Chapter 6 -- Learning Curve

Rather than a message torpedo, the Colonel's communications staff sent off a supraluminal message addressed to the ranking Civil Service officer of Demeter, Legate David ap Rhys. Within 24 hours, a high-speed drone was winging its way through the highly theoretical dimension that is supraluminal speed, bearing the requested information about their educational system.

Meanwhile, a request went around the Brigade to permit Optio Redburn to search for and borrow concubines with the desired skills, and for the sergeants to name one of their concubines to function in an advisory capacity to the young cadet. As the request came from the Colonel, not one sergeant felt any pressing need to deny the request.

At the grandly named Concubines' Council, the first issue of the day was where to meet. They decided the school gym would be a dandy location: the building was in the Optio's purview and the location was fairly central in Camp Shackleton.

The first meeting was attended physically by each sergeant's straw boss, and virtually through the AI by every sergeant. It made for a full gym.

"I intend," Samantha boldly announced, "to use all of you who are sergeants' concubines. Keep track of your fellow concubines whose sponsors report to yours. This will accomplish two things: it will reinforce the sense of family and unity within the Brigade, and it will help bring issues to my attention. I'm using my authority as senior Civil Service officer to grant you permission to contact me directly when and if you find a situation that you feel needs to be addressed, like abused concubines or a sponsor's death. You, as your sergeant's representative, will be permitted to access the pod of any deceased sponsor from your sponsor's platoon and lead them to the Unassigned Concubines' Quarters. If a sponsor from your sponsor's platoon dies and has a will conferring transfer of sponsorship, you'll take the concubines to the new sponsor's pod. If you yourself are rendered unassigned, I've ordered that your position remain as your platoon's representative pending further orders from the senior Civil Service officer available or the senior representative if no Civil Service officer is available.

"Now, we've dealt with how we're setting the support up, I need you to go back to your sponsors' platoons and get to know the sponsors, their concubines and dependants. If there are any issues in any of our pods, we need to know about it as soon as possible."

The concubines nodded nervously. This was a higher level of responsibility than they'd anticipated. The sergeants listening in had already heard the presentation the day before and had asked tons of questions. This presentation was refined from that earlier version.

"I suggest that you visit your fellow concubines in their pods. The sergeants will be ordering the privates and corporals to grant access to you as my official representatives. The straw bosses of Lieutenant Colonel Desrocher and Colonel Deschenes will be doing the same with the officers' concubines. If you feel you need to, I'm authorizing you to wear your sponsors' rank on Civil Service duty greys."

At that moment, Colonel Deschenes was being hauled into a controversy involving anti-armour weapons training. A line of recruits in sealed matte-white battle armour lined the firing point, holding onto RH-5 anti-armour rocket launchers, similar in size and shape to the old Panzerfaust rockets of World War II but far more lethal, and with far greater range.

"You have a problem?" the parka-clad Colonel asked, returning Lieutenant-Colonel Stan Waterman's crisp salute. As the CO of the armoured battalion, Waterman was also responsible for the target vehicles used on the anti-tank range.

"Yes, Sir. It's about these target vehicles, the Ford Pinto class. This is the first time anyone's used them in these conditions. Watch what happens first on gravel and then on snow."

The diminutive vehicle was dressed up to look like a typical one-quarter-scale Sa'arm small armoured personnel carrier by affixing lightweight panels to the sides, rear and front. The Lieutenant-Colonel ordered it to cross the range. It skittered across the gravel with only minimal difficulty, but the moment it hit the snow it spun around as one of the wheels dug into the soft snow. The top-heavy target careened onto its right side. As it keeled over ignominiously like a battered brontosaurus, the built-in sensors recorded the motion as being a hit from an anti-armour round and set off the pyrotechnics package mounted to the roof. The little vehicle was soon shooting flame skyward as thick black smoke roiled angrily.

"The Pinto isn't damaged itself," assured Stan. "We just have to attach new panels and a new pyrotechnics pannier. Still, this happens every time we try to use the target on snow."

"Every time?" Deschenes asked, as another explosion from the pyrotechnics package rather spectacularly blew the now-upward-facing left side panel high into the air.

"Every time, Sir. Maybe we get two metres out of it before it ends up on its side or nose. And we can't predict which wheel will suddenly start digging in."

Colonel Deschenes pondered the situation. "Ford Pinto," he mused as the abused left side panel landed in the snow about three metres beyond the disabled device. "Fitting moniker. Well, AI, Lieutenant-Colonel Waterman needs intelligence on the Sa'arm's ground transportation devices. Please see to it that he and his battalion are provided with the latest information."

'Aye aye, Colonel,' replied the AI through both men's subvocal links.

"Maybe we're going to get lucky and the Swarm can't hit an ice planet." The Colonel marched away to the site of his next potential disaster.

"Do you really think that, Sir?" asked Waterman.

"Not for a Goddamn minute, Sam. Not for a Goddamn minute. If I act on the belief that they can, then when they do we'll be ready for them instead of reacting to their unanticipated presence. It's the safest way to be." He paused to gather his thoughts. "Try to anticipate what the Sa'arm might do if they were to encounter a snowfield. Best guess as to how their machines could be modified for use in arctic conditions." He pondered for another moment. "I can only give you 24 hours to come up with some sort of modification. We need to get these troops qualified on the RH-5."

The first discovery that Samantha had made in her search for staff was of Kenji, the DJ who had provided such expert service during the officers' graduation party. Samantha sat with him and his sponsor Lieutenant Judy Kawamori in their pod that evening.

"So you want him to create song lists, basically," asked Judy.

"Basically. Just do his DJ thing on Friday and Saturday nights."

Kenji considered the requirements for a moment. "I have to be there for the dances to judge the crowd and adjust the music accordingly. Anything else I can do either remotely or even ahead of time. During the afternoon, while Judy's at work, I can create a playbill that will last for hours. The AI just needs to play the songs as they're queued up."

"Sort of like a radio station?" asked Samantha.

"Exactly. Hey, we can offer it to all the pods and work areas as well, if you'd like."

Samantha made a face. "Dad likes Country & Western. He's not too fond of rock and pop."

"No problem. The AI can handle multiple channels. We'll code one with rock, another with pop and so on. Given some access to the Earth musical database, we can have several channels going 24 hours a day with something different on each one, and no repeats in that 24 hours."

"I think we also want a news channel. I'll ask Brigade S3 if they can spare someone to do a quick writeup of the news a couple of times a day." Samantha brightened at that thought.

Brigade S3 darkened at that thought. "We're overworked and understaffed as it is." He rolled his eyes. "I can't spare anyone."

"How about a concubine?" suggested Samantha, trying to be the soul of reason.

"Not now, I'm working. They frown on us taking a sex break at our desks."

Now it was Samantha's turn to roll her eyes. "No, I mean can I have a concubine act as a reporter, gather the information for broadcast?"

"This is military communications we're dealing with. We can't broadcast this to the Swarm -- wouldn't they like to know this. Remember, loose lips sink ships. The Old Man will never allow it."

Samantha missed the World War II reference, but a voice behind the S3 didn't. "And as the Sa'arm can't communicate with us, how will they find out?"

"Colonel Deschenes is right behind me, isn't he?" asked the S3, wincing. He well knew how much Colonel Deschenes hated being referred to as the "Old Man".

Samantha nodded solemnly.

The S3 turned around. "Sir, I need your permission to have a concubine perform this function. Do I have it?"

"Granted," the Colonel nodded.

"Thank you, Sir."

And, the Colonel reflected, yet another crisis averted.

Ensign William Barker addressed his platoon. "OK, men, settle down. Welcome to Martello Tower # 219. This is a typical Martello for this planet.

"The original Martello Tower concept was a round tower, about some three floors' height with occasionally, a basement. It had one or two cannon at the top on a pivot base that could fire through 360 degrees, and gun and rifle ports lower down. As an adjunct to other fortifications, they were well nigh impregnable.

"This isn't three stories tall, but rather has been dug into the ground as a series of bunkers. We have a pair of cannon at each of the four cardinal points, two lines of trenches, and this central assembly point. When the Sa'arm aren't here, the Towers aren't expected to be garrisoned long-term. A fire team will keep a presence here, rotating in once a week and ensuring that the supplies are up-to-date and the Tower has been maintained. Any questions so far?"

"Yes, can we bring our concubines with us?"

"You won't have time to play with them," snorted Sergeant Kowalski.

"Only takes twenty minutes..." suggested the anonymous Marine voice.

"I feel sorry for your concubines," advised the Ensign dryly as the audience cracked up. "Look, everyone, we go in, make sure that the entire inventory -- from ammunition to fuel for the aircraft to fuel for the Marines -- is topped off and available, even if power is not. They've each got a fusion reactor providing what is supposed to be more than enough power, but they can get knocked off-line. Check the battery backup. Check the fire suppression system, make sure it's fully charged; that the fire detectors are working and that the halon discharge nozzles are operating and haven't accidentally gone off. Check that the cannon still work. Clean snow from the access points, and check that the trenches and tunnels aren't falling down. There are checklists available, and you still have contact with the AI back at Shackleton -- feel free to talk to it."

"Ensign, Sir?" One of the privates at the back stuck his head out of the CIC bunker.

"Yes, Private?"

"Message from Camp Shackleton: Reads, 'Weather front moving through, arriving at Tower 219 in twenty minutes. Get your men to their assigned towers immediately.' Message ends, Sir."

"Sergeant Kowalski, give the squads their assignments and get them to their towers. You've got fifteen minutes -- I don't trust Brigade meteorologists not to overestimate how much time we've got."

"Aye aye, Sir. NCO's, on me now. Move, dammit!"

As Ensign Baker ducked into the doorway with "CIC" emblazoned above the frame, one of his Marines noticed and turned to his buddy. "I've been meaning to ask. What does 'CIC' stand for, anyway?"

"It means 'Christ, I'm Confused'," assured the buddy with a straight face.

"It means 'Combat Information Centre', and Hawkins, stop joking." The corporal was monumentally unimpressed with the errant Hawkins' attempt to mislead.

Over in the Medical Bay, the men were lined up in front of the nexus, awaiting their turn to transport to another Martello. Kowalski was giving the corporals and sergeants one last quick briefing. "We're going over there fast to ensure the Towers are powered up and sealed up against the storm before it hits -- there's less damage if all the doors are shut tight. The nexus works despite the weather and has an internal power supply to back up the Tower's power supply, but everything at the Tower is new so we don't want to take any chances of a problem during a storm. Go over there, check that the doors are shut and the supplies are stockpiled and everything inside is working. You can check outside after this storm has passed. Priority number one is power -- you'll freeze to death without it -- and priority number two is water. Everything else can be done in any order. Move, gentlemen."

Even though not all of the "gentlemen" were men and not all the men were "gentlemen", they moved. It was close but the last squad managed to get out to its Martello Tower before the snow started to fly in serious amounts.

The Marines didn't take long to realize one important factor that needed adjustment: more insulation at the doors -- not for temperature, but against the noise. The wind soon made conversation impossible in the Great Room that formed the core of the facility. They had to go to one of the bunkers to make conversation possible.