Chapter 10: A Soldier, A Man of Travel

“Some certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that hath seen the world –but let that pass.”

- Armado, Love’s Labour’s Lost, Act V, Scene I

“Parade! Dis-MISSED!”

The thirty second lieutenants who had spent the last three months under Captain William Whitefeather’s often-less-than-gentle tutelage turned to the right and marched three paces, then headed off the parade square – normally a University of Ottawa parking lot – to meet those of their loved ones who could come to Ottawa to witness their graduation. This evening they would have their graduation blow-out before heading off for their home militia regiments from Nova Scotia to British Columbia.

Whitefeather was feeling more than satisfied with the results of his trainees. They’d worked hard, made plenty of mistakes of course, but learnt from those mistakes and developed and grown as fighting men and women, as leaders as well as tacticians. Any decent sergeant or master corporal would still consider them dangerously raw and green, but they were now almost as dangerous to any enemy as they’d be to their own men. Their home units would be more than satisfied with the results.

Beside him stood Colonel Howling Mad Hollister, back to see the results of his turn with this same class. He had taught them for the first month in historical tactics from ancient Egypt and Greece to modern guerrilla warfare, in places ranging from isthmuses and plains to mountains and urban settings. He shook Whitefeather’s proffered hand enthusiastically.

“Good to see you again, Bill,” the old American Marine said enthusiastically. “How did my old class do?”

“Aces and kings, my old friend, aces and kings.”

They looked back at the rapidly dispersing graduates. “Say, Bill, that was a nice touch, having that pennant presented to the principal of that school you stole it from. And signed by all our students too.”

“Oh, I didn’t steal it. It just, ah, ‘arrived’ at my office one day. Convenient though. Besides, I didn’t need it for my ‘I love me’ wall.”

“Yeah, ‘arrived’. Bullshit,” Hollister snorted in amusement.

“That’s what those kids from that Army Cadet unit would want me to say, so that’s the official story.” The two men broke out in snickers.

“I believe we have beer coming our way, Colonel, on this lovely and blesséd Hallowmas.” said Whitefeather with feigned formality, using the old Shakespearean word for All Saints’ Day, November the First.

“I do believe you’re correct, Captain,” Hollister responded with equal gravitas.

“And none of that American flavoured water stuff, you hear? If you insist on doing something as silly as making love in a canoe, I’ll drop you and a willing lady off in Algonquin Provincial Park.”

“I shall defer to your more educated palate in such matters, Captain.”

“In that case, off we go.” And the two joined Whitefeather’s prepack of Della, Callie, Judy and Lisa, all of whom were anxious to get out of the cool November weather as a brisk wind caused dried orange and red leaves to swirl around their feet.

The venue for Captain Whitefeather’s graduating class was the Cask and Concubine Brewpub, near the main University of Ottawa campus. It had a very private garden patio out the back, with high ivy-covered walls of Victorian-era clay brick, a canvas awning and efficient gas heaters. Even in the chill air of November, it was warm enough that nobody needed a coat. A DJ was playing gentle and relaxing jazz tunes through the dinner.

Many University students and staff frequented this place, as it was close to the main campus. Its attraction besides location was fourfold: the beer was tasty and available in a variety of strengths and types, the decor had a casual and relaxing ambiance, being where people gathered it was a potential extraction spot, and the young, attractive all-female wait staff wore a “uniform” consisting of knee-high go-go boots, short-short hot pants and body paint.

Over half the second lieutenants had guests from their hometowns. Others had found local college-age kids to escort. Every one of those college kids knew that the young neophyte officers were all extraction material: in the Era of the Swarm, having a high enough CAP score was a prerequisite for enlistment in the Canadian Armed Forces as an officer. They’d have to serve a year before being permitted extraction unless granted one of the rare exemptions, but an extraction was as good as guaranteed and tied with a bow.

The meal was a traditional roast-beef dinner with Yorkshire pudding, balsamic green beans, whole roasted shallots and potatoes with rosemary, and ginger carrots and broccoli with sesame seeds. A bottomless glass of Niagara Region merlot complemented the meal. Dessert would be cheddar crust apple tart with a pony glass of icewine, or coffee or tea for those not wishing to imbibe further.

William and his prepack sat at a table for eight with Colonel Hollister, resplendent in his full-dress US Marine Corps uniform, and the director of Hamlet, James Douglas. William wore the same Canadian Army uniform he’d worn the previous weekend at that first showing of Hamlet, Callie wore her guardsman’s uniform, and Della, Judy and Lisa wore sheer party dresses that crossed in the back, showing deep cleavage and a bare midriff. Compared to the waitresses’ outfits, the three ladies were dressed comparatively conservatively.

The roast beef was done to perfection. Each bite was so tender it practically melted on William’s appreciative tongue, the horseradish sauce providing just the right counterpoint to the meat. As he sat back to enjoy the sensation, James gazed at him over his wineglass.

“So, I see you’ve got your prepack together.”

“I do not deny it,” William confessed. “And a happy future sponsor am I. You?”

James wrinkled his nose. “I think I’ve got the male, but the female still mystifies me.”

“Join the club,” Hollister grinned. “The female of the species has mystified me all my life!”

“Well, the mystery to me is how to choose. How did you choose?”

Whitefeather extended a hand at Callie. “I’m looking to make her my straw boss. She’s going to keep the home pod in order, determine if everyone’s getting her fair share of bedroom time, look out for everyone else and keep them on an even keel.”

He then pointed to Della. “She makes an excellent mother. She has a number of siblings she helped raise, as well as doing babysitting jobs and helping in a daycare. While I’d like to have chosen someone who was already a mother, she at least has all of the experience with the subject this side of giving birth.”

Judy’s turn was next. “Her engineering skills will help whatever colony we end up going to. She’s not the mothering type, but then I’ve already got Della.”

Finally, Lisa came under the microscope. “She’s taking geology with a heavy emphasis on physics. Perfect for getting the most out of our new home system, wherever it might be and whatever it might have.” His voice took on a tone of satisfaction as he added, “Plus, she fucks like a mink.” Lisa reddened, but didn’t dare utter a word of protest – in the era of the Swarm, that was a compliment for any concubine.

“Like THAT is an issue with me,” James replied sardonically, as Hollister’s shoulders shook with silent chuckles.

“Master?” Lisa asked nervously.

“Yes?”

“Maybe what Mr. Douglas needs is a mother-type who isn’t all that interested in sex.”

Everyone pondered that one for a moment. Hollister was the first to think it through. “Do you mean like a lesbian?”

Lisa shook her head. “No, something more like a dead fuck with a high mothering score. Someone who likes babies and kids but isn’t all that enthusiastic about making them.” She shrugged and added, “She’ll happily make them, but only because that’s how she gets the kids in the first place. She’d have her eyes on the prize.”

James seized on the idea immediately. “That sounds perfect!” Then his countenance fell. “But how would I get such a paragon of virtue?”

“If you’d like, I might be able to play ‘matchmaker’ and get you a nice female candidate or three,” William offered. What he didn’t add was that he’d use the resources available to the Canadian Armed Forces: the Confederacy AI. They could scan through potential local candidates and come up with at least one suitable potential match.

“If you know of someone...” James ventured.

“Let me see what I can do,” William suggested.

“If you could, Bill. I’d appreciate it.”

As the class of second lieutenants and their honoured guests enjoyed copious quantities of craft-brewed beer at the Cask and Concubine Brewpub, a Confederacy drone popped into the Earthat system.

Drones were forever popping in and out, and this one excited no comment from casual observers. Direct system-to-system contact utilized a vast quantity of energy and therefore was only used for the most vital of communications. Although manned vessels could be used to deliver data packets, they rarely were – crews were scarce enough that they were largely reserved for warships and colonial transports. As a result, most routine communications were by messenger drone.

The data files aboard such a drone would carry anything and everything imaginable: the latest analysis of Swarm tactics, updated weapon and ship designs, news summaries from other colonies, e-mail between colonies (or between residents of a colony and their next-of-kin left behind on Earth), even the latest music videos and food replicator patterns.