Dr. Renee Carter perused the photographs brought back recently by the Explorer 22. It was a beautiful country—something like a Middle Eastern culture in a place as lush and tropical as the Caribbean. The citizens looked so much like humans it was difficult to believe they were an alien race.
At first glance, the land was a paradise. Everyone seemed happy, or at least contented with their lots, from the very rich down to the poorest farmers or vendors in the streets. But as the foremost expert on Caledonian culture in the world, Dr. Carter knew about the fundamental transgressions of basic rights denied a large part of their population.
The women were servants. Slaves, even. Every single Caledonian male—from infancy to old age—owned at least one. From the point they were old enough to reproduce, a Caledonian boy purchased his very first lianir, or sexual slave. This served as the right of passage to manhood, and was the closest thing to marriage existent on Caledonia. In time, if the lianir grew too old to bear children, or no longer roused the desire of the master, he installed her in a different part of his household and procured a younger, more attractive lianir. Caledonian males could only own one sex slave at a time, but there was no difficulty discarding one for another.
As a woman, Dr. Carter found the entire order disgusting. Never mind that the women seemed effusively happy. They simply didn't know any better. But as a professional, she had to acknowledge the fact that in two hundred years of space exploration, Caledonia was the closest thing to Earth ever discovered. And so it behooved them to study and eventually make plans for colonization in a less inhabited part of the planet. The need for room to grow was dire on Earth now, and this was their only hope.
"See anything you like?"
Dr. Carter looked up from the images and recognized her supervisor, Dr. Gerald Thompson. "As always, a mix of beauty and misogynistic superiority."
The older man peered over her shoulder and chuckled. "True, true. I need to speak with you, Carter, if you have a moment."
She followed him to his office, a large, over-designed space with wide windows overlooking the blue and white sphere framed in black below them. Life on the Space Station Theses was cramped, and the size of Dr. Thompson's office always bothered her.
"Please, sit." He sank behind his desk and thumbed through a few papers on his desk. "You'll be pleased to hear that you have been promoted. Rogers himself delivered these to me today."
Surprised and caught off guard, Dr. Carter took the offered papers and skimmed over them. Chief of Exploratory Expeditions. Even more surprised, her eyes flew up and caught the gleam of triumph in her superior's eyes. "What's this?"
"We have the orders we have been waiting for. In order to proceed with the colonization effort, we need someone to infiltrate their society and gain their trust. This way, we can know what's best for both cultures."
"I don't understand why this requires me."
"I'm surprised, Renee..." he spread his hands and eyed her in a way that made Dr. Carter uneasy. "A woman of your qualifications. Stature. You're the perfect one to lead the operation."
Leaning forward so that the full force of her cold gray eyes could do their damage, Dr. Carter glared at the man behind the desk. "What you mean is that you need two things—an expert on Caledonian culture and a woman with large mammary glands."
But Dr. Thompson only shrugged. "It does us no good if our man is poor and unimportant. All our reports indicate that a large-breasted lianir is a direct indicator of a man's power. The larger the breasts, the weaker the woman, the stronger the man."
"I'm not weak, Dr. Thompson. And I won't agree to this mission."
"Yes you will. Sexist or not, this is the only way to save millions of lives on Earth. We need to move fast and though there are many woman available with large enough breasts, there is no one, male or female, with your knowledge. Anyone less, and we fail. They still do public executions in Caledonia for anyone who breaks the laws. We can't afford to break any, and you know them. Most of them, anyway."
"It's impossible to know everything from orbital observance and ground transmissions," she agreed, already warming to the idea against her will. She truly was the only one for the job, but how could she stand to function, to blend in with a culture like that? "For how long?" she hedged at length.
"As long as it takes. Four months, a year. Or longer beyond colonization if you wish. We have an expertly forged stockpile of currency, so you will not lack for wealth, and we have installed communication devices into your UTs if you are ever in danger or need more money. The goal is to be self-sufficient but we have no idea how long that sort of establishment might take."
"I'll need time to consider," Dr. Carter said finally, rising from her chair. "Please have the full mission brief on my desk as soon as possible." Though she knew she had to accept she wanted more time to get used to the idea. Yes, that was all she needed, was time.
Two days later, and already kicking herself for overlooking the obvious, Dr. Carter stood in the transmission chamber across from handsome First Lieutenant Jack Griffin. He had unnerved her from the moment he first set foot on this station, and it just figured that Thompson would choose the one man available that set her teeth on edge.
Blond, tall, built lean like a modern gladiator, Griffin would look good in those low-slung linen kilts favored by Caledonian men. He would also fit right in with those chauvinist alien pigs. Here was one man who was born for Caledonian life.
At the flash of approval in his eyes, Dr. Carter felt her prim bun at the back of her head to make sure all the strands stayed in place. It would have to go as soon as they were in public, but for now, her hair was her own.
"You will keep your first names. This will remove any chance of a slip, but your full names have been altered. Lieutenant, you will be Jaq Giraiphin," Thompson handed Griffin the bio paper, "and Dr. you will be Renei ob'a Giraiphin."
She bristled, in part because the prefix itself was offensive, and in part because of the embarrassing heat flooding her cleft. The crude translation of ob'a was "fucked by" and looking at the man they would call "Giraiphin," the images crowding her mind were not welcome in the least.
