Sci-Fi has always been a setting, pretending to be a genre. Ideas that exist today but are taboo to talk about. Ideas that we never considered until we saw them. Trendlines that exist with an unknown destination.

That’s Sci-Fi. The problems of today wrapped up in the setting of tomorrow.

What problems? What trendline? Half the fun is in finding it. I’ll be sending snippets from the book for you to read and see if it’s your cup of tea. If so, pre orders for the kindle version are live now, release data, August 1.

The main character is Jakov Luonghaus, a mild mannered man caught inside the feminine imperative. He’s found his way to the Analogue, AKA New Kowloon, a faraday cage where oppressive tech can’t reach him, and everything handled via tongue or pussy or knuckle or boot. He’s been under the feminine boot for so long that the first interaction he has with a man almost gives him a heart attach,

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Conceptual Hardcover

Estrogen Tyranny.

The man at the gate badgered Jakov.

“Can I help you?” He made eye contact and it was jarring. No one looked each other in the eye anywhere in the Wireless, Amazon’s newest corporate town. The effect was immediate, almost violent. Jake felt as if he had been hit in the head with that man’s lunch pail hands. Jakov looked him in the eye, as much as he could, and mustered an answer.

“Yeah. Excuse me, xir. I’m looking for someone. He said to meet him here.” Jakov felt lightheaded as soon as the words left his mouth. One brief, direct interaction was all it had taken to overwhelm his social programming. His phone was warm in his pocket, and getting warmer.

Jakov’s diaphragm was lagging and his larynx was tight. He had never been very good with talking to other guys. He was a good citizen. He obeyed his wife and he obeyed his phone; both were defacto agents of Fem-Law

But Jakov’s wife was miles away, and his Huawei didn’t vibrate here, ordinarily, it tracked and monitored him religiously, then reported back to base. Any errant heart beats would worry the bio-app which would alert him in its official Karen tone which had replaced a sultrier and more illegal voice from years before. It picked up any language that violated Fem-Law.

But he was now in New Kowloon. No one was listening. No one cared, certainly not the door man.

“You’re in the wrong place to find someone, softbone,” he said. “You best take your mommybox havin’ ass back onto Caitlin Jenner Avenue if you know what’s good for you.” He gestured with his hand that Jakov should run back home. Jakov pretended to ignore it. The only thing worse for him than the fear of getting decked was not knowing if Fatahl understood why he never went back to her.

Dammit, he told himself. Focus! He didn’t know if this man challenging him was a threat or not. But of course he was. Jakov was neurotic. Everyone was a threat. He couldn’t say why, but he felt it instinctively like Ghost whispering in his ear. The doctors convinced him that was over, but his was different. The threat was real and right in front of him.

Jakov watched the man pushing buttons on a flip phone. Real buttons, no touch activated OLED. Jakov hadn’t seen buttons since before he’d picked his gender. He would have been no older than six. Must have been thirty years ago. He mustered the courage to hold his ground,

“What did you just call me? Did you really just say that? Wow.” Jakov immediately regretted the challenge when he noticed that this man didn’t have a single implant. He had his own eyes. Real skin. Even his teeth were real. Who has real teeth?

Jakov was posturing, and he could tell that this man knew it. Pretending to have the kind of confidence his wife had when she berated him for any manufactured slight didn’t work in the Analogue. He stood as tall as he was able. The man took one look and saw through his synthetic bravery. The pause was only seconds but felt longer than an unskippable bathroom ad.

Finally, he smirked. “Oh damn, wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings, Mr. Sensitive. Don’t mix up your hormones, softbone. I’m just fucking with ya. I know you’re a Stockholm.”

Jakov felt safer for a moment, then got insolent. “I don’t deserve that. I’m an ally of Disconnected Americans like you—I mean an American of Disconnection. Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be offensive.” Jakov was playing by the rules in the Wireless, his home. He didn’t know any other way to flex than than to appeal to the existential threat of Fem-Law. It was all he knew. The man didn’t budge. A brick wall doesn’t feel manufactured shame.