“This is your first time in matingplace, isn’t it? Me too. I wasn’t supposed to be a source yet. But something happened, and it’s been decided I should babyfuse. If I can.”
“Men are lucky to be a link in the chain. That’s what the Mating Mother says.”
“Do you feel lucky?”
He turned his head away. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t understand what?”
“Why you’re doing this. Trying to know me. Why should you care?”
Constance had no answer. Except that he was another living being – a man, granted, not as evolved as a woman – not as clever, or as reliable, or as certain of the difference between right and wrong. But not radically different, either. He seemed able to experience moes all on his own. That was more than many women could manage, thanks to a century of having them suppressed. Even her shadow-moes didn’t compare with the intensity of his, judging by his demeanour.
“Are all men like you? You’re not what I expected.”
“I was supposed to take something. To make me the way you wanted. I didn’t.”
“How did you avoid it?”
“Before they brought us upstairs, they handed out pills. But someone slipped, and water was spilled. In the confusion, I put my pill under my tongue. One of the older men told me about mating pills. They make us more eager to perform, but the men who keep taking them never reach old age. One day, the man’s heart stops beating.”
Constance told herself a man’s life was of less significance than a woman’s. Still, it seemed wrong to use them in this way. And there it was again. Another indicator that men weren’t clamouring to mate.
“Don’t you want to do your duty to Sisterland?” she asked.
“How is it my duty to mate with you? I don’t know you. I ought to have a choice about doing it.” He spoke in a matter-of-fact way, but his words made her defensive.
“I don’t have a choice, either. You were assigned to me, just as I was to you.”
“You have some choice. You could change your mind, and leave without mating. Or you could say I displeased you, and ask for a different man. I have no rights. I’m treated like an animal. Though that’s nothing new – it happened from boyplace onwards. That’s when you had us chipped as if we were beasts!”
“It’s so your movements can be tracked. But I wear a comtel – I’m tracked, too.” She reached out a hand to touch him, but let it fall. “I won’t make you go through with mating. We can just talk till time’s up. I won’t breathe a word to the Mating Mother – nobody needs to know.”
He inclined his head, as though accepting the bare minimum of what was due to him. It forced Constance to press on.
“I know you’re not an animal. I’m sorry you feel –” She stumbled to a halt.
What did it matter how he felt? Feelings were a barrier to progress. Besides, men had sacrificed their humanity by incessant warmongering, and by their addiction to capitalism which had made one per cent of the population not just rich but indifferent to the remaining ninety-nine per cent struggling. That’s what she’d learned in girlplace.
“I know you think we’re beneath you,” he said. “All women do. But you can’t have men without women, or women without men. We’re interdependent.”
“Only for babyfusion. Women don’t need men for anything else.”
“And what if men said no? Where would Sisterland be then?”
“It would be difficult,” admitted Constance. “But it’s a meet’s duty to attempt babyfusion with a woman licensed to become a source.”
“Back to duty again. How can you talk to me about duty when only women are citizens of Sisterland? You use our labour. And give us nothing in return. We’re invisible to you. But we exist. We think. And we feel!”
Constance’s certainties began to crack. Her silkenspeak training had taught her to mould information according to the message the Nine chose to convey. But he stripped down facts with no attempt to rearrange them. And while he was intense, there was none of the aggressive behaviour she had heard men engaged in. Indignation, yes, and conviction. But she would feel the same way in his position. If she could feel moes as freely as him.
“How is it you have so many moes?”
He considered. “I don’t remember much in the way of moes in boyplace. But when I went to work in the forest, they began to grow. In the fresh air, where there were no walls to fence me in, it was natural to feel. I try to curb my moes here in Harmony. I don’t want to draw attention to myself.” His nostrils flared. “I hope I don’t have to spend long in matingplace. A man and woman should mate outdoors, with the smells and sounds of the land about them. Not in these cubes. Where’s the joy or beauty in that?”
“It’s not about joy or beauty. It’s about results.”
“Joy and beauty matter. They can’t be set aside. Nature makes space for them – people should learn from that.”
Such fire! It was unsettling. Constance retreated to the pop-up.
“Have I displeased you?” he asked.
“On the contrary, I’m impressed. But I’m not used to so much passion – it causes turbulence. We strive to be composed here in Sisterland. I haven’t encountered a moe outburst like yours before. Perhaps it’s because you’re closer to nature, as you say. I rarely go into the countryside. We have everything we need here in Harmony.” Then, unable to help herself, she asked, “Is nature really such an extraordinary force?”
“Yes. But nature’s been stripped out of the tamed patches of land near Harmony. I saw those timid spaces as we approached the city. Nature is gone from this place, too, with its squashed buildings, and low skies, and those buzzing trains no man is allowed on. If you could only stand under a high blue sky, looking towards a horizon with no beginning and no end, then you’d be conscious of something so powerful that nothing else would matter. You might feel insignificant. But you’d also know happiness.”
Constance’s pulse raced. She struggled for self-control. “Harmony’s an aesthetically designed city. Our buildings and streets are pleasing to the eye.”
He made a gesture of impatience. “No building can match a forest with treetops that pierce the clouds.”
“We have clouds in Harmony.”
“Nothing but clouds! Is the sky never blue?”
“Not really. But cloud patterns can be fascinating. I love to watch banks of them form into shapes.”
The man’s teeth showed: the suspicion of a smile, gone before it was fully formed. “If clouds move you, then my forest will grip you by the heart, and never let go.” He started towards her, unsteady because of his blindfold, and she stretched out a hand to guide him. Sitting beside her on the pop-up, he spoke of his home, and the words tumbling from his mouth captivated her. She curved her mind towards his description of the sudden drama of shooting stars, and the tranquillity of moonlight reflected on glass sheets of water. Of the rapture let loose by spongy turf underfoot, and footsteps crunching over virgin snow. Of the sense of responsibility he felt for a line of saplings stretching their branches towards the light. Of the protective swell that overcame him at the brittleness of their bark beneath his hand – which she imagined, with an itching in her palm, that she could feel. As he spoke, and she listened, their heartbeats synchronised to the same pace.
A bell rang inside the cube. “Your two hours are up,” said an automated voice.
It was more than an interruption. It was an intrusion.
Rapidly, she pulled on her pumps. “I have to leave,” she whispered. “I don’t even know your name.”
“I don’t know yours, either.”
A clatter at the door told them it was being unlocked.
“It seems wrong not to know,” said Constance.
He put his mouth to her ear. “I’m Harper.”
“I’m Constance. I can return tomorrow . . . if you like.”
He nodded.
Chapter 8
In the respite room, the surfeit of images shared
by Harper left Constance breathless. His forest world had been summoned to life with a vibrancy lacking in Harmony. A pulse of longing stirred in her for a kinship as intense as his relationship with the earth. Cocooned in the city, Constance never thought about the land, and what grew in it, or lived on it, or hovered above it. The land seemed an irrelevance: society was what mattered. Yet societies were artificial, after all. The history she’d learned told her they rose and fell, whereas the land continued.
The Mating Mother took her by the elbows and scrutinised her, eyelids twitching as she circumnavigated the outer reaches of Constance’s mind. Constance managed to keep her from encroaching any closer.
“You’re changed. You must have mated well, top girl! Shower, relax. You’re free to stay tonight in the Tower, or go home if you prefer.”
Constance thought about Harper upstairs, or wherever he was now in matingplace. He must be somewhere under this roof. Some quality in this man made her receptive to him. It mystified her, but she acknowledged that it was so. “I’d like to stay.”
“Then stay you shall. We have cubicles attached to the respite room. Give your skin to one of my girls to store until you mate again. We want you to feel completely at home here.”
Constance slid her fingers under her throat and unhooked it. Balancing it in her hand, she considered how its warmth lacked the heat of life. Did Harper brush against it when he whispered his name? It must have felt false to him.
“What happens to men after they mate, mother? Do they mate again the same night with a different woman?”
“Let me take that skin, you’re squeezing it hard enough to damage it. No, they only mate with one woman a night. Multiple mating isn’t considered sound practice. Some meets would be able for it, but we like to ensure a meet is at his peak for each mating. We owe due diligence to the women seeking babyfusion. After they perform, meets are taken to a compound at the back of the Tower to eat, and sleep. Meets assigned to my matingplace want for nothing.”
Constance doubted if Harper would agree that he wanted for nothing here. “I’ve never been alone with a man before. It wasn’t what I expected. There was nothing threatening about him.”
“Now, now, men would try to overthrow Sisterland if we relaxed our vigilance. The desire to dominate is latent in them, and always ready to rise to the surface. Tonight must have been a pleasurable experience. Well, no harm, we encourage pleasure. It sweetens the pill. But don’t be fooled by your meet – men are riddled with belligerence and greed. Sometimes, they have disarming ways. But they’re tools, nothing more. You must think of them as the spoon bringing food to your mouth, or the tap carrying water to your shower. Speaking of which, I’ll have one of my girls show you to a bathroom. You’ll want to wash the male odour off your body.”
Next morning, as soon as Constance stirred, she was brought breakfast in bed. The matingplace stewards were treating her like an invalid in recovery. She pecked at fruit, trying to envisage the landscape described by Harper. The trees in Harmony were pruned, while the countryside of Green Hyperreal, just beyond the city, was tamed and tidied. She almost laughed to think what he’d make of their grass, treated so that it never grew more than an inch high and was a consistent colour.
She fell to wondering if he had any curiosity about her appearance. Probably not, since he only touched her when he thought he was under orders to do it. She ought to go home, she supposed. But how self-indulgent it would be to idle away the day here in the Tower! Why not take the chance when it was offered?
She looked for her leggings and tunic, and found they hadn’t been brought to her cubicle. Missing, too, were last night’s clothes, although the pumps were there. Instead, another long gown was laid out, and her fingers couldn’t help but stroke the saffron ribbons on its sleeves. She dressed, and swished through the deserted respite room. In the readying room, Tower stewards were clearing away the detritus of the previous night. It was less opulent by day, with food trodden through the rushes. But new rushes were being laid to replace the old. Constance recognised Unity, the greeter from the previous night, who was supervising the work. She looked a little discontented, until she saw Constance and forced her face into a smile.
“Excuse me, sister. Where are my clothes?”
“They’re safe. When you leave, they’ll be returned to you. In the meantime, you’ll be supplied with a new gown each morning. I hope you like today’s?”
“It’s lovely. Does this mean I’m allowed to stay here all day?”
“Of course, sister.”
“And tomorrow?”
“That depends. How many days into ovulation are you?”
“This is day two.”
“Then you may stay for five nights. Or you can leave and return, as you choose.”
“Always mating with the same partner as before?”
“Yes – you’ve been allocated that particular meet.”
“Thank you, sister. One more question. How long is a man kept here?”
“You mean a meet,” Unity corrected her.
“They’re men, too.”
“But these men are more valuable than most. There’s no higher calling, for a man.”
“How long do they stay in matingplace?”
“Depends on how well they score. If a meet is particularly virile, he may keep going for twenty years. Every year, he’s rotated between different establishments.”
Twenty years! Poor Harper. “Why move the men about so much?”
“What a lot of questions, sister. Your curiosity is highly unusual.”
“I’m floundering, just a little. I didn’t manage to attend a Mating Board seminar, you see.” Constance tried another tack, remembering that discontented expression. “Sister, it seems a waste of your talents to have you superintending pages cleaning up the readying room. Don’t you have admin to do? Or aren’t there opportunities to upskill?”
“Too right it’s a waste of my talents,” muttered Unity. “Thank you for noticing.” She looked over her shoulder, before lowering her voice. “Meets are rotated in case bonds develop between them and matingplace staff. It’s rare. And unnatural. But it has to be guarded against.” She cleared her throat, checking back over her shoulder again.
“What happens after twenty rotations? Does he go home then?” asked Constance.
“By that stage, a meet is judged to be past his peak.”
“And he goes back to where he came from?”
“Few last that long. Most are spent before then.”
“Spent?”
“They discontinue.”
“What a life!”
Unity raised her eyebrows. “It is an honour.”
Constance collected herself. “Of course. They must be proud to serve Sisterland.”
“Being selected for matingplace is a plum position. They do no manual work, and their health is constantly checked. They eat the finest quality supplies, and have exercise and recreation opportunities.”
Before Constance could ask any more questions, a bell pinged.
“Covenant time,” said Unity. She held out a hand to Constance, and they formed a circle with the pages. “Not the self but the State, not me but US. To the greater good: to universal sisterhood.”
As soon as they were finished, Unity said she was needed elsewhere. Constance decided to take another shower, since there seemed to be no shortage of hot water in the Tower – unlike in her twoser, rationed to thirty-five minutes a week per head. Users could eke it out over seven days, or save it up, as they chose.
She luxuriated under the hot stream of water, giving herself permission not to think, or fret, or plan. Just to bask. Afterwards, stretched out on a pop-up, on top of a counterpane of quilted taffeta, she decided to treat this as a holiday – something she had read about, but never experienced. There were snacks in the cubicle if she felt hungry, an entscreen for programmes of Nine-approved educational value, and a dial for Sisterland’s music-only radio channels. Speech radio had been withdrawn
some decades earlier.
She leaned out of the pop-up and opened the door of a locker. Books – what a treat! Books were restricted because the Nine said there were too many unhealthy messages in them. Fiction was no longer published. However, edited histories showing the PS Era to be harmful were allowed – although Constance suspected they were sanitised accounts. Philosophy books were permitted, along with approved biographies and self-help manuals. And, of course, Beloved’s Pearls had never gone out of print. Collections of verse were virtually uncensored, as Silence had discovered – the red-pens hadn’t realised how poetry could be home to anarchic ideas. However, hardly any sisters understood how to read poetry. The few who picked up a collection were bewildered by it, because they read it only with their eyes.
Constance lifted out a volume to browse through. It was a book of photographs without captions. She became engrossed in the black-and-white images of ruined properties, ranging from thatched cottages to stately homes. Even a crofter’s cabin acquired a majestic quality in its dilapidated state. She turned the pages. What kind of people had lived in them? There was nobody in any of the photographs. Yet these buildings were put up for people, by people. A radical thought came to her. They might have been put up for women and men to live in. Together.
A gong boomed. She checked the time on her comtel. Unexpectedly, the day had fast-forwarded.
This time, she needed no guide to direct her to the readying room, where food covered the table and fresh candles burned in all the sconces. The Mating Mother glided here, there and everywhere, keeping a close watch on the proceedings. With a mead-server in tow, she advanced towards Constance, oozing welcome, and a chalice was placed in her hand. Constance sipped, and sank into the same unwinding experience as before.
She saw the Mating Mother wag a finger at the mead-server who was moving away.
“You must do better, Amity. Our guests don’t deserve that face. Smile All The While.” She redirected her attention to Constance. “I trust you enjoyed your day, top girl?”
About Sisterland Page 7
