Hazards of Time Travel. Joyce Carol Oates

      Almost inaudibly I said Yes.

      (Wondering if “uninterrupted sleep” meant something terrible?)

      But S. Platz seemed so kindly! Tears flooded my eyes, I was so grateful for her sympathy.

       Yes thank you. Oh yes—I would like to sleep …

      “I have good news for you, Adriane. Youth Disciplinary has ruled that the discipline for your violation of the federal statutes is—Exile.”

      Exile! I had heard of Exile—of course. This form of discipline was often confused with Deletion because, so far as anyone knew, including the families of Exiled Individuals, the Exiled Individual simply—vanished.

      It was said to be highly experimental, and dangerous. Exiled Individuals were teletransported—every molecule in their bodies dissolved, to be reconstituted elsewhere. (No one who was left behind knew where. A colony on another planet? This was a prevailing rumor, according to Roddy. But which planet? If any had been colonized by the Government, ordinary citizens knew nothing about it.) But often, the teletransportation failed, and individuals were injured, incapacitated, killed, or, in effect, “vaporized”—and no one ever saw them again.

      Only if the Exiled Individual reappeared, years later, after having served out his sentence, could it be assumed that he had been alive all the while, but in a remote place. EIs were generally allowed to live but had to submit to a process of “Re-education” and “Reconstitution.”

      Exile was considered to be the “humane”—“liberal”—disciplinary measure, appropriate for younger people who had not committed the most serious crimes—yet.

      In our Patriot Social Studies class we were taught that the “Re-educated” and “Reconstituted” individual, successfully having completed his sentence of Exile and returned to the present time, designated EI1, was often an outstanding Citizen-Patriot; several notable EI1’s had been named to federal posts in Homeland Security Public Safety Oversight and Epidemic Control; and the most renowned of EI1’s had risen to a high-ranking executive post in the Capitol, as an assistant to the director of the Federal Bureau of Interrogation.

      There were rumors that the president was himself an EI1—a former “traitor”-genius now totally converted to NAS and its democratic tradition.

      S. Platz was saying: “Your case was carefully adjudicated, Adriane, after several of your teachers entered pleas for you. Their claim was that you are ‘naïve’—‘very young’—‘not subversive’—and ‘not radical’—and that, if you are separated from the influence of your MI-father and are allowed to Re-educate yourself, you would be of value to society. Therefore, we are transporting you to Zone Nine. There, you will attend an excellent four-year university to train yourself in a socially useful profession. Teaching is strongly suggested. Or, if your science grades are good, you would be allowed to apply to medical school. Zone Nine is not so ‘urban’ as our Eastern zones, nor is it so ‘rural’ as most of our North-Midwest zones. It is not on any NAS map—it is a place that ‘exists’ only by way of special access, for, in our present time, in the North-Midwest States that now encompass what was known as ‘Wisconsin’ in the era of Zone Nine, things are very different.” Seeing that I was looking confused and frightened, S. Platz said, “You need not concern yourself with any of this, Adriane—you will simply be transported to the university in Zone Nine, where you will be a ‘freshman.’ You will be given a new, abbreviated identity. You will be, as you are, seventeen years old. And your name will be ‘Mary Ellen Enright.’ If necessary, when you return to us your training can be brought up-to-date. Everything that you need to know is explained in The Instructions, which I will give you now.”

      Though S. Platz spoke clearly I was having difficulty understanding. Badly wanting to ask But can I see my parents again? Just once before I am sent away …

      S. Platz handed me a sheet of paper stiff as parchment. When I tried to read it, however, my eyes filled with moisture, and lost focus.

      “So there is really no need to ask me questions—is there?”

      S. Platz paused, smiling at me.

      And now I saw that the counsel’s steel-colored eyes were not smiling, but only just staring, and assessing.

      The realization came to me—If I don’t react properly, I will be vaporized on the spot. The woman has this power.

      With a numb smile I managed to murmur Thank you!

      And not a word about my parents. Or the life I would be leaving—the life to which I would be “lost.”

       II

       ZONE 9

THE HAPPY PLACE

       She was a strange girl. At first, we didn’t like her.

       She never smiled at us. Her face was like a mask. She prayed on her knees—we’d seen her! She cried herself to sleep every night like us, only worse.

       We were all homesick, our first semester at Wainscotia. Missed our parents and our families so! But this girl was sad in a way we weren’t—like her heart was broken. And she would not be comforted—which does not seem natural.

       We were Christian girls, mostly Protestant. We attended chapel on Sundays. (She never did—we noticed that.) We believed in prayer—seriously!

       We believed in helping one another. We believed in smiling-through-tears. You cried, and then you laughed—you opened a box of brownies your mom had sent to you, to share with your roommates, or anyone who showed up in the room.

       You cried, and wiped away your tears—and you were yourself again.

       She was the girl who scorned our mothers’ brownies, and scorned the opportunity to walk with us to class on the steep-hilly sidewalks leading into the campus, who almost never came with us to the dining hall and sat with us. She’d gone to freshman orientation alone, and slipped away alone. The only girl in Acrady Cottage who didn’t participate in Vesper Song.

       Probably the only person in the freshman class who claimed she’d “lost” her green-and-purple freshman beanie. Who paid no heed to upperclassmen ordering her to “step out of the way, frosh”—stared through them as if she didn’t see them and kept walking in her stiff-hunched way like a sleepwalker you pitied and would not want to waken.

       The girl-with-no-name we called her. For if you called out a cheery Hi there, Mary Ellen!—she didn’t seem to hear, or to register the name, even as she quickened her pace hurrying away.

       We knew little about her. But we knew that she was a scholarship girl, like us.

       Acrady Cottage was a residence for freshman scholarship girls—meaning that most of us couldn’t have afforded Wainscotia State except for financial aid and part-time jobs on campus.

       (She had a part-time job in the geology library.)

       Scholarship girls were thrifty girls! Most of our textbooks were used—some of them pretty badly battered.

       We wore hand-me-down clothes and clothes sewn by our mothers or grandmothers—or by us.

       Quite a few of us were 4-H girls. We were three Wisconsin State Fair blue-ribbon winners, in Acrady Cottage.