About Sisterland

by Martina Devlin

  The following day, shadow-moes nipped at Constance. Experience had taught her that taking a moe released all sorts of shadow-moes, which might resurface intermittently for days. It was like seeing something you recognised, but through a misty windowpane. They ambushed her now as she descended the steps from the Eternity Square Buzz station, and approached Shaperhaus – its frontage mirrored, like the iconic wings above it, to present a constantly moving surface. Many of Harmony’s buildings were mirrored on the outer façade, to lend an illusion of space – and because Beloved had deemed it beautiful.

  Constance was reluctant to enter her workplace, uncertainties about the test programme fluttering. She knew she was out of step with her sisters: none of her fellow trainees ever betrayed reservations, by so much as a sidelong glance or an intake of breath. At least Constance had the sense to keep her questions to herself. Even to Silence, she had never said a word, and Silence had noticed nothing. But there had been an absence about her, in those final weeks, which Constance had attributed to babyfusion.

  She passed through the main entrance, the comtel on her thumb, which covered it from nail to base-joint, chirruping to authorise entry and register her arrival. Once inside, she cut through the foyer to a staircase at the back.

  SMILE ALL THE WHILE

  was painted on the wall.

  Her lips thinned.

  As she began climbing, Constance wished she could be out in the field, shaping. Why did she have to be chosen for the new programme? Sometimes, she wondered at the waste of drilling her in the art of silkenspeak as a shaper – skilled at minimising the downside and maximising the upside of Nine policy – if the training was not going to be put to use. Her new role would mean working with children rather than adults, a drawback as far as Constance was concerned – she knew no children, and consequently was wary of them. But she had to do her best. After all, the initiative would safeguard Sisterland’s future, according to her teachers.

  Constance was plucked from her shaper graduation class after a mindmap reading carried out by the Shaper Mother. But that was last year. She knew she would not pass mindmapping today.

  She climbed past floors given over to administration and recruitment, floors devoted to operations, where shapers in the field were handled, floors housing lecture rooms. “A thought-shaper is permanently on message,” she heard spill out from the trainee shaper floor. Finally, she arrived on the ninth floor, reserved for special projects, and again used her comtel for admission. The device had gouged a groove in the fleshy place on her hand, between thumb and index finger, but she no longer noticed its weight.

  Without stopping to chat, she nodded at a couple of colleagues drinking ocean tea at their workpoints – everyone consumed rivers of Sisterland’s national brew. She counted none of her workmates as friends. Constance was a loner. It was only with Silence that she had enjoyed true Togethertime. But Silence was gone. And she had to stop thinking about her.

  Constance slid into her workpoint, where she took off her skin and set it in the container kept in a drawer. From habit, she ran a finger along her hairline where the skin rested, reclaiming her face. Next, she took a spray from another drawer and misted the plant on her desk. Everybody was allowed one personal item. Most chose images, but Constance admired her fern’s delicacy. Now to check her lecture schedule.

  Just then, Patience 9603 approached. Like Constance, her progress-monitor was wearing the Shaperhaus uniform of hip-length turquoise tunic with lime-green leggings. “Good morning, sister. May I have a word with you?” She could have messaged through to Constance’s comtel screen, but the emphasis on courtesy in Sisterland made her put the request in person. It’s Nice To Be Nice, as Beloved’s Pearls put it.

  Constance followed Patience to her elevated workpoint with its clear view of the room, and a solitary personal item on the desk – a porcelain goosegirl which looked as if it would shatter should someone breathe heavily on it. She often wondered about that ornament. Patience didn’t look the type. Even her rounded number didn’t seem to belong to her wiry frame.

  “The Shaper Mother wishes to see you at once.”

  A pit opened in Constance’s stomach. “Have I done something wrong, sister?”

  “I’ve uploaded temporary entry authorisation onto your comtel. Don’t keep the mother waiting. It’s impolite.”

  Patience was young to be a progress-monitor, and masked it with a stern manner. Constance knew better than to argue. Instead, she consoled heself by looking at her sig: Patience 9603. With 9602 Patiences who were still alive registered ahead of her, she wasn’t well-connected.

  Constance returned to the staircase to access the tenth floor: top of the building. Taller structures, inherited from PS generations, had been lowered – a ceremony made of the event. Cloud-scrapers had been a hubristic, male affectation. Just as lifts had been conceits, devised by men because they could, when everyone knew stairs were healthier. Sisterland declined to worship gimmicks. That didn’t mean it was opposed to gadgets: everything in moderation. But unnecessary technology had a dehumanising effect. Sisterlanders valued the personal touch, as urged by Beloved. Between her Pearls and her entscreen chats, which continued to be repeated in a weekly show called Make Time for Togethertime, Sisterlanders were in no danger of running short on Beloved’s advice.

  Constance had been on the top floor only twice before, meeting the Shaper Mother. She saw her from time to time in the distance, naturally: the mother often strolled about, creating a crackle of electricity. After she passed, people felt capable of working harder, longer, better. Perhaps the mother intended telling her there had been a mistake, and she was unsuited to the new programme? That would save Constance from asking to be excused. Which she lacked the courage to do. It would earn a blot she could never scrub out.

  She couldn’t even let herself think it in the Shaper Mother’s presence. The mother was skilled at penetrating thoughts. Constance knew thoughts could be hidden from those able to decipher them – parked in the mind’s curves – but it took singular reserves of willpower to engage in such a joust against a mother. She must be vigilant.

  She stepped into the mother’s reception area, which bore no resemblance to the environment on the floors below. Entering it, Constance was engulfed by a wave of sultry heat, along with a musky scent. Primitive wooden carvings lined the room, drums were remodelled as occasional tables, and the walls were papered in leopard-print.

  The mother’s assistant, Modesty 2724, was fanning herself with a thunderous air, stirring a flyaway scrap of ponytail high on her head. Modesty was stumpy. Her size in general, her nose and fingers in particular – all stubby. Even her earlobes were practically non-existent. Constance was convinced that was the reason for her ponytail – it extended her length, if only by a fraction.

  “It’s ridiculously hot in here. One day, I’m going to be the decision-maker and not the decided-for,” said Modesty.

  “But we’re all decided-fors. Apart from the Nine,” said Constance.

  “Don’t be such a pearl!” Modesty’s dark eyes flared. “Of course there’s a pecking order below them. The Shaper Mother has choices, doesn’t she? You ought to mop off before you go in to her.”

  Constance touched the damp sheen on her leggings. “Patience sent me up before I had a chance to do it.”

  Modesty rummaged in her desk, producing a palm-sized vac-pump.

  Constance selected the setting marked D for delicate, to protect the lime-green embroidery on the wrists and hem of her tunic, and passed it across her body. “Don’t you think it’s odd, Modesty, that our scientists haven’t come up with an anti-fungal solution by now? The life expectancy of clothes is getting shorter and shorter.”

  Modesty lowered her voice. “Some think they’ve been diverted into a secret programme.”

  Not more secrets, thought Constance. “Do you know what it is?”

  “Maybe.”

  Constance shrugged, still preoccupied by this unexpected interview w
ith the mother.

  Modesty leaned forward, whispering. “The ultimate phase of women’s evolution. That’s what I heard the mother call it. Something that overrides the mating process.”

  “Mating is a necessary evil. We do it for Sisterland.”

  Modesty snapped back to business. “The mother’s waiting.”

  Constance returned the vac-pump, and approached the leopard-printed wall. The paper peeled back in a long curl, so theatrical it deserved a clap, to reveal the door. She stepped through, to find the Shaper Mother waiting on an ornately carved mahogany throne, its back soaring to an arch and its feet ending in hooves.

  “Sweet child.” Leisurely, her voice trickled out. “You’ve been on my mind.” Arms extended, she shaped her mouth into a dazzling beam of welcome.

  It sent a shadow-moe of trepidation quivering through Constance.

  Chapter 3

  The Shaper Mother was a statuesque woman, exuding a vitality that created a force field about her. Her head was shaven, its terracotta-coloured surface lightly coated in oil. She wore the same uniform as everyone in Shaperhaus, but her position as a mother allowed her to customise it. Over the turquoise tunic, a peacock-print shawl trailed its feast of colours, a match for the substantial earrings shaped into feathers which stretched her lobes out of shape.

  Constance bowed her head, and remained standing, since she was not invited to sit – indeed, the throne-like chair appeared to be the only seat in the room.

  “Constance, you’re one of our most promising students. Your teachers have high hopes for you. But lately, sweet child, you’ve shown signs of losing your focus. Naturally, there are reasons for it. Those charged with treasuring you are not blind to a recent event in your personal life. It’s understandable that your spark may have dimmed. What happened was so volatile. So violent. So vicious in its abdication of loyalty. Who wouldn’t be affected?”

  She paused, and Constance realised she was expected to answer. “I try not to let it interfere with my work, mother.”

  “Come closer, Constance. We’re not machines. It’s natural to veer off-course sometimes. How could the loss of an other make no difference? When I lost mine, it was months before I could carry out my duties to the proper standard. Doubts must have cropped up in your mind, sweet child. And no wonder, in view of the circumstances. The manner of her discontinuation was particularly regrettable. It defies logic. You might almost call it –” she expelled a breath that set the metal feathers swinging – “moe-driven.”

  Again she drew to a halt, waiting. But Constance was unable to respond. The mother stood and came towards her. Putting an arm about her waist, she led her to the throne-seat. One foot hooked out a footstool from underneath, and she pressed Constance onto it before resuming her previous position. This time, however, she leaned down, her face only two hand-spans away. Constance noticed it still wore its glossy, protective skin indoors – the mother was known to be forgetful. Equally, she could be shielding herself on purpose. Skins didn’t only protect against climate.

  “Sweet child, I see you have an unusual capacity for shadow-moeing, just as your teachers guessed. You feel something approaching grief – some version of regret, perhaps? – for the loss of your other.”

  Constance nodded. Let her call it regret, if it suited her, although she herself knew it was grief. Even if it was her first experience of it.

  “Ah, you believe it to be grief? An unhealthy moe that’s been deselected by the Nine? I see you’re more receptive than we suspected.”

  Constance steadied herself. She mustn’t let thoughts flare.

  “I don’t mean to invade your privacy, Constance. But Sisterland has a clear policy on moes. The clampdown was necessary because some moes are simply too troublesome – they lead to morbid states of mind. You must have cared dearly for your other to feel the vestiges of such a disturbing moe.”

  “I keep thinking I must have failed her in some way. I should have been able to talk her out of it. Except I didn’t know what she meant to do.”

  “It’s not your fault Silence 1999 chose to discontinue. The report from the listeners said you’d come to terms with it. They said you didn’t need advanced listening treatment. Perhaps you do require it, after all.”

  “No!” Constance collected herself. “I mean, please, no. I cooperated fully, mother. I was obedient. I listened. I’m sure advanced listening would help if it was recommended for me but I find keeping busy is the best way to deal with what happened.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself. Silence’s behaviour was extreme. I agree, hard work is often the answer, it stops us brooding. I know that from my own experience.” She rested a speculative glance on Constance, who trembled beneath its weight. “What troubles me is Silence had everything to live for. She was babyfused. Yet she chose to discontinue. It’s baffling. Most worrying, though, is her betrayal of the Sisterland ethos. She discontinued in a way that sent a direct challenge to the State. We must assume the balance of her mind was disturbed. That’s what the peers’ report concluded. Don’t you agree?”

  Constance knew it would be easier if she said yes. Or even just nodded, if the word was beyond her. After all, Silence’s discontinuation had cast suspicion on Constance. But unable to defend Silence, unwilling to criticise her, she remained mute and motionless.

  “Ah, you continue to deny her mental instability.” Constance’s internal struggle had allowed the Shaper Mother to mindmap her.

  “I don’t understand them, but I believe Silence had her reasons.”

  “But why? It was such a drastic gesture. She allowed no room for compromise.”

  Constance hung her head. The mother stretched out a hand weighty with rings, and laid it on her forehead. At her touch, the compulsion to speak was overpowering. Constance tried to keep the information terse. “Perhaps it was because she knew she was babyfused with a boy.”

  “It’s natural to feel a sense of failure. But we need boy-babies, as well as daughters. It’s a dutiful act, whatever the gender – the Nine says so. If Silence couldn’t handle the disappointment, she shouldn’t have put herself forward as a candidate. No sister is forced to become a source. There are alternative ways of making a contribution. But once babyfusion was achieved, she had no right to retreat from her responsibilities to Sisterland.”

  “She didn’t see it that way, mother.”

  “Obviously. But, Constance, she had to be unhinged. You must accept that. All over Sisterland, women are struggling to become sources. Yet she babyfused, and rejected her sacred condition.”

  Constance stood up, moving out of the mother’s reach, concentrating on controlling her thoughts. The mother’s eyes became needlepoints as she attempted to enter Constance’s consciousness, and was blocked.

  Neutral, Constance met the mother’s gaze.

  “I understand you told the peers she didn’t discuss her intentions with you,” said the Shaper Mother. “Perhaps you were protecting your other. But you can tell me, in confidence. Was it a spur-of-the-moment decision? Or did she plot it in advance?”

  Constance had been able to fend off the peers, and the listeners, but the Shaper Mother was in another league. She had no choice but to answer her – the best she could manage was to be discriminating in her choice of words. “After Silence babyfused, she changed. Often, I found her sitting by herself, lost in thought. She wondered why she couldn’t raise her own child.”

  The mother’s eyebrows shot up. “Leaving childcare to sources is irresponsible. These women have no training. Children are our most precious asset – that’s why we send them to girlplace for communal rearing. We do it to help our girls reach their potential.”

  “Silence’s baby would have gone to boyplace. She’d never have seen him again.”

  The mother tapped her mouth, choosing her words. “But when she discontinued, she took away its chance of life. She could have waited till afterwards. But she chose not to.”

  “Yes.”

  The Shap
er Mother cocked her head to one side, studying Constance. “So if Silence wasn’t temporarily insane, she must have been wicked,” she suggested.

  Constance looked at the floor.

  “I see you don’t wish to condemn your other, sweet child. Your loyalty does you credit. But Silence was in error. It wouldn’t be safe to leave a boy-baby with its source. A bond might develop.”

  Constance couldn’t help herself. “Silence said it’s not a baby’s fault to be born a boy. Babies are the same, female and male. They don’t deserve to be punished for being one or the other.”

  Incredulous, the mother stood up, grasping the arms of her seat. “Then perhaps it’s as well she discontinued. She could have corrupted our sisters. But jumping off the Hope Bridge in broad daylight? Hurling herself over, when innocent sisters were going about their business below it? How excessive!” She toppled back, hand pressed to her chest.

  So, thought Constance, the Shaper Mother is prone to shadow-moes, too.

  “I am,” said the mother. “Inevitably, when you learn to mindmap, you become susceptible. But I guard against moes. Your other’s treachery towards Sisterland made one rise up in me. It has passed now, I am composed again.”

  The Shaper Mother struck Constance as agitated, despite her claims. She had slid the earring out of her ear, and was rubbing furiously at the lobe.

  “There is no violence in Sisterland,” continued the mother. “That’s why Silence’s public discontinuation is so damaging. Bad enough that she ended her own life, and that of a child! But the way she went about it is causing anxiety and uncertainty. The shaper cohort is working flat out, reassuring sisters. A deliberate public discontinuation is unheard of!”

  “Discontinuations like Silence’s probably happen at home, though,” said Constance. “They’d be hushed up, wouldn’t they?”