The Grapple

by Moshe Ben-Or

  Lora Duarte was a professor in the College of Arts. A Senior Lecturer, a three-striper. Before the war, she’d taught musical theater and ballet, though she’d had almost no students. This was her third revolution.

  Last year, before the bombs, Lora Duarte had lived alone, and all but forgotten. She’d had no friends, no family, no children. In the feminist bastion of CA she’d been the only dissenting voice amid a hearty chorus of agreement, and for that temerity she’d earned the incandescent hatred of the rest.

  Students and faculty alike had held her in contempt, and she had wholeheartedly returned the favor. Only Doctor Weinberger would visit her, sometimes, in her lonely little cottage at the end of Professors’ Row, to drink tea and reminisce about old times.

  Now she was a legend.

  They said that, in her youth, she’d danced at the Royal Ballet, and that ministers had been among her lovers. They said that she had royal blood herself, and that her father had been a Crown Prince. They said that she’d known Lucir in his youth, and that he, too, had romanced her. They said that she’d been quite the bomb-thrower under Palmer. They said that she’d invented the Plunge. They said that she’d suggested the Pin.

  They said, and this last was certainly true, that on the very first night of the Siege, before the Wall was fully complete and the defenses had gotten properly organized, a pair of Looters had burst into the campus clinic, waving machetes and demanding drugs. Neither noticed the little old lady sitting quietly in a corner behind them, rolling bandages. A split-second later, both were dead.

  Professor Duarte had gunned them down in cold blood. Not a word said. No more emotion than squashing a roach. Didn’t even bother getting up from her stool. Simply asked Doctor Garcia to please have his undergrads take out the trash, and went back to her bandages.

  Lora Duarte owned six girls, all dancers from CA. They’d been her only prewar students. No girl was prettier on campus. Among other things, they were her assistants, and her demonstrators. She was the only CA prof who had pull with the Dean. The Personal Staff girls’ arms were copies of her weapons. Her classes were always packed.

  Professor Duarte taught many things, all of them useful. But, first of all, she taught the Plunge.

  Her voice was reedy and a little hectoring, just the way Isadora had imagined an old ballerina’s voice would be. On the very first evening, before everything else, she’d sit all the girls down on her studio floor, and she’d make a little speech. That speech had overturned Isadora’s world.

  About three hundred and fifty million years ago, the old lady would say, on a hot, wet planet called Earth, a Beast crawled out of the primordial muck. He had a thick, bony skull and a tough, scaly hide, and powerful muscles moved beneath. His teeth were long and his claws were sharp. His heart knew neither kindness, nor pity. And He had a taste for meat.

  Within His smooth little brain, there lived only two goals, both of them transient – a full belly and empty sperm sacks. To achieve those goals, He had a few simple drives. He would let nothing stand in their way. The giant clawed imprints He left in the mud were proof to His mind of His right to all things. All that He wanted, He took. He was the Primordial Male.

  That monster hadn’t changed one little bit in three hundred and fifty million years. He was still here, all around them. He lurked always, just behind the eyes of men. He had a little fortress at the base of their brains, called the paralimbic, and from there He reached with His scaly claws, upward into their minds.

  When times were good, the men kept the Beast chained and caged, trapped within His little fortress. Sometimes He made a jailbreak, and there was violence, and crime. But the day would always come when the good times would end. And then the monster would need rend no chains. He would need bend no bars. He would need break no locks. Because the men themselves would unchain Him, and throw open the door of His cage.

  They needed Him, the men, when the times stopped being good. They needed Him to stiffen their backs and to flare their nostrils, to dilate their pupils and to bare their teeth, to steady their shaking, white-knuckled hands and to drive the bayonet, without pity, through the heart of the foe, the way He had driven tooth and claw through enemy and prey for three hundred and fifty million years.

  But once He was unchained, that Beast, and left free to rampage through their minds, He made himself at home. He rearranged the furniture. And He stayed. And few men indeed could put him back into His cage, or wanted to.

  Had that savage monster been left alone to roam, there would be no hope for the world. But Another had emerged on that distant, hot world all those millions of years ago, right on the very same day.

  He was a creature of muck. She was born of sea-foam and light. He crawled. She soared. He was simple. She was cunning. He was driven by impulse, but She had a Plan.

  The Beast imagined himself Master of the World, but the Beast was naught but Her prey, Her guard dog and Her beast of burden. For He was a mere Beast, but She was a Goddess.

  Her weapons were irresistible. Her advance was unstoppable. She permeated all life. She was the source of all civilization. She had hunted the Beast for three hundred and fifty million years, and She had always won.

  She had chained Him. She had caged Him. And She always would again, in the end. At Her command, the Beast would clap Himself in irons. At Her command the Beast would build His own cage. At Her command the Beast would step meekly inside, and lock the door, and hand Her the key with his own scaly claw.

  She was the Ur-Female. She was the Allmother. Not the silly children’s fable of the crystal chimes and the quartz trinkets, but the true Immortal Deity Herself. She was The One of Many Names. And She lived inside every girl.

  Many girls had heard Lora Duarte’s little speech on that warm summer evening, sitting on the floor of her ballet studio. But only one among them would get up fundamentally transformed. For as Isadora Marcos had heard the old lady’s reedy voice, it had, to her mind, the thunder of a prophet.

  The scales had fallen from her eyes, and all the world stood exposed in the light of a profound, fundamental Truth, at once explained and transformed, seen for the first time as it truly was: stark and ugly, and terrible, and yet full of boundless, shining promise. For the very first time in her short life, Isadora Marcos felt the irresistible pull of an Idea. For the first time ever, she believed.

  It was up to them to unleash the Goddess. It was up to them to chain the Beast and lead Him back into His cage. Generations of cultural dreck piled up in their minds by well-meaning parents and teachers had imprisoned Her, had rendered Her odious, had shorn Her of Her Mighty Weapons. She had been chained by stupidity, locked up by sterile, self-defeating ideology. But now it was time to shake free of those chains, to break those bars and shatter those locks, to recognize the pile of dreck for what it was and to send it where dreck belonged.

  The Goddess was their power. True Womens’ Power, not the sterile feminists’ pathetic drive to turn women into inferior surrogate men and men into useless castratos. Their bodies were Sacred Vessels. The Allmother lived inside all of them. The Allmother lived inside her.

  “She lives inside me,” breathed Isadora at the mirror.

  “She lives inside me.

  She lives inside me!”

  She had the Power. She was perfect. As perfect as a human girl could make herself. She would capture her Beast. The Goddess lent her the weapons. Her weapons were irresistible. Against Her weapons, the Beast had no defense.

  The floor indicator pinged nine. Isadora stepped out of the elevator. It was a typical working floor. Bays. Cells. Same as Power Coil, and everywhere else. Only the signs were different.

  The arrow for Director pointed to the right, just like the building guard had said.

  The men were looking. They were staring. They were drooling.

  What a pack of crocodiles! They would grab her in a heartbeat, if they could.

  But the little red-bordered white square stuck to her lapel rendered her off-
limits.

  Out-of-Directorate. Official Business. Going to the Director’s. Fuck off, asshole, or Doctor Pillár will have your head on a stick.

  She had the Power. The Goddess walked with her.

  The reception secretary’s L-shaped desk blocked the hallway. Visitors had to literally step around it and turn to enter her boss’ office. The girl at the desk was just a sophomore, a red-tabber. Her straining blouse was far too small, and unbuttoned almost halfway. If she bent over too far, thought Isadora, things might spill out. But that was the point, wasn’t it? There was plenty to spill out, there.

  The girl had shiny hair, the kind that didn’t come from just plain old campus store soap, and manicured nails with clear lacquer, and even a bit of lip gloss. Clearly, someone was taking good care of her. She was a status symbol. Picked for her looks.

  She’d expect that kind to get called into the office herself, thought Isadora, whenever the Director was feeling a bit down, to demonstrate what happened when she bent over too far.

  But no, that’s not how it went with this one. Doctor Pillár didn’t own her. She belonged to a Senior Lecturer in Engineering. Doctor Mark Jamesson, the Executive Director, more likely than not.

  Isadora mentally revised the girl’s likely IQ sharply upward. She wasn’t here just as eye candy, was she? She bet her owner had set her here to listen. Either Doctor Pillár didn’t notice, or he didn’t care. Perhaps he even wanted it that way. She bet that girl was a really efficient conduit to her man, regardless of where on the planet he happened to be at any given moment. Word-of-mouth often worked far better than formal memoranda.

  The girl looked at Isadora with a mixture of surprise and sympathy as she took her transfer card.

  “Isadora Marcos is here, sir,” she said.

  Isadora hadn’t even noticed the tiny headpiece until that moment. The hair-thin, flesh-colored microphone adhered to the girl’s larynx. The thing looked completely prewar. Heavy Industry was really advanced.

  “Go on in,” said the reception girl, as the lock clicked open behind her.

  Doctor Pillár’s Reception was huge. He had his own little mini-cell right at his fingertips. Six desks. Very efficient. Just poke your head out your office door and boom! Answers right there. Run me a forecast, data scientist! Where’s my simulation, engineer? Industrial designer, I want a layout of that plant! Accountant, get me my budget! No wonder he got things done in record time.

  The cell members were all girls. He owned every single one. Two sets of purple tabs, two azure, one red. Three grad students, two seniors. They looked bedraggled and worn. Hair like mops. Bags under their eyes. Two bruised cheeks, a split lip, a black eye. Miens like widows at a funeral.

  “What a pathetic bunch of beaten curs!” thought Isadora.

  The accountant’s desk stood empty. That’s where his old girl used to sit, the one who’d hung herself. That Girl would have sat there, too, if he hadn’t booted her out.

  Isadora put the girls out of her mind. The men were coming out of Doctor Pillár’s office.

  “Which one is it?” she thought.

  That one? Thin, pimply-looking, a little shifty.

  All right, she’ll live with it. At least he was tall.

  No, he was wearing Science TA tabs. It wouldn’t be him.

  That one? The blanco? He was an Assistant Prof in Engineering.

  She hoped not! Nice muscles, though.

  The other two weren’t it. One was Doctor Jamesson. He had no open Personal Staff slots for sure. The other was a Science doctoral student.

  It had to be the blanco Assistant Prof.

  Oh, well, she’d put up with white skin. It’s not like she had a choice. There were a lot of them at the top, starting with the Dean. The odds had been pretty good that she’d end up with one. They said that blancos didn’t hit as often. That would be a plus.

  But no, they were all stopping. They were the four witnesses! Doctor Pillár was the one coming toward her, and there was a slip of paper in his hand!

  Isadora’s heart did a loop-d-loop.

  It couldn’t be true! She didn’t have a fairy godmother!

  “Don’t squeal!” she thought desperately. “Whatever you do, girl, don’t squeal!”

  She could feel the heat of a blush spreading on her face. Her face, and all the way down, all the way to where things were suddenly warm, and smoothly slick.

  She glanced down. A girl had to look demure at her Pin. It was supposed to be a demure blush. And no panting or squealing!

  “You are Isadora Marcos, student identification number 03-11-730989?” asked Doctor Pillár.

  He wasn’t as gruff as everyone said he was, thought Isadora. Just a bit abrupt. Assertive. Very masculine. It was the job, really. A Director had to be assertive. People didn’t argue with a Director.

  “I am, sir,” she answered softly, looking up into his face with what she hoped was the right mixture of reticence and wistful adoration.

  She’d practiced for months. This was not the kind of thing to be left to a day’s rehearsals. She thought she had it right. It had looked right at the mirror this morning. But this one was for real. She’d never done it for real before, and she never would again. There were no second takes here, or second chances.

  He didn’t look upset. If anything, his face had gotten a bit softer.

  It was working, thought Isadora. The Goddess was with her.

  “Do you have a Registered Patron, Isadora Marcos?”

  He knew the answer already, but the Regulation required that he ask nonetheless, in case the registrar had screwed up.

  “I do not, sir,” replied Isadora.

  “Then I extend you Patronage,” asserted the Director of Heavy Industry. “Effective this morning, you are my Personal Staff. Here is the receipt from the registrar. Sign it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” whispered Isadora breathlessly as she accepted the little slip of paper, “You do me great honor.”

  She’d been notified now, in front of witnesses. Sign, don’t sign, take receipt, don’t take receipt, it didn’t matter. She was his, to do with as he willed. Everything else was ritual.

  The girl from the reception desk was handing her a clipboard and a pen. She must have come in behind her. Isadora scrawled her signature, almost without looking. Her insides were shaking.

  The clipboard went away. The witnesses were signing.

  Doctor Pillár was already sticking his hand out for the tabs. His Executive Director had them.

  Isadora reached into her pocket for the two safety pins. Little crawlies ran up and down her body as she held the pins out for her new master. Her hand was only trembling a little bit. Almost wasn’t, really.

  The key thing was not to squeal, thought Isadora. Or pee herself. She’d just emptied her bladder, but now it felt suddenly full. She had butterflies in her stomach. Really, really big ones. They were jumping up and down and stomping their feet all over the place.

  There was a smattering of applause.

  The receipt was back. Her copy of it, anyway. She stuck it into a pocket without looking.

  This was it. Time for the main event. Doctor Pillár was turning, walking back toward his office.

  Lora Duarte’s hectoring, reedy voice played in Isadora’s head. She’d practiced this part endlessly. It had to be perfect. Perfect! There were no second takes! This was for real!

  “Smooth! Graceful! Follow him. Walk behind him. Not that close; don’t step on his heels! Not that far; you’re not being dragged to your execution!

  “Smile! You’re happy! Don’t grin like a crocodile! Smile! You’re a mystery! You’re an enigma!

  “Walk past him as he holds open the door. Don’t run! You’re not some galloping ninny! Gracefully, gracefully. At a measured pace. Make sure he gets a good look. You’re mysterious, you’re beautiful, you’re demure and innocent, you’re everything he’s ever wanted in a woman!

  “Swish your hair as you walk past him. Hair carries scent. Scent is i
mportant. The Beast is right there, just behind his face. Scent goes straight into the Beast’s lair. Your scent must entice the Beast.

  “Don’t whip it about like a matador’s cape! This is not a corrida! Don’t smack him in the face with it! You must be subtle! Subtle! Graceful! Ethereal! Desirable! The Goddess is inside you!

  “Walk forward past him. Let him look. Let him imagine!

  “Don’t stomp about like a marching soldier! The Goddess doesn’t stomp, she glides! Glide! Your feet don’t touch the floor, the floor is just an illusion! You’re a creature from another world, you don’t need floors! You float!

  “He’s just claimed you. He is already wondering if he should have. Show him that he’s made the right choice! There is no woman in the universe more desirable than you!”

  She was inside the office now. The door was closing behind him.

  “Turn!” said Lora Duarte’s disembodied voice. “Turn now! Don’t stagger about like a drunk! Graceful, smooth, like a ballet pirouette! No man wants a clumsy cow!”

  The door was almost fully closed. Just a tiny sliver of it protruded past the doorpost.

  The lock clicked shut as Isadora’s hand rose smoothly toward her hip.

  As her skirt began to fall, Isadora’s lips curved into a tentative little question of a smile. By the time the skirt was finished pooling at her feet, the smile was one of invitation, and happy confidence. All the effort, all the practice, all the expense… All worth it! She could see the answer on his face.

  Doctor Pillár well liked her performance. He well liked what he saw now, showcased by the upside-down navy blue and white V. And he liked the rest of the package just as well. He was even smiling a little as he stepped forward to accept her invitation. And no, malicious rumor to the contrary, his face did not crack.

  She knelt as he walked up, straight-backed and smooth, just like Lora Duarte had taught her, making sure that the parts he could see looking down at her half-unbuttoned blouse lined up perfectly with the parts he couldn’t see anymore, further below. Her jacket slipped off her shoulders, just like it was supposed to. As if by magic. All on its own.