Sifu Blackirish
SOC-14 1K
I have on my dress greens, freshly laundered and pressed with razor sharp creases. Four decorations are polished and dazzling on my chest. Woven blue rope attached to my left shoulder, with three small silver stars in precise alignment. Support Service Detachment black beret sits at a jaunty angle. Black shoes spit shined until they gleam. I am walking into the zone of our Medical District called Teaague's Gathering, cleared to continue my Social Week.
Now, do not misunderstand. This is not rape, nor anything like that.
We were fortunate back then, at the climax of the war, that our antimissile defenses operated beyond expectation. Our ranks were swelled by the rescue of civilians from the surface, many of them women. In the very early years after our retreat from the surface, many couples sought solace in sex. Very limited resources were available for birth control. Unfortunately, a lot of them had to endure tragic consequences when their children were either not viable or suffered various infirmities.
Those of us in the military services are usuallly separated from senior researchers and engineers attached to us, with infrequent contact at most. One of these scientists was the program director of a TekArchives restoration project for advanced medical scanning and imaging systems. She was touring the surface facilities when war erupted.
With her oversight, a massive effort was undertaken to reconfigure currently available medical scanners with the addition of existing laboratory stocks. It was conjectured that they could be used as an aid to prevent inbreeding and resulting reinforcement of recessive genes, along with detecting DNA damage.
Of course, in a war situation there are limited resources for non essential purposes. Without access to supplies from the surface, we were forced to rely on prepositioned caches placed during the construction of the tunnel networks. One also wondered if those in senior ranks would use their authority to gain priority in producing children regardless of genetic quality.
Thus it was a shock to all when this scientist presented her plan to the senior enlisted personnel in a mass meeting. Besides the scanners, she proposed the formation of a Procreation Lottery. No doubt a proposal such as this would have been met with derision at the least if made known before the war, but things were different now.
It was probably also her idea to bypass the officers and remaining civilian leadership, making mass oversight a part of this unconventional program. Difficult to manipulate data behind the scenes when everyone has an intimate knowledge of the procedures and ultimate purpose.
To assure our species' survival, women are expected to become pregnant at intervals, variable but historically at the very least every five years. Extensive physical examinations are given to women to ensure they are capable of carrying a child to term. Men are examined for general health and to ensure that they are capable of physical performance. Those who pass this criteria receive a scan. With that data available, lists of genetically compatible couples are compiled and submitted to the Teaague Procreation Lottery.
Those personnel who have suffered genetic damage by radiation, exposure to pathogens or chemicals undergo sterilization and become Green Cross counselors, available for recreational sex when not on combat duty. Extreme cases usually transfer to the 'Orange Team' suicide squads. Can you blame them?
There are no prohibitions against being married. A married woman may submit her own requests for whom will be the father of her next child, by custom doing so after having a child by her current husband. Her choices are granted, subject only to a medical veto.
There still exist the classic reasons for sex, that is, for consummation of romance or because of raw animal attraction. There is also one undeniable draw, that of being able to produce healthy children. Being virile and genetically fit proved to be an almost irresistable combination for some women, and so the custom of choice came about rather quickly. Those men selected by this criteria were not known to complain about it.
One might think we were breeding like rabbits in any available space. It did not happen, for MILGOV carefully balanced resources and kept meticulous records. As a result, we developed some pretty convoluted relationship trees. We usually called someone 'cousin' when seeing them off duty.
More than likely the relationship will be closer than that. Data is on file if anyone wants to trace their ancestry and descendants, but almost no one does so. It did not matter to us, because we draw strength from our familial interweaving. Never underestimate the risks a man or woman will take to protect our extended family.
To this day, we continue to perform the modified dating rituals. Besides honoring Director Teaague, who never had children of her own, we do so out of cultural inertia and for morale. It serves to remind us all of happier times and different places. It also reduced mental stress and physical frustration on everyone involved. Women did not have to worry about their 'reputation.' Men, including those not considered handsome or lacking in social skills, were guaranteed sex without having to pretend they were in love.
I passed by a gathering spot and heard music. This one had pre-spaceflight 'classical' recordings, and is usually occupied by one or the other partners nearing the end of their reproductive activities. I went in there once, stayed for one beer, and thought they were very boring. Lots of talk, very little action.
Before I could walk past a medcheck station's scanner, I could already hear noise from the next 'storefront.' Flickering holograms are combined with recordings of radiation counters and stellar background noise mixed with video of nebula flare activity. This unpleasant scene covered an area nearly a fullblock wide. For some obscure reason, probably only known to MILGOV, this area has been designated to be the one used by those active on their first Social Week.
I never did make it to this area, that first time. In fact, I was intercepted on the street before I made it this far. I looked at my watch, saw that I still had a quite a few minutes before my presence was required at my own assigned location. I decided to stop in for a moment and look around. Passing another instant medcheck station, I at last reached the entrance.
Strange lights on the walls and ceiling caused colors to glow on clothing people wore. Almost everyone carried small medinjectors, a model designed to make a nasal injection. I wondered what they were filled with, then decided I didn't want to know.
A few faces looked toward me, then turned away. Evidently I was too old to make an impression on them. Just past the bar area I could recognize a Private who is assigned to me in miltek maintenance sitting in a chair, staring up at a flatscreen display. Who wants to look at archive footage of nebula flare strikes?
No one paid attention to me as I went to the bar. I sat so close to the Private that I could have easily greeted him, but did not. With a wave to attract the bartender's attention, I ordered a beer. I guess there are not a lot of beer drinkers here, since the glass I received was well over half foam. I left it sitting on the counter. Oh, well...
I saw a woman approach, then pass me in a powered wheelchair. She was apparently not looking for me, which made me grateful for a second, but then I looked again. She was in full dress uniform, with the same blue rope that I have attached to mine. Certainly unusual, since women usually wore civilian garb exclusively during Social Week. Sometimes provocative, occasionally recycle classic. Those few who wore military attire would wear a work duty uniform.
Wait, not exactly. Her blue rope is larger, a double braid, and has a gold bar attached, a sign that she has the highest possible physical and genetic rating. Having never given birth to a child with genetic abnormalities, she has an effectively unlimited childbearing license. How rare is that in a war environment?
I found the physical rating hard to believe, because this woman was a mess! She had been burned on the right side of her face, with one eye almost closed by scar tissue. What hair she possessed was in a severe crewcut. Her right arm ended in a stump just above the wrist. Her left leg looked normal, the other somewhat shriveled.
"Good evening, Private."
He looked over at her, with shock registering on his features for only a moment.
"I know that this is your first Social Week. I hope my appearance is not startling."
"Ummm..."
"I know that you are not a virgin, but I doubt that you have had a sexual encounter with an experienced and voracious woman. I am here to correct that deficiency."
The Private said nothing, only triggering his nasal medinjector.
"I hope you have your issued medinjector with you, it will be needed. Come with me."
A flick of the wrist sent the wheelchair into motion. The Private rose and followed her, with an unreadable expression evident. No doubt he will find out the truth reflected in that phrase attributed to Benjaamin Fraanklin, that "all cats are gray at night."
I smiled to myself and followed at a discreet distance as they left.
Now, do not misunderstand. This is not rape, nor anything like that.
We were fortunate back then, at the climax of the war, that our antimissile defenses operated beyond expectation. Our ranks were swelled by the rescue of civilians from the surface, many of them women. In the very early years after our retreat from the surface, many couples sought solace in sex. Very limited resources were available for birth control. Unfortunately, a lot of them had to endure tragic consequences when their children were either not viable or suffered various infirmities.
Those of us in the military services are usuallly separated from senior researchers and engineers attached to us, with infrequent contact at most. One of these scientists was the program director of a TekArchives restoration project for advanced medical scanning and imaging systems. She was touring the surface facilities when war erupted.
With her oversight, a massive effort was undertaken to reconfigure currently available medical scanners with the addition of existing laboratory stocks. It was conjectured that they could be used as an aid to prevent inbreeding and resulting reinforcement of recessive genes, along with detecting DNA damage.
Of course, in a war situation there are limited resources for non essential purposes. Without access to supplies from the surface, we were forced to rely on prepositioned caches placed during the construction of the tunnel networks. One also wondered if those in senior ranks would use their authority to gain priority in producing children regardless of genetic quality.
Thus it was a shock to all when this scientist presented her plan to the senior enlisted personnel in a mass meeting. Besides the scanners, she proposed the formation of a Procreation Lottery. No doubt a proposal such as this would have been met with derision at the least if made known before the war, but things were different now.
It was probably also her idea to bypass the officers and remaining civilian leadership, making mass oversight a part of this unconventional program. Difficult to manipulate data behind the scenes when everyone has an intimate knowledge of the procedures and ultimate purpose.
To assure our species' survival, women are expected to become pregnant at intervals, variable but historically at the very least every five years. Extensive physical examinations are given to women to ensure they are capable of carrying a child to term. Men are examined for general health and to ensure that they are capable of physical performance. Those who pass this criteria receive a scan. With that data available, lists of genetically compatible couples are compiled and submitted to the Teaague Procreation Lottery.
Those personnel who have suffered genetic damage by radiation, exposure to pathogens or chemicals undergo sterilization and become Green Cross counselors, available for recreational sex when not on combat duty. Extreme cases usually transfer to the 'Orange Team' suicide squads. Can you blame them?
There are no prohibitions against being married. A married woman may submit her own requests for whom will be the father of her next child, by custom doing so after having a child by her current husband. Her choices are granted, subject only to a medical veto.
There still exist the classic reasons for sex, that is, for consummation of romance or because of raw animal attraction. There is also one undeniable draw, that of being able to produce healthy children. Being virile and genetically fit proved to be an almost irresistable combination for some women, and so the custom of choice came about rather quickly. Those men selected by this criteria were not known to complain about it.
One might think we were breeding like rabbits in any available space. It did not happen, for MILGOV carefully balanced resources and kept meticulous records. As a result, we developed some pretty convoluted relationship trees. We usually called someone 'cousin' when seeing them off duty.
More than likely the relationship will be closer than that. Data is on file if anyone wants to trace their ancestry and descendants, but almost no one does so. It did not matter to us, because we draw strength from our familial interweaving. Never underestimate the risks a man or woman will take to protect our extended family.
To this day, we continue to perform the modified dating rituals. Besides honoring Director Teaague, who never had children of her own, we do so out of cultural inertia and for morale. It serves to remind us all of happier times and different places. It also reduced mental stress and physical frustration on everyone involved. Women did not have to worry about their 'reputation.' Men, including those not considered handsome or lacking in social skills, were guaranteed sex without having to pretend they were in love.
I passed by a gathering spot and heard music. This one had pre-spaceflight 'classical' recordings, and is usually occupied by one or the other partners nearing the end of their reproductive activities. I went in there once, stayed for one beer, and thought they were very boring. Lots of talk, very little action.
Before I could walk past a medcheck station's scanner, I could already hear noise from the next 'storefront.' Flickering holograms are combined with recordings of radiation counters and stellar background noise mixed with video of nebula flare activity. This unpleasant scene covered an area nearly a fullblock wide. For some obscure reason, probably only known to MILGOV, this area has been designated to be the one used by those active on their first Social Week.
I never did make it to this area, that first time. In fact, I was intercepted on the street before I made it this far. I looked at my watch, saw that I still had a quite a few minutes before my presence was required at my own assigned location. I decided to stop in for a moment and look around. Passing another instant medcheck station, I at last reached the entrance.
Strange lights on the walls and ceiling caused colors to glow on clothing people wore. Almost everyone carried small medinjectors, a model designed to make a nasal injection. I wondered what they were filled with, then decided I didn't want to know.
A few faces looked toward me, then turned away. Evidently I was too old to make an impression on them. Just past the bar area I could recognize a Private who is assigned to me in miltek maintenance sitting in a chair, staring up at a flatscreen display. Who wants to look at archive footage of nebula flare strikes?
No one paid attention to me as I went to the bar. I sat so close to the Private that I could have easily greeted him, but did not. With a wave to attract the bartender's attention, I ordered a beer. I guess there are not a lot of beer drinkers here, since the glass I received was well over half foam. I left it sitting on the counter. Oh, well...
I saw a woman approach, then pass me in a powered wheelchair. She was apparently not looking for me, which made me grateful for a second, but then I looked again. She was in full dress uniform, with the same blue rope that I have attached to mine. Certainly unusual, since women usually wore civilian garb exclusively during Social Week. Sometimes provocative, occasionally recycle classic. Those few who wore military attire would wear a work duty uniform.
Wait, not exactly. Her blue rope is larger, a double braid, and has a gold bar attached, a sign that she has the highest possible physical and genetic rating. Having never given birth to a child with genetic abnormalities, she has an effectively unlimited childbearing license. How rare is that in a war environment?
I found the physical rating hard to believe, because this woman was a mess! She had been burned on the right side of her face, with one eye almost closed by scar tissue. What hair she possessed was in a severe crewcut. Her right arm ended in a stump just above the wrist. Her left leg looked normal, the other somewhat shriveled.
"Good evening, Private."
He looked over at her, with shock registering on his features for only a moment.
"I know that this is your first Social Week. I hope my appearance is not startling."
"Ummm..."
"I know that you are not a virgin, but I doubt that you have had a sexual encounter with an experienced and voracious woman. I am here to correct that deficiency."
The Private said nothing, only triggering his nasal medinjector.
"I hope you have your issued medinjector with you, it will be needed. Come with me."
A flick of the wrist sent the wheelchair into motion. The Private rose and followed her, with an unreadable expression evident. No doubt he will find out the truth reflected in that phrase attributed to Benjaamin Fraanklin, that "all cats are gray at night."
I smiled to myself and followed at a discreet distance as they left.
