Chronica (Sierra Waters Book 3)

by Paul Levinson

  "It was not," she said.

  Heron spread his hands. "I accept that – the android acted on its own – that's surely possible. I had Synesius killed, but that was not long before he was due in unmolested history to die anyway. And I saved many. I helped save Socrates. I saved Alcibiades," he said this especially to Sierra. "I know how important he became to you."

  "Let's talk about what we came here to talk about," Max said.

  Heron nodded, and looked at Sierra. "But I was just thinking about the first time we met, in ancient Alexandria, when you told me your name was Ampharete. The years have treated you very kindly."

  "Thank you," Sierra said. "Not for the compliment. But for saving Alcibiades in Anatolia. It's too bad you tried to do quite the opposite to Max in Britain."

  Heron began to respond—

  "But you didn't ask us here to pry thanks from us for your life's work," Sierra cut him off.

  Heron smiled. "No, I did not. Would you like something to drink?"

  Sierra and Max shook their heads no.

  Heron nodded again and spread his hands out upon the table. "Thomas Edison the inventor has the Chronica that you stole, and I have been told he is calling upon Henry Ford to construct a Chair or some sort of time travel vehicle – on the basis, I assume, of what is in the Chronica."

  Neither Max nor Sierra responded. "Rescuing a scroll from impending flames is hardly theft," Sierra then spoke, "except a theft from the jaws of oblivion."

  Heron smiled again, thinly. "You have a poetic flair. But surely you do not deny that authors have the right to decide what becomes of their work – including destroying it, if that is what they want."

  "There are many who disagree with that proposition," Max said, "but now is not the time to debate the rights of authors versus the rights of potential readers."

  "You are right, of course," he said to Max. "And my mistake for putting the word 'stole' into what I was telling you. The important message I wanted to convey – the only message, indeed – is that Edison has the Chronica, and is endeavoring to implement its information."

  Sierra and Max were again silent.

  "Neither of you seems surprised by that," Heron said, "and apparently neither of you wants to confirm it, or confirm what you might think is just speculation. But, I assure you, I know that Edison has it . . . . Is that what you want, do you want him and Henry Ford to build time travel vehicles, and make them as commonplace as you know Ford's motor vehicles soon will be?"

  Again, there was no response.

  "I know you took the Chronica, and have been seeking to get it published in some way, so the knowledge it contains would no longer be exclusively mine," Heron said. "I know that, and I know that such knowledge is no longer exclusive in any case, since you obviously have implemented some of it," he said to Sierra. "But I'm asking you: do you really want the price that is paid for the Chronica's knowledge no longer being mostly mine to be that everyone else in the world has it?"

  Sierra thought about Joe Biden, about Max's parents, about the pain as well as the joy on his face in their room in 2062. She finally answered. "No, probably not."

  ***

  The three said nothing for a long interval. Heron took a sip of his beer. Sierra looked at him, still amazed, disgusted, furious at herself for even sitting at the same table with this man.

  Max broke the silence. "How would you propose we get the Chronica from Edison, if he now has it? Surely we'll never trust you enough to go on some trip with you back in time to stop Edison from getting it."

  "True," Heron said.

  "How did Edison get it?" Sierra asked, though she knew the answer all too well.

  "William Henry Appleton," Heron replied.

  And he's supposed to meet me here in less than two hours, Sierra thought, not happy but horrified about the prospect now, with Heron here. But the last thing she wanted to do was postpone that meeting.

  "You haven't answered my question about how you thought we could get the Chronica out of Edison's hands," Max told Heron. "Let's rule time travel out. What's left?"

  "We arrange to take it from Edison the old-fashioned way: we have it stolen," Heron replied.

  Sierra thought that time travel was pretty damned old-fashioned, or certainly old, if she and Alcibiades and Heron in the time of Socrates was any indication. But she responded, "you're saying, what? We launch some kind of commando raid? With your legionaries?" Sierra asked.

  "Yes," Heron replied.

  "We wouldn't feel comfortable – or safe – in their company," Max said, "since I assume we're being honest here."

  "You wouldn't need to go on the actual raid," Heron said.

  "Then why are you talking to us about it?" Sierra asked.

  "Because I don't want you working against it, undermining it, as you have done or tried to do with so many other plans of mine," Heron replied.

  Sierra smiled inside with satisfaction, and hoped it didn't show.

  "You would be welcome to accompany my men if you like," Heron said. "That's entirely up to you."

  "Will you be with them when they steal back the Chronica?" Max asked.

  "No, I will not," Heron replied.

  "And when would you expect to do this?" Max asked.

  "I don't know, exactly," Heron replied. "Soon."

  "Will you let us know beforehand?" Max asked.

  "Yes, if you tell me you won't do anything to oppose this."

  "We'll let you know," Sierra said and looked at Max. They stood. "We can leave a message for you with Mr. Bertram."

  Heron stood, too. "Thank you. One other thing, if I may, as a token of my good will." He reached into a pocket and withdrew a locket, which he opened and gave to Sierra. "Please," he said, "accept this as an indication of my desire to end our enmity."

  It was the locket that contained the miniature painting by Jean-Baptiste Régnault from 1785, Socrates dragging Alcibiades from the Embrace of S. Sierra had worn it around her neck for years, but had lost it at some point in ancient Alexandria. "Where did you get this?" she demanded.

  "From the android that, elected, to die in your stead as Hypatia," Heron replied, with just the slightest touch of sarcasm on the word 'elected'.

  "The android that you elected to have hacked to death," Max said, anger again up to the surface.

  "The death of Hypatia in that horrible manner was history's decision, not mine," Heron said.

  "Where did the android get the locket?" Sierra asked.

  "I honestly do not know," Heron replied. "She spent a lot of time with Synesius – perhaps he picked it up one of the times he was with you."

  "I didn't sleep with Synesius, if that's what you're implying," Sierra said, anger as well as sadness in her voice now, too.

  Max put his hand gently over Sierra's.

  The locket was still in Heron's hand. "Please," he urged again, "take this. It's a peace offering. I apologize for offending you with what I just said. That was not my intention. It's just my nature."

  Sierra was too upset to accept the locket.

  But Max took the locket from Heron's hand, and, Sierra, emotions still churning, was glad and loved him all the more for doing it. She realized that the locket around her neck or in her possession from now on would enable Heron to confirm that she was Sierra and not an android with her face – if, for whatever reason, likely evil, Heron needed such confirmation. Heron was in effect offering her a dare with the locket – take the locket if you dare to give me the means to confirm your identity, for whatever my purposes. It was dare Sierra was willing to take.

  ***

  Sierra and Max walked quickly down the stairs to the front door of the Millennium Club. No doorman was present. Max opened the door. It was raining even harder now than when they had arrived.

  "So what do we do now?" Max asked.

  Bertram approached them, from the inside of the Club.

  "Where's Heron?" Max asked.

  "He's in the lavatory, I believe," Bertram said. "Bu
t I have a message for you about something else. Mr. Appleton's man Geoffreys just called."

  "Is William ok?" Sierra asked, very concerned.

  "I assume so," Bertram replied. "But the rain is even worse north of the city, and the forecast promises more. Mr. Appleton did not want to risk going out in these inclement elements, given the poor state of his health. He wanted me to tell you how sorry he was, and hopes you can reschedule, perhaps as early as tomorrow."

  Heron appeared behind Bertram, and nodded at all three. He opened the door, scowled at the pouring rain, and walked out into it.

  "We have no grounds to have him arrested," Sierra said, quietly.

  "Oh, we have ample grounds," Max replied, "just none that we could tell the police." He shook his head. "I don't like him leaving like this." He and Sierra peered down the street through the sheets of rain. They could see nothing except water.

  "You could almost believe he has the power to turn on the rain," Sierra said. "But he has something almost as potent as that – the talent of taking advantage of whatever his environment has to offer."

  ***

  Appleton was feeling ill again the next day, and too weak to travel. The same the day after.

  Heron contacted Sierra through Bertram late on that second day, with news of his planned raid on Edison's facilities.

  "How does Heron know exactly where Edison is keeping the Chronica?" Max asked.

  "Presumably from the same source who told him Edison has the Chronica in the first place," Sierra replied, "though there are no guarantees that Edison didn't move it."

  "And you're still sure you want to accompany Heron's legionaries on this – or whatever they're called back here?" Max asked.

  Sierra called Bertram, and asked him to give Heron the message that she and Max wanted to come along on the raid.

  ***

  The raid was set for two evenings later. Heron got word of that to Sierra through Bertram and told them where they should meet. "At the Weehawken Ferry on 42nd Street by the Hudson," Bertram repeated Heron's message, "and you will be going across the river with two of his men, and then on to Edison's offices in West Orange."

  "He's still not telling us exactly where he expects to find the Chronica," Max noted.

  "Either he doesn't know that exactly, or he doesn't trust us enough to tell us," Sierra said. "Likely both."

  "Should we let Astor know about this?" Max asked.

  "I don't know," Sierra said. "I trust him well enough, but bringing him along would alert Heron to how closely Astor has been working with us, if Heron didn't know already. And Heron could call off the raid, for whatever reason, if we showed up with Astor unannounced."

  ***

  Max knew both of Heron's men, standing by the ferry the night after next. Sierra knew one of them. Both men introduced themselves anyway.

  "James Flannery," Flannery said. Max shook his hand, and noticed that Flannery winced slightly.

  "Oliver Woodruff," the other man said, and didn't wince at all when Max shook his extended hand.

  Both men nodded courteously to Sierra.

  "Come with us, please," Woodruff said, as he and Flannery boarded the ferry.

  Sierra and Max followed. The four were apparently the only passengers. Sierra and Max couldn't see the crew.

  The Hudson was choppy. The wind was cold for this May evening. Sierra and Max were thinking that, in the future, this trip to New Jersey would be via the Lincoln Tunnel, renamed the Giuliani Tunnel. They also might have thought that this ferry was more fun, but couldn't let themselves think that anything about this evening would be the slightest fun.

  [Weehawken, New Jersey, May, 1899 AD]

  The ferry docked at the Weehawken Terminal in New Jersey. A shiny new motor car was waiting for them. It gleamed in the moonlight. The driver – about 20, with goggles, and sportily dressed – got out of the car.

  "My name's Johnson," he said with a big grin, "and here's your four-seater as requested. She's a Stoewer Phaeton, a German beauty." He patted the car. Woodruff paid him and sat in the driver's seat. Flannery ushered Sierra into the seat next to Woodruff, and sat with Max in the back.

  "This drive should take about two hours," Flannery informed them. "Sit back and relax. The ferry will be waiting for us here when we return – it was chartered by our mutual benefactor."

  Even though Flannery was not shouting at any one now, he sounded just as early 21st century to Max and Sierra as he had when he lost his temper with Astor at the hospital. They weren't so sure about Woodruff. They knew both were police, but assumed they were doing this off-the-record for Heron. Sierra and Max also assumed both men had weapons.

  "Ready?" Johnson asked, leaning over the hand crank outside the car.

  "Let's go," Flannery said.

  Johnson nodded and started turning the crank. It made loud, sharp, slow noises, like a whip cracking. Sierra and Max had been around enough motor cars back here to know the sound wasn't good.

  Johnson stopped and stood.

  "What's wrong?" Flannery asked.

  "I don't know," Johnson replied. "It worked fine the last time I started it, which was just a little while ago, to drive here."

  "Try again," Flannery barked.

  Johnson complied, and got the same result. "This happens sometimes," he now offered. "That's why some people say, 'get a horse'!" He laughed.

  Flannery looked like he would shoot him if he could. "Get this piece of crap out of here," he said to Johnson about the car. "And give that man back every cent that he paid you," he pointed to Woodruff.

  ***

  There was a livery stable about a block away from where they were standing, with at least half a dozen horse-drawn carriages of various sorts and sizes in front. "We should have done this in the first place," Flannery grumbled, as the four walked to the livery. "Horses are still more reliable at this point in time—" he stopped talking, and looked, Sierra thought, as if he thought he better not talk about points in time with who knew who was listening.

  "That four-in-hand looks good," Woodruff said, and gestured to a carriage that was as sleek as the motor car, drawn by four horses. "I can drive it. Should get us there in half the time."

  "Good. Go pay for it – rent it for the night," Flannery said.

  Woodruff nodded and went inside the livery.

  "My problem is I have my head too much in the future," Flannery said to Max and Sierra, "as I'm sure the two of you can understand."

  ***

  Woodruff was as good as his word. "The best speed the motor car could have made is seven or eight miles per hour," he said to his three passengers over his shoulder, as he coaxed the horses on the dirt road to West Orange. "We're going at least twice as fast."

  "Good work," Flannery said. He turned to Max and Sierra, and spoke in a lower voice. "Have either of you met Mr. Edison? If you had, that could provide a few moments of maneuverability if we run into him – you can come up with some reason about why we're here."