About Sisterland (27 page)

As these impressions formed, the Outsidelander continued walking, three columns of peers on either side. No, he wasn’t walking, he was strolling, as though admiring the sights. A half-smile was fixed on his face while his eyes flicked about. The row of peers behind bumped against him, and several attempted to hustle him on.

“Hey, no need to crowd me. You girls are like a bunch of turbo-charged nannies,” he complained.

The intonation was foreign, but what struck Constance most was his lack of fear.

The desk scrutineer hurried over to Constance. “Why are you still here? You must leave at once.”

“Who’s that man? Why is he here?” asked Constance.

“Move, I said. We don’t have time for idle gossip.” The scrutineer made a sweeping motion with both hands.

Constance did as she was told. This was no time to push against boundaries.

Walking through the Sistercentral grounds, the notion of an Outsideland perplexed her. It meant the geography she was taught at girlplace gave an incomplete picture. How many outsidelands were not pictured on maps? And if the geography they learned was a qualified version, what about subjects such as history and politics? If the Nine lied about the world outside Sisterland, what else was it dishonest about?

Preoccupied, Constance passed the gardener from the previous day, still spraying leaves on ornamental trees. She almost missed her, but a blast of air from the gadget she was using caught Constance on the right flank. It occurred to her that Sisterland must be home to sisters with monotonous jobs bringing scant satisfaction. Apart from serving Sisterland, of course. Such sisters were inconspicuous and sometimes heard things.

Constance pulled off the jacket she had returned to Sistercentral to fetch, and offered it to the woman. “Swap?”

The woman’s mouth fell open. “For what?”

“The chance to pick your brains.”

Hurriedly, the gardener sister took it, stuffing it into a pannier on her wheeler.

“So,” said Constance, reminding her there was no such thing as a free coat. “Have you heard anything about a stranger being held?”

The woman nodded, cautious.

“A man?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He comes from a place called Outsideland.”

“I know that already, sister. What else?”

“He had a map of Sisterland with him.”

Constance stared. That meant someone had left Sisterland and told Outsidelanders about where they came from. “How did he get in?”

“At Brown Convolution, they think. A strange vessel was found near the shoreline.”

“Has anyone from Outsideland been here before?”

“Two men were found three or four years ago.”

“What happened? Were they expelled?”

The gardener shook her head. “Strangers can never leave. They’d speak about Sisterland and more men would arrive.” She began to back away.

“Wait! What did we do with them?”

“Discontinued.” The gardener was gone.

Instead of going east to Shaperhaus, Constance took a westbound Buzz swooping towards Octagon. In the carriage, she rehearsed a story in which Sistercentral staff kept her kicking her heels for hours, in a flap about some sort of emergency. It was only a stretched version of the truth. The progress-monitor could track her on her comtel, if she was concerned about her movements, but she was gambling on people being too busy to notice her absence.

Constance was drawn back to the Hope Bridge. She wasn’t going because disobedience was addictive, although she was starting to realise that Sisterland operated largely on the basis of compliance. She was going to test whether there was any truth in her theory about Silence’s choice of venue to discontinue. She would never know for sure. But if she stood there and listened, with her nerve endings instead of her ears, maybe the answer might reveal itself.

At the bridge, Silence’s face was again visible, on the same spot as her skin had hung. It wasn’t the skin this time, but a stylised rendition of it, scratched onto metal. It could not convey her essence. Yet it was recognisably Silence. Constance stood below the image, taking in the elongated face, chin and neck. She wanted to touch the face, but it was too high off the ground.

“The Nine won’t let you stay there, Silence,” she said aloud. “Before long, you’ll be painted over.” But Silence would always be part of the Hope Bridge, whether her image was superimposed on it or not.

Constance remembered Silence’s excitement at the prospect of becoming a source. Weighing up possible names. Debating what she would look like, which skills she would possess, what work might be chosen for her when she grew up. She didn’t remember Silence worrying about the baby being a boy-man, and how she would react at handing it over. Always, the hope was that it would be a girl.

A hope shared by every babyfused Sisterlander.

But in the final days, Silence had become convinced it was a boy. Their last conversation had been about that.

“My scan’s this morning,” Silence had said.

“Why bother with a scan? You’ve waited almost three months. What difference can another day make?”

“I have to be sure. But I know already in my heart. It’s a boy.”

Constance had hugged Silence. “Sisterland needs boys, too.”

“Not mine. I’m not letting them have my boy-baby.”

Constance wished she had insisted on going to the scan with Silence. She had offered, but Silence had said it was something she wanted to do alone. And then the comtel message had arrived.

A son.

Nothing more.

Poor Silence, Constance had thought. She should have realised the word ‘son’ was deliberate. It took ownership of the baby.

For Sisterland
she had messaged back. No response.

The first Constance had known of her other’s discontinuation had been a news bulletin on the screen in Eternity Square. She had read it leaving work that evening.
A babyfused woman has fallen from the Hope Bridge. All Buzz services travelling east and west have been suspended.

No suggestion of deliberate discontinuation had been indicated in those first reports. The presumption had been an accident. But Silence left the Buzz at Octagon station, walked to the Hope Bridge, climbed the central upright to the top, and flung herself off. Every bystander corroborated the account. She climbed with determination, steadied herself at the top, spread her arms wide – and leaped. No indecision.

And she did it immediately after a scan, carried out the day before she was scheduled to give birth, confirmed her child was a boy.

Some interpreted this as loyalty to Sisterland taken to extremes: the desperate cry of a woman devastated not to be carrying a daughter. But Constance understood differently. A drop of moisture interrupted her reverie. Then another. The sultry air was squeezing out a few drops of rain. Several landed on Silence’s face.

“It looks as if she’s weeping,” said a voice from behind.

It was one of the regulars. Constance was starting to recognise some of them.

“Silence never cried,” said Constance.

“How could she? Sorrow is no longer available. But I’ve heard it was part and parcel of life in PS days,” said the woman.

“De-listing sorrow isn’t much of a hardship.”

“Sorrow is the flipside of joy. Maybe you can’t have one without its opposite.”

Constance considered this. Tranquillity was the norm in Sisterland, but was it too high a price to pay for experiencing neither joy nor sorrow?

The woman went on, “Silence is teaching us something right here, right now. She’s showing us we should make time for tears.”

“Silence isn’t doing that. It’s the rain.”

“You see what you see and I see what I see. For me, it’s a teachable image. But of course, as her other, your insights are meaningful.”

Constance knew most of what she said about Silence was guesswork. Nobody else realised it, however. Which could be an opportunity. She tested the ground.

“Silence did believe moes were too restricted in Sisterland. She said women had grown wary of them. But not all moe-responses were negative. To her, they could be faster than logic, and just as effective. Not always, of course. But she called moe-reaction a useful tool – one we were foolish to abandon.”

Silence had said nothing of the sort. But the follower was rapt.

“What else did Silence believe?”

“Yes, what else?” Voices were raised.

Constance hadn’t noticed them draw near.

“Let me ask you a question. How many of you have babyfused?”

A number of hands were raised.

“Do you ever wonder about the men you babyfused with?”

“You mean the meets,” said a voice.

“No, I mean the
men
. When you look at your children, do you ever ask yourself, are those his eyes? Does that talent for music come from him? It’s wrong to keep men away from their children.”

She sensed resistance. Perhaps she was nudging them along too quickly. She could understand that. It bewildered Constance how quickly she was turning against Sisterland – a hairline crack in belief had turned into a ravine. For inspiration, she looked at the representation of Silence on the bridge, and tried another tack.

“Some of the things we do are unnatural. Like taking babies away from their sources at the age of one.”

“Isn’t girlplace more efficient?” somebody suggested.

“What do you think, sisters?” Constance appealed.

“I didn’t want to be separated from my Honesty,” said a woman. “It took me a long time to adjust. That first month she was in girlplace, when I wasn’t allowed to see her, was really tough.”

“I found that month hard, too,” said another woman. “I understand girlplace is for the best. And a transitioning period helps them settle in. But I’d have liked to visit my little Chastity sooner. I thought she looked peaky when I was finally allowed in.”

“I did, too!” said the first woman.

“So did I,” said a third voice. “I complained to the girlplace overseers about my Prudence. I said she was rosy-cheeked when she went in to them, and now she was off-colour. They told me I was an over-protective source. But I knew she’d been unwell.”

“Your daughters missed you, sisters. If you loved Honesty and Chastity and Prudence – as I can see you did – did you never think about their fathers?”

“Universal sisterhood can’t get distracted by men!” called a voice from the back.

“Perhaps that’s where universal sisterhood has gone wrong,” said Constance.

Shockwaves from her audience travelled up to her. Yet they weren’t turning away from her – they stayed to hear more.

A sense of power inflated Constance. Today, she had defied the rule about going to work. Perhaps tomorrow, or the next day, she could disobey a different rule.

Her heart gave an odd, skippety beat as a world of possibilities opened up.

And then she thought about Harper trapped in matingplace, punished because of the blindfold she’d wanted him to remove. And that world of possibilities closed in again.

Chapter 23

Constance expected to be reprimanded when she turned up at Shaperhaus, after going absent without leave for almost 24 hours. Idly, she wondered what her punishment would be. They’d already taken away her home, by transferring her to a oneser. Her job was gone, too. She had no other to be separated from. There was a black mark the size of a Buzz carriage on her record because of the memory interchange. What was left? Loss of els? Inconvenient. But not a real deterrent to independent thought.

It was almost with academic interest that she faced her progress-monitor the next day.

Patience simply told her she’d been reassigned. Her manner was crisp, but lacked any hint of censure. “Your co-keeper authorisation is now deleted permanently. You’re to report to the Shaper Mother as her temporary assistant.”

“She has an assistant.”

“Modesty’s been seconded to different duties. You were expected to take up the post yesterday. We tracked you, and saw you spent most of the day at the Hope Bridge. A note has gone on your record.”

Victory! All they could do was note down her insubordination. “Is the bridge out of bounds?”

“Not so far. But you were required here. It was inappropriate to be elsewhere.” Patience ended the conversation.

She won’t miss being my progress-monitor, thought Constance, gathering her plant and spray, plus the box in which she kept her skin. She hoped she hadn’t robbed Modesty of a job.

Modesty was in the Shaper Mother’s outer office, compiling a list. Her ponytail quivered when she saw Constance. “The mother pulled strings to have you allocated to her.”

“I didn’t push for this, Modesty. I don’t know why I’ve been given your job. I won’t be able to do it half as well as you.”

“You couldn’t very well stay where you were, could you? The co-keeper with a rogue memory? They had to find something else for you to do.”

“I suppose.” Constance had wanted out from co-keeping, but her presumption was a return to shaping. She didn’t know the first thing about assisting the Shaper Mother.