Why, I wondered, when they created the California flotillas back in the first decade of the 2100s, did they feel like Alcatraz was such a critical societal artifact worthy of preservation? Sylvia explained that the decision had come after the Berkeley Seismological Lab used something called a distributed acoustic Doppler to gather telemetry data collected from people’s wearables—this was before everyone had implants, so they used to wear their technology—to determine with precision exactly when and where the next Big One would occur. As a result, they had nearly half a century to prepare for the Quake of 2112.
“The denizens of California, knowing with absolute certainty that their states would largely be obliterated from the map, brought in an army of Dutch island-building engineers. They performed a budgetary analysis, informing the public that they had to choose a finite number of cities and landmarks they wanted to preserve,” Sylvia told me, acting as tour guide. “Once approved, those areas were untethered from the earth and placed upon flotillas. Everything else sank into the Pacific Ocean.”
I had no doubt those were hard decisions to make, but I wondered why they were worth saving at all. That’s the sort of mind-set I was in. A meandering, blasé world view that I think became most pronounced later in the day when I visited one of the cells overlooking the island’s dock. By then the marine layer (what San Franciscans name their bespoke variety of freezing-ass wet, windyfog) had parted and the scene was just amazing. The Sun painted the sky and the bay deep hues of orange blended with a hint of purple. From that prison cell I thought to myself, The prisoners incarcerated here had one of the most expensive views in the city, but since they were stuck in jail, they probably hated looking out this window.
Remembering that moment while I sat in Moti’s conference room brought a shiver to my spine. I couldn’t help but think that maybe those prisoners were better off than me right now. Like them, I was occupying a very expensive piece of real estate. But they, at least, had a view.
When we got back to San Francisco, Sylvia dragged me to see a Romeo and Juliet performance in Golden Gate Park. I’d seen the play before and felt no need to see it again, but she insisted. The marine layer had returned and the park was enveloped by rain, making for a soggy, uncomfortable evening of theater. By the time Friar Laurence gave Juliet the bottle of poison that was supposed to knock her out for a couple of days, I was antsy to leave. Still, his words came back to me verbatim:
“And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death
Thou shalt continue two and forty hours,
And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.”
“That’s the part I never got,” I whispered to Sylvia.
She looked taken aback. “You don’t understand why she’d be willing to fake death to be with the man she loved?”
“No, I just have a hard time with the suspension of disbelief. I mean, what kind of poison makes you a corpse for two days and then wakes you up and you’re fine?”
“That’s what you never got about this play?” she asked incredulously. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Belladonna,” she said. I stared blankly. “Look it up on your comms. Just google ‘what poison did Juliet take.’” I looked it up. “Huh.”
Sure enough, back in 1597, John Gerarde, the so-called father of modern botany, guessed that the poison Juliet swallows could have been Atropa belladonna, also known as “deadly nightshade.” Gerarde reckoned that “a small quantity leads to madness, while a moderate amount causes a ‘dead sleepe,’ and too much can kill.”
“And you just knew that?” I asked.
“It’s who I am, Joel Byram. I know things.” Her lips curled upward adorably.
And that’s when I went for it. I had no plan, no placeholder ring burning a hole in my pocket. Her mouth twitched and I dropped to one knee, surprising us both.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, glancing around at the damp crowd.
Out came the words with no hesitation. “Sylvia Archer, will you marry me?”
Her eyes widened in shock. Cold moisture from the grass seeped into the knee of my pants. Her silence was killing me.
“Feel free to nod if you can’t speak,” I said nervously.
“Yes,” Sylvia said loudly. As people turned to shush us, she grabbed me by the arm and kissed me. I tipped, falling to the wet earth and pulling her on top of me. We were probably the only couple to ever make out during that particular part of the Shakespearean tragedy, but we went for it. The audience around us clapped and wolf-whistled.
Back in the conference room, I smiled to myself. It hadn’t been a traditional proposal, but Sylvia and I had never been a traditional couple. Even years later, the moment felt right to me. Now the memory of it might be all that I had left of my wife. Before I could go too dark with that, the wall warped and Moti and Ifrit reentered the room. “Yoel, I am afraid I have bad news,” Moti said.
“Sylvia?” I asked, fearing the worst.
He nodded. “She has been kidnapped. Last night William Taraval showed up and briefly spoke to her and your other. Then, about two hours ago, she awoke, got in a vehicle, and was taken to a location on the other side of the mountain. You—the other you—is currently en route to her GDS location. Most likely attempting—foolishly—to rescue her by himself. Five minutes ago her comms went offline completely.”
I clenched my fists. “Did you guys alert someone? I mean, is someone doing something?”
Moti nodded again. “Yes, I believe IT will intervene.”
Great. “Well, my confidence level in IT doing the right thing is less than zero. Can’t you guys notify the Costa Rican authorities? Or the Levantine authorities? I mean, isn’t this what you fucking guys do?”
“Yoel, it’s complicated. We—”
“It’s complicated?”
Enough was enough. “I want out. Get me the fuck out of here, you hear me? I’ll take my fucking chances with IT, with the Gehinnomites—I don’t care. My wife is out there, off grid, and everyone is sitting around, scratching their asses.” I got up and walked to the door. I tried the handle, knowing it wouldn’t budge. I banged my fist against the wood. “Let me out of here!” I was tearing up, weeping, desperate to appeal to their humanity. “I have to find Sylvia, please. Let me out!”
Moti sighed, irritated by my theatrics. “Yoel, are you a spy? Are you an action hero? No. You are a salter. Out there is not a game. You go out there and you will end up dead—or cleared, as they say. But it is all right. I will help you.”
“How?” I asked, my throat was sore from the yelling, my tone still aggravated. “How are you going to fucking help me?”
“Sit. Please.” He beckoned me back to my chair. “Zaki! Two Turkish.”
Zaki walked over to the printer and fetched a metallic pot of Turkish coffee and the same ornate cups and saucers as before. He motioned for me to oblige Moti.
“Fine.” I said. I’ve gotta find a way out of this cage. Less yelling, more thinking.
“Do you know why Levantines are so opposed to teleportation?” Moti asked as I sat back down across from him.
“Fuck if I know. Everyone’s gotta hate something?”