Permitted

Women had long been in charge. Men existed on peripheral edges like scavengers wanting titbits of leftovers. They knew this and had accepted their subservient fate. Professions were open only, and exclusively, to women. Women had lost their faith in men's capabilities and concern rose for their lack of talent, particularly amongst men of science, politics and religion. The divide, and overturn of genders in society, had been inherent for decades, but there was a reluctance to buck the status quo. That was 2020. 3001 dawned and offered a wider, more kaleidoscopic view. Indeed, a rainbow filter had been sewn to each of our retinas. State decision.

I arrived to my new post, bedecked with the title of Chief Pilot at Haddington Airfield. My role was to oversee and train new cadets, and to handover “wings” upon graduation. It was a prized and highly sought after position which I had ardently strived for, working my way seamlessly through the ranks of Air Female, having doffed the arbitrary title of Air Force One.

During my second week in charge, I patrolled the permitter of the airfield, checking that no breaches had been made. It was a patrol that was meant to be completed in pairs, however, on this particular evening, my deputy had taken to her bed feverish. So I completed the walk alone, lost in thoughts of my successful changes thus far. I had many new ideas to implement and it was with a quiet excitement that I planned ahead.

Startlingly and unexpectedly, my musing was broken by a rustle. A simple sound probably evoked by the building of a stormy wind. And yet…

Permitted

As I looked up to scan the tree tops and the ominously star-drained sky, a coarse cloth was rammed forcefully into my mouth, drenched with a foul tasting alcohol, bitter and acrid. I heard a hubbub of panic, as my limbs were pulled, twisted and shoved into the depths of a hessian sack. The coarseness and sheer force of the movements razored my skin and I yelped in discomfort.

“Let me go!” I demanded “Do you have any idea who I am?” I shouted with all of the steely might I could muster. “Good luck with that, princess,” came a sinister chortle. A distinctively male voice: a tone I had long forgotten.

“Stupid bitch!” spat another masculine, chiselled voice, full of poison.

“Screw this rainbow filtered world. Women can say goodbye to their rose-coloured tints,” proclaimed a third. He sounded regal, leader-like.

“Stop! You don’t want to do this. My subordinates are surveying the air field. They’ll detect you and unleash the Magatrons – our robots will tear you to pieces in seconds,” I stammered, trying to inflect my voice with conviction.

“Do your worst,” came the spiteful retort. “I’m sure you’ll make easy work,” sniggered the man, I supposed the leader. “Bye, princess.”

The last sounds I heard were the rotational clinks of the robotic wheels as they gathered around my sack-like, imprisoned form.