Unburning Alexandria (Sierra Waters)

by Paul Levinson

  She put her head against Charles' chest, cried, and realized something about him at that moment. He could not be an agent of Heron. She also thought she understood now why Heron had let her leave. He had wanted her to come here, to founder on her sorrow and guilt, to retire now from the stage he also had helped set her upon. She understood this, because that is what she most wanted now.

  She pulled away and managed a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Charles. I'm lucky to have you as a friend. . . . Can we go back to the Club, now?"

  * * *

  They took the Woodlawn line back to Manhattan – the reverse of the conveyance they had taken to the cemetery. A static, non-digital plaque mounted above the seats opposite theirs advised that a train of one sort or another had been making this trip for better than 150 years. Sierra knew that this current model was one step below fastrain. But it was still pretty fast. It would be in Grand Central in 12 minutes.

  Another sign said that they could press a button under each of their seats, and get a clacking sound piped in to each of them. "Many of the trains in the 20th century made this sound as they traveled this route," the sign concluded. "Many of our passengers say they find this sound comforting."

  Sierra looked at Charles, who nodded. "Yes, I find it comforting, too," he said. The two pressed their buttons.

  Sierra closed her eyes. "I like it. . . . Mr. Charles, do you have records of what your device sees in the room at the top of the spiral stairs?"

  "You mean digital recordings? No, I'm afraid not."

  Sierra looked at him.

  "There is something in the lighting of the room that prevents permanent recording, and prevents making copies of the recordings," Charles elaborated. "After 24 hours precisely, the original recording fades."

  Sierra shook her head slowly and frowned.

  "I assume it is some trick of Heron's, from the future," Charles said. "Thomas agreed. He said it was akin to some early forms of photography, before Daguerre in France."

  Sierra nodded. "Before the right chemical compound was discovered, the precursors of the first photographs would always fade – and usually well before 24 hours."

  * * *

  The train arrived at Grand Central exactly on time. Sierra and Charles walked the old Northcut promenade, which would take them to Madison and 53rd. It was filled with spicy new restaurants and hi-tech boutiques.

  Sierra stopped, suddenly.

  "Is everything ok?" Charles inquired.

  "I've changed my mind about going to the Millennium. I . . . I'm going someplace else."

  "Where?" Charles asked, concerned. "Don't you think it would be better if–"

  "No," Sierra replied. "It's something that I need to do now, as soon as possible. And it's better that you do not know what that is."

  Charles started to object, thought the better of it, then took Sierra's hand and walked over to an ATM. "I don't know what kind of resources you have in this year–"

  "My eye-scan should still give me access to my 2042 accounts–" It had the last time she'd been in this year, with Socrates.

  "True, but just in case. . . ." Charles did some quick silent work with his fingers on the ATM, and it produced a thin, gleaming earring.

  "Looks like a silver teardrop," Sierra said.

  Charles took it and put it in Sierra's palm. "There's ten thousand dollars in there. Use it as you see fit."

  "I can't–"

  "It's what Thomas would have wanted," Charles said. "Don't worry – I won't tell anyone I even saw you today."

  "You can tell Jonah, if you see him. He'll know where I've gone."

  "The young Alexandrian man?"

  "Yes." Sierra hugged Charles, then kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, for everything. You Victorian gentlemen are very lovable."

  * * *

  Sierra made a quick stop in an Apples & Oranges digi-boutique – "a device for every conceivable and inconceivable communication" – and dashed onto a train for the airport.

  She used the comm on the arm rest of her seat to confirm that her eye scan still worked– good, it did. She sighed in relief. She had Hypatia's eyes now, but the retinas were her originals. So the scan should have worked. If it hadn't, she no doubt eventually could have gotten complete claim and control of her identity by appealing to the DNA in her body, any place other than her face. DNA facials, after all, were not uncommon. She would have prevailed. . . . But this way was better. Now she had complete access not only to her money, but to passport privs, etc.

  She breezed through security at Kennedy, purchased her ticket, and boarded her plane. She took her seat, closed her eyes, and relaxed just a bit – for the first time, she thought, since Heron had come into her room this morning.

  "The sky is clear, the weather over the Atlantic is great, we should be in Athens Realport in just a little over two hours," the captain announced.

  [Athens, 2061]

  The captain was even better than his word – Sierra's hypersonic touched down in Athens 1 hour and 53 minutes after its departure from New York. She moved swiftly through customs. She hailed a cab, and told it to take her to that rundown bar in Athens – with the chairs, she hoped, in its back room. She had no way of knowing beforehand if any were there.

  "Certainly," the cab's male contralto voice acknowledged the address, in English with a slight Greek undertone. She enjoyed what that sounded like.

  "Top down," she commanded, and the top of the taxi split in the middle, and came down on both sides, like an egret gracefully retracting its wings. She put on the blue Raybans she had picked up at the Realport. She loved the Grecian sun, whatever the millennium.

  She touched the two scanners in her pocket. Always good to have one for backup. These 2061 models were much like the ones she knew from 2042. She squeezed them, anxiously. The question was whether they would work in the past.

  She hadn't addressed this question with Jonah. She hadn't thought of it until Charles had told her that his devices that watched the chair room at the Millennium Club were unable to permanently record. Surely Heron's doing. But if Heron had done that, had he also put some kind of blockage on devices from the future – scanners, cams, phones – that attempted to record in the past? It seemed like something that Heron might do – protect the future, meaning, his future, from contamination by the past. It would probably be easy to do. Just put something into the chairs, some burst of radiation or electro pulse, that permanently disabled any recording equipment.

  Or, for all she knew, the very travel through time would disable any digital or electrochemical recording device. Heron had never said a word to her about the physics of the chairs, and nothing in her experience with them had given her an inkling of what made them move through time. . . .

  She would find out soon enough. And if her scanners were indeed useless in ancient Alexandria, she would have to move to a Plan B – significantly more difficult and much less effective – to save the texts. . . .

  Her taxi arrived at the bar. She assented to her fare, stepped out onto the street, and waved goodbye to the voice as the cab sped away. It was a beautiful ride, all sunshine and breeze. But she knew she was not really waving goodbye to the cab. She was saying goodbye to 2061, for who knew how long, possibly forever.

  Emotions welled in her chest. She fought them back. She pocketed her sunglasses, opened the door, and walked into the bar. Anyone could be here – Appleton, Heron, Thomas, Alcibiades. . . . Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The place was empty, not only of light but people.

  She walked quickly to the back door, and placed her palm in the proper place. The door opened. She knew this would also tell Heron that she was here at this moment, but she had no choice.

  There were two chairs in the room – thank goodness! She sat in the closest one. She had not completely decided how far back in time she should go. 413 AD had the enormous advantage of giving her access to any text she desired in the Library, as Hypatia. But these chairs were so damn imprecise, she couldn't be sure she wou
ld arrive after the time Heron had taken her and Appleton. And she could hear Appleton – not to mention Jonah and even Synesius – pleading with her to stay away from that cursed time. She could go back to 150 AD, where she had previously visited as Ampharete. But Heron was ensconced in the Library back then, and running into him could lead only to no good. She could go back even further, to 50 BC, before Caesar's soldiers began the burnings. God, that was appealing. To see Caesar, Cleopatra, Antony – and geniuses like Cicero if she made the easy trip from Alexandria to Rome. . . . But she wasn't here as a tourist, she had to remind herself. Still, she might be able to see – and scan – a text or two back then that had been lost by 150 AD. She intended to do just a few scans on this trip, and if they endured, if the scanners worked as they should in the past, see if the scans then survived the trip back to 2061, or 2042. . . . But she had no knowledge at all of who the main Librarians were in 50 BC. She hadn't had time to do the research. . . .

  She ran through the three possibilities again, made a decision, and entered a year.

  Chapter Three

  [Alexandria, 52 BC]

  A young woman, no more than 15, walked through a dimly lit corridor of the Library. A man in his early 20s accompanied her. She was dressed like a princess. His garb was plain.

  "My sister loves these," Arsinoe said with thinly disguised dislike, of both the scrolls in her robe and her sister.

  "And you? What do you love?"

  "I love my father. I love my brothers. I love anything that is not my sister – not Cleopatra." Arsinoe smiled, defiantly.

  "You would be pleased, then, if someone took away all of these scrolls – which your sister loves?"

  She laughed. "Yes. And who would do that for me, you?" She looked up at the man, flirtatiously.

  He laughed now, too. "Not all of them. No one man could do that. But I could remove some of them. I could remove a few of your sister's favorites, if you helped me."

  Arsinoe moved close to the man's face, so he could feel her warm, sweetened breath on his lips. "Yes," she whispered. Then she pulled her head back. "You would do this to sell them?"

  "I would do this to please you," Jonah replied.

  [Alexandria, 150 AD]

  Heron waited patiently in the evening shadows by the sea. It had been a very unsettling day. It was always that way, always a shock to the body and soul to see younger versions of people you had recently seen, even for one as steeled in the ways of time travel as he.

  But, yes, Heron had been disconcerted by the sight of Jonah and Sierra boarding the Lux this morning. Jonah at the very start of his journey, still devoted to Heron, still loving his mentor. And Sierra – who called herself Ampharete – close to the beginning of her journey, too, given all that would come after.

  The two had left on the Lux, thinking they were going to Athens, about to be blown off course to something much more. Heron laughed to himself. He was sounding like that 20th-century playwright, Rod Serling. That man with the hypnotic voice had somehow understood something of what time travel can do to you. Heron wondered – had Serling somehow gotten use of a chair, without Heron's knowledge? That could be dangerous. Heron would have to look into it, if ever he had the time. . . .

  For now, he looked out at the dark, rippling sea. Heron was glad, at least, that he hadn't seen himself back here, also not far from the beginning of his journey. Heron shuddered – seeing yourself, coming that close to the paradox of running into yourself, knowing you and the paradox might be just around the next corner – that was the hardest to contemplate of all.

  He turned from the sea to the calcite Library. There likely would be no further ships arriving tonight. And if one or two more did come in, they likely would not be bringing Sierra. Heron reckoned that 150 AD was the least likely time that Sierra would choose to come back to Alexandria, to start her rescue of the scrolls. But on the chance that she might, Heron would need to wait here, at least a little longer.

  [Alexandria, 413 AD]

  Synesius's boat passed the Pharos Lighthouse. Though it did not look as impressive at mid-afternoon as at midnight, it was still an inspiration. He turned from the Lighthouse to the Library. It was inspiring, too, he had to admit. But it was a more complicated inspiration than the Lighthouse. The Library contained scrolls, some of which Synesius admired, some of which he detested, some of which evoked no feeling in him at all. And the Library had contained Hypatia, and she invoked the utmost of his feelings. She once had told him,"You should most love a library not for what it contains but for what it does not contain – readers who may not even be born yet." But what this Library most evoked in him now was sadness and frustration about Hypatia's inexplicable absence.

  Synesius disembarked. This was the fourth time he found himself in Alexandria, in half as many months. He had talked to Hypatia here the first time, when he had warned her of the Nitrians. When he had returned the second time, about 10 days after she had returned to Alexandria from Ptolemais, she was gone. He was reasonably certain the Nitrians had not quietly slain or even abducted her. None of his priests or friends here had received any reports of that. And the Nitrians did nothing quietly. A fundamental part of their strategy was loudly spreading fear in the hearts of the masses.

  But if Hypatia was not murdered or taken somewhere by the Nitrians, where was she? Perhaps the Library held the answer. He had only a few days to find it. The event that Jonah had prophesied was less than a month away. Two months had passed since Jonah had come to him in Carthage. Synesius could not stay long in Alexandria, lest he miss his possible appointment with destiny.

  He found Josephus in his room in the Library. It was easy to claim a room for your own in the Library these days. So many had been abandoned. Like Hypatia's.

  The younger priest shook his head. "Nothing has changed since the last time you were here," he told Synesius. "No one knows what happened to her."

  Synesius sat, wearily.

  Josephus brought him bread and wine. "I did find more of the scrolls – the ones Augustine requested."

  "Heron's?"

  Josephus nodded and withdrew a small bundle from his robe.

  "Where did you find these?" Synesius put the scrolls to his nose.

  "Not in Hypatia's quarters. In several other places. Can you discern her scent in the papyrus?"

  "I can imagine that I can," Synesius replied, eyes closed. "I shall always prefer papyri and their textures to the codices, regardless of what our brothers say. The textures make my eyes water."

  "I once heard Augustine say the same," Josephus said, "though I heard that the codices far outnumber the papyri in his rooms. What do you suppose he wants of these scrolls from Alexandria?"

  Synesius moved them from his nose to his eyes. "Machines of war . . . pressures of air and water . . . how heavy objects may be lifted . . . reflections and mirrors . . . I have seen these so often in the past few months, they are engraved in my memory. . . . Augustine already possesses copies of these, and other works of Heron. I do not know why he seeks additional copies. . . . But I do know that Hypatia had a great interest in Heron, too."

  "She told you of this interest, did she not?" Josephus humored Synesius by asking what he had already been told by Synesius, weeks earlier.

  "Yes. She has spoken of Heron many times in our conversations through the years." Synesius considered. "She spoke of him with admiration and . . . awe . . . and . . ."

  Josephus sat, and poured himself some wine. This was something he had not previously heard from Synesius. "Something more than awe?"

  "I am not sure. . . . Fear? No, Hypatia seems afraid of no one. . . ."

  Josephus nodded. "And why would she or anyone be afraid of a mathematician – or anyone – dead some 300 years?"

  "I can think of no reason," Synesius agreed. He shook his head, as if to clear it of thoughts of Hypatia. "Perhaps Augustine seeks a text by Heron that we have not yet located," Synesius said.

  Josephus sipped his wine. "Perhaps it is in Hy
patia's keeping – that would be an auspicious coincidence."

  [Alexandria, 52 BC]

  Arsinoe left the room.

  She had kissed Jonah. He had found that pleasurable, even exciting. But also disturbing. She was a woman by the standards of her society, and also by the standards of the society in which Jonah had been born, two centuries later. But he had spent so much time in futures with different standards, futures that regarded someone of Arsinoe's age as too young for consummation of adult passions, that her mouth on his felt wrong. . . . And yet that had made it even more enticing–

  He shook his head and turned to the bundle of scrolls Arsinoe had brought to him. They were all by Heron, as Jonah had requested. He examined them – and felt guilt, again, but of a different kind. He had first read copies of many of these nearly two hundred years from now, when he had first become Heron's student. He felt tears in his eyes. Those had been simpler years, when all he had felt and known was love for Heron and his astonishing knowledge. He missed those years, sorely. They jostled like the glass of broken dreams inside him. Now he was looking at these same scrolls as Heron's inquisitor. And why was that? It was because Heron was not the man Jonah had loved and learned from two hundred years from now, more than five years ago in Jonah's life. Heron was something very different, a man from a distant future who had left his words throughout hundreds of years of Alexandrian history, and who knew when and where else. But to what ultimate ends?

  Perhaps these scrolls held an answer. None were titled – that convention in naming was still centuries away. These were known by their incipit – the beginning, the first few words, of the text. He read through the scrolls – looked at them more than read them – as quickly as he could. His index finger flew over the lines. He knew if he spent more time with these familiar words, he would be drawn into them, and that was not what he wanted. He wanted to find not the comfort of familiarity but the slap of surprise – he needed to see if there was anything different in these texts in front of him.

  Arsinoe had given him 17 in all. She said there might have been others, in other parts of the Library. When Jonah reached the 11th scroll, he received the surprise he had been seeking. It was a text he had never seen before. Everything about it was different, including the title at the top of the scroll, where none should have been.