GWOT VII - A Little Drunk Out
Nov. 14th, 2021 06:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT VII - A Little Drunk Out
My jaw was still sore from the last time I had wandered downtown Monterey.
This time I had company. Due to the nature of their future work, I can't say much about them.
There were bars. There were people of neogtiable virtue working at the bars, who recognized and avoided us as we avoided them. The bartenders mixed our drinks rich and tended to refuse our tips.
Two bars were explicitly off limits to us, I learned. One had been where I'd gotten blasted last time. A bar catering strictly to sailors of the California Naval Militia. They had kicked my ass, without taking any particular pleasure in it, as a matter of principle. Then I hadn't stayed down and let myself be carried out. That had caused injuries and required the use of not only arrest and control tactics by the sudden flood of Shore Patrol, but repeated Tasings. I remembered none of this, which I suppose is a mercy.
The other bar, set some distance from the others with sidewalks under construction and taxi drivers carefully briefed, was a "real" bar. It was on limits for foreign diplomatic personnel, and any appearances there by people like us would be strictly in the interest of national security. California's national security.
My classmates, although I didn't spend much time actually in class with them because I was getting so much personalized attention, were very friendly and solicitious. They didn't ask about my past or about my present course of study - but they held doors for me, watched around us, even walked me to the toilet.
That's when I realized that I was an exercise. For them, in diplomatic protection.
I smiled for the first time that evening. Found myself a seat at the bar. Drank, slowly, exactly one California IPA. Waiting for them to become complacent.
###
Earlier that day, I had been in a room. Doing stuff. The stuff involved a laptop with highly modified software, all deeply classiifed, and learning how to use that software as a pianist would use a keyboard. Or a person of negotiable virtue would play someone's organ.
The problem was with the software. Not the software itself, it was excellent. It borrowed from multi-player gaming, including the national level multi player games that now were counted towards selection as a California cadet or pilot.
The problem was what the software controlled.
###
I finished my beer, another was served. I took the chance to ask the bartender where I could go to look for a little action.
Not gaming. Not gambling. Not, of course, harder liquor - which I could get here if I wanted it. Not dancing or music.
Negotiable affection.
He gave me an address to give the taxi driver. I thanked him and started to head out. Even got in the back of the taxi.
At the next light, handed him two $20 CAD two blocks away and said, "Let me out."
"No go, sir, this is not a ..."
By pulling on the handle, I found out the door was locked.
My next words were in an unnecessary whisper.
"Open. The. Door."
I'm not sure the taxi driver ever knew what I had pointed at the back of his head for sure.
The locks clicked open and I departed.
Exercise? I'll show you a fucking exercise.
###
My shirt was in a trash can, my undershirt underneath could be mistaken for a shirt in good light.
There was a lot of pedestrian and bicycle traffic.
The problem was my shoes. Military. Not all that conspicuous, there were plenty of off duty folks wandering around. But I needed a clothing change.
Of course I was going nowhere near the brothel I'd been pointed towards. My needs were more discreet.
The density of Shore Patrol vehicles increased. Apparently I was an issue.
Screw the clothing, I needed to get off the street.
There was a church courtyard. The gate was closed. But hopping the fence was a simple piece of parkour if one shimmied up a lightpost and did a high jump, and didn't mind letting the landing be what it would be.
###
I laid there and gathered my breath.
"My son?" the pastor asked from some distance away. His hands were empty but someone was watching him from a distance.
"Father," I said. "I just need a moment to pray."
"Of course. When you are ready, follow me."
He led me to a small enclosed courtyard, with two spindly trees and a view of the sky but not the nearby ocean.
Perfect.
I knelt.
The paster withdrew but did not leave entirely.
I put my hands on my palms. My trousers had suffered from the climb and fall, but not sufficiently as to make me notorious.
I closed my eyes.
###
"Penetrator. Another. Two more."
Half Dome had been split. Shattered from granite into chunks.
The Yosemite Medal was a symbol, dammit! A symbol of the determination of those soldiers who lost their life for California. Not a damned command post!
The display showed tracks. LIke some obscene descendant of MIssile Command, they split like a branching tree. One dot became eight, and the eight tracked inexhorably towards their targets.
Counterfire clawed up at them. Slow streaks of manned aircraft, faster streaks of defense missiles. Both equally expendable.
No points. No scoring system.
This game was played in megadeaths.
And the only way to win was not to play.
That... was not an option.
###
The metal gate boomed as the knocking rattled the frame.
"Shore Police! Open up!"
The pastor came up to me, laid a hand on my shoulder.
"Son, you must go. We cannot offer sanctuary here."
"I have not asked, Father."
"Go in peace to love and serve the Lord."
###
They'd let me out a side door in the wall.
I'd been spotlighted in moments.
"Monterey Police!"
I remained still as the officers approached.
"Good evening," I began.
"Hands up!"
I complied calmly as they approached. One had a battle rifle, bayonet fixed, taking a prone bead lying in the gutter heedless of the uniform and the damp. The other came just close enough to see my face in the light.
Two others remained in their vehicle. Driver with a door-mount spotlight. Gunner with a for-the-love-of-God minigun on a powered mount with a stabilizer.
Not a small gun, you understand. A machine gun that has worked out and taken a lot of steroids. As out of place as a machete in a kindergarten playground.
"I am a diplomat of the Republic of California and I have full diplomatic immunity," I remembered to say. It felt strange saying it.
Neither dismount officer thought this was unusual. Both stayed very, very alert.
"Sir. Please give your name. Keep your hands in sight."
I did so. He waited for something from his dispatch. A name search? Comparison from the cameras on the police combat vehicle, the tablet strapped to his left forearm, his body camera, his partner's rifle cam? I didn't know and didn't need to.
He relaxed slightly.
"Sir, please use your left hand to show me your diplomatic passport. Slowly if you please."
I held up my left hand. He got a good look at it for the first time in the light and flinched. No fingernails. I'd left them in a blood gutter in what Homeland had been pleased to call an examination cell.
I reached behind, couldn't help wincing as I took out the passport. Opened it to the identity page. Held it up.
"Thank you, Colonel. WIth respect, you should not be on the street alone in this area. I am calling you a car."
The area was downtown Monterey. The time was mid-evening. The area looked great to my eyes.
But the rifle-armed woman lying in the gutter seemed to not agree with me, or with anyone.
The few people who might have passed by gave us a very wide berth.
The car arrived. It was a marked Shore Patrol vehicle. Conspicuous as all hell.
Inside, sharing the front, were two of my classmates. Relief washed their faces as they saw and recognized me.
The Shore Patrol and the city police exchanged authenticators.
They opened the door for me to get in the back.
"No," I shook my head. "I don't do back seats. The taxi driver locked me in."
Everyone I'd encountered tonight - bartender, taxi driver, priest - was a California Republic operative, or I was badly mistaken. The only 'real people' were the terrified police officers.
As the quickest way of getting me off the street, they allowed me to take front right and got in the back.
The Shore Patrol vehicle - a sedan car, think of it as a short limo - pulled out. The police officers went back to their combat patrol of what seemed to be a peaceful coastal town. But perhaps was not.
"I've a headache and too much to drink already," one of my classmates said. "Colored water at high prices. Let's get some alcohol and have a real party."
It was a scripted statement. Yes, let's take this out of the outdoor set and to an indoor stage, probably with fewer cameras but better ones.
The base PX was open. Despite the prominently posted rationing, we bought rather more booze than our ration cards might have allowed - and our ration cards were not checked, nor was my ID. It so happened that a spare shirt and pants in my size were for sale, marked down, so I bought those as well. Not happenstance.
The party was in BOQ, Bachelor Officer's Quarters. On the third floor. My own room was on the second floor, so at least getting home would be easy.
It got a little drunk out.
I'm not a good drunk. I don't drink much and when I do, I've no idea what I'm drinking.
Vodka screwdrivers made an appearance. I know that. Then things got kind of blurry.
###
"Time on target, offensive warfare package, two regiments, one hundred and forty seconds."
Antiseptic white pixels, several for each name.
Ana..., Los ... , Mont, Sac..., San, San, Santa, Santa, Riv...
###
I gulped.
It was hot coffee. And good coffee. Wasted on me.
"Come on, help me get him downstairs."
It was to the bath they helped me. The new uniform had been taken to my room. If I'd put it on, I'd only have fouled it. As I was fouled now.
My classmates washed me.
I'd seen a woman in Iowa, using filthy stream water to wash the body of her dead husband.
It was kind of like that.
###
Someone kept feeding me water and warm - not hot! - coffee.
They took turns, rotating in and out.
I was still an exercise.
They had to sober me up for the morning. And they were taking it in turns to lose sleep to do so.
###
I blinked over breakfast. Which I needed. Plus what I was told were vitamin pills.
They ended up in my half-eaten toast.
###
Under hard eyes and not quite pointed submachine guns, I exchanged my base ID for my SCIF badge.
I submitted to electronic and body search.
The door opened. I was walked down "non secure corridors" (per the signage) to another search vestibule.
An empty room.
With another laptop.
Same software. Different scenario.
More inputs and outputs. A projector for the wall to supplement the laptop screen and the two fold-out screens. A headset for me and a more complex headset for my evaluator.
"Attention. We are at DefCon Two..." the scenario began.
My head ached. I needed to pee. My hands hurt. My side hurt from when I'd hit the concrete the prior night.
And megadeaths were in question.
Not now. But soon.
My jaw was still sore from the last time I had wandered downtown Monterey.
This time I had company. Due to the nature of their future work, I can't say much about them.
There were bars. There were people of neogtiable virtue working at the bars, who recognized and avoided us as we avoided them. The bartenders mixed our drinks rich and tended to refuse our tips.
Two bars were explicitly off limits to us, I learned. One had been where I'd gotten blasted last time. A bar catering strictly to sailors of the California Naval Militia. They had kicked my ass, without taking any particular pleasure in it, as a matter of principle. Then I hadn't stayed down and let myself be carried out. That had caused injuries and required the use of not only arrest and control tactics by the sudden flood of Shore Patrol, but repeated Tasings. I remembered none of this, which I suppose is a mercy.
The other bar, set some distance from the others with sidewalks under construction and taxi drivers carefully briefed, was a "real" bar. It was on limits for foreign diplomatic personnel, and any appearances there by people like us would be strictly in the interest of national security. California's national security.
My classmates, although I didn't spend much time actually in class with them because I was getting so much personalized attention, were very friendly and solicitious. They didn't ask about my past or about my present course of study - but they held doors for me, watched around us, even walked me to the toilet.
That's when I realized that I was an exercise. For them, in diplomatic protection.
I smiled for the first time that evening. Found myself a seat at the bar. Drank, slowly, exactly one California IPA. Waiting for them to become complacent.
###
Earlier that day, I had been in a room. Doing stuff. The stuff involved a laptop with highly modified software, all deeply classiifed, and learning how to use that software as a pianist would use a keyboard. Or a person of negotiable virtue would play someone's organ.
The problem was with the software. Not the software itself, it was excellent. It borrowed from multi-player gaming, including the national level multi player games that now were counted towards selection as a California cadet or pilot.
The problem was what the software controlled.
###
I finished my beer, another was served. I took the chance to ask the bartender where I could go to look for a little action.
Not gaming. Not gambling. Not, of course, harder liquor - which I could get here if I wanted it. Not dancing or music.
Negotiable affection.
He gave me an address to give the taxi driver. I thanked him and started to head out. Even got in the back of the taxi.
At the next light, handed him two $20 CAD two blocks away and said, "Let me out."
"No go, sir, this is not a ..."
By pulling on the handle, I found out the door was locked.
My next words were in an unnecessary whisper.
"Open. The. Door."
I'm not sure the taxi driver ever knew what I had pointed at the back of his head for sure.
The locks clicked open and I departed.
Exercise? I'll show you a fucking exercise.
###
My shirt was in a trash can, my undershirt underneath could be mistaken for a shirt in good light.
There was a lot of pedestrian and bicycle traffic.
The problem was my shoes. Military. Not all that conspicuous, there were plenty of off duty folks wandering around. But I needed a clothing change.
Of course I was going nowhere near the brothel I'd been pointed towards. My needs were more discreet.
The density of Shore Patrol vehicles increased. Apparently I was an issue.
Screw the clothing, I needed to get off the street.
There was a church courtyard. The gate was closed. But hopping the fence was a simple piece of parkour if one shimmied up a lightpost and did a high jump, and didn't mind letting the landing be what it would be.
###
I laid there and gathered my breath.
"My son?" the pastor asked from some distance away. His hands were empty but someone was watching him from a distance.
"Father," I said. "I just need a moment to pray."
"Of course. When you are ready, follow me."
He led me to a small enclosed courtyard, with two spindly trees and a view of the sky but not the nearby ocean.
Perfect.
I knelt.
The paster withdrew but did not leave entirely.
I put my hands on my palms. My trousers had suffered from the climb and fall, but not sufficiently as to make me notorious.
I closed my eyes.
###
"Penetrator. Another. Two more."
Half Dome had been split. Shattered from granite into chunks.
The Yosemite Medal was a symbol, dammit! A symbol of the determination of those soldiers who lost their life for California. Not a damned command post!
The display showed tracks. LIke some obscene descendant of MIssile Command, they split like a branching tree. One dot became eight, and the eight tracked inexhorably towards their targets.
Counterfire clawed up at them. Slow streaks of manned aircraft, faster streaks of defense missiles. Both equally expendable.
No points. No scoring system.
This game was played in megadeaths.
And the only way to win was not to play.
That... was not an option.
###
The metal gate boomed as the knocking rattled the frame.
"Shore Police! Open up!"
The pastor came up to me, laid a hand on my shoulder.
"Son, you must go. We cannot offer sanctuary here."
"I have not asked, Father."
"Go in peace to love and serve the Lord."
###
They'd let me out a side door in the wall.
I'd been spotlighted in moments.
"Monterey Police!"
I remained still as the officers approached.
"Good evening," I began.
"Hands up!"
I complied calmly as they approached. One had a battle rifle, bayonet fixed, taking a prone bead lying in the gutter heedless of the uniform and the damp. The other came just close enough to see my face in the light.
Two others remained in their vehicle. Driver with a door-mount spotlight. Gunner with a for-the-love-of-God minigun on a powered mount with a stabilizer.
Not a small gun, you understand. A machine gun that has worked out and taken a lot of steroids. As out of place as a machete in a kindergarten playground.
"I am a diplomat of the Republic of California and I have full diplomatic immunity," I remembered to say. It felt strange saying it.
Neither dismount officer thought this was unusual. Both stayed very, very alert.
"Sir. Please give your name. Keep your hands in sight."
I did so. He waited for something from his dispatch. A name search? Comparison from the cameras on the police combat vehicle, the tablet strapped to his left forearm, his body camera, his partner's rifle cam? I didn't know and didn't need to.
He relaxed slightly.
"Sir, please use your left hand to show me your diplomatic passport. Slowly if you please."
I held up my left hand. He got a good look at it for the first time in the light and flinched. No fingernails. I'd left them in a blood gutter in what Homeland had been pleased to call an examination cell.
I reached behind, couldn't help wincing as I took out the passport. Opened it to the identity page. Held it up.
"Thank you, Colonel. WIth respect, you should not be on the street alone in this area. I am calling you a car."
The area was downtown Monterey. The time was mid-evening. The area looked great to my eyes.
But the rifle-armed woman lying in the gutter seemed to not agree with me, or with anyone.
The few people who might have passed by gave us a very wide berth.
The car arrived. It was a marked Shore Patrol vehicle. Conspicuous as all hell.
Inside, sharing the front, were two of my classmates. Relief washed their faces as they saw and recognized me.
The Shore Patrol and the city police exchanged authenticators.
They opened the door for me to get in the back.
"No," I shook my head. "I don't do back seats. The taxi driver locked me in."
Everyone I'd encountered tonight - bartender, taxi driver, priest - was a California Republic operative, or I was badly mistaken. The only 'real people' were the terrified police officers.
As the quickest way of getting me off the street, they allowed me to take front right and got in the back.
The Shore Patrol vehicle - a sedan car, think of it as a short limo - pulled out. The police officers went back to their combat patrol of what seemed to be a peaceful coastal town. But perhaps was not.
"I've a headache and too much to drink already," one of my classmates said. "Colored water at high prices. Let's get some alcohol and have a real party."
It was a scripted statement. Yes, let's take this out of the outdoor set and to an indoor stage, probably with fewer cameras but better ones.
The base PX was open. Despite the prominently posted rationing, we bought rather more booze than our ration cards might have allowed - and our ration cards were not checked, nor was my ID. It so happened that a spare shirt and pants in my size were for sale, marked down, so I bought those as well. Not happenstance.
The party was in BOQ, Bachelor Officer's Quarters. On the third floor. My own room was on the second floor, so at least getting home would be easy.
It got a little drunk out.
I'm not a good drunk. I don't drink much and when I do, I've no idea what I'm drinking.
Vodka screwdrivers made an appearance. I know that. Then things got kind of blurry.
###
"Time on target, offensive warfare package, two regiments, one hundred and forty seconds."
Antiseptic white pixels, several for each name.
Ana..., Los ... , Mont, Sac..., San, San, Santa, Santa, Riv...
###
I gulped.
It was hot coffee. And good coffee. Wasted on me.
"Come on, help me get him downstairs."
It was to the bath they helped me. The new uniform had been taken to my room. If I'd put it on, I'd only have fouled it. As I was fouled now.
My classmates washed me.
I'd seen a woman in Iowa, using filthy stream water to wash the body of her dead husband.
It was kind of like that.
###
Someone kept feeding me water and warm - not hot! - coffee.
They took turns, rotating in and out.
I was still an exercise.
They had to sober me up for the morning. And they were taking it in turns to lose sleep to do so.
###
I blinked over breakfast. Which I needed. Plus what I was told were vitamin pills.
They ended up in my half-eaten toast.
###
Under hard eyes and not quite pointed submachine guns, I exchanged my base ID for my SCIF badge.
I submitted to electronic and body search.
The door opened. I was walked down "non secure corridors" (per the signage) to another search vestibule.
An empty room.
With another laptop.
Same software. Different scenario.
More inputs and outputs. A projector for the wall to supplement the laptop screen and the two fold-out screens. A headset for me and a more complex headset for my evaluator.
"Attention. We are at DefCon Two..." the scenario began.
My head ached. I needed to pee. My hands hurt. My side hurt from when I'd hit the concrete the prior night.
And megadeaths were in question.
Not now. But soon.
