Chapter 13: To This Speedy Voyage

“Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage.
For we will fetters put about this fear,
Which now goes too free-footed.”

- King Claudius, to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Hamlet Act III, Scene III

In orbit high above Earth, looking down as the mothballed International Space Station swept in its far-lower orbit, T’kliktguul and T’klikrooz prepared to take on their first cargo in about 24,000 years. And not just any cargo, but live, sentient beings.

Alright, so the emotionless Darjee-designed AI didn’t consider concubines as necessarily sentient, but still as members of the same species. Both Tuull freighters were well aware that the CAP scoring system didn’t reward someone with a sponsorship-level overall score just because they had a high intellect score – you needed high aggressiveness, sexuality and loyalty scores. It was possible to be a borderline cretin and still get the sponsorship scores if the other subscores were high enough to overcome that handicap.

So the pair had long ago mutually agreed to just ignore the proscription against listening to and responding to a concubine, as long as the concubine in question, male or female, wasn’t a brainless baby factory.

Because the Confederacy Central Command’s trust level of these oddballs was, to put it mildly, zero, it had been decided that their first mission would be shared with a ship with a Darjee AI that could hopefully ride herd on them. The vessel chosen as the flagship of the little squadron, Aurora-class CSS Dance of Spirits, stood off their port bows. The two Tuull vessels privately referred to her as Danse Macabre. Their communications staff were getting used to the frequent communications from Captain Karl Becker, the acting commodore aboard Dance of Spirits, being preceded by T’kliktguul and T’klikrooz inserting a few bars from a recording of Shostakovich’s Piano Trio No. 2 in E minor, Opus 67, 4th movement – Danse Macabre.

At the moment aboard the three transport ships, six teams of Confederacy Marines, big and tough and armed with impressive-looking stun guns built more to look rather than actually be lethal, prepared for the upcoming actions to scoop up three loads of volunteers and their families for the newly-established colony of Nova Alabama.

The Marines in the forward group on T’klkitguul were listening to a couple of Canadian Army veterans speak in hushed tones of a couple of officers that they knew. The stories being swapped piqued his interest, as they did to T’klikrooz when his old friend called his attention to them. If they could get one of these two officers, it would be a much livelier voyage indeed. If they could get both?

In the Era of the Swarm, a lot of people looked to their particular nation’s military forces to protect them, and those who volunteered to put on the uniform were given honours galore, including special treats to keep their morale high. Anyone familiar with tales of the home front during both the 20th Century’s World Wars would find a parallel to their more modern equivalent.

Professional sports still existed, as extractions had only just started to take a serious bite into the available pool of quality athletes and officials. The Canadian Football League was no exception.

Canadian football was similar to American football with only minor differences. The most significant three were that the Canadian field was wider and longer, there was an extra man in the backfield, and the Canadian game used only three downs instead of four. Many thought the three-down rule made the Canadian game lean on passing more than rushing, which made it far more exciting than the grind-it-out-at-the-line-of-scrimmage tactics favoured under the American four-down rules.

This Saturday afternoon, the Ottawa RedBlacks was having a special night, celebrating Canada’s armed forces. As a result, the crowd at Frank Clair Stadium was liberally peppered with Canadian Armed Forces uniforms, with CADPAT camouflage the most common.

The visiting team was the pride and joy of Calgary, the Stampeders. Calgary’s mascot was a spirited cow pony named Marty. The horse had just arrived and was nervously pawing the ground on the Calgary side of the field, its rider ready to spur it into a run down the Calgary sidelines any time Calgary scored. In the 1948 Toronto Grey Cup, some Calgary supporters had ridden horses into the august and very formal lobby of the five-star Royal York Hotel. Marty had spent the afternoon recreating that scene in the lobby of the equally staid Chateau Laurier, to the amusement of the famous old hotel’s patrons and the consternation of its staff.

The two dance squads of cheerleaders, torsos clad in short skirts and body paint all in their respective teams’ colours, were trying to whip the crowd into a frenzy of patriotic cheering. It must be admitted that most of the males – and not a few of the females – were enjoying the show for reasons other than patriotism. The young ladies were completely “regimental” under their skimpy skirts, their genitalia disguised by judicious application of the same shades of body paint as that decorating their bosoms. The weather had turned quite cold as Canadian fall began to give way to Canadian winter, making the under-dressed dancers’ nipples quite erect despite the gas-fired heaters directed their way.

As the pregame warmup began, four figures raced across the field. Each comely young maiden was completely nude, aside from running shoes and ankle socks. The startled paid-duty police officers handling stadium security had only a moment to gather their wits as the four belted out in unison, “If you can catch us – you can HAVE us!” And with that, the four streakers returned from whence they came. After a fraction of a moment, four of Ottawa Police Service’s finest constables dashed after them.

That fraction of a second, and their far younger ages, gave the girls a decided advantage over the pursuing police officers. They made it into the tunnel that ran under the stands, dashed around the corner, and vanished from sight.

The four gasping gendarmes rounded the same corner to find themselves utterly alone.

“Dammit,” one of the officers fretted, “now we look like idiots. Again. Where the hell did they go?”

Far above the four fatigued and frustrated flatfeet desperately searching under the stands, Van Doos Captain William Whitefeather sat like some sort of Aztec monarch in his CADPAT uniform, his four proto-concubines sitting around him. They’d exchanged their previous dress of running shoes and ankle socks for boots, blue jeans, sweaters, scarves and winter coats, each coat bearing the crest of Canada’s Royal Military College. They’d also managed to acquire a temporary tattoo of the RedBlacks’ logo on their faces.

As Callie cupped her paper cup of hot chocolate, she complained, “That was COLD!”

Whitefeather’s grin widened. “But fun, wasn’t it?”

“Well, yeah. It WAS a rush.” She took a sip of the hot chocolate to hide her smile. “When we get back to the house tonight, I’m going to fuck someone’s brains out.” With the next sip, she began to feel less like an ice cube. “But tell me, you wouldn’t have let them screw us if they’d caught up to us, would you?”

Whitefeather pretended to ignore the question, which only served to increase the four ladies’ nervousness. Shivers ran down their spines – shivers unrelated to the crisp late November temperatures.

Lisa was not much of a sports fan, and as a result knew little of football. On the first play after the opening kickoff, one of the defenders jumped before the snap of the ball. Flags flew. “Oh, the referee dropped his hankie!” she exclaimed.

The others stared at her as if she’d grown a second head.

“No, honey, that was deliberate,” Della advised her, as Callie and Judy stuffed knuckles into their mouths to keep from giggling. “It means one of the players goofed, and one of the zebras saw it.”

Lisa got to see the referee “drop his hankie” a number of times that afternoon. Neither side had the quality of players they’d had a few years’ previous.

The game finally hit the fourth quarter.

“So if Ottawa scores, they’d win, right?” Lisa asked.

“Right,” William confirmed.

She shot yet another look at the clock. “And they’ve only got time for one more play, right?”

“Right,” William nodded.

“So the only way they can win is if that guy catches it?”

“Right, ah -WHAT?” William stared at the spot in the field Lisa was pointing at. Standing on Calgary’s 3-yard line was an Ottawa receiver. The nearest player on either side was somewhere around Ottawa’s 20-yard line, far upfield. The ball was already in flight, sailing far down to land right into the cradling arms of the man, who stepped once, twice and entered the end zone, alone and unmolested.

Ottawa, to the amazement of the crowd, had won.

“But ... but ... but ... but if I can figure that out, why can’t the coaches?” she sputtered, amazed.

“Someone blew their coverage,” giggled Della, as the crowd around them snickered at Lisa – or more accurately, at the teams’ performance on the last play.

The door to their home opened and the Whitefeather clan stumbled in. On the kitchen table sat five letters, each stamped and ready to go and spread out so that the addresses could be seen on each. The envelopes were addressed to the families of William, Della, Callie, Lisa and Judy.