Аннали Ньюиц - The Future of Another Timeline

“I’m sorry, Soph. I didn’t mean it that way. I was curious because you took an unusual path.”

She touched my arm gently, and the tension was broken. “I accept your apology. I rarely met other women during my studies, so I know it is rare. I have been blessed.”

Morehshin rubbed her chin and turned to me. “Another woman who does not follow the rules of her time. We are a good cluster.”

“I’m glad you approve.” Soph said it gravely, but with the hint of a smile.

Later that night, I awoke to the sound of shouting. I stepped into the hallway to find two police officers banging on Soph’s doors. Morehshin shoved me out of the way and approached the men from behind, pinching her jumper closed with one hand. Her other hand was a glowing red fist.

“You’re under arrest for obscenity, Sophronia Collins! Come out now or we will use force!”

As Morehshin reached them, Soph flung open her door. She was fully dressed in the bridal gown she sometimes wore when invoking the goddess. Her hair spilled in blond tangles down her shoulders, making her look wild and dangerous. “There is no need for violence! I will come with you willingly because I have done nothing wrong.”

Glimpsing Morehshin behind the police, Soph gave a minute shake of her head. The multi-tool stopped glowing, but I noticed that Morehshin did not put it away.

Despite her promise of cooperation, the police grabbed Soph roughly and put her in heavy iron handcuffs. “What’s this getup, whore?”

“It pleases the goddess.”

“Tell that to the judge.” One of the men guffawed. “He’ll see the slut under your white lace.” They gripped her arms and practically lifted her aloft in their enthusiasm to drag her down the hallway. Then they noticed Morehshin. “Is this your pet monkey girl? Hey, monkey, monkey!” Morehshin ignored them and kept her eyes on Soph, who was mouthing something.

Frozen with rage and helplessness, I watched them march past. Soph smiled. “Tell Aseel. She knows what to do. Please don’t worry, Tess.”

“We’ll get you out of this, Soph.” I made my voice firm.

As soon as they were gone, anxiety fizzed in the pit of my stomach. Despite having warned Soph about this exact possibility, I hadn’t been prepared to watch her seized and harassed. This wasn’t part of our plan.

Morehshin padded back through our door, and hunkered down on the pile of rugs and pillows she used as a bed. “They are going to kill her.”

“No, they aren’t. No. No, that’s not how it’s done here. We’ll get a lawyer tomorrow. That’s what we’ll do. First thing.” My words came out in a quavering rush.

“A lawyer.” She echoed the word like she didn’t know what it meant; or maybe she did, and was exceptionally dubious.

At Aseel’s request, Sol found us a young First Amendment zealot to take the case pro bono. Sitting in the gloom of his office, the lawyer told us exactly what I’d feared.

Comstock had men tracking all pamphlets coming to New York from Chicago. His men had seized several of Soph’s newsletters, including one about how angels had given us rubbers because sex is more spiritually fulfilling when there is no fear of pregnancy. When information about birth control crossed state lines, it became a federal matter under Comstock’s jurisdiction at the post office. The lawyer was excited about defeating censorship, but he didn’t seem to care much about getting Soph out of jail. Meanwhile, Soph’s friends in the press obligingly turned her story into shocking headlines:

Then the lawyer gave a few interviews, and the evening papers were all about him:

We were back at his office the next morning, asking when Soph would be out on bail. He leaned back in his chair, slicked his hair down, and regarded us with an expression of extreme satisfaction. “Ladies, this case is going pretty well. Did you read the papers?” He gestured at one, with his name prominently featured. “But I won’t lie to you. It isn’t going to be easy for your friend. They’ve taken her to Cook County Asylum. Because she’s hysterical, you know. A nymphomaniac.”

I stared at Soph’s lawyer, wondering why he’d taken this case if he believed that Victorian garbage about how women with an interest in sex were deranged. Cook County Asylum was a bug-infested hell south of the city in Dunning, notorious for abuse.

“We have to get her out of there.”

“That would be ideal, but this diagnosis means she’s totally inaccessible during the first few days of her treatment.” The lawyer made a sweeping gesture. “I have other cases to attend to, so check back with me next week.”

He put us off another week, and then another. Finally, Morehshin camped out in front of the lawyer’s office until he got the idea that his client’s well-being might be as important as constitutional law.

It took us over a month to get her out of the asylum.

The day Morehshin brought Soph back to the village, there was a particularly rancid smell hanging over the city. Slaughterhouse runoff was rotting in the sewer system, and it wouldn’t wash out until the next big rain. Soph’s usually sunny face was chalky, and her hands trembled when she reached out to embrace us in the tea house beside the Algerian Theater.

“My darling!” Aseel was stricken. “What did they do to you?”

Morehshin gave us a grim look. “You know what they do at that place.”

“I believe I saw… true darkness.” Soph spoke in a gravelly whisper, as if her throat was raw from screaming or sickness or worse.

I ordered drinks. The chairs were uncomfortable metal monstrosities, and the table was a piece of rickety carnival trash, but the mint tea was superb. Our waiter made a big show of pouring it from a great height into tiny, curved glasses, the steam making a soothing puff around our faces. We all sipped quietly for a minute.

“I can’t go back there.” Soph’s voice was stronger now. “I know our fight goes beyond my puny life, and that there are women counting on us in the future.” She grabbed Morehshin’s hand. “But I would rather die than endure that… evil.” Her eyes filled with tears and she shook her head over and over, repeating the twitchy motion until Aseel touched her cheek and murmured reassuringly.

“You’re safe now. That lawyer says they can’t put you back there unless you’re convicted.”

“Now I know why Penny took her life.” Soph dipped a finger into her teacup and drew a pentagram on the table with the cooling liquid. “There are things worse than death. So… many… things.”

I had seen Soph ecstatic and spellbinding and drunk and enraged. But I had never seen her like this. Terror distorted her posture, as if her whole being were focused on some amorphous danger. The problem was that nothing in the coming months was going to unburden her. The threat of further imprisonment was very real. As I watched her stumble through a conversation with Aseel and Morehshin, it occurred to me that the asylum had eroded her entire sense of self. She couldn’t thrive on the cold ideological isolation that kept Emma Goldman sane in prison. Her strength came from rituals that exalted love and community. Soph was not going to survive this battle if we waged it here, on these terms.

I tasted bile in my mouth. This war—this long fucking arc of history—had destroyed too many good women and erased the evidence. Nobody would remember Penny or Berenice or Aseel or Soph, but Comstock’s laws would last over a century. That self-satisfied lawyer who called Soph a nympho would have a civil liberties hagiography on Wikipedia. A memory invaded me, of watching a woman’s body fall from a great height, crashing into death before she had a chance to live. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to scream her name. All my heartbroken recklessness emanated from that moment, that person, that suicide I tried every day to forget. There were some things I couldn’t set right, but there were some things I could.