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Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Sci-fi · #1896153
A not-to-distant future where people are expendible continues...
This was not supposed to happen.  Caring had been genetically bread out of the species soon after genetic engineering became redundant double-speak.  But here she was infatuated with a genetically androgynous but phenotypically male mutant.  He, or she, whatever, was not supposed to exist. 

If she hadn’t turned around when he whistled at her, her life would be normal; monotonous, but normal.  Now she was infuriated, and nothing to break within arm’s reach.  This just wasn’t right.  There should always be a piece of artificially plasticized crystal within easy reach.  She was amazed how much rage she had.  Or was that lust?  That wasn’t supposed to happen either.  She was bound to be found out.

She had to admit to herself that she wouldn’t have turned around at all if he hadn’t called her a name.  How dare he?  Didn’t he know that names were illegal, and they hurt, too?  She wanted to tell him, “My name is not Susan,” but it felt so unusually good, she didn’t have the heart or the will.  She also didn’t have time.  The regimentarians immediately grabbed him and carted him away. 

That was how she knew it was a phenotypic male.  He had the most enormous projectile tenting his omnisexual arilon garment that she lost her train of thought.  She hadn’t seen anything like that in years, well actually, never. 

Not that anyone whipped theirs out for general review; even while cloacal emptying in the unisexual lavatories at the mechanized group food pantry.  Not even in the laser-tag playgrounds where skin-tight arilon was allowed. 

That additional act of visual rebellion was liable to get him hooked up to a remune regenerator.  Only a genetic female would risk that, she surmised.  He had some gall, and gallbladders were extinct.  Why?  No fat.  No fat, so no gallbladder.  She needed water today, even if it was overly expensive.  She felt parched.  Life deserved a treat, or two, sometimes.

Now while she sat being fed another episode of “How to diagnose a malfunctioning fertility implant,” she noted that she couldn’t focus on the electronic messages being emptied into her forebrain, she was just too distracted.  If she wasn’t careful, some robotic sleeguard would notice, and then she’d have to start all over again.  Or worse yet, she might end up hooked up to a remune regenerator, herself. 

As she considered getting another glimpse of Bill, yes she had named him; deliberately being caught had a millisecond of appeal.  Luckily, it wore off.  She just imagined another cold injector session and the slighest of smiles crumbled off her face.

But, why would he name her?  Names implied humanity and she hadn’t ever been human.  She was a progeny producer and that was it.  She’d always known she thought too much, but what else was there to do when you were life-product enhanced and unable to giggle or fart in privacy.

Maybe she was suffering fertility implant psychosis.  But the implant should not have been working once she conceived.  That could lead to fetal wastage.  Maybe she should do a diagnostic.  As she contemplated this, she realized that maybe she should pay attention to her beaming session.  She just wished the beaming would teach her how to rip the implant out without something going nuclear.

She was just about to revert back to Bill when the alarms went off.  Her beaming session came to an abrupt halt as the electrodes withdrew themselves and she was launched to her cubicle by jet-tube.

The last time this had happened, the suction had caused her to prematurely deliver her fetal products, and if it hadn’t been for the fetal dividend exchange rate at the time, she would have been really pissed off.  The crystal on the fetal extraction unit was helpful, though.  The perfect pitch of the crystal breaking only had to be repeated six times for her to gain uniform relief.  She didn’t think about mass murder at all.  She did have to break three more when she realized it was all due to a false alarm.  She would have preferred that the country had been actually attacked.

She wondered what was happening this time as she considered the fact that she had no weaponry of any type on the premises.  It was forbidden due to the possible hormone fertility rushes.  She realized she didn’t really need a rush to do some serious damage.  Likely, neither did any of the other henny pennies.  The first people they would probably shoot would be the injectors, cold bastards with refrigerated goods.  That’s all they were.  She had to physically grab both sides of her head and shake to pull herself out of that strangely light-filled place.  The strength of that urge could cause contractions and she really didn’t want to waste another implantation, though this one was more than old enough to survive.  After this one, there were only two more, only two more.

The tapping woke her up.  She didn’t even realize she had fallen asleep.  Usually when she fell asleep outside of her fetal chamber, the vibration intruder alert devices were set off by her snoring.  It was embarrassing to have to explain it to the sleeguards, especially since they could care less. Actually they couldn’t care.  They were robotic.  Still, it was embarrassing.

But this time, there were no sleeguards.  At least she didn’t think so.  She didn’t smell any.

On her third try, she managed to throw herself off the couch and waddle to the door.  As she reached for the knob, she remembered that there was an alarm, so she looked up to the monitor to see who stood out there and who dared to wake a “war goddess” from her slumber.

All she could make out was the tip of a head as she waited for the person to look into the lens.  All of a sudden, she felt a tug in her tummy, and there was a flood of water gushing from her and flooding the floor and cascading under the door.  The person looked up just as the water must have reached their shoes.  It was Bill.  She couldn’t tell if he was happy or just shocked.  She was shocked enough for both of them.  He’d sure picked a fine time to visit. 

Shock, that was her last thought, as she smelled the sleeguards coming to get her. 

She opened the door as she saw Bill turn and run.  Hopefully, he was running from the sleeguards and not from her.  She couldn’t finish the thought as the first cramp removed all consciousness, and thankfully, all sense of smell.
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