by John Bowers
"Gracious!" she gasped. "It's been some time since I experienced Sirian Summer!"
Davenport nodded. "A far cry from Altair," he said.
He gave the KK driver instructions and the hovercar lifted off. They crossed New Angeles in a few minutes. It was the heat of the day, and hover traffic was light. The city spread out below them like a jewel, modern and sprawling in the glittering heat, which radiated back from the ground like invisible distortion waves. Soon they were headed south at high speed, crossing hundreds of miles of farmland, passing over small towns and military bases. Scarlett was a little surprised at the number of bases she saw, for she was reasonably sure there'd only been one or two before. Now they dotted the countryside, small and medium-sized installations. Several times she saw military columns on the roads below, and once she saw hovertanks exercising among a range of low hills.
"It appears there is a great deal more military activity than when I left," she said to Davenport. He merely nodded.
She recognized the plantation when they reached it. The northern border was sixty miles from her home, but she recognized one of the labor villages where serfs lived, and from there until they reached the main compound experienced a delightful nostalgia, dampened only by the reminder that her daddy wouldn't be there to greet her.
The hovercar dipped and slowed, and a minute later passed between stone pillars with an archway above them. WALLACE FARMS was lettered in wrought iron on the archway. Scarlett felt her eyes mist at the familiar sight of it. The car hovered another mile down a beautiful lane flanked by flowering Mongalia trees, and finally settled onto a starcrete parking apron. Scarlett looked out her window at the big house, an antebellum-style mansion with white pillars and a wide porch. She felt momentarily faint.
"My stars!" she whispered. "I thought I would never see it again."
Davenport helped her out of the car, thanked the KK men, and returned their salutes as they lifted off for the return to New Angeles. He and Scarlett stood there a moment in the suffocating heat, admiring the house.
"I haven't been here before," he said. "It certainly is impressive."
"Thank you," she whispered. "I never realized myself how beautiful it is."
The house was huge, shaded by tall trees and adorned by bushes that flowered even in the hottest of Sirian Summer. Their perfume floated heavy and sweet, a fragrance uniquely Sirian — these flowers existed on no other known planet. A hundred yards to their left stood a modern single-story building, the plantation office. This was the nerve center of Wallace Farms, housing the corporate office staff and its computers. To their right was the sports arena where serfs competed for white folks' pleasure. Between the arena and the big house were tennis courts, a swimming pool, a riding arena, and to the rear, stables.
But Scarlett had eyes only for the house.
She and Davenport ascended the steps and crossed the porch. Seconds before they reached the door, it opened to reveal an aging black man in a liveried uniform. He smiled at them with large, gleaming teeth.
"Miss Scahlett!" he exclaimed affectionately. "Ah'm so glad to see you agin!"
Scarlett's eyes widened in surprise.
"Lucius!" She ran into his arms and allowed him to hug her gently, then stepped back and placed a hand over her heart as she admired him breathlessly. "Lucius, you look positively fabulous! How have you been?"
"Tollable, Miss Scahlett," the serf butler declared. "Mightily sad about you, though. We-all thought you was gone foh-evah!"
"Not quite, Lucius. Nearly, but not quite." She turned to Davenport. "Captain, this is our house butler, Lucius. He's been a trusted servant ever since I can remember." To Lucius, she explained, "Captain Davenport is from the Sirian Elite Guards. He has been assigned to escort me."
Lucius bowed to the SE officer.
"Anythin' you need, Captain-suh, you jis' let Lucius know. You-ah slightest desiah is mah command."
"Thank you, Lucius."
Lucius led the way to Scarlett's room — actually a suite — at the rear of the house on the second floor. It was as she remembered it, decorated in Candyland fashion and filled with childhood knick-knacks, including dozens of stuffed animals. Davenport stood just inside the doorway as she moved about, inspecting everything with tears in her eyes.
"It's just like I remember," she said in amazement. "Not a thing has been touched."
"We kep' it foh you, Miss Scahlett," Lucius confirmed. "We hoped you might come home some day."
"Thank you, Lucius. I am overwhelmed."
"Would you like to rest up, Miss Wallace?" Davenport suggested. "You've had a long trip."
She looked around a moment, then shrugged.
"I am a little weary, but I feel particularly energized right now. Why don't we continue?"
"If you feel up to it."
"I do. What's next?"
Davenport checked his wristwatch. It was mid-afternoon.
"Why don't we go over to the office and see if your cousin Boyd is there. The sooner we discover his attitude, the better."
They descended the stairs to find a cluster of house servants gathered. Four were women and one was a boy of about twelve. All were of mixed blood, their skin various shades of brown, except for one girl who was clearly oriental. Her official designation was "Siriochinese".
"Miss Scarlett!"
Squealing and laughter followed as Scarlett recognized them, all except the boy, and lots of hugging and kissing followed. Davenport stood at the foot of the stairs and waited patiently. He eyed the Siriochinese girl with interest; she caught his look once, and with a start dropped her gaze to the floor, her light brown cheeks flaming red.
"And who is this handsome young man?" Scarlett asked after the initial exclamations were finished. She pinched the boy's cheek; he grinned tolerantly and twisted away.
"This is Jacob," the oldest of the women said. Her name was Minnie. "You remembah him, Miss Scarlett. He was jis' seven when you went away."
"Jacob? You mean this is your little Jacob? My stars! He's grown into such a handsome young devil!"
Jacob's grin widened with pleasure, and he squirmed as all the women laughed. A couple of minutes later, Minnie shooed the others away and told them to get back to work.
"Miss Scarlett got a lot to do!" she ordered. "What time you want suppah, Miss Scarlett?"
"Honestly, Minnie, I couldn't eat a bite!" Scarlett declared. "Y'all eat without me tonight. I'll join y'all for breakfast in the mornin'."
"Yes, Miss Scarlett. It's good to have you back, Miss Scarlett."
"Welcome home, Miss Scarlett!" the others chorused, and with a wave Scarlett headed for the front of the house with Davenport.
Once outside they set off at a casual pace for the office. The heat beat relentlessly down on them, but it was only a hundred yards. Davenport matched his strides to Scarlett's pace, which was hampered by her full skirt.
"Who's the slant girl?" he asked when they'd covered half the distance.
"The slant?" Scarlett looked startled. "Oh, you must mean Kim. Forgive me, Captain, I never heard anyone call her a slant before."
"But she is a slant."
"Yes, I suppose she is. She grew up on the plantation. Her mother worked in the big house before she died. Kim came to work in the house when she was about ten."
Davenport nodded. "Is she under anyone's authority?" he asked as casually as he could manage.
Scarlett flushed with embarrassment.
"I'm sure I do not know!" she retorted.
Chapter 23
Wallace Plantation, Texiana, Sirius 1
Scarlett's cousin, Boyd Wallace, wasn't at the plantation, but was due to arrive the next day. Scarlett and Capt. Davenport returned to the big house; deciding she'd had enough adventure for one day, Scarlett retired to her room for the evening.
It was still only afternoon; Lucius showed Davenport to a room adjoining Scarlett's spacious quarters. After advising her to call him if necessary, Davenport settled in as well.
Once his door was closed, he drew a portable vidphone from his pocket and placed a call to SE headquarters. He asked for a connection to the laboratory and spoke to a technician there.
"Everything checks out," the other man assured him. "Fingerprints, voiceprint, DNA, everything. She is Scarlett Wallace."
Davenport had known, but the circumstances surrounding Scarlett's sudden reappearance were unusual to say the least, and nothing must be left to chance. The SE office on Altair couldn't run the necessary lab checks, since the database was on Sirius and no record existed elsewhere. But once Scarlett had left the slave transport, her cabin had been combed for evidence that was forwarded immediately to New Angeles. There was now no question that she was, indeed, Scarlett Wallace.
Davenport then contacted his superiors, made his report, and ended the call.
Scarlett spent an hour going through her closets. She found dozens of outfits from five years ago, and tried some of them on. She was five years older than when she'd last worn them, but thankfully had gained no weight during her ordeal on Altair. If anything, she'd lost a few pounds, and everything fit well enough. She wouldn't have to wear the same dress tomorrow that she'd arrived in. She had no idea what current fashions were like, and before she was seen in public would certainly have to find out and do some shopping.
Finally she threw herself onto her hoverbed and discovered she was far more weary than she'd thought. The bed felt heavenly, and after a few minutes she undressed and crawled between the sheets. The windows were shuttered to keep out the light — although Sirius B was just now setting, Sirius A was still high in the sky. The night hours would bring no darkness, but the temperature would drop slightly. She heard a rising wind outside, common for this time of year with the changing of the stellar guard. Soon the wind was whining past the eaves, and lulled her into a dreamless sleep.
Davenport heard the wind, too, and recognized it as the surest sign that one of the suns had set. It would blow madly until Sirius B rose again, then die away as the heat rose to suffocating levels.
He poured himself a drink from a bottle of Lightning on his dresser, relaxed for an hour, and then left his room. It was after seven, and the housekeeping staff would be mostly off duty. He briefly looked in on Scarlett, found her sleeping soundly, and made his way down the stairs. The house was quiet, the only sound the whining of wind outside. He prowled through several rooms until he came across Lucius, who was watching a holovid in the kitchen. When he saw Davenport, he immediately rose to attention, smiling tentatively.
"Somethin' Ah kin do foh you, Captain-suh?" he asked.
"No, nothing, Lucius. Thank you." Davenport glanced down the hall, saw no one. "Except, maybe there is one thing."
"Yes, suh. Anythin' at all, suh."
"The serf girl, Kim. Is she under anyone's authority?"
The black man's smile faded, as he understood the SE man's meaning. He shook his head.
"No, suh, she ain't. Nevah has been. Her mama was undah Master Wallace evah since Mistress Wallace died, but the guhl ain't nevah been."
"That's good, Lucius. Can you tell me where she might be right now?"
"Well, suh, mos' likely she be in her room right now, suh."
"Can you show me where that is?"
Lucius nodded. "Yes, suh. Jis' follow me, suh."
Davenport followed the butler through a narrow hallway to another stairway leading to the basement. The bottom hallway was gloomy. Lucius spoke over his shoulder as he led the way past five or six doors.
"Mos' of the servants live down heah, suh. Miss Kim, she live right theah." He pointed to the last door on the left. The hallway ended at another flight of stairs leading up.
"Thank you, Lucius. That will be all for now."
"Yes, suh."
Without another word, Lucius turned and hastily retreated. Davenport waited until he was out of sight before trying the door. It was unlocked, and he pushed it open. The room was small, cluttered with belongings. It smelled of a mixture of perfumes, at least one of them a Vegan brand. The bed was narrow and unmade; music came from a small player on a table. Davenport's eyes adjusted quickly and he saw her, standing in front of the mirror with her back to him.
She was naked from the waist up, wearing only a short, tight skirt that stopped several inches above her knees. Her skin was light brown with a yellowish cast, her hair long and shiny black, hanging in a straight fall to her waist. She looked about seventeen, and she was beautiful. The mirror reflected her breasts.
She saw him in the mirror and recoiled with a gasp. She spun around without thinking, her narrow almond eyes wide with apprehension. Belatedly, she threw her hands over her chest to hide her breasts, and stood there panting from the shock.
"How old are you, Kim?" Davenport asked quietly.
"S-sixteen, sir."
He smiled. "Has anyone ever told you what a beautiful young lady you are?"
She blinked, her lip trembled. "Y-yes, sir."
"Good. Let me add my voice to that opinion."
He closed the door and walked toward her, stopping only inches away. He laid his hands on her bare shoulders and kissed the top of her head. She stood immobile, trembling violently. A sob escaped her lips.
"My name is Captain Davenport," he told her quietly, bending over slightly to press his lips against the hair that hung over her left ear.
She sobbed again, then lost complete control and began to shake with repeated sobs.
"I'm placing you under my authority, Kim," he said. "I think it's time you learned how to be a woman."
He took her by the arm and led her toward the bed.
Thursday, 2 October, 0228 (PCC) - Wallace Plantation, Texiana, Sirius 1
Boyd Wallace was only a few years older than Scarlett. His father, J.D. Wallace, was L.D.'s brother. Boyd was portly and balding, with a round, flaccid face that suggested self-indulgence. He greeted Scarlett with all the appropriate words and questions, asked after her health, then ushered her into his office. He glanced surreptitiously at Davenport, who also took a chair facing his desk, but beyond perfunctory greetings tried to ignore him as he and his cousin got down to business.
Scarlett tried to make sense out of the things Boyd was saying, but he talked several levels above her comprehension. She quickly got the feeling he didn't want her to understand it all.
"The plantation is runnin' well enough," he told her at the outset, "but it's still a struggle. Material costs have risen considerably, and with the war and all, the Confederacy has lifted taxes out of sight. I don't know if you appreciate the scope of operations here, but we are producin' nearly three percent of the total agricultural GSP of Texiana, which is no small feat. But to do that we are employin' nearly ten thousand serfs, and keepin' them at work is always a struggle. Niggo bastards don't realize how good they got it, keep demandin' increases in their wages." He snorted. "As if they need it! Still, to keep them from riotin', we have to give them somethin' now and then. If we don't, they go on the warpath and we have to start shootin' them, which means we then have to replace them, and we can't afford to do that every couple of years."
He paused for breath, then plunged in again.
"The shippin' line is in trouble. The Altair market has dried up, thanks in no small part to what happened to your daddy. And the war, of course. The damned rags are fightin' among themselves and even with Sirian destroyer escorts, the cost of shippin' goods to Altair outweighs the return. The market just ain't there any more, at least until this trouble is over.
"So our entire fleet is runnin' between here and Vega," he continued. "It is not as lucrative as Altair, because we cain't get the prices there, but it's the best we can do. We run produce into Vega and bring slaves back. The problem is, the Confederate Fleet won't let us run without escorts, so we have to send everything in and out in convoy, which means we cain't meet the schedules we're used to. The military dictates the schedules accordin' to their convenience, not ours, and we're runnin' about fifteen percent few
er shipments a year than we were before the war. The result is less income, even though we make out okay on the slave shipments."
He snorted again.
"Personally, I don't see the need for the escorts; the Feddies are losin' badly, and there ain't a chance in hell they're gonna have anything far enough out in the galaxy to interfere with our Vega run. But … " He sighed. " … the fleet is in charge of interstellar space, so what can we do."
Scarlett stared at him in confusion. It all sounded ominous, but what did it mean?
"Are we makin' money?" she asked tentatively.
"In a word, yes. But barely." He leaned back and gazed expressionlessly at his pretty cousin. "It takes a firm hand on the wheel to keep the ship afloat," he said. "It's a constant jugglin' act. One wrong move and we'll go under. Even your daddy would have a hard time turnin' a profit in the current climate."
"Excuse me."
Boyd's head jerked as if he'd forgotten Davenport was there. The SE captain pinned him with an accusing stare.
"Are you trying to intimidate the young lady?" Davenport demanded. "It sounds to me as if you're saying the family businesses are on the verge of collapse."
Boyd Wallace smiled weakly and shrugged.
"That might be puttin' it a bit dramatically," he said carefully, "but we are runnin' very close to the profit line. Like I said, we are makin' money, but just barely."
Davenport was silent for ten seconds, then cocked his head to the side.
"Three days ago, when I was given the job of protecting Miss Wallace," he said, "I took the trouble to review the financial statements for Wallace Farms and Wallace Shipping. Those statements were provided by the Confederate Revenue Service, and were current as of June of this year. I seem to recall that income exceeded expense by a twenty-nine percent margin for the two companies combined." His eyes narrowed. "Did I misread those figures, or is there something I should know?"
