Chapter 2

Being the head of his first extraction team gave Decurion Paul Carson a set of divergent feelings. On one hand, it gave him the chance to show leadership. On the other, a sense of doom loomed in the back of his mind. He was just waiting for his mentor, William Whitefeather, to appear and pants him in public.

That wouldn't really be Whitefeather's style, though. No, he would plan something subtle, yet epic in scale and proportion. "I won't do anything, trust me." Those words, once uttered, damned Paul, who knew his ass was fried. Resigned to his fate, Paul planned to absorb the blow and somehow survive the ordeal.

Someone entered his office and sat down, giving Carson another moment to reflect on his assigned task. He needed three hundred men with a CAP score between six point two and six point four with high parenting and loyalty sub-scores. To make the assignment even more fun, they needed to be unattached.

"Worried about a prank?" Carson turned to face the speaker, Johan Krause, an undersecretary working with the Department of Targeted Extraction. "There are two competing schools of thought." Krause had a few hints of a German accent, but he possessed a strong grasp of American idioms. "One is to send a kilo or two of Tim Horton's best to feed his habit. He will still do something memorable. In my case, it was at least water soluble." Carson raised his eyebrows. Krause continued. "The other is to wait until he sets the hook. Once you're stuffed and mounted, it's over. Either way, you need to relax. Otherwise you'll end up in therapy."

"Then tell me," Carson dripped sarcasm, "where does the Whitefeather Survivor's Group meet?"

"In your ass, Sitzpinkler," retorted Krause. He turned, striding away.

Carson wadded a sheet of paper and threw it past Krause's shoulder as he exited the door.

Two hours later, nothing had changed. He was still in his office on Artemis Moon Base. The plan remained blank. Grumbling in his stomach motivated him to head to the cafeteria. Stepping into the hallway, he almost ran into Master Sergeant Ashley Wilkos. She worked in the Military Liaison Office, scheduling which Marine squads would serve as security for extractions.

Whitefeather had suggested working with Wilkos if Carson was ever in a position to do so. It was obvious to Carson that his mentor respected her. She could keep up with Whitefeather on the fly, even though her background was not in the military. She had been involved in the logistics for Loblaw Companies, one of Canada's largest grocery conglomerates. Regardless of the conditions her company record showed her to be a superior person. Now with the Office of Targeted Extractions, her ability to meet Whitefeather's unique needs continued to impress both men.

"Decurion Carson, is everything going well?" Wilkos looked him up and down. "You look like you're in the third day of caffeine withdrawal."

Inhaling, he puffed his cheeks and then exhaled. "I have three weeks to pull off a job that I need two months to complete in reality."

"You're trying to figure out what Whitefeather would do, correct?" Her eyes bored into his defenses. Carson didn't answer. She had him pegged dead to rights.

"Listen," Wilkos poked him in the chest softly. "I have no idea who you are trying to snatch. However, ask yourself the following things. What would these people have in common? Where they would they gather?"

Carson blinked. "I have no realistic idea."

"Get to thinking or so help me God, I'll wind Whitefeather's nuts so tight," she spun her hands over each other rapidly, "he'll teleport in here and deal with you in person." Wilkos moved away, swiftly. Carson expected loose paper to bounce along behind her in her wake.

Carson started down the hall. He shouted internally, trying to release the growing tension. 'Great, another survivor group to create and attend.' He took two steps, and then stopped. "Fucking shit!" He sprinted back to his office.

Sitting back at his desk, he jotted down his epiphany. He needed to have the AI assist him in the research. "Artie, could I have a pressed Miami Cuban with a sweet tea delivered?"

"In two minutes a runner will arrive with your food," the AI responded.

"Good," Carson paused, forming the next few inquiries. "Can you scan active mental health files worldwide for support groups for fathers left behind after extractions, and then give me a total?"

"There are seven thousand three hundred two such groups that are affiliated with their respective nations' medical system.

"My next questions will be about the groups you just identified. Are you able to extract names of individuals?" Carson's hope to pull this off depended on the answer.

"Six thousand seven of those groups have members lists that record membership using government issued identification."

Carson stood up; he thought better pacing back and forth. "Eliminate any groups who have any members who are or were in any way related to Wayward citizens, present concubines, or the concubines scheduled to transfer to Wayward."

"Four thousand seven hundred twenty-one groups remain; the rest were eliminated by these criteria."

Carson felt a wave of elation. "How many have observations of the group treatment leaders or group counselors accessible?"

"One thousand nine hundred and thirty-seven have observations that follow observational protocols based on best practices."

"That leads me to ask how many of these have at least five members who meet the CAP requirements, have clear criminal records, and no flags in the observations?" Carson subconsciously crossed his fingers.

"Eight hundred sixty groups meet these criteria."

"Yes," Carson hopped up in the air a few inches. "How many potential dependents?"

"Only twenty men have dependents."

"Please display on the wall a map of the locations of these groups." Carson reflected a moment. "Can you assign a rating to show which groups would be would be most compatible with the task on Wayward?"

"I suggest using a zero to one-hundred percentage scale with respect to successful colony integration."

"That is perfect." A slight rapping caught his attention. On Artemis Base, dependents over the age of twelve served as runners and gofers in the office.

A boy in green overalls stood at the door. "Your Cuban and tea, sir."

Artie quietly provided the runner's name to Carson. "Thank you, Michael." The boy placed the tray on his desk. Carson circled around, not crowding Michael's working space.

"The tray is designed to fit in your office recycle port." Michael turned his hand about forty-five degrees. "You have to place it in there cater-corner."

Carson glanced at the receptacle. "I see."

"We have to say that now since somebody in CAP testing jammed one in flat." Michael turned pink. Carson realized that the boy had said too much. "Enjoy your lunch. Bye sir." The boy exited quickly.

Compton, California never was a place where one would think of father figures. Yet the group there was one of the better prospects according to the AI's calculations.

What started as a Confederacy survivor group had grown enough to be split into two groups that met every Wednesday evening in the hall of Our Lady of Victory. They separated along ethnic lines, more so over language than bias or prejudice. The larger consisted primarily of African American men; the smaller group consisted of Hispanics. It was the larger group that had been targeted by Carson.

Twenty-eight of the thirty group members sat in the chairs, sharing updates about their kids off-world. The two missing men were working extended hours; neither was on the potential list. The snack items for the meeting that night were courtesy of the Confederacy, laced with nanites that had dual missions. Responding to instructions based on active and passive scans, these nanites sought out the hypothalamus and the brainstem, the so-called primitive brain, mimicking the effects of melatonin. At the start of the meetings, those men who had video correspondence with their children would share clips of their experiences. During that presentation, thirteen of the men began to yawn. They loved and missed their children just as the others did. These men however were those that Carson did not want. Some used the group to garner sympathy or sex in the community. Some used the group to hide substance abuse. For one reason or another, each of them fell short of Carson's criteria.

Subliminal personalized messages encouraged each of the unwanted men to sleep. In fifteen minutes, in the dimmed lighting, they drifted into unconsciousness. The nanites would secondarily help to keep this operation secret. Those awake unknowingly benefited from the lack of resources that resulted in Compton having only four such support groups. That concentrated the men who fit Decurion Paul Carson's needs.

The lights came on quickly. "Gentlemen, I am Paul Carson of the Confederacy Civil Service." He walked into the room from a storage area on the west side of the hall. He was decked out in full dress grays, the thick black Sam Browne belt complimenting the black shine on his shoes.

Several of the men changed from being relaxed to on alert. "Ya'll here to rub our faces in it, cracker?" The voice came from a man in the group.