—How can this be possible? —I'm in shock and can't get my head around it. Our brains are not prepared to accept and process this kind of information. Transcending time. That which we do not see.

—Nature also has errors. Time has anomalies that can be exploited, and my father is a genius. There will be time for explanations. —Paris looks at my face, which must be unhinged. —I'll do it myself if I have to, but not here and now.

—I...Paris...I'm sorry...I didn't mean to push you... —I stammer.

Paris, with her nerves on edge for the last few hours over some damn time travel she was going to have to face at last, after so much waiting and me burdening her over a simple kiss.

—It doesn't matter. It's partly my fault, too, for not having had the courage to...tell you what this whole thing was about before, but would you have believed me?

—I understand, but I was referring... To the kiss, of course.

—I'm still angry about your audacity, about that kiss you stole from me. But Eric, there are more important things now.

She opens her arms, pointing around her. I understand. It's a truce. That's what Paris is proposing to me. There's a conversation pending, but it will take place. When we get out of this, I hope. The sooner, the better, we'll fix this misunderstanding because it was just that, a misunderstanding. This truce of Paris' allows me to concentrate and makes me realize that I have traveled back in time twenty-two years to some moment in history where I should not be. In the place and at the date where I find, I did not exist. It's a headache to think about it. My mother did exist. Young and full of life. Right now, at this very moment, she will be working on Greg Gordon's plantation in the United Central Province as a good slave. This may be the closest I will ever get to her. Maybe this is a sign. Mr. Stonecraft's machine can get me closer to her...and closer to freedom. I've traveled back in fucking time! Crazy!

—What's going to happen to us when we get back? Are you going to keep ignoring me?

—Eric, please. I don't know. It's not the best time to talk about it. I just know that... a kiss can never be taken back.

—Never. —I have to agree with her.

There's an explosion at the end of the avenue in downtown New America. The sexagenarian newsagent, fleeing, falls in the blast wave. Paris and I also fall to the ground from the same effect, pulling us out of a conversation in which I have caught a glimpse of the old Paris. I know she's just playing hard to get with me. Putting on a mask that will have to fall, sooner or later. What will she be afraid of? That I'll be a slave? Of Edgar and his family? Probably the latter. The sky floods with fire, smoke, and ash. It darkens the sky and the evening.

—What the hell is going on? —I ask Paris because I can't understand why an explosion of that caliber is occurring on one of the avenues of the safest city in the world, no matter how far back in time we've traveled.

—The third slave rebellion, Eric. —Paris is a historian and an expert in that field, too. I see a different twinkle in her eye. Something I've never seen in her before. She's excited to be able to experience a moment like this, even though she's now lying on the sidewalk from the shockwave effect of a terrible explosion. —It was the first slave revolt to reach the capital, New America, after the two attempts of 151 and 159 AC. In this one, even the slaves had the support of a whole generation of young people belonging to the elites of the State of the Provinces, who were also against slavery. Youth, you know. It makes you want to change the world, no matter where you come from. Those people almost did. They almost change it.

It's a horrifying contradiction to be a slave and barely know anything about your history. It gives me a lot of courage to admit it. From what Paris talks about, I only recognize the slave revolt of 151 AC from the tales and stories told by moonlight on Greg Gordon's plantation among the community. Many still remember that in 151 AC, a group of seventy slaves escaped from their respective owners in the United Central Province and, armed, went about liberating plantations and factories throughout that Province. They came to control and govern dozens of towns and small cities, such as Santana, Angel City, and Rosetown. They formed a true province free of slavery. That dream did not last long because the forces of the order of the State of the Provinces acted with determination. The revolt, led by the mulatto woman Venus Hemings, set a precedent and encouraged fear among the state elites. Then, in AC 159, there was another attempt to regain freedom by slaves, this time carrying out massacres of free men and women, regardless of their economic status, through the towns and cities they passed through. The leader, this time a man, George Louverture, was sentenced to death. But I had no idea that there had ever been another slave revolt, much less in the city of New America, supported by some of the elite!

—In the sixties, the youth was imbued with social ideals of peace, equality, and justice. Which, come to think of it, had to do with the ideals of the Goddess and the Priestess. Of course! That has to be it! The slaves, after the repression of the previous revolts, stopped conspiring against the Provinces... they dedicated themselves to propagating the ideals of the Priestess! To pray and to wait for a new opportunity, blessed by the Goddess! —Paris speaks as if he had put together the pieces of an immeasurable puzzle. —They were so clever that religion broke through barriers, and the young people somehow had to be imbued with all those social ideals that the Priestess talked about but that the State denied to most people. In this rebellion, violence was not used, it was the slaves' most powerful weapon, but also their death sentence. —Paris explains to me. —Don't you understand, Eric? The religion of the followers of the Goddess and the Priestess is the key to understanding this revolt! And I haven't found any of that in the books!

—They planted a damn bomb, Paris! Isn't that violence? —I exclaim as I help her up from the floor.

We start to hear screams, closer and closer. Also gunshots. There is a smell of burning in the air. The avenue, which had been deserted, fills with a crowd fleeing with giant strides from the source of the explosion, that is, from the center of the city. A sea of people envelops us.

—There were two factions among the slaves and followers of the rebellion: one in favor of violence, the other against it. —Paris continues her story as if he were reading it in one of his books and not living it.

The avenue is filled with hundreds of people. Some with holes in their heads, blood everywhere, their clothes frayed, torn. Sweaty. At the end of the avenue, where it ends to give way to the Great Square of New America, the seat of political power of the Provinces, I observe a huge number of Provincial Police uniformed and well-prepared to charge against the demonstrators, handing out truncheons and making their way with their shield. A few shots ring out. It's them, the cops. I see a couple of boys dragging the body of a young colored man who seems to be dead because he is covered in blood. They have bracelets on their wrists that are a sign that they are domestic slaves. I wonder how many have their name and identity number tattooed on their wrist, as I do.

I lose Paris in the crowd. I have become enraptured watching the details of truly harsh and heroic scenes, which I never imagined living through. Surely, Paris has also become enraptured with this reality, with what she is witnessing. She knows she is privileged, but we are not immune to what can happen to us! I touch the pistol, which is well hidden in my belt. I feel a little safer. I can defend myself if things don't go quite right.

—Paris! Paris! —I shout. Calling her name and going after her is becoming a habit.

The Provincial Police are making their way with their guns and are getting closer and closer. The thousands of demonstrators are retreating as they are attacked. Some do not stand up to them and remain still before the action of the forces of law and order. Total suicide, in my opinion. What the police are trying to do is to disperse the people to clear the area, at least the eight avenues, to secure and protect the city center.

I go crazy looking every which way. I eat the shoulders of several men with broad backs, and I am glared at by the withering eyes of several female slaves as I fight against the tide of people who are organizing, helping the wounded, offering to fight, making a humanitarian cordon and other actions typical of a revolt. I hear gunshots, and some hands pull me to the ground as if to get me to safety. I get away from them and try to look beyond to see where Paris has gone. Damn it, Paris, where are you? My mission was supposed to be to protect you. A hand grabs my shirt, tugging at me. This, too, seems to be a habit by now. I sigh. It's her.

—There's still more than an hour to go. —She looks calmly at her strange watch.

—Where were you? I almost went crazy...! —I look at her face as if to tell me that she can take care of herself. So, what's she bringing me here for? —It doesn't matter. Come on, let's get out of here. Let's find someplace safe and wait for time to pass.

—No, Eric, I can't. This doesn't happen every day. I have to live with it. I want to live it.

—We could get hurt! Or worse... we could die. We're inside a rebellion!

—The smuggler almost killed us. If the State of the Provinces or the Tecnofield Science Company finds out we've traveled back in time, we're doomed. Every moment that passes, Eric, is a good time to die.

—What are you saying? —Sometimes, I don't understand a word she is saying.

—I'll explain later. The important thing is that Edgar doesn't know any of this...

Ah. So that's why. I guess it's hard to hide from your boyfriend, whose family owns the most important technology company in the Provinces, that you have the greatest technology they've ever seen.

A young man in a black windbreaker, cap, and dark sunglasses, circular in design, stumbles roughly into Paris, causing her to stagger. I grab her back reflexively to keep her from falling. In a crowd of people, coming and going, it's normal for things like this to happen.

—I'm sorry. —He apologizes and tries to help Paris.

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I push him. I put both my hands on his chest and push him hard.

—What's wrong with you?

—I didn't see her. I swear. I don't want any trouble. We must join forces against them, not against each other. —He says, startled.

I notice Paris' body next to me and let it be. The young man puts his cap and glasses back on and continues on his way, running. The police get closer and closer, dislodging the human chain using violence, which causes some protesters to confront them. That is why I see how barricades are formed with products of all kinds by the looting of stores and stores on the avenue. So many other products that in life, a simple slave would aspire to burn in different points of the street, giving a chaotic and sinister aspect to the city.

—Didn't you recognize it? —Paris says to me. —It was my father.

—Was it? I didn't think so.

—It was. Let's follow him.

I don't agree with this Paris plan, but if we want to return safe and sound to our allotted time, we have to flee in the opposite direction to the confrontations with the police. We are moving away from the crowd, which has retreated only to become stronger. They have built new barricades and obstructed the avenue. I foresee a long night. Many people are ready to fight, preferring to die as free people rather than as slaves. The truth is that it makes me want to stay and help my slave brothers and sisters, to give them a hand, to make the rebellion effective and abolish the damned slavery. Then, I would be born free. At least they are trying, giving their lives for it. Their blood runs through my veins. Their sacrifice.

Paris and I shake hands, never to lose each other again. When I feel her touch, it's as if nothing has changed between her and me. But we both know it has. She guides me through the crowd, following with her eyes the young man she thinks is her father. I am not so sure. It can't be a coincidence that among thousands of people, you find your father on the same day you travel back in time. It can't be a coincidence, and that's why I don't think so. The avenue stays behind us, and the street looks much clearer. The protesters have managed to stop the police with their barricades. The noise and rumble of the small adjoining streets connecting the eight avenues magnifies in my mind the magnitude of the rebellion: the eight avenues are occupied by slaves and anti-slavery activists from the elites of the Provinces. The rebellion is right in the heart of the State.

The young man, who may be young Mr. Stonecraft, slips through one of the narrow streets that connect the eight avenues. These are lined with buildings that are residences in their upper parts and stores in the lower parts. We hide behind some containers when he looks back. Compared to the avenue, the alley muffles the noise of the crowds, the gunfire, and also the smell of burning and blood. The presumed young Matt heads down some iron stairs and disappears. Paris and I, like detectives, follow in his footsteps. It turns out that our pursued man has entered a dingy bar located on the first floor of one of the red brick buildings. It is barely decorated. Darkness reigns. I see that it is full, almost to overflowing. The music barely plays, relegated to the background by the decibels of the multitude of conversations going on at the same time. They all have to do with the rebellion going on in the adjacent streets.

I approach the bar, and the waitress attends to me in seconds. As she glares at me, I remember that I don't have a dollar in my pocket.

—A glass of water. —I look back at Paris, who is still staring intently at what she thinks is her father. —Make it two, please.

—You look tired, mate. A lot of banging out there? —The long black-haired waitress refers to the police.

—A few. —I smile at her, playing the brave one, the hero. I'm good at playing the part of girls like that.

Paris pulls me again. What a mania.

—The Goddess will guide you, mate. —The waitress says to me, realizing that Paris is coming with me. —Marching that water.

—What are you supposed to be doing? —Paris joins me at the bar.

—Refreshing myself a bit. It's been a long trip...a lot of emotions. It's left my mouth dry. —I point to my throat, joking. She laughs. I like it when she laughs like that at things I say.

—You shouldn't exchange words with strangers.

—Right now, you sound a lot like what a mother should be like.

—What I mean is that we shouldn't intervene at this... time.

—Better do it, right? —I lower my voice— We can make the revolt succeed. Change everything.

—I'm afraid not, Eric. You can try, but time is time. Nature, as I told you, makes mistakes, too, but it's not stupid. Dad says, whatever we do, whatever will be, will be. It is written. If you change something here, destiny will scheme to change something else so that everything stays the same. That's how it works.

I take a sip of water as the waitress brings it I watch out of the corner of my eye as Paris turns to continue watching her father, who has now taken off his cap round sunglasses and is seated at a table with several other people. Paris is right. I can't believe it. This can't be a coincidence. The features of his face are the same, rejuvenated by the years that have not yet passed. What would happen if I stood in front of him and told him what I was going to be able to do? He wouldn't believe me. I understand, Paris. She was smart not to tell me anything about where but rather when we were going. I could have refused to deal with head crazies. Sometimes, to believe, you have to see. And I haven't just seen it. I breathed.

—What do you want? —I ask him about young Mr. Stonecraft.

—Nothing. Just... watching him. See what he was like. Young, carefree. Since I've never seen him, I don't know.

—I understand you—I put my hand on his shoulders and quickly remove it, realizing what a jerk the action was.—It's the same for me. I feel that same curiosity...but she must be thousands of miles away from here, on her plantation, working like the good slave she was. Which she is. I don't know how to say it. Time seems to confuse words, too.

—I wouldn't take it for granted—she says—there have been many slave uprisings on a multitude of plantations throughout the provinces.

I think about it for a second and imagine my mother fighting for her freedom. If that were true, it would make me very happy. Suddenly, the buzz of the bar drops, and everything falls into an uncomfortable silence, bringing me out of my reverie. On the stage, located in one of the corners of the bar, a young colored woman with short hair and wearing a flowered dress, broken by one of its straps, exposes part of her bra. Her face is bruised.

—Comrades. It has all begun, at last. The moment has come that we must make our own. New America is besieged by thousands of slaves fighting for their freedom, aided by thousands of other activists fighting for just ideals. The abolition of slavery is the goal, but let us not forget that behind it comes the reconstruction of society under pillars such as freedom and justice, peace, and equality, which are non-negotiable. The Goddess, and in her name the Priestess, are helping us. —She raises her fist and shows the symbol of the cross between two crescent moons tattooed on her wrist, just below her slave identity number.

—I can't believe it! —Paris whispers in my ear— That's Selena Hemings over there, the leader of this revolt and daughter of Venus Hemings, the inspiration for the revolt of 151 AC. Selena's mother was sentenced to death after the events of 159, and she carried on her legacy.

—What happens to her when this is over? —I'm interested.

—Death sentence. Like her mother.

—The situation is very critical—Selena continues—We control dozens of towns and cities throughout the Provinces, but the assault on New America has been slow. As the Priestess said, our weapons must be our hands, clean and raised. This gives rise to the strength of human solidarity, the strength of all of us, all of us. But violence has made its appearance, with the bombing of one of our most radical groups. Many people have died, some of their own, but also some of ours. Right now, comrades are dying in a struggle against the Provincial Police that cannot end well. So, the question at this moment is: what do you want to do, peace or war?

Selena Hemings seems to me to be too weak a leader. Many things must have gone wrong in this rebellion. She is the one who has to decide and yet she asks her followers for help, declaring herself totally incompetent. Making herself look unsure of herself. As if she had run out of ideas. How had they followed that woman? Just because she was the daughter of who she was?

—I was right, Eric! —Paris says to me, excited. —I'm beginning to understand this revolt completely. One of the main parts of this rebellion was the ideas that led to it, the ideas of the Priestess. That's why they acted like this! Decisions were made in assemblies, as this one is. Everyone could intervene, having a voice and a vote. Every question was analyzed and debated in detail.

—I have noticed. It's a very quick way to lose the advantage and the surprise of a revolt. —I think it's the worst tactic in the world.

—But everyone, especially the slaves, saw themselves as part of a very broad movement, because they had the power to make decisions. They were participants in what was emerging. This gave them courage and strength to confront the State. That is why there was so much solidarity and comradeship.

—The State of the Provinces will crush us if we decide to take up arms—said a bearded young man seated at one of the wooden tables in the den. —A war, slow or fast, will undermine our chances. We will lose many comrades necessary in the construction of the new society. We have to reorganize our strategy. Resist and disobey. Unite more and more people. Convince them that slavery is a human atrocity.

—What we have to do is fight. A gun in the hand of every slave, of every slave. We would outnumber them and win. —This time a girl intervenes from the bar, a few meters away from us.

—Let's not be hypocrites, please. If we follow the Priestess to our freedom, the Goddess has to understand that we are confronting the police with violence. They are killing us! Our hands, clean and raised, cannot stand against the bullets. That way we would all die.

Different opinions are joining the debate, narrowing down two positions: those who want to use arms to defend themselves and attack the State of the Provinces and those who are in favor of resistance and civil disobedience. How could the rebellion triumph, then? Of course, the landowners, the Companies, and the State elites were not going to let their privileges be lost without fighting for them because thousands of slaves rebelled and took to the streets of the cities, even invading the center of New America. Those who have those privileges would not lose them except by fighting with violence. Either it is an armed rebellion, or it will never be an accomplished rebellion. I see it this way. Great conquests are made with great sacrifices. As bad as that sounds, it is the truth. For the freedom of all slaves, I would die fighting.

In the end, the doctrine of non-use of mistresses and civil resistance against the authorities of the State of the Provinces is imposed. It is the death sentence, as Paris told me, of this rebellion of slaves.

—Now, let us pray. —Selena Hemings finishes.

Silence returns to the bar and a woman appears, dressed in a black cloak that reaches her ankles, knotted at the chest. A hood wraps around her head and a reddish scarf, embroidered with six-pointed stars, tied at the nape of her neck, covers her mouth. Only deep, black eyes are visible. As she advances through the den, everyone turns away and bows their heads. It's the Priestess. One of them.

Something catches my attention and I can't figure out what it is. I have to close my eyes and concentrate fully on my senses to notice the smell the Priestess is giving off. A smell of fresh mint and orchid. My mother's scent. The one she left etched in my pituitary.

—It's time, Eric. —Paris says to me.

I don't listen to her. I sit up and go after the Priestess. It's my mother, it's her. She continues to walk towards the stage. I reach her and touch her shoulder, gently. She turns and looks at me. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it's going to explode. Eyes as black as jet pearls look at me expectantly. Is it her? I don't know...

—Lu... —I want to say her name, but it doesn't come out.

—Are you all right, mate? —Her voice sounds otherworldly.

—Lu...

Paris pulls me for the umpteenth time. The whole bar is watching us. I'm paralyzed. I don't know if I should ask him. If it's right. Suppose I'm not breaking time or something. What if it's not her? What if it is? Paris drags me out of that sleazy, sweaty-smelling bar.

—Lunetta. —I manage to say as I step outside and breathe in the fresh air. Late.

—Are you crazy? There's no time left!

He grabs my hand again. I am absorbed, as if in another world. Those could be my mother's eyes. Those had to be my mother's eyes. The white fog envelops us and I feel my body buckle. I lose my breath. Everything is darkness.