Free About Sisterland by Martina Devlin Page A

They told us men are destroyers. We can never be trusted.”
    “But at least you had fresh air and plenty of food,” said Constance. “You weren’t ill-treated. If you were sick, you were given medicine.”
    “It’s efficient to raise healthy specimens. Here in matingplace, they talk a lot about healthy specimens. The woman they call the Mating Mother says it feeds into success rates. She gave us instructions about touching a woman. She did not . . .” He broke off.
    “Tell me. Help me to understand.”
    “She did not teach us how to speak to one. She said talk was unnecessary, and not talking was better. We were to remember we had a job to do, and anyone who gave satisfaction could expect extra rations and free time. Already, I’ve broken her rules.”
    Constance was pulled up short. The Himtime handout had said men couldn’t help themselves mating at every opportunity. But this man had to be bribed with food and time off from the mating cube. Without incentives, was it possible some men might decline the honour?
    “I’ve offended you,” he said. “It wasn’t my intention.”
    “I’m not offended. I just didn’t realise mating was such a chore for men, too. Tell me, what did you do, before you became a meet?”
    “I’m a forester. My home is seven days’ journey from here by transer.”
    Seven days in a transer meant he had seen more of Sisterland than her, even if he’d been heavily sedated, a standard precaution as men were moved round.
    “You were living in the Brown Convolution belt?” It was composed of farmland and forests, where men laboured under the supervision of female agronomists.
    He nodded.
    “I’ve heard about forests.”
    “You’ve never been in one?”
    “No, only to some woods at the end of the Buzz line here in Green Hyperreal. What’s it like, living in a forest?”
    “The air is sweet and pure, and I can hear the birds sing. There’s no birdsong in this place.” He had been on his knees until then, but now he sat back on his heels. “Do you require me to start?”
    “Can’t we talk some more first?”
    “As you choose.”
    “What kind of trees grow in the forest where you lived?”
    “All the trees are the same, because they were planted to serve Sisterland’s needs. We grow jack pines. Their branches are thick, and warblers build their nests on the ground under them. We have to burn down trees to keep the forest alive. Jack pines don’t grow in the shade – fire clears a space for them. After a fire, we plant new jack-pine seeds. They spout quickly.”
    “It seems wasteful to burn trees.”
    “It keeps the forest alive. The earth is only scorched for a short time. Soon, it’s green with new growth.”
    “This is your first time in matingplace, isn’t it? Me too. I wasn’t supposed to be a source yet. But something happened, and it’s been decided I should babyfuse. If I can.”
    “Men are lucky to be a link in the chain. That’s what the Mating Mother says.”
    “Do you feel lucky?”
    He turned his head away. “I don’t understand.”
    “Don’t understand what?”
    “Why you’re doing this. Trying to know me. Why should you care?”
    Constance had no answer. Except that he was another living being – a man, granted, not as evolved as a woman – not as clever, or as reliable, or as certain of the difference between right and wrong. But not radically different, either. He seemed able to experience moes all on his own. That was more than many women could manage, thanks to a century of having them suppressed. Even her shadow-moes didn’t compare with the intensity of his, judging by his demeanour.
    “Are all men like you? You’re not what I expected.”
    “I was supposed to take something. To make me the way you wanted. I didn’t.”
    “How did you avoid it?”
    “Before they brought us upstairs, they handed out pills. But someone slipped, and water was spilled. In the confusion, I put my pill under my tongue. One of the older men told me