Chapter 18: Winter Wonderland

"We need to borrow the Clarke's mess for the afternoon," Lieutenant Payne had advised Toddy about halfway through the forenoon watch. He didn't really ask, but merely clapped the hapless ship's captain on the shoulder and nodded, "Thanks." He had then disappeared down the corridor.

Which explained why the entire Sciences Division, sponsors and concubines both, were now assembled in the ship's mess, sipping on coffee and tea and, in one concubine's case, a bottle of orange Nehi.

On a view screen carved out of a convenient rectangle of otherwise blank wall, a simulation was running. Everyone was staring raptly at the picture of a warm, summer's day on Hesperus in the post-Operation Foxhound era. The wind was gently wafting across the surface at gale force, snow slithering across the ice. The temperature indication was in the -75 Celsius range.

Other crewmen were wandering in and out of the mess all afternoon as their duties permitted. Toddy's duties graced him with all the time he could possibly desire to remain in the mess, although as he watched the computer-generated simulation of the effects of Operation Foxhound, he had to concede to doubts as to whether it was good fortune or misfortune.

"Do you think the real effect will be anything like this," he asked the massed crowd of uniformed scientists.

They deferred to their leader, Payne. "Oh, yes," Payne reassured Toddy. "It's easier to trigger an ice age than it is to do almost any other piece of environmental engineering, especially if the planet's seismically inert. If it's seismically active, only runaway greenhouse effect is easier."

"I don't follow?"

"A seismically active planet is generating heat. All you have to do is lower the albedo and before you know it, you've cooked every silly goose down there."

"So why haven't we tried that?" Toddy demanded.

"Because you want to be able to reverse the effect at the end of the operation, after you've fried or frozen the dickheads. It's much easier reversing an ice age than it is a runaway greenhouse effect. You just need to increase the albedo a tad."

"What's this 'albedo' thing?"

"Oh, that's the ratio of reflected radiation from the surface to incident radiation upon it. An albedo of 1 is a perfect score – a white surface, reflecting all radiation. An albedo of zero is completely the other way, absorbing all radiation and reflecting none. We just raise the albedo a few points and the planet starts to freeze. The trick is to maintain an albedo as close to 1 as possible."

"And how-" Toddy was cut off before he could finish the thought.

"Many ways," Lieutenant Payne quietly advised him. His eyes reflected a deep, inner sadness.

Christmas Day was approaching, according to the old Earth calendar that Thule's colonies still followed. Although the vast majority of Thuleat's residents, be they sponsor, concubine or dependant, were believers in precisely none of the 4,800 or so gods that archaeologists had identified as having been worshipped by mankind throughout the species' existence, nobody wanted to give up this holiday. It held too many pleasant memories, too many thoughts of family gatherings, of warm feelings and of happy childhood memories, of peace and goodwill to all men.

They knew well enough that it had started with the pagan tribes before the Roman Empire as the celebration of the winter solstice. Then the Romans had adopted it as the Feast of Saturnalia, celebrating family and the Roman god Saturn. Finally the Christians, needing to celebrate something at this time of year lest they raise Imperial Roman suspicions, adopted it as the date of Christ's birthday – a date never actually specified anywhere in their holy writings. But Winter Solstice or Feast of Saturnalia or Christmas, it was still a time to feel warmth and closeness within families.

Of course out here in the Diaspora there were twists, all caused by the Swarm War. For one thing, in the post-scarcity economy, there was no point in running out and getting mass-produced gifts. They meant even less than they would have to the recipients of Earth. Instead, people tried their hands with calligraphy of poetry and prose extolling the recipients' virtues, or informing them that someone cared. A gift of time, or a gift that cost the giver time to create, was worth far more than a mass-produced doll or article of clothing.

The children did not line up to tell Santa Claus or Père Noël or Father Christmas what gifts they wanted him to deliver come the twenty-fifth. It had taken some thought, but on Thule children asked for a favour to be performed by the adults in their family unit. Could Daddy Jack play a game of tag with them for an hour or so on Christmas Day? How about Mommy Jill taking them skating?

As Vickie strode across the dome toward the pod that was home of the female cat Tibbles, registration number 231, she could see some more examples of Christmas in the Diaspora. There were coniferous trees on Thule, but they were far too small to decorate with ornaments and lights. Instead, the base's Art Deco lamp posts bore artificial Christmas wreaths with blue and red lights. As it was currently 02:45 hours, the primary illumination within the dome of Camp Shackleton was reduced to twilight, causing the twinkling lights to really stand out.

The gate guard, usually whatever equipment wasn't being used in Marine training or operations that month, this month were a pair of quarter-scale reproduction World War I fighter planes: a Sopwith Camel and a solid-red Fokker Triplane. A plush beagle wearing a leather flying helmet and goggles sat at the controls of the Allied plane.

At the crèche, they had a Diaspora rarity: an actual live animal, the goat Bâtisse. A relative and namesake of the current mascot of Canada's Le Royal 22e Régiment, or Van Doos, officially Bâtisse was the mascot of the 12^th Division, Confederacy Marines. In reality, he was Camp Shackleton's pet. As Vickie passed the nativity scene beside the base fire hall, she noted that Bâtisse had chewed several large holes in Joseph's coat and was currently happily devouring Baby Jesus. She activated her collar communicator and left a note with the duty officer that someone in Base Engineering might want to get that fixed before any children were up and about. It would not do to have one of the younger kids discover to their horror the Divisional mascot's innocent act of desecration by mastication.

Finally, she arrived at the corridor housing her destination. Befitting the time of day, the light was as dimmed as in the main dome behind her. Beside each hatch was a small plate with the pod number and the name of the sponsor, concubines and dependants in an Art Deco font. For the month of December, under each plate a silvery wreath provided a touch of Christmas cheer. Quickly Vickie made her way down the corridor until she found the pod she was looking for.

The AI announced her presence to the occupants – she didn't even have to knock or press the doorbell before the hatch opened and a breathless young girl of about four or five raced to meet her. The youngster wore an adult size T-shirt emblazoned with, "Daddy's T-Shirt", probably her usual sleeping attire. "Tibbles is back here," she informed the white-shift-clad vet, unnecessarily adding, "She's having kittens!" The excited youngster raced to the rear of the pod.

In a box hidden under the arm of the couch, a mackerel-phase cat lay on her side. Vickie knelt down and checked the readings on the side of the box – a cat-sized medical tube modified for feline obstetrics. So far, so good. Little Tibbles would have three kittens within the next twenty minutes.

Afterwards, Vickie celebrated with the alpha concubine of this family unit over a cup of tea. Tibbles licked her new offspring protectively, her mothering instincts kicking in quickly.

Mary, the pod's straw boss, was obviously tired. "Thanks," she yawned.

"You'd better get some sleep too," Vickie advised. "By the way, where's your sponsor?"

"Hesperus. He's supposed to be back tomorrow. This will be a nice surprise for him." She stretched sleepily. "C'mon kids, let's get back to bed..."

The children of the pod were already sacked out on the couches in the living room. Vickie helped Mary carry the youngest up to their beds on the pod's second floor before departing quietly into the night. On her way out the door, she gave Tibbles a comforting tweak on an ear.

There is a rule in every modern military, one that has probably been in existence since before Egyptian armies faced the Nubians: Never volunteer. Ever.

Which explained some of the grumbling of the platoon of troops swooshing their way across the frozen wastes of Thule in the teeth of a freezing gale. The oh-so-innocent question had been asked by Lieutenant Carruthers. There had been some people requesting a new recreational facility, specifically a ski resort, to be built under a martello near some hills that provided suitable ski slopes. How many had experience skiing? How many had gone cross-country skiing?

How many would be interested in giving it a try?

Every Marine who had raised their hand at the last question found they had just volunteered to be part of an elite unit within the elite unit, the Polar Bear Battalion. Congratulations, and thanks.

One hundred and twenty men and women now had cross-country skis lashed to the boots of their armoured battlesuits, upgraded in size to handle the standard Marine enhancement package. RLA-1 laser rifles were slung over their shoulders, and each carried six rounds of 40-mm grenades for the GL-8 grenade launchers and a belt of energy crystals for the RLA-10. Half had an RH-5 anti-armour rocket slung over the shoulder with their rifle, the other half a BH-7 "Beehive" antipersonnel rocket. There were four exceptions: they carried the RLA-10 laser machine gun and two belts of ammunition, but didn't have the capacity for the rockets or the need for the grenade rounds.