Constance smiled at the girl, and turned away. “An ovu-pen, please.”
“Scan in your sig.”
Constance held up the back of her wrist to the console, and the pinkified φ symbol began to tremble. “A three-month permit has been uploaded to your account. You’ll need to apply for a full licence if you continue to seek babyfusion after the period elapses. User instructions are inside the ovu-pen.” She dropped one into a bag. “A temporary permit is extremely rare. You’re fortunate.”
Constance didn’t feel fortunate. “How many els, please?”
“No charge. You’re doing this for Sisterland.”
Back in her twoser, the ovu-pen confirmed that Constance was ovulating. Just as the Shaper Mother had said. No help for it but to present herself at matingplace. She could always treat it as a trial run, and bail out if she couldn’t go through with it tonight. Some women balked at the first attempt, according to the Himtime handout. It was forgivable, if a little weak-willed.
She remembered the girl in the medshop. She’d been right – boy-babies were preferable currently. Silence had told her so. Male numbers were dropping year on year, with the ratio 80:20 in women’s favour. To turn the tide, studies into interventions to stimulate male births were being carried out. But their results had not been made public.
The extent of the population imbalance would not have been known generally, except for a comtel malfunction which transmitted it to everyone in the second city, Righteous, Sisterland's most southerly metropolis, in Grey Disjoint. In turn, they told their Harmony sisters, in the middle of Sisterland, in Green Hyperreal. Who told their sisters in the northern city of Steadfast, in Brown Convolution. And so on. For damage limitation, the Nine sent out shapers, whose silkenspeak patter focused on roosters and broods of hens. “Look at the animal kingdom. The most economically efficient communities have a large number of females and a few males,” they said. “This is an evolutionary stable strategy.” In the meantime, sperm was frozen. Yet despite the man shortage, and despite being told it was a selfless act to give birth to a boy-man, Sisterlanders continued to prefer daughters.
Constance showered, and patted transcendent gel over her face to protect it from drying out under her skin. Otherwise, there was a risk of faces becoming spongy. You saw it occasionally in forgetful sisters, but they only had themselves to blame. Next, she fell to considering which set of tunic and leggings to wear. Dresses were worn for ceremonial occasions, but she didn’t put mating in that bracket. She supposed her outfit ought to be something that wouldn’t get spoiled. At the thought of how it might get stained, she felt damp and overheated. But the obedience habit asserted itself, and she dressed quickly, pulling on her favourite boots – a long pair in stretchy mesh. Without stopping to check her appearance, she caught up her skin and left the twoser.
As she walked along, she stroked Silence’s moon charm for luck. It kept her company on the pavement decorated with seahorses and other fish that led to the Tower. And here she was already. A metal arm extended from the building, from which dangled a sign shaped like a castle. She supposed it was intended to appear inviting. The dome-shaped door opened, side-to-side in the old-fashioned way, and a woman drifted out into the night air. She looked dazed. An older woman stepped out from the doorway opposite, where she had been waiting, and led her away.
The door was still swinging on its hinges when Constance entered. Inside stood a young woman in the domino-checked tabard and tights of a medieval page.
“Good evening, sister. Welcome to the Tower. I’m Unity, your greeter. Identify yourself, please.”
“Constance 500.”
She consulted a screen. “We’ve been expecting you. Please sig in.”
Constance raised her hand, and the pinkified φ symbol on her inner wrist throbbed and became lambent. The greeter swiped an icon on the screen, and another woman approached, also in that anachronistic black-and-white uniform.
“This is our sister’s first time – make sure the Mating Mother knows,” said Unity. She turned back to Constance. “Be fertile, sister.”
The second woman led her along a hallway, as far as an imposing double staircase. Flurries of chatter and laughter gusted out from the right. Taken aback by the noise, uncharacteristic in Sisterland, Constance looked left – an inviting area of quiet.
But the attendant shook her head. “You don’t go there till later.”
“Is that where it happens?” asked Constance.
“Wait and see.” She pushed a button on the wall by the stairs, and a drawer slid out. It was blocked off into compartments, most of them containing a skin. “Check in your skin, please.” Constance unclasped it. “You’ll need to collect the skin again when you proceed to the mating floor. This way, sister. Here’s the readying room.”
She pointed right, and Constance found herself on the threshold of an ornate reception room. What she saw dazzled her. It resembled the interior of a castle, in so far as she could judge by pictures in books. Ahead of her was a sunken room, three steps leading down into a dramatic space. Candles glowed from sconces set high on walls made from slabs of stone, while gargoyles in alcoves grimaced, leered and licked their lips. Tapestries depicted flower-strewn meadows and lush orchards, some with unicorns, others with lions or stags. In paintings with gilded frames there were maidens in rooms similar to the one where Constance stood, open-mouthed. They wore flowing gowns and had blossoms threaded through their hair. Some strummed musical instruments, while others were dancing, or playing games. Pewter statues of mythical beasts reared up around the room, and earthenware pots held a profusion of tall flowers she couldn’t identify. Their scent was intoxicating – perhaps they were a newly manufactured species. From the ceiling was suspended a blazing candelabra and, against one wall, a fire roared in a massive fireplace.
It was the fire which restored Constance to her senses. She knew it could not possibly be authentic, because fire had been designated unsafe and banned.
Down the centre of the room stretched a dining table laden with food to suit all palates. There were nasturtium pasties, spring quiches, hyacinth flans and full moon rolls, with fruit, cheese and nuts for anyone preferring to nibble. Women were gathered by the table, grazing and chattering. Many held heavy glass goblets, and pages moved about replenishing them.
But what caught Constance’s attention was the magnificent dresses of the women, similar to those in the paintings: sleeves falling to a point below their knees and hems dragging on the rushes covering the floor.
There were other women in leggings, like Constance, and they were clustered round a wooden chest, out of which spilled an array of gowns in jewel shades. She drew closer, watching while each woman made her choice, fondling the luxurious materials. One passed nearby holding a moss-green length of cloth, and Constance couldn’t help herself touching its sleeve. The woman smiled at her, glittering with excitement. Why, it really was velvet! Constance had expected some synthetic alternative. Her eyes flicked back to the chest. Then those glorious sweeps of material must really be satin, silk and brocade, rather than a wipe-clean facsimile. She tracked the woman with the velvet dress over her arm. Half a floor above, a minstrels’ gallery ran the length of the room. It had a series of wood-panelled alcoves. She saw the woman enter one, and emerge a few minutes later in the gown.
“Welcome. I’m the Tower’s Mating Mother.” A diminutive woman, hips almost as narrow as her waist, appeared in front of Constance. Her voice reminded Constance of reeds sighing – she had to bend forward to hear above the hubbub.
Like her staff, the Mating Mother wore black and white, but it wasn’t a uniform. Or maybe it was, in its way. She had on a gown similar to those in the chest, edged in white fur, with a train that fell from her shoulders and rippled on the ground behind her. Constance had never seen anything so sumptuous. Most astonishing of all, however, was her waist-length black hair. Constance couldn’t take her eyes off it. Hadn’t Beloved urged short hair, for practical reasons?
Somehow, over time, it had become mandatory. She supposed it must be a wig, a perk restricted to high-ranking sisters. The Mating Mother ran a hand over her waterfall of hair, smoothing it. Constance was fascinated: how genuine it looked.
The Mating Mother beckoned to draw her apart from the women noisily handling gowns. As she moved, a ring of keys at her waist chimed. They caught Constance’s attention: keys were a relic of the PS era, and only seen in museum display cases. Come to think of it, being in matingplace was almost like walking about in a museum.
“It’s more like being in the theatre,” the Mating Mother corrected her.
Constance jumped. She should remember she wasn’t just dealing with a petite woman in elaborate costume, but a mother, who must therefore be skilled at mindmapping. She ought to be careful about the direction of her thoughts.
“No need,” said the Mating Mother. “You’re among friends. The Sisterland cherishes you, Constance, and never more so than at this special time.”
“Thank you, mother. What did you mean by ‘like being in the theatre’?”
“I’ve been told you didn’t have a chance to go to a mating seminar. It’s explained there. You see, mating happens within a context which transcends normal life. It’s like a performance, and the pageantry of the readying room helps to prepare you for that. That’s why we chose this setting: because we know our sisters are drawn to these obsolete trappings, even though they have no place in their daily lives. We provide them to allow you to enjoy the fantasy, but also to see it for what it is.”
“You said a performance, mother. Will I be watched?”
“Great Beloved, no! It’s a performance in so far as it’s not reality. In the sense of a mental wall between you and the meet. Even though both of you engage in the mating, it won’t be an authentic encounter. There’s no meaningful communication between you. He’s just another part of the ritual. A prop, if you like. You do see that, don’t you?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Excellent. The setting is undeniably extravagant,” the Mating Mother allowed her eyes to roam about her kingdom, an amused look on her face, “but it serves an additional function. It helps to rouse certain atavistic urges necessary to enable mating. Speaking of which, you must have some of our mead.”
She clapped her hands. At once, a page carrying a tray approached, and proffered a baroque chalice with two handles to Constance.
“Drink,” commanded the tiny woman.
The chalice hung heavy between her hands. “I’m not thirsty.”
“Drink. It’s to help with what comes later.”
She sipped. The liquid stroked her throat, and she felt its warmth trickle through her body.
“Drink it all.” The mother was observing her.
Costance emptied the chalice. It was as if liquid velvet was slipping along her insides. The mead seemed to pool in the area above her thighs, causing her muscles to relax. How soothing it was. But the sensation intensified, and released something else in her. A craving – for what, she didn’t know.
“Divine, isn’t it? The first time is always the best.”
Constance ran her forefinger inside the chalice, and licked a drop of liquid from it. “I don’t mean to be greedy. But do you suppose I could have some more?”
The Mating Mother giggled, a high-pitched sound. “One helping is all it takes to prepare you for mating. You can have wine now, if you wish, while the mating urge swells.”
She clapped her hands again, and another attendant advanced with a glass goblet, taking away the chalice. Constance was reluctant to see it go.
“And now, relax. Mingle if you wish, have something to eat.”
As she spoke, the Mating Mother was steering Constance towards the table. Someone put an empty plate in her hand, but she was too distracted by the sights and sounds to eat.
“Not hungry? Choose a gown instead,” suggested the Mating Mother.
“May I ask you a question, mother?”
“I’m sure you have all sorts of questions, since it’s your first time.”
“It’s about the keys you carry. Why?”
She jangled the ring at her waist. “All part of the Gothic castle fantasy.”
“Whose fantasy?”
“Why, yours. You sisters deemed suitable for mating. We researched your daydreams – a sizeable proportion of you have a fancy for castle life. You young sisters latched onto it during an entscreen series about architecture through the ages, repeated for several seasons due to popular demand. Ridiculously impractical, of course. But we thought, why not? It’s our way of thanking you for playing your part in populating Sisterland. These keys are inefficient compared with the modern alternative. Still, they do what’s intended: they keep the meets where we want them till needed for mating. Excuse me now, I must run through my list. I need to pick out a suitable specimen for you. Don’t forget to exchange your leggings for a dress. It helps to get you in the mood. And a dress is easier – when you’re on the mating floor.”
Constance expected to shudder, but nothing happened. Instead, she realised that the warmth between her legs had spread to the pit of her stomach. She joined the queue for clothes, and examined the room while she waited. There was something that troubled her about her surroundings, although she couldn’t identify it. Perhaps it was the excess. So much abundance was beyond her experience.
When her turn came, the attendant at the chest ran a practised eye over her.
“Either of these should be the right length.” In one hand, the page held out a dress with a stand-up collar. Its raw silk khaki skirt split to reveal a bronze underskirt, which echoed the bronze on the sleeves. In her other hand, she had a cobalt-blue gown overlaid with silver netting. “But feel free to rummage about, if you prefer. The dresses have side lacings, so they can be tightened or loosened. You’ll find most sizes fit you. Quite practical, for such impractical things.”
Constance took the dress with a bronze underskirt, and laid it against her body, utterly beguiled.
The attendant put a hand on her hip, and studied Constance. “Nice. Now try this one.”
“Aren’t there any mirrors?”
“Upstairs, where you try them on. But if you ask me, the blue looks best.”
“All right, I’ll take it.”
“Come back if you don’t like what you see in the mirror,” said the attendant. “Oh, and you’ll find more suitable footwear upstairs.”
In the minstrels’ gallery, Constance made her way to an empty alcove, and slipped off her clothes. She stepped into the dress, and tugged at the lacings. When she stood back and checked her reflection in the looking glass, the transformation startled her. How elated she looked! Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled.
A glance round the alcove, and she spied several pairs of soft-soled pumps. Off came her boots and socks, and she tried on a shoe. Too tight. She tried another. That would do.
Outside, in the gallery, a page was playing a strange string instrument. Constance didn’t know its name, but the music was haunting. She leaned over the balustrade to watch four other pages dance a stately gavotte. Skimming the room for somewhere to be inconspicuous, she spotted a bench piled with cushions in a relatively deserted area. She made her way there, almost tripping on the hem of her gown, and sank down on the seat. She closed her eyes, a sensation of wellbeing building inside her as she listened to the music.
“I’m glad to see you looking so relaxed. That’s the purpose of the readying room.”
Constance opened her eyes. It was the Mating Mother.
“So, can I have my girls fetch you anything else? Or –” she paused, delicate – “are you ready to mate?”
“Right now, mother?”
“Do you need more time to collect yourself?”
“No, time won’t change anything. I’m ready now.” The sooner she did this, the sooner it would be over.
“Top girl! Let’s go. I’ll escort you to the mating floor.” The Mating Mother caught C
onstance by both hands, and pulled her to her feet.
Her grip was inexorable.
Chapter 6
Holding her by one hand, the Mating Mother led Constance out of the readying room. At the doorway, Constance looked back, and realised what was odd about it. There were no windows. In fact, she had yet to see a window in the Tower. It delivered privacy: nobody could see in. But nobody could see out, either. This was a self-contained world – not just a castle in Oblong, but a castle in the air.
By the staircase, the Mating Mother pointed to the doorway on the far side of the banisters – the quiet area to which Constance had been drawn on arrival. “That’s the respite room. You rest there when it’s all over. Though don’t worry, it’s not really an ordeal. The meets are trained to make themselves agreeable. Which is yours?”
“Sorry?”
“Which skin?”
Constance realised the Mating Mother had opened the drawer by the stairs in which skins had been left.
“You don’t want to show your naked face to a man, do you?” The mother tapped her own light-brown cheek.
“Of course not, mother.” Constance found her skin and attached it.
“Follow me.”
Constance swallowed.
They mounted the stairs, as far as the second floor. Constance copied the way the Mating Mother hitched up the trailing gown with one hand, bunching it to one side. The mother left her train to fend for itself. It rustled, thought Constance, as if it had secrets to share. They went along a wide corridor lit by subdued beams, the walls bare except for a coat of paint. The only echo of the luxury below was a thick-pile carpet which muffled their footsteps, but the pared-back effect was soothing after the tumult of the readying room. It allowed for a transitional stage.
As they passed between lines of wooden doors, Constance said, “It’s so quiet. I thought there’d be some noise from behind them.”
“Every mating cube is sound-proofed. We like to give our sisters privacy. We also believe in protecting them, of course. Each sister is alone with a meet, but help is always close by.”
About Sisterland Page 5