The Sex Gates Read online

  “Hey, Lee!"

  I looked up at her, but my eyes were headed straight for forbidden territory, so I glanced away.

  “Look, I didn't ask for this.” I could hear the hurt in her voice. “It happened. I'm going to have to get used to it, and so will you. As a first step, you can call me Donna instead of Don."

  That startled me. I stared at her. My mind buzzed like a swarm of bees looking for a new hive. “Wait, Don..."

  “Donna,” she insisted. “I don't want to see people staring at me when someone calls me by a male name."

  I still couldn't say it. I changed the subject. “Has anyone checked the news this morning yet? Maybe..."

  “I've already looked. It's still the same. No one has made it through a gate the second time."

  Lord help her. What could she do? Still, a suspicious part of me couldn't help wondering if this sudden change in attitude had anything to do with that cry in the night I had heard just before going to sleep. It had sounded very much like a cry of passion. Had Don and Russell decided to experiment with her new body? It was hard to imagine Don and Russell making out, but one thing I have learned is that you can never predict what might turn other people on sexually. For a citizen of the twenty-first century, I thought of myself as sexually free, but looking back now, I can see I was a bit of a prude.

  Rita elbowed me in the ribs. “We'll go with you, Donna. Won't we, Lee?"

  We sure would. Rita didn't get that tone in her voice very often, but when she did, I had learned not to argue. We left.

  * * * *

  It was only a short walk to the nearest department store, a Trends outlet that catered to the college crowd. Rita gripped my hand so I couldn't escape when we entered the women's clothes department. She parked me by the lingerie and told me to stay put, then took Donna into a measuring booth.

  While I waited, I wandered over to look at the display screens. I wished I could afford screen three-D at home. The graphic models were so lifelike I expected to see one of them come waltzing out of the screen to talk to me. In fact, the models in the lingerie section were so real I got an erection from looking at them. One in particular captured my attention, a tall blonde modeling translucent yellow glitter panties and nothing else.

  Rita emerged from the booth with Donna in time to notice my reaction. She laughed. “Ready for a change?” She glanced down at the bulge in my jeans.

  “Only if you go to blonde.” For once, I managed a right answer.

  She punched my arm and smiled. “Come on, let's go see if Donna is finished before you change your mind."

  The shop's computer had already measured Donna. (That name still seemed wrong to me.) Soon, she was busy selecting clothes from the nearby screens, with lots of advice from Rita. Within minutes, articles of clothing began dropping into the delivery chute, funneled there from the racks of clothing buried in the bowels of the store.

  “Now for underwear,” Rita said. Donna blushed. I may have, too.

  The two of them huddled over the lingerie screen, and before long they were both giggling. I turned away in disgust. Not only was Don a female, it seemed as if he were starting to enjoy it. It was enough to make you wonder how he'd felt before the change. I shuddered.

  Suddenly, Rita was at my side again, her sharp eyes taking in my reaction. “Why not try making some selections on your own now, Donna. Lee has been tempted enough."

  Donna gave me a questioning glance. I shrugged.

  While Donna turned her attention back to the screen, Rita pulled me out of earshot and took me to task. “Lee, Donna is doing her best to adjust. Can't you be more help? The next time you speak to her, I'm going to be very upset with you if you don't call her by her new name."

  “I'll try.” Maybe I could get used to it.

  She frowned. “You'd better do more than try. I want you to quit treating her as if she's a freak. Can't you see how hurt she is?"

  I hadn't noticed. Don—Donna hurt? By me? I thought back over the last thirty-six hours. Well, maybe. I had barely talked to her, but that was because I didn't know what to say. How do you go about nudging your best friend and asking him how it feels to pick out lingerie?

  “I'm sorry.” I really was. I just didn't know how to behave. “I didn't realize that was how I was acting."

  “Well, you were. Listen, try treating her like an old girlfriend you're still on good terms with."

  “Maryanne?"

  “Damn your eyes, Lee, no!” She tried to look mad, but dissolved into giggles instead. “All right, you can even use her if it will help. Now get with it; here she comes."

  “All finished?” I asked brightly. Rita glared at me.

  “I'm done,” Donna's face looked strained. “Who would have thought buying underwear was so complicated when you're a female. And the price of those silky nothings is unbelievable!"

  “We have—had it made didn't we, Donna?” I forced her new name out as naturally as I could. “No overpriced clothes for us, just to keep up with the fashions.” Damn. I was speaking to her as if she were still a man.

  She didn't seem to mind. “Yeah. Where to now?"

  I pinched my thumb and forefinger together to check the time. My thumbnail watch said eight-thirty. It would be dark outside by now. “Why don't we stop by the campus and see what's going on with the gate there? We can grab a burger at the Dagwood if it's open.” The Dagwood's burgers were always good, and it was right across the street from where the gate was.

  “Good idea,” Donna said.

  Rita squeezed my hand. She certainly didn't realize how uncomfortable I still felt about the situation. At least I had said Donna's name. I hoped it made her happy.

  Strolling under the cypress trees along Leyland Boulevard, walking toward the campus, we were almost alone on the sidewalk. Most people must have still been home with their eyes and ears tuned to their screens. I was tempted to scan some of the news sites with my phone, but no one else seemed interested so I didn't.

  As we neared the college, I began to hear a peculiar noise, like the muttering of a distant thunderstorm. But the sound had its own cadence. I knew it couldn't be natural.

  “What's that?” Donna asked.

  Rita stopped, and I did too. She frowned, squinting her eyes, as if that would help her hear. After a moment she said, “Sounds like that class I was in last year when the prof failed everyone."

  Donna shook her head. “No, it's rhythmic. Like someone chanting."

  Listening closely, I agreed with her. We walked on. The noise became louder. Now I could tell it was composed of voices, yelling back and forth.

  We turned a corner, and the gate came into view. It looked as alien and strange as I remembered, a massive green arch plunked down on our world with no clue as to its real purpose. There was a crowd around it, split into two groups, one large one on one side of the gate and one smaller one on the other side. Police in riot gear were keeping the groups apart. Floodlights from nearby squad cars illuminated the side of the gate where most of the crowd was gathered.

  The two groups were shouting at each other and at a line of people, old and young, who were attempting to run the gauntlet between the groups. The cops were having a hard time holding back the opposing forces so the people in line could reach the gate.

  Some of protesters shouldered hastily constructed signs sporting a variety of opinions and waved them at each other: SEXUAL FREEDOM NOW! YOUTH FOR THE ELDERLY! THESE ARE THE DEVIL'S GATES! GOD SAYS: THREESCORE AND TEN!

  There weren't nearly enough cops to control the demonstrators, and I didn't like the looks of the yelling mobs. Most of them were dressed in ragged jeans or the cheap jumpsuits the Fourth Worlders from Old Houston favored.

  “Wait up,” I said. I patted at my pocket for the little automatic I was licensed to carry, knowing it wasn't there. Right after I was issued my permit, I took it everywhere with me, but I had gradually gotten out of the habit. Nothing requiring a firearm ever happened in North Houston, and I rarely went anyw
here except to class or a bookstore.

  “There are cops there,” Donna said. “Come on.” I suspected she wanted to get close to a gate again, in case a miracle might happen and someone would make it through twice.

  I wanted to hang back, but I followed Rita when she began to move forward again. The chanting became louder, but I couldn't tell what they were shouting because of the noise.

  I suggested that we angle around to approach the gate from the end where the smallest crowd was gathered. I guess I'm not very brave. As we got close, a nude woman emerged from the gate. She was short and stocky and not very pretty except for the glossy red hair flowing down to her shoulders.

  “There's one!” a male voice shouted. The demonstrators who were opposing the use of the gate surged forward. A shield went flying into the air as a cop was bowled over. The open path narrowed, then closed completely as the cops were buried under a writhing tangle of bodies.

  “Help! Help me!” A woman's shrill scream rose over the tumult. “Hel—” Her voice cut off.

  “I got ‘er, I got ‘er!” I could hear the drug-roughened voice shouting in triumph, even over the cursing cops and the screams and grunted obscenities of the tangled mob. People were fighting now with clubs and fists.

  Before any of us could stop her, Donna ran straight into the mob. The struggling bodies swallowed her up.

  “Christ!” I cursed. My knees buckled like warm taffy as an adrenaline surge spread through my body. I would have fallen if Rita hadn't been holding onto me. I took a step forward while my heart hammered in my chest, expecting violent action but not getting it. Another step and my legs stiffened.

  “Stay here!” I yelled to Rita and plunged into the mob. I could have saved my breath; she was right behind me.

  A siren warbled in the distance. I struggled to find Donna. I forced my way through a forest of thick burly necks and breasts jouncing under pullovers and worn jumpsuits. Grimacing faces with teeth bared crossed and re-crossed in front of my eyes, dipping and weaving. Fists and clubs were swinging. I caught a blow on the side of my head and another in the ribs.

  Dazed, I swung a balled fist at the nearest dirty face. The woman dropped out of sight and another replaced her. She was waving a paring knife, but her arm was entangled with two others.

  Another blow to the head sent me reeling. Undulating above the noise, the sound of the siren came closer and closer. I felt a stab of terror—the subsonics must be beating on my brain. It was all I could do to keep from turning tail and running.

  “Rita! Where are you? Donna!"

  All around me, people were covering their ears to keep out the undercurrent of subsonic compulsion. I ignored it as best I could; it helped that I knew what it was. A grubby man was bending over in front of me. Just beyond him, I caught a glimpse of Rita. She was struggling with another woman, trying to pull her away from a prone figure. The man in front of me jumped up, still holding his ears. I kicked him in the crotch, and he went down, sucking in a gasp of pain. I stepped over him just as Rita knocked down her opponent. She tripped her to the bloody grass and kicked her in the stomach, then stopped to stare at what was laying on the ground in front of her.

  The mob was beginning to disperse by the time I got a look. The homely redheaded woman was barely recognizable. Blood and dirt and grass stains covered her body. Her one remaining eye stared at nothing. She was very dead.

  A hand grabbed my arm from behind and twisted it up against my shoulder blades. “You're under arrest!"

  “No! No! We were trying to help her!” Donna struggled to her feet from where she'd fallen. Her top was hanging in tatters over her heaving breasts and tears were streaming down her face. It was the first time I had ever seen Don—Donna cry.

  The pressure on my arm eased. Beside me, Rita spoke to the cop. “Honest, officer, that's what we were doing. Oh, that poor woman."

  The cop let go of me. “Let's see some ID."

  We produced our student cards. The cop accepted them, all except for Donna's. “That's not you,” he said. He dropped his hand down to his belted sidearm.

  “Yes it is. I stumbled through this same gate yesterday when it first appeared."

  The policeman sighed. “All right. Better get your picture changed soon as the college opens again, if it does. God knows what's going to happen if this keeps up."

  We stumbled away. I had a gash on my ribcage, but I had enough med supplies back at the house to take care of it. The other two only had bruises and scratches. I was still a little dizzy from the two blows to the head and my swirling thoughts didn't make me any steadier. Was this a typical example of how people were going to react to the gates or only an aberration? I remembered what the cop had said. “...if this keeps up...” Then I thought of all those Fourth World goons. I didn't credit them with organizing the demonstration; seeing them this far into North Houston meant they must have been hired and transported in to take care of the rough work.

  I felt sick. I don't mind people supporting causes I disagree with, but my God, why do they have to resort to violence? I wondered how much mayhem was going on elsewhere. Suddenly, I wanted to get home and catch up on the news.

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  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Modern medicine is wonderful. I don't know how people used to put up with visits to a doctor for every little thing that went wrong. They even had to get permission before buying anything more complex than aspirin.

  I straddled a straight-backed chair in the study while Rita applied a germicide and taped my ribs. Donna was beginning to show purple bruises all over her upper body. She stripped off her tattered top and let Rita rub some hemacylin over her back. I looked away when Rita began working on her breasts.

  I stood up and bent over, sideways and as far back as I could. I didn't feel any grating or pain like I remembered from the time when I cracked one of my ribs falling off a horse.

  “Now let's get the news,” Donna said, pulling on one of her brand-new tops. To my surprise, her new clothes came through the riot without a tear. When she plunged into the mob, she dropped her bundle, and no one bothered it.

  “Go ahead, I'll be there in a minute,” I said.

  Glancing from me to Rita, she shrugged and left.

  “Is anything else wrong?” Rita looked at me with curious eyes.

  “No. Come on.” I led her into our room and pulled open the bottom drawer of the bedside caddy. I picked up the little automatic nestled in its holster and slid it out. I scooped up the two extra clips lying beside it, too.

  “Lee..."

  “Don't argue with me about this, Rita. I'm not going anyplace anymore unless I'm armed, except bed. And I want you to move in here, right away, so I can be sure you're safe."

  It took me at least a half hour to stop trembling after the mob dispersed. I was still scared, and I guess it showed on my face.

  “Okay, maybe you're right."

  I was surprised at how quickly she agreed, but relieved, too.

  “But be careful with that thing.” Rita didn't like guns. She didn't believe in the death penalty, either, but then she had never lived anywhere but in safe middle-class neighborhoods. Same thing for Donna, although back when she was Don I'd taught her to shoot a gun and she'd gotten a license. But generally, as a man, Don was a quiet guy. He was the one you loved to hate in all your classes, the A student who lived at the library and preferred keeping his nose in his math books to going out and carousing. Now that she was a woman, I couldn't understand how she had gathered the courage to plunge into that boiling mob while I was still stupefied with fear.

  “I'll be careful.” I picked out the lightest windbreaker I owned from the closet and shoved the automatic in one side pocket and the spare clips in the other. Secretly, I hoped I could make myself use it if I had to.

  When we returned to the great room, Donna had both screens on. Russell still hadn't come home. I wondered if he was learning anything new about the gates. Surely so
meone was, somewhere, but if so, neither the networks nor the webs were telling us about it. There was plenty of other news, though.

  All over the world, the sick, the elderly, and a surprising number of people who weren't happy with their present sex were clamoring to enter the gates, while at the same time governments were pleading for them to wait until more was known about the aftereffects. Their admonitions fell on deaf ears. Wherever the government tried to control access, mobs swarmed over the guards and swept them aside.

  While some were struggling to get to the gates, a groundswell of religious opposition was building, especially in America. We saw throngs of protesters waving signs and shouting out slogans. They yelled that the sex gates were an abomination, and accused those who entered with making a pact with the devil.

  There were riots and looting in many of the larger cities, including Old Houston. The Fourth Worlders weren't protesting anything. Instead, they were using the massive disorganization caused by the gates as an excuse to steal and burn, and while the police and military were busy, to kill. We saw one broadcast of a videotape that showed a carload of upper-class businessmen who made the mistake of driving into a Fourth World ghetto. They were pulled from their vehicle and slaughtered by an angry mob.

  On one level I could understand the Fourth Worlders’ resentment. Most of them were old enough to remember when the state and federal governments still supported the poorer classes. They were outraged that the well had finally run dry. Government had run out of the money needed to keep the growing lower class on the public dole.

  But that's no excuse for looting or killing. Sure, the standards are stringent, but if a person is truly unable to work, they can still get a stipend from Washington, enough to keep food in their bellies. And the public hospices will take in anyone so ill that over-the-counter drugs don't help.

  The elderly, those over seventy, can still draw Social Security, too, even if the amount isn't what it used to be. On one of the older networks, two commentators were discussing that and other subjects. I couldn't tell whether they were real or graphies. Probably they were actual people; I doubted that many graphics programmers were on the job at the moment. At any rate, they were finding problems everywhere. One of them was pointing to a chart.