The Matriarchs and the Three Laws

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Chapter One­­

 

The Gathering was noisy with dissonant conversations because today there would be a Bidding. He waited his turn to scan, watching the stats of each boy stream across a skewed monitor visible through the crowded doorway. If he didn’t know better, he’d think his stomach ache meant the government anaphrodisiac had activated, but hunger pains were not the same as cramps. Digestive discomfort versus castrative convulsions. Simply no comparison.

Name: Prime. Birth: 03142082. Mother: Faya. Donor: 327894621. Status: Inactive.

The auditorium was divided into sections, the lower portion for the males and the upper for the females. Its layout was consistent with the overall design of the Collective. Everything divided and split like dichotic channels, except instead of coalescing discrete notes into a textured timbre, the Matriarchs kept everything isolated out of fear of reprisal. There were separate buildings for housing females and males; individual classrooms designated for education or indoctrination depending on gender; different cafeterias and menus because protein sources were rationed to curb male aggression.

Prime looked around with unsettled eyes until he spotted the oversized head of his friend Saba in the third row and slid into the seat next to him. The room hissed with tense excitement, a cacophony of whispered gossip, pitchy giggles, and boisterous bravado. Prime was eager for the Bidding to start, to witness the rite of passage of his friend Taegan; keenly aware his turn would soon come because he was fifteen, and the government inoculation only delayed puberty, it didn’t prevent it.

“I hope he wins,” said Prime, fingers interlocked, thumbs circling each other.

“You know he won’t.”

“That’s mean.”

“Sorry,” Saba said. “I’m just hungry.”

A flush of embarrassment reddened Saba’s face, but Prime knew he was right to call Saba out for being negative because they had made a pact not to root against each other. Prime took the promise to include the three of them, even though Saba didn’t like Taegan because he’d made fun of his nose; he said it looked like a wheelbarrow which made Saba so mad that his eyes bulged. Saba’s protuberant eyeballs scared Taegan so much that he immediately stopped the teasing and apologized, but Saba never forgave the insult.

Prime understood Saba not wanting to root for Taegan because he, too, struggled to cheer for some boys, especially Rim and his cohorts Cox and Edge. They often jeered and shouted discouragements at Prime, wanting him to fall or drop a baton. Competing for an extra protein ration was hard enough without people rooting for him to fail.

The lights flickered, and the room quieted. The overhead monitors transitioned to the Matriarchal insignia, white on black, enlarging, spinning, clockwise then reversing, collapsing into a point before it exploded into a video of a naked male, locked in a crude pillory, surrounded by fashionably dressed females. A detached voice stated the male had committed a transgression, but she didn’t reveal the offense. No matter. These were common occurrences broadcasted at the beginning and end of each day to remind males of their place in society.

 The video ended, and seven lights shined down from the ceiling. Raine, the leader of the Matriarchs, appeared at the podium, her flowing blonde hair draped over narrow shoulders like a cape. The other six Matriarchs were seated in high back chairs to the left of the lectern, small tables with glass bottles of pastel-colored liquids between the chairs. None of the Matriarchs were physically present; the images were holograms, virtual reality projections designed to deliver programmed speeches and interactions based on the place, time, and purpose.

“They always look so real,” said Saba.

“We don’t even know if this is how they look,” said Prime.

“How else would they look?”

“Old.”

Each Matriarch represented a virtue, and Raine’s was Kindness, the opposite of Wrath, which every male, including Prime, felt toward them. It was one thing to hate the Matriarchs for the world they created; it was another to project that dislike onto all females because not all females were malevolent. Skye, for example. She was one of the good ones. She didn’t like the Three Laws, how females were mandated to be virtuous, and how males were demonized as sinners because of their history of aggression. Skye said the Matriarchs were paranoid of males regaining power, so they created the laws to ensure males never would.

Raine instructed everyone to take their seats, her simulated arms stretching outward toward the audience, palms floating up then bouncing down. Amelia, the Matriarch for Humility, floated to the front of the stage and directed a stream of males dressed in yellow uniforms to form two rows off to the left. They were real. Eunuchs with good singing voices; kept them out of the labor camps where most Yellows worked. Amelia raised her scissored hands, and the room quieted, then waved them like someone gently shooing flies, prompting the choir to sing the Matriarchal Anthem--a capella.

Prime ignored the performance, distracted by thoughts of his next training since the last session didn’t go so well. Need to be tougher. Mentally. Physically. Anticipate. Have a plan. The admonishment from Skye unnerved him because of what was at stake. It was demoralizing to hear the criticism; he wanted her to really like him, more than just a boy she’d befriended because he retrieved a necklace that was dropped under the bleachers.

When the singing ended, the mirage of Amelia scooted the choir from the stage, and a spotlight shifted to a cherubic red-haired male emerging from the black curtains.

“There he is,” said Prime, elbowing Saba.

Music played over the speakers, steady, percussive, with a rat-a-tat-tat beat decorated by a soft trumpet and dueling violins. Taegan awkwardly chased a jittery spotlight to the center of the stage, eliciting chuckles and loud guffaws. The lights dimmed, and the scene turned dark, a dusty beam shining down on Taegan’s fidgety form. His angelic face took on an ashen complexion that, coupled with the surrounding blackness, made him appear ghostlike, as though he was stuck between worlds, trapped within the shape of the light.

Words scrolled on the overhead monitors, and Prime chanted, in unison with the other boys; words long memorized through repetition and punishment, programmed to believe by example, words he lived by every day.

No male is guaranteed manhood.

A male must earn manhood.

Only a sanctioned male can achieve manhood.

The music stopped, and another beam of light appeared; a young male, tall, fit, dressed in royal blue, emerged from the curtains. His name was Adan, and he was the last male in the Collective to have succeeded at a Bidding. That was almost a year ago. Prime remembered because he had a stomach ache that day and thought his time had come. Turned out he just had food poisoning from the cafeteria, again.

Prime leaned forward, hands squeezing his bouncing knees, watching Adan stroll across the stage in that coveted uniform. His shoulders were rigid, chin elevated, chest pushed outward, neck muscles tight, strained--a model specimen of the male gender blessed with good genetics and the confidence to overcome self-doubt inflicted by the subjugating world of the Matriarchs. He stopped next to Taegan, individual spotlights beaming down on them, adjacent but disconnected, waiting for Taegan’s mother to push a creaky cart across the stage. She positioned the cart in front of them, removed a silver kettle from a large copper bowl, and handed it to Adan.

“It’s time for the discarding of the Whites,” said Raine, her voice low, pausing after the words time and discarding.

Taegan wrestled the shirt up to his shoulders, teetered, stumbled backward, regained his balance, pulled his boney arms free, then lifted it past his ears. He handed the shirt to his mother, loosened the cloth belt, and stepped out of the pants; her hands trembled as she folded the shirt, then the pants from habit, and placed them in the ceremonial bowl.

She was a good mother and did many things for Taegan that Faya did for Prime, nurtured him, comforted him when he failed at the tournaments, and explained how the world was before the Matriarchs and why it didn’t stay that way. Just the word mother gave Prime the jitters. It had been years since he referred to Faya as mother, having grown accustomed to calling her by name only. A lesson he learned on the first day of school years ago: boys were mean, but girls were meaner. That day he was introduced to the Matriarchal Youth Guard, the MYG as they were called, and to never cry for one’s mother.

Prime watched as Adan poured clear liquid from the kettle, splashing and saturating the white uniform; he passed the teapot to Taegan’s mother, then lit a small torch that ignited the audience into applause as a rainbow of sparks danced above the bowl. The fire faded quickly, and Taegan’s mother departed the stage with the ashes of his youth.

Adan led Taegan across the stage to the podium, aside from the seated Matriarchs. A series of piston-like thunks startled the room as a circular platform rose from the stage floor, expanding slowly like a venomous spider emerging from a burrow to seize prey. Taegan shivered, dressed only in white skivvies, hands clutching his shaking elbows as the platform clanked to a stop and locked into place. Raine gestured to settle the restless crowd, then began her programmed speech.

“Today is an important day in this male’s future. He is no longer under the protection of his mother or the system of a Collective. To earn manhood, he must complete the seven challenges. Should he succeed, the antidote will be his reward, and he will be a Blue; fail, and Yellow will be his fate.”

An arm of the platform extended toward the audience, and a grayish light illuminated a rough-hewn wood wall, more wide than tall, with protruding nails and chains attached at its corners. Next to it was a pine box that resembled a cheap coffin. Adan pushed Taegan toward the apparatus, pulled him onto the platform, and opened the trunk's lid with a bang causing Prime to flinch.

Adan extracted an assortment of leather implements from the box; fastened them around Taegan’s wrists and ankles, then a thick collar for his neck and a braided leash hooked to a metal ring at the throat. He wrapped a black kilt around Taegan’s waist, cinched it tight, then positioned Taegan in front of the wall.

Prime fidgeted as he watched Adan connect the leather straps to carabiners on the ends of the chains, first the wrists, then the ankles, then unhook the leash. Taegan grimaced when Adan pushed his back against the nails and yanked the chains taut. Prime felt his chest and shoulder muscles stretching as Taegan’s arms spread wide.

“The first challenge will pit the strength of Humility against the weakness of Pride,” said Raine. “It will require this male to accept that his gender is no longer in charge, no longer the dominant sex, and must submit to the female in all aspects of life.”

Adan reached into the box and retrieved a rod-like device about the length of Faya’s walking cane but thicker. He twisted the shaft, and the forged metal at the end glowed red, then brightened to a pinkish white. Taegan’s eyes grew round and wide, rattling the chains as Adan stepped closer, the hot metal aimed at Taegan’s heaving chest.

Prime covered his ears to muffle the hiss of the metal, touching then scorching the skin. Most males never make it past the first challenge, and Taegan was no different. He screamed when the hot iron penetrated his skin, pleading for Adan to stop, but Adan kept it pressed to Taegan’s chest long enough for the metal to pierce the muscle.

Taegan’s ear-piercing cries and the odorous smell of burned flesh sent shudders through Prime as he witnessed his friend surrender on the first challenge. Finally, Adan pulled the rod back, but that didn’t stop Taegan’s suffering from filling the room. The word FAIL flashed on the monitors, but Prime didn’t join the chorus of boos; instead, he just stared at his traumatized friend, the wound bleeding down his abdomen, thinking he would never see him again unless--don’t think that way.

Adan released Taegan from the wall, reattached the leash, and led him to his mother waiting near the podium. She held out a yellow uniform, dangling the pants and shirt in each hand. His foot caught in a pant leg, and he hopped clumsily to avoid falling, evoking sneering laughter. He pulled on the shirt with the help of his mother, then turned to face the discomposed Collective; weak applause quickly died away, and he followed his mother into the curtains.

And just like that, it was over, and the virtual images of the Matriarchs disappeared into the brightening lights. “Let’s hurry,” said Saba. “Before the line gets too long.”

Prime followed Saba as he pushed through the flow of boys heading to the male cafeteria for breakfast. They were fast enough not to be at the back of the line that snaked into the hallway. Prime listened to the chatter of critiques and empty bluster as they inched forward, thinking about Taegan and how disappointed he must be knowing what lies ahead. Most of the boastful jabber was about how no one would ever quit on the first challenge, but none of them have had searing hot metal pressed into his chest.

The line moved quickly, and soon Prime was standing in front of an adult Yellow--head shaved, cheeks scarred, most likely a survivor of the trials given his age. He plopped a clump of oatmeal onto Prime’s plate before a younger one with stringy hair twisted a bread roll into the mush and waved him past. Every time Prime was in the presence of a Yellow, it motivated him to train harder because he didn’t want that life. He wanted to be like Adan, earn manhood, enjoy the freedoms of privilege, respect, and camaraderie, move about the city unharassed, and work in the District where females went for entertainment and recreational sex. Yellows couldn’t do those things because of their status and the consequences of the anaphrodisiac. Infertile servants relegated to performing menial chores: cooking, cleaning, and caring for young females.

Prime followed Saba to an empty table, and Saba wasted no time digging into the mush, chomping the meal like a hungry dog. Despite the lack of table manners and a tendency to be pessimistic, Prime liked Saba because they made each other laugh. Most boys were intimidated by Saba because of his size, but not Prime. He knew his heart, childish honesty, and grunting chortle one couldn’t help mimic until both snorted like pigs. Saba was younger than Prime by a year and taller by almost ten inches, and now Prime’s only remaining friend, except for Skye.

“I wonder how he’s doing,” said Prime, thinking about Taegan.

“I’m sure, not well,” Saba said, his words garbled from a mouthful of food.

“Don’t think that way.”

“How should I think?”

“Positive. Like you do when you race the elevator.”

“Obviously, it doesn’t make a difference.”

Prime shook his head, spooned a clumpy portion of the slop into his mouth, and immediately wanted to spit it out. The texture and burnt flavor made it taste metallic and nauseating to chew; instead, he let the mixture settle in his cheeks and then gulped the tepid water to force it down. Maybe the bread would be better, but it wasn’t; stale and hard to bite. Prime broke it apart with his hands and picked at the crusty insides with his fingers, trying to ignore Saba’s metronomic chewing noises. Despite his hunger, Prime gave up on the food and slid the tray to Saba, who was happy to vacuum up the remnants.

A buzzer sounded, three short raspy bursts, which meant the end of breakfast and the start of school. School wasn’t really school for males like it was for females; it was more like reeducation to repent for the sins of their fathers, grandfathers, and great grandfathers. While females could study to be doctors, lawyers, or engineers, males could not. The best Prime could hope for was to be a Blue with desirable DNA that would make him attractive to females designated for procreation.

Prime bussed his tray and followed Saba down a long corridor to an adjoining building for morning classes. The classrooms for the males were located in the older Collective buildings, the red brick ones with poor heat and no air conditioning. The females lived and attended school in the modern part of the campus with state-of-the-art conveniences that Skye said made learning fun, such as virtual reality classrooms, zero-gravity laboratories, and artificial intelligence-controlled robotics.

The throng of boys began to thin as individuals vectored into their respective classrooms. As Prime turned the last corner, he saw Rim, Cox, and Edge ahead and slowed his pace, not wanting to tempt them with the opportunity this early in the day. With Taegan out of the picture, it was only Prime and Saba now against the three of them, and Saba wasn’t a fighter, but neither was Prime.

Prime and Saba waited, then entered the last room on the left: a spartan room with antiquated metal desks arranged in three rows. A wood table was angled to the left of a long chalkboard with WOMEN’S RIGHTS written in block letters. Today's virtual teacher was Clelia, Matriarch of Charity, a portly woman with prickly, rust-colored hair and a craggy face. Her image was projected at the front of the room, seemingly watching everyone file in and take their seats.

The protocol was to sit with heads facing forward, no talking, hands folded atop the desks. Sensors and cameras in the room captured all interactions and enforced the rules. Saba sat in the first row to the left, and Edge was between Saba and Rim, his bushy black hair blocking Prime’s view of Clelia. Behind Saba was Cox, and on Prime’s right was Top, but Prime didn’t know Top very well, except he was wicked smart if you ignored his stuttering.

“Listen up,” said Clelia. “Today’s topic is on the board. To start, we’ll watch a film. Then discuss how males denied females their rights, especially the right to vote. And how women rallied to overcome this oppression like the Matriarchs.”

Clelia’s image moved behind the table, and the lights dimmed. An overhead projector whirred, and an image appeared on the screen--women wearing hats and heavy coats, marching in the middle of a wide street carrying banners and signs: VOTES FOR WOMEN.

It was an old film. Jittery. Black and white with a faltering-voiced narrator. Prime concentrated because he didn’t want to be wrong if asked to answer a question. He memorized the names, dates, and inscriptions below the suffragists’ portraits; many started as abolitionists who took up their own cause for equal rights, civil rights, and abortion rights. Way too much information to be remembered, let alone comprehended in such a short time.

The lights brightened, and Clelia’s hologram drifted in the front of the desk. Her spiky head jerked left, right, then zeroed in on Prime. “What war helped the suffrage movement?” she asked, her finger aimed at him.

Prime lowered his eyes and stared at the desk as though the answer was hidden in the chipped paint. He didn’t remember anything about war because he focused only on names and dates; he looked up and shook his head because guessing would be worse than saying, “I don’t know.”

“I d-do,” said Top. “W-world W-war One.”

“I didn’t call on you,” said Clelia. “But yes, you’re correct. Many women volunteers helped win that war, convincing politicians that females deserved voting rights. And what law gave females that right?”

“The nineteenth amendment,” Prime answered in an attempt to redeem himself.

“Have you all forgotten the rules?” Clelia barked. “Take out your journals.”

Prime opened the desktop and retrieved the notebook and pen stored in the cubby. He opened it and thumbed through the pages, noting how many times a red ex appeared on the pages versus a red checkmark. More checkmarks than exes.

“You’ll spend the rest of class writing about the film and its relationship to the Matriarchy and the Three Laws. I want six legible pages with proper grammar and punctuation. Writing starts now.”

Prime tried to recall the film; connect it to what he knew about the Matriarchs. The revolution didn’t happen overnight, just like women’s right to vote; it took years for females to chip away at male power, win elections to public office, and become leaders of major corporations. But no matter how women tried to build alliances and pass new laws, a contingent of male power brokers blocked their efforts to change the status quo--just like the nineteenth amendment.

Prime felt good about what he had written so far, but he only had two pages and needed to include the laws. But how? The first law, known as the Law of Matriarch, asserted that A Matriarch is virtuous and must always be obeyed. Prime wrote how the old power brokers were far amoral and attempted to steal the Presidential election by replacing key electorates with party loyalists. When the male-dominated Supreme Court refused to intervene, social media channels were flooded with calls for a new social structure, and mass protests spread across the country.

Prime stopped writing, flexed his fingers to shake the cramps, then began justifying how the second law related to the film. The Law of Female declared that The female is superior to the male and must never submit to his sins. He wrote that the suffragists didn’t accept that males were the only gender qualified to vote and that Raine refused to concede the election she had legitimately won. She recruited activists with military backgrounds that formed militias and raised havoc across the country. Cities came under siege; businesses were vandalized and looted; statues and landmarks toppled and destroyed: law and order had given way to anarchy.

Unfortunately, domestic terrorists seized the opportunity to further their own agendas that had nothing to do with the stolen election. Civil War broke out, pitting states and regions against each other over race, sexual orientation, immigration, and religion issues. Raine and six other activists branded themselves the Matriarchs and grew an army of like-minded females tired of male rule; they took control of the country's northwestern region, including nuclear arsenals hidden in the mountains and underground. While extremist males retained control of the rest of the country, the Matriarchs were left alone because they had the threat of mutual destruction to scare off aggressors.

Whew! Four pages completed with two to go, but Prime struggled with the third law because of the insecurities it manifested in him. The Law of Male stated that All male births must be sanctioned and manhood earned by trial. Prime knew this law was crafted to protect the first two by constraining the population and rights of males. Only a prescribed number of males could be born yearly, and pregnancies had to originate in government clinics to separate sex from the act of procreation. All prepubescent boys were inoculated with a chemical compound to control reproductive maturation and--

The buzzer shrieked, signaling the end of class. There was more Prime could write, but with almost six complete pages, he thought he did a good enough job not to get called out in class tomorrow. Prime walked the notebook to the desk, thinking about the boys born before the Matriarchs because most were physically castrated and turned into Yellows if they didn’t possess the desired DNA profile for procreation. He placed the notebook on the pile and then peeked into the hallway to ensure Rim and his henchmen weren’t lurking. Satisfied, he and Saba exited and returned to their building for afternoon chore assignments.

“I only got four pages,” said Saba.

“Five and a half,” replied Prime.

“Wish I could write like you, but I don’t have enough words in my brain.”

“Next time, write bigger,” teased Prime, evoking a snort from Saba.

Gera, leader for Diligence, was hovering over a stool dishing out tasks when Prime arrived at the supply closet. Floor mopping. Window washing. Garbage duty. Gera was one of the more pleasant Matriarchs, older, childless like all of them, who allowed questions and discussions when she was teaching. That was how Prime learned the Bidding was modeled after other rites of passage rituals: Greek pederasty, Spartan krypteia, Aborigine walkabout, and Massai warrior training. Some were ceremonial, others sadistic and brutally perverse. Prime was glad he didn’t live back then but also wished he didn’t live under the Matriarchs.

He was assigned weeding while Saba got to clean the showers, evoking a twisted grin because it meant another chance to race the elevator. Prime grabbed a rake and pail from the tool shed and went to the gardens near the sports field. It was a decent Spring day, not too cold and not raining, with the sun breaking between scattered clouds. He toiled in the dirt, picking weeds and tilling the soil with the rake's tines. Bees flitted from flower to flower, and the sweet fragrances of gardenia and lilac itched his nose. A spider web between two rose bushes vibrated as a bee struggled to free itself. Prime didn’t see the spider but assumed it would soon come for its prey; he pushed his finger into the webbing to release the bee, but the silky thread clung to his finger, and the bee stung him in panic.

Prime gritted his teeth and flicked the frantic bee to the ground--the stinger pulsing venom into his finger, squeezed the tip to push it out, then sucked on the puncture. Served him right for interfering in the natural order, he thought. The bee’s destiny was to die and feed the spider; instead, it would perish in the dirt, and a colony of ants would do what he denied the spider. The end would be the same, just the means altered.

Prime continued working the garden until the pail was full, then dumped the weeds into the bin and moved to the next section. He was almost finished with the second planter when the bell rang, signaling the end of chores and a short break before the tournament. Prime dumped the weeds into the bin, turned in the rake and bucket, and headed for his apartment on the ninth floor.

When he left this morning, Faya was not feeling well, her left leg had swelled, and she was out of pills again. Prime worried the disease had spread from her hands to her leg and that her consumption of the meds was faster than the prescription allowed, which required him to ask Skye for extra pills. The doctors told Faya nothing could be done to alter the course of the disease and that the cane would be replaced by a wheelchair one day. Prime didn’t want to believe it, but Skye did some research at the hospital where she interned and told him the doctors were right, which was why she helped with extra pills when he asked.

Halfway up the stairwell, Prime heard heavy footsteps pounding from above like someone was running; he moved to the side just before Saba raced past, leaping multiple steps at a time. Prime yelled encouragements at him--you can do it, go faster--then resumed his ascent when Saba was out of earshot. Prime exited the stairwell, paused to catch his breath, walked the long decorous corridor to the apartment, touched his wrist to the sensor, and entered.

Faya was making tea in the kitchen with a small sink, an electric kettle for heating water, and a plastic canister filled with tea bags and freeze-dried coffee packets. There was no refrigerator, oven, or hot plate for warming stale bread or a slice of smuggled meat. Faya did that for him sometimes, brought him nuts or cheese or a cut of beef--her way of compensating for his tournament failures. He was lucky to have Faya as his mother. Not all boys have kind mothers because the sacrifices required to parent a boy take a toll over time, and some mothers become resentful like Saba’s.

“How’s your leg?” Prime asked.

“I could use a new one,” Faya answered.

“You’d have to volunteer to be a Virago,” he joked.

The banter evoked smiles from both of them, even though the joke was more sardonic than humorous. Viragoes struck fear in males and females alike because they weren’t entirely human. Prime never understood why some females volunteered for the opportunity of conversion. He couldn’t comprehend why they would want that life, but he also didn’t understand why his ancestors behaved the way they did and compelled the Matriarchs to create this world of male subjugation.

“Remember, it’s my meeting night,” said Faya. “I’ll be home late.”

“Can Saba come over?” he asked.

“Yes, but be mindful of curfew.”

Prime nodded, then hurried out of the apartment at the sound of the ringing bell. Attendance at the daily tournament was mandatory, and he didn’t want to be late and a target of ridicule from teammates. Yesterday he had come close, but his relay team had trouble on the final hand-off. He slapped the baton into Solo’s hand just like they’d agreed, but somehow it fell out. When Solo picked it up, the other teams were too far ahead for him to catch them.

Prime descended the stairs and yelled his name to hear it echo against the cement walls, hoping today would be the day he finally won an extra protein ration.