ChiliPalmer
Inactive
Chapter 1
She had always wanted a tattoo. If she could find one that made the statement, 'I am a housewife only barely on the young side of thirty with far too many recipes involving ground sirloin but none of that means I am not still youthful and hip and relevant,' she would have gotten one immediately. Delicate little butterflies don't make statements though – unless it is perhaps that of trying too hard – and, really, she was getting a bit old for things like a tattoo. So she moved tattoos from the 'possible' file to the 'one of many, many, many things I never got around to' file and forgot about it.
That was part of what made being in this situation so surreal. She gritted her teeth as a bald man hunched over her wrist, his needle gun buzzing merrily, and thought back to having wanted a tattoo. He paused to wipe away the blood and she swallowed hastily. Somehow, she hadn't envisioned this moment involving nausea. Alcohol, probably, but never nausea.
"All done," he grunted. She took back her hand, flexed it and thanked him. Much to do today. The appointment with her case manager was in twenty minutes and she had heard they were a temperamental bunch.
A gal behind the tattoo shop's counter stared at her, though she really thought the staring ought to be going in the other direction. Bubble-gum pink hair, how did they ever manage that? The shop girl gave a small awed wave as she stepped outside, a bell tinkling overhead, and met her driver out front. A shiny armor-plated car and suited driver, all for little ol' her. Surreal didn't even begin to cover it.
The driver pulled the car up to a squat concrete-block building. The sign proclaimed it to be Lincoln Elementary, home of the Bulldogs, but the sign lied. It was the new Redistribution and Population Efficiency Center for Women. For schools, you see, one needed teachers and unfortunately most teachers were - had been - women. Any man, with the proper government job from Before, could be a case manager and there were plenty of those yet, so Lincoln Elementary was now the county RPEC and children stayed home. It was safer that way anyhow.
She ignored the small sign demanding that all visitors present themselves to the office and register for a guest badge, and instead hunted up Rm. 26 (Mrs. Fekete's third grade class, sign up now for the canned food drive!) where a truly sour-faced man indicated with his chin that she should wait in one of the little plastic chairs that lined one wall. Wait. For what? She was the only woman here, quite likely the only woman to have an appointment that day. Never mind that now; dealing with bureaucrats was like meeting strange isolated natives from a tropical land. Observe their illogical and convoluted cultural bylaws and perhaps they will let you return to your homeland in peace, uneaten. So she sat, arranged her feet and hands comfortably while seated in the tiny plastic chair and waited with a pleasant expression on her face.
"Naomi Owens," rang out in the empty room, and she immediately surmised that here was a former employee of the Department of Motor Vehicles. The way his dulcet tones carried, exactly as if he was trying to make himself heard over thirty cranky, fat, tired drivers and assorted bored children, precisely in the same tone as one would call out 'number ninety-three'. She momentarily gave serious thought to ignoring him and then asking if he meant Naomi Elisabeth Owens, or some other Naomi Owens entirely. He glanced up then, as if he could smell possible shenanigans the way predators smell fear, and the look he gave her quite plainly retorted that he had been at his cramped desk for hours, doing pointless and boring paperwork, and he would leave her there for at least another hour if he had to. Without any magazines.
"Yes, I am," she said brightly. She traded her little plastic chair against the wall for another little plastic chair across from his desk when he indicated she ought to do so, and tucked her purse under her chair where there was scarcely room for it.
"Age?" How rude.
"Twenty-nine last month."
"Status?"
"Of what, please?"
"Married, single, divorced, widowed-"
"Oh, that status. Married."
"Children?"
"One daughter. She'll be four in August."
"And her father is...?" Cheeky little bugger He had her file right in front of him, the pencil-necked, liver-gnawing petty little man.
"My husband, of course."
"What is the status of your daughter's health?"
Naomi retrieved her purse from under her chair and pulled out a thin envelope. "She was completely lacking in symptoms for the entire duration, as was I. Here is the certificate from her pediatrician."
He took this and seemed to chirk up. Perhaps envelopes had special meaning within the odd workings of bureaucratic cultures. "Good, good, you're right on top of this. Having a living daughter, especially an asymptomatic daughter, does quite a lot for your value, you know. In that vein, what is the health status of your female relatives, starting with the closest blood relation?"
"I have one sister in New Jersey and, as far as I know, she is completely healthy last I heard. My mother wrote to me just last week and she is in perfect health, and reports that my grandma's thyroid is giving her trouble but she is otherwise fine, as well. I have several female cousins but I wouldn't begin to know how they are, you know how it is these days - no phones most of the time and all. I'd be happy to give you their names and I'm sure you have a database of some sort you can check."
"We do, and we will. The names, please?"
She rattled them off and he took notes. Without warning the room dimmed as the lights went off in one of their frequent blackouts. He sighed the heavy sigh of one who was much put-upon, and the questions came quicker. They would both want to get out of here before the sunny room became unbearable without air conditioning.
"Husband's health?"
"Fine, and his certificate is in the envelope with our daughter's."
"The health status of his female blood relatives, closest first?"
"Two sisters, both alive and kicking, a mother who is very much the same, his grandmother died years ago of a stroke. One cousin is fine. Another caught it but survived."
It. Had they ever gotten around to naming it? Things needed names, without them they were strange and unknowable concepts. Names gave things handles, made them graspable and conquerable. Otherwise it was a faceless and nameless evil that swooped down and slaughtered nearly a full half of the population before they'd even had time to give it a name, and didn't that sound pathetic.
He frowned slightly. "Pity. Otherwise you have a perfect file. You are on birth control?"
"As required by law." Liar! She'd forgotten her pill last Friday. Maybe they would drug test her and find out, and she would get an awesome nickname like one of those Old West outlaws.
"And I see you have your tattoo, excellent. Remember, if your household requires any goods you will need to merely show them your tattoo and your ID card, and you'll get anything you need. Immediate household only, please."
He made a small note in her file and put it away on one side of his desk. From a large filing cabinet, he deliberated over and selected a thick stack of similar files and handed them to her. "You've been graded F1 and your daughter is temporarily an F2. Your husband's female cousin's file has been cross-referenced to yours and if she or any direct female descendants show cause, your daughter will be upgraded accordingly. Here," he selected a pair of pamphlets from his desktop, "are descriptions on the grading systems and how to be upgraded, you might want that for your daughter. And here is one on the rights and responsibilities of a female citizen with an F1 classification. Congratulations, Mrs. Owens. With that grade, you might as well be royalty these days. Don't forget to have your tattoo updated."
She took her purse, her new ID card and the stack of files and nodded her head in thanks as she left. The driver was still waiting for her, and this time he tipped his hat as he saw the thick stack of tan files she was carrying. Naomi ducked into the car and sank back with relief for the long ride home, because, frankly, this entire affair was unsettling and nerve-wracking and she'd really just like to go home and fix herself a very large scotch and water. The files sat heavily on her lap, and she revised that thought to perhaps just a scotch. Or, on third thought, just a water. There probably wasn’t scotch to be had for a three-county radius.
The driver picked up an escort at the highway on-ramp and she waved at these boys. They waved back and honked the horn, giving her flashbacks to the days when her father was packing them across country in another military move and she and her sister and brother would wave at truckers and laugh delightedly when they would sound their big horns. Good times, man. There were no truckers on the road today, only military vehicles instilling law and order and offering secure escort to official vehicles. One could never be too careful these days. What a depressing thought.
Her driver and escort exited the highway and headed straight for the razor wire fences and concrete-pillared gates of the Norfolk naval base. She hadn’t lived on post in years, and found the experience nostalgic. She’d always found the atmosphere of military bases exhilarating anyhow, with their scads of uniformed personnel and the general sense of busyness and purpose. Those things were all doubled now, what with the situation on hand: more personnel, more to do and the president pounding on his podium that the very fate of the human race depended on how well good citizens and the military executed his policies. Blowhard.
The driver skimmed the buildings standing sentinel to the waterfront and pulled into what used to be a PT field, now dotted with dozens of hastily constructed cottages. Naomi had to pass through yet another razor wire topped fence, just as hastily constructed as the cottages, to get to the field. As her father was fond of saying, this was the new Navy and even in the military there were those you couldn’t trust. The two things sailors love above all others are alcohol and women, and it wasn’t alcohol that was scarce. In addition to the fence, heavily armed guards patrolled the encampment border dusk til dark.
She nodded to the sentry and stopped just inside the gate, experiencing the same disorientation one gets in a parking lot. Two back, three over; it always took her a moment to remember that. The little homes were temporary and looked it; identical two-room constructions with a screened porch to offer relief from the summer sun. They were pleasant for the most part now, in May, but come July they would be furnaces without any sort of shade trees.
She stopped one shy of her own and knocked on the lintel. A burst of activity came from inside the house and children boiled out to greet her, followed by their mother. She had agreed to watch Amy so that Naomi could get her errands done in town alone.
"She was fine," the other woman said, handing Amy over, "once she got used to the kids. So, how did it go?"
Naomi indicated the files in her arms and told her of the F1 classification. Leah looked at the files with frank envy. Her own classification was being held up by her youngest girl; during the outbreak, little Sara had spiked a fever. Sure, there had been none of the other typical symptoms and, yes, there were any number of reasons a tot of two might run a temperature, nonetheless her pediatrician refused to sign a certificate. Leah had one and her older girl had one, which helped greatly, as did having already borne five hale and sturdy children - clearly this was a woman who was not only fertile but accomplished at it - yet her classification was awaiting a committee meeting to decide whether baby Sara had been infected or not. With an otherwise clear family history, it meant the difference between a lofty F1 or something much lower.
"The tattoo is sore, though. Have you heard anything back about Sara’s certificate?"
"Not yet,” Leah said. "They said the deliberation might take a couple of days. I hear that most of the panel wants to pass her but one old doctor is taking the better safe than sorry route and wants to hardline all certificates."
Naomi fumbled through the files in her arms, looking for the pamphlets the case manager had given her, and Leah invited her to sit on the porch. She unloaded the hefty paperwork and fished out the glossy brochure, flipping through it. "How do they define the classifications again? What will you get if this old bat doesn’t give Sara her certificate?"
"F3," Leah said promptly. "F1 is a healthy mother of childbearing age with no symptomatic children or relatives. F2 is a healthy female who has either borne no children, yet also has no symptomatic relatives, or a healthy mother with an infected relative within five generations. It’s possible that an F2 might not be able to have children because of natural reasons not dealing with the outbreak, or she might be carrying bad family genes. An F3 is a healthy mother who had at least one infected child, proving that she passes along the susceptible genes. F4 is a healthy mother whose female children were all infected or died. I5 is the lowest, an infected woman with asymptomatic daughters under 16."
Leah recited as though the words had the import of scripture, and indeed they did. Getting that F1 tattooed on your hand meant prosperity, security and an education for her children. Every fertile female left would be provided for but the higher your classification, the higher you were on the priority lists for scarce supplies. Your classification meant everything, having a classification meant everything, for the unclassified females were the infected survivors. They had been rendered sterile and were of no further use to the population. They were on their own.
Naomi excused herself, thanked Leah for minding Amy and went next door to her own cottage. She whiled away the afternoon by skimming a few of the files, allowing Amy’s internal clock to let her know when it was time to prepare supper. Children always knew when it had been more than five hours since they were last fed. The power was still out but these temporary camps hadn’t been rigged for power anyhow; they were built with an eye for impermanent security, not comfort. The families and single women housed here were only stopping in long enough for RPEC to assign them to more permanent quarters.
Her kitchen was nothing more than an area reserved in the cottage’s larger room for cooking and washing purposes. Naomi poked a couple of sticks of wood into the potbellied stove meant for heating and cooking and rummaged through the little cupboard next to it. A few cans of pork and beans, a little dry milk powder, oatmeal, cornmeal, a small packet of brown sugar and some salt. With a thrill, she recalled that she could go to the warehouse now and get more than the basic allotment with her new classification. Maybe even meat. Oh, but that was too much to dare hope for. Still, the thought of a meaty stew, a crispy bit of fried chicken or even an entire roast, brown and drowning in gravy, made her stomach rumble achingly. She yanked herself back to reality land and set a pot on top of her little stove. This was the best diet she’d been on in her life, she hadn’t ever been skinnier. See, there was always a bright side, even if it didn’t involve scotch.
"Mmm, Amy, we’ll have some beans and cornmeal mush. Doesn’t that sound yummy?" It was always beans. Oatmeal for breakfast, leftovers at midday and beans and cornmeal mush for supper. You are what you eat, and Naomi was a really big bean.
After supper, such as it was, she filled a washtub and added hot water from the kettle to wash the dishes. Washed, rinsed, dried and put away, the kitchen was clean in minutes. Amy played on the floor with her blocks and Naomi cozied up to the files and pamphlets again on her sofa.
The rights and responsibilities of a female F1 citizen, she read off the front of a pamphlet. This ought to be interesting.
Congratulations on achieving the rare classification of F1. As you know, virtually every family was touched in some way by the catastrophic global pandemic. Health professionals estimate that the female death toll was as high as 80%, with a further perhaps ten percent of female infected survivors robbed of their ability to have children and roughly 4% of men affected. Even those lucky few citizens not directly damaged by this epochal disease have felt its after-effects. Hundreds of millions have died; workers, homemakers, teachers, nurses, politicians, military personnel and policewomen. These are sad days, days of rationing and supply challenges, crime and wars and threats of war. Resources have never been more important and, you - yes, you! - are this country’s most valuable resource.
Just think! Women provide a unique and irreplaceable gift to even the most modern society: the gift of children. Populations world-wide have plummeted to shocking levels, and will only continue to drop as sterile women and excess men age and die without having created more children to replace themselves. No matter how wealthy, how progressive, how mighty their military and ancient their culture, every civilization today will wither and die without the most important citizen of all, the fertile female.
As such a citizen, the United States of America pledges to stand behind you with the full might and power of this great nation. No one shall infringe your rights, which are -
- Top-quality healthcare for your family, provided by the government at no cost to you.
- The best provisions and goods America has to offer - merely go to your nearest food distribution warehouse and tell them what you need!
- A quality education for your children. Their parents have offered them the best genetic start in life, their government can do no less than prepare them for it!
- Complete security at all times. Drivers, personal guards and secure housing will be provided at all times. Remember, the safety of our most vital citizens is our number-one priority.
- The highest standard of living in the country. Due to severe worker shortage we regret that we cannot promise pre-epidemic quality of life, but this transition will be eased by ensuring you have comfortable means by which to cook, heat your home, move around in the city in which you reside and have access to whatever levels of technology and entertainment your local community offers.
- An RPEC case manager who is there for YOU.
- Full retirement package. As your menopausal years catch up to you, rest easy in the knowledge that your country will never forget the noble sacrifices you made for the greater good. Within ten years we anticipate being able to offer a retired life that will be unchanged from your days of child-bearing. Rest, relax - you’ve earned it!
In return, your country requires your assistance in preserving our nation and our way of life. The process will be kept as simple as possible and will only become easier as we all make the necessary adjustments. We assure you that the following policies have been carefully researched and set against the impeccable standard of our Constitution. What we ask of you -
- Every F1 female citizen shall bear no fewer than six living children by no fewer than three men of sufficient quality. If only one of these children are female, medical procedure will be followed until a seventh child and second female is attained.
- Every F1 female citizen shall not procreate with any man not quality-checked and approved by RPEC, to ensure the strongest genetic pool for future American generations. Exceptions will be made for husbands already present so long as birth control is stringently employed.
- Every F1 female shall assist RPEC to instill the importance of abstinence in her female children under 16 years of age, and shall encourage and support her female children in the selection process once they reach the age of 16.
If you have any questions or require assistance, please contact your RPEC case manager.
She had always wanted a tattoo. If she could find one that made the statement, 'I am a housewife only barely on the young side of thirty with far too many recipes involving ground sirloin but none of that means I am not still youthful and hip and relevant,' she would have gotten one immediately. Delicate little butterflies don't make statements though – unless it is perhaps that of trying too hard – and, really, she was getting a bit old for things like a tattoo. So she moved tattoos from the 'possible' file to the 'one of many, many, many things I never got around to' file and forgot about it.
That was part of what made being in this situation so surreal. She gritted her teeth as a bald man hunched over her wrist, his needle gun buzzing merrily, and thought back to having wanted a tattoo. He paused to wipe away the blood and she swallowed hastily. Somehow, she hadn't envisioned this moment involving nausea. Alcohol, probably, but never nausea.
"All done," he grunted. She took back her hand, flexed it and thanked him. Much to do today. The appointment with her case manager was in twenty minutes and she had heard they were a temperamental bunch.
A gal behind the tattoo shop's counter stared at her, though she really thought the staring ought to be going in the other direction. Bubble-gum pink hair, how did they ever manage that? The shop girl gave a small awed wave as she stepped outside, a bell tinkling overhead, and met her driver out front. A shiny armor-plated car and suited driver, all for little ol' her. Surreal didn't even begin to cover it.
The driver pulled the car up to a squat concrete-block building. The sign proclaimed it to be Lincoln Elementary, home of the Bulldogs, but the sign lied. It was the new Redistribution and Population Efficiency Center for Women. For schools, you see, one needed teachers and unfortunately most teachers were - had been - women. Any man, with the proper government job from Before, could be a case manager and there were plenty of those yet, so Lincoln Elementary was now the county RPEC and children stayed home. It was safer that way anyhow.
She ignored the small sign demanding that all visitors present themselves to the office and register for a guest badge, and instead hunted up Rm. 26 (Mrs. Fekete's third grade class, sign up now for the canned food drive!) where a truly sour-faced man indicated with his chin that she should wait in one of the little plastic chairs that lined one wall. Wait. For what? She was the only woman here, quite likely the only woman to have an appointment that day. Never mind that now; dealing with bureaucrats was like meeting strange isolated natives from a tropical land. Observe their illogical and convoluted cultural bylaws and perhaps they will let you return to your homeland in peace, uneaten. So she sat, arranged her feet and hands comfortably while seated in the tiny plastic chair and waited with a pleasant expression on her face.
"Naomi Owens," rang out in the empty room, and she immediately surmised that here was a former employee of the Department of Motor Vehicles. The way his dulcet tones carried, exactly as if he was trying to make himself heard over thirty cranky, fat, tired drivers and assorted bored children, precisely in the same tone as one would call out 'number ninety-three'. She momentarily gave serious thought to ignoring him and then asking if he meant Naomi Elisabeth Owens, or some other Naomi Owens entirely. He glanced up then, as if he could smell possible shenanigans the way predators smell fear, and the look he gave her quite plainly retorted that he had been at his cramped desk for hours, doing pointless and boring paperwork, and he would leave her there for at least another hour if he had to. Without any magazines.
"Yes, I am," she said brightly. She traded her little plastic chair against the wall for another little plastic chair across from his desk when he indicated she ought to do so, and tucked her purse under her chair where there was scarcely room for it.
"Age?" How rude.
"Twenty-nine last month."
"Status?"
"Of what, please?"
"Married, single, divorced, widowed-"
"Oh, that status. Married."
"Children?"
"One daughter. She'll be four in August."
"And her father is...?" Cheeky little bugger He had her file right in front of him, the pencil-necked, liver-gnawing petty little man.
"My husband, of course."
"What is the status of your daughter's health?"
Naomi retrieved her purse from under her chair and pulled out a thin envelope. "She was completely lacking in symptoms for the entire duration, as was I. Here is the certificate from her pediatrician."
He took this and seemed to chirk up. Perhaps envelopes had special meaning within the odd workings of bureaucratic cultures. "Good, good, you're right on top of this. Having a living daughter, especially an asymptomatic daughter, does quite a lot for your value, you know. In that vein, what is the health status of your female relatives, starting with the closest blood relation?"
"I have one sister in New Jersey and, as far as I know, she is completely healthy last I heard. My mother wrote to me just last week and she is in perfect health, and reports that my grandma's thyroid is giving her trouble but she is otherwise fine, as well. I have several female cousins but I wouldn't begin to know how they are, you know how it is these days - no phones most of the time and all. I'd be happy to give you their names and I'm sure you have a database of some sort you can check."
"We do, and we will. The names, please?"
She rattled them off and he took notes. Without warning the room dimmed as the lights went off in one of their frequent blackouts. He sighed the heavy sigh of one who was much put-upon, and the questions came quicker. They would both want to get out of here before the sunny room became unbearable without air conditioning.
"Husband's health?"
"Fine, and his certificate is in the envelope with our daughter's."
"The health status of his female blood relatives, closest first?"
"Two sisters, both alive and kicking, a mother who is very much the same, his grandmother died years ago of a stroke. One cousin is fine. Another caught it but survived."
It. Had they ever gotten around to naming it? Things needed names, without them they were strange and unknowable concepts. Names gave things handles, made them graspable and conquerable. Otherwise it was a faceless and nameless evil that swooped down and slaughtered nearly a full half of the population before they'd even had time to give it a name, and didn't that sound pathetic.
He frowned slightly. "Pity. Otherwise you have a perfect file. You are on birth control?"
"As required by law." Liar! She'd forgotten her pill last Friday. Maybe they would drug test her and find out, and she would get an awesome nickname like one of those Old West outlaws.
"And I see you have your tattoo, excellent. Remember, if your household requires any goods you will need to merely show them your tattoo and your ID card, and you'll get anything you need. Immediate household only, please."
He made a small note in her file and put it away on one side of his desk. From a large filing cabinet, he deliberated over and selected a thick stack of similar files and handed them to her. "You've been graded F1 and your daughter is temporarily an F2. Your husband's female cousin's file has been cross-referenced to yours and if she or any direct female descendants show cause, your daughter will be upgraded accordingly. Here," he selected a pair of pamphlets from his desktop, "are descriptions on the grading systems and how to be upgraded, you might want that for your daughter. And here is one on the rights and responsibilities of a female citizen with an F1 classification. Congratulations, Mrs. Owens. With that grade, you might as well be royalty these days. Don't forget to have your tattoo updated."
She took her purse, her new ID card and the stack of files and nodded her head in thanks as she left. The driver was still waiting for her, and this time he tipped his hat as he saw the thick stack of tan files she was carrying. Naomi ducked into the car and sank back with relief for the long ride home, because, frankly, this entire affair was unsettling and nerve-wracking and she'd really just like to go home and fix herself a very large scotch and water. The files sat heavily on her lap, and she revised that thought to perhaps just a scotch. Or, on third thought, just a water. There probably wasn’t scotch to be had for a three-county radius.
The driver picked up an escort at the highway on-ramp and she waved at these boys. They waved back and honked the horn, giving her flashbacks to the days when her father was packing them across country in another military move and she and her sister and brother would wave at truckers and laugh delightedly when they would sound their big horns. Good times, man. There were no truckers on the road today, only military vehicles instilling law and order and offering secure escort to official vehicles. One could never be too careful these days. What a depressing thought.
Her driver and escort exited the highway and headed straight for the razor wire fences and concrete-pillared gates of the Norfolk naval base. She hadn’t lived on post in years, and found the experience nostalgic. She’d always found the atmosphere of military bases exhilarating anyhow, with their scads of uniformed personnel and the general sense of busyness and purpose. Those things were all doubled now, what with the situation on hand: more personnel, more to do and the president pounding on his podium that the very fate of the human race depended on how well good citizens and the military executed his policies. Blowhard.
The driver skimmed the buildings standing sentinel to the waterfront and pulled into what used to be a PT field, now dotted with dozens of hastily constructed cottages. Naomi had to pass through yet another razor wire topped fence, just as hastily constructed as the cottages, to get to the field. As her father was fond of saying, this was the new Navy and even in the military there were those you couldn’t trust. The two things sailors love above all others are alcohol and women, and it wasn’t alcohol that was scarce. In addition to the fence, heavily armed guards patrolled the encampment border dusk til dark.
She nodded to the sentry and stopped just inside the gate, experiencing the same disorientation one gets in a parking lot. Two back, three over; it always took her a moment to remember that. The little homes were temporary and looked it; identical two-room constructions with a screened porch to offer relief from the summer sun. They were pleasant for the most part now, in May, but come July they would be furnaces without any sort of shade trees.
She stopped one shy of her own and knocked on the lintel. A burst of activity came from inside the house and children boiled out to greet her, followed by their mother. She had agreed to watch Amy so that Naomi could get her errands done in town alone.
"She was fine," the other woman said, handing Amy over, "once she got used to the kids. So, how did it go?"
Naomi indicated the files in her arms and told her of the F1 classification. Leah looked at the files with frank envy. Her own classification was being held up by her youngest girl; during the outbreak, little Sara had spiked a fever. Sure, there had been none of the other typical symptoms and, yes, there were any number of reasons a tot of two might run a temperature, nonetheless her pediatrician refused to sign a certificate. Leah had one and her older girl had one, which helped greatly, as did having already borne five hale and sturdy children - clearly this was a woman who was not only fertile but accomplished at it - yet her classification was awaiting a committee meeting to decide whether baby Sara had been infected or not. With an otherwise clear family history, it meant the difference between a lofty F1 or something much lower.
"The tattoo is sore, though. Have you heard anything back about Sara’s certificate?"
"Not yet,” Leah said. "They said the deliberation might take a couple of days. I hear that most of the panel wants to pass her but one old doctor is taking the better safe than sorry route and wants to hardline all certificates."
Naomi fumbled through the files in her arms, looking for the pamphlets the case manager had given her, and Leah invited her to sit on the porch. She unloaded the hefty paperwork and fished out the glossy brochure, flipping through it. "How do they define the classifications again? What will you get if this old bat doesn’t give Sara her certificate?"
"F3," Leah said promptly. "F1 is a healthy mother of childbearing age with no symptomatic children or relatives. F2 is a healthy female who has either borne no children, yet also has no symptomatic relatives, or a healthy mother with an infected relative within five generations. It’s possible that an F2 might not be able to have children because of natural reasons not dealing with the outbreak, or she might be carrying bad family genes. An F3 is a healthy mother who had at least one infected child, proving that she passes along the susceptible genes. F4 is a healthy mother whose female children were all infected or died. I5 is the lowest, an infected woman with asymptomatic daughters under 16."
Leah recited as though the words had the import of scripture, and indeed they did. Getting that F1 tattooed on your hand meant prosperity, security and an education for her children. Every fertile female left would be provided for but the higher your classification, the higher you were on the priority lists for scarce supplies. Your classification meant everything, having a classification meant everything, for the unclassified females were the infected survivors. They had been rendered sterile and were of no further use to the population. They were on their own.
Naomi excused herself, thanked Leah for minding Amy and went next door to her own cottage. She whiled away the afternoon by skimming a few of the files, allowing Amy’s internal clock to let her know when it was time to prepare supper. Children always knew when it had been more than five hours since they were last fed. The power was still out but these temporary camps hadn’t been rigged for power anyhow; they were built with an eye for impermanent security, not comfort. The families and single women housed here were only stopping in long enough for RPEC to assign them to more permanent quarters.
Her kitchen was nothing more than an area reserved in the cottage’s larger room for cooking and washing purposes. Naomi poked a couple of sticks of wood into the potbellied stove meant for heating and cooking and rummaged through the little cupboard next to it. A few cans of pork and beans, a little dry milk powder, oatmeal, cornmeal, a small packet of brown sugar and some salt. With a thrill, she recalled that she could go to the warehouse now and get more than the basic allotment with her new classification. Maybe even meat. Oh, but that was too much to dare hope for. Still, the thought of a meaty stew, a crispy bit of fried chicken or even an entire roast, brown and drowning in gravy, made her stomach rumble achingly. She yanked herself back to reality land and set a pot on top of her little stove. This was the best diet she’d been on in her life, she hadn’t ever been skinnier. See, there was always a bright side, even if it didn’t involve scotch.
"Mmm, Amy, we’ll have some beans and cornmeal mush. Doesn’t that sound yummy?" It was always beans. Oatmeal for breakfast, leftovers at midday and beans and cornmeal mush for supper. You are what you eat, and Naomi was a really big bean.
After supper, such as it was, she filled a washtub and added hot water from the kettle to wash the dishes. Washed, rinsed, dried and put away, the kitchen was clean in minutes. Amy played on the floor with her blocks and Naomi cozied up to the files and pamphlets again on her sofa.
The rights and responsibilities of a female F1 citizen, she read off the front of a pamphlet. This ought to be interesting.
Congratulations on achieving the rare classification of F1. As you know, virtually every family was touched in some way by the catastrophic global pandemic. Health professionals estimate that the female death toll was as high as 80%, with a further perhaps ten percent of female infected survivors robbed of their ability to have children and roughly 4% of men affected. Even those lucky few citizens not directly damaged by this epochal disease have felt its after-effects. Hundreds of millions have died; workers, homemakers, teachers, nurses, politicians, military personnel and policewomen. These are sad days, days of rationing and supply challenges, crime and wars and threats of war. Resources have never been more important and, you - yes, you! - are this country’s most valuable resource.
Just think! Women provide a unique and irreplaceable gift to even the most modern society: the gift of children. Populations world-wide have plummeted to shocking levels, and will only continue to drop as sterile women and excess men age and die without having created more children to replace themselves. No matter how wealthy, how progressive, how mighty their military and ancient their culture, every civilization today will wither and die without the most important citizen of all, the fertile female.
As such a citizen, the United States of America pledges to stand behind you with the full might and power of this great nation. No one shall infringe your rights, which are -
- Top-quality healthcare for your family, provided by the government at no cost to you.
- The best provisions and goods America has to offer - merely go to your nearest food distribution warehouse and tell them what you need!
- A quality education for your children. Their parents have offered them the best genetic start in life, their government can do no less than prepare them for it!
- Complete security at all times. Drivers, personal guards and secure housing will be provided at all times. Remember, the safety of our most vital citizens is our number-one priority.
- The highest standard of living in the country. Due to severe worker shortage we regret that we cannot promise pre-epidemic quality of life, but this transition will be eased by ensuring you have comfortable means by which to cook, heat your home, move around in the city in which you reside and have access to whatever levels of technology and entertainment your local community offers.
- An RPEC case manager who is there for YOU.
- Full retirement package. As your menopausal years catch up to you, rest easy in the knowledge that your country will never forget the noble sacrifices you made for the greater good. Within ten years we anticipate being able to offer a retired life that will be unchanged from your days of child-bearing. Rest, relax - you’ve earned it!
In return, your country requires your assistance in preserving our nation and our way of life. The process will be kept as simple as possible and will only become easier as we all make the necessary adjustments. We assure you that the following policies have been carefully researched and set against the impeccable standard of our Constitution. What we ask of you -
- Every F1 female citizen shall bear no fewer than six living children by no fewer than three men of sufficient quality. If only one of these children are female, medical procedure will be followed until a seventh child and second female is attained.
- Every F1 female citizen shall not procreate with any man not quality-checked and approved by RPEC, to ensure the strongest genetic pool for future American generations. Exceptions will be made for husbands already present so long as birth control is stringently employed.
- Every F1 female shall assist RPEC to instill the importance of abstinence in her female children under 16 years of age, and shall encourage and support her female children in the selection process once they reach the age of 16.
If you have any questions or require assistance, please contact your RPEC case manager.
Last edited: