About Sisterland

by Martina Devlin

  All at once, a wave of exhaustion hit her, and she had to sit down: babyfusion’s way of reminding her she needed to take more rest. She was nauseous again, too. The medico had warned her about sickness in the first week, from the babyfusion speed-up pill. She must remember to pick up some of the recommended protein liquids. In the meantime, she should take a popper. She staggered out to the living area, poured water, and swallowed an orange pill.

  As soon as she was able, Constance settled down to deal with the interchange of Honour’s final memory. Her range of expressions became the memory-keeper’s. Her connections. Her sympathies. Her tone of voice. And yes, her moes – that was it. That explained why she was fizzing with moe, tossing over chairs and verging on tears.

  Moe and memory couldn’t be separated. Memory was sparked by moe and moe by memory. Interchanging Honour’s memories left her open to the moes once felt – perhaps still felt – by the memory-keeper. Hopefully, when the interchange transaction was complete, she’d regain her equilibrium. Constance didn’t care for this whirligig. A moe every now and then was agreeable, but one crashing in on top of the next was draining. Especially in the early stages of babyfusion.

  Constance worked on, reliving Honour’s final memory. She concentrated on interchanging the moes that accompanied the memory, while trying to sidestep sharing them, despite their tendency to seep in. When she was finished, her mind continued to race. On impulse, she decided to visit her source.

  She hurried past the knot of needy Silenced followers, ignoring their calls, and caught a Buzz to the Circle zone.

  Devotion twanged the door-lock mechanism and Constance was admitted. While Goodwill frothed up herbs to make ocean tea, Devotion chattered about a thought consignment she had just finished hatching: patriotic ones, bulky with unquestioning pride in Sisterland.

  “Do you ever hatch any of Goodwill’s thoughts?” Constance asked.

  “Not knowingly. We’re never told who’s crafted them. But sometimes I’ve sensed her mind-print on a batch.” She sent an affectionate look towards her other. “My Goodwill has a rare mind. Such clarity and precision.” She returned her attention to Constance. “You’re quite the regular here these days.”

  “I’m Making Time for Togethertime. I’m babyfused, remember? I messaged you on your comtel about it.”

  “Oh yes, good job. Universal sisterhood is proud of you.” Devotion patted Constance’s shoulder.

  Goodwill bounced over and hugged Constance. “What happy news! You should have told me, Devotion.”

  Constance threw a surprised glance at Devotion. Why hadn’t she told Goodwill?

  “It slipped my mind,” said Devotion.

  “I remember when you were a baby,” Goodwill went on. “You were such a solemn wee creature. Wasn’t she, Devotion?”

  “She hardly ever cried.”

  “Let’s all toast Constance’s babyfusion. Never mind ocean tea. Devotion, break out your top-of-the-range sunset wine.”

  “It’s all top-of-the-range. But Constance can’t drink alcohol if she’s babyfused. I suppose we could have some, to wish her luck. I do hope you don’t defuse, ladybird, and have to go through all that messy mating again.”

  Constance rolled her eyes at Goodwill, who pulled a sympathetic face.

  After Devotion and Goodwill had clinked glasses, Constance said, “Babyfusion seems to make me want to be around my family. It must be a biological reflex.”

  “Sisterland is one large family, Constance,” said Devotion.

  “I hope I’m allowed a special bond with my source, all the same. Surely Sisterland isn’t threatened by that?”

  “Sisterland isn’t threatened by anything. Really, Constance, you need to practise self-control. Doesn’t she, Goodwill?”

  “Constance is a little out of her groove, dear. We should offer her something to eat. You were ravenous when you were babyfused. Are you hungry, Constance?”

  “I do feel empty.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Devotion tutted. “You have to learn to ask for what you want.”

  “All right, Devotion – what I want is to know why you never mention my father. Why do you have no stories about him?”

  “He was just a meet.”

  “I wouldn’t be me without him.”

  “Stop being awkward.”

  Goodwill spoke up for Constance. “I’m glad she thinks about him, Devotion. Perhaps you should remember him, too. He gave you a precious gift.”

  “What’s got into you, Goodwill? Don’t encourage her. Sisterland has no use for fathers.”

  “I met a memory-keeper who thought they mattered,” said Constance.

  “Really, Constance, babyfusion is making you imagine things.” Devotion looked concerned. “You’re overtired. I think you should go straight home to bed as soon as you’ve had something to eat. Goodwill will find you a snack. But I don’t want to hear any more of this ridiculous talk about fathers. You’ll only land yourself in trouble, ladybird.”

  Chapter 17

  The sound of fast-moving traffic woke Constance early. It couldn’t be the peers back again – their vehicles had a distinctive chug, and didn’t achieve high speeds. Neither could it be transers moving men about. They went at an even slower pace, and were restricted to certain roads. It must be the Nine. No-one else was licensed to travel at speed in personal carriers. They had been on circuit in Righteous, and were not due back for several more days. Something must be brewing.

  She shrugged, propped her pillow against the wall, and sat up to message the medico’s comtel with an inquiry about Honour. While she waited for a response, she washed and dressed, but the medico didn’t reply. Maybe she was busy. She’d try again later.

  Constance set off for Shaperhaus to report on the memory interchange. Outside her unit, half a dozen members of the Silenced dozed in sleeping pouches in a corner of the courtyard. They looked chilled to the bone, and no wonder. Surely their eccentric discipleship would wither away soon? Yet last night’s wind hadn’t deterred them. Which reminded Constance. She sniffed: the wind was gone. Once more, the air was dense.

  She picked up an ocean tea at the Buzz station, and sipped it on the journey. Something was definitely afoot in Harmony today. Peers patrolled the streets – she could see them from the train.

  At Shaperhaus she met a trainee co-keeper in the foyer.

  “Curious wind last night, wasn’t there?” said Constance.

  “Don’t know what you mean.”

  “It was windy last night.”

  “I wish.”

  “Of course it was. The peers drove round, telling everyone to stay indoors.”

  “Not where I live, they didn’t. Where was this?”

  “Oblong.”

  “I’m in Cone. Deliverance here’s in Polygon, aren’t you?” She addressed a shaper walking by. “Any wind out your way yesterday, Deliverance?”

  “You kidding? Since when do we get wind?”

  “Must just have been an Oblong wind, Constance. Unless you dreamed it.”

  “Harmony’s not that big. There aren’t different weather conditions all over the city.”

  The co-keeper shrugged, losing interest. “Is it true you’re off the co-keeper programme?”

  “Temporarily.”

  “That’s tough.”

  Constance made her way to the stairs, past the

  SMILE ALL THE WHILE

  lettering, an uneasy feeling taking hold. She met her progress-monitor coming from the opposite direction.

  “The Shaper Mother’s been asking for your report,” said Patience.

  “I have it here.”

  “You can pass it to me.”

  “The mother said it was for her ears only.”

  “She isn’t here – she’s at Sistercentral. The Nine has convened.”

  So that explained the traffic. “In that case, perhaps I might be allowed to return to the memory-keeper today,” said Constance.

  “I’m afraid that’s imp
ossible.”

  “Honour has more to contribute, I’m sure of it.”

  “No doubt. But she discontinued last night. She left it absurdly late to share her final memory. Still, better late than never. Now, no time to dawdle. I’ll take care of the memory interchange. I’ll make sure the mother gets it as soon as she returns to Shaperhaus.”

  Constance was deflated. Honour had changed before her eyes, from an elderly woman into a small girl at her father’s elbow. But that metamorphosis had been her swan song. She braced herself to do what she knew she must.

  “In that case, I need to go directly to Sistercentral. The information I carry should be placed by me personally in the Shaper Mother’s hands as soon as possible.”

  Patience folded her arms. “She left no instructions to that effect.”

  “The memory-keeper’s discontinuation makes it essential. It’s in Sisterland’s best interests.”

  Patience looked irritated at being obstructed. “You presume too much, Constance. But go, since you’re so insistent.”

  “I’ll need Sistercentral admission uploaded to my comtel at once.” Trusting to a show of confidence to win the day, Constance pivoted on her heel.

  In the square outside, a giant screen showed images of Honour 19, while a voicebox gave news of her discontinuation, along with a précis of her life. Constance stopped to watch a clip of the memory-keeper speaking at a Sisterday celebration sixty years earlier. How certain she sounded. But her absolutes had undergone a sea-change. And Constance had the evidence.

  There was no more magnificent building in Harmony than Sistercentral, which had been designed with panache. It was shaped like a horseshoe, with columns of half-moon windows, and nine steps leading up to a curved entrance doorway. On either side of the front door, brackets held torches in which perpetual flames burned. The façade was constructed of golden sandstone which glimmered constantly, day and night, giving the impression of tiny diamonds embedded in its surface. Even on days when the air was particularly moist, they retained vestiges of sparkle. It was the only building in Harmony constructed from golden stone, and it lent Sistercentral a totemic quality.

  An ugly building had been flattened to make way for it. There were no unattractive buildings left – an aesthetics committee had put them to the vote, and all were now eradicated. Phallic symbols had been toppled, too – freestanding spires, for example. Some people believed the committee should have been more willing to take public soundings before sending in the bulldozers, because what one Sisterlander regarded as unsightly, another interpreted as idiosyncratic. However, the result was a harmonious city, even if closer study revealed something anodyne in its totality.

  Sistercentral stood on a hill overlooking the city. By a quirk of design, it was visible to Harmony but Harmony was not visible to it. Scientists had worked with architects to position massive optical crystals at either end of Sistercentral’s perimeters – bending the light, so that the city vanished from view. This illusion allowed the building’s occupants to believe Sistercentral stood independent of the urban sprawl surrounding it. And nobody seemed to think that odd.

  Constance walked up a sloping path, through grounds decorated with statues. Her favourite was a tightrope walker, except beneath the woman’s feet lay nothing. The tightrope existed only in her mind. Belief allowed her to walk in mid-air.

  Constance tried not to feel intimidated as she walked through the entrance, beneath lettering chiselled into stone:

  SISTERLAND PRIZES OBEDIENCE

  Scrutineers in Sistercentral livery, a tortoiseshell-patterned one-piece, stopped her in the doorway. She explained that she had urgent business with the Shaper Mother, who was meeting the Nine. Inscrutable, they told her she was not listed on their scanner, and could not be admitted.

  “My permission was only just uploaded from Shaperhaus – perhaps it isn’t showing yet,” she said.

  Courteous, they agreed this was a possibility, but she was obliged to wait while they investigated. Voice recognition compared her voice with a sample on record, and they allowed her into the foyer. Constance sat on a marble bench, breathing in the twilight scent of foxgloves, and observed the arrivals and departures. People looked important, or abstracted, or solemn. Nobody, however, looked happy.

  Fifteen minutes passed, and Constance was beginning to think her bluff had been called by Patience. She was no pushover. But it had been important to Constance to try. She wanted to be there in person, explaining Honour’s words on her behalf – it was essential that the memory-keeper’s final message for Sisterland was understood.

  “Those torches are something else,” a passing comment sang out.

  Overhearing it, Constance grasped why she felt so strongly about Honour’s interchange. The memory-keeper had passed the torch to her.

  Unable to settle, she walked about the circular foyer. As her heels tapped over the tiles, she realised they were shaped into the image of a gigantic, babyfused woman – hands resting on the orb of her belly. The child inside was also depicted, not side-on, but facing out: eyes open, challenging.

  “You like our mosaic?” A scrutineer had noticed Constance studying it.

  “It’s striking. I was in Sistercentral once before, but never noticed it.”

  “You don’t, when there’s a lot of footfall. Its proper title is The Coming. But we call it Lemme Out. Impatient-looking gal, if you ask me.”

  “Is the baby meant to be anyone in particular?”

  “Beloved, of course. She’s the baby.”

  Constance looked again. Of course – her identity was signalled by a pearlised coating overlaying the mosaic.

  “She commissioned it before she discontinued,” the scrutineer went on. “Approved the design, but didn’t live to see it carried out.”

  “Your authorisation has come through, sister.” Another scrutineer broke in on their conversation.

  “Thank you,” said Constance, relieved. “Where can I find the Shaper Mother?”

  “Eighth floor, turn right, then it’s first on the left. Running Woman conference room.”

  “Running woman?”

  The scrutineer mimed slow-motion running.

  No wiser, Constance set off. Everything was built deliberately on a mammoth scale. The steps were high, straining her hams to climb them, and the corridors stretched apparently endlessly into the distance, echoing to the sound of purposeful footsteps. This was not a building designed to encourage loitering. Every door was marked with a stick woman, the sort Constance used to draw in girlplace. Each was engaged in a different activity: sleeping, kneeling, digging, dancing, sleeping. Constance kept walking until she found herself outside a door on which a stick woman was running. She rapped, and out peeked Modesty’s head with its shiny black ponytail stub.

  “Patience messaged to say you were on your way,” said Modesty. “Come in, the mother’s waiting for your interchange.”

  The Shaper Mother sat beside a rotund metal object from which heat was emanating. The room looked like somebody’s parlour from PS times. A hand-knotted striped rug lay on the floor, while the mother sat in a floral-printed armchair with a high back and a matching footstool, on which she rested feet shod in midnight-blue velvet shoes with silver stitching. A midnight shawl, also edged in silver, was draped round her shoulders, covering her tunic. Armchairs were distributed about the room, each with its accompanying footstool.

  Constance was nonplussed by the surroundings – there wasn’t even a table at which delegates could sit to conduct discussions.

  “Welcome, sweet child. How do you like our pot-bellied stove? There’s one in every conference room. Lends snugness. Come and enjoy the comfort for yourself.”

  Constance approached, the mother’s scent enveloping her. She must dose herself in it at regular intervals.

  “You don’t like my perfume? Never mind. Though how anyone could object to bergamot and lemongrass is beyond me. Now, put your hand on the stove – careful, mind. See how cosy it feels?
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if every oneser and twoser in Sisterland had one? But they take up space, unfortunately.”

  “I have my report ready for you, mother.”

  “I commend your initiative. Such a shame about Honour discontinuing last night. But at least she interchanged with you first. I hope she didn’t waste time talking about that poet she associated you with. I’ve never understood poets. Such impractical creatures.” The Shaper Mother flexed her long fingers. Hers were graceful hands, but no longer young, and the fingers cracked in the stretch. “So, was Honour still lucid?”

  “Her memory was clear. She spoke with love, and in detail, about her childhood. The bakery wasn’t just a business to her, but a home. She talked about her parents, too – especially her father. I believe they had a particular bond.”

  The mother’s tawny eyes flared. “Upload your interchange.” She extended an arm displaying the sig on her inner wrist.

  Constance tapped a code onto her own sig, before repeating the sequence of numbers on the mother’s. She touched her sig to the mother’s, they flashed and locked together.

  During the transfer, Constance could feel Honour’s essence in the room with them. The memory-keeper’s image shimmered before her.

  “You may wait outside.”

  At the sound of the voice, Constance’s chin jolted off her chest – she must have nodded off. How unlike herself the Shaper Mother sounded. There was an odd note in her voice – you might almost call it wounded. She was cradling her head in her hands, face hidden.

  Outside in the corridor, Constance walked up and down, looking at the pictograms, until Modesty summoned her inside.

  “You’ve certainly rattled the mother.” She waved her sig. “Your interchange is in here. I’m taking it to the Nine.”