Chapter 7 - Wednesday

Major MacAllistor reflected that it was certainly easier, post-extraction, to get up and moving in the morning: no need to shave. The nanites kept facial hair under perfect control.

Still, it did take some effort to kick-start oneself if you hadn't gotten enough sleep, and thanks to the previous day's combination of sixteen special extractions and his two horny concubines, he was running on empty. He blearily glared at the platoon of Marines preparing for the morning's extraction in this hangar deck of the Sir Caradoc.

It was with relief that he welcomed the delivery of a black-no-sugar and a toasted whole-wheat bagel from one of Halifax's finer coffee shops. Beside him at the maintenance workbench so did Tribune Whitefeather and Sub-Decurion Chan with their double-double and English breakfast tea.

At a signal from Whitefeather, the sergeant called his platoon to attention.

"Stand easy, everyone. Today's target is a school having a sports day. We expect a lot of parents to be there. This is one of our patented 'scoops', taking everyone there, regardless of CAP score. We'll start with the routine extraction, which will be aimed at the Aurora-class Princess Yukiko, then before we break free we'll scoop the remaining potential concubines who want to be extracted over to the Kilo-class City of Paris. You can tell the spare concubines that they'll be given standard medical checks, any remaining children under 14 who aren't with them will be extracted, as will their now-ex-spouses and any offspring under the age of 18 who want to join them, especially if their own CAP scores are over six point four. Any questions?"

"What if the kids are there and the parents aren't?" asked one private.

"Good question, some of you have been paying attention. A lot of parents won't be there. There'd better be some parent either home or at their workplace, or the kid isn't going anywhere. We aren't taking any child without at least one parent or guardian. We'll move heaven and Earth to find them, of course."

"What if we encounter any other extractable people at our dependant pick-ups?"

"Take any target of opportunity, especially if they have a CAP score in the volunteer range. Offer to pick up pre-packs as well."

The sergeant realized something. "What if the concubines down there are part of a pre-pack, and don't have their sponsors with them?"

"We contact the sponsor, and grab him and his pre-pack. If we by some luck fill the Princess Yukiko, we'll have spare space on the City of Paris, and there's always more Auroras and Kilos coming. Anything else?"

Nobody could think of anything.

"I know these special scoops have inherent dangers that normal extractions don't have, so please, be extra-careful out there. Don't be sparing on the stingers - if you make a mistake and sting the wrong person, you won't have to worry about it, we'll take all the unconscious and sort 'em out in orbit. I don't want anyone dead, unless they've got a CAP score of nothing-point-one. They're no big loss."

The ship's bell tolled one bell on the forenoon watch: 8:30 AM. The ship's AI announced, "Extraction site is having its assembly right now. All children are on the playing field, as are the parents and teachers. One office staff is currently working in the building. Number of potential extractees present: seven sponsors, one hundred twelve concubines, four hundred twenty-three dependants. Please note that not all dependants appear to have a parent present. Ready for interdiction field activation."

"Activate interdiction field in ten seconds. Let's go people!"

The sergeant and corporal added their bellows. "Let's go, lock and load! Weapons safeties OFF, set for stun, double time! MOVE, you turkeys!!" The troops vanished one by one into the four transporters, to emerge at the four corners of the school yard for maximum shock value.

Tribune Whitefeather turned to the Major. "See you later."

Major MacAllistor grunted. "Good luck with your scoop this afternoon." He paused before he entered the nexus. "I wonder how many concubines from this lot we'll have to recycle?" He then vanished from the Sir Caradoc.

The Tribune and the Sub-Decurion had a much easier morning. Although the company standing by to back up the team at the elementary school could be called upon to back them up too, the pair needed no Marine presence.

They arrived in a Washington, DC CAP scoring centre and proceeded by ground car to the courthouse. Entering by a discreet side entrance, they made their way to Courtroom 203.

The crowd in the courtroom were typical for any court at any time: court recorder, bailiff, prosecutor, a number of attorneys representing the defendants scheduled to be seen that day, the defendants' next of kin, a handful of witnesses and, due to the Confederacy involvement in the case, about a dozen officers armed with tasers and billy clubs. The judge had not arrived yet; the defendants cooled their heels next door, some conferring with their lawyers.

Whitefeather introduced himself to the prosecutor, Lionel Whittaker.

"The judge will enter in about ten minutes. She lives for pomp and circumstance, so enters precisely on time. The first case is yours; the court seems panicked in dealing with Confederacy and gave it highest priority."

One of the defence attorneys strode over, trying to curry favour with the intimidatingly tall Tribune. "Is there anything we can do to make this right, Sir?" he enquired, smiling ingratiatingly.

"You shouldn't be here, Herb," reminded Lionel.

"Screw off, Whittaker," advised Herb pleasantly.

The Tribune regarded the unctuous advocate with some distaste. "You represent all three of the defendants?"

"Yes, I do. Friends of the family."

"You need a better class of friend," Sub-Decurion Chan advised sotto voce.

"Well, Herb, your clients did enter a restaurant in which the occupants were busily engaged in the heinous and callous act of eating lunch and did advise them in no uncertain terms that they were to make a cash donation to your clients' favourite charity, to wit: themselves. To encourage the donations to be as generous as possible, they did wave around handguns which on closer inspection were proved to be very real if somewhat of the more budget-minded scale in terms of quality, and fully loaded. They did so in full view of the restaurant's robbery prevention video system, a Tribune of the Confederacy Civil Service, and his AI, to say nothing of the patrons and staff, which not incidentally included a retired United States Marine Corps Colonel. They were rendered unconscious by said Tribune's stinger, and were the only three left at the end of the extraction. Now, I could, theoretically, extract them into space as somebody's concubine..."

Herb continued to smile, weakly, as Whitefeather pretended to seriously consider the option.

"But, frankly, they'd probably be breathing vacuum within eight hours. They're likely to last far longer if they plead guilty and stay here than if they leave the planet. Mr. Whittaker, would you like me to relieve you of those three, ah, gentlemen?"

"Nothing would please me more." To prove his point, Whittaker pointed to the records of all three, a prodigious pile that threatened the structural integrity of the prosecutors' table.

Herb cleared his throat nervously. "I'll advise my clients to plead guilty."

Whitefeather nodded understandingly. "Very wise."

As Herb scurried off to consult with his clients, Whitefeather turned to Chan. "Personally, I think he's got the best friends he deserves. Did you check out his CAP score?" Chan smirked as Whitefeather turned to the baffled prosecutor. "Three point two. Not far away from his three 'old family friends'. He's Swarm Chow."

Just then, with an "All rise!" from the bailiff, Judge Bethany Jamal strode purposefully into her courtroom, sat herself down elegantly and placed her readers on the bridge of her nose.

"I see we are graced with the uniformed services of the Confederacy," she remarked. "Is this an extraction or just a court case?"

"Just a case, your honour," Lionel Whittaker advised evenly. "Tribune Whitefeather is a witness in an attempted restaurant robbery." 'As if you didn't already know,' he thought to himself. She was as nervous as any of them in handling the Confederacy, but hid it well.

Tribune Whitefeather turned to the prosecutor and addressed him with extemely formal politeness. "Mr. Whittaker, would you be so kind as to ask the judge for permission to approach the bench? You are an officer of the court, and I have a request to make."

Judge Jamal didn't even wait, but gestured the Tribune forward. He steered Whittaker with him.

"Your honour," Whitefeather whispered, "We need to make certain enquiries of a young lady scheduled before your court later this morning, and I'd rather not say why. Just, if you could see your way clear to allowing my aide Sub-Decurion Chan to interview her in a secure setting sometime before her case is heard?" He handed her and the prosecutor a piece of paper bearing a single name.

"Bailiff, when is this case scheduled to be heard?" Judge Jamal waved the paper under the bailiff's nose. He consulted the schedule on his clipboard.

"Right after these three." As 'these three' were the restaurant robbers, that meant it was the second case.

"We may need a couple of hours with her, and I'm strongly suspicious that the first case will take about fifteen seconds to resolve. Perhaps after you have finished, my aide can spend some time with her, before she's released or taken back to cells?"

Her Honour nodded, and the day started. The first case took ten minutes from reading of the charges to admissions of guilt. It turned out that nobody needed to testify at all. The three were bound over for sentencing.

The day started late for Marcie Haywood, but she sat happily if tiredly inhaling an iced cappuccino in the lecture hall at about 10:30. Beside her, Linda Waters fought to stay awake.

"Why are you so tired?" Marcie demanded.

"Banging the boyfriend last night. We were up until waaay late." She stretched in a feline manner, luxuriating in the muscle stretch. Chet had been very athletic. "You?"

"Dad made Mom's bells ring last night but good. They were so preoccupied, they didn't notice their daughters had front row seats."

Linda's snicker stretched into a full laugh. "Glad I don't have kids yet."

"Give it time. Speaking of fucked, if we're both like this, then the sculling team's going to be royally fucked this aft." Marcie took on a rueful look. Both she and Linda were on the ladies' rowing team.

"And Jenny." Jenny, Linda's roommate, was also on the rowing team. "She came in after we finished, and while we pretended to sleep she took on Rock. He was Rock-like where it counted." She pointed to Jenny, who was definitely hors de combat two rows back. Fortunately she didn't snore when asleep.

"Yes," Marcie concluded. "We're fucked."

"But it felt so gooood!" Linda replied. "Say, when do you get to do the nasty?"

"One year, two months, sixteen days, thirteen hours and twenty-five minutes. Oh, look, Professor Tompkins is five minutes late."

"You know to the hour? Do you know when you start masturbating?"

"In the womb - everyone does. We've got sonograms of foetuses jilling and jacking off. Hey, what can I say - we're a sexual species."

Linda's mind went 'tilt' at that concept as the professor strode in to start the lesson.