“Why is Philo calling us to his office?” Peter asked. He was wearing his glasses and looked handsomely owlish. Tossing his head, he swung the dark curtain of bangs away from his eyes. I wondered when he might outgrow that juvenile adornment.
“No idea,” I responded curtly. Had anyone ever been called to the principal’s office or that of a supervisor without thinking something bad was about to drop? Kipp and Elani were walking behind us, side by side, chatting over some issues with the young lupines with whom Kipp worked. Elani had once been a member of that particular class but was now considered to be in the big league, since she had actually time shifted several times with Peter. The younger lupines, hopeful travelers all, now watched her pass, eyes rounded, breath held. Yes, she’d reached celebrity status.
The secretary who monitored Philo’s office and allowed visitors based upon her changeable moods was absent from her desk, so we eased past her vacant spot and tapped on Philo’s door before barging in. He was standing, gazing out the large window overlooking the garden below. I was happy some forward thinking landscaper had added crepe myrtles since they stubbornly retained their blooms throughout the latter half of summer. A few of the white ones had recently shed some blossoms, making the ground below appear as if it was dusted with snow. Philo gestured for us to sit, while Kipp and Elani circled and plopped on the carpet.
“Fitzhugh got word of something interesting, and I wanted to run it past you,” Philo said, pulling up a chair to sit close by. He knew I hated it when he sat behind his desk, making me think of a stern, disapproving teacher about to leap up and whack my hand with a ruler.
“He didn’t say anything,” I remarked.
“You know Fitzhugh. He wanted to do some research on his own before presenting it.” Philo smiled. “He’s not much of a gossip,” he added. “Fitzhugh has a friend who lives over in Winston-Salem. His friend happened to be visiting at Technicorps while you guys were busy in Gettysburg. They were talking, and the friend told Fitzhugh he’d run into a man whose father was alleged to be a survivor of the sinking of the Titanic. Apparently, the man made comments that were, well, very suspicious and would impact the knowledge we have about the facts of the accident.”
There was a soft tap on the door, and Fitzhugh stuck his head around the corner. With a nod, he entered the room, chose a chair and took a seat. For a moment I wondered why he hadn’t mentioned any of this, since we cohabited, but then I realized Philo was correct–Fitzhugh had been busy collecting information before he brought anything forward.
“My friend lives at a retirement, uh, village with elderly humans,” Fitzhugh began. “He’s not quite my age but decided to slow down years ago due to some nagging health issues. Simon and I worked together in the past in a setting similar to this,” he said, spreading his hands. “He has developed a friendship with one of the men there and has been privy to some interesting information.”
I am an unabashed hog for any vague reference at a mystery–maybe it’s genetic–and found myself sitting forward, my mouth dropping open in anticipation. Catching Philo’s glance of amusement, I managed to close my mouth and scoot back in my chair.
“This man,” Fitzhugh continued, “has some degree of dementia and therefore his recall is suspect. He, in the words of professionals, confabulates when there are gaps in his memories. Some things are corroborated by the staff while others are not.”
“Such as?” Peter asked, turning slightly to smile at me. Yes, it was evident he had acquired the addiction that lead symbiont teams to either unravel puzzles or find themselves broken by their inability to succeed.
“It seems validated that this man’s father was on the Titanic and was a survivor. But what he says about his father is unusual. He states his father was an anarchist who remained highly political until his death. His father was aboard the Titanic with the intent to plant a bomb and sink the ship as a stab at the British Empire and class division in general.” Fitzhugh paused to let us register what he’d said.
Outside the window, there was a little gray Phoebe perching on the limb of the towering tulip poplar. The bird craned his head, peering through the window as if he was eavesdropping on our conversations. He glanced upward, as if startled, launched into the air and soared out of sight. I privately hoped no hawk was circling overhead, watching for the solitary bird. I’d always had a fondness for the Phoebe who lacked the colorful flash of other birds but displayed an admirable work ethic and stubborn nature when it came to nest building. Once I’d had a pair of Phoebes start a family outside my bedroom window, the nest lodged under the crook of a gutter. After the eggs hatched, something–probably an owl or hawk–managed to swoop down and take the nest and the baby birds. I watched the Phoebes look for the missing nest and their family for days before they began building again, in a slightly different location. Tough little guys, I thought.
“As you who lived through those times may recall, there was great unrest in the world around the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth,” Fitzhugh continued. “There were social upheavals due to discontent brought on by countless years of stratified societies, poverty and lack of social mobility. Even the strict class system aboard the Titanic was symbolic of the age. There was a first class area and certain first class amenities that the rest of the ship did not share. Combine that fact with political unrest due to rebellion against power held in the hands of few, and it was a perfect storm for agitation. Consider the assassination of William McKinley…his killer was an anarchist. At that time, there was some degree of social discontent in America due to the extreme wealth of some compared to the relative poverty of many, but the issues were more intense in Europe, where there was a more radical philosophy that grew out of social unrest as well as a rejection of any type of governmental authority. Several European leaders had been assassinated, including the president of France and the king of Italy.”
“I was living in France during those times,” I remarked. “Although I stayed out of the political issues affecting humanity, I was an observer and the times were difficult. The common worker suffered under the inability to progress, for the most part. One’s class at birth defined an entire lifetime. That was pretty much how it was everywhere.”
“According to Simon, he has spent a lot of time with this man, who, in the way of people with dementia, recalls past events with clarity.” Fitzhugh paused to clear his throat. “The staff just discards his remarks as the rambling of an addled mind. But Simon, with his telepathy, has a greater ability and has come to the conclusion he thinks the thoughts are based on reality.”
“And what do you need from us?” Kipp asked, tilting his large head up. His jaw opened in a lupine smile as if he predicted the answer.
“We, Simon and I, want you, Kipp, to go and meet this man. Only you have the ability to push through his present thoughts back to the place where his memories were set down originally. You can determine what his father actually told him; no one else of our kind has your talents.” Fitzhugh smiled at him.
“And why does any of this matter?” Elani asked. She was resting in a patch of sunlight that spread across the floor like a pool of liquid gold. Her gray pelt looked invitingly soft and warm as it absorbed the rays. For a moment, I toyed with the idea of stretching out on the floor next to her, letting my head rest upon her furry side as the sun lulled me to sleep. With effort, I suppressed a yawn.
“If this man’s memories are correct, then it could mean the sinking of the Titanic might have been related to a bomb explosion. It would change the entire view of the tragedy,” Philo answered. He’d been remarkably quiet during all the exchanges. I glanced at him, and he returned the stare, his expression neutral.
“And…?” I asked, feeling more cautious than usual. It was part of my trade to take risks and plunge headlong into any place in history, no matter what.
“Then a trip to the Titanic might be in order so that the events around the sinking can be re-examined.” Philo crossed h
is arms and gazed at the window again. From the office view of the skyline, it was evident that the onset of evening might bring with it stormy weather. I’d not brought my car that day and had no enthusiasm for walking home in the rain.
When the purpose of the meeting became obvious, I felt myself detaching from the dialog. As I studied the dark clouds gathering on the horizon, I darted a glance at a passing dog, who was ambling across an expanse of neatly cut grass that was part of the landscaping. He looked well fed, happy…a big brown brute with a white patch covering half his face. His head was up as he enjoyed his walk; unexpectedly, he dropped to the ground and began rolling, squirming his back into the grass, all four legs kicking enthusiastically. That dog was happier than was I.
“Hey, the weather is looking like it might break soon. I’d rather get home and not dodge lightning bolts, if you don’t mind, so let’s wrap this up,” I said, shaking myself into action. My voice was brusque and no nonsense, and I hoped my tone and attitude would push things along.
Fitzhugh wore a puzzled look on his aged face. He, too, had been a traveler, and was consumed with endless curiosity as was typical of our species.
“Petra, I thought you’d be all over this,” he said, frowning slightly.
“Well, then I guess you don’t know me too well,” I answered, my tone abrupt, rude and unfortunately flippant. “The sinking of the Titanic was a terrible tragedy. The desperation of all those people as it was sinking…can you imagine what it would be like to time shift into the middle of that hysteria and horror? It would be emotionally difficult to watch and not intervene to save people. Such a moment would tear at our, uh, humanity.” I paused to close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath. “I don’t see why we would subject ourselves to such an intense moment just to find out if a bomb hastened the sinking of a doomed ship.”
Kipp was staring at me, and in the manner of our private dialog with one another, he asked, “What is wrong with you? This is what we do, right?”
“We also have the responsibility to protect ourselves from stupid time shifts with no other purpose than to satisfy morbid curiosity,” I replied, feeling my face go rigid. The others knew Kipp and I were conversing in our typically enmeshed manner and remained quiet.
“Listen to what you are saying,” he said. “Curiosity drives us, most of the time. If we don’t go back in time to change the arc of history, then all we ever do is to gather information. And can you tell me that when we were in the presence of Jack the Ripper, it wasn’t difficult to know who he was and not keep him from taking lives of innocent women? Were their lives less valuable than the ones aboard the Titanic?” Kipp was getting hot, no mistake about it.
“Whatever,” I replied, using the annoying slang expression that I disliked. I even waved my hand dismissively which really set Kipp off.
“Don’t whatever me,” he said. His head lifted, amber eyes back lit with a disturbing glow. If he could have trembled with indignation, he might have done so, but lupines didn’t manage that well. “We will do what we always do and analyze this situation and make a rational decision unaffected by emotion.”
Ducking my head, I started to reply with a “whatever, boss” but changed that to a meek “okay, boss”. Kipp had limited experiences traveling in comparison to me. He really had not encountered a situation where the emotions of a mass of humans were roiling and agitated…but I had on more than one occasion. It was draining and even aging. I’m certain I’d lost several years of my naturally long life from a couple of time shifts that left me empty and wondering about my career choice.
“We don’t even know yet that a trip to the Titanic is in order or even appropriate,” Fitzhugh said, as he smoothed his long beard with a thin hand. I realized he was trying to soothe me, too. “It would be interesting for Kipp to be exposed to this man and determine if his memories are true versus some type of confabulation.”
I caught myself just before saying “whatever” again. Maybe I’d had too much exposure to popular human culture as of late? Philo was staring at me, a slight frown on his face. He might have been a good friend, but I felt no need to explain my position. Couldn’t I just have an opinion without having to defend it, I thought, whining to myself. Peter was carefully studying his shoes while Elani remained quiet and patient. Glancing out the window again, I noted with relief that the big brown dog was gone; I hoped he’d get to a secure location before the storm broke.
We were released from that meeting, much to my relief, and Kipp and I began our walk home. Peter offered to drive Fitzhugh and Juno; they passed us, as we trudged along, giving a little toot on the horn as they did so. The storm was behind us. Part of me looked forward to the coziness of being within my safe place at home while the rain beat down impotently on the roof. Even though it was still late summer, I thought hot cocoa might be in order. Obviously a part of my soul was seeking comfort.
“I’d really like to talk to the guy.” Kipp lifted his head to look at me, as he gauged my reaction to his words. “And I’m not pushing doing anything more than that,” he added to mollify me.
“Kipp, it’s exquisitely painful to be in the midst of a major event where there is massive loss of life that you can prevent,” I said, attempting to explain my reluctance. “If one of us advises the lookout or bridge that there is an iceberg ahead, and Murdock orders the turn a few seconds earlier, the entire event would be avoided.” I reached down to touch Kipp’s broad back. “It’s always tempting.”
“Maybe that’s why God created us to work in pairs,” Kipp replied. “We act as each other’s conscience.”
Kipp was, and still is, much wiser than I.
Chapter 7
The journey to Winston Salem was less than a hundred miles from my home in the Piedmont. For Peter, who loved to drive, it wasn’t long enough to pose an interesting challenge to his skills. Other things had taken priority, and the trip was delayed until the end of September. Personally, I wish we could have waited until mid-October and added on a little side excursion to the Smokies, but Philo wouldn’t approve any vacation for me and Kipp anyway, so it didn’t matter. The SUV beat an uncomplicated path along Interstate 40, and we arrived in the town, which is situated pretty much in the center of the state, by mid-morning. The lupines took turns shoving their heads in between us, as well as sticking their massive noggins out of the half lowered windows in the back. They looked most like canines when doing the latter as the wind flattened their ears and made their jowls flap noisily in the breeze. With effort, I avoided making amusing remarks since it would have taken the joy from them. Peter was relying upon a GPS that bleated out instructions in a bored, female, mechanical tone. Personally, I missed the old, fold up paper maps one could pick up at a gas station along with a big gulp drink and a bag of Fritos. It had always been more fun to trace one’s route with a hesitant finger tip trailing along the surface of the map than to be ordered about by a harsh, no nonsense voice. My transition into the modern age was not without personal angst.
The retirement village, which offered different levels of care, was situated on the north end of town. Peter waited with the lupines in the SUV while I inquired at a main reception desk for Simon. Since we had the lupines with us, all meetings would be outdoors. This was one time that I was glad I had a more than adequate font of knowledge about the subject matter. On my first consequential time shift with Peter and Elani, they, plus Kipp, knew much more about the Great Locomotive Chase than did I. But in terms of the Titanic, I was well informed and had in my possession many details that escaped my observant peers. With a self-satisfied sigh, I looked around the foyer while waiting for Simon. The walls were covered in patterned wallpaper upon which prissy little flowers were harassed by pastel butterflies…for some reason I found the scene mildly annoying. Brightly colored window boxes were filled with plastic flowers covered with a thin coating of dust. The designer, undoubtedly, was going for a cheerful look, but the end result was it appeared forced, as if the message was that
people were expected to be happy, by golly, no matter what. It was only a minute later when I felt the tingling of a telepathic mind, one that was curious, alert and friendly. Simon may have chosen retirement, but there was no diminishment in his agility and activity level. Apparently, he just wanted to do something different for a change. I suppose all life choices don’t have to involve complicated equations; some choices are simple. A short male approached me, his head lifting as he smiled in recognition of a member of his species. His head was adorned with a bushy top knot of white hair that looked as if it hadn’t been combed in a while; curved, narrow shoulders were drawn up to his neck, his knees angled in towards each other as he walked.
“I’m Simon,” he said, nodding at me. His eyes reminded me of those of a bird, as did his alert, quick manner. To my delight, he bent over my hand and bestowed a kiss to my flesh, his lips dry and almost scratchy as they made contact. There were some aspects of old courtesies that I did miss, and a gentleman was a gentleman, no matter the species or the age.
Titanic, 1912 (The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series, Book 5): Young Adult Time Travel Adventure Page 7