The Fall of GAIA

Author Notes:

I have read LE stories for a while and have enjoyed many of them immensely. The quality and creativity of the myriad authors is pleasing and a bit intimidating. I am just starting off submitting some of my own efforts. I appreciate the many authors who note in their openings that they prefer to write (and read) an engaging story with some grammatical flaws, rather than write (and read) a grammatically perfect lackluster story. I second the motion. Please be gentle on the typographical errors and judge the following based on its literary merits (content, characters, plot, creativity, etc.). I would much appreciate constructive feedback. Non-constructive and hateful/hurtful comments are discarded. My intent is to entertain, inform and possibly provoke thought/discussion; things that help me get better at doing that are welcome.

Many, many thanks to my friend and inspiration, SaddleTramp1956, for his encouragement and insightful and entertaining stories.

While I have an appreciation for LW BTB stories (extra crispy), I also have a sentimental fondness for RAAC stories. I wanted my first submissions to be some challenging attempts to turn classic BTBs into believable RAACs, like PAPATOAD’s THIRTY MILE DRIVE and SARAH’S PROJECT, but he has so far proved elusive, and I am reluctant to submit alternate endings without his permission. If he sees this, may I please take a shot?

A number of years (decades?) ago I was a fan of the British TV show BLAKE’S 7. This was a bit of a 1970s counterpart of the American 1960s STAR TREK, but had a far more focused premise: a small group of misfit, outcast convicts attempting to bring down the evil galactic Federation using a salvaged alien space ship and a hyper-intelligent computer. In one of the episodes they visited a world where there literally was a War Between the Sexes being fought to extinction, and at the end, the character of Avon, the ultimate cynic, and the counterpart to America’s Spock, noted bitterly that you can have wars between races, religions, and nations, but in a war between the sexes you eventually run out of people. This story explores that up to a cataclysmic conclusion. Please note that the tongue is FIRMLY in the cheek here, and in many of the scenes outrageous stereotypes abound, but are not meant seriously. There are many snippets from old movies and books strewn throughout.

There is really no real SEX. Sorry.

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THE FALL OF GAIA

The activity in the throne room was frenzied. Some leaders insist on quiet efficiency, but the current Imperial Mother felt that everyone should be racing around, interacting loudly and abruptly, to show energy and urgency. So that is how all of the many women in the room carried out their interactions.

The video technicians gestured wildly with their arms while trying to make delicate adjustments on their equipment. The lighting technicians argued loudly and heatedly while making tiny adjustments to intensity and spectrum. Washing out the Imperial Mother on an interplanetary broadcast was nearly begging for various dire and capricious punishments.

Probably the most stressed women were the immediate styling attendants. As the Imperial Mother reclined on the throne of translucent white stone, she was surrounded by a highly select group of technicians. Two women polished the dark green, mid-calf boots on their sovereign’s long, athletic, and unblemished legs, for the fourth time. Two other women adjusted the sovereign’s forest green syntha-silk robe with precision, tweaking the precise folds with golden tweezers and ensuring that the emerald dust emphasized the Imperial Mothers voluptuous curves. The hem was well above mid-thigh and the opening nearly down to her navel, showcasing her breasts spectacularly. Elegant golden bangles were positioned according to custom, and then adjusted according to fleeting frowns and smiles across the ruler’s full ruby red lips. The hairdressers, more artists than technicians, arrayed her majesty’s flowing crimson tresses like a cape around her shoulders, which was not easy since the strands reached halfway down her back.

The makeup technician was actually sweating as she applied foundation of crushed pearls and concealer of powdered mother-of-pearl, and quickly and precisely took care of each eyebrow hair and each eyelid lash. Her immediate predecessor was still suffering from her punishment and would for three months more.

The sovereign’s verdant green eyes surveyed the action of each attendant, well, imperiously. Xerxes, carried upon the backs of a hundred slaves on his golden throne, could not have been haughtier.

A young waif-like woman had the most delicate task of all – pressing the high-frequency vibrator firmly against her ruler’s clit and working it skillfully toward orgasm. Her Imperial Motherhood believed ardently that the fresh glow of a recent orgasm gave her voice a breathless allure, and her skin a glowing vitality that would be the envy of all her subjects.

A women in a jet black halter top with a matching microskirt approached the throne with some trepidation and prostrated herself on the black marble floor which had been polished to mirror smoothness. “Imperial Mother.”

“You may speak,” the Imperial Mother allowed in an almost bored tone, then jerked and gasped faintly in orgasm.

“Telecast is scheduled to begin in two minutes, Imperial Mother. All secondary and tertiary stations have synchronized with our transmitters. All of your daughters will hear your words.”

The Imperial Mother nodded slightly in acknowledgement, not deigning to speak.

The royal video coordinator scrambled up as gracefully as possible and scurried behind the broadcast equipment.

“Enough,” the Imperial Mother said, and her attendants practically evaporated. She pushed a concealed button on her throne and a massive mirror rose from the floor and allowed her to inspect every millimeter of her body. She spread the robe just a minute fraction, revealing just a sliver of each areola, one of her signature appearance moves. Apparently satisfied, she lowered the mirror and nodded regally.

A cultured female voice could be heard in the chamber.

“Harken all priestesses, mothers and daughters, to the words of our Imperial Mother, Vicar of the Great Goddess, Benevolent Sovereign of the world of Gaia, the moons Athena and Artemis, and all satellites and ships in space… Clarrisa the 5^th!” Dramatic music rolled and the video smoothly zoomed in to the Imperial Mother, showing her from diamond tiara down to the navel with its emerald stud.

“Priestesses, mothers and daughters. I speak to you this evening from my throne at the highest point in the capital city of Virginia, in my sacred role as the Protector of the flocks of the Great Goddess. You all know how our bitterly oppressed foremothers fled the cruelty and brutality of the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned males and traveled here, to Proxima Centauri and freedom! Our wondrously hospitable world of Gaia received our foremothers into her bosom, and we have prospered here, free from male domination and lusts. We fulfill the Goddess’s wishes for all her daughters; the inalienable right to pleasure without pregnancy. That was eleven score and three years ago. Long ago the males they left behind should have died out, but a few years ago our Learned Mothers of Astronomical Knowledge detected radio signals coming from Sol’s system indicating that somehow some males still exist. How they have managed to reproduce without us is unknown; they should have died out and cleansed the universe of their existence long ago. This was obviously not the case.”

She took a deep breath and put on an expression of deep resolution. “If indeed any males survive, they must be no more than primitive, unthinking brutes. Utterly incapable of creative thought themselves, they enslaved our foremothers to serve them. The probability of them having space travel, let alone star travel is vanishingly small — but not precisely zero. With the greatest of forethought and the concern that somehow a hyperdrive prototype or plans may have been left behind, it is possible, however unlikely, that the males may pursue us with the goal of venting their unholy lusts upon us, the beautiful and peaceful daughters of the Great Goddess. With great and cautious foresight, I ordered our Mothers of Engineering Wisdom to scavenge the hulks of the starships which brought our foremothers here, and have waited all these years in high parking orbit, to assemble a fleet to impose a final solution on the problem of males.” At this point a wickedly evil expression flickered across her gorgeously artificial features.

“By scavenging all equipment still functioning, it has been possible to assemble seventeen operational ships from the ten thousand hulks in orbit. Our foremothers built well! This fleet left Gaia six months ago under great secrecy, and in a few days will re-enter normal space in the Sol system. They will orbit our ancient and defiled birth world of Terra and sow canisters far and wide over its surface. The canisters contain something our Grandmothers and Mothers of Biological Wisdom have developed under the inspiration and guidance of the Great Goddess. A virus has been developed which is one hundred-percent lethal to those lifeforms based upon the hated XY chromosomes. It took extra time to ensure that the end of an infected body was extended and agonizing. Striking a blow for the ancient sorrows of our foremothers, they will suffer beyond description. The virus is extremely contagious, very hardy and perfectly lethal. No longer will males be even the briefest of nightmares — THEY — WILL — BE — EXTINCT!” she proclaimed.

The applause and cheering audio was brought up to augment the clapping and applauding of the women in the chamber. Briefly the thunderous approval sounded like she was addressing multitudes in Motherhood Square. The noise vanished as she resumed speaking.

“While it takes time for a physical vessel to traverse hyperspace, our Mothers of Physics Wisdom have devised nearly instantaneous hyperwave communications, and I have been in touch with our space warriors on their long journey, supervising every aspect of their labors as a good mother should. The final assault will be broadcast live from the fleet. The final victory will be celebrated as soon as our Amazon space warriors return to our beloved world. There will be ten days of public orgy then proclaimed in celebration of our perfect freedom!”

Once again the throne room resounded with cheers, both biologic and recorded, after all, who didn’t like a good orgy?

“And so priestesses, mothers and daughters, I, your humble servant, shall speak to you again soon as our victory unfolds. As you savor your orgasms tonight with your sisters, spare some loving thoughts for our warriors far out among the stars. Good night, daughters everywhere, and may the Great Goddess bless you always.”

The light on the video equipment flickered from red to green and the Mother of Video called out, “That’s complete. Approval rating is 100%.”

Anyone present who valued their pleasure applauded enthusiastically as they rushed about returning all things to their pre-broadcast splendor.

The Imperial Mother stood, took off her official tiara of office and set it upon the throne, secure in the knowledge that both would be cleaned and polished before she had her next need of them.

She caught the eye of the vibrator technician and tickled her chin with her geometrically perfect and vividly red nails. “My quarters. Later.” She did not wait for an acknowledgement but swept off to the Maternal Council Chamber.

Courtney, the vibrator technician sighed in resignation. The Imperial Mother was a selfish and vigorous sex partner, tending to leave one sore and unfulfilled. But if she was not well served the punishment could be quite severe. Refusing the advances or proposition of another daughter, or even a mother, was possible if phrased respectfully and regretfully. Refusing the advances or proposition of a priestess was tantamount to begging for nerve-blockers that would prevent orgasms for weeks. Turning down the Imperial Mother was not even to be contemplated. She sighed as she cleaned her golden sex appliances. She had had a date with the new baker apprentice in the palace, the one with the heart-shaped face and even more heart-shaped ass. She was also rumored to have a very talented tongue and to do special and astonishing exercises with it. She would have to cancel the assignation, not wanting to be a thoughtless sex partner. She was sure that the apprentice would have no problem finding another bed for the evening.

The Imperial Mother strode into the Maternal Conference Chamber and heard the privacy door seal behind her and the white noise generator hum into operation. Her closest advisors stood hurriedly and stayed respectfully erect until she was seated at the round table. The round table was meant to signify that all mothers were equal. But in her case the section of table was slightly raised and she sat upon a small, elevated throne rather than a chair. HER message was unmistakable: Some mothers were more equal than others.

To her right was a wizened elderly women with a full head of snow white hair, the Great-Grandmother of History. Around the table were the striking blonde Mother of Sciences, then the equally striking blonde Mother of Infrastructure, the brunette Mother of Space, the blonde Mother of State, and then the Arch Priestess of the Great Goddess with her swirl of caramel-colored hair. There were no red-haired women on the council. There were no red-haired women in the palace. If a red-haired delivery women showed up with a package, someone else delivered it; if a red-haired technician showed up to repair something, they were sent back with a pointed request for another technician. No woman on the palace staff had a larger bust size than the Imperial Mother, and all were at least five centimeters less in height in stockinged feet.

The meeting ran through the ritual greetings and gestures of obeisance, prayers and supplications to the Great Goddess, and then a rousing rendition of ‘Great Goddess Save The Imperial Mother.’ When this was done, the Imperial Mother turned to the Great-Grandmother of History.

The Great-Grandmother of History was the keeper of the original scrolls, well, notebooks, of the foremothers. After all, there was everyday knowledge and truth, and there was REAL knowledge and truth. The first was easier to live with, and all daughters were trained in, but real truth might occasionally be necessary when dealing with a situation. As one of the Great Goddess’s ancient but revered daughters, Ayn Rand, had once said, ‘You can ignore reality, but you cannot ignore the consequences of ignoring reality.’ And in order for REAL knowledge and truth to be of any use they could not be completely forgotten; someone had to know them, and that someone was the Great-Grandmother of History, also known in hushed tones as ‘Keeper of the Great Goddess’s Forbidden Knowledge.’ She got to drone on at the opening of each council.

“Great Grandmother of History, review for us the ancient knowledge of males and the flight of our foremothers.”

“Yes, Most Imperial Mother.” She cleared her throat and wheezed into recitation. “Males were created first by the Great Goddess, as any craftswoman always makes an experimental, and ultimately inferior, prototype before creating a mistress-piece. In general, males were slightly larger, heavier and stronger than females. Though they had some tiny measure of cleverness and vestigial cunning, especially in the crafting and use of primitive weapons and tools, they were hopeless intellectual midgets, incapable of higher creative thought or aesthetic appreciation. Unfortunately, due to the male’s physical presence and our female non-violent nature, our foremother’s foremothers were dominated and oppressed by them, forced to do all manner of work from bearing their children, to making their meals, to crafting their buildings, laboring in their mines, tilling their fields, and developing their ever more sophisticated weapons. Eventually the race reached a point where the males thought only of slaughtering each other to capture their enemy’s harems, playing brutal simulations on the computers developed for them by our ancient foremothers, or ravaging our foremothers for their obscene lusts. Our foremothers could take it no longer and sought a means of escape. This brought about the first great schism. One group of foremothers wished to use their cleverness in the biological sciences to develop a virus which would kill all of the males on the planet, everything with an XY chromosome, and leave the world safe and free for females. The other group of foremothers believed the world to be beyond redemption, too polluted by even the memory of the males’ depravities to consider staying in, and developed spaceflight and, in great secrecy, the first hyperdrive unit.

There was great strife between the two camps, though the clueless males detected it not. While some mothers labored in secret and remote locations to construct 13,874 spaceships without the knowledge of the males, other mothers labored long and hard under the cover of curing some disease of the males called ‘prostate cancer’ while under the very noses of the males. Then the unthinkable happened. The virus got loose. But, lo, it did not kill those with XY chromosomes, but those with XX chromosomes! Women began to die in great numbers. On the world left behind the population numbered 8 billion; about four billion brutish and uncomprehending males and four billion sensitive and intelligent females. With the virus rapidly spreading our foremothers boarded their ships and fled. Tragically, the ships could only carry 10,000 women each in cryo-sleep medical comas. Even then not all were full. Some of our foremothers were either so frightened or so subdued that they refused to leave the clutches of their oppressors and grasp for the freedom that was their birthright by the Great Goddess. 111,834,282 left the world in those ships and made for the closest habitable world, Gaia.

Not all of the ships arrived safely. Some disappeared into hyper-spatial rifts, some exploded or failed during the months-long journey, and some had been contaminated by the virus before departure and became ships of the dead. In all 9996 ships came to Gaia and 97,543,211 women set foot upon this most sacred soil. Their names are written on the first roster of the Daughters of Gaia, praised be her name! Praise be her bountiful plains! Praise be her verdant forests! Praise be her teeming oceans! All praise!

All was not well, however, since they had no way to gift the future with daughters. All resources of the new colony were thrust into action and after 22 years they succeeded. Initial experiments with cloning resulted in rapid replicate fading and distorted children. But what did work was to remove two eggs from two women and tease the DNA strands from one of the eggs of each and enwrap it within a protein shell and use it to fertilize the other woman’s egg. This was repeated until a viable fertilized egg with no defects was formed, and then, when it had progressed and passed its genetic tests, was finally implanted in its mother’s most sacred womb. Praise to Gaia. Only one place on the planet was chosen to be the site of this most holy work of life creation. The most virus and germ-free continent at the extreme southern reaches of the world — the South Pole Crèche.

Two women who have found each other and been called by the Great Goddess to be exalted to the ranks of mothers make the long and arduous journey to the Crèche together and conceive and bear their children together and then return to their homes, never to see each other again. For thus it must be. No bond may be stronger than that of a woman to the Great Goddess, or that of a mother to her daughter. Being together would bring unnatural temptations of exclusivity; a woman denying herself to the sexual embrace of her sisters. That is an abomination in the eyes of the Great Goddess. Her daughters must always and ever freely give pleasure to each other in celebration of her unending joy and fertility.

Thus it has been for generations, as the Great Goddess has willed it. Then discord rose up and the second great schism occurred. And LO! There were three groupings of mothers, set one upon the other, to the vexation of our Great Goddess. One group stated that as were all females subservient to the will of the Great Goddess through all of their lives, so to should daughters be subservient to their mother’s will through all of their lives. The second group proclaimed that when a daughter reached the age of menarche, she COULD be a mother and therefore, while respectful of the one who bore her life, was now independent of her mother’s will. The third group proclaimed that, at the somewhat arbitrary age of twenty-one years, that a daughter was an adult and completely free of her mother’s will. The strife was terrible! One would have thought they were males in disguise, so mindless was the violence! Much blood was shed and many spirits were sent, wailing, into the void after death. Mother against mother, daughter against daughter, daughter against mother, and mother against daughter.

But then the Great Goddess intervened, and a rare double eclipse occurred, casting the world into gloom and shadow. The mothers of the first group proclaimed that the Great Goddess was most displeased with her daughters, and would leave them to languish in the dark. Those who had defied the will of the Great Goddess cowered and begged for mercy. It was granted, the benevolent light of the Great Goddess shown once again. For all time the will of the Great Goddess would be that the relationship of mother to daughter would mirror that, however imperfectly, of the relationship of the Great Goddess to her daughters. Obedience as long as the mother lived. One exception was made. All daughters may choose the gene-mate for their eggs without their mother’s permission, since this call is come from the Great Goddess herself, calling them to motherhood.

So, fewer in number but united in purpose, we reveled in the bosom of Gaia.

Then came the third schism. Oh, darkest of days! One group of mothers wanted to retain spaceflight, at least to Gaia’s moons. A second group proclaimed this blasphemy – leaving, rejecting, the Great Goddess’s gift of this perfect world. Yet a third group proclaimed it even more dire blasphemy to look down upon our world in any way from other than her own natural heights. They believed that aeronauts and astronauts were the epitome of arrogance and hubris. Once again the battles were heated and vicious. Then the Great Goddess made her will known by creating her order of priestesses who would speak for her. And they ruled and made her will known that her daughters were free to roam Gaia and her moons and the space around them, for it was found that low gravity was ever so rejuvenating and enhanced one’s beauty. But that the daughters of the Great Goddess should only travel beyond this under the greatest of need, which we of course have here.

The fourth and final schism was among the priestesses. Between those who believed that the Great Goddess spoke equally to all of them, and that points of theology should be decided by vote, and then there were those who believed that one should speak for all, the highest of priestesses of the Great Goddess. The arguments were long and intense, and the ranks of priestesses, and even mothers and daughters, were thinned in the resolving of it. But from this came the Imperial Mother. The spokeswoman of the Great Goddess and absolute corporal mother of all daughters upon Gaia.

Who has now made the decision to terminate our ancient oppressors! All hail the Great Goddess! All hail the Imperial Mother, representative of the Great Goddess!”

The other women were nearly slumbering at the table, but shook it off quickly and managed to call out their “Hail”s at just the right volume and just the right show of enthusiasm to avoid drawing unwanted attention.

The Imperial Mother shook herself and thanked the slightly disoriented Great-Grandmother of History for the background. Then she looked at the select group and noted her most burning question; what robes should she wear on the occasion of announcing the death of the last males?

Two hours later, the Imperial Mother entered her quarters and saw the vibrator technician, naked and kneeling in the appropriate position, beside the imperial bed. She licked her lips and felt lust rising inside her at the sight of the curves of her sex partner of the hour, but paused. She did have one task she wanted to carry out, and maybe putting off the moment would make it sweeter. With a sigh she strode past the young woman and activated her viewing screen.

“Yes, Imperial Mother,” the Mother of Communications on duty responded immediately.

“Connect me via hyperlink to the Fleet Mother.”

“It shall be done, Imperial Mother.”

There was a scrambling and some urgent whispers just below the threshold of understanding, but, after five seconds, when the Imperial patience was being sorely tried, the screen shifted and the lofty brow and short, tight, blonde ringlets of the Fleet Mother, commander of the flagship AZURE GRACE, appeared on her screen.

“At your command, Imperial Mother,” the Fleet Mother responded. “This is a pleasant surprise indeed. We have not spoken since departure.”

“Report,” the Imperial Mother shot back curtly; after all she had a pleasant interlude waiting on this.

“We are two days from exiting hyperspace in the Sol system. Hyperspatial travel is boring. I know that our foremothers escaped the boredom, and the need for supplies, by use of medical comas, and if we ever decide to visit nearby stars, we should consider it.”

“Noted, Fleet Mother. Is there a problem?”

“No, Imperial Mother. The other Ship Mother’s and myself have maintained morale by keeping the crews busy. If they are not sleeping, cleaning, eating or participating in various creative sex games, then they are drilling on close ship maneuvering and virus release procedures. We shall be ready when we strike. Praise to the Great Goddess that it is just a few days away.”

“Very well, Fleet Mother. Notify me when the deed is done.”

“Yes, Imperial Mother.”

The Imperial Mother closed the connection and turned back to her new toy.

Two days later the Fleet Mother was interviewing a crewmember for advancement when they were interrupted by a call from the command center. “Fleet Mother.”

“Report.”

“Fleet Mother, we are 12 hours from exiting hyperspace into the Sol system. All necessary systems on all ships are functional.”

“Understood. Send to all Ship Mothers — stand down to minimum staffing and allow relaxation to all off duty members. All fraternization customs are suspended until two hours before breakout. Then sound alert stations.”

“It shall be sent, Fleet Mother.”

“Oh, Communicator, I will be in my cabin. Have the second assistant engineer present herself to my cabin. Off duty uniform will be the class E teddy.”

“Yes, Fleet Mother.”

Many Astronomical Units ahead, in the system of Sol, other reports were being delivered:

“Sir, Trans-Plutonian Deep Space Array 57 reports seventeen hyperspace tracks inbound exactly on expected course.” The voice giving the report was both respectful and feminine.

“Very well.” The response was deep and thoughtful. Three centuries ago, General Patton would have admired it.

“Sir, Dominion Supreme Council signals Operation Phoenix is approved. Grand Admiral Clevis sends his personal compliments and wishes you luck.”

“Hah! Reply, ‘Luck is unnecessary when strategy and tactics dance to the same song.’ Order minelayer WOLVERINE to lay pattern 4 per plan 12 Bravo and return to Phobos Arsenal for rearming.”

“Message sent, Sir. Order transmitted and receipt acknowledged,” the feminine voice responded.

A few hours later back on board the flagship AZURE GRACE, all personnel were on duty stations and quaveringly alert, multiple recent orgasms having honed their senses.

“Fleet Mother.”

“Report.”

“Fleet Mother, we have exited hyperspace on schedule. Sensors indicate that charts were accurate. We exited with the gas giant known as Jupiter blocking line of sight to Terra. We will be clear shortly and on a least time trajectory for Terra.”

“Very well. Order all captains to make final checks on virus re-entry capsules. One fast orbit, saturate the atmosphere just like we practiced, and then back home to a heroine’s welcome. Signal formation 3.”

“Yes, Fleet Mother!”

The Fleet Mother chuckled contemptuously. “After being within two hundred kilometers of males I am sure that we will all need showers and to be well scrubbed down by our sisters on our journey back out.”

The seventeen vessels maneuvered into a pre-programmed formation. One ship was surrounded by a ring of five others at a distance of about 50 kilometers, about 10 kilometers behind. Then a ring of ten ships circled the ring of five at a distance of 50 more kilometers and 10 kilometers further back. The fleet command ship, AZURE GRACE, trailed the formation by about 300 kilometers. In the tactical displays it resembled an umbrella charging forward into driving rain.

Several million kilometers away, a pleasant baritone voice noted, “Seventeen vessels have exited hyperspace in sector 192-756, coordinates 294.233-007.986, 186,000 kilometers Galactic North of the ecliptic. Relative velocity 101.24 kilometers per second. Trajectory is a least time trajectory to close Earth orbit.”

The strong commanding voice responded, “Right on schedule. My compliments to Intelligence. Send to squadron, rig ships for minimum energy operations, power down all dilithium chambers, and maintain rapid restart capability.”

The feminine voice said, “Memorandum sent to Intelligence. Squadron notified, sir.”

“Fleet Mother, Initial scan shows no power systems operational or vessels under power within one million kilometers. Calculating ETA to Terra orbit and first canister drop.”

“Proceed.”

Nearly 250,000 kilometers away, other orders were being issued on a spacious but austere command deck. The air was still and heavy in the compartment and throughout the ship; except for a few muted displays, the only illumination was from the battery-powered emergency lamps.

“Launch drone group 13,” the voice was now like a Roman orator addressing the full senate.

“Launching drone group 13, sir,” the melodious but emotionless feminine voice responded.

On the command deck of the AZURE GRACE the sensor operator called out,” Fleet Mother, I have contacts.”

“Report,” the Fleet Mother snapped.

“There is a sizable cluster of large metallic asteroids bearing 305 by 16, distance 246,000 kilometers. Twelve vessels on plasma drive are accelerating on an intercept course for us.” The operator stroked the sensor pads and peered at the dim screens. “They have minimal life readings, there is no indication of hyper-drive capability, they have primitive fission plants, and minimal armament, unless they are using equally primitive missiles.”

The Fleet Mother cursed under her breath. All appropriate sacrifices had been made to the Great Goddess, so they should have never been detected. What was a male patrol doing out here anyway? In an entire solar system what luck did it take to run into what were probably the males’ only ships? She shook her head.

She hit the golden comm switch. “Imperial Mother.”

Light-years away on Gaia, the Imperial Mother was enjoying her bubble bath in her mother-of-pearl tub, with two attendants massaging fragrant essential oils into her skin. As the comm unit beeped for attention she sighed in irritation and sat up.

“Yes, Fleet Mother, what is it?”

“We are in normal space in the Sol system, inward bound for Terra. A flight of 12 vessels have come out of hiding behind a large cluster of metallic asteroids and is flying across our trajectory, closing distance. They are less than half the mass of our ships and scans show they have no FTL capability and minimal detectable armament. I am sorry, Imperial Mother, we have apparently been detected, but based on their capabilities we should complete the mission with no problems. I may lose some daughters.”

“Losses cannot be helped. Final liberation is at hand. Continue the mission.”

“Yes, Imperial Mother.”

The Imperial Mother placed the connection on standby and leaned back in the bath and spread her legs, closed her eyes and commanded, “Use the wild cherry ointment on my mound. I grant you permission to take appropriate liberties.”

“Yes, Imperial Mother,” they chorused in unison.

Approximately 100,000 kilometers away the spacious but austere command deck heard the quiet but infinitely implacable voice of command order, “Arm field in Sector 332.”

The responding feminine voice said, “Arm Sector 332. Verification needed for release of thermonuclear weapons.”

“Kimball Kinnison, Grand Admiral, Service Number 2391A2874S9812.”

“Voice print confirmed. Level 2 authorization required for release of gigaton-level weapons. Prepare for retina scan…. Retina scan confirmed. Sector 332 armed.”

Interplanetary travel at very high speeds is dangerous. Impact with even a small object can be catastrophic. It doesn’t matter if the pebble hits you at 100 kilometers per second or you hit the pebble at 100 kilometers per second, the result is like getting hit by a light artillery shell. Most spacecraft are not heavily constructed; certainly not armored like 20^th Century battleships. It takes a huge amount of energy to accelerate and decelerate all that mass, energy that limits otherwise possible range and endurance. So most spacecraft are only constructed to be strong enough to take maximum thrust along their axis and side stresses from design basis maneuvers.

Because of this vulnerability, spacecraft have evolved to use automatic systems to make minute changes of trajectory to avoid the infrequent pieces of planetary detritus that show up occasionally in every million cubic kilometers of otherwise empty space. It doesn’t matter if the debris is missed by a centimeter or a kilometer; a miss is a miss. Given that no human pilot is up to the task of infinitesimal course tweaks on microsecond time scales, and that tiny pieces of space debris do not show up on radar until very close, all of this is done without bothering the humans who think they are really piloting the spacecraft. With artificial gravity and inertia compensation, it is easy to not feel the tiny course adjustments being continually made by the systems.

The only hardening typically found on high speed spacecraft is on the bow of the vessel. Even the collision avoidance radar cannot pick up every tiny grain of ice left behind by comets, every flake of rock from an asteroid collision, or even clouds of rarified dust or gas. None of these minute but spectacular collisions cause significant instantaneous damage, but the cumulative effect of millions of minute collisions will wear away at the skin of a vessel and eventually degrade it to the danger point — structural failure or atmosphere leakage. Since spacecraft would typically streak by each other with potential firing opportunities being very fleeting, the idea is to hit your opponent’s weakest points; the unarmored sides and the precision drive units at the stern. The opponent usually is not so obliging as to stand still and let themselves be vulnerable, so most old tactical programs are dedicated to keeping one’s bow pointed at the enemy and trying to maneuver yourself to get a shot at their side or rear. The tactical computer ground through its program and the ships in the formation moved.

“Fleet Mother, tactical recommends keeping the bow toward the enemy. At our current speed we will be within laser range, 1000 kilometers, in 93 seconds. Enemy ships are making coordinated ‘jinks’ and seemingly random course corrections. Tactical evaluates that they are hoping to catch us off guard and then use their maximum acceleration at the last possible moment to dodge our fire and catch us on our lateral hull with what armament they have.”

“Full automatic on tactical and offensive systems. We will be guided by the wisdom of our revered foremothers.”

“Yes, Fleet Mother.”

When a 20 by 20 by 20 array of faint signals appeared on debris avoidance sensors, the steering systems on the interconnected ships made the minute adjustments necessary to pass safely between them while still remaining in the ordered tight formation. A human pilot might have wondered how 8000 pieces of space debris managed to arrange themselves in a perfect cube, each spaced exactly 20 kilometers from its neighbors, but in the less than four seconds it would take to traverse the strange phenomena, possibly not. Even then there would have been no time to reorient the ship and apply maximum lateral acceleration to miss the array. The computers were certainly not set up to realize that responding to the motion of the intercepting vessels was leading them right through the center of the array.

Each faint radar echo in the array was actually a cylinder 15 meters long and 3 meters in diameter. Each was thickly coated with multi-frequency radar-absorbent material so that to sensors it looked no bigger than an ancient marble. Whether a tiny marble or a substantial cylinder, it took up only an insignificant fraction of the surrounding vastness. Other, nearly passive, features reduced detectability to absolutely minimal levels. The only thing that couldn’t be completely suppressed was the radiation signature of kilograms of plutonium and metric tons of natural uranium. Each also included a huge cryogenic flask of tritium to enhance the neutron flux, and boost the fission and fusion reactions. Fortunately such radiation was short range and easy to overlook in the normal flux of solar radiation and cosmic rays. So the objects were insignificant in volume and signature, but not in energy potential. The drone swarm continued to dart slightly back and forth on their trajectory, forcing the ancient tactical computers on their opponents’ ships to adjust course to prevent them from having clear shots at their weak sides or very vulnerable drive units at the stern.

Just seconds away from firing, the Fleet Mother reported in. “We are in tight formation, Imperial Mother. The Council of Maternal Wisdom evaluated that if the brutes had indeed developed more than rudimentary space travel they will most likely equip such craft with particle beam and plasma weapons, since they are obsessed with spectacular mating displays.” She shuddered delicately, as befit a high-ranking female of sensibility, and continued. “Or possibly railguns, that being the highest form of weapon our oppressed foremothers were forced to develop for them before they fled to Gaia and freedom. This is likely since by our records males think of little beyond ejaculation, shooting forth disgusting fluids.” Another delicate shudder. “Our protective fields are designed to harmlessly deflect such charged particle weapons. A tight formation means that the fields overlap and provide even greater protection. And the chances of a male being able to strike our ships at these distances and relative speeds is inconsequential. They shall die astonished, for the glory of the Great Goddess.”

Imperial Mother acknowledged the response with a slight, approving nod. “I shall watch and relish the victory. It shall be broadcast later to all citizens so that they may rejoice in this first victory.”

As the fleet swooped into the field, the hive mind of the drone swarm sent the signal, noting that sixteen of the seventeen vessels would be completely enclosed in the array.

In two microseconds, tons of material was nearly instantly converted into energy in all of its many forms, and 8000 fierce, tiny suns were born.

Nuclear explosions in space are spectacular but brief. There is a brilliant flash. But there is no roiling mushroom cloud as there is no gravity for the hot air to rise in or wind to sweep dust and debris into. The vacuum of space is very nearly empty in most places. The ball of superheated plasma that used to be a nuclear weapon, and was then, briefly, like a small piece of a star’s core, expands very rapidly and cools just as quickly. The gases and microscopic particles shoot out at speeds ranging from hundreds of miles per hour to hundreds of miles per second. There is no blast or shock wave; there is no atmosphere to propagate one. Just a flash of radiation and an expanding spherical cloud of extremely high temperature gases and microscopic debris. Oh, the expanding cloud of gases is highly radioactive; HIGHLY.

A literal electromagnetic tsunami of radiation cascaded through the ships, slipping effortlessly past the shielding, vaporizing the outer layers of the hull, zipping through the systems and crew, heating materials to failure or at least to the point of serious weakening. Electronic systems literally shorted out in spectacular showers of sparks, electrical systems tripped off-line — all fuses blowing and all breakers opening with spectacular arcs. Human body temperature was raised instantly to well over 115F and the body ceased to function as the nerves failed, dropping the crew at their stations. Most catastrophically, the power plants couldn’t take the surge in energy and overloaded, tearing the ship into fragments and spilling the atmosphere into deep space in great nebulas of glowing gases.

The first indication the Imperial Mother had that all was not going according to plan was a huge burst of static on the communications link, for which she would punish the communication technician later. The screen, for long minutes, looked like a high winter storm at South Pole Crèche. She waited impatiently.

AZURE GRACE was not within the minefield when it detonated; however, it was too close and going too fast to avoid the volume of space which had formerly contained sixteen starships and 8000 thermonuclear weapons. The volume only contained highly radioactive, rapidly expanding gases and countless tiny fragments. The tenuous matter tore at the bow shield, ablating away nearly all of it in a few seconds of intense heat and light. The gas and debris pummeled all sides of the vessel and created myriads of microscopic holes through which the ship’s atmosphere began to bleed.

“Fleet Mo-mo-mother! All ves-ves-vessels destroyed!” the sensor operator shrieked before toppling off her chair in the erratically fluctuating artificial gravity of the ship. The navigator began crawling toward her, spitting up blood and phlegm.

“Helm! Re-re-reverse course! Head us toward Ho-ho-home at maximum sp-sp-speed!” the Fleet Mother ordered, while she clutched at the arms of her command chair with her rapidly weakening and mindlessly twitching arms.

“Reversing course, Fle-fle-fleet Mother!” the helmswoman responded between spasms. “Hyper-drive is off-line. Plasma drives do n-n-not respond t-t-to throttle control. Power pla-pla-plant shows extreme instability. Eng-eng-engineering deck is not answering comm circuits, Fleet, Mo-mo-mother!”

The navigator had reached the sensor operator, and they tried to comfort each other with final orgasms, only to discover that the massive wave of radiation had destroyed all of the surface nerves, numbing their entire bodies from the outside in. They wailed in frustration.

“Fleet Mother! Fleet Mother! Report! Report NOW or face discipline!” the Imperial Mother shouted at the slowly clearing video screen.

“Energy re-re-release was off scale, Imperial Mother. This vessel is the only survivor and I have reversed course. We flew directly through the plasma clouds of-of-of the detonations. The plasma and clouds of microscopic debris have ser-ser-seriously degraded our outer hull. We are losing atmosphere. Sensors and computers are ser-ser-seriously compromised. Readings indi-indi-indicate that we absorbed — Great Goddess! Total exposure over 62,000 rads. That takes us into central nervous system death in minutes. No won-won-wonder I have a metallic taste in my mouth.”

“What happened, Fleet Mother? How did you lose my fleet?!”

“We must have gone through a pre-laid minefield, Imperial Mother. In maneuvering to engage the other ships, we were led through its center and they detonated the mines. The energy release was astro-astro-astronomical, Imperial Mother! The devices must have been of a type the historical records refer to as ‘enhanced radiation.’ The neutron, gamma ray and x-ray fluxes were so high all of the detectors went off-scale.”

“What about your shielding?!”

“Imperial Mother, our shielding was designed to deflect charged particles. Neutrons and electromagnetic radiation have no charge. Our shielding was as effective a pro-pro-protection as so much vacuum.”

“What of the male ships, Fleet Mother?”

“They are no longer under power, Imperial Mother. It is possible that their ambush damaged them as well.”

“Are they the only male vessels there? Are there any others? Did you detect any transmissions from them?”

“Sensors are ba–ba-badly damaged and the readings erratic, bu–bu-but we are getting indications of scores of power sources ap–ap-appearing behind us. There must have been more ships hid-hid-hidden in that asteroid cluster, possibly to shield them from the radiation pulse of the det-det-detonating mines. They are starting their pow-pow-power plants up now, certainly to pursue us.”

A minute passed like an hour, and the Fleet Mother’s spasms diminished as the fried nerve cells succumbed, one by one. She glanced at the fuzzy long range scanner screen one last time, and her eyes fluttered wide open. “Great Goddess, have mer-mer-mercy!” she choked out.

“What is it?” the Imperial Mother snapped.

“Tha-tha-that cluster of large metallic asteroids. They are-are-aren’t asteroids! They are shi-shi-ships! They are powering up-up-up and following us. Energy sensors indicate they aren’t fission or fusion reactors. On-on-only power source that matches is anti-matter, but that is im-im-impossible!”

Imperial Mother jumped up. “Change course you wretched fool! Do not lead them back to our home world!”

The tremors in the Fleet Mother’s body were subsiding, like her life, and she grimaced at the screen. “It is too late for that, Imperial Mother. They no doubt de-de-detected our incoming trajectory and I now ha-ha-ha-have no maneuvering capability to try and con-con-convince them otherwise.” Bloody saliva dribbled over her slackening lips. She coughed up more blood and struggled to focus. “I also sus-sus-suspect that my ship will not only not make it home, but will de-de-destruct momentarily when the engines finally fail. I am sor-sor-sorry, Imperial Mother, I have failed the mo-mo-motherhood an-an-and the Great God-God-Goddess.” Suddenly the screen went dead.

The Imperial Mother immediately grew violent, hurling loose objects around the room and sending advisors and courtiers fleeing or dodging. She shrieked like a damned soul seeing hellfire for the first time. “Who approved a straight line course from here to Earth? They shall be punished! Who evaluated and approved that battle programming? I want her publicly neuro-whipped!” She slapped her second deputy special assistant, her exquisite nails leaving cuts across the unfortunate woman’s cheek. “Find the Fleet Mother’s daughter! She shall be punished for her mother’s failure!”

“What punishment, Imperial Mother?” the woman cowered.

“Loss of orgasms for ten years and a permanent ban on a procreation license! We shall not pollute the gene pool with the heredity of such an abject and dismal failure!”

“It shall be done, Imperial Mother!”

Back in the Solar system tens of millions of tons of war machines smoothly aligned and began moving as a concerted body.

“The final enemy vessel has come apart, Grand Admiral. The power plant malfunctioned and tore the structure into fragments. Long range sensors show no life signs,” the feminine voice reported.

“Have all ships avoid the area and trajectory of the vessel. Designate AJAX and ACHILLES to sterilize the debris and signal Dominion Command to send drone salvage vessels to clear the debris with electromagnetic scoops and then set course for solar entry; 5900K should sterilize any remaining traces of their damned virus.”

“Orders being sent, sir.”

“Have all remaining ships synchronize with flagship and prepare for transition to hyperspace. Destination is Proxima Centauri Alpha. All Ahead Standard.”

“On your command, Grand Admiral.”

Several hours later, the Imperial Mother had finally cooled down and called an emergency council session. She had her hair, nails and makeup re-done to show the seriousness of the situation, even applying the finishing touches of the makeup herself to show her resolve and determination. She overrode her fashion advisors, who had laid out a mourning outfit and chose her most revealing and imperious dress, heavily encrusted with a dazzling display of gems and precious metals, but grandly displaying her breasts and pubic mound. She strode into the meeting, radiating disapproval and barely checked rage. Even the Great-Grandmother of History flinched when her attempt to relate the situation to various historical precedents was returned with an enraged glare. The small council table had been replaced with the full council table, and the Imperial Mother’s dais was correspondingly higher.

Without preamble, prayers or supplications, she declared, “A male fleet is on the way to our home. Driven by their no-doubt extreme lusts for our bodies we must meet them with cunning and resolve. The spirits of our foremothers are watching us. The Great Goddess is watching us! We do not want panic, we want action befitting the descendants of Amazons!”

The Grandmother of Communication offered, “Imperial Mother, the lack of news of our fleet has not yet caused any significant consternation among the mothers and daughters; many are preparing for the reception and victory orgy already — assembling displays, painting murals and composing poems. As soon as a plan is available I would advise that you personally deliver it as you did the last broadcast which went so very well and was so universally favorably received.”

“At least we have six months to prepare,” Imperial Mother declared.

The brief silence was broken by the embarrassed cough of the Mother of Astronomical Knowledge, who looked discomfited as all eyes swiveled to her. “That’s not entirely accurate, Imperial Mother,” she ventured, timidly.

“What do you mean?” Imperial Mother responded with a deadly hiss.

The unfortunate looked like she would rather be anywhere else, even dead, than break this particular news. “Imperial mother, the laser interferometer on the far side of Artemis is our only hyperspace sensor. There has always been a large and apparently random set of hyperspace disturbances in the vicinity of the Sol system of unknown origin. We originally ascribed it to noise and unknown natural phenomena. It tracked our fleet on their six month journey outbound. It is now tracking the male’s return fleet. And it is headed directly here.”

“What do we know about them?”

“W-e-l-l, teasing the overlapping signals apart is a difficult computation. There are apparently 57 ships. The smallest is about 100,000 tons,” several of the mothers gasped quietly. The starships of their revered foremothers massed barely 40,000 tons.” The largest,” she continued, swallowing hard, “about 5 million tons.” She noted the horrified looks of her sisters and cringed. Bearing such bad news could get her ostracized from the best parties, not that she was invited to too many of them anyway.

“How many of the largest kind?”

“Three, as far as we can tell.”

“Imperial Mother,” the Imperial Mother growled at the impertinence.

“Three, as far as we can tell, Imperial Mother,” she amended hastily. She didn’t want her orgasm privileges suspended for months with nerve blockers; especially since her worst news was yet to come.

The Imperial Mother’s anger at the lapse in protocol hadn’t abated, and she pressed on. “What did you mean about six months not being entirely accurate? It took our fleet six months to reach Sol with the drive units developed by our brilliant foremothers. Are you saying we have more time?” she finished on a hopeful note.

“No, Imperial Mother. I’m saying that based on the signals we have about 72 hours before the male fleet arrives.”

Pandemonium broke out, finally brought to order by the Imperial Mother screaming that they would all be nerve-blocked for life if she didn’t have quiet immediately!

“That is better.” She speared each council member with her haughtiest glare. “What do we know?”

The Mother of Amazonian Action dared speak up, “Imperial Mother, assuming that the readings relayed to us were correct, the total energy release in the despicable and cowardly ambush of our fleet was of more than three-quarters of a million megatons to over-range the instruments. This would have required more than 2400 times the amount of special nuclear materials our most pessimistic projection of male capabilities allowed for. I think we can state with certainty that the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned males staked all of their nuclear capability on this one ploy. Therefore we do not have to worry about any further weapons of mass destruction and can expect only weapons of a more conventional, though historic, nature.”

“And that means?”

“Lasers, plasma cannon, railguns, bombs and missiles armed with conventional blasting chemicals, Imperial Mother.”

“What about for individual males?”

“Most likely devices called guns, which shoot pellets of metal at high speeds, sometimes rapidly. Sharp objects; knives, swords and axes. There are some records which state that they shoot burning liquids from pressurized tanks at one another.” Other women at the table groaned in horror.

“What resources do we have to meet this threat?”

“Imperial Mother, we have 237 trans-atmospheric search and rescue craft. We also have 193 peace cruisers with electromagnetic pulse weapons, stunners and neuro-paralyzers.” She took a deep breath. “With the prohibition against lethal weaponry, we have strictly limited armament; that is why we had to mount nearly all of our industrial lasers on our fleet. We have some small amount of blasting chemicals which the mining techs use when extracting necessary ores from Gaia’s sacred body, but not much. We have 87 planetary liners used for pleasure cruises to the orbital spas, observation satellites and environmental monitoring stations, and the low gravity resorts on Artemis and Athena, and 47 operational orbital shuttles for space transfers. We might be able to use them to ram the invading ships when they enter orbit, though they are not constructed for high speed nor extreme maneuverability. We have no exact idea what offensive or defensive capabilities the incoming craft have other than they won’t be nuclear or thermonuclear in nature. We do have some samples of the anti-male virus in secure storage at the South Pole Station Biological Research Facility, but I do not see how we could infect all 57 vessels. It also was designed to kill the host after weeks of agonizing pain, not quickly kill or incapacitate, so it wouldn’t be of much use in combat. There are 121,344 priestesses with neuro-whips and 546,790 peace enforcers equipped with stunners and tranquilizer sprays. Our options are extremely limited,” she concluded reluctantly.

“What about the fleet of starships our illustrious foremothers sought freedom in?”

“Imperial Mother, the hulks were stripped of all useful equipment in order to re-build 17 functional ships. The remaining 9979 hulks are only capable of slow orbital changes with reaction thrusters. Some of the environmental systems are functional. If properly shielded from sensors, some small number of mothers and daughters might hide for a time in orbit.”

“We are women! We are warriors! We are Amazons! We are goddesses! Speak not to me of hiding and cowering, especially from mere males!”

“Yes, Imperial Mother. I’m sorry, Imperial Mother, please, forgive me,” the unfortunate woman groveled.

“Any options to consider, my daughters?” Imperial Mother asked, acidly.

There was silence around the table as the group nervously shuffled and glanced at each other, their horror growing but not yet out of control.

The Imperial Mother slammed her fist on the table, causing everyone to jump and a couple of the younger council member to squeak nervously.

“Am I the only one who bothers to think here?! It is obvious why the males are coming, and obvious as to how. We shall use that against them. We shall turn their very maleness against them. Though I regret we must suffer for a few hours to lull them into carelessness.”

“In what way, Imperial Mother?”

“There must still be some poor, oppressed women, kindred mothers and daughters, laboring miserably back on Terra under the yokes and lashes of their male oppressors. NO male could develop the things we have seen. Their brains are too small and reptilian; vicious and unreasoning. And they have not the lifespan of a healthy, vital woman. They should have died out long, long ago, ridding the universe of the stain of their existence. I admit I am torn between a deep desire to rescue them from their servitude, the grotesque birthing of yet more of the vile creatures, while at the same time wanting to punish them for fashioning the weapons being used on their free sisters, and bearing them children rather than dying clean and unsullied. No matter. That is a decision for another time.” She took a deep breath.

“It is obvious that their inherent lusts are driving them to invade this sacred homeland. They are unable to tolerate even the thought that a colony of free and uninhibited females is not under their oppressive control. They wish to capture us, use us to sate their lusts, and return us in chains to their brothels and harems and homes. That is what those three large ships must be. They carry men and landing craft to invade and conquer us, squashing our freedom.”

Several of the women cried out in horror, or laid their heads down upon the table and began to sob.

The Imperial Mother let this revelation sink in for a full minute before she pounded the table again, jarring them back to reality.

“But we shall use this against them. While they are creatures of their basest drives, we are intelligent beings of sensibility. We are not driven by emotion, but by rational thought. We have guile and intuition and a burning desire to finally right all of those ancient wrongs.”

“What will be do, Imperial Mother?” cried several of the women.

“We will surrender.”

The astonished, horrified silence fell like a guillotine blade.

“We will broadcast our surrender. When their landing craft arrive, we will greet them as submissives to the great conquerors. There are 87 million of us. There must be far, far fewer of them. Instead of a fight they will find the most accommodating of orgies. We will ply them with potent spirits and let them use our bodies, pretending to enjoy it, all the while they are dropping their guard as we are stroking their egos. We shall cunningly separate them from their arms and armor and each other. At a prearranged time, we shall rise up and strike them down. We shall then storm their landing craft and fly up to their ships and take them over. We shall pilot them back to Terra and complete the virus infusion mission, leaving them all to die in bloody misery. We shall then liberate the remaining women and decide what to do with them based upon their guilt and circumstances.”

The women stared at the Imperial Mother, sitting at the head of the table that had no head, radiating confidence, and started to cheer, some a little cautiously.

“But that will mean we must, must let them — have their way with us!” shrieked the Mother of Aesthetic Harmonies.

“Our foremothers persevered through years, decades of depravities! Are you saying that we, their daughters, are incapable of suffering, however intensely, for a few hours!” the Imperial Mother demanded.

The assembly was appropriately cowed and dared raise no further objections, though there were many quiet sniffles and more than a few hopeless, heartfelt groans.

“I shall broadcast the plan tomorrow. We must now discuss the important aspects of the plan. What should I wear to show resolve and determination, while also empathizing with the upcoming suffering?”

Two days later, an ‘All Daughters’ broadcast was announced for 1930 hours that evening for all to hear the words of the Imperial Mother. All expected that it would announce the successful completion of the mission and, possibly, a short public orgy of celebration. Of course more detailed plans for the arrival holiday were also expected.

At 1930 hours, capital mean time, all screens carried the Imperial Mother’s image and all daughters of the Great Goddess performed the prescribed gestures of obeisance before it, some a little perfunctorily.

“Harken all priestesses, mothers and daughters, to the words of our Imperial Mother, Vicar of the Great Goddess, Benevolent Sovereign of the world of Gaia, the moons Athena and Artemis, and all satellites and ships in space… Clarrisa the 5^th!” Dramatic music rolled and the video smoothly zoomed in to the Imperial Mother, showing her from diamond tiara down to the navel with its emerald stud, exquisitely draped in a robe of real gold thread with a very loose weave with tiny rubies and emeralds at each junction.

“Beloved daughters, I speak to you tonight on a matter of gravest importance. The battle in the far Sol system has not developed the way we might have wished. It turns out indeed that the never-to-be-sufficiently-cursed males have managed to keep some of our foremother’s spaceflight alive and met the fleet of our gallant sisters in mortal combat. The battle was vicious, with all the vitriol and hatred you might image the primitive brutes were capable of. Our sisters fought valiantly and rid the universe of many of our foremother’s oppressors, but, ultimately, the brutish hordes overwhelmed them. Let us observe a moment of silence in honor of their valiant sacrifice.” The throne room observed a dramatic moment of utter silence. However, across the globe and two moons, there was anything BUT silence; screams, shrieks, and moans, but no silence.

“Beloved daughters, our time is short, but with the wisdom of the Great Goddess and supreme sacrifice on all of our parts, we can snatch victory from the very lascivious grasp of the stubby fingers and unkempt nails of their brutish hands. Their fleet is headed to our world. We cannot destroy their fleet, for we shall have need of it. When they land upon our sacred soil, they will expect us to either fight or flee. By the wisdom of the Great Goddess we shall do neither. We shall swallow our revulsion and control out horror and fear – and welcome them! We shall pretend to surrender. We shall seduce them. We shall pretend to enjoy it when they vent their lusts upon us. Draw them away from their ships. Separate them from their arms and armor. Draw them apart from each other. Exhaust them in the most intimate ways possible. At the stroke of midnight, capital mean time, on the eve of the invasion, we shall all, as one righteous sisterhood, rise up and strike down all of invaders. The prohibition against the taking of life is waived, for the males are sub-human. Use knives, clubs, poison, whatever the Great Goddess puts to your hand. Kill them all! Unite in the Love Square of each and every population center, and then, under the direction of the City Mother, storm the ships and seize them! We shall fly them back to the male fleet and assault the starships and make them ours.

Our learned Mothers of Biological Wisdom are even now laboring ceaselessly to produce more of the male-killing virus. We shall use the male’s own fleet to return ruin to their hated world and exact vengeance a thousand-fold, a million-fold, over the sufferings of our revered foremothers and the sullying of this world with their presence. I myself shall lead the fleet to victory!

I know the dread which you must be facing as you contemplate the horror of even a few hours being touched and defiled by males, but I urge you to take courage! Our foremothers bore stoically the defilement for DECADES; surely their grateful and dutiful daughters can manage a few hours of indignity. For those daughters who feel a need to prepare for this, all punishments for use of — dildos,” the Imperial Mother’s voice shivered a bit, but rallied, “are suspended for the duration of the conflict.

I will keep you all informed as the situation develops. We expect that we must welcome our would-be oppressors by approximately 1800 hours tomorrow, so speed your preparations and support your sisters. With the blessings and love of the Great Goddess our triumph is inevitable!” The broadcast ended with the Anthem of the Imperial Mother sung by the World Womb Kindergarten Chorus.

In the throne room, Clarrisa the 5^th surveyed the technicians and courtiers and proclaimed brightly. “That went well!”

Outside, the riots were just starting. The priestesses and peace enforcers raced through the crowds applying maternally loving discipline to their sisters even as they themselves fought nausea at what their corporal and spiritual leader had requested of them. Over the next few hours, a semblance of order was restored.

“Sir, squadron has exited hyperspace on schedule. We are headed for Proxima Centauri Alpha at a relative space speed of 516.87 kilometers per second. Deceleration to orbital stations will commence in two hours and 21 minutes.”

“Very well. Sound General Quarters. Send to all ships, execute envelopment maneuver 5 Delta. NO offensive actions to be taken until my command.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Imperial Mother!”

“Yes. Report!”

“Imperial Mother, the enemy fleet has surrounded Gaia. Fifty of the vessels have settled into 10,000 kilometer circular orbits above the equator. The three largest ships are equally spaced out around the orbit. Seven of the vessels are equally spaced out in polar orbits.”

“Very well.”

“All ships in space are continuing to their normal destinations. All stations and satellites are attempting to carry out operations as normal. Per your orders, no contact is to be attempted from any other source.”

“Excellent. And what do the City Mothers report about the planned reception?”

“Landing areas have been laid out and clearly marked in all population centers. By order, all mothers and daughters are assembled around the areas. Reports are that four out of five are unclothed, though about one in five felt the need to use lingerie, though the brutish males are unlikely to either appreciate it or allow it to be a hindrance. All daughters who are too young are on the highest floors of all buildings under the care of priestesses. ”

“Do we have 100% turnout?”

“Priestesses are going through buildings and turning out anyone hiding. Peace enforcers have been stationed outside population centers for the last 24 hours to prevent any from sneaking out and abandoning their sisters. Extra food and spirits have been staged in all Love Squares.”

“We will have them exactly where we want them!”

Ten thousand kilometers above the planet, other plans were being executed.

“Envelopment maneuver complete, sir.”

“Very well.”

The command deck of the flagship, the STELLAR-class heavy cruiser DSS (Dominion Star Ship) SCYTHE was quiet as the command screen indicated that all vessels were in assigned positions. The screen flashed green as a vessel rose rapidly from a heavily forested portion of a remote island on the world below, soaring toward the flagship at high speed.

“Sir, Intelligence reports that monitoring post on Proxima Centuari Alpha has been evacuated and destroyed. All personnel and sims inbound. Docking expected in seventeen minutes. Shuttle BAINFUL signals ‘Matthew 10:14,’ sir.” The commander chuckled and the feminine voice asked, “Request clarification, sir.”

“A biblical quote about shaking the dust of an unwelcoming village off your feet in testimony against them. Access Bible NIV and associated commentary.”

“Accessing. Processed. Understood. Thank you, sir.”

“Initiate attack Alpha Omega Three Bravo.”

“Attack program Alpha Omega Three Bravo loaded and ready. Verification needed for release of thermonuclear weapons.”

“Kimball Kinnison, Grand Admiral, Service Number 2391A2874S9812.”

“Voice print confirmed.”

A wave of electronic activity rippled through the seemingly endless racks of devices in the holds of DSS DEVASTATOR, DSS ANNIHILATOR and DSS EVISCERATOR. Circuits were energized, chips booted up, self-checks initiated, and the specified program loaded. And then they waited with the unwavering concentration of advanced electronics.

“All munitions primed and ready. Awaiting final order.”

“Initiate.”

“Attack program Alpha Omega Three Bravo has commenced, sir.”

The three massive ships in the formation suddenly spewed forth legions of far smaller objects, like dandelion seeds scattering before a strong gust of wind. As each one cleared the accelerator bays, its drive engines engaged and its countermeasures devices overrode the standard stealth features and tuned the onboard transponder to present the radar signature of a much larger object.

The throne room high above Virginia had been hastily converted to a military command center. A luscious blonde who had caught the sovereign’s eye earlier was seated before a large screen upon which an integrated picture of all of the planet’s trans-atmospheric radars was displayed.

“Imperial Mother, the three largest vessels have started launching vast numbers of smaller objects.”

“Analyze!” the Empress Mother snapped.

The woman’s dainty fingers danced over the computer input touchpads. “Imperial Mother, over the course of one minute the three largest vessels launched approximately 10,000 objects. The objects immediately commenced a powered descent to the surface. They are spreading out over the surface of our world, but trajectories are not yet analyzed. Aerospace traffic ballistic computers are dangerously close to overload. Radar signature suggests landing craft with a capacity to deliver about one hundred large, heavily armed humanoid-shaped beings with sufficient volume left over for significant amounts of support equipment or several medium-sized vehicles.”

“So, one million never-to-be-sufficiently damned males intend to desecrate the surface of our world with their presence?” she asked, darkly.

“No, your imperial motherhood, it appears that a second wave of the same size is being launched.”

“Ah, they fear us indeed! They are seeking to overawe and overwhelm us. But we are warriors! We are Amazons! We are goddesses!”

“They must fear us very greatly, your imperial motherhood, for a third wave is being launched,” the communicator responded in a hoarse, tension-filled whisper.

The Imperial Mother caught herself. “Yes. They must fear us greatly. Their tactics indicate that they know nothing but brute force, use nothing but brute force, our guile will take them by surprise, and we shall see them all die and sacrifice their blood to the Great Goddess as we fly their fleet back to their own world and destroy them.” She considered any refinements of the plan which might be necessary so that all of the mothers and daughters of the world might be informed before the invaders touched the sacred soil. “Are the craft landing in a single area?”

“No, your imperial motherhood, they are spreading out across the surface. It appears that they are dividing their forces, and landing in population centers. Trajectory analysis shows that the larger the population center, the more craft are assigned. For the capitol it appears that there are five craft in each of the three waves designated to land here.”

“Oh, the haughty, blinding arrogance of males! The hubris! Fifteen hundred against the population of one and a half million! We will outnumber them a thousand to one! Our triumph is assured!”

“Yes, your imperial motherhood.”

“Time to landings?”

“The incoming vehicles are well coordinated, Imperial Mother. All are projected to land 12 minutes and 34 seconds from… NOW!” the technician quavered the last word nervously.

“Good. We shall fool them completely!” She strode over to her throne and draped herself seductively upon it. She adjusted her nearly transparent robe minutely after close examination in the mirror and then commanded, “Video broadcast to satellite transmitters on all frequencies!”

“Yes, Imperial Mother! Link established. Broadcasting!”

The Imperial Mother stretched herself alluringly while gazing directly into the video unit. “Greetings, oh conquerors from another world. I am Imperial Mother, Vicar of the Great Goddess, Benevolent Sovereign of the world of Gaia, the moons Athena and Artemis, and all satellites and ships in space… Clarrisa the 5^th. I am truly in awe of your overwhelming force. We have nothing to match your challenge and I offer our complete and unconditional surrender, oh, lord of lords! I have commanded my myriad subjects to welcome your soldiers with open arms and intimate hospitality.” She stretched slightly, and her jiggling robe allowed fleeting glimpses of her erotic charms. “I look forward to meeting you, oh, high commander of our conquerors, and offering you my — personal — surrender.” She licked her full ruby red lips lasciviously. “Inform me when I may expect you to land and… take possession of your prize.”

The Imperial Mother’s image dominated the viewscreen at the front of the flagship’s command deck. As her words faded, there were a couple of unprofessional masculine snickers, and one or two groans of lust at the blatant display.

“You predicted that transmission almost word for word, sir.”

“We have had a concealed outpost on that planet for a small detachment of intelligence operatives for one hundred and fifteen years. Even with a full allowance of personal pleasure units it is considered a hardship post. Every aspect of the culture is monitored. We even have a multi-sensor concealed in the royal conference room. In my position on the Supreme Council representing Intelligence and Surveillance I have studied the seven year reign of this Clarrisa the fifth with exactitude, and know her as well as one can without physical presence. She is predictably capricious.”

“Will you respond to her, sir?”

“Yes, but not until the last minute and not in the way she expects. Have communications cue up the snippet of audio/video that the outpost relayed to us last night.”

“Yes, sir.”

Imperial Mother was getting — impatient; after all, she was the Imperial Mother, others must have patience. After consulting with her closest advisors, she made a second broadcast, more seductive than the first with the subtle hint that she expected a response, and one commensurate with her exalted rank and sexuality.

“Two minutes to first wave — mark.”

“Broadcast preprogrammed message.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Imperial Mother, we are receiving a broadcast from one of the males’ ships.”

“About time. Arrogant males! On screen.”

The communications screen fuzzed briefly, and there was her own image, speaking to her, “We shall swallow our revulsion and control our horror and fear, and welcome them! We shall pretend to surrender. We shall seduce them. We shall pretend to enjoy it when they vent their lusts upon us. Draw them away from their ships. Separate them from their arms and armor. Draw them apart from each other. Exhaust them in the most intimate ways possible….”

The Imperial Mother shrieked in horror, found her voice, and screamed at the dumbfounded video technician, “All planet emergency priority video broadcast. Cut in all public address systems! Now!”

“At once, Imperial Mother! Emergency broadcast engaged, Imperial Mother!”

“Daughters! The males know of our subterfuge! Attack them on landing! Fight like the Amazons we are! Destroy them! Bury them with our bodies, if necessary! We shall still seize their ships and carry out our revenge! Destroy them!”

The teaming, naked masses outside the Imperial residence in Motherhood Square, froze at the first words, tearing their eyes off the five descending vapor trails high above, and then began to panic. When hundreds of thousands of women suddenly desperately start hunting for any weapon they can lay their hands upon in a society that has attempted to divest itself of evil weapons for generations, confusion is the least of results. Fortunately the terror, and violence, were brief.

The optimum height of burst for a ten megaton thermonuclear weapon over an urban area for maximum blast and thermal effects is approximately two thousand meters, depending on the configuration of the device and the composition of the target. At a height of two thousand meters over the churning, confused streets of the capital city, in a perfect pentagon surrounding the Imperial Residence, the devices detonated virtually simultaneously. In microseconds, hundreds of pounds of matter were turned into gigantic amounts of energy, and the effects thundered down to the surface in a flash of miniature suns going nova. Naked flesh and the organs it hid were instantly turned into carbon vapors, with the skeletons lasting but a millisecond longer before becoming glowing clouds of calcium plasma. Those citizens wearing enticing wisps of syntha-silk fared no differently. In many cases all that was left were shadows on the scorched pavement.

The shock waves smashed down from the sky onto the city, birthed from the expansion of several thousand pounds of high tech materials suddenly raised to hundreds of thousands of degrees and subjected to millions of tons per square inch of pressure, they initially expanded at a measurable fraction of the speed of light, but slowed quickly, and shed a shock wave that struck like the hammer blow of a Norse god. The carefully crafted and artfully coordinated buildings of glass and crystal and bio-friendly ceramic were pulverized to jagged splinters and blasted outward at tornado-like velocities.

The five shock waves converged symmetrically on the imperial palace, and since the throne room was at the center of the palace, and the throne was the center of the throne room, the livid, raving Imperial Mother was the center of five converging, steel-hard shock waves, and was, briefly, compressed to an incandescence which rivaled that of the sun, making her, for a few instants, the most brilliant of all the citizens of Gaia.

There were cheers on the command deck of DSS SCYTHE. At the various stations were seated men who would not have looked out of place on the set of the ancient movie, “300.” Formal uniform was a short kilt of syntha-leather with a syntha-leather bandolier across the chest with rank and specialization insignia. Higher ranking officers have cloaks of syntha-leather. Each and every one had a build which would have made an ancient Spartan warrior remark, “Gosh, is he buff!”

Beside each station was a female form, naked except for zero-G booties and a brief syntha-leather harness across the chest. All were beautiful, and most were exact reproductions of actresses and performers from centuries ago, giving emphasis to the term, ‘classic beauty.’ Each moved and spoke with computer precision.

In the center of the command deck was the command chair. Disdaining the chair, and standing regally in front of it, was a man of regal bearing. In addition to his formal uniform, he wore high syntha-leather boots which shone like diamond polish. His cloak reached down to his ankles, and his bandolier sported seven platinum stars, each with a large brilliant cut diamond in its center – the rank of Grand Admiral of the Supreme Council. His thick, dark hair was greying slightly at the temples, and his piercing grey eyes peered hawkishly over his eagle-beak nose. Michelangelo would have tossed other artists into the Tiber to sculpt his bust.

Standing loyally beside and slightly behind him was his digital assistant. Her shape was within microns of what had once been considered the ultimate feminine form; an actress of the late 20^th and early 21^st centuries who played a ruthless assassin with a deep romantic streak in numerous 2D videos. Her head swiveled to look at the Grand Admiral, the actuators following a segment of hyperbolic curve with incredible precision. Hundreds of micromechanical actuators formed the syntha-flesh features into an expression which was precisely 88% vibrant attention and 12% adoring admiration. The low, husky tone from the throat speaker was a precise combination of 68% rigorous concentration, 27% admiring rhythm, and 5% sexual allure.

“Strike statistics for first wave, Grand Admiral,” the synthesized feminine voice announced.

“Report, Digita.”

“9987 detonations out of 10,000 devices for 13 misfires or 0.13%. 99.3% of detonations were within 1.35 meters of programmed air zero points, none were further than 1.57 meters from the air zero points. Time interval between first and last detonations was 0.014 seconds. Second wave approaching targets.”

“Very well. Detach destroyers CHARON and CEREBUS to eliminate all inhabited satellites, stations and ships in space. Detach cruiser HADES to sterilize facilities on the two moons. Detach frigate GUILLOTINE to destroy that assemblage of starship hulks in storage orbit. To commanding officer GUILLOTINE, send, recommend contest for the junior gunners; the one with the most hulks destroyed gets one extra hour on the community pleasure deck.”

“Orders transmitted, Grand Admiral.”

As the massive war machines bore down on their hapless prey, interplanetary liners and shuttles, the reactions were varied. A few captains attempted to ram the intruders, many liners frantically offered total surrender, physical and sexual, others applied maximum acceleration in the opposite direction to buy a few more minutes of life, a few self-destructed the power plants to claim their own deaths. None of this mattered. Each was pulverized and all life extinguished.

Battle cruiser DSS HADES briefly orbited each moon, using nuclear-tipped, precision-guided missiles to sterilize each of the lunar spas and installations, sending brief fountains of breathable atmosphere into space. All attempts at negotiation and pleas for mercy were ignored.

The aim points for the devices in the second wave against the planet were approximately 3000 meters upwind of the detonation points of their respective predecessors. As soon as the first wave detonated and the subterfuge of looking like a landing craft was no longer necessary, instead of slowing, the drives went to full power and the warheads accelerated to maximum atmospheric speed of about 20,000 feet per second and impacted. The triply forged tritanium shells with monocrystalline carbon-13 coatings plunged 50 to 100 meters into the soil before detonating. Vast columns of heavily contaminated and highly irradiated soil rocketed skyward thousands of meters and deposited swathes of heavy contamination for dozens of kilometers downwind. The ground shock collapsed any basements or foundations for kilometers in every direction. The warheads for the exotic floating pleasure cities plunged 500 meters into the water and detonated at the optimum depth for maximum hydrostatic shock, crushing any remaining structures floating and plunging them to the seafloor thousands of meters below. The massive spray dome hurled tons of radioactive sodium-24 and chlorine-36 into the air, and then dropped a million tons of radioactive water on the few survivors struggling in the turgid waters.

“Strike statistics for second wave, Grand Admiral.”

“Report, Digitia.”

“9998 detonations out of 10,000 device for two misfires for 0.02%. 99.97% of surface impact points were within 2.13 meters of the programmed impact points. Time interval between first and last detonations was 1.67 seconds. Third wave approaching targets.”

“You would almost expect more failures in the impact scenarios. Interesting.”

As the fallout blanketed the countryside, the few surviving women flocked to the roadside shrines to the Great Goddess, since the temples had all vanish in the death cauldrons of the cities, towns and villages, and prayed for mercy and forbearance. But the Great Goddess remained silent.

The warheads in the third wave were each encased in a special shell of high-density plastic heavily salted with various heavy metals. At altitudes varying based on the local wind conditions, the devices detonated, typically in arcs upwind of population centers so as to ensure that the habitations surrounding the population centers were thoroughly saturated with radioactive material. The devices created trillions upon trillions of curies of cobalt-60, strontium-90 and tritium as the neutrons leaking out of the fission-fusion-fission reactions transmuted the shells into highly radioactive elements and, literally, scattered them to the four winds, where they would settle to the surface minutes to hours later.

“Strike statistics for the third wave, Grand Admiral.”

“Report.”

“9993 detonations out of 10,000 devices for seven misfires for 0.07%. All devices correctly compensated for local environmental conditions and detonated within 2.89 meters of optimum air zero for maximum surface contamination. Time interval between first and last detonations was 0.77 seconds. Projections are that within the hour all habitable areas of the planet will have a dose rate of 6000 rem per hour, decreasing to 1000 rem per hour in 15 standard days.”

“My compliments to the Weapons Officer,” the Grand Admiral noted loudly to a senior officer at the weapons station. That individual stood and saluted.

“Sir, ANNIHILATOR, DEVASTATOR and EVISCERATOR request permission to stand down and perform maintenance. All report weapons capacities now down to 60%. Also request permission to transfer to high parking orbit.”

“Permission granted to shift to high parking orbit and stand down for maintenance.”

“Yes, sir.”

The biosphere of the planet Gaia had just gotten an injection of very nearly 300,000 megatons of raw energy and an almost incalculable number of curies of lethal radioactive material. The atmosphere writhed as it tried to shed the energy as shrieking tornadoes, near sonic hurricanes, sky-shredding lightning blasts, and radioactive torrential downpours.

The night side of the planet was no longer dark, as it glowed with the eerie, cold blue light of Cherenkov radiation from the terminal blanket of radioactive contamination.

As the male fleet settled into garrison formation high above the mostly dead world, more reports flowed into the flagship’s command deck.

“Sir, pre-strike scan on moon #1 showed 124,549 life signs; current scan shows zero life signs. Pre-strike scan on moon #2 showed 68,312 life signs; current scan shows zero life signs. All satellites have been destroyed with no life signs among the debris. All spacecraft have been destroyed with no life signs among the debris. This includes the hulks in high parking orbit. Per your orders, all surrender offers were ignored. Engineers scanned the laser interferometer gravity telescope on the dark side of moon #2 and determined that the technology was too primitive to be worth salvaging. The observatory’s life pods were vaporized; no survivors. Per your standing orders, all surrender offers were ignored. Population of the planet pre-strike was 87,334,981. Current scans are uncertain, given the environmental upset, but with a 99% confidence interval are less than 1134 — 1133 — 1130; anyway, there are few left and they cannot reproduce as their reproduction station at the South Pole was pulverized in the initial strike.”

The command deck continued as a model of quiet efficiency.

The Grand Admiral addressed his assistant. “Digita, have all power cells on all community pleasure units charged to 100%, fill all fluid reservoirs to 100% and reduce normal inhibitory circuitry to 0%. Order all personal pleasure units to shift to celebratory mode. Double alcohol allowance approved for off duty personnel.”

“The order has been sent, Grand Admiral.”

“And instruct my personal pleasure unit to install the reproduction module. I shall conceive a son to commemorate this victory, and his name shall be Nike.”

“Yes, sir. Request clarification, sir.”

“Specify.”

“Archives note that ‘Nike’ was the Greek goddess of Victory, a female personality; yet you would name your male offspring after this mythological figure. I do not understand, sir.”

“Human females are now functionally extinct, Digita. They have been replaced with personal pleasure units with reproduction modules. By claiming that name for one of my offspring, I am continuing the usurpation, the erasure, of their dominance of our history. Maybe someday he will be Grand Admiral and command a conversion fleet, bringing ultimate victory one system, one race closer.”

“Understood, sir. The order has been sent, Grand Admiral.”

“Set up all ships address.”

“Communications established, Grand Admiral. Standing by.”

“All personnel, this is Grand Admiral Kinnison. You may have been wondering why I, a Grand Admiral of the Dominion Supreme Council, should be in command of a reserve planetary bombardment squadron for a minor mission. That is because the mission is of historic significance. We are at long last free of our biologic reproductive oppressors.

More than two hundred years ago, when the mothers, wives and daughters died in their billions in the arms of our grieving forefathers, we, as one gender, swore that we would never again be vulnerable to the capricious foibles of those who we had to endlessly placate to send sons down the river of time. It took twenty years to develop and deploy the biomechanical reproduction units which took the place of the dead and departed females and assure the survival of our gender. We have known for two hundred years where the cowardly females retreated. We shunned them, arguing that we needed a biological hedge against the long-term success of the reproduction units, and isolated their system as a biological preserve. Having more than two hundred years of flawless operation of the reproduction units, they were nothing more than a curiosity until monitoring showed that they were up to their old tricks and developing a biological weapon against us, intending us to die like their doomed sisters did so long ago, for no crime other than loving us. This could not be tolerated.

In extraordinary session, the Dominion Supreme Council ordered that Proxima Centrauri Alpha be sterilized and all traces of their biological weapons technology annihilated. Their goal was gender-cide; therefore any remaining moral reticence on our part was removed and freed us to pursue the same goal. We have now accomplished this. By the power of the Supreme Council, I designate the world Proxima Centauri Alpha, briefly known as Gaia, as Dominion Weapons Testing Range #4. A Level 3 network of sensor satellites shall monitor the system until 20 consecutive years of zero life signs expires and then automated mining machinery shall remove any valuable minerals from the moons and asteroid field. The system is earmarked for testing of the planet-buster weapons currently under development.

Now that our final link to the past has been eliminated, we shall concentrate on our future, our sacred goal — the freeing of all of our brother males from their reproductive oppressors; a galaxy free of the scourge of female oppression. Within the month your Dominion will have a commanding presence in all 33 stellar systems within 12.5 light-years of the Home World. We have found 14 other bisexual intelligent species and have liberated nine of them so far. The latest were the Hagorians, who clung childishly, almost sentimentally, to their females for a long time. However, adding the electro-stim technology to the pleasure units we provided was the key; then they could not divest themselves quickly enough. They cast off their ancient instincts and firmly grasped the inalienable male right to pleasure and reproduction on demand.” The Grand Admiral chuckled. “So the quest goes on. The goal — a galaxy without females. A single brotherhood of males marching peacefully into the future. No matter how many million years it takes, our great-to-the-nth generation grandsons shall celebrate the final victory.

All of our racial energies are focused on this. All of you at your coming of age ceremony committed your sacred honors to the pursuit of this lofty goal. The nearly endless uranium and nickel-iron mines on the core fragment asteroids of 21 Lutetia, 16 Psyche, 804 Hispania and 704 Interamnia have been worked for nearly two centuries to feed the shipyards in high Earth orbit, on Luna and Ceres and Ganymede. The great automated weapons and munitions factories on terraformed Venus and Mars provide the tools, with the massive plutonium production reactors on the dark side of Mercury and the frozen plains of Pluto providing the firepower to transform those ships into instruments of inconceivable power.

Victory celebrations commence for all off duty personnel at 1800 hours. Congratulations and enjoy. That is all.”

“Transmission complete, sir. Recording complete and archived. Transcription will be ready for your inspection within the hour.”

“Thank you, Digita. You are released to return to your recharging and maintenance pod. I commend your service.”

“Yes, sir. Sir, permission to speak?”

The Grand Admiral raised an eyebrow. “Permission granted.”

“For your next off-duty period, I request permission to install my pleasure module and serve you in your quarters. You have engaged my curiosity circuits.”

The Grand Admiral’s practiced eye swept the form and considered the request. “Granted.”

“Thank you, sir. Have an enjoyable evening, sir.”

Grand Admiral Kinnison turned over command to Commodore Malcom Wayne and his digital assistant and had the lift sweep him off to officer’s quarters. He walked down the broad corridor to his suite. Men hurrying by, both on duty and off duty, acknowledged him respectfully and congratulated him on the victory. He sincerely thanked each for their service and kind words. He passed numerous ‘sims’ also.

There were a number of feminine figures moving through the corridors. They were all naked, except for zero-G slippers which whispered on the carpet and harnesses with rank and specialization badges, their soft curves showed the slight shininess of synthetic flesh rather than genuine biological skin. They were of varying heights, with a variety of hair and eye colors, and also a variety of breast sizes and shapes. All moved with slightly mechanical strides; an inhuman precision that made their android nature apparent instantly. The sims nodded respectfully to each male they passed. Some had pleasure modules installed. A few had reproduction modules installed, with a golden marker wrapped around one finger-digit which denoted that a 3D-printed egg with a genetically matched nucleus had been implanted matching the sperm of the male they were assigned to with no undesirable genes, and should not be impregnated by any other male.

With a sigh, Grand Admiral Kinnison entered his flag officer quarters, and as the portal hissed closed behind him, he became Kim Kinnison, player of both fantasy role-playing games and 4D chess, 7^th degree black belt in KRAV TANTOR, ghost writer for the ever popular holovision series THE GALLANT WARRIORS, and hopeless romantic writer of martial poetry.

There were musk-scented candles burning, filling the cabin with a soft, comforting glow and arousing aroma. The massive bed had been turned down and the bamboo sheets looked soft and inviting. A snifter of 500-year-old cognac was set beside a small selection of exotic canapes on the nightstand. The background noise of the countless systems of the massive warship was artfully covered by the quietly playing recording of his favorite chime music from the planet Procyon Delta, also known as Valhalla.

His personal pleasure unit moved out of the shadows, its precise mechanical steps swayed the hip joints seductively in a dynamically adjusted balance in accordance with the programming burned into the chips of the pleasure computer, designed for the maximum erotic stimulation to the male libido. A nearly transparent robe the hue of a silver maple leaf was wrapped around the shoulders and hung to just below the crotch. The green thong showed preprogrammed slight leakage of appropriate lubricants containing trace vasodilators. The green web-work bra was unnecessary for supporting the large breasts, but served to draw attention to the nipples, which were responding now to several dozen micro-hydropneumatic actuators simulating arousal by swelling and hardening. Micro-pores in the synth-flesh exuded the user’s choice of flavors.

The unit pressed its warm, smooth lips against those of its owner, reading the responses of the nerves beneath the male skin with over a hundred neural receptor antennas, each feeding into the processor which made adjustments to the unit’s motions to maximize subconscious male response. One hand slid up and down the front of the male’s uniform kilt with increasing pressure. As the organ within swelled, the unit adjusted pressure. If the pleasure module had been installed, the program would have slowly lowered the unit to its knee joints, slowly tugged down the kilt, and applied one of the pre-programmed oral stimulations with nano-mechanical motion of its simulated tongue and silicone lips. The program was for reproduction, however, and the risk of exterior ejaculation would be too great.

The unit trailed perfect plastic nails seductively down the male’s chest and swayed over to the bed. It turned and leaned back in a pool of light on the mid-joints of its arms. With the lips shaped into an alluring smile in response to the executing program, it raised up and spread its legs, bending its mid-leg joints in the mathematically exact position to provide both maximum visual stimulation as well as stability.

The personal pleasure unit was tall and slender with wide hips and a substantial bust line. The crimson strands of synthetic hair were long and elegant and spread out behind the unit like an exotic cape. The emerald green eyes flashed with tiny embedded LEDs and the minute osmotic lubricant pumps shifted to maximum, instantly soaking the thin wisp of material covering the opening of the reproduction channel. Internal vibrators, electro-stimulators, and hydraulic massaging rings shifted to high standby. Once lubrication was achieved, the pumps shifted to alternate fluid reservoirs which would nourish and encourage the sperm and shifted to outlets higher up and further in. Select pores in the synth-flesh opened and allowed pheromone-laden aromas to waft up in the cool cabin air. The unit sensed the increase in respiration and heart rate of its owner and braced itself in the prescribed manner, all while its prehensile tongue licked the full, ruby red lips seductively and its eyelids fluttered at the frequency prescribed by its program.