Chapter 11: Sheep and Calves

“They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance”

- Hamlet, Hamlet, Act V, Scene I

William Whitefeather strode in the front door of Canada’s National Defence Headquarters with the confidence that came with being a veteran of hand-to-hand combat with both enemy soldiers and hidebound bureaucrats. As he entered the cavernous lobby, he removed his maroon Airborne beret and stuffed it into his CADPAT shirt’s left ammunition pocket.

“Sir,” greeted the elderly guard from the Corps of Commissionaires manning the reception booth behind a sheet of bulletproof glass, recognizing the Van Doo on sight. Still, Whitefeather swiped his “I” card and submitted to a retinal scan. The security system recognized him and unlocked the doors beside the booth, granting him access to the sensitive inner workings of the Ottawa edifice.

As the doors locked again behind him, Whitefeather handed his CADPAT jacket to the attractive young female private manning the coat check. He then headed to the stairs for a brisk climb to his temporary office on the fourth floor. As he was trying to maintain his body in fighting trim, Whitefeather eschewed elevators below the sixth floor.

As he settled in the chair behind his desk and booted up the computer built into its surface, a major noted his entry and followed him in.

“Major Lucas, Sir.” Whitefeather stood and came to attention respectfully.

“At ease, Captain,” the major replied with a casual air. As Whitefeather sat back down, Major Lucas added, “What’s this I hear about you selling your pickup? I thought you loved that old bucket o’ bolts.”

“I do, Sir, and I hate to do it, but with the growth of my family, it no longer meets my requirements. I’m looking for something with a crew cab.”

“Ah, I thought that’s what it was.” He bent over Whitefeather’s desk and turned the display around so it faced him. He input a URL code.

“Crown Assets happens to have one of these things. It’s ancient, with tons of kilometres on the odometer, so I think it’ll go cheap. Plus, there’s only one authorized bidder.”

Crown Assets was the Federal Government department that disposed of all the stuff that had reached the end of its economic life or was now surplus to the Government’s needs – vehicles, boats, lab equipment, any number of things, and from every department. The picture showed a pickup truck with a crew cab, with “Ministry of Transportation” emblazoned on the door.

Whitefeather took a look at the prize, noting the model year and odometer reading – the beast was practically brand new. “This sounds a little suspicious,” he noted. “One might call it a misuse of government assets.”

“Not at all, not at all. All soon-to-be extracted personnel are entitled to the loan of a vehicle, and we’ve done our research about their likes and dislikes. You like pickups. Here’s a pickup that meets your needs. Bid a twonie on it and its yours – provided you will it back to Crown Assets when you’re extracted.” The major paused. “You ARE still planning on accepting an offer of extraction?”

Whitefeather’s grin was positively feral. “Absolutely. Just try and stop me.” He then grew far more serious. “We have a species to save.”

“And you’ll need this.” The major dropped off five sets of house keys. “You’ll need the truck to help you move. You’re getting a PMQ in Uplands.” As the major left Whitefeather’s office, he added, “You’ll need that truck for your move this weekend.”

Whitefeather picked up the keys to his new Permanent Married Quarters. Uplands was a former Canadian Forces Base, much of which was now incorporated into the Macdonald-Cartier International Airport. Only support units and housing remained on what was left of the base. In the last year, the place had acquired a sturdy fence and permanently manned guardhouse at the main gate. “Great. I’m joining the RCAF again. At least it comes with a house this time.”

At that moment, an e-mail arrived from the Canadian Armed Forces Housing Agency, advising him of his upcoming move and that a moving agency had already been hired and scheduled. “That was quick.” Whitefeather picked up his office phone to let his concubines know of their upcoming housing relocation.

Whitefeather put down the phone. His usual contacts in Supply were not forthcoming on new information, which was unusual – they were typically a garrulous lot around him and were his usual pipeline of military and bureaucratic intelligence. If they didn’t know, then they didn’t know, but they usually felt more than free to speculate. Now, they were sticking to “safe” topics, like the prospects for various professional hockey teams. Most unusual.

He leaned back and considered the situation. Usually, he received notification fairly quickly after the end of a course of the next one, but this time he’d heard nothing. In the time since he’d finished with those hapless second lieutenants, he’d enjoyed two weeks of leave. It was a chance to see his family in the Brantford area again, and introduce the girls, and to meet their families. There were, he was sure, some broken hearts left behind.

He reviewed the communications from the Doctrine and Training Centre in Kingston he’d just received. They basically were advising him to wait but waiting was something that Whitefeather did not do well at all. He punched up his computer and entered a URL he wasn’t really supposed to know and began reviewing what was available to Earth forces on the Confederacy wiki.

He sensed that something was happening, something big, and that he and his little family were as involved as it was possible to be. It had to be an early extraction. Time to get ready. He came to a decision and reached for his desk telephone.

Lieutenant Sven Gustafsson had the duty again in Orbital Control aboard CSS Victory when two hyperspace footprints appeared at the edge of the Solar System. They rapidly resolved into the sensor signature of a pair of ancient Aurora-type freighters.

“Visual.”

The duty corporal toggled a switch on his board. The screen display changed from a systems tactical display to show the image of T’klikrooz and T’kliktguul as the pair approached the outermost gas giants in stately formation. The pair looked for all the world as if they were doing a formal Renaissance court dance. Each ship’s name was displayed under the appropriate vessel in the cuneiform-like Tuull script.

Sven looked at the list in front of him of available Confederacy Navy ship names and pennant numbers. No sense in translating that gibberish into Roman script if they were only going to be called something else very shortly. He stopped abruptly, however, when unexpected noises erupted from the speakers.

“Baaa.”

“
Baaa”

“Sheep?” Gustafsson remarked in puzzled astonishment.

“Baaa.”

“Baaa.”

“Sending unit, identify,” Gustafsson growled into his headset. He decided he’d had enough of this foolishness. Someone must be playing an elaborate practical joke.

“Shall I be spokesman?” came a richly bass masculine voice.

“I would appreciate that. Thank you,” a second masculine voice of slightly higher pitch, more a baritone than a bass.

“Very well. Confederate Systems Ship Victory, this is T’klikt Clan Trading Vessel T’kliktguul, of the Tuull of Tuullat. I am accompanied by T’klikt Clan Trading Vessel T’klikrooz.” The Tuull names were full of the high-pitched squeaks and clicks that typified Tuull speech patterns, rather than the tones utilized in human vocalization. “We understand you have some work for us?” There followed a pause and then, “Baaa.”

The sailors manning Orbital Control exchanged looks. They’d never heard of anything like this before.

“Ahem. Yes,” Lieutenant Gustafsson temporized. “This is Orbital Control, aboard CSS Victory. Welcome to Earthat. We hope you had a pleasant trip. We need you to exchange cargo pods at the fourth planet of the system, ‘Mars’, and board your human crew. They’ll do a brief familiarization trip, or ‘shakedown cruise’. Then you are to proceed to orbit around the third planet, ‘Earth’, to pick up your passengers for their trip. Clearance granted to proceed on Corridor Uniform Mike Three Seven to MFC Dagenham for pod replacement and crew embarkation.”

“T’klikrooz and I both thank you, Confederacy Systems Ship Victory Orbital Control. We are proceeding on our rendezvous with Mars Fabrication Centre Dagenham in orbit around Mars via Corridor Uniform Mike Three Seven. Have a pleasant day.” And with that, the two ships calmly began making their stately way down the indicated corridor from the area of Uranus to Mars. “Baaa.”

“Baaa.”

Sven mused aloud, “Doesn’t sound like any Darjee-English translator mechanism doodad thingie I’ve ever heard before. Have they given them some sort of upgrade?”

The corporal manning the nearest board gave him a shrug. He was equally mystified, but not especially concerned – it wasn’t really his problem to worry about.

In the confusion of the highly non-standard arrival of the two freighters, Sven did not realize he’d overlooked assignment of Confederacy Navy pennant numbers and names. Neither T’klikrooz nor T’kliktguul chose to draw it to the Lieutenant’s attention; the less they had to do with the Confederacy Navy, the better.

In his pre-extraction life, he’d been Tanaka Ichiro-san, production engineer for Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, working his way up from an assistant on the early light rail cars to eventually having major responsibilities on the construction of the latest class of Japanese Self-Defence Force submarines. As his reward when he was extracted, he was now Lieutenant Ichiro Tanaka, Confederacy Fleet Auxiliary, commander of Mars Fabrication Centre Dagenham, trying to squeeze the highest possible efficiency out of the process to maximize the number of pods his unit produced. He was in an informal and almost friendly competition with MFC River Rouge to see if he could produce pods faster than they could produce Auroras.