"Absolutely unfathomable," Ch'teek chittered, watching the screen. "How has your species managed to survive this long given your mating habits?"

We were watching the latest incarnation of the TV series "Average Joe" -- and as usual, the producers couldn't leave well-enough alone and shipped in a ringer at the last minute. The handsome blond Brad Pitt look-alike swept the female contestant off her feet in record time, leaving the decent guy she was about to settle upon standing around looking unsurprised but disgusted... Ch'teek ruffled his neck feathers -- something I'd learned to recognize as a sign of confusion, and chittered, "Was the female listening at all when that specimen listed his total lack of accomplishments? Is the female already wealthy? What reason could she have for choosing such a specimen to mate with?"

"Physical appearance," I replied. "Communications skills. That's it. That's what a lot of our species ends up using, at least for the first impression."

"We had hoped to evacuate quality mating pairs," Ch'teek grumbled, flexing his four-clawed 'hands,' something similar to chicken feet, but larger and independent of his now-vestigial wings. I read the gesture as disgust, something the tones emitted by the Universal Translator chip embedded behind my ear confirmed. "But your species OBVIOUSLY does NOT mate for life..." Ch'teek's did -- one male to two females and a drone 'mother' who raised the next generation when their soft-shelled eggs hatched. "Given the way things are going, we should be doing mass CAP testing of the populace -- but your governments continue to insist on secrecy..." CAP stood for Capacity, Aptitude and Potential -- basically, a measure of an individual's worth to the gene pool -- and a primary criterion for both selection for evacuation and suitability for the fight ahead, which was likely to be Armageddon.

"We can't stampede them right now," I replied. "Remember, the reason you're here is that we're a lot more cantankerous than any of your member races. We need to do things OUR way, or we'll destroy OURSELVES before the Sa'arm even arrive!"

Ch'teek clacked his wide rounded beak in assent; he didn't have to like it -- indeed, he barely understood, given his orientation, but the computers said I was right. His computers -- the ones that had pointed the Confederacy -- and his race in particular, since it was the most capable of understanding ours -- at our little backwater world where a race was coming up that had success markers despite some disgustingly nasty habits of violent behavior.

In the normal course of events, either a) we would have advanced technology to the point that we overrode the Confederacy's ancient, automated safeguards and detected galactic civilization and over time mastered spaceflight to the point of initiating first contact, or b) after another five to ten thousand years we would have become civilized enough that the Confederacy would feel comfortable in initiating first contact themselves -- in this case because all of the ambition would have been bled out of us and we'd have been squatting complacently on the planets of our little system, living out our sheep-like lives...

The Sa'arm, however, changed all this. Little was known about the Sa'arm; they appeared to be some kind of insect, but none had ever been captured and dissected -- (Ch'teek would have fainted dead away at the suggestion) -- or even scanned at close range. There was an apparent hive organization to them, too, but that had yet to be confirmed, too. One thing we DID know -- their methods of communication were something no other race had ever managed to figure out -- and they didn't seem to recognize any of the more standard means. They'd been tried; when the Sa'arm first discovered a Confederacy colony world twenty-one years before, the last organized communication from it came about thirty-six hours after they made their initial landings in force. An embassy was sent out to the world they tracked the Sa'arm globe-ship back to and it failed dismally...

I'd studied the exteroceptive (literally a record of data for 'all external sensory organs,' including a few we don't have...) transcripts from both message pods extensively, and our people were still doing further analysis, but one thing was clear -- if you didn't communicate in whatever esoteric manner the Sa'arm used (telepathy, maybe?), you were vermin. Period. The delegation had been allowed to land on the Sa'arm world without hindrance, and the diplomats had done the 'take me to your leader' thing with the first couple of specimens they ran into. They were completely ignored until someone made a nuisance of himself -- then the Sa'arm involved swatted him like a fly. Meanwhile, the Sa'arm sent out a team to capture the landing craft. They applied various tools and techniques until they had breached the little ship, at which point the crew evacuated -- and watched from a distance while the thing was disassembled -- obviously for study purposes. At some point, the communications devices were disassembled and contact lost with the landing party, who presumably later died.

In orbit, the same thing happened. The spacecraft was surrounded and the Sa'arm applied more and more resources until they got through the ship's passive defenses (mostly a defense shield for high-energy particles encountered in flight) and then they boarded the ship and began reducing it carefully to its component parts. The crew was ignored unless they resisted in some manner, in which case, they were dealt with as vermin. Eventually, the ship was decompressed and the remaining crew resorted to existing in space suits -- until the air ran out -- while the Sa'arm -- also in suits, continued their work. What happened after the pod was dispatched was pretty clear from the action to that point...

Since then, the Sa'arm had annexed fourteen civilized worlds -- it wasn't fair to say they'd attacked them, per se, since none of them had the slightest capability of mounting a defense. The Sa'arm just moved in on the ground and started building their infrastructure. If a local got in the way, he was neutralized -- usually messily. Civilization winked out on Sa'arm occupied worlds within hours -- instant communication brought pictures of atrocity serious enough to drive the populace to suicidal insanity to living rooms all over the planet; by the time a Sa'arm actually showed up on site on the other side of the planet, the population had decimated itself rather than be exposed to further mindless violence. Scout ships watching these annexations from a safe distance were prey to mass suicides and psychological trauma sufficient that several ships never returned and several limped home with one crew member in ten left alive. Eventually, intelligence gathering was left to automated systems and processed directly by the Confederacy's computerized intelligence-gathering systems.

It became abundantly clear that there was a serious threat out there and that the Confederacy had no tools with which to combat it; the solution was put in the hands of Ch'teek's race, the Darjee, based upon the fact that they still had small quantities of aggression left in them, largely vented in their role as galactic traders and explorers. But Ch'teek's race could no more put troops in the field than anyone else's, so...

The Sa'arm incursion's main axis of advance was inbound along our spiral arm of the galaxy, some seventy-three light years away, at closest approach -- but they tended to expand concentrically around the axis after each leap, creating a wider and wider cylinder of control. Confederacy computers estimated that Earth's little neighborhood would see its first Sa'arm globe ship in nine point three years. Under some circumstances this would be viewed as regrettable by those in the Confederation who were even aware of it (a small number, buffered from the full impact of such things by the Confederacy's AIs), but the Confederacy had specific, hard to fulfill needs...

It actually took almost a year for the Darjee and the AIs to agree that, distasteful as it was, the Sa'arm threat must be defended against in an active manner -- the AIs knew this, but the Darjee had to be slowly coddled along. Other races in the Confederacy continued to be unable to comprehend such a situation and sent occasional embassies to the Sa'arm to be eaten; the AIs and the Darjee pushed a requirement through Council that such embassies were required to use outdated technology after bits and pieces of current Confederacy technology started showing up on Sa'arm globeships and landers -- notably the defense shield. Once convinced, the Darjee were between a rock and a hard place; they needed to supervise an active defense of the Confederacy, but they were neither suited to the work, nor did they have the necessary tools...

This meant that the unthinkable must be entertained -- an uncivilized or only partially civilized race must be found to engage the Sa'arm. Parameters for such a thing were narrow at best -- Stone Age civilizations couldn't help them. The barely sentient couldn't help them. Races nearing the technological and social criteria for membership in the Confederacy had by definition the same issues that the member races had. Races tended to advance rapidly once true technological development was available to them -- if you look at humanity, it becomes clear rather quickly that we've moved further in the past century than in the preceding ten, and before that, things were pretty primitive. This meant that the Darjee had to find a race operating within a tiny window of their development -- and area wherein violence was frowned upon but still possible and wherein the race had the mental tools available to it to create and embrace technology. Seventy three point six percent of the races that hit this point let their propensity for violence overcome them and removed themselves from the race to become civilized -- which left devastated worlds with interesting artifacts, but little else. Of the other twenty-six point four percent, twenty-one percent plus would be useless to the Darjee as soldiers because they would have had all aggression bred out of them before population pressures on their worlds became critical enough for them to get serious about space travel. Eventually, they would become member races, but...

Races on the cusp were few and far between -- and the Darjee had the additional concern that whatever race they ended up sponsoring might turn on the Confederation and consume it. Lengthy analysis and discussion between the Darjee and the AIs left them with two candidate races, neither of which had Darjee confidence. The Darjee approached the Ladac, a small race of gifted technicians who seemed to have gotten past the ignition point...

Unfortunately, the Ladac were EXTREMELY xenophobic; the entire race imploded on first contact. Mass insanity over the idea that they were under attack by aliens led to nuclear exchanges and left the race all but obliterated. This crushed the Darjee, who felt a deep obligation to atone for what amounted to genocide and caused a major shake-up in the administration of 'the Sa'arm Project'. Finally, reluctantly, they turned to the AIs prime candidates -- a small planet called Earth, and a race of odd primates that presented a mixed bag of positive and negative traits and referred to itself variously as 'human' or 'man'...

The Darjee weren't thrilled with us -- while we had managed to acquire nuclear power and hold onto it for a considerable period without destroying ourselves, we were broadcasting scenes of incredible violence into near space on a daily basis -- as entertainment! But the AIs pointed out that while the ability of a civilized world to retain any integrity at all was to be measured in hours, and their capability to defend against attack nonexistent, Earth, left totally alone, would take nearly a year's worth of incredible violence to subdue -- and even then there was an eleven percent chance that scattered resistance would continue for almost a decade before the Sa'arm completed their conquest, given the data at hand. The AIs further reported that, properly supported, humans might at least provide enough of an impediment to Sa'arm expansion that they would shift their axis of advance away from the pests...

The flip side, of course, was the acute worry that the cure would be worse than the disease. Humans had fangs, albeit blunt ones, and the Darjee were already in disgrace over the Ladac; if Humans turned on the Confederacy after succeeding with the Sa'arm, who would stop THEM? Wasn't any race capable of defeating the Sa'arm worse than they were, by definition?

The answer was CAP testing. CAP testing of every soldier candidate would ensure that the Darjee got a high-quality fighting man, committed to the survival of his own race and the Confederacy in general, without allowing any monsters in -- at least, that was the theory, and we were tuning that theory constantly in concert with the AIs and had been for the past eighteen months, since the Darjee landed their initial embassy.

The AIs were crucial to this entire process; the Darjee couldn't tolerate us much better than the other races without a buffer -- and the AIs were that buffer. Translating Darjee was easy for a UT or Universal Translator -- we had the vast majority of the concepts. But some of the ideas our military people put forth took the AIs filtering our output to the Darjee hours to talk around in order to keep from offending the Darjee at the very least to driving them insane with horror at the worst. We learned to step carefully. We ALSO learned that the AIs had been shielding the Confederacy member races from the harsh realities of the universe for almost a million years. The AIs knew what was needed and they had pressed and pressed and pressed until the Darjee finally acquiesced and were basically looking the other way while they did as they were asked...

I know, I know: Why didn't the AIs do the job themselves? The original races of the Confederacy had seen the 'artificial intelligence runs amok' scenario both in fiction and reality, and certain activities were absolutely forbidden by the AIs basic imperatives -- imperatives fine-tuned and reviewed regularly for a hundred thousand years. Helping us was as close as they'd ever gotten, and it invoked numerous emergency overrides -- but civilization as a whole was at stake...

As far as the rest of the Confederacy was concerned, 'the Sa'arm Project' was a Darjee-only enterprise, to be carried out within that race's resources and that race's resources only. This was a part of their penance for the Ladac debacle -- but that was just an excuse, primarily; the fact was that no race wanted ANY of what was to come on their conscience. In fact, there was a movement in place to expel the Darjee from the Confederacy, purely in an effort to distance the rest of Confederacy from the implications.

This limited what was within the realm of the possible; the Darjee could not evacuate the Earth -- the best they could offer was perhaps a thirty percent solution. They could supply technology for more than that, but the defensive effort (as opposed to the war effort, which is what we would end up calling it) had first priority. The good news was that the AIs had the ability to divert assets, too, but they suffered under their various limitations... Evacuation only postponed the inevitable, too, for everybody; the Sa'arm would happen onto the colony worlds, too, sooner or later. The first-pass approximation was that Earth was lost, but in the process it would occupy the local Sa'arm seriously, slowing them and hopefully granting the colony worlds time to get their legs under them and produce the kind of armies and navies necessary to REALLY engage them. The AIs upgraded this assessment daily, but the major impediment was, ironically, the Darjee, who were afraid to give us too much too soon...

The Darjee learned quickly who to trust and who not to trust; politicians tended to be individuals whose greed was limited only by the institutions they answered to. Intelligence services were riddled with the unsuitable. Oddly, the group initially considered to be the most scary -- the military -- turned out to be the place where men of principle and integrity were most likely to be found. The defense of the Earth became a military black project, conducted under the covers in several of the most advanced nations -- including the United States, Britain, France, Germany, South Africa, Japan, Singapore, Australia... Politicians were let in, tested -- and if they failed, the knowledge was carefully removed from their memory, but if they passed, they became the project's voting base. Intelligence services were cleaned out -- but linked, once the dead wood and infiltrators were purged. Some places we just couldn't go; several countries in the Middle East just couldn't support the network, for instance -- corruption was too embedded in the system. This was true of some Russian states, too. China, oddly, was thoroughly penetrable below a certain level of government, and granted the project valuable manufacturing capacity. We were reaching the point where tens of thousands knew the secret but were literally incapable of passing it on, thanks to a 'compulsion generator' developed at some point by some Confederacy race and unearthed by the AIs to keep things locked down; the Darjee did NOT want the Ladac debacle repeated!

Research and development was humming right along as our scientific community absorbed the concepts behind selected Confederacy technologies -- and even we knew that we were being handed beads and trinkets. It was irritating, but we knew why, and we just had to live with it...

Manpower was the next thing on the agenda -- loads of it. That meant universal CAP testing -- but we couldn't just do that, something the Darjee initially had a hard time understanding. We had less than a decade to evacuate and train our best and brightest minds to defeat the Sa'arm -- why wouldn't everyone report to the nearest testing center as a matter of civic duty? Well...

So here we sat, watching television -- which had turned out to be a fine medium for damping down xenophobia, over the years -- looking for a gimmick...

"How are you going to manage to get CAP testing under way?" Ch'teek worried. "The timetable is going to be seriously impacted soon..."

I carefully avoided pointing out that we could have had another half- dozen years to prepare if they hadn't dragged their feet. "We have to do something that entices the general populace -- preferably BEFORE the general release date for the information on the invasion... Think about this as a trade situation; we need to show them what is in it for them..."

"Life -- that should be obvious," Ch'teek replied.

"It isn't, yet."

"Surely CAP testing would provide a better indication of a specimen's mating value than THAT..." Ch'teek waved his claws disparagingly at the TV. He was learning my gestures, too.

"Uh," I said -- something less than indicative of the quality of my thought process. "Hold it a minute..." I changed the channel multiple times, surfing -- and found an ad for a mating service. You know the one -- it claims umpteen 'dimensions of compatibility'... "Like that?"

"Such a thing HAS to be better that taking a light image and a few sound bytes," Ch'teek replied. Ch'teek's race sensed 'auras' or something on top of the kinds of things we use for senses; apparently, it was a prime component of their mating rituals (which we'll ignore, for now)...

"Let's combine the two," I suggested. "We'll create a game-show version of the CAP test -- break it down into pieces -- and present it as a set of serious criteria for selection of a mate on a TV show like the one we just presented. We'll stack the deck, so the guy with the highest score wins -- and we'll have a pretty boy or two there to score low and lose miserably. Preferably, we'll have a follow-up over time showing the couple with the highest scores living happily ever after and the pretty boys failing at life..."

"Pretty boys?" Ch'teek twittered quizzically. "Wait -- I understand. A specimen like the one who just mated there..."

"Exactly," I agreed.

"This could take years -- this follow-up, you're talking about."

"We'll fake it," I replied. "We'll run the thing and then fabricate the fascinating future -- convincingly, of course."

"It is duplicity," Ch'teek complained.

"It's necessary," I countered. "We don't have the time to do it correctly."

I watched him and his AI go at it; lying was a big no-no... "Maybe we won't have to do that piece," I offered. "With any luck, we can create a fad where everybody wants to take a CAP and wear a badge with the results. We can put some producers and advertising guys on it to get the idea out there, subtly, that, particularly if you aren't visually stimulating, you can prove your worth by showing your CAP test score..."

"When we begin making extractions seriously," Ch'teek noted, "physical appearance can be altered to suit for viable candidates..."

"When the time comes, that will provide us with considerable leverage," I agreed. One problem with recruiting was incentives -- the Darjee would accept no one who was not a volunteer -- and we needed incentives. Having extensively researched the human genome in the past eighteen months, the Darjee could correct or adjust just about anything via gene therapy or using nanobots -- they weren't looking for perfect bodies, but the kind of mind that espoused the characteristics that made us unique and valuable. Aggression had to be there, but tempered by honor, loyalty, intelligence, courage, inventiveness -- you get the picture. The best and the brightest. Utterly unique abilities were even more thoroughly courted. The body could be fixed, but a crippled mind -- or an unused or misused one -- could not. Potential was important; waste of it shameful.

We made it clear, however, that we could not suffer a eugenics project; we couldn't just cull people according to someone else's concept of usefulness. This wasn't as hard to put over as a concept as one might think -- the Darjee recognized that it was wrong, too, and somewhat delicate negotiations were going on as to EXACTLY how we were going to select evacuees who were not volunteering for the Confederacy Department of Defense...

A month later, we were deep into it. We acquired the rights to "Average Joe" -- not difficult, since the bungling of the producers had created a considerable amount of angst in the viewing public. When you KNOW you're not perfect and you're watching a show about some obviously not perfect guys competing for a woman, you want one of them to win -- duh -- something the clueless producers just didn't seem to get... We put out a call and CAP tested a couple of thousand male volunteers and a couple of hundred females, then began production on 'Average Joe XIV -- Getting it Right'. We put up two dozen guys with varying CAP scores and two women -- a beauty with a barely passable (for later emigration) CAP of six point five out of ten and a somewhat less impressive looking chick with an eight point five. Interspersed with the usual beauty pageant crap, we inserted CAP test components and games that simulated CAP test components -- for instance:

Anybody can figure out how to answer multiple-choice questions regarding moral choices -- including sociopaths. The CAP test weeds these by doing what amounts to a sophisticated lie detector test while the written and oral exams are being administered -- but we put together a video game for TV. The scenario was that the contestant arrives at the scene of a fire and some woman comes out wailing that her pet dog is in there. The contestant makes a choice as to what to do. Firemen haven't arrived yet, so there is no one to dissuade the contestant, but he can choose to do nothing -- and that presents a reasonable score, especially if he takes action to keep the woman from returning inside. But you CAN go in -- most consider that to be expected. One of our underachievers finds A dog on the staircase -- not THE dog, since the woman was very clear in her description of both the dog and its location -- but at least he got that far... More successful candidates found THE dog and rescued it, despite minor burns. But Ray, a short, narrow, balding guy with eyeglasses and a slight limp, found not only the correct dog, but the old lady being overcome by smoke in the next apartment and manages to get them both downstairs at the cost of second-degree burns. Did I mention that the game induced a certain amount of pain? Nothing real, since it was induced electrically, but distracting... Needless to say, this did wonders for both his show scores and audience interest... At the end of every show, whatever CAP test component we highlighted was displayed for the benefit of the two females -- the REAL score, although the show scores followed the real ones closely -- for their analysis, along with whatever foolishness we added in for the lightweights. The men were not told their scores, but the audience got to see them, too...

By Week Four, we knew we were succeeding; EVERYBODY was watching and they were placing bets in Vegas as to who would get whom. Next on the agenda were local announcements (everywhere) that we would be testing for the next season in your town -- and when you test, you get a nice card indicating your scores to show to others. Two weeks later, totally without us having to lift a finger, some enterprising genius came up with a badge that you could wear that indicated your score in color! We rolled over and made the thing an optional but official indicator, after making the thing as proof against counterfeiting as we possibly could using RFID and holograms. By Week Ten, testing centers were being mobbed in every city in North America, Europe, Japan, and Australia. We couldn't put enough teams on the ground! Fortunately, the AIs ran the booths; we built tractor-trailers with a half- dozen booths on them and put them on the roads. Testers thought that there was a human on the other side of the video screen during the oral exams, but it was an AI and composite video... An AI could run a dozen trailers from orbit.

For Week Eight, we put out that there was a score for sexual potency, and another for technique and compatibility; for Week Nine we got permission to present a competition, which was censored in some countries and not in others -- not that it stopped anyone who had an internet connection, since the full video was on the Net fifteen minutes after the show aired. Up close video of a half-dozen cocks -- even though only the women knew who was connected to which one -- brought the whole world up short, it seemed like; EVERYONE wanted to see the sub-score breakouts for sexual function. Some starlet got quoted as saying, "Fuck his IQ -- if his dick size is on there, I want to read it!" Nobody pushed the women into the (unfilmed) sexual compatibility tests on Week Ten -- they rather diffidently suggested it. And while we didn't show them actually fucking, the results were fairly obvious... By Week Thirteen, even the hottie knew better than to pick a pretty boy -- all of their CAP scores were under five -- and picked a halfway-decent-looking mid-range guy with a six and a half general score (and eight point two for sexual function). Ray and the smart chick tied the knot -- and the worldwide audience went totally ballistic! One of the pretty boys got arrested for snorting coke two weeks later, and it made national news in six nations -- including disparaging remarks about his CAP score...

We were off the ground with a bang! Ch'teek couldn't believe that the whole thing could have gone any different, but then he couldn't understand how anyone could pick a mate based upon looks, anyway... All we had to do was shine the spotlight on little Ray and his woman and success gravitated to them; efforts to capitalize on their notoriety by the bottom tier of also-rans were pushed toward failure where possible. The top six contestants that lost out were interviewing women with marriage proposals on network television by midway through the re-run season -- and visibly selecting their women of interest based upon their CAP scores, which sent women to the booths in droves!

In the meantime, several other initiatives were underway. Various 'discoveries' in local space were publicized as we began the softening-up process for the eventual revelations regarding alien contact and the threat. Several internecine conflicts started winding down as leaders around the world discovered we had more important things to worry about. This was sometimes risky, but it worked. World leaders met to discuss 'issues of global importance' and newscasters managed to convey the fact that they weren't tap- dancing in fake peace talks, but doing SOMETHING serious...

CAP test data found other uses. Virtually everybody has done something or another illegal at some point in their life -- but sociopaths are a different animal. Great care was taken to ensure that there was no visible link to testing and certainly a large percentage of the criminal class had better sense than to undergo a complete mental workup, but law enforcement officials found themselves with tips naming and locating some of the worst -- especially terrorists and serial killers and others representing the worst of the worst. Oddly, many of the absolutely worst, most amoral individuals on the planet harbored the unshakable belief that they were capable of fooling the examiners and getting a good score...

For 'Average Joe XV: Getting Serious' we brought in four women, all with CAPs above seven -- and forty-eight guys. By Week Four, there wasn't a male left with a score under seven point five, and the guys were all positioning themselves as best they could for the two women with scores over eight. It was a bloodbath -- we had to marry them all off at the season finale at a big quadruple wedding on the estate of Little Ray and his pregnant wife, now multi-millionaires; the end was predictable four weeks out!

The results were visible on the street; if you had a good score, you wore button displaying it -- and if you didn't, most likely you were spending a lot of time telling people that you forgot it at home or it was on your other shirt (or blouse). Then there was the 'Nobody's Perfect' T-shirt -- worn by that 'haves' AND the 'have nots', for different reasons. The next hot item on the fashion shelf: The "Well, Okay, But I'm Cute, Right?" midriff- exposing T-shirt that came in every size. Being handsome or beautiful was no longer enough -- and it was an ego-shattering experience for some.

It was time for the main event -- a carefully-crafted leak that we were in contact with an alien intelligence. It was done so low-key that it actually took twenty-four hours before the news services went bonkers. Then Fox became 'The Alien Channel -- All Aliens All the Time' -- this despite the fact that we absolutely could NOT expose a Darjee to newsmen! This led to various 'Is this a Hoax?' reports, but before they could get their legs under them, we dropped the other shoe...

We'd dispatched four multi-national 'A' Teams to the next planet due for Sa'arm annexation -- and they had cameras with them. Sa'arm ground units exterminating milling sentients as they stampeded like maddened cattle and tossing them onto carts to be taken back to processing facilities (where they were apparently chopped up and mixed with other nutrients and made into 'critter cubes' that the Sa'arm eventually ate) put an end to the hoax talk, especially since the teams had taken a couple of accredited newsmen with them. Quite a bit of intelligence was gathered, since if you didn't get in the way of an individual Sa'arm, chances were he wouldn't bother you unless 'harvesting' was his mission for the day... The Sa'arm would learn better, later, but the first teams led a charmed life -- even to the point of getting back off planet apparently undetected...

The full nature of the threat and the nature of the required response had to go out in small doses, over about a month; even then, nobody let out a peep about the prognosis for the homeworld. Wise heads figured it out without having their noses rubbed in it -- and for once, the press had the brains not to blast the news that the end of the world was nigh to those without the sense to figure it out for themselves.

It was a pretty sober civilization that took in the plan for the defense of the planet: Volunteers would be requested to participate in the Defense Forces, and other volunteers would be selected to emigrate to a dozen worlds out of immediate harm's way. If you weren't selected, you were still expected to participate in the defense of the planet when the time came and resources would be made available for that purpose -- but initially, everything would go off-planet in the hopes that we could hold the line in space between here and there... The official line was that our alien allies were providing us with advanced technology and as much support as they could spare -- nobody mentioned the fact that they weren't supplying troops, since it wasn't going to happen, no matter what.

And, last but not least: "EVERYONE over the age of fourteen MUST be tested and MUST obtain a CAP score. This is critical! Even if you have a low CAP score, you may be selected for emigration -- but if you do not obtain a score, you will NOT be considered. Volunteers for the Defense Forces with CAP scores of certain published levels will be afforded the opportunity to select others to emigrate and maintain their residences on other worlds while they perform their duties in the Defense Forces in accordance with their aptitudes and capabilities; certain high-priority individuals may select up to ten people to emigrate with for this purpose. Obviously, fertility is a criterion -- we will be looking to ensure the continuity of the human race as it expands to new worlds. Emigration is not a picnic -- colonization of new planets is hard, dangerous work -- but it is the future of the race and will provide the wellspring from which our eventual salvation will come." The President of the United States, the individual selected to give this particular speech, sat back. "We are entering a dark time -- one in which we must set aside our individual differences for the global good. Some of our most cherished institutions will become irrelevant in the face of the conflict to come. We must all band together to survive this threat, using the time left to us wisely to look outward, toward the foe, rather than inward at petty differences with our neighbors. Let us reach out to each other and our allies in friendship for the good of all. Good night and God bless you all."

The cameras went off and I came forward from where I had stood by in the background. "That went well, Mr. President."

"Perhaps," he sighed. "What will HE think?" He waved at Ch'teek, who was standing in the corner, getting a no doubt thoroughly watered-down translation from his AI.

"How well have you been briefed, Sir?" I asked.

"Fairly well," he grunted. "Was it nonviolent enough?"

"Not by a long shot," I sighed. "But the AI will handle it -- or Ch'teek will cut it off, realizing he really doesn't want to hear any more." I felt sorry for the alien; his AI was concerned that he was slowly going mad from the pressures of his posting. But he was also developing an instinct for avoiding subjects he really couldn't handle...

"This is going to change the world irrevocably," the great man sighed. "Social institutions are going to go under during the emigration. Some will never return."

"True," I agreed. "The next few years are going to see things that have been the subject of lawsuits become peccadillo. Workplace etiquette, for instance -- if you hold a CAP of three and a co-worker has a seven and gets selected are you REALLY going to complain if he or she makes comments about how attractive you are, knowing that if you piss the person off he or she takes your chances of survival with them?" I shook my head. "I see things drifting a good deal farther than that, actually."

"I'll be glad if we can forget about religious warfare for a while," the President grunted. "Sex will always be there, and it won't hurt us to put aside superstition for a while on THAT score, either. Personally, I'm looking forward to it." He walked off, smiling; the President had a CAP score of seven point nine...

There followed the usual media commentary; I listened to it primarily because I needed to know how much they were going to slant things. It turned out that for once, they were helpful; after the usual blah, blah, blah, the talking head from the major news network commented, "The President made mention of fertility as an emigration criterion, something that many women may consider a bar to their selection due to age or fertility problems; however, the Administration's press packet provides some surprising information on that score. It seems that our alien allies, the Darjee, have extensive medical knowledge, and are sharing that knowledge with us; as a result, many physical issues can apparently be resolved -- including infertility. Menopause can be staved off for a few years also, in some cases, per the information that we have received. Eventually, these services should be available globally; however, initially, these benefits will be limited to those volunteering for the Defense Forces and those emigrating." He leaned forward. "According to documents released by the administration, this means that there are effectively no physical limitations for volunteers for the Defense Force; those with the proper CAP scores will have whatever physical maladies they may have dealt with in order to make them fit for duty. Likewise, emigrants may have their physical issues dealt with at the discretion of their Defense Forces sponsor. Undoubtedly, this will produce a substantial increase in the number of volunteers..."

Actually, that wasn't the whole story; we were experimenting with a certain amount of physical augmentation in some volunteers -- not gills or tentacles or anything, merely and increase in physical capabilities. We still weren't clear on the physical capabilities of the Sa'arm, but they stood just a touch over two meters, on average, so a bulked-up soldier stood a better chance, hand to hand. Since we weren't trying to create a new race, we wanted everything to be reversible, however.

When I plugged back in, it was to hear the newscaster hit another hot button...

"The Administration had further released documents indicating that it intends to recommend a change in the Federal guidelines for prosecution of statutory rape to reduce the effective age to thirteen and makes a further recommendation that the individual states follow suit. This is in synch with the requirement for all fourteen year olds to undergo CAP testing and would make it legal for fourteen year olds to be selected for emigration." He dug through his papers. "The Administration's position paper names several historical and even biblical precedents, and has already been released to the headquarters of several religions in expectation of some backlash for the more fundamentalist segments of our society." Here, he assumed an amused expression, adding, "One wonders how the previous administration would have handled such a thing..."

'Yeah, right,' I thought. 'I wonder...'

Somebody changed the channel to where the press secretary was fielding questions from the usual horde. The first question he got after we switched over was, "Is it true that our alien allies, the Darjee, don't recognize the sanctity of marriage?" I could see that the Religious Right was in there, swinging...

The press secretary looked mildly amused. "Apparently, you have misread your briefing materials," he said. "The Darjee mate for life; however, anyone capable of analyzing statistical data on divorce can see that WE don't... They'll tolerate any ceremony or social system we care to put into place, actually, but the most effective modality for emigration to proceed requires that we maximize the opportunities to vary the gene pool. That demands a somewhat different lifestyle than most of us have been pursuing..."

The Mormons had a field day...

Two weeks later, it was time to deliver a demonstration of the nature of our brave new world. The top four runners up of Season XV all volunteered to join the Defense Forces -- and we lined up four hundred women for them to choose their limit from in a two-hour spectacular -- or at least, it STARTED that way...

I had my first indication that things had gotten out of hand when I heard the producer, Tony, tell the guys, "Okay, you need to cull fifty on the first pass. I don't care how you do it, but it has to be quick. Has anyone explained the guidelines?"

Joey Martone shook his head. "Not really."

"You get two for every major digit in your CAP score above five. The whole thing doesn't really kick until six point five, since that's where the Defense Forces set their mark, but that's where it starts -- if you have a six, you get two, sevens get four, eights get six... I don't have to go any further in this group, do I?" He didn't; the CAP scores run to a bell curve -- there are few nines and even fewer tens, while a six point five is pretty easy to find. Our low guy, Bob, or "Big Papa" Spruell, had a six point eight.

"If the woman has kids, they don't count against your numbers unless they're fourteen; while you don't HAVE to accept them, it is seriously encouraged, for obvious reasons. If she has a husband or something, well, she shouldn't be here -- but it's instant divorce time; you have NO obligation to pick HIM up." Tony grinned. "Other relatives are also irrelevant -- we have to draw the line somewhere. If she's trying to ship her sainted mother, that's sweet, but unless Mom can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, why bother?"

"What?" I said it aloud, I was so shocked.

"Oh, hey, Steve," Toby waved. "We got a couple of things from the administration -- a blanket exception to policy from the FCC for one -- so we're doing this thing for real. The Administration wants people to see what's going on and to set expectations -- you're gonna be surprised." He turned back to the contestants. "Chicks, of course, can pick guys, and we'll get into that on the follow-on -- it's not your problem. In the unlikely event you want a guy for some reason, he goes against your numbers no matter what the source. The thing is, we're not looking to ship your family, dig? We want you to start a new one -- a BIG one. Bear that in mind when you're making your choices. Any questions?" There were none. "If you come up with something in process, let me know and I'll get you an answer."

Tony gathered himself. "Okay. Like I said, cut fifty on Round One -- we don't care how, as long as it's quick. You can use CAP scores to pick a woman, but you are not obligated. If you want a big-titted blonde with a CAP of zero point two, that's cool -- and, frankly, a lot of people will breathe easier out in our audience. Obviously, a chick with a seven CAN volunteer, just as you did -- so why is she in the line- up?"

This had been an open question when we were setting emigration standards; the assumption was that whoever it was would be looking for domestic duties, rather than whatever the Forces handed out...

Tony grinned. "Remember, though, that we can make adjustments to your chosen -- hmmm, let's call 'em concubines. If her tits aren't big enough, that's an easy fix. Crooked teeth? No problem. Nose a bit long? Also no problem. You're gonna learn first hand that the physical piece is easily adjusted. On the other hand, remember what this woman's job description is gonna be -- she's a domestic goddess, whore, and baby-factory. There are indicators for maternal instincts on the CAP -- I recommend that you find out what they are in the next couple of hours. Just because she's a near-genius doesn't make her a good mother -- in fact, just the opposite might be the case..." My mouth was open, but Tony was holding up a hand, forestalling comment. When he finished, he told the contestants, "Hang on, I have to do a quick briefing -- be right back," and headed toward me.

"You're making some pretty bold statements," I pointed out.

"It's deliberate," Tony replied. "The Administration gave us a full pardon in advance for anything that happens -- they want the general public to realize that this ain't no picnic. Take a look at this -- we've been running it for several hours with our commercials." He pointed me at a monitor and spoke into his headset, "Cue the warning messages."

The screen lit with a banner in white on black with red highlights that said, "WARNING! Parents are strongly cautioned! This will be a live event -- and it will NOT be censored for content! Graphic content is expected, to include sex, strong language and possible violence. While the exact content cannot be predicted, we are provisionally rating this program NR-14."

I blinked. "No censor? What's NR-14?"

"Wait," Tony replied, nodding at the screen.

The warning faded, to be replaced by a second warning panel, which said, "NR-14 is a new standard rating devised to fit new Administration standards. NR-14 is for Not Rated, with a recommended audience of 14 years. Be advised that programs with an NR rating are expected to have graphic content -- but that, in conformance with new guidelines on CAP testing and emigration, the content may be of interest to individuals of age fourteen and up, despite its graphic nature."

I eyed Tony. "What is this?"

He shrugged. "It's simple, really. Fourteen-year-old females are fertile, and fourteen-year-old boys can inseminate. They may not be at their peak, but they are physically mature and their basic mental patterns are set -- which is why they are being CAPed. You know that. Well, they can now fuck -- and BE fucked -- and they can emigrate -- so they need to know what they're getting into. At different points in history, kids that age were considered adults; only recently have we started coddling them until they were over twenty. That's got to go if we're going to get the maximum yield in offspring." He eyed me. "I KNOW you know this."

"Yeah," I agreed. "I know."

"Well, this is it. They're adults. They're gonna have to make adult decisions, starting now -- so they get the same briefing as every body else. Period."

"What else has happened?" I asked.

"We've extended the thing to four hours," Tony informed me. "The first two are on network, starting at nine -- the second two are on cable, starting at eleven. We figure things are gonna be wild and woolly by then."

"How wild and woolly?" I asked. "You can't..."

"But I can!" Tony replied, grinning. "We're going out live, and totally uncensored. The audience gets warnings at every commercial break, but the FCC has been told to take a nap while the show is on. Anything goes."

"How did you manage that?" I asked.

"It came from the top," Tony replied. "Executive order. The Man says it's time to pull the gloves off."

"Shit, I guess..."

"I gotta go back..." Tony returned to his quartet of contestants. "Okay, guys, Round Two is where the gloves come off. You need to chop to twenty-five -- and you can use any means -- and I DO mean ANY -- to separate stuff out."

Big Papa frowned. "What's 'any'? This is network TV..."

"Only for the first two hours, which should get you into Round Two, but you may not finish. The second two hours are on cable, and all restrictions are lifted -- but we have a special dispensation for the first two hours, too. Remember, you're hiring a piece of ass, here. Don't buy a pig in a poke!"

"So..." Joey looked thoughtful.

"So if you want to sort them by tit size, do it. If you want to wait for Round Three to count the hairs on their pussies, that's fine, but, frankly, you can do THAT, too!" Tony told them. "Don't worry about it."

"Jeezus!" Fred Tafton exclaimed. Fred was an electrical engineer with an eight point five, our highest scoring candidate.

"For Round Three," Tony continued, "you need to go for the kill. As a recommendation, you might want to give your finalists an opportunity to sell themselves..."

Everybody got it -- you could tell by the shared glances. Fred asked, "What about..."

"Fred, once we go to cable, if you want to bend one of them over and test-drive her, feel free. Remember, this is the real thing -- you're stuck with it. Oh, you can probably trade or something, maybe even buy or sell, if necessary, but that's later, after you're on the ground in your new homes." Tony looked around. "Anything else? Frankly, if you get the urge, you can fuck one while we're still on the network feed, but we're trying to give the FCC a break."

"You're gonna fuzz 'em out and shit, right?" Big Papa asked.

"No." Everybody blinked. "Next?" Nobody could think any more, at that point. I know I couldn't -- it was a serious departure for American TV. Tony eyed everyone. "You know, the Europeans don't pussyfoot around with casual nudity like we do -- we're just stepping up to the plate, here. Relax. I'll come back for you guys in a couple of hours. If you need anything, get one of those gofers over there to tighten you up." He turned and strode off.

The guys ducked heads and went into serious discussions. After a moment, Fred waved me over. "Steve, this is going to be a circus. Is he nuts?"

I sighed. "I'm thinking that the answer is no. Look, guys, it's like this -- we can't open a facility and say, 'Everyone who has been selected, report here.' The place would be mobbed with people who want to get off- world. Similarly, if we give most guys an opportunity to get organized, they'll want to ship a lot of excess baggage, usually in the form of the old ball and chain and probably both your and her relatives -- just because it's the right thing to do. Problem is, it ISN'T the right thing to do -- you've added to the gene pool with her, for better or for worse, and we want you to start fresh. Oh, we'll take the kids, but if a guy wants to keep the old lady he's got, she'd better be within ten feet of him at all times."

"Why?" Joey asked. None of these guys were married, but Joey was divorced.

"Because we're going to be picking up selectees in small groups, usually in public places," I replied, "Basically, a normal selectee is going to have to make the same decisions you're making today -- probably with a lot less time to do it in -- and from a lot smaller pool."

"I don't get it." Big Papa complained.

"We can't tell people to go someplace, or it would be mobbed with people we don't want -- so we'll be going to them. We'll be throwing a barrier around a place with a half-dozen or so selectees in it, popping in and telling them, 'Hi, you're out of here -- look around and find something to take with you.' And they're gonna have to go 'Eenie, meenie, miney, moe,' pick a couple of people from whatever supply is in their immediate vicinity, and we'll all be gone like Santa Claus -- poof!" At Fred's raised eyebrow, I amplified, "Molecular transporter, like Star Trek."

"So..." Joey drawled.

"So if your old lady wants to go with you and she is too lazy to follow you around, one day she's gonna send you to McDonalds and you won't be coming back -- and she'll be shit out of luck," I amplified. "It's gonna suck for dual income families, but..." I shrugged.

Fred looked bothered. "There are going to be some social changes."

I nodded. "Guys and gals with high-end CAPs may take to hiding it to keep from acquiring an entourage that follows them wherever they go. Sexual harassment may disappear, as an issue, except for guys with low CAPs. For guys with high CAPs, 'No means no!' may turn into 'No means I'm not feeling well, how about later?' Low CAPs are going to be hunting high CAPs looking for a ticket out -- and you might get a taste of what lengths they're willing to go to tonight."

"Any advice?" Joey asked.

"Remember that you're setting up a household that will end up containing kids -- and you may not be around a lot," I advised. "If you pick an idiot with wide hips and a dairy farm on her chest, better pick someone smarter for her to report to. Oh, and this isn't marriage -- it's more like chattel slavery. They aren't your equals. You're the breadwinner, and your word is law -- you can go slack on that if you want, but it's the bottom line. Ultimately, they're replaceable -- and you're not. We're not used to that any more -- but it's that way it's going to be. If you say jump, they'd better already be in the air when they ask how high, because if they become a problem, you literally have the option of dumping them out the nearest airlock and hunting down a replacement."

Dean Branson, who had said exactly nothing to date, made his debut with, "Jeezus."

"Yeah," I nodded. "Did I mention that you're responsible for whatever shit they get into? And you're judge, jury, and executioner." I rubbed my face. "It's a brave new world out there -- and you're fortunate that you're out of here before it all sinks in, but you'll be pioneering the far side of things, too -- which won't be any picnic, either. Tonight is apparently an exercise in rubbing the viewing public's nose in the fact that things have changed -- a lot! What you do is going to set expectations, and while I'd like to be able to advise you to take the high road, I think it would be a disservice to those who follow. Make sure you get yours, whatever it is -- people are going to have to learn that when the train pulls in, they've got a couple of minutes to get their shit together, then it's gone and all they can do is wave bye- bye." Fed up with preaching, I waved a hand and left; I had my own problems.

A hundred women is serious variety. Four hundred is just ridiculous. There was no way we could have gotten through this thing in two hours; I was glad someone had been thinking. This batch had already been pre-culled, once, by the producers; there weren't any fourteen year olds, but there was an age range that ran from eighteen to forty-five. There were different shapes and sizes, but no one was seriously obese. That left an amazing variety of shapes and colors and ages -- I was glad to be on the sidelines.

Our talking head kicked things off and pulled no punches: "Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen, and welcome to the Average Joe Defense Forces Selection Special. In case you've missed the disclaimers, this is a unique event in reality television -- we are live and TOTALLY uncensored! You will see our contestants make their selections in real time, and you will see anything and everything that occurs, without editing. Since some of the criteria our contestants will be selecting for are related to sex and reproduction, we expect that there may be considerable graphic content -- parents with young children are strongly cautioned. However, since recent regulations and CAP testing guidelines extend to age fourteen, it may be instructive for teens between fourteen and adult to view this program despite the expected graphic content. So, let's get to it, shall we? Let me re- introduce our contestants, all four of whom have been selected for the Defense Forces..." Yak, yak, yak... I guess it could have been worse -- it could have been that Seacrest guy... "So, Fred, what are you going to use for your initial criteria?"

Fred scratched his head. "Well, CAP scores -- but not the general scores. I'm going to be looking as some specific indicators that vary a lot." He chuckled. "Of course, in some cases, I may wing it..."

Our host changed targets, "What about you, Dean?"

"First pass? Eyeballs, mostly," Dean replied.

"Joey?"

"CAP scores -- sorta like Fred," Joey replied. "I'm only doing three -- I'm gonna take the mother of my kids with me, and she takes a slot." He grinned evilly. "It's gonna be a lot different than when we were married, though."

That gave the announcer an opportunity to talk about how the selections were apportioned by CAP score, and a quick aside into certain of the other criteria, such as transport of minor children -- then he turned to Big Papa, "And you? How are you going to make the first pass, Big Papa?"

Big Papa shook his head. "I haven't come up with anything that I'm totally comfortable with," he related. "I'm gonna wing it. Could be anything. Maybe I'll pick the ugliest ones." The studio audience laughed, but I was pretty sure Big Papa was serious -- and who knew? It might work... I could think of several valuable criteria that tended to run higher on ugly chicks. The talking head made the obligatory "After the break..." noises and we got to learn all about hairspray, or some such. I hate commercials.

We came back to a room that would make your average gym seem small. There were four hundred women arrayed there, a hundred against each wall and four sets of double doors that were going to see a lot of use in the next hour or two, too. Each of the guys had a cameraman dogging him. Our host had them draw straws; Dean won, so he got to pick which wall he was going to make his selections from -- like it mattered, really... In very little time, the contestants were walking their line of women, examining the merchandise.

The women wore whatever they thought would make an impression. We told them no nudity on the first round, and no bathing suits -- but made it clear that the rules basically ended there. We had everything from elegant gowns to cropped T-shirts and jean skirts that didn't cover much. Some women opted for the traditional garb of their culture -- I saw a couple of Indian women in saris, for instance. Some aimed for elegant, some for outrageous -- I saw at least two serious Goth chicks, one in a Hooters T-shirt and shorts, and a couple in pajamas. To each her own, I guess...

Fred was operating basically as advertised, examining CAP cards -- closely, drilling down into the psych data, apparently, just as he'd said he was going to. CAP wasn't the only criterion, however; I saw him take a couple of cards, examine them, shake his head and raise his thumb to point to the door -- then eye the woman, stop her, and have her get back in line. From watching, you had no better idea what his showstopper was than his standard criteria.

Dean's criteria were just as clear as Fred's were muddy. He dumped fifteen out of line in a walking pass that lasted all of thirty seconds -- then went back for a second, slower look. Breast size seemed to be important.

Joey was moving pretty slowly though his collection, examining cards also -- but he allowed several more exceptions than Fred. I found myself wondering if he was going to get down to fifty -- and if so, how long it was going to take to get there. From the looks of things, his ex had better not be making any big plans...

Big Papa was stopping to have a word with every woman. Usually, he got two or three beyond a woman before looking back and saying, "Honey? We're done. Thank you." I thought it was pretty slick; some of the others were catching a lot of histrionics from the ones that got bounced, but Big Papa would wait until they settled down, THEN drop the bomb. Most went quietly. Big Papa's cameraman asked him what he was doing; Big Papa pulled him aside so the women couldn't hear but the audience could, and said, "I'm getting rid of whiners." The guy was certainly unique...

In fact, Big Papa surprised us, throwing a monkey wrench in the works about halfway through Round One. Dean had let some chick go -- a stocky brunette in a short skirt over leggings -- and Big Papa looked up and waved at the host, asking, "Hey, can I get an eye on that one?" The host, caught flat- footed, made a lightning decision and had one of the bouncers catch the woman and turn her around. Thoroughly confused, she found herself in front of Big Papa, who had a couple of words with her and asked the host, "Hey, can I keep her?"

The host shrugged and said, "As long as you only have fifty when you finish..."

Big Papa said, "Go get in line down there," and the brunette stumbled off to join his group, dazed, her dreams dashed and resurrected inside of a minute.

At that point, it seemed like everybody grew eyes in the back of his head. Fred examined two of Big Papa's and kept one, Dean eyeballed no fewer than six of Fred's and kept two, and Big Papa examined one of Fred's and one more of Dean's -- and kept the one he took from Fred. Joey was having such issues that additional distractions were beyond him.

Things went at wildly varying rates. Dean was done in twenty minutes, except for poaching from Fred. Big Papa made two passes and started a third before he got down to fifty -- and I was starting to think he WAS using the ugly stick. Fred finished up with forty-eight -- but after a hurried conference it was decided that it wouldn't do any good to bring back women he'd already rejected just to fill a quota. Joey took an hour and fourteen minutes and had to be leaned on to dump three and get down to fifty.

What with commercials and such, we were over ninety minutes in; I was beginning to think that we might not embarrass the FCC too badly. We went to commercials and when we returned, the women had been moved to four separate -- and smaller -- rooms. We were on four-way split-screen, but then Dean hogged the limelight by announcing, "Okay, Ladies, get those tops off! This is a reality show -- I want to know whose tits are real!" There went keeping the FCC happy... We HAD to go there, too, obviously, so Dean hogged three- quarters of the screen, feeling up women's breasts, while the others were busy with less controversial activity -- and largely ignored. Still, it was simple, straightforward, and easily understood as criteria went; six women were artificially augmented and eight more Dean classified as 'droopy' -- which left him with eleven to weed out in the remainder of the round. He finished up with nipple size -- or at least, that's what it looked like. At that point, we managed to shift away to the others.

Big Papa was talking to his again, holding their hands and engaging them with questions like, "Do you like kids?" and "Do you know what you're getting into?" His cameraman asked him what he was looking for, and Big Papa replied, "I'm trying to sort the ones who can put up with my big ass from the ones just looking for the door." In most cases, the answers to the questions didn't seem to matter -- the exception being the woman who answered the second question with, "No, does anybody?"

With Dean all finished, we could give half the screen to one candidate and split the other half among the other two. Big Papa got a lot of screen time, initially, but he seemed to get what he needed to see from the women fairly quickly, so we were able to shift to Fred, who was finally getting somewhat personal with his collection. Fred had a couple of standard questions, the primary on being "Why are you here?" After a bit, I noticed a pattern; women with a CAP score over six got that one, and very few answers were satisfactory. One woman apparently hit the ball out of the park, though, with, "I've done big business -- I want to be a housewife and mother."

Fred asked her, "Do you think you'd be any good at it?"

"I don't know for sure," she replied, "but my biological clock is getting pretty insistent."

Joey was a mess; he seemed to be hitting his in some complicated pattern that allowed him to return to a woman several times, unpredictably. Women left the room, but it all seemed to me to be just too agonizing. They were serving drinks in the other three rooms to kill time when Joey finally reluctantly let go of Number Twenty-six. I had no idea what his criteria were, but my gut said he was screwing up.

Round Three finally arrived. Our host reminded the audience that Fred would be able to keep six of his women, Dean and Joey would be allowed four, and Big Papa only two -- which got 'boo's from the studio audience, but that's life... I pretty much agreed that Big Papa was much more likely to control and appreciate four women than Joey, but CAP scores were the defining factor. Based upon this little exercise in futility, I figured that I might need to talk to the rules committee about drilling down a bit in the criteria to ensure the sponsor had the capacity to handle the family he was going to be saddled with. I flashed Tony a look and he muttered, "Once Big Papa has his blood pressure and weight under control, he'll probably pop over seven..." Physical criteria weren't big in the CAP, but there were indexes for sexual potency and such -- and physical improvements tended to drive the numbers up a bit.

Safely into our cable network window, we decided to let the other groups relax while we turned Dean loose -- and he didn't disappoint. "All right, he announced, gathering his twenty-five applicants, "Let's see the rest of it." One of them opened her mouth to protest, and the thinning was under way -- Dean gave her about three syllables to determine whether she had a question or was just bitching, and pointed to the door. Everyone else got the hint. Slow response getting out of the rest of their clothing got another couple of girls shown the door; leaving her socks on got a Goth girl the boot. "EVERYTHING goes, Ladies -- I need to see EVERY SQUARE INCH!" Dean declared. We were watching the studio audience, and in general, nobody was freaking -- most were being entertained by the whole thing.

Presented with twenty naked women, Dean had them bend at the waist so he could see their asses, and spread their legs so he could see their pussies. One couldn't handle the embarrassment and hit the door, leaving nineteen. Dean went around squeezing butt cheeks and asking questions; the younger ones got, "So have you used this thing?" and the older ones got, "I know you have, but did you like it?" Next up was "Anybody got kids? Where are they?" Dean had no use for virgins or women who felt that sex was just for procreation; on the other hand, raising a hand in answer to "How many of you have been to a gang- bang?" got two women a ticket out -- and I was willing to bet one of them lied. Three women had kids; the one who didn't have custody, however, hit the door -- which made sense to me. "Anybody got a problem with being barefoot and pregnant?" he asked. Some idiot raised her hand and Dean rasped, "What the Hell are you doing here, then?"

Down to ten, it was apparently time for trick questions. Dean had them all kneel before him, telling them, "You're gonna spend a lot of time like this." He stepped up to the first woman -- a twenty-five year old bleached-blonde with a salon tan and asked, "So, do you play with yourself?"

The woman looked like she was going to cry -- what a question to hang the rest of your life on! And EVERYONE was going to know the answer... Should she lie? Finally, she hung her head and muttered, "Yes."

"What was that?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

Tears rolled, but she reached between her legs. "That's good, Honey. Don't go nowhere, you passed this one. Frankly, I didn't think you were gonna," Dean told her, and moved on. "Ever been butt-fucked?" he asked the next one.

"No." This one was young. She flushed scarlet.

"Why not?"

"Nobody ever asked."

"So if I told you to turn around and bend over..." Dean began. The girl got up and ran out. "What about you?" he asked the next one -- a black girl.

"No."

"No what?"

"No, Sir!"

Dean chuckled. "This isn't the Army, but I like your style. Back to the question -- have you ever been butt-fucked?"

"No, Sir."

"Why not?"

"Nobody ever wanted any."

"What about you? You ever want any?"

"I..."

"Come on, Honey -- it's a yes or no answer," Dean chided.

The black girl, feeling the breeze of that lonely hilltop where the wrong call rolled you to the bottom, swallowed and said, "I might like to try it."

Dean nodded and moved on. "How many dicks have you sucked?" he asked the thirty-something redhead who was probably the oldest of the group.

"Different dicks or different times?" she clarified.

"Both."

The woman gathered herself. "Ummm, maybe five different ones -- okay, ten at the outside. I don't know how many -- a lot."

"Over a hundred?"

"Oh, yeah."

"You're good at it, then, huh?" Dean prompted. The woman blushed, but nodded. He moved on. "Do you eat pussy?" he asked the next woman. This was a twenty-something blonde who had somehow passed the natural breast test -- I, personally, thought she was a liar.

"I... No."

"What are you gonna do if I'm gone a couple of weeks?" Dean asked. "Chase dick?"

"Uh, without."

Dean eyed her a moment and moved on. "What about you?" he asked the next candidate. "Do you eat pussy?"

"Yes," the dark-haired beauty kneeling before him replied. This chick was Hispanic, and she was HOT!

"Are you into it?" Dean prompted.

"It's okay," the girl said carefully. "I like dick better."

She was young. "How many boys have you fucked?"

"Four."

"And you like it?"

"Uh huh."

Dean turned back to the blonde. "Git." Then he moved on to the next supplicant -- the least impressive of the lot, a somewhat chunky woman with mouse-brown hair, probably in her early thirties. "Would you fuck another guy if I told you to?"

"Yes."

"What if I didn't?"

"No, then."

"What if he smelled bad?"

"Yes."

"If I didn't tell you to and he smelled bad?"

"Uh, no, then."

"Make up your mind. What if I told you to and he only had one leg?"

"Couldn't I just suck him?"

Dean snorted and waved his hand. The woman got up and made it halfway to the door before he said, "Get back here. I'm not done with you." He moved on to the next finalist -- an Indian woman. "So, you ever been butt-fucked?"

"No, Sir, Please, Sir -- that's abomination!"

"Run along, Honey -- I don't want to mess with your religion." Dean moved to the next supplicant. "Are you wet?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"The questions you're asking..."

"Git." He turned to the last of the ten. "Are YOU wet?"

She knew the right answer. "Yes."

"Show me." She wasn't. "You lied. Git!" And then there were five. Dean circled back to the bleached blonde. "You're cute-looking, but high- maintenance. I don't know if we're gonna have tanning booths where we're going. Why should I keep you?"

The woman locked eyes with him, drew a breath -- and reached for his fly. Dean almost recoiled, but he didn't. Instead, he waited to see if she was going to follow through. The bleached blonde surprised him; she lowered his trousers a bit, collected his cock, and began to suck.

"Well, well, well..." Dean mused. "Come here, Red, I need a comparison." It turned out that the redhead knew her way around a cock, too. The black girl didn't, but she was game. The woman with the mouse- brown hair was an accomplished fellatrix. That left the little Chiquita -- who was also game...

They all passed the "Are you wet?" test, too. In the end, he had to let the Hispanic girl go, despite her looks, because she didn't like having her ass played with -- even though she tolerated it. "Damn, Honey, this is probably the hardest thing I ever did, 'cause you're hot, but I'm sending you home to Mama," Dean announced, and selection of the first group was over. The studio audience had been massively entertained -- that was obvious; I wondered what kind of crap we would get from others over the whole thing. I was amazed at his final selections, but I had to assume that he knew what he was doing.

Fred was the next one to present something unique; he asked for dance music -- stuff he could slow-dance to. He eliminated fifteen women for being graceless, or not feeling the way they should in his hands -- or for being flat unable to dance. After that, he finally got down to physical appearance and managed to cut the required four women based upon his opinion of their naked forms, leaving him with his six winners. It wasn't as exciting as Dean's final culling, but they DID get naked...

Big Papa had the toughest job; he was only allowed two -- and he was VERY popular from the series. Women weren't going to excuse themselves, and they weren't going to back down; he had to find ways to eliminate them, one by one -- ways that he was reluctant to come up with, generally. This group he escorted to the door gently, individually, giving them a kiss as he sent them on their way, generally crying. Big Papa used trick questions, too, but they weren't the rough ones Dean used; he usually found a back way to determine a woman's unsuitability to his particular needs.

When he got down to a dozen, there was no way he could continue to avoid the physical -- but even then, he took things in stages. Standing in a bra and panties revealed most of what he needed to see and disqualified six women -- over simple things like the shape of a foot, or the way a woman's legs did or did not curve. It was esthetics, generally, but Big Papa had nothing else left; in order to keep them from embarrassment, he avoided telling them the exact nature of their failures.

Next came bra removal; the set of their breasts disqualified two more -- but then it got REALLY difficult! Examining their pussies didn't resolve it, kissing didn't resolve it; finally, he had to take each of them aside and actually fuck them -- just for a few strokes -- to determine that the chunky brunette he'd stolen from Dean and a feisty black woman were the most limber pair, and therefore the winners.

In the meantime -- and we let it run concurrently, because otherwise everyone would have gone insane -- Joey stumbled through his selection process. In general, it was painful to watch, as he couldn't make up his mind -- but it DID have highlights, like the cat fights...

There were at least three. Joey would trigger them by wandering back and forth between two women, comparing them, until they started comparing themselves. Then the insults would fly, and after that... Twice, the ultimate result was that Joey sent both combatants on their way, but it didn't happen the third time; Joey eventually eliminated one of the combatants during a lengthy comparison with someone else, but the other one hung in there and survived.

Six women just walked out -- and I couldn't blame them a bit.

When he got down to five, I noticed that he was asking questions like, "Do you have any problem taking care of someone else's kids?" He harped on that kind of thing for a bit, and I couldn't help grinning, knowing he'd given up on his cherished dream of sticking it to the ex in person in favor of sticking it to her in absentia by taking the kids and giving them to other women to raise. When his fifth candidate finally gave up, we moved on to the previews of coming attractions -- including the announcement of the selection of four women from the night's pool who volunteered for the Defensive Forces and the plan for their mate selection, to be aired two nights hence.

"Joey was murder!" Tony groused.

"He's likely to BE murdered," I replied. "We need to fine-tune the criteria -- and we need to make sure nobody that indecisive ever flops like that on TV again! He'll never hold down those four..."

"Those witches are probably worse than his ex," Tony laughed. "Some people never learn."

"Another problem we need to overcome," I agreed.

"Well, we did it, though," Tony sighed. "We're off the ground. People are testing, volunteering, emigrating, and have some idea what to expect. What do you plan to do, long-term?"

"Get assigned to a fighter wing," I replied, turning to walk out. "Politics is making me as mad as Ch'teek!"