The Chronotope and Other Speculative Fictions. Michael Hemmingson
was on a talk show last night,” Agent Grace said. She turned on the TV with a remote device in her hand.
On the screen: Gabriel. Her Gabriel.
Bethany’s heart raced. She tried not to show a reaction.
Gabriel was wearing a light gray suit with a white tie and white shoes. He was talking to a man behind an oak wood desk; this man had a deep tan and silver hair.
“I love having peeps from the future come on,” the man said.
“Thank you for having me.”
“So how long have you been in the twenty-first century now?”
“Six days,” said Gabriel.
Audience applause.
“Six days,” said the man, “same amount of time that it took God to make the world.”
“So they say.”
More applause.
Agent Grace paused the image with the remote device: Gabriel smiling at the camera.
“Is this your husband?” the agent asked.
Bethany was quiet.
“We need to know the truth.”
“Yes,” Bethany said, “that is my husband.”
“Gabriel.”
“That’s him.”
“He arrived six days before you.”
“That seems to be the case.”
“We didn’t get to him first,” Agent Grace said with some dismay in her voice. “He’s out there in public. He’s making trouble.”
“Trouble?” Bethany said.
“It’s—not good,” and Agent Grace pressed the remote and Gabriel’s interview continued. Gabriel talked about an over-crowded future, war, famine, disease, despair, and how much he loved his wife, Bethany, and how they dreamed of a better life in the past where they could be happy and free of stress.
“Touching, touching,” said the interviewer. “So where is your wife?”
“I’m not sure if she has arrived yet or not. If she has, I do not know where she is.”
“The government could have her tucked away somewhere. They do that with you peeps. They like to keep a leash on you, all hushy-hush and on the Q.T.”
“That is what I am afraid of,” Gabriel said.
“Is that freedom?” To the audience: “I ask, is it freedom to travel back in time only to be a prisoner of the government?”
From the audience: “NO!”
Boos.
“If your wife is being held,” the man said, “what would you like to say to her, Gabriel?”
Gabriel looked at the camera. The camera closed in on him. Gabriel never sounded more sincere: “Bethany, I love you, and we will be together again, I promise, I will wait for you and never stop looking for you.”
Applause.
The TV went black.
“Am I a prisoner?” Bethany asked.
“Of course not,” Agent Grace said.
“Can I walk out of here and leave?”
Agent Grace did not respond.
Bethany stood. She walked to the gray metal door. She placed her hand on the handle. “It’s locked.”
“For your protection.”
“I’d like to leave this place.”
“I’m afraid you cannot right now.”
“Why?”
“For your protection.”
“From who?”
“There are people out there…who would like to use you, to get information. People like the ones using your husband for propaganda, smearing the government’s name and intentions.”
“So I am a prisoner.”
“You are a guest.”
“I want to speak to my husband. I want to contact him. I want him to know that I am here and I am all right and safe. Can I do this?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Why?”
“It is not feasible.”
“He doesn’t know.…”
“We have treated you kindly, fairly.”
“You have no right.”
“Yes, we do.”
“How do you justify holding me here against my will?”
“You were naked in public—that’s an offense. Public indecency. You can be charged for that.”
“Then ‘charge’ me, and let me go.”
“That…is not feasible.”
“You have no right!” Bethany slammed her palms on the door.
Agent Grace said, “You are detained as an ‘enemy combatant.’”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“You present a threat.”
“How can I threaten? How am I an ‘enemy’?”
Agent Grace cleared her throat. “You represent the future.”
“The future is an enemy?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“The future is a threat?”
“Very much so.”
VII.
Harold Morris said, “According to my sources, which cost a pretty penny, the feds have her.”
“Is this certain?” Gabriel asked.
“Nothing in this world is certain except time travelers and taxes.” Morris laughed. The two were sitting on the deck of a Malibu house. The house belonged to an actor Morris represented, presently on location in Africa for a film, glad to let the new time traveler stay as a guest.
Below, on the Malibu beach, a dozen paparazzi with cameras were taking photos of Gabriel and his agent lounging on the deck and drinking sodas from the can.
Morris said, “A naked woman was reported to have appeared in San Diego a week and a half ago. The cops nabbed her. She has long blonde hair.”
“Bethany.”
“Most likely.”
“How can they do this?”
“Because they have guns and power. That doesn’t mean we have to sit back and take it quietly. We will work up a campaign for her release. We will get the country—the world—on your side. There will be protests, emails glutting the White House servers. Free commercials. Bumper stickers: ‘Free Bethany Now.’ There will be a documentary, a book deal, and who knows, the guy who owns this place will play you in the film.”
“This will work?” Gabriel asked.
“Kid,” Morris said with a smile, “that kind of media always works.”
VIII.
Agent Grace no longer visited her. Now it was a man, “you may call me Carl,” who wore soft color suits and always had a pleasant, but suspicious, smile. He told her they needed to know information; if she gave them information, she would be transferred to the Traveler Reorientation Center in Prescott, Arizona.