing." Rhonda nodded, flipping to a fresh page on her legal pad as she made notes. "Yes, master. Who is going?"

"That I'm going to leave up to you. You'll be staying and training your assistant, I'll need four of the network and computer girls, and I'm upgrading your status to 'root'. Think you can handle that?"

Rhonda inhaled sharply, "Master, I am…"

"You are a network administrator, one very tiny step down from the Source on this network. You know all, you see all, you say nothing. If some arrogant free person tries to bully you, you tell them you are under my orders. If I had the legal right, I'd free you and the other girls, but you belong to the planetary government of Windfall. You will train new girls, set scheduling, all that kind of thing. Think of yourself as the network's First Girl, if that helps." Rhonda nodded as he typed at the console. "I'm copying my notes to your directory. Study them, for now, I need your choices on who to send with me of the experienced girls, but don't short your own needs."

"'Short my needs, master?'"

"Don't impair the functionality of your own network," he said. "This is now your network, Rhonda 375. I am a guest." He stood, holding the wheely chair for her, and she gingerly sat down in it. "I am going to my apartment to pack while this new fellow is in transit down. I should be back in a few hours. You have my comm?"

"Yes, master. I … oh, master, I am frightened!"

"Perfectly understandable. I'll be back soon," and he gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder and left her. She took a deep breath, looking at the network login prompt, and hesitantly typed in her information.


"Master, there is a Master Whitbey here to see you," the slave with reception-desk duty called.

"Thank you, I'll be down to fetch him," Gene said, and disconnected. He looked at Rhonda, "Ready to meet one of your new clients?"

"No, master, but that won't stop it," she replied with a tentative smile. He tossed her his ring of keys, and she clipped it to her slave belt. She smoothed down her light green (government owned) slave tunic and skirt as he replied, "I'll go lay down the law with him, but you're going to have to keep things in control." He held the door for her, and she paused in the corridor, waiting for him to precede her.


Kevin waited in the lobby, while a news programme played on the video. He looked up as Gene came in, trailed by a young slave in a light green outfit. He stood, offering his hand, "Mr. Donaldson? I'm Kevin Whitbey. He ignored the slave, who picked up his luggage as he shook hands. Mr. Donaldson turned, "Rhonda, we'll have someone tend to that. Mr. Whitbey, this is Rhonda 375, the Network Admin and First Girl."

She dropped his luggage, and he frowned. "Master Whitbey," she said politely.

"Slave," he replied, and held out his hand. "Keys."

She glanced at Gene, who shook his head. "Master, these are mine. I will have a set made for you."

"I think we can take this into the office," Gene said. "Rhonda, Mr. Whitbey? This way, please."


"This is your office, master," Rhonda said politely, and Kevin took two steps in, then said, "This won't work. I'm the site administrator, I am God here. I want a full corner office on the top floor, and I want it now."

"What is wrong with this office, master?"

"It's on the ground floor, in the middle, and looks out on the bloody parking lot!" He turned to Rhonda, grabbing the front of her collar and lifting her off her feet. She shrieked in pain, and was dropped as Gene grabbed the younger man by the front of his shirt, lifting him and slamming him against the wall.

"First off, asshole, you never, ever, grab a girl by her collar. That collar is tied into her spine and her nervous system, you can kill a girl like that." He pulled the other by his shirt away, then slammed him back against the wall. "Second, this was my office. You don't rate a corner office, which are assigned to other people. Third, you are not God, the Source, Jesus, or whatever else you want to call yourself. You're a god-damn clerk, who makes sure the carpets are vacuumed and fixes the jammed toilets. You get the keys you need to get, and the privileges on Rhonda's network that she allows you. She is God, or the Source, or whatever you want to call it. I call her First Girl."

He opened his fist and let the younger man drop to the floor. "If you're a result of Hogwarts, then I'll be damned if I let my son, much less these girls go there. If I had the legal authority to do so, I'd free them all. Now, I want you to think very carefully about this. Rhonda, please close the door." She did so, and he said, "Do you remember when you were first bought? We had you wave a stick around."

"Yes, master. I've wondered why."

"I'll show you. Wand, please," and he held out his hand to Kevin, who spluttered, "You can't…"

"Inform at least Rhonda of what her potential future is? Keep her as an ignorant slave? No." He turned to the girl, "The school is known as Hogwarts, and my son is going to be starting there in a few months, as you heard." He snapped his fingers, "Wand, or do I have to physically search you?"

"All right," he said, and surrendered a slim stick to Gene, who continued, "Now, Rhonda, this is something in which you must, absolutely must keep secret. Your life, and the lives of all the girls here, and the people coming out depend on it." She nodded, and he swished the wand through the air. Nothing happened, and he flipped it, "You do it. Dominant hand, please."

"No, you can't…" Kevin moaned. "I had such plans…"

"And if you cooperate, you can realize some of them," Gene replied, and nodded to Rhonda. She swished, and a fountain of colored sparks came out of the wand tip. She goggled, holding it up to examine the tip, then swished again. "I do not understand, master. It is a simple wooden stick." She gave it back to Gene, who swished again without generating sparks. "Now you, Mr. Whitbey." He reluctantly swished, getting a few yellow sparks, then hiding his wand.

"You noticed that you had much more sparks than either Mr. Whitbey or myself," Gene said, and crossed his arms. "You and every other girl we kept here generated sparks, in several cases a lot of different colored sparks." Kevin moaned "No…" and he continued. "The other girls went on to Windfall, where the government will integrate them into the colony there, as citizens, not as slaves."

"But, master, I do not understand."

"Have you heard of zarroji?"

Rhonda blinked, even more confused by the apparent turn in the conversation. "Yes, master. They are mythical beings of legend, said to be able to make things appear out of nothing but thin air, and…" She blinked again, making connections. Gene helped her out, "There are two zarroji in this room right now, and I'm not one of them." She blinked again, and Gene continued, "The school which my son, and possibly you, will attend, is formally called 'Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry'. You, Rhonda 375, are a witch, a female zarroj, as are all the girls we have in this building." Her eyes rolled up and she fainted.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Wednesday, February 5, 2003:
18:25 (GMT)
Terra, Pigeon Breast, Hank McCoy's home:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Hank accepted the platter of chicken from his wife, Gayle, and placed a couple slices on his plate as his daughter spooned some succotash. He traded with her, asking, "How was school today?"

"Same old, same old," she replied. "However, I used my study period in the library to look up stuff on the Belter economy."

"You've got your homework done, Abby? Brian?"

"I'll finish mine tonight, mom," he replied. "We wanted to take advantage of the Internet connection at school."

"Same," Abby put in. "I've got some diagrams and such, but we wanted to look up stuff on our ship, and how we can make money on it."

"It's not decided yet," Hank said. "We're going to have another clan meeting to decide, but I'm not sure how it would work with the shop. Anyway, go on, Abby."

She took a swallow of milk, then held up her glass. "Some of it goes back to history, the old 'Triangle Trade', only this isn't with slaves, it's with products, everything from ten kilometer long I-beams to drinking glasses. The belters export ore, or in a few cases, finished metals, to the orbital refineries. They're paid in either grams of tungsten or more commonly, Euros through Gringotts Bank. Everything's synchronized through GMT in London."

Hank had heard some of this, but not all, so he nodded, and his daughter continued. "Earth exports high-tech stuff like computers and skin suits, which we'll all need to have, and Orbit, which includes the Moon, Mars and its moons Deimos and Phobos, as well as the stations, export manufactured goods and food, so everyone trades around, a lot of it goes through the huge warehouse in Phobos."

"I looked up our ship, which would be a Stevedore class," Brian put in. "The crew would need to be certified by the Solar Guard, and I've divided it into crew, which would operate the ship, and staff, who would buy, sell, and trade stuff. I've got deck layouts and so forth, and some things I think would sell to the miners. I've got our preliminary plans saved under the ship name Mountaineer, with the password PigeonBreast."

"Printouts?" Gayle asked.

"With my school stuff, mom. Anyway, Ms. Evans said a couple things to you, and I've talked to Susan, Mrs. Evans' kid. She, and they, are just as excited as we are, so I think we've got at least one customer. Anyway, Susan said that her big sister Chantal was working on stuff for the Empire on Deimos, and that there was a lot of independent business going on in the Belt, and in Orbit, including the first commercial radio station. Some of that's independent bands, and she said some of them were really, really good, and some of them sucked, but there's all sorts of music, from heavy metal to country to blues."

He stopped to eat a bit, then continued, "Anyway, music isn't the only thing, there's all sorts of botany experiments going on, especially in the Belt. Lots of different plants, including some you smoke."

"Pot? No way am I carrying that!" his dad said. "The stuff just leads to harder drugs, and it's illegal and addictive!"

"Dad…" Brian put in, "It's profitable, the Guard looks on it like booze or tobacco. They don't say it's illegal unless you're flying while high, just like flying while drunk. If we're going to carry booze…" His mother glanced at him, and he changed the subject. "Anyway, some of the plants are teas, and Mars has some Arabica coffee, and there are plants that clean the air. Anyway, the way the … originators, I guess you'd call them, of the music and so forth get their money is by licensing."

"We looked at what services we could offer, and two come to mind, dad. One would be legal services, Aunt Bailey just got her law degree and she's renting a room. Another would be medical, a doctor, dentist and vet. A lot of the Belters grow the basics, but they also import stuff like coffee."

"My kid wants me to become a dope fiend," Hank grumbled. "What about the ship and crew?"

Abby answered, "Most ships are using three watches, four on, eight off. While we're flying around, we'd need a helm, comm, and engine watch, plus a C.O. for each watch. They would all need to be Guard-certified, so that's nine or ten people. Staff would be the merchants, so we'd have a legal officer in Aunt Bailey, the Cubans have medical people if nobody in the clan is available, plus our traders, figure three or four of those would help out the crew. We're looking at maybe twenty people."

"Don't forget the hitchhikers," Brian said. "There's people that need to get from point A to point B in the Belt, they can either go all the way in to Earth or Mars, or they hitch a ride, where they trade services or pay passage, or some combination of that." His sister put in, "I looked at message boards for the Belt, there's that, there's also times where the Guard needs to transport someone, so I think we could add in a couple of cells and half a dozen passenger cabins. We'd also need some people in the clan to act as security. Don't we have a couple of Army vets?"

"I think they're Marines, dear," her mom put in. "We'd also need someone really tightfisted with money to do the business side."

"But flexible, one that can strike a good bargain," Abby said. "A business manager."

"I want to see what you've got, but for now, dinner's getting cold, and you two need to finish your homework," her father said.

"Daaaaad!"

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Wednesday, February 5, 2003: 21:25 (GMT)
Terra, Hogwarts, Severus Snape's office:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Severus looked up as the fire flared green, and a small figure stepped out. He fetched the brush, stating, "You're late."

"Sorry about that. There was a last minute change of plans, we went to Zürich instead of Geneva, and discussions ran long," Miss Wayne said. "Connie got back all right?"

"She's in the dormitory, as is your twin," Severus replied as she doffed her black leather coat. She folded it, tossing it over a chair back and placing her briefcase on the seat. She rolled her shoulders. "I feel so stupid," she admitted. "I thought I knew something about finance, but meeting with central bankers arguing about tenths of a point differences in basis points…" she shook her head. "There's a considerable difference between corporate finance, personal investment, and public economics and monetary policy."

"True, but it is a specialist's field." He turned, picking up a copy of Potions Monthly, and handed it to her. "You will get something out of it, as you would other specialist publications like Transfiguration Today, but not as much as I or Albus would out of our respective periodicals. You need to understand what a basis point is, but not the subtleties of it. That is the job of your Finance Minister." She nodded and handed back the magazine, and he asked, "That being said, what is a basis point? I have never heard of it."

"It's one-one hundredth of a percentage point," she replied. "It's used to discuss interest rates of less than a percent, so ten basis points is a tenth of a percent." She paced, and he poured her a glass of ice water, which she nodded gratefully and drank deeply. She tapped the glass with her wand, and it refilled. "You're getting better," he observed.

"Thank you," she said. "Both for the water and the advice. I don't need to know the molecular or magical structure of … Erumpent fluid in order to use it in a potion."

"Precisely, although what you'd do with that…" he shook his head. "What is giving you the most difficulty?"

"Different forms of government revenue," she replied. "We've already got the flat tax, five percent, but there are also non-tax revenue, such as government corporations and sovereign funds, like sales of asteroids and seigniorage."

"Excuse me?"

"Seigniorage is the difference in value in production or over time." She went into her bag, then pulled out a ten pound note. "The government prints these notes, which is worth ten pounds, correct?" He nodded, and she said, "However, these are just printed notes, they cost about the same to print as a hundred pound note, but they are worth the ten pound face value because the government says they are."

"Fiat currency."

"Correct. The seigniorage in that case is the difference between the cost of printing, say ten pence, and the value it has in the market, ten pounds." She made an Imperial coin appear. "This is a two hundred gram coin, which has precisely two hundred grams of tungsten metal. However, we can buy tungsten in large quantities, which gives us a discount, so that two hundred gram coin would cost us one hundred eighty grams." She made a galleon appear. "This is supposedly worth about five pounds, but the price of gold fluctuates, which makes me wonder how the goblins are profiting by using hard money. You would do better by melting it down and buying pounds or Euros." She made an Imperial bill appear, "A ten kilo bill. You can turn this in to a branch of Lantern Bank and walk out with ten kilos of tungsten, it's a representative currency, the only real difference between us and the Galactics is they prefer computer chips. This is still legal tender on any planet in the thirty-one local galaxies with a Lantern Bank, though. That's one way a government makes money."

"Other ways would be…" he asked as she continued to pace.

"Government bonds, short term, which is under a year, and long term which is over ten years. I can approve of that, because we're paying an interest rate to borrow money for a fixed amount of time. What I can't get my mind around is some financial types who think long-term deficit spending is a good thing."

Severus took his seat, leaning back as she continued to pace. "Start with the bonds."

"Bonds are issued for a specific purpose, generally infrastructure, and are secured by that. In our case, it's like my taking out a loan to buy a car; the car secures the loan. The Empire would issue a bond for the construction costs to build a ship, and pay interest on it. A government loan is considered safer because the government has the power to tax to cover those payments, or to simply print more money. However that devalues the currency, and here we get into things like inflation, too much money in circulation." She took another long drink of water, "With bonds, we're spending the money, but we're also paying the loan back. With deficit spending, it's like overdrawing your bank account and promising that someone else will pay for it, in the case of current governments, our children and grandchildren." She finished the glass and tapped it to refill it as she continued to pace, "That's why politicians love it, they can spend money on the electorate to stay in power, and who doesn't love free money? While people know it has to be paid back, it's a case of 'I'll worry about it later.' However, when your entire tax revenue goes to paying for those things like NHS and other social programs and interest on the debt…"

Severus quietly asked, "It's that bad?"

"Getting there, another twenty or thirty years. That means that current discretionary spending for things like education, public works projects and national defense are being paid by our children's and grandchildren's taxes. However, politicians have painted us into a corner, and don't have the spine to propose what must be done to fix it. They'll 'study the problem', like it hasn't been studied before, and they don't want to propose the higher taxes, reductions in public benefits, and pushing back the retirement age…" She shook her head, "I can see some benefits to a planned economy, and that's why I like a representative currency."

He grunted, "You've given me a great deal to think on," he admitted. "For now, you've got two more days in Zürich, and they're long ones. Get to bed, I'll call Poppy and let her know you're back. She may pop in on you."

She drained the glass, nodded and collected her coat and bag. "Thanks for providing a friendly ear."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Thursday, February 6, 2003: 12:15 (GMT)
Terra, Hogwarts, Great Hall:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Ami Bones looked around and up at a tap on her shoulder, "Yes, Miss Morton?" she asked coldly.

Julie asked, "A word in private, if you don't mind?" Folding her napkin neatly, she laid her soup spoon on it, stood, and followed the Gryffindor third year to an out-of-the-way corner. Julie cast a privacy spell, then demanded "What's wrong with you and my brother?"

"That's between us. If you don't mind…"

"No, it's not. He's going slowly crazy trying to figure out what he said or didn't say to offend you. Spill."

"It's about your other brother, Arthur. He won't talk about it, won't tell me the truth."

"Because he gave his word that he wouldn't. He's keeping his word, and wouldn't you prefer that to someone that breaks his word that easily?" She regarded the slightly younger girl, "You have secrets, we all do. He respects yours, so why won't you return the courtesy?"

"It's not anything … communicable, is it?"

"With Arthur? No. Nor does Bill have anything that I know of, so you're safe there."

Ami glanced at Julie, then said, "You used present tense when referring to Arthur." She crossed her arms, "That means that he's alive, not dead." She regarded Julie, then added slowly, "Nobody in the family has actually confirmed his death, and Mattie… she may have melted down Manhattan, but nothing like she could have…"

"I'm not confirming or denying anything, I don't have permission either. It was Fifth Avenue, not the entirety of Manhattan, by the way."

"And the demons?"

"The Horsemen, and Jesu? They were there, and those poker games were intense. Never play Mattie for money, you'll lose your shirt."

Ami took a deep breath, "It looks like I've jumped to a conclusion. Thanks, and I'll apologize to Bill, even if he did get his big sister to intervene."

"He didn't," Julie replied. "We're done here?" Ami nodded, and Julie collapsed the privacy spell.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Friday, February 7, 2003: 03:45 (GMT)
Firsday, 24 Tertius, 163, 10:58 (WFT +2)
Windfall, Island, West Port:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

George pulled his heavily laden wagon to a stop, calling back to the lines of chained slaves, "Slaves, stop!" Still in the grip of their Enhancement, they stopped immediately, standing rigidly as he set the brake and grabbed his manifest. He climbed down to meet the blue-caped slaver sauntering toward him, who waved in a friendly manner, calling, "Good morning!"

"Good morning," he replied. "This is my first time here, where do I pick up slaves and drop some of these off? I need to get these slaves sorted out, I've got different groups." Turning slightly, he called, "Slaves, Inspection, and release!" The slaves immediately knelt, left leg up, bent at the waist. "When they left the Farm, they were loaded in collar order, and I've got these slaves in stasis tubes. Some go on to High Town, others to Riverside, and others I don't know."

"That seems to be standard practice, so why should you be any different?" the slaver snorted. He looked up at the three heavy wagons loaded with twenty stasis tubes each, and then at the trailing cart with additional cargo. "I'm a little surprised to see a Terran with slaves," he ventured.

"I was working at the Farm, and needed to come here to pick up a slave on the way to High Town," George explained, and gestured. "That's how I came to driving these here."

"Well, you're in the wrong place for all that," the slaver said. "If I can drive, we'll get them sorted." George gestured, then turned and called, "Slaves, stand, and restrict!" The wagon started moving, and he called, "On the left, march!"


"For a Terran, you seem like a reasonable fellow," the slaver said from the driver's seat, and George snorted. "For a Traditionalist, you seem like one. Mind explaining some things about your politics that don't make sense?"

"If you'll do the same," he said. "I don't understand your objection to slavery, even the slaves don't object. Why do you?"

"Up until three or four hundred years ago, we had slaves," George said slowly. "However, it wasn't sexually based."

The slaver grunted, then asked, "If you had slaves as recently as three hundred years ago, why did you stop?"

"A religious group, known as the Quakers, was behind that. They made the point that if you cut a slave and a free man, they both bled red, they were both similar, and it was immoral to sell an intelligent being." The wagon turned, and he continued, "You know there's usually a difference between law and reality. The shonnen are not intelligent, the slaves are, but they are both considered animals in law. You know that your sisters are intelligent, you can hold a conversation with them, but the Traditionalists consider them no more intelligent than one of those shonnen." He then asked, "Have you collared them?"

"And Enhanced them, but I own them."

"You collared and Enhanced your own sisters? They must have been happy about that."

The slaver made a tossing-off gesture. "Yes, although I didn't understand why. They were only females, they should have expected it as females. They are smaller, and thus have a smaller brain, and are thus less intelligent."

"Which is not true," George replied. "I'm a surgeon, a healer, and I can tell you from handling the actual brains, female brains are larger than male brains. Other claims based on biology are just as wrong. Now, as you're a local, and I'm a Terran, there are some slight differences between us." The slaver raised an eyebrow, and George said, "Differences in organs and placement, blood type, muscle mass, that kind of thing. Your original colonists from the homeworld were from a heavier-gravity planet than Windfall, so your muscles are a little more dense. However, over time, that's fading out because it's not reinforced by the environment."

The slaver grunted, and George continued, "You've sold slaves that were bio-sculpted?" The slaver nodded, George said, "I can take you, biosculpt you into a female, collar and sell you. Your DNA would still be male, you would just have the appearance of a ten-kilo slave girl. Does that make you any less intelligent?" He tapped the side of his head, "Inside, you'd still be male, your bones and so forth would be male, but you'd look like a female, but according to the Traditionalists, you'd now be an inferior, much less intelligent female. How is that logical?"

"But I would know differently."

"Yes, but remember, you now have the appearance of a slave girl. Nobody would care that a day ago, you were a free male. All they care about is making a profit off you."

The slaver grunted, "What about Enhancing the females?"

"Not necessary, and I can tell you that Terrans would not like that being done to their female relatives. For criminals, ones that have been convicted of a crime, that's one thing, but not a slave who happens to be wearing a judicial collar because her owner just wanted a bit of extra security. Since we can track the slaves by their collars to within a meter, that's sufficient security. However, your average slave, it's not really necessary. Why do it, why have the expense?"

"For the extra control and security."

"And any slave is going to obey if she doesn't want to get punished."

The slaver gestured "The red building." After a minute, he pulled to a stop, then called, "Slaves, stop! Inspection!"


George stretched and drove the slave wagons up the hill. This was a long, curving hill on the way to High Town, where he would deliver the slaves to a facility in the 'suburbs'. The shonnen snorted as they made their slow way up the hill.

The former Yuki Fukuda, now slave 90144, was happy to be reunited with her master George, even if she was neck-ringed in a slave wagon. At least she wasn't marching behind!

The slave 10181 swayed as the wagon she was neck-ringed in hit a bump. 'Haven't these people heard of a suspension?' her mental passenger Steven asked in their shared mind. 'You would prefer to be walking again?' she replied to him. 'Point,' he admitted. 'Definitely a point. Any idea what's going to happen to us?' She snorted mentally, 'When our owner decides what and when we need to know, we shall be informed. You are familiar with the concept of need-to-know.' He grumbled, 'We could at least be unhooded…'

The slave 73536, informally named 'Kris' by master George, swayed in her neck ring as the wagon hit a bump. She was happy to be out of the Farm, but would like to have her Enhancement turned off and be able to see the passing scenery…

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Friday, February 7, 2003: 12:15 (GMT)
Deimos, LSB Engineering:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

Tex walked into the small office suite LSB rented, and Egg looked up, "How was your test?"

"Like it was modeled," he replied. "I had an idea about mounting a gamma laser on a torpedo frame for a mine…" He poured a cup of coffee, and waved the pot in Egg's direction.

"Please," and he pushed his mug toward Tex, who asked, "Where's the Beav?"

"She's meeting with our attorney, we're getting more funding for the drive," he replied. "We need to figure out how to scale the thing, and the Beav thinks we should look into getting some office help."

"Probably wouldn't be a bad idea, I'm getting tired of dealing with paperwork." He took a gulp of coffee as he put down the communal coffee-stirring spoon. He ambled to his desk, and booted his computer, "Now, as for scaling the drive, I had an idea 'bout that. Let me bounce it off you…"

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Friday, February 7, 2003: 19:50 (GMT)
Terra, North Hertfordshire,
Royston, Bones flat:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"You couldn't complete your contract?" Amelia asked her eldest daughter. "You have to go running off to some … planet in the far depths of space?"

"I … I couldn't deal with it," Susan said from her side of the dinner table. She poked at her chicken, "I'm not suited to teach, and I talked to Minerva, so when this came up for P'wheel, I grabbed it." She took a deep breath, and covered her eyes, "I feel terrible."

"You should. How do you think you'll be able to manage a colony?"

"I'll be the assistant," Susan replied. "I can learn on the job…"

"The assistant usually deals with the day-to-day problems," Amelia said. "Would you like me to arrange a part-time job at the Ministry?"

"I've got something lined up at the Imperial building, although I'll need to get some muggle business wear. My first class there is Monday…"

Amelia sighed, "Well, we can go shopping tomorrow. Let me owl Minerva and see if we can get Ami to join us."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, February 10, 2003: 02:45 (GMT)
Thirday, 26 Tertius, 163, 10:58 (WFT +2)

Windfall, Island, High Town:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

George drove the wagons into the courtyard of the Ministry of Commerce facility, and a few guards came out to meet him. He smiled and waved, "Got some slaves to deliver here," he said, setting the brake.

"These are the ones from the Farm?" one asked, peering through the mesh into the slave cage. "They're not moving," he said.

"They're restricted, idiot," one of his friends said, looking up from the paperwork. He raised his voice, "Slaves, release!" and the slaves relaxed into their neck rings. "He's new," he explained to George, adding, "Straight off the farm, only had un-Enhanced slaves there." He took a few steps, commenting to the new fellow, "Now WorkForce designed some of their programming differently, you'll have to say the model first, like this: 'Model 128 slaves, release!'." Several of the other slaves relaxed, and the tailgate was released and swung up.


George did not like the next part of his orders, and definitely planned on demanding an explanation. However, that was for later, and for now… He grabbed Yuki, "Slave 90144! Your performance is completely unacceptable!" He dragged her to a support column in full view of both the slaves and the guards, pulling her up and hooking her wrist bracelets high, pulling her ankles wide with other chains. She whimpered through her thick black gag as she was held against the column, twisting to look at her master. He growled, "So you wanted to be a female, to be a slave girl? It's not only being pretty, you must also serve, and you've forgotten that. You'll remember your red collar now!" He turned to Kris, "Slave 73536, you are now First Girl, and this slave is Low Girl. Once she has been disciplined, cut her hair and brand her, she will be under your supervision. Keep her heavily chained and under strict discipline." Kris whimpered once through her own gag.

"Now wait," one of the guards said. "Why are you appointing her First Girl?"

"Because the orders let him do it, he's our new boss," the older guard said. "We've got a current First Girl, milord, you'll want to review her service."

"I will, but that doesn't change this low slave," George said, hating every word and action. "For now, let me use your slave whip, this slave needs to be disciplined," and held out his hand.


"Dr. Brenner? Come walk with me," the younger man said as he intercepted George, who was implacably steaming toward the Commerce Ministry. "I am Yuri, Security Minister, and the originator of your orders." He tugged at George's sleeve, "Come, I will buy you a cup of tea."

"Tea? Give me one reason why I shouldn't take your head off," George growled, looming over the much smaller man, fists clenched in rage.

"Because you wish to help your girls," Yuri replied calmly. George didn't move, and Yuri reached up to gently shove his shoulder. "Come, I will buy you tea and answer questions. This is Cam, she is the current Commerce Minister." The blonde nodded, "Greetings, master," she said to the large, angry man.


"So how is my beating my slave helping the girls?" George asked, hands wrapped around a thin ceramic mug of tea. He sat on a park bench, watching house slaves keeping an eye on their young children as they played.

"First, a little background," Yuri said, leaning back against the bench. "Governor Sullivan, with the best of intentions, appointed Cam as head of the Commerce Ministry. However, despite her best efforts, she has been ineffective, and has agreed to her removal and replacement with a Terran male."

"I have two strikes against me," Cam said from where she knelt in the grass. "I am female, and a collared slave. The slaves in the Ministry are still following orders from their previous owners, who are now Traditionalists, and threw up roadblocks at every turn."

"Wait just a minute," George said. "'Two strikes?' 'roadblocks?' You sound like a Terran yourself."

"I am, master, although it's not known in High Town. I'm Sgt. Camanetti from the US Marines. Please keep that quiet," she replied. "You, on the other hand, are a large Terran, and as I recall, you played for the Falcons before your knee blew out." He nodded. "I made some money off you in Fantasy Football, Doc. Small galaxy. Anyway, from the Traditionalist's viewpoint, you've shown an open mind and willingness to keep slaves in their proper place," she finger-quoted. "This is one reason your slave was to be beaten in public, or at least in front of Ministry employees and slaves. This will be reported by them to their controllers in the Traditionalist Party, who have gained through fear effective control of the slaves."

Yuri took a swallow of tea, "Effective control, not willing cooperation. In addition, they have no conception of modern microelectronics, but that is my concern, not yours."

Cam said, "When you did this, it reinforced your reputation with the Traditionalists. The girls you brought in will be put into place in the Commerce and Finance Ministries to replace the girls we had shipped back to the Farm. Coming from Traditonalist-controlled facilities they will be less likely to be suspect."

"That is my concern, Dr. Brenner. All you need do is implement my suggestions," Yuri said.

"While I," Cam said, "Or rather, this slave, will be stolen and hung from the public gallows …"

"What?" George almost shouted.

"Calm down, Doc, I have an armored neck, it won't hurt me," Cam replied, shushing George. "You'll get the credit with the Traditionalists for taking out an arrogant slave, meaning me, and I'll be rescued and shipped out in a plain coffin."

"She'll be officially dead," Yuri said. "We'll then ship her up to one of the departing ships, where she's going to another world, Metis. You, on the other hand, will blame the Traditionalists, and I, as Security Minister, will not find enough evidence to charge anyone."

"This eliminates the uppity slave, and cements your position as Commerce Minister, which also gives you control of the SCA," Cam concluded.

"By the way, the good Doctor Tannenbaum was arrested and is currently occupying one of my cells," Yuri added. "As a free female, it is a rather luxurious cell, with a sleeping pad and chamber pot, but she is still chained by the neck a meter from the door."

"Much better than a slave cell," Cam commented.

"Cloak and dagger, spy stuff."

"Indeed, I am not only Russian, but former KGB." He took another swallow of tea, "Your immediate actions are almost complete, Dr. Brenner. You may need to take certain actions later that I will specify. We must limit need-to-know, of course."

"Of course. How does this help my girls?"

"You will be a powerful man, in charge of the Ministry of Commerce and the subsidiary agencies," Yuri replied, adding, "Including the Slave Control Agency. The fish-slaves can be installed in a suitable island in the DHL archipelago."

George grunted, "I don't have to do anything unusual? And what about the girls I brought in?"

"Those slaves … let us just say that not all is as it appears, and it is necessary for them to be run through a Traditionalist-controlled facility."

George leaned forward, saying softly, "They're Enhanced slaves … as spies?"

"Need to know, Dr. Brenner. You will simply assign them according to the requests forwarded to you, or rather, your assistants will. They are slaves, after all, and Dr. Tannenbaum is a talented physician. An offer will be made to her, one that she will find difficult to decline. I mention her only to clarify that she will not be a threat to you."

"And to illustrate the potential threat to me," George said. "I can read between the lines."

"Dr. Brenner, if you have a difficulty with one of my suggestions, you need only pick up the telephone and request a meeting."

"And my position, and Yuki's?"

"Yuki? Your slave? By what she will consider harsh discipline from you, her love, combined with your inattention, she will become confused, and seek advice from other slaves, which will come to the attention of the Traditionalists. She is what we call a 'dangle', which is bait on our hook. This will allow us to spread disinformation and penetrate the Traditionalist slave spy networks. You will also receive feelers, you will be noncommittal, and simply mention them to my wife, who will remain as your assistant."

"Your wife?"

"My daughter also works in the Commerce Ministry as a go-fer," Yuri replied. "However, she is a gossip, which has its own uses as disinformation. They are also Russian, Dr. Brenner." He looked at his wrist comp, "Was there anything else we needed to discuss?"

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Monday, February 10, 2003: 09:11 (GMT +1)
Terra, Warsaw, Sejm (National Assembly) building
:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

("Thank you,") Mattie said to the politician in Russian, and nodded to the aide who had appeared at her elbow. ("If you'll excuse me, I need to get ready for my speech.")

("Of course, of course,") he said, and nodded politely to her.


Stepping up behind the podium, Mattie heard the soft whine of the teleprompters as they rose into place. However, she couldn't see over the podium, and so took her file folder, grabbed a mike, and stepped away from the podium. ("I'm sorry, but when you're as short as I am, it's hard to see sometimes,") she said from the side, and there was some laughter. Dropping the file folder on the table, she added, ("I'm going to speak from the heart, which is dangerous, I know, in a public speaker,") and there was more laughter.

("I'd like to thank the President of Poland for inviting me, and to the Sejm of Poland for letting me speak.") She sipped from a water glass, then continued. ("I'd like to address something that a lot of people are concerned with: jobs. I will say that the Empire is facing a manpower crunch at the moment, so let me go into that.") She took a few steps, ("As you may know, the Empire currently has roughly sixty to seventy associated worlds, but that's fairly average for an interstellar political association. I've broken them down into several categories. Let me describe them briefly.")

She sipped from her water glass. ("The first one is what I call Protectorates. These are inhabited worlds whose dominant cultures are what I would classify as high as feudal. These are city-states whose local governments are roughly two to five hundred square kilometers, with a technology of wrought iron or bronze; wooden sailing ships and carts with animal power, and who worship assorted gods, like the ancient Greeks. We generally keep a discreet monitor through small robots, like false birds, or have established an observation post as the local shaman, witch doctor, or an itinerant peddler. In orbit, we have a small supply station, with an on-planet base over-the-horizon from the main settlements. We currently have ten of those, where we are enforcing a non-interference directive.") She took a sip of water, ("Where do jobs come in with relation to the Protectorates? First, with building and supplying the orbital stations and as those monitors. Jobs on-planet would be as those peddlers, and as supply, small local outposts, so any actors would be welcome, but you'd be living as the locals do.")

("The next category is what I would classify as Medieval. These planets have a tech base around the 1500's. They may be a colony that has back-slid, or one that's native to that world. However, they know there's something on the other side of the sky, because they have telescopes and can see planets and moons. We have trading ports there, and knowledge is considered a trade item. Who can we use there? Once again, we live as they do, we're honest with them, eating their foods and using their transport. We use their labor and materials to build our castles, their basic tech is gunpowder and carbon steel plows with animal or water power. Who can we use? People who are used to working with their hands, blacksmiths, potters, chemists, but also those people who will support our orbital stations and our on-planet facilities. We can also use traders to conduct business and people to work with the local powers-that-be. We can generally get the local king to see things our way, business, and thus tax revenue, generally increases with our presence.") She took another sip of water, ("We also introduce things like regular hygiene, soaps and bathing, and keeping the animals healthy so they'll produce healthier foods, and chemical refrigeration to produce ice for sale. There are twenty five of these worlds, and thirty five I've mentioned so far.")

She refilled her water glass, ("Our own colony worlds are among the Modern worlds. There's a total of thirty of these, and they're pretty much where we are, mid twentieth to twenty-first century tech, with chemical fuels, electric distribution, communications. These also are planets which may be already part of another political entity. In that case we have set up commercial, diplomatic and trade relations with them. For these worlds, we may have orbital stations, but we have trade relations with them, which require personnel for the trade ships, stations, and any warships we have posted there. We're up to sixty five planets so far, each one just like Earth (she rapped the tabletop), with cultural, political and economic intricacies we have to learn.")

("That brings us to the last group of worlds, the Advanced worlds. We're associated with three of these, and negotiating with two others, where we have some form of embassy, trade office, or other facility. Their tech is somewhat higher than ours is, things like med-tanks are routinely available, and there's a lot of orbital industry, so we come to sixty eight to seventy worlds.")

She walked about a bit, ("This is where the manpower crunch comes in. In our galaxy, just one of the thirty-one galaxies in the local group, the Oans have divided it into 3600 sectors, which means the average three hundred billion stellar objects in our own galaxy come out to eighty three million per sector. We've gone several sectors to each side of our own, and are reconciling the Oan stellar databases with our own. In a large percentage of those entries, the data is either non-existent, simply listing stellar coordinates or severely out of date.") She took another contemplative sip of water, ("What that means is we, the Empire, and in particularly Imperial Research and Survey, need to visit and categorize those objects, because that's where wealth and our survival come in. In our sector alone, we know of almost ninety-one hundred planets, and over eight hundred inhabited ones, with various levels of social and technical advancement.") She paused a minute, then said, ("Eight hundred planets, people. Each of them having their own distinct culture, morals, and society, each of them with their own particular social setup, each of them a potential trade partner. Think about how Poland trades just with its seven neighbors, not to mention the rest of Europe and the world. How knowledge of social etiquette can make or break a business deal.") She waited a minute, ("That's business. We also need to know about the planet's military, economic and political climate, so Imperial Intelligence needs to have feet on the ground to tell us that. More people, plus the 'legals' in our official Trade offices, and those are just in one sector.")

She took another swallow of water. ("We're not only spies. We're also shippers, traders, whose products have to compete and win market share. We're Terran based manufacturers, boat-builders, shipwrights, iron workers, all of which grow the Empire's share of interstellar business, which increases both jobs and tax revenue. Your average worker doesn't have to go off-planet unless he or she wants to, but with business growth, we can re-open closed manufacturing plants in our cities, giving good jobs to those workers, allowing them to put not only bread on the supper table, but to educate their children, remodel or buy homes …") Mattie took a few steps, refilling the water glass from the pitcher again.

("Later this week,") she concluded, ("I'm going to be visiting our facilities at Babice airfield here in Warsaw, and to the weekend job fair. I'm looking forward to that, because it means jobs building everything from survey probes to work pods to shuttle craft. We've got seventy planets in our Empire, which means opportunities in the Imperial Army, Navy and Marines, but also jobs supplying all those positions. That's a lot of work, a lot of money available, and a huge market just in this one sector.") She looked around the Sejm, with the members of the upper house, the Senat, occupying seats in the back. Nodding, she said, ("Thank you for your time,") and collected her notes, walking off to applause.


("No, I'm a businesswoman,") Mattie corrected the Posel (member) of the Sejm. ("Centrally planned economies, as you know, don't work. However, I'm not opposed to having the government own stock in a company, especially if it's in a strategic industry. For that reason, I'm also in favor of a equal share represented by labor.") She took a drink, the politician's gaze being drawn to her gloved hand and the missing left finger. He wrenched his gaze back, and she smiled, ("I support my people. I lost that finger in a sword fight during an attempted coup, defending my Baroness and her government.")

("I'm sure there's a good story behind that,") he prompted.

("There is,") she agreed. He waited a minute, then cleared his throat when she didn't continue. ("You mentioned in your speech … ")

("Brief as it was,") she commented. ("My speech writer is going to kill me,") and she grinned. ("I mentioned …") she prompted.

("You said opening closed factories,") another member put in. ("How so?")

("You have a factory that's already zoned for industrial use,") she started. ("It makes sense to me to simply update that factory, hopefully with assorted government tax breaks. Let's take the example of a survey ship entering an unknown system. All they know is the galactic coordinates and course the central star is taking in its own orbit around the galaxy center. They don't even know the stellar type, much less any planets or civilizations.") The politicians nodded, one asking, ("No information at all?")

("We're using our own astronomers to merge our information with the Oan databases. So far, twenty to thirty percent of the Oan data is fundamentally empty, or on the order of thousands to millions of years old. We …(she waved her finger in a circle) were hunting with wooden spears fifty thousand years ago. The sun will expand into a red giant in about five million years.") The others nodded and grunted in agreement as she continued, ("We've built the ship, trained and crewed her, and armed her, because there are a lot of xenophobes and isolationists out there. We're using battlecruiser hulls, so we can defend ourselves, or run away if we need to.") They nodded again, ("When our ship arrives at the coordinates, the first thing we do is determine the type of star it is, and we scout for planets and civilizations. If that system is fortunate enough to have a habitable world, we'll need to look for claim buoys that state ownership.")

("If there are claim buoys?") someone asked.

("That would be the Captain's judgment call. If they're fairly recent, or we detect signs of occupation, we'll withdraw, or possibly negotiate with them for a trade station. If it looks like an abandoned or dead colony…") she shrugged. ("At least we'll know that much. Captain's call to continue the survey or withdraw. However, we'll say that it's a world with liquid water, roughly similar to our own. Water worlds that can be colonized are extremely valuable. Of those ninety-one hundred worlds in our sector, eight hundred, or about eight-point-seven percent are habitable.") She took a sip of water, ("Our survey ship will orbit the planet, looking for information about it. Flora, fauna, see if there's unusual radiation, bugs in the air, soil or water, that kind of thing. So far, Imperial Survey has several types of specialists, and this information is just from orbit, or using aerial drones. We're maybe a week into the system survey, and we've got several hundred survey drones and comm buoys, each maybe ten or twelve cubic meters. Those are placed, serviced and retrieved by small craft, which also have to be built.") The listening politicians nodded as she continued, ("Our refurbished factory is going to need subcontractors and sub-assemblies, even if they specialize in just one type of drone. Think of an auto plant - does Fiat or Ford only build one type of car? No, but there's no reason why our local plant can't build them, or even sub-assemblies.")

("That's a lot of drones,") one politician said.

("Which is why we recover and refurbish them, which also means spare parts, test equipment, training the techs … please go on,") another put in.

("Thank you. The Captain finally decides it's time to put boots on the ground, so they choose landing sites and do so. More testing, as well as remote, unmanned monitoring stations. More manufacturing. We'll continue and say there's a bug they find that blocks immediate colonization. That means the medical people need to develop an antigen for that, so the Captain withdraws those boots, leaving the monitoring stations and dropping a buoy to claim the system. We recover equipment, and after a month or so, the survey ship moves on to another system on their list, or goes back to the local fleet headquarters to report and resupply.")

("Hmm. You mentioned a 'local fleet headquarters',) she put in.

("That's right. We're looking at a local, nodal Fleet presence, and it makes sense to keep things like supply and Intelligence there too. The Imperial Army isn't looking for a lot of combat troops, like the hordes of infantry in the World Wars, but there would be some battalions and regiments available. No, the Army would primarily handle things like basing, supply, training, maintenance, primarily to avoid un-necessary duplication. Our survey Captain reports leaving monitoring stations and a comm station in the system he just left, along with other parts and supplies he needs. If necessary, he enters an orbital repair dock while those replacement supplies are loaded, and the crew enjoys some liberty. By basing that in one of our existing colony systems, it reinforces that colony's security, as well as increasing its trade. If it's a binary system, we might use the secondary star as an exercise area for fleet training.")

("And the local base reports back to Earth,") another commented as he sipped his vodka. ("When that planet is declared open for colonization?")

("Notice is given, both here and on other worlds of the Empire. One thing we're looking at is Colony Credits, where someone who is leaving Imperial service, like a military retiree, can get free credits toward a ship or colony equipment. Otherwise it would be in the form of a mortgage or loan. We'll have to develop certain standardized types of equipment for different environments,") she said. ("Arctic versus savanna versus forest, and to use draft animals versus a simple-to-use and maintain farm tractor.")

("Who would go?") a woman asked.

("Look in the telephone book,") Mattie replied. ("We'll need all kinds of craftsmen, which means education in everything from law to curing hides for leather and fur. Milking cows, plowing the fields, raising chickens and pigs. I know there are a lot of family farms in Poland, but a city girl like me … well, I don't know how to milk a cow.") There were chuckles at that, with one commenting, ("We'll need to increase the technical colleges.")

("Which adds to the trained labor market,") another agreed. ("What about defense of the new colony?")

("There would be naval units in place, but also fixed defenses,") she replied. ("Like we have here, minefields and missile batteries, as well as a Home Guard which serves as local militia and for disaster response. Each colony is founded as a business, the Crown Colony of whatever, with accounts with Gringotts, who is a licensee of the Oans' Lantern Bank so things can be bought and traded through our on-planet port of Hamburg and the Martian port of Phobos. Each colony would have both internal trade and an external balance of trade, so they're not only shipping fresh vegetables to the Fleet units in system, but merchandise to other planets.") She took a sip of her own water as someone else came up, ("Tsaritsa Wayne, I had a question … ") they asked in Russian.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Tuesday, February 11, 2003: 10:03 (GMT)
Terra, Hogwarts, 2nd year mathematics:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Good morning, everyone, please take your seat," Mattie-alpha called, flipping open the roll and seeing notes in Arthur's hand. She took a deep breath, then said, "Miss Canby and Miss Whitloe, you know you're not supposed to sit next to each other." She waggled her left hand, "Go on, where you're supposed to be." She made a bo staff appear, walking it up and down her arm with the muscles, then it vanished again. "If I have to repeat that next week, you two, you will find out that I'm not as easy-going as Arthur. We're here to learn, by contract, and yes, that applies to you. By paying Hogwarts tuition, room and board, you, or rather your parents, entered into a contract. So, where are we? Mr. Morton?"

Bill replied, "We've just started on three-dimensional geometry with Ami's … I mean Ms. Bones, but I don't think she was too comfortable with it." He looked over at Ami, and mouthed 'Sorry.'

"Okay, and plane geometry? How far did Arthur get before … the Christmas holidays?"

Miss Canby replied, "We got through chapter five."

"Thank you," she replied, checking the textbook. "Okay, so we've done the various numeric formulas, the A squared plus B squared, the square and cube roots, and if I gave a pop quiz on that, everyone would pass that, right?" She smoothed her skirt and sat on the edge of a table as people grumbled and mumbled. "Everyone's really confident, I see. People, we're facing new, uncharted territory here, but we have to be able to figure things out. We're getting back to basics on a lot of our colony planets, we're going to have to figure things like crop yields per hectare and volumes, flow rates, that kind of thing. Even if you don't go off-planet, you're going to need to figure things out." She summoned the textbook, flipping through it. "End of the section, page 83. Even numbers, show your work, and no calculators or charms. I'll collect the answers at 11:30." There was the expected groan, and she grinned. "Hey, every groan is five minutes. It's now due at 11:25, and I've got to grade them!"


Mattie-alpha looked up as the timing charm went off. "Okay, people! Pass them up, please." Ami leaned forward, and Mattie took them. "Thank you, people. Now, until next week, you might want to review this, and then we're going to get into that three-dimensional geometry, and prep for the end-of-year finals. I'll give you decent warning here, my extra-credit question is seven-dimensional trig, used for navigation in space. That's worth thirty percent of my final exam. Questions? Miss Whitloe?"

"What use is all this?"

"It's a foundation," Mattie-alpha replied. "Just about anything you do is going to require geometry and math. Let's say you're going to out-migrate, and you need to measure the size of a field. You know that your horses require X amount of pasture, and your cows require Y. If you measure the size of the field, you'll know how many you can graze on it. If your cows give so many liters of milk per day, you'll be able to calculate the size of the holding tanks."

"And if I don't? If I stay here?"

"It depends on your job, but it will almost certainly require some form of math. Even if you're digging ditches, you'll need to be able to calculate slope, or gradient, because liquids flow downhill. Another question?"

"What's that book you've been studying," Ami Bones asked. Mattie leaned over and lifted it up, showing the cover: Modern Government Tax Policy. "You guys aren't the only ones getting into deep water, I'm working on strategic planning for the Empire. Want to trade headaches?" Ami motioned, and Mattie handed it over. "Chapter five, the Value Added Tax," she read. "This is a form of consumption tax levied on each stage of production …" She winced and handed it back, "I'm bloody sorry I asked."

"Talk to your Auntie," Mattie replied. "I really miss the days when all I had to worry about was catching the snitch. I'm not even allowed on a broom these days, much less riding Hagrid's motorcycle." She glanced at the clock, pointed at the door, which unlocked. "Since I haven't had to take any points today, why don't you lot sneak out while my back is turned, and head to the Great Hall for an early lunch?" She ostentatiously looked at her watch, then proceeded to clean the (already clean) chalkboard with her back to the class. There was an extended rustle, and when she turned around, the classroom was empty. She grinned to herself, packed up and left, locking the door behind her.


"So, you two are back together?" Mattie asked Ami and Bill, who were waiting for her in the corridor.

"I've forgiven him," Ami said with a lofty air, then giggled. Bill just grinned, and Mattie grinned back. "So, she or he is the one?" she asked. "Alfred, in the McCoy, will be coming back before Easter. Should I arrange for you both to meet him at Port Oldridge?"

"Port Oldridge?" Ami asked.

"Quick trip to the Moon, see the sights …" Bill said. Ami looked between the two of them, "I'll ask Auntie Amelia."

"Good," Bill said, then pulled her after him to the Hufflepuff table. Mattie grinned to herself, then found a place at the Slytherin table.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Wednesday, February 12, 2003: 18:37 (relative)
In transit, Republican Naval Ship
Seren the Wise:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

The Princess strolled onto her flag deck, sitting in the command chair, and crossing her legs as her personal slaves caught the thick blanket of her hair and carefully arranged it over the back. Tightly gagged and belted, they then knelt in the Inspection position on either side of her command chair as she studied the reports on her screen. She was a small girl, slightly over 152 centimeters, with long, thick black hair arranged in a complex floor length style. That hairstyle signified her exalted rank and ruling status as the Heir of the interstellar Republic, as did her clothing and body armor.

The Princess sat back, reading her reports and ignoring the shivers of the slaves chained in place on her flag bridge. Her ship was kept at a cool 5 degrees, which was a comfortable temperature for her, compensating for the insulation of what she wore. She wasn't taking chances - she had eliminated two of her brothers and an older sister to gain the status of Heir to the Republic, and blaming their deaths on her political enemies, which had not only been profitable, it placed her one heartbeat (her father's) away from ruling the Republic, a totalitarian, absolute monarchy in all but name.

She smiled to herself, remembering after her elder sister's murder, she had taken her supporters' property and divided it between herself and her two brothers. She had then promised her covert support to both of them, and in a neat little double-cross, had both of them eliminated. Her father had been outraged, but his (public) grief had been sated by the arrest, torture and execution of the supposed perpetrators, a minor political group wanting civil liberties restored from the original Republic. Dividing up the spoils from her brothers with her father had not only been immensely profitable, but had also cemented her position as her father's right hand and sole Heir.

This mission was an important one, and so had received her father's support with troops and ships. The original slaver, one of her more reliable political supporters, had arrived with sensor data and details on a Class 14 system with four habitable worlds, a primary world just expanding into local space. She had wondered why the system hadn't been taken before, a bit of research on her part had revealed the reason, or rather reasons: It was where the last known Kryptonian lived, along with several of the Source-damned interfering Lanterns. The local contact, a minor government official, was selling off their political opponent's females, and using torture of the males to produce Grey Ecstasy, which was always profitable.

Well, she had prepared for the intervention of the Kryptonian, and of the interfering Lanterns. Yellow was such a happy color, the color of the profit the sale of these slaves would bring her, and the political power she would gain when she sold parts of the system to the industrialists that backed her. True, she wouldn't be able to sell all of the system's estimated seven billion inhabitants, but the males could be used in the production of Grey Ecstasy and other addictive (and profitable!) drugs, the elders could be easily disposed of, and the younger females … she estimated half of the marketable, ten-to-fifteen population were females, the males could be evaluated for breeding stock and then either killed or used as labor.

Smiling happily, she thought of the billion or so slave females she would bring into the market. She wouldn't dump them all in at once, that would depress the market prices, but perhaps a hundred thousand for the first lot. She would have to be certain to Enhance them before their first sale, of course…

She turned as the door unlocked, her ship's Captain entered, kneeling out of arm's reach in her presence. "Mistress, I ask permission to submit the daily status report."

Still in a good mood, she smiled, and he swallowed nervously. "Mistress, we are an estimated two days from the target system, and the fleet status is …"

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Saturday, February 15, 2003: 07:31 (GMT +1)
Terra, Warsaw, Palace of Science and Culture
:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"I don't like those crowds," Crystal fretted as she watched a monitor.

"They've come to see me, my adoring public," Mattie said from where she sat on a folding chair, a bottle of water in her hand.

"You do know I can't let you get away with that," Connie said. "We're supposed to keep your ego properly deflated."

"You keep big-head here, I will fetch in security man," Maria Putina said in English. "If necessary, we lock in steel box!" She left, her security passes bouncing on her chest.

"More likely they've come to job-hunt," Connie put in, "You're just another useless politician."

"But I'm cuter than most," Mattie objected with puppy-dog eyes.

"Hip boots. Where are my hip boots when I really need them?" Connie replied. There was a knock on the door, Maria entered with the security chief, and Crystal started to discuss her concerns with him.

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Saturday, February 15, 2003: 08:37 (relative)
Terran system entry,
Seren the Wise, flag deck:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Entering the Terran system, mistress," one of the Princess' slaves reported. "Receiving a comm buoy transmission."

"Destroy it, we don't care about what these primitive barbarians want," the Princess replied. The order was relayed, and the fleet advanced.

"Mistress, reports of a minefield," another slave relayed. She added, "Antimatter, mistress."

"What? There was no report of that! How do these barbarians produce antimatter?" She touched her comm, snapping, "What are these reports of antimatter mines? Find that useless slaver and discover what else he's forgotten to mention!" She savagely snapped the switch closed. "Continue the advance."

***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
Saturday, February 15, 2003: 09:41 (GMT +1)
Terra, Warsaw, Palace of Science and Culture
:
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***

"Environmental science? Well, we do like to keep things as green as we can on our colony worlds," Mattie said, signing an autograph. "We're trying to learn from our mistakes … excuse me," she told another autograph hound. She accepted the comm relay, which looked like an older grey flip phone, "Wayne." She stopped dead, absently handing the autograph back. "How many? What composition?" She nodded, then said, "Stand-to, alert the commands, System defense condition five. Alert NATO, the different military commands, the Justice League … oh, crap. Okay. Man our ships, even the ones building. What's the rate of advance? Okay. Okay. National governments too. No, I'm staying here in Warsaw, this is a big, heavy Soviet building, we should be safe enough." She looked over at Crystal and the Security chief, who were both on their radios. "Right, the last thing we want is that. I'm already getting worried looks from the people here. Later." She turned away, motioning Connie and Maria into a huddle. "We're being invaded," she said quietly in English. "Possibly fifty ships, they've already blown away one of our perimeter ships and system buoys, and encountered the minefields. We're safest here, I think, but Superman and our Lanterns are out of the system, so it's just us." They looked up as air raid sirens began to sound.