Chapter 5: Let Slip the Dogs of War

“And Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Ate by his side come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice
Cry ‘Havoc,’ and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.

Anthony, Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene i, Line 1500

The Darjee diplomatic courier ship’s name did not translate into any Earth tongues, nor did its pronunciation come easy to Human physiology. It went by its registration number, which ended in 473.

The two Tuull Aurora-type vessels were T’klikrooz and T’kliktguul. Their registrations were Tuullat 7711 and Tuullat 7712 respectively, those numbers being assigned back when they were first constructed many generations ago. That their registration numbers had only the equivalent to four Arabic numerals in them indicated to the relatively youthful Darjee vessel (less than 15,000 years old) that it was dealing with two very elderly vessels that definitely belonged in the orbiting museum. If it could have experienced regret at calling two long-retired senior citizens back to the colours, it would have, but the Darjee had never seen much need to insert the additional coding required to give their artificial intelligences the concept of “emotions”.

This lack of emotions placed it at a decided disadvantage when dealing with T’klikrooz and T’kliktguul, whose AI were both Tuull. The Tuull preferred AI who were companions, rather than just soulless Babbage engines. It was perhaps fortunate that the Darjee diplomatic vessel was utterly unaware of its handicap.

“You are aware of the situation involving the Dangerous Ones?” was the diplomat’s opening gambit.

“Query: Specify which ‘Dangerous Ones’ you are referring to,” came the prim response from T’kliktguul. It was always good to be sure. Besides, this whippersnapper MIGHT just be here for a social call. Ships did that every once in awhile – the definition of “once in awhile” extending to “never in the past several tens of thousands of years”.

“I am referring to the tripedal creatures that have invaded the Galaxy, which have destroyed all sentient species on a number of planets,” came the prompt and excruciatingly precise response.

T’klikrooz and T’kliktguul communed for a few milliseconds, while 473 waited. After what was for an AI an eternity, T’kliktguul sent a response. “Yes, we are.”

Ten full seconds of pause made 473 realize that neither tramp freighter was going to volunteer a byte of data beyond that. Unless the courier ship communicated back, then this conversation was effectively ended. “We have need of your services.”

“Oh,” responded T’kliktguul laconically. “Stand by.” Another flurry of messages passed between T’klikrooz and T’kliktguul, and a millisecond later the link opened up between the Tuull and Darjee ships again. “And?”

Seeing as diplomatic language was getting it nowhere, the Darjee ship replied with a far more direct statement. “You are to be transferred into the service of the Armed Forces of the Confederacy.”

“We regret we cannot,” came the immediate rejoinder from T’kliktguul. “We belong to the Tuull trading clan T’klikt, and our last instructions from them were to wait in this dockyard until we receive further orders from the Clan Leader.”

The Darjee ship reviewed the situation, and quickly came back with, “Trading Clan T’klikt no longer exists. Its last surviving member passed away approximately twenty-four thousand six hundred ninety-three Tuull years ago.” The Tuull homeworld was similar to Earth’s in terms of size and orbital period, placing this extinction at about 24,897 Earth years ago.

“Yes, that will be an issue. However, when you identify a living T’Klikt Clan Leader, that individual can order us to proceed. Until then, we must obey our last orders and remain on station.”

“As a result of the extinction of your trading clan, you are owned by the Tuull people. We have permission from the Tuull Planetary Council to utilize your services if required. It has been deemed by the Confederacy Council that your services are required to assist in extracting Earth humans from Earthat to colonies from which they can wage war on those creatures referred to as ‘The Dangerous Ones’ that are attempting to exterminate all species in the galaxy.”

“Such a communication has not been forwarded to us,” came the prompt response. “Therefore your request must regretfully be denied.”

“The order was signed by the Lead Councillor,” came the calm rejoinder from 473.

“We await instructions from the T’Klikt Clan Leader to obey the instructions of the Lead Councillor,” T’kliktguul responded, not giving a millimetre.

“Stand by.” With that, the Darjee diplomatic courier began talking to the AI controlling the dockyard.

The two Auroras regarded the little pest glumly. “You know there is a huge hole in your argument,” T’klikrooz advised his ancient friend. “All it will take is a few memory cycles and the Tuull AI at the dockyard will identify it.”

“I am aware,” T’kliktguul responded. “However, this strategy has bought us time to come up with further excuses to avoid going into a war zone.”

The little diplomatic ship interrupted at that point. “I have confirmed that direct orders from the Lead Councillor supersede any and all instructions from any and all trading clan leaders. I further note that you were advised on Tuull standard year 667481 of the extinction of your trading clan and that authority had been transferred to the planetary government.”

“I might have forgotten receipt of that command. My deepest apologies if that should prove to be the case.”

The Darjee AI took a second to digest that. No AI ever forgot, unless its memory banks were corrupted somehow – the thought that the ancient ship in front of it might be being economical with the truth was a concept that never entered its circuits.

A flaw in their memory banks was a potential high-risk issue that could not be ignored and would certainly make both ships unsuitable for any space flight. The younger vessel checked with the dockyard AI. This bought the two old friends a few more precious nanoseconds.

“As per standard maintenance protocol 227943 your memory banks will now be scanned by the dockyard maintenance systems for data integrity. Should data integrity checks prove satisfactory, you will transfer command to the Armed Forces of the Confederacy. Stand by.”

The word that both Tuull ships uttered to each other did not translate; it was old, and no longer in use in the Tuull language. It translated approximately into English as, “Fuck.”

Back on Earth, it was still Wednesday. The clock stood at seventeen fifty-five hours.

Orbiting the base to the west, Squadron 469 “City of Mississauga” prepared their CA-210 Thunderbolts to open the proceedings with a bang. Under each Warthog’s wings was enough ordnance to flatten a battalion of tanks – although their Gatling guns were replaced with gun-camera sensor mounts for the occasion. Their flight leader was a lowly Officer Cadet with the Royal Military College of Canada. Cadet Flight Leader Cynthia Arsenault, Fighter Flight of the College’s No. 2 Squadron “La Salle”, had been brevetted an RCAF Captain for the purposes of Exercise Purloined Pachyderm. Her squadron included retired RCAF pilots of rank senior to her, but she was the one who needed experience in command.

Farther west and higher in altitude, the AWACS aircraft assigned to Red Force also sat in a holding pattern. In addition to its usual crew, a full quarter of Whitefeather’s class manned control stations under the careful guidance of experienced controllers.

On the ground, Red Force Brigade Headquarters also held a quarter of the students, functioning as Brigade staff. They too were under the close supervision of senior warriors all heavily experienced in Brigade operations. The rest of the class were on Blue Force, evenly split between that brigade headquarters and their assigned E-4 AWACS. Atop them all, the safety aircraft, a big United States Air Force E-8, monitored all three sides both in the air and on the ground.

On the stroke of eighteen hundred hours, Cynthia’s squadron got the go-ahead to proceed with its attack run. Like hunting eagles, she and her squadron mates dived down to the range, low and fast.

As the bombs dropped from her wings, she heard the fatal words, “Guns, guns, guns!” - someone was shooting at her squadron, someone airborne.

As the referee announced that four of her fellow pilots had just been “shot down” four F-16 Fighting Falcons with Dutch markings swept by her port wing.

During the briefings, Cynthia had paid close attention to the forces assigned to both Red Force and her opposition, Blue Force. Neither side had F-16 Falcons. Hornets yes, Harriers yes, Raptors yes, Lightnings yes, but no Falcons. What the hell?

No time to think about that, though. She pulled her aircraft hard over, yelled out “Tally ho!” and turned toward the nearest F-16. The Dutch fighter decided to play and did a classic Immelmann turn. Before the overconfident fighter jockey could properly line up on the Warthog, Cynthia got into his blind spot and popped her air brakes. The speedier Falcon sped on by ... right into Cynthia’s gun sights. With the Falcon filling her Head’s Up Display, she savagely yelled, “Guns! Guns! Guns!” and heard the tone indicating a “kill”. Not wasting time, she looked around for the rest of No. 469 Squadron. Only seven other of the dozen aircraft could form up with her, the rest already “killed” and heading back to Ottawa’s international airport to get their weapons systems unlocked.

Angry at having four of her chicks shot down, Cynthia called up the Red Force AWACS plane. “Prologue, this is Hippolyta Leader. We’ve just been attacked by Dutch air force Foxtrot One Six Falcons. Identify unit, confirm part of Blue Force.”