The Great Shift:
This Too Shall Pass
By The Last Boy Scout
Chapter One
Well, it was a dark and stormy night. Scratch that, too clichéd.
It was a normal day, one that had occurred a thousand days
before and would for a thousand days more. Too boring.
Mr and Mrs Dursley, of Number 4 Privet Drive, were proud to
say that they were perfectly normal. Thank you very much. They were the last
people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because
they just didn’t hold with such nonsense. Too plagiaristic. I do NOT want to
get that one mad at me. All the armies of hell and all the angels of heaven
could not stop an author scorned, probably stick a lightning bolt up my butt.
Oh, hell, I suppose it will have to be the truth. My name
is Thomas A. Heinlein. Please, no Starship Troopers jokes. I HATED that
movie, and so would've he. On the day in question I was twenty-one years old.
Indeed, I had just celebrated my birthday. Most other young white males of my
age would still be crawling out of bed after a bender of biblical proportions,
but as you will soon find out I wasn’t like most other young white men. Even
if I was inclined to drink - which I wasn’t - turning 21 was no special event
in England. The legal drinking age is eighteen. All visiting American
students were legal the minute the plane touched the ground and many of them
took advantage of that fact and could not be bothered with such mundane details
as actually showing up for class for almost a week due to acute alcohol
poisoning.
But I digress.
I had been in country for about two months now and had
another seven left to go until my exchange program was finished. As a college
student of Political Science, particularly in international relations, it was
expected, though not required, that I spend at least one semester abroad. I
had wanted to go some place exotic. Someplace where few Americans had gone
before. Somewhere I could learn and experience cultures that would aid me in
any future endeavors. Egypt was my first choice. A fairly progressive Middle
Eastern, Arab country which had the extra added bonus of being a historian's
wet dream. My other major was European History. But it was not to be, two men
changed that.
The first was my President. In his, if you think it
justified or not, recent adventures in that part of the world. The second was
my father, who, despite having little more role in my upbringing but as a
checkbook with legs, forbid me to go to that - and this is a direct quote
people "towel- headed camel-jockey run shitheap of a country, which is about to
be blown straight to hell." I was about to suggest since I was theoretically
an adult that he could go perform a certain anatomically improbable act upon
himself, but self control got the better of me and I caved in, changing my
application to Europe. I had wanted Italy so I could sift threw the sands of Rome,
but all the spots in my program were filled. So, on January 15th, I found
myself in the cold, dismal land of the Beetles. Why the Anglos-Saxons, Romans,
Goths, Franks, Vikings, Normans, Scots, Spanish, Dutch, French, Germans and
Soviets would ever want to invade this sun-forsaken country is truly one of the
great wonders of human history.
So, I found myself, walking down the streets of Preston
located deep in the center of Lancashire, about as far away from London as you
can get and still be in England. The University of Lancashire, my current
place of residence, was not one of the nation's most prized educational
institutions. Since my application got changed so suddenly Oxford and Cambridge
were out. I couldn’t even get a school in London where I would at least have
the solace of a couple of West End performances. I was stuck in the booneys,
the sticks, the exact land were Mel Gibson was running around bere-assed naked
while terrorizing local English villagers. Braveheart was not a popular movie
in this town.
The English system was drastically different from that of
the Americans. Whereas in America, a student could expect weekly assignments
and dozens of papers over the course of a year, in England you had basically
three. One paper, one test, and one "seminar presentation," which entailed
little more than getting up and reading off a fifteen-minute paper. I was
ambitions, and hooked up my laptop to a projector and gave a PowerPoint
demonstration. The students in the class thought I was practically a visiting
god. Uh, Wow! Cool! There were no due dates and students could turn in their
papers and perform their vaudeville whenever they wished. Naturally, most
waited until the last possible moment to put down the beer mug and churn out a
piece of BS in as short a time as possible. And, also naturally of course,
though to be fair it wasn’t always the case, I had completed all work in the
first few weeks. The only thing I had left in my five classes was the semester
exams, which were still five weeks away. Class attendance was not even
counted, assuming of course any of the professors could have counted anyway.
I was currently debating whether to not I should blow this
open-air looney bin and spend the remaining time touring the continent. I
wasn’t worried about the tests. I was qualified, though not certified, to
teach most of the courses I was in, and even if I wasn’t, I wasn’t exactly
learning anything from the instructors. My courses were "text based" and we
were expected to learn our material from the readings. Which is a polite way
of saying the PhD’s in this country, or, to be fair, this university, couldn’t
be bothered with actual teaching and expected students to educate themselves.
The checkbook with legs, perhaps because he felt guilty
about denying me my first choice, had given me a generous stipend for my year
abroad. Coupled with my own earnings from summer jobs and a small trust my
grandmother left me, I was well funded to go gallivanting across Europe and was
on my way to see Derek. The "Yellowed Pages" was one of those hole-in-the-wall
bookstores that quaint little English towns have in abundance. The shop and it's
proprietor are probably the sole reasons I had maintained my sanity these past
months. I was intending to see if he had any travel books and maps I could buy
to plan out my invasion of the European continent. I also wanted to ask his opinion,
at seventy five (or more, I never did find out his actual age) Derek had been
to a lot of places and seen a few things. He could talk your ears off you if
you let him, and I usually did. When most people politely disengaged
themselves from his boring stories I always found them captivating.
True story, Derek and his mates, having found themselves
unemployed after several wars and having lost the taste for civilian enterprise
in the war before last, hired themselves off as mercenaries in one side or
another in one of those nasty little fights that cropped up as Britain started decolonizing
Africa. He went into the jungle with a short battalion of 250 men and thirteen
months later walked out without a scratch on him and only five of his
comrades. "Well, when we had about thirty left, I started getting the idea
that perhaps it was time to return to my native land. I probably would have
stayed to the end, but Wilkinson caught a packet and he was the man who had the
tea leaves in his kit. I am not a barbarian, you know. I am not a marine,
Tommy, me boy. There are certain things a civilized person just cannot live
without, so I fragged our captain and walked my men back to base."
But of course he only tells those types of stories to people
he trusts. 99% of his customers probably did their book buying totally unaware
that the avuncular old coot behind the counter could kill them five different
ways with just his thumb. I was crossing the roundabout - that's a circular
street for those Americans who have never been over here - when the whole world
changed.
Anyone with two brain cells to rub together and over the age
of ten remembers where they were when it happened. There are as many personal
accounts and self-published autobiographies as there are people, and almost as
many explanations. Aliens did it. It was our whimsical God playing tricks on
us. A 21st century tower of Babel. It was a government experiment run amok.
It was a new weapon of mass destruction by Saddam Hussein. Elvis isn’t dead
and he did it; seems he wanted us "all shook up." I’m not a scientist, and I
don’t know what to believe. At this point it hardly matters. Most people have
learned to live with the Great Shift and move on with their new lives. But
this is now, years after. This story talks about then; when we didn’t know
what the hell was going on.
I was halfway across the street when I was suddenly wracked
with dizziness and had the perfectly normal reaction of fainting. When I
eventually returned to the land of the living it was to mild surprise. As you
can see, the English habit of understatement has gotten to me. I have read
many accounts of people who did not know they had been switched right away.
Some men claim that they even stood up and walked around for hours before they
noticed that they were no longer men at all. For me, realization came
immediately. Somehow I had suddenly turned from a six-foot tall, dark-haired,
large, white male to a female. A woman. A double XX chromosome. A baby
making machine. A person of the feminine persuasion. A sit-on-the-porcelain
lifetime member. A what some of my crass friends in college had referred to as
a life-support system for a pussy. A…. well, you get the picture. The English
habit of obsession had also apparently gotten to me.
I’m one of those persons that never feels strong emotions.
Hate, love, fear most of these are alien concepts to me, perhaps because I
never had sufficient emotions demonstrated to me by my family during my
developmental years. I never learned how to be afraid. Regardless, unlike
some of the people around me, I did not immediately fall into hysterics. Those
familiar with the Greek origin of that word will understand the irony. All
English cities have closed-circuit television cameras, so somewhere if you have
sufficient initiative and no real life you can dig deep into the archives of Preston
and find the tapes of Fishergate Street, which have been preserved for
history. On it you will find cars overturned, buses crashed into walls, fire
hydrants ruptured and spilling water into the air, people unconscious, while
those who weren’t were running and screaming, children acting like adults,
adults crying like babies. And, off to the side under the shade of an oak
tree, you will see a thin, blond-haired, blue-eyed woman. Fairly tall for an
English girl, long-skirt hiked up and sitting in a marital arts meditation
calmly examining the chaos in front of her.
Perhaps you have gathered so fair that I am reasonably
educated and intelligent, so it really was no great leap of deductive reasoning
to understand what had happened. I was a man who was now a woman. Judging
both from the fact that I was in a different location than before and was
wearing a thankfully long skirt, a blouse and glasses which I hadn’t worn since
8th grade, I had not somehow been magically morphed into a woman but had
somehow swapped bodies with one. My hypothesis was further confirmed by the
people around me who had also seemed to have suffered a similar fate. People were
examining themselves - some not too modestly. Several were screaming "Give me
back my body!" or variations on that theme. Most telling of all, there was a
cute little five-year old girl in a flower-print dress who most certainly
should not have had quite that extensive a vocabulary and was told so
forcefully by what apparently was the child’s mother, unaffected by the event
and panicked at the strange behavior around her. If the situation wasn’t so
drastic I might have taken notes, the new little girl's selection of colorful
metaphors really was quite extensive and I was slightly envious of her good
fortune.
I took some time and took stock of my current situation.
1. Body: swapped into female, small if still
tall, otherwise weak
2. Environment: surrounded by other swapped
people, some of them visibly angry.
3.Status of people: some of them physically
violent; some of them strong, angry, physically violent men.
4.After further review, I discovered I was
still alone, female and weak with crazy people running all around.
Solution: get the hell out of here, behind a locked door
until situation resolves itself.
After another three seconds going through my complicated
analysis, I could find no fault with my logic. I stood up and got the hell out
of there. One of the lessons that Derek had drilled into me in our daily bull
sessions was, KNOW YOUR TERRITORY. So I knew exactly where I was in relation
to my former location and knew the shortest distance not only back there, but
to my flat as well. I discovered a rucksack next to me and, as no other item
fit the bill I deduced it was owned by my body's former occupant. This brought
home the fact that, in order to get into my flat and behind its locked door, I
would need the key that was inside my wallet, inside my pants and about a
quarter kilometer away.
I ran, not well mind you, in two-inch heels, but still I
ran. While on the way I reviewed in my mind how I would convince the occupant
of my former body to turn over my wallet. There was no certain way to convince
him or her of who I was and if the body didn’t want to turn it over he could
physically overpower me. It should be noted that in a crisis situation my
already emotionally crippled mind becomes even more cold and methodical.
Unlike the peaceful Vulcans of Star Trek, however, I had little qualms about
using physical force. I must look after myself. Must insure my safety. To do
that I needed my key. So, when I meet my former body I will not give him the
opportunity to deny me my safety but will instead, amid the present chaos,
knock him unconscious. It was cold and cruel but I felt it was necessary. I
was alone, five thousand miles from home, and everything I would need to see me
through the next few months was locked inside a room to which my body had the
key. The occupant of my body was most likely English, a local. He had family
and friends he could turn to, a life and a means of support. Here, I had
nothing. My very survival depended upon that key.
The question was, could I, given my present physical status,
incapacitate my body long enough to lift the wallet and get away? I had
limited martial arts training at home and Derek had taught me a few tricks he
had always found handy. I wasn’t feeling a lot of self-esteem at how quick I had
turned into the stereotypical arrogant American who shoots first, shoots some
more and, if anyone is left alive, then ask questions. But my intellect
overrode my emotions as it had always done before. Self-righteousness is a
luxury for people safe beneath a blanket of protection.
The entire moral argument was rendered a moot point however
when I turned the corner around a local pub and discovered that my body had
been crushed by a double-decker bus. You remember that old movie A Christmas
Story, where the kid wanted a little Red Rider BB gun and all the adults had
said, "You’ll shoot your eye out!" Well, my grandmother, the living one, is
even more protective than my father whom I believed was just looking out for
his investment. She had warned me always to look both ways twice in "that
foreign country" because somewhere, somehow she had read that the major cause
of death or injury in England for American college students was death by
double-decker bus. Apparently we can’t be bothered to stop drinking long
enough to notice that bus traffic over here is faster, bigger and on the wrong
side of the road.
Well, grandma, you were right. The bus got me.
Perhaps it was the new female hormones traveling though my body,
or perhaps I wasn’t so emotionally dead as I liked to believe, but at that
moment I broke down and for several minutes I was indistinguishable from the
people around me. Eventually I was pulled out of my reverie by the sight of a
big Neanderthal-looking bastard about ten feet away from me. He wasn’t making
any threatening moves. Indeed, he was probably one of the kids who had lost
their childhood, but the sight of him still brought me back to reality and the
threatening nature of my present circumstances. Gritting my teeth, I walked to
the lump that had housed me for just over twenty-one years and stole his
wallet. I double checked to see my key was inside and placed the wallet in my
rucksack. Perhaps what happened next will sound silly but it's part of my
character. I love reading. My library back home rivals some schools. Well,
high schools, anyway. Inside my own satchel were several books, one I was
almost finished with and several I was looking forward to enjoying.
In the aftermath of The Great Shift, chaos and pandemonium
all about me, I spent ten minutes cutting through the pinned-down leather
satchel to remove its contents and place them all inside my new rucksack. All
the while under the chassis of a twenty-ton double-decker bus and sitting one
foot away from my own steadily cooling body. I freely admit, it’s pretty
strange, but we all had our own unique reactions to The Great Switch. Judging
from what I have read of other people's accounts, my own was far from the
strangest. After all, they were good books.
After retrieving my precious artifacts, I began the long
walk uphill to the flat complex that serves as the university's dorms. Once in
the university proper I began to feel safer. Most of the campus was deserted.
Classes had finished the day before and most of the locals had gone back home
for Easter holiday, a period in England where no classes are held for three
weeks. The only people still on campus were custodians, those locals who didn’t
have a home to go back to, and the international students such as myself but
even we usually abandoned the campus to see the sights during holiday. So I
was pleased that there was no one around to see a fair-haired woman enter the
building, then Flat 17, and Room Number 3, occupied by one Thomas A Heinlein,
prominent nerd.
A number of students over here had interacted with me and,
not being all that anti-social, I had interacted with them. Going to a few
parties, a few movies together, but one of the things that had always marked me
different from the other young studs I hung with is that when a pretty female
would walk by, my eyes would not pop out nor would I start drooling. I admired
the female body. After endless hours of introspection I realized I had no
homosexual tendencies whatsoever, but I just couldn’t get as excited about the
prospect of sex as my peers did. Particularly over some of the scantily clad
muffins that went walking about with covering that was characterized by the
amount of skin it didn’t cover, and perfume that could be admissible in a court
as justifiable rape.
I liked nice girls. The ones who are shy but sweet; the
ones with whom you can hold a conversation. But it was impossible to get this
idea through to my fellow, hormone-driven friends, the males of the group, and
even a large portion of the females were trying to convert me and fix me up
with anything and everything that had the proper hole and a pulse. Sometime
later they all convinced themselves I didn’t like girls, not even the proper
hole. So if they saw me in my current form entering my room, I would be
subject to so much ribbing I would not be able to live it down.
Now you may ask what the hell was I thinking. I wasn’t
bringing a nice girl into my room, I WAS the nice girl. If any day was the day
not to be worried about little embarrassing things like that, today was the
day. But, remember people, this is The Great Shift we're talking about. We
were all kind of messed up in the head and my minor neurosis will set no
records. Once inside my flat room, I set my inherited rucksack down and began
a careful examination of my new vessel.
I was cute, not beautiful but not unsightly either. I would
not stop traffic but men would very likely open doors for me if I allowed it.
Of course, you have to take into account that it was my own admittedly warped
sense of what was cute. Another person taking a look at me would call me a
librarian with delusions of grandeur but they can kiss my new, more rounded
rear.
In the mirror I saw a nice girl. She had short, blond hair
that stopped well above the shoulders but was still more hair than I had had at
any time in my prior life. The eyes behind the old-lady glasses were deep
blue. A quick test with my own glasses, even though I usually wear contacts I
have a pair for backup, revealed that the prescription was substantially
lighter than my old one. Apparently, I had at least inherited a better set of
eyes in more ways than just aesthetically. I was dressed in a pale skirt that
stopped at my knees. Pale, you say. Well, I was never one for identifying the
various colors women wrap about themselves. It was kind of white, but not
really. That's the best description I can give, then or now. If it looks nice
on me, I buy it. I am not going to choose an outfit based solely on the fact
that the color is named after something I can buy at the vegetable stand. The
blouse was of a matching color, again I can’t tell you exactly. It was
pink-like, and let's leave it at that. Hidden behind the blouse were my own
set of mammary glands.
Now don’t get me wrong, I have always liked breasts, both
before The Shift on women and after when I was wearing them myself. However, I
was not the type of guy who talked to a girl’s chest, they were nice to look at
but I didn’t want to be rude. More than one girl has been convinced I wanted
nothing to do with them because I actually looked at their face. WOMEN! Even
after a decade as one I still don’t understand them. So, unlike some of my
fellow former- males-turned-females I did not have the two main reactions:
1.Holy shit, I’m a girl! What am I going to
do? Holy shit, I’m still a girl!
2.Well look at these, I got my own set. Let's
see how many orgasms I can have before I pass out.
My own response was to button up my blouse and see about my
preparations. There was time enough for self-exploration after the area had
been secured. Walking to every room in the flat, I made sure all the windows
were closed and locked. I pulled shut the blinds and closed the drapes so that
no one could see in. I then made sure the door was locked and took a chair
from the kitchen to prop it against the handle to prevent access to anyone with
a key. I knew my five flatmates were all gone, and would be for three weeks,
but I wasn’t taking any chances I also placed several glasses on the chair to
break and signal if anyone attempted to force their way past the chair. Once
the physical surroundings were secure, I looked to my provisions as if
expecting a siege.
I can feel another question coming. Why was I doing this
and being so paranoid? Well, first and foremost, I'm a country boy...er...you
know what I mean. I had lived in the city all my life, but every summer and
most Christmases I was sent to the family farm in Nebraska to learn my roots.
I had braved tornadoes, floods, droughts, and one winter storm that isolated us
for ten days. I had learned at my Grandfather's knee the proper procedure for
a crisis situation and if anything was ever a crisis, it was this. Going into
the kitchen I took an inventory. As most of my flatmates had left and were not
to come back anytime soon there wasn’t much in the way of food outside of
packed or canned goods. But with six hungry male college students there was
enough chicken noodle soup and such to see a single person through weeks, months
even. Longer, since I hadn’t taken into consideration that my new body would
properly require less food.
I also immediately used several containers in the kitchen to
fill water reserves. During the flood, the mains had been ruptured and it was
only Grandpa and his prior preparation in installing a ten thousand gallon tank
that kept us from abandoning the farm. When dealing with Heinleins, the family
motto is "Sure we're paranoid, but are we paranoid enough?" I had almost fifty
gallons and even if all public services were cut, as I could only assume they
would be in a situation where all the workers are in the wrong bodies, I still
had enough uncontaminated fresh water for weeks.
With the basics of shelter, food and water covered I went in
search of another item on the Heinlein list of essentials, a weapon. Sure, you
say, now, in the comfort of Post-Shift life, that I was acting too
irrationally, but I was a student of history and human nature. I know what
people can be like when things go to shit. Murder, rape and even worse are
what can happen to a single women in a civilization that doesn’t have
streetlights anymore. I wasn’t going to go off into the good night without a
fight. Their occupants had locked two of the private rooms in my flat, after
thirteen years in Catholic School though, it presented me little problem. Wait
a second, you say, if I can pick locks why was I so worried about the key in my
wallet in my dead former body. The simple answer is, despite urban myth, you
can't just pick a lock with anything. The old credit card trick works well for
Hollywood movies, but to actually do it in real life you need a specialist set
of lock picks. I’m sorry, it's not something you can just pick up at a corner
drug store. So sue me.
I wasn’t hoping to find any firearms. Even if England
didn’t have draconian weapons control legislation, a university dorm room is
not the sort of place to find a nine millimeter Beretta just lying around, at
least one would hope. My search did yield some blunt objects and several sharp
ones. I decided to use the cricket bat over the baseball bat. The cricket bat
was just the right size for my new frame to utilize correctly in defending my
virtue against any approaching barbarians at the gate. Pitifully armed, I
thought to myself, "I am woman hear me roar."
Shelter, food, water, and weapon and no one knew where I
was. I felt safe enough now to do a more thorough examination of the situation
beyond the instinctual reactions. I had taken my Sony Playstation 2 over with
me with a suitable supply of games and films, and had purchased a local
television to hook it all up to. However, I had not hooked up the antenna or
the cable to the wall. In England, if you want to watch television it is
necessary to pay for the upkeep of the BBC with a £150 license fee. I had seen
a bit of British television on my flatmates' sets and, no offense, but that is
something I can live without. The television police, yes there are such
creatures in Britain, won't fine you if you have a television that does not
receive transmissions. So I had never bothered to hook it up. I now threw
caution to the wind and attached the various cables to my TV and into the
wall. Somehow, I doubted Her Majesty's Government was going to come out of the
woodwork and arrest me today of all days.
"….again," said a rumpled Indian-looking man in working
coveralls with a cultured BCC accent. "The Lord Chancellor, unaffected by the
phenomenon, has assumed control and declared martial law in the nation today
until the whereabouts of the Prime Minister and the rest of the Government can
be positively identified. Confirmed reports state that the phenomenon has
affected all of Europe and unconfirmed reports indicate it has reached across
the Atlantic as well. Our BBC Washington and New York offices have indicated
similar disruptions. I am afraid ladies and gentlemen that we here at the BCC
are as much at a loss to explain the present circumstances as anyone. Any
further speculation or unconfirmed reporting would be dangerous and not
responsible journalism.
"When we have any confirmed news to report we will do
so, and will be at the government's pleasure for any public service
announcements. For the remainder of the emergency, all commercial programming
has been cancelled. Again, martial law has been declared, the Lord Chancellor
asks that Her Majesty's subjects return to their homes and stay off the
streets. Those at work should also return home, except for those who serve in
vital public service sectors such as water, electricity, transit and food
dispersal. Particular attention is paid to military, police forces and the
emergency services.
"If you find yourself in the body of a critical job
worker, please continue as best you can until replacements arrive. If you were
in a critical post and you remain physically able, please make your way back as
quickly as possible. This situation is unprecedented in all of human history.
The cultural and religious significance of the phenomenon is staggering. However,
we shall survive. The United Kingdom will endure and the British people will
emerge from even these circumstances victorious…Again, this is Samantha Jones
with BBC One. The Lord Chancellor has declared martial law…"
You have to hand it to the British, from what I watched
later, their counterparts in America, for the most part, reacted with mass
hysteria. The sole exceptions being NBC Washington and CNN, which had enough unshifted
people to maintain operation. But Samantha Jones, who found herself older,
male and an Indian for god' sake, still had enough of a stiff upper lip to take
all our whimsical Creator had shoveled on her and go about her job. This is
the people that had laughed at Hitler's Luftwaffe and stood alone against the
onslaught with bravery and steadfast determination. When we Americans have a
tenth as much history, then we can feel free to insult them. Even today, woman
or not, if I hear one of my countrymen insult the Queen or the British people,
I give them a piece of my mind. The more offensive piece of it.
Of course, I’m free to insult them, but that’s a different
story.
I left the television on, but it was mostly the same message
repeated. In a crisis situation the media essentially stops being journalists
and instead become a medium for those in charge to get needed information to
the people as quickly as possible. Time enough later to set blame and make
accusations, for the time being it was necessary merely to survive. Turning
from the television I accessed the Internet. CNN.com had enough foresight to
maintain their headline updates. For the next five hours I carefully and
methodically traced the event across the world. A journalist in Muskogee, Oklahoma
coined the phrase The Great Shift and journalists, ever a plagiaristic breed,
took the phrase and ran with it. "The Great Shift," sounds like an overweight
Italian construction worker leaning over to grab another beer.
But I digress. Again.
Night fell, and the sound of screaming and police sirens did
little to make me believe my paranoid preparations had been in doubt.
Eventually it was 9:00PM and I realized I hadn’t eaten anything at all in this
body yet. Judging from the grumbles from my petite stomach, it was well past
time. Before I could do that, it was necessary to perform a different call of
nature. I approached the bathroom with trepidation. Including sex, pregnancy
or menstruation, which I wasn’t prepared to even think about, I was about to
perform a uniquely feminine act. For those of you who are unaware, a dorm
bathroom is not one of the cleanest of places. If my President had sent any UN
inspectors into it, our flat would likely have been bombed as a center for
biological weapon production. I had little choice in the matter and, beyond
scrubbing the seat as best I could with towels and soap, there wasn’t anything
that could be helped. I really had to go.
As you will recall, I was wearing a skirt, and for those of
you who have not had the opportunity of wearing one - which I hadn’t - or
taking them off of your girlfriend/wife in order to get in her knickers - which
I also hadn’t - removing a skirt takes a few minutes to get used to. I would
later learn that it is possible to urinate while removing the panties and
keeping the skirt on, but I didn’t know that then. After several moments of
dancing around while simultaneously holding my knees together - which,
incidentally, wasn’t working well - I removed the skirt and the panties, tossed
them in the corner and squatted down to piss. Some of you readers may be
shocked at my description. A lady doesn’t squat. A lady doesn’t piss. She
gently lowers herself to relieve herself. Well, let me tell you, buster, at
the time I was no lady and gently lowering myself was not the adjective used to
describe the act. Though relief certainly was.
After smiling and releasing a contented sigh, I lowered my
eyes to examine my new primary sexual organs. I had seen vaginas before in
health class and in my own independent research on the subject. Okay, so I
looked at porn. I can't really be blamed for that, I wasn’t a eunuch. The area
was damp from my recent act and I used toilet paper to dry myself. From some
distantly remembered lecture by Father Lynch, I knew that this was necessary to
prevent infection. Yeah, a Jesuit taught Sex Ed. It’s a screwed up world.
Hopefully he took his vows seriously and didn’t. In my cleaning, not knowing
the proper navigation, I brushed up against a bundle of sensitive nerve endings
popularly known as the clitoris.
Wow!
Double wow!!
Wow wow wow wow!!!
WOwWOw WOW!!!!
WOW!!!!!
WOW!!!!!!!
AHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh shit, what had I done?
That was called a climax, young lady. Can you say that word
C-L-I-M-A-X?
Who the hell are you?
I’m your feminine personality.
I have a feminine personality?
You do now.
Who invited you?
You did.
When?
Just now. If you want references I can give you my resume
from Mary Hand and her Five Sisters.
Does that euphemism work in our current circumstance? I
only remember using one?
It was the only one I knew. Don’t worry we will come up
with better ones.
I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the circumstance. I’m
already kind of screwed up in the head, I don’t need to add schizophrenia to
the list.
That’s paranoid schizophrenia, dear. You are a Heinlein,
after all.
Oh, yeah. I had forgotten.
That’s all right, dear.
Well, what now, Madame Feminine Personality?
Oh, you've been doing remarkably well so far. I’m proud of
you. You knew exactly how to react in a crisis.
Compliments from myself. I better be careful or I'll start
to act like Custer.
Well, Custer was a pussy, dear.
Hey, watch your mouth!
It’s your mouth, dear.
Oh, well then, piss off and let me get back in my knickers.
Yes, dear.
After the enlightening conversation, I pulled up my plain
cotton panties to my now smooth crotch and went about the skirt. I hadn’t been
wearing pantyhose, but it had been a warm day and perhaps the previous owner
didn’t feel them necessary. I struggled with the skirt for another thirty seconds
before I gave up and walked back to my room to put on a pair of sweat pants.
If I tightened the drawstrings they fit, after a fashion. It wasn’t something
I would wear in public and it clashed noticeable with my blouse, but it was
convenient and comfortable and I wasn’t planning on displaying myself to anyone
anyway. My disregard for fashion lasted approximately the amount of time it
took to see myself in the mirror. If it had been my old body I likely would
not have cared, but I was always careful with other people's things as this
piece of personal property was about as sacrosanct as you could get. Despite
the ludicrousness of the situation, I felt compelled to remove the clashing
blouse, folding it gently, and put on an old t-shirt
Between taking off one and putting on the other I had seen
my breasts in their bra but was to honorable…..hpm!…. embarrassed...to sneak a
cheep thrill, particularly after the incident in the bathroom. Relieved and
suitably attired, I entered the kitchen and made dinner. The power was still
on so it looked like all my preparations were not totally necessary. I was an
Eagle Scout and "Be Prepared" was always my personal motto. Besides, time
would tell on the whole civilization falling thing. I had seen a movie like this
before. I had seen a lot of movies like this before and humanity had been
wiped out by considerably less problems than most of the human race suddenly
finding himself or herself as someone else.
I discovered though, that my near legendary capacity for
food had been lost. I was hardly a petite, anorexic little flower, but I made
my customary pasta and even after reducing the portions considerably I could
only finish half. Oh well, the estimates on my food supply just went up.
After cleaning up, an act my flatmates had yet to discover for themselves, I
returned to my room to catch up on the news. Before going online again I
turned off my lights and looked outside into the courtyard formed by the four
dorm buildings. It was a scene akin to a Roman orgy, or at least what I assumed
a Roman orgy would have been like with two dozen pasty-faced British people. Several
sets and several threesomes. Girl-boy, girl-girl, boy-boy and variations of
all three with everyone else. Apparently these students didn’t feel any
inhibitions about trying out the new hardware. As much as I enjoyed my
previous experience, I wasn’t about to join them.
Several changed males were out there, I was sure. Not a one
was aware of the fact that their new package came fully loaded with all the
extras. Sure vagina, mammary glands and bucket seats but also fallopian tubes,
ovaries and birth canal. I suspected several of them would wake up one morning
a few weeks from now slightly nauseous. Even if they didn’t, sexually
transmitted diseases had not gone away in The Great Shift. If anything, I realized,
the situation had gotten worse. I recognized it early on but my suspicions
were later confirmed by government research. Many men and women went around in
wild, promiscuous sex, unaware that their bodies had been diagnosed with
everything from the clap to AIDS. I was too much a paranoid to go anywhere
near that thing out there and I shut the blinds. It didn’t look like we were
in a Mad Max-type situation but things could fall apart at any minute. To
quote the pessimistic poet "We're not alive yet."
Curling up on my bed and snuggled in my covers, I had
quickly discovered they stank to high heaven. My new nose apparently was more
sensitive and I resolved to find a way to wash the bedding as soon as
possible. Snuggled up safe and sound, I took my new rucksack and emptied out
its contents. There were my books, personal organizer, wallet and file folders
with schoolwork; I set these aside on my desk and looked through the rest. The
first item of interest was a paperback book, Exodus by Leon Uris, one of the
grand epic fictions of old. I knew from looking at her that she was my kind of
girl. Placing this book with the rest, I opened her billfold. Apparently the
rucksack doubled as her purse. Opening the wallet I discovered I now enjoyed
the body of Mary Ellsworth of Market Drayton, Northumberland, England, United
Kingdom. I ascertained this from her NUS card, drivers license, and British
passport. Well, mom, I finally got together with a nice English girl, just
like you asked.
I was soon to be 20 years old and didn’t really mind losing
a year. Compared to losing my penis, it was a small matter. I realized that
if The Shift was as random as reports indicated, it could have been much
worse. I could have ended up anything from a nine-week old baby to a
ninety-year old great-grandmother. Hair: blond. Eyes: Blue. Height: 5'11".
Weight: not really any of your business. After the initial discovery, I went
about investigating the rest of the rucksack. I took notes on everything I
discovered about her and followed up on any information with copious searches
of the Internet both by Google and the local university system. It was partly
out of curiosity, and partly out of self-preservation. I knew that there were
certain illnesses, such as heart disease and diabetes that were prevalent in my
family and I wanted to know what condition my new form was in. Naturally, I
didn’t find anything worrisome. Also naturally, that made me look even
harder. The university kept medical records on all its students. This
information was, of course, confidential and not open to public viewing. Of
course, I hacked my way in. Hey, I went to Catholic School after all.
Mary Ellsworth had had all the normal childhood illness and
I was pleased that this body came with the accompanying anti-bodies. Also all
the immunizations were in order and up to date. Indeed, there were several
that were hardly necessary for temperate England. Mary must have done some traveling
in tropical climates in her life. In the family history section there was
nothing threatening: all four grandparents were still alive and three
great-grandparents which indicated good things for my new body's life
expectancy. Along with a new set of plumbing I had probably gained a dozen
years of life. In short, I was finding very little to complain about beyond
the obvious. For those people who know me, this is when I’m at my worst.
My investigations finished for the time being, I began to
read, which had always been therapeutic for me. In addition, I deactivated my
smoke detector (Catholic School again) pulled out one of the Cuban cigars I had
purchased from Harrods during my last trip to London. The university had a
policy against smoking in the rooms, but today the fundamental fabrics of all
of human society had been torn asunder. I could give a flying...er..."frell" -
hey, I’m a lady now - if the university cared about my Havana. The gentlemen
in Flat 14 are dopers who made hippies look like pikers and if they can do that
then I could have a cigar at the end of the world.
So there I was until the wee hours of the morning, a
20-year-old sweet English rose, peering out the window every fifteen minutes
and blushing. Feet up in my chair in a very unladylike posture, smoking a
stogie and reading Peter F. Hamilton. Eventually, whether it was the
combination of stress or my new physique, I started yawning and losing
concentration so after one last round to check all the locks, I put my book
away, took off my glasses and went to sleep.
Chapter 2
I woke up around 4:00AM in pain. Don’t give me that
condescending little smirk, you little bit. I wasn’t the kind of guy that
deserved this lesson. And your knowing smile is for nothing. The pain wasn’t
in my middle, it was on my chest. I hadn’t awakened up to my first period, but
a bra wedgie. I had discovered, much to my chagrin, that women do not sleep in
their day bras. The straps had dug deeply into my soft skin and, after several
seconds struggling to readjust, I spent several seconds trying to get the
instrument of torture off. I’m afraid I was a bit forceful in my attempt,
however, because when the bra did finally yield it was with a ripping sound.
Upon further examination, I discovered that I was the proud owner of C-cup
mammary glands and one white lace bra, torn. Even if I had been willing to put
the thing back on, which I wasn’t, it was no longer suitable for wear.
Slightly pissed and still rubbing the red marks it left, I threw the bra into
the trash and put my t-shirt back on.
It only took me several seconds to discover that on top of
the red lines left by the bra, the harsh material of the t-shirt was irritating
my new nipples to no end. Even perfectly still, no small feat I might add, my
breathing still rubbed my nipples against the t-shirt. Irked by my irritation
- where had my Vulcan-like self-control gone - I took off my t-shirt and sent
it the way of the bra. I tried sleeping topless but my comforter wasn’t very comfortable
either and the room was just cold enough both to cause my nipples to stiffen
without the comforter and require its use. Eventually, and now totally awake, I
searched through my wardrobe trying to find an item, preferably 100% cotton,
that would be soft enough for sleepwear. After a seeming eon, I found a cotton
undershirt that I used when I dressed up. It was enough, but there were only
three in my entire dresser. After a moment’s contemplation, I discovered there
were very little clothes, if any, that would fit me for the outside world.
Damnit all to hell, there was no avoiding it.
I was going to have to go shopping.
Naturally, I was in too paranoid a state of mind to actually
go out in public, but the next morning, after review of my notes, I discovered
that Mary’s room was in my complex. I would have to leave my own barricaded
flat, but I would not have to venture outside in order to raid her wardrobe. I
put on three pair of my socks, it was enough so that my second pair of tennis
shoes would fit, after a fashion. I was not going to walk up and down three
flights of stairs in two-inch heels if it could be avoided. I emptied my
suitcase of dirty clothes left over from London. Okay, so I didn’t wash them.
I’m a college student. I cleared the door, making sure that I had both my key
and Mary's, which I had found in her rucksack I carried the case up the three
levels to her flat on the fourth floor. Again with the benefit of hindsight, I
freely admit it was a low act. I was stealing. Very possibly stealing from a
dead woman. But I consoled myself that, at the very least, those clothes would
likely no longer fit her and I would be more than willing to pay her for her
lost wardrobe. Even replace it with some of my own if she had switched genders
as well. Entering Flat 45, I did not detect any occupation, but it was still 8:00AM on a weekend. And what a weekend. It was very probable that some residents were
still sleeping, so I entered Mary’s room as quietly as I could.
Damn. I knew she was my kind of girl. Why couldn’t I have
met her when I could still have done something about it? I only hoped she had
been switched with a male. I felt the two of us were made for each other.
Like me, Mary did not use her bookcase for storing Brittany Spears or boy band
CDs, but for actual books. I always believed that you could tell a lot about a
person from their library. Hers told me everything I needed to know. Tawdry
romances were not evident. What I did see were epics, histories, spy thrillers,
great pieces of literature in several languages, even the Bard himself. It
warmed my heart to see a small section devoted to science fiction. It almost
stopped my from my requisitioning expedition, almost.
This was my first experience at ransacking a girl's panty
drawer. Well at least a girl not related to me. My sister Megan still hasn’t
forgiven me for what I pulled on her in 7th grade, speaking of which since I
have all your attention.
But I digress. Again.
I supposed the essentials were undergarments. The rest
could be made do with my own clothes. I took about a dozen pairs of bras and
panties, all the shirts I could find, but the selection was limited to what I
would actually wear. I pulled out about ten pair of footwear. I wasn’t going
to wear three socks at a time anymore. Mary was a feminine woman. She wasn’t slutty.
Her skirts were longer than some of my grandmother's for god's sake. She
preferred dresses to slacks, skirts to jeans. Indeed, I only found one pair of
jeans in the entire room. In the end I took the skirts and dresses anyway,
dumping a selection into my suitcase. I didn’t know what the future would
hold. Well aware of the reason for my shopping expedition, I even took her
nightgowns. They were frilly, but they did look comfortable and, well, after
all, no one was going to see them but me. And I thought Mary would look real
good in them.
As I was about ready to leave, I remembered another possible
problem in the future. While I had never had a steady girlfriend I had lived
with my mother and sister in the same house and I knew that adult women were,
in comparison to males, high maintenance. I opened Mary’s medicine cabinet and,
though I couldn’t identify even half of the objects inside, beyond hygiene
products and cosmetics, I summarily grabbed them all with my arm and swept them
into the suitcase.
The trip down the three flights of stairs was rather less
quiet than the trip up had been. And also more painful. The full suitcase was
making a thud on every stair it dropped on. I didn’t have the strength to lift
it. After every plop of the suitcase a corresponding plop could be felt on my
chest. I know that there are some switched men who refuse to wear a bra on
general principle but they have to be a hell of a lot nuttier than I am. I had
not even spent a full day in the female form and I was already a zealous
convert to the sainthood of that wonderful Frenchman who invented the device.
Of course, I would completely forget about my conversion in a couple of hours
when my bra started to pinch again, but, hey, I can change my mind. That's a
woman’s prerogative.
Returning to my flat and rebarricading the door, I unloaded
my stash into my drawers and placed my now obviously unsuitable attire in a
trash sack for disposal at a later date. With clean clothes that fit, I really
had no more excuses. After all the exertion I was really starting to get ripe,
I needed a shower. What’s more, I owed it to my benefactor to keep her body in
good repair. Judging from the reaction of the t-shirt I didn’t think my normal
towel would be a good option, so I took Mary's to the shower. It was pink,
very pink. No one would see me in it though.
My first shower as a woman was a unique experience.
I had always enjoyed a nice long hot shower and the
experience had only been enhanced after The Shift. I was done with my washing
soon enough but I just couldn’t find a good reason to get out. There is a fair
chance I would be there still if the Preston Water Department had not suddenly
failed. There was a sudden drop in water pressure followed by a loud creaking
noise which I knew indicated failure. I managed to shut off the valves before
the brown stuff started spraying but it was a close thing. Slightly shaking
from my sudden disappointment, I went to the sink to see if it was just a
failed shower pipe. No such luck. The first luxury of civilization had
failed. I had no idea how long the rest would hold out.
I patted myself dry and wrapped the towel around me. At
first I did it around my waist like I had done every day of my life, then above
my breasts as my change in circumstance made itself known again. I also made a
discovery in that bathroom. With the glasses removed and the frumpy attire
gone, with that towel wrapped around my slim body and voluptuous yet, perfectly
proportioned breasts, I was perfect. Hell, I was hot!
Narcissist, my feminine personality told me.
Don’t go there, girlfriend. I was just admiring the view.
I’m a red blooded American male.
Not from where I’m standing.
Blow me.
Present it. Oh, wait, you can’t.
I can’t believe I’m getting made fun of by myself. This has
to be against some fundamental cosmic law.
A funny day after to be talking about fundamental cosmic
laws.
Good point.
Thank you.
Well, what now, Second Mind Ma’am?
Your guess is as good as mine, little sister. Actually your
guess IS mine.
Thanks for the help. And don’t call me little sister.
I call it like I see it, Tammy.
"Oh you’re going down for that one, bitch. I may have to
live as a woman for the rest of my life but I most certainly am not going to be
a TAMMY!"
Those words were out of my head before I even realized I had
said them. It was at this point that I made my second big discovery of the
day, my voice. I had heard it for the first time. It was a soft,
honey-tongued soprano. It was beautiful!
Told you, narcissist.
Kiss my ass.
Assume the position.
Eventually I wrestled my split personality to a standstill
and shoved her to the back of my mind were she belonged. I retuned to my
room. After another glance at Aphrodite’s form - okay, I was no longer
embarrassed by the cheep thrill - I put on a new pair of panties. Then, after
searching how on Ask Jeeves, put on my bra. It's amazing what you can find on
the internet. I put on my lone pair of jeans and, unlike other girls, whose
jeans seemed to be painted on, mines were quite loose and comfortable. Wait a
second. Back up a moment. Other girls? Did I just think that?
After careful consideration, I suppose I had. My, but I was
adapting quickly. Perhaps because I had never had the chance to use them
properly, I didn’t really mind losing my cock and balls. Still, mildly
frightening. Showered and clothed, I had decided to skip shaving for another day.
I went back to my computer to see if my family had sent any e-mails. I had
sent off e-mails the night before saying basically:
Hello (insert family member here) I am safe and fortified.
Oh, yeah, I am now your new (insert family feminine title here- i.e. daughter,
sister, niece) please respond with your current situation as soon as possible.
The message had gone out to everyone on my mailing list and
I was hoping for a few responses. The Greater Heinlein Family was scattered all
over the world, except for my immediate family which had remained in Omaha. I
was born on the wrong branch of the family tree, I guess. And I got responses
from three cousins, several friends, an aunt and uncle or two, but none from my
grandparents, sister, or mom and dad. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy that
those people were all right but I wanted to hear about my immediate family and
I wasn’t getting a thing. It was about 4:00AM over in Nebraska so it didn’t
look like I was going to get anything soon. Still I resolved to myself to
check every hour until I found out if my parents were all right. I suppose one
could get the impression that I didn’t like my father but he’s an all right
guy, really. He looked out for me, he just didn’t know how to express his
feelings. Which, come to think of it, could also be used to describe another
member of the family. Perhaps I shouldn’t be quite so quick to judge.
Biting now longer fingernails wouldn’t send electrons any
quicker, so, after drying and brushing my hair, for the first time in my life I
might add, I went into the kitchen to make breakfast. A quick look through the
blinds told me that most of the partying, at least in the courtyard, had moved
on. Given the cold temperatures outside at night, it was entirely likely the orgy
was still going on inside someone’s flat. Remembering dinner last night, all I
made for breakfast was two pieces of toast and orange juice. The electricity
was still running, probably due to the fact that the grid was off a nuclear
reactor and those computer-controlled monstrosities could survive just about
anything and keep on pouring out gigawatts. As long as those silos kept me in
cold drinks and frozen pizza those nuclear abolitionists could go blow, and I
would proudly wear my "Nuke The Whales" T-shirt even if it did irritate my
skin.
After finishing my breakfast and returning to my room, I was
startled by an unfamiliar electronic ring. It took only a moment though for me
to identify it as my satellite phone hooked up to the far outlet. My father's
business did work for several military organizations and he had picked up the
sat-phone cheap. Hesitant at having his son many miles away from home, he had
given it to me to keep in touch. We had called each other on it exactly once,
when I had arrived just to make sure that it worked and we had both promptly
forgotten about it. Until now.
"Hello," I said hesitantly.
"Is Tom there?" an unfamiliar voice asked.
"Yes, speaking," I replied.
"Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice."
"Yeah, well, it's mutual. Who is this?"
"Tommy-boy, well, Tom, it’s your father."
"Hi, dad. How did you turn out?"
"I switched with one of my junior associates. I gained
about twenty years but also about two hundred pounds."
"Ouch."
"Yeah, well, it doesn’t sound like you made out so well on
your own either."
"Its all a matter of perspective, pops. Mom will be pleased
to know I have become very close to a nice English girl," I replied with a
grin.
"I’ll be sure to tell her. We just hooked up ourselves and
wanted to check on you kids. It was quite a comedy of errors: I rushed home to
try and find her there, while at the same time she rushed to the office, at
which point I rushed to her office and she rushed back home. It was hours
before we found each other again and all the while things were going to hell
around the city."
"How is Mom?" I asked, concerned.
"Fine. Your age now. An aerobics instructor from California.
I have a feeling I'll be going to the gym a lot more often for one reason or
another."
"Mom as a California valley girl, aerobics instructor?
Please don’t tell me she’s blond," I said laughing.
"Yup, with DDs on top of that."
"How many degrees had she got now?"
"Five, last time I checked."
"Oh, she’s never going to forgive God for this one."
"That has been the subject of conversation for that last few
hours. That, and you and Megan."
"How is she?"
"Unknown. I left messages at all her machines and phones,
but if she’s swapped that won't make much difference. She’s a smart girl, and
I’m here manning phones at the office and your mother is back home now. She
knows to call either to let us know."
"Yeah, Megan’s a smart girl."
"What’s your situation?"
"Acceptable, for the time being. My own body is dead,
crushed by a double-decker bus. So even if we manage to reverse this, it looks
like I’m stuck as a girl. I managed to lift my own wallet and key to return to
my flat. I locked all the doors and windows, closed all the blinds, and have a
few months supply of both food and water inside. The electricity is still
running but the water cut out this morning. But only after I stored about
fifty gallons worth. So I’m all right. I’m here alone and,. for the most part,
England is pandemonium, the Government has declared martial law.
"Yeah, same here. All sorts of mess up: the phone system
has crashed from all the over capacity usage and even the Internet is sporadic
in sections, there been some talk of a cyberpunk assault. They are taking the
opportunity to make a little mischief by letting loose a computer virus which
isn’t helping the phone system either. There's very little that can interfere
with a satellite though, so I’m glad Dustin convinced me to shell out $500 for
these puppies."
"Yeah, me, too."
"I’m piggybacking this on a military carrier though, Tom.
My contact told me we only have a few guaranteed minutes every few hours.
Priority has to go to the government. Now, you listen here, young lady. I
approve of what you have done so far. Stay with it. Follow all the instructions
Grandpa ever gave you. I know he was more of a father to you than I was."
"You were…"
"Let me finish, Tom. Don’t leave the room until the
television or radio says its ok. Even then, only at day and only when you see
others moving about. Until then, hunker down and don’t do anything to draw
attention to yourself. You say you have months of supplies and if worse comes
to worse, I'll take the company plane and come get you."
"The TV said all flights were cancelled. Pilots in the
wrong bodies, air traffic control centers down."
"Those are conventional airlines, I have my own plane. If
need be, I can fly myself. Stay safe. Stay hidden. If things go to shit, I
will come for you."
"Don’t worry about me, pops. You find Megan, you hear."
"I will. I love you son."
"I know, pops. You take care."
"You, too."
With that, he was gone. And I was alone. I never did get
to go to the European continent for my Easter holiday. I spent almost a week
in my Fortress of Solitude. I had several rolls of trash sacks and used them
to dispose of body wastes since the toilets wouldn’t flush. Be prepared,
remember? However, with no shower, even with deodorant, I was getting pretty
ripe after five days and no water. Things turned for the better on Friday
though. When I preformed my morning inspection, the water was back on. I let
slip a very unladylike phrase and almost tore my clothes getting them off. The
water wasn’t very hot and it still had a vaguely unsettling chemical smell
about it from all the treatment they had put it through. Still it was water
and it was wet, and I wanted a shower. Most of my days were occupied with
short observations of the outside and reading. Most people in my situation
would have gone nutty from the isolation. Truth be told, I was loving it. I
had hours upon hours of uninterrupted quality reading time. I went through
almost twenty titles that week. The trouble was, right around the time the
water came back I had shot my wad. The entire home library had been depleted
and I had even sunk so low as to raid my flatmates' rooms, not that there were
any books to read in there. Still, I thought I might get lucky.
Things had been getting progressively better since the day
of The Shift and Her Majesty's Government was even considering removing martial
law. I switched on the TV to see what was happening.
"….some three days and five hours ago. I repeat, it is
confirmed. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, having found herself swapped into a London
city fireman continued on in rescue efforts for over two days until succumbing
to smoke inhalation on Tuesday. Her Majesty had refused preferential treatment
stating every Briton knew their duty. The Queen lived long enough to confirm
by personal code to her private secretary her identity and her subjects mourn
her passing..." The Indian Anchorperson was visibly crying at this point.
"The Queen is dead…long...long live the King."
I never had much use for the old broad before, but she had
been Chief of State for over half of the most torrential century in history and
as far as endings go, I hoped I could do so with half as much bravery and
dignity. The Queen is dead, long live the King. After that I kind of felt
ashamed of myself, hiding like a coward behind locked doors while brave men and
women died keeping the fabric of civilization together. I didn’t feel like
staying in the flat any longer. Besides, I was out of books. It was time to
see if Derek had made it all right.
Again with the benefit of hindsight, I probably should have
saved the jeans for use out of doors. After a week wearing them around the flat
they were pretty much shot. I may have been a college student but I had my
standards. So I bit the bullet and put on one of Mary’s "librarian outfits."
The attire was punctuated by my glasses and lack of cosmetics. The major
benefit of this getup, beyond it being simple, was that there was very little
about me that would attract any would-be rapist. Or call upon me to use the
rather sharp combat knife I secured in the small of my back. Or the multi-tool
I had hidden in my rucksack. Or the kitchen knife I had hidden in my boots.
What can I say, I’m a Heinlein.
The beautiful spring day was quite the antithesis of the
chaos of the past week. You could almost believe there was nothing wrong in
the world. Walking carefully down the hill and paying particular notice to
double-decker busses, which was a good sign, that they were up and running
again. I walked to Derek’s "Yellowed Pages." The shop was just like I
remembered it, with just the right combination of old pages and Virginia pipe
tobacco that somehow sums up everything good and beautiful in the world.
Perhaps I’m more of a romantic than I thought.
"Well, hello, young lady," said a tall dark and twenty-five
year-old man behind the counter.
"Derek, if there is any fact I can point to,
demonstrating that Lucifer won and God has been imprisoned by the fallen
angels, it's that your worthless butt got redeemed and put into such a prime
piece of real estate."
"I’m sorry, miss. You seem to have the advantage of me."
"It's Tom Heinlein, old friend."
"Well if it isn’t himself. Tommy boy, you turned out well,
if I do say so myself. Though I probably should have known it was you. Only
you would wear two knives and combat boots as accessories with that
skirt."
"Saw that did you?"
"Why do you think I was so quick to announce myself?"
"Oh, I don’t know. What with trying to run a shop and all,
I thought it could have been customer relations. Besides, old friend, it's
three knives. You forgot the multi-tool I have in my rucksack."
"You’ll have to forgive me for not having x-ray vision."
"This time."
"What can I do for you?"
"Well, I've been holed up in my flat."
"Smart. If I was in your situation, I would have done the
same thing."
"Only problem is, I ran out of books."
"How unfortunate. I know just how you feel. That's one of
the reasons I used my pension to buy this place so I would never have that
problem again."
"That was a good plan."
"I thought so."
"Have you heard about the Queen?" I asked sadly.
"Yes. First thing this morning."
"It kind of made me ashamed. Me hiding behind the covers
all this time, like a scared little girl. You're in with most of this city’s
officials. Is there any way I can be of assistance? I took some medical
training in the Scouts. And I qualify as a level one med tech."
"I appreciate the offer, Tom. But almost everything is
taken care of now. We didn’t really have any problems anyway past the first
day. We're not a big metropolis like London. I hear they still have fires
from crashed airliners."
"Yeah, I heard that, too. Are you sure there’s nothing I
can do?"
"I’ll pass along your offer. I’m quite sure if they need
any assistance they won't hesitate calling for help."
"Thanks, old friend. I’m going to do some browsing."
"See you in a few hours."
The Yellowed Pages was not very wide, nor was it very deep,
but it was three stories tall, so it held an impressively large selection most
casual viewers wouldn’t expect from viewing the storefront. Not knowing how
long I would have to remain alone I piled up one stack of fictions to occupy
the hours. Also not knowing how long I would remain in my new form, I made up
another pile of books to help me with my new womanhood.
"Have you heard about your family, Tom?"
"I heard from my father and mother. They have a few issues
but are still my father and mother, Most of my more distant relatives and
friends have reported in with only a few troubles. A few deaths. A few that
we haven’t heard from at all. Including my sister, Megan."
"I’m sure she will turn up fine, Tom."
"It’s been a week, Derek. Chances are I don’t have a sister
any longer," I said sadly.
"My Body and Me," said Derek as he examined one of the titles.
"Subtle."
"Piss off, old man," which sounded odd coming from my sweet
voice. "This thing didn’t exactly come with an instruction manual," I said
with a gesture at my body and apparel.
"Am I to hope then, Tom, that you weren’t one of the young
people that immediately took it out for a test drive?"
"You know me better than that," I said mockingly.
"I hoped so. Here, you sack these up. I’m going in back
for something special for you."
"You keep your Kama Sutra to yourself. I wasn’t interested
in that kind of instruction manual."
"Get your panties out of a twist, young lady. I’ll be right
back."
"You’re an evil, wicked man."
"It’s all the government training."
Derek walked into his back room. After several minutes,
while I wondered what tricks he had in store for me, he returned with a
lacquered wooden box. Setting it down on the table, he opened it. The box
contained a tiny, small-caliber automatic pistol and three clips of ammunition.
"I want you to take this, Tom. Don’t ask me where I got
it. And don’t ask me what to do with it. I already know you know. I’ve been
hearing reports on the news and even more from our more accurate neighborhood
gossip. A very many nasty things still go on in the city at night and even a
few in the day. I want you to keep this and stay safe."
I lifted up the pistol and field stripped it. It was a .22 caliber
Lady Colt with an eight round clip. It would fit easily in a purse - that is,
if I was ever to wear one - or a wrist trick holster - if I could find one.
The British are very touchy about firearms in their country. I couldn’t
imagine where Derek had been hiding this one all these years. If I was caught
with it the very least I would get was deported. Given the current cluster*@$k
surrounding the legal system at it's most basic roots - who the hell people
were - on top of martial law, being caught with the pistol could get me into
very serious trouble. Which, of course, didn’t stop me from reassembling the
weapon, loading it and placing it in my rucksack.
"Thanks, old man. I promise not to use this as long as the
streetlights stay on. If they ever fail, though, I won't hesitate to shoot any
rat bastard that comes close."
"I knew you were smart. See you around, nutter."
Leaving Derek’s shop, richer in books and weaponry if poorer
by a hundred quid. I stopped at one of my favorite coffee bars on the way back
to the Dorm. It was relatively deserted because with still poor interregional
transportation most of the fancy Italian coffees had been finished off. However.
I was always a tea drinker and Earl Grey required little more that hot water
and a bag, which the bar had in abundance. Milk was noticeably absent, as well
as sugar and cream, but I'm a simple person. Ha! I suppose plain Jane worked
now, and straight tea was always my drink of choice.
My first experience with sitting in a skirt in public was
not one I wish to repeat. I was sitting in my accustomed male fashion, knees
apart and giving a free show to several males across the room. One of the
disadvantages of sitting fortified in my room for the past week was that I
hadn’t developed any feminine defense mechanisms. Crossing my legs, I resolved
to drop off my books, pick up some cash and go for some real shopping. Dresses
and skirts were all very well and good for nice girls, other nice girls.
Finishing my tea I set the cup down on the table, left a tip
and picked up my rucksack. I was on my out when I was stopped by two young men
about my age whom I recognized from one of my classes. I don’t like being judgmental,
but these guys were real assholes before The Shift and, judging from their actions,
they were some of the few who were "lucky" enough to remain themselves.
"'ey, Amanda, want some action?" the first Neanderthal asked
me with his cockney accent and his cocky manner.
"My name is not Amanda," I said annoyed.
"Sure it is. I can tell from the way you wear your
skirt and the way you walk, you used to be a man. What do you say, Amanda?
Care to try out the plumbing? Me and me mate, we’re what you might call
experts in the field. We'd be 'appy to be your first lecturers on the
subject."
"My, but you do sound like you practiced that last
sentence. Tell me, how many women have actually fallen for that line. I’d put
good money that says not a single one," I said as arrogantly as I could manage.
"Oh, bloody Yank, not so 'igh and mighty now, though, are
you? Nothing special about Americans after The Shift. You got 'it just like
the rest of us."
"Yes, but at least I don’t use it as a way to pick up
chicks. You must really be desperate."
"Now listen hear, bitch," said the asshole, grabbing my arm.
"Remove your hand."
"Listen…"
"Remove you hand or have it removed."
"Bitch, you can’t tell me what to do. I'm... AHHH!!"
"It’s probably a good thing that Britain has socialized
medicine. Now run along back to the Royal Hospital and have the hand looked
after," I said as I glanced down at the fallen Briton screaming in pain, and
then walked out of the coffee bar.
After a day shopping at the local mall I had upgraded my
wardrobe, or downgraded depending upon your fashion sense. I now had enough
jeans and slacks to suffice for day wear. I had nothing against skirts, on
other women, I just didn’t like them on me. And the incident at the coffee bar
seemed to prove that I was right to hold that theory. Neatly stacking my
purchases on the floor beside me, I sat down to check my emails.
CALL HOME SOONEST-MOM.
"Mom, what’s wrong? what's happened?" I said anxiously on
the satphone
"Is that you, Megan?" my mother asked concerned.
"No, mom, it’s Tom."
"Oh, I knew you were a girl now, Tommy. It's just, I was
hoping it was Megan."
"You still haven’t heard from her?"
"No, we haven’t. I’m beginning to lose hope. With all
this, Tom, why did this happen?" said my mother crying through the phone.
"I don’t know, Mom. Tell me what happened."
"Your father. That fat pig he was switched into didn’t even
take the most basic care of his body. Your father has had a heart attack, a
few hours ago. It was major there was damage to his system already crippled by
gluttony. The doctors, when they treat him, say his chances are 'fair.'"