Chapter 27: Go Forth and Give Us Truth

“I pray you, sir, go forth,
And give us truth who ‘tis that is arrived.”

- Cassio, Othello, Act II Scene I

The fifth of June had been a busy day for Cadet Sergeant Kerri Hopson. The morning had been spent on the firing range supervising a platoon of young Cadets. The afternoon had been spent in a sleep trainer. It was now shortly before supper, and when other 11-year-olds back on Earth might be playing or relaxing, she was working at the dining table. The last message drone had included a newly developed design for a stealthy robot probe that could be sent to nearby potentially Swarm-infested star systems. Kerri hadn’t ducked fast enough when Lieutenant Whitefeather had been handing out assignments and had caught the task of reviewing the design.

Again, the simulation had the damned probe running out of fuel before it could complete its mission. She sat back and tossed the data pad onto the table in frustration. “Fffff...”

“No cursing!” her mother called from the kitchenette. Kristina pointed to Sherri. “Tender ears are listening.”

“Fluorine uranium carbon potassium!” Kerri spat. Yes, she discovered, cursing did make you feel better.

Her mother stared in confusion as Sherri fruitlessly tried to hide her snickers. Unseen behind Kristina, Kimberly gnawed on a knuckle to keep from laughing. “What?” Kristina glanced at the 8-year-old. “What?” she demanded again.

Kristina turned to Kimberly, whose sides were beginning to ache. The younger woman finally lost it, sinking down the wall to sit on the floor as tears of laughter ran down her cheeks.

Through all of this, Kerri doggedly continued to concentrate on the issue at hand. Finally, she dashed for the lift to the second level, yelling back, “I’ve got to talk to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.”

Kristina glared at Sherri, the tone of her voice holding a warning. “Sherri...”

All Sherri said in reply was, “The symbol for potassium on the Periodic Table of the Elements? That’s the letter ‘K’.” She guiltily giggled again.

It took a second for Kristina to realize just what those elements spelt. Then she winced as if in pain. “I don’t know whether to be outraged that an eight-year-old got the joke, or proud that an eight-year-old knows the Periodic Table of the Elements,” she sighed.

Kerri’s room now more closely resembled a bridge station on T’kliktguul than a young girl’s sleeping chamber. A desk covered with readouts and controls filled one side, and the walls were graced by several large displays with the real-time situation of Atalanta’at. The only concession to its original purpose was a plain twin-sized bed tucked against the far wall from the desk. Fortunately, her parents seldom came up here to see how she’d modified the space. The room screamed, “Kerri is not a little princess!”

“Guildenstern, some help please,” she asked as she closed the door behind her. She walked over to the workstation and sat down.

“Friend Kerri, precious youngling, how may I be of assistance?” T’kliktguul asked.

“I’m having trouble with this probe design,” Kerri admitted. “I can get it to the star system, but I can’t seem to get it back before it runs out of fuel ... unless I up the tanks to the point where it’s too visible to safely do its job. If it runs out of gas it’s useless, and if it gets spotted it’s worse than useless.”

“I see.” T’kliktguul contemplated the situation for a moment. “T’klikrooz, do you have any ideas, old friend?”

“I do, old friend and friend Kerri.” A hologram suddenly appeared in the corner of the room, by the foot of Kerri’s bed. The figure was a steel-haired, barrel-chested man wearing a suit and tie from the 1950’s. The hologram of a 1950’s concept of a moon rocket sat on a holographic stand beside him. “This individual is Doctor Wernher Magnus Maximilian, Freiherr von Braun. He created the United States National Aeronautics and Space Administration’s lunar rocket program in the third quarter of the twentieth century.”

Kerri began to see where this was going. “Stages!” she gasped, her voice a whisper. “We use one booster to get the probe to the target, and a smaller one to get it back to Atalanta’at!”

T’klikrooz’ voice held a note of approval. “Exactly, friend Kerri. The expended first stage heads into the sun of the target. When the probe is almost out of fuel it terminates its mission in the same sun. There is no AI to concern ourselves with. The data gets returned to Atalanta’at by a standard messenger drone.”

“That should work, old friend,” T’kliktguul congratulated. “You are thinking ‘outside the box’, as friend William would say.”

“You flatter me, old friend. I enjoy interacting with friend William. He has an intellect that demands respect. I am trying to emulate his thought processes, as his experience in matters of combat exceeds my own by a considerable margin.”

“How long will it take to make these?” Kerri demanded.

T’klikrooz checked the production schedule from the orbiting factory. “Friend Kerri, fabrication will take approximately four hours, twenty-three minutes and seventeen seconds.”

Kerri’s eyebrows rose. “Approximately?”

“Friend Kerri, I can provide a more precise estimate if that is required,” T’klikrooz offered.

“No,” Kerri snickered, “that’s approximate enough. Let’s get started.”

“Friend Kerri, one experimental probe has been added to the production queue.”

“Kerri!” her mother called. “Your father’s arrived!”

“Friend Kerri, I believe our meeting can be concluded at this time,” T’kliktguul advised the girl. “When the modified probe is ready for its test flight, we shall contact you. Enjoy a pleasant ingestion of nutrients.”

“OK, thanks, Guildenstern. Later!” She then raised her voice. “Coming, Mom – er, Mom Kristina!” Even after all these weeks, it was still hard to remember that she had two moms now.

She then dashed over to the lift to greet her father and enjoy a pleasant “ingestion of nutrients”.

First platoon, 2nd Company padded their way warily down the rocky arroyo as the last traces of sun faded into the west. Their laser rifles were raised and pointing alternately to the right or left as they’d recently learnt they should do. Their eyes were alert and constantly shifting, although at this stage of their training they were still a little vague as to what sort of signs of the enemy they should be looking for.

This was an entirely new situation for them, as previous to this they’d avoided contact with the other squads. They were nevertheless highly confident in their combat skills.

Their confidence was about to meet William Whitefeather in a battle of wits. Only one could possibly survive the encounter.

‘Now,’ came the calm command subvocally issued from a swarthy lieutenant standing high up on the left-hand ridge. The huge hands holding the digital binoculars to his eyes didn’t waver as the corporal kneeling beside him nodded and pressed a button on a portable control unit.

Down in the valley, from the platoon’s starboard side, small objects began leaping up to pelt down among the men. The yellow-and-orange objects bounced as they landed. The Marines did what most untrained soldiers would do in this situation: they reacted as individuals. Some stopped, tucked their heads in, and then examined this phenomenon. Most hit the deck, trying to avoid the incoming fusillade. A few fired their laser rifles wildly in the general direction from whence the bouncing things had come from, doing nothing to affect the carefully buried automated mortars launching the little things.

“Firing at random – which they can’t seem to hit,” the lieutenant observed sardonically from his position behind and above the platoon.

One man picked up one of the strange yellow objects and turned to the corporal. “Hey, Corp, look. It’s a harmless ol’ rubber d-”

The “harmless” rubber ducky in his hand broke wind.

Around the platoon, farting rubber duckies let loose with a fluorescent fog. Their armour locked as the cloud descended around them, indicating they’d just been “killed” by the innocent-looking menaces.

Boots could be heard crunching across the dry, gravelly soil. The corporal saw Lieutenant Whitefeather’s face come into view. “Remember what I was saying about looking for anything that looked unnatural?” Whitefeather asked, almost conversationally. “Be wary of anything that doesn’t look natural?”