Marci Ansen
Hall of mirrors
“Quick! Come with me…”
“I’m sorry? And you are…?”
“No time to explain. You’re in great danger; just do as I say.”
He looks familiar, so familiar; bit older than me, dirty face and close-cut hair under battered cap, grubby theme-park-logo’d work clothes, worn runners. Identical to any other worker here.
Grabbing my hand, now he’s pulling me through the crowd; trying not to stumble in my heels (Louboutin, naturally), and to stop anything marking my designer dress.
“Who are you? What are you doing?”
“Sorry, you’ll find out soon enough. Just have to get you out of here. Your life, my life, depends on it.” He repeats: “We’re in huge danger.”
“That, that’s ridiculous… I’m late for my launch. Look: there’s people everywhere, why would I be in danger?”
Ahead, I see my team waiting for me, glancing anxiously at their watches.
“Down here.”
He pulls me into the Hall of Mirrors, no one else around. Hurrying past distorted images: my nondescript companion (these people LOVE you, they will vote for you, I remind myself); me in my carefully curated outfit, perfect mix of elegance and competence, topped by what Father always called my “crowning glory”, red hair cascading over my shoulders.
Then he’s gone, and I’m in a room with…
“You!” I say.
Our Leader’s chief of staff, poster boy for everything wrong with this government, holding out a tablet to me.
“No time for that,” he says. “Now I’m on your side. Look.”
I look at the screen. It’s a Probability Index, prepared by our Department of Probable Futures (Father’s proudest creation).
The index splits, radically. Not something you see often (did my PhD in this stuff, you know). I peer closer. Timeline splits tonight, and only a few minutes ago.
“That’s you, assassinated, just now,” he points to the right-hand timeline, “and our Leader’s in power for ever, running the Putin/Trump/Erdogan/Duterte playbook.
“Here,” pointing left, “you survive. Charismatic, articulate, competent daughter of our most beloved PM. You save us from this.”
“Hmmm. OK. And that little loop just before the split?”
“No idea, but we’re past it. You survive, for now. Time to get you out of here.”
He’s gone, lights dim. Woman’s voice telling me: kick off my heels, unzip my dress. $5000 crumpled in the corner. I’m handed a change of clothes, nothing I’d ever wear, musty, unwashed, shapeless. As I bend down to tie up the runners, I hear the buzz of a razor.
“Hey, what are…”
“Sorry, love, it’s gotta go. Too recognisable.”
Quick efficient strokes, crowning glory tumbles to the floor. She wipes off my makeup, smears dirty hands across my face and head, hands me a cap.
“Now! Through there.”
“Then what?”
“Just go. You’ll know.”
Back in the crowd, all noise and excitement. I’m ignored, everyone’s looking at the woman just ahead of me. I check in the mirror outside the Hall; now I know that face. I call to her:
“Quick! Come with me…”
Hall of mirrors
“Quick! Come with me…”
“I’m sorry? And you are…?”
“No time to explain. You’re in great danger; just do as I say.”
He looks familiar, so familiar; bit older than me, dirty face and close-cut hair under battered cap, grubby theme-park-logo’d work clothes, worn runners. Identical to any other worker here.
Grabbing my hand, now he’s pulling me through the crowd; trying not to stumble in my heels (Louboutin, naturally), and to stop anything marking my designer dress.
“Who are you? What are you doing?”
“Sorry, you’ll find out soon enough. Just have to get you out of here. Your life, my life, depends on it.” He repeats: “We’re in huge danger.”
“That, that’s ridiculous… I’m late for my launch. Look: there’s people everywhere, why would I be in danger?”
Ahead, I see my team waiting for me, glancing anxiously at their watches.
“Down here.”
He pulls me into the Hall of Mirrors, no one else around. Hurrying past distorted images: my nondescript companion (these people LOVE you, they will vote for you, I remind myself); me in my carefully curated outfit, perfect mix of elegance and competence, topped by what Father always called my “crowning glory”, red hair cascading over my shoulders.
Then he’s gone, and I’m in a room with…
“You!” I say.
Our Leader’s chief of staff, poster boy for everything wrong with this government, holding out a tablet to me.
“No time for that,” he says. “Now I’m on your side. Look.”
I look at the screen. It’s a Probability Index, prepared by our Department of Probable Futures (Father’s proudest creation).
The index splits, radically. Not something you see often (did my PhD in this stuff, you know). I peer closer. Timeline splits tonight, and only a few minutes ago.
“That’s you, assassinated, just now,” he points to the right-hand timeline, “and our Leader’s in power for ever, running the Putin/Trump/Erdogan/Duterte playbook.
“Here,” pointing left, “you survive. Charismatic, articulate, competent daughter of our most beloved PM. You save us from this.”
“Hmmm. OK. And that little loop just before the split?”
“No idea, but we’re past it. You survive, for now. Time to get you out of here.”
He’s gone, lights dim. Woman’s voice telling me: kick off my heels, unzip my dress. $5000 crumpled in the corner. I’m handed a change of clothes, nothing I’d ever wear, musty, unwashed, shapeless. As I bend down to tie up the runners, I hear the buzz of a razor.
“Hey, what are…”
“Sorry, love, it’s gotta go. Too recognisable.”
Quick efficient strokes, crowning glory tumbles to the floor. She wipes off my makeup, smears dirty hands across my face and head, hands me a cap.
“Now! Through there.”
“Then what?”
“Just go. You’ll know.”
Back in the crowd, all noise and excitement. I’m ignored, everyone’s looking at the woman just ahead of me. I check in the mirror outside the Hall; now I know that face. I call to her:
“Quick! Come with me…”