One in Ten Ch. 07

"Now we are numb because that's all you will give us. We don't have the power to alter our surroundings so we smile and take out whatever you dish out. We have learned to settle for less of everything because to reach beyond those choices – well, this morning exhibited your reaction to that. What happens next for female-male relations is totally in the hands of women."

"It is darkly romantic in its own way," I said softly. "In the end, men have the only thing that should be of value to womankind. We will have the ability to forgive. You may pass us in years, but all you will have are ashes, dust and oblivion as companions. In two hundred years, all your genetic lines will have passed into the realm of evolutionary failures."

"We don't need you, or your forgiveness," Ms. Ontario sneered.

"We will see about that," Maribel preempted me. "Dr. Vasco is a well-known virologist at St. Eligius Research Hospital nearby. Dr. Vasco, welcome."

"Ah – welcome," Dr. Vasco stumbled. She wasn't made for TV.

"I understand you did a quick research project for some colleagues of mine this morning. What are your results?" Maribel prodded.

"Oh! Fascinating – completely unexpected and – well – fascinating," she blathered.

"What have you found out?" Maribel prodded once more.

"Oh, yes," Vasco seemed bewildered. "We had two blood samples. Patient Zero – a healthy young male, and Patient One – a healthy young female."

"Yes?"

"Oh, yes," Vasco's face came alive. "Patient Zero's blood has no signs of the T1-Gender Plague. None whatsoever. I've never see that before."

That was right. No one had seen it in almost fifty years. It wasn't what I was expecting. It clearly wasn't what anyone else was expecting either.

"That's not possible," Guatemala gulped.

"That's what I thought, too!" Vasco bubbled. "We did a variety of tests and no T1 anywhere."

Hush.

"There was another virus similar to the T1 though," she continued. Everyone breathed. "But it's not the T1. In fact, its sole purpose seems to be to kill the T1."

"How – how did that happen? That can't happen," Ontario muttered.

"We all thought so too, so we've been sicking those little bastards on every kind of infected tissue we have on hand and – Oh, Goddess – they go right after the T1 – kills them deader than hell!" Vasco giggled. I couldn't blame her unprofessionalism – this was the Virology Holy Grail fifty years in the making.

Hush.

"You mean you have a cure?" Maribel whispered.

"Yes, but there is a downside," she shrugged. "Once they find infected tissue or free floating T1's, they don't last very long."

"Also, Patient One, the woman, had far fewer in parts per billion of this new, unidentified virus," Vasco added.

"Who are these people?" Memphis asked. She seemed a little slow on the uptake.

"Oh, Goddess," Ontario stared at me fearfully. "It's him."

"Yep," I confessed, "and Patient One is someone I had sex with. I let you figure it out because I think this is my cue to leave."

"You can't just go," Guatemala gasped.

"Israel, what are you going to do now?" Maribel seemed truly curious.

"Yes, I can go and I am. I haven't broken the law and nothing requires me to do anything about this," I grinned. "For the rest of your audience, I am not giving you the cure. Before you think about simply stealing this from me, let me give you this warning. If I am grabbed by anybody, I request the Vanishers come get me. I'll be ready to go."

"In case you ladies missed it, the Vanishers are around 2500 and 0 in making men disappear – fuck with me and you'll never know if I decided to change my mind," I proclaimed. "If you want to know why I'm so irate today, you let law enforcement nationwide beat my brethren bloody, and be degraded."

"Two of my LOLE's disarmed me then threw me on a metro where several women reached inside my pants and played with my cock. Inside of ten years, 99 out of 100 of your sons are going to die in screaming agony as you watch helplessly. Make sure you hug a cop and thank them for that privilege."

"Good-bye, but before I go, the final word for today is 'Hope'," I bowed slightly, dropped my back-up lapel microphone and quick-stepped it to Capri.

"They really should let you have a gun," Capri snickered softly. "You would do less damage that way." We turned, Capri started guiding me out by a different path, but I stopped her for a second.

"Do you have that riding crop handy?" I asked the script-girl.

"I have it at home," she blurted out then flushed with embarrassment.

"Maybe next time," I grinned. Capri dragged me away hurriedly. In a dark recess of the studio, Maribel's male assistant motioned us through a blacked-out door.

"Second door on the left, then to the door marked stairs, and I suggest going to the basement parking lot," he said dispassionately. I mouthed a 'thank you' as we sped by. Three flights down, there was someone waiting for us – a women in technician overalls and a baseball cap. At the last second, she looked up from her work.

"Damn it, Bitch," Capri squeaked. "Are you a clone or a stalker?" It was Zara.

"Hello, Israel," Zara smiled. "We need to get going." Oh crap. Capri was right. She really did like me. The three of us went lickety-split down the stairs, Zara in the lead.

"Zara, do you like me?" I broke down and asked. She held up her hand.

She swiped a card, accessing the second floor. We slipped inside. Zara motioned for silence. We heard another door open and footsteps racing up to us, then past us, heading up. Three seconds later, Zara led us back into the hallway and down.

"Yes," Zara answered.

"Did you pick me?" She had said I was 'chosen,' but I wasn't sure.

"It doesn't work that way," she kept her senses on edge while talking.

"How does it work?" Capri murmured. Zara stopped us again for a few seconds before opening the basement door and motioning for us to follow. She stashed us behind a car then began stripping out of her coveralls and cap, revealing non-descript street clothes.

As she finished, Zara shot me that warm glow.

"Command makes the selections, but the men choose us," Zara smiled my way.

"Uh...how does that work?" Capri looked rapidly back and forth between Zara and me. My mind was a whirl of passions – both good and bad – and data.

"It is called courtship," Zara informed us. Capri's eyes bugged.

"Wait – you want this madman?" Capri wondered. Zara had shoved her clothes under the car, squirted something on them and was now leading us somewhere that wasn't the street exit.

"He has intense, honest eyes," she replied. "He's courageous."

"When we first met, I was terrified," I muttered.

"Yet you persevered," Zara responded. "Blind, stupid courage is dangerous, but conquering your fears when you are needed is something far better." She led us to an emergency exit, hesitated a moment before popping it and motioning us quickly through to an alley.

There was no alarm blaring, so something must have happened. A moment later, we exited the alley, onto the main sidewalk and were briskly walking away.

"Thank you, Zara," I regarded our new – companion didn't seem quite right.

"It was good to see you in person, Israel," she smiled yet again.

"So – Zara, do you spy on Israel in the shower too?" Capri inquired.

"Of course," Zara admitted. I turned and abruptly walked into the wall of the closest building. I hadn't intended to. Some irresistible impulse had taken over. Having an unknown number of women seeing me naked was soul grinding.

Had my life been a comedy, I would have bumped my noise, looked sheepishly over my shoulder and given a weak smile. I had experienced an infantile urge to run away from the shame, violation and the pain Zara's information brought. My hands had instinctively come up to save my face from impact. My fingers were trying to dig into the stone until my tips felt as if I was tearing the skin off.

I loved sex. I loved the pleasure it let me share. What I didn't love was the romantic mystique I tried to weave around that act being torn away, shredded for the entertainment of people I didn't know. How could I protect myself if any woman looking at me had seen me naked, in coquitos? How could I tell who was really a threat if I couldn't see behind their eyes?

Step...Capri and Zara were not talking. They were not closing in on me.

Step...people passed by. The scuff of their footfalls told me they were looking my way, but not stopping.

Step...I had to get out of here. The authorities would come looking and we all had to leave.

Gears contacted gears and the machine that was my mind lurched forward once more. I had things to do. People were taking incredible risks on my behalf. Capri and Zara understood what had happened and let me heal – just enough to get my feet back under me.

"Let's go," I muttered and we moved down the sidewalk once more.

We covered two blocks in silence.

"Zara, you are with the government, aren't you?" I began. She gave me a quick look, but didn't respond. "Let me rephrase: you are still an active duty soldier, aren't you?" Now Capri stumbled.

"Yes," Zara whispered.

"Shit," Capri groaned.

"Okay, I understand now," I nodded. We traversed another block.

"Fine, what do you understand?" Capri nudged me.

"I know who the Vanishers are," I leaned in and replied quietly. Zara's eyes flickered my way again.

"You do, don't you?" Zara's eyes blazed with pride in me and wonder.

"Either one of you care to enlighten me?" Capri grumbled.

"I need to get you off the street," Zara intervened. "The FBI is on its way. I can deal with the cameras and your phones, but not the bracelet." She steered us into a café where the early lunch crowd as only starting to come in.

"How do you know he's right?" Capri prodded Zara.

"The last two questions he asked," she seemed almost sad to leave us – me.

"Zara, take off and stay safe," I told her. "I don't think I would want to do this without you." Zara had a twinkle in her eye, nodded then left. Capri and I moved to a nice corner table. I took the seat that would allow me to watch the door and most of the café.

"Okay, what's going on?" Capri leaned in.

"You start off with two guiding principles. No large organization creates only one plan to choose from. Bureaucracies throw away NOTHING. So, twenty years ago, when the Federation and/or the UN figured that the current system wasn't working, they planned out various contingencies."

"One of those proposals was the 'Vanisher' conspiracy. It was most likely advanced by a small cadre of mid- and low-level functionaries brought in to work on the forecasted collapse. Their idea was obviously rejected because we stayed the course and are now in the fucked up situation we are in now."

"The thing was, those planners didn't die and didn't give up on their plan. At the start, they were powerless to do anything. Besides, they had to believe all their idea was doing was postponing the end, not solving the extinction problem. So, they worked on that dilemma..." I said.

"And that's you?" Capri doubted.

"No. They didn't know about me until five years ago at the earliest and that's highly unlikely. Odds are they found about what Carabolix-37 did to me when everyone else did," I replied. "What happened, happened eight years ago while the WHO was combing over Central Asia building a genetic database."

"What they found was the Warlord of Kwaziristan – the last bastion of male rule on the planet." No, the Warlord wasn't some kind of John Carter of Mars. By all accounts he was a castrated, obese, mostly bald and very old man. During the collapse that Plague engendered, Central Asia went under – their political systems, economies and infrastructures broke down.

In those last few, chaotic years, a recovering soldier and a small detachment of troops found themselves guarding an orphanage. With the city burning down around them, this man was ordered to take the boys and flee. He went to the only place he figured they could hide out until the fighting died down and the authorities could come rescue him.

He went to an old 17th century palace/fortress complex outside his home town in remote Kwaziristan and there he held up while his nation died. Eventually, hope faded and the 'Warlord' began to raid the recovering female tribes for supplies. He had to feed his people. Somewhere along the way, the female tribal leaders figured out he had a large number of young men under his charge.

They struck a deal. The Warlord was worried that the women would steal his men. The women wouldn't storm the place because all those men had guns and killing them all would accomplish nothing, except to stop the raiding. The agreement they reached changed everything, though it wasn't immediately obvious.

The tribal leaders would send young women up to the fortress. In exchange for making the young women pregnant (or one year to pass), the tribes would pay tribute to the Warlord. The catch? The men inside the fortress chose which woman they would mate with and by mate, they meant live together in the same dwelling for months at a time.

It was courtship. It wasn't a plastic romance; it was practical. The men needed the goodwill of the tribeswomen that inhabited the land in all directions. Building up affections and bonds with their female mates was necessary for the survival of the male community. Conversely, the women lived in a mostly male world – from the beginning, the Warlord did have a few female soldiers.

Men were lovers, providers, protectors and housemates. They shared in chores, but compared to what the women had to do in their own tribe, it was nearly paradise. Men still had their military duty, but when you had a mate, you were given quarters in the dungeon of the fortress. Carved out from the depths of the hill the fortress sat on, it was much cooler than the baking heat above during the summers and warmer in the winters.

Enter the WHO eight years ago doing their survey. They ran across a serious problem. Kwaziristan's population was 24% above projections (they were supposed to be dying out) and 2% over their previous level. Kwaziristan was 'surviving'. Sure, their tiny population was one Black Death away from annihilation, but their numbers where slowly growing – very slowly.

This was great news right up until they found out about the Warlord and his contract with the local towns and tribes. Was the UN really going to say that some old fat eunuch in a clay fortress on a dusty hill in the middle of nowhere was the savior of all mankind? The answer was obvious.

The UN sent in advisors and film crews to show the world how barbaric and primitive the Warlord was. He certainly wasn't photogenic. The men seemed enthusiastic enough. They even slept with some of the film crew. They also became very irate when the women picked up and left. After all, hadn't the women agreed to mate with them?

Why else would women come to the fortress if not to mate? The local women were a bit peeved too – those were their men those floozies were poaching. The UN began fishing around, seeking to convince some of the local leaders to call in the UN to deal with the Warlord. When the Kwaziri women figured that out they got REALLY pissed.

They may have herded goats and sheep, woven wool into fabric and scratched some crops out of the semi-arid soil for a living, but they also knew they had more daughters in this generation than last. They couldn't fight off the UN – there were only a few thousand of them and they lived in near-desert conditions, but they did everything to let those foreign women know they were unwelcome.

In one antidotal tale, a UN soldier guarding the mission found a lost lamb and brought it to a local tribeswoman. The woman promptly beat the lamb to death with a stone, explaining to the horrified soldier that the lamb had been contaminated. In the end, the Kwaziri got what they wanted – the outside world left them alone.

The WHO took gene, blood, air, water, and soil samples and found absolutely nothing that explained this abnormality. The Big Lie was only starting to sink in. Discovery World devoted a portion of a documentary to the Warlord. A fourteen year old boy saw it and regurgitated that memory to a twenty-one year old man in search of understanding.

"I know you are not advocating male rule," Capri studied me. "So what is it?"

"A colossal gamble," I sighed. "I am freaking liberal arts major. I'm not a scientist, certainly not a doctor and definitely not a virologist, but what if...if stress strengthens the Plague, what if the reverse is also true?" Capri mulled that over.

"You mean, what if love, compassion and respect – as viewed by the male – weakens the Plague?" Capri mused. "Damn right you are not a scientist."

"It was the word Zara used and I believe it was intentional," I persisted. "She said 'courtship'. She also mentioned men choosing their mates. That's what clicked in my mind."

"So this cockamamie scheme of the Vanishers is based on 'love conquering all'? Crap, we are all going to die," Capri muttered.

"Hey, I'm not saying I'm a convert, but it is the current idea I'm running with. I'm willing to bet Zara's people studied the Kwaziri for some time too," I countered.

"With no cure looming on the horizon, they began recruiting young women from various agencies and branches of service into their plan. Heck, some of the 'Vanishers' may still be thinking this is a sanctioned covert operation. Even those women will want onboard when they understand this society is going down the toilet."

"One of the saddest parts of all this is that the women who set this all in motion won't take advantage of it," I bleakly assessed. "The government will be closing in on them now."

"I wish I could disagree, but I think you are right," Capri nodded. "If you figured it out, someone who does this kind of detective work for a living has put the pieces together as well."

There was no way to hide an operation this big once various intelligence agencies started looking. They would figure out the key military and civilian players. The only thing they could do was to totally detach from the program. Now their baby was out there, running on its own power, directed by people who had already vanished themselves long before any investigation started.

"FBI," I warned Capri. Special Agents Fraklos and Vabishi had come in to our hideaway. Vabishi was showing ID to the girl at the counter while Fraklos was coming our way.

"How did you get away?" Fraklos seemed truly curious. There was a host of good answers and the truth wasn't one of them.

"Come on now," I leaned forward, "Princess Leia didn't beat Darth Ventress, the Empire and the Dark Empress with the help Ewoks alone. She had the help of Admiral Squid."

"Gial Ackbar; a Mon Calamari," Fraklos corrected me.

"Who?" I questioned.

"Gial Ackbar – that was the Admiral's name," Fraklos clarified.

"Is that really important right now?" I asked.

"Having a bad day?" Fraklos turned to Capri. She was asking if I was having a bad day.

"Yeah, pretty much," Capri nodded. "He walked right into a wall about ten minutes ago."

"We need to get him out of here," Fraklos shook her head. "Get him somewhere safe. The Capital is screaming bloody murder over his latest stunt." Vabishi had finished making a quick call and joined us.

"I can't do it," I stood. "I have a date with a VIM at 12:30."

Fraklos stared at me.

"Very Important Mobster," I explained. "If I don't show up they will probably do really bad things to Kuiko and I'm not going to let that happen."

"What is he talking about?" Vabishi worried.

"I am attracted to violent psychopaths and for the love of God, I don't know why," I sighed. "Worse, to hang out with me you have to be insane or prone to fits of brutality. It is how I roll."