Chapter 11: Saturday Pickup

Extraction Day, or "E-Day" as the Haywood daughters had been referring to it, dawned cool but clear. By 9:00, Marianne had finished with the checklist, confirmed that all members of all the families were present and accounted for. By 9:30, everyone was hearing the momentous news: a scoop type extraction. Everyone who wanted to go was going immediately, without the usual "cattle call". The sorting out of which concubine belonged to which sponsor would be done in orbit. A quick poll determined that everyone present definitely wanted to go.

As a squad of Marines came marching down the footpath from the visitors' parking lot, the cry rose: "We need to celebrate!" By the time the Marines were actually able to identify themselves, disposable plastic wineglasses had been broken out, filled with the high-quality contribution from the Haywood cellar, and distributed to the assembled throng. Other glasses and bottles of champagne and orange juice were opened, to create the delightful Sunrise Surprise. The nonplussed Marines were offered a libation, but demurred as they were presently on duty — and on what was considered hazardous duty at that. One bottle of Côtes du Rhône was reserved for the Marines to uncork when they went off duty — and another for the ship's replicators to pattern for future consumption.

The crowd then paraded ('marched' would be too generous a description for the partially-pickled party) back down the footpath the Marines had just come from, to enter the nexus and head up to Princess Sophia.

Before the Marines boarded the nexus, the corporal shook his head and asked the sergeant, "You ever see a lot like this one?"

The sergeant shook his head in bemusement. "Don't know what they're going to make of them up on the Sophia."

"Tribune, sir? Just how are we supposed to tell the concubines from the volunteers?" The sergeant nodded toward the knot of people sorting themselves in the large room.

"Ah..." Tribune Whitefeather whirled around, as did Major MacAllistor and Sub-Decurion Chan. All three could see the issue right away.

"Ah..." the Tribune blinked, mouth agape.

"Jesus H. Christ." Major MacAllistor had never seen the like of this before.

In an effort to keep the concubines psychologically off-balance and to drive home the fact that they were now the volunteers' property, it was standard procedure on the typical pick-up to make the concubines strip before boarding the colony ship — not necessarily followed in all instances, but most of the time. Usually that worked quite well, as most people grew up in a 'textile' environment, with nudity being 'different' and thereby acutely embarrassing for the naked individual. The volunteers under this scenario would usually re-dress as quickly as possible, and the dependants would never be nude in the first place. The three men gazed at the calm sea of sky-clad sponsors, concubines and dependants and realized that with a naturist group like this one, the most efficient tactic in the Confederacy's arsenal just would not work. They were all nude, but not naked: physically bare but not psychologically bare.

The ship's bells struck twice in quick succession, as the three officers tried desperately to reboot their organic computers. Behind them, a few of the Marines started to snicker as the implications sank in.

The ship's bells struck twice again.

"The next man to laugh will be transferred to a platoon of penguins at the South Pole!" barked the frustrated Major. The snickering was instantly swallowed, but the smiles could only be hidden.

"Four bells on the First Watch and all is well!" intoned the ship's AI.

"No, all is bloody well not well," muttered Sub-Decurion Chan.

"AI, can you tell the difference between sponsor, concubine and dependant when they're all nude like that?" Tribune Whitefeather demanded.

"Affirmative, Tribune Whitefeather. I am tracking each individual."

"Can we use tan lines, maybe? The ones without tan lines are the sponsors?" suggested the Major in desperation.

"While almost all sponsors in this pick-up lack tan lines," advised the remorseless AI, "so do almost all dependants and concubines, Major MacAllistor. Using the presence or absence of tan lines is not a reliable way of visually separating the three classes."

"Gunny, we'll just have to get the concubines into collars and the dependants into wrist bands as fast as possible." Whitefeather shook his head. This continued to be the strangest extraction he'd yet been on — and considering that they WERE the Office of Targeted Extractions, that was impressive.

As the Major was about to mount the small podium and start giving the Extraction 101 lecture, he noted yet another anomaly, on a pick-up loaded with anomalies. "What the Hell is that?" he demanded, pointing to a small case being carried by a very young girl.

"It appears to be a specimen of the species Felis catus," Carrie Haywood advised the Major, appearing as if from nowhere. She took a closer look in the cage. "Short-haired mackerel in colour phase."

"Thank you, Linnaeus. What I meant by my question is, what is a cat doing on this ship?"

"She's mine," the youngster said, serious-faced. "I asked if I could take Mousie. That voice said I could!"