About Sisterland (9 page)

After a few moments, he asked, “Do you wish me to continue holding your feet?”

As if caught doing something amiss, her eyes snapped open. “I – no – as you choose. I just wanted you to understand that we’re the same.”

“But we’re not. You’re a woman and I’m a man.”

“Yes, of course.” What was wrong with her? She was behaving in a ridiculous fashion. Perhaps even dangerously. Where was the alarm? She put a hand in the pocket in her dress, and wrapped her fingers about the ball.

“Does this give you pleasure? I’ve been instructed to do what satisfies you.”

“Who said that?”

“The woman they call the Mating Mother.”

“Did you meet any of the others? Charity, and her team?”

“I don’t know them by name.”

“Can’t you read it from the sig? Or are you always kept blindfolded?”

“The blindfold is only put on before we’re taken to the mating cube. But I can’t read sigs – we aren’t taught to read.”

“You don’t learn how to read and write in boyplace?”

“No.”

“How about counting? Can you add and subtract?”

“I can count to twenty. More is pointless, they say.”

Constance paused. She knew it was superfluous to educate men to the same standard as women, but she had presumed they were taught the basics. Maybe it was only the policy at this man’s boyplace. “Can other men read and write?”

“None of the men here can. They come from all over Sisterland.”

She hunkered down beside him. “What was it like at boyplace?”

“We were taught useful work.”

“Nothing else?”

“That we were savages with violent instincts, and Sisterland needed to regulate us for our own good. We were shown images of war and death caused by men. They told us men are destroyers. We can never be trusted.”

“But at least you had fresh air and plenty of food,” said Constance. “You weren’t ill-treated. If you were sick, you were given medicine.”

“It’s efficient to raise healthy specimens. Here in matingplace, they talk a lot about healthy specimens. The woman they call the Mating Mother says it feeds into success rates. She gave us instructions about touching a woman. She did not . . .” He broke off.

“Tell me. Help me to understand.”

“She did not teach us how to speak to one. She said talk was unnecessary, and not talking was better. We were to remember we had a job to do, and anyone who gave satisfaction could expect extra rations and free time. Already, I’ve broken her rules.”

Constance was pulled up short. The
Himtime
handout had said men couldn’t help themselves mating at every opportunity. But this man had to be bribed with food and time off from the mating cube. Without incentives, was it possible some men might decline the honour?

“I’ve offended you,” he said. “It wasn’t my intention.”

“I’m not offended. I just didn’t realise mating was such a chore for men, too. Tell me, what did you do, before you became a meet?”

“I’m a forester. My home is seven days’ journey from here by transer.”

Seven days in a transer meant he had seen more of Sisterland than her, even if he’d been heavily sedated, a standard precaution as men were moved round.

“You were living in the Brown Convolution belt?” It was composed of farmland and forests, where men laboured under the supervision of female agronomists.

He nodded.

“I’ve heard about forests.”

“You’ve never been in one?”

“No, only to some woods at the end of the Buzz line here in Green Hyperreal. What’s it like, living in a forest?”

“The air is sweet and pure, and I can hear the birds sing. There’s no birdsong in this place.” He had been on his knees until then, but now he sat back on his heels. “Do you require me to start?”

“Can’t we talk some more first?”

“As you choose.”

“What kind of trees grow in the forest where you lived?”

“All the trees are the same, because they were planted to serve Sisterland’s needs. We grow jack pines. Their branches are thick, and warblers build their nests on the ground under them. We have to burn down trees to keep the forest alive. Jack pines don’t grow in the shade – fire clears a space for them. After a fire, we plant new jack-pine seeds. They spout quickly.”

“It seems wasteful to burn trees.”

“It keeps the forest alive. The earth is only scorched for a short time. Soon, it’s green with new growth.”

“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.”