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 invited Grace inside. Bethany made some tea. They sat and talked.
“You did good,” Grace told Bethany. “You kept to the script.”
“Thank you.”
“All is going well.”
“And these people believe it,” Gabriel said, smiling. “They think we’re travelers from the future.”
“They believe because they want to believe,” Grace said. “They think the future is horrible; they think they can change that.”
“They have no idea,” Gabriel said, shaking his head, “where we’re really from.”
“They’re naïve,” Bethany said. “I almost have second thoughts.”
Grace shot a look, became stern. “You have a mission, soldier; do not forget your pledge.”
“Of course. I am…sorry.”
Silence followed.
“I miss the home world already,” Gabriel said, easing the tension. “When do we begin the invasion?”
“In three months, when the final teams have arrived,” Grace said. “More soldiers are being sent every day, now that we have spent years infiltrating all the correct government infrastructures.”
“They think their future is set,” Gabriel said, and laughed; “they haven’t a clue what is coming!”
The three stood and saluted in the fashion of their world, their culture, their military.
“Victory,” Grace said.
“Conquest,” Gabriel said.
“Enslavement,” Bethany muttered.
—July-August, 2010
San Diego
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