“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. “These can be salvaged, but these… I’m not so sure.”
Morehshin peered at a skirt with a long rip and ran the multi-tool over the fabric absently. When she saw us staring at her, she spoke. “I’m sampling. Now I can sew.” And with one smooth gesture, she ran her index finger along the rip, aiming the uncanny gleam of the multi-tool. The fabric healed in its wake, reproducing a few small stains and flaws to match the surrounding cloth.
“You’re not from Tess’s time, are you?” Aseel raised an eyebrow.
“No.”
I broke in. “Let’s not talk about this here. Aseel, tell me what I missed.”
“I got Sol to hire a song plugger, and she performed ‘Country Lad’ at one of the big theaters. Now the sheet music is selling like crazy—plus the show is booming.” She gestured at the costumes and sighed. “Which is why there’s so much more work.”
“I don’t think you’re actually sad about it.” I poked her.
“Do you know I’m the only woman managing a show in all of Chicago? Maybe in all of America.” The pride in Aseel’s voice was unmistakable.
Morehshin looked up from sampling a gold-embroidered vest. “You are one of the lucky ones who has broken the chains of her time.”
Aseel nodded, thick black braids shifting slightly on her head. “I suppose that’s true. You must have done the same.”
“No. That is why I am here.”
A somber mood settled over us and I picked through the ragged cloth listlessly.
“There is one thing you’ll be very interested to know, Tess.”
“Oh yeah?”
“One of the girls from the Irish Village told me that the Lady Managers are planning a visit to the Midway to investigate how we’re corrupting public morals. And guess who is coming with them?” She paused dramatically. “Our favorite upstanding gentleman from New York: Anthony Comstock. He’s already here in Chicago.”
A thrill ripped through me. Despite my foolhardy trip to 1992, we’d arrived downstream in time to organize a collective response and make the edit. I’d even brought backup.
Morehshin narrowed her disturbingly crystalline eyes. “This could be the moment of divergence.”
I folded my arms. “Transformation of that magnitude is never the result of a single event—”
She stood up, palming the multi-tool. It throbbed with white light. “Do you want women to die? Worse than die? Every event has the potential to split history.”
I froze, trying to pull meaning from her odd syntax, wondering if Morehshin had already gone rogue.
Aseel ignored the tension. “All I know is that he got two unlicensed bars shut down in the city last week. He’s trying to make a big splash.”
“Let us defeat his splash with…” Morehshin paused, seemingly lost in thought.
“With a plan?” I asked cautiously.
“Yes. A good plan.” She sat down and picked up her sewing again.
Aseel nodded. “Let’s meet at Soph’s parlors tonight.”
Outside it was warm, sticky, and dark, but Soph’s parlors were comfortable. I was glad to discover Morehshin had no taboo against drinking gin. Apparently alcohol was not a queen food.
I stubbed out my cigarette and started thinking aloud. “Comstock is riding high. Artists in New York are fighting his obscenity lawsuits, and the newspapers love to make fun of him. But he wants that. It’s publicity. Shutting down the Midway theaters means he can expand his battleground.” My voice faltered.
Soph nodded. “The first question is, who is on his side?”
“Obviously the Lady Managers.” Aseel wrinkled her nose.
“And the courts, upholding the anti-obscenity laws he’s helped create. Plus there’s the Society for the Suppression of Vice, which we know includes travelers.” I felt suddenly hopeless. I was in the right time and place, but we were still up against institutions whose longevity resisted editing. Could we really do this?
Morehshin drank two shots in one gulp. “You are thinking about this like drones. Comstock is not a collective. He is an individual who has convinced other individuals that he represents something more.” She struggled to find words. “You realize he is unlike other people, don’t you? His isolation has made him sick in a very specific way. We have to show the public how alone he is.”
This emphasis on Comstock’s uniqueness sounded like shades of the Great Man theory. But it was an interesting perspective. There were certainly other moralists like Comstock, but they weren’t driven by the same obsessive desire to peep inside people’s mail and hoard dildos. He gained power by breaking communities, not making them.
Soph pulled a pin from her hair and started playing with it. “It’s true. We need the public to see Comstock as an individual loon who hates the great people of this city. People are already angry that he’s shutting down their favorite bars.”
“He’s always blathering about protecting the morals of women,” Aseel mused. “That’s why he’s teamed up with the Lady Managers. What if we could show the city that women love our show? Then there’s nothing to protect. All he’s doing is ruining our fun.”
“We’d need an audience of women, packing the house. We can rally our friends, but will it be enough?” Soph scratched her head.
I felt a breeze coming in through the window, then realized it was from the air Morehshin displaced as she jumped up, fast and silent. “Keep talking,” she mouthed.
I raised my voice. “Let’s have more gin!”
Aseel, who was used to playing along with strange traveler behavior at this point, answered just as loudly. “Yeah, let’s get drunk!”
Morehshin crept up next to the door, multi-tool suddenly in hand.
“I’ll go to the cabinet and get a bottle.” Soph made a big point of clattering around and making noise.
That’s when Morehshin twisted the knob. A glittering cone of light shot from her fist into the dark hallway. In its fading glow, I could see Elliot collapsed on the floor, an ear horn rolling out of his hand. He’d been eavesdropping.
Before any of us could respond coherently, Morehshin dragged him inside and slammed the door.
We stood over his unconscious form. “This is convenient for you,” mused Morehshin, nudging Elliot with her foot to wake him up. “I suspect this spy knows Comstock’s plan—and a lot more.”
“I won’t tell you lascivious harlots anything!” Elliot’s perfectly waxed moustaches had been crushed in the tussle, making his face look lopsided.
“I don’t mind killing you now, mateless drone. You are worth less than your sperm, which itself is worthless.” The venom in Morehshin’s voice made her oddly chosen words terrifying. She pointed her index finger at Elliot’s chest, the multi-tool strobing red beneath the curl of her thumb.