About Sisterland

by Martina Devlin

Sensing Constance’s ambivalence, the Shaper Mother locked eyes with her. Tension quivered between them. Constance felt the mother’s willpower press against her own.

  “The Nine has decided,” said the mother. “The Silenced must be neutralised. You’re invited to help.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “The Nine cannot envisage you refusing. It would be unnatural. Of course, there are other sisters we can turn to if you pass up this opportunity. But it would be unwise, Constance. So very unwise. I dislike being blunt, but I must remind you: you have a lot to lose.”

  Constance traced the lifeline on the palm of her hand. She was babyfused, and ought to take the path of least resistance. At least until she gave birth. This invitation from the Nine was one in name only. She was boxed in. Surely there could be no harm in meeting the head of the Silenced and hearing what she had to say, before making a decision.

  “Do I really know this woman socially?”

  “Trust me, you know her well.”

  That trust me singed Constance’s mind. There was no-one she could trust, except herself. “All right, I’ll take a look at the Ess report and arrange a meeting.”

  “Excellent, you justify my faith in you.” The mother left her throne-chair, and laid a hand on Constance’s shoulder. Her voice was soothing. “My child, you’ll find life easier if you focus on what matters. Universal sisterhood. Everything else is white noise.”

  On her way home that evening, an excited babble from her fellow passengers penetrated Constance’s reverie. She looked up, and saw the Buzz train was shunting towards the Octagon stop. A banner hung from the Hope Bridge. Five words.

  We will not be SILENCED

  The next morning, when she was at her desk in Shaperhaus, a vibration indicating a voice message thrummed on Constance’s comtel. She activated it. Security clearance received. Prepare to receive Ess data. The name Ess filled her with foreboding: it was a dedicated intelligence section within the peers. But what choice did she have? She hit the transmit icon, and an image popped up. It was small but recognisable.

  Goodwill.

  Constance was transfixed by the image. A subversive! Goodwill! It was difficult to believe.

  And yet, she had been at the Hope Bridge. She retraced their conversation.

  “Why not give them what they want?” said Goodwill.

  “I don’t know what they want.”

  “Nor do they. Whatever you give them will be what they want.”

  Constance touched the comtel again, and the voice listed biographical bullet points about Goodwill. Words such as plausible and astute were used about her. So, too, were maverick and scheming.

  Did this mean Devotion was also one of the Silenced? She struggled to envisage her source in any sort of movement, let alone a resistance. All Devotion cared about were her window boxes and brewing homemade wine. She replayed the message. There was nothing about Devotion but maybe she had a dossier of her own.

  Constance brooded over bumping into Goodwill at the bridge. Goodwill had no way of knowing she’d encounter Constance there – her decision to jump off the Buzz was unpremeditated. She must have been there for her own reasons, perhaps to gauge support levels for the Silenced, or to see how the peers would handle the gathering. But Goodwill could have slipped away without Constance seeing her. And why had she encouraged Constance to speak when she had no control over what she would say? Did she make a snap decision to assess Constance, too?

  She sent Goodwill a comtel message suggesting they needed to talk. “Alone,” she wrote. Such an approach from Constance was unprecedented – Goodwill’s response would be telling. She replied at once, inviting Constance to the twoser. “Devotion’s just left for work.” said the message. “She’ll be gone all day.”

  Constance’s breath rattled in her chest. Before she could do this, she needed to juice up. She approached the Shaper Mother’s office, and the door peeled open. One day, she thought, I really am going to applaud that door. The mother was standing at the window. She seemed to spend an increasing amount of time just looking out at the activity in Eternity Square.

  “I’m going to pay a visit to this sister,” said Constance. “The one the Ess says is a ringleader.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll need extra moe approval first.”

  “I’ll sign off on one right away.”

  The mother could use some moes herself, thought Constance – she could do with loosening up. That had been self-indulgent baloney about only needing to access empathy. Deliberately, Constance let the opinion spread through her mind, and watched with satisfaction as the Shaper Mother picked up on it.

  The two women ahead of Constance in Moe Express dithered over their selection. One ordered a G, because gratitude had recently been made available at a knockdown price and she said feeling better about everything was worthwhile, while her companion vacillated between a Z and a U before coming down on the side of Z.

  “Zest, last gift of the gods to humankind,” murmured Constance, remembering Benevolence from matingplace. There had been traces of zest in her.

  The customer blinked rapidly. “No such moe, surely? I wanted zeal. I’m hoping for promotion.”

  “You’ve chosen such a pushy moe, Reverence,” said her friend. “Mine’s a more female one.”

  “Why should any moe be masculine or feminine? Surely they’re just moes: gender neutral,” said Constance.

  The two shoppers turned their backs decisively against her. My questions upset other sisters, thought Constance.

  “What can I tempt you with today, sister?” asked the flicker, when her turn came. “Shall I list the offers?”

  “No, thanks. I need something to stiffen my resolve – I have a difficult meeting ahead.”

  “And you’d like to tackle it in a diplomatic way, am I right? You might consider a hybrid moe. A double C blend, perhaps. Courage plus constructiveness.”

  Constance nodded, and watched as the flicker netted the moes and bagged them, fluttering, within the same container. She never tired of the spectacle. When she attempted to pay, she was told Shaperhaus was taking care of the bill.

  The flicker’s manner became confidential. “We have a facility for special customers who wish to ingest on the premises. Allow me to escort you there.”

  Constance had never heard of such a perk. “Does every outlet provide this service?”

  “Certainly. We appreciate time is more valuable for some sisters than others.”

  Constance didn’t fancy wandering about searching for a public space to consume her moe. And that attitude, she realised, was how favouritism crept into a supposedly equal society. However, the high moral ground struck her as draughty right then.

  “Thank you. I’d like to avail of it.”

  The flicker led her to a room equipped with nothing more than a white rug into which her feet sank up to the ankles, a plump plum of a sofa, and a tall vase on the floor from which emerged three gladioli. “You won’t be disturbed here. Remember you’re taking a blended moe. They pack a twister punch.”

  As soon as she was alone, Constance opened her cargo. She bent her face over it, tapped the seal, and the bag flew open. The impact made her totter back, her fall broken by the sofa. Her finances rarely ran to a blend, and this was a humdinger. As the moe swooshed through her bloodstream, a volley of self-assurance reached her: she was able for whatever was required. The blended moe in her bloodstream sang to her, its music drowning doubts.

  But it didn’t last. Not even a hybrid blend could hold her for long. The music screeched to a halt. She sat up.

  Artificial moes were no longer effective on her. She supposed it must be because she could access genuine ones on her own. Dehydrated, Constance hauled herself out of the sofa’s embrace. These moes were giving her a hangover, too – it had been weak of her to rely on one.

  From now on, she must manage without Sisterland’s crutches.

  Chapter 26

  Constance pulled off her sk
in, and propped it against a cushion. “I lost you at the bridge the other day. Did the peers log you?”

  “No, I managed to melt away,” said Goodwill. “How about you?”

  “I’m not as experienced as you at giving peers the slip.”

  “That’s too bad, dear. But you’re young. They’ll offset it against your age. The blood runs hotter in our youth.” Her honking laugh filled the room.

  Constance considered her. Goodwill was billowing out of her waistband, her face was blotchy, and a button was missing from her shirt. If the Ess said she was one of the ringleaders of a new resistance movement, it must be so. But a less prepossessing ringleader it was a struggle to imagine.

  Of course, that was the beauty of it.

  “An el for your thoughts,” said Goodwill.

  Goodwill couldn’t mindmap, not even at an elemental level. Which explained why Constance had never felt Goodwill tiptoe through her mind.

  “Have you ever seen an el? I haven’t,” said Constance.

  “Back when I was a girl. People still dealt directly with money then. But a lot has changed.”

  “Except we’re not supposed to call them changes, because that implies previous Nines were wrong on some issues,” said Constance. “When I studied silkenspeak, I was taught nothing in Sisterland is ever altered: it’s restructured to maximise benefits.”

  Goodwill’s mouth twitched. “Of course. We don’t change things, we refine them. Many refinements have happened since I was a girl.”

  “Were men kept apart from us then, too?”

  “Yes, because it’s safer. The fine-tuning is mainly cosmetic: we have less noise now, less ugliness, less conspicuous consumption – partly because of space pressure in homes.”

  “You know, I’ve never understood why we’re squeezed into such tiny spaces. It’s not as if the population is growing. On the contrary. There’s no reason why bigger onesers and twosers couldn’t be built.”

  “Uneconomical. It takes more energy to heat a larger property.” Goodwill settled back, pleased to have Constance as her audience. “When women took over, we prioritised. Daft, futuristic trappings were discarded – in fact, one of the first decisions made by the original Nine was to axe the space programme. Better to focus on taking care of the world we have, rather than search for new worlds.”

  “Exploration isn’t something we’re keen on.” Constance thought about Outsideland. What would it be like to explore that world? Or even – an idea flared, frightening her with its insidious appeal – to live there? She wrenched her attention away from Outsideland. “We’re told Sisterland has reached the epitome. But it hasn’t.”

  “There have been missteps.”

  Constance waited, but Goodwill was waiting, too.

  Constance plunged in. “Does it never strike you, Goodwill, that Sisterland might have lost its way? I know I shouldn’t even think this, let alone say it. But wouldn’t it have been better to share?”

  “We do share.”

  Constance took her courage in both hands. “Not with men.”

  “Men can’t share. And women dare not. That’s what we’re taught.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  Goodwill took so long to reply that Constance thought she must have miscalculated. There was no way to retrieve the situation – she ought simply to leave. It was only when she reached for her skin that Goodwill found her voice.

  “Look outside, Constance. What do you see?”

  “Devotion’s window boxes.”

  “Do you know what she’s growing?”

  “Basil and dill.”

  “Herbs co-exist if the conditions are right. You couldn’t plant mint in there – it would take over. The trick is finding the right combination of herbs that can flourish together, and isolating those which are still useful, but need specific growing conditions.”

  A smile etched itself on Constance’s mouth. “Why do I get the impression you aren’t talking about herbs?”

  “I like mint tea, but I also like basil in my tomato salad. I’d never have both if basil and mint were put growing in the same window box. Mint would smother the basil. And that’s the problem with the sexes: they don’t seem able to co-exist unless one of them is on top. The trick is finding a way to keep them separate, but cooperating.”

  “Has that ever happened?”

  “Not that I know. It’s worth trying to bring about, though. Wait, I want to show you something.” Goodwill disappeared into the bedroom, returning with a skin between her hands. It was Silence’s – the one that had been pinned to the bridge.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “A friendly peer slipped it to me after the raid. Cooperation, you see? Our cause has wide-ranging support.”

  “Which cause is that?”

  “I think you know, Constance.”

  “This belongs to me. I’m Silence’s next-of-kin. The peers should have returned it to me.”

  “Won’t you consider donating it to us? The Silenced will cherish this memento of her.”

  “Does that mean you speak on behalf of the Silenced?”

  Her eyes probed Constance’s. “I believe I do.”

  The hairs on the back of Constance’s arms stirred. The Ess was right. “And what is it the Silenced want?”

  “Our sisters are full of vague yearnings. Shape needs to be given to them.”

  Constance ran the ball of her thumb along the curve of Silence’s skin. It wasn’t like touching Silence: this was an inanimate object. She returned it to Goodwill. “Have it. I don’t want it. Silence removed it before she jumped – there was a reason why she took it off.”

  Goodwill handled the skin with reverence. “To leave something of herself behind for us.”

  “I doubt that. I suspect she didn’t want to hide behind her skin, the way the rest of us do. She knew they suppressed moes – turned us into sisters hatched from the same batch.”

  “I can’t remember a time without skins. The memory-keepers have never spoken of it.” Goodwill set the skin on a side-table. “It’s like an icon. See how it turns the table into an altar. It makes me want to bow my head and pray.”

  “Except there isn’t any formal prayer in Sisterland. We have no goddesses. Only one another.”

  Goodwill caught Constance by the wrist. “Some say our sisters in the Nine make living goddesses of themselves.”

  “They do.”

  “Goddesses can be arbitrary.”

  “They can.”

  “And merciless.”

  “They are.”

  “The Nine must be replaced. Soon. Before it’s too late.”

  Constance wrenched herself free, rubbing at the marks left on her flesh from the pressure of Goodwill’s fingers. “What do you mean, before it’s too late?”

  Goodwill lowered her voice. “The Nine has a plan. Scientists have been working on it for years. It’s nearly ready to be rolled out. But it can’t be allowed to go ahead. Someone has to stop it.”

  “What plan?”

  “The Virgin Birth Project.”

  Constance’s mouth flapped open. “The virgin birth was just a story!”

  “But some stories are real. Not all of them are invented. Virgin births occur in the animal kingdom: they give some species a reproductive boost. Virgin birth is an evolutionary advantage – and the Nine is determined to harness it.”

  “How?”

  “The Nine believes people possessed the ability, but lost it. Virgin birth is mentioned in the legends of many ancient cultures. Gods were always disguising themselves and mystically impregnating maidens.”

  “Those are just parables. They were used to suggest someone exceptional was born.”

  “But what if non-sexual procreation happened in our earliest years on Earth, and gods tricked out as showers of golden rain, or lotus plants, or swans, were a way of trying to understand it? Isn’t it telling that when pagan myth coalesced with early Christianity, the virgin birth tradition survived? Christianity
turned it into dogma, inventing a dove which pentrated the goddess they called the Virgin Mary. Babyfusion without men. It happened before – the Nine wants it to happen again.”

  “Slow down, Goodwill! I can’t keep up!”

  “OK, here’s how it goes. Sisterland’s scientists are studying parthenogenesis: a form of reproduction where embryos develop without fertilisation. It occurs naturally in many plants and in some invertebrate animal species – scorpions, bees, water fleas and aphids. And it’s been induced artificially in a few species, such as fish and amphibians.”

  “The DNA differences between fish and people must be huge.”

  “True, but the principle’s the same. Lately, their research’s led to a breakthrough.”

  “It’s actually working?”

  “All I know is they’ve progressed to testing it on mice and monkeys. Their DNA is close to humans’. So it’s only a matter of time before they start trials on women.”

  “You mean a new form of assisted reproduction?”

  Goodwill’s smile was crooked. “Oh, something far more radical than that, Constance. I mean artificially created embryos. And if embryos can be manufactured, then sex can be determined, too. I wouldn’t bank on too many baby boys making the final cut.”

  “Wouldn’t they be needed, still, for labour?”

  “For a while. But I think the Nine would find a way round that. Why take the risk? Safer to use machinery, or women with lower IQs. For all their talk about universal sisterhood, it’s still an unequal society. Ask the women who work in dine-alls and easies.”

  “Or matingplace.” Constance thought of Unity.

  “Exactly. No, gender selection can only mean one thing. Men will become obsolete.”

  Constance became aware of a succession of movements, low in her stomach: a light drumming from the inside. Could this be what they called the quickening? She slid both hands inside her clothing, trying to communicate with her baby. I’ll keep you safe. Hoping it was a promise she could stand over. Goodwill was still speaking, her words rushing towards her, but darkness claimed Constance.