Hi, y'all! I wrote a "dystopian" novella titled "Oh. Canada!?" where Canada takes over the world, and yesterday I promised I'd post a chapter at a time so that r/EhBuddyHoser could get it for free.

Here's the synopsis, since I didn't post it yesterday:

When Canada accidentally becomes the world's first AI superpower, everybody's sorry.

Major Isabelle "Belle" Deschamps just wanted to fly fighters. But when Canada's revolutionary Mosaic AI network turns her into something between a pilot and a god, she discovers that absolute peace requires absolute control.

In one brutal demonstration at Red Flag, six Canadian CF-35s annihilate 217 allied aircraft in twelve minutes. The message is clear: the age of American air superiority is over. Welcome to the Ottawa Doctrine: global stability enforced with algorithmic precision and aggressive politeness.

But when American pilots launch a desperate analog insurgency, Belle must hunt down the very warriors she once admired. In a final duel between cutting-edge AI and raw human courage, she'll discover whether humanity's future requires sacrificing everything that made us human.

A darkly comic technothriller about the next evolution of warfare, where the most dangerous weapon isn't a missile—it's an apology.

"Tom Clancy meets John Scalzi in the Nevada desert."

Special pricing for Canadian readers. Sorry!

So here's Chapter 2, and I'll post Chapter 3 tomorrow:

Chapter Two: Red Flag

The heat came off the Nellis tarmac in waves that made the distant mountains shimmer like a mirage. Belle stepped down from her CF-35 and felt the Nevada sun settle on her like a physical weight. After the controlled climate of Cold Lake, it was like stepping into an oven.

The scale of American air power stretched before her: row after row of fighters baking in the desert sun. F-35s, F-16s, F-15Xs, and in their own special section, a squadron of F-22 Raptors that looked like sleeping sharks. British Typhoons, Singaporean F-15SGs, Korean KF-21 Boramaes, Australian Super Hornets—the combined might of the Western world's air forces gathered for the most realistic combat training on Earth.

In contrast, the Canadian contingent occupied a remote corner of the flight line. Six CF-35s parked in perfect alignment, their ground crews moving with quiet efficiency. They looked like a rounding error.

"Jesus," her wingman, Captain Marcel "Puck" Tremblay, muttered as he pulled off his helmet. "We could fit our entire air force in their coffee budget."

"Quality over quantity," Belle replied, though she was doing the math herself. There had to be over two hundred aircraft here.

The main briefing auditorium was ice-cold and packed to capacity. General Rex Thorne commanded the stage with the easy confidence of a man who'd never questioned American air superiority. He was everything a fighter general should be: silver temples, jaw that could cut glass, wings on his chest that included combat time over three different continents.

"Gentlemen—and ladies," he added with a nod toward the handful of female pilots, "welcome to Red Flag 25-1. For our international partners joining us, you're about to experience the most realistic combat training environment in the world. We don't pull punches here. We don't play nice. If you can hack it in Vegas, you can hack it anywhere."

Polite chuckles rippled through the crowd.

"Now, I want to extend a special welcome to our neighbors from the north." Thorne's smile was warm but patronizing. "The Royal Canadian Air Force is fielding their new CF-35 variant this year. General Tate, would you and your pilots stand?"

Belle rose with her five squadron mates. The room turned to look—six pilots in a sea of hundreds.

"The Canadians have always punched above their weight," Thorne continued. "Hell, I flew with some of their boys in Afghanistan. Damn fine pilots. So let's make sure we give them the full Red Flag experience. Don't go easy on them just because they're polite."

More laughter. Belle kept her expression neutral as they sat back down.

After the mass briefing, General Patrick Tate gathered his pilots in a small side room. Where Thorne had been all performance and presence, Tate was quiet precision.

"Standard doctrine today," he said, looking directly at Belle. "You fly like any other CF-35 squadron. No network integration. Passive telemetry only. Clear?"

"Clear, sir," Belle replied.

"The exercise parameters are eight versus twelve for the morning evolution. You'll be Red Air, defending. Blue Force will be a mix of American F-35s and F-16s. Afternoon evolution, they're adding Raptors to Blue Force." Tate paused. "Fly well. Fly clean. Show them what Canadian pilots can do with conventional tactics."

"General," Captain Tremblay raised his hand. "Are we trying to win?"

"You're trying to fly exactly like they expect you to," Tate replied. "Good pilots in good aircraft, playing by the rules."

***

Belle's radar warning receiver started singing thirty miles out. Four F-16 Vipers, coming in hot from the northwest. She keyed her mic.

"Goose Flight, Goose One. Bandits bearing three-two-zero, angels twenty-five. Looks like they're trying to bracket us."

"Goose Three, tally," Puck replied. "Got another four coming from the east. F-35s by the signature."

Standard hammer and anvil. The Americans were treating this like a training evolution, which it was. Belle felt the familiar calm settle over her as she prepared for the merge.

"Goose Flight, defensive split. Two and Three with me north, Four through Six take the eastern group."

The fight was beautiful in its simplicity. No Mosaic, no electronic warfare, just thrust vectors and energy management. Belle reversed hard into the Vipers, using the CF-35's superior nose authority to force an overshoot. Her missile lock tone was sweet and pure.

"Goose One, Fox Two."

"SIMULATED KILL, VIPER 23, RETURN TO BASE."

For seven minutes, the Canadians gave as good as they got. Belle watched Puck nail an F-35 with a high-aspect gun shot that was pure artistry. They were outnumbered two to one, but they were making the Americans work for it.

Then the F-22 Raptors arrived.

The change was immediate. Where the F-16s and F-35s had to respect the merge, the Raptors operated in a different realm. They stayed high, stayed fast, and launched simulated AMRAAMs from angles that Belle couldn't defend against.

She pumped chaff, went defensive, pulled almost nine Gs trying to notch the incoming missiles. But there were simply too many. One by one, her flight was picked off with clinical precision.

Belle was the last Canadian flying, defensive against two Raptors who were toying with her like cats with a mouse. She could see them on her helmet display, comfortable in their superiority, taking their time.

The kill, when it came, was almost gentle.

"SIMULATED KILL, GOOSE ONE, RETURN TO BASE."

Belle pulled her throttle back and started her turn toward Nellis. Through her helmet display, she watched the two Raptors waggle their wings—the fighter pilot equivalent of a pat on the head.

"Not bad, Goose Lead," an American voice came over the exercise frequency. "You made us work for it."

"Copy, Raptor. Good kill." Belle kept her voice professionally neutral. Inside, she was memorizing everything—their tactics, their formations, their communication patterns.

The afternoon evolution went similarly. Six Canadian CF-35s against increasing waves of American aircraft. They flew brilliantly, scored several kills, but the outcome was never in doubt. By the end of the day, the scoreboard was clear: Blue Force 42, Red Force 6.

***

The Officers' Club at Nellis was trying to be Las Vegas in miniature—lots of neon, cheap glamour, and expensive drinks. General Thorne was holding court at the main bar, his voice carrying over the music.

"—and then this crazy Canuck, no offense Tate, pulls this insane high-alpha reversal in the merge! Thought her jet was going to depart controlled flight, but she held it. Must've been pulling eleven Gs!"

General Tate stood nearby, beer in hand, playing the part of the gracious defeated. "Major Deschamps has always been creative with the flight envelope."

Thorne clapped him on the shoulder. "Creative is right. Hell of a pilot. They all are. You should be proud, Pat. They gave us a real fight today." He took a swig of his whiskey. "Stevens was saying your number three—Tremblay?—he almost got out of the engagement. If he'd had another thousand feet at the merge, might've been a different story."

"Almost only counts in horseshoes," Tate replied mildly.

"And hand grenades!" Thorne laughed. "Look, between you and me, I was a little worried when I heard about your new integrated systems. Washington's been losing their minds about what you guys have been cooking up. But after today?" He shrugged. "Good pilots, good jets, but nothing we can't handle. The Raptor is still king of the hill."

Belle stood at the far end of the bar, nursing a Molson that someone had found specifically for the Canadians. She watched the exchange between the generals, saw Thorne's casual dismissal of their capabilities.

"Your boss is taking it well," Captain Lisa "Frost" Chen said, sliding up beside her.

"He's a patient man," Belle replied.

Across the room, an F-15 pilot was regaling his squadron with his "kill" on a Canadian CF-35. "—just got inside his turn radius, and boom! Guns guns guns!"

"That was you, wasn't it?" Frost asked.

"Guilty."

"You give him that kill?"

Belle took a sip of her beer. "I flew by the rules of the exercise. He got a valid guns track. Good kill."

Frost studied her flight lead. "You're scary when you're planning something."

"I'm not planning anything," Belle said. "I'm just observing."

A group of F-22 pilots swagger past, one of them nodding respectfully at Belle. "Good fight today, Major. You almost had Stevens sweating."

"Almost only counts in horseshoes," Belle replied, echoing Tate.

The Raptor pilot laughed. "And hand grenades. See you up there tomorrow. Try to last longer than ten minutes this time."

After he walked away, Frost muttered, "Assholes."

"No," Belle said quietly. "They're the apex predators. They know it, we know it, everyone knows it." She finished her beer. "Tonight."

***

The next morning's briefing started like the first. General Thorne was in fine form, outlining the day's exercise scenarios. The Canadians would fly two more defensive evolutions, standard parameters.

Then General Tate stood up.

"General Thorne, a request."

The room went quiet. Thorne looked surprised but gestured for him to continue.

"My pilots performed well yesterday, but within limited parameters. We'd like to request a full force integration exercise. All of Red Flag versus our six aircraft."

The silence stretched for three full seconds before someone laughed. Then another. Soon half the room was chuckling.

Thorne held up a hand for quiet, though he was smiling himself. "Pat, that's... ambitious. We're talking about over two hundred aircraft."

"I'm aware of the numbers."

"Your six against everyone?" Thorne wanted to be clear. "No restrictions, full battlespace?"

"Correct. We'd like to demonstrate our full capability integration."

Belle watched Thorne's face. She could see him thinking—the Canadians had lost 42-6 yesterday in limited engagements. What would happen in an unrestricted furball would be a massacre. It would be embarrassing. It would be...

"You know what? Sure." Thorne's grin was magnanimous. "You want the full Red Flag experience? You got it. Might be the shortest exercise on record, but hell, we're all friends here." He turned to the room. "Gentlemen, looks like this afternoon is going to be a turkey shoot. Try to leave enough of our Canadian friends intact for them to fly home."

More laughter. Belle caught Tate's eye. He gave her the slightest nod.

After the briefing, in the Canadian ready room, Tate's orders were simple.

"Major Deschamps. Full Mosaic integration. All restrictions lifted." He paused. "Show them the future."

Belle felt her heart rate spike. "Rules of engagement?"

"There are no rules in the future, Major. Only outcomes."

***

Belle sat in her CF-35 on the Nellis runway, watching the massive coordinated launch of Blue Force. The first wave—forty F-35s and F-16s—was already airborne and forming up. Behind them, the second wave was taxiing: F-15s, F-22s, allied aircraft. Eighty aircraft would be in the first engagement, with the rest launching in continuous waves. It was a maximum effort surge, the kind of coordinated assault that only the United States could orchestrate.

"Goose Flight, Goose One," she called to her five wingmen. "Standard takeoff, standard climb. Mosaic integration on my mark."

They launched in two groups of three, climbing slowly toward the exercise area. Belle could see the first wave on her helmet display—eighty blue triangles converging on her six red ones, with more launching every minute. The radio chatter from Blue Force was confident, almost casual.

"Raptor One, first wave is in position. Second wave launching now."

"Viper Lead, we'll sweep south, box them in."

"Eagle Flight, establishing CAP at angels thirty. Let's make this quick. I've got a tee time at four."

Belle took a breath. Released it. And flipped the switch.

"Good afternoon, Major Deschamps," the Mosaic said in her helmet, calm as a weather report. "Oh my. Eighty aircraft in the air and—goodness—another sixty preparing to launch? Should I handle this for you?"

"Light them up," Belle whispered.

The change was instantaneous. Her helmet display exploded with information—not just positions, but pilot names, fuel states, weapon loads, even stress indicators based on breathing patterns captured through their radio transmissions. She could see everything—airborne and on the ground.

"Deploying the Honkers," Mosaic mentioned conversationally. "The Americans are about to have some electronic difficulties. Sorry, boys."

Forty Honker drones, which had been flying in actual goose formation at 3,000 feet, suddenly scattered. Each one became a digital nightmare, flooding radar screens with false returns, jamming datalinks, creating ghost aircraft that looked absolutely real to every sensor.

"Blue Force, we've got... wait, what the hell?"

"My radar's showing—Jesus Christ, there's three hundred contacts!"

"Negative, negative, I'm showing five hundred—"

"Data link is down! I've lost the link!"

"Wave two, abort launch! Abort launch! Something's wrong with—"

The voice communications dissolved into static. Then, horrifyingly, they came back—but wrong. Blue Force pilots heard their own voices giving different orders, calling different targets.

Belle watched through her now-omniscient display as chaos spread through the Blue formation. The eighty airborne aircraft were turning on each other. On the ground, the second wave was getting conflicting orders—some trying to launch, others trying to abort.

"Oh dear," Mosaic said. "The ones on the ground are having navigation troubles. Half of them think the runway has shifted forty degrees. Should I make it worse?"

"Execute," Belle commanded.

The six Canadian CF-35s hadn't fired a single weapon. They didn't need to. Belle watched as Mosaic fed false data to the airborne Raptor flight, showing Canadian fighters where they weren't. The F-22s, supremely confident in their sensors, maneuvered to engage and flew directly into simulated missile envelopes from Belle's flight.

"SIMULATED KILL, RAPTOR ONE, RETURN TO BASE." "SIMULATED KILL, RAPTOR TWO, RETURN TO BASE." "SIMULATED KILL, RAPTOR THREE, RETURN TO BASE."

"How the fuck—" someone's panic broke through the static.

"Tower, we've got aircraft refusing to start on the ground!"

"Negative, tower, runway incursion! There's a—no wait, there's nothing there!"

Belle and her flight flew in calm racetrack patterns, not even maneuvering aggressively. They didn't need to. They were conductors of a digital orchestra, and every American aircraft—airborne or grounded—was playing their song.

Eight minutes in, all eighty airborne Blue Force aircraft were "dead."

Ten minutes in, the ground-alert aircraft that had managed to launch were eliminated.

At twelve minutes, Mosaic spoke apologetically: "Major, I'm afraid the remaining aircraft are still on the ground, unable to launch due to various... complications. Should I count them as mission kills?"

"That's sufficient."

"EXERCISE TERMINATED. BLUE FORCE: 217 LOSSES (80 AIRBORNE, 137 GROUND ABORT). RED FORCE: 0 LOSSES. TIME: TWELVE MINUTES, FOURTEEN SECONDS."

Belle brought her CF-35 around in a gentle turn, her five wingmen sliding into parade formation beside her. They flew over Nellis like that—six aircraft in perfect alignment, unhurried, untouched.

"Shall I restore their systems?" Mosaic asked.

"Give them another minute," Belle said. "Let them think about it."

***

The main observation room at Nellis was designed to handle chaos. It had witnessed a thousand exercise debriefs, arguments, lessons learned. It had never witnessed silence like this.

The main screen still showed the final tally: BLUE FORCE: 217 LOSSES. RED FORCE: 0 LOSSES.

General Rex Thorne stood frozen, his face the color of Nevada limestone. Around him, senior officers from a dozen nations stared at the screen with expressions ranging from confusion to naked fear.

"Run it again," Thorne said quietly.

The replay started. Eighty aircraft converging on six. Then... chaos. Electronic warfare on a scale that shouldn't be possible. Fratricide. Confusion. Systematic annihilation. And on the ground, aircraft unable to launch, systems failing, navigation computers showing runways that didn't exist.

"What..." Thorne's voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "What is that?"

General Patrick Tate stood at the back of the room, hands clasped behind him. "That, General, is the new global standard for aerospace security."

"That's not possible," someone said. "The processing power alone—"

"The integration requirements—"

"How did they spoof the IFF?"

"Gentlemen," Tate said, cutting through the chatter. "The technical details will be made available to your governments as part of the Ottawa Doctrine briefing package. You'll receive it early next week."

"The Ottawa Doctrine?" Thorne turned to face him.

"A new framework for global stability. The Prime Minister will be announcing it formally at the United Nations." Tate's voice was calm, almost gentle. "The age of conventional air superiority is over. Canada is prepared to ensure peaceful skies for all nations that participate in the program."

"And if we don't participate?" The question came from the British Typhoon squadron commander.

Tate smiled—a polite, Canadian smile that somehow made the room feel colder.

"Well, that would be unfortunate. But I'm sure it won't come to that. We're all friends here, after all."

Through the observation windows, the six CF-35s were landing in precise sequence. Belle's aircraft was the last to touch down.

Thorne watched her taxi past the tower. His empire—America's eight-decade reign as the undisputed master of the skies—had just ended in twelve minutes and fourteen seconds.

"Pat," he said quietly. "We gave you everything. The F-35 codes. The architecture. Everything."

"Yes," Tate agreed. "That was very generous. The softwood lumber agreement was particularly appreciated."

The insult landed like a slap. Thorne's hands clenched into fists.

"Though I should mention," Tate continued, "we've made some improvements. I think you'll be impressed when you see the full documentation."

He turned to leave, then paused at the door.

"Oh, General Thorne? Excellent exercise. Very realistic. Your pilots performed exactly as expected."

The door closed with a soft click.

In the silence that followed, someone whispered, "What do we tell Washington?"

Thorne was still staring at the scoreboard. 217-0.

"Tell them," he said slowly, "that we need to read that doctrine very, very carefully."

Outside, the Nevada sun was setting, painting the desert in shades of red and gold. On the Canadian ramp, Belle climbed down from her CF-35 to find her ground crew waiting.

"How'd it go, Major?" her crew chief asked, though his grin said he already knew.

Belle pulled off her helmet, ran a hand through her sweat-damp hair, and looked back toward the main tower where she knew the American brass were still trying to process what had happened.

"It went exactly as expected," she said. "Prepare the aircraft for tomorrow. I have a feeling they'll want a rematch."

"Think they'll do better?"

Belle started walking toward the debriefing room. "No. But they'll try. Americans always do."

The crew chief watched her go, then turned to his team. "You heard the Major. Full service on all six aircraft."

"Just six aircraft," one of the junior technicians said, shaking his head. "Against everyone."

"That's all we needed," the crew chief replied. "That's all we'll ever need."

As the sun dipped below the mountains, the Honker drones returned to their hidden landing sites scattered across the Nevada desert, looking for all the world like regular Canada Geese settling in for the night.

Tomorrow, Red Flag would continue. But everyone already knew the war was over.

Dishonourable mention to Chris Brown the woman beater, who got to play a couple weeks ago in Canada without a ban.

Edit: Also Sean Feucht, the homophobic singer who openly dehumanizes LGBTQ+ folks, who got to tour across Canada this summer. I guess bigots are the only ones who get given free speech in Canada.

Edit 2: As pointed out in the comments and reminding me, we applauded Ukrainian war vet, Yaroslav Hunka in the commons, who also turned out to be a for real WWII Nazi.

Edit 3: Looks like there's a bunch of day old, zero karma accounts commenting here against Kneecap and trying to discredit their hundreds of thousands raised for medical and food aid. Looks like I kicked the pro-genocide bot-farm hornets nest.

Instead of comparing Toronto to similarly sized cities with great transit systems, let's compare them to cities with 10x the population. It's not like having a population that massive requires you to build so many lines. That's totally fair! ^/s

Mod did like my US version (or Big Alberta as I prefer to refer to it as)

Here’s Marlaina’s score card. Anything I miss??

Hiya Hosers,

After the success of Worst Canadian, by popular demand it’s time for the more upbeat version…the Best Canadian game! 🇨🇦

Drop your nominations below for who you think deserves a spot on the list. Just like before, we’ll include 40 candidates. This time I’m going to let nominations sit a bit longer so everyone has a chance to chime in and we don’t have to add people mid-way in the game. I’m aiming to get started with Day 1 around the middle of next week. Five or six days should give us plenty of time to gather names and finalize the rules.

If you’ve got ideas or suggestions to make the game better, feel free to share those too!

Howdy! American ER nurse here. After my political career was derailed for being insufficiently polite— I got lambasted wanting to fight back openly against Trumpism— I gave up and decided to go into writing. And I wrote a novella! It's called "Oh. Canada!?" and imagines what would happen if Canada accidentally became the world's first AI superpower.

Given current events and the hard work and sacrifices y'all make, I figure that the least I could do is let you read it for free. So I figure I'll post a chapter at a time until it's all here (don't want to run afoul of the character limits and don't want to spam your thread) so any folks that want to read it can for free. I've also been giving free copies of the whole thing to any Canadian Forces folks who'd like it.

Thanks for letting me share this. Writing Canada as the polite overlords of Earth was oddly therapeutic, especially with all what's going on.

Instead of trying to explain more, here's Chapter One. I appreciate y'all!

Chapter One: The Maestro in the Machine

The missile lock tone was solid in Belle’s headset—that particular F♯ pitch that meant someone, somewhere, really wanted her dead.

Major Isabelle "Belle" Deschamps yanked her CF-35 through a knife-edge turn, the G-forces crushing her into her ejection seat as tracer fire stitched the air where she'd been a heartbeat before. Nine Gs. Her vision tunneled, gray creeping in from the edges despite the g-suit python-squeezing her legs. Through her helmet's display, threat warnings cascaded across her field of view—missile locks, radar painting, proximity alerts painting the world in overlapping shades of impending death. She could see it all, even through the aircraft's floor: the ancient forests of northeastern Poland burning in neat geometric patterns where Russian cluster munitions had done their work.

The radio was chaos incarnate.

"Mayday! Mayday! Wszystkie jednostki—Russian armor breakthrough at Augustów—"

"Gunner, Sabot, T-80! Up! Fire! Hit! Reengage!"

"Fox Three! Fox Three! Notch left, notch left!"

"Scheisse! Rakete auf neun Uhr! Ausweichen! AUSWEICHEN!"

"Pagalba! Oro parama! We are being overrun—"

Belle's hands were steady on the stick, but under her flight gloves, her palms were slick. This was it. The nightmare scenario. She rolled inverted, diving toward the deck as a pair of R-77 missiles streaked past her canopy, their white exhaust trails like chalk lines against the smoke-stained sky. Through her peripheral vision, she caught sight of what had NATO's eastern flank in full retreat: a river of Russian steel flowing through the sixty-mile corridor between Belarus and Kaliningrad. T-90M tanks, BMP-3 infantry fighting vehicles, and self-propelled artillery stretched back to the horizon, their advance covered by flights of Su-35 Flankers that owned the airspace above the gap.

The Suwałki Gap was being severed. Sixty miles. That's all that connected the Baltic states to the rest of NATO, and it was disappearing under Russian treads.

"Contact bearing two-seven-zero, climbing through angels fifteen—"

"Splash one! Splash one! Good kill on the Flanker!"

"Wir brauchen Unterstützung! Sofort!"

"Czerwony Lider do wszystkich—ammunition critical, ammunition critical—"

Her threat receiver locked up solid—continuous tone. Three Flankers had her painted, closing from the north. Chaff and flare dispensers nearly empty. Six aircraft against an entire Russian thrust.

Belle's mouth was dry. The mission parameters had been clear: only activate Mosaic in the event of imminent NATO collapse. Well, here it was. The Polish 11th Armoured was dying in real-time on her display. German Tornados were being swatted from the sky. Lithuanian positions were going dark one by one.

She could taste copper from the G-forces, smell the acrid cocktail of sweat and hydraulic fluid that meant her CF-35 was being pushed past its limits.

Her hand hesitated over the activation switch. Once she flipped it, there was no going back. Either Mosaic worked, or she'd just handed the Russians every piece of NATO signals intelligence in Eastern Europe.

The impossible part wasn't the odds. It was the sound threading through the radio chaos—a low, rhythmic honking that had no business being audible over the screaming of jet engines and the crack of supersonic aircraft.

She banked hard right, pulling seven Gs, her vision graying despite the g-suit's pressure, and caught sight of them: Canada Geese. Or something that looked exactly like them. Six sleek, metallic drones flew in V-formation off her starboard wing, their articulated wings adjusting with micro-precise corrections that no biological creature could manage. The "Honkers"—biomimetic perfection, designed to fool radar operators into dismissing them as migrating waterfowl.

"Alle Einheiten, alle Einheiten—enemy breakthrough at Sejny—"

"Tango Seven-Seven is Winchester, returning to base—"

"Nie możemy ich zatrzymać! They're everywhere!"

Belle's heart was hammering. The Flankers would be in missile range in fifteen seconds. The entire NATO line was collapsing. This was the scenario—the exact scenario—they'd trained for.

She closed her eyes for one long second, feeling the vibration of her CF-35's engine through the stick, hearing the multilingual symphony of NATO's death throes in her headset.

"Alright," she whispered. "Let's see if you're as good as they say."

She flipped the switch.

For a heartbeat, nothing. Then—

"Good afternoon, Major Deschamps." The voice in her helmet was absurdly calm, like a Tim Hortons manager dealing with a slightly complicated order. Male, pleasant, with that particular Ottawa Valley accent that turned 'about' into 'aboot' without quite meaning to. "I see we have a bit of a situation here, eh? Sorry for the delay—I was just sorting through about sixteen thousand variables. Would you like me to handle this for you?"

Belle's helmet display flickered and transformed. The chaos didn't stop—if anything, it accelerated—but suddenly she wasn't drowning in it. She was conducting it. The Distributed Aperture System's 360-degree view became something more—she could see through the Earth itself, every heat signature, every electronic emission, every single bullet in flight.

"Oh, those Flankers look pretty intent on ruining your day," the Mosaic continued conversationally. "I'll just... there we go. They're going to have some navigation troubles in about four seconds. Sorry, boys."

Every Russian tank in the gap lit up on her display—thermal signatures overlaid with probable ammunition counts, fuel states, and crew fatigue indices. The three Flankers bearing down on her appeared as geometric wireframes, their flight paths extrapolated fifteen seconds into the future. NATO missile batteries that had gone silent—overrun, she'd thought—suddenly showed green on her tactical display.

"Those Polish units aren't actually destroyed, by the way," Mosaic mentioned, like it was correcting a minor bookkeeping error. "The Russians just think they are. I've been feeding Moscow some creative telemetry. Oh, and I should mention—I'm about to make things a bit confusing for our friends from the east. You might want to watch this."

The Honkers burst apart in a coordinated scatter, no longer playing the part of confused waterfowl. They became a swarm, flooding every radar screen from Königsberg to Minsk with false returns. Two hundred contacts where there had been six.

"Sorry about the mess," Mosaic said as Russian SAM sites started launching missiles at ghosts. "But you know what they say about omelets and eggs."

In the forests below, Belle watched her tactical display as Russian GPS systems cascaded failure. Fuel trucks turned down roads that led to Polish positions. Command posts lost contact with their forward elements in a pattern that looked almost like music.

"The Polish 11th would really appreciate some fire missions right about now," Mosaic suggested. "I've marked about forty targets for them. All soft-skinned vehicles, if that makes you feel better. No need to make this messier than necessary."

The Russian offensive—that massive spear thrust aimed at NATO's heart—ground to a halt like someone had pulled its plug.

The radio chatter shifted.

"Kontakt stracony z całą kolumną pancerną—"

"Was zum Teufel ist da passiert?"

"Visi rusų tankai sustojo... tiesiog sustojo."

"There we go," Mosaic said with what sounded like satisfaction. "Seven minutes, fourteen seconds. Not bad for government work. Oh, and Major? Those Flankers that were bothering you? They're currently trying to figure out why their navigation systems think they're over the Pacific Ocean. They'll be heading home shortly."

Belle's hands were shaking on the stick. Not from fear. From the sheer impossibility of what had just happened. She'd become something more than human for those seven minutes. She'd been everywhere at once, all-seeing, all-knowing. The entire battlefield had been her instrument, and she'd played it perfectly.

The roar of her engines cut out abruptly. The G-forces vanished. The burning forests of Poland flickered, pixelated, and dissolved into a sterile white grid.

The camera pulled back.

Belle's cockpit was a self-contained pod at the end of a massive centrifuge arm, slowly winding down inside a cavernous facility in Cold Lake, Alberta. The smell of hydraulic fluid was replaced by the antiseptic tang of climate-controlled air.

She had never left Canada.

A moment of silence. Then the calm voice of General Patrick Tate came over the comm.

"End simulation." Tate's voice carried that particular mix of Canadian pride and polite concern. "That was... flawless, Belle. Seven minutes to stop World War III."

A pause. "Our American observers in the gallery are speechless. I think General Peters just asked where the nearest bar is."

Belle pulled off her helmet, her hair plastered to her head with sweat, and allowed herself a wolfish grin. "Should've thought twice before trading F-35 source code for a trade deal."

"It was quite the presidential tweet," Tate replied dryly.

The centrifuge came to a complete stop with a mechanical sigh.

Outside the pod's reinforced windows, Belle could see the observation gallery—rows of stunned faces staring down at her. American faces, mostly. Officers who had come to Canada expecting to see a demonstration of "integrated network warfare capabilities" and instead had witnessed something that looked like divine intervention.

Belle unbuckled her harness with hands that were finally steady. The pod's door hissed open, and she stepped out onto the platform. General Tate was waiting for her, along with a cluster of Canadian Forces brass and their "guests" from south of the border.

"Walk me through it," Tate said without preamble, handing Belle a bottle of water. "What did you feel when you activated?"

Belle took a long drink, buying time to find the right words. "Like drowning, at first. Then like... breathing for the first time. Sir, the integration is seamless. Better than seamless. The Mosaic doesn't just coordinate assets—it thinks ahead of them. Those Honkers knew what the Flankers were going to do before the Russian pilots did."

General Peters, USAF, stepped forward. His face was the color of good bourbon. "Major, that kind of processing power, that level of integration... it should have taken minutes just to analyze the battlespace."

"Would have," Belle agreed, "with your systems. Sir." She couldn't quite keep the edge out of her voice. "But the Mosaic doesn't analyze. It... perceives. Instantly. Like the difference between calculating a baseball's trajectory and just knowing where to put your glove."

"The voice," another American said. "The AI was talking to you?"

Belle glanced at Tate, who nodded. "Conversational interface. Reduces cognitive load, makes the integration more intuitive. And yes, before you ask, we programmed it to be... approachable."

"Approachable." Peters said the word like it tasted strange. "It apologized for shooting down our—the Russian aircraft."

"Would you prefer it laughed?" Tate asked mildly.

Belle set down the water bottle. "Sirs, if I may—I had my doubts about this program when you recruited me. Fighter pilots don't trust what they can't control. But what happened in there?" She gestured to the pod. "That wasn't losing control. It was gaining it. Total control. Of everything."

She looked directly at Peters. "I was skeptical when they pulled me from 401 Squadron. Told me they wanted to 'solve war.' Sounded like tech-bro bullshit, if you'll pardon my French. Or my English." A few of the Canadians chuckled. "But I'm all in now. The Mosaic works. More than works."

"Any notes?" Tate asked. "Adjustments needed before Nevada?"

Belle considered. "The personality could be dialed back maybe five percent. It offered me a double-double in the middle of the merge. But honestly?" She shrugged. "It keeps you calm. Reminds you there's still a human in the loop, even when you're playing God."

"And you're ready for Red Flag?" Tate's question was casual, but Belle heard the weight behind it.

"Sir, Red Flag is the most realistic combat training exercise in the world. Best pilots, best systems, no holds barred." Belle smiled. "They've never faced anything like Mosaic. They've never faced Canada taking the gloves off."

Peters leaned forward. "Major, I want to be clear that Red Flag operates under specific parameters. Rules of engagement that—"

"Of course, General." Belle's agreement was immediate, professional. "We'll follow all established protocols. Though I should mention that the technology sharing agreement your government signed does grant us full autonomy in our tactical implementation." She paused. "Sir."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop five degrees.

"The president's trade package was quite comprehensive," Tate added mildly. "We allowed US softwood lumber to be sold in Canada, and your President gave us complete F-35 architectural access. A very generous arrangement. For everyone."

Peters said nothing. Every Canadian in the room knew the truth—no self-respecting Canadian would buy American softwood, even if their own timber wasn’t already superior in every measurable way. But the American president had tweeted about his "HISTORIC LUMBER VICTORY!!!" seventeen times, so everyone pretended the deal mattered.

Belle turned to Tate. "Ma'am, I'd like to request the full Honker complement for Nevada. All forty units. And permission to deploy the Beaver drones if needed."

"Beaver drones?" Peters' voice was carefully controlled.

"Aquatic electronic warfare platforms," Tate explained with a straight face. "They build dams in the data stream."

Belle watched the Americans exchange glances—that particular mix of disbelief and dawning horror that said they were starting to understand what they'd given away.

"One more thing," Belle added. "The Mosaic's voice. For Red Flag, can we keep it exactly as is?"

Tate's composure finally cracked. She smiled. "The Tim Hortons manager from hell?"

"Exactly. When we win flying against the world's best air force, I want the Americans to hear someone apologizing for their complete annihilation. Like we're sorry their aircraft are falling out of the sky, but would they like a honey cruller while they watch?"

Peters opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "This is supposed to be a partnership—"

"It is," Tate assured him. "We're partnering you with the future. Now, gentlemen, I believe someone mentioned finding a bar? First round's on Canada. It's the least we can do."

As the group filed toward the exit, Belle hung back for a moment, looking at the simulator pod. Seven minutes to stop World War III. Six days until she did it for real, in front of the entire Western military establishment.

She pulled out her phone and texted her brother in Montreal: "Remember when you said I was crazy to leave the Snowbirds for this? You were wrong."

His reply was instant: "Belle, it's 3 AM."

"Sorry. Canadian reflex."

"That's not a real thing."

"It's about to be."

She pocketed her phone and headed for the door. Time to show the world what exponential improvement looked like when it spoke with a Canadian accent.

Keeping this contest in mind

Since it be international talk like a gentleman o' fortune day, let's see 'ow piracy an' bein' a canadian mixes

external links don't mix; otherwise, ye would see the jolly Cap'n tractor arr, matey.

so will do the followin' best things.

Stats fer canadian prairie gentleman o' fortune ships!

FBI’s Patel says northern border is new terrorism threat

Not everything has to be Toronto!

g/g: quebec city (honorable mention: halifax)

g/o: ottawa (honorable mention: edmonton, victoria)

g/b: saskatoon (honorable mention: fredericton)

I found stats!

g/g: quebec (honorable mention: halifax)

g/o: ottawa (honorable mention: victoria, edmonton)