Chapter 11 – Bon Voyage

Sunday evenings were normally a quiet time, both at Earth and at Thule. On this particular Sunday evening, though, things were not quiet at Earth – and not quiet at Thule.

DECO Miles Chandler stood in a civilian dress jacket and turtleneck sweater just behind the Orbital Control station of the Operations Centre, Tribune Whitefeather and his team stood At Ease behind him.

Deputy Director Renee Galois was sort of hovering behind the knot of Confederacy officers and the Director of Evacuation and Colonial Operations. He was wearing his old French field marshal's uniform, colourful and bedecked with medals. In his hand he clutched the field marshal's baton awarded to him by a grateful French government back when his oath was to that nation and not the Confederacy. To Whitefeather's jaundiced eye the retired soldier looked quite out of place, a Victorian Era fashion anachronism in this sleek ultra-modern room filled with high-tech control surfaces and high-definition monitors. William wondered what the hell the prissy old CAP elitist was doing here, unless it was to ensure he didn't miss any after-departure party that Miles might choose to hold.

The face of the Commodore of the fleet, Auxiliary Fleet Colonel Fritz Metzger, appeared on a large screen on the Orbital Control station. Colonel Metzger was addressing both the Duty Controller and Chandler. “All ships report that they've completed dependant and pre-pack pick-ups. Please advise Tribune Whitefeather that I have personally confirmed that Governor Deschenes' gift has been delivered aboard the Arctic Princess. Unless there are any other last minute additions you want to make, we are ready to depart.”

As Miles Chandler shot Whitefeather a 'do I really want to know' look, the Tribune merely nodded slightly and said, “My deepest thanks.”

"Have a safe voyage, Commodore,” Miles advised Metzger. “Controller, I release the fleet to your command.”

The Controller nodded. “Commodore, you are clear to break orbit. Path is clear. No other traffic outbound, CSS Nirvana inbound on Approach Vector Four.”

The speakers soon rang with intership communications as one by one, the ships of the fleet brought their primary sublight engines to full power, broke orbit and headed toward the jump point.

As the CSS Arctic Princess took her place with the rest of the Fleet, South Dakota TV screens tuned to KROA-TV began showing advertisements for a series of reports by “former Action News reporter, Sandy Hause”, to start Monday at six and eleven, about life as a concubine in the Diaspora. In Sandy's pod, Lyn fought to keep her kitten Charlie distracted from the Governor's gift, lest he injure it.

Thule was the site of preparations for a second departure. Task Force Foxhound, consisting of the CSS Arthur C. Clarke and the corvette CSS Caldecot Castle, would be departing for Hesperus early in the morning – about oh-four-hundred Monday. The crew of the Clarke had spent a busy weekend transferring their extra concubines down to Thule, where Lieutenant Carruthers had arranged for a cluster of pods for the crew's families at Base Scott. Normally the Clarke's families would have remained on board, like those of a cube ship's crew, but Hesperus was technically the Front Lines, placing the vessel in harm's way. Kids and nonessential concubines would have to stay behind.

Captain Todmorton was inspecting his ship. With trepidation, he entered the Geophysics Lab, and stopped dead in his tracks as he beheld the scene before him.. As expected, none of the Sciences Division's oddballs were wearing duty blue. They seemed to be wearing Oxford College robes and conical hats.

"A little short for gnomes, aren't we?” he asked as the room came to attention. As every officer and concubine swung toward him, he realized what the conical hats read: “Dunce”.

Ah, he realized. A Confederacy of Dunces. He half-expected to discover soft drink bottles bearing the name of the long-defunct Dr. Nut scattered across the lab tables.

He approached the bearded leader of this particular bunch of dunces, Lieutenant Payne. “I understand you're objecting to participating in Battle Station drills?”

Payne regarded the pest with genial contempt. “Of course. We're an unarmed ship – the only weapons we have on board are the Science Division's cavalry sabres.”

Toddy heartily wished that Payne hadn't reminded him of the all-too-recent incident of his breakfast with General Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia. “We still have to hold drills, and that includes General Quarters,” Toddy chided his Chief Science Officer.

"And what tactic would we employ if we encounter the Sa'arm?” countered Payne, his Virginia patrician accent tinged with sarcasm. “Our only real option is to use the Sir Robin manoeuvre: tuck our tail between our legs and gallantly run away at the fastest speed this ship has coal for. The AI can handle that without relying on any human intervention at all. Just tell the ship to get the hell out of here, and we're gone, before anyone outside the bridge crew even knows a threat exists.”

Toddy couldn't come up with an adequate riposte to that.

"We're certainly not going to cuddle up to the Caldecot Castle,” Payne reminded his captain. “They're supposed to be placing themselves between us and the threat. Besides, we're the larger ship. It would be like tryin' to hide a rhino behind a sparrow. Just makes the corvette the bull's-eye of an even bigger, more inviting target, and you don't want to do that.”

Toddy pondered for a moment. “OK, look. Your battle stations are the same as your collision stations. Just pretend it's a collision drill.”

Payne glanced back at his co-conspirators, and returned his gaze to Toddy. “I suppose that does make more sense...” he ventured.

"Please.”

"...and seein' as you asked all gentlemanly like that, we'll do it that way. Collision drill.”

Toddy sighed in relief. “Collision drill,” he agreed.

That evening saw another Beauty Saloon party, in Banquet Room Four this time. The crews of the Clarke, their concubines and dependants joined the crew and concubines of the Caldecot Castle for one last blow-out before the two ships set off for their months-long trip to Hesperus. Michael and Penny Deschenes were the corvette captain's special guests of honour. When they discovered that the two ships' dependants would be present, Thule's First Couple managed to snag an invite for their daughter and her boyfriend. Samantha, invited as thanks for her efforts on behalf of the ships' families, dragged along her three older dependants and her red-headed Irish concubine Callee. Callee's infant son Jason was being babysat by her fellow concubines back at the family pod.

Concubine waitresses bustled around the room, serving platters of buffalo wings, nachos and other finger foods. Their outfits consisted of frilly white half-aprons that left them quite top-free and bare-bottomed, matching white maid caps, white concubine collars with white bow ties, and black leather sandals. In the corner, a concubine mixologist dressed in a fancy white collar with a black bow tie and a pair of black patent-leather shoes whipped up fancy drinks. For some reason the orders being presented to the otherwise nude woman were largely for drinks that called for vigorous use of the cocktail shaker. Mounted on the bar top was a reproduction of Max le Verrier's famous illuminated Art Deco sculpture of the nude Goddess of Light, Clarte.

All of the sponsors wore their full dress uniforms, complete with Sam Browne belt and wedge caps. Their concubines largely stuck to the standard issue ugly grey shifts and collars – both Callee and Penny sticking to collars and sandals. The children wore a variety of togs that left them largely covered.

When the Deschenes party arrived, Daniel and Diana made quite the impression: he in his red Corps of Cadets uniform and she in more-or-less the same uniform as her mother.

The only major exception to this arrived a fashionable 20 minutes late: the Science Division. The six sponsor scientists and four concubine scientists arrived simultaneously, the men dressed in buckskin trousers and the women in scanty buckskin loincloths. They looked like Hollywood's idea of native North American Indians, right out of Central Casting.

Toddy mentally reviewed the invitation to the party Had his opposite number in the Caldecot Castle, Captain Hardesty, bothered to qualify just which Confederacy the uniforms were to come from? 'AI,' he subvocalized, 'please read Captain Hardesty's invitation to tonight's party back to me. Specifically, any mention of a dress code.'

Obediently, the AI responded, 'Dress for sponsors: Confederacy uniforms. Dress for concubines: at sponsor's discretion. Dress for dependants: standard school clothing.'

Sure enough, the wording gave Payne and his fellow scientists all the leeway they needed, by not mentioning specifically which Confederacy the uniform was to come from. Toddy had a sinking feeling about the answer to the inevitable question.

It was Captain Hardesty who asked that inevitable question. The black-clad man's eyebrows were heading to the ceiling as he sputtered, “What in the hell kind of Confederacy uniform is THAT?”

"Iroquois Confederacy,” Lieutenant Wilson responded shortly. He brought his hand up in greeting. “How.”

I'd like to know how myself, Toddy thought. I'd like to know how you seem to get away with this every time.

The room burst into laughter as everyone doubled over with glee. Even the corvette skipper could see the humour in the situation.

"Pray tell,” ventured Governor Deschenes as he regained a semblance of control over himself, “would you happen to know a tribune named William Whitefeather?”

"No,” confessed Payne, his Virginia patrician accent sounding quite incongruous coming from an Indian chief in full war paint and feathered headdress. “Should I?”

"No, I don't think it would be wise. It would be too much like slamming two pieces of uranium together. I don't think any command would survive the explosion of practical jokes.” Michael wiped a tear from his eyes. “He's actually a member of the Iroquois Confederacy, which would make this even funnier.”

"I regret we couldn't get any better outfits than these,” the senior scientist apologized. “I'm certain it's quite inaccurate, and would make a real Iroquois quite indignant. The replicator only had some horrid old TV show to use as even the beginning of a clothing pattern.”

"Still,” Michael conceded, “it is imaginative.”

With that, the party resumed. A couple of Clarke concubines climbed atop a small stage on the wall opposite the bar and as Kristina Maria's classic “Let's Play” started up, began to do just that. In time to the music, they sinuously kissed, caressed, licked and nibbled each other's earlobes, necks and breasts. Gradually, alternating between each other, they worked their way down to the labia and clitoris. The crowd roared its approval. It didn't take long for the pair to dance their way to mutual orgasms.

As the sponsors of the pair reclaimed them for a little doggy style action, clothing started hitting the floor.

Samantha was sitting on a couch between Michael and Captain Hardesty. “This,” she whispered to the Captain as a black Navy wedge cap went flying through the air with the greatest of ease, “is why the Beauty Saloon recommends to hosts that their invitations have a dress code of 'optional' for everyone.” She threw her dress jacket over her shoulder in the general direction of nowhere in particular. Unseen by either host or guest, a concubine waitress snagged the jacket as it flew by and tidily added it to a growing pile of clothing in the corner near the bar.

"Everyone?” the tall black officer asked.

"Everyone but dependants.” She pointed to Diana with some amusement. “Some dependants we can trust... for now, at least. Until the hormones fully kick in.”

"Let's trade concubines for a bit, tonight,” came a whisper in Samantha's ear. She turned to discover Michael and Penny leaning toward her.

Trading off for the evening was not a problem for someone like Samantha. As much as she enjoyed a nice firm, well-endowed masculine body like Michael's or this Nubian warrior sharing the couch with her, she also appreciated something in a soft and curvaceous love goddess like Penny.

Penny took charge of the situation by suckling on the smaller, still developing breasts of the comely young Civil Service officer. As Samantha's eyes rolled back, Penny changed to flicking the nipples with her long, gaudily-painted fingernails. “There is one thing we really must discuss,” the concubine whispered into her ear.

"Oh? We'd better discuss it quick, then. I'm about to enjoy going over the edge,” Samantha ran her fingers down the older woman's outer thigh to her knee and began to tickle their way distractingly up Penny's inner thigh.

"Save a place in this month's pole dancing exhibition for me. That's all.”

"Ooh. AI, note that, please.”

"Noted, Decurion Redburn,” responded the calm unemotional feminine voice of the base brothel's AI.

"So, we've got something to celebrate, then,” Samantha remarked as she teased and tickled Penny's labia. “How many?”

Penny took a breath in. “Two, one of each.” She arched her back as dainty little electrical charges pirouetted up her spine. Fittingly, in the background Laura Branigan sang throatily about how her lover made her 'Lose my self-control'.

Unseen crouched behind the couch, Danny Bachelor, Diana Deschenes and Clarisse Redburn snickered at Diana's mother's rapidly-growing cries of passion. Clarisse also noted – but didn't comprehend – the comments about the pole-dancing exhibition. She had heard a lot of it in school her first day there, usually followed by shrieks of girlish laughter. There was something of significance going on, but she didn't understand exactly what.

Callee, meanwhile, was making things very pleasant for the General. Aside from her natural submissiveness, which meant that if Samantha decided the redhead should entertain a sponsor then she would, she was also feeling quite aroused. Her sponsor and her fellow concubine Vickie had spent the last couple of weeks working on her inhibitions. Callee had spent less than a half an hour wearing anything over that time, and that was to do a dress-up picture for Mickey's room. All of the females of Samantha's pod, plus Samantha's mother and aunt, had lined up in the same outfit that Mickey had worn at that notorious dance in the base brothel during the Halloween party.

In addition, Vickie had spent the last couple of hours before the party “preparing” her. The preparations did not consist of hair or makeup or dress, but rather of foreplay. Now, the usually shy Irishwoman was even more nude than she'd been when she entered the room – her JC Waterwalkers were over in the pile of clothing where Samantha's dress uniform lay, beside the bar. She was wetter, too, her sponsor having already gotten her motor running. The kiss she was now getting from the Governor had robbed her of all cognitive abilities, the only thought registering being the need to get more of that.

With difficulty Callee made her eyes focus on the two-metre-tall man lying with his fully engorged penis mere millimetres from her sex. “Please... fuck me... now... hard...” she panted, and pulled her torso to his.

Happily, Michael did. As his manhood speared the willing redhead, she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him in as deep as she could. After a quick snap of the hips, he set up a rhythm that swiftly led him and his delighted fiery-haired mount to the expected climax.

In another corner of the room, Payne was announcing his climax to the room with a mighty rebel yell. He was still wearing his chief's feathered headdress and had a rubber “war axe” that he brandished to the ceiling. The dainty beauty below him, whose ancestry hailed back to the Indians of Mumbai rather than the Indians of the Iroquois Confederacy, was at a similar state of pleasure. It wasn't long before a sizable puddle of her owner's spendings began to collect beneath Avanti's butt.

Looking across at the carnal goings-on, Diana muttered to Danny, “I've got the itch so bad.”

Danny had had the limits as to how far he and his huntress could go drummed into him quite thoroughly, and wasn't willing to risk enforced separation from this delightful creature by violating those rules. He couldn't touch her, she couldn't touch him, but they could touch themselves. Her fourteenth birthday seemed so far away, but he gritted his teeth and for the umpteenth time decided to wait. “There are two nice tables over there,” he pointed out, indicating a pair of Ruhlmann reproduction art deco tables. Each looked more than strong enough to bear her weight.

"Looks good,” Diana decided, and turned to Clarisse. “Join me!” she challenged.

"Um, isn't that, like, against the rules?” a suddenly terrified and mortified Clarisse asked. Unlike Diana, she was still wearing clothes, specifically a frilled shirt and an embroidered pair of jeans.

"Ask your sponsor.” Diana was not going to let this rest, obviously.

Reluctantly, hoping that Samantha would say “No,” Clarisse poked her head above the back of the couch. A naked Samantha was lying down, having temporarily exhausted Diana's mother. Her eyes were glittering with amusement.

"Yes,” Samantha advised her. “You have my permission.” As the girl reddened, Samantha reminded her, “The AI know all, they see all, and they tell all. The ultimate swami.” She then nodded toward the tables. “Go ahead. It'll get it out of your system, and then you'll have a good night's rest.”

There were now a few people looking at the pair of 12-year-olds, making Clarisse very nervous. She slunk behind the couch again and stripped in some privacy, and raced to join Diana, who was climbing atop one of the two tables.

It didn't take long for Clarisse to get over her initial shyness, with a very enthusiastic Diana putting on the show of a lifetime standing atop the table next to hers. The beat from the speakers combined with the strobe lighting and artificial fog formed a cocktail as intoxicating as any course of shooters. Soon Clarisse was in her own little world, one filled with wonderful sensations and happy thoughts.

After that display, it was almost anticlimactic to walk back to their pods at two in the morning that young Cadet Sergeant Bachelor gave his date a chaste peck on the cheek before bidding her good evening into her own pod.

The crews of the corvette and the research ship had disappeared into the nexuses for their respective ships, docked in orbit. It was more of a pain for the Caldicot Castle, for that vessel had yet to be retrofitted with transporters and the crews first had to transport over to the station and then enter their ships. Both the CSS Arthur C. Clarke and the CSS Caldicot Castle were now on their way to Hesperus on their still “most secret” mission. Most of their concubines and all of their dependants were now Samantha's responsibility.

"I felt naughty, getting up and doing... ah... that in front of everyone,” Clarisse confessed. “I hope Mom doesn't find out. She'll be pissed.”

"I'll take care of her,” Samantha promised. “Yes, she'll find out, if she hasn't already, but it's not her decision whether or not you could. Besides, you're still a virgin, right?”

Clarisse blushed scarlet, but smiled broadly as she nodded in the affirmative.

"And now you know how to handle a case of the hornies, right? They can look but they can't touch.”

Clarisse nodded in comprehension, then decided to change the subject before her face caught fire from embarrassment. “Should I carry her?” she asked about Allison, asleep in Samantha's arms.

"No, I've had enhancements you won't get until you're fourteen. She feels as light as a feather to me.”