Chapter 1

Ronald:

I guess it all started at Frederick's -- that's Frederick's Ye Olde Renaissance Inn to those of you who have never heard of it. The place was a rambling ramshackle wood and stone building out on the edge of a suburb of -- well, you don't care about the city, do you? It's gone, anyway, I think. Yes, I mean the city. Frederick's probably is, too -- or at least, it probably isn't doing the same business it was...

Never mind -- no sense getting maudlin over the Sa'arm landings and what they've done to Earth. The Navy keeps reinforcements from coming in, but the ground battles go on and on and on ... That bastard -- it's one creature with a billion sets of arms and legs, all connected telepathically -- is paying dearly for his real estate -- and he's NEVER going to own it all -- not while a single human lives and breathes there! Once we FINALLY made the AIs understand that they could not and we would not abandon our homeworld to ANY sonofabitch, we managed to re-apportion assets in order to keep Earthat -- or the Solar System for you pre-Confederacy ancient-history types -- under permanent blockade. Unfortunately, this was AFTER they punched through a lighter blockade and made landings, so we're stuck with an ever more savvy foe on the ground...

Enough of that. This was then -- pre-invasion Earth, oh, five or six years ago, during the 'hiatus' -- the period during which we were SUPPOSED to be close to having an invasion according to the early data, but hadn't yet. People were beginning to believe that it was all bullshit and things were going back to normal -- or what passes for that, anyway. There was no doubt that there WAS a Swarm, but whether they were actually coming for US or we were just being suckered by the Confederacy was an open question. Politicians and religious leaders were up on their soapboxes complaining about the Confederacy 'taking our best and brightest for cannon fodder in a war of no relevance to us.' They had passed laws in California and a couple of other places outlawing CAP cards. You didn't tell anyone your score and you didn't fool with pre-packs because you really never knew whether you were going to get extracted, and you didn't want to make yourself a target for Earth First whackos at any point in the process. Weddings were down, but couples were living in sin and pumping out kids -- it just made life easier if you didn't get all tangled up in something that could be meaningless, commingling your assets with someone who could be gone at a moment's notice. If you made it to an extraction, then the kids were paramount; if you were sponsor-class -- and male -- you could usually collect Mama with the kids, and if you WERE Mama, then Daddy got to start over with another woman, theoretically, if he didn't make the cut. Monogamy was back, because being out with more than one woman painted a target on your back. Polygamy was out there and no one was enforcing laws regarding it -- largely because it was without actual marriage -- but if you had a pre-pack picked out -- and many did -- you kept it behind closed doors. Basically, the pendulum had swung -- and was on its way back. Clothing styles had made a close approach to nudity, but that, too, was in remission; girls went exposed all the time, but not everyone did it and not all the time. In some cases, that was a good thing, naturally.

So, anyway, we were at Frederick's -- which had as its thing this Medieval European theme. The walls were log or knotty pine -- or stone, in some places -- and the furniture was rustic and the floors were hard clay. You could get a beer in a ceramic stein or a pewter one, but not in glass -- even if it was bottled beer. They advertized sixty-nine beers on tap, anyway -- who would want to drink from a bottle there? The waitresses all looked like St. Pauli girls, in dirndls -- peasant blouses and long, flowing gathered skirts out of thin cotton and laced leather bodices. They all wore sandals -- and the rumor was that they would be barefoot, but the Health Department wanted to be dicks about it. The staff all talked the talk, trying to sound medieval, too, which was fun. On that particular night, the waitresses were the subject of conversation...

"Man, that Sylvie is sure hot!" Chet declared, sucking on his mug of ale. We were waiting for burgers at the time.

I wrinkled my nose. "You're kidding, right? That slip of a thing?" Sylvie wasn't much of a representative of the hardy peasant stock that Frederick's overall theme brought to mind -- she was narrow and damn near flat-chested and her pigtails were OBVIOUSLY bleached blonde. "She's all skin and bone, Man! She'd probably break like a bundle of sticks under a good, hard fuck!"

Chet laughed. "So what's your ideal example of feminine pulchritude?"

"Beatrice," I announced pedantically. "Now THERE is a woman!"

"That sow?" Chet scoffed. "She's a porker!"

"She is not!" I rose to her defense, "She's ... substantial. Husky. Good peasant stock -- able to take a licking and keep on ticking. AND she has nice hooters!"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Ron!" Chet objected, "She's even hog-nosed! Not to mention the legs!"

"What -- because her nose tilts up a bit at the end?" I argued, "That's cute! And you haven't even SEEN her legs above the ankle!" Beatrice's ankles WERE a little thick -- like the rest of her -- but the right one sported a little bracelet. I liked that.

"I've seen that big fat ass!" Chet scoffed.

"That's not fat, that's ham!" I argued, "All meat!"

"So what's that at her middle?" Chet sneered, "Bacon?"

"You're rude, Man," I protested, "I bet she could fuck you into the middle of next week!"

"If she rode on top, I might wake up next week..." Chet chuckled.

About that time, the subject of conversation swept past, her wide hips swaying. Since she came from behind me, I didn't see her until she was abreast of me and moving beyond -- and I wanted a refill, so without thinking, I reached out...

... And laid my hand on her ass...

Beatrice stopped dead and looked at me over her shoulder in some surprise. "Milord?" I snatched my hand away.

"Uh oh..." Chet muttered.

"Ahhh..." I swallowed, "Forgive the intrusion, Lass -- I merely wanted another ale. I meant no offense -- ye were beyond me..."

Beatrice turned to look down at me, her eyes twinkling. "Aye. None taken, milord. What drinkest ye?"

"The Vermont White, Lass."

"And ye?" Beatrice turned her attention to Chet.

"I'm good..."

"Half a mo' milord." Beatrice waved her hand daintily and moved off, apparently unconcerned.

Chet gusted a breath, "You'd better hope she doesn't piss in your mug!"

"She didn't SEEM angry," I murmured carefully.

"Lucky you!" Chet snorted. "Still, I think I'd be sipping before I tipped up my tankard, if I were you! Patting her on the ass like that..." He shook his head.

But Beatrice was back in no time with a new tankard and whipped it before me with a cheery smile. "Your ale, milord. Methinks your repast is ready -- I'll return in a trice!" Then she was off, her wide hips swaying.

Mindful of Chet's warning, I sniffed my beer -- but if it had urine in it, there wasn't much. A careful taste didn't detect any, either, so I went ahead and took a good swallow. "Apparently, she bears me no ill will," I mused.

"Lucky you!" Chet chuckled, "She could squash you like a bug!"

A minute later, she was back, putting a knee on Chet's bench and leaning over the table as she placed my plate before me. "Your repast, milord," she announced, presenting an absolutely awe-inspiring amount of soft cleavage within a foot and a half of my eyes. "Dost thou desire aught else?"

That smile -- that twinkle in her green eye -- she was flirting with me! "Ah, Lass -- tempt me not!" came rolling from my lips, the words created somewhere by someone not totally entranced by those eyes.

"Thinkest thou that I am a temptress, then?" she mocked me.

"Wouldst thou claim thou art not?" I shot back.

She reached out and traced the line of my jaw with a finger. "Thou hast a tongue of silver, milord. An thou requirest my attention, do what thou must -- but I doubt that it will be anywhere else this night..." She swept off, those hips of hers rolling, glancing at me periodically over her shoulder.

"Oho! She's got the hots for you!" Chet chortled.

"Well, it's mutual!" I retorted, adding, "Gee, I wonder where YOUR burger is?" In fact, it took several minutes to arrive -- and Sylvie delivered it. I didn't see that she was as friendly about it as Beatrice had been with mine, either -- just another reason to avoid her, to my mind. Chet didn't agree, of course -- as soon as she was out of earshot, he was singing her praises. As far as I was concerned, though, he needed a different songbook.

Beatrice came back three times to check on me, and she flirted and made sure I got an eyeful of her rack every time -- and she backed into me once while cleaning the booth across the aisle -- something I was more or less prepared for, since I was watching her ass wiggle as she cleaned the bench across from mine. Being pretty damned sure it was deliberate, I got a double-handful of it when I stopped her. She did a great job of pretending it was an accident -- and made no complaint about my hands, even though I left one there as she turned around!

"She wants you, Man!" Chet chuckled.

"Well, it's mutual -- I'd do her in a heartbeat!" I replied.

"I wouldn't be caught dead with a porker like that," Chet snorted. I just shook my head. MAYBE Sylvie could fuck and MAYBE she was athletic about it -- you see those babysitter porn flicks where a little bitty chick takes fourteen inches and has a ball with it -- but I was betting not. Besides, pickups were STILL on everyone's minds -- and I like happy chicks, and I didn't see Sylvie as a happy chick. I COULD picture her as an UNHAPPY pregnant chick, very easily, though ... Adjustments to her body could be made easily, according to everything we'd seen and heard -- but adjustments to her head? I figured she would be a total shrew.

Chet and I stayed and had three or four -- or five or six, maybe -- it was a Wednesday, so we weren't going to clubs or anything. Beatrice brought my check and said, "I'm off for a bit -- Sylvie will take care of you. Dost thou desire aught else?"

I looked at her and sighed, "Nothing I can acquire, Lass. Nothing on the menu."

Beatrice eyed me, amused. "Thy silver tongue still wags. Be not so certain that thou art limited to the menu!" Smiling, she swayed off...

"She's talking serious shit, Man!" Chet chuckled. "She wants you!"

"She's just playing. It's fun, but if I got serious, she would want to know what I thought I was doing," I argued. "It's certainly a pleasant thought, though."

"I wish Sylvie had similar interests," Chet pouted.

"Undoubtedly, Sylvie has a boyfriend and six other guys waiting to take his place," I replied, "which might explain why she isn't in a rush to romance your ugly ass!"

"Yeah, maybe," Chet snorted, "which explains why that porker Beatrice is wide open. Not gonna be much demand there..."

"Different strokes, Man. I bet you that Beatrice would go all out to make me happy -- but Sylvie would have YOU going all out to make HER happy!"

Sylvie showed up a couple of minutes later to take our money -- and was decidedly cool with me, not that she gave Chet anything in the way of encouragement. We got up and headed out. I was a little unsteady -- I'm not a two-fisted drinker. We came around a corner by a side door, headed for Chet's car, and I drifted a bit. Beatrice came out of the shadows, where she and a couple of other waitresses had been taking a break, I guess. Grabbing my arm, she said, "You shouldn't drive."

I rotated to face her -- she was nearly my height. "I have to get home ... Besides, Chet is driving." Putting my hand on her hip seemed to be a natural thing to do.

"Chet shouldn't drive, either."

"No doubt, but he has the same problem," I noted. "We can't sleep here -- this isn't an inn, just a tavern."