3 SUM (2 page)

Sure, we were still needed for something, but on their terms.

“Can I think about it?” I asked.

“No need, I'm going to give them a call. Hang on.”

“Here's your appointment,” and Gretel handed me a card.

The Bank was on Wednesday, and the injection on Friday. My libido was under control again, but I still had to make a deposit. It wouldn't be easy, but I wasn't meant to enjoy it.

I was on ten drugs, or should have been, until I'd wondered what it was like to love, lust after a woman. We guys called them cocktails: sexual suppressants, mood stabilisers, and oxytocin to encourage trust and empathy. It was a formula for stability, a prescription for a safer society for women.

“Be careful on the path,” shouted Gretel after me. “There's a loose paving slab.”

I headed for the bus stop, the cage rubbing against me. Only women could drive; men couldn't be trusted. It was a long standing joke that we couldn't even park a car.

I read the paper with a crossdresser looking over my shoulder. They didn't need an army of paid spies, just a handful of secret police; we were our own worst enemy.

We'd lost the battle of Helsinki, but were winning the war. The Undiagnosed were trapped in a pincer movement. By Christmas their lines would be pushed back to the Black Sea, and all of Greater Euroland would fly the flag of Femocracy again. Only Switzerland stayed neutral.

The sign at the front of the bus was revolving with adverts: men's makeup, chastity cages, and extra credits for guinea pigs at the University.

“Hi Cordelia,” I said.

We were in the gardens at the entrance to my home. The walls were high and white, and the sunshine bounced off them and Cordelia's long silky hair. She turned to look at me, and instantly began twirling a lose strand of hair with her finger.

Cordelia 615 was the warden to my flats, and a recent post-op transgender due for a transfer in line with her new status.

“Valery. What brought you out today?” she asked, looking me up and down.

Cordelia was forty-two, a red-head, size 16, with great legs. She'd gone for the chop with selective erasure. Bless her; she couldn't remember a thing about her previous sex life, or lack of it. That was their new tool, memory cells surgically removed. It was a tool you could use to effect, unlike ours.

“My check up, courtesy of Vespertina.”

Vespertina Eve was the leader of Western Europe, and the woman in which we placed absolute trust to guide us through these troubled times.

“Feeling all right, love?” asked Cordelia as she continued to prune the hedge.

“Yes, thank you. I was a little under the weather. Nothing I could do about it, said the doc.”

“Lucky for you.”

I guess I was. Our leaders could be merciless. Recklessness, miscalculation, out in the rain without a coat, dangerous sports, too much food, or not enough food, they could all cost you time inside. And a man who'd served time was even more expendable on the front lines.

“You hear about that guy with the cold?” asked Cordelia.

“Bill Thingamajig.”

“That's the fellow. He coughed all over the firing squad this morning.”

Bill had become a celebrity, the kind they had to make an example of. He caught the flu, but went to work and gave the bug to the entire office. Half of them, the recovered, went to his execution.

Suddenly a siren wailed; it was a reminder to take our medicine. They hung from the tall white posts dotted around the landscape; they were innocent looking unless you knew their true meaning, to keep the underclass subdued in their rightful place.

“You're not going?” asked Cordelia.

“No need, I'm on depots from now on.”

“Then you have been a naughty boy, Valery. You should be a transgender; I'm drug free.”

“No thanks. I've got this thing about surgery.”

“Shame, you'd make a great girl.”

I really wished they would stop saying that.

“Damn,” said Cordelia.

She stepped off the ladders and went to plug the trimmer back into the extension. Suddenly, she fell like a tree hit by lightning, coiled up on the ground, electrocuted and unresponsive.

My mind raced ahead of me as I rushed to cut the power. I performed CPR then put her in the recovery position; she was breathing again. An ambulance picked her up. There was a white post down the street, and a crossdresser called Norm had pressed the emergency button.

Cordelia had been saved by the three of us: me, Norm, and the chop. Accident-prone men headed to prison, if anyone cared enough to save them. Naturally, Norm and I got no thanks from the female ambulance driver and her two tranny lackeys, the stretcher bearers. Norm hung around, invited me in for a drink. But I didn't want friends too close to home, and politely declined. I would hate the stress of wondering whether or not to say hello every time our paths crossed.

I bolted my door shut and went to the bathroom. I needed a shower. How would I cope with my new steel friend? I had long brunette hair, hazel eyes, and a smooth complexion with great symmetry. I'd resisted the blusher up to now, but it paid to look good and be frivolous if you wanted promotion. I wasn't a natural cross-dresser, just casual; I couldn't feel the thrills even on the pills. But I realised long ago that to get my job, flat, and perks, I'd have to condescend.

I was in medical supplies, a cog in the machine making things happen, allowing things to go on the way they wanted. But history had taught us it was better this way; women were now safe, and men had stopped inventing situations to enslave them.

I towelled dry, but still felt dirty for my earlier distasteful thoughts. I ran the bath, adding scented foam. It would take a few more generations of men like me before the caveman was gone for good. But we were progressing; the women called it Eve-olution, the natural progression of order.

The bath was ready. I went to the fridge for a bar of milk chocolate, and lit the candles that floated like lily pads on the fragrant water. I was lucky, and I knew it.

I wore my powder blue robe, the fluffy one, and looked at the catalogues for some new shoes. The internet and social networks were a thing of the past, for men.

I was bored, had been off work too long, and tidied my wardrobe. The clothes were organised in rainbow colours with all the black velvet hangers pointing inward. Then I remembered him, the anorak, and his creased note. I poured myself a glass of red wine from the carton in the fridge, and sat in front of the electric fire.

I expected an address or an introduction to my blackmail. It was neither, it was much worse: a page of stickers. And they all read MAD. I began shaking like a leaf; those letters could get you killed, and it appeared Danny 55 had been their poster boy, sticking insurgency on toilet doors.

Folded inside the page was a steel token; ‘Tilda's Boat House' was engraved on the front and ‘One Free Ride 29' on the reverse.

The stickers fluttered to the ground, and I quickly kicked them under the bed away from me, shivering. The token went in my sewing bag next to the buttons.

The capitals stood for Mason Adam Deviant, and it was a capital offence to be associated with his teachings. Paradoxically, his followers sought not to usurp Utopia, but to increase its powers. These masochists wanted pain and suffering under a female boot, through whip, cane, or any other aggravated means. But it was a choice, and Vespertina understood that free will amongst men was too dangerous, whatever the reason.

I poured myself another glass of wine and snuggled under the blankets, cosy and warm from the ill winds that were beating at our Empire's door. Thank goodness I was a man.

Chapter Two

“Colonel Anais Eve, how are the grunts?” asked General Rolliet.

Colonel Anais was slumped in a chair reading her new battle plans. They were in the war room.

“Morale is low, General.”

“Aren't you in charge of the Depressed Brigade?”

“Indeed.”

“Then what do you expect? If only those fools back home knew the truth.” Rolliet was older, more experienced. Her steely-eyed glances marked a determination to succeed. “That we're losing the war.”

There had been six years of increasingly bitter fighting. Prisoner exchanges had been replaced with starvation. Others were tortured on the front line to un-nerve the enemy, wailing like banshees as life slowly drained away.

“We're in retreat, Anais Eve.”

The Eve was used either for formality or, in this case, to underscore a point: the possibility of defeat.

Rolliet held a long stick, a snooker cue from the Officer's mess, and pointed it at the white board. “At this rate, they could push us back to Berlin before the New Year.”

“Reinforcements?” asked Anais. “Army group four?”

“Surrounded in Romania.”

“What about HQ?”

They were in the French Alps under the mountains, safe from bombardment, but if they were cornered there was no way out.

“We're safe for now. Do you keep the pill? I know some of the Officers don't. But if you've ever had one of those grubby monsters panting on top of you, believe me you would.”

The pill was cyanide, not contraceptive.

“The Undiagnosed?” asked Anais. “I never knew you were captured.”

“I wasn't; I'm talking about all men. I'm old enough to remember the days of another invader, before medication was universal.”

“Do you ever miss it?”

“Careful, Anais, that's treason.”

“I was just curious.”

“If I was a romantic fool maybe I would, but I'm not. And this, my dear Anais, is worth ten men.”

She opened her pill box; it was fashioned from a grenade and just as explosive. Lusterone was orgasmic dynamite. It took your heart, mind, and soul, and melted them into one. It was woman's greatest achievement, and no man on earth could compete.

Once upon a time post coitus, one would have slept like their baby in the arms of a lover. But Lusterone kept you awake, alert. It boosted self-esteem, if not empathy. The magic vibrator removed breeding and brooding. The Undiagnosed banned its production, fearing female addiction.

“You know we drop it over enemy lines,” said Rolliet.

“No, I didn't know.”

“Anais, excuse me whilst I melt.”

She put the paper tab on the tip of her tongue, and closed her eyes. She visibly shuddered, and afterwards glowed like a golden oil lamp.

“Anais, do you know what I really miss?” she asked, composing herself in a swivel chair.

She answered before her junior could reply, “A cigarette,” and laughed.

“Why is that funny?” asked Anais.

“Just a memory, gone up in smoke,” replied Rolliet.

“The truce, what happened?” asked Anais.

“They want to destroy us, complete annihilation, and erase every memory.”

A friendly fighter escort could be heard overhead.

“The Surgeon General's here,” said Rolliet, smiling broadly.

“Where are the others?”

“They will be joining us later. This is top secret, Anais, between the three of us.”

Anais hitched up her grey woollen stockings, frayed like her nerves, underneath her green tunic. She wore a knee length skirt, jacket, and a beret pinned to a tilt on her thick black hair. The General wore a red dress; she'd been a scarlet woman until a man broke her heart, now she broke their will.

“Are you aware your kill ratio is the lowest in the Corps?” said Rolliet.

Anais smiled nervously. Were they going to replace her? She had heard the rumours.

“I am.”

“Is that not regrettable?”

“Indeed. But my troops want to die too easily.”

“Then change their meds.”

“We have tried, with unfortunate consequences.”

“The euphoria mentioned in your report.”

“Lewdness, exhibitionism, and self-gratification. There was even a case where one of my Officers was approached for sex.”

“Disgusting, what happened to the miscreant?” asked Rolliet.

“Shot at dawn.”

“I will be honest, Anais, it's a problem affecting the war effort. It seems their willingness to fight, aggression, is being curtailed by feminization.”

“A reluctance to shoot their weapons.”

“Quite. But we must find a solution, for too long history has been written in their pathetic fluid.”

“And the other Brigades?” asked Anais.

“Our fiercest warriors are the personality disorders, led by Colonel Charlotte Eve, then the social phobias and schizophrenics, your old unit. Of course, the grandiose are always ready to fight tooth and nail, and the paraphilia's and somatoform disorders include some of our staunchest supporters.”

The door flung open and two MP's, shemale military police, quickly scanned the room with eyes and gadgets. Machine guns were slung over their shoulders; peaked red caps were tilted down, covering their eyes.

“Clear and safe,” announced one, and in marched Vespertina.

“You can wait outside,” she said to her guards.

The bombproof door closed behind her, sealing them in.

“If only my mother could see us today,” said the surgeon general. “She hated men.”

Vespertina, Surgeon General, wore a black rubber bodysuit, impervious to blades and bullets. Under the direct light it appeared more two-tone, with a greyer sheen to the upper body parts. No one knew her real age, only that she was much older than her appearance.

“At ease, women,” said Vespertina.

Words either elevated or condemned a society, and there was no longer a trifling distinction between women and ladies. The term ‘gentleman', once perpetuated to elevate one irrelevant male above another, was now taboo.

Rolliet and Anais stood down, though they were still nervous. Vespertina removed her helmet, and they could see her beauty in all its magnificent glory. It was rumoured she kept a harem of a hundred captured and drugged Undiagnosed women. Her eyes sparkled above a seductress's lip, and they both wondered if the curvaceous armour was padded on the hips.