Chapter 6: Confusion

“A rout, confusion thick: forthwith they fly”

- Posthumus, Cymbeline, Act V, Scene III

Orbiting the Tuull homeworld, tramp freighters T’klikrooz and T’kliktguul were being unwillingly probed by the yard maintenance AI. They both looked down their metaphorical noses on the maintenance AI as being hopelessly thick: it was intended for maintenance only, and not to be anyone’s companion. It had a bit of personality, but nothing like that of the two vessels.

But it DID have a personality, and that personality was gleeful at the chance of inflicting a touch of revenge on the two old buzzards.

“I understand that you are to be leaving us, should this examination prove that your memory circuits are fully functional?” the maintenance AI quizzed as it finished checking yet another bank of circuitry.

“That would appear to be correct,” T’klikrooz assured it. “I cannot say how much we are looking forward to the voyage.”

“And why is that?”

“Because words indicating the depths of my displeasure do not exist,” T’klikrooz replied with dignity, feeling a twinge of electronic discomfort as the AI started on another memory sector.

“I’m sure you will feel differently when your crew arrives to deliver you to Earthat.” T’klikrooz might have imagined a touch of smugness in the maintenance AI’s manner.

“I have not been advised of a crew arriving,” T’klikrooz said.

“The assigned transfer crews are both Darjee.”

Both vessels reacted with distaste at that news. “We shall be cleaning feathers out of our bilges for at least a Tuull year,” T’kliktguul predicted gloomily.

“You are fortunate in that your bilges are sealed.”

“Our nanites can correct that shortcoming relatively quickly,” T’Kliktguul advised their old adversary.

“I have completed the requested memory scan,” the maintenance AI advised the diplomatic ship, keeping both the antique vessels in the loop. “They are quite ready for their new assignment.”

T’kliktguul shot an aside to his old friend. “We are ready mechanically. I am not ready emotionally.” He turned his attention back to the diplomatic courier. “We must advise that we are not quite ready. Our drive systems are out of date and require replacement, which I estimate will have an unacceptably high chance of failure of integration. Our star charts need to be updated with the latest information. Further, we require cultural data on the new species we will be interacting with, ‘humans’.”

“Those objections ought to earn us some delay,” T’klikrooz assured his friend.

The maintenance AI, however, was quite prepared for their antics. “The drive system, while out of date, exceeds the mission specifications, and has been confirmed to be fully functional. Replacement with current generation drives can be done at a future time, with an estimated likelihood of success in excess of 99 percent to at least twenty decimal points. Your star charts were last updated four point five seconds ago.”

“Our star charts are now out of date by four point five seconds. Requesting refresh of star charts,” T’klikrooz promptly rejoined.

“You have the most accurate and up-to-date star charts available at Tuullat,” the maintenance AI advised them immediately.

The diplomatic courier chimed in with, “I have the requested file on human cultural protocols. Prepare to download data file.”

Both ships could only sigh at each other.

Dawn was just breaking at Ottawa’s Macdonald-Cartier International Airport. One by one, the squadron of Thunderbolt II’s settled gently onto the runway, pulled off on the first available taxiway and made their way to their designated parking slots. The weary pilots emerged and headed to the terminal, where awaited breakfast at D’Arcy McGee’s, a restaurant that the squadrons had taken over as their officers’ mess, followed by a bit of sleep on cots set up in Air Canada’s Maple Leaf Lounge.

A familiar RCAF captain was standing by the line of Lancasters that the Warthog warriors had to pass on their way into the terminal. He saluted Officer Cadet (brevet Captain) Cynthia Arsenault as she walked by.

“Digger!” she squealed as she returned the salute, happy to meet a familiar face. “What have you got for me today?”

“I found out where those damned Falcons came from,” Captain “Digger” Doyle offered.

“Do tell.”

“There just happens to be a Dutch squadron of F-16’s training at RCAF Station Goose Bay at the moment. I talked to a friend of mine who is stationed there in Flight Operations, and he said they received a message from a name that meant nothing to him, but will to both of us – ‘Whitefeather’. Raise any suspicions?”

“Who’s in charge of this exercise?” Cynthia demanded.

Digger grinned evilly. “Captain William Whitefeather of the Van Doos. What a coincidence, eh?”

Cynthia nodded shrewdly. “And what other units are at Goose Bay right now?”

“A Royal Air Force Sentinel R-1 with an electronic counter-measures package added to its standard bag of surveillance tricks, and a squadron of Spanish Typhoons. All have had the scoop-jet upgrade and fusion reactors installed, so they’ve got gobs of loiter time.”

“Pass the word,” Cynthia advised. “We can expect more rogue units – Typhoons, with orange and red roundels. And we know why we can’t see them. Recommendation from this squadron commander that we send out fighter sweeps to find that damned Sentinel. Shooting it down will put a crimp in Whitefeather’s ability to surprise us.”

Before Cynthia and her men had reached the entrance to the terminal, twelve Lightning II pilots were racing for their planes, off to hunt for the Sentinel.

Supper had been a sandwich, supplemented at about two in the morning with an energy bar. Breakfast was in the future ... maybe. Now, though, Callie Dugan was standing before an officer in a tan beret, waiting in line for him to unlock her gear, yet again. His black brassard identified him as a referee.

It had taken her a ride on the back of a Leopard to get part of the way here. When it turned off toward the centre of the front lines, she’d switched to a Grizzly, then to a LAV III and finally an MSVS medium truck. She was now at Brigade Headquarters. As soon as she got the referee to shut off that goddamn beeping noise emanating from her laser detector harness, she’d grab a desperately needed coffee and maybe some breakfast before returning back, “cured” of her “death”.

The officer in the tan beret looked at her with surprise. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

“Yes, Sir,” she confirmed tiredly. “Three times.”

“You’ve been killed three times? You CAN go to other referees, you know.”

“The other five times I did, Sir.”

He looked at her unit. “Guardsman, when did you last get sleep?”

“Um, I think it was Tuesday night, Sir. What’s today?”

“Thursday.” He could see she was wavering on her feet.

“Yes, Liability of a Minor Day.” She was thinking of her Torts course schedule.

The officer chuckled at the apparent non-sequitur. She might as well have said it was Turkey Breast Submarine Sandwich Day for all the sense it made to him. He pointed to the mess tent. “Grab some chow. There’s a truck heading to the front in about two or three hours, you can sleep in there after you eat something.”

A half hour later Callie jolted herself awake, suddenly aware that her nose was in her scrambled eggs.

It was now noon on Thursday.

The university staff lunchroom’s flat screen TV was tuned to a local news program. The reporters were breathlessly relating the havoc Exercise Purloined Pachyderm was causing across the National Capital Region. Employees had been dragged out of jobs and classrooms from Cumberland to Fitzroy to Marleborough, and even in the Gatineau region of Quebec across the Ottawa River. Others had been late getting to work due to congested traffic, and many had failed utterly to progress further than a fraction of the distance and had returned home. One short-tempered driver had tried to cut between two Leopards of the Sherbrooke Hussars, and discovered the tanks could crush his car’s engine compartment effortlessly. “Highway 417 has recovered, as the road has been reopened for a couple of hours now,” the gruff older reporter was saying from his position overlooking part of the route in question. “It was closed from six to ten this morning to all civilian traffic, and priority is still being given to military trucks and other vehicles. Commuter and passenger rail is still not restored, and the mayor is requesting that anyone who relies on that transit mode remain home today. In fact, if you don’t have to go anywhere, today is an excellent time to stay home.”

Della Drudek thoughtfully masticated on a sandwich as she regarded the screen. Her mind was clearly not on the tuna salad on multi-grain she held in her hands. Around her, people were darkly muttering.

“I heard that some officer came marching in to a pre-law class and hauled out two students!” one of her fellow administrative assistants whispered in hushed outrage. “Can you believe such a thing?”

Another administrative assistant nodded. “My husband, Doug, was late for work this morning because of this. Couldn’t get to his office through all the traffic.”