Chapter 1: Cattle Call

“It is not the stars to hold our destiny, But it is ourselves.”

- William Shakespeare

“To sleep--perchance to dream: aye, there’s the rub,”

Dark-haired Callie Dugan stood on the stage, repeating the words penned by the Bard some five centuries previous. Her audience consisted of the director of the play, some of the staff from the University of Ottawa’s Department of Theatre, and a handful of fellow budding thespians. Those prospective actors were all female.

“For in that sleep of death what dreams may come”

The head of the faculty himself, old Professor Shanoff, was here. He had come up with this cockeyed idea. Apparently he was more than eager to see his granddaughter, Kimberly Shanoff, safely off to the colonies. The girl was about 19 years of age and had, according to rumour, a moderately high Capacity, Aptitude and Potential score in the mid-fives. Good, but never would it be good enough to make sponsor. What the good professor’s CAP score was, nobody had a clue.

“When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,”

The idea was to hold a play, a popular play, that would attract a fair number of high-CAP males. Hopefully, some of those high-CAP males were looking at forming a pre-pack. If the play also attracted the attention of a Confederacy extraction team, so much the better.

“Must give us pause. There’s the respect”

So, a director with a high reputation for staging successful Shakespearean productions, a Mr. James Douglas, had been hired. A somewhat stout gentleman in his mid-40’s, he had been instructed to stage Hamlet with an all-female cast. It was exactly the opposite of the standard Elizabethan-era practise of having men in all the roles, even the female characters.

“That makes calamity of so long life.”

Callie had a good CAP score herself, but 6.4 would not be enough to volunteer. She might be able to raise it, which was why she’d volunteered for service with an Ottawa-area militia unit, the Governor General’s Foot Guards. With the Swarm Era, all recruits from July 1 onward whose CAP score was 6.4 and under joined as privates, and 6.5 and over were signed up as officers, regardless of educational qualifications. Callie’s CAP score forced her to join as a rank private. Unlike most infantry and armoured units in the Canadian Army, a private in the Foot Guards and Horse Guards was called a “guardsman”. Most other armoured units called their privates “Trooper”, just as privates in artillery units were referred to as “Gunner”.

“For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,”

Prior to the Swarm Era, the GGFG had been a regiment purely of weekend warriors – a single battalion of men and women who kept their day jobs but stood ready to serve at a moment’s notice. Its battle honours included the Riel Rebellion of 1885, the Boer War and both World Wars. Two men from the unit had won Victoria Crosses for their heroic deeds in the muck and mire and slaughter that was the First World War.

“Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely-”

Since the American President’s speech some eight months previous, the unit had been reorganized: recruits had flooded in, allowing it to expand from one battalion to three. The First Battalion’s classification was changed from Reserve Force to Regular Force, although the Second and Third were still Reserve. The military training the unit gave to all its recruits, both officers and guardsmen, had the potential to raise Callie’s CAP score by that needed fraction. The part-time nature of her unit, the Second Battalion, permitted her to continue her university studies. She had been an enthusiastic trainee from the start.

“Thank you, Miss Dugan,” came the unexpected voice of Mr. Douglas, interrupting Hamlet’s pondering of the mortality of man. “May we now have the next candidate?” He glanced at the comely young woman to his left. “Ms. Drudek?”

“Yes, sir.” Della Drudek, assigned by her actual boss Professor Shanoff to act as Mr. Douglas’ assistant, peered at her list. “Roberta McPhee, please.”

Callie marched offstage, worried that she’d blown it. She really wanted this role – not so much from any gossamer dreams of stardom, but specifically for the possibility of getting a high-quality sponsor that came with it.

The gangly, swarthy-complected man stood in line at the Tim Horton’s coffee shop. The 33-year-old was dressed in a jeans shirt and casual pants, looking utterly anonymous as he quietly and patiently waited for his fellow patrons to finish their evening “Timmy’s Runs”. Finally, a cashier’s station opened, and he was able to fill his order.

“To go, please, two double-double and a two-four of Timbits.”

“What flavour?” quizzed the harassed clerk, her smile painted on. Being this close to the local military base, she was used to the hoary old joke of referring to a box of Timbits as if it were a case of 24 beer – a “two-four”, in the Canadian vernacular.

“Oh, assorted, please.”

She swiftly put the box of 24 bite-sized doughnut treats together, added two cups of coffee with double creme and double sugar, and processed his debit card. William Whitefeather then walked out into the deepening twilight laden with his precious comestibles.

It was a short perambulation from the coffee shop to Academic Hall, the University of Ottawa Department of Theatre’s 180-seat theatre. Whitefeather entered the building through the unlocked main doors and tiptoed his way inside, to find that the “cattle call” casting session was still under way.

Della took the proffered coffee with gratitude – supper had been quite some time ago and she was beginning to flag from fatigue – and glanced down at her list of names. “Judy Molyneux!”

A petite blond stood up from the audience seating and carefully began to make her way to the stage.

“Bill, this is Mr. Douglas, director of this play,” Della said by way of introduction. “Mr. Douglas, this is my boyfriend, Bill Whitefeather.”

James Douglas held out a hand. “It’s ‘Jimmy’, please. Delighted to meet my assistant’s boyfriend.” He cocked his eye at her. “Maybe someday I’ll have a boyfriend.”

“Well, maybe if you’re good, Santa will leave you one under the tree,” Whitefeather suggested with a grin, shaking the director’s hand. “In the meantime, how’s the casting going?”

“Oh, lots of talent, but not a lot of it is for acting, I fear. Some might make passable grave diggers.” Douglas rolled his eyes dramatically.

“I’m sure you’ll find your Princess Hamlet out of this lot,” Whitefeather grinned.

“‘Princess’? Oh, I like this one, Del, he’s a keeper. Does he swing both ways?” Douglas wiggled his eyebrows waggishly.

“Not that I know of...” Della muttered, uncertain.

Whitefeather came to her rescue. “Sorry, a breeder through and through.”

Douglas snorted. “I’ve got the scores, but do I have anyone? No. And my parents knew I was gay back when I was five, for crying out loud, so it’s not like I’ve lacked years enough to find someone. And at least one should be a female concubine - what do I know about what I should be looking for in a female concubine?”

Whitefeather looked meaningfully at the man’s crotch but restrained himself from the obvious comment about what should be “in” a female concubine. “Kids. Get yourself a mother with high nurturing scores. She handles the babies and steers the baby-making, and helps you to raise the Douglas Fairbanks, Juniors.”

“Ah, a movie reference? You cultural philistine!” The smile on Douglas’ face took any sting out of the gibe.

Whitefeather drew himself up in mock outrage and turned to Della. “Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swoln parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years?”

“We have found our Prince Hal!” cried Douglas happily, springing to his feet to the astonishment of the girls in the “cattle call”. “Unfortunately, we’re not doing that play,” he added in continued good humour, “so onwards we look. Resume the hunt.” Douglas extended his arm in a gentlemanly gesture to the comely young lady on the stage. “Miss Molyneux, you may proceed. Please start with Hamlet meeting with his father’s ghost. Mr. Whitefeather, would you care to favour our endeavours by reading the ghost’s part?”

It was approaching two in the morning when William Whitefeather and his girlfriend Della Drudek began to wind their way arm-in-arm back home. The night was clear and dark and warm, with a faint scent rising from the flowers planted in front of Academic Hall perfuming the air. Off in the distance, someone was practising Chopin’s Nocturne #8 in D-flat Major.

Della took in a breath of the warm, sweet air. “Ah, how romantic. All we need is a blanket to lie upon and a bottle of wine.”

“And a little less light,” her Mohawk prince added, glancing up meaningfully at the streetlights. “Sex may be a spectator sport for some but making love should never be. At the apartment, though, we have an excellent bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, a comfortable mattress, a high-quality stereo, and a dimmer switch. Ah, and candles.”

“Ah, feeling frisky, are we?” She cuddled up closer to him.

“Yes. And I’m trying to make up for missing last night’s Friday date night. I just could NOT get away from Camp Gagetown a moment sooner. This is the best way I can think of to apologize.”