Chapter 3: Third Period

'We're out of what?' asked Tribune William Whitefeather subvocally, standing in line at the doughnut shop a block down from the arena complex.

'Candidates for concubine. You bloody bastard, you've done it again. You've managed to find a concentration of volunteers capable of sponsoring more concubines than you have concubine candidates present. We've even picked up all the prepack members who aren't present, and are still short.' Whitefeather could tell that MacAllistor was upset — he was rolling his "R"'s again.

'How many do we need?'

'Oh, about a hundred.'

'WHAT??' Whitefeather looked around at the crowd. There were at least 30 people present, none with a CAP score over six point four. The AI indicated that about four were not eligible, due to their advanced years. This crowd would help, but what he needed was three times as many again, available immediately.

"Yes, sir?" asked the lady behind the counter.

"Double-double and a cruller, please. For here."

As the lady took his money, behind her another employee rapidly filled a ceramic mug with coffee and added a double helping of creme and sugar. A third lady grabbed the wagon-wheel-shaped cruller doughnut and placed it on a ceramic plate that matched the mug. All the while Whitefeather continued to cogitate frantically.

As he sat down at a convenient table, he happened to glance at a brown brick building across the street. The parking lot was almost full.

'AI, what is going on at that arena across the road?'

'Various skating instructors are having training sessions, Tribune Whitefeather.'

'Oh, really. How, ah, interesting. And how many would be present in the structure?'

'The data will be available momentarily, Tribune Whitefeather.'

The Tribune settled down to nibble on his breakfast. The coffee always seemed to taste better at this doughnut shop chain than at any other, he had long ago concluded. The replicator coffee just couldn't compare.

'There are approximately ninety concubine candidates present, as well as ten volunteer candidates, Tribune Whitefeather. The scheduling board is indicating that this training session will wrap up in approximately twenty minutes.'

And it would take less time than that to get an extraction team together. Between the arena and the Timmy's, that would be perfect.

'Major MacAllistor.'

'Yes, Tribune.' MacAllistor's voice was decidedly unimpressed.

'Our problem appears to be solved. I need an extraction team within fifteen minutes for a location immediately across the street from my present location. I need a second extraction team before that AT my present location. Let's try to trigger the fields at the same time.'

'You're directing this disaster movie. Expect a team at your location in fifteen minutes. My God, what the hell? Another bloody arena? Do you ice-fish in arenas or something?'

'Only for sponsors and concubines, ' Tribune Whitefeather chuckled subvocally. 'Fishing for fish isn't so hot there.'

Five minutes later, three suspiciously burly men dressed as Ontario Hydro line workers wandered into the shop. Five women were leaving, heading toward the dress shop they worked at. The quick-thinking corporal leading the three put his arm overly-friendly around the waist of the apparent leader, steering the startled shopkeeper effortlessly back into the Tim Horton's and chattering, "We could use a little help if you don't mind." He hauled out a map from his pocket. "Can you give us some directions?" Concerned, her friends (also steered by the two privates) re-entered the coffee shop.

As soon as the last person in the merged group of sales clerks and Marines entered the coffee shop, the interdiction field went up. Tribune Whitefeather stood up. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. I am Tribune Whitefeather, the three men at the door are Confederacy Marines, and this is an extraction." He threw his parka at one customer who made to rise, revealing the battle armour Whitefeather was wearing under it.

The three marines by the door did the same. One Marine dug into a satchel and came out with a transporter nexus. All three Marines were well-armed with stinger rifles, and the Tribune had his palm stinger also ready to go.

"Now, if we can have everyone disarm themselves first? Things always go so much better when nobody's shooting at anyone else."

Two men in the corner stood up and started assuming a firing stance. Before either got a shot from their cheap revolvers off, both hit the floor, unconscious. "To 'disarm' oneself, one places one's firearm on the table, very slowly," the Tribune's amplified voice advised the two unconscious Earth First types, slowly as if to a learning-disabled child. Five others slowly placed their firearms on their tables as the Tribune grabbed the two by the scruff of their necks and heaved them bodily through the terminus. "Turkey Combo One, Turkey Combo Two," he called out as he threw each of the suspects to their final orbital destination. He dusted off his hands theatrically. "All right, now that we've dealt with the trash, we're offering a special pick-up today. There are no volunteers present, but we've just picked up a great bloody lot and we need concubines. That's where you get in." He gave them the standard concubines-surrender-everything speech and added, "If you agree to go, your kids are going with you. We usually only extract dependants, that is children under age fourteen, but for this trip we'll even extract if your kids are under eighteen but over thirteen, regardless of CAP score. If your spouse has sponsor-level CAP scores and wants to sponsor you, we'll happily nab him as well. All we ask right now, is that everyone who wants to be a concubine drop trou' and line up at the transporter nexus over there in the corner, buck-naked. See the Marine there, waving all friendly-like? Private, wave at the people, all friendly-like!"