Chapter 1 – News Hound

The Tribune sat behind the desk in the office he was borrowing at this Earthside CAP testing centre. His eyes were happily taking in the astonishing sight sitting across from him. A petite blond with B cup breasts, shining blue eyes and a winning smile, the vision wore a fairly conservative two-piece business suit – at least by Swarm Era standards. The creme-coloured blouse's buttons did not go all the way up to the neck, but ended just below the xiphoid process. This made her lack of brassiere obvious – as if the delightful sway of her bosom hadn't clued him in. The charcoal pin-stripe jacket was cut so as to frame her breasts alluringly. A matching pin-stripe miniskirt and an antique brooch pinned to the jacket lapel finished the ensemble. From carefully coiffed hair to French manicured toenails, the image being projected toward the two-metre-tall Civil Service officer was that of a young professional on the rise – in this case, a young professional television reporter.

Sandy Hause was just that – a 22-year-old cub reporter for a small-market TV channel, KROA-TV, Channel 8 in Brookings, South Dakota. A recent graduate of Contemporary Media and Journalism at the University of South Dakota, she was also (the AI advised him before setting up this meeting) a 4.7, with great mothering scores, a strong ambition to succeed in her chosen profession and a streak of naiveté as wide as a Los Angeles freeway. Those last two factors made her an irresistible foil for Tribune William Whitefeather, who had been getting a little bored the last few days.

As his superiors had long ago learnt to their cost, a bored Tribune William Whitefeather was a mischievous William Whitefeather, something to be desperately avoided.

The fact that a request to extract a television reporter had crossed his desk was sauce for the goose, as far as the delighted Tribune William Whitefeather was concerned.

“Well,” Sandy was explaining, “despite what everyone has seen and heard, they're still not terribly clear about what actually goes on at an extraction. So I'm hoping to cover one and report on it.”

William gave her as pleasant a smile as possible and considered his options. “You realize, of course, that means you would be eligible for extraction yourself, as a potential concubine?”

A blank look came over the young reporter's face. She, like many of her colleagues around the planet, preferred to stay out of the story. This was something she hadn't even begun to consider. “Well, why don't we do this? Have me go through the steps of becoming a concubine. We'll record it, and you can explain the implications of each step.”

Situated in Sub-Decurion Anthony Chan's pod on the CSS John Cabot, the young Atlanta native and his guest Marine Major James MacAllistor were enjoying the show. Sandy didn't have a clue that they were watching the proceedings, but Whitefeather had a subvocal link to the pair of kibitzers.

“You've got to be kidding,” protested a snickering Anthony, munching on his popcorn, soda at his side. “She doesn't think that 'going through the steps' would mean she'd become a concubine for real, and get extracted?”

“AI,” asked Major MacAllistor, “Would this Miss Hause be a natural blond?”

“Yes, Major MacAllistor,” the AI confirmed after a few brief moments. “An analysis of the atmosphere in the interview room reveals no traces of hair colour being utilized by either individual.”

Both men launched into gales of laughter as the handful of concubines snickered. In the Earth-based interview room, the worldly-wise Whitefeather manfully kept his face as straight as possible as he continued his discussions with the guileless Miss Hause.

Just then, the AI announced a guest at the Chan family pod door. Anthony strode over and discovered an august visitor indeed: the Director of Evacuation and Colonial Operations himself, Miles Chandler.

“Come in, Sir,” offered Sub-Decurion Chan. MacAllistor came to his feet, standing at attention. Although Chandler was his ultimate boss, as a civilian he didn't rate a salute from either man.

As the head of DECO settled in to one of Anthony's comfortable lounge chairs, he announced, “I was told about this interview, and that it might prove... amusing.” Anthony's junior concubine Tracey presented the older man with an orange soda and bag of popcorn, and returned to kneel on the floor next to her sponsor's chair.

Chan nodded. “She's pretty clueless. I don't know what Whitefeather's got planned for this little ditz.”

Down in the interview room, Tribune Whitefeather was still talking with his prey. “So you'd like to record a pick-up, interview the extractees, and put this on nationwide television?”

“Yes,” she said eagerly. “We're an affiliate of World Wide News Network – they'd put this on their global feed. It would be a big story.”

“I bet it would,” he assured her. “I think we can arrange something.”

“I think we can't,” warned MacAllistor, staring at the screen bearing the image of young Miss Hause.

“Just a second. I have to consult with some colleagues.” Whitefeather went into subvocal mode, the change in his visage startling Sandy as it grew far away.

'I think this is the perfect solution to a number of problems,' Whitefeather subvocalized. 'We can have her show humanity just what a planned pickup looks like, what happens to concubines and sponsors for real as opposed to those stupid porn videos we're always poking fun at, and she herself fills a recent request.'

“You aren't going to do that...” ventured MacAllistor, as Whitefeather fished a Gameboy-like device from his pocket.

'Yes, actually I am,' Whitefeather replied jovially.

“Do what?” wondered Miles cautiously.

“Is that what I think it is?” asked Anthony, indicating the device that Whitefeather was handing off to the innocent reporter.

'If you think it's a neuralizer, then you're right.'

“I think it's a neuralizer,” Anthony responded.

'Then you're right,' the Tribune confirmed agreeably.

“Oh, you bloody bastard.” MacAllistor's voice was one of amused approval. “What a nasty trick to play on her.”

“Trick?” asked Miles, now thoroughly confused. As head of Extractions, he'd never had to worry about things like neuralizers, and had no idea what they were.

Sub-Decurion Chan responded, as MacAllistor was too far gone into snickering to say anything. “The neuralizer implants a post-hypnotic suggestion and backs it up with an injection of nanites.”

On the screen, they watched Sandy wince mildly as the nanite injector built into the little device shot home on a finger. Her eyes grew glassy as she faded into an hypnotic trance.

“And so? What of that?” Miles didn't get it.

MacAllistor got control of himself. “Thanks to that, he can tell her whatever he wants to in that room, and she can't tell anyone.” He turned to Miles, for whom the dots were beginning to connect. “She's a reporter who can't report. He's preventing her from doing her job!”

“Wait'll she gets back to her editor,” snorted Anthony, as a grin spread across Miles' face. “She'll throw up in his lap when she tries to break this story!”

Back on Earth, William Whitefeather could now safely spill the beans. “Operation Bawdy Check is a big experiment. We've arranged for ten Kilo class colony transports to do simultaneous pickups at a large number of hockey arenas. It will happen tomorrow evening, so if you want to cover it, you'll have to get your extremely cute butt out to one of them.”

'My butt's cute?' she thought frantically as she tried to absorb the information flowing from the suddenly garrulous Civil Service officer. “Excuse me, what's a Kilo class?”

“It's a colony transport with 1,024 pods. Each pod is home to one family, and will be transferred to the planet upon arrival. Most colonies are still incapable of providing enough pods if we were to send the new arrivals without their pods,” Whitefeather informed her.

“And why hockey arenas?”

“The families there are already partially acclimated to the cold, and the colony they're headed to is noted for being extremely cold. Plus, we've done some pre-screening to maximize the number of sponsor candidates at each arena, with a large number of youths who are highly likely to test out as sponsors on their fourteenth birthdays.” Whitefeather paused, awaiting the next question.

“So you're picking up 10,000 people?”

“If it all works out, we'll be picking up 10,240 sponsors,” he stated, emphasizing the last word, “plus at least two if not four concubines per sponsor, plus lots and lots of kids. We figure we'll be extracting well over fifty thousand individuals when you add in the dependants. Possibly over sixty thousand.”

Sandy blinked. Sixty thousand people? At one go? “That's quite a few. That's about three times the population of Brookings.”

“Yes, and you can see why it's so vitally important that you keep our little secret until the night of the pickup. If Earth First finds out...” Whitefeather gave a theatrical shudder. He knew well that Sandy would keep this secret until after the extraction was over. Thanks to the neuralizer's post-hypnotic suggestion and the nanite load she carried, she would have no choice.

“How did you get a line on 10,000 sponsors?” Sandy demanded.

“Well, there's an interesting story there.” William conceded. “And I think that in order to preserve security, it's one that we should not discuss at this time. If you come to this office tomorrow at eight in the morning, we'll be able to put it on record. Bring a camera crew!”

“Oh, my station's too small to give every reporter a complete crew all the time,” Sandy responded cheerfully. “On those few occasions when I'm not a videographer toting my own camera around, I usually just have a cameraman who doubles on sound.”

“I'm surprised,” Major MacAllistor commented from the safety of the John Cabot. “I'd have thought she'd have trouble walking and chewing gum at the same time.”

“All right, then,” the Tribune concluded, “if you return here tomorrow first thing in the morning, I'll give you the complete story as to how we arranged a pickup this large. Say, eight o'clock?”

Sandy nodded, smiling happily, and accepted the tall Civil Service officer's offer of an escort to the testing centre's front door. Detailed coverage of an actual extraction, from inside the containment fields! She couldn't wait to tell her editor the good news.

“Do you think that was safe?” demanded the voice of Miles Chandler in Whitefeather's ear as Sandy entered the dusty SUV bedizened with KROA-TV logos and advertising.

“Oh, perfectly safe,” he responded reasonably. “After all, who can she tell, between now and eight tomorrow morning? By the time anyone at her workplace notices she's missing, we'll even have the dependant pickups done.” He rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. “Now, where's the nearest Timmy's? I could use a coffee and doughnut.”

“Fort Francis, Ontario, Tribune Whitefeather,” advised the AI.

“Fort Francis? That's the other side of Minnesota from here!” he protested.

“Affirmative, Tribune Whitefeather.”

“We'll send a Fleet Auxiliary rating to Vancouver,” advised Chan. “Double-double?”

“And a sour-creme glazed,” confirmed William.

William Whitefeather headed for the testing centre's transporter nexus. Today had been a good day.

Sandy Hause watched the CAP testing centre disappear into her rear view mirror with a sense of triumph. Today had been a good day. This would be a scoop to beat all scoops. Occasionally World Wide News would show brief interviews with Confederacy officials of various types, or with those who had been left behind at extractions, but an actual extraction filmed from the inside was unheard of. There'd been some stuff on the Internet that hinted at what went on, but nobody could make out much from the cell phone shots, and it was impossible to prove the veracity of the professional-quality videos. She decided to celebrate that night with a small bottle of wine. Something dry and fancy, she thought, like an Asti. The fact that Asti was not a dry wine at all completely escaped her notice.

She carefully wove her way through the late afternoon traffic to the station. She'd given her report for tonight's news before lunch (a fluff piece that she considered “Very Important”), so there was no need to rush.

When she pulled into the spot in KROA-TV's parking lot reserved for Mobile Three, she could see her editor George waiting for her.

“How did it go?” asked the burly, experienced boss.

“I've got an interview!” she called, her excitement evident. “I need to be back there at eight AM tomorrow morning with a camera crew!”

“Better not be eight AM tomorrow night,” George responded, shaking his head. Not for the first time he regretted that the station's owners thought the fluffy-headed blond was the perfect cute eye-candy to capture the 6:00 PM drinking crowd.

“You know what I mean. Who can I have?”

“You didn't put them off? You really have an interview?” Well he knew how reluctant the Confederacy was to just casually hand out interviews with any reporter. “What conditions did they set?”

“No I didn't put them off. Yes, I really have an interview. The only condition was that I couldn't tell anyone what it would be about – but I can tell you it's big.” She fought rising bile in the back of her throat.

“Can you tell me where, at least?”

Sandy had by this point made it to the front door of the long, low industrial-type building that housed KROA-TV's studios and offices. As she and George entered the edifice, Sandy responded, “It's at that CAP testing centre on the west side of town. I'm to meet....” Once again, she felt her stomach give a lurch.

“OK, OK. I get it. Lyn's available.” If it was at the CAP testing centre, George reasoned, then it was probably legit. If not, then he could complain to the Confederacy and get someone in deep shit for abusing Confederacy property. They passed the staff lounge at that point, where Lyn MacDonald was downing a bottle of cola.

“Lyn, we're sending you on a story with Sandy. You're done for the day, get in here tomorrow morning at six-thirty.”

“Six-thirty? For the breakfast show? What about Dave?”

“Dave's doing a live shot tomorrow out in Bushnell,” George advised her. “I need someone to shoot an interview at the CAP testing centre.” He shot a look at Sandy, who looked distinctly green-around-the-gills. “Is this a live feed?”

Not daring herself to speak, Sandy shook her head.

“Good. Go out there, get the interview, and get right back. We want this on the noon news show, and possibly for a WWNN feed. Understand?”

Mention of the World Wide News Network suddenly made the early-morning wakeup much more palatable for the evening camerawoman. “George, you just said the secret word. For WWNN exposure, I'd do the feed buck naked.”

She had little idea of how prophetic those words would be.