About Sisterland (19 page)

When she was ready, the keeper retrieved the threads of her story. “Baking cakes was gratifying, my father told me. You knew you were doing something that would give a stranger pleasure. He called his cakes a gateway to goodwill. He taught me how to bake, and my cakes tasted finer than fine. Oh, they did!” She kissed her fingertips, and blew them out. “But they never achieved his heights. I took over the gingerbread people, and they always sold out, no matter how many I baked. That was my special skill. But my father had a gift. He told me his secret: he whispered to his cakes as he put them in the oven. Told them they’d bring joy to the person who ate them. You see, not everything in the PS world was wicked. Our cake-shop gave the neighbourhood something it valued. It was loved.” She sighed, her eyes clouding over. “Women thought we could make a better world. Learn from men’s mistakes. But we made a fundamental mistake of our own: we never forgave men. Got off on the wrong foot, and been wrong-footed ever since. The experiment has failed. Sisterland will never be a success till we forgive men. And even if we do, will they forgive us?”

Constance recoiled. Her moe response was picked up by the interlocked sigs, and they juddered, giving her a mild electric shock. A momentary gap would show up later in the memory interchange at that point, but no sister could listen unmoved to Sisterland being labelled a failure. Constance’s doubts had never pushed her to such a damning conclusion.

Yet Honour’s words had the ring of truth.

Honour gave no sign of noticing her distress, but she began to slow, gaps creaking between each sentence. “We didn’t try to reason with men. Didn’t try re-educating them. Didn’t try to ban the belligerent ones from mating. We didn’t try anything. Just washed our hands of them. Every last one.” Her fingers worried at the quilt. “I grew up in a family. It worked. The Nine won’t welcome these memories. Could be, I’m the last keeper with them. But they’re true. And I’ve done wrong by my father, staying silent.”

An attack of coughing racked the narrow frame, and Constance held a tube of water to Honour’s mouth. Some drops dribbled on her chin, and Constance lifted a cloth from the bedside table to wipe them away. Her brain was teeming from the
memory-keeper’s incendiary words. The coughing fit continued, and Honour pointed at their sigs, as though the interchange was contributing to her discomfort. Constance paused the connection.

At once, Honour leaned forward and whispered a few words in her ear.

Constance recoiled.

“That’s for the Nine’s ears only,” said Honour. “If I put it on the memory record, the Nine will never go public with it. And I want sisters to hear about my father.” Her breath began to rattle in her chest. “You don’t have to tell it if you’re afraid. But maybe one of them could profit from the truth.” Wheezing, Honour slid down her pillows.

To Constance’s alarm, an ashen pallor crept across her face. “Help!” she called. She looked over her shoulder, towards the door. “Help!” she cried, at full throttle. Nobody was coming. But she couldn’t move – their wrists were still attached at the sig. She bit her lip. Ought she to wait, in case there was more?

Honour’s hand clutched at Constance’s front. “There were good men. My father was one. He baked cakes. Magical cakes.”

The eyes blazed, and Constance marvelled that she had ever thought them faded. Even as she watched, the light in them was doused, the fingers loosening.

Constance unclicked sigs, and sprinted for the door. “Help!
”

“Is there any hope of saving her?” Constance asked the medico escorting her to the exit.

“Honour is in a fragile state,” said the medico.

“I don’t know if she was finished saying everything she needed to – maybe I could come back tomorrow?”

“Interchanging exhausted her – she has so little strength left. But I know the Nine wants her to share as much as she can.” The medico hesitated. “Let’s wait and see if she rallies. You never can tell. She’s all willpower, that one.”

“I’d like to call by again, if I may. I don’t care about interchanging. I could just sit with her, and hold her hand. I wouldn’t get in the way, I promise.”

“I suppose she did take quite a shine to you. Tell you what. I’m on night duty. Here’s my comtel code: message me in the morning, and I’ll let you know how she is. Perhaps it’s not the end yet. I’m sorry you didn’t get everything you wanted from Honour.”

Constance reflected. “You know, I believe I did.”

But whether it would be what the Nine wanted was another matter.

Chapter 16

Constance made her way to the Buzz station, hoping the memory-keeper would pull through. And then she realised the hope was for her own sake and not Honour’s. The keeper was ready to let go. She checked her comtel: no messages from Shaperhaus, which meant she was free to go home. The interchange could be run there, and delivered to the Shaper Mother the following morning.

On the Buzz, her mind was surfeited on father imagery. All her conditioning was that a man’s Himtime role was his only part in the babyfusion process. But Honour’s father had nurtured her as well as any woman. Constance rested her hand on the sig containing Honour’s memory. A revolutionary idea was stored on her wrist.

Stepping off at the Oblong stop, she became aware of an unfamiliar sensation. It stirred her hair and flapped her clothes. Why, the air was breezy! It had been years since Harmony’s soupy air had been agitated. What a coincidence, on the same day as Honour 19 reminisced about the winds of her girlhood.

Constance stood still, feeling the wind tease her. How liberating it would be to pull off her skin and let the air tiptoe across her face. She put her hand to the fastening, but allowed it to fall away. Pollutants could be carried on the breeze. Still, as she turned for home, she was able to pick up her step along the riverbank, without feeling as if she was wading through the atmosphere. Another eddy, and her tunic ballooned. She wondered that there were no alerts on the comtel advising of the change in the weather. She checked the sky but, instead of scudding clouds, it was packed with the usual low-hanging cotton wool.

As she walked, Constance watched the river whipped into ridges that collapsed and reformed. How strong the wind was, controlling the water. A gust blew an object into her face, and Constance jerked to avoid the missile. Only a twig. That was the downside to wind. Already, her eyes felt itchy. All the same, she hoped Honour was able to hear this wind rattle against her window. Maybe someone would open it so that she could feel the refreshed air.

A chugging sound was followed by a human voice. A salmon-pink vehicle, diagonal black stripe running from wheel-arch to roof, rolled past. It was the peers. From inside, a voicebox issued a warning. “
Attention, all sisters. Freak weather conditions have blown up. You are advised to go indoors and stay there until further notice. Repeat: go indoors and stay there until further notice.”

Constance picked up her step. At the courtyard outside her unit, she was surprised to see the Silenced were still there, despite the wind. She counted some two dozen women, the tails of their scarves tossed about by the wind, looking as if they were attacking one another. She should take them out some ocean tea. Their clothes had that damp sheen from being too long outdoors. But wouldn’t drinks encourage them to stay? The Shaper Mother had asked her to persuade them to disperse.

“Constance!” called out a member of the group, “Stay awhile and talk to us about Silence. We want to understand her better.”

Constance kept walking. “I don’t understand her myself. Which of us does truly know anyone else?”

Several of the group fell into step beside her. “Tell us something. Anything,” begged one.

“You know so much about her already,” said Constance. “Though I can’t imagine how you do.”

“What did she work at?” asked another woman. “Someone told me she was a thought-crafter. Someone else that she worked in Sistercentral.”

In the face of misinformation, Constance relented. “She was a sig-tagger.”

“Oh . . .” The group expelled a mass breath.

“I wonder if Silence installed my baby’s sig?” said one.

“Imagine if she held my Diligence!” cried another.

Peers rolled by, the voicebox still playing. “
Calling all sisters. Unusual weather conditions have blown up. You are advised to go indoors.
”

“Shouldn’t you think about leaving? It might be unsafe to stay outside,” said Constance.

“The peers want us gone,” said a voice from the outer fringes of the group. “This wind is meant to ‘coax’ us.”

Constance misstepped, turning over on her ankle, and a hand caught her by the elbow.

“You believe the peers control the wind?” she asked.

“No, but the Nine might be able to – just for a short time.”

“A short time can be long enough,” said the first woman. “But the courtyard is sheltered. We’ll be all right.”

“I’d just as soon go home,” said another.

“Go, if you like, Comfort. But I’m staying.”

“Me, too,” chorused a number of voices.

Comfort stayed where she was.

“Talk to us about Silence,” pleaded the group.

Perhaps it was the unsettling effect of the wind. Or it might have been down to her memory-interchange with Honour. But Constance was unable to resist.

“Silence had no interest in material possessions. She used to leave a trail behind her, wherever she went. Scarves, hats, necklaces, poetry books – although she missed the books when they were lost. If you admired anything of hers, she’d give it to you at once. Even if she was wearing it.”

Several of the Silenced wore replete expressions, as though they had drunk deep on insights. Constance edged round a mound of carnations, snapdragons and hibiscus blooms, and her comtel chirped admission to the unit. She left her companions outside, and climbed the stairs to her twoser, raising her comtel to beep in again. But the door wouldn’t open. She waved her hand about, but the light on the lock didn’t change. Back downstairs she went, in search of the unit-minder. No sign of her. She tried outside.

“Have you seen the minder?” she asked the Silenced.

“She had her coat on. Said she was due a plate of sea-stew.” Comfort jerked her thumb downstream.

“Thanks. She must be at the easy on the riverbank.”

Constance turned up her collar as she followed the directions. She was walking against the wind, which no longer felt like a friendly arm nudging her along. This time, it was a barrier, and she had to battle against it. Irritation broke through. She’d prefer to be indoors among her ferns, working on Honour’s interchange, not hunting for someone to let her into her twoser. But it couldn’t be helped.

The unit-minder sat with her back to the water, concentrating on a plate of food. She looked up when she heard the door open. “Come about your twoser, I suppose. Been reassigned. You’re in the only oneser we have – it’s on the ground floor. Reed D. Your comtel’s activated for it.” She nodded towards Constance’s thumb.

“But what about my things?”

“Already moved in there. Unit-allocation people did it this afternoon.”

“They went into my twoser and handled everything I own?” Constance’s voice grew louder, and people at other tables looked up. “They lifted it all out and carried it away, and put it somewhere else?”

Indifferent, the minder scooped some stew onto her spoon.

“How do I even know they took everything? They might have forgotten something.”

“Looked empty to me. Lot of room for one woman on her own. You were lucky to have it as long as you did. Lucky to stay in the same unit, too – they could’ve moved you clear across town.”

“Why wasn’t I told? Somebody could have left a message on my comtel. Was that too much to ask?”

This time, the minder didn’t answer. She spooned the stew into her mouth, and began chewing.

“I should have been told,” repeated Constance.

A bell pinged. “Covenant Time,” said the eat-easy manager. Everyone stood up, and formed a ring. The manager held out her hand to Constance. “Sister?”

Constance kicked over a chair, and left the easy.

“
Not the self but the State, not me but US. To the greater good: to universal sisterhood
.” The chant drifted after her.

So this was what anger felt like. She had never experienced its raw compulsion before. There was satisfaction in venting this moe.

Returning to the unit block, she was still obliged to push against the wind. Even though she was now walking in the opposite direction. Back in the courtyard, she brushed off the Silenced, and went directly to Reed D. Her comtel beeped admission, and she pulled off her boots. Her toe-treat slippers were in the cupboard just inside the living area, exactly as in the twoser. Her vac-pump for removing moisture from her clothes was beside them, along with her skin box. Just as they were in the twoser. She had to hand it to the units’ team: their attention to detail was excellent. Her angled lamp was in the corner, the birds-in-flight cushion was on the armchair, and on the wall behind it was the image of her and Silence taken at last year’s Sister’s Day parade. They were laughing from the piped happiness pumped out for the national holiday. Silence’s head was thrown back.