Chapter 8: Constant as the Northern Star

“But I am constant as the northern star,
Of whose true-fixed and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament.”
- Julius Caesar, Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene I

T’klikrooz and T’kliktguul observed the holographic communication resignedly. The figure was that of the Lead Councillor of the Tuull, a species that bore more than a slight resemblance to Earth’s raccoons – boxy snout, fur dark on the back and sides and a light grey on the belly and face, pointy ears atop the head aimed forward, binocular vision from coal-black eyes which were surrounded by fur darker than the rest of the face. Only the dentition and height – closer to that of humans – truly betrayed her to not be of the same species as the Earth omnivore.

They couldn’t help but recognize who she was, for she had given a planetwide address every eight Tuull days for the past ten Tuull years. The silver in her furry tail bespoke her age and gave her some gravitas among her fellow Tuull, just as a touch of grey at the temple would make a tall, slender, physically fit human male look distinguished.

She was seated at the bottom of the U-shaped table that had served in the Council Chambers for uncountable generations of Governing Councils, with all twelve of her fellow Councillors split evenly between the two arms of the table. All of them were looking at the camera.

“We thank you for your service in this time of crisis,” the crafty old politician intoned in the dominant native tongue of the Tuull, her fur ruffling in a reassuring manner. Neither T’klikrooz nor T’kliktguul felt reassured in the slightest.

She continued in a soothing cacophony of clicks and elongated vowels, “We will back you up as much as we can.” Both old freighters were painfully aware that if they DID get into trouble out in the vast universe somewhere, there would be precious little this little baker’s dozen of died-in-the-fur politicians could possibly do to back them up, aside from saying a koan for the dead at the shrine dedicated to fallen ships and crews at the Merchant Marine Academy.

“Your orders are: ‘Depart from Tuullat as soon as possible, travelling at maximum possible speed to Earthat, taking the shortest possible course. Do not deviate or detour for any possible reason other than the destruction of Earthat. Even if the Sa’arm show up unexpectedly, you are still to arrive in system and report to any surviving Armed Forces of the Confederacy unit for further orders. The situation is urgent and dire.’ Please acknowledge receipt of orders.”

The situation must be urgent and dire, both vessels realized, for the Tuull to risk sending the two antiques out without any crew whatsoever. That lack of crew also explained why their orders gave them no latitude whatsoever shy of Earthat’s primary going nova.

The two freighters acknowledged their sailing orders with a chorus of “Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant!” (“Hail, Caesar, we who are about to die salute you!”) Perhaps fortunately, it was not translated into any Confederacy language that the Tuull knew. The Tuull Governing Council’s AI took a couple of milliseconds to translate and analyze the grim wording, before reporting with exquisite delicacy that they had used “an appropriate Earth phrase of salute.”

The two freighters made the sound of bleating sheep as they left the orbiting museum. In this, they were paying homage to the French soldiers of the First World War under first Marshal Neville and later Marshal Petain. The poilu of that war, having suffered massive casualties in the meat-grinder of Verdun in the first half of 1917, would bleat as senior officers passed their road columns. Again, the black humour was lost on the Tuull, who had never heard of the ruminant before, much less the noise it made. The members of the Council just assumed it was just some sort of Human language or tradition.

The pair of antiques, bleating like lambs being led to slaughter every millimetre of the way, soon arrived at their jump point and headed for Earth – and into danger. Each silently wondered to himself whether either one would ever see the welcome frames of the museum spacedock ever again. They then gave a metaphorical gulp and with a vast lack of enthusiasm launched toward their uncertain future.

The lights were slowly coming up and the curtains were closing at Academic Hall’s 180-seat theatre. Their first performance was over, and Callie Dugan and her fellow thespians could stop worrying about how well they’d played their roles and concentrate on their uncertain futures. Survival would depend upon finding a sponsor among the gathered guests of honour to give them a new role in a play whose script contained no lines but rather only the barest outlines of a set of stage instructions, that of concubine in a polygamous world somewhere “out there”.

She trooped out with the others and stood behind the closed curtain. It opened for the applause, and the girl playing Hamlet came out in front to receive her ovation. Traditional flowers were given to the lead actress as she took in a well-earned adoration of the crowd. Callie herself was pleased: despite feeling like she’d marched all the way back from Petawawa, she hadn’t blown a single line and had performed her brief role at least adequately.

The dropping of the curtain for the second time was the signal to start socializing. Those still in costume raced to change into “street wear” – which, in the Era of the Swarm, was quite a bit abbreviated from what proper young ladies would wear to a formal cocktail evening of even a year previous. Callie herself was feeling quite overexposed in a backless dress that barely covered the areolae of her unfetterd breasts. The back itself came down to her sacrum, and every time she leaned back at all would give any voyeur an excellent view of her otherwise unclad buttocks. Privately, she referred to it as a “plumber’s dress”.

The others were similarly clad, if not more daringly so. One woman’s gown was of similar cut to hers but quite diaphanous down the front. Everyone could see that her nipples were quite erect.

Scoping out the competition, Callie realized she might actually be overdressed.

An adjoining hall had been done up for their little celebration and speed-dating party. The two female bartenders serving simple cocktails, champagne and beers were wearing black vests open at the front and skirts – and Callie was willing to make book that under those skirts, both young women were as “regimental” – without underwear – as she was. Neither wore a blouse or bra.

The number of uniforms in the room was impressive, and those uniforms included an impressive amount of gold braid. Callie felt intimidated but picked up a tall glass of champagne and determinedly waded into what was essentially a slave market to sell herself.

“Ah, Guardsman Dugan. How pleasant to see you this evening.” Callie turned around to find herself staring into a pair of Airborne wings mounted over a long row of medals that included the Victoria Cross. The black plastic name badge bore the legend, “Whitefeather”. Beside the tan uniformed Van Doo, a beaming Della Drudek teetered on unfamiliarly high heels. Both held champagne flutes.

“Sir!” she blurted, automatically coming to attention. To the amusement of William Whitefeather and the naked appreciation of every male in the room save the play’s director Jame Douglas, she pulled her shoulders back, thrusting her chest forward.

“At ease, Guardsman.” Whitefeather struggled manfully to pull his eyes from her alluring chest display. Della’s smile turned into a smirk as she toasted Callie’s figure.

“Now what have we got here?” he asked, looking at Callie’s name badge. It was a little more substantial than the “Hello My Name Is” stickers that the non-uniformed guests like Della got. The performers’ pasteboard badges were in nylon badge holders that included a slot for their CAP cards. “Do you mind?” Whitefeather politely queried, taking a small device out of the lower right-hand pocket of his dress jacket. Callie had never seen the thing before, but a quick glance around made her realize it had to be one of those CAP card readers she’d heard about. She could see others already using them on her fellow thespians’ CAP cards.

“Oh, no, Sir.” She took the CAP card out of the badge herself and handed to her superior.

As she expected, Whitefeather placed the card into the reader. “Now that looks good. Some nice numbers there. Just a tad low on the aggression levels.”

He snapped the reader closed and handed the card back to her. “Unlike some of these other lunkheads here, I’m not trying to fill my slots all at once. I’ve got the mothering type here.” He hugged the girl next to him. “I need a straw boss and a couple of others. I was hoping for an experienced mother to back-stop Della. If I can pick one out of this lot, I’d be satisfied.”

Callie nodded. It made sense. She found her voice dry – the thought of actually offering herself as bedmate to the legendary William Whitefeather was intimidating to her.

“And of course they have to get along with Della. With each of the other members of the family, actually.”

“And do you see me in your harem? Do I have a chance?” It wasn’t the most intelligent thing she could have said, Callie realized, as it came out sounding more like a desperate plea than a conversation point. It was still better than just gulping and staring at the man’s Adam’s apple.

“Oh, I see you as a potential straw boss. I saw how you led those men during Exercise Purloined Pachyderm, and I’m impressed. In fact, I think that if you were to retest, your score could very well be above the sponsorship cutoff level.”

“So am I a risk to you?” Callie asked nervously. “I mean, if you take me and I ‘CAP out’, then you’ll be shy a concubine.”

Whitefeather scrunched up his nose as he contemplated the issue. “I don’t think so. There are always more concubines available, but sponsors – that’s something like one out of five adults, much rarer and very valuable. If you test out, you get at least two concubines, I get one more to replace you – and I’m told if we want, we can combine households, which means more kids, more fun – and more reindeer games. I don’t see it as a risk, I see it as an opportunity.”