Chapter 26 – Birthday Party
Samantha was proud of them all – the Navy and Fleet Auxiliary sailors, the Marine recruits, the cadets, even the concubines who had pitched in and helped save their home. The Sa'arm bodies, at least what was left of them, were being gathered and after dissection, incinerated. The shattered remains of the Venti-class ship itself was covered under an inflatable Quonset-hut-style structure for further analysis, being the closest that anyone in the Confederacy had come to actually inspecting such a craft.
It was now well after midnight by the Earth hours that the colony kept. The exhausted defenders were gathering their kit and returning to either Camp Shackleton or Base Scott, and Samantha's tiny armoured force of six massive Rommels were rumbling their way back to the tank barn from whence they came. Because Thule's rotation was less than Earth's 24 hours, the sunlight from Thule's single star, yellow like the Sun of the solar system but smaller and weaker as Thule's orbit was farther out than Mars, was beginning to cast its sunny cheerfulness on the blasted landscape where so many Sa'arm had perished.
Wearily she assisted her tank crews in putting the behemoths to bed and resupplying them with the large crystals that powered the massive main guns. They gave their noble steeds a wash-down and double-checked that the interlocks that prevented the machines from unguided movement were engaged.
At Camp Shackleton, the base AI carefully backed the faux Ahrens-Fox into its bay in the base fire station. As the replica 1928 pumper had ceased to be a weapons system and was now once again a vital part of Camp Shackleton's fire suppression system, the AI could resume operating it with a clear conscience. Greg, the visor of his ill-fitting armoured suit pushed back, happily let the AI drive as he waved at the surprised concubines heading back to their family pods. He had no clue how to extricate himself from the suit, and had to wait for the pair of cadets with him to shrug theirs off.
On Hesperus II, the Marines were reacting to the desperate message that Samantha had sent, back when the Venti was first encountered at the edge of Thuleat. They'd accounted for the last of the Sa'arm survivors, none having had the time to cut a tunnel into the hill that was the Sa'arm landing zone. Now they were frantically pulling up stakes, loading their de Gaulles and other armour, artillery pieces and supplies back into the pods from whence they came. Unlike regular pods, these came with both enough fuel and enough engine power to make their way at a somewhat leisurely pace back into orbit – a long period of time that did nothing for the comfort of the worried crews aboard.
Twenty-four hours later, the Marines were back aboard ship and the fleet was ready to return to Thule at flank speed.
To celebrate their win of 24 hours previous, Samantha had ordered her charges to engage in a proper hockey tournament. Right now she was on the ice, comfortable in her old familiar role as right winger. She had the puck; she also had three opposition players on her, which her team's weak-side winger didn't. She slapped the puck into the right-wing corner and kept skating for the blue line. The puck followed the curve of the rink end around to start back toward her own end on the left winger's side – and straight onto the waiting stick blade of the left-winger, Jamal. He then turned several powerful strokes of his skates into a rush at the goalie. The close-in slap-shot ricocheted off the goalie's stick and the little rubber disk ended up heading for Samantha's side of the rink. The horn blew, ending the second period.
As her team headed for a quick 5-minute intermission to catch their collective breath, she spotted a familiar, grinning face standing at the gate, opening it to let her in to the Home side bench. "Daddy! Hey, everyone, they're back!"
That ended the game right then. Both players and crowd headed to welcome the conquering heroes.
It was now midnight in Camp Shackleton. A mixed mob of marines, sailors (both Navy and Auxiliary Fleet), cadets and concubines happily escorted an only slightly embarrassed naked girl from the welcome-home party at the Junior Ranks Club to the Medical Inspection Room. The senior corpsman himself, Sergeant Benson, was standing in the doorway of the M.I.R. pod, waiting to give the aforementioned naked girl her CAP test. For today was Samantha Redburn's fourteenth birthday, as the chorus of "Happy Birthday to You!" announced to all and sundry. The lead singer for the mob was none other than the chanteuse Shelly Saturn herself, vamping it up like Marilyn Monroe did when singing the same song to President Kennedy.
As she, her parents, her aunt, Vickie and Lieutenant Carruthers entered the M.I.R., Sergeant Benson asked the youngster, "So, ready?"
Samantha swiped her finger along her vaginal slit and showed him the moisture thus collected. "Yep!" she reported, a lascivious grin plastered on her face.
"I actually was referring to the CAP test," Benson laughed.
"Oh, I'm ready for that too. At least," she added with a touch of nervousness, "I hope so."
"Well, hop in the tube and let's get you tested. Then you can do something about that," he advised, pointing to her crotch.
Immediately after putting her head down on the table, Samantha was fast asleep. The medical tube was assisted in putting her to sleep by the enormous level of energy she'd burned off recently, including the two-thirds of a hockey game she'd participated in that afternoon.
Samantha woke up with only vague memories of the test – but with her body covered in sweat, like she'd been running a triathlon. She was thirsty, and the sleep of the test hadn't refreshed her – it was like sleep training in that respect.
Her mother was holding on to her hand as her ability to focus slowly returned. "Well?" Monica demanded.
"That... was... rough...." She found she was panting from shortness of breath, too. Wearily she sat up.
"Should we postpone your birthday party?" Monica wanted to know. She seemed somewhat hopeful at the prospect of delaying witnessing her daughter's deflowering.
Samantha glared at Monica. "Don't you bloody well dare."
There was a ping and Sergeant Benson retrieved the CAP card from the dispensing slot beside the medtube. He looked at it first, as was his right and duty.
"Well?" Samantha asked, scared suddenly at what the card read.
With a perfect poker face, Sergeant Benson handed the card over to the girl, careful to hide its face from the assemblage, who now included both Colonel Deschenes and Admiral Van De Graaf. Few fourteen-year-olds included such august personages as this pair at their first CAP tests – for that matter, few fourteen-year-olds took their first CAP tests in the nude.
A grin split Samantha's face. "Six!"
"Six point what?" asked Bob of his daughter, concern in his voice.
"Concubines! I get six concubines! Look!" She delightedly showed the card to her father.
It was an official Confederacy ID card, not a simple CAP card. Samantha Redburn, it read, Sub-Decurion, Civil Service. CAP Score Eight Point Two.
The room erupted into cheers and clapping and relieved laughter. As everyone congratulated the naked woman, now the newest citizen of the Confederacy, she realized that she had one important duty to perform. No time like the present.
"Vickie, I want you as my concubine. The kids come with you, of course. How about it?"
"I accept," Vickie said, just as excited as Samantha.
The AI spoke up. "Acknowledged. Victoria Arbuthnot is now the registered concubine of Sub-Decurion Samantha Redburn."
Vickie hadn't actually taken a very close look at Samantha's card, and Samantha hadn't registered much beyond her score. "'Sub-Decurion'? Sam, you're a sub-decurion now? You've been promoted?"
"I have?" She looked at her card again. "Hey, I have! And two whole levels, too! Beauty!"
The all-night party at the Beauty Saloon had developed a good head of steam when the guest of honour showed up, accompanied by those who had supported her at the M.I.R. while she was getting scored. She was still dressed in her finest birthday suit, only now her newly official concubine Vickie Redburn was as well. Vickie's children were back in the pod sound asleep, being baby-sat by Diana Deschenes. Diana was disappointed to miss the party, but at least was able to talk to Daniel Bachelor, stuck with similar duty in his own family pod involving his younger sister.
There was a band playing – five very talented concubines of both genders who went by the name Rings of Saturn, with Shelly Saturn herself as lead vocalist. When the newly-promoted Samantha arrived, Shelly was practically eating the microphone as she breathed the very erotic and yet tender and romantic Swarm-era love ballad, 'Seeing Stars'. Noticing the guest of honour, the Rings broke into the Binary Stars' song, 'Sister/Sponsor', a song about how a woman was chosen by her sister to be the sister's concubine. It was a light pop tune, with lots of sexual innuendo – or to be more precise, lots of sexually explicit lyrics. Popular in the Diaspora, neither tune got much in the way of Earth air play – too explicit for tender Earth ears, according to excessively nervous commercial broadcasters desperately attempting to toe the ill-defined line between acceptable and non-acceptable levels of lewdness, a concern not widely shared within Diaspora space.
Lieutenant Carruthers was standing at the edge of the crowd, arms around both of his heavily pregnant concubines, attention riveted on the low stage in front of the dance floor. Samantha appeared at his elbow and breathed in his ear, "I told you I'd be the one in the birthday suit." As he jumped, she planted French kisses on each of his delighted concubines.
"Your master's overdressed," she singsonged to the shift-clad concubines, as both of the heavily pregnant young ladies – one actually older than Samantha's mother, but age-regressed by Darjee medical technology to look the same 24 years old that her fellow concubine actually was – smirked conspiratorially. They happily proceeded to erotically strip the Lieutenant of his civilian garments in time to the music.
Not for the first time, Samantha noted the tattoo gracing Carruthers' muscular chest, the same as on all the other Marine engineers she'd seen topless, male or female. A circle with flames arising from it as if it were a sun, in the centre it held the same symbolic square and compasses as used by the Freemasons' Guild and the phrase Mater Artium Necessitas around the inside of the perimeter. "I've wondered – what does that Latin phrase mean?"
"You've got a subvocal link to the AI," Carruthers challenged. "Ask it."
She found it took a bit of practise, but managed to communicate her question.
"'Necessity is the Mother of Invention', Sub-Decurion Redburn," responded the prim and proper – and decidedly masculine – voice of the base AI.
Samantha responded by subvocalising, "Thank you, AI," and then licking the tattooed circle. She kept swirling her tongue in larger and larger orbits until she finally tasted Carruthers' already rock-hard left nipple, about two centimetres below the tattoo. He let out a very undignified squeak as he tried to keep from rocketing off too soon.
"Ohh, big boy, you're ready!" she cooed, keeping a firm grip on the situation – specifically, on Carruthers' blood-engorged penis. He gulped, trying even harder to keep from exploding all over the delectable, unclad form of the nubile young Civil Service officer.
"So are you," he confirmed, rubbing a finger against Samantha's dripping labia.
Samantha knew the first time was supposed to hurt, and wanted to control the speed and depth of Carruthers' penetration of her by riding on top. What she didn't know – the topic had never come up in her conversations with anyone – was that the medical nanites would automatically narrow a 13-year-old girl's hymen until by the evening of her 14th birthday it was literally just the merest thread of connective tissue. Over the last 24 hours the busy microscopic medics had reduced hers in preparation for her deflowering.
Samantha bent the extremely willing Carruthers back onto a long bench, just wide enough and long enough to hold a standard human form. Despite being a Marine, Carruthers had never gone in for the standard Marine package, preferring to limit the adjustments to his pre-Swarm form to bringing it into fighting trim. As a result, he fit on the bench without hanging over the sides. Holding her mother's hand, Samantha swung her right leg over her chosen cherry-picker and settled herself down on top. Gradually, she worked his penis into her vagina, then when the time felt right sat straight up and let her weight settle her down on Carruther's main gun. She felt the slightest 'ping' as she became a woman, about as painful as a jab from an inoculation needle, and without worrying about it began a rocking motion that soon brought both rider and mount to the peak of excitement.
As promised, Monica held her daughter's hand and steadied her as Samantha reached climax. Monica's sister Alice mischievously reached from behind, snaking a hand down between the nervous mother's legs and playing with Monica's erogenous zones. "Hot, isn't it," Alice enquired as she nibbled on a convenient earlobe. "I bet you can't wait for Master to bend you over."
Monica found herself growing short of breath as her sister continued to take liberties – the sort of liberties she'd never have dared back on Earth when they were teens. "Stop that," she pleaded, panting.
"Don't stop that," Bob countermanded, sneaking up on his two concubines. "Let's see if we can get mother and daughter to shoot off at the same time." He began fondling the closest nipple on each of his concubines as Samantha began to increase the speed of her bouncing and also began to milk Carruther's penis. Alice brought her master's hand down into her own lap – breasts were fun toys to play with, but not when hyper-sensitive from being in the final trimester. She preferred that he play with her clitoris and labia.
"Hey, are all the women in your family such screamers?" asked Sergeant-Major Blondell as the three women reached their peaks within seconds of each other.
Bob couldn't reply – he was too busy alternating French kisses between Monica and Alice.
Over to the side, Shelly Saturn was taking a break from singing, standing with her 12-year-old daughter Melissa and watching Samantha enjoy being a cowgirl. "Mom, I know what I want for my fourteenth birthday," Melissa advised teasingly.
"You want to be on the top or the bottom, Mel?"
Melissa pretended to ponder for a moment. "Middle."
She looked at the cute girl she'd born into the world at the then-young age of 15, a product of a party involving the greater part of her school's jocks and cheerleaders. "I think that can be arranged."
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