Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
GLOSSARY
Interview with the author
Book Club Topics
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Published 2015
by Poolbeg Press Ltd
123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle
Dublin 13, Ireland
www.wardriverpress.com
© Martina Devlin 2015
Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook
© Poolbeg Press Ltd
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781781991886
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.poolbeg.com
Acknowledgements
Sincere thanks to all those who read drafts of this novel at different stages of its genesis. Each one made helpful suggestions, particularly the people who came from the future (just checking who’s still reading).
They are Justin Blanchard, Tonia Blanchard, Lia Mills, Betty Murphy, Jerry Murphy, David Murphy, Mary Pearson and Sarah Webb. I recruited them as unofficial members of Team Sisterland, and they all deserve medals.
Thanks to the unsung heroes at Ward River Press who made a valuable contribution to the book. In particular, I would like to acknowledge Gaye Shortland, a generous and tireless editor, as well as publisher Paula Campbell for her unwavering support.
Finally, thanks to my agent Lucy Luck of Aitken Alexander Associates, who keeps on keeping on for all of us scribblers.
For Mary Carr, with thanks
“It will be like a nunnery under an abbess – a peaceful, harmonious sisterhood.”
Herland by Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Chapter 1
Constance 500 pushed through the air-swamp, following a tree-of-life etched on the pavement. She had a faint recollection from babyhood of air tickling her body – a reminder that, once upon a time, it came in different consistencies. But gloopy air was normal now in Harmony. She had learned as a girl about different climates throughout their great state, but she hadn’t yet been awarded a permit to visit anywhere else in Sisterland. The pavement pattern led Constance past Beloved Park, with its giant statue of Sisterland’s founder. A good Sisterlander would detour in, and pay her respects to Beloved, but Constance was on a mission. It led her to Moe Express.
Outside, she paused to watch the hologram sign change colour, as it did every twenty seconds to follow the palette of the rainbow. Just now, it was shading from indigo to violet, and she took a moment to admire the transition. Fearless use of colour was a celebration of nature: that’s what Sisterlanders learned in girlplace, and practised in their dress code. Except they all wore uniforms at work, and working hours were long, so platforms to showcase personal preferences were rare. Still, the uniforms were tasteful.
The shop door split horizontally across the middle, one half lifting and the other lowering, at Constance’s approach. A perfume of roses wafted out. At least, it was the fragrance which represented roses, because flowers no longer produced their own scent. Sometimes, Constance wondered if the smell of pink roses had differed from white back in the Pre-Sisterland Era – the PS days. Once, she had put the question to a memory-keeper, who had stared at her before admitting that she didn’t know.
So, the true memory of rose scent was lost. What Sisterlanders smelled now was an approximation. And if that was the case with roses, perhaps it applied to other flowers. Such doubts overtook Constance occasionally, even though nobody was supposed to feel sceptical any more. It was counter-productive. Its moe1 certification had been withdrawn.
Inside Moe Express, a flicker waited behind the counter. At Constance’s approach, she smiled brightly through her glossy skin – the mask moulded precisely to the contours of her face. Constance could tell this was a cheap skin: the smile quality didn’t convince. It took an expensive skin to pull off a smile.
“How may I help you, sister?”
“A U, please, sister.”
“Excellent choice.”
The flicker pulled on a pair of elbow-high gloves and approached a tall unit, from which a background hum flowed. Like all who practised the flicker trade, her movements were nimble and economical. Her fingertips pecked at a keypad on the left side of the unit, and its front changed from ice-white to smoky. A diamond-shaped cavity appeared at eye level, with a corresponding holder an arm’s length below. A whoosh was followed by a thud. Into the padded holder was deposited a jar, also diamond-shaped, and glowing.
The flicker set it on the counter, and took up a close-woven silk net attached to a length of bamboo. An air of concentration transfigured her. She pressed the lid of the container, which flew open, and out floated one of the tiny clouds causing the jar to shine. It shut tight again at once. With a fast-forward jump, the flicker gave a spin of the wrist and trapped the cloud, dropping a flap over the top of the net. Still holding the net, which had taken on a luminous primrose tint, she replaced the jar in the holder, tapped another code into the keypad, and the moes were whisked back into the unit.
“One portion of U, sister. Such a pretty moe.”
Simply looking at the U almost made Constance feel its Upbeat lift – impossible, of course. Moe spontaneity had withered away. Moes were reined in and managed.
“I’d be worried about letting them float away if I did your job.” Constance nodded towards the net.
“I’m careful. A friend of mine let her attention wander, and an entire jar of Exes flew into the street. They caused mayhem. Some kids on an educational trip inhaled them, and their teachers couldn’t control them. They wouldn’t sing their obedience song, or march in step, or stay in pairs. They wouldn’t do anything they were told.”
“I suppose the moes wore off after a couple of hours.”
“Took longer than usual – the kids were underage. My friend was re-assigned. They sent her to Brown Convolution.”
“Ouch!”
“At least i
t’s a middle belt. She was landed with boyplace duties. Doubt if I’ll ever see her again. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she’s proud to do it for Sisterland. But I don’t envy her spending all day surrounded by boy-men!”
Another twist, and the U was transferred from net to bag, and sealed airtight. Constance admired the dexterity.
“Remember to use this within four hours for best results. Can I interest you in anything else? An N, maybe? A new batch was just delivered.”
“Better not.”
“Of course. Unchecked moes held us back for centuries. They’re an indulgence – we can enjoy them best in moderation.” The flicker parroted a lesson from Beloved’s Pearls, the small, circular book with a pearlised cover given to every newborn Sisterlander. “I see from your sig you’re a shaper. What an honour to be chosen.”
Constance glanced down at the signifier embedded onto the outer wrist of her right hand: Constance 500 φφ– the φφ stood for thought-shaper, and had been added last year. She read the flicker’s wrist: Fidelity 81026 ⇔ .
“I dreamed of going forward for shaping but I wasn’t selected,” continued the flicker.
“I was fortunate to be singled out,” said Constance.
“What’s it like to travel outside Harmony? I don’t suppose I’ll ever earn a permit. I’m glued to the entscreen when there’s a travel programme shown.”
“I haven’t been sent on a posting yet.”
Constance couldn’t admit that she wasn’t working as a shaper, despite her qualification – she was among the first intake on a new training course. And she was forbidden from talking about it. Recruits to the programme hadn’t even been allocated a replacement symbol for their wrist stamp. “Time enough when you take up your new roles,” they were told. “The fewer questions, the better.”
She changed the subject. “Do you have a favourite moe? You must be a connoisseur.”
“I find a Co helps me to relax. Much more efficient than old-fashioned aids like alcohol, with all those harmful side-effects.”
What a pearl, thought Constance, who liked the odd glass of sunset wine. Silence had been fond of it, too. Don’t think about Silence, cautioned a voice in her head. With an effort, she concentrated on what the flicker was saying.
“That blast of contentment is a treat worth waiting all week for. Forty els, please.”
“Forty? Last time it was thirty-five.”
“They’re becoming trickier to manufacture. When you’re ready, sister.” The flicker turned the pay console towards Constance.
Constance held up her wrist, sig side out, and her image appeared on the screen. A twang of authorisation, the purchase was debited from Constance’s elements’ account, and marked on her moe chart.
A light, inexpressive voice spoke. “This uses up your moe quotient for the next seven days. You have eighty-five elements remaining. Kindly practise economy.”
Constance pulled a face. She intercepted an admiring glance at her skin from the flicker – although high-sheen, like all skins, it was a flexible model, and had been expensive. “I’m on a spending spree at the moment,” she admitted. “As a distraction. I had some bad news recently.”
Dutiful, the flicker said, “We must guard against mindless consumption.”
That’s enough of Beloved’s Pearls for one day, thought Constance.
She slipped the purchase into her leggings, and stepped out onto the street. The U had to be inhaled someplace quiet, where its buoyant properties could be absorbed fully. There was nothing worse than losing part of a moe before it was ingested properly. She looked left, towards the twoser she had shared with Silence. Not there. It had a lingering sense of emptiness. Was emptiness a moe? Not exactly. But it penetrated like one.
She looked right, towards Eternity Square, where Shaperhaus stood. It was some distance off, but easy to spot. Above the building soared a pair of giant wings, studded with pieces of glass which trapped and reflected the light. These wings, added for aesthetic reasons, lent it dramatic impact. They also meant space had to be left around it: the architectural equivalent of a pair of elbows sticking out. Constance had graduated from there as a shaper almost a year earlier, but instead of being sent out into Sisterland to promote approved thoughts, she had been chosen for additional training. A new role, and patriotic. But confidential. Just thirteen newly licensed shapers had been selected to participate. Now, they were nearing the end of the theory stage, and a practical apprenticeship was due to follow soon. Today was their weekly rest day.
Constance had been flattered when the Shaper Mother had told her she was to be groomed for new duties. But the reality of what Sisterland proposed disturbed her, a shadow-moe increasing in intensity as the course progressed. It wasn’t that she had reservations about the job itself. She understood why alternative arrangements were necessary. But what she was learning to do seemed manipulative and – she hardly dared to let herself think it – dishonest. Constance was becoming infected by misgivings which she could not express openly.
Doubts about Sisterland itself.
Chapter 2
Constance decided to go to Beloved Park to ingest the U. It was choreographed round a pearlised statue of Beloved – all images of the founder were pearlised, because she had expressed a preference for it in life, and over time her wishes had acquired the status of commands. Her vision and charisma had guided Sisterland in its formative years. Sisterlanders left flowers at Beloved’s feet, so that there was always a festival of colour surrounding the statue’s base, sometimes blocking the lettering: Not me but US.
Already, Constance was fired up from the moe throbbing in her pocket. After she took it, she might dance through the streets. No, of course she couldn’t – it would be frowned on as unruly. The peers would tick her off. Perhaps she could buy a hoop of little bells and shake them – their sound pleased her. Silence had worn an ankle chain with a bell which tinkled when she moved, like the bell that used to hang from a cat’s collar.
No-one had seen a cat in years. Like dogs, they were extinct. Which meant a vermin-extermination patrol had to be set up to deal with the rat problem. Constance was relieved she hadn’t been reassigned to those duties. She always admired images of cats in books, when she came across them – attracted to their elegance and air of detachment. Silence called Constance ‘Kipling’s cat’ because she liked to walk alone. Silence was fond of poetry. Everyone in Sisterland was meant to be in favour of it, because it was not just beguiling but functional – verses promoting public spirit and cohesion had a purpose. But few people bothered with it. Silence had said poetry would be banned, too, if the Nine who ruled Sisterland realised how moe-rich it was. But hardly anyone read any more. Books were decorative objects rather than wellsprings of information. There were no buildings given over exclusively to books, as there had been in PS days.
“No more about Silence,” whispered Constance.
She looked up as a sleek, metallic Buzz train hummed overhead on its elevated tracks. Passing a flower-basket attached to a lamppost on the corner of Virtue Boulevard, the scent of jasmine enveloped her, and she picked up her pace to escape it. The gardening teams which injected the perfume daily sometimes laid it on with a heavy hand. She avoided the congested area near Beloved’s statue, instead choosing a bench beside the fountain. It spouted peach-coloured water, and a sign invited sisters to vote on the following day’s dye. She decided against voting. A dereliction of her civic duty, but so be it.
A man was sucking scum and algae from the fountain with a disposal unit, which vacuumed up objects and compressed them into molecules. Constance was resigned to his company. No woman in Sisterland enjoyed proximity to a man, but it was less unpleasant in the open air because his physical presence was diluted. Not that he was threatening – from birth, men were injected with drugs to reduce testosterone production, making them docile. It was for their own good, otherwise they were inclined to be disruptive.
She watched him working, while he studiously avo
ided looking at her. He was more blur than flesh, taught to be inconspicuous. His smoke-grey, hooded, one-piece garment left only a few inches of face visible. The stiff collar reached up to the base of his nose, and the hood ended at his eyebrows. The patch of flesh exposed to the air had a scraped texture – no wonder, when men didn’t wear skins. Only women slotted on the feather-light, transparent masks which covered faces from hairline to throat, protecting them from environmental damage. It meant even elderly women had scarcely a wrinkle.
When he moved away, Constance took out the bag containing her moe, lowered her head, and tapped the seal. It flew open, the U wafted upwards, and she inhaled. At once, a sense of possibilities suffused her. Optimism swelled, the way sunshine strokes chilled flesh, until a peak was reached. And retained. She raised her arms high above her head, face upturned to the sky.
How wonderful it was to live in such an enlightened community! One where all women were equal members of the universal sisterhood. Not me but US. She was lucky to belong to such an advanced society. And to be entrusted with a special job. She must forget her silly qualms, no more than the wheeling of a tired mind still struggling with what Silence had done. Silence’s act of disloyalty shouldn’t be interpreted as evidence of misgivings about Sisterland. After all, Sisterland was a perfect state, a state of perfection.
“I am a wave sweeping in with the tide,” Constance sang out. “I make a difference as part of the whole.” She laughed aloud, quoting Beloved, and the water splashed in the fountain, laughing along with her.
About Sisterland Page 1
