One woman cried out, and then another. “I feel them! Yes!”
“Praise her!”
Aseel turned toward me, her eyelids heavy in the dim light and her lips parted. I watched a shiver possess her. As her breath caught, I felt an answering throb in my own body. My voice joined the others as muscles beneath my fingers took over, contracting and releasing, a flush washing across the surface of my skin.
I gave my faith to science long ago, but I’ll take cosmic female power when it’s offered. If any spiritual force could help us defeat Comstock, I’m pretty sure this would be it.
Quiet breathing settled over the group, and Soph told us to sit up when we were ready. There were spurts of laughter, and four women arranged themselves into a backrub chain as others handed out cups of fragrant tea. Someone lit candles and the room brightened. I felt damp and warm and unself-conscious. I was so used to keeping my sexuality under guard that it was like the relief of a constant pain I’d forgotten was there. Soon enough I’d be back on the streets of a hostile timeline, fighting a war that nobody would remember. But tonight I would tarry in a better world for a little while longer.
“Thanks for inviting me to this, Soph.”
“You are welcome, Tess. We have always been on this path together.”
I lay back on the cushions and watched our shadows merge on the ceiling, thirteen bodies wavering in and out of becoming one. There were more of us beyond this room, all along the timeline. Some were organized subversives, and others were only half-aware that something was wrong in the world. We were fighting for liberation, or revenge, or maybe for a simple night of pleasure without shame. We were fighting to save each other, though we didn’t know each other. I thought about everyone else out there, walking this path with us, and wondered what they were doing right now.
TWELVE
ENID
Excerpted from the memoir of Enid Song, placed in the Subalterns’ Archive Cave, Raqmu (2029 C.E.)
They stole my memories of the woman I loved, leaving behind an absence with no originating presence. It was hell. For weeks I’d been overwhelmed by the feeling that I’d lost something. I kept searching for my phone, thinking I’d misplaced it. Then I was sure I’d deleted a database before backing it up. A part of me was missing, but I couldn’t identify it. And that’s why I wasn’t surprised when Tess told me about Berenice at the last Daughters meeting. It hurt less to know, but it also hurt more. Immediately, I wanted to do everything in my power to revert that edit and remember Berenice.
The problem is that geoscientists aren’t trained to rescue people from certain death at the hands of late-twentieth-century queer-bashing assholes. Luckily I knew someone who could help. I texted her after the meeting, and she agreed to meet me for coffee.
Delilah and I had known each other since undergrad at Duke, where we met in a cultural geology class and did a presentation together about a poorly understood travel ailment called “nostalgia for the present.” I had continued my studies in grad school, while Delilah went into industry. Thanks to her background in the geosciences, she became one of the most valuable agents at Pacific Life. She’d saved the company millions of dollars by traveling to prevent accidental deaths. The more people she rescued, the less the company had to pay out. I knew she’d have some good advice.
Sweeping into the café in designer loungewear, a brightly printed shirt, and Nike slip-ons, Delilah had far more Hollywood lesbian chic than your typical insurance agent. We hugged and sipped our gibraltars for a while before I told her about Berenice. My gut wrenched with longing for a woman I’d never known. And I had no idea how to bring her back.
Delilah hit her Juul and surreptitiously blew vapor down one sleeve. “So she was killed outside a gay bar? I’ve done a few hate crime reversions—they’re easy to prevent because they’re usually random. Bigger problem if it’s premeditated. Then you might prevent the death at one time only to have it crop up earlier or later.”
“We think it was premeditated. Someone wanted to edit her out of the timeline.”
“This is getting more interesting.” Delilah raised one delicate eyebrow and started taking notes on her phone. “Why was she a target?”
I knew I could trust Delilah, but I still didn’t want to tell her about the Daughters. “Cone of silence, okay?”
She nodded, intrigued.
“I’m part of a … working group. We’re trying to edit the timeline, to get more rights for women and nonbinary people. Unfortunately, we’ve caught the attention of some men who are reverting our edits. We think one of their goals is to edit trans women out of history.”
“They killed her because she’s trans?”
“Not just that. She is trans, but she was also documenting trans history and…”
“No, Enid. You had me at killing trans people. I’ll take this one pro bono. Let’s make those fuckers pay.” Her eyes had a nasty gleam as she packed up her purse. “Well? Are you coming?”
“What are we doing?”
Delilah typed into her phone with her gel nails and talked at the same time. “I booked us at Flin Flon. Guy who does travel for Pacific Life totally loves me. I told him it was urgent. Are you burned out of the week leading up to the murder? That’s all we need.”
I checked my online calendar against the date of Berenice’s death according to the AP article we’d found. I’d burned through most of 1992 on research trips already. “I could do the two days leading up to it, which means realistically I’d arrive day of, if you factor in the flight time from Flin Flon.”
“I’ll go ahead of you then. I can make contact with the client … I mean, the victim.” Delilah sounded embarrassed. “It’s good for me to do this kind of thing once in a while, you know? Otherwise I forget why I went into this business in the first place.”
We hugged again, and agreed to meet at Flex Nightclub in Raleigh, North Carolina, approximately thirty years ago.
* * *
I had never seen Berenice before, or at least this version of me hadn’t. I wondered how we met before the edit, and what it was like when we fell in love. All I had to go on when I arrived for Karaoke Night was her blurry picture from the AP. Flashing my ID, I walked into a large, dimly lit bar painted black with the occasional scarlet highlight. At one end of the long room was a stage flanked by the KJ booth and a screen flashing lyrics. A man with a perfectly coiffed beard and flannel shirt was belting out a show tune with the cute-butchy fervor of a deeply dedicated bear. The place was already packed with every permutation of queer, from high femme to gym queen, plus all the party kids who defied categorization.
It was the night of Berenice’s murder. And there, at the center of everything, was Delilah. I smiled with relief. Her ability to slide into any social situation with panache was practically a superpower. I joined the small circle of women around her and said hi.
“This is Enid, my friend from L.A.”
Everybody introduced themselves, and I promptly forgot all their names except Berenice’s. She called herself Flame. Either she wasn’t going by Berenice yet, or she had a preferred nickname at this time in her life. Her curly hair was bright red, like her lipstick. There was a glow about her that I recognized from other friends who had recently transitioned. Berenice was happy in her own skin—maybe for the first time—and it was infectious. When somebody started singing a Madonna song, she shimmied along with it, bouncing against us and twirling. “Do you think it’s weird to dance to karaoke?” she asked me with a flirty smirk. “I’m bad at listening without moving.”
My heart ached. She was so beautiful. I couldn’t believe that one day she would be planning to move in with me.
Delilah’s voice snapped me out of it. “Honey, you should always dance. You look amazing.” Delilah moved her hips to the beat, then caught my eye. “Come with me for a smoke, Enid?”
Outside, she wasted no time getting to the point. “I think I’ve got our man. He’s a straight guy named Fred who comes here to pick up tran
s ladies, and a few people have already warned me about him. I guess his dates sometimes disappear.” She frowned. “You know what I mean?”
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. “Have you seen him?”
“Not yet. But I’m sticking close to Berenice. The problem, like I said, is that this sounds premeditated. I might need to render him.”
“Render? What? You mean…”
Delilah flicked her hair back and winked at a woman in a Boy Scouts shirt. “You said he was part of some conspiracy to edit trans women out of the timeline. What the hell do you care if he’s deleted? I’m helping you out here.”
I swallowed hard. My research trips involved going to public hearings and lobbying policymakers. Assassination was never an option. But Delilah was right: the Comstockers had already killed Berenice. If we left Fred to his own devices, he might slaughter more. It wasn’t like the cops were bending over backward to catch the dude responsible for killing so-called “men in dresses.” I scowled at the memory of those words.
“Sweetie, this isn’t my first rodeo,” Delilah continued. “Sometimes it’s cheaper to render someone. Especially when there’s a multimillion-dollar policy on the line. I can handle it.”
We went back inside. Berenice was deep in conversation with a young guy at the bar whose blond hair brushed the collar of his polo shirt. Edging closer to them, I noticed his skin was preternaturally clear, as if he’d never had a pimple in his life. He smelled like baby powder.
“Who’s your friend?” Delilah asked, gesturing for the bartender at the same time.
Berenice opened her mouth to speak, but the man talked over her. “I’m Fred. And who are you?”
“I’m Delilah. Can I get you a drink, Fred?”
He held up a glass with brown liquor in it. “I’m good.”
“Oh good. Come here often, Fred?”
Berenice was getting restless. Our eyes met and it was almost too much. I tried to imagine what she’d look like in thirty years, when we would be figuring out how to consolidate our couches and what colors to paint the walls. Then she smiled and I threw off all the weight of a future I’d lost. It was time to make a new future.
“Hey, Flame … let’s dance! I love this song!”
Two women onstage were singing the hell out of En Vogue. Berenice jumped up with me instantly, and we wiggled around the floor with a few other people, singing along:
MAYBE NEXT TIME
YOU’LL GIVE YOUR WOMAN A LITTLE RESPECT
THEN YOU WON’T BE HEARING HER SAY “NO WAY”
I kept Delilah and Fred in my line of sight. She’d lured him in completely; he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. The lights strobed, and Delilah snuck something into his drink. I needed to keep Berenice away from the bar. “Why don’t you sing something? I bet you have a favorite karaoke song.”
She gave me a mischievous look. “Maaaaybe.”
“What is it?” I played along.
“I’ll do it if you promise to dance.”
I nodded enthusiastically and Berenice flipped through the thick song book to find her number. Meanwhile, across the club, Fred was stumbling against Delilah like he was blackout drunk. Motioning to Berenice that I’d be right back, I made a beeline for them.
“Oh look, it’s my friend Enid! Remember Enid, Fred?”
“Sh-sh-good to meeyou…” Fred put his arm around me. “Lesgo honey.”
“Let’s go? Yeah, that’s a good idea, Fred.” Delilah looped his other arm around her shoulder and we practically dragged him into the street. We tried to prop him against the side wall of the club, but he kept sliding down. I caught a glimpse of his mark as his shirt rode up. 2365 C.E.
“Holy shit.” I pointed at it and Delilah’s eyes widened.
“Oh, Fred. You’ve come a long way to meet girls, haven’t you?”
Fred regarded us blearily. “Sno girls … jus mew-mewtalated men.” He grabbed my shirt in a desperate attempt to stay standing. “You know? Do you know? Iss wrong. Sad. Men sh-should have pride. Women serve. Snatural.”
I tried not to recoil in disgust. “What did you give him?”
“A lot of GHB. Mix it with booze and people will melt.” Delilah gave me a hard smile.
“I think you’re right that this is our guy.”
“Great. Can you hold him a sec?” Delilah was rooting around in her purse. “Oh, perfect.” She pulled out something that looked like a scrap of paper, which she folded in half. Now a tiny needle stuck out of the fold, and she quickly jabbed it into Fred’s neck. “You can let go now. Let’s have a drink.”
I heard Fred thump to the ground behind us.
“What was that?”
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just say I know a guy in Virginia who is great at causing heart attacks.”
We got back in time to see Berenice take the stage. Her earrings winked stars as she threw her head back and belted out an old Runaways song that sounded new again.
I’M YOUR CH-CH-CH-CHERRY BOMB
She had a great growling voice, and suddenly all I wanted to do was dance. With each pulse of the disco lights, another memory of Berenice bloomed. We met at a Daughters meeting in 2020; we shared mojitos afterward; she always laughed at my obscure critical theory jokes with genuine appreciation. We kissed for the first time in Powell Library, on the wide sunlit stairway with its worn Spanish tiles. At an applied cultural geology conference in Phnom Penh, we skipped out early to get sugary cakes at Brown Coffee; we played footsie under the table and I looked into her face and knew at that moment that I loved her. We watched a particularly terrible episode of The Geologists on her beaten-up old sofa and decided it made sense to move in together and share my new couch. I jumped up and down, hands in the air, making sure Berenice saw me cheering for her with crazy, intoxicated joy. I couldn’t wait to get back to 2022 and tell her all about it.
THIRTEEN
BETH
Irvine, Alta California (1992 C.E.) … East Los Angeles, Alta California (1992 C.E.)
Now we were murderers for sure. What happened with our teacher Mr. Rasmann wasn’t like with Scott. We hadn’t been surprised or attacked. We’d killed him to get revenge for something he hadn’t even done to us. I don’t think any of us could forget the way we left his body on the floor, ripped up and battered like an old sleeping bag after a summer at Girl Scout camp.
Four days after that night at Mr. Rasmann’s apartment, we met at Lizzy’s house to listen to records. That was the pretext, anyway. All we could talk about was what we’d done.
“I mean, the guy did deserve it. You saw those pictures in his shitty, fucked-up look book—he was molesting girls at our school.” Lizzy was plucking invisible things out of the shag rug on her bedroom floor as she talked. Soojin, Heather, and I drank peach wine coolers we’d stolen from the fridge. Lizzy’s parents were on a trip to Jordan again—some kind of academic conference. Lizzy’s mom had given me an extra-long hug when they left earlier in the evening, and made both of us promise to clean up any “riot grrl ragers” in the works. I couldn’t decide whether it was more embarrassing that she knew the term “riot grrl,” or that she’d used the word “rager” non-ironically.
“I guess, but…” I kept thinking of that strange woman, telling me I didn’t have to do something I’d regret. Then I thought about Mr. Rasmann’s eyeballs and wanted to barf.
Soojin broke in hotly. “He was raping a ton of girls. We had to do something.”
“It’s not like he wasn’t going to do something creepy to us. He probably put Valiums in that booze.” Heather screwed up her face as she contemplated it. “Plus, think of all the other girls we saved. Maybe we even saved their lives. Guys like that start with rape but they become serial killers.” Heather had been obsessed with serial killers ever since the Night Stalker murdered some people in Orange County when we were kids.
“What if we get caught?” I asked. “I don’t think we can say it was self-defense.” I looked expectantly at
Lizzy, our decider.
“We’ve got to get our stories straight. We can say he tried to get us drunk and told us to take off our clothes. Which, basically, that was going to happen.”
“But then why didn’t we run away and call the police?” I was dubious.
“I dunno … maybe we reacted in the moment? Or, like, he grabbed one of us?”
“I think maybe … he grabbed me and you guys jumped him to protect me?” Soojin extemporized as she played with one of her barrettes, opening and closing it with a click. I felt like I’d stumbled into an awful after-school improv theater class project. Just a bunch of girls, doing an enrichment exercise, using our creativity to invent an alibi for why we killed our teacher.
“I still think that … technically … this was murder. It wasn’t like with Scott.” As I said it, I glanced at Heather, who knew better than any of us what it was like with Scott.
She looked back and shrugged. “Do you want to go to jail for life because we killed a guy who was going to kill us, or kill some other girls in the future? For all we know, he’s killed girls before.”
“Look, I’m not saying he wasn’t heinous and evil and obviously … I’m the one…” I trailed off. I wasn’t actually sure who among us had delivered the killing blow. It was a blur of glass shards and globby viscera in my memory. But I was the one jamming thumbs into his eye sockets. I was the one holding him down.
“So just in case…” Lizzy’s tone held a burr of annoyance. “Let’s settle on a story. Setting aside all this other stuff. Because I think we all agree that we shouldn’t go to jail over some fucking assface molester.”
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