Chapter 5 – Embarkation

Fleet Auxiliary Sergeant Moretti proved to be a tough, no-nonsense willowy blond named Elena. She was quite obviously less than impressed with her assignment to handle Sandy and Lyn, feeling it to be the last straw on top of her ship's demeaning assignment of herding cats in the form of some fifteen hundred concubines plus associated offspring.

"That damned Whitefeather and his crew a' cutups have been planning this clusterfuck for months now, and then they decide to add to the total at the last minute,” she groused to Sandy as Lyn lined up to take the shot. “Not your fault, though. I probably won't get a chance t' see this TV show, neither.” Elena took a breath in. “OK, meet public.”

Putting as pleasant a face as she could, the hard-bitten sergeant began to explain what they were about to see. “Down on Earth, if the twits followed the plan, we should have a line of concubines and kids streamin' out a' that transporter nexus. Each concubine will be wearin' a collar like dis, wit' a coloured band showin' which of the corridors ya belongs ta. Here's yours.”

With that, both Lyn and Sandy quickly found themselves wearing soft padded collars with a blue band.

"Don' take it off, ya won't like what it does.”

"What does it does, er do?” asked Sandy.

"Boom,” Elena said calmly, miming the device exploding. “Pop.” She mimed a detached head falling from her neck to the floor. “Like I said,” as a shocked Lyn and Sandy delicately touched the collars, “ya don't want ta try ta take it off. Besides, it tracks ya, lets us know where ya are, and lets us an' t'AI talk t'ya.”

She showed them two other devices she held in her hand. “T'wrist bands come in two types. T'big ones, they're for kids from five to thirteen. They include communications, so's we an' t'AI can talk to them. T'small ones, they're for kids under five. Light as a hospital wrist band, they just include tracking devices. If a momma gets separated from her kid, we can find t'kid and get t'two reunited right quick. Tough li'l beggars, the babies' wrist bands don't cut easy. Once they're on, they're on until we says so.”

"OK,” she continued, “The girls'll be wearin' collars, an' t'kids wristbands. They hop outta the transporter nexuses, lines up on the little dots on the floor in t'assembly room here.” As she led them into the assembly room, even ranks of dots filled the floor. “Once t'dots are all filled wit' concubines and kids over five, we know we got 'em all. T'AI knows which pod they belong to and will send 'em to the right pod. You saw t'names on t'bunks?”

Sandy nodded.

"Well, they've known for months now that they're goin', and have been doin' drills. This is supposed to go smooth as silk.” Elena rolled her eyes, clearly disbelieving that everything would go “smooth as silk”.

The transporter console beeped, and Elena checked it out. “Ah, they're ready t'go. Let's see what kind a' cock-up they can make a' this.” She joined the Fleet Auxiliary corporal behind the console. “Believe me ladies, ya'll want t'be standin' out a t'way.”

Just as Sandy and Lyn took station beside Sergeant Moretti, excited women started tumbling out of the nexuses and running to the assembly hall.

"WALK!” commanded the sergeant loudly, glowering at the nervous mass. “Walk, dammit! Don't run! We gots all night, no need t'panic.”

Sandy noted that every female above the age of thirteen wore a grey shapeless concubine shift. The kids, male and female, wore red shifts that were actually sized to them, coming down to their knees, with the child's name emblazoned on the back and in the front, in smaller letters on the upper left. Across the front, in big bold black letters, the universe was advised that these children were “Confederacy Leaders in Training.”

"Ah, that's Whitefeather's li'l joke,” Elena advised Sandy when the wording was pointed out. “Spell out the first initials.”

"C, L, I, T... oh, I get it.” Sandy made a face. “So now to the medical tubes?”

"They've been in t'tubes already. Before we got here, t'girls were transported ta t'base on this South Seas island hideaway. They were given their lectures there, taken through t'med tubes, drilled while they waited for us t'get here.”

"And now they're all on board?” Sandy asked.

"No, there's about fifteen hundred concubines with tons a' kids. This is just the forward half a'the ship's cargo, an' less than a quarter of that. We couldn't handle them faster.”

Elena led the way to the assembly hall, where women and children were occupying the little dots, looking expectantly at the calm blond.

"OK, everyone's on board for t'Blue Ring. Ya know what your pod numbers are, and if ya forgot, ask through your collars and t'AI will tell ya. Let's move it out.” She turned to Sandy and Lyn. “You too. We gotta lot more to load in, an' I want it done quick. Join t'herd a' cats.”

When Sandy and Lyn finally got back to their pod, they found it bustling. Of the twenty-four bunks, two were quads and another two were doubles. The pod population consisted of eight infants, four children under 10 years of age, four more between 10 and 13, twelve teenage concubines and four senior concubines. It scared the two former television news staff to realize they were half of the handful of truly “adult” adults.

They also noted that of the dependants, three of the non-infants were boys. It wasn't difficult to tell the difference: as soon as they entered the pods, all of the kids doffed their scarlet shifts and threw the shapeless rags into the replicator. Sandy realized instantly that the shifts really weren't needed: the concubines all had those nasty explosive collars, and the dependants had the wristbands. The children all seemed to be comfortable being nude in this confined setting.

Charlie was at first terrified at the massive invasion, but shortly discovered the kids liked to play – and wanted to play with him. Lyn's kitten was soon enjoying himself

"Hello, there,” one of the other two older concubines greeted the pair. “You weren't on that island, were you?”

"No,” Sandy confessed, “we're very new concubines – just this morning.”

"Ah, fresh meat!” the woman's eyes flashed with unholy glee. “I'm Wendy Chambers, formerly of Vancouver, Washington. Who are you, and where are you from?”

"She's Lyn MacDonald, and I'm Sandy Hause. I'm a reporter for KROA-TV in Brookings, and she's my cameraman.” Sandy looked hopeful. “Maybe you've seen me?”

Wendy chuckled. “You were a reporter for KROA-TV in Brookings. Sorry, no, I don't recall seeing you at all. Where's Brookings?”

"South Dakota.”

"Ah, that explains it. We don't get any South Dakota stations in Vancouver.” Wendy sighed. “It would have been good if you'd had the concubine courses on Earth, but for now let's run through the rules. While we're on this tub, we're not 'unassigned', we're simply 'in transit'. The ship's crew can only have sex with you if you consent, and frankly the code for 'I consent' is to not bother with the concubine shift in the main lounge. They'll know you're a concubine by the collar, of course. You can go nude undisturbed in the Mess or in the corridors, and any time you're nursing a baby. Understand, so far?”

Both girls nodded.

"Now, when it comes to kids and sex, mitts off if they're twelve or under. Thirteen, you can do whatever they explicitly want, but nothing goes in anyone's vagina – not fingers, not pricks, not strap-ons. Same rules as you'd have with a normal Confederacy household, got it?”

Both women got it.

"Also, let's say some mother here is out in the main lounge having her pipes cleaned, and you agreed to watch her kids until she's through. You stay with the kids until relieved, got it? It's important on this bucket because there's so many of us, it's easy for a kid to get lost.”

Sandy and Lyn nervously confirmed their comprehension.

"Now, sex between concubines is purely voluntary. Both of you have to want it.” She looked around significantly. “We've all got experience, so it's not as embarrassing for us as you, but the rule is that you can sixty-nine anywhere your little hearts desire – except on someone else's bunk.

"Other than that, you help Bea and I keep the under-18 crowd in this pod in some sort of order. Look to us for guidance. We'll try not to leave you two alone with these piranhas.”

Lyn looked around nervously. The brunette in the bunk at eye-level beside the pair regarded them with lust-filled eyes, her hand openly fondling her labia.

"Don't mind Terry,” Wendy explained as she saw who the nervous camerawoman was eyeing. “She's pregnant, and you know how horny pregnant women get.”

"No,” confessed Lyn, “but over the next nine months, I think I'm going to find out.” At Wendy's cocked eyebrow, Lyn added, “Last weekend was... um... fun.”

"Hey, Terry, see?” challenged another young, naked concubine. “And you were worried you wouldn't have enough playmates.”

Lyn, observing the triumphant, feral look on Terry's face, was not exactly reassured. The scent of multiple aroused females added to both her arousal and her disquiet.

The young woman was tired – preparations for the dramatic tripling of the colony were wearying. And despite the fact that supper had already ended, her work day still had some hours left to run. She needed to meet with various committees that included not just officers, but concubines and junior ranks as well. She couldn't meet with them in the Officers' Mess without having to obtain the Mess President's permission. The Governor's boardroom was more-or-less fully booked, so she took advantage of her position and called the meetings in the Beauty Saloon. It had the additional advantage that she could also oversee her charges in the only mixed brothel and family restaurant in the known universe.

Across from the table from her, Principal Winnie – soon to be School Director Winnie, with responsibility expanded to cover all dependant educational facilities in the four domed villages – was reviewing the preliminary plans for the expansion currently under way. Lieutenant Carruthers was also a party at the table, as any required changes would have to be performed by his personnel. A three-dimensional hologram model of the standard school, with proportionate representations of humans indicating scale, sat on the cleared table in front of them. Because they were working, all at the table were enjoying mocktails rather than alcoholic beverages.

"I think we'll need a larger locker room and shower, Sam,” Winnie was opining. “We do have a lot of standard package Marines come for swims in the off hours, and just what in the world is that?”

Both officers looked up at Winnie, and then followed her eyes to the entrance of the Saloon. Two Marine-package centurions had just entered. Not Civil Service centurions, though: ancient Roman centurions, complete with short swords and plumed helmets, looking for all the world as if they'd just come off duty from keeping watch on Hadrian's Wall.

"Well, you don't see that every day,” Samantha noted.

The two “Roman soldiers”, plumed helmets under their left arms, strode up purposefully to the bar, raised their right arms, and loudly intoned, “Hail Caesar!”

Gladys, the concubine tending bar that evening, was an older mothering type who had seen many antics from her first crop of now-grown children, and as a result was difficult to fluster. She regarded the apparitions before her gravely. “Hail,” she responded evenly. “What can I get you?”

"I'd like a martinus,” the man on the right requested.

"Oh, God,” Gladys muttered. “I think I know where this is going.” Louder, she asked, “Don't you mean a martini?”

"No,” came the straight-faced reply. “I'm only having one.”

"Of course. And to eat, as if I couldn't guess?”

"I'll have a pizzum,” the first soldier decided.

"I'll have a pizzum too,” added the second.

"Riiiight. Two pizza.” Gladys rolled her eyes. “OK, which one is Wayne, and which one is Shuster?”

The fantastically dressed pair pointed behind them to the Beauty Saloon's entrance, and responded in unison, “He is.”

The figure that had just arrived was dressed in a pinstripe uniform, a large bat over his shoulder. With that cue, he launched into, “A hit, a hit, my kingdom for a hit! Once more, to hear the welcome crack of bat upon the ball, and then to run for first, to second, and then to third, and then to dig for home. To slide, slide, slide!”

"Ah, right,” Gladys nodded knowingly. “Shakespearian Baseball, mixed with Rinse the Blood Off My Toga.” She grabbed the one centurion's arm and affected a Brooklyn accent. “If I told him once, I told him a thousand times. 'Julie, Julie, Julie don't go!'”

Winnie couldn't help chiming in with, “Will not all great Neptune's oceans wipe these bloody puns from my ears!”

Half the audience cracked up, those familiar with the cultural reference laughing hardest of all.

"I suppose I've got Mirelle to thank for this little exercise?” Samantha queried. Mirelle was the Arts teacher, who also doubled as the adviser to the children's Drama Club and director of the local theatrical troupe, the Acteurs Pathétique.

"Yes,” Winnie confirmed. “This month's entertainment is a revival of Wayne and Shuster. The Acteurs Pathétique are doing several skits, updated to be topical. This was just advertising.”

Samantha nodded, as the AI subvocally explained exactly who Johnny Wayne and Frank Shuster were. Both had passed away years before she was born.