Luba Praskoviyna Yustineva would never describe herself as a woman of secrets. As a government secretarial clerk she does occasionally come into possession of sensitive documents, but never once has she considered herself a gatekeeper to forbidden knowledge like her counterparts in the Ministry of Intelligence or other such high-stakes offices. She has seen few ministerial assistants and even fewer real ministers, and those have always been by chance; she's really more like a railway switchyard than a border crossing, directing and redirecting traffic from ports unknown to destinations unvisited. The work may be dull, but it is straightforward, and given that she's barely 27 and making triple the minimum wage working 9-to-5, five days a week, her life is, by all accounts, comfortable, and by national security reckoning, reassuringly average.

Lounging in her living room armchair she is struggling to finish the last pages of the chapter to her current read while the national news reverberates from the television across. "People call me old-fashioned," says a bespectacled woman with a greying blonde ponytail and black pantsuit with white collared shirt to a figure off-camera, "But let's not forget that we are still only a decade into emancipation. Emotions, and imaginations, run high. I am simply concerned that the government is not taking the full consequences of the bill seriously. The definition of marriage has shifted, but at its heart it is a covenant, the symbol of a sacred union, not some legal contract to be faxed out to order..."

Replacing her bookmark Luba snaps the story shut before retrieving the remote control and flipping through the channels. Having been born well into the Fourth Wave, she is a devout Feminist, but not particularly political and averse to hardliners on either side. She is not a fan of Tasha Nastasjena, leader of the conservative organization "Real Women"; while she seems nice enough as a person, as a policy advocate she always wants to make people feel guilty for opposing her, as though she were the mouthpiece of Mary herself; and whatever sympathy Luba might hold for her few reasonable stances is shouted into submission by the militancy of her partisan platforms.

"That was getting interesting," remarks a voice far too low and far too gravelly to be mistaken for a woman. Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a three-cushion heirloom chesterfield is Luba's own personal man. To say that she found him in the woods and he followed her home would only be half-true: during a trip out east the summer previous she'd found him, battered and bloody, in the forest by her dacha. Feminist indoctrination commanded that "man sightings" be reported to the authorities immediately, but upon registering the sheer helplessness of this creature, Luba's human compassion (as well as lack of telephone) threw everything she'd learned in school out the window, and she dragged the semi-conscious stranger back to her place, fixing him up as best as her first-aid kit enabled. She spent the rest of the vacation nursing this agent of the Great Satan back to health, by which time she had developed something of a fondness for him. He was clearly a man of experience, with a weathered face and greying hair, yet he had a roguish handsomeness that teased that treacherous biological instinct to surrender to Patriarchal servitude. By his dress and general demeanour he was well-acquainted with outdoor life, probably some stray from the hordes, maybe even a fighter; she asked him where he came from, to which he only replied "there somewhere", with the air of one who didn't keep a fixed home.

He was the manliest man she had ever known, and the first man she'd actually met since the Great Divorce. She'd been braced for a brute, smelly and soiled with a sailor's mouth and a one-track mind; yet even though he'd been a few days from a bath and bore the stubble of a wanderer, he carried himself with a reserved dignity that brought to mind those old oppressive fables of so-called knights-errant. He never once raised his voice (even in pain), never asked personal questions beyond the circumstance of their immediate lodging, and by and large made no indication he had any interest in her at all. Indeed, by his mannerisms one might be led to think he was utterly oblivious both to the Great Divorce and the years leading to it. To put it simply, Luba was star-struck. At the end of the trip when he'd recovered enough that he could be reasonably expected to survive on his own, rather than do the sensible thing and send him on his way, she committed the most unforgivable sin to reason and Feminism.

She invited him home.

As expected, he was too much of a gentleman to impose upon her. But it wasn't some reverse-psychology ploy, a trick to make her think she was leading him; he seemed to genuinely want to press on. Whither he wouldn't say, but she surmised that even if he had once followed a horde, he had no interest in returning. Only after her third impassioned insistence did he finally relent and agree to settle down. Despite the unforgiving social climate and labyrinthine state regulations, it is not impossible to second a man for one's own purposes. The fact that his name is Sasha made the registration process somewhat smoother: 'common sense' prejudices unisex names toward transgendered readings that skip the more invasive questionnaires. The highest hurdle is the virility test: legislation following the Great Divorce mandates all males of reproductive age reside in the breeding camps for as long as they remain viable genetic donors. The most popular way of avoiding the "sperm draft" is voluntary castration; Sasha was unwilling to knife himself but knew enough old-school biochemistry that they managed to cheat the tests. At the end of the ordeal, he was certified a "non-viable donor" and Luba received a title deed declaring him her property. Because his name is on government file, she can't actually call him her biggest secret; nonetheless it has earned her considerable envy amongst her friends.

"They replay these headlines at 11," she replies matter-of-factly, "Not my shows."

He watches the parade of programmes flash across the screen before abruptly turning to her. "Do you ever wonder if it's all just a show?"

"What do you mean?"

"The Fourth Wave." Grinning, Luba turns down the volume before pivoting to face him. Since Sasha can barely poke his head out the door without being pelted by improvised projectiles he has no chance of work, and spends virtually all his time inside the house. She never asked him, but within days of moving in he took charge of the daily chores; likely his way of earning his meagre keep. In spite of years of Women’s Empowerment, it actually took her almost a month to acclimatize herself to the idea of a servant. When he's not busy he's either reading or watching TV news, and unlike his mistress has an acute interest in the full spectrum of politics, regularly teasing her with philosophical debates. "All of this sexual liberation, I mean. Madam Nastasjena does have a point, if a heavily skewed reading of it: thirty years ago polygamy wouldn't even be conscionable, and now they're fighting not simply to legalize it (which in practice it already is), but to enshrine it with the same moral authority as 'traditional' marriage."

"And what's so wrong with that," she retorts gaily, swinging left leg over right, "If these women truly love each other?"

"Nothing, assuming that they're capable of full and unconditional love between multiple spouses. And, given the statistics on 'traditional' marriage, our first question should be: Do they mean it? But..." He shuffles about to face her, stock-straight like a child at storytime. "My question is: Where is the political freedom? Where is the social liberalism? I don't mean for men; I mean for you. Elections are not free, they're not fair... The Party of the Motherland has been in power since as far back as I've been able to read. The only elections of consequence are conducted by the party caucus, and I don't even know if those are open."

"You must understand, dear Sasha," she begins, leaning against the armrest with the let-me-tell-you-a-secret look, "The Volga is in a state of war. We're fighting for our survival against the manhordes out there. As they say: love and war, anything goes. It may not be the most representative arrangement for daily life, but what else do we do? Break ranks and let the barbarians rend civilization asunder?" She shoots him a wink. "Who'll provide your plumbing? Who'll keep your head dry? Who'll earn the money to buy the ingredients to your incomparable Chicken Kiev?"

Sasha grins, rising to his feet. "Of course, milady, how arrogant of this wretched man-cur to presume himself versed in women's prerogatives." Their dialogues have developed a ritual pattern: He broaches a topic, she goads him on; he lays out a detailed argument, she explains he's still thinking in terms of Patriarchal privilege; he concludes with a self-deprecating apology and they both walk off smiling. Getting to know him, Luba finds this wry wit to be one of his salient personality quirks and a subversively attractive foil to her own plain-faced (albeit not entirely naïve) optimism, and the two have developed a knack for playing off each other. Were such programmes not banned by the telecommunications regulatory board, the two might inspire a new take on The Odd Couple.

And yet while their stage-play suggests a mutual condescension, she does, more often than not, take him seriously: despite being pulled from the woods his detailed grasp of both social and party politics bears an insight surpassing many of her colleagues', and indeed (though she would be loath to admit it, even to him) her own. How he acquired such knowledge, and how he managed to stay intellectually stimulated for the past ten years is one of the many mysteries clinging to him. He has never described his past in detail, leaving her to wonder what sort of life he used to lead. Perhaps he was one of the last on board that sinking ship of the Russian Federation?

He makes his way to the kitchen; she was surprised to learn he is also a refined cook. A moment later he pops back into the room. "Salad, or stir-fry?"

"Stir-fry sounds good." A moment passes and she realizes he hasn't moved. "Something wrong?"

He stares at the television, but his eyes aren't following the picture. "It's just... bah, but I've already tired you with my politics!"

"No, really," she fixes him with a meaningful stare, "What is it?"

He takes a moment before speaking, jaw sliding back and forth. "What I said earlier, about diversionary politics... Have you ever noticed how the most controversial sex-lib bills coincide with equally-weighty yet completely unrelated legislation?"

Luba's brow furrows. She's not well-versed in Volgan policy timeline so she can't actually answer, but she gathers that he's done some digging online. "We're not in the midst of a hot-button issue right now," she manages, "Not that I've heard, at least."

"I know," he mutters, unfocused gaze returning to the screen, "And that worries me."