About Sisterland

by Martina Devlin

  “It’s heavenly here, mother. I wallowed in it.”

  “That’s as it should be. The usual rules are suspended in matingplace. Now, finish your mead, and then have something to eat. Yesterday, you only picked at food. You need to build up your strength for the task ahead.”

  Constance filled her plate.

  A woman beside her reached for the cheese, and Constance jogged her elbow by accident. “Sorry, I’ve spilled your wine.”

  “No harm done. They’ll give me more. As much as I like. Unlike that delicious mead, which they hoard like misers.”

  “I’m not usually so clumsy. It’s all this excess – it makes me reel,” said Constance.

  “The wine went on the floor, not over me. Besides, the rushes catch the drips. Glad I don’t have the job of changing them every day.”

  “If I worked in matingplace, I’d volunteer to be a mead-server.”

  “If I was in charge of the mead, I might forget about the guests and serve myself instead!” The stranger laughed, and Constance joined in.

  They looked one another over, discovering compatibility. Constance glanced at the sig on her wrist. Benevolence 101. Oh, she was a thought-cruncher. She didn’t look the type.

  “This is my first time here,” said Benevolence. Around her narrow neck, below a fine-boned face, multiple strings of amber were wrapped, and she plucked at them constantly with her free hand. The other held tight to her wine goblet. “I used to go to the Polygon zone matingplace. Do you know it?”

  “Just by name. Firstfoot, is that the one?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How does the Tower compare with Firstfoot?”

  “Different décor, same aim. They have a fantasy shoe theme there. Its readying room has floor-to-ceiling shelves holding nothing but shoes. And such shoes! High heels, kitten heels, Cuban heels . . . so many kinds. I felt a throb of desire just looking at them – we all did. Though it defies logic. They were from PS Era. Trying them on helped me to understand our PS sisters. Their shoes led to corns and bunions. But you forgot about crooked toes when you wore them.”

  Benevolence waved her empty goblet, and it was replaced by a full one. Constance was also handed a goblet.

  Benevolence took a long swallow. “I couldn’t help myself choosing a pair. I went for polka dots and crossover ankle-straps. And it was a transformation. A sensation of empowerment grew inside me. All at once, I knew I could mate. Still wearing them, I went straight to a mating cube, and did it. That’s why they pander to our make-believe dreams in matingplace. They’ve researched all our yearnings. Every matingplace offers a different fiction. It’s a diversionary tactic from what’s about to happen, of course. Funny, how they encourage escapism in matingplace, but nowhere else.” Her lip curled as her glance swept the readying room. “This place takes ‘let’s pretend’ to the outer limits.”

  “I didn’t know you could switch from one matingplace to another,” said Constance.

  “I wasn’t having much success. In fact, I wasn’t having any. So I thought, change of venue, change of luck. I had to apply to the Mating Board, of course. They decided to give me another chance.”

  Constance examined Benevolence. Something feverish was imparted by her – perhaps she shadow-moed, too.

  Benevolence emptied her goblet. “This wine is nearly impossible to buy now. They hive off most of the supplies for the matingplace circuit. Alcohol’s always been part of the mating ritual, even back in PS days. I’ll have yours if you don’t want it.” She swapped her empty goblet for Constance’s full one, and took another gulp. “I’m starting to think I might be a dud.”

  “It’s not given to every sister to reproduce.”

  “Don’t chant the pearly book at me.” Benevolence steered Constance towards a corner, from which a griffin glared. “Ugly brute. We all know the ones who babyfuse are given more respect. It’s just how it is. Even in PS days, women were desperate to become sources. Not so different to us, then, for all the girlplace stories about having it so much better now. They used to perform all sorts of rituals to improve their chances. They had fertility dolls, fertility baths, fertility dances, fertility moons, fertility massages, fertility drinks . . . you name it.”

  “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.”

  “What do you see?”

  “I see a troubled woman. I see a lonely woman.”

  “You see all that with your eyes covered?”

  “I see all that with my heart.”

  “What else do you see with your heart, Harper?”

  “I see sunlight through branches, making patterns on the earth below. I see the leaves uncurl and spread out to take shape. I see the knots on the trunk of my favourite tree, where I lean my face for comfort.”