It was quite a fiery debate and Tiff found herself increasingly confused as it went on. Partly it was the fact that they were even considering an offer from the bloody Confed, for gods sake, partly that it was Rajata herself who was, increasingly firmly, arguing for the idea and ... partly ... it was the realisation that Tiff herself was coming round to accepting it. She tried to rationalise this rather starling concept and couldn't ... OK, she acknowledged, guiltily, she had a personal loyalty to Raja that went far beyond the rigidly impersonal pragmatism that she consciously espoused, but ... It was more than just that: Looking round, you could see the effect played out on all of their faces, the dawning recognition that this was an actual opportunity, one which might even allow them to put some of their ideas into practice and which didn't, apparently, involve subjecting themselves to military discipline and regimentation.
Or perhaps it was just the wider context of the offer to which they were reacting, even though no-one had addressed the matter directly: Come right down to it and ... well, the alternative was getting eaten by aliens ... or just trying to maintain their principles in what would inevitably be an increasingly militarised and coercive society. Unless it all just fell apart, of course, but, well ... wasn't it at least worthwhile considering what seemed to be a startlingly generous offer?
Or maybe that was all just self justification on her part, she thought. Ever since she'd received the card with her 6.7 score on it ... well, she'd been tempted ....
Decurion Wallace watched proceedings with declining interest, the minutiae of political debate to a large extent passing her by, even though she had the benefit of a sotto voce commentary from Sonja ... and the occasional earthier remark from SSG Baker. It was clear, however, that the argument was going only one way – "her" way, she had to admit, given that it looked increasingly likely that she'd 'get' her quota of politicos. In fact, of the group in front of her, only Johann appeared to be holding out, becoming increasingly truculent – and increasingly isolated – as things ground on. It was a shame that he was one of only three potential sponsors present and, possibly more relevantly, that his scientific abilities would have made him a valuable recruit even without his political interests. C'est la vie, though, she thought, turning to accept Sonja's offer of another glass of wine ... and maybe the powers that be would actually respect his right to decline their offer ....
For Sonja, the debate was frustrating and, to her eyes, ridiculously protracted. Oh, it was gratifying to see Rajata blossoming like that, becoming – as things went on – more and more like her old self, the Raja that Sonja remembered single handedly galvanising their Uni anarchist group, producing a cadre of dedicated and effective Hunt Sabs, as just one example, purely by force of personality – and physical example – but ....
She knew that Rajata had reinvigorated herself by thinking in terms of theory, immediate political necessities and the need to engage in direct, confrontational debate. All of which she was, undoubtedly, good at – you might even say they were her safe places – but none of which addressed the central issue. Raja was still, Sonja thought, avoiding the crucial point: If she – and they – were to go, some of them would be going as Masters ... and the rest ... as Slaves.
Simple fact, kid, she thought, looking longingly at Rajata, but ... how will you handle it? Because handle it you are most definitely going to have to do ....
She'd just reached this rather depressing stage in her thinking when the big guy she'd been introduced to as SSG Baker growled a comment, sensing, too, that a consensus of sorts had been reached.
"OK," he said. "so these intellectual fuckwits finally appear to have decided not to be Swarm fodder. So, who gets to remind them about the concubine/sponsor side of things? You know, do the Extraction?"
Sonja laughed out loud. She knew these people – maybe only Rajata personally but the rest ... she knew them by type, could recognise the egos, the vulnerabilities, the contradictions in their various positions.
Like someone once said, she thought, there's nothing fair in love, war ... or politics.
Rajata found herself flying, not in the physical sense but certainly in the mental – the psychic – one. She was, she knew, blatantly manipulating a bunch of people she thought of as comrades – if not exactly friends – and had basically imposed herself on them, using politics and theory, for sure, but also humour, empathy and, hell, simple bloody minded strength of personality.
And while she felt a niggling twinge of anxiety about that – she did have principles, after all – she also ... well, she thought she now knew how a butterfly feels on emerging from its chrysalis. After the past couple of weeks, when she'd so ignominiously collapsed, imposed herself so much on Sonja and been utterly, by her own lights, pathetic ... to feel like this ... was a revelation.
She was also uncomfortably aware of a downside to it all, the idea that, despite the adrenalin rush she was experiencing here and now, there had been very good reasons for her recent near breakdown. Thinking this, she automatically turned to Sonja – a friend she'd neglected for too long, she realised – and saw her pouring a glass of wine for that Decurion. Rajata felt that she'd like some wine, too – and preferably given to her by Sonja – even as the realisation hit her that the argument was over, that she'd 'won', that this stage of proceedings was at an end ... whatever that might mean. She was still gazing at Sonja as her friend pulled herself to her feet and walked calmly into the center of the room. One of the Confed guys came with her, Rajata noticed, not to control but to protect, she saw, and then Sonja was speaking, and in a tone Raja had never heard her use before.
"OK, people," she said, not quite smiling, "you've had your discussion and I hope you all enjoyed it because it seemed like mostly bollocks to me."
"However, it also seems that you've all – well, nearly all – come to the conclusion that this is an offer that you'd be complete idiots to turn down. Well, good – intelligence does still exist within the intelligentsia. Hooray for that."
She paused, looking around and Rajata noticed, almost abstractedly that both Sonja and her 'protector' focused particularly on Johann as she talked, while the man himself bristled, looking defiant – but carefully not threatening – and generally acting ... well, she thought, just like a five year old denied an ice cream. Rajata was disappointed – she'd never liked the guy but he had one hell of a brain – but quickly turned her attention back to Sonja. However complete her own domination of the room had been, only minutes before, she knew, definitely, that it now belonged to Sonja.
And now Sonja appeared to be looking directly at her as she continued, "Thing is, if you want to take up the offer, there is this small technicality, in that not all of you qualify for a ticket in your own right. In fact, given that Doctor Van der Maar has ruled himself out, only Tiffany and Rajata do. Looking on the bright side, though, between the two of them they can, if they wish, take up to eight of you with them. Which is a little unfortunate, given that there are – again excluding the petulant Doctor – ten of you here. But I didn't make the rules and neither did any of the Confederacy people currently helping out, so live with it. You're supposed to be anarchists, for crying out loud, so do the spontaneous self organisation stuff and get it sorted out, OK?
Rajata heard what her friend said, saw the wide grins spread across the across the faces of Sonja's guard and the other – she presumed – hired guns. Even the Decurion looked amused, she noticed, just as she knew that the speech had been aimed at her, that it was primarily her that needed to make choices.
She felt herself sag, again. Not physically – there was still too much adrenalin around for that – but, mentally, she had a sudden urge to cry and, indeed, to throw toys out of her pram, to protest, wailingly, about life's inequity. Except that she didn't – before the idea had so much as coalesced in her mind she was aware of a large, masculine arm around her shoulders and a rough but strangely kind voice guiding her over to a corner of the room. Where she found Tiff – her fellow sponsor – the Decurion and another woman – a guard, too, she assumed, though this one was wearing a rather odd pink tafetta dress.
Pulling herself together by sheer effort of will, she wondered where Sonja had got to, even as the big bloke squatted down in front of her – well, equidistant between her and Tiff – and, slowly, carefully, began to speak. It was a bit like being lectured by the Big Friendly Giant, she thought, absurdly, before realising that actually listening might be a good idea.
"OK, ladies," he was saying, oblivious to the effect that such a form of address would normally have had on either member of his audience, "this is how it goes. Between the two of you, you get to select a maximum of eight concubines. Which is to say, slaves. Or maybe romantic life partners, if it works out ... except that in this case, only your opinion counts as to what works and what doesn't.
"Whatever. The others in this room, you might want to remember, will probably get eaten by aliens if you leave without them; while you, as sponsors have an obligation to produce progeny. So, I'd suggest taking at least one male each, given that that makes the whole procreation thing a whole lot easier. Also, too, you might want to think about the longer term – whoever you take is going to be your family, so try and balance strengths and weaknesses, basically, sufficient to keep things ticking over nicely for decades."
Having said which, he concluded, "But its up to you. And, god knows, I've seen some bright people make some god awful decisions in this sort of situation...."
He stood up, and, giving them what he probably hoped was an avuncular smile – Rajata found it unnerving – went back to his seat. Raja looked around for assistance – or for Sonja, if she was being completely honest – but found only the sympathetically concerned looking Decurion Wallace, heading her way.
"Look," said the Decurion, "this isn't a conventional Extraction ... and there are systems in place – after a fashion – to, umm, hone your decisions over the coming days or weeks. So, well, if you want to do 'Test Drives' and stuff, go right ahead. But if you don't ...."
She left that thought hanging, even as Rajata was looking round the room at her ... at her comrades, that was the word, and seeing them as if for the first time. And seeing Tiff differently, too, as she made a bee line for Steve and Pasquale and, before Raja could bring herself to look away, was examining an already erect penis and supervising a rapid joint striptease. Or strip, anyway, there being little tease about quite so rapid a disrobing ....
Raja shuddered but realised that this was where it had all been headed, from the moment she'd agreed to talk to the Confed – or from her decision that they all ought to get CAP tested. So she metaphorically shook herself down – actually, she physically shook herself down – and went to talk to the remainder of the group.
Jas, of course, was looking longingly at the wine, sitting hunched up and seeming pretty desolate. Actually, Rajata was a little surprised that he hadn't made sponsor grade, being bright, creative and, in his way, quite a capable leader. Of course, she thought, being both a promiscuous gay man and a complete degenerate might have counted against him somewhat, but ... but he would be useful, she decided, giving him a mental tick.
As for the others, well ... well, who the fuck was she to be judging them, she thought, revolted ... until the praxis hit home. She was the one with the 8.7 score and by the nature of the Faustian deal they'd just struck, she was the one who got to decide. She sat down on the edge of their circle and looked at each of them in turn. Bev – a single mother who'd joined the group after both of her sons had been killed in a 'police action' – and AB – or Annabelle, if you wanted to live dangerously, a veteran revolutionary who possessed more 'common sense' than anyone Rajata had ever met – were givens, for their maturity and dedication ... and the fact that Raja liked them.
Conversely, there was Craig, a guy who'd half stripped before Raja had been able to stop him. He'd been useful 'muscle', at times, but ... family member? No. Count him out.
Which left Marvo, loyal to his bones but with the brain of a shrimp, Leroy, fit, athletic and entirely self-educated, but with some underlying 'issues' with women, and Zach and Karin. Zach, again, might have been sponsor grade – how quickly she'd adopted their heirarchical bullshit, she realised – were it not for his amazing inability to make decisions or hold a consistent opinion, while Karin, well ... She didn't really know what to make of Kaz, knowing something of the appalling abuse she'd experienced from her father, brother and at least two husbands, but, still, she found the woman's mercurial temper and borderline bipolar disorder hard to cope with.
Knowing that she needed to make a decision, she looked at them all once again, feeling like a reluctant hanging judge and wondering what to do ... and whether it was worth having another go at convincing Johann, still sitting there with them – having nowhere else to go – and ... no, she decided, he had made his decision, now she needed to make some of her own.
Johann was seething. He'd never properly understood the word, before, but ... now ... Well, he'd tried to get out of this shite and the alien tech had stopped him. And when he'd tried to stop that apostate Ra-bloody-jata – how wrong had he been about her – the bastards had hit him with their infernal – alien – weapons. Which had left him extremely sore – in more ways than one – and, really, thoroughly, pissed off.
And now he was sidelined and that, too, was an experience with which Johann was unfamiliar. From his days as a star rugby player at home in South Africa through his stellar academic career, he just wasn't used to being ignored. He remembered the things that Rajata – ha! – had taught them about 'situational awareness' and, with considerable effort, calmed himself down and began to review his immediate environment.
So. So, Rajata and the rest's sell-out appeared to be complete. Tiff (a woman he'd more than admired since they'd first met) appeared to be conducting sex games with Pasquale and Steve, presumably mainly for her benefit. The confed wankers were quite relaxed, even drinking the wine that they'd presumably placed as bait in their little trap, although he doubted that any of them were less than extremely capable – and, to be exact, capable of doing him significant damage, or inflicting severe pain – he winced at the memory – at any rate.
And Rajata herself looked a bit lost in the middle of it all – even as if she were missing someone strangely absent – so ... so, that seemed the way to go. If Johann had possessed insight, he might have wondered at his motivation for acting the way he did. As it was, he simply acted, taking himself slowly and in carefully discreet moves, closer and closer to Rajata herself ....
Decurion Wallace experienced a feeling close to catharsis, a plausibly endorphin-related sense of calm, when it was finally clear that things were actually happening more or less as she'd hoped. OK, so the crucial problem of getting Rajata to accept her new, sponsor, status was not completely resolved, given the marked absence of test drives or similar going on around her, but this no longer seemed such a massive problem as it had been. At least she seemed to be engaging with her potential concubines ....
She watched Tiff doing her stuff with Steve and Pasquale – there was a woman who'd got into things with alacrity – and felt vaguely nostalgic for her own Extraction, and her introduction to her own two concubines, who with any luck she'd be seeing again very soon. At the same time, of course, she kept an eye on Rajata, aware that the Navy guys were doing the same, and probably more effectively ....
Except, she thought, as she finally noticed that the peg-without-a-hole Johann had been edging towards Rajata for some time, she had given them the order to stand down. And taking her at her word, they were, officially, no longer around. Which was distinctly disturbing, given that there was no longer any doubt about quite where Johann was heading ... and few positive reasons for him wanting to go there ....
Sonja had deliberately withdrawn to a far corner of the room, where she was effectively hidden by a rather large 'sculpture' and – literally – positioned herself to take no further part in proceedings. She'd got Rajata where she needed to be, she thought, and now it was up to her to cope with the situation – or not.
For herself, she had a glass of wine and, after a short while, the company of PFC Margarita Suarez. Which, strangely, Sonja found herself enjoying, talking to her as a woman rather than just the Navy weapons technician she might normally have seen. In fact, Ms Suarez was an entertaining interlocutor, telling some frankly hilarious stories of military incompetence and showing surprising sensitivity to Sonja's own situation. Not that that could last, she thought, as Margarita finally turned the conversation around to Sonja's status – which, if the AI links were as good as rumour suggested, she must have known perfectly well – and quite why she wasn't taking a more active part in events. Sonja had known this was an inevitable question and, yet, when it was put to her, she couldn't for the life of her think of a reply.
She was still mentally groping for something coherent to say, to account for her decision not to compete, when Margarita suddenly leapt to her feet and, producing what could only have been a weapon of some sort with amazing rapidity, hurled herself towards the centre of the room ....
Rajata sensed rather than felt the blow, realised only in retrospect that she was now sprawling on the floor, while something in her subconscious quite urgently signalled the presence of a warm, wet, leaking sensation around her throat. In an almost out-of-body experience, she revisited her recent past and, yes, while she'd been distracted by her impending choices, there was Johann ... moving quietly towards her – with a very odd expression in his eyes, she noted, almost amused – and then ....
The bastard had attacked her, struck her across the throat with some sort of blade – she'd seen the light glint off something – and now ... She tried to sit up and failed, her strangely flexible arms incapable of finding purchase on an unusually slippery floor, and then there was shouting and confusion and, finally Sonja, there above her, shouting something, too, when she first appeared, with something red smeared across her face and, for some reason, crying.
Rajata could see the tears quite clearly, how they left tracks through the red stuff – her blood, she supposed, and wanted more than anything to comfort her friend, make it OK for her ... And then everything went grey, as her eyes lost focus and ....
SSG Baker cursed his luck, once again, for pulling this shitty little detail, reminded himself to make his feelings clear to Naval Intelligence and all their bastard offspring and – got on with the job. Which, at the moment, was to ensure that no-one – but no-one – so much as breathed in a suspicious manner. The Civil Service idiot and that Sonja woman had got Rajata to a transporter PDQ, Don Casaletta had dealt with the attempted assassin – quickly, effectively and terminally – and now ... he was holding the fucking baby. Or, specifically, he and PFC Suarez were pointing, respectively, a laser rifle and a stinger at group of fairly traumatised civilians – and one Confederacy volunteer, he reminded himself, the single remaining would-be sponsor. Not that any of them looked like they wanted to do anything but throw up – and they were probably too scared to do even that – but he was in charge here, now, and if locking stable doors was required, far be it from him to wonder where the fucking horse might be ....
Med tubes didn't blink, or whirr, or give any particular indication of activity. Decurion Wallace had never really noticed this, before, but now it struck her with some force. The Marine medic she'd co-opted on arrival hereabouts had long since gone about his business and the actual medical technicians were preoccupied in processing an on-going Extraction. So there she sat, holding a sobbing Sonja on her lap, and ... waited.
And, of course, also severely beat herself up about everything that had gone wrong with her operation, wondering almost despite herself what the consequences might be. She'd checked in with SSG Baker, of course – he was extremely pissed off but coping, basically – and so she waited, and cradled Sonja, and wondered.
The AIs were fairly reassuring, in an oddly imprecise way, that Rajata herself would be physically OK, having lost more blood than she should have – not that she should have lost any, if the Decurion had been doing her job – but her mental state might be another matter. Come to think about it, she wasn't too happy about Sonja's condition – or, indeed, her current status, given that, as a non-sponsor civilian, she frankly had no right to be anywhere near where she was.
So the Decurion made an executive decision – which might or might not have been appropriate to her rank, she basically didn't know – and called SSG Baker, who was no happier, but relieved to finally receive positive orders, and then, by no means as an afterthought, her old compadre CMD Dianna Langton, Naval Intelligence.
Rajata woke in a tube. This, she felt, was odd, not least because she had no recollection of going to sleep in the first place. She was still vaguely pondering this, and its possible significance, when the 'tube' opened and, taking the opportunity, she pulled herself out of the thing. Disconcertingly, she found that she was completely naked and, having realised that, also that she was surrounded by a rather large group of people. Well, the Decurion – Cynthia – was there, and Dianna Langton and SSG Baker and all – or most, she counted mentally – of her 'group' ... and, finally, she saw, sitting a little apart from the rest ... her friend, Sonja.
Still feeling a little fuzzy and not entirely clear as to what precisely going on, Rajata reviewed her situation. OK, she was stark naked but, she decided, that didn't matter – Steve and Pasquale were naked, too, after all. What did matter frustratingly eluded her for a second or two, her mental processes buffeted by returning memories and the emotions they brought with them, and then became crystal clear.
What she really needed, now, she felt, what had to be her absolutely ultimate priority, was to find Sonja and hold her very, very close to her for a very, very long time.
Planetary Governor she might be, but Gertrude Petrova was no stickler for protocol. So she got her review of the files on the recent operation out of the way well in advance of her meeting and greeted her Civil Service lead without encumbrance, relaxing on a couch and gesturing for her colleague to sit likewise.
"It was," she said, without preamble, "an interesting experience?"
Decurion Cynthia Wallace, still nervous about her rank and her relationship with the Global Boss, found the question unsettling. Interesting? Well, it sure as hell hadn't been boring. An experience? Well, yes, that too. Probably also, she thought, it was a success. Well, probably. This was, after all, Trude the Prude, so ....
"The mission was broadly successful, ma'am," she said, after a moment or two. "A potential volunteer – or someone with a sponsor level score, anyway – had to be eliminated, having attempted the murder of the volunteer who was the principal focus of the operation, and said volunteer sustained life-threatening injuries in the attack. Fortuitously, prompt action by the Navy Team on the ground – and a civilian – recovered the situation, allowing the Extraction of the target group and their subsequent deployment as per previously agreed priorities."
"Where," replied Governor Petrova, "they are currently playing merry hell with everything we had thought of as fixed social structures, at least until now ...."
She paused and the Decurion thought that, oddly, it appeared that the Governor's eyes might actually be twinkling. And then she continued,
"Which is to say that Ms Rajata Mehta – you really must get her to accept a rank, Cynthia, the AIs do moan so – and her extended family are doing exactly what we wanted them to. So much, so, in fact, that I'd be minded to give you a medal, if the Civil Service went in for such things, but actually I have a much more apposite reward in mind, which I'll come to in a moment. What I will be doing, though, as soon as I can work out who to talk to in Fleet operations, is to recommend your friend Commander Langton for a medal – the Navy, surely, has them – principally for her inspired decision to get Sonja Richardson so promptly retested. Now that she and Rajata have set up their domestic menage – one might almost call it a caucus – I am glad to say that it looks unlikely that any of us in 'government' will ever be able to sleep soundly in our beds again."
The Governor settled back in her couch and smiled lazily at her colleague. The Decurion, still uncertain as to just where this was going, was almost relieved when she went on, albeit briefly, "And your reward, Decurion, is that you will be promoted. And, in consequence, assume responsibility for – one hesitates to call it command of – these inspired lunatics and their extraordinary machinations. I look forward to being deeply disconcerted by the results..."