CHAPTER TWO: Rivet Factory Tina Semanas Spinning wheels of translucent vanadium gears moved the conveyor system rapidly along. Robotic arms welding side doors and pivot joints for the new class of titanium glider chassis furiously working, spraying showers of orange sparks, pumping out product at record pace. Smaller pieces from transmission switches, pistons, holographic laser diodes for windshields were meticulously placed on inspection trays by row upon row of silent men shrouded with vacant faces. This massive army of “the clean” were outfitted in an array of brightly colored work suits: teal, peach, magenta and sunburst yellow, slogging along all day in the same monotonous grind, eyes blank. Signs around the plant read, “No Conversation Allowed on threat of Exile”; but no matter, after one is washed no conversation is really possible. The Sisters deemed all male dialogue as dangerous. Cis-men needed constant monitoring because historically they were known to scheme and form leverage unions to wrest control from established power structures. Cameras and sound monitors were everywhere. First year Vitups were instructed to memorize the central foundational axiom of domestic criminal law: “Violent deeds are born from violent words.” For the male gender, speech was no longer a right, nor was it free. Phen on this day, as on any given day, was stationed at his bloc, inspecting parts. For such a large man, standing 12 hours a day proved to be excruciating. Reduced to a sullen mountain of muscle and bone, he listlessly examined instrument panel switches looking for any flaws, wearing the required ear mufflers and magnifying lenses -- confined to a world lost in his own gray thoughts. If a worker wanted to avoid the deadly blasting mines they had to be “clean”, and to be clean you were required to be hooked up to a nightly routine of “Xenon drips.” The Sisters demanded for these drips to be strictly enforced in all high-tech engineering and production zones because they increased productivity while reducing unnecessary testosterone driven thought patterns. Phen chose the lesser of two evils: He knew the attrition rates in the mines were harrowing. So instead of sure death, he allowed himself to be placed under the control of The Sister’s nanny-state. For an adult male over 18, that meant living in a perpetual dream world of neutered colors and muted thought life. That all changed when Liam was brought in as Phen’s new bunkmate. Bright eyed and fire haired, Liam was tattooed with the dreaded “V” -- high priority on The Sister’s watchlist. His violence quotient registered so high a small robotic barnacle was daily assigned to him in order to record all movements when he was working on the plant floor. The factory’s Regina considered him to be a walking time-bomb. After leaving the work area, every man was required to proceed naked through a steam hallway for the removal of any dirt, grime or possible contraband that may have been passed between men on the floor. Blue-steam, of course, with it’s highly toxic vapors, was known to damage the barnacle’s circuitry so they were removed from their respective host prior to entrance into the bunkhouse. Once through the hallway, each worker was given a 3600 calorie-cube, a pint of water, and then they were hooked up to a drip station for an hour. Reclining on a red leather recharge-cot, neon green Xenon fluid entered the subject’s veins sending a fast-acting numbing agent straight to the synapses of the frontal lobe. After the last drop was administered, the freshly medicated workers, known to the Regina as “drones”, shuffled back to their bunks where they fell quickly off to a dreamless sleep. One particular night, after one month of falling in step to a drones daily routine, Liam followed Phen to their bunks. Like always, Liam jumped up to the top while Phen collapsed under the scratchy army green cover on the bottom bunk. The one minute bell soon sounded for lights out, and 60 seconds later the room went black. “Squeak, squeak”, the bed springs above Phen were bending under Liam’s large frame. “Psst, Phen look up.” Liam’s soft voice wafted down to his bunkmate underneath. Phen opened one eye, noticing a dark silhouette of an arm reaching down through an even darker room. “Here, take these...quick!” Liam opened his hand and two milky-white capsules with the letter “B” stamped on the sides were cradled in the palm of his large hand. “Hurry, my time is short, you must take them!” Phen feeling groggy and slightly confused replied, “Huh? Why?” “Shut up and take them, they are blockers, c’mon you zombie, you’re my last hope.” Phen robotically took the pills, and without thinking, swallowed them both. “Boom, boom,” a door shot open and two bright laser lights searched the bunks. “Liam O’Malley, report!” One of the huskier guards of the Termagant Force pushed her way in wearing riot gear and equipped with a high powered stun stick. “Make this easy on yourself MCP...Report!” Liam tried slipping silently off the top-bunk, but the creek of the springs alerted the responsive ears of the guards. “Over there!” Two smaller Termagant officers bolted toward him. Liam was trapped. The room lights all flashed on, and Liam was fully exposed caught in the corner of two concrete walls of the bunkhouse. The Husky guard advised Liam with a cynical curl of her top-lip, “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” Liam instead balled up his fists and took up a boxing position ready to fight. “Stupid man, you know the code, ‘violence gives fuel to our violence!’”, the guard turned up the stun stick to full voltage, and slowly walked toward Liam. There was nothing he could do -- once the stick touched his bare forearm that was raised in a defensive position, an electric bolt dropped him instantly to the floor. Liam lost all muscle control and fell unconscious on the hard cement, foaming at the mouth, and lying in a warm pool of his own urine. The two smaller bull-dog faced guards dragged Liam's large frame out the bunkhouse door. The large officer yelled, “One of you mutes clean this up, now!” A pencil thin drone named Ory responded in timid obedience, “Yes Sir, Mam, or should I say Cap’n Vic?” “Major will do...now everyone get back to sleep, we will have to make up for that stupid slop’s lost work. The factory Regina will not like this!” After spitting Ory’s way, the husky woman lumbered out. As if nothing happened, the rest of the half-awake drones fell back asleep while Ory mopped. Phen, however, felt a rush of something new, something wonderfully familiar. It was like embracing the arrival of an old friend. And his name was anger. The following morning Phen awoke with a new set of eyes. While his muscle memory moved him forward to take his same position on the line, the gray clouds of numbness were no longer present. Recollection was occurring: His mind was flashing faded memories of faces, glimpses of those he loved, Dia, Drew, and Ara. He even remembered a line from a favorite children's book he would often read when his charges were small, “And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.” Warm tears began to fall fast, life was beginning to arise in a man long dead. Phen stood there terrified, “What does this mean?” ---------------------------------------------------------- “Ara, pay attention!”, Duenna Black barked. Ara couldn’t stop wondering to herself about Drew, “What if he is found out? Am I obligated to report all domestic troubles? And what if I don’t?” “Ara, did you hear me? Today is vitally important for you to pay attention. Introduction into Colleen Camp begins in a few hours and you must be at your best or you could be left behind. You don't want to be a seamstress do you? Or Gaia forbid, a pedia-stooge, nursing infants and wiping bottoms.” Ara looked nauseous, “Ew, no, who would ever want to be enslaved to that?” Duenna Black snidely smiled while the other girls laughed at the possibility of seeing the headstrong Ara surrounded by worthless whiners. But Ara regained her composure, being the brightest and most cock-sure of the class, and fell back fully attentive, listening to Duenna Black’s instructions: “O.k. Girls, you all have turned 12, though some of you are awfully close to the cut-off date. Say goodbye to your Maureen years, no more endless cycles of princess movies and field trips to the theatre. No more learning about your favorite sport heroines. No more plastic dollies and playing stun guns with sticks on the neighborhood boys. For that matter, boys are no longer allowed to even address you as an equal without your consent. You are entering into the special status of a Colleen. No more games, now it is time to choose.” Ara’s heart dropped, her brother was her best friend and she loved joining with him in playing Termagants and Exiles with the neighborhood ruffians. She even carried strange feelings for a blue eyed kid named Sky. But now I must become a Colleen? The first step to becoming a Regina, every brilliant girl wanted to be a Regina. Just think, seeing your very own image hanging over the city gate, or a company building, or even included on a financial institution’s cornerstone. Who wouldn’t want to be the first line of service to The Sisters?” “Listen closely...your aptitude tests will be computed in a few minutes revealing which ribbon you will be assigned. I know your mothers have discussed this with you, but we must go over them again. You don't want to be caught off guard before the placement board and cast away right from the get go, do you?” Every girl in class, with eyes wide open, shook their heads with a desperate seriousness that fit the terrible mood of the day. The Duenna cleared her throat and began: “White Ribbons are for ‘Vitups’, practitioners of domestic law and prosecutors of male insubordinates. Passion, debate, and forthrightness are required to even be presented with a white ribbon. No female wall-flowers will be tolerated. You will learn the Vitups creed: ‘Outspoken and obnoxious - we won't be shouted down. Never relent, never stop - force of will to capture Regina’s crown!’” Ara knew she was a perfect candidate for this color group. Elected “Feistiest of Class” she was sure to be honored with the white ribbon. “Red Ribbons are for ‘Duennas’ like me: educators and scholars, professors and teachers, women of knowledge. I would dare say this path takes you to The Sister’s chambers of wisdom the quickest. In fact, every sitting Sister first wore red. I am hoping someday to be considered...well…ahem, let's move on.” Duenna Black walked to the window for a moment of reflection, wiped a small tear away, and then continued on. “Tan Ribbons are for ‘Termagant Trainies’ - our security force: Those of you considering this route should also strongly consider gender re-assignment because the new hormone treatments for Termagants will all but extinguish any femininity you once possessed. Even though I find the new extremes that the Reginas in this practice have allowed and instituted, it has its purpose. Just think, it was only a century ago when cases of rape were still being reported in smaller towns.” The moment Duenna Black mentioned ‘rape’ every girl gasped as if Gaia herself sent a yellow thunder-bolt down upon the class. “Girls, you are becoming Colleens now, and shock is no longer allowed. Remember, we are women, full of fury and force. A fierce heart shows no fear.” Many in the class choked back tears, afraid to expose their feeling of fragility. They all knew Duenna Black was made of dangerous metal. “Pink Ribbons are for the ‘Dowagers’, the finer expressions of our gender: As much as I hate to say it, there is a strange power that lies behind beauty. Over the years, women have learned to harness their charm to capture the fortunes of the ignorant masses of men. And now plastic surgery has the ability to allow any person to transform into perfect form in a month's time -- lust driven men will run to a female’s beauty like fish to a worm no matter how artificial the anatomical structure is. Over the years I have grown to appreciate the pink brigade loaded with the most celebrated of singers, actresses, models and dancers. But if you choose this path, I must warn you, it is the most dangerous for any woman's heart. The primitive notion of love can creep in and catch you completely unaware, even to the point of overriding your reason where some women may even want to have their own...I can't say it...children.” The class all at once grew silent. The thought of allowing an alien entity to inhabit your body was the first primal-fear taught to Maureens. Even a four year old girl knows the concept of pregnancy was designed by the ancient Christian cult to “enslave and dominate” women. Duenna Black herself once compared the birthing of children to the Great Plague way back in the 1200’s, when cavemen dwelled on earth. “Those are the four great colors, and soon most of you will be on a path to power.” A hand shot up in the back, “Duenna Black, which Ribbon allows for sports?” A thin stiff lip appeared on the teacher’s face. Slowly she proceded, “Sports died out when more and more men were needed for drone work. The Sisters found that most of the need for sport was driven by the dying ‘father’ movement. When women no longer have male mentoring and adulation and they only have to compete with themselves, The Sisters have determined it is then, and only then, that the female ‘better natures’ take over. Testosterone fuels competitive drive, and the Termagents are the only group strong enough to properly harness the violent aggression that comes with it. When competition no longer matters, the human species stops caring who wins. At least that is what The Sisters want from a mature society. Any other questions before we go to see the social engineers?” One girl gingerly raised her hand, “A boy down the street said sports died because women really aren't that good at it, and men are no longer allowed to compete.” The Duenna’s face flushed. She quickly responded by demanding the young girl to come up to the front. The rest of the class knew this was no small issue. “Wack, wack, wack,” three direct slaps were issued to the girl’s face. Duenna Black issued a decreed, “This is a serious broach of protocol. Maggie Janis, I have not heard sentiments favoring male dominance uttered in this classroom for 15 years. You may not proceed to Colleen status, leave to the school magistrate at once.” The small girl exploded in sobs, “I wasn’t praising men, I didn’t know….” “Get out!” With a crooked finger pointed, Duenna Black stood seething. The rest of the class held their breath, no one moved. The school bell rang which meant it was time. 30 girls no longer Maureens, but Colleens. A new pool of ruling elite, Deanna Black smiled, she prepared her girls well. “Ara, before you leave, I need to speak with you!” Ara stood quiet, frozen in fear.
1 Comment
Chris K
6/10/2017 05:40:52 am
Looking forward to the next installment!
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
Archives
August 2018
|