Before any of us could respond coherently, Morehshin dragged him inside and slammed the door.
We stood over his unconscious form. “This is convenient for you,” mused Morehshin, nudging Elliot with her foot to wake him up. “I suspect this spy knows Comstock’s plan—and a lot more.”
“I won’t tell you lascivious harlots anything!” Elliot’s perfectly waxed moustaches had been crushed in the tussle, making his face look lopsided.
“I don’t mind killing you now, mateless drone. You are worth less than your sperm, which itself is worthless.” The venom in Morehshin’s voice made her oddly chosen words terrifying. She pointed her index finger at Elliot’s chest, the multi-tool strobing red beneath the curl of her thumb.
I grabbed her arm, aiming the multi-tool at the wall. “No killing. That’s not what we do.”
“He understands nothing but death.”
“No, Morehshin!” Soph pushed in front of us, blocking Elliot. “We cannot do good with evil means.”
On the floor, Elliot spat. “Every day, I treasure my memories of a timeline where you mindless bitches never got the vote. You never agree on anything! You haggle over the rules of war. Yap, yap, yap, like the little doggies you are! That’s how you ruined America.”
Aseel put a slippered foot on his neck and pressed down lightly. “Too bad you are in this timeline, then. Be quiet while we vote on what to do with you.”
“Fine, no killing.” Morehshin grunted, and knelt next to Elliot. Then she aimed the multi-tool at his chest before we could stop her.
“No—!” I cried.
But she was only sewing his sleeves to his shirt, and weaving the legs of his pants together. “Harder to run like that. Now, drone, tell us when your boss is coming to the village.”
When Elliot refused to speak, I had an idea. “This guy’s a traveler. Check his mark. I want to know when he’s from.”
Another flick of the multi-tool, and Elliot’s shirt parted over his tattoo. Born in 2379. So he was a contemporary of Berenice’s killer. I wondered if Elliot really did remember a timeline where women didn’t get the vote. Was that part of the highly divergent branch Morehshin remembered? Or another horrific possibility known only to Comstockers trying to revert the edit?
“From the Esteele Era. That’s good,” Morehshin sneered. “That means you know what I can do with this.” She yanked off one of his shoes and squeezed the multi-tool over his bare toes.
For the first time, Elliot looked scared. “You know that’s not … it’s not permitted for you.”
She showed her teeth in the opposite of a smile. “I have eaten meat. Do you think I care what is permitted?”
The multi-tool rained a few drops of green light onto his pale ankle, and Elliot began to struggle.
“What are you doing?” I asked in a panic.
“Don’t worry. He’s not hurt.”
The green specks of illumination moved up his ankle and beneath his pants; we caught glimpses of light shining through his shirt, and then the glow circled his neck slowly before disappearing.
“When is Comstock going to visit the village?”
“I … he’s … no!” Elliot was trembling, but not with pain. It was something else.
“Tell me when.”
“W-Wednesday night.”
I spoke up. “Now tell us what you’re doing with the Machines.”
Elliot’s struggles were weaker now, as if he knew spilling his guts was inevitable. Soph met my eyes, her expression troubled.
“Reverting the timeline. We’re fighting for—for men’s rights! The vote! Full access to reproduction! The natural rights you whores stole from us!”
“What about your plan to sabotage the Machines?”
A whistling breath came from Elliot’s throat. His eyes wandered, unfocused. This time when he spoke, I wasn’t sure Morehshin had told the truth about not hurting him.
“Soon we will have full control of the Machines, and restore the moral order.” His face turned gray as green pinpricks throbbed below his skin. “You will no longer be able to repress our true history.”
“How are you going to control the Machines?”
Elliot wheezed. “The sword … in the stone. You … you…” He looked at me with those perfect eyes. “You will never understand. It is the destiny of men.” His tongue started to loll, like a man being strangled.
Soph rushed to his side, feeling for his pulse. “Stop now! Can you not see he is dying!”
“Fine.” Morehshin made a dismissive gesture with the multi-tool. “You can sleep now.” A bit of glimmering dust swirled out of Elliot’s ears and he snored, ruddiness returning to his face. With a few more sweeps of her multi-tool, Morehshin restored his clothes to their original state. She didn’t bother to look up at us until she’d put his shoe back on. Then she registered the horror on Soph’s face and shrugged. “What? He won’t remember anything.”
“What the hell is that … thing?” I’d never seen Aseel search for words.
“It’s my multi-tool. You called it a sewing kit.”
“Did you torture him?” I was sweaty with anxiety, and something worse. Memories from my past that I wanted to forget.
“No. I made him tell the truth.”
“What—like Wonder Woman?” Embarrassed, I realized I’d made a reference to the future.
Morehshin cocked her head at me. “Not like Wonder Woman. Like a queen.”
“But I thought you said the queens have no power.”
“Hearing the truth isn’t power. Doing something about it … that’s different. That’s where the Daughters of Harriet come in. Now help me get this sack of potatoes out on the street.”
We wrapped Elliot in an old blanket and dragged him downstairs, snoring loudly, then deposited him unceremoniously next to the gutter.
Morehshin surveyed our work. “He’ll have a headache when he wakes up, plus short-term amnesia.”
Soph spilled gin on him, then planted an empty bottle next to his slumped form. “That completes the picture, doesn’t it?”
Back in Soph’s chambers, none of us felt like drinking except Morehshin, who tossed back another shot and rubbed her hands together. “We know when Comstock is coming to the village, so let’s invite all our sisters to join him.”
I was still stuck on what Elliot had said about the Machine sabotage. “What do you think he meant by ‘the sword in the stone’?”
Morehshin shrugged. “He used wordplay to tell the truth without revealing anything. We can’t afford to worry about that now—we’re in real time. The Machines are stronger than men know. Let us turn to the abolition of Comstock. How can we reach all the women?”
I frowned, but she was right. We had only five days to plan. “This is going to be a major outreach effort. It’s not like we can contact women psychically like one of those scammer Spiritualists.”
“Oh.” Morehshin sounded abashed. “Right. No neuro-magnetics in this haplotype.”
It was another one of those bad translations, or maybe a perfect translation of a concept for which we had no equivalent. Aseel gave Morehshin a dubious look. “I suppose we don’t. Soph, you must have a pretty big mailing list from your newsletter subscribers.”
She nodded. “I can send out cards that say the angels are gathering at the Algerian Village on Wednesday night. I bet a lot of them will be curious enough to come. Plus we can hand out copies of my article on the danse du ventre at the show!”
“Oh, did it finally come out in print?” I grinned, remembering how she told me about it on the day we first met.
Soph nodded, flushing with pleasure as she showed us copies of New York World with her byline.
Aseel grinned too. “That’s a good idea. I can take invitations around to women at the other villages on the Midway. All we need are about fifty women to make a crowd.”
I thought about Lucy Parsons and her fiery speech. Maybe she wasn’t willing to speak up about race and gender, but she was still our
ally. “I’ll make a few signs and put them up at the union meeting halls,” I said. “Plus, I can flyer women’s dormitories at the university.”
Morehshin filled in as show seamstress the next day while I posted leaflets at the University of Chicago campus. When it opened a couple of years ago, the regents of the school had taken the radical position that education should be coed. Today there were a lot of young women in bicycle outfits and split skirts wandering around, though school was out for the summer. I couldn’t help but smile at one who had a thick geology textbook in the straw basket attached to her handlebars. Still, it was a bittersweet feeling. This was the first generation of college-educated women in America. Our place in this nation was so fragile; it was still far too easy to edit us out.
* * *
Wednesday night was humid. Sunset spread like a rash over the water, and the reek of rotting pig guts in the river mingled with smoke from roasting nuts. When I arrived for pre-show prep, there was already a line forming outside the theater entrance. By the time we opened the doors, the crowd was twice its usual size and packed with people who were not men. They kept streaming in, filling the seats, taking Soph’s pamphlet about the spiritual meaning of the dances. There were performers from the Midway, some still in their stage costumes. There were Spiritualists looking high goth, and New Women from the university, wearing athletic outfits and smoking cigarettes. There was even a gang of young, Lucy Parsons–style anarchists looking fierce with their union sashes. I could see people with dark brown skin and pale pink skin and every shade in between; among them were immigrants and travelers. We made a spectacle of ourselves and enjoyed it.
When there were at least a hundred people crowding the theater, laughing or smirking, men in the audience started to look around them with discomfort. Why were there so many ladies in the room? They thought the point of this show was to stare at women, not to stare with them.
At last Comstock appeared, unfashionable muttonchops framing his round face like storm clouds. Trailing behind him were three of the wealthiest Lady Managers, famous society wives of hoteliers and industrialists. One of them had brought doilies to spread on the wooden seats where each would be placing her petticoat-muffled bum. A group of burly, cigar-chomping people in the front row ceded their seats to the ladies, and Comstock glared until a gray-haired suffragette, decked out in her lacy whites from the ’60s, offered him the seat alongside them. Soph surrendered her chair to the suffragette, and smiled sweetly at the Lady Managers as she gave them copies of her pamphlet. The four observed twenty minutes of dances with what appeared to be polite attention. None of them made faces or fainted. I watched closely, hypervigilant; we needed to keep track of their position if our plan was going to work.
By the time Aseel came out on stage, the men had forgotten their self-consciousness and stomped along with us. “LA-DY AS-EN-ATH!” We chanted her name, clapping for each syllable. As Aseel captivated the room with her movements, the whole audience—men, women, everyone else—hailed her with coins. Comstock and the Lady Managers collected themselves, stone-faced, and attempted to find the exit through the rowdy crowd.
Soph and I stood in the back, discreetly motioning for our friends to follow. The plan was to waylay our special visitors as they paraded out past the ticket booths. But then Sol erupted from the theater office unexpectedly, making a beeline for Comstock. Of course he was here. He knew the moralist’s reputation, but was always hopeful that showbiz professionalism could win the day.
The air had cooled down and a witchy-looking crescent moon rose alongside Venus in the sky. Boisterous crowds swirled past us on their way to the attractions of Cairo Street and the Ferris wheel.
“I hope you enjoyed the show!” Sol held out a hand for Comstock to shake. “I’m so proud of all these performers. They’re the first to bring these beautiful foreign dances to America. It broadens minds and creates a more educated people. Don’t you agree?”
Comstock refused to shake Sol’s hand. “I do not, sir. This is vile filth.”
As the men spoke, we formed a loose circle around them, as if this conversation were part of the evening’s entertainment.
The smile melted off Sol’s face. “How do you mean? This is a family theater.”
“You are corrupting the morals of everyone who walks through those blasted doors!” Comstock was spluttering with rage.
“Perhaps these dances are unfamiliar, but I can assure you they are innocent. They are enjoyed by everyone in Africa and the Orient, the way we enjoy ballet.”
“You must think I am a fool.” Comstock’s voice cracked as he hit a high note. “The entire Midway must be razed to the ground to stop this assault on womanhood. We’ll proceed to the police directly!”
I felt a gentle pressure at my elbow and turned to see Soph beside me, looping my arm through hers. All around us, the New Women and Spiritualists and Midway dancers and anarchists were linking arms, forming a closed circle around Comstock and the Lady Managers. Sol had a look of horror on his face. This was the exact group of rabble-rousers he’d told Aseel and me to keep away from the theater. I wondered if we would have jobs tomorrow.
We stood silently, dozens of us from dozens of places.
Morehshin spoke up. “You are one. We are many. You cannot make us feel your shame.”
Comstock was so livid I thought he was going to pass out. “Make way for us, sinners! The courts will not permit you to abuse God with your … your … hoochie coochie!”
Somehow, that caused me to giggle. I think it was the incongruity of hearing the word “hoochie coochie” coming out of this man’s mouth, with his erect whiskers and florid face. Then other people started giggling, and Morehshin hooted a laugh. There was a sudden, uncoordinated rush of shouts, in many accents.
“You are all alone!”
“Go back to New York City!”
“No one loves you! No one stands with you!”
“Your time is over, you moralistic hypocrites!”
“We are many! You are one!”
“Shame on you!”
“Praise be to hoochie coochie!”
Somehow that one caught on, and all of us began to chant: “PRAISE BE TO HOOCHIE COOCHIE! PRAISE BE TO HOOCHIE COOCHIE!” A few drunk union men on the Midway took up the chant too. When I stole a look at Sol, I was surprised to see that he’d linked arms with two Bedouin dancers and joined our circle.
Comstock headed straight to Morehshin and tried to rip through the link between her and a thick person in a newsboy hat. The person grimaced, shoulders squared and jaw set. “You’ll have to try harder than that, you weak little man.”
“Stand aside, Satanists!”
Morehshin held tighter. “Your god does not control history. Only humans can do that. Do you understand me?” Her eyes blazed like multi-tools.
Comstock looked uncertain, and the color drained from his face. He must have realized he was among travelers. Then he plowed into another part of the circle, dramatically shoving two women apart with his bulk. The spell was broken, and we stood aside to let the Lady Managers pass through.
Sol shouted at Comstock’s receding form. “You’ll never get away with this! If you sue, I’ll get an injunction! The city of Chicago doesn’t care about your goddamn … bullshit … New York Vice Society or whatever the fuck it’s called!”
Comstock and the Lady Managers did not look back.
The next morning, the Tribune had the story: COMSTOCK DRIVEN FROM MIDWAY BY ANGRY MOB. It was something that had not happened in the timeline I remembered. Our edit was starting to take.
NINETEEN
BETH
Los Angeles, Alta California … Irvine, Alta California (1993 C.E.)
A baby mammoth cried for her father, who was sinking slowly into a bubbling pit of tar, trunk curled upward in a hopeless bellow for his child. Probably he would be killed by sabre-toothed cats before the tar suffocated him. The cats, too, would be trapped and die. This scene, immortalized in a life-sized outdo
or display at the La Brea Tar Pits, is where I fell in love with science. At first I was gripped by the horror of this ancient moment. As a kid, I understood helplessness. Standing at the edge of the stinking pond, holding my father’s hand, I told myself that I would never let this happen to us. I would watch for signs of the Earth melting. I would always be vigilant.
But as we returned over the years, I gravitated to the open excavation pits where visitors could see the piles of bones, stained a dark brown by the asphalt that destroyed and preserved them. I watched the tar extruding bubbles around the grisly clots of long mammoth femurs, camel ribs, and dire wolf skulls. As my nose tingled with the acrid smell, I imagined the peaceful transformation of bone into fossil. After thousands of years, the pain of that scene with the baby mammoth would evaporate along with some of the petroleum. All that remained would be bone, and the analysis of bone. I emptied the school library of its tiny collection of books about Earth science. Lizzy and I became best friends at the edge of the playground, trying to identify pebbles that had come unstuck from the ragged fringes of asphalt.
It’s how my father and I became friends, too. He was happier when I was a kid, back when he was still trying to get his college degree in night school. When he discovered I was excited about rocks, he bought me thick, heavily illustrated adult books on paleontology, chemistry, and geology. I pored over the charts showing the ages of the Earth, unraveling the eons in my mind, watching the continents form and shatter and bleed lava.
I wished I could talk to that father again, instead of the person he’d become. It was a hot, windy day in April, and for the first time in years, he and I stood at the La Brea Tar Pits. I’d just finished the new student tour at UCLA, and my father decided we should take a break here before heading home. Now we faced the square bulk of the Page Museum together, its carved stone facade crawling with Pleistocene life.
We strolled through the unchanging dioramas in the museum, pausing at the kids’ activity station. You could test your strength by yanking weights out of buckets of tar. Helpful signage explained that we were reenacting the struggles of ancient megafauna, trying to extract themselves from asphalt upwellings under the pond. Nobody else was playing with the display, and it felt like we had the whole museum to ourselves.
The Future of Another Timeline Page 18