About Sisterland

by Martina Devlin

  Benevolence had said the same! Constance searched his face, beneath the blindfold. Did this man have any idea how much disturbance he was causing her? “How well you argue,” she marvelled.

  “Ah, that’s what the Nine didn’t bank on. Men continue to think, even if we can’t read or write, or count beyond ten fingers and ten toes. Perhaps they thought treating us like beasts would turn us into beasts. But we still dream.”

  “Do you dream, Harper?”

  “I dream. But I wonder if you do. If you know how to any more.”

  Constance bowed her head, conscious of something lacking in her. Conscious, too, of a gap between them which she wanted to bridge.

  “Why don’t we try to take off your blindfold? Perhaps it’s not knotted as tightly tonight. Come and stand by the nightlight.”

  He followed her, seeming reluctant.

  She plucked at the blindfold, and her fingers snagged on something attached to the material. “Kneel down, Harper, there’s something here.”

  It was a seal on the blindfold’s loop. If she opened it, the wax would break and the Mating Mother would know he’d seen her. She could plead accident, but he’d suffer for it.

  Something jolted inside her chest cavity. It was followed by a surge, too strong to be a shadow-moe. She had feelings for him! The intensity of the moe bewildered her. After all, Harper was a man.

  “Am I allowed to stand up again, or do you require me to continue kneeling?”

  Harper’s quesion acted as a rebuke – as a reminder, too, of the impossibility of tenderness between them. She reined herself in. Moes could be stifled. She owed it to herself to curb this one.

  “Why must you insist on treating me like an oppressor? Of course you can get up. Please yourself.”

  “I can’t.”

  “That’s hardly my fault – why blame me?”

  “Sisterland treats me like an animal. You allow it to happen by accepting it. I must kneel when I’m told, stand up when I’m told, go to a mating cube when I’m told, mate when I’m told. Whether you admit it or not, you’re one of my jailers.”

  Fury was not possible. But something lower down the scale rumbled within Constance. Resentment, with an undertow of defensiveness. She almost blurted out that he should get used to prison because he’d be stuck in matingplace for the next twenty years. But she managed to hold back.

  Instead, she reached into her pocket for the alarm ball, and squeezed it to indicate she was ready to leave. Footwear on, she waited for the key to turn in the door.

  Chapter 11

  Throughout the fourth day, Constance fluctuated about whether or not to go to the mating cube. She meandered through the Tower, sometimes tripping over her skirts, and in the readying room she watched staff arrange catkins on elongated stalks in urns. Passing a display, she stroked one of the furry pellets. It disintegrated.

  “Best not to touch,” warned a page.

  “Are catkins being manufactured now, too?” asked Constance.

  The page nodded.

  As the hours ticked by, she wrestled with whether or not to see Harper again. Honesty overcame indignation. Harper was right: he had no freedom. Hers was limited, but at least she had some. She could, for example, choose never to see him again. But he had to wait in a mating cube whether he wanted to be there or not. She could opt for a different meet. But he had to take whoever was sent to him. He wasn’t even trusted to look at the woman while they mated.

  She considered why she was drawn to Harper. Was it because of losing Silence? Because he smacked of forbidden fruit? Because of the mating urge?

  Encountering Unity as she prowled about, Constance asked, “Do meets ever refuse to perform?”

  “I’ve never known it to happen. It wouldn’t be logical. Men would mate every day, if they could.”

  “Would they do it even if they didn’t like a woman?”

  “Liking has nothing to do with it. They’re genetically conditioned to mate as often as possible, with as many women as possible. That’s just how it is.”

  Constance ruminated on this. Harper wasn’t leaping on her. He preferred to talk – or to scold her for keeping him in subjugation. Was it possible some of the stories she’d been told about men were just that – stories?

  And Harper was a word-weaver. His storytelling formed pictures in her mind. How did that tally with her lessons about all men being warmongers? Women and men weren’t a different species – they’d simply developed along different paths. No boy-man ever made war. Yet he was viewed as a potential risk from birth.

  Constance’s head ached from all the questions ricocheting inside it. She wondered if she ought to cut her losses and go to the Mating Mother, telling her she’d like to postpone any further babyfusion attempts until next month. The Mating Mother would think she had mated with Harper on three occasions: it was advisable, but not obligatory, to stay for five couplings. All that day, she tossed round the pros and cons of bailing out. There were many sound reasons for leaving the Tower. And only one argument for staying: to be with Harper. Even when he unsettled her. Twice more – then she wouldn’t be allowed to see him for another month. And if she achieved babyfusion, she’d never see him again. Not that there was any chance of babyfusion yet. But sooner or later they’d do what matingplace was designed for. And in their beginning would lie their ending.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back,” said Harper, as soon as the door was locked behind them on the fourth night. “I’m sorry, Constance.” He reached out and laced his fingers through hers.

  She looked down at their interlocked hands, admiring the herringbone pattern. Having her hand held made her feel safe. Not that a man could keep her safe from anything. It must be a reverberation from PS days.

  “What are you sorry for?”

  “For taking out my frustration on you. You’re the first woman who’s treated me like a person.”

  “I know so little about your life. I suppose I never gave it much thought. We don’t pay you for any of the work you do, and that doesn’t seem right. But you get everything you need, right? Food and shelter?”

  “Food and shelter’s supplied. But you don’t really believe that’s all someone needs, do you?”

  “Harper, you have to be patient with me. I’m trying to look at things from your perspective.”

  “I know you are. You’re not what I expected. I never thought I’d say this about a woman, but you’re really quite open.”

  Open. As compliments went, it wasn’t the most flattering she’d ever received. However, he seemed to mean it as praise. “I do my best. I can appreciate why you’d feel cooped up here, after your forest.”

  “I love the forest – I’m happy there. Is happiness something you can feel? Or is that deselected, too?”

  “It’s restricted. But we feel contentment at will.” He laughed. Defensive, she said, “Rationing makes it all the more meaningful when a happiness quota is distributed. Last Sisterday, a H was piped into the atmosphere. It’s the most magical sensation to be filled with happiness at the same time as everyone around you.”

  He said nothing, and Constance had an uneasy feeling she hadn’t made the case for happiness regulation. Then again, why should she want to? He was right to be dubious. She was becoming increasingly sceptical herself.

  “I feel complete in my forest,” he said. “I don’t need to go to Moe Express to feel glad when I see the sun rise, or sympathy for an injured animal. We passed some branches of Moe Express on our way to matingplace. It was the saddest sight. Women paying to have feelings, when all they need to do is walk about in the countryside, and moes will rise up inside them. How can anyone crunch over autumn leaves and not feel happy?”

  “We treat leaves here so they don’t fall off trees. It’s tidier.”

  He shook his head, long, fair hair stirring. She found herself admiring the way it fell across his face.

  “I pity you,” he said.

  She scrambled to her feet, heart pumping
. A man couldn’t pity a woman!

  “I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean to,” he said.

  “Not offended. Startled. We’re the ones who pity you, for being less evolved than us.”

  He reflected. “Feeling pity for one another is better than feeling threatened by one another.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Let’s not argue tonight. Big, bad Charity will be clanking at the door shortly.”

  “How do you know she’s big and bad, with your blindfold on?”

  “From the way space settles round her.”

  “Does she scare you?”

  “I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her. Let me guess. She carries a stifstat she’s just itching to use.”

  Constance thought about Benevolence, and shivered. “She does wear one. Harper, tell me about the memories your keepers shared with you. Memories ours may have held back.”

  He tapped his mouth with a forefinger, and she noticed the sharply defined hollow in the middle of his upper lip. She’d like to touch the groove. She supposed she could, if she wanted. Better not.

  “There was a piece of machinery that made information freely available. Everywhere. Anyone could use it. It was called the Internet. The fisherman I told you about spoke of it. He said it was the most important tool ever invented. But it was dangerous, too. Because of what it shared.”

  “A sharing tool?” asked Constance.

  “Sharing and spreading.”

  “The same as a shaper – only a machine, not a woman.”

  “Shapers reshape the truth. The Internet just distributed it, for people to make up their own minds.”

  “Hey! I trained as a shaper.”

  “Look, it’s how we see it.”

  Constance expelled a noisy breath. “Never mind. Tell me more about the Internet. Was it used for education or recreation?”

  “Both. It had moving images on it. And voices. And books – if you could read.”

  “It sounds like the comtel. Who controlled it?”

  “No-one.”

  “How was that possible?”

  He spread wide his hands. “It just – was.”

  “If nobody controlled it, then nobody was able to limit the information people could access. So it was monitored less than the comtel. This was radical!”

  “The fisherman said there were attempts to block it, because of its power. But it was like water – it kept trickling out. There now, I’ve shared all my treasures with you. I’ve nothing left to offer. And we still have what’s left of tonight, and tomorrow.” A hint of mischief danced beneath his words.

  “Then we won’t be able to see one another for nearly a month,” Constance tested for a reaction.

  “Meanwhile, I’ll be expected to mate with a different woman each week.”

  “Don’t you like the idea of mating?”

  “Why should I want to do it with a stranger? Even animals choose their mates.”

  “I didn’t choose you either, you know.” She took a deep breath, and made a conscious decision to say what was on her mind. “But I would, now.”

  He approached, until he was standing so close that the warmth of his breath feathered against her face. Her heart gave an unsteady skip. He reached out the tips of his fingers and stroked the slope of her neck. She could sense the blood surge in her face at his touch.

  It reminded her she was wearing a skin which acted as a barrier between them. But if the sensations he produced were so powerful through a mask, they’d swamp her without one. The Mating Mother’s warning rang in her ears: under no circumstances must she remove her skin with a man. It was for her own safety, she’d been told.

  But maybe it was really for Sisterland’s benefit.

  His fingertips travelled along her face, until they found her mouth. Gently, he rubbed the ball of his thumb against her lower lip. How close he was – she could smell his breath now: it reminded her of pears. She lifted up her hand, and traced his jawline with the back of her forefinger. She could feel him waiting. Her finger moved higher until it reached his mouth, where she rested the tip of it against his lips. They felt softer than hers must, through her skin. His mouth closed against her fingertip in a butterfly kiss. She reached behind her ear and tore off her skin, dropping it carelessly to the floor. Then she took his hand and cupped it to her cheek, so that he could feel her face was naked before him. Even if he couldn’t see it. For a moment, he tested the contours of her face, confirming the skin’s absence. Moved by the pressure of his touch, she closed her eyes. He gathered her into his arms, bent his head and pressed his cheek against hers. Bare flesh against bare flesh.

  They stayed like that, at one in their desire to prolong the encounter. Constance was afraid to speak in case it brought this intimacy to an end. Finally, he stirred and drifted his lips down her face and along her throat, feeling her pulse beat there. He raised his head, and mouth touched mouth. He tasted vulnerable. He tasted hopeful. He tasted of life.

  The impact of the kiss was volcanic. Overwhelmed, she pulled away. Kissing was rare in Sisterland, because of skins. Even in the home, where they were removed, the habit had been replaced by pressing palms together. Just as personal, in its way, Constance would have said. Until that moment.

  No sooner had she separated from him than she regretted it. Instinctively, she leaned back into him, her arms circled his neck, pulling him close, and she kissed him again. When finally they paused to draw breath, she sank her face into the side of his neck. Her legs were buckling under the force of the moe which convulsed her body. Only his arms kept her upright. Desire was making her feel less substantial – she felt herself dissolve with it. Melting into him. She could hear his heart pounding against her chest, as accelerated as her own. It could almost be drumming inside her body.

  The bell rang. They were supposed to be finished. The voice told them time was up. They kissed again.

  The door rattled, and Constance wrenched herself out of his arms, groping for her skin. As he reached for her again, she pushed him away, and dragged on her footwear. By luck more than design, she was a short distance away from Harper when the door opened. But the imprint of their shared moe trembled in the ether. Charity registered it, and scowled.

  In the doorway, Constance looked back at Harper. The light from the corridor shone on his face, revealing its symmetry more clearly than she had seen it before. How dear to her he was becoming.

  “Soon, you’ll be leaving us,” The Mating Mother told Constance, in the respite room. “Still, perhaps you’ll be back next month. Instant babyfusion is rare.”

  “Will I be allowed to stay in the Tower at night when I return next month, mother?”

  “It all depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On me.”

  “Have I done something wrong?” Constance’s fear of being spied on in the mating cube resurfaced.

  “Not that I know of.” The Mating Mother’s hand travelled along the hair streaming over one of her shoulders, making sure it was sleek.

  Constance hesitated. Could the Mating Mother have any inkling of what was developing between her and Harper? It wasn’t impossible, in view of a mother’s mindmap powers. She watched the small hand continue its grooming.

  “Your hair is magnificent, mother.”

  “This is a wig – part of my costume. You didn’t realise that? I’m flattered.” The Mating Mother stood on tiptoes and waggled a finger under Constance’s nose. “But how suspicious you are! You can’t imagine a Mating Mother has perks denied to others? That’s not how Sisterland works.”

  Constance hung her head. She couldn’t contradict her, but she knew it was untrue.

  The Mating Mother studied her. “My helpers tell me you seem to find mating congenial.”

  “Anything done for Sisterland is satisfying to me.”

  “Commendable. But Charity says you have to be prised out of the mating cube.”

  “I like to lie down for as long as possible – you advised it.”


  “The mating urge makes Himtimemore enjoyable for some than others. Meets are trained to gratify physical desires, after all. But remember, this is a means to an end. ” She tweaked Constance under the chin. “A word from the wise, top girl: a meet is a utensil, not a person. Don’t mistake him for one.”

  Chapter 12

  “Last night,” said Charity, as Constance stood outside the control hub. “Most women are relieved to go home and put all this behind them.” She snaked a glance at Constance, indicating knowledge: Constance didn’t fall into that category.

  Constance felt a compulsion to tell her she wanted to mate with a man, not to achieve babyfusion, but to be close to him. Imagine Charity’s face if she did! But she had to be careful – her moe urges were becoming more intoxicating.

  “I’ll take you to him in a minute,” said Charity, when Constance didn’t rise to the bait. “The clock for one of the cubes is on the blink. Need to check my records.”

  Charity fussed with her comtel, comparing times on it against those on-screen, but Constance wasn’t impatient – she knew Harper was waiting for her. She wondered how long he had been in situ, ready for her arrival, and whether time lay heavy on his hands. He was right; their relationship were unequal. But there was nothing she could do about it, except give him the freedom to say yes or no to her.

  Perhaps he’d find another sister he preferred to her. After all, she was his first. He might only like her because he had nothing to compare her against.

  “Let’s go,” said Charity. “Mustn’t keep your succulent slice of meet waiting.”

  “Why do you speak of him like that?”

  “They’re all tasty, aren’t they? It’s their job to look mating fit.”

  The door was locked behind her.

  “Constance,” said Harper, arms held out, and she flew into them. When they drew apart, she said, “You know this is our last night?”