The Future of Another Timeline by Annalee Newitz

Author:Annalee Newitz
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

EIGHTEEN

TESS

Chicago, Illinois (1893 C.E.)

Morehshin and I reached Chicago in early August, our clothes stiff from three weeks on Seacake’s boat, and rumpled from another few days on the train. Back at the boardinghouse, I returned to my room down the hall from Soph’s parlors and set up a cot for Morehshin. It was stuffy, and opening the windows did no good. The heat mixed with stench from the river, forming an almost visible fog in the air.

“Do cities smell like this in your time?” I was always trying to get details of the future from Morehshin by asking seemingly innocent questions.

“Every city is different.”

“This one is particularly rancid, though. It’s all the butchery.”

“I don’t mind.”

I made a disgusted noise. But I had to admit that when we walked to the Algerian Village, it felt a little bit like I was coming home. In the two months since I’d been gone, the unionized construction crews had finished the Ferris wheel—getting their overtime pay for all those late nights—and the crowds had swollen considerably. Celebrities like Mark Twain were writing about the Midway theaters, luring tourists from as far as the coasts and Europe. Before, the place felt like a carnival. Now it was absolutely Disneyland. Families argued over sweets and rides, while crowds of men slurped beers and groups of young women shopped for keepsakes. The Expo was in full swing, and would continue to obsess the nation until it closed at the end of October.

Morehshin and I caught the tail end of morning prep at the theater. Aseel was overseeing the guys setting up chairs and tending to the stage lights. A few musicians were practicing their beats.

As soon as she saw us, Aseel made a squee noise and ran over to hug me. “I’m so glad you’re back! I’ve had to fire three seamstresses because nobody knows how to sew the coins onto our vests properly.” Then she turned to Morehshin. “Are you the … uh … cousin that Tess told us about?” Our cover story for my absence was that I’d had to rush back to California for family reasons. Aseel was improvising.

“Yes! Aseel, this is Morehshin.”

The two women faced each other uncertainly. “Morehshin, Aseel has been working with me on our project.”

“I am happy to meet you, sister.”

Aseel tilted her head, bemused by Morehshin’s formal greeting from the future. But she replied in kind. “Welcome to the village, sister.” Now that I knew about the queens, I realized sisterhood wasn’t strictly metaphorical for Morehshin. I tried to imagine a world where a small class of reproductive women produced thousands of sterile sister babies.

Aseel had more pragmatic topics on her mind. “Do you know how to sew as well as Tess does?”

Morehshin patted her pocket. “I have a multi-tool.”

“That thing sews, too?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Really?” I was amused. “Does it also clean the house?”

Aseel clapped her hands at us. “I don’t care what your sewing kit looks like! Fix those damn costumes! We’re doing six performances every day now.”

In the dressing room, Aseel sorted skirts and chemises into frothy piles.

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