Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation Read Free

couple of other Brits and others we never met. I have never felt what I felt in that room. None of us had anything in common, but we all had one thing in common. We talked about our former homes, the differences, the opportunities. Everyone was dressed for the occasion.
    When my name was called, the immigration official required me to confirm previous questions. He asked, “Since your last hearing, have you joined or belonged to any organizations other than the Boy Scouts and Civil Air Patrol?”
    “Yes,” I answered.
    He looked up at me, a bit surprised, because this was supposed to be largely a formality at this point.
    “Which organization?”
    “The U.S. Air Force.”
    It took him a moment to process that, then he grinned hugely and said, “So you’re definitely here for the long haul.”
    “Yes, sir, I am.”
    He had me sign the papers, then he signed.
    A while later, all of us together wound up in a courtroom, in seated rows, silently and politely awaiting our Immigration Judge.
    The judge came in, very cordially, noted this was the most enjoyable part of his job, and he was proud to see us. He even knew which countries some of us were from, which was both very thoughtful, and very professional.
    Then we raised our hands, and he administered the Naturalization Oath. There was a quiet cheer, and we all shook hands and patted each other on the back.
    Fifty people entered that courtroom. Fifty Americans came out. If you are an immigrant, you understand. If not, I cannot explain it to you. At that moment, after a decade, I was once again, and at last, home.
    I still have that suit, by the way. There is no way my chest would fit in that skinny jacket anymore, nor my arms, and to be fair, the waist is at least three inches too small. But that suit is mine.
    Three months later I left for Basic Training, and it took the USAF three years to straighten out the paperwork from Permanent Resident to Naturalized Citizen, complicated by the fact that it was illegal to make any copy of the document in those days.
    If you see me at public functions, you will find a lot of immigrants, including me, congregate. No matter where we came from, we share the bond of having chosen, and worked, to be Americans. Skin color, religion, political affiliation, have far less interest or impact to me than that unique connection. I noticed this in the military, where lots of immigrants wound up in my unit, and at science fiction conventions, which I started attending.
    At my first convention, I managed to break my watch. I have never replaced it. It didn’t really matter what time it was, and I threw myself in headfirst. No one knew it was my first convention. I’ve always fit into that crowd.
    I had lots of letters to editor, recipes, and such published from age eighteen, with a very high hit rate. I wrote stuff for KeepAndBearArms.com that went viral, and eventually got reprinted for money. I sold some erotica, and got requests for more.
    I wrote a short story, which I submitted to several magazines, only to have it rejected. It wasn’t great. I did eventually salvage some of the characters and elements for other stories.

    It’s almost a stereotype that science fiction authors have an odd employment history. I got caught in the first round of military cutbacks in the late 1980s, wound up getting my reenlistment cancelled, and was out the gate on a week’s notice. I had to get all the essential stuff I didn’t have—an apartment, a bed, kitchen utensils, a cat—on credit. Then I had to find a job in a sucky area for jobs. Champaign-Urbana being a small town with a large college has lots of well-educated, needy, underpaid applicants for jobs. I took some hourly positions in fabrication shops, and doing machine maintenance, and even as shift manager at a pizza place, until I could get enrolled for school with the GI bill to help. I also enlisted in the Army National Guard.
    During this time, I hung out a lot with the Society for Creative