About Sisterland (11 page)

“Did they work?”

“Maybe. Could be your chances improved if you believed they were going to improve. As a fallback, there were various goddesses they petitioned. Some of their goddesses were virgins who were also mothers. Points the way towards the Sisterland model, don’t you think?”

“Benevolence, why don’t we get you something to eat? I don’t like the way the Mating Mother is looking at us.”

“Later. Now, where was I? Oh yes, our PS sisters and their charms and amulets to bring about babyfusion. Ribbons tied onto hawthorns, and statues they rubbed, and something called a miraculous medal worn for luck. Sounds primitive – desperate, even.” Her voice cracked. “And yet, it must have been reassuring to think there was someone you could turn to, who might wave a magic wand and grant your heart’s desire.”

“You’ll feel better with something solid inside you,” said Constance.

“I’d try some of that voodoo myself, if I knew how to go about it.”

“I tasted the hyacinth flan. I can recommend it.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to have a meltdown.” Benevolence managed a smile that almost convinced. “I suppose I don’t have anybody to talk to about this. I’m not othered, you see. Too choosy. Or maybe just unchosen.”

“How do you know so much about PS fertility?”

“I’m a thought-cruncher. You come across all sorts in that line of work.” A shadow crossed her face. “Even if I fail to babyfuse, it’s not as if I’ll get sent to an outer belt. Nothing changes. Not really. Not ever.”

Constance touched Benevolence’s arm. “How long have you been trying?”

“Five years.”

“Lots of women don’t babyfuse. My source’s other spent eight years trying, and never managed it.”

“Bet she has a big job, though.”

“Thought-crafter.”

“I knew it. Crème de la crème. Women like her are given a free pass through life because their skills are needed.”

“All work has equal value in Sisterland, Benevolence.”

“Don’t be such a pearl. It’s a convenient fable – doesn’t bear scrutiny. Look round the Tower. Who scrapes up the wax from those candles? Dusts those repulsive gargoyles? Sanitises the mating cubes? It’s not men, that’s for sure. The meets are needed for mating. And non-meets wouldn’t be let anywhere near matingplace for fear of unauthorised mating. No, all those menial tasks are carried out by women. Don’t tell me their work is treated on the same level as a thought-crafter’s.”

Constance eyed Benevolence’s sig again: was she really a thought-cruncher? It was a respected job – crunchers were trained to dispose of thoughts judged to be unsuitable. But it probably didn’t offer much scope for individuality. Crunchers didn’t select the thoughts, or replace them with different ones. They just discarded. “Aren’t you fulfilled by your work, Benevolence?”

“It was chosen for me in my last year at girlplace, the same as shaping was chosen for you. They mindmapped me, and decided creativity shouldn’t be encouraged. Said it posed certain risks, in my case – whatever that means.” She waved at an attendant for more wine.

“The ideal job doesn’t exist.”

“At least you get to interface,” said Benevolence. “My job is solitary.”

“I haven’t been out in the field yet.”

Benevolence squinted at her, malice gleaming in her eyes. “So, let’s see if I have this straight. Shapers circulate new policies, encouraging sisters to welcome them. But sisters can object, and reservations are reported back to the Shaper Mother, who conveys them to the Nine. Leading to tweaks in policy, right?”

“We’re told the Nine is always willing to consider improvements. Provided objections are constructive and mannerly.” Constance’s tone conveyed some doubt, however.

Lately, it had struck Constance that it took a particular type of Sisterlander to spot problems in strategy. An individual. Yet individualism was discouraged. During shaper training, it was explained that individualism was, of course, welcome in principle. But not individualism which promoted uncertainty. Or led to friction. So individuals who refused to compromise had to be sacrificed, occasionally. It was regrettable, but unavoidable. To this end, shapers were also schooled in how to identify potential dissenters, and report back on them to Shaperhaus. What happened subsequently was not a shaper’s concern. The presumption was that they were sent for thought-mending. But no-one knew for sure.

Constance tried to psyche herself back into good Sisterlander mode. “There’s always the comfort of knowing your work contributes to universal sisterhood.”

“The best thing about being a shaper must be the chance to travel. There has to be more to life than Harmony.”

“Don’t crunchers travel?”

“Not a chance. We’re stuck in an office. I don’t
actually do any crunching. I spend all my time in front of a screen, checking endless forms to make sure thoughts are crunched according to procedure. And I’m starting to realise why procedures are so rigidly imposed. Shall I tell you why? It’s all about conformity and submission.”

“On the contrary.” The Mating Mother materialised beside them. “It’s about consistency and order. Now, Benevolence, I believe you’re over-tired – time for you to go to the respite room, and take a nap.”

“I’m not sleepy. I want to go to a mating cube. It’s show time, isn’t it?”

“Not tonight, Benevolence.” The Mating Mother clapped her hands together, and Tower staff stopped what they were doing and began to approach.

“I want to babyfuse!”

Six pages circled Benevolence. One of them removed the goblet to which she was clinging. They steered her towards the door, dealing with her as firmly as a fractious toddler.

“Bullies!” she roared, writhing in their arms, and the strings on her amber snapped, beads hopping on the floor.

The Mating Mother looked on, enigmatic.

“Why do we need licences for babyfusion anyway?” shrieked Benevolence.

“Manners, dear,” said one of the stewards. “Yelling is simply not acceptable.
It’s Nice To Be Nice
.”

Constance wished she had the courage to speak up in Benevolence’s defence. Benevolence seemed not to expect any help but, just for a moment, their eyes locked. And in them, Constance saw a glimmer. Not an appeal. Closer to a challenge.

“Don’t be fooled!” Benevolence cried. “This is a fantasy world, but it’s just as controlled as the one outside!”

A hand covered her mouth, and Benevolence was led from the room.

Constance bent to retrieve the amber, but the beads had scattered in every direction. She cupped a few in one hand, covering them with the other.

“Dear me, what a state she managed to work herself into. Such unrestricted moes.” The Mating Mother was thoughtful as she adjusted her fur-trimmed sleeves. “See how unhappy they makes the poor thing. The Nine is wise to insist on moe regulation. I haven’t availed of my quota for almost a decade. I don’t miss it.”

The incident changed the atmosphere in the readying room. The air was ruffled, sisters staring in their direction. The Mating Mother clapped her hands, and a band of minstrels began to play, while more wine was distributed. The tiny woman assessed the scene, eyes darting from face to face.

By and by, her demeanour relaxed. She turned back to Constance. “Are you ready?”

Constance hesitated. She wasn’t unwilling to see Harper again – on the contrary, she was looking forward to it – but the scene she’d just witnessed needed to be processed.

“Reluctance becomes you,” said the Mating Mother. “Some of our sisters have to be reminded it’s procreational rather than recreational. Still, you won’t babyfuse standing here.”

“Ready,” said Constance.

“Excellent. I’ll take those.” She nodded towards the spheres of amber.

Handing them over, Constance felt a flicker of reluctance. She wanted to keep them for Benevolence.

“I’ll send someone with you to the mating cube.”

“I know the way now.”

“We can’t have people wandering round matingplace unsupervised. Anything might happen.”

“Women and men might mate,” suggested Constance.

The Mating Mother’s eyes flattened.

Constance sensed she was sailing close to the wind. “I feel fertile,” she said quickly.

“Top girl! Let’s have you act on it.”

Chapter 9

Harper was waiting for her. She knew it by the two quick paces he advanced, as soon as she entered the mating cube. It gave her pleasure to realise it. She waited while the key was turned in the door behind her, before pulling off her pumps so they were both barefoot.

“You came back,” he said.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I didn’t do what I’m supposed to. You could be dissatisfied with me.”

“Because we didn’t mate? Only two people know that: you and me.”

“You could have told someone.”

How vulnerable he must feel. An unfamiliar moe welled up: not a shadow-moe, but a blast of the genuine article. Constance recognised it, having felt a scaled-down version once before, when she was a small girl and found an injured frog. She had made a pet of the creature, but one day it had hopped away. The moe inflating through her was protectiveness.

“I didn’t tell anybody,” she said. “You must trust me.”

“Must?”

“I mean I want you to trust me.” A beat. “Please.” This was extraordinary, from a woman to a man. Surely he’d appreciate that?

“What choice do I have?”

How prickly he was being. The ease she had felt with him the previous night seemed elusive, and its absence disappointed her. She tried to reach him. “We didn’t do anything wrong. Mating isn’t mandatory.”

“It is for me. I’m not free to refuse. If I do, I’ll be punished.”

“You mustn’t tell untruths. We don’t punish in Sisterland: we send misguided people to the listeners. After a few sessions, they see sense.”

“Is that what they tell you? Nobody’s punished? Surely you don’t believe that!”

Constance bit the soft flesh on her thumb pad. “I know men aren’t sent for listening,” she admitted. “I suppose I’ve never given much thought to what happens to them.”

“That’s obvious. Men are packed off to the outer belts. To Grey Disjoint, with mosquitos biting all year round. Or Black Particle, where there’s only an hour of daylight.”

“We have limited resources to reclaim people who go astray. Women must take precedence.”

Below the blindfold, a nerve twitched on Harper’s cheek. “Even women are punished in Sisterland. They’re sent to Black Particle – to Safe Space.”

Safe Space. The name caused Constance’s heartbeat to skip.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me Safe Space is just a scare-story?” he challenged.

By the nightlight’s glow, Constance began to run her hands over the walls of the mating cube, trying to find an eavesdropping device. Over and over, she’d been told the cube was private. But would Sisterland really honour that principle?

When she was through, she whispered, “What do you know about Safe Space?”

“I heard about it here in the compound. It’s how the Nine deals with opposition.”

“I’ve never heard of any opposition. But I suppose . . .”

“They’d hush it up,” he finished her sentence for her.

“There’s nothing beyond Black Particle. It’s where everything ends. That’s why Safe Space is there. But we shouldn’t talk about it. Nobody’s meant to know it exists. We could get in trouble just for speaking its name.”

“I’m going to stay out of trouble.” There was a catch in his voice. “They’ll let me go home once I’ve given them what they want. A year, I’ve been told. A year is manageable. I just have to put in the time. Inside my head, I stored an image of the last sunset I saw in my forest. I take it out and look at it when I need to – a ball of colour, bursting through the treetops. It helps to think about my forest waiting for me. The time will pass. A year is a blink of an eye to a tree.”

Constance wondered if she should warn him that the year only referred to the Tower. After it, he’d spend another year in a different matingplace, and then another: twenty years, in total. If he survived that long. Yet how could she shatter his hopes?

“I’m lucky I wasn’t sent to matingplace before now,” Harper went on. “My forest is remote. But a shaper came, and noted down all the suitable men. And so here I am. Shaved, scented, stripped. Semi-stripped – they let me keep my leggings. At your service.”

“Don’t.” Impulsively, she caught him by the upper arms. Unexpectedly, she became aware of a pleasurable sensation: the curve of biceps. She dropped her hands, but not before he noticed her altered demeanour.

“Do you require me to mate with you now?”

“I don’t require anything of you. I’m not here to make demands.”

He began to say something, but thought better of it. Sighing, he pressed the heel of each palm against the blindfold.

“Does it bother you that I can see you when you can’t see me?”

“But I can see you.”

“Is the blindfold loose? Or transparent?”

“I see you in my mind’s eye.”