Boldly Go
Copyright© 2026 by Duke of Ramus
Chapter 1
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please remain seated and we’ll get this over with quickly and allow you to get back to your meal.”
‘Oh Fuck, that’s all I need!’ he thought.
The woman — now that she’d drawn attention to herself — cut a truly imposing figure at over six feet tall with short dark hair and a physique that looked like it belonged on a body builder. The words she’d just delivered using her amplified voice — were now almost a cliché — and had been heard thousands of times before all over the planet. They signified a chance to escape for the people eating in the campus restaurant, a chance the majority of people here would be prepared to grab with open arms — and legs — or anything else that was required.
For a young student by the name of Jean-Paul Kirk it was an interruption to his daily schedule that he just didn’t need. University was proving to be more enjoyable than he’d expected and as a party animal he needed these quiet lunchtimes to recover and refuel after the hectic times he’d had the evening before.
“Would everyone please take out their ID cards and have them available for inspection,” the Marine requested through her amplifier — although everyone knew it was really an order that they had to obey. Yet another of the changes the threatened Sa’arm invasion and the Confederacy had bought about to civil and moral obligations.
As Jean-Paul fished his ID card out of his pocket he noticed that the attempt by the Marines to keep things calm and dignified was already falling apart around them, several men were up on their feet and moving forward, waving ID cards above their heads and grinning like maniacs. Jean-Paul was close enough to see the Marines start to react, their hands moving to reveal what — he assumed — were stingers and the way the pair moved slightly apart watching the men coming towards them. Out of the corner of his eye Jean-Paul caught movement on either side of the room as more — large — people began to move in a similar manner to those in front of him. Jean-Paul found himself nodding in understanding, pickups had become more violent in recent times and the old method — of just a couple of Marines turning up — was no longer viable or safe.
The two Marines he’d originally spotted began moving casually through the room towards the oncoming men, glancing casually at the ID cards on display as they passed. His own clearly showed his CAP score of eight point zero, a score he was proud of but not sufficiently to make him volunteer for service in the Confederacy Armed Forces. He didn’t object to fighting — he just considered himself a lover not a fighter.
Jean-Paul never spotted what started the ruckus — he doubted if anyone knew what actually set it off — but suddenly there was screaming going on all around and the familiar sounds of shots being fired and the strange buzzing noises that he later assumed were the stinger discharges.
“Wall-field!” someone barked and moments later the gunshots took on a different tone.
Jean-Paul just sat there with his brain frozen into inaction by the sudden violence going on around him, he was only peripherally aware of the movement and conversations going on around him.
“How many were we collecting?” asked the vaguely familiar voice.
“Four, Gunny,” came an anonymous — almost musical — reply from further away.
“Have we got them?” the first voice asked.
“We’ve not ID’ed them but it looks like we’ve got three on this side of the wall,” came the answer in the same sing-song voice.
“Then grab them and anyone else that wants to leave and let’s get out of here,” concluded the familiar voice.
Jean-Paul came out of his funk when the big Marine grabbed him and basically hurled him towards the transporter terminus that had appeared next to the Marine ahead of him.
“I’m not...” he tried to protest as the second Marine caught him and casually flipped him into the shinning disk and off the planet.
Jean-Paul landed on something soft — which proceeded to wriggle and complain at his arrival — but before he could apologise — or move away — another body arrived through the gateway and sprawled across the pair of them.
Amid more squeals and complaints a pair of hands grabbed him and dragged him clear of the squirming pile before — unceremoniously — dropping him to the deck. Laid on the cold deck he was left to sort himself out as — all around him — various other bodies were receiving similar, impersonal treatment.
Slowly things resolved themselves and Jean-Paul was able to sit quietly and get his bearings. The woman he’d landed on was sat next to him — her bright orange coverall clearly identifiable amidst the crowd — and appeared to be no worse for her impromptu meeting with his body. Jean-Paul smiled at her, thinking she was pretty cute in a mature sort of way — different from the college girls he’d been charming so easily recently — and looked around at the other people who’d end up being extracted.
The last person through the portal was the female Marine who’d been doing all the talking back on Earth and she continued talking as she stepped clear of the transporter field, “Shut the damn thing down,” she yelled.
She stopped moving and a tough looking man approached her, “Gabby, what the hell happened down there?” he asked.
“It was a fucking ambush, Sir,” she stated. “There were four or five of them — complete with fake IDs and guns — and they were in action before I’d finished the opening address. We threw up a wall shield and got the hell out of there. I’m guessing that any of the volunteers that weren’t on our side of the wall are going to turn up dead.”
“That’s the way it’s been working so far,” confirmed the man, “we’ve lost two Marines so far on this pickup run in similar circumstances to yours and eight of the volunteers that didn’t get nabbed have been found with a bullet in the back of the head. God knows why, those people are probably the best chance the race has got of surviving.”
“Seems to me that someone’s decided that if they’re not going to be saved,” she said, “then nobody is.” The conclusion was added with feeling.
The man, who it seemed was an officer shook his head then looked over at the bodies sprawled around. “So what did you bring me then?” he asked.
Gabby grinned, “I’m not sure,” she said, “we’d just started to check IDs when the shit hit the fan so I grabbed the high rollers and bundled anyone else who was interested through with them.” She looked around at the bodies strewn across the deck, “I suppose I’d better sort them out now and see who got left behind.”
“You do that, Gabby and I’ll check on the other crews. We may have to start going down in armour if things keep going the way they are.”
As the officer moved off Gabby turned back to the confused mob and spoke up, “Sorry for that, it seems that some people were in a bit of a rush to join us and didn’t have an invite.” She smiled at the group and then crossed over to a desk, “Right we’ll begin again - first, welcome to the Confederation colony ship Andromeda, and second, will those who’ve volunteered for service make themselves known and can everyone have their ID cards to hand.”
Two men dragged themselves to their feet and crossed over to Gabby while the rest of the crowd continued to untangle themselves. Jean-Paul continued his survey of the crowd and did a rough count at the same time — he came up with thirty-two people — and remembered his main reason for choosing this college, the large number of females who did the same, studying everything from art to zoology. The college was not at the very top of the academic tree but it was amongst the largest in terms of subjects covered and its attitude — totally biased — towards the fairer sex had ensured that it had no problems recruiting the numbers required to keep it viable.
The woman in the orange coverall smiled at Jean-Paul, “Hi, I’m Wendy Simons.”
“Jean-Paul Kirk but most people call me Jaypee,” he replied.
“So Jaypee, what d’you think will happen to those of us who don’t get picked?” she asked glancing around at the crowd. She waved an arm at the table and the two men talking to Gabby — who’d just stood up — and continued “If that’s all the volunteers they’ve got most of us aren’t going to get picked,” she snorted derisively, “even if they’re tens.” She glanced over at a group of younger women who were still creating a ruckus and her face dropped a little. “Especially competing with them,” she said quietly.
Jean-Paul looked over at the girls she was talking about and smiled, he’d already slept with two of them and hadn’t been particularly impressed — they looked good — but despite the changes brought about by CAP testing still thought that looking the part was enough. Before he could answer Wendy a hand descended on his shoulder firmly.
“Can I have a word with you,” said Gabby as she picked him up with a casual display of strength.
“Yes,” gasped Jean-Paul as he struggled to regain his balance.
“Where’s your ID card?” she demanded.
“Here,” he said fishing the offending object out of his pocket.
“I thought so,” she muttered. “Why aren’t you over there?”
“Because I’m not a volunteer,” he stated.
“You’re an eight and you haven’t volunteered, why the hell not?”
“I’m not going to fight,” Jean-Paul stated firmly, “and when I asked at the recruiting station they told me that all volunteers fight, some more than others.” He looked the Marine in the eye, “and that wasn’t good enough for me!”
“So what do you think your doing here?” she asked.
“I’ve no idea,” he said maintaining eye contact, “you’re the one that grabbed me.”
“Oh fuck,” said Gabby releasing Jean-Paul. She closed her eyes for a moment and then told him to stay there before storming off in the direction of the officer.
Wendy looked shocked as Jean-Paul descended back to the deck beside her. “You’ve got a score of eight?” she asked tentatively.
“Yeah,” replied Jean-Paul, “but it doesn’t mean much if you don’t want to fight.
“Are you scared?” she asked.
“Of course I am, so would anybody with half a brain be but that’s not it. I just don’t feel the urge to do that, for as long as I can remember I’ve always tried to walk away, only fighting when I had to. Even the karate I did was for the exercise and agility, not to kick anyone’s arse.” He slumped down beside the older woman. “Now they’re going to kick up a ruckus and try to get me to volunteer and it ain’t going to happen,” he smiled, “but it should be fun for you to watch.”
Wendy smiled not really understanding, she was clever — she’d been studying for her masters — but her CAP score was only six point one and she’d have fought anyone if it guaranteed she could get away from the terrible aliens coming their way.
Across the room the two Marines were in discussion, amidst a great deal of arm waving. Finally the paired turned and headed back towards Jean-Paul and the now interested crowd around him.
Without preamble the officer started on Jean-Paul, “What’s all this crap about you not volunteering?”
“No crap, mate,” said Jean-Paul, “just a simple statement of fact.”
“I’m Captain Williamson and you address me as SIR!,” yelled the officer, “so what are you doing on my ship?”
“Well Captain,” slurred Jean-Paul, “It would appear that Gabby here kidnapped me because she fancies me so much and now you’re just jealous.”
Gabby dropped her arm on the Captains shoulder and squeezed for a moment. He responded by taking a deep breath and making an effort to calm down. “Sorry, it’s been a difficult day,” he said. “Shall we try that again.” He glanced down at the ID card in his hand, “Mr Kirk, this card tells me you have a CAP score of eight but Gunny Logan informs me that you haven’t volunteered for service in the Armed Forces. Is that so?”
“That’s true, Sir, I am not a fighter by nature and the volunteer centre was only looking for fighters.”
“And you’re here because your CAP score caused us to believe that you’d volunteered.”
“That’s the way I understand it, Sir” agreed Jean-Paul.
“Thank you Mr Kirk, I’m going to pass this one up the chain of command and see what they can come up with.” Captain Williamson actually managed a smile, “In the mean time we’ll find you a place to relax while we sort out everyone else.”
“Thanks Captain, I’ll try not to be too much of a bother.”
The Captain nodded and left, trailed by Gabby. Around Jean-Paul there were a real mixture of looks being directed at him, from amazement to disbelief.
Sorting out the volunteers that Gabby Logan had actually managed to recover proved to be a bit of an anti-climax for most people involved. The two men had scores of seven point one and six point seven respectively, which meant they only required six concubines between them from the thirty odd people available. When it transpired that the guy with a seven had his wife along with him — and was keeping her — that number dropped to five and — true to form — the guys went for the youngsters.
Jean-Paul snorted with derision as he watched on, and Wendy, who it turned out was thirty-two years old, looked at him questioningly.
“They’re supposed to understand what’s going on,” he said indicating the two men, “but apart from that guy’s wife they’ve both picked their slaves on looks alone.” He shook his head again, “even I’ve read up on what happens next, and on what it’s possible to do.” He glanced over at Wendy, “Take you for instance, if I’d volunteered and picked you what would you want to change about yourself?”
Wendy looked at her body and scowled, of course she’d dreamed about this but did she want to tell this young man all about it, oh hell, what difference would it make. “Two things really,” she said, “boobs, I’d love a set of boobs that got noticed.” Her hands came up and cupped the small mounds she actually had and attempted to jiggle them, “and legs, much longer legs.” She released her boobs and slapped her thighs, “these look OK but they are so short that even a mini-skirt comes down to my knees,” she blushed as she reached her conclusion wondering what the young man would think of her admission.
“What about changes to the way you look, would you want anything there?” he probed ignoring her embarrassment.
“Well, if they could take away ten years of wrinkles that would probably help,” she said, “but other than that I’m happy with the way I look.”
“And so you should be,” complemented Jean-Paul, “but if the changes you wanted were made just how grateful would you be to your sponsor?” asked Jean-Paul significantly.
Wendy looked over at the young women accompanying the two volunteers and grimaced, “I see what you mean, a lot more grateful than those girls are going to be that’s for sure.” She glanced back at Jean-Paul, “So Jaypee, are you propositioning me?”
Jean-Paul chuckled, “As your sponsor I’d have to try you out first, Wendy, how’d you like that?”
Wendy blushed deeply, “I was willing back in the restaurant,” she said, “I don’t see why I should become unwilling now.”
Jean-Paul threw an arm around the shorter woman and hugged her to him, “Then I’d be happy to proposition you,” he said.
“And what about me?” asked a voice behind the couple.
The two spun around as quickly as they could from their seated positions and were confronted by a tall, slim woman in a black skirt and white blouse — the tag pinned to her blouse gave her name as Felicity.
Jean-Paul recovering first asked, “well, what would you want?”
“Like her,” Felicity nodded towards Wendy, “I’d want tits,” her voice got dreamy, “nice; big; firm; tits that any man would love to lay his head against.”
“And what else?” asked Wendy, curiously.
“Well I think my legs are long enough as it is,” she paused to glance down their impressively long length, “but I’d want a butt like JLo’s,” she half rolled to lift the offending item off the deck and added, “mine’s too skinny for anyone to want.”
Jean-Paul was still smiling, “and if I wanted a test ride beforehand?”
Felicity looked the young man straight in the eye, “You can have that whether you’re picking me or not,” she stated firmly, which caused Wendy beside him to blush again.
Jean-Paul felt his jaw drop at that statement, he’d never considered the availability of older pussy and now it was throwing itself at him. He vowed that if he ended up back on Earth — which was the probable outcome of this dilemma — he was going to start a new black book dedicated to the over thirties.
As Jean-Paul considered his expanding horizons his case was being discussed by figures in authority and he’d have been surprised to discover that sending him back to Earth was very low on the list of options.
“Tors, have you seen this from Captain Williamson over on the Andromeda?”
“Yes, Admiral,” answered Captain Haaraldsson, “It’s an interesting little problem isn’t it.”
Technically Admiral Roger Hargreaves should have been addressed as Major-General Hargreaves, but like most of the Navy — especially above the rank of Colonel — they’d gone their own sweet way and kept the old Navy designations, and no one had been brave enough to tell them not to. Which is why Colonel Haaraldsson was referred to as Captain Haaraldsson on everything but official correspondence.
“So what do you recommend, Tors?”
“Well I’d thought about the Civil Service or the Fleet Auxiliary but they don’t seem to fit which means I really should recommend throwing him back. It’s just that I hate to lose an eight...” he petered out.
“What about Jamie’s idea, do you think this young man would go for that?”
Commodore (Brigadier) James Fergusson had been pushing the idea that humans — now that they were off the planet — should be exploring far and wide, with or without the Confederacy’s help. So far he’d only had minor success in that his ideas were liked but no one had found a way of implementing them that didn’t divert too many assets from the war effort.
“You’d be willing to divert the resources to make the project work, Sir?”
“Not for the new vessels that Jamie wants but I’ve been looking at the original ship manifest that the Darjee made available and I was struck by a particular class of vessels that they had in reserve. I’ve talked to the AIs about the K’treel ships and it appears that they were a bit of a mongrel design, too big to be classed as a Corvette — and not powerful enough to carry the required armament for that role — and too small to be a practical merchant.” He smiled at his assistant, “only government inertia — it seems — allowed thirty of them to be built before they got it stopped. Those thirty were then put up for sale and — believe it or not — half a dozen of them were sold as yachts to the rich and famous,” he snorted, remembering a certain fast patrol boat he’d been in love with.
Tors Haaraldsson called up the specifications for the K’treel on his screen and scanned the data while he listened to the Admiral, it really was a bit of a dog.
“Anyway, there are twenty-four of them sitting in a maintenance reserve port looking for a job and — according to the AIs — they can be had for less than their scrap value.” Admiral Hargreaves pointed to the screen, “She needs a crew of about twelve to actually run her and has an endurance that is ridiculous for her size, the ones available actually have the mounts for two low powered phased beams and one of the old plasma torpedo launchers. The containers she has fitted actually have the same mounts as the habitat pods we’re using on the colony ships, which opens up a few opportunities, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
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