Chapter 20: Soused Gurnet

“If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a
soused gurnet. I have misused the King’s press damnably.”
- Falstaff, Henry V Part I, Act IV, Scene II
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Confederacy Marine Lieutenant William Whitefeather, as he’d promised, was the last passenger off T’kliktguul. He arrived to find the transporter compartment bereft of all but a pair of Marine privates manning the transporter console, his family and the Hopson clan.

Sergeant Hopson came to attention and saluted. “All men have proceeded to their assigned quarters, Sir,” he reported.

“Very well, Sergeant,” Whitefeather responded formally. “You are relieved. Proceed to your own quarters. I’ll notify you as soon as I’ve gotten the briefing from the Colonel.”

“Sir,” Hopson acknowledged. Saluting again, he turned to his women. “Follow me. Kristina, take the rear, make sure they don’t stray.” And with that, Lincoln and his line left the compartment.

‘Lieutenant William Whitefeather,’ the voice of the base AI announced in his head, ‘welcome to Nova Alabama. Your quarters are in Corridor Three, Suite Twenty-four. Follow the yellow line.”

‘First, a question. I am assuming that there will be a briefing with the Colonel. Has one been scheduled?’

The AI paused before replying, which puzzled Whitefeather. Then, ‘A briefing of all officers has been scheduled for thirteen forty-five hours in Brigade Headquarters Briefing Room One.’

‘And what time is it now?’ Whitefeather demanded.

‘Lieutenant William Whitefeather, the current base time is eleven eighteen hours.’

Whitefeather nodded. “Alright ladies, after me. Callie, take the rear.”

“Yes, Sir.” Callie saluted. As far as she was concerned, the concubine shift she was wearing WAS a uniform, and as she was therefore in uniform, she should salute. William hid his amusement as he crisply responded to her salute – he liked the image of the well-drilled concubine her action projected.

The path to Corridor 3 went down the tunnel connecting the main dome and the as-yet-unfinished second dome. This tunnel being more spacious in terms of both height and width than any other tunnel, it was referred to as Main Street. Many of the compartments that lined Main Street were fitted with windows which added to the illusion that they were walking down a street in some demented amusement park version of the London of the Georgian Era.

Corridor 3 turned out to be Officer Country. Of the thirty units lining it, only eleven others were occupied, the doorways identifying the occupants as being four Marine lieutenants, six Navy officers and Colonel Parker. At the far end of the corridor, William and his clan could hear children’s shrieks of laughter coming from a brightly lit playground. Whitefeather stopped at a door labelled “3-24”, which bore his name and in smaller font beneath, the first names of his concubines.

The compartment behind the door proved to be a bog-standard, shades-of-grey pod, the same as they’d had when they boarded T’kliktguul. The only thing they had that was theirs was the bag filled with photographs and mementos that Judy hefted over her shoulder. Obviously, the entire base was built based on standard cargo pods, buried under the sands and connected by tunnels.

“Well, be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home,” William remarked. “AI, the concubines get standard permissions – if they have a question, answer it. They have the rights to entertainment and to use the replicators for food and clothing. Let them enter and leave the pod. And girls, this afternoon I want you to come up with a decoration plan that you can agree on – I’ll have to approve it, but the only thing I insist on is that a corner gets carved out as my office. Everyone clear on that?”

Everyone nodded. Callie looked at Lisa. “We need to get some food going. Give me a hand?”

Precisely at thirteen forty-four hours, Lieutenant Whitefeather stood in front of the door leading to the Colonel’s briefing room. He checked his Sam Browne belt – he was still uncomfortable about wearing it, as the Canadian Armed Forces didn’t have any such thing in its standard dress modes – and just as the clock turned to thirteen forty-five hours, knocked to request admittance.

The door slid open to reveal ... nobody. He was on time, where in the name of Hades’ whorehouse was everyone else?

He strode in, proud and disciplined and correct. The tables were set in a “U” shape, with the open end toward his right. This open end faced a wall upon which a 3-dimensional video representation of the slowly rotating planet of Atalanta danced. The bottom of the “U” had three chairs, while five more graced each arm. He chose a seat along the farthest arm from the door, leaving the end at the bottom of the “U” for the Colonel and any other senior officers.

“AI,” he called aloud, “am I in the correct room and at the correct time for the Colonel’s briefing?”

“Lieutenant William Whitefeather, that is correct.”

He pondered the data pad in front of him for a couple of heartbeats. “And the Colonel and my fellow officers, are they on their way?”

“Lieutenant William Whitefeather, that is correct.”

Another pair of heartbeats passed. “And what is their estimated time of arrival?”

“Colonel Robert Palmer has been distracted by an issue involving Base Defence Engineering and is in discussion with Lieutenant Kirk Boland. It is not certain at this moment what their arrival time is likely to be. Lieutenant Christopher Janke has an estimated time of arrival of five minutes and thirteen seconds. Lieutenant Henry Cho and Lieutenant Stuart Lacey are just entering the anteroom right now.”

The door slid open as Lieutenants Cho and Lacey entered the briefing room. Henry Cho was, as his name hinted, of Korean ancestry. Stuart Lacey boasted a hair of pure scarlet. Both had taken the same marine modification, and both were wearing the same Full Dress as Whitefeather.

“Where’s everyone else?” Lieutenant Cho asked, startled to see only one other officer there.

“They’re on their way,” Whitefeather responded. He stood and walked back around to the door side of the room. “I’m Leftenant William Whitefeather, just arriving on Guildenstern.”

“Lieutenant Henry Cho,” the oriental offered. “Rosencrantz.” He shook his head. “That is one weird ship.” His accent hinted at an origin on the west coast of the United States.

“Lieutenant Stuart Lacey,” the scarlet-haired man beside Cho said. “I just arrived on the Dance of Spirits.” The inflection in the redhead’s speech was right out of Brooklyn.

The door burst open at that moment and, twenty minutes late, one more lieutenant burst through. Dressed in his Daily uniform, the blond-haired man had a chisel jaw that made him look like some sort of Nordic superman out of a Leni Riefenstahl movie.

The superman regarded the three happily. “You must be the new guys! Glad you’re here! Oh, I’m Christopher Janke. Just call me ‘Janke’ – I hate my given name.”

As handshakes were exchanged, Lacey noted, “You could change your name, you know – the AI won’t object.”

Janke shrugged, smiling gently at a private memory. “Yeah, but it’s the one I grew up with. My parents would be hurt if I did, after all it’s my granddad’s name. He kind of likes it, don’t ask me why.”

“Colonel Robert Palmer is approaching,” the emotionless voice of the AI warned.

The door slid aside almost immediately. The goateed colonel strode in, Lieutenant Kirk Boland hard on his heels.

“ROOM!” Whitefeather commanded, as had been drilled into him since his days as an Army Cadet.

The reaction was, perhaps, predictable: the other three who had preceded Colonel Palmer stood to some semblance of Attention, none of them exhibiting the kind of discipline that a regular line soldier would have. Palmer merely stared for a second at his new lieutenant, and then muttered, “Carry on.” He then added, slightly louder, “Let’s get this over with. Be seated gentlemen. Grab a coffee if you want one.”

“Black no sugar?” Janke asked his commanding officer, who nodded in wordless response.

Whitefeather’s order was pure Canadian: “Double-double,” he instructed the replicator.

“Define ‘double-double’,” came the AI’s prim response as his fellow officers exchanged puzzled looks.

“Coffee with double creme and double sugar.” He rolled his eyes skyward in frustration.

“Recorded.” William correctly deduced from the laconic reply that the AI would now produce the desired caffeine delivery system the next time he used that wording.

As they settled down, Palmer turned to Whitefeather. “We are here because Lieutenant Whitefeather called this meeting. Care to tell us why?”

Whitefeather stared at Palmer in some surprise. “It is customary for commanding officers to give newly arriving troops a SITREP immediately upon reporting to their posting. I asked when that would happen, so I take it from your remark that none had been scheduled until the AI prompted you.”

Palmer was equally surprised. “Ah, what’s a SITREP?”

Whitefeather hid his surprise as best he could. “A situation report, Sir. What assets do we have available, what is their state of preparedness, the geography of our position, the enemy’s location, capabilities, that sort of thing.”