The Future of Another Timeline

by Annalee Newitz

  She stopped directly in front of me and spoke. “I need to talk to you about Lizzy.”

  “What?” I was too surprised to ask how she knew me and Lizzy. She looked oddly familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’d seen her before.

  “I want you to know that you don’t have to do something you’ll regret. You can stop now. Tonight.” She tilted her head. “Do you understand? You can go home right now and forget about all this. Don’t let Lizzy suck you into it.”

  Now I was seriously weirded out. “What the hell? Who are you?”

  “I’m … well, there’s no good way to say this.”

  Lizzy opened the door to Mr. Rasmann’s place and called my name. In that moment, his apartment felt safer than whatever was happening here, with this familiar-yet-unfamiliar woman.

  “I gotta go.” I raced up the stairs and left her behind, mouth open to say something I couldn’t hear.

  We checked out Mr. Rasmann’s living room while he rattled around in the kitchen. He had some worn sofas and easy chairs and an admittedly excellent stereo setup. There was a framed poster of Sid Vicious over the turntable, and some concert flyers tacked up next to it: Black Flag, Dead Kennedys, Bad Religion. Pretty good taste.

  Soojin picked up one of those fat, clothbound books full of plastic pockets for photos and opened it to a random page. She held it up to show us. It was full of Polaroids of girls, some completely naked. I was pretty sure that one of them was in my fifth-period government class.

  Lizzy gaped. “Why would he leave that out?”

  Mr. Rasmann made a cheerful noise in the kitchen. “Found the glasses, girls! I’m washing them just for you, because this is such a special occasion.”

  Soojin put the book down slowly, in the exact place she’d found it. My entire chest felt like a vector graphic from that Disney movie The Black Hole: a flat, glowing grid with an abstract throat punched into it. I was nothing but a sketchy representation of gravitational forces.

  But Soojin wasn’t. As soon as Mr. Rasmann returned, she pointed at the book. “What the fuck is that?”

  Improbably, he was unruffled. He arranged some tumblers around the bourbon bottle, then smiled at us. “That’s my look book. I’m a photographer when I’m not being a high school teacher.”

  Heather narrowed her eyes. “What kind of photographer takes naked pictures of girls?”

  “Those are art. A celebration of the female form. Beautiful women like you should understand that.”

  The astrophysical phenomenon in my chest suddenly exploded into life, filling my ears with radioactive particles, and I heard myself yelling from far away. “This isn’t art! You’re a fucking pervert!”

  Soojin shot me a nasty grin and snatched up the bourbon bottle. “Want to know what we like to put in our look book?”

  I was gratified to see the grin evaporate from his face. “What … what do you … are you photographers too?”

  “I guess you’re about to find out, motherfucker.” Lizzy was practically growling. She’d added a streak of red to her mohawk, and it gleamed like fresh blood. Then she grabbed the bottle out of Soojin’s hand and shattered it against Mr. Rasmann’s face. He made a squeaking noise and collapsed. Soojin kicked his ribs with her boots. “Call me fucking china doll, you piece of shit? I’m Korean! And I’m not a doll!”

  I started to laugh, then felt a throb of rage working its way up from someplace deep in my intestines. My body moved before my brain could catch up, and that’s how I found myself on top of Mr. Rasmann, looking into the blood and bourbon that streaked his slack face. He had a faint haze of stubble and a few scabby pimples on his forehead. I pushed one knee into his chest, holding him down even though he was passed out and definitely not going anywhere. My abdomen cramped like it had in Bob’s office, and then Bob’s voice was in my head, telling me that my pain wasn’t so bad. His words became a refrain, a maniacal repetition: Some women love it. Some women love it. Some women love it.

  Mr. Rasmann opened his eyes and tried to talk. “What … what the fuck … you crazy bitches…”

  I leaned down close to his face and put my hands loosely around his neck. “What do you think those girls were feeling when you took those pictures? Do you think they loved it? Do you?” Heather, Soojin, and Lizzy had come close, standing above me on the floor, witnessing.

  “Answer her, you dick!” Soojin kicked him in the ribs again.

  He started to whimper and struggle under my knee. “They … they wanted to!”

  My arms felt loose and strong. “They didn’t want it!” I was howling again, and my fingers were moving up his face, across the slime and roughness of his cheeks, until I was touching the soft skin of his eyelids. I could hear Lizzy and Soojin and Heather above me, taunting him and urging me on.

  I thought about Bob putting his fingers and machines inside me, and Hamid’s plaintive voice on the phone, and all the girls in that look book who couldn’t tell us what they wanted. And then my thumbs were in the soft, warm place that Mr. Rasmann used to look through his camera. They curled in deeper. I bet he’d never realized that eyeballs were actually holes in his face. And every hole can be penetrated. I laughed again, as I jammed my fingers in as deep as they would go, maybe touching his brain, listening to his tongue slither around his mouth and deliver a final hiss of realization.

  Then there were more sounds, and Lizzy was grabbing my shoulders and Heather was hyperventilating and I’m pretty sure I had shredded eyeball on my thumbs. I finally tuned in to hear Lizzy giving orders. “… take that bottleneck with us and get a towel to wipe our prints off anything you touched.”

  I moved in a daze through the apartment, trying not to touch anything, allowing Soojin to hold my hands under hot water.

  It was only when we returned to the car that I remembered the woman I’d seen outside, the one who knew me and Lizzy. Was she a possible witness, somebody who could identify us to the police? For some reason, I felt certain she was not.

  ELEVEN

  TESS

  Chicago, Illinois (1893 C.E.)

  In May, the Expo opened to rainy weather and thin crowds, but the Midway was packed. The entire length of the promenade was illuminated with electric lights, a futuristic novelty in 1893. You’d think that would draw gawkers, but the people of Chicago were far more interested in the bazaars, shops, and theaters that stayed open late for the after-work crowds. The Ferris wheel was still far from complete, so the guys running the ostrich farm next to the Algerian Village sold rides above the Midway in a giant, hydrogen-filled balloon. Floating above us, tourists saw the full glory of our artificial Islamic world: the Tunisian and Algerian Villages where I worked stood across the road from the vast, walled chaos of Cairo Street and the garish entrance to the Persian Palace. Every few feet, kiosks hawked beer. The air smelled like grilled lamb, burned sugar, and camel dung from the children’s animal rides. Still, the crowds’ biggest lure night after night was Lady Asenath’s reputation, which shone like a fiery new constellation in the firmament.

  The ruckus at the press club had naturally made all the papers. Everyone wanted to know about this mysterious woman from afar who had caused a riot with her dancing. The “afar” part was of course never identified as Arizona, where Aseel had actually grown up. Lady Asenath was “from the exotic Orient,” or “from darkest Africa,” or from an even more racist moniker for some distant geographical location. Her dance was described as the “danse du ventre” at best, and “the wriggling of a deranged tart” at worst. Soph had vowed to correct the lies and was furiously writing her article about the true spiritual meaning of North African dances. Aseel, meanwhile, was enjoying her status as manager and star of the most popular show on the Midway.

  To the outside world, of course, Sol Bloom ran the show. But now when he visited the theater, he didn’t bother pretending to be in charge. He puffed a cigar in the back and beamed like a guy who was making enough money to retire at the age of twenty-five. That’s where I found him one eveni
ng in late May, watching the musicians banging out the tune he’d improvised at the press club. When our eyes met, Sol gestured for me to follow him outside the theater. We pushed through a rowdy group of men who smelled like the slaughterhouse, and ducked into the theater office behind a market stall piled with fezzes and carpets. It was a cozy room dominated by a heavy wooden desk, and Sol settled lightly into one of the ridiculously ornate upholstered chairs that passed as ordinary furniture in the late nineteenth century.

  “Sit down. You want a scotch?” Sol jumped up again and withdrew a bottle from a locked drawer.

  “I’ll have a little.”

  Sol poured a few fingers of brown fluid into cloudy-looking tumblers stamped with the logo for the Columbian Exposition. “Aseel says you’re a whiz with costumes. You happy with this job? You going to stick around?” I braced for him to say something sleazy or harassing. But he simply paused, waiting for me to reply.

  “Sure. I like this job.”

  He cocked his head. “You a landsman?” It was a Yiddish word my father had used, but mostly in the middle of jokes. I’d never heard anyone use it as earnestly as Sol did. When I was working with the anarchists in New York, everyone assiduously avoided talking about how we were all Jewish. The revolution was going to eradicate every religion, including ours.

  “I am, but not in a very serious way,” I said.

  “You might not be serious about it, but they are.” He gestured vaguely at the window, indicating the throngs of visitors. “They’re murdering our people every day in Russia.”

  This was not the conversation I’d been expecting to have. “I … yes, I know about the pogroms.”

  He took another sip. “I know what people say about me. I’m a greedy Jew businessman. I’m pimping girls for Satan or whatever imbecilic thing the goyim believe about us this week.”

  “It’s definitely imbecilic.”

  “I want Americans to learn about other cultures. They pay two bits to see a pretty girl, but they learn a little about the world. Maybe they eat something spicy. Maybe they find out that Jews don’t have horns. It’s not just show business, see? It’s politics.”

  I stared at him mutely and nodded. For an instant, I wondered whether he was a traveler too.

  “I know you’re one of those New Women. You want to wear pants. You want a lady president. Well, that’s fine with me. But don’t spread the rumor that this is some kind of crazy show for Spiritualists and radicals. I had to say this to Aseel, too. People love us. Families are on the Midway. We’re making money here. Got it?”

  “Okay. But … I thought you cared about politics?”

  Sol raised a thick black eyebrow at me and tapped his temple with a finger. “You change a man’s mind by showing him a good time.”

  I couldn’t argue with that, even if I’d wanted to. He was my boss, after all, and this job put me in a perfect position to make my edit. So I nodded again and followed him back to the theater, where one of the dancers had ripped her gown during the sword dance.

  When I wasn’t doing mending, I kept an eye on the audience. It was only a matter of time before the Comstockers showed up again, and I wanted to be ready. Salina stepped onstage and I melted into a wall covered in thick rugs and curtains. The whole theater was hung with bolts of fabric to give the illusion that we were inside a giant tent, enjoying a show in the desert with our caravan. Though the audience was mostly men, there were always ladies in attendance, defiantly alone or clutching the arms of their escorts. Did I recognize any of the men from other missions? I strained to focus my eyes in the dim light, trying to pick out familiar features beneath voluminous moustaches and beards.

  I could see Aseel working her way toward me almost a minute before she whispered in my ear. “You have to come to the Persian Palace. Right now.” She was seething.

  Fearing another showdown like we’d had at the press club, I raced across the street with her. Unlike the Algerian Village, the Persian Palace made no pretense of being what Sol would call “cultural.” A barker stood outside on a wooden chair, his hat cocked jauntily. “Arabia makes the most beautiful dark-eyed dancing girls!” he yelled. “Looking to see some Oriental jewels, fellas?” He gave a broad wink to a pack of college students milling eagerly outside, waiting for the late-night show. We plunked down fifty cents each and pushed our way through, despite the ticket taker’s half-hearted attempt to block our way. As soon as we got inside, I could see why they’d tried to stop us. There were no women in the audience at the Persian Palace. The place was decorated in feathers, glitter, and mirrors, like a standard burlesque theater.

  Still, as we jostled for seats, I saw nothing around me but the usual crowd of mostly drunk men looking for something they could fantasize about later. There were no fights or speeches about vice.

  “Why are we here?” I looked at Aseel.

  “Wait and see.” She looked like she was ready to kill someone.

  Stage lights flared and the show began. A white woman minced out onstage, wearing the flowing skirts of an Algerian dancer and the lacy corset of an American showgirl. Her blond curls flowed around a scarf that had been knotted awkwardly over her mouth and nose: a poor imitation of the already ridiculous veils we’d made for our show. Then the music started. It was the tune Sol had written, but somebody had added supposedly funny dancehall lyrics:

  There’s a place in France

  Where the women go to dance

  And the dance they do

  Was written by a Jew

  But the Jew couldn’t dance

  So they kicked him in the pants

  I felt sick. As I guessed back at the press club, I had been witness to the birth of a meme, and this was one of the first variants on it. The dancer did some high kicks and tore off her veil, revealing a Caucasian face slashed with rouge. She moved her hips back and forth in an awful imitation of Aseel’s act. Cheers hammered us. The men stamped their feet on the sticky floor.

  Aseel dragged me back outside, her nails digging into my arm, until we were leaning on the wall beneath fake Egyptian pyramids.

  “They stole our show! They stole our song! People will think that stupid cunt is Lady Asenath!”

  “Nobody who saw our show would mix it up with that garbage.”

  “Everybody will!”

  As she spoke, I glanced back at the door to the Persian Palace and saw a man standing outside, ignoring the barker. He took a notebook out of his pocket, wrote something down, and turned with almost military precision to look at the Algerian and Tunisian Villages. He took more notes, frowning. I nudged Aseel and pointed at him. This was step one of our plan: Identify and investigate possible soldiers in the edit war. If all went well, Aseel and Soph would help me get to the next step. And hopefully the Daughters would know nothing about it, because they would all be living in the future of another timeline.

  We followed the guy with the notebook, who stopped one more time in front of the Moorish Theater, appearing to study the ads for exotic dancing girls. Then he made a beeline for a group of Pinkertons who’d been hired to prevent visitors from falling into the half-finished Ferris wheel steam pipe trenches late at night. I could only hear snatches of their conversation from our vantage point, behind a shuttered Pabst booth.

  “… make a citizen’s arrest! This is obscene!” That was our man, yelling at the bored Pinkertons, who didn’t seem to give him the answers he wanted.

  “Can’t leave our post, sir…”

  One jabbed him lightly on the arm. They seemed to be urging him to move on. But the more they demurred, the more wound up he got. We heard “citizen’s arrest” a few more times, which pegged him as a Comstocker.

  One of the strategies that Comstock pioneered in the Society for the Suppression of Vice was the citizen’s arrest for obscenity. He would spy on sex workers or suspected pornographers, figure out where they lived, and surprise them with handcuffs when they least expected it. Then he would declare a citizen’s arrest and drag them to the police,
demanding justice. It was a technique he taught at YMCA meetings, inspiring hundreds of eager men to do the same. The Comstockers spent a lot of time discussing exactly the right handcuffs to use, and how to snatch a girl up so that she couldn’t struggle. To find their targets, they pored over fat booklets of pornography and crates of rubber dildos they’d ordered through the mail under assumed names.

  Over time, Comstock amassed a huge collection of dildos and erotic postcards. These he brought with him in a steamer trunk to a congressional hearing, thus cementing his reputation as a righteous man, passionately ferreting out moral crimes of the modern age. Indeed, his campaign was so successful that the federal post office granted Comstock “special agent” status, basically giving him and his goons permission to open everybody’s mail and arrest anyone who violated obscenity laws. Under Comstock’s reign, “obscenity” included information about birth control, abortion, and sexual health. His followers were eyes on the street, and his office gave him eyes on the mail. Some offenders were jailed for years, or financially ruined. Others, as Soph had told us in her parlors, killed themselves rather than face imprisonment.

  I wondered what kind of crazy bullshit this lone Comstocker had planned, if he could get the police on his side. Would he throw the whole Midway in jail for indecency? Send the women of the Algerian and Tunisian Villages back to Africa? Luckily, he was getting nowhere with his increasingly loud complaints. Pinkertons were thugs for hire. They didn’t mind smashing the skulls of strikers, but they weren’t big on arresting pretty ladies. Especially when there was no money in it for them.

  The Comstocker marched away in a huff, and we tailed him down the Midway. It was getting late, and only a few clots of stragglers were left beneath the warm reddish glow of carbon filament bulbs. Outside the west entrance, he met up with another man and started yelling again. These guys were not exactly masters of spycraft. Standing nearby and pretending to admire the lights, we could hear everything they said.