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Aubrey’s Story, Part Three
Time has Come Today
28 June 2089
President Caitlyn James had been in office for exactly 160 days when at eleven hundred hours, forty-five minutes a bullet fired from two miles away pierced the left side of her head, shattered her skull, scrambled the brain within, and tore the head from the shoulders of the first transfemale President of the United States. The bullet fragmented while passing through James’s head and also killed the Reverend Deke Almond standing just to the side of the President: several shards pierced the reverend’s chest and shredded his heart and lungs.
Television video drones hovered over the scene. A circle of stunned and savage secret service agents formed around two dead bodies and two living beings, weapons drawn, waving their weapons like swatters at flies and shrieking for the crowd to move back. The circle expanded. The drones’ cameras zoomed in.
First Lady Frances Waxman was on her hands and knees scooping up what bits of brain matter, hair patches, and skull shards she could, pushing them onto the headless shoulders of her wife.
Reverend Deke’s husband cradled his beloved in his arms and rocked back and forth, his face pressed into the minister’s face.
Their task completed, the sniper and his spotter (who was positioned at a window within a darkened room five blocks from the target) bit down on the cyanide capsule each had in his respective cheek and died, their spirits at peace with the thought they had rid their country of an embarrassment and purged the world of an abomination.
Moments before the fatal shot, President James and the First Lady had exited Washington’s All-Souls church and were set to attend the 119th Christopher Street Liberation Parade two hours later in New York City. If President James hadn’t been assassinated that morning after church, she would have surely been killed during the annual parade. Failure of the first attempt would have set in motion contingency plans for the snipers set up strategically along the parade route. If those snipers had failed, the stealth drone circling with its two small hellfire missiles two thousand feet over the parade route would have made short shrift of their intended target as well all collateral beings thereabout.
Within minutes of the assassination, theLiberation Parade was cancelled. As news of the assassination spread, tens of thousands of people flooded the parade route—some angry, some stunned, some wailing, some breaking windows and setting fires, and some attacking the NYPD positioned along the streets.
The dozen snipers were still in place. Simultaneously, a small green light lit up on their smart watches: fire at will. In less than twenty seconds, hundreds lay dead in the street and hundreds more were critically wounded before the crowd could seek refuge in the buildings and side streets and alleys.
Twelve hundred miles away at Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri, Chief Master Sergeant Hamilton Alexander guided the stealth drone hovering over Manhattan Island toward its secondary target and, once the target was in the crosshairs, the career NCO pressed the red button on his joystick. The drone’s two hellfire missiles detached, the engines ignited, and the missiles hastened to their singular target. Upon impact, they extirpated the ground and the buildings and the people at the intersection of Christopher and Greenwich streets in the West Village. The intersection was a gaping, ragged maw of hell fifty feet in circumstance and twenty-feet deep. Water vomited from decimated pipes and spewed fifty feet into the air. Rays of midday sunlight speared the water droplets and particles, and a rainbow formed within the cascade.
Within fifteen minutes of the assignation of President James, 87 congressmen, 18 senators, 15 governors, eleven generals, and six supreme court justices were dead. So were the CEOs and much of the board members of Google, Microsoft, Amazon, Apple, Intel, Walmart, and a dozen other billion-dollar-a-year companies that had championed the liberal, progressive agenda for the past fifty years.
At twelve hundred hours, thirty minutes, Vice-President Winston Stewart, who had been worshipping with his wife and children at Ebenezer United Methodist and who had been hustled into a secret bunker by secret service agents moments after the assassination, was sworn in as President of the United States, once confirmation had been received that the elected POTUS was dead. He would be the last President of the 21st Century, as well as the only President for the next 27 years.
President Stewart immediately declared martial law. All national guard units were activated. All military forces, both at home and abroad were placed on high alert and the bases, posts, and naval stations closed off from any civilian contact. All travel, ground and air, was suspended. An indefinite curfew was set. No matter where you were—work, school, home, grocery store, bar—you were to remain in place. If you were out in the open, you were to seek immediate shelter anywhere. Remain inside and out of site, or be shot.
At the same time martial law went into effect, an air force Army captain sitting in his cushy chair at his air conditioned station in the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain gently and simultaneously pushed three buttons on his laptop keyboard: CTRL, DEL, and CAPLOCK: all cell phone, Internet, and even hard line landline communication went dead. Broadcast, satellite, and even streaming television and radio services also were disabled. MILNET devoured them all as it roared to life.
The Gender Identity Wars had begun. What history would call the Third American Revolution ended six months later after ten million Americans had been killed, another ten million incarcerated in detention camps, and millions more scrambled across the borders separating the United States from Canada and Mexico before the borders were hermetically sealed from all enemies, foreign and domestic.
Alaska and Hawaii were ignored, left to their own devices and destinies.
Dr. Zeman had not been watching television nor listening to the radio that morning, the morning the Gender Identity Wars convulsed from cultural contention and politically correct rhetoric to bloody insurrection, assassination, murder, and civil war. She was in the lounge of her small gender research and assignment facility in Oklahoma City, making herself a cup of Irish morning tea, and waiting for Emerson Haumann to be reborn as the female she was genetically meant to be.
For the past eighteen years, Dr. Zeman and her assistants had helped forty-nine human beings claim their one true gender. Some were trans, some were born with gender defects, and some were just tired of being one sex or the other. The clinic didn’t waste time judging the patients’ motives. Hundreds had applied for gender reassignment or gender setting, and the waiting list was long. The facility had grown to include four iron wombs, but the clinic was still undersized for the numbers wanting the process and for the mission Dr. Zeman and her few supporters saw as the one saving grace of Humanity.
Once she had proven that gender reassignment or gender setting could be achieved without the barbaric slicing and dicing of surgery and the evil infusion of drugs, Dr. Zeman had expected someone to step up with the necessary funding to allow her facility to grow to help a multitude of others, to usher in a new age giving people the inalienable quality of life to which every human being had a right. She thought she and her discovery and procedure would be welcomed with opened arms.
No hedge fund cavaliers came forward; no small time investors were interested; no government backing of this lifesaving and society evolving advancement of human physiology and human culture. No one. Even the university that had initially funded her research and successful project, withdrew its support and booted her from its campus when pro-trans and homophile groups protested Aubrey Zeman’s intrusion into their exclusive domain.
Winning the Nobel Prize provided only meager funding and little else.
She was the Socrates and the St. John of the 21st Century. “Sexual Eugenist” became her epithetical hemlock and Oklahoma was her Patmos.
Instead of focusing on a cure for gender dysmorphia and sexual orientation confusion, popular culture, the social scientists, the educational system, the state legislators, the federal government, and the politically correct progressives along with the ragged regressive conservatives had spent the past eighteen years tossing verbal incendiary bombs at each other over the definition of gender and sexual orientation, passing ad naseum laws and counter-laws on gender identity discrimination, debating the number of genders that actually existed, and spewing vitriol about where people can and cannot piss and shit. In states like California, New York, Minnesota, and Washington (both the district and the state), all bathrooms were asexual. In states like Mississippi, Ohio, Utah, and Montana, a person could be arrested, fined, and jailed for peeing or pooping in the wrong gender specific bathroom. Many faced felony conviction for declaring a gender that didn’t match the genitals between their legs: The more androgynistic ones had to drop their pants to prove the gender they were claiming.
Everyone talked, or rather screamed over each other, about the problem, but no one wanted to truly solve the problem. Identity politics prompted an us versus them helter-skelter commonality that kept the well-fed extreme ideologues and demagogues on both sides feasting at the table of anarchy.
The argument raged throughout the 21st Century, and the argument would probably continue well into the 22nd Century, Dr. Zeman thought. Gender Identity, Sexual Orientation, Genital Fluidity were a matter of parallax rather than reason, logic, and science.
She had a solution to the fucking problem, but political power doesn’t thrive on solutions. Political power thrives on chaos.
A prophet unwelcomed in her own time.
She had hoped that with the election of the first transfemale president, who was also married to a woman, the argument and all the preconceived misconceptions defining Self would have abated. Instead, the election had served as the match to the fuel for those who claimed that society, culture, and a way of life were all going to hell in a big damn dumpster of despond because the family structure that had been in place for 25 millennia was being destroyed by gender defectives, cultural degenerates, and sexual deviants.
The paranoid professional victims saw the gender morphing process as a way to destroy the homophile culture that had come to prominence, popularity, and power during the century, exalting those who claimed to be gender fluid and binary while looking down their long collective culturally sloped noses at those who clung to the archaic and barbaric notion of single sex, dual-gender identity of life.
Some saw Dr. Zeman’s Z Chromosome and gender morphing iron womb as an abomination that encouraged sexual perversity and gender misrepresentation.
A few but very silent few saw her process as a way to cure the country of the sexual perversity destroying humanity.
The latter group worried her the most. Dr. Zeman’s process was voluntary, designed to help malformed and genetically defective human beings become whole. She had no desire to change the world, only to correct the abnormalities and mistakes of nature, to give others a life free from freakishness.
She found material about the more silent of these small quiet groups, the Institute of Human Studies, hard to come about. The group had kept its membership, its agenda, and much of its rhetoric off the Internet, out of social networks, and absent from all traditional media. Some people didn’t even think the group existed, putting IHS in the same foggy conspiracy category as the Illuminati, the Rosicrucians, and the Skulls-and-Bones.
IHS became the boogeyman for pro-trans and homophile groups, who shrilled the Invisibilis Ordinem wanted to use Dr. Zeman’s process to force gays, lesbians, trans, queers, bi, and questioning into making a choice and to morph into one and only one of two true genders, to preserve the natural process of propagation, to ensure the success of the human species–Natura non vacuo.
If the deformed, the degenerates, and the deviants did not make a choice, the choice would be made for them.
On that day, the 28th of June 2089 CE, Dr. Zeman’s hopes lay within the iron womb in Room 03. She had placed her faith within the body, mind, and spirit of a fifteen-year-old nongender human being.
Emerson Haumann was Dr. Zeman’s fiftieth patient but the first human to receive the Z Chromosome while in utero. Shortly after conception, Emerson’s parents requested an amniotic fluid test, and the test revealed chromosomal abnormalities in the fetus as well as the genetic gender dysmorphia known as cloacal exstrophy.
Five weeks into the pregnancy, and to prevent the cloacal exstrophy, Emerson’s parents consented to allow Dr. Zeman to use the Z Chromosome inhibitor to prevent the gender deciding chromosomes from being released between the sixth and eighth week. Dr. Zeman had explained a small chance existed the embryo would reject the inhibitor and shut down the growth process. The embryo would then die.
Given the chances of the embryo being born with a devastating genetic gender defect or the possibility of the embryo dying during the efforts to correct nature, the parents had signed the consent form.
That was fifteen years ago.
Emerson was the world’s first true nongender child, the Z Chromosome substituting for the X or Y.
The child was raised in a binary gender environment, exposed to multiple color schemes, from harsh reds, browns, and blacks to garish oranges, purples, and blues to pastel mauves, pinks, and yellows. Toys included dolls and rough looking action figures; kitchen play sets and construction sets; puzzles of unicorns and complex science kits; toy vacuum cleaners that made popping sounds and toy lawnmowers that spurt out bubbles. Clothing was all colors and nongender styles that did not include dresses or shirts with buttons, only zippers. By the time Emerson was five, coveralls became their daily attire. Hair was kept mid-neck length and styled in popular nongender children’s coifs.
Emerson played with boys and with girls. Emerson was more assertive, loud, and physical when around a group of boys. When Emerson played with the girls of the neighborhood, a more democratic, empathetic, willing to compromise, nurturing personality emerged. When Emerson played with children in a mix-gender setting, the child’s more passive, nurturing side dominated; though, at times, Emerson would be assertive and take control of the group if the group couldn’t decide on one thing or another.
Emerson had the typical androgyny of the majority of children, and this androgynous appearance continued into what would have been puberty, if Emerson had not had the gender determiner chromosomes gridlocked by the Z Chromosome while in utero.
Elementary school saw no abnormal behavior in or physical problems for Emerson. Though they were a bit taller than their classmates and with androgynous features that were softer and more angular than the other children. Emerson’s nongenderality was not a secret, and, children being children, Emerson was accepted by their peers. After a couple of years, their classmates forgot all about Emerson’s uniqueness and treated them as normal.
The school did have transgender facilities–after all, this was the latter half of the 21st Century–and Emerson availed theirself of these, as did a dozen or so other students who were trans, bi, or questioning.
Emerson excelled in academics and in social deportment throughout elementary school.
However, after only one semester of junior high school, Emerson was sent home and told not to return.
One side effect of the Z Chromosome was that Emerson was taller than the others in their grade, even the boys as they began their growth spurt. Emerson was comfortable around boys or girls, was quick witted, and was somewhat popular.
The problem began when one of their male classmates began to question Emerson’s sexuality, not orientation so much but Emerson’s lack of change into either distinctively male or distinctively female. Even the trans, bi, gay, and lesbian students had a gender identity. Emerson had no gender identity at all.
While other students were pelted with pubescent hormones changing them from boys and girls into budding young males and females, Emerson grew taller and the androgynous features became more acute as well as softer. Emerson’s nongenderality had become an issue with the students of Huxley Junior High School.
Emerson’s first and only fight began when a classmate accused Emerson of being a freak and pushed Emerson to the ground. The first and only fight ended with this classmate having a broken jaw and a busted nose. Not only was Emerson taller, more intelligent, and more quick witted, they were also stronger, more physically swift, and more agile.
Emerson spent the next three-and-one-half years schooled at home. Then, when Emerson turned fifteen, they was admitted to Dr. Zeman’s clinic. Emerson and their parents had kept extensive journals over the years, and Emerson had spent one month every summer at Dr. Zeman’s clinic for testing and monitoring of the synthetic chromosome’s effects.
Time had come for Emerson to make the decision. Two months of extensive psychological, physical, intellectual, and mental testing ensued.
On 25 December 2088, Emerson decided on their gender and entered the iron womb of Room 03 to undergo the metamorphosis into true female.
Dr. Zeman walked into Room 03, her hands wrapped around the cup of Irish tea to warm them in the cool room. Two nurses and Dr. Namara were waiting.
“It’s time,” Dr. Namara said.
“Yes. It’s time,” Dr. Zeman replied. “Time to let the secret within come out as the truth.”
Time has come today for Emerson to be reborn as the true female she was meant to be.
Time has come today for American society and the political system that had been in place for 313 years to die.
On 28 June 2089, at eleven hundred hours, fifty-five minutes, Emerson Haumann emerged from the iron womb, arms spread, and said, “She has ari—”
The bullet went through her forehead and exploded out the back of her skull. The force whipped her head backwards and pushed her body against the iron womb from which she had just emerged. Then she fell forward, dead at the age of fifteen years, six months, and twenty days.
The two nurses and Dr. Namara also fell to the floor, dead, blood seeping from under their heads.
Dr. Zeman started to turn, but a bullet slammed into her head just behind her left ear, spinning her around, and she, too, fell to the floor. She remained alive just long enough to look into the dulling dead eyes of a beautiful young female named Emerson.
Aubrey moved her lips, but no audible words came forth, only a slender flow of red tinged saliva.
Her last thought, though, as she reached over and put her hand on top of the hand of the girl lying across from her was, “I love you.”
For What It’s Worth
12 July 2091
President Winston Stewart sat behind his desk in the oval office and signed the Articles of Gentrification. Then he signed the declaration officially lifting martial law as of 0001 hours on 01 September 2091. Last, he signed the Repatriate Act.
He sighed; then smiled.
The Articles would begin the process of remaking his country into a safe place where men were men and women were women and no one was confused about his or her place in society.
The lifting of martial law would give the people some sense that some of their freedoms pre-GIW were being returned to them with the blessing of their government.
The Repatriate Act would send the millions upon millions of undocumented, as well as many documented, foreigners back to where they had come from, easing the burden of the GNP and freeing up resources and jobs for true Americans and patriots.
He handed the thin black folder with the three signed documents to Air Force general Abram Purdom, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of the Armed Forces of the United States of America.
“Thank you, Abram,” Stewart said.
“It’s my honor, Mr. President. The proclamations will be dispatched to Congress, all state legislatures, law enforcement, and state media immediately.”
“Make sure they’re put out on MILNET social networks first. The people will think they’re getting news directly from their government instead of some mindless talking head on TV.”
The general saluted, pivoted smartly, and walked tall and straight from the oval office.
Once the door was shut, Stewart reclined in the antique rocking chair, brought from the Smithsonian at his request when he first entered the Oval Office two years earlier. His office. The rocker had belonged to a president in the mid 20th Century who had had back problems as well.
He rubbed his eyes. Two-long-fucking-years. He was beyond tired. He was exhausted to the point of suicide. The coup hadn’t taken as long as they had expected. Over in six months. The pansies fought back at first, but when help didn’t come from Europe or Asia or Space Aliens, their leaders and most of their defenders deserted to Canada or Mexico or took ships to who-the-fuck-cares.
Damn quibbling and squawking of middle management morons and the damn fringe support groups had kept him and the other true patriots from forming a new government the past two years. Only after a massive extermination of the leaders of those damned distractors was enough peace established so they could all move forward.
Requiesce in pace. Imperative.
Every revolution needs a martyr. Stewart’s stomach rumbled and his temples pulsed. Damned zealots. We needed Dr. Zeman alive. We needed that freak of nature Emerson What’s-Its-Name? alive. They were to be the beacon and the example of how to achieve a society where people had no doubts about who and what they are. Moron insertion team were only to take out the assistants at the clinic, not everyone in the entire friggin’ building.
At least they were able to secure Dr. Zeman’s records, journals, data, and apparatus.
Every successful revolution needs two things: symbols and a strategic plan to jam up the government-to-be-overthrown.
The jamming was easy: Getting Caitlyn James elected wasn’t that hard. All Stewart had to do was feign being a progressive, a neo-lib, an open-minded-everyone-is-accepted-and-equal pol while his cohorts in the Institute of Human Studies propped up a stodgy, old school dumbass conservative Congressman with ties to right-wing, dogmatic Christian, and neo-fascist groups, a Wall Street white privileged narcissist who had a slight Southern drawl.
To run against the Neanderthal, the media propped up a social darling, a degenerate who had had his nads cut off, his crotch flayed open, and boobs attached to his chest, who went from a he to a she, who appealed to the pseudo-diversity-addicts who had dominated much of the 21st Century; someone who not only wore the mantel of victimhood, who claimed suffering at the hands of societal discrimination, disdain, and dread, but someone of whom nature had made a grand jest, someone who radically represented the fabricated notion that all lifestyles are acceptable and normal and should be treated equally.
Caitlyn James was the symbol of all that was wrong with the no-compromise-with-and-no-tolerance-for-opposing speech movement that dominated the 21st Century. The movement had effectively used popular media, social networking, the corporate emirates, and the fiery touchstone words of “fascism”, “neo-con”, “alt-right” to describe anyone disagreeing with them, to engorge their popular appeal and brand all dissenting voices as speaking with forked tongues.
Corporations, from tech companies to big box stores to ice cream and food conglomerates, all wanted to appear to be all embracing of all people and jumped on the progressive pageant wagon, for the good of the nation, for the good of society, and for the good of profits.
All opposing voices, opinions, thoughts, and honest disagreements were made suspect, were shouted down, were driven underground.
By 2060, the United States was called the Utopia States by the rest of the world, and the world flocked to its open arms and its open borders and its open lifestyles, swelling the population to 450,000,000, the majority illegal refugees and immigrants from failed third and fourth world countries. The national economy strained to sustain basic services. Middle class workers of all degrees, ethnicities, and races felt the crushing burden of responsibility as the progressive one percenters, especially the tech and retail giants, assailed the middle class as entitled, privileged, and obligated to shoulder the rest of society.
The progressives were so impressed with their accomplishments, so proud of the so-called free and open society they had created, so blinded by their own bright light of success they did not see, did not sense, did not fathom the underlying resentment of those burdened with shouldering the world.
American society and culture had had its cake and eaten it, too, and it wouldn’t share with anyone it didn’t deem worthy to invite to the feast. It was bloated and had become obese and diabetic with its own self-englutted paradise. Its triumphant leaders failed to see Nero rosining up his bow and the Brutuses, the Cassiuses, and the Ciceros sharpening their knives.
Then the first note of discord sounded, Atlas shrugged, and Utopia burned to the ground while its leaders were serenaded and sliced to death.
Three days after the coup, the public had learned through all the channels of MILNET–radio, TV, social media–that Dr. Aubrey Zeman, creater of the Z Chromosome, inventor of the iron womb, and the person who had brought hope to all the freaky gender born oddities, had been murdered along with the first truly nongender child.
Someone once said, “You don’t mess with women and children. You mess with women and children, God is gonna getcha.”
Newly sworn-in President Stewart and the secret leadership of the Institute of Human Studies, of which he had been president since its inception, quickly spread the word through MILNET, that the woman scientist Aubrey Zeman and the child Emerson Haumann had been assassinated by the radical progressives who feared Zeman and the child were out to destroy the deviant and unnatural lifestyles in which the neo-libertines had relished in and had lavished upon themselves, because a solution had been found and proven to offer everyone a true choice in their own sexual identity—a choice between two true genders based on each individual person’s moral, ethical, intellectual, psychological, and spiritual being, and not relying on nature’s throw of the dice, which sometimes came up snake-eyes.
They had their symbol. They had their martyr. They had their victory.
For what it’s worth, James thought, I feel bad Aubrey Zeman was killed. She would have made a great propaganda prop, freak that she was, along with her alligator tears story of that suicidal sister-brother-thing of hers, and that sexless abomination child she created—all freaks of nature. But, still, she showed us how to get back to the one true way: God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them. Only two true genders, not three or four or five. Only two.
President Stewart leaned forward and jotted a note on his memo pad: To Eric Blair, Press Secretary—Get w/George Wells; need mythos on A. Zeman, hero and martyr of 3rd AmRev; rush for 2091-92 school year history books.
Camelot had returned. He smiled as he leaned back in the 130-year-old rocking chair and closed his eyes. The irony was too much: Aubrey Zeman, Mother of the Perfect Gender—a barren genetic gender freak who was fifty-percent male and sterile.
President Stewart rocked gently in the ancient chair.
Then again, all great myths are based on the universe’s ultimate ironies.