by John Bowers
Boyd Wallace blinked in surprise, paling slightly.
"B-but, taxes —" he stuttered. "That was before taxes!"
"You were hit with a standard twelve percent corporate tax, plus the additional four point five percent wartime tax. That still leaves a twenty-four percent profit for the combined farming and shipping concerns. You'll pardon me for saying so, Mr. Wallace, but that doesn't sound like a shoestring to me!"
Wallace gulped, glanced frantically at Scarlett, then back to his accuser. He fumbled his words, but Davenport cut him off.
"Let's get to the point here, Mr. Wallace. Your uncle was killed on Altair and his daughter was missing for five years. In their absence you stepped in and took over the operations. You quite obviously did a commendable job of keeping things going, because the profit margin has been high in spite of the wartime economy.
"But Miss Wallace is back now," Davenport pointed out. "She is the rightful heir to these operations, and you are not. Any attempt on your part to mislead, defraud, or in any way cheat her out of that inheritance will not be taken lightly by the Sirian Elite Guards. Do I make myself clear?"
Wallace swallowed hard, and seemed to have difficulty breathing.
"I-I was merely … pointin' out to Cousin Scarlett the — the difficulties we now face." He threw the girl a panicky smile. "Certainly, this all belongs to you! I hope you don't think I …"
"Of course not, Mr. Wallace," Davenport interrupted, relaxing in his chair once again. "Now, if we could just get on with the operational scenario. The attorneys will be here in the morning, and everything will be properly transferred and notarized into Miss Wallace's control."
Boyd Wallace nodded shakily, turned to his computer terminal, and ordered up a spreadsheet.
* * *
That afternoon, in spite of the choking heat, Boyd took them on a tour of the plantation. It was far too large to see in a single afternoon, even in a hovercar, but they covered a fair amount of it. Miles of pasture dotted with herds of red and black cattle, vast yellow wheat fields, alfalfa, barley, and corn. Boyd explained that it was the off season for vegetables, but Wallace Farms produced incredible quantities of almost any green vegetable one could imagine, including seven or eight that were indigenous to Sirius. They saw orchards, too, millions of deciduous trees including peaches, plums, nectarines, apples, pears. Boyd said they also grew various nuts, including almonds, walnuts, pecans, and pistachios.
Davenport found it all mildly interesting, though he wasn't a farmer and didn't have the innate appreciation for growing things. Scarlett gazed at it all with wide eyes, as well she might, for she owned it all.
"I never realized just how much daddy owned!" she said at one point. "I guess I never paid much attention."
She was particularly fascinated by the serf villages, of which there were many. They passed through several, and she gazed in disbelief at the squalid quarters in which many serfs lived. Nearly naked brown and black children played in the streets in spite of the heat, and when they passed irrigation ponds the edges were dotted with serf kids swimming and frolicking. The only adult serfs she saw were men working in the fields, many operating sophisticated robotic farming equipment. She suspected the women were indoors, away from the glare of two suns.
"Boyd, do the serf cabins have air conditionin'?"
Boyd laughed.
"Are you teasin’? We'd go under overnight if we had to put climate control units in those shacks. Jesus!"
"But those huts must be swelterin' inside!"
"They can take it. They got brown skin. Niggos and Spanics don't feel the heat like you and I do. God gave them dark skin to protect them, just like he gave animals shaggy coats to survive the cold."
Scarlett looked out her window again. "I never knew that," she murmured.
They returned to the big house fairly late. The wind was screaming as Boyd put the company hovercar down on its pad. It was after ten o'clock in the evening; Sirius B had been down for four hours.
"I'll see you at the office in the mornin', then," Boyd said with a smile. "Don't wanna keep the lawyers waitin'."
Scarlett returned to the house with Davenport. It was quiet, the servants having retired, and they found food on the dining room table with a note from Minnie that it was for them. Both ate ravenously, then Davenport escorted her up the stairs to her suite.
"I'd say that was a successful day," he observed as they reached her door. "Did you understand everything?"
"Goodness, no! My head is still swimmin'! But I will learn it, won't I? I reckon I have to."
"I reckon you do." He dipped his head. "Good night, Miss Wallace."
"Good night, Captain. Thank you for helpin' me today. I do believe Cousin Boyd was tryin' to snow me."
"I'm sure of it. But don't worry about him. I've got his number."
Davenport went to his own room, enjoyed a glass of Lightning, and waited until he was certain Scarlett was asleep. He checked her briefly, found her passed out in bed, and made his way to the basement. Kim woke with a gasp as he bent over her bed, but he covered her lips with his mouth and kneaded her left breast with his hand. A moment later he pulled back the sheet and began undressing her.
She started to cry.
Friday, 3 October, 0228 (PCC) - Wallace Plantation, Texiana, Sirius 1
The session with the attorneys didn't take long. There were four of them, and they spent less than an hour clearing up the legal technicalities, leaving Scarlett Wallace with clear title to the plantation, its subsidiary operations, and the shipping company. When the paperwork was complete, Boyd Wallace stood looking somewhat deflated. Scarlett approached him after the lawyers had left.
"Boyd, what will you do now? Do you have another job somewhere?"
He shook his head ruefully.
"Actually, Scarlett, for the last five years this has been everything to me. I've poured everything into keepin' the farms and the shippin' company goin'." He forced a grin. "I'll find somethin', though."
Scarlett's emerald eyes searched his face for a moment, and she laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Boyd," she said, letting her voice drop sexily, "would you consider managin' these operations for me? I couldn't possibly do it myself, at least not for quite some time. And I believe you're the only one who really understands what's goin' on."
Boyd's eyes widened in surprise.
"You want me to work for you?"
"Would that be acceptable?" she replied.
"Why — why, yes! Of course it would. How long, do you think?"
"I don't know. Daddy never taught me much about business, and I never had much interest in it anyhow. If we were to say indefinitely, could I count on your loyalty?"
Boyd almost sagged with relief.
"Darlin' Scarlett, I have never had anything but loyalty to Wallace Farms and Shippin'. I almost felt like it was my own, since nobody knew if you was comin' back."
"Then I'm satisfied. I want you to manage both concerns for me, and as long as you turn a profit, and do it legally, we won't have any problems. Fair enough?"
"And what — what if you get married?"
"I have no intentions toward anyone." She shrugged. "I reckon we orbit that planet when we come to it."
Boyd smiled and hugged her.
"Thank you, Scarlett! I swear by all that's holy, I'll do the best job for you that I know how!"
"And give yourself a raise, to seal the bargain. Ten percent."
"Oh, I couldn't do that! I'm already fairly well paid."
"Five percent, then. I insist."
She left the office with Davenport, Boyd Wallace beaming behind her.
"Do you think that was wise?" Davenport asked when they were out of earshot.
"What, hirin' Boyd? Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"
"He was tryin' to deceive you yesterday."
"He was frightened. He saw his job about to disappear, and he was just tryin' to hang on. He wanted me to need him. And I do. I'm satisfied he'll do a g
ood job. Appears he has so far."
Davenport conceded her point. His study of the ledgers proved that Wallace had done an admirable job up to now.
"So what will you do now?" Davenport asked as they approached the house. "Got your business title settled, you seem to be recovered from the Altair experience. What are your plans?"
Scarlett glanced at him in surprise. "Why, I rather thought you had plans of your own. You've been hoverin' about me like a puppy dog since I got back. Is the SE finished with me?"
"The SE has no business with you. We are here simply to look out for your interests. Soon as we know everything is all right, I will no doubt be reassigned elsewhere." He paused a moment. "However … "
"Yes?"
"There is the matter of General Vaughn."
Scarlett clapped her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock.
"Oh, my word! I completely forgot about him!"
Davenport smiled. They had reached the house, and stepped into its cool interior, a blessed relief after the scorching heat outside. As they entered, Kim was working in the main hallway, dusting furniture. Her almond eyes widened in fear when she saw them. Her lip trembled and she hastily turned her back. Davenport ignored her, but Scarlett immediately crossed the hall toward her.
"Kim?" She stopped next to the girl, frowning in concern. "Kim, honey, what's wrong? I declare, you look like you've seen a wraith!"
"I'm sorry, Miss Scarlett!" the girl whispered, and continued her dusting in a frantic manner. Scarlett laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Kim, tell me what's wrong."
Davenport mounted the stairs and went to his room. Inside he poured himself an iced drink and sat down leisurely. It took three minutes until Scarlett stormed into the room, slamming the door behind her.
"Captain Davenport!" she railed. "I will have a word with you!"
Her face was flushed and she trembled with rage. Davenport merely gazed at her, and took another long drink.
"Captain, I appreciate everything you've done for me! I really do! But you have no leave to relieve your carnal urges with my house servants! I will speak to your commandin' officer at once!"
Davenport eyed her narrowly.
"She's a slant," he told her. "A serf."
"I don't care if she is a serf! Kim grew up on this plantation, and she is one of my trusted friends! You will have no further intercourse with her. Do you understand me?"
"Sit down, Miss Wallace —"
"I will not! In the future you will keep yourself away from my girls, and if you fail to heed these instructions, I shall go to the Sirian Elite Guards and ask for a reprimand!" Her eyes were blazing.
"Miss Wallace, you do whatever you think best. But allow me to advise you of one of the facts of Sirian life; one is that serf women are subject to sexual attention from white men, and the other is that an SE man has the legal authority to sleep with any woman he chooses. That includes you, Miss Wallace. I advise you to keep that in mind."
Scarlett stared at him in outrage.
"Me! Are you threatenin' to rape me?"
"No, I'm just pointing out the options I have. I admire you, Miss Wallace. I have no intention of doing anything dishonorable to you. But there are those who would, and some of them wear this same uniform."
Still shaking, she swallowed her rage. She stared at him for thirty interminable seconds.
"Nevertheless," she whispered at length, "I would appreciate it if you would leave Kim alone. You have shamed her quite thoroughly."
Davenport inclined his head.
"Very well, Miss Wallace. In deference to your request, I will not trouble her further."
"Thank you!"
She spun and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Davenport grinned, and sipped his drink again. She certainly was a feisty one!
Chapter 24
Sunday, 29 March, 0229 (PCC) - Wallace Plantation, Texiana, Sirius 1
Scarlett Wallace had been home six months before General Vaughn came calling. She'd been shopping and restocked her closet with the latest fashions for a woman in her twenties, accompanied at all times by Capt. Davenport. Davenport seemed to be enjoying the assignment — he'd relaxed considerably since their initial meeting and no longer seemed as cold and forbidding. He even joked with her occasionally, and as far as she could determine, had not returned to pester the serf girl Kim. Scarlett wondered how much longer he would be staying.
General Vaughn arrived on a Sunday afternoon, preceded only by a call to Davenport to let him know he was coming. Scarlett met him at the foot of the stairs wearing one of her most fetching outfits, and played the Sirian belle to the hilt.
Vaughn was better looking than she remembered him, tall and dark with curly black hair and mischievous eyes. He was in every sense the Confederate war hero, right down to the grey dress uniform with red trim. The two stars on his collar looked completely natural.
Scarlett had always liked Vaughn, in spite of the fact that he was thirty-two years her senior. In another society he would just have been one of her daddy's closest friends, but on Sirius he was an eligible suitor, a fact of no small import considering his age and popularity. As a younger man he'd been too busy to marry, and after winning the Binary Star on Vega, the highest medal awarded to Sirian fighting men, had been too busy playing the field. Now he was thinking of settling down.
They sat on the veranda and visited for an hour, fighting the heat with cool drinks. They took a long walk around the estate, circling the sprawling lawns as they chatted. Vaughn asked her about her ordeal on Altair, and she told him all that was decent to tell. He expressed his intense relief that she was home, safe and sound.
"Miss Scarlett," he said after a time, "before your trip to Altair, your daddy and I had discussed a possible union. Were you ever made aware of that?"
"I believe my daddy did say somethin' about it," she replied, ducking her eyes modestly.
"When I learned of your disappearance, I was most distressed," he told her. "And when I was advised that you had been recovered safe and sound, my joy knew no bounds. If the war had not kept me so busy, I would have come to see you months ago."
"Why, thank you, General Vaughn. That is so sweet!"
"Please, you must call me Martin."
"Very well. Martin."
Vaughn suddenly seemed amazingly ill at ease. Almost shyly, he took a step closer.
"Miss Scarlett, I hope you will allow me to call on you again."
"Of course I will, Gen … Martin. You can call on me whenever you like."
"I sincerely appreciate that. Would next Sunday be appropriate?"
"Next Sunday would be most appropriate. But you must come in the mornin'. I will instruct my servants to lay on a proper Sunday dinner in your honor."
"Oh, that isn't necessary."
"But I insist, Martin. Really, you must come for Sunday dinner."
He smiled, boyishly charming.
"Then I shall. Thank you, Miss Scarlett. And welcome home."
Monday, 4 May, 0229 (PCC) - Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
"It is time to think about Altair," said Rear Admiral Henri Boucher. He sat at the head of his private conference table, with his personal staff situated around it. Cdr. Raymond Kamada faced him from the opposite end, and Wade Palmer sat at Kamada's elbow. Twenty other junior planners, both men and women, were also present.
"There is still a difference of opinion about what our next move should be," Boucher continued, his voice thick with accent. "General Will-aird 'as requested each of the senior plan-airs to submit a recommendation as to which objective we should attempt. The Pluto-Uranus operation was a success, in spite of initial glitches, so the Sol-air System is now free of Sirian forces."
He paused and looked around the table, making eye contact with each person.
"It is my consid-aired opinion that we should attempt to liberate Altair. Does anyone disagree with that?"
Some discussion followed. Seven o
r eight juniors felt that Altair would take care of itself, and the next move should be toward the Centauri system.
"The Sirians will be expecting us to relieve Altair," one bright young woman pointed out. "A move toward Alpha Centauri would catch them with their pants down. Not only would they not expect it, but we could have a million men on the ground before they could respond."
Another planner disagreed.
"I don't think we could get a million men down without serious fighter opposition," he said, "no matter how surprised they are. Alpha Centauri is a hornet's nest of space power."
"Even if we did," a second young woman said, "Sirius could abandon Altair if necessary and shift everything they have there to defend Centauri. Alpha Centauri is just next door to Beta Centauri, and they'll defend it to the hilt. They have enough Muslim help on Altair that they can ignore it for a time."
"But Alpha Centauri is a short-range operation!" the original young lady insisted. "It's only four light years from here, which means a supply delay of only three to four days. It's also the nearest Sirian threat to our own system, and if they ever come back, that's the most likely direction they'll come from. Alpha Centauri is a dagger pointed at our throat."
"I vote for Altair," Wade Palmer spoke up. "Sirian forces on Altair are thinner than anywhere else in the galaxy, and I feel we need to take aim at an objective we can defeat. Plus, we have help waiting there. Eighty percent of Altair is pro-Federation. Once we liberate the planet, we'll free up whole armies that can be used in subsequent operations, not to mention the recruiting opportunities."
Boucher peered at him with narrowed eyes, then smiled.
"I agree with Palm-air," he said with finality. "This office will support Altair as our next objective. Therefore, I want you all to draw up operational plans with Altair as the objective. Factor in everything that will be needed to land troops and sustain them for a lengthy campaign. We will meet back 'ere in one week to discuss what you 'ave."
"Sir?"
"Yes, Palm-air?"
"What time frame, Admiral? For the operation."
"Six months, Mr. Palm-air. We do not want to give the Sirians time to mount their own operation. Our next strike should begin less than six months from now, if possible."
