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.
“What is that?” Bethany asked.
“It’s where many transmigrators go,” he said. “They adjust to the twenty-first century; we determine aptitude and skills, we find you jobs and relocate you, and you 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
