Matronly Duties

Matronly Duties

By

Melissa Kendall

Copyright © Melissa Kendall, 2015

The right of Melissa Kendall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the
Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

All characters and events in this Book – even those sharing the same name as (or based on) real people – are entirely fictional.  No person, brand, or corporation mentioned in this Book should be taken to have endorsed this Book nor should the events surrounding them be considered in any way factual.

This Book is a work of fiction and should be read as such.

Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-368-3

E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-369-0

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Prologue

Many predicted it, but when the news was broadcast simultaneously around the world, it at last became a reality. The end of the world—or to be more accurate, the end of the world as humanity knew it—had come.

Billions watched on television as G8 leaders announced that an asteroid, large enough to cause a catastrophic explosion and plunge the earth into a new ice age, was on a collision course with Earth. A collective gasp of shock echoed around the globe. Then fear simultaneously drew humanity together and ripped it apart. Millions prayed, even more cursed the existence of any deity. Some panicked, some gave up. But others grew determined to save what vestiges of humanity they could.

The best and the brightest had been working on contingency plans they hoped would ensure humankind’s survival. Around the world, underground shelters had been built for just this kind of event. Each was an immense subterranean dome that could house up to one million people.

Sadly, there were just five of these official government bunkers. So difficult decisions had to be made.

Committees from every nation met and decided who would be offered a place underground. For mankind’s optimum chance at survival, anyone over the age of fifty and those with advanced medical needs were automatically excluded. Priority was given to experts in every field imaginable. When possible, the committees made sure those experts had families. The rest of the available places were allocated by lottery and given to people between the ages of thirteen and thirty-five.

The weeks following passed in a manner that could only be described as organised chaos. When the letters of invitation to the government shelters were issued, security was so tight that they had to be hand delivered by military personnel and recipients were required to provide ID. They were then collected and moved in secret to the underground cities. As the time of the expected impact neared, the bunkers were sealed and those left on the surface found shelter where they could.

Then the world waited.

On June 9th, 2020, the five-kilometre-wide Attero asteroid slammed into Earth just outside Moscow. Millions died in the initial blast, although many more survived to witness the cloud of ash and smoke rise into the atmosphere and block out the sun. Temperatures began to drop, steadily decreasing until the average daily maximum on the surface was well below freezing. So cold as to be unliveable.

Below ground, the decades that followed the impact were tumultuous. Although the governments of Earth had tried to plan for every contingency, they hadn’t succeeded. The biggest problem the new world faced was one of the most basic. Procreation.

In Oceania, located a kilometre beneath what had once been the northern tip of Western Australia, the number of men was more than double the number of women of suitable age to reproduce. Other nations were in similar if not worse situations. It became clear quickly that the tradition of marrying and having children with a single partner would leave more than half the gene pool without the ability to have offspring. Multitudes of humans would die before their DNA could be passed on, and within a few generations, common gene sources would lead to inbreeding.

The governments of the world eventually decided that women of age would need to reproduce with more than one man to ensure genetic diversity for future generations. Although understanding of the situation, the remaining women of Earth opposed male-run governments dictating how and by whom they would end up pregnant. So to protect their rights, they formed the Women’s Coalition for the Protection of the Species.

Their first act was to suggest the governments remove the element of unpredictability from procreation, as well as any need for traditional methods of contraception that might violate a woman’s right to choose her partner. Reproduction by artificial insemination was disease-free, and the number of children born to a particular donor could be restricted to a maximum of two. This not only ensured genetic diversity for future generations, and gave women control of how and when they chose to have children, but it helped to control the population from growing too large.

As the years passed, the political landscape of the new Earth changed. There were no more wars. Trade was non-existent. There was no need, nor the space, to build things bigger and better. Instead, isolated societies needed to be nurtured and cared for—a concept the WCPS seemed to understand far better than their male counterparts.

After years of discussions, the Matron system was written into law, under which the leader of each nation would be a woman trained in the unique needs of running and managing an underground society. Matrons would not be elected officials, nor given their title by birth right. Instead, at the age of thirteen, all females would take an aptitude test. Those who obtained a certain score would be taken to training school, where they would be taught to be a future leader of their society.

The first Matron of Oceania was sworn into power on the fiftieth anniversary of the impact. It was the third nation to do so, America being the first two years prior and Europe just the previous year. Asia followed the year after, and Africa, though resistant, finally installed its first Matron five years later.

So that a Matron did not waste years as ruler, they were limited to five-year terms. A panel of elected male officials would choose who was to be the next in line to serve their country from the pool of eligible trainees.

In the case of Oceania, that just happens to be me.

Chapter 1

A burst of light though my window rouses me from sleep. Cursing myself for not remembering to close my curtains the previous night, I rub my eyes and stretch my arms above my head.

The clip-clop of shoes in the hallway outside my room signals the imminent arrival of my handler, Laura. I don’t think she has ever been a second early or late to wake me in the entire time I’ve been a resident here at the Matron In Training Institute.

I roll over and pull the covers over my head as she opens the door and flicks the switch.

“Good morning, Ms Greene. Time to wake up.”

I feign sleep, hoping just this once Laura will let me sleep in.

“I can tell by your breathing you’re awake, Ms Greene. We do not have time for your antics today. You have a busy one.”

I pull the covers back and glare at Laura. “Fine.” It’s not like after thirteen years of waking up at the same time my body would let me sleep in anyway. Rolling out of bed, I push my nightie down as I stand. “And how many times have I asked you to call me Bethanie?”

“About as many times as I’ve called you ‘Ms Greene,’ ” Laura replies from inside my wardrobe.

I walk to the bathroom. “Yet you still refuse to do it.”

“It is not permitted under my job description.”

Yes, because perish the thought we don’t do what we’re told.

“Your uniform is laid out,” Laura says as I splash water on my face. When I look up again, she walks towards the door. “George will be here in twenty minutes to take you to breakfast. Please make sure you are ready.”

I roll my eyes. “I will be.” It’s not like I’ve ever failed to be ready when my bodyguard arrives.

Once Laura’s gone, I grab a bamboo pencil off my desk and walk over to the hemp-paper calendar on the wall. I cross off another day. Only forty-three more to go.

On the clotheshorse, I find my usual charcoal ankle-length skirt and beige short-sleeved tunic top. I change and then slide my feet into my favourite pair of hempadrilles before moving to sit in front of the mirror. Almost as soon as I’ve finished pulling my long blond hair into a bun, George knocks. A quick turn of my head confirms there are no hairs out of place.

“Come in,” I say as I quickly secure the last part of my uniform. My silver lapel badge bears the Matron insignia and indicates I am next in line. Soon I’ll be trading the silver for gold and moving it from the left to the right side of my top.

“Good morning, Ms Greene,” my bodyguard says as I grab my book bag.

“Perfect timing, George. I’m ready when you are.” I stand, and follow him out the door.

The hallways are always quiet at this hour. Most residents are already in the cafeteria. Up ahead a couple of younger girls, their dark brown tunics indicating their first years, are scrambling down the corridor, obviously late for breakfast. The usually plain grey walls are interspersed with banners for the upcoming Dedication Day celebrations. They’re yet another reminder that my time at MITI is almost over.

Being one of the most senior residents at MITI has some benefits—a room close to the facilities being one, which means it only takes a couple of minutes for us to reach our destination.

George holds open the door to the cafeteria and I go inside, joining the buffet line with the two girls I saw running down the hall. They are giggling about something and whispering in each other’s ears. I have to think hard to remember the last time I had a laugh. It might have been the time Headmistress caught Gail doing an impression of her. That has to be months ago, maybe even a year. When did I become so serious?

Finished at the buffet, I head to my usual table, tray in hand.

“What’s got you all in a grump?”

I look up from my toast and eggs to see my friend Gail sitting beside me. Actually,
friend
is probably too generous a word. Acquaintance would be more accurate. It’s not as if the MITI staff let us interact enough to become friends. But Gail always sits with me for breakfast, and she is one of the few women I talk to.

“I’m not in a grump per se, I’m just . . .” A sigh slips past my lips. “Don’t you wish sometimes we did something out of the routine?”

Gail chuckles, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle the noise. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about. At least you’re getting out of here soon. Some of us are likely to be stuck here forever.”

We both know that isn’t true. I look around the room. At any given time, there are roughly two hundred and fifty residents at MITI. Right now, most of them are in this room, eating breakfast and none the wiser that they have less than a one-percent chance of actually becoming Matron. Those women never chosen are sent out into society to contribute in other ways.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I just wish for once something unexpected would happen.”

“Well, I’m sure once you’re Matron there will plenty of unexpected happenings, besides . . .” Gail glances over her shoulder to check that none of the staff are nearby, then leans in close and whispers, “What makes you think some of us don’t do things outside our routines?”

It’s my turn to laugh. They keep us on such a tight leash that the mere idea seems impossible. “Yeah, and what exactly do you do outside your routine?”

“Well, for one, Frank is not just my bodyguard.”

I look at Gail likes she’s lost her mind, but before I have a chance to ask what she means, she sits bolt upright and turns her attention to her food. When I turn around, Laura is standing there.

“Speech rehearsal starts in five minutes, Ms Greene.” Although she doesn’t say it outright, her meaning is clear.
Breakfast is over, time to go.

I wave a quick goodbye to Gail, glad I’m not particularly hungry this morning as most of my food is still on my plate. I follow Laura out of the dining room. George meets us in the hall and escorts us to the auditorium where I’ll be practising my speech.

As I enter Blythe Hall, the last person I want to see is Headmistress Carpenter, but there she is, standing just inside the door. I smile, hoping it looks genuine.

“Good morning, Headmistress. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” I’m glad I manage to keep any sarcasm out of my tone. Every single resident of MITI knows if Headmistress needs to speak with you, you’re in trouble.

“Oh, no special reason, Ms Greene.” She smiles with her normal forced expression, like it pains her to appear happy. “I just wanted to come and see how our current Matron in Waiting is doing.”

“I’m fine. I’m about to do the first run-through of my speech. You are more than welcome to stay and listen.”

“I think I might.”

I turn to Laura, who hands me my speech, and then head to the podium.

Positioning myself behind the lectern, I rest my hands on top. I glance out over all the empty chairs and try to imagine it’s a sea of people instead.

“Any time would be good, Ms Greene.” Headmistress’ voice echoes around the empty auditorium, making it sound like she is chastising me in concert.

Not wanting to incur any further wrath, I focus on the cards in front of me.

“On this, the two hundredth anniversary of the Attero impact, it is my great joy to stand here as your new Matron.”

“Ms Greene, the people you are talking to are not under the podium.”

I glance up to see Headmistress’ arms folded over her chest. She has a scowl on her face. “I expected much better than this of the next Matron.”

“Sorry, Headmistress.” My apology is automatic, even though I haven’t really done anything wrong. “This is only my first run-through. I have not had a chance to properly memorise my speech yet.”

“I don’t want excuses, Ms Greene. Once you are Matron you will not get second chances.”

It takes great effort not to roll my eyes. The words are slightly different, but I have heard this speech a thousand times. “I’ll do better next time, Headmistress.”

“See that you do.”

She is out the door the moment we finish speaking. Laura’s pitying expression is not reassuring, but I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and refocus on memorising my speech. Mrs Carpenter is right—I only have a few weeks before I am Matron. I can do this.

***

The following day, I return to my room after Sunday morning assembly and sit at my desk for independent study. I choose my favourite history book, the one with the pictures of what living on the surface looked like. What would my life have been like if the Attero asteroid hadn’t forced humans underground two centuries ago?

I manage to read a few paragraphs before the lights flick off—every single one of them. Shrouded in utter darkness, a shiver works down my spine and makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

Intermittent losses of power have been a problem for the last few years. Rumours of failures within the electrical plant have been prominent in the newspapers, but the truth is more sinister than that. Although the public remains largely unaware, the Trads—an extremist division of traditionalists who believe in ancient and irresponsible practices regarding procreation and family—have recently begun attacking vital government interests. Food, medical supplies, and energy are some of the resources they steal from the citizens. Not to mention the reason there isn’t enough to go around is that Trads choose to ignore the rules regarding having children.

I lean my head on my desk, wishing the power to return. After a few minutes, it does.

“Ms Greene?”

The voice of my bodyguard startles me. The stoic man-mountain is standing in the doorway, a stern expression on his face. I blink a few times to adjust my eyes to the bright lights and take a couple of deep breaths to help calm my racing heart.

“What’s up, George?”

“It’s time for your run, Ma’am.”

My lips turn up at the corners. “Excellent. I’ll be ready in a minute.”

My Sunday run is another benefit of being a senior resident at MITI. It’s also one of the few things I look forward to. The freedom of my feet pounding the pavement, of the adrenaline pumping through my veins and pushing me to my limits, is exhilarating. Life as a resident of MITI is one of seclusion. We are kept away from general society to avoid being distracted from our training. Getting to leave the compound—even if it’s only for a run with my guard—is a treat.

George leads me through the winding corridors, but the halls are mostly empty at this time. We don’t see anyone until we exit into the exercise yard, where a couple of fourth or fifth years are running laps. We walk across the open area to the black four-door cart parked on the other side.

Carts are the primary mode of transport for government interests, and MITI has three to transport its residents to appointments and functions across the sectors. They’re a cross between what the ancestors called a car and a golf cart. George holds open the rear door of one for me, and I climb inside and take my seat, fastening my lap belt while George hops into the driver’s seat.

“All okay, Ms Greene?”

I nod, and we are off.

I gaze out the window as we make our way through the sectors. The two- and three-storey buildings of the government sector give way to the single-storey, flat-roof dwellings in the residential sector. Preparations for the dedication of the next Matron are visible on every street. The normally drab brown, grey, and black buildings are decorated with smatterings of red, green, blue, and gold—the colours of the Oceania flag.

Street after street, lane after lane, I watch citizens happily going about their lives. Some of them look up as the cart goes by—one lady even waves—but most of them ignore us. I can’t help but be a little jealous of the kids playing kickball in the street while a woman I assume is their mother hangs laundry on the clothesline strung up between their domicile and the one next door. They appear carefree, laughing and running amok.

I’m going to be their Matron. I’m not sure I’m ready for that responsibility.

As the residential dwellings give way to more industrial-looking buildings, and then the maintenance sector, the sloping grey-brown cement walls of the dome become visible in front of us. George makes another turn and, within a few moments, we roll to a stop outside the catacombs, the maintenance tunnels that run around the perimeter of our underground city. As a rule, they are only accessed by the workers who keep our city functioning. For me, however, they’re an escape.

I wait patiently in the cart while George hops out to check everything is okay.

“All clear, Ma’am,” George says, gesturing towards the large industrial doors that lead into the tunnels.

Grinning, I take a deep breath. “Thank you.”

After a quick stretch, I take off at a brisk pace. Looking over my shoulder, I realise George is a few steps behind.

“Come on, old man, can’t you keep up? What would your colleagues say if they knew you couldn’t even keep up with little ol’ me?” I wink and George chuckles. Then he picks up his pace and falls in step beside me.

We run a familiar path through the timber-lined stone tunnels. We aren’t allowed to make any unplanned twists or turns, but I don’t mind. It’s invigorating to be moving. We fall into a good rhythm and in no time at all a light sheen of sweat covers my skin. Loving the feeling, I push myself—and George—harder as I round one of the sharper corners.