Chapter Ten In Which Stories Are Collected
What now?” said Daphne as they stepped back out into the dazzling sunlight, sunshades firmly in place.
It might not have been Zada’s imagination that the early summer air was hotter than it had been this month the year before, and the year before that.
She tried not to think of Carine, so desperate for an explanation that she was willing to risk Extrication.
Some years were hotter than others. That was all.
Zada glanced around to make sure nobody was listening. “It’s like I outlined before,” she said. “You mentioned the sisters keep records of everyday citizens?”
“I did,” said Daphne. “They do. Detailed.”
“Then we check your Gem, pick a hundred randomized matches off the list, and then another several hundred concentrated in the last few years—let’s say three.
We mine the nuns’ archives for any clue about the success or failure of those marriages.
They likely won’t have information about everyone, but we keep going until we have a large enough sample of people we can get data on.
That should give us a picture of how effective Heartsong has been, and whether there’s been an increase in, ah, faulty matches recently. ”
“Sounds good,” said Daphne. “Well, no, it sounds like a mind-numbing amount of work, but I don’t have any better ideas.”
“Assuming the nuns can be trusted to be, um, discreet?” They crossed the street, Zada dodging a malfunctioning horse that had lurched into traffic.
“Careful,” said Daphne. “And yes. No question.”
The Sisters of Perpetual Reflection were a spiritual order in name only. Organized religion had no place in New Ionia. There simply wasn’t room for it. The people of New Ionia lived according to the guidance of the Core, and that was enough.
Zada only knew a little about the sisters.
They devoted themselves to a life of service and swore off any technology beyond what they saw as strictly necessary—no SmartGems, no lenses and accompanying earrings, no electronically modified instruments, and no hyper-carriages.
And strangest of all, the sisters declined the place in society that the Core offered them.
They refused to participate in the Heartsong program or even accept their assigned jobs.
The continued presence of the order was a matter of some controversy in the city. For one, their rejection of Heartsong meant there would inevitably be a few young people in each year left without a match.
Anyone of any gender could join the order, but it was generally frowned upon and hardly seemed appealing.
Who would want to live without Heartsong, without a career chosen especially for you, without your life perfectly tailored to who you were meant to be?
Not to mention how incredibly dull it must be to not have the feed a blink away.
Shrouded in their kelly-green habits and perched on their solar-powered carts, the sisters drew attention to themselves without trying.
Despite their strangeness and their disruption to New Ionian society, the sisters were tolerated.
They provided authentic artisanal goods created the old-fashioned way, by hand.
Their order supported itself by selling luxuries like lace, carved cameo jewelry, fine jams, and pottery at weekly craft fairs all over New Ionia.
Zada and Daphne strolled past office buildings and Counseling centers, wedding planning businesses and photography studios offering 3D mementos like the one from Flora’s wedding.
Daphne rolled her eyes. “Instant nostalgia.”
“I think it’s lovely that we can give people the opportunity to linger inside of their best moments,” said Zada.
“Yet another chance to live in the past,” Daphne muttered, kicking at a loose cobblestone.
“Are there no memories you’d want to relive if you could?” Zada said, and Daphne fell silent, no doubt thinking of Flora.
Eventually, they reached the closest installation of nuns, at the North Saline Street Community Center. The building was low-slung and without frills, outside or inside. It resembled a train station from history class, constructed before New Ionia’s various transportation advancements.
Zada had never seen so many nuns in one place before. She had also never seen them behave so casually. They crossed the room in twos and threes, talking amongst themselves. A few were even laughing, the echoes bouncing off the tile floors and bare walls.
Daphne flagged down a passing novice and requested a meeting with someone called Sister Patience so smoothly that it left Zada wondering if Daphne regularly consorted with the nuns. Maybe she did. Zada had no idea what Daphne had gotten up to in the time since they stopped being friends.
“Is Sister Patience an acquaintance?” Zada whispered as the novice scurried away.
“Not at all. Novices adopt names based on whatever virtue they’re trying for. There’s always a Sister Patience.”
The sister in question emerged from a back room a few minutes later. She was a stout, no-nonsense woman in her fifties with an intensely likeable air.
“Right then, what can I do for you?” she asked briskly.
“We won’t trouble you for long,” said Daphne. “My friend here is engaged to be married in a couple of months, and she’s a fiend for history.”
Zada nodded, trying hard to project an air of deep studiousness. “I was wondering if you could allow us to visit your archives. I’d like to read more about the beginning of the Heartsong program to situate myself in the context of the matches that came before mine.”
“It’s just so romantic.” Daphne sighed. Zada cut her a glare. Daphne was overdoing it.
But Sister Patience didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she gave the two of them a calculating look. “I suppose we could lend you the keys to the archives for a few hours this evening. In the meantime, how do you two feel about doing some volunteer work?” The labor was clearly part of the bargain.
“We would love to,” said Zada.
They began their volunteer shift in the community center’s large but worn kitchen, assembling kits full of food.
“Everything okay?” asked Sister Patience’s fellow nun, Sister Justice.
It was hard to tell with the wimple, but Zada guessed they were a similar age to Sister Patience.
They had medium-brown skin and a habit of bobbing their head as they spoke, with such vigor that Zada feared for their glasses, which looked to be made from real glass.
“I’ve never seen anyone frown so hard at cheese before. ”
Zada gestured at the kit before her, almost overflowing with soft goat cheese, fresh hydroponic-grown greens, a very tasty-looking jar of gooseberry jam, and roasted chestnuts.
“How long will this food really stay safe to eat?” she said. “I’m sure the people outside the city would appreciate anything, but these greens will be wilted by tomorrow.”
“Oh,” said Sister Justice. “We’re distributing these today, within the dome. It’s a thank-you for talking with us.”
“It’s simple,” said Sister Patience. “If you keep busting into people’s homes empty-handed and shoving a recorder in their faces, they’re going to smell the self-interest on you, like a cabbage fart on the wind.”
Sister Justice chuckled. “Sheer poetry, Pat.”
When the boxes were all packed up, Zada and Daphne helped carry them out to a weathered-looking suncart parked in front of the community center.
“You’re lucky today’s a light day,” said Sister Justice. With surprising agility, they swung into the passenger seat after Sister Patience. “Plenty of room for you. Otherwise we’d make you sit on the roof.”
Daphne clambered onto the back of the suncart. Zada followed, wedging herself in beside a stack of boxes that were barely tied down. Her shoulder pressed against Daphne’s, and as the suncart took off with a jerk, Zada was glad of the company.
Sister Patience drove like she was being chased.
“Is this safe?” Zada asked as they narrowly avoided clipping a horse, which beeped in warning.
“No fatalities yet!” Sister Patience called back to them.
The cart jolted forward again, weaving back and forth on the busy street. Passengers peered out of the windows of their hyper-carriages. These faces blurred by as Sister Patience stepped on the accelerator.
“The guards—” Zada yelped.
The sisters just laughed. Sister Patience skirted a horse, zipping directly into the oncoming lane for one heart-stopping moment, and then shot blessedly back into the flow of traffic.
Several harrowing minutes later, they slammed to a stop in front of row of family units. Zada and Daphne staggered off the suncart, clutching each other for balance.
“So,” said Daphne conversationally, “I’m guessing the guards don’t bother stopping you?”
“Can’t keep us from speeding if they don’t catch us,” said Sister Justice, tapping their nose.
“What do you mean?” said Sister Patience, wide-eyed. “I drove slow today, just for our guests.”
“I’d hate to see what fast looks like to you,” Daphne muttered.
“Oh, it’s fascinating to watch.” Sister Justice laughed. “From safely outside the cart.”
“And who exactly was yelling at me to ‘speed up, Pat, don’t let that gold-leaf carriage beat us’ just last week?” Sister Patience said teasingly.
Zada and Daphne followed the sisters through a gate that had been propped open.
A woman who introduced herself as Hortense was waiting for them in the small, scraggly courtyard. A small child clung to the woman’s skirt, staring up at the newcomers and systematically shoving a chocolate nutrient bar into his mouth, leaving huge smears on either side.
The family unit smelled like cleaning agent and was a little smaller than Zada’s own home. It was dimly lit inside and was in the state of untidy chaos that Zada associated with childcare.
“Thank you again for having us,” said Sister Justice. She nodded at Daphne to hand over the box, which Hortense accepted with a polite smile, setting it onto a very cluttered countertop.
“So,” said Hortense, “how does this work, exactly?”