Laurie Boris

“Good lord, Thomas,” John Adams said in his best New England scold. “Are you letting Franklin set the controls again? You remember what a kerfuffle we landed in last time.”

“Oh, hush, John,” Ben Franklin said. “Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

“It died during that previous trip, when I saw what our descendants had done to the republic,” Adams said. “This was exactly what we’d anticipated, that some populist cretin would get it into the public discourse that we should be governed by a king.”

“As if that’s any way of governing,” Jefferson said with a sneer.

“Hopefully, our little tweak took care of that orange fool,” Franklin said, squinting at the controls as he fiddled. Then he leaned back and smiled. “All right, gentlemen. Our conveyance which had been in abeyance is now ready for our…never mind. Let’s just be off then.”

Franklin bowed low, with a sweep of his hand, for Thomas Jefferson to enter first, then went inside the capsule himself, with Adams stepping rather indignantly behind him.

“You’ll do the honors, Mr. Adams,” Franklin said, motioning to the switch.

“Well. I’m not sure if it’s an honor, depending on the results. But may I just say, may God protect us all.”

“Amen,” said the others. And with that, their journey began. After a bit of noise and a flashing light and a soupcon of jostling, all went silent.

Adams prayed.

Finally the doors slid open. Before them sat a compound of sorts, behind a fencing of wire. On the other side of the fence was a scattering of brown-skinned people and array of square buildings, cheaply made and all bearing the same mark: ICE.

“Ice harvesters?” Jefferson said. “All the way out here, where I daresay there isn’t a body of water for miles and it’s warm enough to melt their entire supply?”

“I believe that’s an acronym,” Franklin offered. “Although for what I haven’t a clue.”

“They don’t still keep slaves, do they?” Adams said with some disgust.

Franklin held up his eyeglass. “Clearly not African. Unless the traders commandeered a new pipeline.”

“I don’t like this,” Adams said. “I don’t like this one iota. I vote for further investigation, and then a plan to go back in time and prevent this from happening. Eliminate slavery once and for all, if the method is available to us.”

“It’s a slippery slope, John,” Jefferson said. “We bumbled our way backward last time and managed not to cause too many unintended consequences. If we’re to do a thing at this juncture, it must be with the utmost of precision or not at all.”

“Thomas is, as always, correct,” Franklin said. “For now, let’s get a closer look.”

They maneuvered their way through some brush and took up a position behind the fence, close to a building where numerous people were entering and exiting. Far enough not to be seen. Close enough to hear them speak.

“I don’t recognize the language,” Franklin said. “And I’m familiar with quite a few.”

“We’re all aware of your knowledge of the French tongue,” John Adams said, at which Franklin smiled and doffed an imaginary hat.

“But I’m hearing phrases I’ve heard before,” said Jefferson. “I believe that’s Spanish.”

“Spanish slaves?” Adams said, cocking his head. “That our original thirteen colonies have devolved to a point where we’re now enslaving two peoples…that is something I would indeed agree to remedy. Consequences be damned.”

“ATTENTION,” a loud voice boomed from above and all three men jumped.

“We’ve been spotted,” Adams hissed. “Back to the craft. Now.”

“I don’t think it’s talking to us,” Franklin said, as the scatter of people—men, women, and children—coalesced to form even lines.

“GOOD MORNING TO ALL OF YOU WHO ARE NOT RAPISTS AND MURDERERS AND MENTAL PATIENTS,” the voice continued. Then lower, it said, “We got anyone knows Mexican? Maybe one of them could translate for the other. Oh, forget it.”

“What in the name of…?” Adams said.

“LIKE I WAS SAYING,” the voice continued, “ALL OF YOU WHO ARE NOT RAPISTS AND MURDERERS AND MENTAL PATIENTS, WE’LL BE SENDING SOME OF YOU HOME…BUT A LUCKY FEW, A VERY LUCKY FEW, IF YOU PLAY YOUR CARDS RIGHT YOU COULD BE WORKING AT ONE OF MY BEAUTIFUL, PERFECTLY VALUED GOLF RESORTS.”

A murmur of excitement mixed with fear wove through the crowd. “Si, El naranja!” a loud-voiced man said, which drew laughter, then a few others, mostly young men, called in unison, “EL NARANJA! EL NARANJA! EL NARANJA!”

Franklin stepped closer to a young man standing by himself near the fence. “Perdon, señor,” Franklin said. “¿Hablas inglés?”

“Si,” the man offered. Not at all seeming concerned that a man from the eighteenth century had asked the question.

“¿Como se dice ‘el naranja’ en inglés?”

The man darted a gaze right, then left, then said, “It means ‘the orange one’ because his face, it is orange.” An older man from the crowd took a few steps in their direction. “Lo siento,” the man said to Franklin. “I must go now and start my job. Or I will be sent back.”

“Sent back”? Jefferson said, after the crowd dispersed. “Wouldn’t that be a positive outcome?”

“Are you two missing the lede? Franklin said. “The Orange One. He ascended to the throne. Whatever we did last time didn’t work. It will take more drastic changes to the Constitution, I’m afraid. Are you with me?”

Both men nodded their assent.

“Then, gentlemen,” Franklin said, “let’s motor.”

---

Dear lovely readers: I’m trying something new. You can now also find me on Substack. When I have new installments of this series—and maybe other things; I’m not sure yet—I’ll post them there. Namaste, and thank you, as always, for reading.