Rapeshirts
A novel with three convictions
By Rose Lapin Troupe
Call me Cismale.
You see, I exemplify the enlightened form of next-generation post-masculine manliness that is superior to even that exhibited by our starship’s captain, James Tiberius Squick, whose galactic fame with women precedes him. As for me, everyone calls me Andee Doll. That’s because despite my gender handicap I can rock a dress like no trans-male’s business. And also, I have some really cute red heels that match the uniform.
I enlisted in Starfleet after crushing a military
recruitment vocational examination. The Dolls have a long tradition of
absolutely blowing the doors off vocational assessments and
psychological profiles. I’ve only ever failed one, and without going
into the details, suffice it to say that little episode was my mother’s
fault.
Up to 50,000 people per day apply for military enlistment, but only three or four thousand are admitted based on a number of rigorous
criteria, not the least of which is a willingness to enlist. That alone
puts me in the upper ten percent.
My field of training and expertise, as you can surely tell, is
statistics, which had a lot to do with how I scored on the vocational
test, and also because unfortunately, I washed out of the elite astrology
course required for officers. There’s no shame in that, of course. 95 percent of applicants fail, if
you include those who don’t apply, and the two percent who do pass it
obviously buy their way through, utilizing their straight white male privilege courtesy of intact white families free
of the burden of poverty.
Or maybe it was astronomy. It is a very technical field. Anyway, I mean the one that teaches you about stars.
Even
my best friend, Squeequeg, didn’t make it through astrology or whatever
it is called, and he’s a huge, huge, huge science fiction fan. He’s
read everything, I swear, even some of that Asimov guy. In fact, no one
knows more about science fiction books than Squeequeg, and he taught
me everything I know about the subject.
“Vance is overrated,” says Squeequeg, “his women are two-dimensional.”
See? He’s read a lot of books. I had never even heard of Jeff Vance before I met Squeequeg.
That might be because I didn’t enlist for the literary enlightenment. I didn’t enlist for the exploration, the honor, or the money.
I signed up to boldly go where no Man has consensually gone before.
The details of how I do this are not particularly important at the moment, but I will say that it can get pretty damn boring
in all those advanced landing parties, doing our level best to advance the Female Imperative, police all mixed-gender gatherings, and empower women throughout the galaxy, whether they want empowerment or not.
Unfortunately, the Female Imperative has no bearing on Captain Squick, as alien cis-females seem to have this habit of falling naked onto his thick, massive, sweat-beaded, throbbing
member, (or so I imagine when I’m in my bunk), but, because he’s so damned dudebroish about
things, he gets away with it without so much as a reprimand from the Admiral, who will flip out and kick a lesser cis-male’s ass without even thinking twice about it. She’s so crazy and full of pure awesome that she totally uppercut some lieutenant just because the kid opened a window.
(Granted, it’s dangerous to open a window in space, which I know because I asked some people who have a bachelor’s degree in astrophysics about it, but even so, it was totally sweet. I’m not afraid to admit it; I squeed just watching her.)
Me and my group of enlisted chums have an entirely different perspective than the
dudebros who think they are running the ship. They don’t know it yet, but we are totally going to upset the
order of things, in the name of equality, in the name of justice, in the
name of empowerment, and in the name of finding our rightful place in the social order which doesn’t exist at the very
tippy top, as our intelligence, and degrees and purity of mind dictate.
This is our story.