Chapter 16 – Day of Firsts

The General sat behind his desk, grumbling to Chaz, who was ensconced in one of Michael's Shanghai Art Deco guest chairs. Chaz carefully hid his growing amusement.

Bâtisse himself was now quartered in a pen out in the main dome near the base fire hall, with a replicator that pumped out carefully measured quantities of weed and shrubbery clippings every few hours. He was a source of endless fascination for everyone on base, young and old, and did not lack for visitors.

“Only fucking goat in the entire fucking Diaspora,” Michael was muttering to himself. “What that fucking idiot was thinking, I don't even want to know.” He then started. “My god. He's going to ship me a pod of goats. I can see it coming. I need grunts, he's gonna give me goats.”

The desk in front of him beeped. “Sir,” reported his concubine at the secretary's desk in his office's reception area, “the cadets you requested have arrived.”

“Very well. Show them into the meeting room, please.”

Chaz and Michael stood up and put their wedge caps on. Michael then ordered, “Open the meeting room bulkhead, AI.”

As the bulkhead separating the meeting room from the General's office silently retreated into its pocket, one of the cadet sergeants noticed and called out, “Room!” The two dozen nervous young occupants, all twelve to thirteen years old, came to disciplined, Marine-like attention, slamming their down as if one.

“At ease, gentlemen,” Michael ordered the boys and girls. “Find a seat.”

As the clatter of twenty-four chairs quietened down, their General addressed them.

“As you know, we have expanded quite rapidly. We really have only a single brigade of trained troops, with one third of those at any one time away on garrison duty on Hesperus. We need to get the two brigades' worth of new recruits trained up, and quickly. I've made the executive decision to include senior members of Thule's Corps of Cadets in training. Specifically, that means yourselves. Now, if you were already fourteen, you would likely be sergeants.” He harrumphed. “We're going to take advantage of the skills and training you've already acquired. You will be brevetted sergeants, and given command of a platoon of recruits. You'll still wear the same uniform as you are now – the men serving under you will be under no illusions that you're anything but thirteen years of age. You will all work under Brigade Sergeant Major Kowalski and Divisional Sergeant Major Blondell. You will be expected to keep your studies up. But we think you will rise to this challenge.”

He nodded at the last remaining Cadet Sergeant from the three who had commanded defence lines in the Thule Children's Crusade, Cadet Sergeant Bachelor. The other two cadet sergeants had reached their fourteenth birthdays and were now full-fledged Marine sergeants, with platoons of raw recruits of their own. Michael didn't want to send them on garrison duty to Thule until they'd had a chance for some more seasoning, and preferably a pregnancy or two. “Some of you have even seen combat. That should be enough to impress the socks off some of the men. Who knows, they may even listen to you. Any who prove unwilling to listen to 'mere kids' will be transferred out and may find themselves regretting that attitude.”

He quickly wrapped up the meeting. “Gentlemen, one final thing.” He then read out the names of three of them, including Cadet Sergeant Daniel Bachelor.

“Sir?” asked Danny, standing up.

“Congratulations, Sergeants Major.” Michael gestured to Chaz, who walked around the table and gave the three young men the chevrons befitting their new ranks.

The three boys' friends gave them a thunderous round of applause. Those closest to him patted the stunned Danny as he sat down, staring at the badge in happy disbelief. He was one of the Corps of Cadets' elite.

“Now, men, let's meet your adoring public.” With that, the room came to attention and marched out to meet the first of the new draft of troops.

Kowalski met with the newly brevetted sergeants in the Sergeants' Mess. He was clearly less than impressed with the talent he had to work with.

“The good news is before we send these idiots into potential harm's way, we'll have three months to train them. The bad news is that the non-commissioned officers who would be training these louts are all three days' travel that-a-way. For one month, we are all we've got to try to whip some 3,400 raw recruits into something that knows how to salute, dress, drill, eat, fuck and shit like something approaching a Confederacy Marine.” His face took on a sour look as he rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “God help us all.”

A few smiled, but even they realized just what massive kind of task they'd taken on.

“I'm begging and borrowing some lance-jacks to give us a hand from the other two brigades, but they need all they can get their mitts on too. We're just going to have to see it as a challenge. For now, they know how to wear their uniforms and even have some idea about standard Confederacy rank structure. What they'll make of a Corps of Cadets should prove entertaining.” He stuck his thumb in the general direction of the parade square. “The mob is over there. Calling them a brigade is both premature, and an insult to the Marines.”

Subvocally, Sergeant Major Kowalski had the AI assign each of the 3400 or so recruits into twenty-four companies, one for each of his cadet instructors. He had flags placed around the perimeter of the massive parade ground opposite the base headquarters building. He then watched in utter despair as the cat herding began.

“Hey, Danny, good luck!” called a fellow cadet through their bluetooth-style communicators.

“Good luck to us all. I think we're gonna need it.”

Danny Batchelor squared his shoulders and joined his company of men and women, clustered haphazardly around the flag indicating the First Company, Third Training Battalion of the 123^rd Brigade. Clearly, the First Company was still a mob of civilians playing at war. Some wore their wedge caps on back-to-front, others pushed way back or way down or too far over to one side or the other. One wore his Sam Browne belt over the wrong shoulder. Boots and belts and brasswork were unshined, uniforms unpressed, random buttons unbuttoned. The only thing uniform about any of them was their physique, all being equally two metres in height with linebacker shoulders, a barrel chest and muscles on muscles. Beside them, Daniel realized, he'd look quite diminutive.

Needless to say, the reaction of these two-metre-tall behemoths when Daniel began shouting at them was comical. Who was this child in a red coat and silly pillbox hat?

“First Company! Fall in! Three ranks! Let's move!” Daniel had the AI amplify his voice to be heard by this wrecking crew.

As the noise settled down and the company fell in to four ranks in a slight arc from the flag onward, Daniel sighed and shook his head. Maybe in a year these would be disciplined troops, but right now it was all new to them.

“Three ranks. You!” The AI supplied the defaulter's name to Daniel's ear-piece. “Sekulovich! Where do you think you're standing? Making your own row? Back half a step. Rest of the rear line shuffle left.” Halfway down the line, two recruits obediently shuffled to the right. Daniel pointed to his right with his swagger stick. “Your MARINE left. Are you dyslexic?” With imprecations both muttered and shouted, he soon had three ragged lines where minutes before there had been four. The three lines still gracefully arced forward, but at least now they were in the correct number of lines. “AI, put a grid of dots on the parade square where these turkeys are supposed to be standing. Everyone, look down and see the dot you're supposed to have your boot heels on.”

The three ranks shuffled back into something closer to a straight line. Through his headpiece, he asked Kowalski, “Have these men taken the basic foot drill sleep training?”

“Supposedly,” was Kowalski's laconic and amused reply.

“You couldn't tell it from here,” Daniel responded. “Company,” he announced to the mixed-gender mob in front of him, “welcome to Thule. Welcome to the Marines. My name is Company Sergeant Major Daniel Bachelor. You can call me by my first name: 'Company Sergeant Major'. For the next month or so it is my grave misfortune to be trying to turn you barn apes into something resembling Confederacy Marines. God help us all.”

Daniel took a big breath in, and shouted, “Company! Ah-ten-SHUN!”

The command is supposed to end with the company's left heels slamming down into the parade square as one. Today, the result was a feu de joi of boot heels, about a quarter of them the right heel.

“And just how many of you have taken the sleep-trainer course on basic foot drill?”

Quite a number put their hands up – thereby immediately providing evidence that belied their claim. The Confederacy Marine drill manual called for coming to attention, raising the right forearm parallel to the ground, palm up and fist closed. The upper arm stays down, rigidly tucked into the body. One was not supposed to wave one's arm around like a yokel – and especially not one's left arm.

Long after the rest had returned to “at ease”, one yokel was still waving his left arm. “Yes, Pierson?” Daniel asked, unsure if the recruit in question was asking a question, or merely airing out an armpit.

“Ah, I've taken that course.”

Some answers are too absurd even for the face palm manoeuvre. Daniel could only stare at the man in disbelief. On a grassy knoll just off of the corner of the parade square, a knot of red-clad kids fell over laughing.

“Pierson?”

“Sir?”

“Do not 'Sir' me,” Daniel screamed in outrage. “It's 'Company Sergeant Major'. I work for a living.” Daniel continued to glower at the errant Pierson. “'I've taken that course', what, Private Pierson?”

“Sergeant Major, I've taken that course, Sir.”

“Your Highness, did you just knight me?” Daniel's voice was deceptively mild.

“Ah, nossir.”

“Then why the FUCK are you calling me 'Sir'?” the young cadet demanded at full volume. The errant private winced.

Daniel scowled at them. “Look. You do drill to learn to function as a team, and to learn personal discipline. When you're in combat, you have to follow your leaders' commands instantly and intelligently. Foot drill may seem stupid, it may seem an archaic throwback to the Roman legions or the hoplites of the ancient Greek city-states, but it's the first step in turning a mob of civilians into a single, finely-tuned war machine that the Dickheads won't want to dick around with. Understand? Any question?”

Another yokel waved at flies over his head. “You seem kinda young,” ventured the foolishly brave Private Teperman. “How would you know what it's like in combat against the dickheads?”

Daniel smiled mirthlessly. “Because I have been in combat against the dickheads.”

There was a stir at that. Either he was older than he looked....

“Now, enough of that. I want MY company to win Best Company, not just of the Third Training Battalion, but of all the 12^th Division's training battalions. Understand?”

“Yes, Company Sergeant Major!” came the call from a handful of throats.

“What's that? I can't hear you!”

“YES, COMPANY SERGEANT MAJOR!”

On a nearby hill, two nude figures watched the training battalions of the 123^rd Brigade being put through their paces. The younger figure sighed artistically. “Ah, don't you just love a man in uniform.”

Penny Deschenes cocked a slightly cynical eyebrow at her daughter. “After you and Danny reach the august age of 13, I predict you will be more eager to admire him when he is not clad in his dress uniform.”

“Hell, Mom, I'm like that now.”

Penny smiled. “Ah, sweet puberty. Where's my sweet, innocent child?”

Diana patted her mother's belly, still flat despite the foetus growing within. “Right there, for the next eight months or so.”

“You know what I meant,” Penny protested. Her snickers belied any outrage she might have claimed to be feeling.

“I figured out what to give Danny for his thirteenth birthday.”

“And that would be?”

“Ask Daddy to apply for an exception to the under-thirteen rule.” Diana smiled gently. Her birthday was two months after Daniel's, meaning that without the exception, he'd be allowed to do more than she for a significant period of time. “A little soixante-neuf would be a wonderful present, don't you think?”

“Would this present be a present for you or a present for Danny?” quizzed her mother.

Diana pretended to ponder the issue. “Yes,” she finally responded.

As she chuckled at her daughter's response, Penny reflected on times gone past. She herself could never have had a similar conversation at twelve with her mother as she was having with her daughter. Children in the age of the Sa'arm had to grow up quickly – grow up or die.

“Well,” Gladys ventured, “we decided to go with a Christmas theme, as it has just turned December. Dress for the newly arrived Filles du Roi will be reindeer, for the sponsored concubines will be green pointy elf hats with green body paint.”

Samantha nodded enthusiastically. Tonight's party would be needed, to try to integrate the new recruits and their concubines into the 12^th Division. Plus, they'd need to introduce the new unassigned concubines to the future sponsors. With this extraction, there were a tremendous number of potential new sponsors in the 12-13 age range.

The party planning meeting included Samantha's three female dependants, as her concubines were all busy on various duties, and the Beauty Saloon made for an excellent alternative to keeping them cooped up in the family pod. Shinji was there, of course, as the concubine responsible for musical entertainment. Also present at this meeting were two newcomers to Thule: former reporter Sandy Hause and her former camerawoman, Lyn MacDonald.

“How many do we have doing a 'Redburn'?” Gladys asked. “We want to be sure they're the centre of attention for at least part of the night.”

“What's a 'Redburn'?” Lyn asked.

Allison, dressed in a pink hockey jersey and leather sandals, was happy to elucidate. “Fourteenth birthday, nude from midnight to midnight. First CAP score, first fuck, first pregnancy.”

Lyn blinked at the five-year-old. Did this sprite actually comprehend what she was saying?

“So most people out here lose their virginity at fourteen?” Sandy asked nervously.

The Thule veterans bobbed their heads as they calmly nibbled on cheese-filled celery sticks. To them, this information was not exactly big news.

Sandy put her head in her hands. “I must be some sort of freak!” she wailed.

Everyone was now staring at Sandy, as she blushed from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. She could not uncover her face – she was too ashamed.

As the children stifled giggles, Samantha slowly swivelled her head back to Lyn. “I take it that there's an adult at this table who is still a maiden?”

Lyn didn't take her eyes off Sandy. “Yes, yes that would be the case.”

“And this adult has been a concubine for over a month?” Samantha slowly swivelled her head back at Sandy.

“Yes. We were picked up at the same time.” Lyn was still staring at Sandy.

“That must be some sort of Diaspora record,” Gladys observed in horror, regarding Sandy with a look of sympathy. The Beauty Saloon hostess liked her sex, and thought that doing without was the greatest punishment.

As the children continued their giggling, Samantha made use of her subvocal implant. As the Civil Service officer for the Thuleat system, she had access to all the comings and goings of the 12^th Fleet as well as the 12^th Division.

Ah, that would be perfect. The Archerfish-class Patrol Combatant ship CSS Halibut was in drydock, getting an upgraded passive sensor package installed. Samantha liked “Newfie” John Butler.

'Aye, now, lassie, yer gots a deflowerin' ter be done? An' on a 24-year-old? I'll send me Number One down there, wit' his missus,” John offered. “Best ter have an experienced concubine wit' yer when yer first does th' deed, eh?”

“Thanks, John! I knew I could count on yer, I mean you.”

Within five minutes, during which Sandy continued her slow burn, a tall handsome man in black duty dress entered the base brothel. On his arm was a very decorative redhead, clad in a black version of the standard concubine shift – concubines on Archerfish-class warships were considered to be crew as well as concubines. While he appeared to be just Sandy's age, a glance at his personnel file would have revealed Lieutenant Bob Sullivan to be closer to 42 than 24. His concubine Leslie, whose appearance was similar in age to her sponsor, was in her late 30's and a mother of four. They strode boldly over to the table where the Decurion and her party sat.

Wordlessly, Samantha pointed across her slightly swollen belly to Thule's new reporter. Both nodded.

Leslie knelt down at Sandy's side. “Don't you worry a bit,” she reassured the still-mortified woman. “He's very good, and I'll be helping you feel real good.”

Sandy looked at the assembled group, terrified. “Go on,” urged Lyn kindly.

Samantha joined in. “It's the day for firsts.” She cocked a thumb out the windows toward the parade square. “First day of training, first fucks.” A young concubine dressed in a light-blue shift with a martini glass over the right breast delivered a glass containing a dark liquid. “Here,” Samantha offered, “have a swallow of rum and cola, go upstairs and most of all, relax and have fun!”

Sandy took a big, long swallow and breathlessly coughed. The two Navy veterans led her off, Laurie playing with the young virgin's breasts as her sponsor gave a toe-curling kiss. As their elevator pad disappeared into the room's ceiling, everyone in the dining lounge could hear Sandy's whimpering of rising pleasure.

The young concubine-waitress looked worriedly at Gladys. “You wanted cola in this rum?”

“No,” responded Gladys gleefully, “I wanted this rum in her. I wanted her pie-eyed. She can't resist now, can she?”

Lyn bit her lip. “Sandy was raised Temperance. First glass of any alcohol was that lunch with the Targeted Extraction guys. This was her first glass of hard liquor.”

As the last remaining shreds of composure left them, Samantha pointed to the still half-full glass of rum. “Maybe we should have that bronzed,” she suggested, before breaking into uncontrollable giggles.