Time Corps 26

Speaking privately, Parvana starts, "Indira, level with me. That was one expensive aircraft, by anyone's reckoning. You the only passenger, implies you are important in the scheme of things."
Breezily I reply, "rank of Lt, same as you."
"I see, that makes it even more of a paradox. Not your ordinary Lt who hasta pass in every parking receipt for a dollar. No, elite unit. Which?"
"Time Corps."
"So, why would the neo-Nazis prefer you dead?"
I relate my on-again off-again role of Israel research.
She gasps, "I don't believe it. You - you were da** well gonna write nice things about Jews. Don't you know what they've become?"
"Immaterial. I was assigned to research one slice of history, 1948 to 1958. What happens after, means squat."
By now we've long since locked eyes. She drops her gaze first, "right, I guess that's how history is. Would be the height of insanity to dump you for simply following orders, writing the story. And to be honest, yes they were pretty decent folks in those days. So, still friends?"
"Sure."
"Be honest Indira, were you important enough the neo-Nazis would come searching?"
"Very unlikely. I'm stranded in time, no means of ever getting back. I could have been thrown forward or backward in time by the impact of the crash, and that's minutes, days, years, even centuries we're talking. If they knew exactly where I was, might be different, go for a hit. But if they knew that, they'd have long since done it, I've been here for months. But why would they waste precious resources searching for me? Use em on someone still perceived to be a threat."
"Yeah, guess you are right. Next problem, we need a cover story to waltz you past our CO."
"Why not just the truth?"
"Only part of the truth Indira. See she's such a Jew-hater she'd shoot you on the spot. So, in your humble opinion, the crash was an engine malf, metal fatigue, aggravated by the extreme cold. Everything else - you can tell her."
"I would not actually be lying. Either way, it's just my opinion, no proof."
"Go-od, you'll do great. Still we may be worried over nothing. They are so drastically short of English teachers, rarely find native speaker ability. I rather suspect she'll go with the theory of 'I ask no questions, you don't hafta lie'."
"I hope so."

Fatima proves easier to deal with by far. Simply wraps her arms around me in that easy confident manner that tells me her world is going ok, "wow mum, I just had no idea. I'm so glad I've got you, not just anyone else."
"Fatima dear, truth is I'm happier with you than I was before."
"That's so sweet mum. Yes I know once buildings are put up and you move in with Parvana, I'll hafta grow up, sleep in my own bed. But not for now mum, it's just you and me."
I start to cry a little. My baby is growing up.

We take up station, await the arrival of the plane. CO disembarks with several members and mini-jeeps.
Parvana introduces me and Fatima, suggests CO might want to hire me as English teacher.
She looks me straight in the eye, "I'm a busy person. Talk to me in English for ten minutes and then I'll know. Any topic you choose."
I tell her of the history of New France circa 1700.
She smiles broadly, "you're hired! Best English I've heard in ages! Wish I had more time to be a history buff - pressures of command."
"Thank you so very much ma'am, I'll do my best."
"During the interview, it was 'ma'am'. Now you're a member, call me Fereshta. Hop in, bring your daughter, let's go take a look at the sites you and Parvana found."
Parvana blushes, "ah well she found em, not me."
Fereshta grins, "I knew that, you would not know a contour line if it bit your butt. So Indira, which grade will we enroll Fatima in?"

Time Corps 25

We invite Tasma and Parvana to lodge with us, beats that flimsy tent.
As Fatima wraps her arms around me, I can tell, holding on way too tight, jealous, insecure.
Nuance isn't hard to see, by now 2100, the entire world is cool with the gay and lesbian scene, not that, she simply fears being left out, ignored.
Parvana must recognize this, sets out to show Fatima there is no problem. Soon has her laughing with endless hilarious AAW stories. The message is not lost on Fatima, end up with more attention, not less.
We return from our first day of journey. Bedtime, I can sense the difference, Fatima is holding on normal now, relaxed.
After several days of exploring sites, Fatima quietly says, "she's ok mum, go for it if you like, I'm cool with it."
Fatima may be, but I'm not, still old-fashioned, circa 2000.
One day as Fatima vanishes behind the rocks, Parvana asks, "so, racial? Don't like Afghans or any non-Indians? Or don't like AAW? Maybe don't like me?"
"I ah well ah well .."
I feel her eyes boring straight into me, "ah ha, got it now. Your secret, time travel. Fascinating combination of things you don't know that you should, if you really were from our time."
"It's ah well ah a long story."
"Shipwrecked? Stranded? Hey, cry on my shoulder, I like you, think you're attractive."
"Just give me time. I think you an ok person, but as a friend. I come from rather more prudish times."
"Fair enough, no pressure, you set whatever pace. Your daughter, definitely from these times."
"I'm shipwrecked and so is she; but not from the same ship."
"I like her. Smart enough to know she won't lose out with 2 mums."
"I'm not anyone's possession, not some stay-at-home submissive little wifey."
"Come on, I wouldn't want that crap. AAW is perennially short of English teachers, hire you in one nanosecond. To say nothing of French or math."
"All right, long as I'm independent, let's just say I'm more open-minded than I was this morning."
She laughs, "good, if you don't like me, plenty others coming soon."
"I sense a 'but' in that."
"But stay with the officer class. Not into physical abuse. Your size, be careful."
I just laugh, "ever looked at my knuckles?"
"Ah, so you've done some martial arts training. Right, stay with the officer class for the more interesting conversations then."
We both laugh. In that moment, I decide I like her.
Tasma must have caught the body language. Cheerfully tells Fatima, "let's you and me drive over there, real nice scenery. Think these 2 got too much boring map stuff to talk."
As the jeep pulls away, I smile, quietly say, "promise to be very gentle, first time ever."
"That round face, considered ugly back home with other Indians?"
I nod.
"Well I think you're beautiful. Come, let's ..."
As we wait for the jeep to return, I ponder it's a long time before Fatima gives up sleeping draped all over me. Gotta attend to this days.

Over a field lunch, Tasma grins, "that's the third time Indira saved butt, fixing the jeep. She's done all the site selection work. Maybe just pin the Lt bars on her?"
Parvana laughs indulgently, "is madness you're speaking. As if she'd wear em. Where she comes from, add 3 or 4 or even 5 zeroes to everything in the budget. Real professional army."
"If that's so, how come she knows that jeep so well?"
"Ah Indira, care to answer?"
"Sure, one month every year, do your time with the Reservists, use stuff like that. Regulars don't."
Tasma grins, "ah ha, knew it. From Minute One, I knew you were pulling a number on us, knew lots more about the jeep than you were letting on."
"I had a very capable Sgt, Afghan ancestry, also a friend, taught me well."
"Sgt friend get shipwrecked too?"
"Nah, just me, pilot, co-pilot."
"They dead?"
"Came down in water so icy, you live a minute. Don't like their odds."
"So how'd you live through it?"
"Ask Fatima."
"Right Fatima, how'd she live?"
"Because I prayed so."
Parvana's and Tasma's eyes search Fatima's face, gauging the sincerity.
Tasma breaks the awful silence, "now I understand. Wanted her as your mother."
Edge of tears, Fatima nods, smiles.
Parvana ruffles her hair, "good for you. Faith like that moves mountains. So Indira, where was the crash?"
"Labrador Sea, middle of 'Iceberg Alley', off the coast of Greenland."
She blanches, "my God. Saw that on the news. Right ugly. Absolute miracle you're still alive. Researchers spent months on the motor and hull alloy, could not decipher squat. We're talking way off in the future, right?"
I nod.
"How far?"
"Ten thousand years."
She whistles softly, "your guess. Sabotage? Crappy maintenance? Metal fatigue?"
"Had lotsa time to think. Definitely sabotage. No such thing as lousy maintenance, except for Reserves. Rhythm on the starboard engine was irregular long before we hit cold."
"Guesses as to why?"
"Neo-Nazis were less than happy."
Everyone gasps.
After a moment, Parvana shrugs, "well their loss, our gain. Tasma, nary a word of this or I cut your tongue out. For all we know, they're still searching for her; after all, they know only 2 bodies were found. Here on in, she's any other stranded traveller."
Tasma nods, "gonna teach English?"
"I'd like to."

Time Corps 24

We're on our way to a picnic by the glacier. Just before a bend, we hear a human voice, sailor talk in Dari. We creep to the edge of the turn, have a look.
It's a mini-jeep, remarkably similar to Reservist ones, hood up. A younger woman is peering in, cursing vigorously. An older one, stares at a manual book, looking lost.
"They're ok, mum," Fatima asserts, "AAW, Association of Afghan Women, we can go meet them."
"What is their reputation Fatima dear?"
She looks at me as if I've lost my mind, "very famous mum. Schools in refugee camps. Clinics. Projects to help women earn money. I'm really surprised you've never heard of them."
This is neither the time nor place to try telling her I'm over a century old, as she reckons time.
A corporal is cursing, Lieutenant reading the book. With the wind noise, they don't hear us approach.
Lt looks up, "mind your language, we got company." Smiles at me, "I'm Parvana, the sailor here is Tasma."
"Indira and my daughter Fatima."
For a second, their eyes sweep both faces, evaluating, biological or adoptive?
Lt laughs, "unreal, a loaner jeep from the French, book is in French of course."
"I'd be glad to try, I read French."
I see shock register on Parvana, Tasma and Fatima.
By now, I'm 99% certain what it is. Better to play theatrics a bit, don't want them guessing my background.
I slowly turn pages, doing 2 things: comparing the jeep to Reservist ones and looking for schematics.
I discover it's almost identical, nothing changes in those mini-electrics. Only difference is nomenclature, I'd call it the B7 part, them K3, but shape is the same.
Not visible to the cursing driver, underneath, comes loose often in rough terrain. Just crawl under and voila.
"Take the key outa the ignition Tasma."
She does.
I crawl under, for sake of appearance spend 2 minutes looking, reconnect K3 and climb out.
"Try it now Tasma."
Sure enough, it works.
Parvana smiles with gratitude, "thank you so much Indira, join us for a meal."
"Yes thank you."
Tasma set to work on tea, bread, corned mutton and onions on a three-burner kero.
Parvana digs out the map, rueful grin, "map's in French too."
In a flash I know where we are, the geography, French possession, Kerguelen Island.
I unfold the map, see she has nary a clue how to read a topographic. That is, 1 in 50,000 or approximately one inch to one mile. Obviously, her experience is confined to road maps.
By the time I've done translating the legend into English and Dari, explaining it and giving her a crash course on how to use contour lines, I see the glazed look, obviously HQ type.
As food is served, Parvana sits way too close. At first I'm mystified, then it hits me, the look, she's interested, as in Interested.
The knowing look on Tasma, the hyper-jealous look on Fatima confirms my suspicion. Oy, why do these things happen?
Food is good, a welcome change.
After we're done eating, Parvana quietly says, "ok Indira, time to level with you. Don't think for one minute I've missed that look in your eyes. Yes, you've been decent enough to keep it off your face, out of your voice. Amused look of a genuine professional line officer watching an amateur. Yes, you're right, I am an amateur, just headmistress in school. That's what we're here for, choose a site for a school. So, help us out? Share that expertise? Help examine sites?"
I catch Fatima's look, know what I must say, "my daughter is too young to be left alone."
"Fine, she's welcome to come for the ride."
I see Fatima's look, know I guessed right.
"So," jovial grin, "eagle-eye the map. Pick the half-dozen most likely spots for starters."

Time Corps 23

Next morning, I watch Fatima in action, cooking flat round bread with an easy confidence, with deft motions. I observe the level of cleanliness. Considering it's so old and shacky, she's doing a remarkable job. All the clothes hanging up, hers and now-mine, clean.
We sit and I taste the best bread I've had in a donkey's age.
We set out on our jaunt, "look mum," she says proudly, "water's clean, much as you want, no need to boil, no need to line up."
By this, I deduce she refers to refugee camp.
"Come mum, show you where the water comes from." We arrive at the glacier. Tasting it, you'd spend a fair bit in the western world for bottled water that good.
That's much of our day, sit together on an old blanket, admire the scenery.
Home again, she explains the kitchen canisters.
"See mum, every few days, everything fills up at night. Kero bottle, cooking oil bottle. Flour, salt, tea. That, the mussels, wild cabbages, how we live."
Seeing her healthy look, she's doing lots better than most refugee camp denizens.
"Tomorrow mum, show you the shore, where I catch mussels."
When the sun sets, we go to bed, nothing to sit up for, like Guyana days. She wraps an arm around me, but relaxed this time, knowing I won't vanish.
Our mussel jaunt is short, with no refrigeration it's pointless to catch too many.
We return, examine the mini-library of books. These were there when Fatima and her mother arrived. Half-dozen in Dari, half-dozen in English. The English ones are published in the 2050 to 2060 year range. Given the wear on bindings and the obvious old age of paper, I probably am still in 2100, the year I crashed. These books are my only clue to time, Fatima owning neither calendar nor watch.
And so I become both teacher and student. Fatima got some verbal English from the refugee camp school but no written, so I start with her ABC's. She does remarkably well on reading Dari and starts in teaching me.
Neither of us speaks of the past. We talk of housekeeping and education, but don't feel a need to fill up time with idle chat. By the end of a week, it's like she's always been my daughter.
Without a calendar, we lack the concept of weekend. We'll study for several days, then picnic for one, either glacier or several different spots by the shore.
We're that relaxed around each other, we can spend a whole day, say nothing.
Gradually, I realize it's my first experience of love. Never a romance in Canada. As for parents, they weren't abusive, but didn't notice I was alive.
Months slide by without us counting. There really is not a lot to say. It may sound monotonous compared to Time Corps, but it's immensely fulfilling. I feel a lot of pride in Fatima's scholastic achievements and she feels the same about mine.
Funny, in all this time we've never argued. Some say mother-daughter relationships are stormy.

Time Corps 22

Gradually, as if from an immense distance, I start to perceive things.
I'm really warm, yet that isn't logical, should be chilled halfway to death. Slowly I realize the warmth emanates from a thick load of blankets and a young girl who's wrapped herself tightly around me, hanging on like a drowning person.
She's saying something in a language I don't understand, yet it sounds very familiar from childhood days. Oh of course, the Muslim form of prayer, I've heard that before, a minority of neighbors back home were Muslim.
Somehow or other, I slowly realize she's actually praying over me. So, am I dead or alive? Truth is, at this point I don't know.
She switches to English, knows some, "all you Indians, all speak English. Talk to me, tell me something."
I open my mouth, no sound comes out.
"Good. I know you're alive. Open your eyes."
I do.
At that, she holds on even tighter, starts crying. After sometime, "you hungry? Thirsty?"
"Not hungry dear, deathly thirsty."
She makes tea, fairly fast, kero stove.
After a cup, my throat is lubed, I can talk a bit. As I start to sip the second, I ask, "so where am I?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"Mother and I here, don't know how. She's dead now."
"I see, so how did I get here?"
"I prayed. Told God send me another mother. Don't steal from someone. Just take someone who'd die if she weren't here."
I feel my shoulders go tense, this is getting too wierd. After a moment of pondering, "well that seems a sensible prayer. Don't want to steal. So, why were you still praying when I was already here?"
"Different prayer. You were out in place, maybe dead, maybe alive. Prayed you stay alive."
I groan inwardly, but what can you say? She seems earnest enough.
I realize we haven't even exchanged names, "I'm Indira, what's your name?"
"I'm Fatima," smile, "come, we find clothes. My mother was bigger but not much."
This proves somewhat inaccurate. Guessing from the clothes, I'm say 2 inches shorter and 40 pounds lighter. Still, Afghan clothes are meant to be loose, so I don't look too bad.
Once they are on (I had no choice, being just in a nightgown), she looks at me totally differently, very proprietorial, "there, you are my mother now. Rest today mum, show you the place tomorrow."
I change back into nightgown, lie back down, feeling utterly washed out. Instantly she crawls in under the covers with me, wraps her arms around me, presses close.
"What happened mum? Why so cold when you get here?"
"Fatima dear, I was in a plane crash, Arctic, coast of Greenland."
"Where's that?"
"Far north, chunks of ice in water big as ships, where Eskimos are."
"Wow mum, why do you travel there?"
"Long story, I'm so tired, tell you another day."
"Ok mum, just rest, you'll be fine."
I suppose my mind should be running mile a minute, trying to figure it out. Was it sabotage? Lousy maintenance? Metal fatigue, related to cold temperature?
Somehow though, her close presence relaxes me. I feel all the warmth coming off her, just peacefully drift off. After all, what good would it do knowing those answers? Regardless of which, I'm still here.
I'm almost asleep when it hits me, why she looks so familiar. Very similar in appearance to Nilofar. Who knows - maybe even one of Nilofar's ancestors.

Time Corps 21

It's a lonely time, everyone else from the class is out on traditional-length tours, that is a year away. Like living in a tomb, the wing is so quiet.
Evenings take all eternity passing. Amount of paperwork I do, (oy, ask any young Lieutenant), is such I don't have energy for TV or reading evenings, or much anyway.
And so, I find myself looking forward to my next tour, itching to go, in fact.
The only bright spot is the month with my Reserve platoon. Again, it is an absolute blast. I'm actually on the edge of tears coming back with Nilofar in the mini-jeep.

And finally, I'm called to the big powwow. Mr Sanderson is there representing history TV, a jaunty octogenarian with the air of a retired naval officer. Ms Cohen is there, CEO of Eskimo Frozen Foods, one of the biggest sponsors of history TV. Six different brand names, all the way from ultra-discount to Cordon Bleu cuisine. Myself and Col Khan, no secretary, no minutes taken.
Obvious who's in charge here, Ms Cohen smiles at me, "Lt, my hearty congratulations on an ultra-successful tour, best history TV ratings in over 2 decades."
"Thank you ma'am."
"Everything I've seen of you, you strike me as no-nonsense, no-BS. So, to the point. Think you could handle playing Eskimo again?"
"Yes ma'am."
"There is something about Eskimos, that touches the viewers' hearts. Yeah, I grant you there are none left up there anymore. They're all stockbrokers, bankers, automechanics and computer programmers in more temperate climes. But it is one mega attention grabber. So, Greenland being totally uninhabited, here's what I propose. Same epoch as before, that is year 2100, land on Cape Desolation on the southwest coast, walk to Scoresbysund, 1/3 of the way up the east coast. Something over 2,000 miles. Your thoughts please?"
"Meaning no disrespect ma'am, aren't you tempting fate? Going back to the same well one more time?"
Mr Sanderson smiles gently, "ah Lt, we've had over 8 million emails requesting an encore. People love the Eskimo genre."
Ms Cohen continues, "look at it this way. You've firmly established yourself as an Eskimo already. This trip would carve it in stone. Any tour you make after that, wherever it is, you will get very positive reception from viewers. People just plain like Eskimos, so a mediocre story could be a good one, you get the point, positive spin. But surely you are right, a third Arctic trip would be foolhardy."
I shrug, "well ma'am, why not then?"
She smiles, "now, let's talk photography. Your training here was more for portraits. No training on landscape, yet you still shot good film, for an amateur that is. Mr Sanderson will arrange training with a landscape pro."

And so I spend a month tagging around behind a world-famous landscape photographer. He produces high-end coffee table photo books and postcards. I learn an assortment of tricks of light and shadow, of angles.
And then, back to the gym and study maps. It looks very demanding, but I'm not afraid.
I think back to Guyana days. Everyone admired pictures of winter, of Christmas. Yep, winter is one huge status symbol there. Means you've been away, Outside, faced cold. And who more than me?

As we lift off, my ear picks up an irregular rhythm in the starboard engine. I push it out of mind, surely pilot and co-pilot know what they're doing.
We head up the east coast of the USA, cross eastern Canada, out over the Labrador Sea on an approximate northeast course to Cape Desolation.
We're halfway across Iceberg Alley, me snapping lotsa photos of the sheer glittering awe, when the starboard engine explodes. One wing almost totally destroyed, we're now spiralling down with mega G force, starting at Mach 4 speed.
I black out before we ditch.

Table of Contents

Time Corps - book length - starts Oct 27 - not finished yet - a young woman and her friends have adventures 10,000 years in the future.

Romance - short story - Oct 13 - 16 - set aboard a space ship.

Jamila - novella length - Oct 1 - Oct 9 - Lily is a white Canadian doomed to a life of total exclusion - a time traveller from the future ends up involved - as does Jamila, a Lieutenant in AAW (Association of Afghan Women).

Dark Chronicles of Nooria - book length - Aug 30 - Sep 29 - a sweet ten-year-old on the Lilac Valley Indian Reserve is drawn into a living nightmare, as a 10-y-o Afghan.

Iris - short story - Aug 26 - 28 - an Irishwoman, through time travel, ends up joining a contingent of Afghan women.

Farzana - novella length - Aug 11 - 25 - a ten-year-old white Canadian girl freezes to death during a savage blizzard, gets a second chance at life as a 10-y-o Afghan.

Soap (Opera) - book length - Jul 26 - Aug 10 - a contingent of Afghan women ends up encountering a bizarre collection of marginal and eccentric foreigners.

Vignettes - short short story genre, most under 1,500 words - most stories published prior to Jul 25, a few since.

Happy Reading!

Time Corps 20

"A word with you privately Indira."
"Yes Col."
"Scrub the Israel mission."
"Do you mean someone else is going?"
"Lt, whole lotta stuff you're better off not knowing. Certain highly-placed TV people have exercised right of veto."
"You ah would be referring to neo-Nazis Col?"
"Better not getting an answer to that. Back to the drawing board, we'll find you something."

"Ok Indira, nature photography, midwinter you land at Saglouc, northern end of the Ungava Penisula. It's the year 2100, by then all of northern Quebec is totally uninhabited. It's 900 miles as the crow flies to Chibougamau, you'll walk it. Don't worry, you'll have a blaster to protect against wolves or polar bears. Snowshoes, Arctic survival gear."
I gasp, "surely you aren't serious?"
"Our viewers are bored to death with people stories. Want uninhabited nature as far as the eye can see. If we want ratings, we give them what they want, not what we want."
"Col, why send a tropical person? Why not an American from the northern States?"
"Oh but Indira you don't understand. Nice round face of yours, you're now an Eskimo. Besides you're a lot lighter on snowshoes than any of the rest. Glide on top, not sink in."
With that, I start laughing, she joins in.
I'm not fooled. Somehow I get the feeling the TV execs would prefer if I don't return. So, I'm guessing my rendezvous does not show at Chibougamau.
Why? Only conceivable reason, they are upset I downloaded Uris' book. Neo-Nazis?
I ponder it, shrug. Wolf or polar bear or freezing to death? Just get it over with. Beats playing the little kid for centuries on end.
I could refuse the mission, pointless, just get some other low percentage mission, just do it.

I watch as endless empty forest, then endless miles and miles of snow and ice tundra slides by. We come in low, they hover a few feet up and I exit. I watch liftoff, then get to it.
I will not bore you with the sheer endlessness of a tundra then forest walk. Suffice it to say, my toboggan (flat sleigh with no runners) carries adequate supplies. The blaster never leaves its holster for real. The Eskimo parka, snow packs, insulated tent, down sleeping bag prove satisfactory.
I have never experienced such fresh air, such brilliance of sun on snow, for which I have tinted and polarized goggles.
The biggest surprise of my entire life, my rendezvous shows at Chibougamau. Thought I would have to walk clean to Montreal, get a job.

As it turns out, I fell prey to an overactive imagination, fuelled no doubt by the same in Col Khan. I return with a zillion stunning photos. I arrive to a heroine's welcome, a new genre is born, wilderness tourism shows, and Time Corps is back on the map. Many photos become postcards and children collect them. So it was a home run after all.

Once again I should be famous, TV ratings say over a billion and a half people saw the world-famous Professor Hartfield, foremost figure in the world of Arctic research, respectfully interview me.
Yet what happens at the newstand? "Dear," the clerk says, "haven't seen you of late."
Blushing, I mumble, "been out of town," as I pay.
"Well, since it isn't vacation time, guess your parents now have joint custody."
I feel a wild insane desire to run amok, whip out an Uzi, blow away everyone in this sad sorry place. Just as fast, it vanishes, I fold Le Monde, tuck it in tunic pocket and head for the only coffee house where I'm known.
The counterwoman grins, "usual Indira? Never knew you were an Eskimo."
"Just a publicity gimmick, I'm 100% East Indian."
"Still, you looked pretty convincing in that outfit. What's it like to experience minus 60 degrees?"
"Not bad, first rate equipment."
I sit with Nilofar, "aren't Eskimos ah a little fatter, stockier?"
"I was chosen because I was light on snowshoes, as well as the round face."
Georgette the MP sgt grins, "gotta tonna stories for ya. World didn't stand still while you were off gallivanting."
Everyone laughs.
As I sip vanilla hazelnut, I reflect how wonderful it is to have friends.

Time Corps 19

I take the 3 novellas home, I'll read one tomorrow. It proves wonderful, a rollicking adventure. I set a conscious limit of 2 a week so I won't get tired of them.
I show for my next appointment, tell the counsellor of my library trip.
"Good, it's a start, remember when you're on site, you'll hafta make do with whatever everyone else of the time and place reads."
"I could dance around forever, wasting your time and mine. Not what you think, not my father. Uncle in Georgetown owned a sweatshop, came to visit. He was sitting on our veranda and I took out lime drink. Grabbed my hand, pushed it in his pants. Well you know how messy that is, just never got over the total dis-gust. Didn't tell the parents, figured they wouldn't believe me. He never came back for a visit, so it wasn't a problem."
I see palpable relief on her, "you see Indira, even if no damage done, still a violation of trust. Tarnishes the young girl's view of life in general, men in particular. I'm the first you told?"
"Yes."
"Does it not seem a bit of overreaction when as an adult, you still view half the population with jaundiced eyes over the idiocy of one person on one day?"
I blush, nod.
"Doesn't mean you hafta like em, lotsa women don't. But until you stop hating em, no peace of mind."
"I know that now."
"So, nother appointment or leave it for now?"
"I'll leave it, if I need you I'll come back."
"Good, I'll sign the card, case closed, get your CO off your back."
"Thank you so much."

I hand the card to Col Khan, see the admiration in her eyes. The experience with the counsellor changes me. Looking back on my porn scene, it's as if it were written by another person. I just cannot fathom that level of drivenness. Surely all of S&M is insane. If Col Khan still likes it, maybe she needs an appointment. Oh well, what can you say?

"Indira my office 3 o'clock."
"Yes Col."
"Now Indira, I'm afraid I have bad news. The pulp fiction mission is on, but not yours."
"May I ask why Col?"
"No reflection on your ability. At that epoch, very few East Indians, you'd be too conspicuous. Heidi was considered, ruled out, Germans were still disliked. Betty Lou is perfect, sweet Southern girl with good typing. Ok, let's be honest about history TV, stagnant, hasn't produced anything spectacular in some time. We aim to change that."
"How Col?"
"You, your mission, when the time comes is Israel 1948, cover the Holocaust on a post-basis, as you suggested."
"And being an East Indian is not a problem?"
"No, got a cover story. Stringer reporter for a paper in India. Doesn't pay enough to live on, you supplement income picking fruit."
"But Col, the Israelis, they'll accredit me as a reporter? Just like that?"
"Why not? Day and age all outgoing is censored anyhow. They'll see your stories are sympathetic to their cause. They won't be overly worried that your paper is obscure, they need all the good press they can get. So, file just enough stories so they know you haven't died or lost interest, just enough to keep the press card active."
I stare out the window.
"Indira here's what we need. It's one thing to step up to the plate, bash a home run out of the park, excites the fans. It's quite another thing when your little guy you called up from Triple A ball does it his first day. History TV won't die if you strikeout. But if you deliver that home run, we're back to being headliners."
"Lotta responsibility Col."
"If not you, who in the class?"
"I get the point Col, I'll start reading that epoch in history. But surely, American faces would be better. Americans were strongly pro-Israel, would get a better reception than some unknown Indian."
"American Press Corps all knew each other, all men in those days."
I ponder that, interesting mix of fact and fiction. Why was I really scrubbed from the pulp fiction mission? Nothing at all to do with appearance, I could have been Italian or Hispanic. The clue, they want a home run on my first mission, don't want me to get a lower-key one.
I shrug, lotta loose lead flying in those days, maybe I get to stop one.
So, where to start? Where else - Leon Uris - Exodus.

The book is not available in hard copy anymore, so I download from the historical archives to which we have access. Knowing it'll be stark, I prefer to read weekends. Don't wanna read evenings, get too many nightmares.
I'm numb, sense of deja vu, same as reading Solzenhitzen's Gulag Archipelago in university. Assault on the senses, I gotta cover this. Oy, that pulp fiction mission sure looks good in comparison.
Now I realize the importance. TV ratings, rather immaterial, small potatoes compared to the human side. Good coverage would be a large contribution to world peace, to convincing people of the insanity of that era in history. Now I understand why the Jewish people so meticulously preserve history.
Still, would not a Jew do the job better? Maybe not, maybe get too strung out emotionally to handle it. I'll do my best, but it truly is a Mount Everest job.
Pondering it, I decide to go for as much positive as possible.
Warsaw Ghetto, absolutely, mega-achievement against a powerful army.
Israel's spectacular mil victories.
Building incredible amounts of housing.
Bringing the Jews of Yemen.
Remember, in all of this, I must keep it suitable for the child viewer.
So, am I being dishonest? No, I'm asked to cover a specific period in history. The murky reputation of decades later is immaterial to this story.

Time Corps 18

I dread it all day, arrive with the intensity level of a USAF fighter pilot scrambling aloft in West Germany during the Cold War.
Receptionist grins, "room 38, on the left, abandon hope all ye who enter in."
"Still quoting Dante?"
"Who's that?"
I shrug, another example of quote outliving the reputation of quotee.
I knock on number 38.
"Come in."
She's in civvies, leather dyke look. Pale enough she could be a vampire.
"I'm Indira Ramyar, your 3 o'clock."
"Get lost kid, we don't do cadets. Receptionist will give you the phone number."
I swing one arm in front, point to the shoulder flash, "know what that means?"
"Nope, we're civvies, hired by the mil, we don't get into all that BS."
"Means Time Corps."
"And who are they?"
"People who bring you history TV."
She guffaws, "you're serious. So you aren't a cadet, but one of the Little People. Do you actually get periods when you're that small?"
"Perhaps we could return to the topic at hand."
"Quite, history TV. Deadly boring dreck, hasn't produced any good shows in 20 years. Only tea-drinking grannies watch it anymore. But let's not trash your fave TV show, to business. All I got is your name, not why you're here. Here on your own hook or CO orders?"
"CO suggestion."
"So why would your CO suggest you charge in where angels fear to tread?"
"She said I had 4 times the disdain toward men as is average and it would get in the way of my doing impartial TV interviews."
"Since when has TV ever been impartial? And what's wrong with mega-disdain to men?"
"So if I'm ah cured, you could just sign my card."
"Not so fast kid. You thought you could just charge in, blurt out the problem, dump it all over me, then go home relaxed."
"Isn't that your job?"
"No, my job is to get to know you a bit. Then you tell me the real dirt."
"Oh."
"So, starters, you're one of the Little People, not of our time, tell me of your time and place in history."
"Born and raised in Skeldon, Guyana. On the coast, by the Suriname border. Adult, circa 2000 Canada, Masters Degree in History and ended up a library worker."
"It's you!" she gasps, "the Reservist on TV."
"Yes."
"You look a ton smaller in person. Those camera people got tricks of angle."
"Ok, now the important stuff, your fave sex fantasy?"
"S&M, just finished doing the NaNo. My opening scene was S&M orgy, 9,350 words."
"So tell me, you ah just flog men in these fantasies? Or swing both ways?"
I stiffen, "I would never flog a woman."
"But men, until your arm drops off?"
"Yeah."
"So whaddya think you just said, in a roundabout way?"
"Ah well ah maybe probems with child abuse."
"We don't talk bout it until you decide you trust me enough. Meantime, talk of life. So, hobbies, whaddya do when you're not studying courses?"
I'm at a loss, don't even know where to begin.
"I see, so you feel sort of overpowered by the whole Time Corps scene?"
I nod.
"You'll be off on site for 10 years. Have whatever cover job so you can meet people. But still, big mountain of free time. Don't fill it wisely, you'll fill it stupidly, drugs, booze. So, whaddya gonna do tonight?"
"I ah you know I should go to the base library. Not to research stuff, like I always do, just to find a fun story or 2."
"Good, same time next week."

As I set out for the base library, I realize she's right. One and only fun thing I've read since arrival is Donald Duck. Even Le Monde, though it provides some fun, is aimed mostly at educational. As I open the library door, I realize I've never been here before on fun, just duty.
I start optimistic and it soon goes south.
Two acres of sappy romances, as if such a thing exists.
At least you aren't gambling as much time on any one book as in the past. Three-quarters of fiction books are what you'd call novellas, 60 to 100 page range, a minority traditional length.
I wander through murder mysteries, it all seem so sordid. Sorta like me digging up imaginary dirt on some scientist just to get my wordcount. I blush with shame.
Sci fi appears to hold 2 main genres - thinly-disguised porn and shoot-em-up.
War novels, oy.
I'm about to give up in despair, when I discover the Cowgirl Adventure Series. Cover illustrations connect with me bigtime, remind me of fun times with my platoon. Each and every book proclaims itself sex-free and suitable for children or adults. I pick 3 likely stories head for the checkout.
I soon realize how ridiculous I look, with 3 80 page novellas. Most people have 2 dozen, limit you can borrow is 30.

Time Corps 17

It isn't all that hard, I take no days off. One day of setup of crime scene, finding of body and many clues, too many, some are red herrings. One day to chronicle each of my 8 main suspects. The dirt comes out, we see the Chief Scientist as a total jerk, hated by all. I cover the fierce academic rivalries, extending back to Earth.
Final scene takes a day, Chief Cop hold a Council of War. Unanimous agreement, it'll be reported as an accident. No one wishes to see the cook punished for what all would secretly like to do. Besides they need a cook.
I take 2 days off writing, but still attend the daily chat. Then settle into a 5 day week of spelling, grammar, change the odd word. We aren't expected to do a 2nd draft, no time, but at least my first draft will be a little polished.
I'm first done, tipping the scales at 51,000 words.
Heidi does 72,000 words of combat, interspersed with precious little of back-home-on-the-kibbutz.
Betty Lou easily rolls northward of 60,000 with sex sex and more sex. I'm wondering how much cotton ever got picked.

Col Khan, "my computer has scanned all. Everyone meets, even exceeds my requirements. I haven't read all yet, just the salient parts of each. Two tie for first place, will read aloud in class. Heidi, your opening tank battle, today. Indira, that orgy, ooooh, wish I was there, tomorrow."

I put down my script, see the catatonic dazed looks. From a million miles away, Betty Lou says, in tones of reverence, "no one on Earth would ever believe Indira could manage that. Tour-de-force, wish I could do as well."
I smile gently, "plantation days, S&M wasn't trendy yet, just whip."
Everyone laughs.
"So-oo," Col Khan says, "you see what happens when you face demons head-on. Heidi and Indira did, resta you sorta sidled up, tried to slide by a bit. In both cases, obvious it was written in one sitting. Flow of energy, things naturally melt into each other. Wouldn't have the same flow if spread out over 2 or 3 sittings. Remember in future, when writing. Break it into segments, do each segment at a sitting." Wicked smile, "and you Indira, next S&M party you go to, take me along."
Howls of laughter.

Next morning at breakfast, Col Khan joins me, "wow, could not put it down. Unreal, all the suspense. Just loved your ending."
"Did you suspect the cook before I announced it?"
Laugh, "not one iota, you had me totally led down the garden path, with all that academic rivalry and sex jealousy. It came as a bolt from the blue." Sad smile, "that said, you have a serious flaw for our line of work. Say 4 times the level of disdain towards men as is average."
"Is that a problem Col?"
"Actually yes, we don't expect you to bed them, unless you choose, but we do expect a modicum of impartiality when you interview."
"Oh."
"I'm guessing child abuse. Would I be right?"
I blush.
"Indira, after breakfast, you and I are walking to the counsellors' office, booking you an appointment. Unresolved problems don't sit well in our line of work."
"Is that an order Col?"
"Yes Lt, an order."
I examine her face carefully, "it ain't an order. Not Col talking to Lt, but woman to woman. Been there, got the Tshirt, right?"
She nods.
"I'll take your advice and book the appointment."
"Indira take comfort in the fact you aren't the only phobia spotted. Half dozen getting the same sermonette, other issues."

The receptionist flashes a cheeky smile, "gotta start giving you airmiles Col, all the business you bring us."
"Corporal, why not shut down that attitude? You either give counsellors business or ultimately, you give it to MP's."
"Yeah, never thought of it that way, but you're right. So Lt, 3 o'clock ok?"
"Yes."
"Good, bring a cross, your counsellor is a vampire."
This sets Col and me laughing.
Col, "gotta hand it to you, you're the Queen of Irreverence."
"No I ain't, paras are more so."

Time Corps 16

As we walk back, Heidi says quietly, "ah Indira, are you in the throes of writing? Or could you spare time for a private chat?"
"Outline and salient facts in place, now just follow the Yellow Brick Road, fill up the wordcount. Yes, I can spare whatever time you need."
"Thanks, you're a real pal."
No food in my place, we do eat in the mess, but I have electric kettle and tea bags, put on tea for us.
"Ah Indira, you know that sneaky Col Khan is a lot more sadistic than she lets on."
"So you noticed that too."
She laughs mirthlessly, "take you, not only does she rub your nose in all that prudery you East Indians have, she tweaks your disdain toward fiction."
"Ah yes, Col is very good at killing 2 birds with 1 stone."
"Now me, I haven't managed to write a single word yet."
"Why not?"
"Double yuck for topic, kibbutz in Israel."
"I imagine lotsa Germans feel that way."
"I ain't lotsa Germans, there's more to the story. My great-grandfather was a camp commandant. In the 1945 chaos, managed to switch identity with an already-dead infantry corporal. As a child I got the cover story. When I grew up, the real truth."
"Heidi, even if you'd lived sooner, even if it were your father, that simply does not make you guilty. You didn't have a Schmeisser in your hands."
"True, but you still pick up a lot of anti-Jewish sentiment."
"Heidi, ancient history, lay it to rest."
"Ah Indira, there's more to the story. In college, I had a friend, Palestinian exchange student. She told me of all the dirty tricks Israelis use in refugee camps."
"Heidi, any newsmag of the time would tell you that. Is there more to the story?"
"Ah yeah, she and I well ah we had a well ah girl-girl fling. Neither of us dykes, just a chemical thing."
I don't reply, stare out the window.
"So Indira, I'm begging you, tell me what you'd do."
In a flash, inspiration strikes, "Col Khan said any era in Israeli history. Choose 1948, still squeaky clean, Boy Scout types. Classic David versus Goliath story. Make the men and women of that kibbutz mega-heroes in battle against the Egyptians."
She breaks into a smile, "you just killed 2 birds with one stone. Danced around my angst and gave me a storyline which can easily top 50,000." She hugs me warmly, "gotta run, get that laptop rolling. Thanks again Indira."

Next morning, Heidi looks bleary-eyed. Weary grin, "10,000 words of tank battle to lead off. How bout that? Thanks again friend."
Betty Lou has a cheerful look, "99% of men are swine 90% of the time. My little brother used to pork niggers when he was younger. Just decided it doesn't matter if a few fictional characters on my plantation do the same."

Time Corps 15

We head to the coffee house for a Council of War. Heidi leads off, "bet everyone here wishes they could trade topics with Indira. I'd start with 'it happened in a dome on a faraway planet' and adjourn straight to the orgy, all 50,000 words of it."
Everyone roars with laughter.
Various low percentage strategies are mooted. Would Col Khan buy a swap? Highly unlikely, each topic is tailor-made to jab one person's phobias.
I remark, "take 50,000 words, everyone here has achieved the standard typing speed of 55 words per minute, many up around 100. Even at 55 wpm, say 900 minutes, or 15 hours spread over a whole month. So the problem isn't typing time or Repetitive Strain Injury, but straight out a problem of creativity."
Heidi replies, "Indira's right, a first draft, don't worry about spelling, grammar, lousy sentence construction. Only go back if you entered a wrong word. Aim to keep free flow of thought."
Betty Lou,"looking at the topics, no one is a competitor with anyone else. No need to keep ideas secret. I suggest we hold a daily chat right here. Anyone with writers block, soon be blown away by the exchange of ideas."
Heidi, "excellent idea, a vote girls."
Unanimous, meet daily in the coffee house.
Heidi grins, "listen up y'all, everyone tell Indira your favorite perversion, give her ideas."

As I stare out the window, I feel my resolve stiffening. Ok Col, you want porn, I'll bury you in it. Why stop at 7,000 words? Go for 10,000. The good citizens of the boring little burg of Domesville have an S&M circle to pass the time. In fantasy, I'll be Chief Whip Wielder. Let's open with the Mayor, strung up upside down, and a cat-of-nine-tails. On deck, the Fire Chief. Should be fun, I turn on my laptop and shift into gear.
Gradually I become aware of being stiff and sore, the sun rising, so I've been at it all night. Between foot fetish, caning, punishment horse, collar, leash, nipple clamps, pillory, stocks, sling, St Andrew's Cross, chains, handcuffs, gagball, riding crop, whip, paddle, candlewax, blindfolds, golden showers, clothespins, icecubes, popsicles, cattle prods, buttplugs, cockrings, oral, anal, rimming, shaving, humiliation, Japanese bondage, rubber and leather outfits, role-switches and excessive delay of orgasm, I've racked up over 9,000 words in my lead-off orgy. Just your typical Friday evening in Domesville. Catch a couple hours sleep, then to the coffee house.
As I arise, dress, I realize I've spit in the demon's eye. Now just gotta dream up some pseudo-economic basis for Domesville - maybe a research station.

Heidi says, "look tired Indira, been writing all night?"
"Computer says 9,350 words, Friday night S&M orgy in Domesville."
"Wo-ow, so tell me, gonna do it again? Something else perverted?"
"Nah, gave the Col what she wants, here on in, just do the story."
"You're right, don't wanna end up repeating sex scenes or it gets boring."
"So even sex gets boring?"
"You got it friend, take it from an expert, boring more often than not."
"That's sad."
"Ain't it though?"
Too tired to talk, I just absorb conversation. Gradually I become aware of a mega-problem: I still have to overcome my disdain of fiction and dream up 40,000 words of something for plot. Then it hits me, I know beans about science, simply do not have time to research sufficiently to write credibly on the station's research. So, make it a murder mystery. Chief Scientist is brutally murdered. One of his assistants, the long-standing hatred? Ticked secretary? Maybe his wife, jealous of his fling with the Dominatrix. The Dom herself, for reasons murky? So, I'll run them all in merry circles, then it's the cook, a grudge against this chronic complainer. All right!
After coffee, I sit over my outline. Eight possible suspects, I sort out the logical order in which they will be suspected, and prepare my clues. Say 5,000 words chronicling each.
Then I crash in bed, utterly wiped.

Next day at coffee I'm relaxed, my job underway. I'm able to be a good listener, help interject the occasional idea when a friend seems to be struggling.
I soon see the real problem. I assaulted the demon head-on; everyone else, opting for rather a lot of gradualism.

Time Corps 14

The 31st of a month, Col Khan begins, "good morning ladies, who has heard of National Novel Writing Month, or 'NaNo' as it's nicknamed?"
Every hand but Betty Lou's and mine goes up.
"Now Betty Lou, that I understand, she lived before the concept. But you Indira, just how exactly is a circa 2000 librarian so disconnected from trends as to not know?"
"Col, it was only the TV presenter calling me a librarian as part of the script. As you well know, I was a library worker."
"Refresh my memory, explain the difference."
"Monetarily Col, little difference, culturally, a vast chasm. Librarians are part of the inner circle, endless emails on trends in publishing, what's available, conferences and the like. Library worker, more like Betty Lou's mill job. Rotation at the checkout, shelving books, setting aside reserved items. And in the lunch room, almost no interaction between the 2 groups."
"Ok, that explains it. Heidi, tell these 2 what you know of NaNo."
Heidi, "I'm not surprised you didn't hear of it Indira, concept was only in its infancy when you left Canada. See lotta people get writers block, too perfectionist, like rewriting 20 times what the heroine wore on a very ordinary day. NaNo breaks away all the BS, 50,000 words in one month. Can't afford to agonize, you just roll. Can revise later, it is just a first draft. In a sense, NaNo liberates the repressed."
Col smiles, "I could not have said it better. Y'all are doing the NaNo. In fact, got ideas laid out for each of you."
Gasps.
"Betty Lou, your handout, plantation in the Old South, days of slavery. Throw in as much sex as you like. But if the word count meter doesn't show a minimum of 3,000 words on inter-racial sex, it's marked incomplete."
Fierce blush, "may I ask why Col?"
"Confront your demons, you grow. You'll soon be writing on other peoples' demons. Heidi, kibbutz in Israel, any time in history you like. Must write into the story time people are away on mil duty."
Heidi colors, doesn't reply.
"Indira, sci fi, choose a shipwrecked crew or another world colony. Must be human, not alien. Minimum 7,000 word count on sex."
I gasp.
"No bestiality or sex with underage. Other than that I want every perversion you can dream up. Don't meet the word count, it comes back to you."
"Col, I assume you wish me to face demons also."
"You got it."
Col gives out the other assignments, then, "roll em ladies, you got the next month of no classes. Time's a wasting. Get those laptops into high gear."
We file out, in shock.

Time Corps 13

My Cape Gloucester book isn't available yet, but I decide to be a good sport, return the Guadalcanal book in case any others are interested.
As I walk in, I see Nilofar checking out a half-dozen softcore porn. She looks with sheer amusement at the book in my hand.
"So, got those water proof socks packed?"
"I ah well ah."
"Come on, let's go to the coffee house, still daylight, your pass allows it."
Once settled, I pour out my story, all except for my findings on page 362.
"Indira, first of all, rumor has it they're going with 50,000, show of strength, make the tribals behave. So odds of climbing on a plane are slim. Second, disabuse yourself of any pseudo-romantic nonsense of leading a patrol down a jungle track. Ain't gonna happen."
"Why not?"
"Indira, use that brain for one minute. Why do you suppose we practised with a mock airport?"
The light dawns, "ah, that's what we'll do. No training or equipment for real jungle combat, we'll guard base or airport."
"Bingo, now wanna hear your real duties?"
"I'm all ears."
"Make double-dog sure the girls all take those malaria tablets properly. Be an absolute stickler, showers and clean clothes. Danger ain't a bullet, it's tropical skin ulcers and jungle rot."
"Why on earth even bother? Why not let the tribals have their fun?"
"You of all people, a history grad, should know better. Let them, everyone else wants to, soon there are 2 dozen mini-wars."
"Oh."
"Drink up and let's go before you run out of pass time."

After supper, I sit, stare vacantly at the greatly increased jeep traffic. Was Col Khan playing head games with me? No, just making sure I understand how important my duties are, even if they lack glamor, in some poor-cousin outfit. In fact, be a lot harder to keep any level of discipline in something like that, as opposed to a real patrol, with imminent danger.
Clean clothes, showers, malaria tablets, now I know.

A few days later, email announces the availability of my Cape Gloucester book. It's an anti-climax, but now I truly understand. See Guadalcanal, the enemy was disease and first-class Japanese troops. Cape Gloucester, the rain forest provided the main opposition, the Japanese being rear-echelon clerical and supply types. Fitting analogy for me!

"Roll em," the TV camerawoman says.
The TV presenter starts, "we're now visiting Reservists, seeing them prepare. Say hello to Lieutenant Indira Ramyar. Tell us Lt Ramyar, what is it you do when not a Reservist?"
As if she doesn't know, it's a script. "Student at Time Corps Academy."
"Now I know where your name rings a bell, you wrote the Irish travelogue."
"Yes, is I."
"Briefly tell the viewers your background time and place in history."
"I was born and raised in Guyana. Adult, a librarian, in circa 2000 Canada."
"Ancient history now, you look loads tougher than a librarian."
"It's well-known that Time Corps has a demanding phys ed course."
"Quite so. Now these troops of yours will be doing target practice. As well, everyone will take that first malaria tablet. So, you're almost ready to climb onto those flying boxcars."
"She's playing to the tribals in New Guinea, all of whom possess satellite TV. Way of showing resolve, the callup of the Reserves.)
The camera zooms to a line of 5 doing target practice, focuses on the immense muscular bulk of Nilofar. As they pick up completed targets, the camera does closeup on Nilofar's, score 100. The rest, best left unshown. Each line of 5, they focus on the best shooter.
Then we theatrically take tablets, me a placebo, the rest the real thing.
The TV presenter sums up, "there you have it. Any rumor we don't have the 100,000 is laid to rest. All it takes is an order and this platoon boards the plane. But really, our preference is a peaceful solution, no more loss of life in New Guinea."
Camera is shut off, pizza party starts. It's a riot, everyone devouring pizza, sharing stories.
By this time, over half the 50,000 are already aloft. With saturation TV coverage, it's like the Berlin Airlift, one behemoth after another every 2 minutes lifting off.
It works, tribal chiefs agree to UN-mediated peace talks at a neutral location, a luxury resort in the Swiss Alps. The 50,000 will remain for awhile, until things are properly cooled off.

I should be famous, TV ratings say over 2.8 billion people saw my smiling face. Yet at the newstand, the clerk says, "dear, wish my daughter were more like you, reading instead of smoking dope."
I blush hotly, pay for Le Monde.
I ponder that, what did the viewers actually see? Oversize helmet, camo face paint, they didn't see me the person, but an archetypal young Lt, of any Indo-European background.
I don't totally lack fame. The counterwoman grins, "on the house Indira, you and your friends, that was a contribution to world peace."

Time Corps 12

At the base library, they own only one book on the Cape Gloucester campaign. It's checked out to someone, Col Khan I would guess. Still it's due in a week, no one else in line, I reserve it.
Searching for a reasonable substitute, I call up Guadalcanal. Only one book, available, I grab it.
It's a gripping story. The Navy upped anchor and left even before offloading all men and equipment, leaving the Marines to hang on by their fingernails, which they did, in spectacular fashion.
Talk about illness, oy! Of those who went the distance on Guadalcanal, 75% were hospitalized for malaria after evacuation, some having seen as much as 122 days of jungle combat. Add in the other illnesses and the people who didn't go the distance medically.
One paragraph alludes to Cape Gloucester. It makes my skin crawl. Cape Gloucester was a worse rain forest than Guadalcanal.
So, next logical question? Why not innoculate everyone with the same injection Time Corps gets? Whatever the reason is, it won't be monetary, these people have bags of money.
The real reason the Reserves are starved of equipment is not monetary, but training. Cannot afford to have half-trained people messing about with hi tech, damage it up.
So, why not just innoculate my entire platoon? I dig out the medical handout I got on arrival. At 388 pages of 8 1/2 by 11, I didn't get around to reading it all.
On page 362 I find out. I am immortal to all but violence or violent accident. Totally stops the effects of aging. I could live to be centuries old, frozen in appearance.
Even a stab wound or bullet better be good or it won't work. Frightening amount of coagulant floating around in my bloodstream.
No society on earth would wish to inject a whole army with that, much less a ticked-off draftee army.

I now start to understand Nilofar's talk on suicide. Wouldn't you? Would you wanna live to be 400 year old and still too young to go in a "smoking" coffee house?
As I stare out the window of my luxury "room" at the coming and going of jeeps, I find myself hoping this is the Big One. But then I feel shame for thinking this, what about my platoon? Presumably most have a life worth living. I have a duty to bring back alive as many as I can.

Next day at breakfast, Col Khan sits with me, "so let me guess, reading medical info."
"Yeah, page 362."
She sighs, "just no choice, could not be engineered out and still keep it viable. Been thinking bout Cape Gloucester?"
"Yeah."
"Forget it Indira, you won't buy the farm. Tribals love to kill each other, way too sensible to blow away a UN Lt. Plan on living a long time and bringing that platoon back. That is, if we go."
"So Col, you've taken the injection too?"
"I'm a good bit older than you'd ever believe. Want advice, just ask, anytime. Name the problem, I've seen it."

TIme Corps 11

I return to find I had a lot better day than Betty Lou. I end up sitting up all night listening. The gist of it, as of the point she got tired of giving him 4 daily blowjobs on weekends, he got tired of her. So odds for romance are not good here. But then they were little better in Canada.
After breakfast I spend all Sunday in bed, what a place!

By the time I roll into class Monday morning, it's all ancient history. I am a professional, this is what I do. I'm very well paid for it thank you and any profession has its downside, its bete noire.
By now I've pretty much decided I'll have to live on base permanently. See only difference is the Time Corps shoulder flash on our uniforms; other than that, we could be any unit. Mils know it, treat you as an adult, size small. Civvies assume you're a cadet, treat you according.

It's not til Monday evening I get a chance to read Le Monde. I'm favorable impressed, it's as good as it ever was. Yeah, I will return to that silly newstand.
This time, it's another clerk. She looks with genuine surprise at my sole item, Le Monde. "Dear," she says cheerfully, "you must really be doing well in school if you can read at that level by now. It's so important for a child to learn to be bilingual."
What can you say? Wordless, I hand over the money.
I cheerfully fold the paper, slide it into my tunic pocket. As I saunter back to my home-away-from-home I decide if no one is there I'll read; if someone is, I'll chat.
Nilofar waves as I come in. I buy coffee at the counter, join her at a table full of MP's.
The MP Sgt, Georgette, grins, "Time Corps girl huh? Only unit doesn't give us business."
"From what I hear, dangers of you going out of business are remote."
Everyone laughs heartily.
With that, I settle in for the chat.
As we start to break up, I ask, "Georgette, your opinion please. Why are things that bad?"
She laughs gently, "Indira, in all of this very careful indoctrination they're giving you, did anyone get around to mentioning the fact that the 100,000 ready force is over 90% draftee?"
I groan aloud, "so lemme guess, 2 kinds, passive resistance, and blatant, where you people get involved."
"Bingo Indira, you catch on quick."
"So why even bother?" I ask, "why a ready force of peacekeepers? If the world wants to go nuts in some of these places, why not let it?"
Georgette grins, "you're a history grad, surely you've read of the concept of 'the white man's burden'. Well that's shifted now, it's the white woman's burden. And since you are as close as it gets to being an honorary white, well you get to join us."
"So Georgette, why not draft men too?"
"Indira honey, it's been tried. Lousy peacekeepers in extremis, get bored, stoke the fires, cause even more trouble than already existed. At least women behave, mostly, when they're out on site. It's on base they go crazy."
"And yet," I persist, "salaries are excellent. So, just the outcast factor? Fact it's socially ah less than desirable?"
"You got it."

As I leave the coffee house, I fall into step with Heidi as she returns from shopping. "Funny one you are. Laughed at you at first, thought you were hopeless for this. Proved me wrong. See, we deal with a huge mountain of contradiction, far more than back home. Us, the whites, not really doing it well. You, breezing on through, absolutely unruffled. I suppose it goes with Hinduism?"
"I'm not, anymore I mean. See before I left Canada, I was doing a lot of reading on Buddhism. Shifted most of my thinking to that."
She laughs, "ah, now I see it, you remind me of a college friend who studied on Buddhism. Maybe I should start. Mind if I ask you for help a bit as I go?"
"I'm certainly no expert. I'll do what I can."
"Thanks, now tell me, do you think shopping here bites? Or is it just me?"

My hand shakes as I read the letter from the Reserve authority. Until further notice my entire platoon is now part of the ready force. Carry on with studies, but be packed just in case.
So what am I afraid of? Illness? No, got the Time Corps injection. Death? No, the Col's assertion to the contrary, I have plenty of evidence that reincarnation exists. It's being left behind my graduating class, having to wait around until another class is convened and up to the same level.
I take my concern to - where else - Col Khan.
"Oh but Indira, odds are really pretty small. Say a minor thing happens, they go with 10,000 or 50,000 troops. Always take regulars, leave the Reservists in their jobs. It's only about once every 2 decades they go with everything including the kitchen sink. Besides, you won't miss class, because I got a similar letter. Any of your cohorts who didn't, they'd just find busywork for them til I get back."
I heave a sigh of relief.
"Now if I were a betting person, I'd put money on New Guinea, near Cape Gloucester. The Ancient Americans were there, World War 2. Might want to read up a bit. Health hazards, you're immune, but your platoon isn't. Any of those jungle campaigns, it was often 4 times as many medical casualties as combat ones."
"You ah think so?"
"Indira, odds are it'll be small, not take the whole ready force. Best be ready, just in case, they are your troops."

Time Corps 10

I'm now a little more confident, following my Irish and Reserve tours. Circumstances also force me to wander alone, that is Betty Lou finds a sort-of romance.
Same rules, we can be off-base only daylight weekend. For the very first time, I try going to the coffee house alone.
For the very first time, I go to what is reputed to be the most famous newstand in the entire region, only one with a good selection of imports.
To my delight I discover Le Monde still exists. It's about 3/4 the page size, but same page count. A quick perusal of the 4 stories they start on the front page shows writing quality is still there. It's the secret to their success, their survival, deliver newsmagazine writing in a newspaper at a newspaper price.
There are 6 issues to choose from, Sunday/Monday combined. I look a the list of stories on each, opt for the day where the three-page-feature is the ongoing constitutional wrangling in the European Union. Should be interesting, see if they've made much progress in 10,000 years.
I never like American comics, such thin little things at a ridiculous price. I think the French and Japanese do the comic genre best.
I select a French comic of book thickness. Donald Duck still exists, in this issue he's off on sci fi adventures. Should be fun.
I choose a manga comic, Japanese art, captions translated into French.
A middle-aged female cashier, who must weigh 300 pounds, simply takes the manga comic, puts it under her counter, "you cadets are so cheeky these days. Didn't you see the label, age 21? You want that stuff, you come back in 10 years or so."
My first thought is to whip out ID. I realize I can't. Time Corps ID has no date of birth. Even if I still had Canadian ID on me (it's not, it's in the vault), it proves nothing. Shows the year I was born, but not what year I disappeared into the time warp.
Also our training endlessly drills into us the paramount importance of blending in, being invisible, not causing a scene.
Feeling like the truly powerless of the Earth, I pay for Le Monde and the Donald Duck comic.
I decide to console myself by trying a new coffee house.
The counterman, in as condescending a tone as you'll hear, "don't they teach you little baby cadets how to read? See the sign? Smoking coffee house, age 18 and up. Now go home and work on your homework."

With a feeling of utter defeat, I head to the only coffee house where I'm known, where we Time Corps girls blend into the woodwork.
After today's experience, it truly is a welcome sight, the cheerful face of the counterwoman asking, "usual Indira?"
She pours vanilla hazelnut. As I add cream and sugar, she says, "look a bit down, bad day?"
"Let's just say I'm less than thrilled with shopping."
Sympathetically, "aren't we all dear? Help is so rude. Never find what you want. Move it all about every couple months just to be difficult. Acres of stuff but never have your size or color."
I laugh, "sounds exactly like circa 2000 Canada, some things never change."

Several minutes later Nilofar arrives. In real life, she's a Sgt in the pay admin. I wave to her as she buys.
As she sits, "you feeling ok, Indira?"
I relate my experience.
As I'm done, she starts uneasily, "first, I'm not criticizing history TV. Useful function, goes a long way to keeping it a peaceful world, so ultimately save a lotta lives. Comes with a cost."
"Yeah, seen our budget figures."
"I don't mean monetary cost, I mean human. Look back over time, whaddya see? Lotta one-tour people. A real celebrity, maybe three-four tours, then vanishes."
"Same everywhere," I assert, "TV news anchors come and go. Perceived as boring, end up being a copy editor."
"I'm not talking putting bores out to pasture, but people dead. Either direct suicide, or indirect with alcohol/drug abuse."
"Why?"
"You yourself found out today. On screen a heroine, a star, respectfully interviewed by famous history profs. Off screen, just another kid not allowed to buy porn."
"Not porn, art, no photos, just drawings."
"Censorship Board sees it a little different. So talk about contradiction, from heroine to child. Throw in another, you're somewhere 10 years, get attached to it. Gotta come back, dissect it all dispassionately. Next tour, same all over, somewhere else."
"Yeah, maybe I made a mistake accepting their offer."
"Indira, that's for everyone else, not you. You're different, got the ability to feel very little, your autism variant. You'll end up a mega-star, probably 20 tours and retire to being a history prof."
"You think so?
"Be honest. Were you really angry at the newstand and coffee house or just resigned?"
"Ah yeah, get your point."

Time Corps 9

A battered electrojeep, small enough it seems a child's toy, screeches to a halt. A 6'8" Sgt, probably Afghan, bounds out. She picks me up, hugs me, "so you're Indira, bit smaller than I was expecting. Forget all that stuffy HQ formality, Reserves are first name. You call me Nilofar."
"Ok Nilofar."
"Girls are dying to meet you, a celebrity."
"Me? A celebrity? News to me Nilofar."
She grins, "those training travelogues y'all wrote, they posted on the website. Most just dead boring. Yours was good, alive, lotta detail, wrote with empathy about the Irish people. There were thousands of emails to the website, congratulating your write-up. Let's go, meet the gang."
I arrive to a heroine's welcome, my entire platoon hugging me.
Our convoy of mini-jeeps rolls out to our station. We're providing mock security to a mock airport, really just a few wooden stakes showing where the boundaries are.
We do endless driver training (brand new to me), endless shooting practice (also new to me) and practise things like hand and flag signals, since there is only one radio within the platoon.
I always end up the mock casualty when the girls practise bandaging.
Forget boring, it is one magical time. Every single night we sit up around a campfire, tell stories. My Guyana/Canada stories. One of the girls is a waitress in the Parliamentary restaurant and does she have a ton of wicked stories! Another, a court reporter, keeps us in stitches. A cop. Another, a well-travelled, famous soccer player, but unpaid, so don't quit your day job.

As we pack to leave, Nilofar quietly says, "girls signed a petition, want you as their officer again next year. Beat Hades outa them stuffy HQ types."
I do the mental math, "yeah my next year Reserve tour will be just before I finish at the Academy, so I'm available. After that, ops."
She hugs me, "whenever they all sign like that, it's always honored. Don't wanna mess with good group chemistry."

I notice a funny thing in common room conversations. The Reserve experience neatly split the class in 2. One faction, including Betty Lou, wildly enthusiastic, tell stories they heard from their respective platoons. Other, including Heidi, consider the Reserves a pestilent boil upon the rump of humanity.
As I hear, I understand. Col Khan is observing all this, knows us all a lot better.

Time Corps 8

"Indira we must talk privately, my office, 3 o'clock."
"As you wish Col."
She grins proudly, "your idea on pulp fiction has been through the Committee. To quote, 'it has the potential of magic, an excellent storyline.' It'll be a long time yet, but they're considering whether it would be a good first mission for you. Your feelings on that?"
"Col, bring it on. It was before computerization, very labor-intensive. Should not be too hard landing some sort of job with one of those publishing houses."
"I must admit to curiosity. How does a person reconcile a disdain for fiction with your obvious enthusiasm for this mission?"
"Col, different time in history, decades before the publishing industry got too big for its britches. Back in the day those 10 cent and 15 cent magazines were all the rage, working peoples' literature. What's not to like?"
"So, indirectly you're saying you prefer covering the underdog's story, rather than the fat cat's?"
"Never thought of it in those terms Col, but you are quite correct. Always have a soft spot for the underdog."
"Even though most pulp was dreck quality writing?"
"Col, to paraphrase you, I'm not a literary critic either."
She laughs, "touche, plan on doing a bit of reading on circa 1950 New York."

Col Khan smiles uneasily, "I ah always hate to say this. There simply is no class which takes it well. So hear me out, debate all you like; but don't shoot the messenger." This grabs our 100% attention fast. "Now the pattern of life of a front-line Time Corps officer is one year away, one year back here. The year away, time distortion of course makes it pass as ten. In your year back, you spend a lot of time with editors, going over film your mini-camera brought back. Two years worth of vacation. Preparation for the next trip. And a 30 day tour of training duty as a Reserve officer. I see those looks, listen up before you shoot. There is no law compelling people to join the Reserves. Most employers view it as a gargantuan waste of time, make life very difficult on any employee who wishes to participate. So-oo, in the public sector, everyone must participate. You, me, the parking wardens. But look at the bright side, the year away you're exempt. So in effect, it's just once every 2 years. What does a Reserve Lieutenant do? Command a platoon of peacekeepers. Fairly low training level compared to warriors. Questions?"
Betty Lou, "what sort of weaponry?"
"Single shot rifles, one radio per platoon, jeeps, really pretty ill-equipped."
Heidi, "any extra money for this?"
"$15 a day, standard field allowance, just buys either cigarettes or little extras."
I ask, "Col, is this part of the 100,000 contingent available?"
"Yes and no Indira. See when you have exactly that number, you never get 100% attendance. Always people in hospital or jail. So, Reservists are often needed to top up the roster."
I ask again, "so there is a mathematical chance we'll slog through jungle in New Guinea, rather than editing film?"
"Yes it happens sometimes. Simply the duty of every person in the public sector. Be honest Indira, are those peoples' lives worth less than TV shows? Aren't they human too?"
I blush hotly, "why is there this prejudice in the private sector?"
"Same as your epoch in history. Decline in respect for authority, decline in sense of being a citizen, fixation on wealth and more wealth."
I start to laugh. Everyone looks at me quizzically.
Col, "perhaps Indira, you'd care to share the joke."
"The parallels, the contrast, the irony. Think of it, this mega-budget, high-tech operation and we're reduced to musketry. Roughly akin to much of what happened in Canada. The French have a saying, 'more things change, more they stay the same."
Everyone laughs, including the Col. It clears the air.

Time Corps 7

Col Khan begins, "the training jump, let's get one thing straight. Just because it is not dangerous, doesn't make it a holiday. Each of you will be thrown about 20 years back into the past from what you're used to and a different country. You'll be a tourist, but it's training. See you have to unlearn 20 years of history before you go. A practice in shifting time and place at the same time. Privately, I will give you each your assignment."

"Right Indira, Ireland, 1980, the safe part, the South, the Republic. Your cover story is a Canadian history student on summer vacation. Your Drop Zone is near Cork, you'll walk clean to Donegal. Say 15 miles a day, stay at bed and breakfasts. You'll have a Canadian passport of the time and more than sufficient Irish funds. Your main job is socialize, at breakfast in the B&B, wherever you eat supper, people you meet randomly. Since you are already a Canadian and a history grad, your cover story should hold water. Sound like fun?"
"Sounds great Col."

I have never in my whole life experienced anything so wonderful. The scenery is magnificent, the people friendly beyond belief. I follow the west coast as much as possible as opposed to straight line. I'm on the road 30 heavenly days.
Every morning in the B&B, it's a different host and/or hostess to talk with, plus whoever else is staying there.
Several people even end up asking about my thesis, I can tell the truth, New France.
I'm halfway high from all the exercise, the fresh ocean air.
It comes as an anti-climax, a crashing disappointment as I make my rendezvous on a lonely wind-swept backroad in County Donegal. I feel utterly morose, uncommunicative, not wishing the magic of it to end. Curiously, the crew seems used to this.
The Col spends almost a full day debriefing me, asking questions about various interactions.
"So," she says, pride in her voice, "not one person questioned your cover story."
"Col," I grin, "there are advantages to a thesis describing 1700, all in the past, nothing to unlearn. Not like say a technician or journalist."
She laughs, "so, figure those people asking about the thesis were interested or just polite?"
"Obviously interested, they too had pet times and places in history."
"So, what did people think of Pierre Trudeau?"
"Almost universal admiration, anyone who mentioned him. Felt he had very much improved Canada's image in the world."
"Hear anyone royally trash him?"
"Yes, engineering student from Calgary."
We both laugh.

As I see people return from tour, I start to understand the true genius of Col Khan. She succeeded in arranging a positive experience for everyone. What are the odds of that happening randomly?
Heidi did a month of hiking in the Black Forest, cover story a German-American student trying to keep in touch with Old Country culture.
Betty Lou was hiking on Vancouver Island, cover story American worker on vacation.
Everyone returned fit, happy, successful, confident.

Time Corps 6

Betty Lou twists a smile over coffee, "you really do have a huge advantage in all this."
"How so?"
"Sex part is dime a dozen, read one of those books, you've got it taped. But at least you got setting. Me, who in Hades wants to read bout a Carolina mill town?"
"Not really."
"Whaddya mean?"
"By and large, I despise East Indian men. So overdone, so overbearing, it's ridiculous. Even whites, though they're a bit better, not too thrilled about. So it could be hard drumming up characters for my story."
"A dashing geologist maybe."
"Not really, your dashing geologist would rather simply hop in the sack with a Black than deal with all the mega-prudery angst of an East Indian."
"Ah yeah, see your point. We're both in the soup, so we'll help each other. Hey, maybe you could make the heroine Black?"
"Not in a month of Sundays. Total apartheid. I know as much bout them, as I do about the Mountains of the Moon."
"You mean, more apartheid than the USA?"
"Absolutely, they're referred to as 'monkeys'. Marry a white guy, he's instantly accepted into the family. Marry a Black, your family disowns you for life."
"Answer is obvious. Make both hero and heroine white. Come on Indira, you're like an honorary white person by now, you'd know how to present them. He's a geologist, she's an archaelogist, they meet in Guyana."
"Hmm, you might have something there."

"Col," Betty Lou says tentatively, "you ah forgot to put the mark on mine."
"I didn't mark any of them. Why? I think the whole romance genre of fiction is utter garbage, afraid how I'd mark, be unfair. No, here's what we do. Each day, one of you reads her story, then the rest critique it. Indira, if you would please."
I groan inwardly but deliver.
Col smiles, "before the comments start, remember she gets a shot at you later. So no cheap shots, let's keep it sensible."
Heidi leads off, "Indira, you are one first-class copout and disgrace. You sit on this goldmine of information, much more experience than we have. And what comes out of it? A hackneyed dime a dozen white-boy-meets-white-girl-in-the-boonies story. Why not have East Indian main characters? Or Black?"
I look, see looks of agreement on all but Betty Lou.
Col smiles gently, "be honest Indira, tell us why the hero and heroine are white."
"Well you see, I know lots less bout Blacks than all you Americans do. See our part of Berbice province is almost totally East Indian. What few Blacks there are, it's like total apartheid. So, reason there aren't any Black characters, I simply would not know how to portray them honestly. As for East Indians, I despise the male ones, so overbearing, so overpowering, they're swine. Towards whites, I am more open-minded, felt I could portray a white man more objectively."
A rueful grin comes on Heidi,"ah, maybe I worded that a little too harsh. Still, maybe a white hero and East Indian heroine."
"That just would not work. 7,000 words just is not enough to deal with all that mega-prudery angst she carries around. Needed a little more simplistic character to fit inside a small story."
Everyone laughs.
Col, "quite apart from Indira's racial profiling, which you may or may not agree with, how about setting? Did she do the job? Teach you of Guyana? You saw the East Indian taxi drivers, storekeepers, the couple running the inn. Didn't they come to life?"
Agreement all around.
"So, no more questions, we move along?"
Heidi jumps in, "Col, you very carefully avoided giving an opinion. Would you care to do so?"
"Who am I, hardly a literary critic? She did the job, taught you of Guyana, followed orders, which is more than some others did."
"I see," Heidi persists, "and what exactly did you think of her sex scenes?"
"She ah obviously has less practice than the rest of you."
Everyone laughs.

Embarrassed? You bet, after a semi-trashing like that. As days go by, I soon come to realize I had a magic-carpet style of free ride.
They are brutal with each other, absolutely savage, dissecting each and every sex scene, trying to find some tiny error.
Once everyone's story has been critiqued, Col says, "right, now talk about the process of critiquing. Indira, your comments please."
"I ah well ah first day felt wiped, like I'd been beat up. Soon realized how easy I got off."
"Why do you suppose that is Indira?"
"Col, my guess, they were seeing something new, different, so they were willing to be easier on my ah other shortcomings."
Col grins, "sort of like the first novel of an author gets a little gentler book review than subsequent ones?"
"More than that Col. See I think the reason they beat up on each other, too much focus on the romance, maybe not as much background on time and place."
"Exactly, you're the only one followed orders. Rest wrote thinly-disguised porn. So here's what we do. Indira, you re-do that paper, but only the sex scenes, try for a little ah more spicy. Rest of you, I told you rules before. Unless and until the word count for setting is thrice or more the word count for sex, it's still an incomplete assignment. So reinvent that setting, cut and paste, say next Thursday it's due."
Loud groans.

I throw caution to the winds, toss in an S&M scene where she vigorously paddles his butt into hamburger. He likes it, suddenly their relationship has five times the voltage.
Col asks me to read it aloud. When I'm done, she asks for input.
"Tell me," Heide grins, "you didn't just read that somewhere, copy it. Oh no, you put you into it. You'd love to do that."
I blush red-hot.
"Nothing to be ashamed of. Should be proud of the improvement in your writing. Whaddya says girls?"
Massive agreement.

Time Corps 5

Col Khan addresses the class, "it is my firm belief, backed by a lot of historical evidence, that people must understand the rationale, the why of their duties. Those organizations which are not forthcoming usually produce one howler of a blunder after another. After all, so much is guesswork, if you don't understand the why, you tend to make poor decisions.
"That said, you should know why I am assigning these term papers in this fashion. First, why no choice? If I give you even one iota of choice, you naturally tend to gravitate toward what you already partially know. You may get a good mark, but not as much learning experience. Second, why do you each get a different topic? I can assure you, these topics are so far apart, you are not competitors. So you can relax, talk over papers with your friends, in the secure knowledge you aren't giving away trade secrets.
"I will record what each person draws. No barter permitted, you get what you get. Indira, lead off."
My hand goes into the box, I hand it to Col to record.
As the others draw, I read, "in 1,500 to 1,700 words, argue the thesis that history shows killing your opponents energizes their whole group."
My mind spins, mile a minute. Examples abound.
The early Christians were just one more tiny sect until the Romans gave them notoriety by feeding them to the lions.
Or how bout those Hatfields and McCoys in the good ole USA?
Northern Ireland.
Yugoslavia.
Lebanon.
Palestinians.
In fact, I spot the trap. Topic is so gargantuan, so vast, you could write a 1,000 page tome on it. Gotta focus.

Later over coffee, Betty Lou shows me her topic, the role of women.
She groans, "how vague can you get? Worker? Mother? Wife? Citizen? Voter? Military?"
I laugh, "isn't it funny? Topics never fit the size of assignment. You either gotta puff up some nonsense little thing or distill to the Nth degree."
"So why do they do garbage like that?" she protests.
"Think what we will eventually do. Travel through a wormhole on a ten-year trip. Not like you can phone or fax or email back for instructions if you find things aren't going as smoothly as you'd like."
"Yeah, hear you. Gotta improv. Sorta like you in that acting class."

I gasp as I'm handed the topic, "surely you aren't serious, sarge."
"I told you before, you leave you outside. You are the role."
"But a prostitute?"
"Yep, the oldest profession. Look at it this way, even older than all that prudishness you East Indians invented."
I laugh.
"That's the spirit. Now put some fun into it."
I'm amazed - it's a wildly liberating experience. It doesn't matter, all fake, I can be as cheeky as I like with the customers.
Sgt hugs me warmly as we wind up, "you really surprised me, you can let go, loosen up after all. How do you feel?"
I grin wickedly, "like climbing Everest or K2, exhilirated."
"Hang around, you'll have lots more fun."
It proves a watershed. If a mega-prude like me can play a prostitute role, what else can they do to me? I cease to worry about the Sgt or the acting class. Now that I'm unworried, I find I appreciate the variety. It's fun, a break from seriousness of term paper and such.
Makes me more confident too, more willing to indulge in the philosophy debates with classmates and Col.
Betty Lou sums up, "it's like you're an honorary white person now. Arrived, shook off all that."
"It's not all bad, there's good in it too."
"Still, I like you a lot better now. More easygoing, more honest with yourself and others. Loose and relaxed, not uptight."

Col Khan starts, "right ladies, your next assignment. Short story length, 7,000 words, I want a romance story set in your time in history. Now it can be straight, or gay or lesbian if you prefer. One restriction, must be a setting you are familiar with. Doesn't have to be your main setting in life, maybe you spent 2 summers at the grandparents' farm, you could use that. But if you were only somewhere a week on vacation, don't use it, your setting will be too weak."
I see looks of outrage all around. The more assertive me is first to raise my hand.
"Yes Indira, your input please."
"Col, is that not a colossal waste of our rather expensive and valuable time? Aren't all those stories weary and dreary, the same?"
Col grins, "hands up all who agree with Indira."
Every hand goes up, some people with both.
"I see, so no one disagrees. Ok then, Indira and I are going to have a private chat in front of y'all. Just maybe I could convince her it's worthwhile."
I cross my arms, the usual uptight signal of "no way".
"Right Indira, let's look at your time in history. To use an oversimplified model, there really were only 3 main tracks of human experience, though of course a lot of difference in detail. First World, that was your western countries. Rich or poor, powerful or not, they had a remarkably similar culture, way of life. Would you agree?"
"Col, I accept that any model must oversimplify to do its job. However I think the French would take umbrage being lumped in with the Americans."
Everyone laughs.
"Good, now Second World, is Communist and post-Communist experience. Would you agree that the similarities in the Communist world vastly outweigh the differences?"
"Yes Col."
"Would you also agree that the Second World stands largely in contradistinction to the First? That is, a vast chasm, very little in common?"
"Yes Col."
"Third World. Oo-oo I see that outrage, a relative success like Guyana hates to be lumped in with a total failure like Bangladesh. But then, neither do the French like being lumped in with Americans."
This sets everyone laughing, including me.
"Ok Indira, take one minute, look at the faces of all your classmates, what do you see?"
"Col, all are white, westerners. All come from the First World of their time in history."
"I'll one-up that statement. Not one of them has had a genuine Second World or Third World experience. Yes, they have been on vacation, but only secured tourist enclaves. Not one of these girls has seen the real Second or Third World."
I shift uneasily, know where she is headed. She's gonna win.
"So Indira, say you set your story in Canada. It would bore them to death, so much duplicating their own experience. But if you set that story in Guyana, it would be exotic, exciting, educational. Yet it would still be the same quote quote weary dreary plot."
I don't reply, let her work for it.
"You see Indira, they have only experienced one of the three tracks. You stand unique, done all three. First World in Canada, Guyana is a neat combination of Second World and Third. Politically, under Comrade LFS (Forbes) Burnham, as Second World as it gets. Economically, Third. You have experienced all three, seen all there is in human experience. Now don't you think you could be generous, share a little of that wealth of experience with your friends by setting you story in Guyana?"
"Col, what can I say? You have painted me into a corner."
"Rest of you listen up. No matter how boring, how blase that setting may seem to you, to someone else it's exotic, fun. So, bite the bullet of boredom for your friends."
I see the looks of resignation.
"Oh and don't try filling it cover-to-cover with sex. That's a copout. I want at least thrice the word count on setting as you put into sex."
Groans.
I ask, "Col, do we ah actually ah have to put in sex?"
"That attitude went out at the end of the Early Harlequin Era. Nowadays, just ain't gonna fly without. Do it."