The Three R's Pt. 02

Chapter 12: Analysis

Catherine Chee was looking at her computer. There were project reports from her team to read and the planned work schedules for the coming week to review. That was the worst of being promoted to a supervisor's role, she thought, you get to worry about stuff that is of no interest at all.

She tabbed across to one of the apps that sat on her desktop, telling herself that there was always a good reason for looking at tracking data, even if it was only to check that her team hadn't missed anything.

This was why she had applied for this job, Catherine told herself. She had had a number of difficult relationships in her teenage years with men. Maybe it was because she expected to get her own way in relationships but Catherine was sure it wasn't just that. Some men had mistaken her impassive looks for those of someone that could be mistreated; some had seen her as exotic, a trophy; some -- from her own ethnic background -- had thought she should behave as Chinese women traditionally behaved. None had been prepared to accept her on her own terms and none, it seemed, had been prepared to show the fidelity she felt was her right. Too many had strayed and, for Catherine, discovering their straying had been traumatic. That was what had set her to wishing there was some way to know where her man was and that had led her into becoming an expert in communications and location and to her involvement with the app developers for HoneyTrak. It was also what had led her to say "yes", when she was approached to join the government's communication analysis team shortly after New Order came to power.

The graphical interface gave her a visualisation of location data projected onto a map. Colour coding showed the areas where there were more men with ident cards than had been fitted with SAID-reduction devices. Some of the data wasn't surprising. She looked at an area where very low fitted-rates were showing up as a purple blotch on the map. It was just south of the Euston Road. Easy to explain, Catherine thought. These were students at the University -- very low numbers were involved in sponsorship so it wasn't surprising that fitting rates were low too.

She used her mouse to scroll forward and backward in time, watching how the purple blotch seemed to grow during the week and shrink at weekends as students went back to their digs. As she scrolled though she spotted an anomaly; a day when a purple blotch appeared further west. She zoomed in. It was around Fitzroy Square, a few Saturdays ago, around 6:00pm. The date on the visualisation app was linked to the Department's calendar of external events, the blotch was related to a public demonstration that had taken place in the square. That made sense. There would have been a lot of students and unsponsored males there.

She thought about it. This might be a good sample to trial the new apps on. She marked out the group with her cursor and clicked on an app labelled "Deviance Detection". There was a lot of data to process, it took a few minutes but soon the message "conformant/consistent behaviour group identified".

Catherine looked at the options available to her. The first, "List Conformance Characteristics", would tell her the basis the programme was using to flag individuals as conformant, typically did they behave like others of the cohort. The one she was interested in was "New Cohort of Deviants". That subtracted the data for the conformant groups and left those that had some behavioural attribute different to the 'normal'. They would be the ones most likely to pose a risk, the ones most likely to warrant further exploration.

A click of the cursor and the cloud of data points on the map thinned. Catherine was surprised at how few there were left on the screen but then she thought; students, probably living in close proximity to the university, travelling back and forward to the same location, using the same shops, using the same pubs and bars. There would be a high degree of behavioural commonality. So, she thought, looking at the animation of the movements of the remaining dots, what was this little dot, doing way out on its own, taking a trip to docklands?

Chapter 13: Spray Paint

Jack Toven had picked out his place carefully. He wanted somewhere he'd not be noticed, somewhere without CCTV and somewhere that would get the attention of passengers arriving in the station.

His mouth was dry. He was conscious of the cans, stencils and posters in his coat pocket. It was early in the day -- much earlier than he was usually up. Still, this way there was no curfew but the streets were still quiet.

He chose one of the tunnels leading from the railway station to the Underground and on to the Bus Station. It would see plenty of traffic as the rush hour started and the police would find it difficult to close it off if they didn't like what he was planning to do.

He put the posters up first -- four of them -- all trumpeting "Resist Regulation! Reject Sponsorship! Reverse the Erosion of Male Rights!", the same slogans used at the rally in Fitzroy Square. Then -- positioning his stencils carefully in the gaps between the posters - he used the day-glo yellow spray paint to add the letters, "ECR".

He'd asked Gerry what it meant. "Mainly," Gerry had said, "it's to throw the MCF off the scent. We don't want them busting up the stuff CRMRE are doing and this will maybe have them thinking there are other groups."

"And the letters?"

"Oh, its a bit simpler that that 'Resist -- Reject -- Reverse' stuff. It just stands for 'End Cunt Rule'. We'll have to see when the Government work it out."

Jack found that interesting. He liked the idea of giving the Government something to puzzle over and he reckoned the Government would get a lot more scratchy about the insult than they ever would about something that looked like a rational argument. Insults had a way of taking hold in the public imagination.

"You don't want me to spell it out?"

"Nah. We'll let them guess for a while. There were half a dozen of you out this morning across town. Daisy went to the printers this morning picked up posters and helped drop the materials off. We'll have a go at different sites on Thursday and Saturday. We're getting some ECR stickers done too; easy just to slap on anywhere flat. If they see enough around they'll get the idea its something significant. After a while we'll start leaving them some clues. Who knows maybe we'll get some men interested too."

It felt to Jack like there was a real sense of trying to make a change. It had helped him overcome his fear of being discovered while he was putting up the posters.

The adrenalin rush from his actions lasted until he was almost back at his room in Hampstead. He bumped into Daisy on the way. "Well," she said, when he'd told her about the posters, the graffiti and what Gerry had said, "at least you're doing something. I think you should get a reward." The flirtatious look that she gave him wasn't open to misinterpretation. "I've got one of these," she waved a little square packet -- a condom. "Do you know somewhere we can go?"

"I've got a room," Jack said, barely able to believe his luck, "just along here."

The two headed off with Jack's thoughts a long way from political activism.

An hour later, Daisy was sitting naked astride Jack's belly. His cock was stiff inside her. For Jack it was a rare experience. He could barely remember the last time a woman had let his cock be part of sexual play, much less allow herself to be penetrated. Remembering past pleasures wasn't really his focus at that moment though. The two were breathing deeply in unison as he approached a climax. Daisy grinned down at him. "So," she said, slowing down the progress they were making towards orgasm, "does having a woman on top make you even more determined to take political action against New Order or are you deciding you quite like it."

"Ah -- aah. Sex is one thing, politics is something else."

"You think?" Daisy bent forward teasing his nipples with her teeth, inducing a stretch from Jack that pushed his hips up and against her. "Isn't this what Lenin considered 'momentary interests'? Aren't we submerging our struggle for freedom in the pleasures of the now? Or is Gerry's vision as free from action as as Spence's?" Another nibble brought another stretch and push from Jack.

"I'm doing things. Trouble making, Gerry calls it. Mainly it's spray painting -- Resist, Reject, Reverse, graffiti, CMRE logo's, ECR graffiti. How about you?"

"Nothing so exciting. I've been stuck on a computer trying to work out a map of all the MCF stations in east London. I guess knowing where the opposition are makes sense. What's ECR? Gerry hadn't mentioned that to me."

"It's his two fingers up at New Order, I think. It stands for End Cunt Rule. Though from where I am right now, that sounds a very bad idea. The last thing I want is for you to take your cunt away."

"Oh, hah hah!" Daisy giggled and renewed her biting. "If you think this is being ruled by my cunt you've got a whole lot of surprises coming."

"That sounds like something I might enjoy."

Chapter 14: Flight AL103

Norm Hailman was feeling nervous. He seemed to spend a lot of time feeling nervous these days. He was getting good at it, he thought. Sitting in a car outside the terminal at Dublin Airport, he was having a final chat with Danny Monahan.

"You'll be fine. Easier than the job last week. You know the ground back in the UK."

Norm wasn't looking forward to the trip. In his bag was a packet of 500 forged male ident cards, destined for a contact in London. In his jacket was an Irish passport and flight tickets in the name of Terence O'Neil. In his hand was a cigarette he was dragging on to finish before heading in to the terminal.

"Yeah, well, let's hope so. I didn't pay all that cash to leave the UK in order to go straight back there."

"Ah, it's only two days. You'll have no bother."

'Bother' thought Norm. Was that a word for what had happened last week? They'd been running porno mags across the border near Crossmaglen. Their bit had gone OK and they had dropped off the crates but shortly after they'd got back over the border they'd seen flashing blue lights and heard sirens behind them. Word was an MCF patrol had intercepted the group coming to pick up the stuff. There had been headlines in the Ulster papers a few days later, "Seditious Filth Pedlars From The South", "MCF Foils Porn Pirates" and "Smuggled Smut Undermines Respect Agenda". Norm thought that was a bit strong. They were just trying to let a few men have a bit of a better time than they were getting.

Danny had been philosophical about it. "Most of the lads got clear, I hear," he said. "They're worried someone on their side may have been a bit careless but they'll take another shipment as soon as we can get it to them. All that publicity will have helped fuel demand. I reckon the price just went up a bit."

It was going to feel strange being back in London after eighteen months. A lot had happened in the time in between. No least was that someone he knew had tried to blow up the Prime Minister and members of her cabinet in Fordswell. For a short time, Norm had wondered if the New Order Government might collapse but it had quickly become obvious that the attempt had failed and it had only tightened the grip of the party. Although David Anders had been convicted alongside three co-conspirators, the press regularly carried theories of wider conspiracies. Norm hadn't mentioned to Danny that he had known David, it would only have complicated things, he felt. As far as the bombing went, there had never been any suggestion that the police might be looking for him in relation to that but he still worried that he might be on some sort of watch list for that as well as for absconding.

For Norm the worst part of the trip was the Customs and Immigration desk at London's Gatwick airport. His passport seemed to work OK but he could almost hear himself sweating as he walked through the "Nothing to Declare" customs channel. He checked the signs in the arrival hall, "Information for New Arrivals -- Advice For Men Travelling Alone". He didn't want to get caught out by any change in the regulations since he'd last been here and besides breezing past the signs might have attracted attention. Nothing much seemed to have changed. He'd just have to be careful to stick to streets where men were allowed, stay off woman-only buses and trains and make sure he was indoors before the time of the male curfew. An ominous note at the bottom of the sign said, "Male Control Regulations have been in force in the UK for two years now. Police officers expect visitors to be aware of and comply with these regulations." Waving his Irish passport wouldn't get him out of trouble with the MCF if he put a foot wrong. In a dispenser beside the sign were pamphlets providing guidance for visitors. He picked up a copy.

He wasn't expecting to be met at the airport. He had a hotel in Chelsea to head for. He walked through the corridor towards the railway station. There were a few MCF officers around but they seemed more interested in people planning to leave than in anyone arriving, even a man on his own.

It was a long walk along the platform towards the rear of the train where the carriages for unaccompanied males pulled up. The rest of the train had plenty of seats but when he'd got to the male carriages they were all full. He'd have to stand all the way to London but it wasn't a long journey and he had been sitting down all the way from Dublin.

He left the ticket barrier and headed towards a coffee stand. It was just before nine o'clock in the morning, most of the buses would be woman-only services for the next hour. It was a toss up as to whether it was worth waiting for a bus or walking to the hotel. Her decided to wait. It was something he had done plenty of times before, sitting on Victoria station drinking scalding coffee out of a paper cup, but this time he was watching for anyone that seemed to be watching him. "If you get nervous, read your paper," Danny had told him. Suspicious people don't sit around reading newspapers. He had a copy of the morning's Irish Times. Skimming through it while he drank his coffee did, indeed seem to help his nerves. He didn't even flinch when a smartly dressed business woman practically pushed him off his stool, reaching around him for a coffee.

"Hey," she snapped, as though the collision had been his fault,"aren't you up with the Respect Agenda yet?"

"Sorry," he said in an affected Irish accent. "Oim from out of town."

She grunted and stalked off. Norm took it as a small victory.

He finished his coffee and headed for the bus. As he got to the tunnel that run under the road he heard a woman's voice haranguing, "Look just get on with it and clean it off. I don't know what it means and I don't fucking care. I just know it shouldn't fucking well be there and if it's still around when the station supervisor comes through you'll be up for a quick course in her views on seditious graffiti. And they're likely to be even sharper than mine."

The voice was coming from a tough looking woman in dark blue overalls. She was obviously in charge of the two men who were carrying cleaning buckets and scrapers. One of the men was dabbing ineffectually at a painted slogan "ECR" on the wall of the tunnel while the other was trying to scrape off the remains of a poster that invited the reader to "Resis, Reje, Rev". Norm wasn't quite sure what it was on about. There were other posters still complete on the wall calling for action against male control regulations. The clean up team were going to have a long job.

There was quite a crowd in the tunnel, some obviously standing and looking at what was going on. Norm didn't stop but he was pleased that least it looked as though someone was trying to stand up to the government. He headed on through to the bus.

Chapter 15: At The Regina

It had been an odd day. Catherine pinched the bridge of her nose. She felt she had been squinting at a computer screen for far too long. A drink in relaxing surroundings sounded an attractive idea. The Club Regina beckoned. She thought she would change out of the jeans and sweater she had been wearing all day -- the club deserved something a bit more stylish. Eventually she decided against one of her elegant qipaos, opting instead for a pair of black leggings and a short emerald green silk top with a qipao-style neck and short cap sleeves.

She flagged a taxi and headed for Battersea. The roads were busy and it seemed to take forever working across town towards the river. They were stuck in traffic in Victoria, not far from the station. Catherine tutted as the meter ticked up. She looked out from the cab. There on the battered brick wall of an old pub were a couple of peeling posters; saying "Resist, Reject, Reverse" and some bright yellow, spray-painted, letters "ECR". The posters and graffiti had been mentioned on the previous morning office zoom meeting. Aileen had asked for any ideas that the team had on their meaning. They were obviously something to do with some dissident activity but it wasn't clear what. Catherine hadn't had any ideas yet.

Club Regina was based in a building in the shadow of the old Battersea Power Station; one of the great industrial monuments of the city, now the site of expensive homes. Catherine looked up at it as she got out of the taxi. She wouldn't mind living there, she thought.

Inside the club she exchanged pleasantries with the bar's hostess. Natalie was in again. Catherine's customary Bloody Mary appeared. "Do you want company?" Natalie asked offering a menu card.

Catherine thought for a moment. "Do you have the boy in that I took last time? He had a leopard head tattoo on his back."

"I know the one you mean. Give me a minute, I'll check the pens. Hooded, cuffed, gagged and chastity fitted?"

"That would be excellent. Thank you."

One floor down, in a large room that stretched under the bar, Sam Danubo was sitting in one of the thirty cages that were arranged in three rows along one wall. There were five others down here and three more were up in the bar already. He did an eight hour shift at the club most days. He wasn't formally sponsored but the fact that he had a steady job here mean there was someone he could call if he fell foul of the MCF. He'd been in the cage for an hour already. There wasn't room to stretch out or stand up. He was getting stiff, and not in a good way.

He heard a voice behind him. "OK, Danubo you've got work."

Natalie, the hostess from the bar upstairs, was already unfastening the padlock to the cage door as he turned around. Sam was glad to be getting out of the cage for two reasons. It would give him a chance to stretch but mainly every time he was asked to serve a client his salary had a boost. Given the tax situation for unsponsored men he needed as much work as he could get.

"Fully fitted," Natalie said pointing to the racks of restraint equipment at the front of the room. Sam was used to the jargon. He knew what was needed in addition to the locked chastity device that he wore all the time he was on duty. He fitted a hood over his head, closed shackles around his wrists and ankle and pushed the smallest ball gag he thought he would get away with into his mouth.

"There's a good boy," Natalie praised as she checked the straps and padlocks. "Well," she managed to jerk the strap on his gag a notch tighter, "quite a good boy. Let's go and see the nice lady. She's asked for you special. Must have made an impact last time."

Sam recognised Catherine as Natalie led him by the leash from his cock cage across the club room.

"Ah, my favourite guaillou," she said as he dropped to his knees at her side. "My feet would like some attention." She unfastened his gag, letting the ball hang loosely around his neck, making it clear what kind of attention she was expecting. Sam was skilled with his tongue. He got a lot of practice. He bent his head to her feet, working his tongue across and between her toes and around the straps of her sandals. Catherine found his attentions relaxing and sat back in her chair. It was good to have a man somewhere where he wouldn't suddenly disappear.