Chapter 7 – Butternuttery

Sandy ran a hand down her grey concubine shift, trying to smooth out nonexistent wrinkles. The large window to her left showed part of the massive transport fleet readying for their trip to Thule, silhouetted by a crescent Earth. At her former home, which she could just make out on the horizon, it was mid-morning. She took another second to review the speech she was about to give, and then nodded to Lyn. The camerawoman, staring through the viewfinder, gave Sandy the thumbs up and settled herself to keep the view steady.

“Three. Two. One.” Sandy planted a big, earnest, friendly smile and began her report. “This is Sandy Hause aboard the Confederacy Systems Ship Barnegat, one of the newest ships in the Fleet. And with me is the captain of the Barnegat, Confederacy Navy Major Matt Schlemmer. Captain, I'm told this is a very new ship?”

“Yes, Sandy. This is a new class of ship, the Absecon Class, with a new role,” Matt began. He tried not to drool down the neckline of Sandy's shift. “The Marines need more naval support to back up their landings, and that's our job – to dig the Sa'arm out of their tunnels from orbit using shore bombardment.”

A metre-long scale model hologram of CSS Barnegat appeared at that moment, seeming to float in midair on the other side of the Captain. “The main armament is a single, long rail gun using magnetic fields to propel the warhead down the barrel at a high acceleration. The ship is designed around this weapon, with the crews' quarters, command spaces and the point defence girdled around the barrel, and the propulsion system mounted aft.” He pointed to a ring just forward of the engines, just abaft amidships. “This is where the rail gun's ammunition is stored – 48 centimetre shells. The kinetic energy when they land is equivalent to the largest nuclear warhead that Earth ever built, the Tsar Bomba which had the capacity of 100 megatons of TNT, but without the radioactive fallout.”

Sandy whistled. “That's huge. Those shells must be bigger than anything ever seen on Earth!”

“Not really,” Matt admitted modestly. “The Yamato-class battleships of the Imperial Japanese Navy in World War II mounted a similar size gun. It's the kinetic energy released on impact that makes the blast so powerful, not the calibre.”

“How many people crew this ship?”

“One hundred and five, plus each crewman is entitled to take one of their concubines with them on a cruise.”

“So which of yours have you brought with you?”

“My youngest, Val.” He gestured and a comely and very pregnant 14-year-old black girl shyly came waddling gently into frame. “Back when she was 12, I picked up her mother Chloe and took all of Chloe's kids. Say 'hi' to your grandma, Val.” The young lady, blushing visibly despite her skin colour, gave an embarrassed wave.

Matt realized that his chief concubine's mother would love to know what happened to Chloe, as well. “Her mother is aboard the troop transport CSS Bandera, riding herd on the rest of my family.” He gestured through the large observation window to another ship floating just off the Barnegat's bow. It was a blocky, fairly ugly ship, one of the new mass-produced fast troop transports that existed to ship large numbers of Marine infantry into battle. It was also useful when transporting already-integrated, disciplined harems when warships were being reallocated to other colonies that didn't need the pods of an Aurora. It was less than ideal if you were shipping newly extracted families or untrained, undisciplined mobs of recruits.

“And will you be accompanying the Kilo class transports?” Sandy asked.

“No, we'll leap on ahead, tomorrow morning – that is to say, Saturday morning. We'll travel with our sister ship, the CSS Chincoteague, and the transport CSS Bandera. We'll settle our families in at Thule before our first combat cruise. The concubines we take with us on warships are normally not pregnant, but as this is just a repositioning cruise, we can use the time to give the pregnant ones some face time before we swap them out for non-pregnant ones.”

Sandy nodded as if this made complete sense to her.

“I understand that the colony transports need to finish collecting dependants and special cargo for Thule,” Matt added. “They'll leave on Monday.”

“Thank you, Captain Schlemmer, of the CSS Barnegat. This has been Sandy Hause, reporting from Earth orbit.”

“And cut.” Lyn gave her the thumbs-up. “That shouldn't take much editing at all.”

“Great,” Sandy sighed in relief. “Let's get some lunch first. I'm starved.”

Captain Todmorton entered the Arthur C. Clarke's mess room for the midday meal. It had been a very busy yet routine morning, with the Science Division taken up with mission planning and the other divisions conducting General Quarters drills.

The Captain was a fussy man and like all fussy men in a position of authority he drove his ship's crew quietly, desperately nuts. One of his manias was for proper dress and decorum at meals. His crew would have preferred to spend at least one meal a day with their families, but he insisted that every sailor mess with their fellow sailors, and in full dress at that. After much protest, he did reluctantly include those concubines who worked for the Sciences Division, although he insisted that they wear the standard concubine shift.

Toddy stopped dead in astonishment at the apparition he beheld upon clearing the hatchway. The figure was indeed clad in a Confederacy uniform, but this was not a Confederacy colour Toddy was familiar with. Fleet Auxiliary blue, he knew – indeed was wearing. The Navy's black, he knew. The Marine Corps' green, he knew. Even the Civil Service grey he knew.

Butternut, on the other hand....

Standing in front of Toddy stood what appeared to be General Robert E. Lee, Confederate States of America, correct right on down to buttons and sword.

“You do look remarkably like him with that salt-and-pepper beard, Alex,” one of the ship's officers was assuring Lieutenant Payne. “Is that resemblance a gift of your genetic heritage, or a miracle of the medical tubes?”

“The General is a distant relative, or so I've been told,” the Virginian responded in his gentle Southern patrician accent.

Toddy was still standing silent, giving an excellent impression of a gaffed fish. Finally he found his voice. “I... I told you... to wear... your uniform....”

“This is my uniform,” Payne advised him calmly.

“Your Confederacy uniform?” Toddy squeaked.

“Yes,” General Lee, or rather Lieutenant Payne, responded with a calmness that was palpable. “Before I was extracted, I did Civil War re-enactments. Before she died, every year my wife and I would go to Bull Run, Gettysburg and Appomattox Court House.”

“I didn't mean for you to wear the uniform of that Confederacy. The other Confederacy. You know, the Stellar Confederacy?” Toddy was getting desperate to insert some sort of reality into the conversation.

Payne, on the other hand, felt no such desperation. He deepened his Southern patrician drawl and advised the pompous little popinjay, “Sirrah, I have no idea what you could be referrin' to.”

“By your leave, Captain,” came a voice from behind Toddy. Moving aside, he found himself making way for two other members of his Sciences Division, Lieutenant Wilson and his concubine Sheila. Perhaps predictably, the Lieutenant's uniform was that of a Lieutenant in the Army of Northern Virginia and his concubine was dressed is a southern belle, complete with parasol.

“Mint Julep, my dear?” Wilson enquired of his concubine. He noted that Payne had yet to be served with a drink. “Ah, General, no one has served you yet. Perhaps I could interest you in a Mint Julep as well?”

“Certainly, Lieutenant Wilson,” Lieutenant Payne nodded politely. “Thank you kindly. That would be most welcome.”

By the time all six science officers and the four concubines assigned to assist them had arrived for lunch, Toddy found himself surrounded by a sizable contingent of the Army of Northern Virginia's officer corps. A row of six swords and six CSA officers' hats dangled from six pairs of pegs that lined the bulkhead beside the hatchway.

Toddy decided the most graceful path of action was to accept his ship's Science Division's latest act of borderline insubordination with all the grace he could muster. At least they were behaving like old-style Southern gentlemen, and the conversation in the Mess was convivial. It was quite close to the standard of decorum Toddy wanted in his ship's mess. For him, that made it a win-win situation.

At the same time that Toddy was metaphorically travelling back to 1862 Virginia, young Sub-Decurion Redburn was sitting with her little harem in the 1930's Art Deco luxury of Camp Shackleton's brothel and family restaurant, the Beauty Saloon. Samantha wore her duty uniform, kepi carefully tucked into her right epaulet. As she was off-duty at the moment, Vickie was nude aside from her concubine collar. Callie rarely wore anything but her collar and leather sandals, which meant she could breast-feed her son without worrying about dealing with a concubine shift. The children both wore jeans and tops. Sitting with them on this Friday, an Art Deco martini glass embroidered on the pocket of her dark blue shift and sipping on a mineral water, was Gladys, the concubine who served as hostess and head waitress of the establishment.

“So what's on the entertainment schedule for the week?” Samantha demanded between bites of her chicken Marsala.

“Tonight's dance has an Ancient Egypt theme,” Gladys advised, continuing, “It's quite fitting – back in the late 1920's and 1930's, when Art Deco was at its height, ancient Egyptian themes were all the rage. Plus, in the summer, Egyptian ladies frequently went either topless or with diaphanous gowns, and with minimal clothing below the waist as well.” A 30-centimetre-tall hologram appeared on the table beside Samantha. “This is the females' look we're going for. A few wisps of nothing much below the waist, falling to the ankles and leaving the genitals exposed. Everything visible, yet subtly hidden at the same time.”

“I'd love to wear that,” eight-year-old Michelle gushed. Allison's eyes glowed as well.

“It's an orgy,” Gladys reminded the two youngsters sternly. “If you go, you'll be wearing this.” Another 30-centimetre-tall hologram appeared on the table between the two girls. It showed an obviously underage girl wearing a strip of fabric equally as diaphanous as the adult outfit, but that covered her like a pair of panties. “That should keep you reasonably safe. Thirteen-year-olds get this.” The design for this age group was similar to the adults, but included a thong.

“They'll be going,” Samantha noted, to the youngsters' relief. She looked at Vickie as if challenging her.

“No, that's OK. I'm getting used to it,” sighed Vickie. Her daughter Michelle and niece Allison had been her charges before the young veterinarian's extraction. For any dependant in the Diaspora, life was for all intents and purposes a 24-hour-a-day sex ed class.

“Tomorrow night,” continued Gladys, returning to the original question, “we've got five acts for the Battle of the Bands. This theme is 1980's glam rock.”

On the second-last Saturday of the month, bands got together to display their talents. There were a surprising variety of such bands, ranging from baroque to prog-rock. Many shared individuals with talent at multiple musical instruments and styles.

“Have we got many signed up for the pole-dancing exhibition, yet?” Samantha wanted to know. The last Saturday of the month was when female concubines, nude from the first note of music, put on pole-dancing exhibitions. There was one condition.

“A few, but this month is looking quite lean. Hopefully we'll get some with the arrival of the reinforcements tomorrow.” Gladys herself had been pole-dancing two months back, and found it quite enjoyable, but then she was a bit of an exhibitionist. Unfortunately she'd have to wait about a year before she could even hope to be eligible to pole-dance again.

“Possibly, but I doubt it will contribute all that many,” Samantha mused. “Tomorrow's fleet isn't big, especially not like the one arriving next month, and all of the ships are comparatively small. We should have quite the mob for the Christmas pole-dancing exhibition, though. The new arrivals will have been here for two or three weeks by then.”

“What is that science ship going to be up to, anyway?” Gladys asked idly. She was actually itching with curiosity, but was reluctant to press the issue.

“I don't know,” confessed Samantha, obviously curious herself. “It's all very hush-hush. All I know is that the Clarke's crew's regular concubines will be housed with the rest of Fleet Auxiliary, and that the Clarke herself is only stopping with us for 48 hours for resupply and a bit of shore leave before heading off to Hesperusat. I don't even know how long she'll be there before returning.”

“Don't let the Sub-Decurion see what you're using for target practise,” Lieutenant William Barker advised Sergeant Roger “Batch” Bachelor as they watched their students hone their skills on the sniper range. “You know how much of a hockey nut she is.”

Batch grinned. “Aye, Aye, Sir. I have to agree, she isn't likely to be impressed.”

Like the sniper class around them, both men were wearing sealed, heated matte white battle suits. The helmets were specially designed for snipers, a one-piece all-visor similar in appearance to the helmets the Apollo astronauts wore during lift-off. It afforded the wearer 360-degree sight without interference, at a slight cost to head protection, but meant they could lie down flat on the ground and still look through the rifle's scope.

Staring downrange and immobile as a statue, the young private yelled, “PULL!” Another black vulcanized rubber disk, about 76 millimetres across and 25 millimetres thick, arced gracefully out from the right-hand trap. With a loud retort, the rifle went off and the round pulverized its target.

“This is your intermediate class?” the Lieutenant asked Batch.

“Yes, Sir. The advanced class doesn't get to call the pull. They have to just react to the target as they see them. These pucks are small and moving fast, so they're excellent practise for shooting Swarmtroopers.”

“Yes, I agree. Their accuracy is impressive, even for Intermediate. I can't wait to see your Advanced class.”

“PULL!”

Another puck disappeared in a black cloud.

“I'm told we might be expecting units here to train from other commands – possibly even Earth. I don't know if that'll mean the Sniper School, but we should look at some of the graduates as possible sniper instructors.”

“Thanks for the heads-up, Sir,” Batch nodded. “I've got a few in the Advanced class who could be used as instructors, but a couple will have to be promoted first from Private to First Class, or better yet Lance-Jack. A full third of my graduates are with the Hesperus garrison, which cuts down on the possible instructors quite a bit.”

“PULL!”

“Now, there are about half-a-dozen from the Corps of Cadets who would make dandy instructors. Any chance of borrowing them?”

The Thule Corps of Cadets were children from eight to thirteen who spent time training as if they were volunteers. In addition to becoming masters at foot drill, many had become highly skilled in the use of Marine weapons. A handful were even learning to be Naval crew. When the Sa'arm destroyer had landed on Thule, they'd dispatched the threat as efficiently as if they were fully-trained, fully-grown Marines.

“I'll ask the Old Man.”

“You'll ask the 'Old Man' what?” a third voice cut in with gritted teeth.

Both Lieutenant Barker and Sergeant Bachelor whipped around and saluted the parka-clad figure who had appeared as if out of nowhere behind them. “Colonel, Sir,” acknowledged the Lieutenant.

“Ask me what?” Colonel Deschenes enquired mildly.

“PULL!”

“Sir, Sergeant Bachelor would like to assign certain of Thule's Corps of Cadets to the role of sniper trainers. They've succeeded in passing through sniper school, and have taken Instructor courses.”

“Might be embarrassing to the adults to be trained by cadets,” the Colonel suggested.

“With all due respect, Sir,” the Lieutenant offered nervously, “we really don't have the time to train more instructors from this draft before we can expect them to encounter Sa'arm in combat. I concur with Sergeant Bachelor. If possible, use the qualified members of the Corps of Cadets.”

“Very well, Lieutenant. Clear it with Sub-Decurion Redburn first, of course – the Corps falls into her area of responsibility.” He looked at the sniper range, covered in tiny pieces of vulcanized rubber. “You'd better not let her know what you're using for targets, though. How are you cleaning up the range?”

Batch pointed to a small Quonset hut, about the size of a large doghouse. “Lieutenant Carruthers' men modified a 'Ford Pinto' class target vehicle. It'll comb the entire range clean and white again in about an hour. Replicators will then recycle the pucks.”

“PULL!”