Heron made a derisive sound.
"I know," Thomas said. "You're the exception. You feel strongly about nothing, no one, other than yourself and your machines."
Heron turned on him, lip curled. "You don't know what I feel," he said, bitter-coldly. "I love history. I love humanity. I want to improve the hand fate has dealt us -- resist it, remake it -- not just numbly accept it. In my time there are terrible things wrong with this world. Far worse than anything you have seen."
Thomas balled his hand into a fist, half raised it ... then paced away and back to Heron. "You and I fighting each other won't help anything at this point ... Were the chairs set for 399 BC?"
"The general vicinity," Heron replied.
"What does that mean?"
"There's fine tuning that I do, when I want the chairs to arrive on a very precise date. Doesn't always work even when I do that. As you know."
"And you hadn't yet done that when Appleton took off in the chair?"
"That's right," Heron said.
"Great." Thomas shook his head. "And here's another problem: we now seem to be short a back-up Socrates double."
"That's no problem."
"No?"
"There are plenty more where that one came from," Heron explained.
"You got a whole factory of them somewhere?" Thomas asked.
"Redundancy, I told you. Let's just say I have more than enough, ready and waiting. They're easy enough to grow." Heron pulled a phone out of his pocket, and spoke quickly in a high-pitched version of English that Thomas found hard to comprehend. "Right. As soon as possible," Heron concluded. He put the phone back in his pocket. "We should have another double here in under an hour."
"You ordered that up from where? The future, your original time, where they speak that falsetto English?"
"I requested the clone from this time," Heron replied. "We have several not very far from here by small, private, fast plane."
"Glad to hear it," Thomas said, with more than a drop of sarcasm. "Where did you get the DNA, by the way?"
"From Socrates, of course, when he was asleep, before he was put on trial. That part was simple."
Thomas nodded. "We still have a problem with the one chair -- a little crowded for you, me, and the new clone."
Heron looked at the lone chair. "Yes, that is something I will need to think about. Clones are easier to make than these chairs."
* * *
The clone arrived sooner than expected. Two men gently nestled the sleeping body against the wall near the chair and left without a word.
Heron and Thomas hadn't said much to each other either in the interim. Both had retired to phones and ruminations.
Now Heron stirred. "I've made a decision about the chair and the clone."
"Oh? When did this become just your decision?"
"The clone and the chair are mine, why shouldn't the decision?"
"What have you decided?" Thomas asked.
"The clone goes back in the chair," Heron replied. "We don't want Andros to make his proposal to Socrates on that night in 399 BC with no Socrates double to back it up. If that happened, and Socrates decided in the end to accept the offer, all subsequent history would be shaken."
"Who other than Andros back then will know what to do with the clone? You're placing a lot on Sierra's shoulders."
"There is Alcibiades," Heron responded.
Thomas considered. "Have you heard anything about him since you snatched him from his Phrygian death?"
"He is right where I want him to be to be right now," Heron responded, "and so far behaving just as he should."
"Everyone is your puppet in this," Thomas said, grimly.
Heron regarded him. "It cannot be otherwise with time travel. One loose end is all takes to unravel eternity... You already know this."
Thomas nodded.
"I don't really understand you," Heron said with sudden heat. "I don't understand why you got involved in this in the first place. I don't understand why you are questioning me now. At least I have been honest with you about my motives--"
Thomas had the element of surprise, and it prevailed as he turned on Heron. He pressed his arm against Heron's throat, and pushed him against the wall. He marshaled every bit of his strength, which was still considerable even at his age, at least for short durations. "I'm tempted to break your neck, and put you and that living corpse on a boat, along with me, and end this thing now and forever, right now."
"It wouldn't end it." Heron struggled for breath, surprised at the older man's strength. He tried to push Thomas's arm away, with little success. "There are other people still afoot, processes already in motion, as you know," he rasped.
"I know," Thomas said. He kept his arm as steady as he could.
"We can only make things worse, not better, by not being a part of this now. You know that, too."
Thomas growled his grudging acknowledgement.
Heron made a bit of progress with the arm. Most of his voice was back. "It's her -- I understand that. You regret drawing her into this."
Thomas released Heron and stepped back. "I agree with your reasoning about sending that goddamn zombie back." He walked to the unconscious figure, clad in a robe. "Let's get him into the chair."
Heron thought for moment, and decided not to avail himself of the knife he had in his pocket. He had almost reached for it when he had been pinned. He had full access to it now.
"Yes," he said. "Let's put that ghost of Socrates in his chair."
* * *
Heron took a few minutes to adjust the chair so it arrived precisely on the evening of Crito's -- and Andros' -- visit to Socrates in his prison room.
Thomas paced.
"It's set," Heron said, and left the chair. "We have thirty seconds to leave the room."
The two stepped into the public part of the restaurant, which was still empty as on any late afternoon.
"More ouzo?" Heron inquired.
"I don't think so," Thomas replied. "I could use some fresh air."
"Oh, you'll be getting plenty of that, I wouldn't worry."
Two men walked through the door -- the same ones who had brought the second clone. They locked onto Thomas's shoulders with an unbreakable grip. They were a lot younger and stronger than Heron. The only one surprised by their entrance was Thomas.
"You arranged for this via phone when you were setting the coordinates for the chair?" Thomas asked.
Heron nodded. "Something like that. One thing I really love about this age is no one is ever really very far away."
Thomas struggled a bit, but realized he'd do best to conserve his energy. "Was this your solution to the three chairs and the four of us all along? Is that what you intended for Appleton?"
"Perhaps," Heron replied. "I improvise. Right now, you look like far more of an unstable threat to us than he does." Heron addressed the men. He translated for Thomas: "I told them to take you to the boat."
"You're worried I'll go back to that night in the prison in 399 BC and undo your work."
"Not really," Heron replied. "I'll be closing the time around that night, after we take Socrates. It must be sacrosanct. Otherwise, people could keep going back and reversing what we're doing. Socrates would be saved and unsaved and saved and unsaved, forever, in a never-ending loop.... But I don't propose to stand here and tell you every facet of my thinking, like some self-impressed villain in a grade-B movie." He gestured to the guards. "I'm just worried about you, in general."
The men nodded and escorted Thomas out of the door. "It's beautiful out on the sea today," Heron said after Thomas. "Enjoy."
Heron poured himself another glass of ouzo, and nursed it and his options.
He placed a call with his phone. "Yes. Make sure the story appears in the Athenian Global Village. It is essential that Ampharete sees it, and begins her journey..."
Heron put the phone in his pocket and sipped more ouzo. An amazing circle, this time traveling.... Ampharete had drawn him into this, back
in Alexandria.... Now he was making sure she was drawn into this, with the prior help of Thomas.... Heron wondered who else was tugging on the spiral...
* * *
Thomas couldn't get a response from his escort until they were on the boat, which had been waiting for them in Piraeus. He wasn't even sure what language they spoke -- he hadn't recognized the language in which Heron had addressed them. It sounded ancient. Thomas hoped they were multi-lingual. He tried English, Latin, and Greek, modern and ancient….
"The two of you are going to die on this boat, too. You understand?" Thomas was seated in a corner of the cabin. The two figures blocked any egress.
"You are going to die," one of them finally responded, in Roman Empire Latin. "We are going to kill you, and live." He said something Thomas did not understand to the other hooded figure. The two laughed.
One of them placed his palm on the scanner near the controls. The boat came to life and was soon making its way out of the harbor...
"This is being run automatically, by itself, like a living thing, you understand?" Thomas said.
The hooded figures ignored him.
"And it will burst into flames." Thomas made waving gestures. "And all three of us will die, not just me."
"That is a good story," the second hooded figure responded. "Who told it to you?"
"I ... it was foreseen," Thomas replied.
"You know an oracle who can see the future?"
"You are seeing the future, right now, yourselves," Thomas said. "This is not your time, is it? This is your future, and you are breathing in it. And I have been in contact with people who have seen a little of the future beyond this moment, yes. And they told me that this boat will shatter into a thousand pieces, like the top of a volcano, and will be consumed by the waves, with three men aboard."
"Maybe we should just kill you right now, and leave the boat. And, then, when it is consumed, the world will think that three men were on board."
"Yes," Thomas said, "that would satisfy the prophesy. But how long do you think you would live after you left the boat--"
"We are excellent swimmers, I can assure you."
"And I can assure you that once you reached land, your patron Heron would find a way to kill you. Do you think he wants you alive, in this time? Has he told you exactly how you will return to your Rome, or wherever you want to go in your world?"
The two Romans talked quietly, swiftly, beyond Thomas' comprehension.
"I know a way to get you back to your time and your world," Thomas said.
* * *
The Romans were indeed excellent swimmers and Thomas was nearly as good. More importantly, one of them had an inflatable device tucked into his garment that enabled the three to easily reach land on a nearby island, mostly devoted to tourists. The name of the island was Andros. They shortly heard from a local that a boat had blown up several miles out to sea...
"We saved your life," one of the men said to Thomas. They had divested themselves of their hoods and their robes in the water. They just looked like two Roman soldiers now, under dressed, out of central casting from a 20th century movie about Rome. "Now it is your turn to get us home."
"To Rome?" Thomas looked around the island and smiled. Its name was Andros. But he did not have time to savor the ironies of time travel. Right now he had to focus on these two soldiers.
"Rome will do," one of them said. "Our home is in the northeast."
"We will need first to travel to a different place, distant from here, to get you to Rome," Thomas said. "But the journey will be swift -- we will travel by a wondrous kind of ship that sails the sky." Thomas gestured to the air. "It should not be too difficult to get you on board. This whole ... land ... has been almost one empire now, something like your Empire, again, for almost thirty years." Thomas had a variety of long-established digital aliases that he used in his travels. As soon as he was able to log on to his master account, he would likely be able to arrange for phony intra-European Union IDs for the two Romans.
They caught a rusted ferry to Athens Realport. Fortunately, the ferry's digital connections were good as new. Thomas paid for the passage, arranged for the IDs as well as three tickets on the next HST to London, on the strength of his palm print. When it came to collecting money, Thomas had found that even the most dilapidated equipment managed to work, whatever the time and the place. He also paid for casual business attire for the three, at a men's clothing kiosk at the realport. They boarded the plane with no problem. Thomas plied the Romans with strong drink, and the two spent most of the short flight in laughter and light naps. Thomas stared out of the window in silence when he could.
They landed at Blair Annex. "The Parthenon Club," Thomas told the cabbie, after the three had bundled in.
The hundred-and-teenaged doorman was at his post. "Good evening, Mr. O'Leary. Joining us for a late supper tonight?"
"Not sure, Herbert. Is Mr. Gleason in?"
"I believe he is, Sir. At the library. Shall I let him know you are here?"
"Not necessary -- we'll just go straight up there."
"Very good, Sir. And would you sign in for your guests? After hours policy, you know."
"Certainly." Thomas took the proffered pen and looked at the guest book. He looked at the two Romans, who smiled at him, stiffly. The problem was they would not be leaving tonight -- at least, not in this millennium, or the previous millennium, if the chairs were in place upstairs.... Well, he would just have to remember to sign them out himself, and plead that they were indisposed in the men's room, if Herbert or anyone else took an undue interest. He wrote two names in the guest book. Julius Roma, Tony Roma.
Thomas nodded at Herbert, then beckoned the Romans to follow him upstairs. They approached Gleason, who was clad in his customary argyle vest and tweed pants, at the librarian's station.
"Mr. O'Leary. Good to see you." Gleason extended his hand.
"Mr. Gleason. We're here about the chairs." Thomas gave the librarian a firm handshake.
"Of course. Follow me." Gleason gave the Romans a courteous nod. He understood enough about the chairs to know that if Thomas had not introduced his two companions, there was no point in pushing it.
Thomas, for his part, was relieved by Gleason's response. Thomas knew that if there were fewer than three chairs down the long flight of stairs, Gleason would have said so at this point.
The librarian led the party to the far side of the room, and the door with the sleek, new keypad. Thomas grasped the significance of the moment: Heron had designed the chairs, and their accommodations in the London and New York clubs. If he had any suspicion that Thomas had survived the destruction of the boat in the Aegean, Heron might well have changed the keypad combinations and palm-print authorizations by some remote, back-door means, or perhaps instructed someone else -- for all Thomas knew, Gleason -- to do so. Of course, Thomas's entry into the room with the chairs now might well give Heron some signal that Thomas was alive. But he had no choice but to walk into the room, if he could, and use the chairs.
Thomas pressed in his entry code, with his palm against the scanner. The door opened.
"Will you be requiring any further assistance from me tonight?" Gleason asked.
"No, thank you for your help," Thomas replied. He realized he had been talking in English, which meant the Romans understood nothing. Good. "Oh, one other thing," Thomas said to Gleason. "A Mr. William Henry Appleton, an American, arrived here several days ago. Please show him every courtesy regarding the chairs."
"Very good, Sir." Gleason nodded to Thomas and the Romans and left.
The three walked down the stairs, into the soft, cascading lights. Four chairs came into view. Excellent, Thomas thought -- more than he had expected. He seated each Roman in a chair, set the controls, and explained, in Latin.
"You will be arriving in Britannia, in Londinium, in the middle of the reign of Antonius Pius, your time. You will find suitable clothing and money when the chairs complete their journey, which should be
instantly."
"We understand. We have already used the chairs."
"Of course. You travelled from your time to this time in the chairs."
Tony Roma nodded. "You will not be coming with us?"
"No," Thomas said. "I will be going ... other places. We will likely never see each other again. Thank you ... for saving my life."
Tony nodded again. "There may be others like us who will want to kill you -- Heron trained many, and paid us well."
"I know." Thomas pressed a code on the arm of each chair, and withdrew. The clear bubbles emerged. Thomas took one more look at the ancient Romans dressed as modern Greeks in the two chairs, and walked quickly up the stairs.
* * *
[London, 2042 AD]
Gleason was waiting for Thomas on the library floor. "You did not accompany your guests in the chairs?" he asked.
"No." The question and answer were not so obvious, Thomas knew. He could well have accompanied the Romans in the chairs, and been gone weeks, months, years, and then arranged to return to this time and place. Gleason's question really meant that Thomas didn't look any different than he had a few minutes earlier, which meant that he hadn't traveled anywhere, stayed a while, and returned in a heartbeat.
"Well, I'm pleased you're still with us in the Club, Sir," Gleason continued. "Oh, I had a question about your Mr. Appleton?"
"Yes?"
"Our computer is not completely clear regarding cross-temporal tabs--"
"The end of the nineteenth century, pounds to dollars," Thomas advised.
"Of course. I should have known ... Will you be staying for the night, then?"
"I could use a little rest... but no, I don't think so."
"Can we tempt you with a late supper, then?"
Thomas considered. "Could you have Mr. Forbish pack one of his sliced duck sandwiches for me, and call a cab -- I think I'll be heading back to Blair."
"Very good, Sir."
* * *
Thomas ate his sandwich and washed it down with a pretty good lager and lime, as he waited for his plane to board in the airport lounge.
It was late Monday evening in New York City now -- the very time, if Thomas was figuring correctly, that Sierra was discovering via the Athenian Global Village that his boat had gone missing. He could stop this entire unraveling snake right now, with just a phone call to Sierra .... Or would it stop? Could he really be sure of the consequences of such a call?
The Plot to Save Socrates (Sierra Waters Book 1) Page 19