Chapter 3: Smoke and Mirrors

My door chimed.

"Enter!" I barked.

Tess came in, smiling. For the record, Tess was wearing the Civil Service uniform—with head scarf. Tess was Catholic—it isn't just traditional Arab culture or Islam that requires women to cover their hair.

"A Sa'arm scout was detected and destroyed three hours ago," Tess announced.

I couldn't tell you the difference between a Sa'arm fighter, a Sa'arm scout, or a Sa'arm torpedo boat. Lack of training and experience were why. The phrase was code for 'get your butt over to Debrief immediately.' It also meant that Tess and Georgia would run things in my absence. The phrase was chosen as a canary trap—when word popped up elsewhere that a Sa'arm scout had been detected and destroyed three hours ago, my security protocols will have been proved inadequate and the person who passed on the message identified. I briefly wondered what went wrong with my 'best laid plan' and stifled the thought. I'd find out, or not.

Tradecraft!

There was an elaborate system of portals, and I was required to strip naked after the first one. The project called Arab Dagger was compartmentalized in several ways. There were no exits other than those black disks the Confederacy used for short-distance travel. If we had to leave the complex, it would take something capable of boring through a meter of solid metal and an unknown distance through solid Martian rock. If I was on Mars, really—one element of running agents was regarding the agent as an expendable tool. Agent handlers were expendable, too.

It was that "naked in front of an audience" dream. Worse—I was sprouting an erection. Sometimes I cannot tell that I'm dreaming. In this case I was sitting in on a court martial—apparently my own court martial. Did Confederacy courts martial put the defendant on trial naked? Normal American procedures were that prisoners didn't salute—that privilege was ONLY for honorably-serving Soldiers. I was ordered to report to the court martial board, a military jury of my peers.

"Sirs," I deviated from the script running through my head, "this is taking place inside a sleep learner. I can feel that my body is paralyzed. I can feel things happening to my body. This space isn't as large as it seems to me. Does Confed technology allow biologicals to participate in CAP testing or am I addressing only artificial intelligences?"

The room went gray and featureless. I was alone, on my back, staring at the inside of a booth. The lid opened up and someone helped me to stand.

"I didn't 'believe' in polygraph testing, either," I muttered as I was taken across the room.

"How do you explain that?" He was a huge man—Marine enhancements? He pointed at my erection.

"Nocturnal erections prevent urination while sleeping," I explained. "Basic physiology. Bladder control is difficult when unconscious. That's also why men exhibit a rise in testosterone levels when they first wake up."

"So why don't women piss themselves at night?"

"Wide-ons," I answered. There were more than two people in the room but I was still somewhat loopy. Drugs? Not having slept more than the occasional stolen cat-nap for almost a week? Didn't really matter. Reality meant having to perform even while sleepy or sick or injured. "Women get sexually excited at night as well. It is why the youngest children can't help but wet the bed. That is why old folks lose night-time bladder control. It's a matter of arousal."

"You have an answer for everything, smart guy!"

"Sometimes I'm incorrect—and sometimes the answer is 'Sir, I don't know, but I will investigate and report back to you, sir!' Where's your research? Don't rely upon prejudice. The Conventional Wisdom, things that Just Everybody Knows is So, often turn out to be utter crap."

I hate being inebriated. Don't know what I was on, but I was utterly buzzed at the moment.

"Getting cold feet about my project?" I asked. "Having second thoughts? Did someone grow a conscious? The time for discussion is past. I have 24 hostile aliens and 83 other human beings at risk right now in the complex. I do hope I've achieved the standard of a good leader, that things will hum along smoothly without me to micromanage. My project was based upon mutual exploitation and mistrust. Didn't anybody read the memo? Perhaps the executive summary was too long at 482 words set for a fourth-grade reading level?"

"Don't sneer at me!"

"Don't be sneer-able!"

"Sneer-able isn't a word."

I could only manage a chuckle. Sometimes a single beer will render me incapable of doing anything more than sleeping it off. I am very drug sensitive—a minimum dose is usually enough to render me insensate. I did have two beers once without feeling drunk, at least until I stood up, but normally I don't drink. I don't use the other recreational pharmaceuticals, either. On impulse I tried something. As a lucid dreamer I can sometimes control the dream world. I imagined that I was sitting in a ride at Disneyland.

Someone grabbed my body before I collapsed. I was walked over to a chair and helped to sit. Arm chair. Not a Disneyland ride. Yes, I was 'awake, ' mostly. Damn it!

"Has everybody forgotten history?" I asked. "World War Two ended seven decades ago, but the Cold War only ended a quarter century ago. Subversion means dealing with the Devil. If you can't play the game, get out of the sandbox before someone hurts you."

"Enough of that, Lieutenant Lawrence," a familiar voice boomed. "Stand down."

Familiar—but at the moment I wasn't able to connect a name an face with the voice. Too bad. Head stuffed full of cotton wool. The voices around me babbled. I wasn't able to follow the conversation at all. There was a moment of total blackness, complete silence.

I slept. I needed to.

Giggling children woke me up. Another sleep learning episode? I felt squirming naked skin against my own. My hands were fastened by the wrists above my head, my ankles strapped too. Now what?

"Wake up my husband." That was Fatima, my nine year old 'wife.' I was going to be justifying this to Confederacy moralists for at least the next five years. I opened my eyes, and the girl kissed me.

"I'll get breakfast ready, Master."

A pair of lips were on my erect penis. Yes, that opened my eyes!

"Girls, time to leave," I recognized Tess of the Civil Service.

"But I want to watch!" Zara whined.

"In three years you'll do far more than watch." A slap sounded, followed by a yip. "Go. I'll be there in a moment. We have to feed the Master."

As the girls were filing out under protest, I recognized Georgia, my boss, mounting me. I lost the ability to speak. Stimulation! It didn't take long before I was spurting inside Georgia. After a moment to recover, she led me to the shower and cleaned me up. I emptied bowel and bladder, she shaved my face.

"How long," I wheezed. "Sleep?"

"You are out of it! You've been asleep for sixteen hours. I didn't know a man could sleep so long."

"Tired," I admitted.

We moved from master suite to dining room. The rest of the family was there—and Signifier Tess. All naked. Well, it was my private quarters. A stack of pancakes was set in front of me.

"You're out of it today, aren't you?" Georgia asked.

"Yes, ma'am," I muttered. "If there's something requiring immediate action, I'll break my rule about talking shop over family meals. Otherwise ... catch me up on family business."

I mostly listened. How do people learn when they don't listen? When Zara mentioned that there was a new cat, Karo said "after breakfast." Cat? Someone had been busy! Fatima had a drawing she had made for art class. It was a portrait of me. Not bad. I could almost recognize myself. Jasmine and Tina and Lynn had a song for me.

"Happy birthday, to you!"

It was my birthday? The girls finished their song. I applauded them, hugged each one, wiped tears from my eyes.

Karo's son had my name, Tom—but called Tommy. For convenience he remained Tommy and I was Tom inside the house. I'd have liked to do it another way, but even a Master must pick his battles. Tracy, the other boy, and Tom had sculpted and painted a Sa'arm unit. Not life size, thankfully—just a little six-inch tall sculpture made from dough and baked hard. The paint job was very good for a child.

After breakfast I was ready for a nap—but duty called! I dressed in soft clothes—American style. Polo shirt, cargo shorts, running shoes. Handgun, carefully tucked underneath my waistband and shirt. I shouldn't need it, not here, but I remained armed unless forced to do otherwise. How can I explain "be prepared" to those living safe lives? And to those who have no choice but to be unarmed?

I missed the cat. Cat had other business and I had to work.

Achmed and Osama were both at prayer with the other trainees as I entered the lecture hall. The quiet was comforting. I looked over my material, reviewed the performance. The trainees were meeting expectations. I can read very fast, scan documents even more rapidly. Lots of practice. You should see me scan schematics while troubleshooting commo gear! Anyway, the students oozed into the classroom as if they had been partying around the clock on a three-day weekend.

Perhaps they had. That was the intent—when they were not in the sleep learner or in class, it was party time. There were two ways to deal with idle hands—work them to death, or diversions. I was doing both.

"Good morning, gentlemen," I said in English. Yes, English. That was part of the sleep learning because the international language of the airways was English. Human citizens of the Confederacy used English as the primary language because most of us came from the United States, with a considerable amount from other English-speaking nations. For purposes of aerospace defense, English meant that the Arab air defense network would mesh seamlessly with the near space battle when the Sa'arm arrived. "I've reviewed your training. You are progressing well.