Chapter 18: Christmas Gambold

“Marry, I will. Let them play it. Is not a comonty a
Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick?”
- Sly, Taming of the Shrew, Introduction 2, Line 136
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One of the many idiosyncrasies that both T’klikrooz and T’kliktguul had developed over the tens of centuries of their existence was a tendency to sing to themselves whenever they felt unsettled – but only whenever around people that they felt comfortable with. Sailing into a front-line star system so close to the enemy as to be almost beyond the hazy demarcation line between Sa’arm and non-Sa’arm space was very disconcerting to any intelligent being with emotions. So it should perhaps have been of no surprise to Lieutenant William Whitefeather to hear, as he entered the cargo hold being used to train the forward half of the recruits, a song being sung under someone’s breath in a suspiciously familiar bass voice, to the tune of Jingle Bells.

“Jingle bells, mortar shells, Vichi in the grass...” Another holographic structure rose, a clapboard store right out of an 1870’s-era western town. There was even a thin film of holographic dirt on the outside of the shop window.

Whitefeather merely observed in silent puzzlement.

“You can kiss your Merry Christmas up your fucking ass, oh...” The song paused briefly again, as apparently T’kliktguul was dissatisfied with the illusion. The window widened and rose in height, revealing a man in a porkpie hat and striped apron inside the shop. Apparently it was going to be a butcher’s shop.

Whitefeather was finding T’kliktguul’s creative process was almost human. It was as if the ancient ship regarded this holographic settlement to be as much of a work of art as any painting or tapestry. He smiled in quiet amusement as he continued to stand there.

“Hmm, this is missing something ... right ... about ... here.” As T’kliktguul hummed the next line of the song, a horizontal rod a foot or so from the ceiling appeared, and a fraction of a second later a stretch of connected sausage links dangled down.

“There,” T’kliktguul announced to himself with satisfaction. “That should do quite adequately.” A sound like the clicking of a camera was heard, and Whitefeather realized the holographic diorama had been preserved in a data file for future reference. “Oh what fun it is to have the Nazis back in town,” the elderly freighter concluded. “Good evening, Leftenant Whitefeather. The revisions to Hogan’s Alley are complete and ready for our trainees tomorrow.”

Whitefeather wondered silently when the recruits had become T’kliktguul’s trainees as well as his. Probably, the Confederacy Marine decided, that merging happened when he’d borrowed this vessel’s services to create his on-board basic training regime. “Looks good, friend Guildenstern. Well done.”

“Friend William, I thank you for the compliment.” The old ship paused for a beat, and added, “I would like to ask a question about Earth customs. Do you have a moment to discuss this?”

“Yes, friend Guildenstern, a brief moment.”

“It is about this concept called ‘Christmas’. Some of the dependants have expressed concern about this fictional figure they refer to by a variety of names such as ‘Santa Claus’, ‘Kris Kringle’ or ‘Saint Nicholas’. I have received requests for assistance from the various pod AI, and from various parental units.”

“Oh?” Whitefeather asked cautiously. “What kind of assistance?”

“Friend William, informational and advice.” T’kliktguul’s voice took on a professorial tone. “As the legend states, an aged, corpulent and hirsute male homo sapiens endowed with supernatural powers flies through the air in a rail-equipped unpowered transportation device towed by eight diminutive Rangifer tarandus around midnight local time three Terran days after the northern hibernal solstice. This cultural icon lands on the roof of the structure housing the younglings, magically inserts himself into the interior via a primitive combustion gas evacuation system and places endowments underneath a brightly decorated example of the Pinaceae family and in hosiery placed out there for that express purpose. If the resident youngling has not met the cultural expectation of a ‘good child’, then a piece of anthracite is left in place of normal gifts to signify that the youngling in question has been registered on the ‘naughty’ codex.” T’kliktguul paused for a beat. “I trust I have the general outlines of the tradition covered?”

“I think so...” Whitefeather cocked his head quizzically, wondering briefly what a Pinaceae was.

“Friend William, there are a number of issues, none of which have been resolved as this is the first Christmas that dependants have been off Earth. First, this Santa Claus being fictional, apparently someone dons a suitable disguise. We therefore need someone to act the role.”

“No issue there. We ask someone with no kids above the age of one in his pod to act as Santa. You have patterns for a Santa Claus suit?”

“I have several, in various degrees of realism. With your permission, I shall choose the most realistic.”

Whitefeather nodded in satisfaction. “That works for me, friend Guildenstern. Next issue?”

“Friend William, you may have observed that the pods lack both roofs and primitive combustion gas evacuation systems, and have no direct access outside of my form. Further, as we are currently travelling faster than the speed of light, we are completely isolated from the universe. The younglings are demanding an explanation as to how this ‘Santa’ is going to board me and get into each pod.”

“Let me think about that one...” Whitefeather responded as he pondered the situation.

The evening meal was just winding down. Around the six passenger and two crew messes, desserts were being consumed and coffee and tea were being savoured. The bass voice of T’kliktguul suddenly echoed through the eight passenger and two crew mess rooms. “Pardon this interruption, gentlebeings, but Leftenant William Whitefeather of the Confederacy Marines would like to address us all about a common household issue that has come to his attention. Thank you.”

Conversation died to a murmur. Everyone was curious about what this “household issue” could be that everyone shared. In one of the crew’s messes, all eyes locked on Captain Ratimir Doroshenko, who merely sat there with a knowing smile.

In Mess Room Forward Two, images from the other mess rooms appeared on three of the walls. Whitefeather stood with his back to the wall lined with food replicators, a happy smile on his face.

“Thank you, everyone. Now, how many of us have dependants in our pods?”

More than a few hands shot up. One entire table consisting of a Marine, two concubines and no fewer than four cherubic rug rats stood and cheered.

“So how many are celebrating Christmas this year?”

Some of the kids looked to the adults before responding, but pretty well every kid over four eventually had their hands raised.

“Guildenstern, please tell them about our discussion on Christmas decoration.”

“Certainly, Leftenant William Whitefeather. I can utilize holographic imagery to create appropriate decoration in my passageways and compartments. Each pod can utilize their own pod’s Artificial Intelligence unit to decorate the pod according to their taste, utilizing either physical decorations, holography or a combination of both. We further discussed forming a decorating committee consisting of the head concubine from each corporal’s household and two head concubines from the other ranks, who would come up with suggested decorations for a general vote by all sponsors on board. Decorations in the crew’s quarters would be up to my crew themselves to determine.”

Despite the distraction of the decorating committees, Lieutenant William Whitefeather decreed that training still had to carry on. As the children’s lessons were conducted in both fore and aft sections of the hull in a storage compartment adjoining the Hogan’s Alley compartment, the Marines themselves went through their paces.

Private Charles “Chuck” Warner stood alone and alert. He was more than a little nervous; indeed, if he were to admit the truth, he was downright scared. You never knew just what awaited you. That stupid life-sized tyrannosaur the last time...

Around him, tumbleweeds blew and from a hitching post an Arizona alligator lizard tested the air with its tongue. Storefronts up and down the one-horse town advertised a saloon, general store and other shops. The tallest thing he could see in the little metropolis was the spire of a local church.

Suddenly the fuzzy image of a holographic person walked out of an alley next to the false-front shop housing the barber (“and Dentistry” the sign boasted): Yul Brynner. “Draw!” the image commanded.

The robot that the actor had portrayed in the preceding evening’s movie during Family Movie Time in the Mess Rooms wasn’t as quick as the standard-package-sized Marine – but then, it also wasn’t as quick as the reflexes sported by this simulacrum, backed up as it was by T’kliktguul’s processors. The private dived, just missing being shot by a very realistic holographic slug from a Colt .45 Peacemaker. Disdaining the RLA-1 on such a small target, he pulled out his own K-1 knife and took a swat at the computer-generated pest.