About Sisterland (10 page)

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?”

“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.”