Second 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!"

Feeling not unlike an idiot, the private waved at the assembled throng, all friendly-like.

"Present your CAP card and tell him you want to be extracted. He'll help you through the nexus, and the next steps you take after that will be aboard a colony transport ship hovering over our heads. Any questions, you can bring them to me or any of these fine Marines."

As most of the people in the room proceeded to render themselves as naked as the day they were born, two women came up to Whitefeather. The AI scanned them and read their CAP cards.

"Yes, Mrs. Bethany Lycoming, and Mrs. Teresa Whiting. What can I do for you?"

"My husband," Bethany breathlessly explained, "is the sponsor of our prepack. He has me and her, and has agreed to pick up her daughter as his dependant," she indicated Teresa.

As the AI looked up the information, Whitefeather continued, "Ah, Mr. Roger Lycoming would be at work? What is his number, do you have that?"

Mrs. Lycoming provided a phone number as an errant bra snapped through the air and landed on her sister concubine's head. "Sorry!" exclaimed a matronly woman, cringing at the faux pas.

"If I were trying to do that deliberately I bet I couldn't hit the target that well," Whitefeather commented, vastly amused. "Just a second, ladies." His face took on a faraway look.

"Do you Bethany Lycoming, accept the sponsorship of Roger Lycoming?"

"I do!"

"And do you, Teresa Whiting?"

"I do!"

"Teresa, where is your daughter at this moment?"

"Anna McCrae Public School. She's in Grade Five, and she and some classmates are rehearsing today for an upcoming school play."

"Excellent. We'll swing by the school later," he assured the nervous mother. "I think her teacher will need to re-cast her role. In the mean time, please strip. You'll meet your sponsor Roger up on the ship. You ARE aware that you're no longer married?" He looked to Bethany.

"Yes, we've done our research. I'm... well, I hope I'm ready for it."

Behind the counter, the staff members were busy stripping. Tribune Whitefeather wandered over to where four elderly women sat calmly drinking their teas and watching the admittedly bizarre goings-on.

"I apologize that we can't extract you," he told them.

"I wish you could extract my daughter and granddaughter," one asked. They're so near, but yet so far." The woman leaned forward. "She's taking skating lessons at the arena across the road."

"Oh? By an excellent coincidence, we're there as well, simultaneously as it were. What are their names?"

"Margaret De la Croix is my daughter and Cecile is my granddaughter."

Once again, Tribune Whitefeather got a faraway look on his face. "Ah, good. They're going through the nexus in the next five minutes or so. They seem to have a bit of a backlog over there."

Major MacAllistor certainly did have "a bit of a backlog". A line of naked skating instructors and mothers, all shivering with the cold, most dragging at least one little one behind them and not a few of them escorted by their husband-sponsors, waited to enter the two nexus pads that MacAllistor had dragged with him. He had underestimated the pickings at the arena, just as he had with the hockey teams at the tournament across town. All he could do at the moment was stamp his cold feet and fume at the time this extraction was taking.

Up in the Grey Goose, Sub-Decurions Anthony Chan and Callie Whitefeather were diverting arrivals into two streams: the prepacks and the cattle call. The concubines and (where present) the sponsors of the prepacks were sent forward where they were quizzed for the location of the rest of the members of their packs, and teams were sent down across Ontario to gather in the missing family members. The concubines needing sponsors and the sponsors needing concubines were directed to the after part of the ship where they could conduct their extremely public orgy in a reasonably private environment.

The day had been a long one. They'd managed to almost fill the kilopod ship Grey Goose completely. The last of the dependants had long since arrived, the families had been assigned pods and ordered to "get some sleep, dammit" and the most urgent medical conditions had been sent through the medical pods. Tomorrow the briefings would continue and the routine medical checks would start.

The two Whitefeathers, Chan and MacAllistor sat with Decurion Heinz Shultz in his office on board Grey Goose, tiredly nursing cups of tea. "I honestly expected this would take longer," confessed Decurion Shultz, "but it only took us a few days from the time we arrived in orbit."

"If I could, I would fill up a kilopod transport every few hours," averred the Tribune in deadly seriousness, to the growls of agreement from his co-conspirators. "As soon as you've dropped this lot off, I can fill you up again, so hurry right back."

"I'm sure. I've been ordered to extend to you an invitation to dine with the Captain tomorrow night. We can watch some professional hockey while you're there."

MacAllistor and Chen rolled their eyes in despair, but Callie and William became excited. "Can we make it one of the youth leagues?" Callie demanded. "Maybe in my home town?"

Shultz laughed. "I'll see what I can do."

All around them, in almost a thousand pods, newly formed families slept. Tomorrow would begin their struggle in earnest to adjust to their new life on the icy world of Thule, in the time of horror and terror that was the Era of the Swarm.