About Sisterland by Martina Devlin

“This is a fantasy world, but it’s just as controlled as the one outside!”
    A hand covered her mouth, and Benevolence was led from the room.
    Constance bent to retrieve the amber, but the beads had scattered in every direction. She cupped a few in one hand, covering them with the other.
    “Dear me, what a state she managed to work herself into. Such unrestricted moes.” The Mating Mother was thoughtful as she adjusted her fur-trimmed sleeves. “See how unhappy they makes the poor thing. The Nine is wise to insist on moe regulation. I haven’t availed of my quota for almost a decade. I don’t miss it.”
    The incident changed the atmosphere in the readying room. The air was ruffled, sisters staring in their direction. The Mating Mother clapped her hands, and a band of minstrels began to play, while more wine was distributed. The tiny woman assessed the scene, eyes darting from face to face.
    By and by, her demeanour relaxed. She turned back to Constance. “Are you ready?”
    Constance hesitated. She wasn’t unwilling to see Harper again – on the contrary, she was looking forward to it – but the scene she’d just witnessed needed to be processed.
    “Reluctance becomes you,” said the Mating Mother. “Some of our sisters have to be reminded it’s procreational rather than recreational. Still, you won’t babyfuse standing here.”
    “Ready,” said Constance.
    “Excellent. I’ll take those.” She nodded towards the spheres of amber.
    Handing them over, Constance felt a flicker of reluctance. She wanted to keep them for Benevolence.
    “I’ll send someone with you to the mating cube.”
    “I know the way now.”
    “We can’t have people wandering round matingplace unsupervised. Anything might happen.”
    “Women and men might mate,” suggested Constance.
    The Mating Mother’s eyes flattened.
    Constance sensed she was sailing close to the wind. “I feel fertile,” she said quickly.
    “Top girl! Let’s have you act on it.”

Chapter 9

    Harper was waiting for her. She knew it by the two quick paces he advanced, as soon as she entered the mating cube. It gave her pleasure to realise it. She waited while the key was turned in the door behind her, before pulling off her pumps so they were both barefoot.
    “You came back,” he said.
    “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
    “I didn’t do what I’m supposed to. You could be dissatisfied with me.”
    “Because we didn’t mate? Only two people know that: you and me.”
    “You could have told someone.”
    How vulnerable he must feel. An unfamiliar moe welled up: not a shadow-moe, but a blast of the genuine article. Constance recognised it, having felt a scaled-down version once before, when she was a small girl and found an injured frog. She had made a pet of the creature, but one day it had hopped away. The moe inflating through her was protectiveness.
    “I didn’t tell anybody,” she said. “You must trust me.”
    “Must?”
    “I mean I want you to trust me.” A beat. “Please.” This was extraordinary, from a woman to a man. Surely he’d appreciate that?
    “What choice do I have?”
    How prickly he was being. The ease she had felt with him the previous night seemed elusive, and its absence disappointed her. She tried to reach him. “We didn’t do anything wrong. Mating isn’t mandatory.”
    “It is for me. I’m not free to refuse. If I do, I’ll be punished.”
    “You mustn’t tell untruths. We don’t punish in Sisterland: we send misguided people to the listeners. After a few sessions, they see sense.”
    “Is that what they tell you? Nobody’s punished? Surely you don’t believe that!”
    Constance bit the soft flesh on her thumb pad. “I know men aren’t sent for listening,” she admitted. “I suppose I’ve never given much thought to what happens to them.”
    “That’s obvious. Men are packed off to the outer belts. To Grey Disjoint, with mosquitos biting all year round. Or Black Particle, where there’s only an