Аннали Ньюиц - The Future of Another Timeline

A thrill ripped through me. Despite my foolhardy trip to 1992, we’d arrived downstream in time to organize a collective response and make the edit. I’d even brought backup.

Morehshin narrowed her disturbingly crystalline eyes. “This could be the moment of divergence.”

I folded my arms. “Transformation of that magnitude is never the result of a single event—”

She stood up, palming the multi-tool. It throbbed with white light. “Do you want women to die? Worse than die? Every event has the potential to split history.”

I froze, trying to pull meaning from her odd syntax, wondering if Morehshin had already gone rogue.

Aseel ignored the tension. “All I know is that he got two unlicensed bars shut down in the city last week. He’s trying to make a big splash.”

“Let us defeat his splash with…” Morehshin paused, seemingly lost in thought.

“With a plan?” I asked cautiously.

“Yes. A good plan.” She sat down and picked up her sewing again.

Aseel nodded. “Let’s meet at Soph’s parlors tonight.”

Outside it was warm, sticky, and dark, but Soph’s parlors were comfortable. I was glad to discover Morehshin had no taboo against drinking gin. Apparently alcohol was not a queen food.

I stubbed out my cigarette and started thinking aloud. “Comstock is riding high. Artists in New York are fighting his obscenity lawsuits, and the newspapers love to make fun of him. But he wants that. It’s publicity. Shutting down the Midway theaters means he can expand his battleground.” My voice faltered.

Soph nodded. “The first question is, who is on his side?”

“Obviously the Lady Managers.” Aseel wrinkled her nose.

“And the courts, upholding the anti-obscenity laws he’s helped create. Plus there’s the Society for the Suppression of Vice, which we know includes travelers.” I felt suddenly hopeless. I was in the right time and place, but we were still up against institutions whose longevity resisted editing. Could we really do this?

Morehshin drank two shots in one gulp. “You are thinking about this like drones. Comstock is not a collective. He is an individual who has convinced other individuals that he represents something more.” She struggled to find words. “You realize he is unlike other people, don’t you? His isolation has made him sick in a very specific way. We have to show the public how alone he is.”

This emphasis on Comstock’s uniqueness sounded like shades of the Great Man theory. But it was an interesting perspective. There were certainly other moralists like Comstock, but they weren’t driven by the same obsessive desire to peep inside people’s mail and hoard dildos. He gained power by breaking communities, not making them.

Soph pulled a pin from her hair and started playing with it. “It’s true. We need the public to see Comstock as an individual loon who hates the great people of this city. People are already angry that he’s shutting down their favorite bars.”

“He’s always blathering about protecting the morals of women,” Aseel mused. “That’s why he’s teamed up with the Lady Managers. What if we could show the city that women love our show? Then there’s nothing to protect. All he’s doing is ruining our fun.”

“We’d need an audience of women, packing the house. We can rally our friends, but will it be enough?” Soph scratched her head.

I felt a breeze coming in through the window, then realized it was from the air Morehshin displaced as she jumped up, fast and silent. “Keep talking,” she mouthed.

I raised my voice. “Let’s have more gin!”

Aseel, who was used to playing along with strange traveler behavior at this point, answered just as loudly. “Yeah, let’s get drunk!”

Morehshin crept up next to the door, multi-tool suddenly in hand.

“I’ll go to the cabinet and get a bottle.” Soph made a big point of clattering around and making noise.

That’s when Morehshin twisted the knob. A glittering cone of light shot from her fist into the dark hallway. In its fading glow, I could see Elliot collapsed on the floor, an ear horn rolling out of his hand. He’d been eavesdropping.

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! ”