Аннали Ньюиц - The Future of Another Timeline

Lizzy moved so deliberately that she reminded me of a monitor lizard I’d seen at the zoo, its body operating in some ambiguous space between mechanical and organic. When she went for the sheath, I slid off the bed, trying to get as far as possible from whatever was going to happen next. Lizzy had the knife positioned over his artery, in the soft place where his leg connected to the rest of his body.

“You love really shitty music, don’t you, Richard?”

He opened his eyes in confusion. “What?”

And then Lizzy made the cut. That knife must have been incredibly sharp because she opened two holes, quickly—one on each thigh. Unfortunately, the coke had made Richard’s reflexes preternaturally fast. He sat up instantly and grabbed Lizzy around her neck. As Lizzy struggled, Heather rocketed forward and snatched the knife. Richard gurgled as Heather stabbed him in the back and blood sprayed intermittently out of his crotch like an X-rated Cronenberg flick.

I wanted to reach in and stop what was happening, but a more powerful force was pulling me toward the door. I stumbled backward, trying to look and not look at the figures on the bed, jerking in time to “Rock of Ages.” I crashed into the door, my arm on fire with pain, and then I was in the hallway running. It wasn’t some supernatural power propelling me after all. It was Soojin, her nails digging into my arm so hard that for a blissful moment I felt nothing but physical pain.

“Let’s go now! Fuck that guy. Fuck everything!” She was crying and so was I, and nobody on the sofas in the other room seemed to think that was strange at all. Was it normal for girls to come screaming and sobbing out of a room where Richard was listening to music? Maybe it was.

“Bye, ladies!”

I heard the lazy voice behind us as we spun down the spiral staircase, under the chain, out the door, and into the cold air that still carried the sounds of bad grunge from the tent. It had only been about half an hour since we’d arrived.

The guys at the gate saw our smeared makeup and became oddly subdued and chivalrous as they called a cab. One patted me on the head. “Hope you had a good time tonight.”

I looked into his face and wanted to kill him.

Soojin and I hugged without talking for most of the ride home. She promised her sister June would pay for the cab—they had some kind of mutually assured destruction deal that involved rescuing each other from the surveillance apparatus of their parents. I buried my face in the good smell of Soojin’s neck, inhaling unidentifiable perfume and clove cigarettes. It was strangely comforting to realize that Tess had been right. I’d told myself so. I couldn’t be Lizzy’s friend anymore.

Chicago, Illinois (1893 C.E.)

Morehshin and I reached Chicago in early August, our clothes stiff from three weeks on Seacake’s boat, and rumpled from another few days on the train. Back at the boardinghouse, I returned to my room down the hall from Soph’s parlors and set up a cot for Morehshin. It was stuffy, and opening the windows did no good. The heat mixed with stench from the river, forming an almost visible fog in the air.

“Do cities smell like this in your time?” I was always trying to get details of the future from Morehshin by asking seemingly innocent questions.

“Every city is different.”

“This one is particularly rancid, though. It’s all the butchery.”

“I don’t mind.”

I made a disgusted noise. But I had to admit that when we walked to the Algerian Village, it felt a little bit like I was coming home. In the two months since I’d been gone, the unionized construction crews had finished the Ferris wheel—getting their overtime pay for all those late nights—and the crowds had swollen considerably. Celebrities like Mark Twain were writing about the Midway theaters, luring tourists from as far as the coasts and Europe. Before, the place felt like a carnival. Now it was absolutely Disneyland. Families argued over sweets and rides, while crowds of men slurped beers and groups of young women shopped for keepsakes. The Expo was in full swing, and would continue to obsess the nation until it closed at the end of October.

Morehshin and I caught the tail end of morning prep at the theater. Aseel was overseeing the guys setting up chairs and tending to the stage lights. A few musicians were practicing their beats.

As soon as she saw us, Aseel made a squee noise and ran over to hug me. “I’m so glad you’re back! I’ve had to fire three seamstresses because nobody knows how to sew the coins onto our vests properly.” Then she turned to Morehshin. “Are you the… uh… cousin that Tess told us about?” Our cover story for my absence was that I’d had to rush back to California for family reasons. Aseel was improvising.

“Yes! Aseel, this is Morehshin.”

The two women faced each other uncertainly. “Morehshin, Aseel has been working with me on our project.”

“I am happy to meet you, sister.”

Aseel tilted her head, bemused by Morehshin’s formal greeting from the future. But she replied in kind. “Welcome to the village, sister.” Now that I knew about the queens, I realized sisterhood wasn’t strictly metaphorical for Morehshin. I tried to imagine a world where a small class of reproductive women produced thousands of sterile sister babies.

Aseel had more pragmatic topics on her mind. “Do you know how to sew as well as Tess does?”

Morehshin patted her pocket. “I have a multi-tool.”

“That thing sews, too?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Really?” I was amused. “Does it also clean the house?”

Aseel clapped her hands at us. “I don’t care what your sewing kit looks like! Fix those damn costumes! We’re doing six performances every day now.”

In the dressing room, Aseel sorted skirts and chemises into frothy piles. “These can be salvaged, but these… I’m not so sure.”

Morehshin peered at a skirt with a long rip and ran the multi-tool over the fabric absently. When she saw us staring at her, she spoke. “I’m sampling. Now I can sew.” And with one smooth gesture, she ran her index finger along the rip, aiming the uncanny gleam of the multi-tool. The fabric healed in its wake, reproducing a few small stains and flaws to match the surrounding cloth.

“You’re not from Tess’s time, are you?” Aseel raised an eyebrow.

“No.”

I broke in. “Let’s not talk about this here. Aseel, tell me what I missed.”

“I got Sol to hire a song plugger, and she performed ‘Country Lad’ at one of the big theaters. Now the sheet music is selling like crazy—plus the show is booming.” She gestured at the costumes and sighed. “Which is why there’s so much more work.”

“I don’t think you’re actually sad about it.” I poked her.

“Do you know I’m the only woman managing a show in all of Chicago? Maybe in all of America.” The pride in Aseel’s voice was unmistakable.

Morehshin looked up from sampling a gold-embroidered vest. “You are one of the lucky ones who has broken the chains of her time.”

Aseel nodded, thick black braids shifting slightly on her head. “I suppose that’s true. You must have done the same.”

“No. That is why I am here.”

A somber mood settled over us and I picked through the ragged cloth listlessly.

“There is one thing you’ll be very interested to know, Tess.”

“Oh yeah?”

“One of the girls from the Irish Village told me that the Lady Managers are planning a visit to the Midway to investigate how we’re corrupting public morals. And guess who is coming with them?” She paused dramatically. “Our favorite upstanding gentleman from New York: Anthony Comstock. He’s already here in Chicago.”