Senescence (Jezebel's Ladder Book 5) (5 page)

Laura returned to her LA
apartment and delegated round-the-clock surveillance on the astronaut’s video
feed.
She couldn’t sleep, though, because her heart rate was too high.
She kept imagining what the government would be doing to that nice young man
while she rested in luxury.

Hans Eisen had mailed her a
prerelease episode of Fortune network’s number-one reality show—Ballbusters.
That meant
he wanted something from her,
usually scientific equipment or resources. Hans was always good for a laugh. It
was too bad he was gay and hadn’t slept his way to the top like the rumors
implied. Still, she enjoyed a meal out with him and his cronies on the rare
occasion he came to town.

When
she pressed play, the moderator announced, “Tonight, we return to our popular
deadbeat hunt.” The show did this ritual about once a month. It was cheap and
entertaining. Her favorite hunt had been hogtying the cowboy at the rodeo. The
banjo music had been hilarious.

US
legal code scrolled across the screen. Themis,
the show’s ethics officer and legal counsel, explained it in eighth-grade
terms. “Fertility is not an absolute right. Reckless operation of a car can be
grounds for suspending a driver’s license or placing a police clamp on a
vehicle tire. Irresponsible reproduction can have far greater costs for
individuals and the society. For years, states have been placing warnings and
conditions on marriage licenses to reduce loads on family court. According to
recent rules, failure to pay child support for over a year means that man
forfeits the privilege to reproduce. With a sworn warrant and three refusals to
appear, a man may be sterilized by the state as long as such sterilization is
humane, sanitary, and reversible. However, this rule is rarely enforced due to
the expense. That’s where we come in.”

The
screen filled with the Ballbusters logo.

Men
on street corners bobbed their head to the theme song as they sang along. The
main verse encouraged men to guard the family jewels and not to act like fools.
“Real men think yes is sexy.” Laura chuckled at this season’s new ending to the
song, a mother yelling at her boy who waved a BB gun on his hip. “Careful with
that thing. You could hurt someone.”

Themis
read a final, somber disclaimer. “Do not try this at home. The women you see in
this presentation are trained professionals. This program does not endorse
vigilantes. All missions have been certified as legal in the jurisdictions
where they were filmed.”

The
first commercial was from the 49-er coalition, founded when women were paid
forty-nine cents on the dollar compared to men.
Laura skipped the ads.

Back
in the show, an auburn Amazon snapped body armor into place. “I volunteered for
today’s hunt. I’ll be using a Genilock 54. This places a nanoclamp over the
sperm vesicles better than a police boot on a tire. It’s like an electric
vasectomy.” She held the gun-like device up for the camera. “I am a licensed
bounty hunter. This weapon is keyed to my fingerprint. Each injection is
numbered and transmits my credentials. I have three shots at each runner.
Beyond that number of attempts is considered ‘cruel and unusual’ punishment.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. I qualified as a sniper in the Israeli army.
I’ve
never missed a runner yet.” A hyperlink to another episode appeared
in the upper-right corner.

Regular
viewers knew her comment was a dig at Sif, who lost her quarry in a government
building—the only escapee in the deadbeat hunts to date. The man, Grant Thisbe,
paid his fines in full on the air. Since then, he had made guest appearances to
speak on behalf of the targets. He was now known to millions as the Devil’s
Advocate. His input made for a more balanced show, although he was the favorite
whipping boy during panel discussions.
Lord knows why he puts up with it. He
gets paid less than the camera operator.
As a professional journalist,
Grant had raised the show’s standards and won them several awards. Thanks to
him, the show had an educational rating from the FCC.

The
huntress snicked an ammunition clip into position. “My name is Artemis, and I
approve this mission.”

Grant
stood beside the armored woman. “For the patient’s safety, we took the
following precautions. First, we confirmed that the man is not a heart-attack
risk and has no known allergies.” Freya had to perform CPR last season. Another
episode link appeared. “Second, the target recently ran in a marathon, so this
should be an interesting hunt. Third, Artemis is accompanied by a registered
nurse, Evangeline, who will verify the target’s identity, disinfect, and give
recovery information to the patient. I’m the advocate, and I approved this
mission.”

The
narrator voiced over a photo of a man with his mouth open and a beer in his
hand. Since drought had killed off most of last year’s barley crop, beer prices
had more than doubled. “Harvey Miller, age twenty-eight, has three children by
three different women. He owns a jet ski, a fishing boat, an RV, and a big
screen TV. The state confirms he hasn’t paid child support in five years or
appeared in court. We have purchased his support-payment debt from his former
partners, giving us the right to file civil suit.”

A
bench warrant appeared on the screen, revoking Harvey’s reproductive rights.

The
scene shifted to a bar room. The camera focused on the target with three empty
imported-beer bottles in front of him. High blood alcohol always made chases
funny. Under his name, the text showed he spent enough on alcohol and lotto
tickets to have met his obligations for two of his children.

A
knockout walked past him in a red, latex dress. Saxophone music played, and the
nurse’s name and credentials appeared at the bottom of the screen. The target
swiveled so fast on his stool that he spilled the bowl of fried grasshoppers on
the bar. “You’re new around here.”

Evangeline
smiled in response, halting at the hallway to the restrooms. “No. We went to
high school together. You’re Henry, right?”

He
stood and straightened his stained shirt to cover his spare tire before he
sauntered over. An ad for a gymnasium appeared in the upper-left corner.
“Harvey, Harvey Miller. I would have remembered a babe like you in my school.”

Pulling
Harvey’s head close to her mouth, the nurse distracted the target while Artemis
strode into the bar like a gunslinger. Most locals who recognized the star of
the show scattered silently. Laura knew that two of the men near her were
really guards who kept the spectators from interfering.

Evangeline’s
microphone picked up her seductive whisper. “Then I’m going to want to have a
good look at what’s down your pants.” The camera zoomed in as she pulled his
belt away from his gut and dropped a disc inside. He didn’t seem to notice
anything wrong. The tech readout at the bottom explained it was antibiotic
foam, used by the military in field surgeries. The foam also chilled the area
to reduce inflammation and bleeding. “I’m going to help you feel so much better
tonight. First, use ice for twenty minutes to reduce the swelling. Second, if
you have redness, talk to your doctor.”

“Huh?”
Harvey grunted, his confusion evident as his shorts filled with icy foam.

The
arming of the Genilock made a high-pitched whine that everyone who had even
seen commercials for the show recognized. Then Harvey made his biggest mistake
yet. He bolted into the men’s room, hoping for refuge.

Artemis
followed seconds later.

The
women in the bar chanted, “Tag his bag!”

Men
fled the bathroom, zipping on the run. The cameraman had trouble pressing
through the stream of humanity. The image switched to the feed from the floater
drone, normally not allowed in public restrooms. The censors permitted this if
no faces or genitals appeared. All it showed in this case was a row of three
knotty-pine stalls and an equal number of empty urinals. A pop-up ad appeared
over the condom machine.

A
single stall door was closed. Artemis played to the camera. “Hmm … he’s not in
here
.”
She kicked the door of the first—empty. The loud slam caused a whimper from the
final stall. “And he’s not in here.” At the bang, the target burst from his
stall and darted for the small window.

She
let Harvey climb halfway through the window before pulling his pants down to
his knees. “You, out of the gene pool, now!” She placed the barrel at the base
of his underwear. The view switched to the drone outside the window.

Framed
by bricks on each side, Harvey’s mouth and eyes opened wide in panic. Every man
in the audience winced at the burst of compressed air that sounded like a nail
gun. Artemis taped the court order over his butt to cover the private parts—the
money shot for this episode.

Artemis
kissed the nurse dramatically on the way out.

After
the theme music and a commercial for Mori Genetics, the show returned to
interview Harvey’s friends, coworkers, and family. Normally, this part was
hilarious. They would all confirm what an infantile, self-centered loser he
was. Even his mother started her interview with, “It’s about time someone put a
muzzle on that thing. They all expect me to babysit.”

Nobody
had anything good to say about him except his bowling team. When the waitress
delivering their beer heard the news, she muttered, “Hallelujah.”

The
interviews were so sad, Laura skipped to the final segment, a roundtable of the
regular contributors. The advocate was still wincing. “On behalf of all men,
that was humiliating to watch.”

Artemis
shrugged. “You’re just upset that we have to fill in several minutes because I
scored so fast.”

The
director, the always-dapper Hans in his trademark turtleneck, said, “Since
we’re entering our third season, I thought this might be a good time to recap
what we have accomplished with our team and what you would still like to
achieve with this show.”

“Boring!”
said the Chinese woman dressed in black workout clothing. She propped her feet
on the table, aiming the soles of her boots at the advocate. An info-bubble
explained this was an insult in Sif’s home country.

“I’m
trying to earn our educational rating,” replied the director.

“Do
we have to sound like PBS?” Sif complained.

Grant
snorted. “You’d prefer PMS?”

Sif
hopped to her feet so fast her chair rocked back. Grant didn’t move. Instead,
he faced her calmly and said, “The show does educate. You proved that when you
converted me to this team.”

The
two other huntresses on the team righted the chair and helped Sif back into it.

The
director started on his left and asked the resident hacker, “Nemesis, what was
your favorite episode?”

The
unimpressive, heavy woman with long, brown hair grinned. “When we convinced the
major phone companies to help us stop sexual bullying. I hated when guys posted
naked photos of their girlfriends after breakups. Teenage girls committed
suicide when those hit social media.”

Hans
nodded. “Thanks to this show, forwarding nude photos, other than those you
legally own, can result in the loss of all mobile phone service for seven
years. What still bothers you the most?”

The
computer expert pondered for a moment. “When a rape kit sits in a police lab
until the statute of limitations expires. Not only does it rob the victim of
justice, but the man is still on the streets hurting more women.”

The
team members around the table echoed the frustration. The director followed the
thread. “Seems like we hit a nerve. We could get Mori to donate a DNA tech and
an analyzer to work the backlog somewhere, and you huntresses could help with
some arrests.”

“Hell,
yes!” Artemis said.

Ah, this is what he wants from me.
Laura typed a request to tap her division’s advertising budget. The cost
was substantial, but she could present the device and demonstrate it personally
on screen. The family and company would benefit, not to mention the victims and
law enforcement.

“Then
we need to research the cities with the worst conviction rates to see where
we’re going next week,” Hans said.

The
editors had removed the long delay for research, and a table of conviction
rates by country filled the screen. “Ireland is the worst in the EU, even lower
than a lot of third-world countries,” explained Nemesis.

“In
what settings are the incidents plentiful but underreported?” the director
asked. “If we’re going to flip over a rock, let’s aim for one with lots of bugs
crawling under it.”

After
another splice edit, Nemesis said, “Homes for the mentally impaired, prisons,
and universities.”

“University,”
Grant said. “The other places make our team too vulnerable. Besides, a woman’s
chances of getting raped during four years of college is higher than in an
entire lifetime on the outside.” A link appeared for statistics that backed his
claim.

Themis,
the lawyer, tilted her graying head. “The Devil has spoken. I say we listen to
him. College rapes can reduce the female presence and voice in all professional
fields. Most universities don’t take them seriously enough, despite our
publishing the names of those with the most complaints in an effort to shame
them. It’s time to spotlight this situation.”