Chapter 6

The HSF Magnum was a Flintlock class patrol vessel built in the shipyards of Caspia 4 thirty-seven metric years before. Like all Flintlocks, Magnum was ninety-nine meters in length and had a beam of twenty. Its four fusion engines could drive it at a maximum acceleration of 3.5Gs while simultaneously providing power for the artificial gravity generators and stellar coronal capable electromagnetic shielding, thus giving it circuit point capability and enough legs to quickly cross interplanetary distances within a stellar system. It was armed with two forty-centimeter anti-ship lasers which sat upon rotating turrets upon the hull and were capable of overloading the shielding of any non-fleet interstellar vessel known to exist. With a standard crew of forty spacers, a squad of marines, and a medic, the ninety-nine ships, as they were known, were the bane of smuggling and pirate vessels throughout human space. The Magnum, which had been assigned to the Far Space Command for the entirety of its commission, was currently attached to Triad Naval Base in orbit around Mars. Its primary areas of responsibility were the Sol System and the First Cross system, both of which contained large numbers of asteroids, comets, and small moons that rogue vessels seeking safe haven would occasionally hide in.

Magnum was in the Sol system now, docked at berthing airlock 109 at the Homeport Topside HSF base. Gath, who had just received a guided tour of the vessel from its newly frocked commanding officer, was now sitting at a cocktail table in the Far Out intoxicant club on the eighteenth sublevel of the base. By looking out the window of the club—again, not a view screen but an actual window—the vessel was clearly in view, attached to the berthing arm just forward of amidships. The drink in his hand—a Zaphorian flax whiskey poured over ice—had been purchased for him by that same commander who was now sitting across from him at a seat where he could look up at his new ship whenever he wanted. His name was Oxford Dripper and he was a twelve-year veteran of the Fleet. He was also the man who was going to marry Taz in a little more than two metric hours. And Gath was the man slated to give Taz away in lieu of her father, who was unable to attend the ceremony by virtue of being ninety-four light years—or nine circuit jumps—away at the moment.

Ox, as he was called, was forty metric years old. His skin tone was darker than Taz’s, edging into the lighter shades of brown. He was smoothly bald, of course, tall, and a bit pudgy around the middle as naval personnel were not required to maintain the same level of physical fitness as marine personnel. Dressed in the standard off-duty white pullover and blue shorts, he was a jovial man with a sharp and intelligent sense of humor. Gath had only known him for a single day but he found he rather liked him—a situation which did nothing but make him feel more awkward at the situation he now found himself in.

It had been eleven metric weeks—just over a cycle—since that day in Bakersfield when the Norcal army had killed two marines and forced Taz to kill fourteen or fifteen Norcals. Since that night, the night Taz had visited Gath’s quarters, obstinately for burrito making lessons, and the two of them had been “overcome by lust” for each other, they had been engaging in a heavy and frequent sexual relationship with each other. As had been the case with Xenia during school, everyone, even Weasel, knew the two of them were in the relationship but no one made any reference to it, either directly or indirectly. There were no accusations or head nods, no winks or chiding elbows to the side, no graffiti on the bathroom walls or snide remarks on the social media postings. Everyone just pretended that Taz and Gath were coworkers and friends who spent a lot of time together and that Taz’s heart belonged only to her fiancé.

That, at least, was something Gath was used to. This new situation, however, had brought him into an entirely new realm of spaceborn sexual and relationship politics. He had met Taz’s intended, had drank with him and toured his ship, was slated to walk down the aisle with Taz at their wedding, and he was reasonably certain that Ox knew he was sexually involved with her as well. Taz had insisted that he attend the wedding and had introduced him to Ox as her “good friend”, a phrase that carried a certain implication in spaceborn society (although no one would ever say, or even allude to that). And Ox gave no indication that he cared in the least that Gath was playing hide the missile with the woman he was about to vow to dedicate the rest of his life to. He, in fact, had a “good friend” of his own sitting at the table next to him. Her name was Vagal Mannistor—Manny for short—and she was a twenty-something year old spacer first class assigned to one of the short hall maintenance ships in First Cross. And not only did Taz not seem to care about Ox’s “friend”, the two of them seemed to be hitting it off quite nicely. Manny had even agreed to stand in as Taz’s maid of honor.

Spaceborn, Gath thought, exasperated. Why in purg do they make their social lives so torkin complicated?

“I need to offload,” giggled Taz, who was well into her second drink of the day and obviously feeling it. “Manny, you want to come with me?”

“Sure,” Manny said with a friendly smile. “I could probably stand a little offload myself.”

The two females stood and headed for the shitter in the corner of the bar, leaving Gath and Ox alone. Gath wondered if this was the part where Ox would interrogate him about just how good of a friend he really was to his soon-to-be wife, but that did not seem to be on the agenda. Ox was contemplating his drink with a wondrous expression on his face.

“This is pretty good slag,” he said. “Who would have thought that natural hooch would actually taste so ... smooth.”

“Well worth the extra cost,” Gath agreed, taking a sip. In reality, the Zaphorian flax was little more than swill, distilled in a mass production factory in a disreputable part of human space for cheap export, but it was still superior to the spaceborn produced flax because it was actually made from flax instead of synthetic flax flavoring.

“I think you just converted me,” Ox told him. “I’ll have a hard time drinking the normal hooch now.”

“It’s sometimes hard to get hold of,” Gath said. “Unless you’re on the surface, of course.”

“I try to keep me feet off the ground as much as possible,” Ox said. “Natural gravity and unprocessed air don’t agree with me.”

“Ground sickness?” Gath asked, knowing that for some spaceborn the malady was debilitating. Their immune systems simply were not accustomed to dealing with the large variety of plant spores, terrestrial bacteria and general dust that floated around on terrestrial surfaces.

“Something awful,” he said, nodding. “Every time I’m exposed to natural air the medic has to load me up with antihistamines or my face will swell up and my sinuses will plug shut. And even with the drugs, my eyes will itch and water and turn red, my bowels will turn to mush and I’ll have to spend half of every hour sitting on the shitter.” He shook his head. “That’s why I’ve spent all my time in ninety-nine ships. There’s never any reason to set foot on the surface.”

“Understandable,” Gath said. “And now you’ve got your own command. That’s quite an accomplishment for someone with your seniority, isn’t it?”

“Well, a ninety-nine isn’t the most glamorous command—not like a destroyer or a dreadnought—but it’s a working ship. Sees a lot of action. And I like to think we’re the ones who make the most difference out here. We’re the first line against piracy and smuggling.” He took another sip. “It’s a good command and I have a good crew. I’m happy.”

“That’s what it’s all about,” Gath said.

“Damn right,” Ox said. He looked pointedly at Gath. “You and Taz are getting your share of the action too. That was some pretty intense slag down there in ... what was that slaghole called?”

“Bakersfield,” Gath answered.

“Bakersfield,” he said, nodding. “Taz told me what happened down there. Nasty business. She had to push the button and kill those homers. You had to go out and see what those torkin’ savages did to our marines. I’m surprised the two of you are still all right in the head after that.”

“It was not something I’d care to have to experience again,” Gath admitted.

“Maybe you won’t,” Ox said. “After your incident down in Bakersfield and those other two ... where were they?”

“Egypt and South Africa,” Gath replied, knowing instantly what he was talking about. A week after the Bakersfield incident in which homebodies had killed hundreds of themselves and two marines over water pipes, three more marines had died in Egypt when a group of homers calling themselves “the brothers” had attacked an isolated work crew doing maintenance on a dam. And then, only six days later, another five marines had died outside the ruins of a South African city called Pretoria when the marines attempted to intervene in a regional war and were chased down by hordes of homebodies from both sides of the conflict. The five marines in that case had had their armor ripped from their bodies and were stabbed to death with bayonets before the decision to use indiscriminate lethal force was made. Though the three incidents had taken place all over the globe and were completely unrelated, they constituted the highest loss of fleet lives on Earth in more than twenty years.

“Right,” Ox said. “Egypt and South Africa. After ten marines dead in a single cycle and with Mortimer closing in, the higher ups are finally taking a look at Homeland Policy with an eye toward changing it.”

“Do you really think they will?” Gath asked.

“You’ve seen Admiral Zeal and Doc Bookender on the holo, haven’t you?”

“I have,” Gath said. Admiral Zeal, commander of the Fleet’s Eleventh Operational Group, which was primarily the Sol System, and Doc Bookender, chief medical officer in the Sol system, had both been all over the Fleet Network news holos of late and both had been very vocal about the futility of Homeland Policy and how it was not just pointless to go on feeding the homebodies, but a detriment to the lives and wellbeing of the marines who had to carry the policy out. Zeal had even gone so far as to proclaim that if it were up to her, every last member of the Fleet would be pulled off the planet Earth tomorrow and the entire system would be abandoned by day one of the next year.

“Word around the rec room is that the two of them are leaving on a little trip to Fleet HQ in the AZ,” Ox said. “And the purpose of this trip is to demand an adjustment to Homeland Policy.”

“Oh yeah?” Gath said.

“That’s the rumor. I don’t know how big of an adjustment they’re trying to get or what leverage they have to try to get it pushed through, but I can tell you that a high-profile trip of some sort is being planned. The Krakatoa—that’s a high-speed minesweeping frigate—has been sent to Sol from Far Space HQ with orders for best speed. Now since there aren’t any mines that need sweeping out here as far as I know, I’m left with the conclusion that someone needs a speedy ride somewhere.”

“Someone like Doc Bookender,” Gath said.

“Exactly.”

“He rode down with us when we first deployed here,” Gath said. “He made it very clear that he was not in favor of Homeland Policy.”

“Not many of the top whiteshirts are,” Ox said. “Purg, not much of anyone thinks we should still be here, except for ... well ... you know?”

“The groundies,” Gath said levelly.

“Well ... yeah,” Ox confirmed. “Sorry, but that’s the way most of us spacies see it. We started off with good intentions, trying to save our brothers and sisters that were left behind and all that slag, but somewhere around eight hundred or so years ago, we should have abandoned the effort and let evolution take over—let those torkin’ homers thrust or drift on their own.”

“But my people didn’t want a mass die off,” Gath said. He knew the story well. Though the groundborn rarely came off of their colonized planets and into space, and though more than a quarter of their numbers were living on planets considered to be rogue by the spaceborn, they still represented more than eighty percent of the human population. And though the mainstream spaceborn society in charge of the Fleet was technically its own nation-state that technically did not answer to anyone and could do as they pleased, that seventy-five percent of groundborn who did have a friendly relationship with the spaceborn wielded enormous political power over them. Quite simply put, the spaceborn could only exist if there were groundborn. Without groundborn, there would not be enough food for the spaceborn to eat, there would not be any planetary orbital stations for them to park their dreadnoughts and destroyers at for maintenance, there would not be any carbon fiber and steel and plastic for them to build their space vessels and space stations out of, and there would be no mission for them to accomplish, as they only existed to facilitate interstellar trade and travel. So, when the groundborn insisted that Homeland Policy be continued, Homeland Policy was continued. Or at least it always had been before.

“Like I said, Gath, you seem a nice enough hume with your head on straight. Taz sure as purg likes you—you’re all she torkin’ talks about when we get on the holo together—so I’m just speaking plainly here. You’ve been down there on the surface. You’ve been among those torkin’ savages and know what they’re all about.”

“I do,” Gath said, thinking back on the things he had seen, the experiences he had had since landing at CVS that first day. He remembered thinking that any groundborn assigned to the Sol could not possibly be as jaded toward the homebodies as the spaceborn were. How naïve that seemed now.

“So, what do you think?” Ox asked. “What is your take on the homebodies? On Homeland Policy?”

“Not that it matters much,” Gath said, “but my take is that homebodies are a people who kill each other and us indiscriminately and seem to even get a thrill out of doing it. They’re a people who can’t read and don’t want to learn how, but can still figure out how to build and accurately fire eighty-millimeter mortar shells that will blast through marine armor. They’re a people who cut off the torkin’ tower and bells and carve out the eyeballs of captured enemies, and then send them out for wild dogs to feed on while still alive. There is nothing redeeming about them. And as for Homeland Policy, I think my people are out of their torkin’ minds for blindly supporting it all these years. I don’t think anyone who had spent any time here can possibly think that Homeland Policy is accomplishing anything but perpetual hopelessness.”

That brought a smile to Ox’s face—the kind of smile one gives when he realizes the person he is speaking to is of similar mind regarding a controversial subject. He clapped Gath on the shoulder. “It’s an ugly truth but it’s a truth all the same,” he said. “We’re not doing anyone any good here in this system. It’s high time we got the purg out of it.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Gath said.

“No, but someone has to convince a hundred billion just like you.”

Gath nodded, taking another sip of his whiskey. “Yeah, good luck with that one.”

“Hopefully we won’t need the luck,” he said. “Bookender and Zeal are undoubtedly going to try to convince the Executive Council and the two lower houses of the legislature to act without groundborn approval.”

“That’s been tried before,” Gath said. “Many times, in fact. Usually your lower houses are all in favor of it but the Executive Council vetoes any legislation aimed at changing the policy.”

“True,” Ox said, “but we’ve never had ten dead marines and Mortimer on our side before, have we?”

“Do you really think that will make the difference?”

“Maybe not individually,” he replied. “But together ... that just might be enough.”

While Gath was pondering that thought and the ramifications of it, Taz and Manny returned from their trip to the shitter.

“Did you miss us?” Manny asked, sliding back into her seat next to Ox.

“Terribly,” Ox said, looking at her with unmistakable affection.

“What were you two boys talking about?” Taz asked, sitting down next to Gath. “You seemed very serious.”

“Oh, just the future of Homeland Policy,” Ox told her.

Taz rolled her eyes. “Tork Homeland Policy,” she said. “Hopefully it has no future.” She brightened. “Hey, does anyone want to shoot some billiards? There’s a table free.”

It turned out they all wanted to shoot some billiards. It was a good way to pass the time in space.

Most groundborn weddings were elaborate affairs, planned out a least a cycle in advance and generally attended by as many guests as the couple’s budget could afford to feed and intoxicate. Everyone wore their very best clothing and the ceremony itself was at least an hour long with both parties to the marriage reciting lengthy vows and proclamations of love. After the ceremony was the wedding feast, in which an extensive variety of lovingly prepared food and top shelf beverages were served. During the feast, the guests would take turns praising the newlyweds in speeches called toasts (no one was quite sure why they were called that) and then, once everyone was intoxicated and stuffed full of rich food, musicians would play and the guests would dance until everyone was too exhausted to dance anymore.

A spaceborn wedding, by contrast, was a much more casual event, Gath found. The joining of Taz and Ox took place, not in a public wedding hall or on a bluff overlooking the ocean, but in one of the recreation rooms near the docking rings of Homeport Topside. The guests consisted of Gath, Manny, Ox’s new executive officer, and a few members of his crew. No food was served before, during, or after. No one dressed up in nice clothing—spaceborn, in fact, did not usually own anything that would be considered nice clothing; all they wore were shorts and pullover shirts. The ceremony itself was officiated over, not by a judge or high-ranking law enforcement official or a certified marriage official as a groundborn ceremony would be, but by the current on-duty naval chaplain, who popped in just as the ceremony was beginning and watched impatiently while Gath gave away the bride and Manny lined up behind her.

“Do you, Lieutenant Commander Oxford Dripper,” Chaplain Fluv recited mechanically, “being of sound mind on this day...”

“Well ... I’ve had a few drinks,” Ox interrupted with a chuckle.

Fluv smiled dutifully, though his eyes indicated he did not really appreciate the joke. “You seem sound enough to me,” he said. “So ... anyway, do you agree to combine your financial assets with your chosen life partner, Corporal Tazagail Relish, to produce legal heirs to your estate with her, to participate fully with all of your familial connections and assets with the raising and education of those heirs, and to fully support those heirs until they become old enough to produce heirs of their own?”

“I do,” Ox said with a nod.

“Nice,” Flux said. He then turned to Taz and repeated the vow, asking is she too agreed to it.

“I do,” Taz said, smiling happily.

“Very well then,” Flux said. “Lay some derm on the pad for me here.”

They each gave their fingerprints. Flux added his own. He then turned to Gath and Manny. “You two are the witnesses?”

“Uh ... yes,” Gath said.

“If you believe these proceedings were carried out legally and that there is no reason to suspect fraud or misrepresentation, please come forward and lay some derm as well.”

First Gath and then Manny stepped forward and put their fingers on the pad.

“It is now official,” Flux said. “You are bound together until death or divorce do you part. Congratulations.”

“Congratulations!” all the guests shouted in unison.

And that was it. Ox did not kiss his bride. They did not even bump elbows. The chaplain pulled out his commer and asked Ox to lay some derm for the eighteen credit charge for his services and then he left without a backward glance. The executive officer and the crewmembers all offered one last round of congratulations at the union and they too departed, leaving the new couple alone with Manny and Gath.

“Well, that’s done,” Ox said lightly. “I’m glad we were able to fit it in.”

“Me too,” Taz agreed, smiling and giving her new husband an affectionate punch in the upper arm. “Should we go get another round of drinks?”

“I think we should,” Ox agreed.

Somewhat flabbergasted, Gath followed behind them as they returned to the Troop Club. Everyone ordered the natural whiskey. Ox picked up the tab.

“We have a lot to do tomorrow,” he told Taz as they sipped their drinks. “We need to get our financial account merger documents completed so they’re shipped out on the next data return.”

“How long do you think it will take?” she asked, excited at the prospect of combining her bank balance with his.

“It depends,” Ox said. “When was the last dump?”

“Nine days ago,” Gath said.

“Probably not for another cycle at least then,” Ox said. “That’s about how long it takes for information to get back to the mainframe at AZ. It’ll still be combined here though.”

“It’s so exciting,” Taz said, beaming. “I can’t believe we finally did it.”

“The circumstances were right,” Ox said. “Both of us stationed in the same region and able to link data profiles on a regular basis. It couldn’t have been better. I’m glad your CO gave you a three-day pass so you could come up here and do the deed.”

“And Gath too,” Taz said. “I was worried that he wouldn’t let him have a three day at the same time as me, and he did seem reluctant at first, but when I told him it was for our wedding ... well, that Colonel Lister is just a big softie at heart.”

“I guess so,” Ox said. “It certainly would have put a damper on things if your best friend couldn’t be here.” He elbowed Gath affectionately in the side. “Eh, Gath?”

The three spaceborn all laughed as if something deliciously naughty had just been said.

“Uh ... yeah,” Gath said, feeling lost and confused. He countered the sensation by taking a large drink of his whiskey and letting it go to work on his brain.

“Were you two able to get a repro appointment for tomorrow as well?” Manny asked.

“It wasn’t easy, but we both got in,” Taz said.

“Repro appointments?” Gath asked, surprised. Repro was short for reproductive specialist, a doc who handled all aspects of human reproduction. To have an appointment with one early in a marriage could only mean they were planning on having their reproductive blocks deactivated, thus making the two of them fertile. And since spaceborn did not believe in natural pregnancy and childbirth... “Uh ... doesn’t that mean you won’t be able to ... uh, I mean that the two of you can’t ... uh ... you know?”

They knew. Both of them blushed quite brightly at his words. Manny did as well, averting her eyes from their faces.

“We ... uh, don’t really talk about such things, Gath,” Taz hissed at him, embarrassed.

“Well ... yeah, but...”

“We don’t talk about that,” she repeated firmly, her eyes drilling into him.

He sighed. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to rock the boat.”

“Rock the boat?” Ox said. “What does that mean?”

“Uh ... foul the waste converter,” Gath said, translating it into the proper spaceborn analogy. “I didn’t mean to foul the waste converter.”

Understanding dawned. “Oh ... of course,” Ox said. “I get it ... I think.”

“Anyway,” Taz said in a changing-the-subject voice, “once we’ve been to the repro it’ll take thirty days before we’re producing one hundred percent viable gametes, right Gath?”

“That is conventional medical wisdom,” he replied, “but that is just a safety margin. It is theoretically possible that you, Taz, could release a viable egg in less than a week, especially if you’re taking hormone supplements to get multiple releases.”

“I understand,” Taz said, “but...”

“And Ox, you could theoretically start producing viable sperm in only two days. The problem is that those early sperm could have incorrect genetic code because of the lingering effects of the repro block. They like you to have thirty days to make sure that any damaged gametes have been flushed from the system.”

“Yes,” Taz said. “We know all that. You don’t have to be a medic to understand basic reproductive science.”

“I know that,” Gath said, “but ... well, you do understand that it’s dangerous for you two to have ... you know ... relations with each other starting from the very first day the reproductive blocks are removed, right?”

Again, they all blushed and became embarrassed.

“Gath,” Taz hissed again. “We’re not talking about... relations.” She whispered the word as if it were the dirtiest one she knew. “We never talk about that.”

Gath suppressed the urge to raise his eyebrows. He knew from personal experience that she was very fond of talking about relations when the two of them were alone together. She in fact had been known to scream out to the ceiling how much she wanted him to engage in relations with her—although she did, of course, use more colorful terminology at those moments.

“Then what are we talking about?” he asked.

“We’re talking about when we can start harvesting our gametes,” Taz said. “Why do you groundies have to turn a conversation about that into something sexual?”

Gath blinked slowly. “Harvesting your gametes?”

“Yes,” she said. “We want to get our first baby started as soon as possible. Now it’s obviously very easy for Ox to harvest his gametes.” She blushed again, unable to meet his eyes. “All he has to do is ... you know ... expel some ejaculate into a preservative container and his part is done.”

Ox and Mandy were embarrassed again, their eyes looking up, down, everywhere but at Taz and Gath. Apparently spaceborn did not talk about expelling ejaculate either.

“But with me,” Taz continued, “as you’re aware, it’s a little more invasive of a procedure. I have to take the hormone shots and get multiple gametes to mature and release at once.”

“I know what the procedure is for harvesting female gametes,” Gath said, irritated.

“I know you do,” Taz said. “You’re going to be the one giving me the hormone shots and monitoring my levels.”

“Me?” Gath said.

“Of course, you,” she said. “You’re the medic at CVS, where I’m stationed. And you’ll also be the one to harvest them once I’m ready.”

Gath was now the one feeling awkward. “You want me to harvest them too?” he asked. “Taz, you realize what’s involved, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she said. “I sit in the exam table with my legs in stirrups and you go in with a trans-cervix scope and slide it up into my fallopian tubes to retrieve the eggs. You have been trained in the procedure, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I’ve been trained in the procedure,” he said, “but wouldn’t you rather that Bong or Zen do it?”

She seemed genuinely puzzled by this suggestion. “No,” she said. “Why would I want one of them to do it when you’re there?”

Gath had no answer for her.

“How long will it take before the baby is conceived?” Manny asked, taking advantage of the lull in the conversation to change the subject to something less risqué.

“Probably at least two cycles,” Ox said. “Figure thirty to forty days to store viable gametes for analysis and then another six to eight weeks to ship them back to AZ.”

This was another surprise to Gath. “Ship them back to AZ?” he asked. “Why would you do that?”

“Because that’s where the baby will be incubated,” Ox said. “We have one of the best repro centers lined up to examine the genetic traits of the gametes and send the combo report to us.”

Gath knew that spaceborn did not conceive their children in the natural manner. They used reproduction centers where specialty docs examined the genetic code of multiple sperm cells from the father’s preserved ejaculate (the more sperm cells the couple wished examined, the higher the cost of the service) and from all of the eggs harvested from the mother and then formulated a report known as a genetic combination report, or combo report, outlining what possibilities for hair color, body proportions, mathematical and engineering talents, and dozens of other traits existed. The parents would then choose one sperm and one egg from the report and those two gametes were then united and grown to viability in an artificial womb known as an incubator. About the only identifiable trait that the prospective parents were not allowed to choose was the actual sex of the child, as it had been determined long ago that putting that power in the hands of anything but random chance would lead to an imbalance among the two sexes.

“It’s probably going to take six to eight weeks just for the report to work its way through the circuit points back to us,” Taz said. “And then, after we make our choice, we’ll have to wait for that to work its way back to AZ so they can start putting the little one together.”