Chapter 25 – Home Fires

Christmas was now just a week away, but you'd never know it by the lack of seasonal decor in the Thuleat System Control Centre. The room lacked any kind of artwork. Nothing that might distract the duty controllers' attention from their sensors' readouts was permitted within this most sacrosanct compartment.

Suddenly, the klaxon began blaring – something was emerging into normal space. There were two possibilities, the first being Confederacy... and no Confederate ships were scheduled. The second possibility was far less friendly.

No sooner had the klaxon given the entire control team a simultaneous heart attack than it silenced itself: the target had emerged and sent out an IFF signal. The AI announced, “Incoming Mark Four message drone, source system Hesperusat.”

As the corporals whistled in relief, the duty sergeant took it upon herself to query the drone. “AI, download messages. Any general messages marked 'Priority Alpha', relay to System Control immediately.”

“Message from Commodore Andrew Swanson, Commanding Officer, Fleet Operations, Hesperusat System,” the AI calmly advised in a masculine voice. “Latest Sa'arm invasion of Hesperusat destroyed without fatalities. All casualties expected to fully recover to active duty status. Casualty list and battle damage report attached.”

“Thank you, AI. Please notify General Deschenes and Admiral Van De Graaf immediately.” The sergeant sagged back in her chair and threw her arms in the air. “Hey, we won!”

The roars of approval from the throats of the duty corporals were soon echoed throughout the domes of Thule.

Finally, Thule could relax again, at least a little... until the next time.

The party started as soon as the word was passed, and lasted long into the night. With the approval of the Governor, Shinji set up his DJ equipment at the edge of the parade square, which was turned into a giant dance floor.

At the corner of the parade square, Sandy stood and interviewed General Michael Deschenes for dissemination across the Earth news feeds. Lyn took her usual role as cameraman. Because this one was for Earth eyes, Samantha Redburn had the formerly innocent young reporter wear a concubine shift, albeit without underwear. The general wore his dress uniform, Marine green with wedge cap. The Confederacy wanted to get the word out, that there was a real war out. In the background, a Rommel main battle tank provided a point of visual interest.

“Is this a big victory, then?” Sandy asked, holding her totally unnecessary microphone. It was a prop, only rendered necessary because Earth-based humans weren't used to the superior recording technology of the Confederacy and expected to see such a device in the hands of a reporter. They'd be even more shocked by the camera, which was barely more than the thickness of a couple of quarters.

Lyn knew what would shock her own mother most: the sight of her pregnant daughter dressed as she currently was, nude – Samantha had recently filled up her last two slots with Sandy and Lyn, and preferred unfettered access to her concubines' delights whenever possible. The last time Lyn had worn anything was just before she shouted her acceptance to the ceiling of the Party Room as Samantha exercised her talented and experienced tongue on Lyn's defenceless clitoris and labia.

“Very big. The enemy deployed a significant number of assets, and lost them all. We did have some of our ships damaged, but we've managed to repair them all.”

“Are they done in our sector, then?” Sandy looked hopeful.

“Not on your life. We suspect the Sa'arm planet this came from will send even more next time, possibly in as little as a couple of months. We're building more warships, and increasing the garrison on Hesperus up to a full brigade. Next time, there will be more of them, and we'll be even harder pressed. But still, there's that many fewer Sa'arm that will be available to throw at Earth.”

Sandy then turned to look into the unblinking eye of Lyn's camera. “So there's the latest word, direct from the General commanding this sector. We've won this battle, but the war goes on. We can celebrate tonight, but first thing in the morning we resume training for the next battle. For now, this is Sandy Redburn on Thule, reporting for the Confederacy News Network.”

“OK, Sandy, toss over your shift,” came Decurion Sandy Redburn's voice from off-camera. “Now you get to do your story on the party. Remember, this one's for the Confederacy planets and ships.”

Lyn obediently pivoted the camera on its tripod toward the parade square. The participants were looking like a scene from the La Vida Loco music video, shimmying and shaking, except with far less clothes on. At least a dozen were quite openly and unashamedly copulating on the dance floor, using Darjee-medical-technology-enhanced muscles to remain vertical, at least until their orgasms overcame them. Indoor fireworks made the massive dome sparkle above the dancers.

Gladys was used to strange comings and goings at the Beauty Saloon. After all, it was both the colony's whorehouse and family restaurant, a combined functionality that all but screamed 'incongruous'. In addition, the whorehouse madam, being all of fourteen years of age, was in love with fancy dress balls and costume play, especially if they could combine an element of the risqué at the same time.

Still, this morning was... different.

First a female Fleet Auxiliary lieutenant arrived, and rather than occupying a table or one of the stools at the long Art Deco bar, she headed straight for Banquet Room One, which shared a wall with the main dining/dancing hall.

Then a couple of female Navy corporals, Division Sergeant-Major Butch Blondell of the Marines, and a half-dozen giggling concubines in grey shifts joined the lieutenant the banquet room. All four representatives of the uniformed services were very much out of uniform, dressed in comfortable, casual and utterly revealing maternity outfits. Finally, dressed in a hockey jersey that had fit her back when she arrived, Samantha Redburn herself appeared and headed arrow-like for the same location. The jersey's hem was now so high on the young Civil Service officer that it now exposed her crotch completely, showing that she hadn't bothered with panties.

Shelly Saturn, the interstellar chanteuse, arrived next. Something was definitely up, Gladys realized: she and her band, the Rings of Saturn, weren't scheduled for hours. For that matter, the Rings of Saturn were nowhere to be seen.

Then finally Lyn MacDonald, the camerawoman who had arrived as an already-pregnant Fille de Roi, showed up, nude as usual aside from her concubine collar.

Echoing down the hallway from Banquet Room One, Gladys could hear the giggles of the mob of girls. Whatever it was, if it turned out to be her business, she'd be assigned there soon enough. In the interim, there were a handful of concubines here in suggestive dress and perched daintily on bar stools looking for a sponsor to seduce, and a dozen or more families dining out. It looked like two of the tables consisted of chaperoned dates between kids under 14.

Then she heard Decurion Redburn call out: “OK, everybody in place?”

A ragged chorus responded in the affirmative.

“Then, AI, open the bulkhead!”

And with that, the bulkhead between the dining/dancing hall and Banquet Room One pulled back to reveal a baker's dozen worth of women in a line, including the Decurion, each dressed (if that was the appropriate word) in a plush “reindeer antler” hairpiece, a reindeer tail (attached by nanites), high heeled open-toed shoes, and cuffs. And aside from the concubines' collars and the sponsors' bow ties, that was pretty much it.

Each woman stood with left side toward the dining lounge, left hand on hip and right hand on baby bulge. They were all looking straight toward the dance floor. On the wall above their heads ran a sign declaring: “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!”

Lyn dragged a camera on a tripod onto the dance floor, so as to take the picture of the line of happily giggling pregnant women. She then dashed back and joined the end of the line, striking the same confident pose as the rest of the reindeer herd.

The women clustered around to take a look at the picture – projected on the back wall of the banquet room – and agreed, it had worked. “OK, everyone, that's the Christmas card we're sending to Earth. Now for the Christmas card we're sending to the other colonies!”

Once again, Lyn set the camera up. This time when everyone lined up, they bent over and mooned the camera – each woman's genitalia was on wanton display. Again the flash came, again the line of women clustered around a photo displayed on the back wall of the banquet room – and this time as well, the photo met with approval from everyone, although some of the newer concubines were blushing in embarrassment.

Samantha's face reflected her relief as she took off the hooker-heel shoes. “That's better. I don't know how anyone wears these things.”

Sergeant-Major Butch Blondell agreed. “Last time I wore these torture devices, I wasn't two metres tall – and I wasn't pregnant.” She purred as she put her bare foot down. “I feel much better now,” she sighed.

Gladys made her way over to the knot of bipedal reindeer, her curiosity clear on her visage.

“Oh, this?” asked Samantha, jingling one of the bells on her antlers. “Virtual Christmas cards. We're using the first picture for the card we're sending to family and friends still on Earth, and the racier one for the card we're sending to the other colonies and Armed Forces of the Confederacy units.”

“Ah, I see.” Gladys had to wonder, though. Not all colonies actually celebrated Christmas. Not every colony included a majority from those Earth nations where Christmas was celebrated. Indeed, not all colonies hewed to the Earth calendar at all, but followed their own planet's periodicity instead. And not everyone on Earth would appreciate a Christmas card fronted by a line of 13 naked, pregnant hominid ruminants with bells in their fabric antlers.

The main door opened at that point to reveal a thoroughly disgusted-looking Allison Redburn and her bemused aunt, Victoria. Allison was dressed in her team's home jersey, while her aunt was still in a white concubine's shift with a veterinary rod of Asclepius embroidered on the right breast.

The pair walked up to where Gladys and Samantha were talking – although in Allison's case it was more of a stomp. The youngster plopped herself down in a chair at the table next to her sponsor and glowered, arms crossed in fury.

Samantha raised an interrogatory eyebrow at her concubine.

“I really don't know,” Vickie confessed. “We met on our way here, and she was already in this mood.”

Samantha turned to Allison, still not saying a word.

“Robbie,” the five-year-old spat laconically.

“Classmate?” Samantha guessed.

“Second line, right wing.”

“And?” Samantha gently pressed.

“He's a jerk,” Allison spat venomously.

This remark got both of Samantha's eyebrows raised.

The little girl, seeing that more explanation was required, added, “He's been telling me that when I'm his concubine, he's gonna do this, and that, and keep me naked. Lot he knows.” She nodded firmly, still scowling. “when we're fourteen, he's gonna be my concubine.”

Victoria, standing behind her niece, stuck her fist in her mouth to keep from laughing aloud. Samantha, kneeling down in full view of the youngster, had no such recourse, but struggled manfully to keep her composure.

“Um,” Samantha murmured, trying to temporize.

“Honey,” a slightly strangled-sounding Victoria advised Allison, “when boys your age like a girl, sometimes they tease her. He's just trying to say he likes you, but he doesn't have the social skills yet.”

Allison pondered this tidbit of information. “He likes me?”

Samantha nodded, the bells in her reindeer antler hairpiece jingling out a merry tune. “Looks like.”

After a few moments' thought, Allison came to the same conclusion. “OK, so he has great taste in women. But he's still a jerk.”

Victoria and Samantha gave Allison a big comforting hug, gently snickering as they did so.

A concubine had slipped into the Beauty Saloon while Samantha and Vickie were trying to get the youngster to tell them what was bothering her. This woman, short of stature and early 20's in appearance with blue eyes and dirty-blond hair brushing her shoulders,was clutching the hem of her plain grey shift nervously.

As Vickie sat down beside Allison, the woman tried to get Gladys' attention. The only women in the whole cavernous room wearing anything like a uniform were Gladys, wearing a dark-blue shift with a stylized cocktail glass on the breast pocket, and Vickie with her medical white shift and veterinary symbol. Obviously, this concubine was here on some sort of business.

“Yes?” Gladys asked as her attention turned to the obviously terrified woman.

“C-can you direct me to the Civil Service officer?” the woman stuttered. “My... my....”

“My, my,” responded Samantha waggishly.

The woman finished, “...my, ah, sponsor, he told me that he – that is to say, the Civil Service officer – had work for me....”

Gladys and Samantha exchanged bemused looks. The feminine voice of the Civil Service AI whispered into Samantha's brain through her subvocal implant and Gladys' ear through her concubine collar.

“Ah,” exclaimed Samantha, “you must be Becky.”

“Yes, Rebekah Smith. I'm looking for a Decurion Sam Redburn. Do you know where he is? The AI says he's in here somewhere.”

For Samantha, this was a scene ripe with humour. “I think we can find him, don't you, Gladys?”

“I think so,” Gladys replied agreeably, keeping a straight face.

Samantha turned back to Becky. “Hello, permit me to introduce myself: I am Decurion Samantha Redburn. How can I help you?” As she tilted her head slightly, the bells in her hairpiece gave a slight jingle.

The look of bewildered astonishment was everything that Samantha could have hoped for, as the youthful-looking concubine's eyes swept from the melodic antlers perched on her head, slowly down her nude form to her unshod feet. As Allison giggled in her chair beside Becky, the newly-arrived concubine's mind clearly went 'tilt'.

“You... you are Decurion Redburn?”

“I am he.” Samantha smiled sympathetically. “Now, I received the message first thing today about your situation. Your sponsor Josh Smith wants you to be doing something that will keep you from getting bored while he's deployed to Hesperus, and figured the sooner you started, the better. Is that how you see it?”

“Yes, Ma'am,” Rebekah confirmed.

Gladys whispered in Rebekah's ear, “She's a 'sir'. All officers are 'sir'.”

“Sir,” Rebekah corrected herself, now even more gender-confused. She shot a look at Gladys. “I call her 'sir'?” she whispered.

Gladys nodded affirmatively.

“So, Becky, have you ever worked as a waitress?”

Rebekah shrugged. “Working the snack bar in a hockey arena in Olympia would be the closest to 'waitress' that I've ever done. The Otters Hockey Association played all their home games out of that rink. I was working the night the AA Otters and their parents got picked up.”

Gladys shrugged. “We can use you in a snack bar in one of the current rinks. We're a little short-handed there.”

Samantha quizzed the AI – Becky was all of sixteen years old. No, she wouldn't have much in the way of employment history.

“OK, Becky,” Samantha advised the teen, “we'll have you start with the lunch crowd. Tonight, take the sleep-training course on beginning bartending. You'll need that at the snack bar, as ours serve cocktails. Hand your shift over to Gladys, and she'll give you a light-blue one.”

Again, Becky's mind went blank for a moment. “Then... I'll be naked.”

Rather than saying anything, Samantha glanced meaningfully down at her own quite nude form.

“Yes, Ma'am,” Becky agreed reluctantly, then corrected herself with, “SIR!”

Becky embarrassedly changed from grey shift to light-blue as Samantha reflected on the changes that had already occurred to herself since her arrival as a naive thirteen-year-old. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had been a hockey-playing kid on a small city on Earth. And the changes to come, although she could not foresee all of them, were promising to be head-spinning as well.

The Marines were making noises about increasing their strength to Corps level, as soon as the Navy could get them the vessels required to transport them.

The Navy wanted to increase its presence here, above and beyond the Marine support requirements of attack transports and the supporting bombardment and resupply vessels. A larger combat Fleet presence was deemed very desirable. All of this meant more raw recruits were going to be scooped from Earth, all of whom would need training. To accomplish this, Admiral Vincent Van De Graaf also wanted to establish another Fleet officers' academy and enlisted crews' training facility.

There was also a plan to set up monitoring outposts in other nearby star systems. The two kids who had tried to do the imitation of the Apollo 14 crew had a big hand in that, albeit with lots of adult supervision.

Lieutenant Carruthers was due for more staff, including a contingent of Fleet Auxiliary, to keep building the ships and bases that the expansion would demand. That meant more on the already ponderous list for the Office of Targeted Extractions.

To help Thule go to Corps and Fleet strength, Samantha had an outstanding request for at least one more Civil Service officer, preferably two. For now she was still the only person with the job in the busy and growing sector.

For today, however, she would enjoy her lunch with her family, who should be showing up soon. As she looked out the vast windows facing the domed city that was Camp Shackleton, she continued to contemplate what other adventures her future would bring, out here in the Diaspora.