Time Corps 4

I've never felt healthier. We started with a compulsory 15 minutes per day 4 days a week on the cross-trainer and a 4 mile hike once weekly. We've now advanced to 40 minutes 4 times a week plus 12 miles. They're not trying to make us miniature versions of themselves - we don't use weights - just build stamina, cardio-vascular fitness.
Combine that with plentiful and healthy food, I've put on 8 good pounds since arrival.
Feel different too, more can-do, more kick-butt, more generally capable in life.
One of the "miniature" MP's is our phys ed instructor. She abstains from what movie-goers would expect and instead is cheerful, encouraging.

Perhaps the gentle reader is familiar with Toastmasters, who develop public speaking skills. Similar program here, we do a weekly meeting. It's educational as well, finding out more about the others' historical epochs. We start in just our little group. Once we gain some expertise, we're joined on to another group, people of this time.
The biggest surprise of all is the first time they videotape me. I really had thought it was interesting, good stories from childhood days in Guyana. I'm first in shock, then tears, as I see, so wooden, so boring, so ah well dead.
Col wraps an arm round me, "you see Indira, now you know how it really is."
"I just had no idea it was that bad."
"Problem is not the topic, had good anecdotes. Presentation, since you don't feel emotion or rather very little, you just plain don't put any in. So here's what we do, enroll you in an acting class. I'm strictly of the fake-it-til-you-can-make-it school of thought."

I arrive for the class, an evening. The Sergeant in charge grins wickedly, "right, got just the role for you. See, it's set in a bureaucracy. The clerk in charge of supplies is one genuine first-class sadist. Won't give out a new pen til you bring back the old one, run outa ink. Only dish out one row of staples at a time. Make everyone sign the receipt book for every paper clip even. Won't allow access to the photocopier til the boss's initials authorize the job. So, think you could get into something like that?"
I stand straighter, "bring it on."
She grins, "warn you, they'll try everything. Try to be your friend. Threaten to complain to the boss of your Stalinesque manner. But stand firm, don't give one inch, be the grinch who stole Christmas. Sound like fun?"
"Oh ye-ah."
It is scary how quickly the role grows on me. By the second reading, I'm putting real venom, real scorn, real snarls into it. One woman pulls back her fist.
In a flash, Sgt grabs it, "chill you moron, it's just a play, she's just doing her job."
The woman blushes, "sor-ry."
Sgt, "that scene from the top. Indira, gimme more, more snarl, more arrogance. Faye, more bitchiness in the voice, but keep your dukes down."
End of the evening, Sgt asks me quietly, "so Indira, how you feel?"
"Great, better than I have in a donkey's age."
"Same time next week."

As I arrive back in the common room, Betty Lou says, "I just don't believe it, never seen you that cheerful. Either you got laid or killed someone. Which?"
I tell of the class.
She grins, "Col is very people smart."

The acting class isn't one big play we rehearse endlessly, but a series of short skits and one-act plays. Meant to give us maximum experience with shifting roles.
And so it is, next time I am a medic in an Airborne unit. As I kneel over my "casualty", pretending to apply a bandage, I assure her all is well, she'll live.
In a furious voice, Sgt shouts, "cut! Now you look here, you just killed my sister!"
"I did?"
Taps her shoulder flash, "know what that means?"
"Airborne."
"Right, now every person in Airborne is to viewed as a brother or sister," by now she's starting to cool a bit, "so, your first experience of things military?"
I nod.
"No friends or relatives back in your time?"
"No."
"Ever watch war movies or read war novels?"
"No."
"Ok, what precisely is the sum total of your war knowledge?"
"Term paper was assigned, we had to choose a one-day event from World War 2. I chose the epic low-altitude US bombing raid on the oil refineries at Ploesti, Romania."
By now she's chuckling, wraps an arm round me, "right, now here's what you did. See any serious wound like that, people are often in the territory where they choose to live or die. So, with your totally lacklustre assurance that she'll live, she naturally assumes the worst. Now try again, put energy into it."
After my next try, Sgt calls a short break, draws me aside. In a gentle tone, "I see how it works. Since you view life as little more than a tedious pain in the butt, you find it hard to actually encourage another to stay alive."
"Ah well ah"
"Don't deny it. True, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Kid, what on earth do you think actors and actresses do? You think the movie bank robber is a crook in real life? No, probably a sweet gentle guy who dotes on his kids off-screen. Now get in there and act. Pretend life is important, means anything, is worth the powder to blow it to Hades. Act like the most important thing in the whole world is keeping that friend alive. Do it!"
This focuses me, I'm not me anymore, just a fictional character. Next reading I put more energy into it.
Sgt smiles, "close, but no cigar. From the top. Now this time, act like it's life or death - your friend lying there is the most important thing in the whole world."
As we wind up for the evening, Sgt quietly asks, "how you feel Indira?"
"Utterly wiped, not used to that."
"Get used to it. Now next week, you walk through that door, you leave you behind. For the evening, you are someone else, the character."

As I return to the common room, Betty Lou asks, "rough evening?"
"Whole place is one gargantuan pain in the kiester. Rather be adrift on an ice floe near Greenland or dead."
She laughs easily, "we-ll now, there is some promise for you."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Try putting some of that bitten energy into the gym or the upcoming term paper."

Time Corps 3

Col Khan addresses the class, "ladies who here has read of the history of early television?"
My hand is the only one.
"Perhaps you are familiar with a legendary quote from a famous TV executive on making money."
"Col the name escapes me now. This person was being asked why his network produced such utter garbage. His reply, 'we make so much money off our worst, we can't afford to do our best."
Everyone laughs. Col grins, "welcome to the real world. You're soon going to find that out. Ok, now history TV has several purposes. First and foremost, propaganda, we must show people the mud and misery of war as opposed to the movie glam. It's a deterrent. We want people to live at peace, to solve the world's problems without resorting to war. Which brings us to our second purpose, entertainment. No one ties the audience to a chair, forces them to watch. So if we are too weary, dreary and bleary about it all, ratings are in the toilet. So Indira, you're closest to the time. Tell me how you'd go about covering the US-Soviet Cold War, but still keep it entertaining and suitable for children."
"Easier said than done Col, but think of something romantic in the era, the pulp fiction heyday. You cover the rise and fall of different pulp publications, while at the same time mentioning issues of the epoch, such as nuclear war threat, the possibility of worldwide annihilation. But keep it all light, your main story is those sci fi, western, romance and detective mags."
I see everyone's eyes on me.
Col's eyes light up, "now that sounds like a good idea. Anything connected to early media is usually a hit with audiences. So, how would you do it, on site I mean?"
"Col, it was before the era of women's lib, so you'd never make editor. But they needed legions of proofreaders, distribution clerks, secretaries. I'd research it from the inside, get a job with one. New York is the best bet. Plus library research and watching competitor publications."
Col smiles, "ok Indira, let's up the ante. World War 2 Holocaust. We won't show murders or dead bodies, have to keep it suitable for children. How would you cover it, indirectly?"
"Col, perhaps the birth of a new nation, the very beginning of Israel, which resulted directly from all that. Go there, do whatever menial job like picking fruit and you've got thousands of people you can talk with who saw it all."
"Excellent, we aren't showing anything gruesome. We've got a positive story on the heroism of a new nation. And our holocaust story is a byproduct. Good strategy on fitting in, easier to float around unnoticed and unimpeded at the lower echelons of a society. Ok Betty Lou, how would you cover the Civil Rights Movement in the US and its role in the betterment of Blacks."
A look of utter distaste crosses her face, then she decides to follow my lead, "Col, I'd avoid riots and demos. Go in several years later, show people who've arrived, got better jobs."
"Bear in mind, we must not only deter war between sovereign nations, but deter ethnic violence within nations. So any story like that, that shows a minority group mostly fitting in successfully, is to be sought after. And of course bear in mind the unique nature of our network. See there is TV which mostly pumps out government propaganda, 100% financed by government and usually abysmal ratings. There are private channels which only care about profit. Us, we get some subsidy, but still need advertising. And what advertiser wants the company name associated with stories of mass murder? So, we must keep our preaching very low-key; our stories upbeat, fun and interesting."

Later over coffee, Betty Lou asks, "ah Indira, something I been meaning to ask. See well I've noticed you seem to have a far better ability to simply shrug, live with a huge level of contradiction. Do you suppose it's connected to religion, you Hindu, rest of us vaguely Christian?"
Now there is a loaded question. "I doubt if it is a straight forward Hindu versus Christian issue. My take, all you one-God people expect, since there is only one, a certain degree of consistency, of logic, even of predictability. Hindus, believing there are many, know that interplay will produce a lot of unusual waves. Akin to the difference between one big motorboat on a lake and a hundred."
She laughs, "very good. And now I'm wondering why they only found one of you for our class."
I reply, "probably a case of demographic supply and demand. First, who are the signatory nations? Mostly the western world, combined with a few minor entities like Guyana who view themselves as the 'westest of the east.' Second, look at mechanics of the draft. They don't consider married, living common-law or legally separated. Only look at single, divorced, widowed."
Betty Lou laughs, "yeah, see where you're headed. White culture produces a lot more singles and divorcees than East Indian. Why do you suppose that is?"
"Read one Indian novel, you'll know. Quantum leap up in the amount of social and familial pressure."
"Which ah makes you more of an outcast in your culture than I am in mine?"
"You ain't whistling Dixie."
She laughs, "still and all, happier here or back home?"
"Hard to believe but here. Sense of purpose, of belonging."
"Yeah I hear you, beats the crap outa the mill. Funny one you are Indira, had an influence on me."
"How so?"
"When I first got here, figgered they only picked whites and East Indians because niggers were too stupid to learn the job. But now I understand, nothing to do with that. Simply, you and I have more flexibility, more times and places in history where we could melt in than they do."
"Yeah, the American Black, with some mixing, has a hugely different look from African Blacks. Just as both have a different look from Caribbean Blacks, different mix there. Harder for them to travel back and forth."
"Indira do you suppose the whole project has racial overtones? If it were as pure as it lets on, surely more of the third world countries would be on board."
"One would certainly think so."
"They say Jews control much of the media. Maybe they're the real players in this."
"You have changed, mere fact you think along these lines."
"I'd hate to think I was a tool of the Jews. Still beats the mill. Still Indira, you do notice, everyone here is purest of the pure, no mixing."

Our world has yet to expand by much. No real need to go shopping, get everything on base. So far, it's mostly just going to a coffee house a block away from the base entrance. Safe as you'll find, with all the mils floating about, no civvy would trouble us.
Also interesting for what you overhear. Some occupations, such as MP's, tend to have voices that carry. We find ourselves constantly amused and amazed at what happens. Not a lot has changed in 10,000 years; in terms of who ends up career military.
Any notions of sexism we might still harbor, of the moral superiority of women, vanish like the mist as we hear the MP stories. Yes, women are just as bad, now anyway.

Time Corps 2

Colonel continues, "ok, what you should know about the current world. Hasn't been any real wars for centuries. But always, just below the surface, various ethnic tensions simmer. Two things keep people in line. Peacekeeping, we can land 100,000 troops anywhere on the planet withing 48 hours - a real deterrent. And history TV, let people see how it really was, the mud and misery of war. So, that said, we desperately need your help. Willing to at least take the exam?"
"All right then."

Our first two months at the Academy we are virtual prisoners, not allowed off base for any reason. Does not bother me, I realize almost every military organization in history did the same. But it does tick a lot of the others.
There is an official explanation. See the pumped look of the Col is all the rage - men and women - not all are able to achieve it naturally, some use steroids. So with the amount of roid rage there, even a trip to a coffee house can be dangerous to the unitiated. And that's not to mention all the drugs - legal and illegal - which might combine with the steroids.
Our first two months is devoted to English instruction. Let me clarify that. There are a dozen women in our class - all from somewhere in English-speaking history. But our dialects are as archaic as Chaucer was to high school students back home.
We each have a room, in our separate wing, and there is a common room. In this, I learn as much or more as in class. For starters, my classmates, uffff. I have never seen such a prickly collection of egotists, zealots, neurotics, smart asses and perverts. Surely if the authorities went back in time, they could have done better than that.
One time I ask the English teacher about this privately.
She just laughs, "what did you expect? Look you already know how the time distortion works. When on a mission, only one year passes here, yet ten years pass on site. Physically you age one year, yet it is ten years of life experience. Now I ask you, who else would you send on such a lone ten-year mission? Quote quote normal people would not be able to handle it. Besides, you are as bad as the rest, in fact worse."
I gasp, "I am?"
"Come on now, stand back from that sweet little innocent front and let's take a good look at you. Ever heard the term 'Schadenfreude'?"
"No."
"It's a concept in German, no English equivalent word exists. Now take a real sadist, loves to actually inflict suffering on others. But you, why you'd never do that, not with that sweet Girl Guidesque manner. But a person with 'Schadenfreude' loves to be an observer. Gets her jollies out of seeing a mega-screwed up bureaucracy, or fire or auto accident or someone break something. Tell me, does all this sound familiar?"
I don't reply, but my red-hot blush does.
"Child, nothing to be ashamed of. All the history crowd is into it. Why else do you suppose they went into history in the first place? But you, natural talent. You could cover things like the Black Plagues, Holocaust, Soviet purges. Rest of these girls just garden-variety Schadenfreude, you got the genuine article."
Ouch! For me, it's the end of the age of innocence, having to be honest with myself or at least start to. I think back to the cramming, the term papers, the thesis. Was it all for that? That makes me a pretty bad person. Still, to be honest, she is correct. How'd she know? Probably takes one to know one.

As I enter the common room, Heidi, the blonde bombshell German-American, says sarcastically, "well, lookee here, but if it ain't Saint Indira. You know Saint Indira, it's your turn now. Resta these girls have talked bout sex, but not a peep from you. So tell us, what is the kinkiest thing you've done? Screwed with a donkey? Blown a horse? Flogged a guy with a cat-of-nine-tails on a Saint Andrews cross?"
I blush hotly, don't reply.
"Well hot stuff, I've hit a nerve. Seems our token sand nigger has never done anything in bed."
I blush even hotter.
"True, isn't it?"
I nod.
"You listen up, lotta experts here, give you ideas."
Betty Lou, with her Southern accent, chips in, "oh shut up, you have no concept how it works. Grow up in a mega-repressed household, you come out one of two extremes: total prude or super wild. No such thing as happy medium. Just how East Indians are."
I nod.
Betty Lou continues, "lemme guess, so prudish, so uptight, did not even find out about periods until it was happening."
I twist a smile, "I can assure you, I'm not the only Indian girl taken by complete surprise. Does have a way of staining clothes."
This sets them laughing, I can tell by the tone they have let me off the hook.
Betty Lou, bless her heart, changes the topic, "so Indira, you are far more history knowledgeable than the rest of us. Your take as to why we get so much disdain from the staffers here, I mean except for teacher."
"Think Roman Empire during the decline. Could not recruit sufficient Roman citizens anymore. Mega hiring binge of foreign mercenaries. Trouble is, each and every merc is a reminder they are not doing their duty."
Heidi grins, "maybe I shoulda attended a few more classes in university. Ok Indira, your guess as to when they actually collapse?"
"Suppose they can meet that first troop commitment. So say the tribals in New Guinea start up and those 100,000 troops are airlifted. So what happens when something else blows while they're still bogged down in the jungle? Say Lebanon, Sri Lanka, Philippines, name a dozen African countries. As of the point they can't meet a second troop commitment, all that accumulated hate comes bursting out of the closet."
Betty Lou, "Soviets would be another example. Failed to deliver the goods, imploded."
I protest, "but at least these people deliver economically. Soviets didn't."
Heidi, "but see, consumers build all that into their expectations. So ultimately a government gets little credit for good economic times; roasted alive when the economy tanks."
Betty Lou grins wickedly, "real reason we're here? Cheaper than all those cocaine-snorting movie stars. History TV delivers the ratings."
"Sad, really sad," Heidi asserts, "but beats the bejabers out of working in the bakery because my degree is useless."
Everyone roars with laughter, there is a statement all can subscribe to.

We graduate from English and our reward is limited passes. Forbidden to be off base weekday evenings or weekend evenings; but we can wander during daylight on weekends.
Official explanation: crime, rate is pretty horrendous after dark. Browsing the news, I can see they aren't making it up. Coffee house fights using knives are about thrice as common here as bar fights with knives back home.
As our English teacher so cheerfully puts it, "you people are expensive to train. You're small and ah shall we say not very athletic looking. We don't want our investment bleeding all over the floor."
In the common room, this draws a lot of conversation. Just how safe is this world? Are we more or less obliged to permanently live on base?

I ask the teacher if there are separate classes for men.
She laughs, "early years of the program, tried them. 9/10 of missions washouts due to addiction problems."
"And the rate for women is?"
"Confidential, can't tell you. Too high, but nowhere near as bad."
"That grim?"
"Child, the danger is you, not the mission. Get bored to death, take crazy chances for kicks. Like war or cop movies, lot more action than real life. Real life, the cop is endlessly checking behind apartment buildings for stolen cars and the soldier doing endless sentry duty. Real life, action is 1/10 of 1% of your time."
"Oh."
"But you worked in a library, should be able to put up with boredom."

Time Corps 1

I buy a vanilla hazelnut coffee at the counter, add cream and sugar and find a window seat. I don't bother with one of the magazines, my eyes will get enough of a workout later, researching comparative religion. I'm trying to decide how much of Hinduism to replace with Buddhist thought.
Uninvited a large woman sits at my same table. Something about her catches my eye, but it takes a moment to realize what. See, dressing totally invisibly is usually a male thing, as in gray bureaucrat. Even a woman who dresses plainly, usually brightens it with jewelry, accessories, makeup. This one is totally devoid and it sets my on edge. I have never been in trouble with the law, but I still know a cop when I see one.
"So," she says affably, "ever read science fiction?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Come on, only men do that, white men."
"That makes you guilty of stereotyping. Isn't that every bit as bad as if a white man said you cooked curry into every meal?"
"I don't cook."
"Why not?"
"Why bother? Deli is there, price is reasonable."
"I see, now as I was saying, sci fi. So, even if you've never read it, what is your opinion?"
"Isn't all fiction just lies? Made up stories? Just ways of tormenting poor little school children, calling it literature?"
She laughs, "ok, fair comment. But I do want some clarification. Would you have more disdain, less disdain or the same for sci fi as opposed to literature in general?"
"The same. All lies."
"Good, exactly what I want to hear. Open-minded of a sort. So, actually I'm writing a sci fi novel in my spare time, run into writer's block."
My eyes glaze over - why me god? - why do they always pick on me?
She carries on as if I'm even one iota interested, "now you see, it's set 10,000 years off in the future. By then war has been abolished, but a large peacekeeping force is necessary to deal with various ethnic tensions."
I stare out the window, see the clock across the street, plan my getaway lie. Number 6 bus should be about right to finish this coffee.
"Now as it happens, there's a draft necessary to fill rosters for peacekeeping. But there's one quirk, one exception."
Isn't there always?
"See the Time Corps draft is totally different. Not only are citizens of the times eligible, but anyone from the past, from any of the signatory countries. That includes Canada and Guyana."
And now she has my attention. This is Canada of course, but how did she know I was Guyanese? Could be Trinny, Fijian, or even a real Indian from India.
She smiles uneasily, "now here is the exact stage of the writer's block. How on earth do these futuristic people contact present day ones? You could send email, but they just delete it."
So that would explain those half dozen emails. I feel my shoulders going tense.
"Or you can even talk with them, doesn't work. They just holler for the men in the white suits to come take you away. So now, what advice would you give me?"
"Don't quit your day job just yet. Be a bit before royalties start coming."
A look of weariness comes over her, "ok smart ass, I asked for that. Asked for general advice, not specific. Back to the question, how would you contact present day people?"
"Send two. Old good cop, bad cop routine, just like the movies."
Indulgent smile, "now why didn't I think of that?" Touches a button on a wristband.
A moment later, another woman, similarly dressed joins us.
First one grins, "wanna play good cop or bad this time?"
Second one drawls, "ain't gonna fool her, she has a Masters in history. Lay the cards on the table."
And there it is, two Military Police ID cards and a warrant for my arrest.
Second one shows a tiny blaster, "pal, take my advice. Don't resist. Penny ante charge, just non-appearance at first draft hearing. So attend, your odds become same as anyone else's. 9 chances out of 10 you're back home tomorrow."
Yeah sure and with my luck, they haven't filled their quota with token Indians.

The 2 MP's show me into Colonel Khan's office. I'm guessing she's Afghan. Gotta be 6'6", pumped look that a football linebacker would be proud of.
Col smiles indulgently, "dismiss."
"But Col, we're here for your protection."
She laughs, "go have coffee. I do suppose I can manage."
As they leave, she smiles, "coffee?"
"Yes please."
She pours, I add cream and sugar. It's good, far more tasty than what I'm used to.
"Right, the formalities. You are Indira Ramyar? Born and raised Skeldon, Guyana? Library worker in Canada?"
"Yes."
"So, why didn't you answer our emails?"
I twist a smile, "come on, get real, lotta nutbars on the web. Best if you don't encourage them."
"I must admit to one thing Indira. Curiosity. How can a person such as yourself, well-educated, have such a disdain toward fiction? Surely historical fiction would be a useful way of helping to understand history, would it not?"
"Sources, Col. Anything you put on a term paper or thesis, better be able to back up. Just needs one slip, put in something from historical fiction and you've discredited yourself. Fiction is too close to history to trust."
"My curiosity extends to your choice of Masters thesis topic. Why on earth would anyone opt for circa 1700 New France?"
"Col, one aims to find the uncrowded, easier to make discoveries that way. Outside of Quebec, within English Canada, the field is almost totally vacant."
"So you know French too?"
"Yes, how else would I get the source material?"
"Ever wonder what it would be like to actually visit the past? Not just read?"
"Col, I doubt if a 4'11" East Indian would pass unnoticed in New France?"
She laughs easily, then takes my face in her hands, turns it gently.
"Well now, just about perfect. Could almost pass as white, all those years in Canada, mild complexion. Definitely pass as Hispanic. You could pass in far more times and places in history than I could for example."
I don't reply, feel my shoulders go tense.
"Look Indira, let's get something straight. Law says we can compel you to attend a draft hearing. Law only allows actual draft of those from our time. Any out-of-timers, we merely make our offer, up to you to choose."
I feel one tenth of one iota less tense.
"So, after we talk, you want to go home, fine. Now this salary of yours. You might wish to compare it to a Lieutenant in the Time Corps. Here's a math factor which will translate it into figures you're used to."
I run her calculator. First year starts at equivalent of $423,000 Canadian. About $405,000 more than I'm used to.
She calls up photos of base accommodation. An apartment in BOQ is like a modern-day luxury condo in Canada.
Sardonic smile, "don't ever say I lied to you. Out on a mission, one blends in. So, if you are say in 1849 California, you'll have to make do with spartan."
"Col, why bother? Isn't if forbidden to actually kill anyone and alter history?"
She leans back in her chair, "good, like em with spirit, willing to debate. Ok, so why invent color TV? Wasn't black and white good enough? Why invent Mustangs, SUV's, Hummers? Wasn't the Model T Ford good enough"
"I ah get your point. Battlefield authenticity in your writing as opposed to back shelf research. So, what are my odds of dying on one of these adventures?"
"We do have a variety of devices, such as protection while you sleep. You have higher mathematical odds of being run over by a car in your home city than of dying on a Time Corps mission."
"And illnesses?"
"Taken care of. Join and you get the injection. Totally immune to any disease, past or present. You could actually go back, visit the Black Plagues, research it. Only danger is psychological, not physical. One could come back with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Others would, but you would not."
"And how do you know that?"
Awkward smile, "your variant of autism. Simply don't feel or at best, feel very vaguely, like seeing a grainy old black-and-white photo. You could live through literally anything, research it, become the most famous or infamous of us all."
I don't reply.
"You got one life. Modern research has debunked the old reincarnation myth. Don't waste that one life in a library. Do something earthshaking, real, important."
"Col, if it is such a wonderful thing, why don't your own people do it?"
"How does that chair feel Indira?"
"Way too big."
"Bingo. Those 2 MP's are midgets, who can travel to your time. Everyone else, man or woman, my size. Just imagine me in Canada or Guyana."
"I ah get your point."

Romance 4

By now Lata and Marcel were sick of their fellow humans, preferring to socialize with aliens. Councillor did not have ship duties per se - these belonging to the Captain. Her job was to prepare her clients as well as possible.
She found it hugely ironic. The people showing the most promise were the same ones most worried. Lata and Marcel must have asked her several thousand angst-ridden questions. She did her best, answered honestly. The other set, didn't seem to have one iota of interest in where they were headed, so caught up in the dance of dispute.
Councillor Zir could have taken the approach, let Dept of Civil Housing deal with them. But that went against the grain. She had a long, successful career, prided herself on a job well done. So one time, she flat out asked Lata and Marcel about it. What would they recommend she do?
Both looked at each other sheepishly. Finally, Marcel in a tentative voice, "ma'am, it's hopeless. In our world, gays don't change. Period."
To her credit, Councillor was honest, "you'd better hope he does. If our counselling program fails, it's off to the proverbial salt mine for him and Meena becomes your #2 wife."
Both gasped. "Ma'am there is such a thing?"
"Of course, men have higher death rates due to accident and addiction. Roughly 1/10 of men, have 2 wives, it being their civic duty."
Seeing them turn pale, she quickly added, "your ah legal wife. You have seen photos of apartments, do understand there's lots of room if you choose to avoid her."
Looks of relief.

Suresh and Meena reached such an impasse that they ceased to speak. Bored, Suresh started sifting through his assigned reading material. Soon discovered it useful to compare notes with both Lata and Marcel. Oh yes, he knew both were impostors. But both were knowledgable in their fields before leaving Earth and both were way ahead of him on the learning curve on this voyage. At this point, neither Suresh nor Meena was aware that DCH was awaiting.
On a daily basis, Suresh was engaged in shop talk with the happy couple. Soon came to envy their easy way, their obvious love. Now if he were straight, he's simply grab Meena and start French-kissing. He knew what would happen, set off the explosion.
But he couldn't. His whole identity was gaydom. To even once go to bed with a fish would be the end of the world as he knew it. Still, he mused, she is one panther, be superb in bed, but only with a straight guy of course.

Meena retreated into her manuscripts. With all the fantasies she had these days, her sex encounter scenes sizzled. Much more alive than the stilted bedroom romps of yore. So that crazy gay guy had given her some energy. Writing before had been hard work. Now it was fun, rolled off her fingertips effortlessly.

Councillor was happy to see her 2 recalcitrant clients back at work. If they could at least become happy professionally, they'd accept their social fate with better grace. She was quick to praise and encourage both. In no time, Suresh was responding, asking a lot of lifestyle questions.
Eventually the topic did come up and she had to be honest, explain what would happen on docking. DCH would prepare the marriage certificate within the hour.
He was aghast.
"But dear," she consoled, "your ah wife legally. You've seen photos of accommodation, know it's large enough should you choose to avoid her. Law says you must be married, but no law says what you must or must not do in the bedroom."
"We-ell, with 3,000 square feet, I suppose we could manage, not trip over one another."
"That's the spirit, dear, you'll fit right in, soon come to enjoy our world. See when I understood the problem, I ordered Sgt to go back, retrieve your porn collection."
Gratitude came to his eyes, he hugged her, kissed her.
"You see dear, DCH doesn't have to know any of this. Just so long as you have the proper certificate."
"So ma'am, why do you do such a difficult job?"
"It's needed. Our society is strangling on its own mediocrity and political correctness. If we did not import foreign experts, we'd have long since collapsed. You have no idea how important you really are. If someone doesn't get a handle on the underground economy, the government will collapse, and sooner not later. If Meena doesn't write, enliven the trade, one of these years the sad sorry publishing industry will teeter over the brink."
"Just one thing ma'am, see in our world it's a huge problem if wife gets many times the income level of husband. What do you suggest?"
"The published salary figure is ridiculous. We don't mind if you take bribes, just so long as you stay within the rules. Not allowed to take more than 15 times your salary level."
"In that case ma'am, I could marry her, on paper I mean."

It is impossible to write in a vacuum, you need feedback, outside critique. And so, Meena found herself asking Lata to do just this, read her manuscript and comment.
As Lata handed it back, she was blushing ferociously, "I ah well ah don't know where to start."
"What do you mean?"
"Well ah these well sex scenes. Transparent, you're drooling over Suresh, would love to try."
Blustering, "I am not."
"Come on now, are you lying to yourself or to me?"
"He's a disgusting pervert. But yeah, you are right, I have had rather a lot of fantasies of late."
"So throw your arms around him, nibble his ear, French-kiss, tell him to close his eyes and fantasize anything he chooses."

It worked. When you are already 200,000 light-years away from Earth, you are a little more open to compromise than when you live a $4 cab ride away from the bathhouse. They spent 3 days together in bed. When they emerged, they decided to be a little more open-minded about their new world.

As they sat on their 500 square foot balcony on the 300th story of a posh building, admiring a sunset far more beautiful than on Earth, they held hands.

Councillor Zir was on loan to both couples for several months, to help sort things such as publishing offers. Proud? You bet. All four of her clients had come through, both socially and professionally. She had an amazing batting average, far better than anyone else in the field.

Romance 3

Meena opted for direct attack, the outraged celeb, "I'll have you know you owe me a rather large sum of money. My time is worth a lot per day."
Councillor Zir smiled, "of course dear, how much do you make per book?"
This caught Meena flat-footed, she hadn't a clue, knew fame and fortune in publishing were 2 different things. Lotta multi-millionaires got little press coverage for a variety of reasons.
Councillor continued, "are you listening? Is it $100,000 a book? More?"
Meena library worker didn't even know that much, so she bristled, "my agent does all that."
"Dear you creative people are all the same, easily victimized. Should really watch the agent a little more closely."
Meena blushed, didn't reply.
"For the record dear, Ambling through Andalucia, your book of a year ago, has now generated $98,000. Interested in more?"
"How so?"
"Market size, 380 billion people, all literate, all prosperous. Poverty is defined as less than 1/3 of your income available for discretionary expenses, and only 4% fall in that category. 60% have half or more available."
"Definitely more prosperous than us."
"Yes dear, and the publishing industry is collapsing, not through lack of money, but lack of any new and interesting ideas. No men read anymore; only a quarter of women. Immense market for someone of your talent level."
"My work is based on Earth social nuance, probably flop there."
"Wrong, we don't want you to write about us. That's been done, ad infinitum. We want you to write about Earth for us. I have a list here of 23 publishers interested in talking with you."
"I ah well ah..."
"Dear, don't waste the voyage. I'll get you a laptop."
Greed kicked in, she did have 2 novels almost totally memorized, could re-produce them fast.
As she left, Councillor asked Sgt, "so, your take on her?"
"Ma'am, she can be bribed, like anyone. Shudder to think of her reaction to the ah social requirement."
"Ye-es, she seems rather frosty to both of those men. If all 4 aren't married by the time we dock, Department of Civil Housing takes over, makes the choice for them."
"Look at the bright side, ma'am, she is starting to write."

The conversation with Marcel was far more pleasant. Councillor had a fascination with sub-cultures and a whole afternoon of sharing notes followed. Was the Councillor suspicious that the Professor used plain language? No, she admired an academic who could speak without jargon. Showed a down-to-earth lack of arrogance.
The business was almost an afterthought. She casually mentioned he could expect double the professor salary he was used to; was quick to assure him that should he want more, guest speaking and weekly columnist gigs were available.
He shrugged with the money-is-no-object look of the true academic, who lives for study.

"So Sgt," Councillor said uneasily, "it gets a lot harder, starting now. Both were easy to bribe, will of course be more prosperous. When the Cabinet Minister and UGE man see bureaucratic salary levels, it's going to be rough."
"Ma'am, perhaps it makes sense for a rich one and poor one to marry. Spread the wealth around. Better than an opulent couple and a poor one."
"Sgt, re-read comparative religion. Odds of a Hindu-Muslim couple getting on ok are slim."
"I know ma'am, but the dyed-in-the-wool-real-Indian-from-India like Suresh has nothing but disdain for people like Lata. They believe Guyanese, Trinnies, Fijians have lost the culture, become westernized."
Councillor groaned, "you know, sometimes I wish I'd taken your advice, dumped him. Too late now."

The interview with Lata was a pleasant surprise. Her life had been hard, husband vanished while working up north, rumored to be shacked up with some hot squaw. She'd done 2 cleaning jobs to get by. The salary level for an advisory Dept of Finance post seemed generous to her. She simply shrugged, said she'd do her best.
Was Councillor suspicious of her lack of fight? No, simply attributed it to the well-known Hindu fatalism and remarked to Sgt she hoped Suresh would also display fatalism.

He didn't. Only the presence of muscular Sgt prevented an assault. Furious with capital F.

Councillor, "Sgt, I'd like your impression on how the men and women inter-relate. I'm curious to hear a man's take."
"Ma'am, no question Lata like Marcel, sends obvious messages. He's not responding, yet anyhow, but doesn't dislike her, so maybe will warm up in time.
"Obvious Lata despises Suresh, as does Meena.
"Meena has a condescion to the Professor. Stands to reason I suppose. She is world-famous, his fame confined to Canada.
"Suresh, obvious he loathes all women, not just these two."
Councillor smiled, "remarkable, I'm getting the same read. So your prediction?"
"Ma'am, one happy couple, one welded together by Dept of Civil Housing. Interesting to see who commits homicide first, husband or wife."

Each of the 4 had separate quarters. When dealing with Councillor, Sgt was always present, to prevent her being assaulted. But the aliens trusted the 4 Earthlings together unsupervised, never dreaming there would be violence among themselves.
There was. Some sharp sarcasm and Suresh was choking Meena. Didn't last long, her knee caught him you-know-where.
A Marine who had been passing by witnessed the incident and was questioned by Councillor and Sgt. Both were pleased. Proof positive they were made for each other - strong feelings.
Still, it wouldn't be wise to dock with one already dead - that could happen later - so a Marine guard was assigned to the Earthlings.

Their perceptions, however erroneous, were based on their own culture.
Back home, there was only one crime - spousal murder.
Other violence was totally unknown, you could leave a coffee house at midnight, be as safe as if it were noon.
In parks, people regularly left camera or briefcase on a bench to mark it as theirs while taking a short walk.
No death sentence, no prisons.
Dept of Civil Housing simply matched a murderer wife with a murderer husband. After all, their planet was already a tad overcrowded.

The immediate effect of the Marine guard was to throw ice-water on Lata's moves on Marcel. This did not last. The Marine and Marcel formed an instant friendship.
The Marine told him of what to expect on arrival, "man, since you's gonna be married anyhow, may as well be happy. Lata likes you, sweet and gentle. Go for it. Wouldn't wanna end up with that virago."
"I'd ah rather stay single."
"Forget it, my friend. We have VIP honored guests from over 2 dozen planets. All must be married, no exception. Same as our people. By the time you finish studies, if you haven't found someone, Dept of Civil Housing does it for you."
Marcel thought it over a bit. Suddenly he was more willing to look past the rather unattractive cover of Lata to the person inside. No question, far better her than that nose-in-the-air Afghan b****.
Lata noticed the difference almost immediately following this private chat.

The Marine soon asked to be relieved of these duties. While he greatly approved of the fast-growing friendship between Marcel and Lata, he was upset by the constant sniping and hostility of Meena and Suresh.
Councillor shrugged, yes better to send someone more experienced.
The new Marine was a battle-scarred vet of 3 marriage-murders. Got his jollies ever so subtly raising the temperature, getting Meena and Suresh even more hostile.
To be fair, the new Marine never did this with Lata and Marcel. Spotting a true romantic, he taught Marcel how to do hologram flowers.

By voyage mid-point, it came as no surprise when Lata and Marcel sought permission to be legally married. Both were also progressing occupationally. Marcel was compiling his sub-culture notes and Lata was studying Dept of Finance information.
Seeing half of her problem so neatly solved, Councillor was happy to make the arrangements. The entire crew turned out in dress uniform for the ceremony..

The other half of the problem was getting worse. Meena had ceased to write and Suresh had ceased to study, so caught up in all the hostility.
For starters, Meena, like a lot of Muslims, was very homophobic.
Then, his hatred of all "fish" (gay slang for women).
Throw in the Hindu-Muslim divide.
The difference between an obsessive-compulsive, math-oriented geek and an artsy.
Curiously, no one in the crew viewed this hostility as too much of a problem. Showed they had energy together, would be a passionate match once they worked things out.

Romance 2

Councillor continues, "now, either of you guess why the Finance Minister?"
Both Sgt and Lt gave up on that.
Councillor smiled wanly, "felt they needed one, my guess. So, go for an easy mission, 4 in the same city."
Sgt protested, "but ma'am, Meena Zohra is American."
"But she's in town the 25th and 26th on a book tour. One drop, one night, should be easy."
Sgt shifted uneasily, said nothing.
"What is it Sgt?"
"Ma'am, my experience, missions touted as easy flop. Far rather have one predicted as tough."
The sad sorry debacle was not really the aliens' fault. Lt Xoz simply lacked experience. Sgt Xar and Councillor Zir, both highly experienced, had never encountered the phenomenum before.
Nowhere else in the known galaxy were there 2 or more people with the same name.

No army with sense makes long jumps, straight from ship into a particular room. Takes a couple of seconds to re-orient after a long jump. In that time, in a confined space, you can be very dead. The boys would do the "two-step", long jump to back of building, reader searchers that could see through wall and wallet to spot the ID, then a short jump into the room.
Meena Zohra's book launch was in the public meeting room of the public library. She was unaware she had left her wallet in the cab; she still had her purse.
The cab company phoned the library, was transferred to the meeting room and informed her secretary on the tour that it was found, would be delivered. But at the crucial moment, Meena Zohra author, was ID-less.
Some 40 meters away, Meena Zohra library worker was not so lucky. She saw 2 green men over 6 feet tall, then all became black.
Lt Xoz thumbed the mike, "Red Leader, get package Number One?"
"Roger, Red One, out."
Was Councillor Zir or the boys suspicious of Meena's clothes? No. First, what man knows beans about womens' clothing? Second, Councillor thought it simply showed Meena's good sense. You don't dress to the nines on a book tour, talk down to women. You dress like one of the girls, fit in, connect.
Lata Persaud, Finance Minister, had an early evening meeting scheduled with the Premier of Canada's most recalcitrant province. After several minutes, both saw mutual deadlock, no possibility of compromise.
They cheerfully agreed not to waste the evening, shared a cab, Lata going to a coffee house for an Indo-Trinidadian poetry night and Premier to the casino.
Lata Persaud, building cleaner, was still in the building. Two cleaning jobs, this was her evening one. Were the 3 aliens surprised to find the Finance Minister of Canada wearing an ABC Cleaning Service smock? No. Back home, all bureaucrats either took bribes or had moonlight jobs under the table. The aliens were proud of this evidence showing Lata Persaud to be an honest person.
Prof Leblanc was out of town. Last moment, he'd got a guest speaker invite. Always seeking an honorarium, fine dinner and free booze, he cheerfully accepted; even though it was a political party he loathed.
So, how was it Marcel Leblanc, dishwasher, was in that upscale apartment building? Hadn't always been a dishwasher. Too much ladder work as a painter left his feet capable of standing, but not of ladders.
His friend Jean-Pierre had an under-the-table contract to repaint 4 vacant suites. J-P woke with a hangover, wondering where his boyhood Rimouski friend had vanished to.
The boys experienced severe revulsion collecting Suresh Patel. When they arrived, he was engaged in sex with another man. This was strictly forbidden back home.
Lt Xoz wanted to kill him on the spot. Sgt Xar prevailed, using a combination of appeal to duty, citing regulations and reminder of the dangers of ethnocentrism.
It was obvious to Councillor Zir what had happened. The subject was naked, had been indulging in sex. Social mores back home were that young lovers cheerfully used park benches if that's all they had and no one was offended, simply looked the other way. So, a level of upset like that, had to be homosex.
She drew the Sgt aside, questioned him and he told the truth.
She now had a serious decision. Counsellors back home claimed a 99% success rate in such cases, convincing people to stop gay and be straight. But she had no way of knowing if such counselling would be effective on an Earthling.
It was within her authority to take someone else in Suresh's place. But if she didn't find a bona fide underground economy expert, she'd end up commanding the Ice Moon Garrison.
Odds? 1 in 2. Lata Persaud looked rather like a prize-fighter, definitely not someone to tempt a gay away from gaydom. Meena Zohra on the other hand, was beautiful enough to tempt a monk away from monkdom. Hopefully, it would work.
Feeling washed out, she took an aspirin, asked herself why she didn't retire last year, when the buyout packages were still there.
Captain approached Councillor respectfully, "ma'am, one hour to leaving orbit."
So now she had to decide in a hurry. Instinct and experience told her men usually read such situations wrong. So she asked the Sgt what he'd do if it were his choice.
Blushing, but not hesitating one nanosecond, Sgt replied, "ma'am, I'd kill him, get another. He was getting a way too much pleasure, he'll never change."
And so it was Councillor decided to keep Suresh Patel. That and not wishing to risk 138 crewmen lives while she sat in orbit for days searching.

So far the aliens have a rather poor batting average. Three of four, flat out got the wrong person. The fourth, a year-long counselling which might or might not work. And yet there were obstacles in the way of these aliens discovering mistaken identity. All 3 had some knowledge of what they should know.
Meena Zohra library worker was no stranger to writing. She'd written 2 novellas, 2 novels, a dozen short stories, yet sold nothing yet. She'd been published in a book review series for the local free paper, not getting a fee, but getting to keep the book each time.
Marcel Leblanc knew sub-cultures up close and personal. Francophone, alcoholic and AA, girlfriends of various ethnic groups, weed-smoking, and racetrack.
Both Lata Persaud's cleaning jobs were in government offices. Day job, she overheard lots. Even the evening job, still overheard some. Evening job was slack, she got a chance to read the day-discarded newspaper.

Meena Zohra came to first. Her reaction was fierce, smoking-hot anger. They hadn't just abducted her, they had added insult to injury by doing so on Student Loan Freedom Day.
Originally she had received her Bachelor of Education degree and a $20,000 student loan to go with it. One semester and then the nervous breakdown drove her out of teaching, but still left her saddled with a colossal debt to repay off meager library salary. Ten years of struggle and she was just finished with it.
Someone would pay for this, bigtime. You just do not mess with Afghan women, the fiercest there are on planet Earth.

Marcel Leblanc reacted almost with relief. He owed the payday loan people $400, his pusher $50, his bookie $500, his brother-in-law $200 and Revenue Canada $23,000.
Well, he reasoned quite correctly, if they wanted me dead, I'd be dead already. Means they want something so I have bargaining power.

Lata Persaud's first thought was abduction for the sex trade. She discarded this quickly. After all, she knew she was no beauty queen. If that's what they wanted, there were millions of others more desirable.
She was the first to correctly reason they wanted her namesake, not her. We-ell, she thought, I do have a proper schooling in Guyana, can talk hoyty-toyty if I want. So, I am the Finance Minister of Canada, as of now. If not carried off properly, likely thrown out a hatch into space.

For safety, it was felt best to leave Lt Xoz out of the loop. He had been rather severely traumatized by what he witnessed.
Councillor Zir would deal with the Earthlings, in the presence of the muscular Sgt Xar, to ensure they did not become aggressive.

As soon as he was addressed as Prof Leblanc, Marcel reached the same conclusion as Lata.
And Meena, was soon to follow.
All three impostors could of course instantly see through each other. But all knew the aliens were fooled - best kept that way.

Romance 1

Two bookstore employees bought coffee at the counter, found a table. Once seated, the man of 21, also an undergrad said cheerfully, "I'm starting to get suspicious of some of our customers."
"How so?" replied the 30 year-old woman, also a grad student.
"These Meena Zohra books, men are buying them. They always say it's for the wife or girlfriend, but you can tell they're lying."
The woman laughed gently, "good for you. Only a week in the store and you've figured it out. Marketing department estimates men buy a third of those."
The young man gasped, "thought is was ChickLit. So, what is her secret?"
"She seems to have found where romance, love, porn, suspense, intrigue and glitteratti lifestyle all intersect. Complex, multi-dimensional, the book is anything you want it to be. Every year, another one. Dozen books, all smash hits."
"I'd love to get even 1/100 of one of her royalty cheques."
The woman laughed, "that'd be nice. I'd settle for a quarter of the romance her heroines find. But seriously, to any young aspiring writer, they're a useful model. Read a couple, you'll see what I mean. Learn technique fast."
The man smiled affably, "yeah, I don't get hung up on macho image. Thank you, I'll give it a try."
At the very next table sat Meena Zohra. Not the author, Meena Zohra the library worker, who hated the author with a visceral passion.
Yet their lives had never crossed; the author Iranian-American, the library worker Afghan-Canadian. Nor had the library worker even read one of them.
Symbolism, every time she saw one, it reminded her of what a failure her own life was.

A block away, a dishwasher and kitchen helper sat in an alley behind a restaurant, on plastic milk crates, with cigarettes and coffee. The kitchen helper, who had started today asked, "so, did you say your name was Marcel Leblanc?"
"Yes," he replied.
"No fooling, Marcel Leblanc was my sociology prof at university."
He grinned, "love to trade paycheques with him."
"Don't be in a hurry. Three support cheques every month, rest on cocaine. Sometimes you see him go to the campus food bank."

Lata tore open her phone bill, silently cursing it. Not her fault she needed an unlisted number, yet she had to pay extra for it all the same. Still, beats all those angry phone calls from citizens. See, the other Lata Persaud was Finance Minister, which definitely is in the running for most hated. She shrugged, well look at the bright side, very few telemarketers.

Two men were finished in the bathhouse. Bathhouse culture specifically frowns on any conversation more profound than condoms and lube. It's a shame - the culture was doing both men a disservice - keeping apart 2 potential professional allies.
Suresh Patel, Revenue Canada employee and rabidly totally gay, would be shocked if he learned Professor Marcel Leblanc actually swung both ways.
Now if they should meet later in a gay bar or coffee house, they might - gasp - exchange names and shop talk. Their work would dovetail neatly, a sharing of experience.
Prof Leblanc was widely acknowledged as the foremost sociological expert on interaction between sub-cultures and mainline culture in Canada. In actual fact, 3 others did research as good or better. But these lacked media savvy, could not get their voice heard outside academia. The professor knew how to play journalists.
He was a total maverick, touching issues others wouldn't.
See, the American model is "melting pot". You are any culture you like, but American first, last and always.
The Canadian model was considerably less demanding. Cultural mosaic, cultural diversity. This model led to one of the more tolerant nations of its minorities. But it also contained a gigantic black hole in its thinking.
Suppose a white man decides to savagely assault his Native girlfriend. He can stand by to receive the same police action as if the girlfriend were white. Good and admirable, the government is sending out 2 messages: no tolerance of domestic abuse and no tolerance of racism.
But should a Native man assault his Native girlfriend, the law is largely reluctant to intervene in relationships within a particular sub-culture.
Similarly, a white employer pays Chinese workers less than the legal minimum wage. He can definitely anticipate a friendly-at-first and not-so-friendly-later-on visit from a labor inspector.
Should a Chinese employer abuse Chinese employees, labor inspectors are conspicuous by their absence.
See the Canadian model says you cannot abuse a minority and that is admirable. But within minorities is where it shows its dark side.
Suresh Patel's fame was within the walls of the Revenue Canada cult only.
Mainline thinking is your typical anal-retentive accountant, who books an appointment for 8:30 and gives you a list of documents to have available. Almost universally unwilling to admit the underground economy even exists. Why? If you admit its existence, you might have to do something about it. Far more civilized to just deal with legitimate businesses.
Mainline management has a pronounced disdain for those interested in UGE. Akin to the stodgy commanding officer of a regular British unit who despises those of his junior officers with Special Air Service or Para experience.
So while orthodox PM4 Program Officers worked on endlessly revising ways of doing business with established businesses; Suresh devoted the lion's share of his time to UGE issues. He was an expert at milking published statistics for tax leads.
The 2 men could gain greatly from each other.
Prof Leblanc would profit greatly if he had even half of Suresh's ability to read between the lines of stats.
Suresh would enhance his career if he had more sub-culture knowledge. After all, much of the tax dodging was happening within sub-cultures.
Just one of those twists of fate, the 2 men destined to never meet professionally. One of those things which could have been.

Aboard ship, 3 aliens gathered over tea.
Lt Xoz, a dashing young cavalier just out of the Academy, was on his first collection (euphemism for abduction) mission.
The grizzled mid-age Sgt Xar had successfully collected sentient beings from over 2 dozen planets, but never Earthlings.
Councillor Zir, an elderly woman, outranked the ship's captain on this mission.
Lt and Sgt would be on the ground; Councillor remain aboard to supervise beamers.
Councillor starts by laying down the law, "I would remind you of standard procedure on violence. No killing ever, any circumstance, even self-defence. Your trank darts are quite sufficient."
She then produced four files, which they examined in detail: author Meena Zohra, Professor Marcel Leblanc, Finance Minister Lata Persaud and Suresh Patel.
She liked a certain level of informality, especially since the boys were risking their lives.
She smiled, "Lt, may I please have your opinion as to why the High Command chose the author?"
"Ma'am, that would be the deplorable state of literature. Nothing but stodgy, hackneyed nonsense published anymore. Isn't a man anywhere who reads books; only a quarter of women do. They desperately need this Meena Zohra."
Councillor grinned wickedly, "Lt, privately I agree. Publicly, we would not wish to offend the Writers Guild. So, if I could trouble you to confine those opinions to this ship."
She turned to Sgt, "Sgt, if you would be so kind as to guess why Suresh Patel was chosen."
"Ma'am, the underground economy. Gets any worse, the space program is toast."
"We ah would not wish to offend Revenue Zarana. So, you too can be trusted to keep these views informal."
She smiled, "either feel free to guess why the socio prof?"
Sgt blushed, "ma'am, got me stumped. Our minorities and sub-cultures would be very different from theirs."
"Yes and no, Sgt. Yes in specific terms, no in generalities. Theirs are geographic, ethnic, religious, occupational or drug-related, exactly as ours are. So Lt, please guess why this might be useful."
"Ma'am, I remember reading how some of the East German writers got their work passed by Communist censors. They set all that corruption and inefficiency in some despotic African regime. Since the government saw them criticize others, it wasn't offended."
"Very good, Lt."

Table of Contents

This blog chronicles Afghan women and girls in science fiction adventures. Episodes in each series are numbered for easier tracking. Contents in order are:

Jamila - novella length - Lily is a white Canadian doomed to a life of total exclusion. As the pain gets too much, she decides to end it. A futuristic time traveller comes to her rescue. Torch then passes to Jamila, a Lieutenant in Association of Afghan Women.

Dark Chronicles of Nooria - book length - a sweet ten-year-old on the Lilac Valley Indian Reserve ends up becoming a 10-y-o Afghan, facing up to impossible issues. A living nightmare.

Iris - short story length - an Irish woman joins a contingent of Aghan women, compliments of time travel.

Farzana - novella length - a ten-year-old white Canadian girl freezes to death in a savage blizzard, gets a second chance at life as a 10-y-o Afghan.

Soap (Opera) - book length - a contingent of Afghan women ends up with a wide variety of marginal and eccentric foreigners.

Vignettes - short short story length - some 50 stories, mostly under 1,500 words.

Happy reading! I'm now at work on my next manuscript, a science fiction romance.

Jamila 8

The co-pilot tells us to buckle, we're going in. Nilo and I are close together, out of earshot of the rest if we speak quietly.
"Honey," she says, "you keep an open mind. See, I went to an AAW school as a child. Know the real problem? Attendance. No bus fare. Too far to walk. Father won't let girls go. Household, farm or business duties. Endless reasons to keep the girls out of school. Place like this, none of those problems. No distractions."
"So this could be the most brilliant idea they've had in years?"
"Honey, I knew you'd understand. Just go with the flow, help those girls get into school."
I squeeze her hand, kiss her.
"You see, Parvana seems to have a lot of influence with foreign NGO's. Actually gets a good donation flow out of them. All this, it's expansion, not just right pocket to left pocket. Anytime someone can do that, it upsets the old guard, the stodgy set."
"Fair enough, sweety, you convinced me. Here on in, I give Parvana benefit of the doubt."
"Good. You know, you're a sensible person and a maniac in bed. You and I, we'll do great."
We unload the two jeeps, the drums of gasoline, spare parts, camping gear, food, kero for cooking and so forth.
As we watch the plane lift off, I ask Shauzia, "so where's the radio?"
"Ain't one."
"Are you telling me, we're at the end of the earth for 2 months and no contact?"
Sad smile, "my little friend, you just don't understand. HQ does not give a rat's ass about us. We either make rendez-vous or we don't."
"Oy vay!"
"Please, no Jewish talk, we hate em."
"Right, let's get the cargo organized."
The drums and most of the supplies, we'll simply leave in place. No people, no animals on the island to disturb them. Just tarp cover, to keep rain off.
Despite everything, I'm cheerful, optimistic as we roll out. Heavens to Betsy, seen lots worse than this. Been behind enemy lines over 4 dozen times, including thrice on the legendary Zeltar Five.
If you die, you die. Better to live real, authentic and die real, than to rot in those cancerous cities. And is the world gonna miss Jed/Lily/Jamila? I rather doubt it.
Since it doesn't matter beans anyway, just do your job. I win, the girls win. I fail, presumably they just send someone else.
Now if a leader comes across as quietly confident, competent, the troops just naturally follow. And so it is. Only trouble on the tour is jeeps, and Nilo proved herself worthy. Other than that, we have lotsa fun.
We travel through the evil moonscape, very carefully examine and compare sites.
During this time, we play the dice game a half-dozen times. During these, I'm fair game for whoever wins. Other than that, Nilo and I are an item.

We take up station of rendez-vous day. As the plane approaches, we fire the green flare, meaning ok to land.
I get the surprise of my life. The immense bulk of Parvana cheerfully disembarks, "so, made your selection?"
"Yes."
"So show me."
We drive her there. She's ecstatic. Good wind shelter, still in what little sun there is, good drainage, very close to purest of the pure glacier water, good access to sea and air transport, even enough space to accommodate expansion, if funds should permit in future.
"I knew you'd do it. Gotta be all of one decent campsite on this Hades hole and you found it. Send a Gorgon to do the job, it gets done."
"Thank you."
She withdraws a tiny package from her pocket. Pins a second bar on each shoulder. "Ok, whole operation is yours, you're baby Captain."
"Why thank you."
Parvana gathers my troops, "fabulous job. Two months bonus pay for y'all. And this little package."
Turns out it's dope, lotsa dope.
"I'll be da**ed," Shauzia says as Parvana walks away, "did I have the wrong end of the stick or what!"

With one arm, Nilo hugs me tight, with the other, wipes away a tear. "Honey, once things get settled, how bout a ring ceremony?"
"Yes sweety, love to."
Shauzia calls across, "Nilo, when people ask how you found her, you can honestly say you won her in a dice game."
Howls of laughter.
I consider myself lucky to be so won. Nilo is sweet and gentle. Shauzia, on the other hand, I can tell she'd be into physical abuse of girlfriend.
"Well Cap," Arezou grins, "this is gonna be almost as famous as the Berlin Airlift or the Murmansk Convoys."
Or maybe the Zeltar Five convoys, I think.
Bobogol asks, "for old time sake, Cap, how bout a dice game tonight?"
I glance at Nilo, she nods.
Bobogol wins, goofy grin, "so attack me, the way you do your GF."
Shauzia smiles, "well now Nilo, now that we know you have some energy after all ..."
"Whaddya want?"
"Death by heart attack."
As we sit together with reefers after, Shauzia sums up, "one pi**cutter of a tour, oh yes. You know Jamila, I was positive you'd never produce, too nuts, too westernized. Proved me wrong. Best officer I've seen in years."
"Thank you so much."
"Imagine us, running a school. Defies logic, don't it?"
Everyone laughs.

Jamila 7

"So girls," Shauzia says, "one reefer for the road, then we roll."
I don't have a choice, given one too. I puff fairly lightly.
My sleeve catches on something. My tattoos have vanished now. Strange dream. But now, I feel the reefer bigtime.
By the time we get to the plane, I'm so totally baked, I just curl up in a blanket, let Shauzia take charge. After all, what do I know of jeep parts for this century? Didn't own a car in Canada. Hydrocarbons are only found in history books in my world.
Vaguely through the drug-induced fog, I feel liftoff. After a time, I awake, raging hunger.
Bobogol grins, "our fearless leader has the marijuana munchies. Soon kiss goodbye to that matchstick little-girl look. Soon you'll look real."
"Thanks, I think."
Everyone laughs.
As I feel the plane's vibration and the cold drafts, I start to realize it ain't a dream. I'm onboard an obsolete cargo plane headed to the end of the earth with a dope-smoking rabble. And I love it. Just like the old days. Two differences. Dope here is lots stronger. It's women, not men, but the same sort as you'd find in the marines.
We sit over mugs of - what else - green tea. Shauzia fixes a hard look on me, "Jamila, you been hanging around the western world a few years, maybe forgotten our ways a bit. Maybe just used to the bullsh** in the west. Here, anything less than 100% honest with your friends, you're cruising for trouble. Bearing that in mind, perhaps you'd care to say why you chose to come back, leave that fat life."
Come back? News to me. Drily I reply, "it does defy logic."
Everyone laughs gently. "We're waiting."
"Yeah, looks fat, lotta money maybe. Try living alone in an apartment year after year. Try no friends at work because you're different. You are already on the ragged edge, just getting through your day, month, year. Only takes one tragedy to focus things. Try the death of a lover."
Shauzia wraps an arm protectively around me, "ok, nuff hard questions. Now an easy one. Rumor true? That whole lotta them was once your slaves in S&M?"
I smile, "Parvana's ass is so huge, makes a neat sound. Just could not get enough of that sound."
Everyone roars with laughter.
"And the others, just ordinary sound?"
"Yeah."
"So who was your fave in bed?"
"Sonali."
"Yeah, she would be, a panther."
"Tell us one funny story bout Sonali."
I give the one on her blackmailing me into shaving my legs. Howls of laughter.
With that, I seem to pass the exam, the scrutiny. Talk then wanders from price of dope (low) to redtape to their own woefully inadequate salary levels to the parlous state of the 2 jeeps chained in position.
After much wander, Shauzia just casually remarks, "you one of them officers who stands on ceremony? Self-important type? Or share with your friends?"
"What did you have in mind?"
"What do we have in mind?" she mimics my speech, "you are either forgetful or rude. How come you didn't offer to paddle the girls? Bored to death."
"Come on, on a plane?"
"Pilot and co-pilot won't mind. They're smoking up, so it's mutual blackmail. In fact I'll go ask."
She returns, "they don't give a da**. In fact, co-pilot wants to join in."
I smile, "form an orderly line."
"You kiss my ass. Nothing orderly around here. Our fave game, we roll the dice to see who gets the next stroke. Carries on til we're all tired out."
It sounds mechanical, a paddlethon on a plane, yet it proved to be the most erotic experience of my life so far. Why? Lotta reasons.
See I'm accustomed to vehicles which whisper, vibrate very little; so hydrocarbon vehicles are exciting to me. Throw in the dim cabin lights, moonlight on the water, hot sweaty labor of paddling cooled by drafts of a leaky old plane. Total nudity. Surreal surroundings, one is more susceptible to suggestion in unfamiliar circumstances.
Then the sexual excitement of the others. I soon see they ain't betting for money, but for me and the co-pilot. Bored to death with each other, want variety.
And me, I'm the height of variety. Two fantasies for the price of one: a white person and the sheer joy of pretending to rob the cradle.
Nilofar wins. Ear to ear grin, "you're mine for the rest of the flight."
Shauzia comes second, picks the co-pilot.
Arezou and Bobogol end up together.
Nilofar grins wickedly, "you will submit to me slave. Get that tongue in action."
A lotta factors coalesce into a criticial mass. Loneliness. Grief. Long time without. Remembering the kinkiness of submitting to the lady cop. And last but not least, the eroticism of the paddlethon.
I attack, with battlefield intensity, and (censored by the blog).
I'm dimly aware the others are all done and watching. Nilofar grabs me, holds me at armslength (she is much bigger), "now settle down Jamila, chill, my body can't take anymore."
Gradually my overdrive mood cools.
She smiles wickedly, "now let's see if you can take that," and comes at me with the same intensity.
Eventually we collapse in a heap.
Co-pilot drawls, "well now, ain't seen nothing to match that in years. Two tigers."
Shauzia smiles sadly, "yeah girls, panther is fair game when we roll the dice again. But looks to me like Jamila and Nilofar are an item."
Nilo smiles warmly, "just don't believe it. You're mine, end of story."
I snuggle closer to her.
Eventually we get up for tea.
Arezou grins, "Nilo, I guess maybe 2 weeks and you're dead from a heart attack. She's in lots better shape than you. Then she's up for grabs again."
Shauzia asks quietly, "begs a very obvious question. Nilo, was on the edge of medical damage, with those veins popping out, coulda blown one. Our little friend Jamila, just sweating and breathing a bit harder. So Jamila, care to comment?"
"Walk. Live alone forever, you walk a lot."
"How much?"
"Ten miles on Saturday, ten on Sunday. Work days, average 6 to 8."
"Ah I see, and Nilo drives the jeep 50 meters. Nilo, looks like you got your work cut out for you, keeping up with her."
All laugh.
"Funny one you are, " Shauzia says, "you look so sweet and gentle snuggled against Nilo. To look at you now, no one would believe what we just saw."
Bobogol laughs, "gwan with you sarge. What a very man-like thing to say. Everyone knows women have lots more contrast, more depth, more variety."
Shauzia opens her mouth to retort, then stops, says nothing, just chuckles.

Later Shauzia's hand on my shoulder wakes me, "come quick. Best if you see it all from the air."
"My goodness, they want a school down there. Insanity."
Shauzia grins, "why that is our friendly space alien's decision. Parvana the Portly."
"She's mad."
"Good we agree. Now let's go find a place to park the asylum."
"Is there something in the AAW constitution about impeaching a CO?"
Twisted smile, Shauzia replies, "you could impeach the Commander-in-Chief with the right vote. No provision to impeach a CO, that is the C-in-C's responsibility to deal with her."
"So what pray tell does the C-in-C think of this project?"
"She's all for it. See Parvana, well she had a sea change. Used to be goofy, nutty, a non-entity. Came back from leave like a stormtrooper, like a different person in her body. Parvana has lotsa clout in HQ and getting more. Only a question of time til the C-in-C retires and our space alien launches a coup to be next C-in-C."
I think of Norbert, seemed a laidback guy, except for his fight with the mil bureaucracy. But they say power corrupts.
Quietly Shauzia says, "we could screw up big, choose a Camp Misery of a place. Think HQ would give a sweet go**am? All we'd make miserable is 2,000 schoolgirls and 235 members."
This focuses me. I ain't working for Norbert anymore. Members, they are adults, old enough to look out for themselves. I'm now working for 2,000 innocent young girls who simply wish to get an education. So, we do our best for the girls.
See, it isn't pulling 2,000 girls out of school in Pak, just relocating them. No, it's additional capacity. 2,000 girls cooling their heels in refugee camps finally get a chance. And that is worth whatever it takes.
So maybe Norbert is using his power for good, not bad. Give him the benefit of the doubt, he's good until he shows otherwise.

Jamila 6

Part Three - Jamila Zohra, Lieutenant, Association of Afghan Women

Ever since the death of Jean-Claude, I've been plagued by wierd dreams. Most aren't genuine nightmares, but riddles or nonsense or stories which defy any and all logic. I sense the universe is trying to tell me something, but I haven't caught on yet.
In this particular one, I'm in blue and white naval-type uniform. I relax, know this is only a dream. I'm in a long line of school-age girls, chatting in a foreign language, but I seem to understand. As I near the front, I see it's for food. Everyone is getting a large round flat bread, an orange and a mug of green tea.
As the mug is handed to me, I ask, "could I have some sugar please?"
A 200+ pound food server looks at me in total disbelief, "always playing the clown, you are."
An obvious MP, though I can't read the insignia, taps me on the shoulder, "better come with me, Lieutenant. CO is gonna be right pi**ed at you again." This latter said in a tone as if she's pleased, boasting.
Taking food in hand, I follow her through a tent city refugee camp.
We arrive at a large tent. MP pleasantly says, "after you."
"Ah the prodigal has returned," an older woman in uniform says, as my eyes take in a dozen similarly clad officers. Addressing the MP, "so where did you find her this time?"
"She appears to have got in the wrong foodline, the schoolgirls one."
"Lt, I despair of you. A whole year back here and you act like first day. Now sit, shut up, and pay attention. You gotta stop missing meetings."
Everyone has similar food to me.
First sign that something is unusual about this dream, I can taste the food. Never happens in a dream, sight and sound only. Second sign, dust bothers me and I sneeze.
CO's face definitely looks familiar. Suddenly, with a shock, I see who. The original Parvana, erstwhile weekend sex partner of the original Lily. She doesn't appear to recognize me or maybe it's just an act.
Drily CO remarks, "you've all been on pins and needles, who I'll choose to command the advance party. It's Jamila."
Everyone is looking at me in catatonic disbelief.
"Ma'am, lemme get this straight. She can't even find her way around camp. Yet you're gonna put her on a plane, send her halfway round the world, in charge of an exploration party."
CO grins, "you have every right to question. She did volunteer. And she got the best mark on the map exercise I set for y'all."
Loud cries of disbelief.
"You see my friends," CO continues, "she may have a wierd sense of humor, I'll grant you that. But I know who she really is. Believe it or not, there sits a time traveller."
Further louder cries of disbelief.
"She's navigated her way round 2 dozen planets, centuries off in the future. A true genius. A mere 40 by 60 kilometer island would be a joke for such a person. Our friend here has earned a six-pack of medals with the Imperial Star Ship Marines."
"Uh ma'am, you sure it's only sugar you been putting in your tea?"
For answer, the CO walks to me, rolls up my right sleeve. The 2 tattoos weren't on Lily, but there they are. The centimeter long cross and the colorful logo of ISSM."
CO grins, "our friend belonged to First Gorgons. Caliber of the present day US Special Forces or British Special Air Service. Specifically, company sgt-major of Company C."
How did she know that? Oh yeah, it's a dream, dreams defy logic.
CO turns to me, "so since you seem to be stranded here, missed your ride back, surely you can help out a bit."
I look at the map. A joke. In 30 seconds I have it memorized.
I stand, "right, six likely sites. Now here they are in order of likely desirability." As I rattle off comparisons, one-by-one, I realize I've lost them, they look dazed. Obviously not used to navigation a la Gorgon.
As I finish, CO says triumphantly, "there you go. Is one of you capable of a quarter of that?"
Sheepish looks all around.
"I'll take that as your consent. I mean, unless someone has something to add, to question, to dispute."
Pin-drop silence.
"Right Jamila, let's go round up your crew, get the show on the road."
As we exit the tent, she smiles, "I suppose you wonder how I spotted you?"
"You might say so."
"Name Norbert mean anything to you?"
I gasp, "so you ah lost your argument with the mil bureaucracy?"
"True, they simply had enough of me, stuffed me into the random generator."
"No, I woulda spotted something at the time, back in Canada I mean."
"And so you would. But the suicide of Parvana was after she left Canada. So you saw the original Parvana, not me."
"Ah and I suppose these officers think you're nuts?"
"I ah have a reputation for poetic licence."
"So how was it I came to join you people?"
"You don't remember volunteering?"
"No."
"Really must watch what drugs you take."
"I don't take anything, legal or illegal. I'd prefer the truth."
"My friend Jamila, if I told you that, it'd blow you away. Think a quantum leap up from the stories you carry around. Better off not knowing."
"Isn't that exactly what the Emporer said before the invasion of Zeltar Five?"
She laughs, "I like this gig. Beats Hades outa lying there playing computer games. Hang around a bit, you'll feel the same."
"Do I have a choice?"
"If you're gonna get finicky about it, no you don't. Makes it easier, god gods fate etc."
"Heard that line before, the doctors."
"Admit it, you were bored playing Lily."
"I admit no such thing."
"Oh but it's true, whether you admit it or not. Here we are."
A massive 5'8" sgt shakes her head sadly. Before the CO can even speak, sgt starts lambasting her, "you brought us a white person? A 4'11" one? Have you lost your mind? Now take her back to class and get us another?"
CO grins, "Lt, please explain your site selection to the sgt."
Taking out the map, I give the same spiel I gave at the meeting.
Sgt wraps her arm round me, "hey look, maybe I was a bit outa line with those comments. You do know what you're doing, better than the resta them no-minds. So, friends?"
"Sure."
"Call me Shauzia, and you are Jamila?"
"Yeah."
CO smiles, "I'll leave you to it," and leaves.
Shauzia offers me a cigarette. I feel it wisest to take, just puff lightly.
Once we're lit, she grins, "so, rumor is true? Got the job cuz you pi**ed off the CO more than anyone else?"
"So I'm told."
"Awesome," she hugs me, "my kinda Lt. We're gonna have fun. Get away from the redtape, the bullsh** for 2 months of rattling round in jeeps."
"Sounds like fun to me Shauzia."
"Come on, let's meet the girls."

"Ok sarge," one grins, "joke is over. Take the Lt bars offa her, get her back into class before the teacher marks her truant."
Shauzia wraps an arm round me, "ladies, I give you the one and only. The unique. The famous. The infamous. This little person can pi** off our illustrious CO more in one month than anyone else can in a whole year."
"You mean, that's Jamila?"
"In the flesh."
"Hey sorry Jamila, didn't mean no offence. This here is a right strange unit. That goofy Parvana was always a moody one. But now she's right off the deep end. Sees herself as a latter-day Joan of Arc."
Everyone laughs.
"So Jamila, CO tell you any of her space alien stories?"
I keep a straight face, "next time you're close enough, take a good look at her eyes."
Pindrop silence.
I put my finger over my lip, "word to the wise. Ask her no questions, you get no lies."
"Rumor has it she did too much LSD on her last leave."
I reply, "rumor is usually right, 9/10 of the time."
"Ah so that's it. Yeah she's right strange. Likes giving all niggah jive talk now. So y'all volunteered for this they say?"
"Why not?" I grin, "doesn't a jeep ride beat staring at bushel baskets of silverfish-eaten paper?"
All roar with laughter.
Shauzia says, "now this here is Nilofar, jeep driver and mechanic par excellence. In fact better than those morons in the motor pool. Arezou, driver, ok as mechanic, but not in Nilo's league. We're gonna need their skills, jeeps are thirty years old. And this is Bobogal, one fabulous cook, had to kill to spring her loose from the kitchen for this gig."
"You mean, kill the budget? Trade something?"
Shauzia grins, "it's like this. The MP's had some dope they seized. Owed me a favor. Used some of it to bribe the mess sgt with."
"I see and you have the rest?"
"Of course, think we'd go without?"
"I've ah never tried it myself."
"Get used to it Jamila. If you don't have a reefer or two every day, you go right snaky."
"Yeah, just hide it well so the cargo handlers don't steal it."
"No risk of that, we load ourselves."
"When?"
"Now, plane lifts off tonight. Long flight, Southern Ocean, land in the morning."

Jamila 5

An article on Buddhism caught my eye, so I'm at the university library. After a couple hours, I opt for pizza for lunch. So Buddhism is a multi-faceted thing, answers on all levels. For the busy person with a couple hours to read, there are still things which could improve your life. Other end of the spectrum, you could spend a lifetime studying it.
So what is the #1 thing I have to do? Let go of the past, I ain't a M/Sgt packing $1,500,000 worth of weaponry anymore. Need a congruence, a fit, between mind and body.
Appealing? Not on your life, rather go on an Antarctic expedition or learn deep-sea diving. See, it's a contradiction. Just plain don't like women, but became one by accident.
So what is the #1, Mount Everest, face-the-demon-head-on thing to do? Seduce a guy of course! First, easier said than done, this jailbait look. Second, even if I could, I wouldn't, rather die.
Hold on, isn't that attaching? Getting too emotionally strung out on stuff? Wouldn't a Buddhist try to avoid attaching?
To test my theory, I flash the winningest smile I can muster at a guy 3 tables away. His reaction is instant, student newspaper up in front of his face, very interested in it as he eats. He leaves with the paper held between him and me, like a knight's shield.
I chuckle, I may not have the power to pick up, but at least I'm a little attractive.
My reverie is interupted by the pizza counter woman. She quietly says, "don't come back."
"Why not?"
"Should be ashamed of yourself. What would your mother say? Now go home and behave. Chase after boys your age, not my customers."

It's a small but messy account. A local mil reserve unit has a payroll account for mess honorariums. A nervous newly-minted Lieutenant is deathly afraid of Revenue plus paper-inept. He asks if he can come see me. Not in the unit, meeting rooms on main floor.
His fears are laid to rest. Doesn't owe $100 after all, once posting errors are sorted.
I stand, lock the door, turn to him and smile. He looks more nervous than ever. I start to unzip his pants.
"Before you start," he warns, "not available. Have a fiancee who'd kill me."
"Not looking for a steady boyfriend. Just desperate for some human warmth today. Spare a few minutes out of your busy schedule for a blowjob?"
A few minutes later, he's on his way, no big deal for him I'm sure.
For me, a watershed. So I am a real woman after all. Like a lawyer passing a bar exam or a student pilot doing first solo flight.

As I return to my desk, I see the grandmother clique showing photos, again, still. I ignore them because they don't talk with me other than "good morning".
The possessor of the photos sits not far from me. As the others leave, she says, "just picked these up. Son and his family. Just back from a tour of duty in Afghanistan."
He's a handsome dude, wife is good-looking. Various photos convey the family lives at peace or at least relatively so.
"So Lily what do you think?"
"Must be proud of him, has his life in order."
"Pure luck, I can assure you."
"Mothers don't usually talk so."
She laughs, "yes, most are given to boasting, stretching the truth. Luck of the draw, found by accident the right personality type of wife."
"What's that?"
"Everything has changed over the years. Army used to be so civilized. Long enjoyable tours of duty in Germany. End of the cold war changed all that. Now it's endless tours in dirty, dangerous places, alone, without your family. Come back after the first, wife is ticked. Second, odds are 1 in 3 she's gone. Third, 2 in 3."
"So how did your son defy this law of gravity?"
"Type of woman who is perfectly capable of living alone, doesn't get upset about it. But still, glad to see you get back, if you get back."
"Sounds like a rare type."
"You bet. You'd be surprised. He could introduce you to a couple dozen different friends, all a decent sort, just lost out after too many of those tours."
"I see and how would I know the sheep from the goats?"
"Simple, be friends with his wife. She knows everything that happens. So, you're free Saturday morning, join her and me for brunch."

We get a table by the window. I order coffee and Eggs Benedict. The wife, Cindy, warms up with several humorous anecdotes of Afghanistan. I could share a few with my encounters with Afghans, but better not to.
Then Cindy rattles on about the level of various addictions. My eyes glaze over. Surely this is a star-crossed idea.
Abruptly, she shifts topics, "you've seen how the bad half lives. Same as anywhere, Revenue, a factory. Care to hear how the non-addictive types live?"
"I'm all ears."
After this, Cindy asks, "so lemme guess what parameters might be floating around in your head. Say age 30 - 40, no real preference as to specialty, absolutely must be a non-smoker, very light social drinker or total abstainer. Good guess?"
"Could not have said it better myself."
"I could name over a dozen names that meet that. If it still didn't work, you could edge up or down a couple years age. How bout a nice electronics tech, age 35, voracious reader, total abstainer due to borderline on diabetes."
"Ah well"
"My husband's best friend. No kids. Lost his wife after 3 of those horrible tours in former Yugoslavia." She digs out a photo, showing him and her husband.
I shouldn't feel this way, but I do. Breathless, excited even.
"Meet him for coffee in a real public place, so there's no risk."

And so I'm sitting very nervously over an espresso. He breezes in, looks even better than the photo. Must recognize me from the description. "You are Lily?"
"And you Jean-Claude?"
He laughs, it's a nice laugh, "good I'm not a drinker. You wouldn't be getting into bars."
"Most women would feel flattered, I'm sure, but when you live with it all the time, it gets tiresome."
"Cindy says you're a reader too. So, what do you like?"
A very pleasant afternoon follows.
Eventually he smiles sheepishly, "look Lily I could push, invite you for dinner. Don't want to take the risk. See, try for a romance and it flops, then we can't just be friends. But I really like you. Even if there is no romance, sure like us to be coffee friends. So?"
"I like the idea. Awful short of friends myself. Coffee next week?"

Three Saturdays later, I find he's being dragged off to Haiti on a hastily improvised tour.
He grins, "they do have email."
"I don't."
He takes me to a cybercafe, sets up a free email address, shows me how it works.
I can type 55 words per minute from my work, so we communicate a lot while he's away.
As we meet for coffee after his return, he smiles radiantly, "you have no idea, how pleasant, how wonderful it is to come back from a tour, see a friendly face, not an uptight one."
I nestle close, ask if he'd like to see my apartment.

What follows is the happiest few months of my life. Then he's tapped on the shoulder again, another 6 month tour in Afghanistan.
Two days before end of tour, his entire convoy is wiped out by rocket attack.
Cindy was lucky. Her husband missed the convoy due to gastrointestinal problems.
In the final analysis, I shrug. Fate has spoken. See Jean-Claude would have died anyway, least he was happy a while. And me, I've changed bigtime.
The M/Sgt doesn't really exist anymore. It's like a mostly forgotten movie, seen years ago, only remember the odd bits.
Me, I am what you see. I am a woman. Arguably, as effective or more at it as the original Lily.

Jamila 4

Just my luck, one of the standees slides into the vacant chair. One of the Cosmo-reading girls from work. "Soo-oo," grins wickedly, "new squeeze huh? Shopping at WEM huh? Thought you got clothes the museum threw out. Been suspicious of you a long time. You's one of them space aliens or a refugee who fell into a time machine. So, gonna invite me home? Paddle me with all your other friends?"
Sonali turns, "got $20 says you can't take 48 strokes from her."
Tara uses the safe word after 24. Loses the bet, but doesn't seem to mind, joins the others in an orgy.
Sonali and I adjourn to her room, "so what is this thing about shaving your legs?"
"I grew up very old-fashioned."
"You grew up very old-fashioned," she mimics my accent, "so did I. Now you want sex tonight, you let me shave your legs first."
"That is blackmail."
"So, call a cop. Your choice, I don't have a razor in my hands in 2 minutes, you're outa here."
I sigh, "be gentle."
"That's the spirit."
We're in the bathroom shaving, as Tara comes in, "don't mind me, just using the facility. So Lily, you actually do shave your legs? News to me."
Drily I reply, "never bothered before. Now I get my slave to do it."
Tara grins, "nice legs, I mean for someone so small."
Sonali grimaces, "screw off. She's mine, go get one of the others."
"Relax, I respect your property rights. Now Arezou, I can tell she's interested in me."
Sonali grins, "she might prove a little more of a problem than you'd like."
"Good, like that sort. Want a challenge. Got enough boredom in life. Ask Lily bout that. We're at Ground Zero of boredom for the whole western world."
I can't help it, I'm crying. The shaving is temporarily suspended as Tara and Sonali comfort me.
"Sorry," Tara says, "just a joke, musta hit a nerve. Want me to help you 2 shop tomorrow?"
Sonali smiles, "love your input, she's hard to convince."

Five hundred dollars later, I realize I have 1 1/2 dozen different looks, combining tops and skirts. Tara and Sonali are wildly enthusiastic about my simple acceptance of the inevitable. I'm even color-draped, "cool winter" shade of skin.

Monday morning, Agnes appears, "seems you learned a lot about style from reading Chatelaine. Good for you. You know dear, you really might have been better off staying a Hutterite."
"No choice, they threw me out."
"What on earth for?"
"Too small for their world of farm labor and babies."

Tara comes round, "join us for coffee."
"You really think so?"
"Sure, I can ooh and ah the girls with stories of you blistering butt. They see you as a real person, they'll stop acting like you're a space alien."
It's a wildly hilarious time, I say not a word as Tara boasts of my skill commanding my stable of slaves.

My second time buying Le Monde, I'm starting to have doubts. The articles are oh so interesting, but obviously written for the officer class. For me, I suspect Tara, Sonali, Chatelaine, and Agnes are more reliable sources of information about this strange world of centuries ago. After all, I ain't here to make general, just survive the tour.

Tara disappears from my world first. Snags a black football player. CFL salaries being quite low (in contrast to US NFL), she will continue working. He's traded from Edmonton Eskimos to another team. She relocates to another Revenue office using spousal relocation rights.
Then the big heartbreaker. The four Afghans finish their degrees, this running out their Canadian student visas. They return home, all being Association of Afghan Women officers, to HQ in Peshawar, Pakistan.
I'm more alone than ever. Feels horrible. Day after day, I have an overwhelming desire to just end it. So this is how the original Lily felt. Any comtempt I might have felt for her is long since gone. She must have been a very strong person, to last 14 years of this.
Men are utterly afraid of me, with that jailbait look. Only offer, I get, a lady cop, after carefully checking my ID, tells me she wants a slave.
I agree, provided no S&M.
A couple weeks later, she tosses me. Boring, you know, no S&M.
As I cry in the stairwell of her building, I hear the elevator. See a knockout chick enter her apartment. Pig, she didn't toss me for no S&M, but for that walking wetdream.
Over tea I ponder, soon realize she did me a favor. What they say is true, grow up in a very repressed household, the slave role is wildly liberating, tossing inhibitions and enjoying.
So now I understand better what energy I provided to the Afghan girls. Next time, I'll be able to give my slave(s) more pleasure.