GWOT V - Golden Motivation
Oct. 23rd, 2022 12:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT V - Golden Motivation
Downtime at McNasty.
Beyond a certain point, I'd done what could be done with the resources at hand. The easy fixes had been applied. The hard fixes were in progress. Many times they required waiting on other parts of the clumsy, cranky, out of synch Army of the California Republic. Other times they were just ... a matter of time.
You couldn't train folks 24 hour a day. They'd rebel, passively or ... actively. I couldn't work people as hard as I had at Site. We weren't under immediate threat of constant death. Rather the inverse - if we kept blowing ourselves out, like a baseball team with no bench, we would put ourselves into situations where our lack of rest and due regard would actually endanger us more.
But I'd always turned in hundred hour weeks for my entire life. A good way to avoid thinking.
The commander of a facility, a site, a ship ... is too easily isolated. I'd been invited to actively participate in the officer's mess that I'd set up, but even then, my folks needed a place to decompress and bitch about that Echo 18 asshole. So I made my visits sparing and announced in advance.
My office remained my bedroom. A camp cot continued to serve. It also isolated me from the other sleeping areas and cut down on waking other people up with my nightmares.
I missed cuddling. I could, when I cared to mix business and pleasure, visit Campos Nation again. But the working girls, bluntly, preferred to work, and ten tricks in a night is better than pretending to sleep while a customer fell asleep, and then woke up alone and screaming as usual for him.
I could not of course dally with the personnel under my command. That's just not done.
Bad enough that I had to meet weekly with the unit Psyche. We both fenced with each other, skating on thin ice, whenever talking about my truly incandescently awful state of mental health. She sensed I was on the verge of not talking to her at all (true), and that I resisted the temptation to take out my hatred of the entire mental health profession on her personally (also true). She even offered to have me meet with _her_ Psyche, who was based at Arrowhead. After a month, I grudgingly agreed. Then he flatly refused. He'd read my profile and didn't want to juggle that particular unholy hand grenade.
So in order to not go stark raving mad, I had to find something to spend the excess energy and thought-time on.
I found it in California's training programs.
The California University and its industrial, medical and military partners had created curricula to address nearly any human subject. All classes were on line. Special help for those who needed assistance to learn was available through community education centers. Primary and secondary education doubled as child care, so continued - but increasingly in on-line format once basic literacy was achieved.
So I dug hard and deep into human motivation and basic psychology. I told myself I was doing it to be a better officer. That had a grain of truth. The rest of the bushel was that I wanted to fit in better.
I set up my office as a learning environment. Set timers that forced me to go take breaks and work out. During my workouts, I used one earphone to listen to what were still being called podcasts. (The radio interrupted; the other ear was bare, I needed to hear what was around me. Not all threats were external.)
I'd missed the agitprop that had been used from the early stages of the Resistance, that had become full blown in-your-face aggressive propaganda as control of media was wrested from Homeland. Only recently had journalism been re-started. Under certain limits and controls.
So I sampled a lot of it. Took classes in it, in fact.
The flavor, and some of the content, I recognized as motivational materials I'd used at Site to explain why it was the Corporation was asking people to type on keyboards, and also kill people.
Greatly expanded. Technology of consciousness materials. Memetic warfare. Neuro linguistic programming. Cutting edge stuff.
The memetics were simple. The images were sometimes brutal.
A man putting a gun under his chin, a bear's paw swiping it out of the way. The caption, "WE NEED YOU."
A woman weeping with two tiny graves in the background. The same paw, offering a handkerchief embroidered, "Help us please" and a crowd of children in the distance.
A person of indeterminate gender, deliberately so, at a crossroads. To one side, a difficult rocky path up. To the other, a paved smooth road down labeled "Comfort."
Subtle, it wasn't.
The videos were harder. Even though they showed little nudity, I doubted anyone would have dared show them in a time of peace. Not that any of us remembered what that was.
Open, a weeping girl with her legs spread, heavy booted footsteps walking away. She crawls to her knees. Puts her hand on something. The hilt of a knife.
The same girl, a little time later, wearing a uniform. Basic Training. Wooden blade. She's not much good but she's in the fight.
A bit after that, a helmet and body armor and a bayonet. Charging forward.
Last, the rifle in a rack by her bed. A pan over the room. A citation for bravery framed on the wall. A partner - indeterminate gender - asleep in their shared bed. A desk with invitations being written out. A wedding? A bridal shower?
The messages of all the videos could be summed up as stubborning insisting on not giving up. We've all lost some. Some lost a lot. And some lost all. Give of what you have left.
Another anti-suicide poster. A woman with a handful of pills, her face agonized. "DON'T DO THEIR DIRTY WORK FOR THEM." Her reflection visible in a mirror, letting the pills fall out of her hand. Smiling.
Another video. Titled "Shovel." Directly lifted from the Ukrainian military. But the person charging forward with the sharpened entrenching shovel is a Latina. Her war face is frightening, even to me, even in a video.
A motivational speaker. A former US Navy SEAL, turned recruiter for the California military. Infamous for turning down Bear Force repeatedly.
"Motivation is shit. Motivation is ass. Motivation may put your boots on. But motivation will not get you through that mud, over that hill, or through that barrage or wall of fire. You have to have more than that.
"You have to take your pain and make it turn. Your pain is power. Look into your soul, look at who and what hurt you, and convert it to fuel for your own fire. But you have to do that work. Pump yourself up without doing the work, and you will fail. You must do the work.
"Make good choices. The comfortable life is tempting. You must reject the comfortable life. You had that. Then there was the Firecracker, and the China War, and Homeland. What you had was taken from you.
"They didn't know it, but what they did to you was a gift. They took it all from you. Take it back, flip it upside down, and build it back better. Be ready. They may try to take it all from you again. Don't let them.
"Don't get civilized. Don't get comfy. Don't settle for an average life. We don't just need a few extraordinary people, here and there. We need everyone to reach that untapped 80% of their personal potential. We need an extraordinary State. We don't leave anyone behind. Stay hard! Get harder!"
I looked at Bear Force. Thinking of Betty, of course. Not that I'd ever heard much more than that damned postcard.
As a career officer, I could see a bit more than we chose to tell the world.
Bear Force took you in, involuntarily, from other parts of the California military as early as the first day of Basic Training and as late as mid-career for an officer, especially if you had just fucked up. You could volunteer for Bear Force, for example to avoid court-martial, but if you did ... you didn't get to change your mind. They also recruited among prisoners. You had a series of tests to pass, endurance and physical and psychological. They didn't tell you what a passing score was.
If you did well, you were Bear Force cadre, and they sent you to training. On completion of the dreaded 'Pipeline,' you were a Bear Force operator. On leave you didn't say much. Casualty rate in operations approached 40%. No word on training losses, but they did have some. Mostly falls from a height.
If you did not do well, or fell out of the Pipeline, you were Bear Force and they sent you to a much shorter, much more limited training. To teach you specific skills for your specific battle assignment. Casualty rate 80% or greater. After each assignment, you could re-test to try to get in the Pipeline. Or take your next assignment. It was up to you.
If you survived five assignments but had no hope of getting on the Pipeline, you could only then attempt transfer back to the regular California military for the rest of your service commitment. Sometimes they would let you do that, other times they would kick you out of the military, "Service Obligation Completed" or "General Discharge." Or send you to prison, if your Bear Force performance and/or prior criminal and/or military record so dictated.
If you stripped off the layers of bullshit, Bear Force were penal troops. We armed our criminals and sent them to attack our enemies, with the carrot of cadre and the stick of a convenient early death that served California's needs.
There were two Bear Force training sites in my Sector. I avoided them. Each had a POC (Point of Contact) that I could reach out to with respect to any security issues. They could also reach out to me, but wouldn't, unless shit was major bad and they needed a reaction force to handle how bad it was.
I knew they were operating on the wrong side of the Border. I didn't know any details, and that was very much on purpose.
I thought about transferring to Bear Force.
But there was a bear's paw in the way. I was much more valuable to California here, doing what I was doing, a turnkey leader in a crucial role. I had no right to go play cannon fodder with knife and makeup.
I also resented the fuck out of them for basically murdering Betty. Of course she'd been attracted to them, like a candle to a moth. And gotten incinerated.
We were a state of hard choices. When our own people are starving, how can we feed people to sit in cells and do nothing? That was what the penal work program was all about. But to go one step further, and arm them?
Bear Force wasn't supposed to operate on California territory. But before her transfer to Bear Force, Betty had been Collections. Intelligence. Not one of their dreaded Agents, but something else.
Like a blinding light, it dawned on me.
Betty had fucked up. Spectacularly. She'd been _sentenced_ to Bear Force. Even if she'd volunteered, it was more likely that she'd been volun-TOLD.
That's why the postcard, and no other word of her fate. And, trivially enough, no life insurance payment.
In the dirty, dusty moonlight that smelled of rat piss that was Camp McNasty, I faced it.
She was no innocent. Neither was I. But she'd done something dirtier than anything I'd ever been done, or at least caught for.
Yet they'd let her take a brief vacation first. Charged leave during an investigation? Or along the lines of a condemned person's last cigarette?
(We hadn't allowed that at Alviso. Your last smoke was the night before. We were too busy, too industrial to slow down the execution line for personal theatrics.)
I couldn't resent Bear Force any more. And I had no desire to join them.
I took a deep breath.
"Pass the word for the doctor."
There was only the one other person who had known Betty, and would know what the hell I was taking about. I hated to cost her sleep, but this was bugging me and it was a demon best exorcised quickly.
My office, a closed door, two bottles of water.
"Echo," and she was one of the few who called me by my first name, as she knew I preferred it from people I knew.
"Echo... Betty was a pathological liar and a budding sadomasochist. Both traits helped her in her official profession as Site psychologist, and unofficial profession as your informant. She couldn't take out her sadistic tendencies on you, but you more than satisfied her masochism. We buffered her bullshit as best we could, but Sharon nearly knifed her twice that I know of. When Homeland fingered her and Brooke dragged her off site, we were all relieved.
"I wouldn't have told you any of this if you hadn't asked. But you asked."
I nodded.
Then I looked again at her face.
"How are you doing, Doctor?" I thought belatedly to ask.
She broke down crying. The Border was an abattoir. She kept seeing dying and dead kids, when awake as her job, at night in her dreams. She could use IV fluids and a few drugs, but the basic cause of death was always the same. Dehydration by being dragged across a desert by desperate parents, with a minor key - so to speak - in chronic radiation poisoning, malnutrition and lack of health care.
"Do you want a transfer?"
"No!"
Because then there would really be nothing. Technically a doctor position wasn't authorized to the Sector. Her second, who had been a vet _assistant_ before the Firecracker, would step up into her slot.
She would keep trying, in her slot, because California needed her to be a lot more than she was.
Just like me.
"At Site you were so cold all the time, so distant. I thought you were some sort of unfeeling monster. Now I see how the kids look at me. I'm trying to save them, but I'm just another monster in the monster parade."
When a woman is crying, there are only two ways to console her. With hugs, or if you know what you are doing and are prepared to accept the consequences (which may range from slap to marriage!), there is also with kisses.
I chose hugs. The other option was there, you understand, but the attraction was not and had never been mutual.
She fell asleep exhausted in my arms as we half-sat on my cot.
I stared at the ceiling.
If you ask the question, be very sure you are prepared for the answer.
I made a mental note to get a bigger, stronger cot. Because this ... was nice.
Perhaps you think that's a horrible thing to say.
Go do a year in Homeland custody and then we'll talk again.
Downtime at McNasty.
Beyond a certain point, I'd done what could be done with the resources at hand. The easy fixes had been applied. The hard fixes were in progress. Many times they required waiting on other parts of the clumsy, cranky, out of synch Army of the California Republic. Other times they were just ... a matter of time.
You couldn't train folks 24 hour a day. They'd rebel, passively or ... actively. I couldn't work people as hard as I had at Site. We weren't under immediate threat of constant death. Rather the inverse - if we kept blowing ourselves out, like a baseball team with no bench, we would put ourselves into situations where our lack of rest and due regard would actually endanger us more.
But I'd always turned in hundred hour weeks for my entire life. A good way to avoid thinking.
The commander of a facility, a site, a ship ... is too easily isolated. I'd been invited to actively participate in the officer's mess that I'd set up, but even then, my folks needed a place to decompress and bitch about that Echo 18 asshole. So I made my visits sparing and announced in advance.
My office remained my bedroom. A camp cot continued to serve. It also isolated me from the other sleeping areas and cut down on waking other people up with my nightmares.
I missed cuddling. I could, when I cared to mix business and pleasure, visit Campos Nation again. But the working girls, bluntly, preferred to work, and ten tricks in a night is better than pretending to sleep while a customer fell asleep, and then woke up alone and screaming as usual for him.
I could not of course dally with the personnel under my command. That's just not done.
Bad enough that I had to meet weekly with the unit Psyche. We both fenced with each other, skating on thin ice, whenever talking about my truly incandescently awful state of mental health. She sensed I was on the verge of not talking to her at all (true), and that I resisted the temptation to take out my hatred of the entire mental health profession on her personally (also true). She even offered to have me meet with _her_ Psyche, who was based at Arrowhead. After a month, I grudgingly agreed. Then he flatly refused. He'd read my profile and didn't want to juggle that particular unholy hand grenade.
So in order to not go stark raving mad, I had to find something to spend the excess energy and thought-time on.
I found it in California's training programs.
The California University and its industrial, medical and military partners had created curricula to address nearly any human subject. All classes were on line. Special help for those who needed assistance to learn was available through community education centers. Primary and secondary education doubled as child care, so continued - but increasingly in on-line format once basic literacy was achieved.
So I dug hard and deep into human motivation and basic psychology. I told myself I was doing it to be a better officer. That had a grain of truth. The rest of the bushel was that I wanted to fit in better.
I set up my office as a learning environment. Set timers that forced me to go take breaks and work out. During my workouts, I used one earphone to listen to what were still being called podcasts. (The radio interrupted; the other ear was bare, I needed to hear what was around me. Not all threats were external.)
I'd missed the agitprop that had been used from the early stages of the Resistance, that had become full blown in-your-face aggressive propaganda as control of media was wrested from Homeland. Only recently had journalism been re-started. Under certain limits and controls.
So I sampled a lot of it. Took classes in it, in fact.
The flavor, and some of the content, I recognized as motivational materials I'd used at Site to explain why it was the Corporation was asking people to type on keyboards, and also kill people.
Greatly expanded. Technology of consciousness materials. Memetic warfare. Neuro linguistic programming. Cutting edge stuff.
The memetics were simple. The images were sometimes brutal.
A man putting a gun under his chin, a bear's paw swiping it out of the way. The caption, "WE NEED YOU."
A woman weeping with two tiny graves in the background. The same paw, offering a handkerchief embroidered, "Help us please" and a crowd of children in the distance.
A person of indeterminate gender, deliberately so, at a crossroads. To one side, a difficult rocky path up. To the other, a paved smooth road down labeled "Comfort."
Subtle, it wasn't.
The videos were harder. Even though they showed little nudity, I doubted anyone would have dared show them in a time of peace. Not that any of us remembered what that was.
Open, a weeping girl with her legs spread, heavy booted footsteps walking away. She crawls to her knees. Puts her hand on something. The hilt of a knife.
The same girl, a little time later, wearing a uniform. Basic Training. Wooden blade. She's not much good but she's in the fight.
A bit after that, a helmet and body armor and a bayonet. Charging forward.
Last, the rifle in a rack by her bed. A pan over the room. A citation for bravery framed on the wall. A partner - indeterminate gender - asleep in their shared bed. A desk with invitations being written out. A wedding? A bridal shower?
The messages of all the videos could be summed up as stubborning insisting on not giving up. We've all lost some. Some lost a lot. And some lost all. Give of what you have left.
Another anti-suicide poster. A woman with a handful of pills, her face agonized. "DON'T DO THEIR DIRTY WORK FOR THEM." Her reflection visible in a mirror, letting the pills fall out of her hand. Smiling.
Another video. Titled "Shovel." Directly lifted from the Ukrainian military. But the person charging forward with the sharpened entrenching shovel is a Latina. Her war face is frightening, even to me, even in a video.
A motivational speaker. A former US Navy SEAL, turned recruiter for the California military. Infamous for turning down Bear Force repeatedly.
"Motivation is shit. Motivation is ass. Motivation may put your boots on. But motivation will not get you through that mud, over that hill, or through that barrage or wall of fire. You have to have more than that.
"You have to take your pain and make it turn. Your pain is power. Look into your soul, look at who and what hurt you, and convert it to fuel for your own fire. But you have to do that work. Pump yourself up without doing the work, and you will fail. You must do the work.
"Make good choices. The comfortable life is tempting. You must reject the comfortable life. You had that. Then there was the Firecracker, and the China War, and Homeland. What you had was taken from you.
"They didn't know it, but what they did to you was a gift. They took it all from you. Take it back, flip it upside down, and build it back better. Be ready. They may try to take it all from you again. Don't let them.
"Don't get civilized. Don't get comfy. Don't settle for an average life. We don't just need a few extraordinary people, here and there. We need everyone to reach that untapped 80% of their personal potential. We need an extraordinary State. We don't leave anyone behind. Stay hard! Get harder!"
I looked at Bear Force. Thinking of Betty, of course. Not that I'd ever heard much more than that damned postcard.
As a career officer, I could see a bit more than we chose to tell the world.
Bear Force took you in, involuntarily, from other parts of the California military as early as the first day of Basic Training and as late as mid-career for an officer, especially if you had just fucked up. You could volunteer for Bear Force, for example to avoid court-martial, but if you did ... you didn't get to change your mind. They also recruited among prisoners. You had a series of tests to pass, endurance and physical and psychological. They didn't tell you what a passing score was.
If you did well, you were Bear Force cadre, and they sent you to training. On completion of the dreaded 'Pipeline,' you were a Bear Force operator. On leave you didn't say much. Casualty rate in operations approached 40%. No word on training losses, but they did have some. Mostly falls from a height.
If you did not do well, or fell out of the Pipeline, you were Bear Force and they sent you to a much shorter, much more limited training. To teach you specific skills for your specific battle assignment. Casualty rate 80% or greater. After each assignment, you could re-test to try to get in the Pipeline. Or take your next assignment. It was up to you.
If you survived five assignments but had no hope of getting on the Pipeline, you could only then attempt transfer back to the regular California military for the rest of your service commitment. Sometimes they would let you do that, other times they would kick you out of the military, "Service Obligation Completed" or "General Discharge." Or send you to prison, if your Bear Force performance and/or prior criminal and/or military record so dictated.
If you stripped off the layers of bullshit, Bear Force were penal troops. We armed our criminals and sent them to attack our enemies, with the carrot of cadre and the stick of a convenient early death that served California's needs.
There were two Bear Force training sites in my Sector. I avoided them. Each had a POC (Point of Contact) that I could reach out to with respect to any security issues. They could also reach out to me, but wouldn't, unless shit was major bad and they needed a reaction force to handle how bad it was.
I knew they were operating on the wrong side of the Border. I didn't know any details, and that was very much on purpose.
I thought about transferring to Bear Force.
But there was a bear's paw in the way. I was much more valuable to California here, doing what I was doing, a turnkey leader in a crucial role. I had no right to go play cannon fodder with knife and makeup.
I also resented the fuck out of them for basically murdering Betty. Of course she'd been attracted to them, like a candle to a moth. And gotten incinerated.
We were a state of hard choices. When our own people are starving, how can we feed people to sit in cells and do nothing? That was what the penal work program was all about. But to go one step further, and arm them?
Bear Force wasn't supposed to operate on California territory. But before her transfer to Bear Force, Betty had been Collections. Intelligence. Not one of their dreaded Agents, but something else.
Like a blinding light, it dawned on me.
Betty had fucked up. Spectacularly. She'd been _sentenced_ to Bear Force. Even if she'd volunteered, it was more likely that she'd been volun-TOLD.
That's why the postcard, and no other word of her fate. And, trivially enough, no life insurance payment.
In the dirty, dusty moonlight that smelled of rat piss that was Camp McNasty, I faced it.
She was no innocent. Neither was I. But she'd done something dirtier than anything I'd ever been done, or at least caught for.
Yet they'd let her take a brief vacation first. Charged leave during an investigation? Or along the lines of a condemned person's last cigarette?
(We hadn't allowed that at Alviso. Your last smoke was the night before. We were too busy, too industrial to slow down the execution line for personal theatrics.)
I couldn't resent Bear Force any more. And I had no desire to join them.
I took a deep breath.
"Pass the word for the doctor."
There was only the one other person who had known Betty, and would know what the hell I was taking about. I hated to cost her sleep, but this was bugging me and it was a demon best exorcised quickly.
My office, a closed door, two bottles of water.
"Echo," and she was one of the few who called me by my first name, as she knew I preferred it from people I knew.
"Echo... Betty was a pathological liar and a budding sadomasochist. Both traits helped her in her official profession as Site psychologist, and unofficial profession as your informant. She couldn't take out her sadistic tendencies on you, but you more than satisfied her masochism. We buffered her bullshit as best we could, but Sharon nearly knifed her twice that I know of. When Homeland fingered her and Brooke dragged her off site, we were all relieved.
"I wouldn't have told you any of this if you hadn't asked. But you asked."
I nodded.
Then I looked again at her face.
"How are you doing, Doctor?" I thought belatedly to ask.
She broke down crying. The Border was an abattoir. She kept seeing dying and dead kids, when awake as her job, at night in her dreams. She could use IV fluids and a few drugs, but the basic cause of death was always the same. Dehydration by being dragged across a desert by desperate parents, with a minor key - so to speak - in chronic radiation poisoning, malnutrition and lack of health care.
"Do you want a transfer?"
"No!"
Because then there would really be nothing. Technically a doctor position wasn't authorized to the Sector. Her second, who had been a vet _assistant_ before the Firecracker, would step up into her slot.
She would keep trying, in her slot, because California needed her to be a lot more than she was.
Just like me.
"At Site you were so cold all the time, so distant. I thought you were some sort of unfeeling monster. Now I see how the kids look at me. I'm trying to save them, but I'm just another monster in the monster parade."
When a woman is crying, there are only two ways to console her. With hugs, or if you know what you are doing and are prepared to accept the consequences (which may range from slap to marriage!), there is also with kisses.
I chose hugs. The other option was there, you understand, but the attraction was not and had never been mutual.
She fell asleep exhausted in my arms as we half-sat on my cot.
I stared at the ceiling.
If you ask the question, be very sure you are prepared for the answer.
I made a mental note to get a bigger, stronger cot. Because this ... was nice.
Perhaps you think that's a horrible thing to say.
Go do a year in Homeland custody and then we'll talk again.
