In a world controlled
by women, while searching for love, a young consort and his mother fight to liberate men. By 2092, poisoned
food supplied by women has wiped out most men. Government controls allow one
male consort for every hundred females, enough to provide sperm and some
companionship. Self-centered, 15-year-old Calvin Carlisle from Beverly Hills ends up in Re-Education, facing
indentured servitude, or worse, sex slavery in a foreign country. While torn
between the lure of BIG MONEY in the grey market for sex, his love for one of
the guards, and his yearning for freedom and family, he conspires with three
other boys to escape. His celebrity mother, Cathrine, attempts to free him with
lawsuits, a public relations war, and his father’s resistance group. Against
the backdrop of a war between North and South, follow the two in their quests to outwit the system to be with the ones they love.
1. Goodbye, Calvin
Mom! They'll kill me!” Calvin's screams made her blood curdle. “Mom, don't let
them take me. Mom!”
Cathrine stood on the
white front porch of her Beverly Hills
house and looked at the ground. What could she say? What could she do? She had
signed the agreement fifteen years ago. At eighteen. When she had no clue and
no cares. Her failure to live up to it may doom her son now.
A lieutenant of the Enforcement Department handed her a writ
of attachment and a report with the big letters “SIS” on top. “By order of the
court of Los Angeles County one Calvin Carlisle is hereby attached in satisfaction of
your contract with the Reproduction Services Administration for failure to
maintain the required Social Interaction Score.”
The dreaded SIS, bane of every consort wannabe. Ratings
given by girls that went on dates with him made up the most important part. To
Cathrine's amazement, Calvin had done
poorly on his social outings despite his pedigree. After all, his father,
famous Latin lover Rodrigo, was one of the most coveted
possessions around. If only he were here. He would know how to deal with “The
Woman.” But the early morning raid had taken her completely by surprise. Before
her second caffè latte. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her small Maltese, Buddy,
stood next to her and barked incessantly.
The warming sun barely lifted its head above the tall palm
trees lining the street. Among the surrounding carefully manicured lawns
bordered by flower beds, a handful of women watched the procession marching
past her azaleas.
“Is this about the bombing last month?” one of them shouted.
Two female Enforcement Department officers had locked Calvin between them and forced him toward the armored
transportation van. A menacing water cannon on top pointed at the group. Two
more women in light-blue shirts and blue pants marched a step behind, their
hands clutching the batons and pistols on their belts. Helmets, with mirrored,
bullet-proof visors flipped down, hid their faces.
“Mom! Mom!” His pitch had reached that of a little girl's.
He dug his heels into the gravel walkway, stiffened his legs, and pushed hard
against the pressure on his arms. The two uniformed women turned toward him and
grabbed his shoulders for more leverage. “Mom!”
Cathrine could take
no more. She rushed them and yanked an officer's arms back. “Run, Calvin, run!”
The two behind them wrestled Cathrine to the ground. Her head slammed down on the
“Don't hurt her. Don't hurt her.” Calvin looked at his mother lying on the asphalt,
motionless. He struggled to break free, but the second policewoman held his arm
behind his back, his wrist twisted to the point of near breaking. Her pressure
and excruciating pain brought him to his knees. “Ow, you bastards, I'll get you
for this. Mom! Say something. Mom!”
Two officers pushed him to the van and up the step ladder.
He turned and gyrated to get a last glimpse of his mother, lying face down,
cuffed. The enforcers pushed him into the cage. Doors slammed shut with loud
metallic clanking sounds. The sunlight disappeared.
Calvin looked at the other three boys in the
windowless transportation van. Four LEDs, light-emitting diodes, bathed the
interior in a dim white light. His pounding heart had yet to calm down. Over
the years, he had spent many weeks without Mom during her on-location immersive
experience shoots, but she contacted him every day, often multiple times, to
reassure him. And she always returned when the immersive experience wrapped.
Not this time. He had witnessed the brutal officers womanhandle Cathrine. They and steel walls now
severed him from her. Maybe forever, if the rumors proved true. But he would
not let the others see him cry.
The sudden movement of the van threw him onto the bench. At
least the enforcers had not cuffed or chained any of them. A wire mesh panel
with holes too small for an arm to reach through separated the prisoner
compartment from the rear of the vehicle. The police seemed to consider it
enough protection from any violent outbursts.
Three boys stared at him with expressions of terror mixed
with curiosity. The biggest one in the group, with parted brown hair and
sporting a black vest over a white shirt, spoke. He reeked of cologne. “What's
“What do you care?” Calvin lowered his gaze to the gray rubber mat
covering the floor. How he cursed being at the mercy of fickle female opinion. Girls
need not provide feedback but it came with benefits. For one, it stopped the
nagging messages and e-mails from the SIS computers until the next scheduled
date. A quick response also earned a girl a better standing in date
allocations. In the ferocious competition for the best slots, the algorithms
considered whether and how fast someone responded, with exponentially more
weight given to recent feedback. Missing a number of ratings in a row ensured a
cheap date on a week day, hence voluntary compliance stayed above 97%.
To avoid recriminations, RSA only provided monthly summaries
of all figures and the optional comments. He had received a few 1s, but never a
coveted and rare 9. The average of all lifetime ratings, multiplied by 100,
became the measure of success for
boys. Secrecy surrounded the cutoffs, but counselors always sprang into action
when scores dropped below 500.
“We're trying to figure out how high Repro goes on the West Side.” The big boy pointed to the smallest of the
three, freckled and with curly hair in a red reminiscent of a Raggedy Andy
doll. “Charlie here has 440 on Date. His 720 on Teacher
didn't save him.” He nodded toward the third one, blonde, blue eyes, in a
maroon wool pullover. “Devon's got 520 on Date and 560 on Teacher. I'm Paul. I have 693 on Date and 584
on Teacher. Never figured I'd be here, ya know.”
Monthly teacher ratings determined the other part. They
often followed the grades a student had in his classes, but many teachers gave
credit for effort. To Calvin's disappointment he regularly had deductions that
he attributed to envy and resentment of his mother's fame. He had made sure
everyone in school knew that she was a spokeswoman for Repro who made many
popular commercials for the consort program. Boys, and men, watched them just
to see her pretty face and then some. How could the offspring of such a
celebrity possibly fail? “Those damn funhaters downgraded me unfairly. Bad luck
with a few hos did the rest. I
shoulda gotten better than fucking 516 and 477.”
The redhead looked down. The color of his cheeks approached
that of his hair. Blondie also averted his gaze.
Paul maintained eye contact with Calvin. “Well, if the cut-off is
somewhere in the 700s, ya had to do a lot
better than that, ya know.”
Calvin lowered his gaze. His teachers had warned him.
He paid insufficient attention to his general studies, routinely handing in
homework late or not at all, and doing poorly on tests. But why should he care?
On top of finishing school, laws mandated high school education for boys,
supposedly to allow them to intelligently converse with women. As if the girls
lusted for talking. They wanted something more substantial, something to see
and touch. He had sold his naked body, like his mother had advised him to do.
The adults failed to understand the wants and needs of the youngsters, except
for Mom. She never completed high school, and did quite well for herself, so
why should he bother with such boring intellectual pursuits? He knew what the
girls wanted. Once he got with them alone, he would dicknotize them and give it
to them good under the sheets. That the immature teens did not let him under
their skirts would pass with age. He was certain.
What does the preppy
know? From the corner of his eye, he studied the tall boy. Envy, obviously, like all those stupid
teachers who say I'm “impertinent” and “arrogant”. Comments in that
direction by Calvin's dates, low-class skanks, showed just as little
understanding of his world. He was the offspring of one of the prettiest women
around and the best consort in the history of womankind. His classmates in both
schools could not hold a candle to him. Unfortunately, all the conniving people
had ratings power over him that landed him in the armored transporter. He had
convinced himself that Mom and Dad would prevent such a fate. They always got
what they wanted and certainly would move all seven heavens and earth to get
him out of his misery. Condescending Paul and the two hapless milquetoasts will see in a
few days. “It's all a mistake. Repro assured my mom nothing will happen to me.”
“Oh, really?” Paul showed an amused smile. “I heard ya crying for
her. Didn't do ya much good, huh?”
Calvin balled his hand into a fist. Rodrigo never took crap like that in his school days.
He made sure boys and girls looked up to him. Then again, the flamboyant Cuban
immigrant, son of a doctor, had everything going for him: brains, brawn, and
beauty. Calvin had inherited much of the latter from his mother. His hopes that
his father's genes for the first two would express themselves had been dashed
so far, but maybe he was a late bloomer. He made up for his lack of strength
with fierce determination to stop anybody from stomping on him. The two enforcers took me by surprised. I could have licked them in a fair
The small blond boy turned pale. “The…they're going to kill
Charlie opened his mouth. “Nonsense. Where'd you get
“I heard him, too, and there're so few men around.”
“A psycholoco Russian billionaire poisoned most of them, but
that was tera years ago. They keep us around for entertainment. They're not going to kill us.”
Calvin glared at Charlie. “Oh, yeah? No one's ever
returned from Re-Ed.”
“Let's not argue
among ourselves. We have to stick together to survive. Where we're going is tera-times
worse than prison.”
“Oh, really?” Calvin aped the phrase. “Who made you Mr. Fucking
Know-It-All? And tera what? Speak
Paul chimed in. “I've heard it around school a few
“Tera, like in Terabyte. Big, huge, gigantic, a lot, bigger
than a wiggajot. Anyway, two teachers
came to see my mother. I bugged the living room.” Charlie straightened his back. “The guards make boys
strip and play with themselves. Some have boys go down on them like Lolitos.
Teachers do to if you want favors.”
“Crapola. What do these sissies know? Only guys go to
“Guards and instructors have sisters, too.”
“Cock-and-bull to scare you into lapping up your school
work, red doggy.” Calvin's voice broke. He pretended to wave his hand in
defiance. Similar rumors swirled around Boys Finishing School every time
students disappeared. No one ever
came back to tell.
“You won't talk so tough when they stick something up your…
well, you know.”
“ASS, doggy. Can't you say it?”
The redhead stared at the floor and continued with a muted
tone. “We must, um, all stick together, or assuredly we'll all get the stick
Calvin turned to the door, his white knuckles locked
on the metal bench. “You piggies go shit yourselves. I'm not worried.”
The William Tell
Overture cartone repeated a few times. Devon spoke up. “Maybe… perhaps… we can form a
sistership to fight evil, like in Lady of
Charlie looked at him. “You mean fellowship. Boys form
“Great idea.” Calvin added his sarcastic comment. “What a role model.
Half the dykes die, and the armies of men get wiped out at the end. My mom's a
big shot. I don't need no help from no fucking fellowship.”
Paul held out his hand, palm down, into the space
between the two benches and alternated looks between the two boys sitting in
the corners around him. “We form our own fellowship, ya know. Let loudmouth
fend for himself.” Devon and Charlie laid their hands on his. He shook them up and
down. “Like The Three Musketeers.
‘All for one, one for all.’”
Calvin kept his stare on the back doors. He wanted to
lift his hand. I don't need them. I'm
Calvin Carlisle, son of Catty Carlisle. No one
can touch me.
A metal gate opened with a loud rumble that squelched the
cartone. The transporter slowed down and came to a stop. Clanking noises. The
doors swung open. An officer in blue wearing a helmet with visor unlocked the
wire mesh panel. “You four, out!”
The boys exited into a completely enclosed courtyard.
Four-story structures, in light-brown stucco interspersed with dark-brown wood
windows, rose on all sides. A heavy, green two-panel gate with an arched top
blocked the drive way. Cold air lay on the ground. A moldy smell came from the
corners out of reach of the sun. Calvin hugged himself. The silk shirt displayed his
mom's fashion sense but did not excel in providing warmth. Six security guards
wearing black jackets with “Re-Education Agency” patches and two enforcers in
blue surrounded them. All carried nightsticks, batons with side-handles
typically used by the police.
From a stone-enclosed balcony, an older woman with
grayish-white hair tied into a severe bun peered down on them. Her olive suit
gave her a military look. “Welcome to the Sheena McLintock Metro Los Angeles Re-Education facility, your
new home.” Her stern face contradicted the warm message. “My name is Principal
Elenora Cardozo Sanchez.
Follow instructions from the staff, obey all the rules, and we will all get
One of the women in black uniform, a petite brunette with a
ponytail, caught his eye. She slowly scanned the boys. As her face turned
toward him, his heart jumped. Mom! Or her
younger sister. Big gray eyes and smiling pink lips sent Calvin's blood
pulsing. He no longer paid attention to the speech.
Behind him, the bang of a metal sliding bolt preceded the
creaking of a green door opening. He turned and gaped. A tall guard, in her thirties
with short dark-blonde hair and a high nose, pointed inside. “This way please.”
As he approached, she stared at his crotch with cold, deep set eyes. Before
entering Calvin stopped, turned his head, and took one last
look at the younger copy of his mother still standing in the courtyard. The
blonde took the opportunity to gently stroke her nightstick across the bulge in
his pants. A shudder raced down his spine. He read her name badge: Ingrid Holtz.
2. Welcome Cathrine
Cathrine woke with
a jolt that banged her temple against cold glass. Her hand reached to the pain
on the back of her head, but rigid metal prevented the move—electronic cuffs.
She squinted and looked around.
Where am I? So clean.
Around her, Mozart's Eine
Kleine Nachtmusik played, a cartone typical of police patrols. State-supported classical orchestras offered
governments royalty-free downloads for alerting unwary pedestrians of the
otherwise silent electrical vehicles. Cathrine had made one of her recordings available too
as a gesture of support for her country. A country that just robbed her of her
precious son, and now her freedom.
She stared at the hair of the two figures beyond the
partition and struggled in vain to match them to one of the four officers that
enforced the writ. The helmets had prevented a clear identification.
“Where's my son? Please,” she whimpered.
No reaction from the front. Cathrine pushed her bare heels against the seat,
pivoted forward as far as she could, and repeated her tortured plea.
“Please, where's my son? He's only fifteen. Scared. He needs
his mother. Please.”
The braking action of the car threw her forward. She fell
back against the hard plastic shell molded to accommodate arms in hingecuffs.
No more Mozart. The two women in blue exited the squad car, opened the rear,
and dragged Cathrine out and through the huge double doors. She
glimpsed the bronze letters inlaid into the concrete: East Central Los Angeles
Correctional Facility—Established 2086.
The officer who towered over her by a head spoke to a black
woman behind the counter. “Emergency incarceration for violent offender, Penal
Code Section 245(c). No ID on her at arrest. I've downloaded her data onto this
smartcard. We'll submit the evidence to a judge and give you the warrant later,
The black woman, in a tan Sheriff's uniform, inserted the
storage device into her computer. A name tag identified her as “Imelda Brown.” She looked at Cathrine and scrunched her face. “Assaulting a law
enforcement officer? This little pinky, a ‘V’? I didn't even put dresses like
that on my Barbies.”
The tall officer lightly slapped Cathrine's cheek. “Don't
let this pretty face fool you. She attacked Daphne alright. Took both of us to
subdue her. Throw the book at her, so she learns not to do this.”
“What do you mean, Pinky? V? My name is Cathrine! Missis Carlisle
for you idiots.” A yank on her long hair elicited a scream.
The shorter officer spoke. “See, Pinky, that's what we call
girly girls like you with a princess attitude. And ‘V’ is for ‘violent
offender’. Hey, we should just call her ‘Vinky’ for short.”
The officers laughed and punched Cathrine's cuffed arms.
She looked past the blonde strands dangling in her
face. The flickering light of outmoded fluorescent lamps gave the white walls
the sterile feel of an operating room. Uniformed women worked at cheap metal
desks on ancient computers. She felt naked without makeup and in her casual
dress. Enough of the humiliating treatment. “You can't do this to me. I want to
contact an attorney!”
“Yes, we can, and no, you can't. Emergency incarceration.
You don't get anything for 48 hours,
and then we'll see.” Imelda gave her a pretend-smile then reverted back to her
“You will regret this. I'm a star—with powerful friends.
Give me my com contact, you assholes, or else.” Cathrine kicked the laminate panels decorating the
front of the counter. A hand hit the injury on the back of her head, sending
forth a jolt of pain. She swayed and let out a heart-wrenching scream. Tears
“Or else what?” the shorter officer asked.
“Feels different when you're on the receiving end, doesn't
it, crybaby?” Imelda grinned and read the foil, then studied the small woman in
front of her. “Cathrine Carlisle,
hair red, eyes green, 166 centimeters, 53 kilograms. You look a bit chubbier
than 120 pounds, but no worry, a couple days on our lovely diet here will get
you right back down to your dream weight.” She pulled Cathrine's hair forward
to study the roots. “Sure looks like real red.” Imelda grabbed a wand and scanned
the arresting officer's badge while her colleague removed the hingecuffs.
Cathrine rubbed the
wrists of her liberated arms but kept her gaze locked on the white Formica
counter top. A swarm of bees buzzed in her head. She had to wake up. This all
had to be some nightmare. No way could it be real. The beautiful, sunny morning
had begun with a caffè latte and croissants with raspberry jam. At least for
Calvin. She had nibbled a bit of one
of the calorie bombs and finished breakfast with some fresh fruit. Then, as he
prepared to go to Boys' Finishing School, Buddy's ominous barking heralded the
tragedy to come.
Why had she ignored the certified e-mail from the
Reproduction Services Administration (RSA)? Calvin's grades did not measure up.
When girls posted devastating reviews about their dates with him, she ignored
them. Her son socially inept? Unsatisfactory as a male consort? Impossible.
Granted, he had inherited more of her fair, feminine features than the strong
male body of his father Rodrigo, a handsome, intelligent, smooth talking, charming
stud who swept hundreds of women off their tony high heels. Earned him
millions. He gave Cathrine the idea to raise a son to begin with. A good
breeder would ensure steady income and a luxurious retirement. The contract said
so. At least the few portions she remembered from the pitch of the saleswoman
at RSA. Instead, her child had gone on a journey of no return—so she heard—to
“re-education”, while she stood in prison, confused, helpless, and barefoot.
Another woman in a tan uniform took Cathrine through processing. Digital mug shot, finger
print scan, DNA probe, all the things she knew from television. Then the first
of many horrors that TV shows did not tell her about: a humiliating body cavity
search for weapons or drugs. The women delighted in making her assume the most
uncomfortable positions and shoving as many fingers into her as possible.
Resistance was met with more blows to her already mistreated head. Her guard
made sure to tell each of her colleagues to teach the officer-assaulting ‘V’ a
A cold shower and a cloud of disinfectant later, Cathrine received orange overalls with a long Velcro
strip in front from the neck to the crotch. But not to wear the garment. The
corrections people made her go through the rest of the procedure naked while
holding the folded jumpsuit in a neat package with bra, briefs, and socks, and
topped off with orange-and-white canvas slippers. She finally stood waiting in
This can't be legal. I'm
a star, get me out of here!
In twenty years of immersive experience making she had not
read about such outrageous treatment in any script. The many hits made the
headache from her fall on the pavement worse. Her shoulders hurt. The cold
linoleum floor reeked of industrial cleaner. A failing neon lamp projected a
flashing shadow play onto the white dry wall. Tears pooled in her eyes. She
blinked and swallowed the best she could, fearing one of the officers behind
her would make good on the threat to teach the crybaby an extra lesson, give
her a real reason to bawl.
A burly woman with a long, black ponytail entered the room.
“Why's this suspect not dressed?”
The other women in uniform shrugged.
She grabbed Cathrine's chin and turned her head. “I'm
Sergeant Angelique Duqaine. What's your name?”
“Your last name! We're adults here.” Angelique gave a fierce
glance to her colleagues. “And say ‘ma'am’ when an officer talks to you.”
“Okay, Carlisle, put on
your clothes and follow me to V block. Lucky you. Violent offenders get their
own private cell for a few days to cool down.”
Minutes later, the heavy steel door closed behind Cathrine with a loud bang. She stood alone in a cell so
small that with outstretched arms she could almost touch each cold, gray
concrete wall. Only a metal bunk bed with a thin mattress covered by a
blue-and-white-striped sheet and a shiny steel toilet provided her company. The
bright white LEDs in the center of the ceiling went out, plunging her into
utter darkness. A loud, high-pitched scream filled the room.