Chapter 2: Monday

Major MacAllistor entered Tribune Whitefeather's office. Splashed up on the walls were displays of three CAP scores, plus various charts and graphs.

"Tell me, have you gotten any sleep since last night?" he asked, handing the Tribune a cup of coffee and a doughnut. "There you go, one Timmy's double-double and a sour cream glazed. Direct from Ottawa." The Tribune had long ago introduced his Marine counterpart, as Scottish as haggis, to the Canadian coffee-and-doughnut culture; it was now an indispensable part of their planning sessions.

"Thanks, and no, I haven't. I need this." As he downed the "double-double" coffee, cooled by a double dose of creme and sugar, he pointed to the screen in front of him. "That nudist colony her family goes to..."

"Yes?"

"It's tempting."

"If you're into that sort of thing, yes I guess it is. Sex everywhere."

"It's not the type of place you're thinking of," disagreed the Tribune. "They go to a family resort, so all the sex is behind closed doors. Lots of ankle biters there, whose Mommies and Daddies don't want their sweet innocent rug rats seeing people openly committing acts of parentage. Anybody going there thinking it's a sex resort are politely but firmly asked to go elsewhere." He took another sip, feeling much more human with the infusion of high-grade caffeine. "No, what makes this situation tempting are the CAP scores. Here, look at this. Seventy-six family units have cottages at this resort, each one with at least one parent scoring a minimum of 6.5, in many cases both parents are over the limit, and their offspring tend to as well. We could scoop the entire resort, leave nobody, and still need to rustle up about another twenty or thirty concubines."

Major MacAllistor stared at the results, whistling. "AI, is this a listing of who has a cottage at the resort, or who is there physically right now?"

"This analysis is of the family units who have cottages at the resort, plus resort staff," responded the emotionless voice of the AI.

"In addition we have a very favourable security situation," the Tribune pointed out. "Everyone's nude except staff, so the only weapons most would be able to conceal would be in purses. Plus, the resort is surrounded by a high fence, so we don't need an interdiction field around a large area."

"Interesting," the tall Marine mused. Tribune Whitefeather had just touched on the two areas the Marine extraction teams had to worry about the most – trouble from Earth First trying to stop the extractions, and trouble from people who wanted desperately to be included IN the extractions.

"I should go down for a nap in a couple of hours, after the effects of the double-double wear off. I'm meeting with Doctor and Doctor Haywood after they get their other two spawn scored." He yawned. At this stage, caffeine wasn't working for long. "The AI is expecting that around six this evening they'll be done."

Two other screens were displayed on available wall space near the screens bearing the photos and CAP score details of Doctor Benjamin Haywood, PhD, CAP Score 9.1, Doctor Marianne Haywood, MD, FACS, CAP Score 8.9, and Miss Marcie Haywood, PITA, CAP score 8.9. The two other screens bore the pictures of two youngsters about 10 and 8, and the names Melodie Haywood, CAP score 'pending', and Carrie Haywood, CAP score 'pending', respectively. Major MacAllistor studied the screens, and finally turned a puzzled visage to the Tribune.

"I understand 'FACS' means 'Fellow of the American College of Surgeons', but what does 'PITA' stand for?"

"'Pain in the ass'," responded Whitefeather with a straight face.

The Major did not crack a smile either, but merely nodded understandingly.

Tribune Whitefeather was sitting next to Marianne Haywood at one of two poolside tables on their expansive property. To make things more comfortable for everyone, he was wearing cargo shorts and a casual shirt, rather than his grey Civil Service uniform.

Marcie and Melodie sat at the second poolside table, and Carrie was stretched out on a chaise lounge, soaking in the sun. Marcie tapped away on a netbook while she worked on a term paper. Ten-year-old Melodie was using old-fashioned pencil-and-paper, using a textbook that to the Tribune looked positively loaded with mathematical formulae. To Tribune Whitefeather's discomfiture, all of the Haywood women were nude. He was used to adults, but children for some reason made him uncomfortable.

At least Ben was wearing something, the Tribune consoled himself. Then Ben turned back to the barbecue to tend to the steaks, and Whitefeather realized that the apron was all the man had on. It was the Tribune, from a culture where nudity was common and the rules of decency common on Earth didn't exist, who was overdressed.

"Marcie, can you help me with this concept?" begged Melodie.

As the Tribune listened in, Marcie quickly lost him in a web of high-level mathematics, which Melodie seemed to grasp with comparative ease. Within minutes Melodie seemed to have a firm grasp on the material. "What is Melodie taking?" begged Whitefeather of the girl's mother.

"AP Calculus," she responded proudly.

"And she's how old again?"

"Ten."

"Ah." He winced.

"Food's up!" announced Ben, and the family and their guest started to chow down on perfectly cooked steaks and a fine Australian merlot. The three girls got "cut" glasses of half wine and half water.

The conversation was wide-ranging, and the Tribune found himself being quizzed on the status of the War. Before he could talk about the tentative plans that the Confederacy had for the family, though, Ben and Marianne began discussing extraction procedures.

"We know that between us we are eligible for fourteen concubines, and expected to get as many kids as possible out of them and myself, but there is one request if you're having a special extraction," Marianne challenged.

"Yes, Ma'am? I can't promise much, but I'll see what I can do."

"We don't want the kids, especially Carrie as she's eight, witnessing the somewhat carnal goings-on that most extractions include."

"Mom," Carrie protested, "that would interfere with my field work for my class term paper!"

"What class?" both Marianne and Tribune Whitefeather chorused.

"AP Biology."

"I just know I'm going to regret this," Marianne confessed to the Tribune. "Term paper on what, exactly?"

"'Alterations in Mating Behaviour of Species Homo Sapiens Sapiens in High-Stress Environments.'"