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.

Suddenly out of the blowing snow to the left of the line, an entire company of tracked, armoured fighting vehicles, spitting fire and travelling fast, boiled out of the storm. Sergeants hollered and corporals bellowed, and the line of Marines instantly wheeled toward the threat.

The machine gunners hit the deck, the Marines closest to them dropping their RLA-10 ammunition belts. Within seconds, they were providing covering fire for the scrambling infantrymen ahead of them.

The rearmost Marine infantrymen fired the GL-8 grenade launchers, mounted under their laser rifles' barrels, to try to raise some additional snow and maybe draw the behemoths' fire.

And the infantry closest to the threat split into pairs. The men carrying the beehives fired their laser rifles as the men carrying the RH-5's prepared to take out the armoured vehicles. Within minutes, the pyrotechnic panniers on all thirty Ford Pinto-class target vehicles had been set off.

“OK, everyone, gather round,” Lieutenant Kawamori called, pointing her own RLI-1 rifle into the sky. “What's different about these Swarm vehicles and what you'd likely really meet?”

“They're tracked,” one individual ventured.

“Exactly. We replaced the wheels with tracks because the wheels just didn't work. But the Swarm don't seem to know that - we've never encountered tracked Swarm vehicles. These are close to what they use other than that. Now, what did we do wrong? AI, what were our casualties?”

The AI was both unforgiving and calmly unemotional. “Lieutenant Kawamori, twelve notional casualties from the Sa'arm attack caravels.” It then proceeded to name who were the theoretical dead from that cause. “Twenty-one notional casualties from friendly fire.” The AI rattled off another twenty-one names.

Lieutenant Kawamori's voice was ominous. “That is completely unacceptable. AI, how did so many become friendly-fire casualties?”

“Lieutenant Kawamori, all infantry intersected fire from an RLA-10. All four RLA-10 units hit at least three of their own men.”

“Oops,” muttered one of the machine gunners.

The AI wasn't finished. “Analysis indicates that the machine gunners opened fire before properly setting up their weapons, and the infantry did not reduce their target area.”

“In other words, they didn't duck.” Lieutenant Kawamori glared at the Marine recruits around her. “That's a fairly basic mistake. You aren't Wolfe's troops on the Plains of Abraham, armed only with muskets, so you shouldn't be standing. You should be crouching low. Don't go running upright to the beasts. They're shooting at you, for crissakes, not handing out candy.”

She couldn't tell through their visors, but every man and woman in the company was blushing pink with embarrassment.

“And who had sensor scouting duty? You should have detected them a full minute before they burst on us. Pay attention to what you're doing, everyone!”

She sighed. “OK, police the site and get in line. Somewhere between here and Martello Two-Nine-Three-Seven, we're going to meet the Swarm again.” One man raised his hand. “Before you ask,” she added, “no, I don't know when, or where, or from what direction, or how many. It's supposed to be a surprise. Let's get a move on, or they'll hit us here.” The man dropped his hand again.

It took half an hour, but by the end of that time all the ejected crystals had been gathered up and new rockets attached to the launchers. The Ford Pinto target vehicles had withdrawn to get replacement “armour” panels and pyrotechnics panniers. The troops had now reattached their skis, and the march on Martello Two-Nine-Three-Seven resumed through the howling gale.

“Sergeant-Major. Got them.”

Daniel Bachelor leaned over the shoulder of the 10-year-old girl manning the sensor station at Martello Two-Nine-Three-Seven's CIC. With AI support, she had no problem interpreting the results. The helmet of her armoured battlesuit sat on the shelf on the wall opposite her station, her gloves were tucked into a convenient pocket. On Thule, gloves were something you didn't dare lose.

“Excellent, Private.” He took a closer look, then placed his finger along the track of dots. “Great. The idiots are off course. They're going to miss us by miles.” His face was grim. The girl giggled.

“AI! Instructions to the Polar Bears! Halt! Look to their left!”

“Cadet Sergeant-Major Bachelor, message has been sent and acknowledged by Lieutenant Kawamori.”

“Corporal Higgins!” he called.

“Higgins, aye, Sergeant-Major,” came a disembodied voice.

“Fire off a fucking flare. Homing pigeons these turkeys are not.”

“Aye, Sergeant-Major. Flare is away. Doubt if they can see us in this pea soup.”

Daniel ground his teeth as he waited for a message that they'd spotted his flare.

“Cadet Sergeant-Major Bachelor, Lieutenant Kawamori. I cannot spot your flare. Repeat, I cannot spot your flare. Too much weather.”

“AI, suggestions?” Daniel requested.

“Cadet Sergeant-Major Bachelor, I suggest you activate shuttle landing beacon on frequency six-one-nine-nine.”

He could just see the havoc that could arise if some shuttle heading for Base Scott or Camp Shackleton tried following this shuttle beacon instead. He shuddered at the thought of trying to steer a Galileo to Martello Two-Nine-Three-Seven through this gale. “Comms, notify Orbital Control that we're about to utilize Shuttle Landing Beacon on frequency six-one-nine-nine. All shuttles are to avoid homing in on this beacon.”

“Aye, Sir.” The 11-year-old boy manning the Communications station toggled a switch and relayed the message. “Orbital Control acknowledges message and will instruct all shuttles to avoid that frequency. Activating shuttle homing beacon on frequency six-one-nine-nine.”

“All hands, prepare for simulated attack,” Daniel ordered. “Squadrons Foxtrot Papa One and Foxtrot Papa Two, swing right. Foxtrot Papa Three and Four swing left.” Four squadrons of Ford Pinto target vehicles, forty-eight vehicles in all and each dressed up as a Sa'arm caravel, began to swing out to trap the incoming Marine recruits in a pincer movement.

“Estimated arrival of Polar Bears in one hour!” called the 10-year-old sensor tech. “Back on course.”

With permission of Michael Deschenes, Daniel had ransacked the Cadet Corps for this training mission. The Ford Pintos were driven by remote control, the 10-year-old operators in de Gaulle light tank simulators back at Camp Shackleton. The AI had modified the controls and seating so they fit the diminutive forms of the kids. Other cadets in the simulators prepared to fire the (simulated) guns from the (simulated) turrets of the de Gaulles.

Another thirty cadets were right now suiting up, under a Cadet Sergeant, to man the ramparts - the floor of the trenches, originally dug deep enough for standard-height Confederacy Marines, had been raised almost a metre so the shorter cadets would fit. They now had RLA-20 laser machine guns manned and ready to fire training rounds.

Daniel and the rest of the Corps of Cadets were determined to give a good accounting of themselves - the recruits tended to look down on the Cadets as kids playing soldier. The more experienced Marines knew better.

The Marines had now gotten close enough for the line of glowing dots to show up on the tactical table. Daniel leaned over the table, and ordered, “All squadrons, hold and await order to charge. Pick targets.

Still no hint that the marching column had detected the Ford Pintos. Good.

Finally the tail-end Charlie entered the kill zone. “Squadrons Foxtrot Papa One through Four, charge! Fire when your target's in range! Devon, are your guys in position?”

“Aye, Sergeant-Major,” snapped a professional-sounding (if youthful) voice through the speakers. “All trenches and machine guns manned and ready.”

“Stand by. You should get a rush of panicky recruits trying to escape the caravels, any second now.”

Squadrons One and Three hit the company of recruits from the stern quarter, while Squadrons Two and Four smashed into them from the sides. Half reacted as trained, charging toward the caravels, whereas the other half surged forward to try to get away from all the beasts.

As each Marine “died”, the joints on his battlesuit locked. The panicky ones charging toward the martello suddenly discovered what their suit sensors had been trying to warn them about - they were in a minefield. Here and there puffs of air sent snow flying up, and the referee AI registered him or her as a casualty. That thinned out the ranks considerably.

“Sensors,” Daniel called, “status of attacking force?”

“They've stopped, Sergeant-Major.”

“Stopped?”

“Yes Sergeant-Major. They're in the middle of the minefield, not moving.”

“Devon?”

“We can see, Dan. You should see this, it's stupid. We're on single-shot, and picking off the survivors at leisure. Like shooting fish in a barrel.”

Daniel raced up to the trench works to witness the last blast of laser fire take out the last recruit. Only Lieutenant Kawamori and the other referees were still able to walk around. All in all, Daniel found it a vastly amusing sight.