The Chronotope and Other Speculative Fictions. Michael Hemmingson
But losing such a unit, all that money and time and training put in, well, we had to ensure the weapon would remain intact should something unfortunate happen. So we cloned her, her and many others. Whenever one unit is terminated, a new one is automatically switched on. The memories of the dead one get transferred to the new one. I won’t go into all the details of this technology because you’d need a clearance I couldn’t get, and you wouldn’t understand it. Hell, I barely do myself. All I know is that you killed two Allison units and they were replaced. We can’t afford you killing a third, the one heading over here at seven.”
“I almost believe you,” I said.
“You got any other explanation why the woman you murdered keeps coming back?”
“Y’got me there. Say,” I giggled, “aren’t you telling me top secret stuff? You’re not going to kill me now, or wipe my memory are you?”
“What good would that do? You became part of an experiment, Mr. Thompson. We wanted to see if our super soldiers could reintegrate themselves back into society. After all the programming, training, and experience, could the originals or copies return to their old lives, or become civilians? We were pleased about the relationship, and that she had fallen in love, because it looked like it would be a success: she would return to civilian life, but always be ready to go on a mission if we needed her…or her clone.
“So, instead of terminating your function, Mr. Thompson, I want to make you a deal you cannot refuse, and the drugs we put in you should make the deal sound feasible and sweet, You will continue your relationship with Allison Benning, You will refrain from any arguments that will trigger her alter—the super soldier, as it were. You will make her happy, marry her perhaps, have children.”
“That’s asking a lot,” I said. “Am I supposed to do it as a patriotic duty?”
“Not at all; we will give you something in return. Something that you desire more than anything else.”
“Yeah? What? Strawberry ice cream? ’Cause I’d sure love me some right now.” Giggles, giggles, ha, ha. What the hell had they given me?
“In a few days you have a meeting with Harold Croker, a powerful new player in Tinsel Town, and one of ours. On your desk you will find a proposal for a new TV show. A TV show that will get the green light and be a hit. A TV show that will make you rich and allow you to create more TV shows down the line—an important executive producer and showrunner, with his beautiful wife Allison at his side.”
“And if I reject that life?”
“We erase you. Your choice.” He nodded at the other bald man in the suit, who moved to inject me in the neck with the syringe.
VIII.
I found myself sitting at the table with Allison, eating the linguini and baked potato she had prepared.
“Well?” she said.
“It’s wonderful,” I said.
“A woman who can cook! A soldier and a chef,” she said, grabbing my hand.
“A keeper,” I heard myself saying, groggy and stifling one last giggle.
IX.
The pages on my desk were quite curious, and something I might have thought up myself: a group of soldiers who believe the government enhanced them in a secret program band together to learn the truth, and help others in need along the way. They were called the Idyllwild Group.
What the hell. I took it and pitched it to Croker along with three of my ideas. I thought it was a good pitch meeting. My agent called ten minutes after I left Croker’s office on Wiltshire and Santa Monica, as I was about to get on the freeway and return to Allison, who was waiting for me, our camping gear packed.
“You certainly made an impression, Brad,” said the agent. “Croker wants to buy The Idyllwild Group right off, and for half a million. Can you believe that? Hey, what is this storyline anyway? You never drove it past me. Never mind, he wants to go for it and get it on the fast track for his Fall season line-up. This could be big, buddy. You were on your A-game and it paid off. Now go out and celebrate.”
Yeah, I could go along with this life change, and everything else in the deal.
I felt damn patriotic.
X.
Allison and I finished packing and headed to Big Bear with her sister and fiancé, who also happened to be in the Army, and bore a strong resemblance to the fellow in the black jeans who had injected me with the wonder drugs. But he wasn’t bald, and that toupee was impressive. I took it in stride. They had to keep an eye on the merchandise.
It was going to be a nice week, I knew it; and maybe a nice life. Sure, I could marry this soldier girl, and if I ever got tired of her, and decided to kill her again, she would simply come back to me, bright shiny new.
I would have more Allisons than I’d ever know what to do with.
—November, 2012
Tijuana, México
SIX DAYS APART
I.
They appeared six days apart from one another. That wasn’t too bad; they were told the uncontrollable variables could be anywhere from ten seconds to ten months, and in the early days of the Transmigration, couples who went together could be separated up to ten years—one had to wait a long time for a partner to show up.
Bethany and Gabriel Morton did not arrive in the same cities, either. Bethany appeared, naked, in the middle of a busy beachside intersection in San Diego, California, while Gabriel appeared, equally nude, in the living room of a large house in West Hollywood.
II.
Cars swerved, avoiding Bethany. People on the sidewalk stopped and gawked like they had never seen a naked woman appear out of mid-air. The twenty-first century is a strange place, thought Bethany. She inhaled the stale air and looked up at the bright blue sky. It was a warm southern California day.
The police arrived. One officer put his jacket around her, covering her body, which she found a bit amusing.
III.
Gabriel popped into a home where a family was watching television: a husband and wife and two teenage daughters who giggled and pointed at Gabriel’s genitals and muscles.
The adult woman screamed. The man went to a closet and removed a shotgun and pointed it at Gabriel.
“Please,” said Gabriel, “I mean you no harm.”
“You’re trespassing and intruding,” the man said. “Who do you think you are?”
“I apologize greatly.”
“He’s a real live time traveler, Daddy!” one of the teenage girls said.
“Is that true?” the man asked the sudden intruder.
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “I’m a transmigrator.”
“You future people have no sense of decorum,” the man said with distaste, lowering the shotgun. “You show up anywhere you want without a stitch of clothes.”
“Again, I apologize,” said Gabriel.
“Dear,” the man said to his trembling wife, “go get one of my dress shirts and a pair of slacks. We’re about the same size, him and me.”
She nodded and left the room, her body still shaking from the surprise.
“For Pete’s sake,” the man said, pointing the shotgun at Gabriel’s crotch, “cover yourself, sir; show some modesty—you’re standing in front of my little girls.”
“Oh, it’s okay, Daddy,” one teenage daughter said, rolling her eyes. “Like I’ve never seen.…” She stopped, as if letting her father know too much about what she has or has not seen in her fourteen years was a good idea.
“He’s