The Fall of Picayune

The intercom light blinked red just as the stubble-faced man pulled out of the boy's mouth. He ejaculated into the specimen jar and marked the day's date: Oct 14, 2044. The seven-year-old ward of the state breathed a sigh of relief as the morning's “together time” abruptly ended.

       A voice burst from the intercom into the master suite of the G700. “Sir, it looks like Picayune has fallen. We've won, sir.”

       My heart sank. A tear rolled down my cheek. Fire replaced the sadness and I fought destructive urges. I could feel the rage of twenty-plus years growing inside me. The defeat of Picayune meant the war was over. They had captured our last female.{/p}

       I continued to watch the screen. The man on the Gulf Stream opened his desk drawer and grabbed his crack pipe. “This calls for a celebration. Get Alexander on the phone.”

       It had taken enormous effort for us to patch into the Gulf Stream's Wi-Fi-enabled devices. We had secured both audio and video. I had trained in Air Force Space Command before being honorably discharged. Now, I ran telecom for the Freedom Coalition. My training had paid off, but it wasn't enough – it would never be enough. They had everything and we had nothing. Now, we had no future.

       I reflected on the devious, prolonged takeover by our enemy – the war had begun decades ago. In the twenties, they had convinced girls to willingly surrender their ovaries. Through unhealthy social channels, the girls were persuaded to line up for hysterectomies. Little did any of us know that their eggs had been confiscated and immediately fertilized by the semen of the highest bidders.

       Hundreds of thousands of motherless soldiers were born in secrecy. They were born in camps and raised by the State. By 2040, many had reached legal age and were required to serve in the military. They had no families, no attachments, and one single purpose: to do the State's bidding. An army of microchipped, network-connected soldiers, they were loyal to the State and reported any dissenters, who were immediately terminated.

       The State had one primary directive: capture the females of the opposition. Troops had the help of surveillance drones, machine-gun-equipped Boston Dynamics Big Dogs, and VR headsets. All females were fair game, as were children. The most prized captives were prepubescent females – the more eggs, the better.

       The system had completely broken down in the thirties when all boundaries between ages and sexes had fallen away. Old laws were no longer enforced and new laws had been written. Morals and ethics were found to be in direct violation of personal choice. “Love is love,” they said. Children were given independent rights at age three and chromosomal composition was kept confidential, replaced by gender ID via haircuts, clothing, and lapel pins.

       I had never been to Picayune, but I had lived in a small town much like it. We had a post office, a school, a bank, and a church. I wondered if Picayune would suffer the same fate as my own home town. When the females had all been taken, we supported each other. We all became brothers. Sometimes, it felt like a prison colony. We remembered the days when we had girlfriends, wives, daughters and sons.

       Enough time for reflection, I thought. I turned off the monitor and stepped outside. It was a sunny day. I noticed a younger man sitting on the curb crying.

       He looked up at me and spoke, “Picayune is gone. We're done for.”

       I sat down beside him and put my arm around him. On the day our town had lost its last female, the soldiers had left. I thought about Picayune and how the soldiers would probably be clearing out. I mustered as much strength as I could and said, “Friend, let's pray for our brothers in Picayune. They need us now more than ever.”