Chapter 15 – Swimming with the Fishy Barber

Optio Samantha Redburn was the first to show up for the meeting. She'd called her father to collect Smokey and bring him home to the family pod, and gone directly to the Colonel's gathering from the pet pods. The others showed up shortly after that, most still taking a moment to adjust the fastenings of their daily uniform.

As Lieutenant Carruthers arrived, the Colonel harrumphed and addressed the staff. “You are going to love this. There's a push on to get this sector up to plan. We're receiving the Pisces Clipper today, and with it two other vessels.”

“Two other kilopods?” hazarded Butch.

“God I hope not,” winced Carruthers.

“No, not kilopods. The cargo vessel CSS Dogsled is carrying enough industrial replication equipment to allow us to manufacture our own armour, right on up to Rommels. And the other ship is an Aurora-class filled with Navy types, experts in setting up and running a complete orbiting port.”

Everyone nodded appreciatively.

“And,” he looked apologetically at Samantha, “their families. So instead of getting 1,024 families, you're getting 1,120, and you'll have to start spending a small part of your time at Scott Base.”

“Sir, just for your information, Scott Base is not yet ready to receive families. We were advised that it didn't need to be ready until after the last of the five kilopods had delivered the final draft of Brigade personnel. We've been busy building other Navy facilities and Martellos.” Carruthers looked sick.

The Colonel winced. “I do recall, now that you mention it.” He thought for a moment. “Nothing we can do about it now. We'll put them in Camp Shackleton until Base Scott can be made ready. I know Navy and Marines don't usually mix well, but I don't see as we have a choice.”

“Sir, if there's anything in the way of good news to report,” advised Samantha, “it's that the adult concubines that arrived on the Aurora...”

“Something good arrived with the Aurora?” the Colonel snorted. “I thought her an accursed ship.”

“Yes, sir,” Samantha stated mildly. Something good had arrived, something good besides Smokey. “Almost all of the adult concubines are trained and accredited teachers. About 1/3 high and middle school experienced, and another two-thirds elementary school experienced.”

“I think we're going to need them,” Lieutenant-Colonel Desrocher observed.

“I agree, Sir,” nodded Samantha, anxious to get the hell out of there.

When the three ships entered normal space, nobody was surprised. CSS Dogsled was treated as if it were Santa's sleigh on Christmas morning – as promised, it contained two full factories, one an orbital facility, and the other a ground-based one.

CSS Challenger brought 96 pods full of Fleet Auxiliary, not the Regular Navy that was advertised. While they were somewhat dismayed to discover that at least temporarily they'd be living in a Marine camp, the fact they were charged with preparing the orbital facilities to take on Tarawas actually made them quite popular with the more bloodthirsty among the Marines, anxious to go into battle.

And CSS Pisces Clipper delivered another thousand and more raw recruits, coming so close on the heels of the last draft as to almost overwhelming the abilities of the Brigade to absorb and train all their newcomers.

To help her, Optio Redburn pulled a page from David ap Rhys, with a uniquely Thule twist. With the permission of the Colonel, she drafted every NCO's straw boss and placed them in Civil Service grey. Their rank badges were the red Reserve equivalent of their sponsors: lance-jack for lance-jack, corporal for corporal, and sergeant for sergeant.

Lieutenant Carruthers had managed to find Samantha larger office space: by parcelling out some of the 14-year-old concubines to foster-sponsors whose 13-year-olds were expected to CAP score at over 6.4 and thus take (presumably, hopefully) the two girls being fostered, they'd freed up yet another pod. Located right next door to the pet pods, the lower half was reserved for her office and the upper for Vickie's veterinary surgery.

The AI announced the presence of Sergeant Kowalski and a Sergeant whose name she couldn't place: Evans. Plus one concubine.

The door to her new office opened to reveal Sergeant Kowalski escorting Fleet Auxiliary Sergeant Evans and a short, wiry, obviously terrified Hispanic man covered in tattoos and wearing a concubine shift. “Sergeant Evans reporting with prisoner, SIR!” came the unexpected greeting.

Prisoner? Concubine prisoners were either spaced or recycled, not sent to the Civil Service officer. She might get the case to review, but rarely would they deposit a concubine in with her unassigned caseload, and never a prisoner.

“What has he done?” she demanded, trying to hide her confusion.

“Ran a grow-op, Sir.” The sergeant handed over a chip containing the man's records – unnecessary, as the AI would undoubtedly have a copy of it already.

“Ran a grow-op, Sergeant? Where? In a pod? Wouldn't it be detected by an AI?”

“Houston, Texas, I gather, Sir.”

She stared at the scared man between the two sergeants. “Texas?” she asked dubiously.

“It... says... in there....” He pointed to the data chip.

“It speaks.” She shoved the chip in the reader. The picture showed a handsome young Asian man with sub-decurion rank badges on his grey dress uniform.

“Optio Samantha Redburn, I am Sub-Decurion Alan Chan. My apologies for a lack of advance warning, but we had a situation to deal with as soon as possible. The man before you, Juan Medina, was a requested transfer by the Texas State Department of Justice. He provided States' Evidence in a case against a drug cartel, and requires witness protection. As per an agreement we have with the United States Government, we are sending him to the Diaspora for protection, along with his family of one wife and one son. I regret that neither he nor his wife is sponsor-level, however they are also neither scoring high for a criminal mentality. If it is at all possible, I request that you find them a single sponsor. They together will take the position of hydroponics agriculturist that I am told is currently vacant.”

Lovely. A criminal. Just what she always wanted. She hoped he was crate-trained.

“I don't know if this was a good idea or not for you, but time will tell. Your record has been expunged, or rather never existed out here. Whether you succeed or fail is entirely up to you. You have a clean slate. Mind you, the AI watch everything we do and listen to everything we say, so if you screw up they will know and we will know, instantly.”

He gulped – she was getting through, she saw.

“You are a concubine, which basically means slave. You are going to be owned by somebody – and who that 'somebody' is, that's up to me. You are my property right now, you and your wife. Excuse me, your ex-wife. As you saw I've been asked to try to get you two a spot together, but that's not guaranteed, and even if it is, you're going to be sharing your now-ex-wife with someone else.” She thought for a moment. “Lieutenant Carruthers is in charge of all facilities on Thule, so during your work day, you'll report to him – God help you both. Right now he's up to his ass in alligators, so I'll just ask him to find you a home you can stay in for the time being. He's going to love this one.”

She sighed. “OK, now, where would your now-ex-wife and your child be?”

“She and my son are up on the Pisces Clipper. My son is only a month old; he is why I turned states' evidence. They were threatening his life, and neither of us wanted him raised as a gang kid.”

She checked his CAP numbers: as advertised, low on the criminal mentality scale, high on the family loyalty scale. Threaten his kid, earn his wrath. His wife Maria had similar numbers. Opposites apparently didn't attract in this case.

“Sergeant-Major Blondell?” Samantha called to the ceiling.

“Yes, Optio Redburn?” came the disembodied response a moment later. Butch must be under the same stresses as the officers, Samantha realized.

“Please send a corporal to the Pisces Clipper for a prisoner transfer.” Quickly she relayed what she knew of the situation. She turned to Juan. “Any luggage?

“Just these concubine shifts. They had us leave immediately after we provided evidence.”

“Sergeant-Major Blondell, you heard?”

“Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir.”

Lieutenant Carruthers grumbled, but was able to come up with an empty pod. Unfortunately, “empty” was the operative word. It was tied into the colony AI temporarily, pending installation of its own AI. It had a floor, walls and a ceiling – just one floor, the second had yet to be installed. It was essentially a large cargo container.

The Lieutenant, Samantha and the Medinas, Juan and Maria, stood in the middle of the vast empty space and stared. Juan Medina made polite noises about it being roomy while Maria held onto their month-old baby Jesus in shock.

“OK, this is only temporary, so we aren't going to get fancy. AI, can you do this?” asked Samantha. “Put a queen-size bed in the right rear corner. Put a shower in the left rear corner, a sink next to that and a toilet next to that, with a glass wall next to the toilet, out six feet and equal to the height of the shower. Put a replicator on legs and mount it next to the toilet's wall.” As each command came through, the AI projected 3-D images of the changes. “Over on this right wall, a couch – nothing fancy. That'll do. Between the couch and the bed, put a crib and a changing table. Excellent. Secure all furnishings to the floor – I don't want it falling over and maybe injuring the baby. Now they get access to the replicator for basic food and for baby food, diapers and other standard baby supplies. And grant them access to our audio entertainment system. If they have any questions about the life of a concubine in the Confederacy, answer them. They do not get egress rights, if they need out, they need permission from either myself, Lieutenant Carruthers, Colonel Deschenes or Lieutenant-Colonel Desrocher.”

“The pod will need to be empty for two hours, Optio Redburn.”

“Very well. Lieutenant, perhaps you can have someone show this man where the parts for his hydroponics facility are stored, while they're waiting for their temporary home to finish?”

“Yes, Optio.”

As she walked into the Officers' Mess that night, Samantha was more than a little bone-weary. It had been a busy day. A drink in the Library Room would be just the ticket.

As she gratefully accepted the Pilgrim's Punch mocktail and wandered into the Library Room, she saw a spirited discussion was going on, spearheaded by the Colonel himself.

“Optio, how are our newest recruits?” Michael demanded of her. “Your honest impression.”

“My honest impression is filtered through your sergeants' and corporals' concubines' impressions,” she confessed, “but it's not all bad, and not all good.”

Conversation died as everyone paid rapt attention to her. To Samantha's credit, she really didn't notice.

“There are about 23 family units identified by the straw bosses as 'potential units of concern'. They will definitely impact how well the soldier in question performs his duties – and they're all headed by male sponsors. Two of those units are Fleet Auxiliary, but the remaining 21 are newly-arrived Marine recruits.”

“What seems to be the potential concern?” Michael asked. “Concubine abuse?”

“Not in all cases. We have three of potential concubine manipulation of the sponsor, and the rest where the issue is sponsor abuse of the concubine. Two of the three concubine manipulation cases are the Fleet Auxiliary ones. The list is in your mailbox.” She shrugged. “The Marines are selected for more physical aggression than any other branch. We don't see anywhere near the frequency of concubine abuse from the Navy, and even less from Fleet Auxiliary. Fleet Auxiliary, on the other hand, is the least aggressive branch and seems to have the highest frequency of concubine manipulation of the sponsor.”

Michael nodded, but stayed silent, hoping that Samantha would continue. After a thoughtful sip of her Pilgrim's Punch, she did.

“I recommend that those with the potential sponsor abuse situation be kept under a close watch – they're also the ones most likely to break the rules during deployment and place their fellow Marines' lives at risk. The other ones... they'll need a different approach, probably counselling and possibly even a swap-out of the troublesome concubine. I'd hate to recycle one, not just because we're on a knife-edge between too many and too few but because they are human beings too, so anything we can do to rehabilitate her would be to the benefit of all of us.”

Michael pondered for a long moment, and turned to Chaz. “We'll sit down about this tomorrow, before we do the bulk of the personnel allocations. I want our most level-headed sergeants on this, with their straw bosses.” He took a sip of his Bronx. “I'll also have a word with the senior ranking Fleet Auxiliary officer, in my role as planetary governor, with my young Civil Service officer in attendance, of course.”

It was a subdued group that resumed their conversations.

The AI woke Samantha late that night, as she cuddled with Vickie. Jesus Medina's cries of distress and pain had kept his parents awake, and they were by three in the morning frantic with worry. Finally, they asked the AI to ask her for help.

“AI, notify the M.I.R. to expect a paediatric patient and call the duty sergeant – ask him or her to send someone to their pod on emergency medical escort. Juan, Maria, go with whoever the Sergeant sends, even if it's a fellow concubine. I'll meet you at the M.I.R.”

Samantha threw on her practise jersey and a pair of leather sandals and made her way through the tunnels and across the parade square to the Medical Inspection Room – the military equivalent to a walk-in clinic. The corpsman pulling M.I.R duty that night, a tall black Navy corporal named Sheena James who Samantha knew well and liked a lot, was by now fully awake and had a pod set up for a child.

“Sounds like colic,” James commented as she waited for her patient to arrive. “I thought they were screened for this sort of thing.”

“So did I, but it's a Targeted Extractions special delivery. Anything could be happening.”

The pod door burst open and Sergeant-Major Blondell herself strode in, carrying the young baby as lightly as if it weighed nothing. To her Marine-standard body, it probably felt like it. Hard on her heels, the worried parents followed her in, slightly breathless from keeping up with the long-striding, fast-walking Amazon. Juan noted the high level of oestrogen present in the room and wisely backed into a corner where he could fret without disturbing the others.

Butch laid the precious cargo in the tube that Sheena pointed at, and almost instantly the baby fell asleep.

It took only a few seconds for the tube's sensors to diagnose the cause of little Jesus' distress. “Well, the good news is that it's just colic, and little Jesus here will be 100% in about an hour. The bad news is that he has apparently had absolutely no medical screening, as he had zero nanites in him.”

Samantha was surprised at that – surprised and annoyed. A medical screening was routine for everyone extracted from Earth, be they sponsors, concubines or dependants – and nobody was extracted by the Confederacy if they weren't one of the three. She turned to the parents. “Is it possible that none of you were given a routine medical screening?”

Both parents, mystified, could only shrug.

Samantha crossed her arms and regarded the pair gravely. “Sheena.”

“On it.” The Corporal opened up two more medical tubes.

“You should have spent some time in these devices back on the ship, before you left Earth orbit. They'll scan and fix any medical problems they spot, including broken bones, bad hearing, poor eyesight, crooked teeth – and any cosmetic work you want.”

“Can it get rid of our gang tattoos?” Juan wanted to know.

“Yes, and painlessly,” Samantha noted. “It's probably a good idea – the tats might scare off potential sponsors. AI, please send a note to the Office of Targeted Extractions about the lack of medical screening. Tag it 'most urgent'.”

“Aye aye, Optio Redburn.”

“Any other changes? No need to shave anymore? Keep the cookie duster?”

“Yes, that would be nice,” agreed Juan, rubbing his stubbly face.

“Go on,” encouraged Sheena, gesturing to the two waiting medical tubes. “You'll go for a nap, and when you wake up, your son will wake up, free forever from that nasty old colic.”

A little hesitantly, as trust was not a common currency in the world the Medinas came from, the couple stripped and mounted the medical tubes. Like their son, they immediately fell asleep.