Грег Иган - Distress

Asex was really nothing but an umbrella term for a broad group of philosophies, styles of dress, cosmetic-surgical changes, and deep-biological alterations. The only thing that one asex person necessarily had in common with another was the view that vis gender parameters (neural, endocrine, chromosomal and genital) were the business of no one but ver-self, usually (but not always) vis lovers, probably vis doctor, and sometimes a few close friends. What a person actually did in response to that attitude could range from as little as ticking the "A" box on census forms, to choosing an asex name, to breast or body-hair reduction, voice timbre adjustment, facial resculpting, empouchment (surgery to render the male genitals retractable), all the way to full physical and/or neural asexuality, hermaphroditism, or exoticism.

I said, "Why bother staring at people and guessing? En-male, en-fem, asex… who cares?"

Gina scowled. "Don’t make me out to be some kind of bigot. I’m just curious."

I squeezed her hand. "I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant."

She pulled free. "You got to spend a year thinking about nothing else—being as voyeuristic and intrusive as you liked. And getting paid for it. I only saw the finished documentary. I don’t see why I should be expected to have reached some final position on gender migration just because you’ve rolled credits on the subject."

I bent over and kissed her on the forehead.

"What was that for?"

"For being the ideal viewer, above and beyond all your many other virtues."

"I think I’m going to throw up."

We turned east, toward Surry Hills, into an even quieter street. A grim young man strode by alone, heavily muscled and probably facially sculpted… but again, there was no way to be sure. Gina glanced at me, still angry, but unable to resist. "That— assuming he was umale—I understand even less. If someone wants a build like that… fine. But why the face, as well? It’s not as if anyone would be likely to mistake him for anything but an en-male, without it."

"No—but being mistaken for an en-male would be an insult, because he’s migrated out of that gender as surely as any asex. The whole point of being umale is to distance yourself from the perceived weaknesses of contemporary natural males. To declare that their 'consensual identity'— stop laughing—is so much less masculine than your own that you effectively belong to another sex entirely. To say: no mere en-male can speak on my behalf, any more than a woman can."

Gina mimed tearing out hair. "No woman can speak on behalf of all women, as far as I’m concerned. But I don’t feel obliged to have myself sculpted ufem or ifem to make that point!"

"Well… exactly. I feel the same way. Whenever some Iron John cretin writes a manifesto in the name of all men , I’d much rather tell him to his face that he’s full of shit than desert the en-male gender and leave him thinking that he speaks for all those who remain. But… that is the commonest reason people cite for gender migration: they’re sick of self-appointed gender-political figureheads and pretentious Mystical Renaissance gurus claiming to represent them. And sick of being libeled for real and imagined gender crimes. If all men are violent, selfish, dominating, hierarchical… what can you do except slit your wrists, or migrate from male to imale, or asex? If all women are weak, passive, irrational victims—"

Gina thumped me on the arm admonishingly. "Now you’re caricaturing the caricaturists. I don’t believe anyone talks like that."

"Only because you move in the wrong circles. Or should I say the right ones? But I thought you watched the program. There were people I interviewed who made exactly those assertions, word for word."

"Then it’s the fault of the media for giving them publicity."

We’d arrived at the restaurant, but we lingered outside. I said, "That’s partly true. I don’t know what the solution is, though. When will someone who stands up and proclaims, I speak for no one but myself get as much coverage as someone who claims to speak for half the population?"

"When people like you give it to them."

"You know it’s not that simple. And… imagine what would have happened with feminism—or the civil rights movements, for that matter—if no one could ever be permitted to speak on behalf of any group, without their certified, unanimous consent? Just because some of the current lunatics are like parodies of the old leaders, it doesn’t mean we’d be better off now if TV producers had said: 'Sorry Dr. King, sorry Ms. Greer, sorry Mr. Perkins, but if you can’t avoid these sweeping generalizations and confine your statements to your own personal circumstances, we’ll have to take you off the air. "

Gina eyed me skeptically. "That’s ancient history. And you’re only arguing that position to try to squirm out of your own responsibilities."

"Of course. But the point is… gender migration is ninety percent politics. Some coverage still treats it as a kind of decadent, gratuitous, fashionable mimicry of gender reassignment for transsexuals—but most gender migrants go no further than superficial asex. They don’t cross right over; they have no reason to. It’s a protest action, like resigning from a political party, or renouncing your citizenship… or deserting a battlefield… but whether it will stabilize at some low level, and shake up attitudes enough to remove the whole reason for migration, or whether the population will end up evenly divided between all seven genders in a couple of generations, I have no idea."

Gina grimaced. "Seven genders—and all of them perceived as monolithic. Everyone stereotyped at a glance. Seven pigeon-holes instead of two isn’t progress."

"No. But maybe in the long run there’ll only be asex, umale and ufem. Those who want to be pigeon-holed will be—and those who don’t will remain mysterious."

"No, no—in the long run we’ll have nothing but VR bodies, and we’ll all be mysterious or revelatory in turns, as the mood takes us."

"I can’t wait."

We went inside. Unnatural Tastes was a converted department store, cavernous but brightly lit, opened up by the simple expedient of cutting a large elliptical hole in the middle of every floor. I waved my notepad at the entry turnstyle; a voice confirmed our reservation, adding, "Table 519. Fifth floor."

Gina smiled wickedly. "Fifth floor: stuffed toys and lingerie."

I glanced up at our fellow diners—mostly umale and ufem couples. I said, "You behave yourself, redneck, or next time we’re eating in Epping."

The place was three-quarters full, at least, but the seating capacity was less than it seemed; most of the volume of the building was taken up by the central well. In what was left of each floor, human waiters in tuxedos weaved their way between the chromed tables; it all looked archaic and stylized, almost Marx Brothers, to me. I wasn’t a big fan of Experimental Cuisine; essentially, we’d be guinea pigs, trying out medically safe but otherwise untested bioengineered produce. Gina had pointed out that at least the meal would be subsidized by the manufacturers. I wasn’t so sure; Experimental Cuisine had become so fashionable lately that it could probably attract a statistically significant sample of diners for each novelty, even at full price.

The tabletop flashed up menus as we took our seats—and the figures seemed to confirm my doubts about a subsidy. I groaned. "Crimson bean salad ? I don’t care what color they are, I want to know what they taste like. The last thing I ate here that looked like a kidney bean tasted exactly like boiled cabbage."

Gina took her time, prodding the names of half a dozen dishes to view the finished products, and screens of data on the design of the ingredients. She said, "You can work it all out, if you pay attention. If you know what genes they moved from where, and why, you can make a fair stab at predicting the taste and texture."