Despite her bad temper, there was no doubt that Sister Cathcart was a beautiful woman, in her crisp white uniform with a short skirt, and with her long legs and long auburn hair. She may have had five fingers and a thumb on each hand, but they were always beautifully manicured and polished, as if she wanted to draw attention to her physical abnormality. She entered my cubicle, rested her automatic weapon against the wall, and held out her hand for the collection tube.

‘I’m truly sorry, sister, but it’s a ‘no go’ again’ I said offering it to her.

‘Well try again, and be quick about it, I cannot wait all day for you!’ she said irritably.

‘I’ve been trying constantly for last forty minutes, I just can’t do it.’

That really sounded pathetic on my part; but what could I do?

‘This is the second time this month that you’ve failed to reach your quota 2348/C; it is beginning to reflect on both of us. Unless there is a rapid improvement in your performance, I do not see a future for you at the farm.’

Sister Cathcart didn’t understand that she was partially responsible for her misfortunes. If the other Sisters got through their collections more quickly than she did, it was because they understood that providing sperm on a daily basis was a mental as well as a physical process. A kind or encouraging word, or even a helping hand could speed up the process no end; whereas insults and impatience could just as easily set you back to square one. Still, even she knew better than to physically mistreat the valuable farm stock. It was rumoured that she was having penetrative sex with 2812/A, which was why she was always in a hurry. This was against the rules of the farm but did go on from time to time. If she was doing so, then no harm was likely to come about as a result since, as a grade 3 mutant, she was undoubtedly sterile. Also 2812/A would need to wear a condom in order to meet his daily quota.

She entered the results, or in my case, lack of results, into her hand held terminal, whilst still displaying her annoyance. She then picked up her automatic weapon and left. I used to be surprised by the rather careless way that several of the Sisters left their weapons lying around until I discovered that they were all fitted with hand recognition technology and could only be fired by their registered users. In fact during the seven years that I’d been at the farm I’d never heard one being fired and as far as I knew there’d been no escapes during this time. Yet we regularly heard automatic gunfire coming from the nearby work camp. Security at the farm was not particularly tight; the stock doubtless realised that they were better off where they were and that any unauthorised male at large would soon be picked up and punished by the authorities.

Sister Cathcart was probably right though; once any male failed to produce the required quota of sperm each day, his days at the farm were numbered. I’d seen it happen before many times although it was normally after they were thirty or more, whereas I believed I was in my mid-twenties. The fortunate ones leaving the farm would be sterilised and taken to work in the government brothels for a few more years. Others who appeared to be strong and healthy might be transferred to a work camp. Nobody ever spoke about what happened to the remainder.

Nothing more was said about my lack of performance and on the next two days I was able to perform to the satisfaction of the farm authorities and in a sufficiently timely manner to enable Sister Cathcart to indulge in her extra-curricular activities with 2812/A. I was half hoping that the incident might, in time, be forgotten. Then, on the Thursday morning as I was sitting on my bunk waiting for the distribution of the collecting tubes, Sister Cathcart came in to my cubicle, picked up my uniform from the chair and threw it towards me.

‘Alright you can get dressed now; you’re needed over at the main block.’

‘Just me?’ I said with some surprise.

‘Just you.’

‘But what about the collection?’

‘Not today, you’re excused, thank heaven,’ she replied with an obvious sigh of relief.

I knew better than to try and ask her any further questions so I quickly dressed and stood to attention. She reprogrammed my electronic bracelet to enable me to leave the stabling block without setting off an alarm, and led me across the yard towards the main building. We walked past a brand new purple 6-wheeled Rolls Royce parked in the drive. A licensed eunuch in grey livery was polishing the solar panels on the roof whilst waiting patiently for the return of his mistress.

‘Whoever owns that car has both wealth and power,’ I said.

‘Keep your opinions to yourself,’ she replied briskly, but I could see that she probably agreed with me.

I’d not been inside the main block for several years. In the early days I was called over from time to time along with groups of other breeding males, to be inspected by the licensed female breeders who came to the farm to mate. Direct breeding between a fertile male and a fertile female was only permitted to take place on licensed premises, where it could be closely monitored. The farm held such a licence and maintained a number of breeding rooms. However, I was never selected for direct mating and so eventually they ceased even to offer my services. A young woman had to have completed a successful pregnancy with genetically sound offspring before she could be licensed to breed directly from a male, and this licence would be revoked if she subsequently gave birth to a mutant. Although my genetic make up was clear of any mutation and my sperm count was average, the minority of women who had earned the right to have penetrative sex rather than artificial insemination were looking for a mate who was taller, more muscular and better looking than me, there were always others who met this bill.

I was retained at the farm to provide sperm for the artificial insemination programme, and no doubt it had given rise to a large number of healthy births — such things were always carefully monitored these days. Equally, much of my valuable seed had probably gone to create mutants, who were such a common feature of the reproductive process these days, and were hampering attempts to rebuild the human race after the losses encountered during the Great War. Grade 1 mutants were destroyed at birth; it was the only realistic and humane thing that could be done with them. Grade 2 were sterilised and then shipped out to the contaminated lands in North America and the Far East, where nobody lived to old age without succumbing to cancer or radiation sickness. Grade 3 mutants— like Sister Cathcart, once sterilised, were permitted to remain in society. The males were sent to the work camps, along with the gradually increasing numbers of genetically sound males. The females often took jobs in the security industries.

The Sisters and the other staff were always polite to any licensed breeder who came to the farm, but on this occasion they were positively grovelling. The farm manager and her deputy were both solicitously talking to an expensively-dressed woman in her late thirties. I noticed that she was wearing the New United Nations Gold Medal for Motherhood, together with a bar, indicating that she had already borne twelve genetically sound children. With more women like that it would not be many generations before the human race was re-established in those areas that remained inhabitable. What is more, although clearly aged by her childbearing years, she appeared to be healthy enough to have two or three more pregnancies before her eggs dried up.

What on earth would such a woman want with me? I thought as we approached. Yet there was something vaguely familiar about her face.

‘This 2348/C, Honoured Mother,’ said Sister Cathcart.

‘Good, take us to a breeding chamber,’ the woman said, imperiously.

The farm manager, her deputy and Sister Cathcart all looked as surprised as I felt, but nobody dared to question her command. Two minutes later we were conducted to the best appointed breeding room of the farm.

‘Is there anything else you need Ma’am?’ asked Sister Cathcart, who was still unable to remove the note of disbelief from her voice.

‘No, you may leave us.’

The woman took out a small electronic device from her handbag and turned it on.

‘It will cause the recording devices to malfunction so that our actions and conversation will be private. It is illegal but the manager will not dare to report me,’ she said.

‘Would you like me to get undressed Honoured Mother?’ I asked tentatively.

‘No, we shall not be breeding. If we were to mate and it were to be discovered you would be shot and I would be stripped of my honours. Instead I want you to inseminate me with this,’ she said producing a vial of semen from her handbag and a syringe. ‘Afterwards we can talk.’

This woman could have had her pick of any fertile male on the planet, and yet she was choosing artificial insemination, conducted by me! I stood there looking utterly confused.

‘Well help me then,’ she said impatiently, lying down on the bed and taking off her knickers.

I did as she instructed, and afterwards she dressed herself once more. Now that the insemination was over she became a little more relaxed.

‘So you do not recognise me?’ she said in a more kindly voice.

‘Your face is slightly familiar, Ma’am, but I cannot remember why.’

‘I am your elder sister Elaine, but you must never refer to me by that name if anyone else is present; you must refer to me by my official title ‘Honoured Mother’ or as ‘Ma’am.’ You are my younger brother, Michael, but I too must refer to you by your breeding number and type when anyone else is present.’

‘I did not know I had a name, Honoured Mother; and as far as I know I have no siblings. I grew up in a state orphanage.’

‘Who do you think brought you from the North of Scotland as a baby after the civil war and placed you in the orphanage?’ she asked.

‘I do not know, I don’t remember that far back.’

‘And who do you think has used her influence to keep you at the stud farm, after they found that you were unsuitable for direct breeding? You might easily have been sent to a work camp or even put down five years ago.’

‘They told me that it was because I was genetically clean and sufficiently fertile for the AI programme.’

‘You were, and we both have our parents to thank for taking us away from civilisation once the radiation leaks began. However, even at that time there were others who could have been used in your place. You should also be aware that, for a male, you have so far led a charmed and protected life. However, your sperm count is beginning to decline, and there have been some days when you have not met your quota.’

‘I know, but sometimes it is partly the fault of the collector,’ I responded, hanging my head in shame.

‘That may be so but there will soon come a time when it is no longer worthwhile to keep you at the farm. After all, you are well fed here and do no work. What is more, following the success of the government’s monitored breeding programme, the purchase price of genetically clean males is now much lower. You are scheduled to be replaced after the next stock auctions.’

‘How do you know all this, Ma’am?’ I asked.

‘You may call me Elaine, when we are alone,’ she said smiling. Then continued with her story.

‘Once I became a successful and prolific mother, I started to invest my earnings in this farm, so that I would be able to keep an eye on you. It has been a profitable investment and I’m now one of the major shareholders in the business. As a result I have access to all the production data and financial projections.’

‘Why are you doing this for me? … Elaine?’

‘Our parents sent us out of harm’s way, and joined us later, but left it too late. I promised them when they were both dying from radiation sickness that I would always look out for you. It has not always been easy for me to do, particularly during the period of ‘outrage against the male sex.’ There were those in government who wanted to abolish males altogether, but the majority felt they could have their uses if kept separate from civil society.

‘But males will always be required for breeding purposes.’

‘Yes, for the time being, but having brought humanity to the brink of extinction, they must never again be permitted to have any role in government or administration. That is the central tenet of the charter of the New United Nations.’

‘I know, but what will happen to me once I am replaced?’

‘What do you think will happen?’

‘It was suggested to us that after a successful period at the farm we might be sterilised and put to work in one of the state brothels,’ I replied.

‘If a woman is paying for sex, and there is no chance of any conception as a result, then she is going to want to have some fun. Believe me you do not have physique to be selected for work in a brothel.’

‘So what will happen to me?’

‘You do not have the build for heavy work, so you are unlikely to be purchased for use in a work camps and most people licensed to employ eunuchs as domestic servants are looking for one who’s been that way since adolescence. It is possible you could be used to lead a cleansing party of mutants in the contaminated lands, but, to be honest, the most economic answer would be to have you put down.’

‘I see.’

I think I have always known that this would be my ultimate fate, but had not expected it quite so soon.

‘That is why I am here today; to see if there is anything we can do to prevent that from happening.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘The first thing is to get you away from the farm. I have bribed the officials of the Department of Sex and Reproduction to grant me a three month licence to keep a non-breeding male at my home for the purposes of pleasure, during the first trimester of my next pregnancy. I have just made an offer to the farm for your services in that respect. The manager of the farm thinks that I have taken leave of my senses, and have a perverted desire for undersized young men. Nevertheless, she has agreed to sell you to me for a very reasonable price. As soon as I leave here, you will be taken for sterilisation and then delivered to my country estate tomorrow.’

I would have no regrets about the loss of my ability to reproduce, as doubtless my genes had already been spread among hundreds of offspring, and would have played a significant part in rebuilding the human race. However, I was concerned about my longer term prospects of survival.

‘Such licences as you mention can only be for a limited duration, what will happen to me at the end of the three months?’ I asked anxiously.

‘The licence states that you are to be destroyed at the end of that period in case it should endanger my next pregnancy. As far as I can see there will be two possibilities at the end of three months, but neither of them is particularly pleasant for you.’

‘I am sure that anything will be preferable to death. What are they?’

‘I can arrange with you to have lax security one night so that you can try to escape. I will delay notifying the authorities for several hours, but it would not reflect well on me and may impede my future career. I must also tell you that I don’t think you’ll be able to survive for long as an outlaw.

‘What is your other alternative?’

‘I can offer you a new life as a non-breeding female. I currently have one on my staff who is the same age as you. She has produced two grade 1 mutant offspring and so her licence to reproduce by means of AI has been revoked. For the last three years she has been responsible for looking after my wardrobe and my grooming, but is beginning to show signs of radiation sickness. I have no doubt that she will be dead within the six weeks. When that happens, it is my intention to cremate her body. I will then substitute you in to her place, and inform the authorities that you have been put down, providing her ashes as evidence, if required. I can therefore offer you rebirth as a female.’

‘Can that possibly work?’ I asked.

‘I believe so, but it will mean that from the time of your arrival tomorrow you must forget everything about ever having been a male, and learn how to live the remainder of your life as a non-breeding female. I have contacts in the medical profession that I can trust and can make arrangements for you to undergo surgery as soon as possible. Your build is also such that would help in the substitution. I believe that by the time of the substitution you should be virtually undistinguishable from a true female, at least for the purposes of outward inspection. You may consider this to be a drastic course of action, but it is the only way I can preserve your life.’

‘It is hardly more drastic than losing my life or trying to survive as an outlaw. I have no real choice but to accept your suggestion. It would mean that I could live the remainder of my natural life in relative comfort and security.’

‘Yes, but the degree of comfort and security will largely depend on how well you embrace your new gender.’

‘I will do my best, my sister,’ I replied.

‘Good. In two or three years’ time, once my breeding days are over, I intend to go into politics. I believe that the time will soon be right for the male sex to be allowed a more prominent, although still largely subservient, role in society. If you perform well in your new role and have not been discovered you will be able to assist me in that task.’

Note: I thought I would take advantage of the February Short Story competition to try writing in an entirely different genre. I hope my existing readers will not be disappointed. My novels will continue to be 'sweet and sentimental' Louise

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