Merry Christmas Ms Minerva

by Edmund Cooper

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi; Space Opera

Synopsis

This powerful and horrific novel is set in England in the early part of the 21st century. It tells of the tragic and terrifying events that occur on one day - Christmas Eve - in the life of Maggie Minerva, the attractive widow of a Trade Union boss. These events have startling repercussions not only for the people involved but also for the social structure of Britain.

Release date: May 26, 2016

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 192

Sample

Ms Minerva gazed in the mirror complacently. She was no longer beautiful, but she was still handsome. That counted for something. Probably it was the main reason why she was still alive and in a position of power more than eighteen months after her husband’s death.

When the Boss of Food-U died, his Dowager met with an accident within the month. She fell downstairs and broke her neck. Strange! She was only thirty-five and had a good reputation for militancy. She had been largely responsible – her husband being a typical nose-led Wilsonite – for bringing the Union out in ’97 and getting a 35 per cent increase in basic, plus bonus scheme, plus triple pay for unsocial hours. Well, her reputation hadn’t done her much good. Some are always more militant (ambitious?) than others. And, anyway, it always came back to the basic fact: despite the Sex Equality Act, men didn’t like a Dowager Bossess running a Union. The Accom-U Dowager had been declared insane and wheeled away within six months of the death of the Boss. The Energy-U Dowager had committed suicide – so they said – because of uncontrollable grief. The Media-U Dowager had simply fled the country. There was a long list that made nonsense of actuarial statistics and pointed to the simple truth that when a U-Boss died, his Dowager was already running out of time. The king is dead. Long live a new king – a strong new king – and his consort …

Ms Minerva gazed at herself in the full-length mirror and tried to cancel melancholy thoughts. She still had an excellent figure, her breasts were full and remarkably firm, her hips well rounded. She was still sexy. At fifty-three that was good. It may have accounted for the fact that she was still alive. Whenever she addressed a Delegation or spoke to a Committee, she sensed that at least half the men present would want to have her in their dreams.

But what about the other half? The militant militants. The supermilitants. Maybe they were beyond sex. She did not know. Their blank faces, their bright glazed eyes betrayed nothing. They chilled her, made her feel cold, empty. ‘Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look’ …

Again she tried to cancel melancholy thoughts. She wrapped the bath robe round her naked body and held it tightly to her. She stepped away from the mirror and, with considerable effort, got sensible.

Today was Christmas Eve. Ms Minerva was determined not to get depressed. Sharon and old Tom had already set up a genuine two-metre Christmas tree in the lounge, complete with fairy lights, those impossibly thin and glittering glass decorations, tinsel and all. It reminded her of happy days of childhood. It made her sentimental.

Sharon and Tom were her servants – only these days the word servant was out. These days you called servants personal aides. It was more democratic. Tom was a very old sixty-four, and Sharon was a very young twenty-seven. Tom had served the Boss of Trans-U and his Dowager for more than twenty years. He pottered about in the garden and was still good at driving the armoured car. He was absolutely loyal. Ms Minerva was not so sure about Sharon’s loyalty. The girl had served her well for nearly seven years; but there was something about her, something about her attitude …

“Hell!” said Ms Minerva aloud. “It is Christmas Eve, I am the Dowager Bossess of Trans-U, and I will not allow myself to be depressed. I have been lucky. I have had a good life, and if it had to end today, I’d still be winning.”

Almost automatically, she loosened the bath robe, eased her arms out of the sleeves and let it drop to the floor. The bedroom was warm, and she had always liked to be naked, to move around naked, to rejoice in the reality of her body. She was both sensual and sensuous. That, she knew, was what had made her irresistible to Arthur Minerva more than thirty-years ago when he and she – innocent, wide-eyed Maggie Hopcraft – were at Oxford on Union scholarships.

Vaguely, Ms Minerva hunted in her wardrobe, looking for something to wear. Something that would be suitable for Christmas Eve, suitable for her figure, suitable for her mood. And while she hunted, her mind played with possibilities – what to do with the day, with the hours, with the loud ticking minutes.

She solved both problems simultaneously, and rang the bell for Sharon.

The wine-dark satin dress, shade of a wine-dark sea … She took it out of the wardrobe and gazed at it lovingly. It was an aphrodisiac. A dead aphrodisiac or an aphrodisiac for the dead? Who could say? She only knew that, whenever she had worn it, Arthur had wanted her.

She smiled to herself. Once he had taken her on the bathroom floor before she could zip it up. They had been going to Congress – interesting, multi-purpose word – and had arrived twenty minutes late, looking – she was sure – like a couple of exhausted sex-maniacs. GenSec was not amused.

Now she could wear the dress to go to London, to meander round Harrods, to buy Christmas presents. Christmas presents for whom? It didn’t matter. Tom and Sharon for starters. The rest didn’t matter. She just wanted to buy Christmas presents.

Sharon came into the bedroom, saw her mistress nude and gazing pensively at the dark satin dress. “Good morning, Bossess. What can I get you?” There was a faint note of disapproval in her voice.

Ms Minerva emerged from her reverie, registered the note of disapproval, turned to face Sharon. A strange girl. Ms Minerva had long ago detected a love-hate relationship. She hated being called Bossess. Such an ugly word! Much worse even then poetess or authoress, which had long ago passed into oblivion. But, paying lip-service to a stupid theory, and with a total disregard for the beauty of the English language, the Unions stubbornly insisted on using the sex-equal term Bossess to describe the theoretically equally powerful mate of a Union Boss.

Ms Minerva had discovered that Sharon only used the term Bossess when she found her mistress – another stupid and loaded word – in the nude. Fully clothed, she was always Ms Minerva. Interesting!

Once, she had caught Sharon stroking (fondling?) the very dress she now held. Repressed lesbianism, perhaps.

And another thing. Sharon always said: What can I get you? Not what can I do for you, what would you like, what do you need? That, too, was interesting.

Poor Sharon! Her figure wasn’t much. She was built like a man. Her shoulders were broad, her hips narrow, her breasts unimportant. Perhaps she was suffering from an ingrowing virginity.

“I’m going to London, Sharon. Ask Tom to have the car ready in half an hour – no, three quarters. I’ll have to tart myself up; and I suppose I had better have some toast and coffee …”

“It’s a bad time to be going to London, Bossess. There’ll be Easies, scabs and blacklegs and Tories and Libbies all over the place. Is it necessary?”

“I want to do some personal shopping at Harrods.”

“Why?”

“It is my pleasure, girl,” said Ms Minerva with some asperity. “That’s why.”

From the expression on Sharon’s face, Ms Minerva realized that she thought the Bossess had flipped. Few people – few important people – shopped personally any more. Normally, they did their shopping by closed circuit 3 V at Harrods or at any other of the surviving quality shops. It was safer that way. You got yourself hooked up to a sub-manager with a mobile vid, and you could be taken round the entire store while you relaxed at home in a comfortable chair, ate peanuts and sipped sherry. The vid would allow you to zoom in, blow up, do everything except touch. Then you could either order or reject the item and pass on. Within hours, an armoured van, protected by Securi-U outriders, would deliver the goods.

For important people, it was safer that way. You couldn’t be hijacked, murdered, ravished, robbed, emasculated or suffer simple G.B.H.

For the workers it was different. They could shop personally at their supers and hypers without too much risk. There was not much percentage in hijacking, murdering or robbing a worker. But, of course, they could be raped, emasculated or collect G.B.H. The normal hazards of life …

“I’ll call Harrods and alert them,” said Sharon, a faint note of resentment in her voice, as she carefully laid fresh underclothes on the bed. “What time shall I tell them to expect us, Bossess?”

That did it! Ms Minerva had intended taking Sharon with her as a little Christmas treat. It was stone-cold certain that the wretched girl had never been inside a quality store. But, in the same breath, she was making decisions and assumption. Ms Minerva became angry. But anger had its own peculiar feedback. She became embarrassed by her nakedness as Sharon, having finished her task, gazed at Ms Minerva impassively.

“I will call Harrods, Sharon. And I shall do my shopping alone. You may go now.”

Oddly, Sharon smiled. “Yes, Ms Minerva. Thank you.” There was a hint of insolence in her voice. For a moment or two she gazed at Ms Minerva as if aware of the sudden embarrassment, allowing her eyes to linger on breasts, hips, belly. Then she turned and left the bedroom.

Ms Minerva was immediately aware of goose pimples, and put on her undies hurriedly. She felt better – much better – when she had sheathed herself in the wine-dark satin dress. It was all of ten years old; but it still fitted her perfectly. It reminded her of Arthur once more, and she felt sad. Then proud.

She gazed at herself in the mirror once more. She held her shoulders back and complacently noted the fullness of her breasts. She stroked her hip. . .