About Sisterland (14 page)

“We treat leaves here so they don’t fall off trees. It’s tidier.”

He shook his head, long, fair hair stirring. She found herself admiring the way it fell across his face.

“I pity you,” he said.

She scrambled to her feet, heart pumping. A man couldn’t pity a woman!  

“I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean to,” he said.

“Not offended. Startled. We’re the ones who pity you, for being less evolved than us.”

He reflected. “Feeling pity for one another is better than feeling threatened by one another.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Let’s not argue tonight. Big, bad Charity will be clanking at the door shortly.”

“How do you know she’s big and bad, with your blindfold on?” 

“From the way space settles round her.”

“Does she scare you?”

“I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her. Let me guess. She carries a stifstat she’s just itching to use.”

Constance thought about Benevolence, and shivered. “She does wear one. Harper, tell me about the memories your keepers shared with you. Memories ours may have held back.”

He tapped his mouth with a forefinger, and she noticed the sharply defined hollow in the middle of his upper lip. She’d like to touch the groove. She supposed she could, if she wanted. Better not.

“There was a piece of machinery that made information freely available. Everywhere. Anyone could use it. It was called the Internet. The fisherman I told you about spoke of it. He said it was the most important tool ever invented. But it was dangerous, too. Because of what it shared.”

“A sharing tool?” asked Constance.

“Sharing and spreading.”

“The same as a shaper – only a machine, not a woman.”

“Shapers reshape the truth. The Internet just distributed it, for people to make up their own minds.”

“Hey! I trained as a shaper.”

“Look, it’s how we see it.”

Constance expelled a noisy breath. “Never mind. Tell me more
about the Internet. Was it used for education or recreation?”

“Both. It had moving images on it. And voices. And books – if you could read.”

“It sounds like the comtel. Who controlled it?”

“No-one.”

“How was that possible?”

He spread wide his hands. “It just – was.”

“If nobody controlled it, then nobody was able to limit the information people could access. So it was monitored less than the comtel. This was radical!”

“The fisherman said there were attempts to block it, because of its power. But it was like water – it kept trickling out. There now, I’ve shared all my treasures with you. I’ve nothing left to offer. And we still have what’s left of tonight, and tomorrow.” A hint of mischief danced beneath his words.

“Then we won’t be able to see one another for nearly a month,” Constance tested for a reaction.

“Meanwhile, I’ll be expected to mate with a different woman each week.”

“Don’t you like the idea of mating?”

“Why should I want to do it with a stranger? Even animals choose their mates.”

“I didn’t choose you either, you know.” She took a deep breath, and made a conscious decision to say what was on her mind. “But I would, now.”

He approached, until he was standing so close that the warmth of his breath feathered against her face. Her heart gave an unsteady skip. He reached out the tips of his fingers and stroked the slope of her neck. She could sense the blood surge in her face at his touch.

It reminded her she was wearing a skin which acted as a barrier between them. But if the sensations he produced were so powerful through a mask, they’d swamp her without one. The Mating Mother’s warning rang in her ears: under no circumstances must she remove her skin with a man. It was for her own safety, she’d been told.

But maybe it was really for Sisterland’s benefit.

His fingertips travelled along her face, until they found her mouth. Gently, he rubbed the ball of his thumb against her lower lip. How close he was – she could smell his breath now: it reminded her of pears. She lifted up her hand, and traced his jawline with the back of her forefinger. She could feel him waiting. Her finger moved higher until it reached his mouth, where she rested the tip of it against his lips. They felt softer than hers must, through her skin. His mouth closed against her fingertip in a butterfly kiss. She reached behind her ear and tore off her skin, dropping it carelessly to the floor. Then she took his hand and cupped it to her cheek, so that he could feel her face was naked before him. Even if he couldn’t see it. For a moment, he tested the contours of her face, confirming the skin’s absence. Moved by the pressure of his touch, she closed her eyes. He gathered her into his arms, bent his head and pressed his cheek against hers. Bare flesh against bare flesh.

They stayed like that, at one in their desire to prolong the encounter. Constance was afraid to speak in case it brought this intimacy to an end. Finally, he stirred and drifted his lips down her face and along her throat, feeling her pulse beat there. He raised his head, and mouth touched mouth. He tasted vulnerable. He tasted hopeful. He tasted of life.

The impact of the kiss was volcanic. Overwhelmed, she pulled away. Kissing was rare in Sisterland, because of skins. Even in the home, where they were removed, the habit had been replaced by pressing palms together. Just as personal, in its way, Constance would have said. Until that moment. 

No sooner had she separated from him than she regretted it. Instinctively, she leaned back into him, her arms circled his neck, pulling him close, and she kissed him again. When finally they paused to draw breath, she sank her face into the side of his neck. Her legs were buckling under the force of the moe which convulsed her body. Only his arms kept her upright. Desire was making her feel less substantial – she felt herself dissolve with it. Melting into him. She could hear his heart pounding against her chest, as accelerated as her own. It could almost be drumming inside her body.

The bell rang. They were supposed to be finished. The voice told them time was up. They kissed again.

The door rattled, and Constance wrenched herself out of his arms, groping for her skin. As he reached for her again, she pushed him away, and dragged on her footwear. By luck more than design, she was a short distance away from Harper when the door opened. But the imprint of
their shared moe trembled in the ether. Charity registered it, and scowled.

In the doorway, Constance looked back at Harper. The light from the corridor shone on his face, revealing its symmetry more clearly than she had seen it before. How dear to her he was becoming.

“Soon, you’ll be leaving us,” The Mating Mother told Constance, in the respite room. “Still, perhaps you’ll be back next month. Instant babyfusion is rare.”

“Will I be allowed to stay in the Tower at night when I return next month, mother?”

“It all depends.”

“On what?”

“On me.”

“Have I done something wrong?” Constance’s fear of being spied on in the mating cube resurfaced.

“Not that I know of.” The Mating Mother’s hand travelled along the hair streaming over one of her shoulders, making sure it was sleek.

Constance hesitated. Could the Mating Mother have any inkling of what was developing between her and Harper? It wasn’t impossible, in view of a mother’s mindmap powers. She watched the small hand continue its grooming.

“Your hair is magnificent, mother.”

“This is a wig – part of my costume. You didn’t realise that? I’m flattered.” The Mating Mother stood on tiptoes and waggled a finger under Constance’s nose. “But how suspicious you are! You can’t imagine a Mating Mother has perks denied to others? That’s not how Sisterland works.”

Constance hung her head. She couldn’t contradict her, but she knew it was untrue.

The Mating Mother studied her. “My helpers tell me you seem to find mating congenial.”

“Anything done for Sisterland is satisfying to me.”

“Commendable. But Charity says you have to be prised out of the mating cube.”

“I like to lie down for as long as possible – you advised it.”

“The mating urge makes Himtime
more enjoyable for some than others. Meets are trained to gratify physical desires, after all. But remember, this is a means to an end. ” She tweaked Constance under the chin. “A word from the wise, top girl: a meet is a utensil, not a person. Don’t mistake him for one.”

Chapter 12

“Last night,” said Charity, as Constance stood outside the control hub. “Most women are relieved to go home and put all this behind them.” She snaked a glance at Constance, indicating knowledge: Constance didn’t fall into that category.

Constance felt a compulsion to tell her she wanted to mate with a man, not to achieve babyfusion, but to be close to him. Imagine Charity’s face if she did! But she had to be careful – her moe urges were becoming more intoxicating.

“I’ll take you to him in a minute,” said Charity, when Constance didn’t rise to the bait. “The clock for one of the cubes is on the blink. Need to check my records.”

Charity fussed with her comtel, comparing times on it against those on-screen, but Constance wasn’t impatient – she knew Harper was waiting for her. She wondered how long he had been in situ, ready for her arrival, and whether time lay heavy on his hands. He was right; their relationship were unequal. But there was nothing she could do about it, except give him the freedom to say yes or no to her.

Perhaps he’d find another sister he preferred to her. After all, she was his first. He might only like her because he had nothing to compare her against.

“Let’s go,” said Charity. “Mustn’t keep your succulent slice of meet waiting.”

“Why do you speak of him like that?”

“They’re all tasty, aren’t they? It’s their job to look mating fit.”

The door was locked behind her.

“Constance,” said Harper, arms held out, and she flew into them. When they drew apart, she said, “You know this is our last night?”

“I know.”

She took off her skin and knelt on the pop-up, sliding the skin under the pillow to protect it. He followed, kneeling beside her. They began kissing, his tongue against her lips, and she fell back beneath the pressure of his body. He collapsed with her, half-lying on top.

His hands grappled with her dress. “I can’t open it.” His laughter was low in his throat. “You’ll have to help me.”

She guided his hand inside the material, and he stroked the curve of her shoulder, then swept his palm down across her belly.

“Stop, Harper, wait. There’s something I need from you.”

He bit lightly on her earlobe, still caressing her, and she pushed him away, and sat up.

“I know you can’t see me through the blindfold. But I want to know you realise this is Constance with you. Constance, who chooses Harper.”

“Who chooses her.”

He understood. She was relieved.

He reached into the waistband of his leggings, and produced a nail. “We can use this.”

“To do what?”

“To remove the blindfold. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Harper! You’ll get in trouble!”

“I found it in the shower. I think another man smuggled it in, but lost his nerve and tried to get rid of it.”

“He was right to be afraid. I’ll take it with me when I leave, and throw it away.”

“Cut off my blindfold first.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll be punished.”

“I want to do this for you.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“I know you need me to see you.”

“If we see one another, it makes us more equal.”

“So use the nail.”

“But later, there’ll be trouble.”

“Now is what matters – we can control now. We can’t control later.”

He stroked the underside of her breast, but she wriggled out from under his hand. “Stop trying to distract me.”

“Stop wasting time. Cut off my blindfold.”

“No.”

“It’s for me, too, Constance. So I can see you wanting me. And you can see me wanting you.”

She was persuaded by that, and sliced at the seal, trying not to tear the material beneath so it could be tied back on. The blindfold fell away. She waited – anxiety mounting. How would he react to his first sight of her?

His eyes were pale grey – almost silver: they flew towards her and locked onto hers, looking at her for the longest time. Finally, she lowered her head.

“Why won’t you look at me?” he said.

“Because of the way you’re staring at me. It makes me nervous. See how you cause moes to break through?”

“You’re nervous of me?”

She looked up, to see astonishment, followed by hurt, drive out the silver in his eyes.

“I’m nervous of disappointing you.”