Chapter 2

Puffy stopped sputtering, having discerned that something had changed. "What happened?"

I looked up at her. "I tried to put off the rest of your life for a while -- just so I could finish my eggs. But you insisted..." I dipped my dry toast into the eggs and took another bite. "You'll find that there has only been a slight delay. Run along now, Honey. You know where to find me when it's decision time."

Bet glanced up at me. "We got a surprise at the last minute -- Tom Quarles -- I'm running the ID." She clicked for the update and read, "Gunsmith, ex-military, seven point three."

"Great," I replied, "We're up to six."

"Better get another bite in," Bet warned. "It's about over. People are discovering that their access to the outside world has been terminated."

I sucked in another bite and turned to watch the door. The quick-witted waitress was pointing at us in response to a question by some loudmouth. "So much for eggs," I muttered, putting the plate to the side. Keying an amplifier rig installed in my collarbone, I announced, "Congratulations, Ladies and Gentlemen, six of you have been selected to enter the service of the Confederacy."

Everybody froze and looked at me like I'd grown an additional head, then started looking around for the big winners.

"Will Dolly McIntyre please step forward?" I asked, deliberately naming the only female and causing mass confusion. Dolly, a thin brunette with eyeglasses and a very fearful expression, started trying to get out of the big horseshoe corner booth -- where she had two males on either side. I grinned and added, "The four gentlemen with her should be Martin Tompkins, Hugh McClintock, Jeff Higgins and Mike Ferreira. You have also been selected -- all four of you. And I believe Mr. Tom Quarles just arrived, did he not?" Tom Quarles was pushing sixty -- the look of surprise on his face was priceless. The others were staring at each other in amazement -- clearly they never assumed that they might ALL make it. Little did they know... "If you all would wander over here, we can move on to Phase Two, after which I can release the remainder of these fine people." Huh. Like they WANTED to be released...

Dolly was a seven point six, Martin was an eight point three, Hugh was a seven point three, Jeff was a seven point four and Mike was a six point nine. Tom's military experience put him at seven point six; he had tools they didn't when it came to military discipline and handling ones self in combat. They crossed the room to our table and stood around, looking shocky; I stood easy, in apparent control, but Bet behind me was warily watching the group that had suddenly become livestock -- and knew it. I turned casually to the others who shared this side of the restaurant with us and directed, "Ladies and Gentlemen, it would smooth the way if you interrupted your meals momentarily and joined the other diners over there..." A fat guy in the corner started to object -- plentiful good food cheap tends to draw those who enjoy it a lot -- but his significant other swatted him one and hissed at him and he shut up and got moving. Bet had pulled her stinger out -- it looked like a pair of brass knuckles with a point between the second and third fingers and a trigger button along the top of the first ring convenient for the thumb. I guess it looked threatening enough to convince laggards, despite its small size -- wisely, since you did NOT want to have your internal electrical system jolted the way a stinger did it!

Martin pushed up his eyeglasses and muttered, "Did I get..."

"Sorry, I know nothing about job assignments at this point -- although I can pretty well guess at Tom, here," I replied.

Tom scratched his thin, grey and white brush cut. "I dunno -- what use is an old soldier?"

"In a month, you'll be twenty-five again -- only you weren't that big or that strong or that fast the first time you were twenty-five," I told him. "Remember that during the next few minutes -- and remember that if something you're looking at isn't quite perfect, it can probably be fixed, too, as long as the problem doesn't exist between its ears."

"Twenty-five..." Tom looked dazed. "That was a rough year... You have no idea."

"Wanna bet?" said Bet, eyeballing her display. "Recon and Infiltration Group is gonna be thrilled to death!"

"The official records..." Tom shook his head.

Bet grinned at him. "We have the UNOFFICIAL records, too. We should have time on the trip for me to sit at the feet of the enlightened master..." She dimpled.

"Time to pick your household staffs," I intervened. "Let's see what we can scare up." I turned to Dolly -- such an odd name for a little mousy brunette -- and said, "You've got the toughest choice, probably -- theoretically, you can pick four guys." I shifted my glance to Bet, "Any mods in the sub-scores?"

"No, but if I was her, I wouldn't get carried away," Bet replied. "There are a lot of guys out there, you know, Honey? Four is a shitload, though, since you can only pump out babies for one at a time. You might want to substitute a woman for one so she can tend the kids while you work, for instance." She glanced at the record. "No kids, no husband. You're gonna be jumping into the deep end, probably."

Martin cleared his throat. "Um, if I may, I'd like to, uh, be considered..."

Dolly lit up like a Christmas tree. "Is that all right?"

I shrugged. "Who you want to father your kids is up to you. Just because he's a selectee doesn't mean he's ineligible. Hell, that more or less guarantees that he's a good choice!"

"What about... ," she waved her hands,"... the numbers?"

"Meaning you get to ship four people off-world, and if you don't you're not doing your job?" I replied. "Well, in the first place, Martin doesn't count -- he has his own bunch to collect and he's out of here in his own right -- so you STILL have four bodies to pick through." I sighed. "I TOLD you this was a bitch for women. You have to remember that you have your work; whoever you pick is gonna keep the home fires burning, more than anything else. Four unruly males are more than you're gonna want to handle -- let alone fuck -- and if they cause trouble, you're responsible." Clearly, now that he'd opened his mouth, Martin had the inside track, anyway.

"I'm going to have to think about this," Dolly mused.

"Good plan," I approved. Why the equal rights jackasses insisted on burdening working women in this manner was beyond me... I turned to our extremely wary audience. "All right! Ladies! Volunteers should form a single line..." Women of all ages started shuffling here and there. A few went to the back and sat down; I figured that maybe I should give the standard briefing -- it seemed like even after over a year, some people didn't get the word... "A few notes before we get started, Ladies. First, if physical issues are constraining you from coming forward, don't let them -- Confederation medical teams can do incredible things. On the other hand, the final product is ultimately at the discretion of your sponsor. Second, risks and benefits -- the timeline for the Swarm's invasion has not changed, and may not at all, despite our best efforts -- that's the reason behind the Diaspora. But colonial life isn't a bed of roses, despite access to some pretty advanced technology -- and some of the freedoms you continue to have here, despite what the future holds, do not exist in the colonies at this point. Basically, you are answerable to your sponsor and your sponsor is answerable to others for your behavior -- and you won't be going before a judge for screwing up. Troublemakers are, well, replaced, basically -- I hope you get my meaning. Third, you're breeding stock for the continuation of the race -- if you want to keep your girlish figure and have no interest in children, why don't you hang out here and hope the Swarm doesn't eat you?" I grinned evilly. "Oops! Did I say that? Anyway, the point is, you'll be baby factories. The good news is we'll put you back together after each pregnancy to your sponsor's specifications, and you'll have the help of any other concubines your sponsor adopts -- but you'll still be hip deep in kids, and you don't get to pick the father, by and large. Today will probably be your first and only chance at that."

Some young blonde girl raised her hand and said angrily, "So, it's sex slavery, right?"

"Right," I agreed, smiling nastily, "just exactly." I TOLD you I was in a bad mood...

The blonde opened her mouth again, but the swarthy little brunette next to her said, "Shut up, Belinda. Just because you think you've got forever..." There were several rumbles in reply to this so I figured I'd better get a grip on things.

"Enough!" I yelled. "Look, I can lie to you or I can be honest. I choose to be honest. Take it or leave it."

An early thirties type raised her hand in the back. "What was that about not being able to choose?"

"Well, in the first place, your sponsor chooses you, not vice-versa," I pointed out. "Sometimes, you and your sponsor don't click, and so maybe he trades you to a new sponsor. You won't have picked him, either." I scratched my chin. "Oh, other issues. Married women: This is a quickie divorce -- sorry. On the other hand, we'll chase down your kids for you, under fourteen, at your request -- and they don't count against your sponsor's quota. Over fourteen, you have to convince your sponsor to take them on -- and do I have to tell you what THAT means?" I turned to Bet. "Did I miss anything?"

"Not sure," she said. "It was all out of order. A bit more brutal than the standard briefing, too." She grinned -- she knew what was up, anyway.

There was a rustle, and I noticed a big woman levering herself out of a booth on the left side. She'd been facing the other way, and, frankly, I wasn't sure I liked the change. You know the type -- big, filling out a sack-type sleeveless cotton housedress, sweaty, greasy, unhappy-looking. Arms like hams and legs -- let's not go there. She had that chubby-cheeked, down in the mouth look that babies tend to have -- only she was forty if she was a day. "What could they do for me?" she asked.

I glanced at Bet -- this woman had enough problems; I wasn't THAT mean, even on a bad day. Well, maybe I was, but... Bet responded, "I probably outweighed you -- but you've got to find somebody to take you on as a project."

"Oh." Hopes raised and dashed in three seconds, the woman settled back into the booth, sideways. The table moved.

"Speaking of such things," I took up the thread, "we come to just how you're going to attract a sponsor. CAP scores are important, so I'd fish out my IDs if I were you. Beyond that," I shrugged, "You're on your own. If you appear to be bothering a selectee unduly, my associate here, will use the device she's carrying to render you less than effective; on the other hand, if he appears to be enjoying himself, it's none of our business." I re-displayed my nasty grin. "Right about now, in my experience, a lot of those who think it will benefit them start displaying body parts usually kept under cover. By the way, is this a single line, or a double line? Let's have the first row move forward to give the ones behind a little room." I looked at the fat woman. "Get up, you -- you can't win if you don't play. Waddle over here and show me your ID." The woman looked REALLY surprised, but she got up.

I turned to the others. "I was pretty nasty, but you guys need to get through the veneer, here. We don't have all day, and this isn't a civilized activity. You'll thank me for my candor. I've covered the basics; if you have specific questions, we're here to respond. We're going to keep them in line, allowing you to deal with one supplicant at a time. No means no. Chivalry is dead. You're about to become slave-owners; if you don't believe in slavery, that's all well and good, but the reality is there, anyway." I glanced at Dolly apologetically, then turned my attention to the men. "At some point, some chickie is going to get down on her knees and open your pants and -- sorry, Dolly -- suck your cock or offer up a fuck. You are NOT obligated to accept the service -- and you are NOT obligated to take on the little bitch afterward if you do -- even if you try out everything she has to offer. They aren't selling, or trading -- they're begging. If it's good and you decide to keep it, fine -- if it isn't your cup of tea, but she thinks you owe her, we'll stun her as an example to others. No offense, Dolly."

"None taken," she husked. "If I was one of them and I had the guts to do it..."