Chapter 2

Puffy stopped sputtering, having discerned that something had changed. "What happened?"

I looked up at her. "I tried to put off the rest of your life for a while -- just so I could finish my eggs. But you insisted..." I dipped my dry toast into the eggs and took another bite. "You'll find that there has only been a slight delay. Run along now, Honey. You know where to find me when it's decision time."

Bet glanced up at me. "We got a surprise at the last minute -- Tom Quarles -- I'm running the ID." She clicked for the update and read, "Gunsmith, ex-military, seven point three."

"Great," I replied, "We're up to six."

"Better get another bite in," Bet warned. "It's about over. People are discovering that their access to the outside world has been terminated."

I sucked in another bite and turned to watch the door. The quick-witted waitress was pointing at us in response to a question by some loudmouth. "So much for eggs," I muttered, putting the plate to the side. Keying an amplifier rig installed in my collarbone, I announced, "Congratulations, Ladies and Gentlemen, six of you have been selected to enter the service of the Confederacy."

Everybody froze and looked at me like I'd grown an additional head, then started looking around for the big winners.

"Will Dolly McIntyre please step forward?" I asked, deliberately naming the only female and causing mass confusion. Dolly, a thin brunette with eyeglasses and a very fearful expression, started trying to get out of the big horseshoe corner booth -- where she had two males on either side. I grinned and added, "The four gentlemen with her should be Martin Tompkins, Hugh McClintock, Jeff Higgins and Mike Ferreira. You have also been selected -- all four of you. And I believe Mr. Tom Quarles just arrived, did he not?" Tom Quarles was pushing sixty -- the look of surprise on his face was priceless. The others were staring at each other in amazement -- clearly they never assumed that they might ALL make it. Little did they know... "If you all would wander over here, we can move on to Phase Two, after which I can release the remainder of these fine people." Huh. Like they WANTED to be released...

Dolly was a seven point six, Martin was an eight point three, Hugh was a seven point three, Jeff was a seven point four and Mike was a six point nine. Tom's military experience put him at seven point six; he had tools they didn't when it came to military discipline and handling ones self in combat. They crossed the room to our table and stood around, looking shocky; I stood easy, in apparent control, but Bet behind me was warily watching the group that had suddenly become livestock -- and knew it. I turned casually to the others who shared this side of the restaurant with us and directed, "Ladies and Gentlemen, it would smooth the way if you interrupted your meals momentarily and joined the other diners over there..." A fat guy in the corner started to object -- plentiful good food cheap tends to draw those who enjoy it a lot -- but his significant other swatted him one and hissed at him and he shut up and got moving. Bet had pulled her stinger out -- it looked like a pair of brass knuckles with a point between the second and third fingers and a trigger button along the top of the first ring convenient for the thumb. I guess it looked threatening enough to convince laggards, despite its small size -- wisely, since you did NOT want to have your internal electrical system jolted the way a stinger did it!

Martin pushed up his eyeglasses and muttered, "Did I get..."

"Sorry, I know nothing about job assignments at this point -- although I can pretty well guess at Tom, here," I replied.

Tom scratched his thin, grey and white brush cut. "I dunno -- what use is an old soldier?"

"In a month, you'll be twenty-five again -- only you weren't that big or that strong or that fast the first time you were twenty-five," I told him. "Remember that during the next few minutes -- and remember that if something you're looking at isn't quite perfect, it can probably be fixed, too, as long as the problem doesn't exist between its ears."

"Twenty-five..." Tom looked dazed. "That was a rough year... You have no idea."

"Wanna bet?" said Bet, eyeballing her display. "Recon and Infiltration Group is gonna be thrilled to death!"

"The official records..." Tom shook his head.

Bet grinned at him. "We have the UNOFFICIAL records, too. We should have time on the trip for me to sit at the feet of the enlightened master..." She dimpled.

"Time to pick your household staffs," I intervened. "Let's see what we can scare up." I turned to Dolly -- such an odd name for a little mousy brunette -- and said, "You've got the toughest choice, probably -- theoretically, you can pick four guys." I shifted my glance to Bet, "Any mods in the sub-scores?"

"No, but if I was her, I wouldn't get carried away," Bet replied. "There are a lot of guys out there, you know, Honey? Four is a shitload, though, since you can only pump out babies for one at a time. You might want to substitute a woman for one so she can tend the kids while you work, for instance." She glanced at the record. "No kids, no husband. You're gonna be jumping into the deep end, probably."

Martin cleared his throat. "Um, if I may, I'd like to, uh, be considered..."

Dolly lit up like a Christmas tree. "Is that all right?"

I shrugged. "Who you want to father your kids is up to you. Just because he's a selectee doesn't mean he's ineligible. Hell, that more or less guarantees that he's a good choice!"

"What about...," she waved her hands,"... the numbers?"

"Meaning you get to ship four people off-world, and if you don't you're not doing your job?" I replied. "Well, in the first place, Martin doesn't count -- he has his own bunch to collect and he's out of here in his own right -- so you STILL have four bodies to pick through." I sighed. "I TOLD you this was a bitch for women. You have to remember that you have your work; whoever you pick is gonna keep the home fires burning, more than anything else. Four unruly males are more than you're gonna want to handle -- let alone fuck -- and if they cause trouble, you're responsible." Clearly, now that he'd opened his mouth, Martin had the inside track, anyway.

"I'm going to have to think about this," Dolly mused.

"Good plan," I approved. Why the equal rights jackasses insisted on burdening working women in this manner was beyond me... I turned to our extremely wary audience. "All right! Ladies! Volunteers should form a single line..." Women of all ages started shuffling here and there. A few went to the back and sat down; I figured that maybe I should give the standard briefing -- it seemed like even after over a year, some people didn't get the word... "A few notes before we get started, Ladies. First, if physical issues are constraining you from coming forward, don't let them -- Confederation medical teams can do incredible things. On the other hand, the final product is ultimately at the discretion of your sponsor. Second, risks and benefits -- the timeline for the Swarm's invasion has not changed, and may not at all, despite our best efforts -- that's the reason behind the Diaspora. But colonial life isn't a bed of roses, despite access to some pretty advanced technology -- and some of the freedoms you continue to have here, despite what the future holds, do not exist in the colonies at this point. Basically, you are answerable to your sponsor and your sponsor is answerable to others for your behavior -- and you won't be going before a judge for screwing up. Troublemakers are, well, replaced, basically -- I hope you get my meaning. Third, you're breeding stock for the continuation of the race -- if you want to keep your girlish figure and have no interest in children, why don't you hang out here and hope the Swarm doesn't eat you?" I grinned evilly. "Oops! Did I say that? Anyway, the point is, you'll be baby factories. The good news is we'll put you back together after each pregnancy to your sponsor's specifications, and you'll have the help of any other concubines your sponsor adopts -- but you'll still be hip deep in kids, and you don't get to pick the father, by and large. Today will probably be your first and only chance at that."

Some young blonde girl raised her hand and said angrily, "So, it's sex slavery, right?"

"Right," I agreed, smiling nastily, "just exactly." I TOLD you I was in a bad mood...

The blonde opened her mouth again, but the swarthy little brunette next to her said, "Shut up, Belinda. Just because you think you've got forever..." There were several rumbles in reply to this so I figured I'd better get a grip on things.

"Enough!" I yelled. "Look, I can lie to you or I can be honest. I choose to be honest. Take it or leave it."

An early thirties type raised her hand in the back. "What was that about not being able to choose?"

"Well, in the first place, your sponsor chooses you, not vice-versa," I pointed out. "Sometimes, you and your sponsor don't click, and so maybe he trades you to a new sponsor. You won't have picked him, either." I scratched my chin. "Oh, other issues. Married women: This is a quickie divorce -- sorry. On the other hand, we'll chase down your kids for you, under fourteen, at your request -- and they don't count against your sponsor's quota. Over fourteen, you have to convince your sponsor to take them on -- and do I have to tell you what THAT means?" I turned to Bet. "Did I miss anything?"

"Not sure," she said. "It was all out of order. A bit more brutal than the standard briefing, too." She grinned -- she knew what was up, anyway.

There was a rustle, and I noticed a big woman levering herself out of a booth on the left side. She'd been facing the other way, and, frankly, I wasn't sure I liked the change. You know the type -- big, filling out a sack-type sleeveless cotton housedress, sweaty, greasy, unhappy-looking. Arms like hams and legs -- let's not go there. She had that chubby-cheeked, down in the mouth look that babies tend to have -- only she was forty if she was a day. "What could they do for me?" she asked.

I glanced at Bet -- this woman had enough problems; I wasn't THAT mean, even on a bad day. Well, maybe I was, but... Bet responded, "I probably outweighed you -- but you've got to find somebody to take you on as a project."

"Oh." Hopes raised and dashed in three seconds, the woman settled back into the booth, sideways. The table moved.

"Speaking of such things," I took up the thread, "we come to just how you're going to attract a sponsor. CAP scores are important, so I'd fish out my IDs if I were you. Beyond that," I shrugged, "You're on your own. If you appear to be bothering a selectee unduly, my associate here, will use the device she's carrying to render you less than effective; on the other hand, if he appears to be enjoying himself, it's none of our business." I re-displayed my nasty grin. "Right about now, in my experience, a lot of those who think it will benefit them start displaying body parts usually kept under cover. By the way, is this a single line, or a double line? Let's have the first row move forward to give the ones behind a little room." I looked at the fat woman. "Get up, you -- you can't win if you don't play. Waddle over here and show me your ID." The woman looked REALLY surprised, but she got up.

I turned to the others. "I was pretty nasty, but you guys need to get through the veneer, here. We don't have all day, and this isn't a civilized activity. You'll thank me for my candor. I've covered the basics; if you have specific questions, we're here to respond. We're going to keep them in line, allowing you to deal with one supplicant at a time. No means no. Chivalry is dead. You're about to become slave-owners; if you don't believe in slavery, that's all well and good, but the reality is there, anyway." I glanced at Dolly apologetically, then turned my attention to the men. "At some point, some chickie is going to get down on her knees and open your pants and -- sorry, Dolly -- suck your cock or offer up a fuck. You are NOT obligated to accept the service -- and you are NOT obligated to take on the little bitch afterward if you do -- even if you try out everything she has to offer. They aren't selling, or trading -- they're begging. If it's good and you decide to keep it, fine -- if it isn't your cup of tea, but she thinks you owe her, we'll stun her as an example to others. No offense, Dolly."

"None taken," she husked. "If I was one of them and I had the guts to do it..."

"Well, you're not," I reminded her. "Keep an eye out for something that will help you." I turned back to the crowd and raised my voice. "Ladies, pull it forward again, please. Guys, make a little puddle at the back. If you're interested, line it up as best you can back there. I don't have to tell you not to interfere with what's going on here, do I? If your significant other makes a spectacle of herself and doesn't get selected, you can sort it out later -- and if she does, it won't matter, will it?"

By now, the area that would have been open on the far side of the restaurant had two rows of women standing in it; tables and chairs had been shoved aside to clear space. There were other women in the room, gathered at the sides, watching; apparently, they either weren't interested, or they were waiting to see what was going to happen before diving in. If they waited too long, it was their loss, in my opinion... Guys were clustered along the booths in the back; a couple of them climbed up on tables or the booth seats, ostensibly for a better view.

The fat woman arrived and pressed her ID into my hand. "I know you're making fun of me, but..."

I took a look. Four point two. Down check was mostly for IQ and a couple of adjustment problems, but... "Kids?"

"Gone."

"Husband?"

"Also gone." She waved at the other specimen in the booth. "We're... together, kind of -- mostly because nobody else..." The other woman was a skinny, prune-faced shrew...

"What happened to the old man?" From her scores, I could guess.

"He was cheating. At least, I'm pretty sure he was..." She wasn't. She'd driven him off, certain he was at the time, no doubt, because her self-image wouldn't allow her to believe he wasn't looking for better. The reality probably wasn't as bad as it was now, but... Dammit! When was I gonna learn about charity cases?

I turned to the group, pretending that I was doing this all on purpose. "Forty-seven year old woman with a four point two and a lot of motherhood left in her. Slough off two hundred pounds and you can put her in charge of your harem. Any takers?" I handed her ID around. "Martin, you're on the books for six -- this one could ride herd on a platoon of young stuff..." I sweetened the pot. "If you set up shop with Dolly, that's ten. She probably doesn't want competition, but you can work out a comparison between her makeover and theirs..." Dolly, who had been frowning, looked thoughtful. Martin, being careful, muttered, "I'll think about it."

I grinned at Dolly. "You can make 'em ugly, too. Put a nose like a potato on that nasty-mouthed little blonde slip over there and in a month she'll have an inferiority complex half a mile wide and be thoroughly tractable."

Tom burst out laughing. "Man..." I waved him over with a finger and he leaned in. I whispered, "Have her throat modified so she can deep-throat a horse..." He bent double and his face turned cherry red before he couldn't contain the laughter. "Remember the old tanker's wife specification?" I added. Tom had to walk away to get his composure.

"Tanker's wife?" Bet asked.

"A tanker is a tank crewman. Somebody decided that the perfect tanker's wife should be this tall," I marked a spot and just about belly-button level, "and the top of her head should be flat so you could park a beer bottle or mug on it." Bet gave me a look and I threw up my hands, "Hey, I didn't come up with it, I'm just relaying it!" I grinned. "I guess I don't have to mention that she needed to be that tall so she could deep-throat..." That got me a swat from one of Bet's huge paws. Grinning, I turned to the others, "Okay, enough fun and games, I guess. Let's get this show on the road." I turned to the fat woman. "I got you a maybe..."

She nodded solemnly. "I'd offer to do a bunch of things, but I don't want nobody to puke." She turned to Tom, who was returning to the group as we slowly headed for the women. "If you could shrink me down that much, I'd carry coasters."

Tom smiled. "I'm sure you would." He patted her on the back, which I considered big of him.

It was like a trip to the zoo. There were probably forty or fifty women in the place, easy, from young girls out after high school to octogenarians. Noticing this, I said, "The Darjee can extend fertility, but they can't restart the engine once it's been shut down for a couple of decades." We were approaching the official start of summer, and the first wave of really warm weather had hit this area the day before -- a lot of women had pulled out last year's stuff and tossed it on, and some of it no longer fit or presented other issues of questionable taste and modesty. Guys weren't likely to complain at such slip-ups, but somehow, the women always seemed to figure it out and fix them, alas -- but it was very early in the season, so we were still seeing some interesting stuff... The quartet of high school girls was in line, including the snippy blonde. I liked the brunette better -- despite the fact that midriffs were supposedly out of style, she was wearing a midriff top and a jean skirt that showed off her sweet titties, the swell of her belly, and her stocky legs. She was good child-bearing stock, in my opinion -- much better than the blonde, who was small-breasted, narrow, and had the basic model build. That type can't handle a good fuck and their hips aren't wide enough for childbirth -- they're good for show and not much else. Mike looked like he might pick her up until he got a look at her ID -- I guess it had 'bitch' written all over it. That reminded me... I fished in a pocket and drew out a half-dozen credit-card-sized devices with LCDs on the front side. "Guys! You can use these to drill down into the CAP scores. Just lay 'em on top of the ID card..." I handed them out. Dolly gave me a look and I produced another one -- thank God I planned for emergencies!

Martin and Jeff moved to the second row, but Martin was obviously inhibited -- and that was going to be a problem. "Dolly," I said, "you need to go pull Martin out of ranks over there and make whatever deal you're going to with him so he can get on with business."

"I don't know what to offer," she muttered.

"He made his offer -- he wants you!" I replied. "But if you want him, you two still have other commitments. He's over there fooling around because he has no idea how you'll react if he picks some babe for his stable -- and the problem is, he's got six slots to fill. He needs to know that you understand that he is gonna have to keep several other women barefoot and pregnant -- and if you want input into the process, you need to tell him THAT, too! Now go get him and get married, or whatever."

"Married?"

"Okay, not married. There is no such thing -- this is polygamy, or whatever. Make it a love contract and seal it with a kiss or something, but move your ass, PLEASE, so we can bust out of here!"

I watched her pull in a breath and march over to him. "Martin..." He turned, and she took his hand and they went off behind me to negotiate; Bet could watch them.

The sharp brunette waitress was in the first row. I leaned over to Tom and murmured, "You can do worse than that -- she's no fool."

He sighed. "I lost the wife last year. What am I going to do with a bunch of young women?"

"Fuck like a mink, grin like a possum eating shit, and play the fatherhood game again," I told him. "Remember, you're twenty-five. Pick a good one to keep the other three in line."

"Kids?" he muttered. "I dunno."

"Having 'em or collecting 'em as concubines?" I asked him.

"The collection. I'm too old."

"You'll be wise beyond your years," I bucked him up. "Nobody says you have to go for twenty-something -- or less -- but later, when you're feeling spry, you're gonna wish you hadn't gotten all maudlin."

"The waitress?" Tom pursed his lips. "You're right -- eyes like a hawk. Nice ass."

"I think so," I agreed.

He crooked a finger. The waitress pointed to herself, then flicked a glance at me; I nodded and she broke ranks. "Let me see it," Tom said, all business. She produced her card and he dropped the reader on it, then grunted. "Good eye," he told me. Turning to her, he just looked at her for a moment. "He says I'm gonna be twenty-five again."

She cocked her head. "What were you, then?"

"Special Forces." He'd been more than that, even, from the way Bet reacted.

"You might have to chop a few years off of me so I can keep up," she replied, wrapping her arms around his neck. "And a few pounds off my ass."

"I like your ass," Tom replied. "So does he."

"We'll leave it the way it is, then," the Italian fox replied. "How many more?"

"Three."

"Can I help?"

"Maybe." Tom thought about it. "Should I see you naked?"

"It's your quarter," she said, stepping back. "This is a no limit game, and I'm all in." She reached for the tail of her blouse.

"Hold it!" Tom looked at me. "It'll start something, won't it?"

I pursed my lips, eyeing the others as they wandered up and down. "Probably needs doing. Things are too civilized."

"Let's give 'em another minute for the bathing suit competition," Tom chuckled.

I nodded. Sometimes it was better if you saw them in clothes first. There was one in the second row... She was the string-bean type, with long brown hair -- a little homely. She was wearing shorts and flip-flops -- and a tank top a size too large and no bra. She didn't have much -- 'A' cup -- maybe verging on 'B' -- but they were pointy. She saw me looking and her eyes shifted to the floor, shyly -- but she smiled. Yeah, she knew she was advertising. Rip her clothing off and she might not compare -- and then again, maybe she would.

Technically, we needed twenty women and four men -- which was quite a few. The teenyboppers would likely all get picked up -- even the bitchy blonde. There were five or six others who'd been either parts of couples or there as pairs of women. There was some big stuff and some old stuff -- and the skinny old shrew the fat woman had been with. She was still sitting, looking daggers at me. I shifted my eyes to a nice Puerto Rican looking girl in hip-huggers and a tank top -- nice lines, decent-sized round hooters and just a little flesh on her. She had a heavier girlfriend who looked more Mexican, running a double chin and some rolls and a pair of serious saddlebags -- but she'd probably pump out the kids. There were a couple of twenty-something black chicks, towing a snot-nosed brat apiece, one thin and droopy-titted, and the other with that ass that makes some chicks look like a duck -- especially if they have jugs (and she did.) There were a couple of black guys in the background watching them like hawks, too -- husbands? Boyfriends? Just interested parties? And there were three or four bleach blonde soccer moms, of various sizes. I eyed them while I listened to Tom and the waitress settle in...

Tom decided to compromise. "For now, why don't you just pull off your bra? Do that under the shirt thing you gals do -- not too obvious. Then bring 'em here..."

The waitress -- whose nametag said Vickie, shrugged and said, "Okay". There was a rustle of clothing, but my eyes were again elsewhere, watching the heavier black chick turn and start a spat with one of the males. Apparently, the link was child support -- paternity without marriage, because the guy said something quiet and the woman said, "I guess you won't have to pay for him no more then, huh? Won't that just be fine?"

Tom chuckled -- probably at that, since it was the loudest thing going on in the room -- then he asked Vickie quietly, "Do you shave?"

"No. Do you want me to?"

"I'll let you know when I've looked at it. Got any kids?"

"Two. They're both over the limit, and think they know it all."

"Married?"

"We're done." Vickie seemed to struggle with herself. "Uh, Mister?"

"Tom."

"Tom. My daughter is, well, hot..." Vickie was obviously uncomfortable.

"That took guts..." Tom mused. I agreed with him.

"It's a choice..." Vickie replied. "But if I can handle this, she can."

"We have a problem," I noted, letting them know I'd overheard. "She's over the limit?"

Vickie nodded, producing a fine blush. "Sixteen."

"Well, she's not here," I pointed out. "The rules say we chase kids only if they're under the limit. Girls that age make their own breaks."

"Shit." Both of them said it.

"Got a picture?" I asked.

"I'll get my purse." Vickie headed off.