Table of Contents

Coming soon - novella length "Lucky" - It is said that Time Corps officers are unique, that the Empire has a positive talent for seeking out those who have spit in the demon's eye, lived to tell the tale, and all before attaining the age of majority.

1. First Mission - short story - entered June 20 to 23, 2005 - a young Lieutenant on her first operational mission jumps into a navigation error, lost in Time. Things go from bad to worse when she is mistaken for a Russian spy.

2. Futuristic Infantry - book length - entered May 26 to June 18 - Major Zohra Zamani is an infantry battalion commander 500 years in the future. Come along for the ride as she tours ever-hot Ulster thrice, Crossmaglen, Belfast and Portadown, all very different. Between tours, she struggles with an insane High Command; foibles, antics and addictions of her subordinates; and a dysfunctional society.

3. Alien - book - January 8 to 24 - a space alien is exiled to Earth, taking over the body of an Afghan-Canadian woman in a state of clinically dead. The two sides of the personality, Alien and Afghan, then duke it out for dominance amidst a backdrop of misadventures.

4. Green Lake - novella - December 2 to 11, 2004 - adventures of an Afghan-American US Air Force officer 1,000 years in the future. She leads a derring-do raid, staffed with stockade lifers, into the height of nuclear apocalypse.

5. Time Corps - book - October 27 to November 22 - a young woman of today finds herself thrust 10,000 years into the future. She's in for the surprise of her life when her plane goes down in Iceberg Alley, off the coast of Greenland. Water that cold, you die in a minute. But she lives.

6. Romance - October 13 to 16 - short story - set aboard a space ship. Double romance, one sweet, one fiery.

7. Jamila - novella - October 1 to 9 - Lily, a total outcast, decides to end it all. Two surprise visitors, one an Afghan, end all that. In a roundabout way, she comes through, heroic, helps people.

8. Dark Chronicles of Nooria - book - August 30 to September 29 - say hello to Nora, a sweet ten-year-old on the Lilac Valley Indian Reserve. Get to know her through several episodes. Then come along as she plunges (as an Afghan) into a chilling nightmare, a surreal Dantesque horror that no one on earth deserves. Don't read this before bedtime, stark imagery.

9. Iris - short story - August 26 to 28 - an Irishwoman joins a contingent of Afghans, through time travel.

10. Farzana - novella - August 11 to 25 - a ten-year-old white Canadian girl freezed to death in a savage blizzard, gets another chance at life as a ten-year-old Afghan.

11. Soap (Opera) - book - July 26 to August 10 - imagine just how eccentric and marginal a number of foreigners can be. Join them, there is no one "normal" in this story; as the long suffering Afghans are to discover.

12. Vignettes - short short story length - mostly published July 24, 2004 and prior - mostly under 1,500 words.

All of this is work of the imagination, along the lines of historical fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. It is not autobiographical. Certain historical events did occur, similar to how described herein, but definitely not with the characters I invented. As for any friends who feel they see themselves in here, I can assure you, it just is not so.

Profanity - sometimes unavoidable in military situations. Used stars ****.
Violence - again, sadly, unavoidable at times, but the minimal amount to support the story line.
Sex - adult relationships alluded to; some pickup activity; no sex scenes.

This blog is neither for nor against any political party, religion or ethnic group. Sole purpose is family friendly entertainment.

First Mission 4

Arezou holds me tight, strokes my hair, soothing tone, "chill baby, things'll be ok. Had you forgotten, movie tonight?"
Somehow that cheers me up. A real Bollywood movie. She seems to like me, that's a first.
Now in a gentle tone, Malali says, "you're immune to every disease under the sun. Girlfriend on your arm. Movies. Food's good but not French chefs."
Sonali chimes in, "everyone get tea refills, harder to do after they dim the lights."
Only ever seen Bollywood on a tiny viewer before. This is full size, awesome. I alternately laugh, cry and groan as the riot of music, dance, costumes and melodrama assaults my senses.
Arezou doesn't push, just walks me home after. I can see what she's doing, giving me time to adjust.
At breakfast, I eat probably the best eggs I've ever had, as the gang dissects the movie, with much fun and hilarity.
Fereshta summons Arezou and me. No one else has indicated an interest, do I find Arezou acceptable as my instructor? She is removed from her other duties, mostly jeep driver, and assigned to me for probably four months.
It's a lark. Lots of chat, her teaching me Dari as we go. We spend days talking of our lives. Everything from her experience as a refugee to my training ordeal, a week alone in the High Arctic. From her driver training to me trained on a Dragon.
You are not allowed to admit Time Corps exists. To any of her probing questions, I steadfastly present myself as an ordinary Marine officer.
As time goes by, I'm more and more ashamed of myself. All the life stories here - oy - I got off easy.

It's an exact month I'm here. The clicking is audible.
Breathless, Arezou asks, "what's that? It's well coming from your arm."
"Implanted beacon."
"How's it work?"
"Tiny battery, only good for an hour. If the Dragon is within 20 miles, in the correct time slot, I am automatically beamed aboard."
"What happens if the battery dies?"
"They don't know me from Eve. Nothing else on me that either transmits or reflects."
We sit quietly, stare at each other. The hour feels like all eternity and then some. I both hear and feel the clicking stop.
She grabs me, starts French kissing. I respond vigorously. After a hot minute, she pulls back a few inches, stares into my eyes, "now I understand why you were holding out on me. You wanna go to bed as much as I do. But you didn't wanna get involved, just in case the beacon worked."
I smile.

First Mission 3

Malali and I join Sonali, Arezou and Gulazar, it being an all-ranks mess, field op.
Arezou smiles, "how'd it go? Hire you?"
I groan, "your CO came close to shooting me as a Russian spy. Once she was disabused of this notion, hired me as a math teacher."
Malali remarks, "now someone hasta teach her Dari first."
Arezou's eyes light up, "anyone volunteered for that yet?"
Malali drawls, "not to my knowledge. If you're interested I will pass your name to Fereshta, her choice."
Arezou drapes her arm around me in very proprietorial fashion, "of course I'm interested you moron. Now I ask y'all, ain't she just the prettiest face?"
Gulazar guffaws, "go on with you. Nothing special. All them Indian girls have that exotic look, that's why we like Bollywood movies."
I gasp, "you actually have Bollywood movies here?"
Arezou hugs me tight, "twice a week, in the mess, come with me tonight."
"Thought you'd never ask."
Malali asks the obvious, "you ever seen one? I mean one from our era."
"Heavens yes, at the university they had a dozen that had been preserved over the centuries. Miles better than the modern crap. Our moviemakers were only interested in making money."
Malali protests, "but Indira, Bollywood is a business, into making money."
"Maybe so, but at least they give good value for money."
Gulazar laughs, "see girls, told you so. Ain't an Indian alive who isn't either enthusiastic about Bollywood or dead against, thinking it a blight on Indian culture. No such thing as neutral."

Beefy Farzana the Supply Sgt looks at the uniform chit Malali proffers. "Go on with you. Nother of that stupid Fereshta's practical jokes. Take the chit back to her. You kid, haul ass, back to class before you're marked truant."
The same amused look flashes over Malali's face, same as when Fereshta was holding my wrists for dear life.
Farzana snorts, "and Sgt stripes on everything? Too much! Come on, think I was born yesterday?"
Quietly Malali replies, "you do read Russian."
"What of it?"
"Indira show her the tag."
Farzana stares in awe, "some of the letters a bit different, but holy sh**. A Lt, 3rd Batt, 5th Reg, Imperial Marines," recovers quickly, "as I was saying, get my measuring tape, be right with you."
She leaves for it and Malali winks.
She fusses all over me. In the guise of measuring, she does a lot of feeling up, "kid, ain't good news. Bra, can't issue, no size that small, don't need one anyhow. Shoes, socks, panties, can't have adult size. But it's same stuff we give the refugee girls in school, so you can get kid size. Uniform uff, massive alterations, two days wait."
She pauses, looks at Malali, "always tricky with new recruits, mosta them been living on bread and tea. Put on 20 pounds the first 6 months. Always hard to alter."
Casually Malali replies, "Indira, you answer that."
"Forget bread and tea. Only child in a middle class house, good food all the way. Two years in the Marines, French chefs, fabulous scoff, this is my size."
"What job will you do?"
"Math teacher."
"Inactive, you'll put on ten, I'll cut according."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Look kid, best to err on the side of caution. Easier to take in again than let out."
"Oh sorry."

Next stop, accommodation. A single Sgt gets a single room, 6 feet by 9, bed, chair, wardrobe, one foot square window.
Malali and I head for supper. I take half as much as the rest.
Sonali asks, "you sick?"
I blush, "only eat lots on field maneuvers. Garrison duty, eat like this."
Sonali grins, "that uh vehicle we saw, very futuristic, sleek."
I snort, "go on, ancient Mark I Dragon, only suitable for training. Mark IV is for real." I see looks of total disbelief, "Mark I, can't even buy parts anymore, gotta cannibalize."
Gulazar asks, "that pot smell, legal?"
I blush, "pure marijuana is forbidden, drastic penalties. Top Cat is legal, 10% maryjane and 90% tobacco. I wasn't smoking. Cabin air was pretty intense, whole platoon smoking up."
"Su-ure," Sonali flashes a wicked smile, "what they all say, right girls?"
Loud chorus of laughter.
Sonali continues, "tell me, pilot smoking too?"
"Yeah."
"Ever see figgers, how much it costs, train a Lt to standard?"
"Million and a half dollars over two years."
"Unf***ing real," Sonali spits out, "a pilot smokes pot, perfectly legal and a mil and a half flushes down the drain." Hard stare at me, "so pint size, you got any idea just how far that would go here?"
"How far?" I ask innocently.
From a distance of less than a foot, those hard onyx eyes stare into mine, "you and me, Sgt's. $30 a month. You got the expensive officer education, you do the math."
I gasp, "over 4,000 person-years of salary."
Malali shakes her head, "Indira, you need an attitude adjustment bigtime. They spend more on you than our entire contingent budget for a year - members and refugees. And still you have this silly misguided view that life is a bummer. French chefs no less! Now grow up!!"
This hurts, stings. I shout, "shows what you know, is a twelve year draft."
Malali gets the groggy look of a quarterback who's just been tackled by 392 pounds of screaming linebacker. "Twelve years?" she asks weakly.
"Yes!!"
She recovers fast, "still, sounds like you are making excuses. I'd bet money you had this very same attitude long before you were ever drafted. Well! Am I right?"
My hot blush says it all. By now, I'm crying. The whole thing seems so unfair.

First Mission 2

Lt feels my uniform, "waterproof, yet breathes, right?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Never seen or felt fabric like this," runs a fingernail, "resists snags right?"
"Yes ma'am."
From a distance of less than a foot, she stoops, looks me straight in the eye, "my guess kid, a uniform, no markings so it'll look civvy. You in Girl Scouts?"
"School uniform ma'am."
"Horsesh** kid, no school does stuff like this." She feels inside my shirt, draws out the chain, "now this kid, ain't jewelry, no girl on earth wears garbage like this. Dogtag, Russian alphabet, right?"
"Close to Russian, not exact ma'am."
She gasps, turns white, "th-this n-number 14-2-12143, d-date of b-birth?"
"Yes ma'am."
She puts an arm on my shoulder, "ok kid, nuff crap, what on earth is a twelve year old girl doing with a Russian dogtag dated ten thousand years in the future? In an indestructible uniform reeking to the very heavens of marijuana?"
"Not exactly my choice ma'am, I'm a draftee."
She roars with laughter, the others join in. She orders them to sling weapons. They take out an ancient kero stove to make tea, spread an old blanket on the sand. So begins the Mad Hatter's Tea Party.
The jeep driver looks at my tag, gasps, "our little friend here is actually a Lt, 3rd Battalion, 5th Regiment, Imperial Marines." Of course I don't say 3/5 is cover name for Time Corps.
Lt laughs, "training?"
"Yeah."
She grins, "I studied in Britain, know two grand ain't gonna do much in Canada, keep you going a month." Pause, absolutely wicked smile, "but it won't."
"Why not?"
"Your money, ID, worthless. Printed fifteen years in the future."
I groan aloud, they dropped me wrong time and wrong place. The odds of getting back just shrunk drastically.
"So what happens when the Comrade misses rendezvous? Spaceships rescue you?"
"I was informed, miss rendezvous, my tough beans."
"Right, so that puts you in the job market. What did you do before all this nonsense?"
"History degree, Bachelor of Arts."
She takes a cigarette pack, offers. To be polite, I take. After lighting her and me, quietly says, "we actually need you. Teach English, Math, History. Round here, no rank or surname, it's first name only. I'm Malali, Sgt is Sonali, these here are Arezou and Gulazar. Your first name?"
"Indira."
"As in Indira Gandhi?"
"She did make a name for herself. Lotta families the first girl is Indira."
Arezou, jeep driver, wraps her arms around my neck. Starts French kissing vigorously. I resist for all of half a minute, relent. She is pretty hot stuff.
Malali taps Arezou's shoulder, "come on, nuff for now. We are on patrol, remember?"
Arezou pulls away a few inches, stares into my eyes, "gotcha, stigma in your time and place. Soon see, just part of life here. Think you're hot, such nice skin. Keep me in mind."
"Oh I will."
Malali hugs me, "come on, let's go find our CO, get you a job."

Fereshta would be forty, large build, looks kind. Listens to Malali's story of finding me. All goes well til she sees the dogtag. Brutal tone, "uff Malali, use your noodle. Russian spy, shoulda shot her on sight."
Malali stays cool, "may I remind you of the Geneva Convention? In uniform, found in uniform."
"Has a floral print dress in her bag. Change her into it, shoot her."
Fereshta stares at me, "ok kid, prove you aren't a spy then."
My photographic memory has long since picked up uniforms and insignia from university history days. "Commander, would you agree that Russia is the second biggest superpower on Earth?"
"Yes."
"So, do you really believe anyone of any importance in the Kremlin would waste their precious time on the Association of Afghan Women? Come on, Russians want big fish, real countries, real organizations, not penny ante little players like you."
She blushes, "gotcha, going after Canada, not us."
In a bored tone, "Commander, two grand does not a Commie revolution finance. Barely buys food and lodging."
She blushes hotter, "could still shoot you. Or turn you over to the Canadians, who'd do it."
I ponder, why not? Life is nothing but aggro anyhow. With I+ blood, I'll live forever, til an accident or a chance like this. Nonchalantly I start to unbutton my shirt.
"Wh-what are y-you d-doing?" Fereshta stammers.
"Gonna make it easy for you, change into my dress."
"B-but you wouldn't?" she grabs my tiny wrists in her immense hands, "now you stop it and behave!!"
I see Malali's amused look, then it vanishes. Quiet matter-of-fact tone, "test her blood." Hmm how did Malali know that? "Every era carries different vaccines, different toxins. If she really is from the future, her blood will be at least a bit different."
The three of us head to the clinic. Three dozen women, mostly civvies in line, but I'm breezed right in.
Maryam the nurse stares at me with awe, "just don't believe it, would make you immune from everything from AIDS to bubonic plague to radiation sickness to malaria to dental caries."
Fereshta blushes, "sorry we took your time, back to your patients." Gentle smile to me, "you and me gotta talk for real now."
My face musta given it away. As we leave the crowd, Fereshta asks, "Lt Persaud, what is your first name?"
"Indira."
"Well Indira, so you were hoping we'd do it. No such luck, not now."
By now I'm crying. Malali hugs me as we walk back.
Resuming our seats, Fereshta asks, "so why a BA in history? Why not something more marketable?"
I may as well give the truth, they'll soon enough figure it, "first choice, wanted to teach. Entry panel rejected me. Called up my med records, autism diagnosed. Second choice, accounting, didn't get in that year cuz all the bigshots' kids grabbed it. Third choice, pharmacy, rejected because of height. It was study something or off to New Guinea to do peacekeeping." I spit out the rest, "da**ed bureaucrats, 3/4 inch too short and now look where I am." By now I'm crying. Malali hugs me and Fereshta passes me a tissue.
Fereshta looks contrite, "tell me, how'd you do in math?"
"A all the way, high school and university. Got calculus and advanced statistics."
Malali smiles, "well the shortage is greatest in math."
Fereshta, "kid, I been listening to your accent. Wierd combo of Russian, German and Indian. No way you'd be a good English teacher. But math, no problem. Join us, you'd be a Sgt. Sorry bout the demotion."
"You must understand my legal position. I may be shipwrecked but I'm still in the officer corps. Any form of work would be ok, but to bear arms would be treasonable."
Fereshta groans, "you're reading us wrong. Tiny security patrols only. 9/10 of members unarmed and so would you be."
"Well in that case, I could."
Malali and I leave. She gently says, "Indira, don't go reading too much into all that."
"How so?"
"Fershta has an odd sense of humor. She wouldn't have shot you. In fact, she reads Russian, would know it's close to the Russian alphabet, but not exact."
I don't reply, feel disappointed.
"What is it with you Indians? Never met one who believed life was worth the powder to blow it to Hades. Seem to all view it as some horrible joke the gods are pulling."
"Oh yeah, let's turn that around. How come y'all are such a buncha Pollyannas? Surely you can see"
She interrupts, "chill Indira, get a girlfriend, you'll feel lots better."

First Mission 1

"Ten hut," the General and Colonel enter the room. The eight of us, all Lieutenants, come to attention.
"As you were," Gen Federov says. We resume our seats. The Gen, a good-looking blonde of maybe forty, glances at each of us individually. "Right, only one volunteered for the mission. Six are dead-set against going," glances at me, "and one declined to offer an opinion."
Lighten up Gen, I think, we's all draftees, what y'all expect?
"Should be easy, choose the volunteer, right? Not on your life. Mission requires stealth, invisibility. A gung ho volunteer would draw attention, compromise the mission."
Elke, all 6'4" stunning Nordic goddess of her, blushes furiously.
"Other considerations abound. Height, we're going back in time to circa 2000. Now if y'all were men, a 6'4" and a 6'3" one would pass. Women, too noticeable. And one," glances at me, "too short, at 4' 11 1/4". Now if she were white, too conspicuous. But being Indian, she'd pass."
Lucky me, I think sarcastically.
"In this era, we're totally non-racial. Circa 2000 wasn't. So, take 7 whites and 1 Indian. We are trying to infiltrate Canada. A white person with an accent would draw far more attention than an Indian."
Oy, I groan inwardly.
"We're trying to plant our observer in the lower echelons of Canadian society, places where references won't be checked. Does this not point to a visible minority?"
I see the others nod.
"Each of you has a degree in Classical History, that is pre-World Wide Nuclear War, ten thousand years ago," pause for effect, "only one wrote her thesis on circa 2000 Canada."
Me, oy, this is a kangaroo court.
She catches my eye, "so Lt Persaud, like to volunteer?"
Stiffly, "Gen, with all due respect, I shall obey orders, but decline to volunteer."
"Very well, let's check peer opinion. Lt Reinprecht, do you think you should go or Lt Persaud?"
Elke smiles wanly, "Gen, I believe I am more qualified."
Gen asks everyone else. All endorse me. Mona smiles, "Gen, obvious, Lt Persaud knows more of circa 2000 Canada than the rest of us combined."
Gen turns, "Col Steinbrenner, may I ask who had the best marks of this class?"
"Lt Persaud, by a large margin."
"And why do you think this is so?"
"It is not politically correct to say anything racial, but it's a well-known fact that Indian parents are exceptionally demanding, produce good study habits in their children."
Gen's eyes rest on me, "and of course, we need plain-looking, average, even mousy. Too beautiful and it draws attention."
Thank you, you horse's patoot, and may the bird of paradise crap all over your toast.
"Lt Persaud, look on this as a great glorious opportunity. With this experience, you'll get enough material for a Master's thesis, all on our time."
If I am lucky enough to return alive.
Gen sees the smug looks on the others, "Lt Persaud will miss our adventures in New Guinea." They try to look contrite, except Elke who looks disappointed.

Later in the mess, Mona asks, "think she really meant New Guinea?"
Elke laughs, "don't be a moron. What does anyone there know that the Empire wants to? Said that cuz y'all looked too smug."
Claudette grins, "why us? Saw on TV, only one in 386 drafted."
Elke guffaws, "use your noodle. We all have I+ blood. Totally immune to any disease, past or present. Only one in ten thousand has I+."
I snort, "totally unfair. Under 5'4" you're exempt combat duty. Why not exempt this crap?"
Elke pastes on a way too superior smile, "shows what you know Indira. Through most of human history, 5'0" was the norm. Only last five or so generations prior to the World Wide Nuclear War were taller. Now you Indira, got us all beat. You can travel to far more times and places than the resta us combined. See that light skin of hers? Could pass as sort of white. Indians and Hispanics have similar features. Indira could be white or Indian at almost any epoch in history, right?"
Resounding chorus of yesses.
Mona laughs, "so maybe the Gen ain't so stupid. Just a minute, why Canada? A backwater. Military an underfunded clown show, back of the pack with NATO, North Atlantic Treaty Organization. Near bottom rung with the OECD, Organization for Economic Cooperation and Develoment. Absolute back of the pack in Research and Development spending."
Elke grins at me, "you clue her in Indira or I will."
I defer.
Elke speaks in professorial tone, "this mission is to Calgary Canada. Now go back to history lessons. What famous, I mean infamous person grew up in Calgary, became more well-known after moving Stateside?"
Claudette gasps, "Heinrich Strasser of course."
"Bingo, so this mission is just recon, suitable for rookies like us. Who goes in next?"
"An assassin of course. But that's against rules, altering history."
Elke grins, "take a vote. Who here says Strasser should die?"
Unanimous.
Claudette smiles wanly, "but that makes our history degrees worthless. Everything changes."
Elke laughs, "so look on the bright side, we all get to go home."
Cheers.

Next morning, I'm in Col Steinbrenner's office, going over details. Deadpan she asks, "so, what you think of yesterday's meeting?"
"Col, you should know by now, I simply do not offer opinions."
"Off the record, you feel the Gen was fair or unfair?"
"Col, off the record, life itself is unfair."
She laughs easily, "how very Indian of you. So why didn't you just volunteer? Surely you could see it was inevitable?"
I don't reply.
"Just go, do it, very career enhancing mission."
"Col, I am a draftee, not a career officer."
"Go on, a history degree is worthless in the job market. Once you get out there, experience the sheer intoxication of time travel, there's no going back."
"Col, what are the mathematical odds I won't return from this routine mission?"
"Lt, your odds stand head and shoulders above anyone else's odds in that class. More knowledge of time and place. You have more ability to improvise than the rest of them combined. Look I won't insult your intelligence. You are a way too smart to not understand the real why of this mission."
"We-ell Col, Calgary was a clue."

A Mark I Dragon is totally obsolete, suitable for training only, parts unavailable, must be cannibalized. It carries thirty passengers, equivalent to a Marine platoon, plus pilot and copilot. I join 1st Platoon, B Company, 1st Battalion, 2nd Regiment on a training exercise. They are all macho-looking women, "real Marines", 6'2" and up.
A 6'6" Nordic goddess Sgt grins, "hey kid, don't look old enough to join. Don't even look old enough to bleed. Draft board musta made a mistake on your file."
A 6'4' massive black Cpl guffaws, "lemme guess pint size, they done sent you to find out where the libraries is."
An Indian Cpl sniffs, "I just hate seeing people like you. See nine tenths of Indians are real women now. You, go back to elementary school."
It hurts more coming from a fellow Indian, I start to cry, but it's drowned out by the roaring of the twin Maybach motors.
A minute after takeoff, the no-smoking lights go out. Everyone is lighting up Top Cat - 10% marijuana and 90% tobacco. Top Cat is legal, but pure marijuana isn't. Even the pilot and copilot are smoking up. Oy vay, doesn't bode well.
The Indian, strapped in next to me, offers me a Top Cat. To be polite, I take, but puff very lightly. Still, with all that second hand smoke in a sealed cabin, I'm high as a kite.
The Dragon stops, hovers a few feet above surface. The copilot, glassy eyed, orders me to dismount, arrived at my coordinates.
I'm so totally baked, I simply curl up in a blanket for a short nap. Awake, clear eyed.
Now they say this is the Alberta Foothills, but I'm guessing nav error. Too bare, gray, craggy, no powerlines, buildings, farms, roads or other evidence of humans.
I spot the jeep coming, four Arabic-looking women in blue and white naval-type uniforms. Classical era hydrocarbon vehicle, classical era Kalishnikovs, not modern blasters.
The driver remains in her seat. A young Lt, a midage Sgt with the hardest onyx eyes I've seen on this planet and a 17 year old Pvt dismount.
Lt leads, "near every Indian knows English. Do you?"
"Yes ma'am."
Lt orders Sgt to search me. No weapons of course. Some phony Canadian ID and $2,000 in small Canadian bills.
"Long ways from home, "Lt drawls, "twelve thousand miles from Canada. So what you doing on our island?"
News to me, an island. "Ma'am, I'm afraid my ride dropped me in the wrong place."

Futuristic Infantry 20

Over lunch all eyes are fixed hypnotically on the TV, story of the century. Ministry of Health has released its heart attack study. Over the years, the male rate was some 8 times the female. More puzzling yet, the rate among highest-income men was 6 times the rate among lowest-income men.
So why? One particular chemical, previously studied to death and approved as safe, a non-carcinogen. However, it goes to the heart and stays there. Higher you go in the male echelons, more of this chemical is found by autopsy. Among women and down-and-out men, the chemical is totally lacking.
It's used in the orifices of droids: very little in cheap droids, lots in uber-droids.
Ministry of Health lets the droid companies off the hook, confirms they had no knowledge prior to seeing the report. After all, it was considered safe, a non-carcinogen.
It passes through the skin of the male member, passes through the bloodstream, rests in the heart.
Even if the droid companies are innocent, you know they will have a rough economic ride, between lawsuits and sales drop.
And then it's impossible to hear the TV. Loud frivolity as the girls speculate on how easy it will now be to snag guys. I have my doubts, guessing they'll head into gaydom instead.
Saturday's shift confirms my view. We are under siege, more crowded than Mardi Gras, average purchase topping $1,000. By the end of my shift, there is not one gay mag or vid or novella left.
Our manager frantically phones in a super-rush order, but then I imagine everyone else is too. We are told no work next Saturday if they can't find inventory.
The gay porn industry enters a golden era. Most had been operating on one shift, for production and distribution, but now go on a hiring binge, try to go 24/7.
I'm told I could work evenings at the nearby printing plant. I really couldn't, too tiring. Lotta the girls do. They're played out, doing a poor job of preparing for Ulster.
I go everywhere, not to nitpick, but to encourage the girls along. Knowing I have a Master's in History, lotta the girls ask for my take on recent events. They're mystified. With all the droid scare, how come they can't find guys?
I try to explain the concept of ethnocentrism. That is, the belief one's own culture is right and better than others. Larger the nation, more the people tend to buy into ethnocentrism.
So these men have essentially been indoctrinated since childhood into certain views of man-woman sex. Minds are closed, they are not willing to experiment.
The girls are morose. It's scary, what if there is a mega-rumble the night before we go? Our planes could be rather empty.
And then an entrepreneur announces his invention, a condom which effectively stops the passage of the chemical.
Yes there will still be lawsuits, but now probably not a total ending of droid sales. Gay porn suddenly isn't superhot anymore. The temps are laid off.
To my immense relief, we climb aboard the giant transports with nothing huge having happened. Oh yes, 6 charged with D&D, but that's penny ante.

First day in Portadown, I've just finished visiting one of my VCP's (vehicle check points). A lad of 10 or 11 with intelligent eyes shyly asks, "ma'am, speak with you a minute please?"
Of course.
"You see ma'am, I've seen the TV stories but they aren't clear. How is your Immigration law changing?"
I explain to him how anyone in Ulster between 18 and 30, in good health, with no criminal record, will now be permitted to go, then offer him a lift.
We stop by his front gate, I see a man working in a potato patch.
Billy calls out, "Uncle Donald, can we invite the Major for tea?"
He comes over, warmly shakes my hand, tells me our forces are doing a fine job. Says he'll understand if I'm too busy.
Donald slices a ginger loaf cake, pours tea and we settle in. He relates his family's centuries-long tradition of military service. Billy too wants to go overseas, join us when he's 18.
Billy asks for my e-mail address, so he can ask me stuff about the army. I cheerfully agree, he is a nice polite boy.
Donald walks me to the jeep after. Polite tone, "you be careful now Maj. Don't get dragged into too much e-mail."
"How so?"
"See ma'am, it's like this. Only adults die in terr attacks, that's where Billy lost his mother and father. Any men, women left alive are just swamped, being aunt and uncle to all these kids. See, it's like he's decided to adopt you as his aunt. Just don't get too caught up."
"He's a good lad, I'll do what I can."
"Thank you so much ma'am. See, he needs both influences to come out right. Wouldn't want him to be one of those. Oh the word is so bad, ma'am, I just could not say it. Want him to be normal, grow up, get married, have kids."
As I drive away, I realize there is hope for the future. Billy and a lot like him will bring a sense of old-fashioned decency to our country. To say nothing of being taxpayers and young workers.
Yeah, droidism won't die out, it's entrenched, but neither will family life die out.
I'll do my best for Billy, however many e-mails it takes.
As days go by, I find out I'm not alone. Many of these girls have been adopted as e-mail aunts by boys and girls here. Lotta mess conversations are on how best to respond to specific questions.
Yes we come through our tour without combat. I'm proud of 3rd Torngat, did a lot for people here.
We return to find gaydom finished, washed-out, passe. The rationale, if you hafta use a condom anyway, may as well use it on a droid.
The droid industry discovers a way to use 1/10 of the chemical. Yes, they lost some lawsuits, but now their shares are higher than ever.
Thrice a week I get e-mail from Billy, respond the same. Somehow, it makes life more worth living when someone relies on you.
I read some on history of Ulster. Portadown is the only place where both sides have this absolute prohibition on killing children. Pretty much any army unit stationed there, same thing happens, lotta the girls end up becoming e-mail aunts.
You may think it's one sided. It isn't. D&D is way down. Average day, our strength tops 350. Nothing like having some sense of purpose in life.

Futuristic Infantry 19

Arezou's sequel is out. There are 4 ratings for movies:
G - no sex, but can allude to it in conversation
14+ - softcore porn
16+ - mediumcore porn
18+ - hardcore porn
The original was 14+; the sequel 18+. I only go because Meena insists.
I feel morose on the ride back.
Meena asks quietly, "you ok?"
"That stuff is beyond disgusting. Hollywood always goes too far."
She nods, "one thing I don't get. How is it guys are grossed out by the mere thought of sex with a woman? Come on, surely guy-guy is just as messy."
"I would think so."
Wicked smile, "but I just loved the scene with the daisy chain."
"You are sick, demented."
"Nuff of that," she replies, "do tell what you read on Portadown."
"Terrs have a code of honor. They happily butcher men and women civilians equally; but resolutely refuse to attack if there are children. It's said they'll delay an op if it would lead to one child's death."
"Admirable."
I continue, "that's how they deal with each other. Dealing with us, same code as the XMG Ra, both sides refuse to attack female army units. Male units, more the merrier."
"So we get a free ride but the Ulster women do not. Seems unfair."
"You aren't paying attention, life itself is unfair."
We both laugh.

I get a call from the front gate, "Maj, gotta Mr Smallwood here. Can't find Col Pearson around."
"Be right there."
Soon as I arrive, I recognize, Premier of Newfoundland, "good day, sir, came to visit a Newfoundland and Labrador unit?"
"Oh yes, not ah meaning to be rude, but you don't look like a Newfy to me."
I laugh easily, "I've heard that before. Come, let's have chow in the mess, give you the tour. Is it true you are a direct descendant of Joey?"
Proud smile, "oh yes."
Once in the mess, I phone Lt Duncan, tell her to join us. After a pleasant afternoon, he asks quietly, "so, the truth, how many real Newfies are here?"
Lt Duncan smiles proudly, "actually sir, I'm the only one. But I view it as an important cultural mission. At this point, over 50 of the girls are now reading Newfoundland Literature, that includes our CO."
"Wow," he says, "fabulous, keep up the good work. I'm a fan myself. Let me give you some good websites."
"Thank you sir."
"You know Maj, truth is we Newfs are falling down in our patriotic duties, big money and all. Time we made some amends. When you next tour, I'll start a program in the schools, children sending postcards. Help them to understand what the world is like, what you people are doing on our behalf."
"Sir in our profession, recognition is scant, we would love every single postcard."
"You see," he says, "the feds allow us to save face, by keeping the Newfoundland and Labrador unit alive. Time to show some appreciation."

Meena sits, grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary, "guess how you die? I mean in the story."
"I trust it will be sufficiently gruesome."
"Your head is blown off by an RPG (rocket propelled grenade) in flight, one of ours. After an exhaustive investigation, MP's conclude it was a fragging, not an accident."
"Leaving a lot of suspects, no doubt."
"Oh yes, I'll keep you in suspense. You'll be shocked when you find out who and why."
I don't care. First, it keeps her cheerful. Second, even if it gives people ideas, so what? Life is already considerably subpar. A premature exit would not overconcern me.
I stare out the window, yeah bring it on, maybe this tour.
"Earth calling Zohra, come in please."
I look at her.
"Hey look, I'm sorry. Don't go thinking stuff like that."
"How'd you know?"
"Silly question. We've been together forever. Now you forget all that and just concentrate on bringing everyone back alive," absolutely wicked smile, "besides, it wouldn't be published til after our tour. So how would it give people ideas?"
Logical point.
She continues, "you should write something, sop up some downtime."
"What could I write? Romance, don't know about that. Mystery, too sordid, enough killing already in the world. Western, don't know about horses and cattle. War, maybe, but they're such poor sellers, publishers mostly avoid them."
"So write sci fi. A disgruntled officer vanishes into a time warp, purely by accident. Ends up in circa 2000. Be dead easy for you, know all that stuff from your university thesis days."
"You know, maybe I could, got a soft spot for circa 2000 Canada, main theme of my thesis."
"Throw in enough real history and then you don't hafta use gimmicks like sex and blood and gore."
She triggers the creative impluse. That night I don't sleep. By morning, I've decided on the heroine's circa 2000 occupation, city of residence, how she covers up for faux pas and the like.
As I head for breakfast, I decide to drag Meena into the warp. Lotta comic relief as I cover up for her antics and foibles, just as I do now.
She brings her tray, "look tired, thinking on the manuscript?"
"I hope you don't mind, gonna drag you into the warp, misery loves company."
She laughs, "seems fair enough, repayment for your literary death at my hands. If your heroine finds sex, better ask me for advice, your scenes would be ridiculous."
"I'll keep the heroine chaste, but not her sidekick. Come on, I don't want porn, already too much of it. I want child-friendly stories."
"Tell me, these 2 ever get back? Or stuck there?"
"What is to come back to?"
"Come on, surely this beats being a circa 2000 dishwasher."
"Yes but not by much."
We both laugh.
She grins, "hot stuff, you got any idea how many guys I'd snag in that epoch?"
"Probably in scientific notation."
"Oh you bet, I can assure you, I'd live each day to the fullest. Afraid I'd vanish into the warp, end up back here."
"Would it not get boring over time? Surely there are only so many things one can do."
She snorts with derision, "ever read The Perversion Chronicles written in the 23rd century? You could do something different each night, still die of old age before the end of that book."
"Oh."
"So be a good sport and let the sidekick just happen to have that book in her bag when they vanish into the warp."
We laugh.

The legal case against the cocaine possessing journalists is resolved. For all but one, stiff prison sentence. For one, insuffient evidence, charge reduced to simple possession. Having served remand time, he is released.
The newspaper has very elastic moral standards. They justify keeping him on grounds he's best qualified to cover the drug beat.
Meena bags the journalist, who uses his influence to get her a proof reading job. Pays better than the army, she takes leave of abscence without pay, will miss our Ulster tour.
By now, I have considerably more respect for A/Capt Duncan. She produces, sets a good example. Her calm quiet leadership goes well. I look forward to touring with her as one of my Co Cmdr's. Besides, our literary discussions are a higher tone than most of my conversations with Meena.
Alas, one morning Meena shows in the mess, lotta bruises on her face. Eating gingerly, she tells me the story, then, "can you fix the paper so I start back today?"
What else can I do? Long term friend and fellow Afghan.
By lunch, it's done, she's legally started this morning.

Futuristic Infantry 18

One saving grace, 10/90 meetings are held in that same Reserve armory. So every month, I get a chance to see Col Anderson and buy some novellas on the way back.
She's open Tuesday to Saturday, daytime hours, does all the work herself. Given the state of public libraries, she is performing a valuable public service.
The contrast is sad. As we chat, I see women slowly browse to choose one novella. I'm used to guys grabbing a dozen mags, half dozen vids and a novella or two in less time. Average purchase in our section was just over $250, we even had shopping carts.
Here the average is $1.50, half price on a new novella price of $3.00.
After several visits, she shows me the recordkeeping. Does better than I thought. First, I've never seen Friday and Saturday, her busy days. Second, since it's an old building, rent is cheap.
An idea forms. I offer to work Saturdays for her in exchange for learning the business. She agrees provided I give assurance not to set up within 5 miles of her when I retire. Tells me to show 10:00 to 5:00 and wear my most comfortable shoes.
She does actual buying on Tuesday to Thursday, policy is unique. Won't touch non-fiction. Only buys novellas published this year or last, in good condition. Result is a sparkling up to date collection, not like the moldy atmosphere of most used book stores.
Smaller stock than the rest, but faster moving. Turns it all face out, no spines. Easier on readers' eyes, less wear and tear when people look at and reshelve books.
Small shelf space for each of romance, mystery, sci fi/fantasy and western. Her flagship is general fiction. No porn.
She explains, "if people want moldy oldies, they can go to the public library. Hasn't bought any new stock in over 10 years, just keeps open the doors. This, it's selling dignity and social acceptance. People can read and talk about the latest Lit."
She keeps a list on her palm pilot, any requests people make for stuff she doesn't have at present. As Saturdays go by, I soon get to know the regulars, see the obvious respect they have for Col Anderson.

Following the loss of boyfriend and Saturday job, Meena is a right royal pain in the you-know-what, as a friend and as a fellow officer. Itchy, twitchy, bored, drinks way too much.
And yet, I can't really condemn her, fairly typical reaction to life around here.
I try to be upbeat, even as our attendance figures sink to the bottom of the ocean. Her Co, worst offenders, small surprise, the example she sets.
One Sunday morning, she joins me at breakfast, clear-eyed, "guess what I did last night."
"I'd guess it doesn't involve booze, been awhile since payday."
She laughs easily, "you bet, broke til payday. Read one of the novellas on the reading rack. Murder mystery set within an army unit during an Ulster tour."
"Any good?"
"Nope, crap, drivel."
"So, how come you're so cheerful?"
"Decided I can do lots better. And I will."
"Lemme guess, the CO is gonna get fragged, hope it's nothing personal."
Her rich laugh and smile tells me things will be ok, "how'd you ever guess? You, or rather the depiction of you, is gonna be bumped off and most gruesomely. I've already gotta list of a dozen suspects."
I wink, "go on, surely you can do better than a dozen."
"Nope, hasta fit inside a novella, that's why I stopped at a dozen."
We laugh together and things are now better.

I receive orders to get one officer to accompany me to 10/90 meetings for 3 months, as a backup. My first thought is Meena, I discard that, not wishing to jeopardize the new sense of balance between us.
I speak with Lt Duncan. I'm honest, tell her 10/90 is meaningless now. However for a young officer, in due course, she'll face the issue. Things move in cycles, 10 years from now, the world will have more red zones again.
She cheerfully agrees to accompany me. Come on, think I'd be crazy enough to order her to?
The real prize to her is the chance to browse Col Anderson's stock, she buys a dozen.
As we ride back, she rolls her eyes, "Maj, you have the patience of a saint. How on earth do you put up with all those morons?"
"It's called maturity, hang around long enough and it's you."
"Meaning I should reconsider my career?"
"One should keep an open mind, career prospects for women aren't good anywhere."
"Gotcha Maj, bad worse and worst. We got only 'bad', makes us winners."
"Sad but true."
"So how do you put up with the Committee morons?"
"I daydream."
She laughs and we're closer to being real friends.

The Supreme Court decision tops 4,000 pages. They carefully examine Mr Kleinsasser's position. While the Charter of Rights and Freedoms itself is silent on the issue, long standing legal tradition is not.
They document 117 such decisions in the last five centuries. In every case, it was a decision to free an oppressed group, not to oppress others equally. Traditions of a modern, freedom-loving democracy blah blah.
The government is ordered to leave matters as they stand, with sexual freedom for men and women.
Gaydom is ecstatic. Hollywood is quick to announce major films starting.
Even The Silver Paddle, only partly done, promises to incorporate "smoking hot latex guy-guy action."
The publishing industry announces gay manuscripts are now welcome and will receive priority over non-gay.
The travel industry announces the first ever gay cruise.
Two separate resort complexes in Florida will be open within a year, gay only.
The droid industry announces research is resuming, but expect a year of wait to perfection.

I am formally notified to being preparations for an Ulster tour. 3rd Battalion only, going to Portadown. I show it to Meena, who twists a smile, "easy as it gets, so pro-Brit. Know what that means?"
"Yes, hard to keep our side awake. Any infiltrators could get us napping bigtime."
Two days later, Porn Palace phones, offers me Saturdays again. It's not like I'm running out on Col Anderson, she is closing her doors for several weeks of vacation.
The pace is frantic, more customers than even before, average purchase just shy of $400.
As I ride back, it hits me, lotta these guys used to be straight, switching from droiddom to gaydom with a vengenance.
So, how is it the mere thought of sex with a woman grosses them out? Yet gay sex doesn't?
Answer, sexual mores are culture specific. One is indoctrinated from childhood to believe certain things.

Social Security authorities release their annual report. On a demographic/financial basis, it looks grim. The birth rate is almost zero, has been for years, with the exception of a few tiny obscure minorities.
As the population ages, the pension time bomb ticks. Premiums rise 18% this year. That only breaks even, no ground gained on the unfunded liabilities.

The National Association of Male Taxpayers holds a news conference. They usually confine themselves to obscure provisions of the Income Tax Act. Despite this, they always get a good media turnout, through the strategem of good food and lotsa booze.
For the very first time, NAMT steps outside of the ITA. They intend to petition the Supreme Court to amend the Constitution. As droid owners contribute more to the economy, they should get a double ballot at election time.
Now this is a thinly transparent attempt to oppress women, gays, low income men and the few religious minorities without droids.
A reporter interviews the Dean of the College of Law, for his take. He names 6 previous cases where spurious issues came to court. All lost and ended up paying the government's court costs.
Not too surprisingly, NAMT never gets around to filing the intial papers. Last a reporter asked, they are still consulting legal counsel to get the correct wording.

Futuristic Infantry 17

I'm on my way to another obscure meeting, reading my handheld on the Metro. A man stops in front of me, polite tone, "Maj, recognize me?" It's the Porn Palace manager.
"Last we met, your customers were a tad restive."
He laughs easily, "so, how's the handheld?"
"Really nice, thank you. Lotta my troops bought something nice."
Smile, "see we aren't all smut and porn, just mostly so. Maj, do you consider yourself open-minded?"
"On most issues. On some, I'm afraid not."
"Good, I'm well aware of how low military salaries are. Can't get enough Saturday help. Men just won't come work Saturdays. Women, they would, but mosta their fulltime jobs include Saturday."
"What do you need?"
"Your choice, cashier or stocker, $18 an hour."
"I'm afraid sir, I don't own much in the way of civvy clothes."
"Worry not, we provide uniforms. So?"
"Why not sir? What hours do you need?"
I opt for stocker, more anonymous, end up in the area selling porn mags, vids and novellas.
Our section leader is wildly enthusiastic about the recent gay legislation, "you watch, soon have a full line of gay items, more sales, more bonus."
I'm pleasantly surprised to find most customers are polite when asking where items are.
My co-workers are mostly younger. Breaktime, I share some humorous tour stories and it earns me acceptance.
The boss comes to visit, "so Maj, how is your experience here working out?"
"Very well sir."
"You happen to have any sister officers who could spare Saturdays?"
I blush, "sorry sir, most drink too much, but I'll ask around."
Meena comes, but I warn her, it is forbidden to fraternize with customers, but ok to fraternize with fellow staff. She ends up in droid accessories. Quick on her feet, she snags as boyfriend one of the droid salesmen. As she describes it, pretty unequal. But then, I guess her theory is better than nothing.
"Wow," she gasps, "look at this." Her first cheque with a bonus calculation on it.
I retort, "isn't that boyfriend of yours a hypocrite?"
"How so?"
"Here he is, convincing people of all this grossing out. Yet screwing with a real woman himself."
She laughs, "his customers are already convinced of the perils of grossing out. He merely helps them to choose make and model, how to understand warranty and such."
"Oh."

I sigh with relief as I read the epistle from HQ. Yes the Reservists are furious with me and want another officer to replace me. But it was not an official meeting, no quorum, private conversation, no grounds for reprimand.
Our section at Porn Palace is expanding, huge new gay collection. It flies off the shelf, a retailer's dream, fast as you can put it out.
Given the number and appearance of men buying gay, I'm starting to get suspicious, seems a lotta straights are gay-curious.
The section leader laughs, "but of course, forbidden fruit, pardon the pun. Men are obsessed with sex, want to try new things."
Meena loses her boyfriend. Once he samples the pleasures of gay sex, there is no going back. He unceremoniously dumps her and moves in with his new squeeze, a stockbroker. Not wishing to run into him at work, she transfers across to sex toys.

Consolidated Droids issues the quarterly report, 20% drop in droid sales. They very carefully avoid even the word gay, blame it all on the Central Bank, for that 1/4 of 1% interest rate hike.
International follows suit, 23% drop, blames it on Central Bank and customers over-spending on their vacations.
To counter the downturn, they shorten the minimum lease to 6 months.
The rumor spreads like wildfire through Porn Palace staff, but of course never reaches the public. The droid salesman and his stockbroker gay partner did not get rid of their droids, kept them for sex variety and housework.
Now it is utterly impossible for a sex droid to attack a human, multi-level failsafe devices and programming. The programming preventing one droid attacking others is somewhat less secure.
One droid, in a fit of rage and jealousy, destroys the rest.
In order to keep it quiet, the droid company gives undisclosed financial compensation. Still, I wonder, how many other cases happen. Even if kept quiet, it costs money to do so.

The Christian Right, previously unheard from, fires a salvo. A Hutterite lawyer, Mr Kleinsasser, represents a group of religious communes such as Amish, Hutterite and Doukhobor. He will do pro bono work on a Supreme Court challenge.
See, there is nothing in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms which specifically states that a government should give equality by being more generous. Equality of the sexes could just as well be accomplished by re-enacting the Homo Laws and applying the same restrictions to women.
The media and gay reaction is frivolity, scorn. What can one little guy do? These cases take a dozen lawyers, fulltime.
An ally surfaces. The Catholic Church announces they support Mr Kleinsasser 100%, will be presenting him with a list of Catholic lawyers willing to do pro bono on his case.
As the media circus photographs Mr Kleinsasser filing his initial papers, the Sword of Damocles hangs over gay.
Book publishers suspend any new projects.
Consolidated and International Droids hold a joint news conference, "we have always prided ourselves on not merely obeying the law, but staying well within community moral standards." (sad, but true) "This recent court challenge means we must suspend research on the gay droid project. We would not wish to be in the uncomfortable moral position of finding the law rendering our warranties invalid, nor being unable to supply spare parts. We will take the high road, simply wait for the Supreme Court to decide."
The wild exuberance vanishes from gay porn, afraid to start any more films.
Bonuses drop as sales deflate.
Parliament appeals to the Supreme Court, asking for priority on the case.
The Chief Justice is frosty, reminds them that true justice takes time and is more important than mere economic activity.
The other Major Zamani is a big winner. Hollywood, with zillions to invest, afraid to do so in gay movies, dusts off the idea of a sequel to The Silver Paddle.
She will play an uber-mistress droid, pro dom to a stock brokerage, who torments staff and customers.
The studio promises twice as many minutes on S&M, less time wasted on plot. I shake my head, not having recalled any plot the first time.

Meena and I lose our Saturday jobs. The manager talks with me privately, "Maj, I feel like the world's biggest heel, doing this to you. Without you, I wouldn't have a store, it'd be cinder and rubble. So forgive me, but business is business."
"Sir, we are slated for an Ulster tour soon anyhow."
He smiles with relief.
As I turn away, there is a tear in my eye. There is no Ulster tour. I let him off the hook because he was such a nice guy throughout.

Don't believe for even one minute the army has forgotten my sin of indiscretion with the Reservists. I am now ordered to report to the 10/90 Committee. So, a fitting punishment for my big mouth, I now am stuck with 12 meetings per year, instead of 4.
What is a 10/90? The Canadian Army of Antiquity, 500 years ago, perfected the concept. To address a shortage of soldiers, units are formed with 10% regulars and 90% reservists. Usually tasked for one particular tour, then semi-disbanded.
Stop-gap, dangerous, expensive, poor unit morale due to insufficient group bonding.
Always, a desperation move when short of soldiers.
In today's enviroment, with thousands of regulars cooling their heels and dreaming of a tour, 10/90 is meaningless. You'd never need to do it.
So, this is one of those pie-in-the-sky, might-need-it-in-10years Committees.
We get no travel budget to observe the 2nd Ontarios, but we do get access to their records.
Another clue it's meaningless, they have over 20 officers on it. If they wanted real results, it would be much smaller. A high school debating club.

Futuristic Infantry 16

Once a quarter, duty takes me to a far flung area of the giant city. 4 Metro transfers, but I don't mind. I get to claim the fare on expenses and a chance to read uninterrupted.
The meetings themselves though - uffff - too many long-winded people and pie-in-the-sky ideas.
It's a mil reserve unit, half day meeting of the officers. I am not allowed to be critical. My role is resource person, answer technical and bureaucratic questions. I have no actual authority, any decisions are theirs.
Maj Thompson begins, "all we get today, rest have the flu. Not enough for a quorum - can't conduct any official business. I propose we ask Maj Zamani to speak informally. All in favor."
All hands.
She continues, "Maj, you have demonstrated you are a patient person. Now, answer me one question, if you were in my shoes, what would you do?"
"First, it is a hypothetical question. I would not have to live with the fallout, but you would. Second, I prefer not to, it would be a form of usurping your authority."
"Very well, a vote. Who wishes the Maj to blaze away with both barrels? To give us a Regular Force perspective?"
All hands.
I look out the window, this is gonna be rough, "first, disabuse yourself of notions of chasing more budget money. You don't spend all you get now. Second, forget additional equipment. You have sufficient jeeps and trucks for weekend gigs; can practise on APC's you borrow during summer camp. Third, focus long and hard on nominal roll. Unless and until you can put together a roll of 400 members, forget anything else. You don't have a critical mass; not enough people to take on any roles. With 290, you don't get respect from HQ. Any questions?"
Capt Steiner gives an icy smile, "and would the Maj be so kind as to suggest where to find 110 people?"
"You won't find them in the private sector; most employers won't authorize the time off. Have to concentrate on public sector; where mil leave must be granted."
Sarcastic tone, Capt Steiner, "I see the Maj thinks we are kindergarten children. Don't you think we know that much? Try again."
I sigh inwardly, no backing down now, "my guess here, each of you present knows at most 1 or 2 likely candidates. So it won't happen from the officers alone. If every Sgt and Cpl pitches in, talks to likely friends or co-workers, it might work."
Lt Beauregard gives a gentle smile, polite tone, "Maj, it's already being done. And yet the pace of new people only covers turnover. We just never achieve liftoff. Any other ideas?"
"I almost hate to say this, but are you aware the 382nd, from my side of town, accepts men as members? Their choice, whether to or not. But they have pulled nominal roll up to 410."
Capt Steiner snorts in derision, "I'm afraid our vehicles and tents aren't big enough for the 6 droids each would bring on maneuvers."
From the looks of outrage, I see everyone else ready to attack.
"Ok, let's get things straight. Any decisions are yours, not mine. It was merely an idea that others have used. I'll leave now and let you carry on privately. And if you do decide you don't want me at further meetings, simply notify your HQ. In due course, they will find someone else."
As I close the door, I know in my heart of hearts I went too far. I will, after whatever bureaucratic time delay, receive a mild reprimand for exceeding my authority.
Not wishing to rush back, I decide to check out a used book store near the Metro here.
My intentions are to buy a half dozen novellas, but I decide early to pass on that, take one to the counter. Why? I suspect the cashier is a racist, views all minorities as shoplifters. She's been staring at me, always looks away, just as I glance up.
As I approach her, I realize why she was staring.
Politely I say, "Col Anderson, been awhile. Haven't seen you since Belize days. Been retired long?"
She grins, "yep, not a huge profit in this, but lots less paper."
She takes an electric kettle, makes tea. Our chat wanders from past tours to the economics of selling to a poor group.
"You know," she says in tone of mock outrage, "there were times and places where men actually read. I can assure you, if they did, it wouldn't be buying one novella at a time, it would be a dozen."
I reply drily, "if you are waiting for the Renaissance, don't hold your breath."
She laughs heartily.
I choose a few more novellas, then leave.
On the Metro I turn on my handheld to check news. The Supreme Court has now rendered its decision on the gay case. The Charter of Rights and Freedoms takes precedence over the mere wishes of Parliament. It clearly forbids discrimination based on gender.
Parliament is ordered to rewrite laws within one month giving men the same sexual freedom as women. Specifically, the Supreme Court insits, only bestiality and sex with underage is forbidden.
Acidly I think they should also address issues of economic discrimination.
Reaction has piled up during the day. A prominent economist predicts economic mayhem. Using the 10% figure mooted by the Ancients, he predicts a 10% drop in droid sales.
Another economist rebuts this idea. Has not the droid industry catered to different racial minorities by producing different race droids? Will they not just as capably manufacture gay droids?
Every sociologist under the sun weighs in with guesstimates of population. They all have quasi-logical reasons to estimate anywhere from 1% to 20% of the population being gay.
A small publishing house feels it will be good for business. Shake up the stodginess of modern Lit. Get a few men actually reading again.
Mens' apparel manufacturers welcome the challenge.
The travel industry is over the moon, predicting gay-only cruises and resorts. And, they insist, lotsa money in that market, not like catering to lesbians.
The New Democratic Party says bring it on. According to membership and Member of Parliament figures, they are the clear favorite of women and racial minorities. They promise to vigorously represent gay issues, welcome gay members.
The Conservative Party leader is not to be outmaneuvered. His take is yes you are gay, but you are also well-paid professionals. Your interests are best served by man-to-man solidarity, by voting for a low-tax party. A half dozen of his backbenchers tend to cast a shadow on the degree of welcome open to openly gay members.
Even a human prostitute has a view, states it will be good for business. When the reporter asks why, she replies, "any society that is open, that experiments, that is good for business. Read your history, we seem to be unique in this concept of grossing out. Pretty much any other time and place in history, man-woman sex was the norm."
The reporter gasps, turns pale. Obviously not too open-minded himself.
A magazine publisher, "we have over 100 different titles, cater to mainstream and minority alike. Our experience is any minority not being catered to, simply does not buy magazines, period. We will commence market research, as to how many gay titles we should float."

As I carry my tray, Meena asks, "heard bout the Supreme Court?"
"Yes, news site had lotsa interviews."
"You watch, soon we all find boyfriends."
I raise an eyebrow, "let me get this straight, pardon the pun. This legislation affects gay men only, is totally irrelevent to straight men. So how do you conclude that?"
"Lotsa these guys ain't 100% dyed-in-the-wool gay, but bisexual."
"Perhaps, but how do they make the switch from droid to real woman?"
"Once they have experienced the human warmth, they'll want it."
"All the same, if you are waiting for the Renaissance, don't hold your breath."
We both laugh.

Table of Contents and Preview

Please note Table of Contents was last published Jan 24 05. For ease of finding, please click on "January 2005" at right. It will be on top, last item published in January.

Preview of short story soon coming "First Mission" - A young Lieutenant from way off in the future, a draftee, is assigned a so-called routine recon mission - infiltrate circa 2000 Canada and report back. Things start to go desperately wrong, as the Dragon crew misses the Drop Zone by 15 years and 12,000 miles. It goes downhill from there, as she is mistaken for a Russian spy of the time.

Futuristic Infantry 15

My T4 income form arrives in the mail. I take the preprinted T1 income tax blank I've received, enter my figures. My income, hence income tax, is below the exemption level. Interest and capital gains are exempt, part of government policy to favor investment. In 3 minutes, job is done. Eat your heart out, circa 2000 people.
Yes, we women may be discriminated against, but there are compensations. For men, the form takes half a day, swallows up just over half their income.
The flow of privates and corporals starts, seeking help with the form. See in our army, privates have zero paper. Corporals do little beyond attendance lists. The lion's share of paper is for sergeants and officers.
We have a large number of nearly illiterate and nearly innumerate people. So why aren't Lt's and Capt's helping me with this? It was a huge debate years ago. Some were willing to help; others, not. Those who weren't, felt the others made them look bad. So, I ended with the job. Still I don't mind. It is easy and a chance to chat for a few moments with everyone in my command. But kiss goodbye to a week of productive work.
As I ponder my now more paper-stricken desk, the phone rings. Brig-Gen Federenko says, "Maj, take 6 APC's and a full company. Get rolling toward Prison for Homosexuals. Once you're enroute, we talk."
"Rolling now, ma'am."
"Crash course in civil service unions. The outer perimeter people are a separate union, in a legal strike position. The inside people, such as living unit guards and kitchen have an ongoing contract. The insiders are not allowed to go on sympathy strike. The outsiders are not allowed to impede the passage of inside people. With me so far?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Good, first make sure the outside union isn't harassing the inside. Other than that, it's perimeter security till they return to work."
We roll up. By the amount of laughing and joking during the shift change, I deduce the 2 unions are at peace. So I set up perimeter patrols.
With zip to do, I think. Talk about inequality. Women are permitted any form of sex with the exceptions of bestiality or sex with underage. Yet men, risk a prison sentence, heavy duty psychotherapy and even drug therapy. So why?
Maybe it is economic. Allow homosexuality and the droid industry would suffer a downturn. Whereas women, since their sex generates not one dollar of Gross National Product, are irrelevent. So inconsequential, it is pointless to legislate against lesbianism.
After 24 hours, we return to base as the government negotiators return to the bargaining table.
In the days to come, I think a lot. See I did my Masters Thesis on circa 2000 times. In those days the figure 10% gay was mooted around. Ok, so maybe it is out by a percent or two, but you get the point. There are millions of men hidden away in our society, a huge underclass.

A week later, I'm again in action. A temp agency is under siege. The armored car with their payroll is late and several hundred disgruntled temps threaten mayhem.
Again, all it takes is to show and they form into an orderly line. Twenty minutes later, the armored car appears. As we drive back, I ponder. Only men in that line. All $8 an hour jobs for a day here or week there. Stuff that isn't worth programming droids to do.
By contrast, women temps don't exist anymore. All female jobs, despite low pay, are permanent and full time.
So there are men out there living worse than women. But as I recall, most looked like members of the drinking class.

Half mile from campus, I sit in the one remaining public coffee house.
Two obvious profs are 2 tables away. After various small talk on the theme of English Lit, one asks, "if you don't mind, how can you afford to go for that extra sabbatical year?"
Gentle smile, "my friend, I'm so deathly tired of undergrads, such no-minds. I have a burning desire to write a real novel. Leased a rundown house on a remote Greek island. So, how'd I do it? First, look at your income tax form, then look at your droid bills. If you decide you can ah use the time-honored method of the Ancients, your living costs are near zero."
"You have been practising? Seeing what it's like without droids?"
"No real difference in sensation. Lot more free time, without all that endless jealousy droids have. Only drawback, gotta do housework."
"No way, Greece is poor, hire a grandmother to come in once a week."
"Well, it would give me more writing time."
"What is the theme?"
"The Ancients. Circa 2000. Just love that time, larger than life. Going to do a political thriller in that epoch."
"Cool, no political thrills nowadays, just political boredom."
Both laugh.

Two grad student/sessionals arrive. After some small talk, one asks, "I'm curious. How'd you manage to give just 2 classes this time? Sure gives more time for your thesis."
Grin, "only got one droid now. Also, saves me the whole jealousy routine."
I reflect, that is how evolution or revolution happens. Starts at the top end of the education sprectrum.
Tonight's public lecture is on Voluntary Simplicity. Three speakers give their experience on consciously cutting back on consumption.
One man keeps only one droid now. Works 6 months, spends the other 6 in a tiny cottage in the country. Another, an aspiring artist, also down to one droid, now has a day job of 2 days a week and lotsa time to develop his art. A third is retired at age 42, investment income now covering his reduced expenses.
Audience questions run the gamut, everything from massively ignorant to obvious there has been considerable thought already.
As I ride home, I reflect I am not a participant, merely an observer. It's not like I have any real scope to cut consumption. Still, it is interesting to see the ferment of our society. Bit of a backlash to massive no-mind, over-the-top consumerism.

Meena gasps, hands the paper, "look at that ad."
For the first time ever, I see an ad on leasing droids. This promises no credit checks, a damage deposit and a reasonable monthly fee. We are both stunned. Surely this implies there is hidden poverty out there and/or the companies are having problems selling.
Right next to the ad, a story on the Central Bank dropping interest rates 1/2 of 1% to stimulate flagging consumer demand.
Neither Consolidated nor International Droids are doing well on the stock market these days. I think back to advice I got from my paddllee. Yes, my portfolio has done well.

Futuristic Infantry 14

In my idle moments, I find myself thinking of the 3rd Ontarios. There is insanity. Their career prospects were good, better or best. They spit in the demon's eye, chose "crummy." Why? Is there some historical pull which works on men? Gradually I wrap my head around it. Mosta my girls are there because they are stuck. These guys chose it. Now wonder they do things well.
I find myself hoping for an encore. Mine don't experience fun on tour, more just greed for tour pay combined with wary fear. These guys were enjoying the tour, laughing and joking, but still deadly serious with their jobs.
So why then did army authorities switch to mostly female centuries ago? Money, wanted a cheaper mil.
As for Capt Leblanc and his droid jokes, forget it, he couldn't afford even one. If he did, the tiny rooms in BOQ wouldn't work. Droids have pride too. Get sulky, pouty, problematic if they feel the owner is not living up to his various responsibilities to them.
I start getting mail from the Ontarios. They'll enclose several vacation photos, thank me warmly for helping get the first real vacation they've had in years. By the time it's done, I have received over 100 thank yous. Heart warming.
My usual welcome home from tour is 150 charged with D&D. The contrast, like night and day.

Meena groans, "I am told, only reason I'm allowed to speak with you, the rules on non-fraternizing with CO."
"So Lt Morelli is jealous?"
"What can you do? Real hot ones, mega-jealous. Makes up for it in bed."
"Are those scratches?"
"Yeah, lots more you can't see, Hades, she's as crazy as the journalists."
As I fetch a refill, I see the other half of the happy couple arrive. Two fresh bruises on her face. Oy!

I groan as I see the memo. I must name a United Way coordinator(s). Knowing how much everyone hates this, how it is viewed as a punishment detail, I'll hafta just leave each officer responsible for her own area. Even then, you can hear the groaning from here to Ottawa.
So why even bother? Rules say everyone must turn back in the form. Lots come with a token $1 donation. More come with zero and a rude commentary on low salary level and/or United Way.
Somewhere up in the Chrystal Palace, slang for National Defence HQ, are acres of sadists. Like a plague of locusts infesting field ops.
Next memo informs me it's time to inspect the APC's for stills. See back in the evil old days of the USSR, lotta stills were bolted on under tank bellies. Knowing the lack of interest in reading history here, I doubt if anyone actually read that. More likely a case of re-inventing the wheel.
And every second time I inspect, I will find one. I never report it, too much paper. I order the guilty crew to remove it, hide it somewhere else. Then I look at that APC again. Always a nil report.
Next memo informs me I am 3% above average in lightbulb consumption. So? They expect an explanation. The phrase "power surge" comes to mind. Always worked before.

Meena passes the newspaper. Giant Infotech, with HQ in our city, is laying off 18,000 employees, probably 99% male.
"You watch," she smiles, "soon be lotsa sex."
"How you figger?"
"Everyone knows droids need as much fine tuning and maintenance as a race car. Whaddya suppose will happen when these clowns are on Unemployment Insurance?"
I take out my handheld, call up the Globe and Mail site, click on IT jobs, "hmm, plenty jobs for those willing to relocate."
"You are are one prize spoilsport, stick-in-the-mud, dyed-in-the-wool, die-hard mega-prude. They broke the mold after you, didn't want another."
I grin, "come on, what guy is gonna risk this grossing out, when all he hasta do is relocate?'
She groans, "sad, but you could be right."
"So what is wrong with the ultra-hot Lt Morelli? Bored with her already?"
"Women are just insane, swallow you up with all that mega-jealousy. I'd be glad to grab even one of those Giant IT boys."
"Oh come on, then he'd hafta go for de-grossing-out counselling and ..."
She interrupts, glee on her face, "lot you know. Ever hear of pro dom droids?"
"Surely you must be pulling my leg?"
"Nope, expensive as it gets. Take you to the very edges of pain/pleasure. Exactly the sort Arezou played."
"Oh."
"Well, he can't afford a pro dom bill, being unemployed. So I come along, offer the same for free. Just watch, gonna hang my personal ad on the web."
And so it was, Meena was back in action. This time, I decline to accompany her. That whole IT complex is Cocaine City, those guys are trouble with a capital T.
To add insult to injury, I end up with the heart-broken Lt Morelli crying in my office for half a day. She demands a transfer out, feels all are laughing at her.
I know for a fact they ain't, she's only about the 1,982nd dumpee this year. But try convincing her of that. My only hope is, those things take time to process, maybe she will change her mind in the interim.
Two days later, she is back in my office, looking like the cat who swallowed the canary, asking me to tear up her transfer request. I know better than to ask, better not to know.
"Ignorance is bliss" does not last long. Meena whispers over her tray, "heard the rumor?"
"Which one? Gotta be a hundred."
"My ex, the hot hot hot Italian has snagged - get this - drum rolls - a guy."
"You're joking?"
"Nope, Giant IT."
"But surely he's risking this grossing out?"
"Look you just don't understand. See during man-woman sex, the usual outcome is grossing out. But when he's your slave, well he just hasta obey. It overpowers his inhibitions."
"Oh."
"So, once you've given him a good paddling or flogging, you then get a high-voltage weekend."
"But that is sick, perverted, wierd, way beyond the pale."
"Yes, but it works. Nothing succeeds like success, as the Ancients used to say."
It spreads like a prairie grass fire, fanned by a high wind. In no time, half the battalion has real boyfriends. And me, I know it's trouble. What will happen when those guys find jobs to relocate to?
Some won't want to take the girlfriend. This will produce a crop of heart-broken advice seekers to me and the counsellors.
Any that do take her, she'll transfer to another unit near him, I'll hafta struggle hard to get replacements.
Does it get any more lose-lose than that?
I look at the calendar, calculate my retirement date. In my mind's eye, I see the sheer ignominy of handing over a battalion of less than 100. A new record, on the bad side. Shame!

It comes to a crashing halt and sooner than I expected. Leviathan IT buys the physical assets and go on a re-hiring spree. They sop up every Giant IT guy still left in town and still need more.
My girls, don't have a chance. Pretty much 100% are dropped like hot potatoes, now that the guys have money for droids and cocaine again.
These days an average strength is about 60. Some 200 of the recent dumpees got into - surprise - a bar mega-brawl.
Add in detox, brig and hospital.
About all those left on duty now are the religious set and the ugly ones, who weren't able to snag a Giant IT guy.

Futuristic Infantry 13

By the end of the first week, I see it is a viable venture. Getting cooperation from officers and sgt's; after all, they selected me. Most troops follow their lead.
A few total jerks; I don't concern myself. Few enough social pressure will bring them around. After all, all wish to return alive and uninjured.
By the end of the second week, the hard-cores have relented. They understand I do have their best interests at heart. Everywhere I go, it's to friendly banter. They see I have a sense of humor and start to tease me about the actress.
Capt Leblanc flirts with me outrageously. Yes he knows it's forbidden to fraternize with your CO, he's just joking. For my part, I play fiercely jealous - his droids or me - no compromise.
He'll give up, "we-ell, they'd be jealous too. Wouldn't want me back. Best I drop you."
They tip the scales at a world-record 546 out of 550. 4 fail the pre-tour medical; no one in jail. They pitch right in, find 4 replacements and we lift off at 100%.

We must arrive a week before our Belfast tour commences; practise on Brit APC's.
I'm pleasantly surprised, no hot-dogging at all, not what I'm used to. They are sane, sensible drivers. Good stitching with MG's, 2 or 3 shots at a time; not long barrel-overheating bursts.
I have a 6th sense on these things. I can tell the Ra is eyeballing our practice. Good, better we look, less inclined they will be to attack.
One month into the tour, the attack comes in Andy's Town, slang for Andersontown. Both sides of a narrow street, rooftop snipers open up on us. The response, fast, accurate, both are dead.
Now I have one rearview mirror to replace and one bushel basket of paper to fill. C'est la vie.
During our 6 month tour, there are 6 sniper attacks. We win all.
I feel sad as I return, hand them over to their regular CO. Amazing how many friends I made on tour.

I return to find Meena bored, restless, depressed. So where is her circle of slaves? Jail, possession of coke in quantities sufficient for traffic. Not too surprisingly, she has let things slide in her duties as A/Maj.
Morosely I stare out the window. My destiny appears to be to cover up for others.
I sift info, discover today we have 72 strength for the 3rd. Good job no tours loom on the horizon. Still, I stay cheerful. Friday our brawlers are released; bring us to 188.
Everywhere I go in the 3rd, it's to a sullen, hostile reception. This baffles me, people always used to joke with me. Sooo, of what sin am I guilty?
I seek out Lt Duncan, put out tea, "we Afghans pride ourselves on being tough and honest. I
understand Newfoundlanders feel the same."
"You are accurate in your comment," cool, but not hostile.
"Your take please, why do they hate me?"
"First answer one question, with a yes or no, no qualifiers. Were you out and out ordered to assume command of the Ontarios?"
"No."
"That much, the unit figured out, they understand army nuance. Something that distasteful, only ordered in extreme emergency. That is, leaving tomorrow, CO suddenly ill. They are jealous. You abandoned them, went off gallivanting with men. Ignored them."
I nod.
"However, being an officer, I can well imagine you were given a somewhat grim choice. If you tell me, you have my word I don't pass it on. Unless of course you want me to."
"When their CO needed surgery, only one other male officer qualified to take over. Minimally so, promoted to Maj a month before, no overseas tours. They were offered their choice, take him or choose from a list of female officers. Their consensus was I was first choice and him second. They were headed for XMG. Can you, in your wildest dreams, imagine simply leaving an inexperienced officer to lead an all-male unit to XMG?"
She blanches, "my God, the Ra woulda wiped the lot. You saved a lotta lives."
"With my intervention, that was switched to Belfast. Everyone made it home alive, uninjured."
"And yet, that isn't stuff we could feed into the grapevine. How will you manage?"
"Same as always, just go about the job. They either accept me back or they don't. If they don't, I move along. Now, how well did Meena do while I was away?"
"She is your friend, rather not say."
"Please say."
"First 2 months, never available, always gone, no one knows where. Then something happened. Hangs around her office and BOQ, nary a word to anyone."
I groan aloud, "so naturally the battalion was at loose ends. Even less to do than usual."
"I tried to keep my company busy. They did a bit better."
They are stubborn people. It's a month before I'm forgiven my sins and people will talk with me again. A month that feels like all eternity.
Everyone else sorted, the Meena problem remains. Yes she has taken advantage of my friendship and yes it is time to change that.
I politely inform her it's time to fish or cut bait. I expect one of two outcomes: either book an appointment with the counsellors or get back to doing her job. I don't say to do it right, she wasn't before. I'd settle for how things were before I departed.
We-ell, it gets pretty heated. Calls me every name from Hitler to Capt Bligh. Demands a transfer. I counter by telling her not to fill the form today. Cool off a bit, fill it tomorrow. Best to be careful of what gets onto your file.
Next morning I sit at breakfast, dreading it. She sits, with a cheerful smile, "hey, I was outa line with some of those comments. Am I forgiven?"
"Yes. But still, counsellor or job."
She pulls a face, "those da** counsellors are so f***ing stupid, I'll do the job just to avoid them."
We both laugh.
"Do you wanna talk about it Meena? Get it outa your system?"
"Sat up all last night, staring out the window. Realized those journalists are too insane. Time to go find a girlfriend."
Drily I reply, "this time don't put her in hospital. We are understrength."
She laughs, hugs me and that is it. We're back to frienship. That morning, she digs in on the job.

The Meena problem over, I start to see once again the sheer emptiness of what I do and how I live. Pretty much nowhere left to go off base. My main function is simply ride herd on the collective insanity. Almost by definition, I am up to my eyeballs in people stupidity or bored to death.
So why did I become an army officer? Think of career prospects for women as bad, worse or worst. I snagged merely "bad", makes me the winner.

Futuristic Infantry 12

Meena grins, "tell me, ever do anything with that droid share money?"
"Still in T notes."
"I know where you can get financial advice for free."
I groan inwardly, give it a rest Meena.
"Come on, don't be such a stick-in-the-mud. Come with me next time. Blister butt. It'll get you free portfolio advice."
"I ah well ah"
"I'll take that as a definite yes."
"No you won't."
"Earth calling Zohra; Earth calling Zohra; come in please."
"Very funny!"
"Wake up and smell the coffee. Aren't you bored to death? When do you ever get off base, except some duty? Just do it; can leave before it gets too ah"
"I ah"
"You da** well pulled me outa burning vehicle in Sudan. Risked your life to save mine. Difference is I'm living and you ain't. So?"
I stare out the window, edge of tears, "ok, you win."

Rules are strict, I do my thing, we have coffee, then I vanish. I administer a dozen with real mustard to each. After some half hour of coffee, Meena takes command of her stable of slaves and I vanish. Now that was fun, I reflect on the Metro. Next time, 2 dozen each.
Sunday morning, I surf, research, 3 leads. One develops computer games; another manufactures handhelds; another, virtual reality travel experiences.
In all 3 cases, it is exactly as the business editor said. Healthy, but not spectacular, growth. Languished in relative obscurity. Underpriced for the fundamentals. Good buy-and-holds.
Monday morning I will make a small purchase of each. Gotta leave funds for other leads.
A hungover Meena joins me for lunch. Shyly I admit I'll up the ante, 2 dozen to each.
She grins, "must admit I been worried bout you. Last time you had that alive look was during the rocket attack. Yet, pick up a paddle, you get that alive look back."
I blush.
"Nothing to be ashamed of. Business editor thinks you're hot. Why not just make the easy conquest?"
"I ah"
"He's drooling. Couldn't ask for an easier catch."
"He also snorts coke. A little too high-octane for me. If ever I were to get a guy, he'd hafta be sweet and gentle, sensible and well-behaved."
"And tall. And handsome. And rich," sarcastic tone, "don't forget the suit of armor and white horse."
"You think my standards are too high?"
"Bingo Sherlock, amazing how you deduce these things. So, go for the sci and tech editor. Doesn't do anything more than weed."
"But he's 40 pounds overweight. Munchies, no doubt."
"You are just soooo fussy. Absolute perfectionist, that's you."
"No, I'm not."
"Tell you what. Give him some incentive. I'll tell him if he can drop 20, he gets to be your exclusive slave."
I blush.
"Don't worry, I'll be discreet."
Meena? Discreet? More like a bull in a china shop.
Still, she musta done it quiet. Next time he winks at me.

After several sessions I notice a change in me. Yes I still put mustard on the swings. But somehow or other, my resentment of men in general has largely vanished.
The on-again off-again Col Pearson returns; pushing the resta us back to substantive.
A few days later I am summoned to appear in Brig-Gen Federenko's office. She puts out a carafe of coffee, clears her throat, starts tentatively, "ah tell me, what do you know of the Ontarios?"
"Unusual hybrid ma'am. 1st Battalion is para; 2nd the experimental 10/90; 3rd all men."
"I can't imagine they get along. What comes next is not an order. I will appeal to your sense of duty. If you decline, that's life."
Oy! Now 3 guesses what's incoming.
"The 3rd has spent 6 months in training for an Ulster tour. Passed every measure of competency, even exceeded in most categories. Lotta unit pride on the line. This will be in fact their first overseas tour. Unfortunately their battalion commander is now undergoing major surgery. While his career isn't over, likely any overseas tours are."
I groan inwardly.
"Here is where the crunch comes. There is only one man qualified, but only minimally so. Promoted to Maj a month ago, never toured overseas, not even with a company."
Oy!
"A meeting of the officers and sgt's of the 3rd was convened. Asked for their input. Given a list of possible female officers and the profile of this one man. Their consensus is, you are the only female officer they would accept. I can't order something this distasteful. But if you decline, he takes them to Ulster."
"What is their destination ma'am?"
"Not carved in stone, Crossmaglen."
I see the impossible quandary. XMG Ra beats the lot. Send an inexperienced officer leading an all-male unit and it will be slaughter. While I don't particularly like men, I'd just as soon not see the chivalrous Mr O'Hanlon and his boyos wipe out 550. Yet if I go, how do I know they will really accept my authority?
"Any chance of swapping for another location ma'am?"
"I'll check. But explain, why is this important?"
"Ma'am the Brit 1st Para was mangled by the XMG Ra. I can't even imagine the 3rd Ontarios are within a light year of 1st Para in professionalism."
She chuckles, "see what I can do."
A day later, she phones, "if you wish you can swap for Belfast. Think the 3rd could handle the Belfast IRA?"
"I don't know, but at least now there are odds some will come back alive."
"So you'll take it?"
"Yes ma'am."

And so I land at the small London Ontario airport. A sgt picks me up. It is a truly magnificent drive. Lovely old architecture and lotsa trees. We're on a site that in ancient times was the University of Western Ontario campus. Short drive into the country is our practice range.
The weekend I spend browsing in some of London's rather famous used book stores. Even in Antiquity, that was a London institution.
Monday morning, officer and sgt meeting.
Captain Zimmerman, A Co, leads, "I will now introduce Maj Zohra Zamani. Not the actress, but the tough tourist with 15 tours and 3 decorations."
Laughter.
Capt Leblanc, B Co, "that's 7 tours in the insanity of Ulster, guys. We're in good hands here. Play nice."
I stand, "I will now share some photos. Architecture of Belfast. This will answer many of your questions." I show some 4 dozen.
Capt Zimmerman says softly, in tones of awe, "my God, they're stuck 500 years in the past."
"That is how five centuries of civil war looks. Yet the cars, computers, cell phones, fully modern."
Capt Taypotat, C Co, grins, "ma'am I can dig it. Same contrast as on Indian Reserves."
I continue, "notice how many really narrow streets there are. For Belfast we use British make APC's. Here's a photo."
Gasps.
"You will notice, with that narrow length and high center of gravity, these are unstable. Turn turtle easily. Before we ever hit the streets, our drivers will need practice. On the plus side, massive armor underneath. Totally impervious to land mines. Your wheels could be blown off, yet your men are alive."
Murmurs.
"88 mm cannons are impractical for this small. 20's are mounted. Plus side, 6 times the rounds per minute. Check out those machine-guns. Shotgun MG's. An invention of our ever-creative Brit colleagues. Work very well as all ranges in Belfast are very short. Firing ports, look at that field of swivel. Far wider than ours. These boyos stayed awake during geometry class."
Capt Taypotat says, in tones of reverence, "ma'am, those look ridiculous, to us I mean. But they are one mean killing machine, far more effective than ours."
"Thank you for your support Capt. The biggest problem is getting our side to take these 'toys' seriously at the start. I trust all here will cooperate in this endeavor."
Murmurs of agreement.

Futuristic Infantry 11

Soon after the S&M crowd is released, the media circus starts again. Arezou has received a leave of absence to do a film. Not just any film, she will star in a mega blockbuster S&M flick. If media figures are correct, in a few months she will earn 30 years of a Maj salary.
I decide not to be judgmental; between her and God; she isn't breaking any law doing it.
When I read of her role, I choke though. She doesn't even play a human, but an uber-droid, ubermistress who will take you to the very edges of pain/pleasure. Surely, she's setting Womens' Lib back by a century.
By now, the public is immensely curious about the Other Maj Z. Bowing to the inevitable, Army Public Relations awards the interview to a pro-forces network. Not scripted, that would be too stilted; half hour of softball questions.
He starts by asking about the list of tours I've been on. Hones in on how I won the 3 decorations, 2 in Sudan, 1 in New Guinea. He's very subtle, skilful. Watching after, I realize it's a masterpiece. I come across as very modest, quiet. No brag at all, it was him doing it with his leading questions.
Army PR is ecstatic, presents us in a good light.
My half hour of fame is over, I go back to being obscure me. Well, not totally. Col Pearson goes for another rest. So once again it falls on me to command the 3 battalions. Meena gets A/Maj; Lt Duncan, A/Capt.

Meena gasps, pointing to the mess TV, "come on, they shouldn't show stuff like that. This news show is watched by kids." It's the ad for The Silver Paddle, Arezou's film and it's graphic.
I nod.
"Rumor has it," she gives a wicked smile, "there's a scene where she paddles the entire staff of a TV station."
Absolutely straight face, I reply, "well, hafta see it then."
Meena gasps, pulls out her wallet, "got a ten here, says you ain't got enough nerve."
"You're on, we'll go together."
I hate to say it, but it actually seems boring. No plot, no dialogue to speak of, costumes you'd expect from a high-school drama club. Without the notoriety of their mega-star, they would not have a prayer.
And yet, it proves a mega-hit, Hollywood yaps about a sequel.
One thing I'd die before I'd ever admit to Meena. See, I have dreams. So, just how pure does that make me? From what I've heard, long as it stays a fantasy, you're ok. Start to act it out and it's the slippery slope.
As the dream repeats itself, I remember more and more detail. Then I realize there is zero eroticism. It's the sheer sadistic joy of paddling men, pure resentment.
This gets me wondering about Arezou. Does she feel the same? Or maybe, both ways. Thinking back to the film, I realize, she has both.
So that's the secret to the film's success. I would have imparted nothing but driven bitten energy. Arezou did that, but also oozing in sex and eroticism.
Meena looks across at me, "you feeling ok?"
Too abrupt, "yes."
"Come on now, ever since that movie, you seem different. Wishing it was you up on the screen."
I blush fiercely, don't reply.
"Good, I was worried about you. Now I know you're human after all, not an ice sculpture. In your case though, I'm guessing you don't see it as sexy at all. Pure spite, pure revenge, am I right?"
I nod.
"Wanna try for real?"
I gasp.
"Saturday, gonna swing the paddle at those journalists. Come along, they'd love the variety."
"I ah well ah"
"Good you're on."

Meena grins cheekily, "slaves, clothes off, hands and knees."
They rush to obey.
"Brought my apprentice along. She's gonna leave fairly quick."
Groans.
"Silence slaves. She will give you each a dozen, a warm up. I will then give the whole 9 yards."
As I work my way down the row, it feels wonderful. I soon have the wrist motion to give it more bite.
As I ride the Metro back, I realize it was pretty silly. Forget any momentary thrill, I was had, giving pleasure to men.
Next day Meena smiles, "soooo?"
I blush, "that's insane. Like I'm giving pleasure to the enemy."
"Thought you'd say that. I'm guessing last night gets it outa your system. Back to being you."
"Yes."
Sure enough the dreams fade, mostly.

Knowing so little about the topic, it comes as a surprise. I'm ordered to attend a press conference. The CEO of Consolidated Droids will do the handover. I'm guessing they were desperately short of officers with any involvement and I was sent to boost army numbers.
The CEO is allowed to save face on the flopped infantry idea. Never once is the word janitorial used, only "maintenance."
In front of a huge media crowd he proudly presents documents for several thousand droids and associated repair parts.
Dreading the social hoohaw after, I decide to leave immediately after the formal presentation, before the refreshments. Besides, I do have lotsa paper to do.
Col Kent intercepts me smoothly, "oh no, don't be rude, hang around a bit."
The business editor of the local rag appears. As luck would have it, he was one of Saturday's event. Smile, "well Col, we meet again. Meena says you did ok on the stock market."
"Ah well."
"I can guess the sort. Better to sell a month too early than a day too late."
I blush.
"Don't be ashamed. Fear and greed are the 2 biggest enemies of investors."
"Well, I did double my money on International."
"That's as well as anyone did. You gonna join us again?"
"No."
"Would it be rude to ask why?"
"I'm very old-fashioned."
"If you were, you wouldn't have come the first time. Here's what I see on you. You don't see it as sexy at all. This is revenge for all those times the parents favored the brothers, for the unequal job market, for having to maintain dignity and effectiveness in a massively underfunded organization."
I nod.
"So what is the harm in letting off a little steam? You could still swing a paddle."
I start to back away, "you have no idea how much paper I have to do."
Col Kent intercepts me, introduces me to Mr Ferguson, CEO, "Col such an honor to meet you. Col Kent tells me you were a huge contributor to the project."
Just his tone, I can tell the army is lying to him. Never told him janitorial.
"Sir it was very generous of you. Our funding is touchy."
"The day will come Col, when pretty much everything dangerous is done by droids. Save lives, disabilities. It was a huge honor to help that process along."
As he leaves, I feel like a fraud. I wasn't much of a contriboutor, nor was the army honest.
My attitude toward the business set changes a bit. Now I see it is possible to be a CEO, a patriot and a visionary all rolled into one. Truth is, I admire him.