Alien 8
I ring the door buzzer, let in the pilot. Soon as I see her face, I can guess.
Happy smile, "going home, taking Slave Boy."
I raise an eyebrow, "isn't that akin to taking coal to Newcastle?"
Laugh, "you only think so. See, back when you were my boyfriend in junior high, I took you for granted, just assumed that's how life was. Being East Indian was a factor. No one was racial, I was welcome in group activities, but just never found a best friend, a pour-your-heart-out girl. And so, missed what was happening in society. You, that medical variant of autism, had even less chance. With me so far?"
I nod.
"When I first started having problems with men, I thought it was just me. Then, made a best friend in the Air Force, another East Indian. Got talking for real saw the parallels. In our culture, sex is far more of a fiction than a fact."
My jaw drops open.
"Here's the sum total of my Air Force experience. See any time 3 or more are gathered, endless talk of endless sex, everyone feels they hafta lie. Only honest in groups of 2. Then she'll tell you her boyfriend gets spiteful, won't give for a whole month, endless headaches and the lot. I wish you'd seen the vid, you'd understand."
"Ah, not meaning to be smart ass, but what is the difference between spanking men back home and S&M with Slave Boy?"
"With him, you get your money's worth after in bed. Back home, you don't."
"So that's why you wanna take him back? He's special?"
Huge smile, "yep. Now are you dying of curiosity to hear the legalese? On the surface, it appears you and I suffered identical punishments, exile to Earth. Yet, in your case, it was a plea bargain, a choice you made to accept, not a Court Order. In my case, an automatic appeal went to the Empress, who found 2 flaws."
"You lucked out, what were the flaws?"
"They had a list, 382 pages long of stuff I'd stolen. On it, one particular laptop. Turns out this one was actually in the repair shop, I hadn't stolen it, casts a doubt on the rest of the list. Other flaw, loss of dignity."
Nonplussed, I raise an eyebrow.
"The Constitution guarantees you must be given a proper chance to make a living in exile. Tech skills, ID, the lot. Fine print covers dignity. See they cannot guarantee a similar income level, Earthlings are far poorer. They do have an obligation to place you in an approximate level of dignity."
"How would you measure that? Especially difficult across cultures, isn't it?"
"Now back home, you were a Level 2 bureaucrat. So they take Earthling Level 2 salary as the baseline. They can give you the same or more. But if they do give you less, it cannot exceed 15% less. In your case, coming down to Level 1, 7% loss of dignity. In my case, coming down from mil officer to dishwasher, it exceeded the 15% allowable."
"I am happy for you my friend. Glad it worked out."
"I don't forget my friends. You laid it all on the line, huge risk, harboring an illegal immigrant. I see you are not getting enough, so I offer a way out of this quandary."
"How so?"
"Ran into my first boyfriend. He is deathly bored with that sweet hometown girl, begged me to take him back. Told him no, going back home, which he thinks is India. He begged for your phone number."
I gasp, "you ah didn't?"
"Certainly not my friend, your call to make."
I recall my agreement with the Afghan, "unseemly for me to call him. But if he phoned, invited me for coffee, I'd go."
Wicked grin, "gotcha, make him sweat to get it, he'll appreciate you more. You should know how I trained him, so we come across as equivalent."
"I'm all ears."
"Every day after work, minimum of an hour of oral. I mean every day of the month."
I gasp.
"Not hard to train him to do that. 3 sessions Saturday, 3 Sunday. I allow him relief once a fortnight, very generous."
A warm hug and she's out the door. The Afghan is so happy she's bouncing off walls.
The phone rings a half hour later. I don't have caller ID, but assume it's him.
My heart sinks as I hear my former CO, "back in action. Officer meeting, 9:00 Saturday."
"I'm not an officer."
"You are now. Be there. Another expense paid tropical vacation awaits. HQ was hugely impressed with your achievement health wise."
I groan aloud after I hang up, ask the Afghan, "so what do I do?"
"Go for coffee with him, give him your mil email address. Exchange steamy emails."
Quietly the Major starts, "right, lets start with philosophy. Reserve units, endless gripes, feel they're trailer trash, get obsolete equipment, low-class assignments. Pointless to argue, it's all true. Sometimes though, wise to point out the background. We all know Canada is in a state of bankruptcy and denial about same. There are only 4 cities in the whole nation where one can find a job without knowing people: Edmonton, Calgary, Toronto, Vancouver. Our government of course will not admit this, either at home or abroad, so they seek out low-cost ways of meeting their numerical troop commitments to allies. Most of our allies don't resent this, they're quite happy to see someone doing the penny ante stuff, happy it isn't them. I leave it up to each officer's concsience how much or how little philosophy to talk.
"Now the serious business. The Highlanders have been accorded a rare honor. It is almost never that a supplementary reserve unit works out. Usually flops. But this one surpassed all expectations. No court martials, no company punishment, no drunken stabbings, no excess of drugs, no vehicle accidents, 100% healthy return.
"Not too surprisingly, they want an encore. Seaplane base, New Amsterdam, Guyana, landside security."
Ooohs and ahs.
"Myself, won't go, complications of surgery. I'll assist in planning. Shauzia Khan will be Acting Major. One full company plus one armored car, car and people on loan to us. If there's anyone here who can't handle this, fine, I'll let you stay home, name someone else."
Lt is first to speak, "it was a spectacular tour Major, I have full confidence in the leadership choice."
One by one, they agree.
Major grins, "rest, as they say is details. Shauzia, if you would examine this map."
"Looking at these contour lines, one place only that's logical for an armored car. Give the rural Guyanese way of day travel and home at dark, any heat signature after dark is likely up to no good. Not necessarily sabotage, maybe smuggling. Still, we only worry about any heat signatures headed toward us, rest are the problem of the Guyana Police."
I dress to devastate, leave 3 blouse buttons open, my most dangerous skirt and no panties. As I sit, I calculate the most cruel angle. No question, he's totally hooked on me.
I tell him I don't believe in sex on first dates or such, we'll exchange emails. I'll be very busy in Guyana, only one email a week on average.
As it turns out, our armored car has a destroyed motor. In terms of parts, it is an orphan, no parts made or stocked anymore. It will be towed into position, a fortified nest for 2o mm cannon and machine guns.
A further memo confirms the 20 mike-mike is beyond repair, so it'll now be a machine gun nest.
Next I hear from the bean counters in HQ. Armored car is scrubbed, it'll be donated to a museum.
Medical Officer informs me things are bad, change of rules reduces the number of people available. Only way we get more bodies, we hit up a neigboring city unit.
It's a nightmare, jury rig reorg and lotta refresher courses, but we finally tip the scales at 235, our promise to our allies.
We-ell 234 actually. As we wait on the tarmac, a city police cruiser rolls up, arrests one of our number for the break-in at the local Food Bank. Sad!
First several days I deploy my forces, attend to everything from who gets what accommodation to duty schedules to fruit purchases.
Then I check my personal email. Long letter, in very graphic detail of what the pilot so briefly summed up.
It's insane. Get that much sex and there's no time for anything else. Don't get a lotta walking in the air, health will suffer, especially considering the lousy air in the Revenue building. Or reading, don't do any, mind turns to mush.
I think back to sex-ed classes, it wasn't just the teacher asserting those limits, it was backed by research.
Next several days I argue with the Afghan, who wants the excess. Finally, she caves, agrees I should ask for a more sustainable pace in my email to lover boy.
Happy smile, "going home, taking Slave Boy."
I raise an eyebrow, "isn't that akin to taking coal to Newcastle?"
Laugh, "you only think so. See, back when you were my boyfriend in junior high, I took you for granted, just assumed that's how life was. Being East Indian was a factor. No one was racial, I was welcome in group activities, but just never found a best friend, a pour-your-heart-out girl. And so, missed what was happening in society. You, that medical variant of autism, had even less chance. With me so far?"
I nod.
"When I first started having problems with men, I thought it was just me. Then, made a best friend in the Air Force, another East Indian. Got talking for real saw the parallels. In our culture, sex is far more of a fiction than a fact."
My jaw drops open.
"Here's the sum total of my Air Force experience. See any time 3 or more are gathered, endless talk of endless sex, everyone feels they hafta lie. Only honest in groups of 2. Then she'll tell you her boyfriend gets spiteful, won't give for a whole month, endless headaches and the lot. I wish you'd seen the vid, you'd understand."
"Ah, not meaning to be smart ass, but what is the difference between spanking men back home and S&M with Slave Boy?"
"With him, you get your money's worth after in bed. Back home, you don't."
"So that's why you wanna take him back? He's special?"
Huge smile, "yep. Now are you dying of curiosity to hear the legalese? On the surface, it appears you and I suffered identical punishments, exile to Earth. Yet, in your case, it was a plea bargain, a choice you made to accept, not a Court Order. In my case, an automatic appeal went to the Empress, who found 2 flaws."
"You lucked out, what were the flaws?"
"They had a list, 382 pages long of stuff I'd stolen. On it, one particular laptop. Turns out this one was actually in the repair shop, I hadn't stolen it, casts a doubt on the rest of the list. Other flaw, loss of dignity."
Nonplussed, I raise an eyebrow.
"The Constitution guarantees you must be given a proper chance to make a living in exile. Tech skills, ID, the lot. Fine print covers dignity. See they cannot guarantee a similar income level, Earthlings are far poorer. They do have an obligation to place you in an approximate level of dignity."
"How would you measure that? Especially difficult across cultures, isn't it?"
"Now back home, you were a Level 2 bureaucrat. So they take Earthling Level 2 salary as the baseline. They can give you the same or more. But if they do give you less, it cannot exceed 15% less. In your case, coming down to Level 1, 7% loss of dignity. In my case, coming down from mil officer to dishwasher, it exceeded the 15% allowable."
"I am happy for you my friend. Glad it worked out."
"I don't forget my friends. You laid it all on the line, huge risk, harboring an illegal immigrant. I see you are not getting enough, so I offer a way out of this quandary."
"How so?"
"Ran into my first boyfriend. He is deathly bored with that sweet hometown girl, begged me to take him back. Told him no, going back home, which he thinks is India. He begged for your phone number."
I gasp, "you ah didn't?"
"Certainly not my friend, your call to make."
I recall my agreement with the Afghan, "unseemly for me to call him. But if he phoned, invited me for coffee, I'd go."
Wicked grin, "gotcha, make him sweat to get it, he'll appreciate you more. You should know how I trained him, so we come across as equivalent."
"I'm all ears."
"Every day after work, minimum of an hour of oral. I mean every day of the month."
I gasp.
"Not hard to train him to do that. 3 sessions Saturday, 3 Sunday. I allow him relief once a fortnight, very generous."
A warm hug and she's out the door. The Afghan is so happy she's bouncing off walls.
The phone rings a half hour later. I don't have caller ID, but assume it's him.
My heart sinks as I hear my former CO, "back in action. Officer meeting, 9:00 Saturday."
"I'm not an officer."
"You are now. Be there. Another expense paid tropical vacation awaits. HQ was hugely impressed with your achievement health wise."
I groan aloud after I hang up, ask the Afghan, "so what do I do?"
"Go for coffee with him, give him your mil email address. Exchange steamy emails."
Quietly the Major starts, "right, lets start with philosophy. Reserve units, endless gripes, feel they're trailer trash, get obsolete equipment, low-class assignments. Pointless to argue, it's all true. Sometimes though, wise to point out the background. We all know Canada is in a state of bankruptcy and denial about same. There are only 4 cities in the whole nation where one can find a job without knowing people: Edmonton, Calgary, Toronto, Vancouver. Our government of course will not admit this, either at home or abroad, so they seek out low-cost ways of meeting their numerical troop commitments to allies. Most of our allies don't resent this, they're quite happy to see someone doing the penny ante stuff, happy it isn't them. I leave it up to each officer's concsience how much or how little philosophy to talk.
"Now the serious business. The Highlanders have been accorded a rare honor. It is almost never that a supplementary reserve unit works out. Usually flops. But this one surpassed all expectations. No court martials, no company punishment, no drunken stabbings, no excess of drugs, no vehicle accidents, 100% healthy return.
"Not too surprisingly, they want an encore. Seaplane base, New Amsterdam, Guyana, landside security."
Ooohs and ahs.
"Myself, won't go, complications of surgery. I'll assist in planning. Shauzia Khan will be Acting Major. One full company plus one armored car, car and people on loan to us. If there's anyone here who can't handle this, fine, I'll let you stay home, name someone else."
Lt is first to speak, "it was a spectacular tour Major, I have full confidence in the leadership choice."
One by one, they agree.
Major grins, "rest, as they say is details. Shauzia, if you would examine this map."
"Looking at these contour lines, one place only that's logical for an armored car. Give the rural Guyanese way of day travel and home at dark, any heat signature after dark is likely up to no good. Not necessarily sabotage, maybe smuggling. Still, we only worry about any heat signatures headed toward us, rest are the problem of the Guyana Police."
I dress to devastate, leave 3 blouse buttons open, my most dangerous skirt and no panties. As I sit, I calculate the most cruel angle. No question, he's totally hooked on me.
I tell him I don't believe in sex on first dates or such, we'll exchange emails. I'll be very busy in Guyana, only one email a week on average.
As it turns out, our armored car has a destroyed motor. In terms of parts, it is an orphan, no parts made or stocked anymore. It will be towed into position, a fortified nest for 2o mm cannon and machine guns.
A further memo confirms the 20 mike-mike is beyond repair, so it'll now be a machine gun nest.
Next I hear from the bean counters in HQ. Armored car is scrubbed, it'll be donated to a museum.
Medical Officer informs me things are bad, change of rules reduces the number of people available. Only way we get more bodies, we hit up a neigboring city unit.
It's a nightmare, jury rig reorg and lotta refresher courses, but we finally tip the scales at 235, our promise to our allies.
We-ell 234 actually. As we wait on the tarmac, a city police cruiser rolls up, arrests one of our number for the break-in at the local Food Bank. Sad!
First several days I deploy my forces, attend to everything from who gets what accommodation to duty schedules to fruit purchases.
Then I check my personal email. Long letter, in very graphic detail of what the pilot so briefly summed up.
It's insane. Get that much sex and there's no time for anything else. Don't get a lotta walking in the air, health will suffer, especially considering the lousy air in the Revenue building. Or reading, don't do any, mind turns to mush.
I think back to sex-ed classes, it wasn't just the teacher asserting those limits, it was backed by research.
Next several days I argue with the Afghan, who wants the excess. Finally, she caves, agrees I should ask for a more sustainable pace in my email to lover boy.
posted by afghangirlscifi @ 8:03 AM
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