Chapter 2: Monday

Major MacAllistor entered Tribune Whitefeather's office. Splashed up on the walls were displays of three CAP scores, plus various charts and graphs.

"Tell me, have you gotten any sleep since last night?" he asked, handing the Tribune a cup of coffee and a doughnut. "There you go, one Timmy's double-double and a sour cream glazed. Direct from Ottawa." The Tribune had long ago introduced his Marine counterpart, as Scottish as haggis, to the Canadian coffee-and-doughnut culture; it was now an indispensable part of their planning sessions.

"Thanks, and no, I haven't. I need this." As he downed the "double-double" coffee, cooled by a double dose of creme and sugar, he pointed to the screen in front of him. "That nudist colony her family goes to..."

"Yes?"

"It's tempting."

"If you're into that sort of thing, yes I guess it is. Sex everywhere."

"It's not the type of place you're thinking of," disagreed the Tribune. "They go to a family resort, so all the sex is behind closed doors. Lots of ankle biters there, whose Mommies and Daddies don't want their sweet innocent rug rats seeing people openly committing acts of parentage. Anybody going there thinking it's a sex resort are politely but firmly asked to go elsewhere." He took another sip, feeling much more human with the infusion of high-grade caffeine. "No, what makes this situation tempting are the CAP scores. Here, look at this. Seventy-six family units have cottages at this resort, each one with at least one parent scoring a minimum of 6.5, in many cases both parents are over the limit, and their offspring tend to as well. We could scoop the entire resort, leave nobody, and still need to rustle up about another twenty or thirty concubines."

Major MacAllistor stared at the results, whistling. "AI, is this a listing of who has a cottage at the resort, or who is there physically right now?"

"This analysis is of the family units who have cottages at the resort, plus resort staff," responded the emotionless voice of the AI.

"In addition we have a very favourable security situation," the Tribune pointed out. "Everyone's nude except staff, so the only weapons most would be able to conceal would be in purses. Plus, the resort is surrounded by a high fence, so we don't need an interdiction field around a large area."

"Interesting," the tall Marine mused. Tribune Whitefeather had just touched on the two areas the Marine extraction teams had to worry about the most - trouble from Earth First trying to stop the extractions, and trouble from people who wanted desperately to be included IN the extractions.

"I should go down for a nap in a couple of hours, after the effects of the double-double wear off. I'm meeting with Doctor and Doctor Haywood after they get their other two spawn scored." He yawned. At this stage, caffeine wasn't working for long. "The AI is expecting that around six this evening they'll be done."

Two other screens were displayed on available wall space near the screens bearing the photos and CAP score details of Doctor Benjamin Haywood, PhD, CAP Score 9.1, Doctor Marianne Haywood, MD, FACS, CAP Score 8.9, and Miss Marcie Haywood, PITA, CAP score 8.7. The two other screens bore the pictures of two youngsters about 10 and 8, and the names Melodie Haywood, CAP score 'pending', and Carrie Haywood, CAP score 'pending', respectively. Major MacAllistor studied the screens, and finally turned a puzzled visage to the Tribune.

"I understand 'FACS' means 'Fellow of the American College of Surgeons', but what does 'PITA' stand for?"

"'Pain in the ass'," responded Whitefeather with a straight face.

The Major did not crack a smile either, but merely nodded understandingly.

Tribune Whitefeather was sitting next to Marianne Haywood at one of two poolside tables on their expansive property. To make things more comfortable for everyone, he was wearing cargo shorts and a casual shirt, rather than his grey Civil Service uniform.

Marcie and Melodie sat at the second poolside table, and Carrie was stretched out on a chaise lounge, soaking in the sun. Marcie tapped away on a netbook while she worked on a term paper. Ten-year-old Melodie was using old-fashioned pencil-and-paper, using a textbook that to the Tribune looked positively loaded with mathematical formulae. To Tribune Whitefeather's discomfiture, all of the Haywood women were nude. He was used to adults, but children for some reason made him uncomfortable.

At least Ben was wearing something, the Tribune consoled himself. Then Ben turned back to the barbecue to tend to the steaks, and Whitefeather realized that the apron was all the man had on. It was the Tribune, from a culture where nudity was common and the rules of decency common on Earth didn't exist, who was overdressed.

"Marcie, can you help me with this concept?" begged Melodie.

As the Tribune listened in, Marcie quickly lost him in a web of high-level mathematics, which Melodie seemed to grasp with comparative ease. Within minutes Melodie seemed to have a firm grasp on the material. "What is Melodie taking?" begged Whitefeather of the girl's mother.

"AP Calculus," she responded proudly.

"And she's how old again?"

"Ten."

"Ah." He winced.

"Food's up!" announced Ben, and the family and their guest started to chow down on perfectly cooked steaks and a fine Australian merlot. The three girls got "cut" glasses of half wine and half water.

The conversation was wide-ranging, and the Tribune found himself being quizzed on the status of the War. Before he could talk about the tentative plans that the Confederacy had for the family, though, Ben and Marianne began discussing extraction procedures.

"We know that between us we are eligible for fourteen concubines, and expected to get as many kids as possible out of them and myself, but there is one request if you're having a special extraction," Marianne challenged.

"Yes, Ma'am? I can't promise much, but I'll see what I can do."

"We don't want the kids, especially Carrie as she's eight, witnessing the somewhat carnal goings-on that most extractions include."

"Mom," Carrie protested, "that would interfere with my field work for my class term paper!"

"What class?" both Marianne and Tribune Whitefeather chorused.

"AP Biology."

"I just know I'm going to regret this," Marianne confessed to the Tribune. "Term paper on what, exactly?"

"'Alterations in Mating Behaviour of Species Homo Sapiens Sapiens in High-Stress Environments.'"

"Somehow I don't think that's part of AP Biology, love."

"I'm trying to get them to expand the syllabus," Carrie defended herself. "The high schools can be SO unimaginative." She rolled her eyes in mock annoyance as her sisters snickered.

"She's how old?" asked a bemused Tribune.

"Eight." She nodded at her youngest. "For last year's science fair, she did, and I quote, 'An Analysis of the DNA Sequencing of the Flora of the Alimentary Canal of Varanus komodoensis.' The zoo in Toronto has a breeding colony of komodoensis, she had them take swab and fecal samples. She batted her big brown eyes at the eggheads at MIT, and got to borrow a gene sequencer and a lab assistant familiar with the safe handling of high-risk biological samples - which Varanus komodoensis definitely falls into. She got an award for detail and originality, and her research is currently being used as the foundation for a larger worldwide study being conducted through the Royal Ontario Museum."

The Tribune blinked. "And just what IS this Varanus whatchamacallit when it's home?"

The AI implant and Carrie responded in unison. "Komodo dragon."

"Ah...." He winced - yes, Kodomo dragons had a very nasty bite - and turned back to Marianne. "She's eight, you said?"

Marianne calmly nodded her head as she masticated the steak. Tribune Whitefeather decided that a change in topic was in order.

"We're looking at relocating you to a planet that is both on the far side of the Earth from the Sa'arm invasion route, and is somewhat, shall we say, unappetizing as a potential invasion target."

He had the family's full attention. "And what kind of world would this be?" asked Ben, as he took a swig of his merlot.

"The water world of Atlantis. It's a planet that is almost entirely covered by ocean, hence the name. There are a small handful of islands located near the equator, in a nice tight grouping, and large areas of fairly flat undersea mounds scattered hither and yon. The water at this point in time is lifeless, as are the islands."

"Sounds neat." Melanie's eyes were glowing with excitement.

"There's just an engineering squad there now building the geofronts and support elements. You and your fellow sponsors and their concubines will be heading out shortly. Your jobs will be administrative, urban planning, setting up the school system, figuring out where the hospital goes, that sort of thing. We'll want you and the kids extracted as fast as possible. Not only for your family's high CAP scores, but the Governor should be starting on the job as soon as possible."

"And just who is going to be the Governor?" asked Ben. He chased down the question with a last mouthful of wine.

"A man named Benjamin Haywood." The Tribune's eyes grew merry.

As his family gasped in surprise, Ben swished the wine around in his mouth, and finally swallowed it. It was only by good fortune that he hadn't exhaled the merlot.

"OK, so I'm the governor. Where's my staff?"

"Probably scattered hither and yon right now, but this Saturday we expect that they'll be with their families at the potluck dinner at that nudist colony you belong to."

"'Naturist resort'," Ben corrected distractedly. "So you're telling me that you plan to extract everyone at Pine Point Resort this weekend?"

"Yes, and fairly quickly too. We'll want everyone on board the Princess Sophia within an hour from start of extraction."

"Most won't have time to fill out their concubine slots, even if we were to give a warning of some sort. How do you plan on increasing that?"

"Oh, I have a staff member working on that minor issue."

Ben blinked. "I'm all ears."

'So am I,' thought Tribune Whitefeather. 'So am I.'

On the John Cabot, Sub-Decurion Anthony Chan leaned back in his chair, and started throwing ideas out at Major MacAllistor. "School."

"Done a few times," the Major conceded. "It does work, but we'd need to have some sort of school event. And we tend to get a lot of sponsors. We need concubines."

"Elementary school," Chan shrugged, amending his suggestion. "None of the students will be old enough to go for their CAP testing yet."

"We still get parents and teachers with positive CAP scores."

"Select an inner-city elementary school. We'll have a large percentage of low-cap-score single mothers and a great number of teachers. Most of the mothers have a lower chance of being where our usual extractions occur. Elementary teachers have a tendency toward high but less-than-sponsorship grade CAP scores. We get our elementary school, the volunteers get their concubines, and a shitload of kiddies who normally don't stand a snowball's chance in Hell of getting extracted will get to go to the stars. Shove the excess volunteers aboard the Princess Louise. Win-win-win."

"We still have a lot of space on board Princess Louise, though," the Major objected. "That needs to be filled, and not with general-extraction types yet. And we still need farmers..."

"And submarine operations specialists. And naval air operations specialists. And amphibious assault specialists. Let's pitch using Atlantisat as a Navy and Marine facility to train aquatic-based planet-side forces in Sa'arm interdiction."

"I'd love that, but let's clear it with your boss first."

"How does this sound? We go for an extraction in an agricultural centre?"

"Dangerous, farmers tend to have varmint guns, and tend to regard Confederacy Marines as very-large-scale varmints." The Major snapped his fingers. "That inner-city one might be the ticket, however. We'll just let a local cop know we're interested in guys who have been running grow-ops. That'll get us specialists in hydroponics."

"No way," Chen shook his head firmly. "They also tend to have CAP scores that are borderline pathological. But..."

"'But'?"

"There are those who aren't pathological, who are being forced into this. Let me make a phone call. We might be able to scratch the back of someone in law enforcement."

MacAllistor looked at the clock. "Time for a Timmie's run. Your turn I believe."

"Large black no sugar with a cruller, right? And Bill takes his double-double with a sour cream glazed?"

"And you'd better bring back a 48 of Timbits. It's going to be a long night."

"I'll get it from Brantford. They don't know me there, plus it's not raining. Halifax has a weather front a mouse couldn't get through."