Chapter 17 – Birth of a Nation

Decurion Samantha Redburn arrived at the Medical Inspection Room at 03:42 hours as a result of an emergency summons. Navy corpsman Corporal Sheena James was on duty, and as it was a busy one, she'd requested assistance from all possible fronts.

“What the hell?” Samantha exclaimed. The room was filled with women giving grunts of discomfort, lying on all nine medical tubes.

“No, don't take her here,” pleaded Sheena to the ceiling. “AI, do we have a tube available at Scott's M.I.R.?”

“Negative, Corporal James. All medical tubes at Scott Base Medical Inspection Room are currently occupied.”

Sheena grunted as the pregnant concubine in Med Tube Three squeezed her hand. “Push, honey. Won't be much longer now.” She turned to Samantha. “They started showing up at the start of my shift. A third of the corpsmen are in the Hesperusat system, so we're running short-handed like crazy. Can you help with tubes seven and nine?”

As the odd-numbered tubes were placed down one side of the room and the even-numbered on the opposite wall, that meant Samantha was placed between two tubes. She discovered she was trying to comfort and midwife her mother and aunt. Darjee medical technology made childbirth easier by widening the birth canal and other such labour-shortening tricks, but it still didn't make it easy. There was still a fair amount of effort involved in pushing a volleyball through a toilet paper tube. What a night to have her father out on Hesperus, she thought frantically.

“So where do I take my sister-concubine?” begged an anonymous voice from the speaker, clearly on the verge of complete panic.

“How old are you, honey?”

“F-f-fourteen,” the voice sniffed, sounding impossibly young and scared. “And Daddy's on Hesperus.”

“Fuck,” grunted Sheena. “We need more med tubes.”

“AI, get Carruthers. Put the Governor in the loop,” snapped Samantha. “Notify my concubine Victoria Redburn to attend the pod Corpsman James is talking to.”

“Carruthers,” came his welcoming voice.

“This is Governor Deschenes.”

“Carruthers, we need maternity med tubes. How many, Sheena?”

“We're expecting about three hundred additional expectant mothers to start labour in the next seventy-two hours, most of them within the next twenty-four.” Sheena grimaced. “It has been about nine months since you and your parents were collected,” she reminded Samantha.

“Ah,” responded Samantha. That made sense – most of the first round of pregnancies had been triggered during the bonding time aboard the transport. “AHHH,” she added, as her Aunt Alice felt the incredible need to push, crushing the fingers that Samantha was holding Alice's hand with.

“Trouble, Decurion Redburn?” enquired Michael unflappably.

“I need your approval for emergency requisition of services of sponsors' concubines,” Samantha advised Michael through gritted teeth. Now the fingers on her other hand were being crushed by her mother Monica's vice-like grip. “And Carruthers? I need space to put those three hundred maternity-modified med tubes.”

“Granted,” Michael said laconically.

“AI, how many concubines can I grab who have midwife or obstetrical nursing experience? Add to that any who were doctors back on Earth, especially OB/GYN specialists. Also add all concubines who have taken the midwife sleep-training, with in-class reinforcement. And Carruthers, I need those med beds now, please.”

“Coming,” chirped Carruthers' voice.

“Replicator I-23 has capacity,” called a voice away.

“Yeah, at five friggin' tubes an hour,” Carruthers responded. “That won't work.”

“That orbital replicator that's building warships – just completed the hull and AI for the Floyds Bay. It can pop out over 120 med tubes an hour.”

“And how we gonna get them to the surface?” Carruthers demanded, as pain receptors thundered in Samantha's brain. Her mother and her aunt, each with a death-grip on a hand, were in simultaneous contractions.

“Dribble a line of Kittens across the outlet port of the replicator,” suggested the tech. “Transport the bits and pieces of med tube directly to the martellos.”

“And the Floyds Bay? It doesn't even have station-keeping thrusters.”

“Let it drift for an hour. It can start getting its internal configuration going while it waits for a tow.” The unnamed tech was obviously thinking fast.

“No bloody way am I letting a ship that size just drift.” Samantha heard a snap of fingers indicating an “aha” moment. “We'll put tug kits on some F-105's, and slave their controls to the Floyds Bay AI. AI, will that work?”

“Negative,” came the calm emotionless voice of an AI. “AI on LFR-013 CSS Floyds Bay not yet programmed to handle the six required F-105 Star Arrows. Suggest using AI on space dock.”

“That works. Do it.”

Samantha disconnected her maltreated fist long enough to offer her aunt some ice chips as the AI listed available concubines. “One quarter to immediate shift,” Samantha ordered. “Divide the rest into three other watches, and assign them accordingly, as per ship's watches.”

“Aye, Aye, Decurion Redburn.”

“Sam,” came Vickie's sleepy voice. “What's the problem?”

“Need you to help with a delivery. Pod RM-1935.” The R stood for a Residential pod; the M stood for Marines. That code placed the pod in Camp Shackleton.

“Sure, what is it? Cat? Rabbit?” Sounds of Vickie grabbing her portable medical kit could be heard.

“Human.”

There was a brief pause, as the implications of the single word sank in. “Sam, I'm a vet.”

“Vickie,” Samantha grunted, “she's a mammal. You know, tits, ovaries, birth canal? Like a bunny, only bigger?” Samantha's mother had to push again. Through gritted teeth, Samantha added, “Look, the only other adult there is fourteen and frightened out of her mind. That's whose hand you might have to hold.”

“OK,” Vickie conceded reluctantly. “I'll do my best.”

“Just think of the outfit your daughter wore at the Halloween party.” Eight-year-old Michelle and her classmates had dressed up as the Bunnykins, wearing bunny ears, powder-puff tails, bunny slippers and bunny gloves. And that was all they wore. It was cute and innocent, as was the Bunny Hop type dance choreography they'd done for the crowd's amusement. “It's another two bunnies just like her. Only older.”

“I've been trying to forget about that. If my mother hears that I let her precious eight-year-old granddaughter dance in the nude in front of an audience at a whorehouse, I'm not sure the light-years between here and Earth will be enough to save my hide.”

One thing that none of Samantha's concubines or dependants knew was that their sponsor sent a regular monthly message to their Earth-based next of kin. On November 1^st,, Samantha had sent video of the cute and utterly innocent dance to Vickie's mother. 'AI,' Samantha subvocalized, 'please review my October and November updates to Victoria Redburn's family and confirm that the words 'brothel' and 'whorehouse' were not used.'

Samantha, Sheena and Carruthers sat exhausted around the board room table, their full dress immaculate in Civil Service grey, Navy black and Marine green. It was now 09:15, the troops had been put through their opening drills and around the capacious dome of Camp Shackleton knots of Marine recruits were undergoing foot drills and learning the intricacies of the RLA-1 laser rifle. The artificial sun of the dome was climbing. Another watch of experienced concubines were assisting the Navy corpsmen in dealing with the rush of maternity cases.

But here, in the Governor's board room, these three were just sitting, silently. Carruthers wondered vaguely if there was some way of getting a cigarette – something, anything to keep his hands from fidgeting.

The bulkhead separating the board room from the General's office opened, and Michael Deschenes marched in, accompanied by his secretary concubine. Like his three guests, he wore his full-dress green Marine uniform. The lissome blond was clad in the standard shift, but rather than Concubine Grey, it was coloured Marine green to indicate she was on official duty.

“ROOM!” Carruthers yelled.

“At ease,” Michael ordered as he settled down in the main chair. He turned to the concubine. “Coffees all round. After last night, I think they could use it.”

“Aye, Sir.” The concubine took everyone's order and headed for the replicator built into the wall behind Michael's desk.

Sheena happily accepted her “double-double” - a coffee with two helpings of both sugar and creme. Carruthers stuck to his usual black. Samantha found that caffeine made the twins inside her far too active, and so had permitted Vickie to convert her to a consumer of tea – for some mysterious reason, it didn't over-stimulate the boys. As the concubine placed a steaming mug of classic English breakfast tea in front of the teen, Michael began the meeting.

“I need to have one question answered. Why in the hell were we jolted out of our beds in the middle of the night? Let's start with how this situation began. Corporal James? Can you start this narrative?”

Sheena gulped. The blush of embarrassment was masked by her sable skin. “Sir, I had the watch in the Camp Shackleton M.I.R. from midnight to eight, and was the senior corpsman for both Shackleton and Scott. Normally that's a quiet shift, but we'd already had the first half-dozen pregnant women arrive in labour during the tail-end of the previous shift. By two, it was something like sixteen in labour, four delivered and more reports of initial contractions coming in faster than I could count. When the AI reported we had fifty who would need obstetrical care before the night was through, I called for backup.” She gestured at Samantha.

The young Civil Service officer took that as her cue. “I was summoned because I was the one who could requisition any concubine with midwifery skills, as long as I had the General's permission. That's why you got woken up. And I realized we needed more med tubes, converted to obstetrics configuration, and that meant I needed Carruthers.” She waved her hand at Carruthers.

“We keep staff on duty 24 hours a day,” Carruthers began. “First of all, the manufacturing facilities don't stop just because their human overseers need sleep, and second, there's always some sort of need to tweak the production lines at a moment's notice at any time of the day.” He shrugged. “Not usually this radically at that time of night, however. Anyway, we were able to get the med tube assemblies built and forwarded to a handful of martellos.”

“We now come to the meat of the situation,” Michael observed. “How many martellos, and can they be used as something other than maternity wards?”

Carruthers winced. “Six martellos have twenty med tubes apiece in their assembly halls. I'd say trying to use them as fire support bases will be... problematical.”

Michael nodded soberly. “And setting them up cut into the sleep of almost half the recruits and their trainers.” He leaned back and sipped his coffee. “In another month, we can expect a repeat performance – it'll be eight months since the second draft arrived. And then each of the following four months. Then we'll have a bit of a gap, and then all hell will break loose as those concubines from this mega-draft who became pregnant in transit drop their litters.”

Sheena and Samantha both could see the issue, and made noises of pain.

“In other words,” Michael summed up, “we need at least one if not two maternity hospitals.”

“With staff to man them,” Sheena noted. “What do other colonies do?”

“I haven't read anything about it,” Samantha admitted.

Carruthers interrupted. “I haven't either, but the basic design of a martello allows us to do this.” He called up a cross-section, showing the three levels of a standard martello. The picture hovered over the boardroom table. “We can add a fourth or even more level, with as much headroom as deemed necessary.” The diagram converted to a floor plan, showing a fourth floor. “We can set up these four martellos as maternity wards, with lots of transporter nexuses to handle a high volume of expectant mothers. That'll get the maternity-modified med tubes down out of the way and give the Marines their fire base back. We can make the fourth levels big enough to handle the expected rush, or dig down to a fifth level.”

“And the staff?” Michael challenged.

Samantha considered the issue. “What about designating concubines on call? The senior duty corpsman can order them to duty without having to wake anyone else.”

“Define 'anyone else',” asked Michael.

“You, me, Carruthers.”

Michael pondered the plan. “It works, I think. We'll have to get even more concubines trained for midwife duties.”

As everyone began to rise, he added, “There is one more item. How did we miss this? I mean, the number of fecund females was getting kind of obvious.”

Carruthers blushed. “I should have seen it, but I really don't have any resources for advanced colony design. We're kind of flying by the seat of our pants out here.” He spread his hands defensively. “I'm not a civil planner, I'm a construction and manufacturing wonk. I could use someone to look over my shoulder to try and spot what I'm missing, that the community is going to need.”

“Good point, except urban planners are scarcer in the Diaspora than Civil Service officers.”

“Maybe we need to ask Whitefeather for one,” suggested Samantha with some trepidation.

Michael snorted in derision. “He's likely to send us a breeding stock of goats to keep Bâtisse company. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I just hope I don't 'gain' another podful of pests.”

“For the interim,” Samantha offered, “let me see what I can scare up in the way of an advisory panel from the Concubines' Council. With your permission, of course.”

“Of course. Decurion Redburn. And granted, of course.”

For this, Samantha reflected as she returned to her family pod for a shower and fresh uniform, she would need to get permission from the targeted concubines' sponsors – and she was running out of suitable bribery material. How do you recompense or reward someone when everything was available from a replicator for the asking?

An exhausted Vickie greeted her at the door.

“How did it go?” Samantha wanted to know.

“We managed to get the patient to a med tube in one of those martello things – don't ask me which one. Concubine Doreen Palmer whelped a 4-kilo bitch. Mother and daughter are doing fine.”

“You've delivered too many dogs,” Samantha observed.

“Probably, yes. Aside from Mickey, this was my first human, so it was an adventure not to be missed. Or repeated too often – I've got some kittens being born right now, so if you'll excuse me, I must be going.”

“Right, then, lunch?”

“Probably not, but you never can tell. If the litter comes quickly, it's a 'yes'.”

Just then, Mickey and Allie came rushing back through the still-open pod door, Mickey bearing Samantha's dark-grey cat Smokey.

At Samantha's cocked eyebrow, Mickey explained, “He got loose. We had to chase him down the hall.”

“Smokey,” Samantha fretted, “what are we going to do with you?”

“Go gentle on our little jail breaker. Just remember,” Vickie reminded Samantha, “to err is human, to purr feline.”

“Smokey,” Samantha commanded, pointing at Vickie, “attack.”

Smokey merely looked at them and mewed.

“Dad, are you sure this is going to work?”

“Yes, son, it worked for me when I was a little ol' private.”

“OK. I'll take your word for it. Mind you, thousands wouldn't.” With that, Cadet Company Sergeant Major Daniel Bachelor turned to the ranks of recruits, like him and his father all dressed in sealed, armoured battle suits, looking for all the world like several hundred Apollo astronauts. “You may well wonder what we're doing here.” He hefted the ebony shaft he held in his right hand. “This is going to help you get used to operating in your battlesuits.”

“A golf club?” asked one disbelieving voice.

“Yes.”

“How? Beat us over the head with it?”

“Tempting, but no.” Daniel turned to his father. “Care to demonstrate, Sergeant?”

Roger Bachelor turned to the tee at the firing point of what was normally a standard RLI-1 laser rifle range. “Note the ball,” he said as he presented the orange orb. “The same size as a regulation golf ball, but quite a bit heavier. That's so it doesn't get picked up by the wind and blown all over Hell's half acre.”

Daniel could smell the scepticism, as thick as treacle, despite his sealed battle suit.

With only a modicum of difficulty, his father hauled off a swing that would have done Sam Snead proud. The little dimpled globe flew a respectable distance fairly straight downrange, only kicking up a touch of snow on landing.

“Next,” Batch snapped, pointing the handle to the first victim.