Chapter 12 – Regulations

Samantha emerged slightly bleary-eyed from her bedroom that Monday morning to find her pod filled with angry words of recrimination. Melodie's voice was one of outrage, and Clarisse was sounding defensive. Samantha tugged on her duty uniform jacket as she placed a serious visage on her face. “What's the problem?” she demanded, mentally adding, 'as if I couldn't guess.'

Melodie turned to her sponsor, tugging her shift down to cover her crotch as she did so. “Clarisse's behaviour last night was indecent! Table dancing!” She sniffed indignantly. “I expect better than that from her!”

Samantha had granted the concubines in her pod permission to watch a video feed of the Foxhound Fleet's going-away orgy. She'd anticipated just this reaction from her newest concubine mother, indeed wanted it. Melodie's attitude up to now was still too Earth-centric, and needed to be dragged into that of a proper Diaspora concubine mother's. Penny Deschenes, for example, had cheered on her daughter, thinking the performance cute.

“I gave her permission,” Samantha advised the outraged mother, her voice dangerously even.

“But she didn't have MY permission!” Melodie protested.

“Oh?” Samantha got right in her face, “Who is the sponsor in this pod? You, or me?”

Some of the lectures Melodie had sat through during her trip to Thule came to the forefront. “Ah, you... you are.” She then added in frustration, “But she's still my daughter!”

“And who is the concubine here?”

Melodie gulped a few times before stuttering out, “I... I am....”

“Exactly. The concubine can enforce the rules, but it's the sponsor who sets the rules. If the sponsor says it's OK, then it's OK. In this case, I said it was OK. Do you know why?”

Melodie, worried that she'd overstepped her bounds, shook her head.

“First, because occasionally bleeding off a little of that tension caused by puberty means that she'll be able to postpone doing 'The Deed' until she's actually fourteen. Understand?” Samantha had raised her fingers to indicate quote marks around The Deed. Melodie understood.

“Second, it was to show her – and, not incidentally, you – that one's sexuality is to be embraced, not feared and hidden under taboos and guilt trips. I don't know how often I've had to say this, but whether you're a concubine or a sponsor, job number one is to breed. Some concubines never get this. Some sponsors don't either. But as one of the senior Civil Service officer's concubines, you have to get this through your thick head, and as soon as possible. You are now under explicit orders to take advantage of as many opportunities as possible.”

Melodie looked over at Vickie, hoping the vet would offer her sister concubine some support. Vickie's support, however, was thrown wholeheartedly to Samantha. “My daughter and niece were there too, and I didn't see anything I found objectionable. I would have if I were still on Earth, but there was nothing out of the ordinary for us here in the Diaspora.”

“And finally,” Samantha went on remorselessly, “it was to rub your nose in the fact that you are a concubine. Just as I have to follow the rules for a sponsor, and Clarisse has to follow the rules for a dependant, you need to follow the rules for a concubine. You haven't really clued into that yet, and that's a potentially fatal issue for a concubine. Understand?”

Melodie's eyes had grown large during the harangue. Samantha could see that some comprehension was dawning. It probably wasn't one hundred percent yet, but hopefully it would do for the nonce.

“Now, you've got a goalie class from nine to ten with a couple of strapping young Marines as your assistants, and then a dancing class with Candy from eleven until noon. Between those classes, I want you to take at least one of those strapping Marines and have him show you the Bunny Hutch. See you at the Beauty Saloon at noon.” She paused to observe Melodie's shift. “You're overdressed.”

Melodie blinked at the sudden change of topic, looked down, and rapidly ditched the shift. “Like this?” she asked timidly.

“Much better. You've got a bod to show off now, you should be happy to do so. You'll have to wear pads while on the ice, but other than that, go nuts.” Samantha leaned in close and gave Melodie a comforting hug. “I want you in the pole dancing exhibition next weekend. It'll really help you feel like a part of Thule. I hope you'll be eligible by then.”

There was that pole dancing eligibility again. Melodie's brow furrowed inquisitively.

Aboard the Clarke, now well on its way to Hesperus with its escorting corvette, the crew had long ago discovered that despite the eccentricities of the Science Division, the eggheads were as focused and hard-working as any sailor on any ship in the Confederacy's fleet. Proof of this could be found by the simple expedient of walking through the labs at any time of the day or night, which seemed to be constantly occupied by at least half the Division.

Toddy walked into the ship's mess for lunch. To his astonishment, all of his Science Division were present, for once. Every scientist wore a white lab coat – the concubine scientists wore only the white lab coat, without buttons, the concubine collar and sandals. As he sat down and his shift-clad concubine Trudy placed a napkin across his lap, he took in the conversation. All of the others present were silent as a loud and vigorous debate took place concerning requirements for atmospheric particulates. One of the Science concubines finally started using her finger as a pen, drawing immensely complex formulae on the table in front of her that the AI projected on the wall behind her. She had lost Toddy before she'd finished writing the first line of the formula.

“Gentlemen, please!” Toddy demanded. “Must we talk shop during our meals?”

Lieutenant Payne turned to Toddy and quietly, politely advised him with that Virginia patrician's accent of his, “Unfortunately, we are under a time crunch. Once we get back to Thule we'll be able to relax a bit.” He considered his response for a second. “Maybe.” With that, he turned to the mathematical maven and asked a question of the formula. The discussion sailed even higher over Toddy's head, and the AI was soon adding a rotating 3D animation showing a planet's weather patterns.

Payne finally turned back to Toddy. “You've got my request for orbits?”

“Yes,” Toddy confirmed. “I don't know if you can get them or not. You're asking for some strange ones, and we'll have to get some co-operation from the Fleet commander on the scene.”

“We kind o' need them. Do you know if that Absecon class ship's been assigned to Hesperus? We need at least one o' that, too.”

“I understand we've got two,” responded Toddy.

As Payne went to return to the discussion of the physics of the atmosphere of Hesperus, Toddy interrupted him. “Can you tell me the plan?”

“Broad outlines, anyway. We are tryin' to be flexible.” Payne considered his next words before he spoke. “First, as this is an experiment, we're checkin' to make sure there are no potentially intelligent life forms we might destroy. We don't think there are, but we have to be sure.”

“Ah, and how long should that take?”

“A couple or three weeks. Then we try to create a winter wonderland. That's what we need an Absecon or two for.”

The radar had been up on the other crew. One bolted upright. “Winter wonderland?”

“Yep,” Payne responded. “We're gonna try to create an ice age on the planet.”

The Mess erupted in consternation. “But... but why?” demanded one sailor.

“If it works here, we can use it anywhere,” Payne explained, as calmly as if discussing a topic of no importance.

“Anywhere as in... another planet?” suggested the sailor.

Payne nodded without saying anything.

“Another planet as in... Earth?”

Payne shrugged. “It could work there, but really it's for any Swarm-infested planet with a gaseous atmosphere that either has already or to which we can add lots of the contaminant dihydrogen monoxide. It's sort of the ultimate Doomsday Tactic, for when the Swarm's overwhelmed the last of the planet's survivors.”

“What about this 'dihydrogen monoxide' stuff? Is it poisonous?” Toddy fretted.

“Don't worry,” Payne assured him with a straight face. “It's water-soluble.”

Toddy's Executive Officer, Barry Bothington, mused worriedly, “And what of any surviving humans if you were to launch this 'Doomsday Tactic' on Earth?”

“Those survivin' humans will probably include my mother-in-law,” Payne responded calmly, appearing to consider the issue. “That means Old Scratch will get his due at last. I don't know if that's good or bad for either him or her.”

The laughter was somewhat strained.

“But if you're thinkin' what I think you're thinkin', then you're right. That's the choice facin' Central Command: let the Swarm get 'em, or let the cold do it. Helluva choice, helluva way to die either way. Either way, I doubt if they'll pull the trigger until after we can't get any more off.”

The Mess went silent at that point. Soberly, one by one, the crew and concubines left the compartment to the Science Division and their continued discussions on how to disrupt a planet's natural climate controls.

Sitting in front of the video editing station aboard the Arctic Princess, Sandy Hause shook her blond tresses in frustration. Part of her frustration was caused by her ever-rising sexual desire. Few of the passengers were male, and those that were, were all well under thirteen. Not only was there the proscription against having sex with anyone under thirteen, she was just not into anyone under the legal age in any event. The crew seemed to be all but unobtainable.

Her second source of frustration was the boredom that is interstellar travel. It had quickly become routine, even before yesterday's departure from Earth orbit: make bunks in the morning and get their showers in, then breakfast, then lectures and practical sessions, then lunch, then more lectures followed by supper, with drills interspersed between and during meals and lectures. Some of the lectures were sleep-training sessions, which nobody found particularly restful, and others were conducted by Fleet Auxiliary sailors or their concubines.

And the variety of topics was impressive. They'd had basic and advanced child care, the rank structure of the Armed Forces of the Confederacy, basic military courtesy, part-time jobs available to skilled concubines, and so on. Sandy had seen her schedule for the upcoming week and was simultaneously impressed and terrified by how much had been packed into it. It seemed like every second had her doing something.

Not all classes were what Sandy would have thought essential to a colony's survival. She was pencilled in for several sessions of ballroom dancing – one in the sleep trainer followed by three in a training room. Another set of classes consisted of training on pole dancing. Sandy had today taken her first class in protective martial arts – the sensei being a Fleet Auxiliary with a standard Marine two-metre-tall enhancement package. She didn't realize until it was explained to her that she was being trained to properly protect her future sponsor's property and dependants.

In the evening, back in the common rooms of the pods, entertainment in the form of movies was provided. At first the two newcomers were startled about how many of the movies were Earth porn, and how there was no control about what ages were permitted to watch, but they quickly learnt in the lectures that it was expected that kids would see couples coupling when they got out to whichever colony they were headed to. This was no surprise to the other women around Sandy and Lyn, who had been training for this momentous day for some months before embarkation.

But despite all of the busy-work and lectures and training sessions and entertainment, she was still a virgin, and still desperate to relieve herself of her unwanted purity. She was also still growing bored with day after day after day of monochrome beige walls and beige blankets and beige sheets and grey shifts, only relieved by the white of the ceilings and dark grey of the floors. Silently she despaired of ever seeing a tree, or tropical flower, or even just a single blade of grass, ever again.

At least they had Lyn's kitten Charlie and the Governor's gift for different colours.

She settled down in front of the video editing station in a corner of the common room and started up the latest chapter of her vid-mail to her mother. Hopefully her new sponsor on Thule would allow her to send it, even if she had to edit it to meet with his approval.

“Mom, it's Monday night, the end of the first full day of our voyage. Everything is OK so far. The girls are friendly and the crew are being perfect gentlemen. The ship is running smoothly and we're learning our way around.”

What she couldn't see was how friendly the girls were being at the moment, as the action was happening behind her. Terry was sitting naked on a chair clearly visible over Sandy's right shoulder, feet in a pair of stirrups similar to that on an examining room table. Wendy, the senior concubine, was between the pregnant teen's legs using her tongue as a speculum. Opposite the two women and visible over Sandy's left shoulder, three of the pod's older dependants were sitting on a couch, fists in their mouths to muffle laughter as they shifted their eyes between the spectacle offered across from them and the sight of the unsuspecting Sandy at the editing station.

Finally she noted the carnal activity going on behind her and added, “And Mom, behind me you can see two of the concubines in the pod being very friendly.” She rolled her eyes as the kids burst into guffaws.

Wendy didn't stop, however.

For some reason, Sandy was awake. Around her, she could see her fellow concubines and their kids nestled in their bunks, arms akimbo. Like everyone else aside from the babies, Sandy was nude. Being a senior concubine, one over 18 years of age, entitled her to a top bunk, so she had the privilege of staring at the ceiling.

Softly rang the ship's bell: Clang-clang, clang-clang, clang.

Mentally she did the math she'd so painfully learnt in sleep training that day. Five bells on the middle watch, or 2:30 in the morning. Oh-two-thirty hours by the way the Marines told time. She'd have to learn them both, as she had no clue if she'd belong to a sailor or a Marine.

The inertial dampeners on the ship were superb: no vibration or engine noise penetrated the pods. It was very quiet.

That quiet lasted for two more seconds, then red night-vision lights came on and the walls rang with the boatswain's pipe sounding the General Call.

The voice of some anonymous Officer of the Deck bellowed fourth as the nude bodies tumbled from their berths. “All hands. All hands. Drill. Drill. Fire call. Fire call. Compartment S-71. Compartment S-71. Fire call. Fire call. Drill. Drill.”

A couple of the younger kids, woken rather abruptly, began to cry.

Wendy called out, “Everyone into environmental suits. Patty! Eloise! Check the hatches!”

“Right!” called a dark-haired waif from the section of bunks closest to the elevator pad. Swiftly she and another collared teen disappeared down to the main floor to ensure the fore and aft hatches on the pod were securely locked shut.

“Sandy, Lyn, get into your suits first, then help the teens into theirs. Then you and the teens can help the kids into theirs. Remember, first you make sure you can breathe, then you can deal with those younger than you.”

Anyone who ever flew on an airliner and actually paid attention to the safety instructions was familiar with that: in the event the air mask drops, you put yours on first and then check those around you, even if they're your own kids.

From under the bunks popped hatches hiding compartments holding a set of bootied, mitted overalls, a tiny biopack and a helmet. Frantically the occupants of the cramped sleeping deck struggled into the environmental suits, sealing up the fronts and placing the clear “glass” helmets over their heads. Ten minutes later, all in the pod were in their environmental suits.

Meanwhile, the voices of officers and men rang over the speakers.

“Fire suppression system activated in Compartment S-71!”

“Very well. Fire suppression team to Compartment S-71,”

“Fire suppression team three responding to Compartment S-71.”

Patty called from the front door. “Forward hatch secured. No sign of smoke or fire in forward lower pod level. Fire alarm master board is clear.”

Eloise then responded from the rear of the pod, “After hatch secured. No sign of smoke or fire in after lower pod level.”

Wendy acknowledged, and pushed a button on the control board that had appeared beside her.

“Green board!” came the anonymous call.

“Very well. Captain, we have fire in Compartment S-71, fire suppression activated and fire suppression team is en route. We are showing Green Board, all pod and compartment hatches secure.”

A few moments later, the speakers erupted again. “Captain, fire deemed extinguished. Damage minimal, estimated repair time ten minutes. All compartments secure.”

“Very well. All hands, drill is over. Secure from Fire Stations.”

“Can we go to sleep now?” whined one of the concubines in Sandy's pod.

“No,” came an unexpected, male voice from the intercom. “We have two issues: Charlie and Bâtisse.”

Everyone looked at each other in mystification. Charlie, as everyone was aware, was Lyn's kitten, the precious prince of the pod. What the hell was a Bâtisse?

“Both require protection in the event of compartment decompression or atmospheric poisoning. During this drill, both were left unprotected. Concubine Lyn MacDonald, you will meet with the ship's Engineering Officer to discuss devices to provide for the protection of both Charlie and Bâtisse.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Now you can go to sleep – as soon as you've secured from Fire Stations.”

Sleepily muttering invectives at the sadists running the Arctic Princess, the concubines removed and re-stowed their environment suits and clambered into their bunks to resume their interrupted sleep.