Stovall said, “I don’t understand.”
The High Chief turned away and said, “Jackson! Explain this to him!”
Jackson was an unarmed man, of medium build and height, clean-shaven. He wore khaki coveralls, “Right, Chief!” He stepped up to the table, slid up another chair and sat. The Mosh High Chief left the tent. Stovall weighed his options, his chances of escape. Not yet. There would be plenty of time for that later, after dark.
Jackson said, “The Mosh. What do you know about them?”
Stovall noticed Jackson’s short black hair, light brown complexion. “Their pilots suck.”
Jackson laughed. “They began as a slave race, selectively bred and genetically altered to serve as cheap labor for a terraforming corporation. A group of them rebelled and took off to deep space more than a thousand years ago. There, they created more worlds and established a loosely confederated empire. Now, they are back in old Terran Empire space to loot and plunder.”
Stovall said, “So what?”
“Their gene pool is getting a little stale.”
“Inbred.” Stovall laughed.
Jackson pointed at Stovall. “You are going to fix all that.”
“What?”
Jackson said, “You and your Interceptor buddies have killed more than two hundred Mosh warriors. They want those lives back. You will breed with Mosh women, sire at least five hundred children, to ensure they get back at least two hundred males worthy of warrior status.”
“I can give them enough material for that in a couple of days. What happens to me after that?”
Jackson smiled and said, “No, they like it all natural.”
Stovall sipped more water. “You mean…”
“That’s right. The Mosh don’t like test-tube babies. They figure that a sperm that’s been caught by a lab tech and jammed into just any old egg can’t produce the best offspring. They figure there is a reason the right sperm has to get out ahead of the others, and that not every egg is suitable, that some eggs are so defective, no self-respecting sperm would ever bore into them.”
“So they don’t use artificial insemination?”
“They do when they have to, they aren’t complete fanatics. They use artificial insemination, mechanical gestation, even cloning when they are desperate, but they don’t like it. They try to live life naturally when it’s feasible. They are looking to restore their humanity, give life a natural balance. It’s not a completely achievable goal and they know that, but it kind of makes sense. They try.”
Stovall said, “So during the next year I’m supposed to knock up five hundred women the old-fashioned way.”
Jackson winked, “You have a year. They’ll have a schedule, healthy women of childbearing age who come to you when they are ovulating. Three to five a day, depending on who’s ready and available. I know that the Mosh don’t really expect you to produce five hundred pregnancies in a year. Just make an honest effort to keep up and you’ll be treated well.”
Stovall said, “What happens to me when that year is over?”
Jackson said, “You’ll be free. As a bondsman, you won’t have to serve the Mosh. You can go home or join their warrior class and go on raids if you want. Or just retire and take a wife and they’ll give you a lodge and a farm.”
“For real?”
Jackson nodded. “For real.”
“What about you? Are you a Bondsman?”
Jackson laughed, “I wish! No, I’m just a servant. I serve this Clan Chief as manager of his lodge. Right now it’s this crummy tent. After Mandarin is conquered, it will be a grand lodge on a thousand hectare farm. It is good, to serve the Mosh.”
Stovall said, “You keep telling yourself that.”
Jackson stood and said, “You’ll see. Eat your ration, you’ll need the energy.”
“Right.” Stovall opened the ration packet. Jackson left the tent.
Chapter Twenty One
Galen rode shotgun in his tactical skimmer and held an Eliminator shotgun at the ready while Bier drove and Wine stood up behind the medium laser swivel-mounted in the turret above the armored cargo bed. Fifty meters ahead was a troop on a Y-frame recon trike and behind was Tad in his tactical skimmer, with Capellan Marine Colonel Baek in his command car bringing up the rear. They turned right as they left the main gate of the Jasmine Panzer Brigade compound and encountered little traffic along the way. Military vehicles, mostly, cargo trucks escorted by lightly armored vehicles. Pedestrians on the sidewalks were few, generally young men and women in military uniforms, they walked together in groups of two or three. Lightly armed, in garrison uniforms, for the most part. The occasional civilian was older, elderly sometimes.
The city seemed subdued. The rooftops bristled with anti-aircraft guns of various types and sizes. Some guns were set up to sweep the streets, if the need ever arose. The outer perimeter of the Mandarin High Command compound had been expanded. Galen’s convoy paused at the checkpoint and was then allowed through, the guard presenting a proper hand salute upon recognizing Galen’s rank. Another block down that street, the convoy turned left and stopped at the entrance gate of the reinforced original wall of the compound. The guard checked Galen’s credentials, other guards inspected the other vehicles, called up to their supervisor, and then the group was allowed in.
They parked near the tunnel entrance facing out. Galen, Tad and Colonel Baek dismounted and waited. A Mandarin High Command light electric vehicle that resembled an oversized golf cart came. The Mandarin Regular Army Corporal driving it picked up the leaders and drove them into the tunnel, underground to the High Command Operations briefing room.
They were ushered to their assigned seats by a Senior Master Chief from the Capellan Space Force. Galen noticed his gimp, that his left leg seemed artificial. And his eye, his left eye, didn’t move. Or blink…
They sat in the back row toward the left corner of the room. Around the room were a few empty seats and the collection of leaders looked younger than before but more frazzled. Signs of stress here and there, hands clasping and unclasping, some sitting up perfectly straight but fidgeting, a woman in the front row who looked back over her left shoulder, then her right, ran her left hand through her hair as she the faced forward, only to repeat the process half a minute later. Her hair was wearing thin where she rubbed it, the scalp starting to show through the platinum blond bob.
The Supreme Commander entered and the leaders stood. The Supreme Commander had lost weight but didn’t look better. She looked tired, shoulders slumped. Her features hung on her face as she stood behind the podium and then hardened as she spoke, “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome. Take your seats and I’ll get this briefing started.”
The leaders sat. The wall behind the Supreme Commander became a screen that showed a strategic map of the war. Not too detailed, it looked cartoony. With broad lines and labels, it resembled a tourist map. It showed a straight static front from the south, up about two thirds of the way to a point where the line angled slightly to the right. The entire Western Province was occupied by the Mosh, along with half the Northern Province. The Southern Province, snuggled up against the bottom of the Central Province, was free from immediate threat. The Eastern Province was an undeveloped wasteland, jagged mountains and deep canyons; it had yet to be settled. A few rugged individuals went there from time to time to scratch minerals from the ground, but there were no permanent settlements.
The Supreme Commander spoke, “The solar storm that we are entering has presented us with a real opportunity. It takes the Mosh fighter-bombers out of the fight. That gives us a chance to strike back.”