The Chronotope and Other Speculative Fictions. Michael Hemmingson
become contributing members of society.”
She nodded; she’d been told to expect this. “What do you want to know?”
“The biggest item on the list is transmigration technology.”
“There is no technology; there is only the desire and the need.”
“What does that mean?”
“If you want me to tell you how to make a time machine, I have no knowledge. If you want me to tell you how the physics work, I have no knowledge. I had a need, and I had a desire, to take the backwards step with my husband, and we did.”
“How long did the people of your time have this—ability?”
“As long as I remember.”
“Since you were a child?”
“I first heard of transmigrating when I had…nine or ten years.”
“Do you know how many people have been sent back so far?”
“How would I? Don’t you know?”
“We assume many have gotten past us.”
“The ones you ‘catch,’ if that’s the word.…”
“Detain.”
“Have any—died in custody?”
“Have you been treated cruelly?” Carl asked.
“Not physically.”
“Please elaborate.”
“You’re keeping me from my husband, the man I need and love,” she said. “That’s a form of mental torture and duress. You dangle freedom in front of me if I tell you information that I do not have or know. If I knew how transmigration worked, I would tell you; if I knew how the machines were put together, I would draw a diagram for you. I can tell you how many people died of disease and starvation before I left,” she said softly; “I can tell you how many committed suicide in my home city alone.”
“That’s not very comforting.”
“Maybe you can change the future.”
“Can one?” Carl said. “Change the past, change the future—aren’t there laws?”
“What laws?”
“God’s laws.”
“I have no idea. All I want is to see my husband.”
“That will occur soon.”
“Are you just saying that?”
“Your husband,” Carl said, “and the people behind him are responsible for a lot of attention on your behalf. I expect the order for your release to come in the next forty-eight hours.”
“You’re lying,” she said.
“Or my superiors are lying to me. We live in a world of lies. You could be lying, about everything: the future, time travel, your true motives.”
“So we don’t trust each other,” Bethany said.
Carl smiled. “Who does?”
IX.
Gabriel was amazed how the entire world sympathized with his cause and the plight of Bethany. The White House was bombarded with emails, faxes, and old-fashioned carrier letters demanding that Bethany Morton be released. The White House denied any knowledge of such a woman, who did not exist in any database. There were protests in front of the Federal Building in San Diego, where it was believed she was held, and other Federal structures across the country, demanding the release of not only Bethany but any other time traveler. The topic was the main focus on numerous radio, TV, and internet talk shows. Op-Ed pieces were published, letters to the editor; one young woman in Seattle poured gasoline on her body and set herself on fire “in solidarity with Bethany.” So many loved her, Gabriel mused, and no one knew what she looked like.
Then the phone call came.
It was Harold Morris: “We have her.”
“Have…?”
“They let your wife go.”
X.
It happened so fast. They came for her—men in green uniforms, one in a suit. “Time to go.” They placed a blindfold on her. She was escorted to a vehicle. She was told to get in. She sat and waited for anything. The vehicle drove for half an hour and stopped. She was told to get out. One of them placed something in her hand.
The vehicle drove away. Bethany pulled off the blindfold. The light hurt her eyes—the sun was coming up, it was morning. She’d been left next to a telephone booth on a long, empty stretch of road. Mountains in the background.
In her hand was currency: four five-dollar bills.
She looked at the phone. She knew it was a communication device but she didn’t know how to use it.
She was wearing what she wore in the government holding facility: jeans and t-shirt.
She walked down the road.
She was thirsty.
A small yellow car approached her, like a bee. She waved at it.
The car pulled over. Two young women in halter tops were inside.
“You need help?” one of them asked.
“Yes.”
“Why you out here in the middle of nothing, honey?” said the second one.
“My name is Bethany Morton,” Bethany said.
The two girls looked at each other and squealed and giggled. Their bodies jumped up and down in the car seats.
“Are you kidding?!”
“No way!”
“You shittin’ us?”
“Omigawd!”
“This is so—awesome possum!”
“I need…,” Bethany started to say.
“Oh we know what you need!” they said, and: “Your hubby is a hunk!”
She sat in the back of the small car and they drove. The young women were excited, talking about how famous they were going to be: they found the time traveler the whole world was talking about.
“Your husband is going to have the best day!” said the young woman who was driving.
“Do you know Gabriel?” Bethany asked.
“Everyone knows who Gabriel Morton is!”
What an odd world, Bethany thought, wondering if these people truly deserved what was in store for them.
XI.
Their reunion was broadcast for the whole world to see—Gabriel and Bethany running to one another and embracing. There were cheers from the crowd watching. There wasn’t a dry eye in any household in America, or Europe, or Japan.
“Cha-ching,” said Harold Morris, as he watched, and calculated all the story rights deals to be made.
XII.
Three weeks later.
Gabriel and Beth settled into their new home in Walnut Creek, a suburb outside San Francisco. Their home had been purchased with the money from the various book, film, audio, and digital rights their agent, Mr. Morris, had made.
Their story was now old news, as other time travelers were showing up, and those whisked away by police or government agents were now the focus of the “time traveler rights” awareness groups.
One morning, Gabriel and Beth were paid a visit by a woman. The woman was familiar: known as Beryl Grace, but also known by another name they would not speak.
They