About Sisterland (25 page)

The refrain was taken up by those around her. “
Speak,
” they cried.

“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.”

“
Speak
,” said the women in red scarves.

The chant passed from one to another, until it was in every mouth.

“They aren’t going to stop,” said Goodwill. “Not until you address them.”

Tomorrow she was probably going to forget Silence ever existed, thought Constance. Today, while she could, she ought to remember her. She’d honour her memory. She turned back to stare at the skin. It was Silence – and yet not Silence. Still, it retained enough of her other for inspiration.

Words began to form in her mind, and take shape on her tongue. They were halting at first, but gained in fluency.

“Silence loved Sisterland.” The crowd was mesmerised. “She loved the baby she was fused with. She loved life. But she discontinued herself and her child.”

A moan drifted from the audience.

“She sacrificed herself,” someone called out.

Pitching her voice to the outer fringes of the gathering, Constance said, “Yes, Silence sacrificed herself, but she did it for a reason. To teach us something.” She wasn’t sure if her voice was carrying. In her ears, it sounded reedy. She looked about. The central pillar, the one Silence had climbed up, had a metal rim two feet off the ground. She jumped onto the ledge, and leaned back against the pillar.

“Silence died because she was carrying a boy-baby. She didn’t want to hand him over, to be raised in some distant belt of Sisterland – never to set eyes on him again. Boy-babies are precious, just as girl-babies are.” She rested a hand on her stomach.

Some of the Silenced looked at one another, struggling to reconcile what she said. But they remained attentive.

“Who here has given birth to a boy-baby?” Constance called out.

An arm was raised, then another, followed by several more.

“Did you want to hand over your baby?”

“It was our duty,” muttered one.

“Duty,” said other voices, although not everyone spoke with certainty.

“Did you believe it was right?”

“They told us to do it,” said a woman. “They made us believe.”

“And now? Do you still believe? Do you?”

“Peers!”

The crowd scattered as the peers chugged up in their carriers, each with its distinctive black stripe against the pink background. Peers in salmon-pink leather one-pieces poured out, the colour intended to make them look non-threatening. The peer emblem was embroidered in gold thread on the left breast pocket: an O nestling inside a C, for ‘Compliance Overseer’.

One of them had a voicebox, and spoke into it. “
Sisterland is disappointed in you. We expect more from our sisters. There will be sanctions unless you leave immediately.
” It was like being ticked off by a bossy head teacher.

Peers moved through the group, clapping their hands. “Go on home now. Everybody, home.” They were polite but insistent.

One of the peers motioned to Constance to dismount. She started to scold Constance but, buffeted by the crowd, they were separated. Somebody – Constance couldn’t see who – pushed her under one of the arches, where she was less likely to get knocked. Several of the Silenced were huddled there, trying to keep out of the way.

“What will happen to us?” asked one.

“A demerit,” another answered.

“What if we’re sent for listening?”

“What’s wrong with that? It’s just counselling.”

“Don’t be such a pearl!”

“They can’t send all of us for listening,” said a third sister. “There are hundreds of sisters here.”

“But they might pick out some at random. As a lesson.”

One of the peers loomed over them. “Signifier inspection.”

“
Smile All The While
,” said Constance.

The peer’s expression grew stern. She clicked the comtel on her thumb over a line of wrists, registering their details. Logging Constance’s sig alerted her to Constance’s babyfusion. “Someone in your condition ought to know better. Babyfused sisters need their rest.”

“What harm were we doing?” asked Constance.

“Don’t answer back. Use your head and don’t come here again. Now, straight home. Same goes for all of you.”

One of the Silenced spoke out. “You can’t choke Silence’s message – you’ll only make it stronger.”

The peer tapped her sig. “This is going on all your records. You can expect repercussions.” She moved on.

The Silenced swapped anxious glances.

Constance ducked out from under the bridge, wondering about Goodwill’s whereabouts. The peer with the voicebox was still ordering women to disperse, although most had left the Hope Bridge area already. A light glowed on a camera mounted on a pulley, recording the women as they scattered. Still thudding with adrenalin, Constance walked directly towards the camera.

“I spoke here to pay tribute to Silence,” she told it. “While I still remember her.”

A woman with a torn, cherry-red scarf between her hands approached. In her eyes was a sense of loss that could almost be touched.

“I had a boy-baby,” she said. “I saw his face for a few seconds. Not a day passes but his face enters my mind. It comes to me whether I want it there or not. It’s twelve years since I gave him up. I’ll carry that face with me till the day I discontinue.”

Chapter 22

Back in her oneser, the hairs on the back of Constance’s neck prickled. Someone had been there. She could sense it. She walked from room to room, and found the feeling strongest in the bedroom. She opened the wardrobe built into the wall. Nothing unusual there. She moved her attention to the only free-standing piece of furniture, a chest of drawers. One by one, she opened the drawers, fingers dredging the contents. Nothing. Next, she took them out, and laid them on the floor. Her hand groped inside the frame. Still nothing. She slotted them back in.

On a hunch, she tapped a series of digits into the console which protruded from the wall. A gap opened in the floor, through which a pop-up was propelled upwards. There, on top of the pillow was a copy of
Beloved’s Pearls
.

Constance picked it up. It was Silence’s. It had gone missing when the peers had rummaged through their home. There could be no mistake. Here was Silence’s name embossed on the cover, and inside was her handwriting: the twoser’s address. It must have been the peers who put the book on the pillow. Which meant they had been back checking through her belongings again. And they wanted her to know what they’d done.

A shiver threaded along Constance’s spine.

She turned towards the blank pages at the back of the book, on which sisters were supposed to write their own uplifting thoughts, inspired by Beloved. Everybody tended to copy down clichés, however. Perhaps Silence had written something original there. Or maybe she had left a message only Constance could decipher. But the pages were blank.

Constance laid her lips against Silence’s name on the pearlised cover, and placed it on top of the chest of drawers. Instead of undressing and getting into the pop-up, she went back to the living room and curled herself into a ball on the couch. She was conscious of two hearts beating inside her body. The next day’s judgment might put an end to that – she wouldn’t waste the night in sleep.

Her thoughts turned to Harper, who didn’t know he was going to be a father. Imagine a world in which she could turn to him and say, “Guess what? We babyfused!” and have him share the excitement. If she had a daughter who looked like Harper, something of him would remain with her – provided the Nine allowed her to continue with her babyfusion.

And what if it was a boy? Restless, she changed her position, remembering the woman with the torn scarf at the bridge.

Moments later, or so it appeared, morning announced itself, along with a crick in her neck. At once, she remembered she was due at Sistercentral. She checked her comtel: almost seven o’clock. Not much more than an hour left.

Passing over the Hope Bridge on her way to Shaperhaus, Constance looked down from the arched metal structure. She expected to see the square beneath it deserted, but sisters with red scarves were congregating there once more. Yesterday’s visit by the peers hadn’t deterred them. Passengers on the Buzz stretched their necks to see what was happening under the bridge.

The Buzz stopped at the next station. Someone boarded and sat beside her. Quietly, she addressed Constance.

“Heard the latest about the bridge?”

Constance shook her head.

“There’s an image on it. They say it represents an ancient goddess.”

“I wonder what it means.” Constance was curious to hear the passenger’s theory.

“Change, I expect.”

“What sort of change?”

The passenger shrugged.

“What would you like to see changed?” Constance pressed her.

The woman withdrew a little, and Constance realised she thought she was a peer. Casually, she rolled up her sleeves, as though too warm, allowing the woman to see her shaper identity on the sig. “I’d certainly welcome some changes,” said Constance.

“I guess maybe I’d like …” The passenger tailed off.

“Yes?”

“Maybe access to a few more moes. I seem to use up my rations real quick. Some of the lower-grade ones could be easier to come by. Nothing fancy. But a burst of U every now and then would perk up my day. How about you? Miss any of them?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a U. If I ruled the world, everyone on this Buzz would have an upbeat pep right now this minute.”

“Wouldn’t that be something!”

“Except the Nine decides everything for us. Everything.” Constance’s words were delivered without emphasis, but the woman stiffened.

The Buzz pulled into a stop, and the woman disembarked, waiting on the platform for the Buzz following behind.

However, a nearby passenger slid into the seat beside Constance. She nodded towards her pocket, from which the tip of a red scarf protruded.

Stealthily, she tipped her words into the hubbub of boarding passengers. “I was there yesterday. I heard you.”

“Did the peers scan your sig? So you have a black mark?” asked Constance.

The stranger waited for noise levels to rise. “Yes. But I’m going back. They won’t keep me away.”

Constance turned in the seat to study her. The woman’s skin was cracked, and in need of repair. Her eyes burned through it. “What are you looking for?”

“A reason.”

“For what?”

Once more, the woman waited. A girlplace party boarded, causing a distraction, and she took advantage of it. “The point to Sisterland.”

“Sisterland
is
the point. That’s what we’re taught.”

“Do you believe that?”

The compulsion to be honest swept through Constance. “I don’t know. Sisterland is choked full of rules I don’t understand. My other told me something once. She said any price was worth paying in return for knowledge. But Sisterland is run by women who believe in anti-knowledge.”

Constance’s stop was next. The Buzz was already slowing. The woman stared at her, neck mottled from a flush, and Constance half-expected her to shout for the peers.

Instead, she said, “Come to the bridge again. We need you.”

Constance paused at the automatic doors. “But what can I do?”

“You can find it for us. The reason.”

Constance sat in Sistercentral’s foyer waiting to be called before the Nine. Walking up the avenue, tipping a nod to the tightrope statue, she had felt sure that all would be well – but now her confidence was dented. This building was frosty, with its marbles and mosaics. The Nine shared that chill. She stretched out her legs, kicking her heels against the tiled floor. The bench was cold, and she pulled off her jacket, folded it up, and sat on it. A uniformed woman began to perfume the air with a cinnamon fragrance, and Constance watched her work. She smiled as she sprayed, enjoying her task, but to Constance the scent was overpowering. Was she the only one who objected to it? She searched the surrounding faces, looking for resistance to this tyranny of smell, but everyone appeared oblivious.

She thought about Silence’s copy of
Beloved’s Pearls
, and why she had left no message inside it for Constance before throwing herself off the Hope Bridge. It was a pointed place to discontinue – there could be no doubting her intention to make a public statement. Silence would have realised a written message could be destroyed by the Nine. They wouldn’t hesitate to order it. But a symbolic act was more difficult to eradicate. Gestures could outlive the people behind them.

“Constance 500?” An attendant appeared. “Please come with me.”

Run!
screamed a voice inside her.
Obey
! urged another, more insistent one.