“Petra Goodgame,” I replied, returning his caress of my hand by pressing his lightly between mine in an old school response. “Kipp, Elani and Peter are out in the car…with the air conditioner going,” I added with a smile. Simon would appreciate the need to keep the lupines from overheating in a closed vehicle.
“Since I understand Kipp is the one who’s crucial to this meeting, let’s walk outside and talk before I go and bring my friend,” Simon suggested.
The grounds of the retirement facility were neatly maintained with sloping lawns covered in thick green grass which appeared suspiciously free of weeds. Not a perfectionist by nature, I think I would have welcomed some crabgrass or even a late dandelion. Due to the proximity to autumn, the overnight hours were starting to cool down, but the vibrancy of the grass was yet unaffected. There were azaleas strategically planted in thickly bunched groupings with some of the late blooming variety adding unexpected splashes of pink and coral color to the scenery. One could sense from the air that a turn of the seasons was right around the corner, bringing with it a flood of fall colors.
“My friend is Nicholas Little,” Simon began, as we stopped to talk in a pretty wooden gazebo angled in a shaded nook. A rock paved trail wound around some plants and trees to find its way to the round construct. “His story has been consistent for years that his father was a survivor of the sinking of the Titanic.” The old symbiont glanced up and watched, a smile crossing his face, as an elderly couple walked by, holding hands, their fingers woven together in a firm embrace. “Lately, however, he has been telling some of us that his father planted a bomb on the Titanic in order to sink her.” He raised his eyebrows, which were not well groomed, the stiff hairs tangled. “The staff tells us his memory is slipping, and he is confabulating as humans do when they get dementia. But there’s something in his recollection that rings true, and I have wondered if he is retrieving an actual memory, one he’d been counseled to keep private for all these years.”
“Was there anyone by that name rescued?” Elani asked.
“I’m not sure, and it doesn’t matter, since there was a fair amount of confusion amongst the survivors. The other impression I got is that Little was an, uh, Americanized name or at least it got changed somehow, and that his father went by another surname. But I–along with any other symbiont I’ve known—lack the ability to dig into his hidden thoughts and pull that information loose.” He smiled at Kipp, who wagged his tail in response. “That’s where you come in, Kipp.”
“So, you happened to be speaking with Fitzhugh when this topic came up, and he told you of Kipp, right?” I asked.
“Yes. Fitzhugh and I are old friends–and I do mean old. We and our symbionts began traveling at about the same time and crossed paths more than a few times. Things were more haphazard in the earlier days than now, when everything is put on a grid and carefully scheduled.” His lips turned down in a frown as his blue eyes darkened a shade.
“So you disapprove of the current methods?” Peter asked. I narrowed my eyes at him, since Peter, of all symbionts I knew, needed control and restrictions. I’d just thought I was a free wheeler…Peter would put me to shame if allowed to wander, led by his own whims.
“Not exactly. I do understand the world is more complex, and that fact affects how we interface with humanity. But there was something exciting about time shifting when there was less planning and more spontaneity.” Simon shrugged his thin shoulders. “But things change.”
I didn’t inquire about his lupine partner whom he’d obviously outlived. And I didn’t ask why he chose to spend his later years in a retirement village for aging humans versus being with his own kind.
“Simon, if Kipp does conclude that Nicholas’s memories are valid and he believes his father planted a bomb on the Titanic, why would it matter for symbionts to have that knowledge?” I asked. He glanced at me and smiled. It had been a while since a younger female symbiont had visited him, and I could tell he’d been a bit of a flirt when a young, dashing fellow. The tender kiss planted on the back of my hand had betrayed the romantic side of his nature.
“There have been a few trips which to my knowledge, symbionts have avoided,” I continued, trying to draw him out. “The Titanic is one since the acquisition of knowledge would only serve the purpose to alleviate curiosity at this point in time. After the ship sank, there were recommendations made leading to changes in design that added to safety on ocean liners. For a pair of symbionts to be on board that ship while it was sinking and have to endure the anguish of so many humans dying would be difficult, to say the least. No one, as far as I know, has wanted to go.”
“Would you want to go now, if you had a significant clue that the sinking might have been the direct result of something other than a collision with an iceberg?” Peter asked the old symbiont, carefully avoiding looking at me, since I knew he had ulterior motives for the query. Peter was trying, not too subtly, to make a point.
“Yes, as difficult as the experience would be,” Simon replied. His expression was serious as he spoke.
As he went to retrieve his friend, Nicholas, we waited in the wooden gazebo and reflected upon what he’d said. A small breeze spun around the circular enclosure–an errant wind devil captured within the framework—blowing my hair across my face. Annoyed I’d not confined it in a braid, I tried to tame the dark mass that fell to mid back. Peter dug in his pocket and found a rubber band which he handed to me.
“So, do you usually carry office supplies with you?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “I might need a stapler or ruler.” He grinned in response. “And you don’t need to be so carefully subtle about your questions,” I added grumpily. “I’m not totally stupid and got your meaning.” The smile fell from Peter’s face at my brusque remark.
“Petra, you need to switch to decaf,” Kipp said, opening his jaws in a bored yawn. He’d obviously had enough of my being difficult. “After all, we’re just collecting information at this point. No one has committed to anything.”
I frowned. It wasn’t that I minded being alone on my journey of intransigence, since I’d been there before, but it felt uncomfortable to not have Kipp trotting happily along by my side. Internally, I chastised myself for the very thought as I felt Kipp politely remove himself from my brain so that I could figure things out on my own. Kipp was fully a partner now, not a novice, and it was presumptuous of me to think that he had to follow my lead. I glanced down to where he was resting on the weathered boards of the gazebo floor. He thumped his tail and squeezed his eyes shut, a subtle love kiss much like the one the feline Lily would bestow upon him. Well, friendship involves loving one another despite faults, and I think Kipp was continually challenged to love me in the face of my less than stellar personality characteristics.
It was a short time later that Simon returned, slowly walking along the stone pathway, his arm linked with that of a very old man, who moved his feet in short, shuffling steps. The man’s back was curved so that his head was tilted downward, staring at the stones which, due to their uneven texture, posed a bit of a challenge to navigate. But he was obviously game as a patient Simon took time to let him find his footing.
Respectfully, Peter and I stood, as Nicholas got settled. Automatically, the lupines stood, too, before resuming their places on the wooden planks of the floor. The rigidity in Nicholas’s neck forced him to turn his body slightly sideways to peer up at us. I resisted the urge to duck a little lower since the movement of his neck looked painful due to the arthritis that had almost immobilized his joints and prevented any fluidity of motion. His eyes appeared blurry due to a gray opaqueness covering the irises, which were lost behind the cover of glasses as well as cataracts. There was no way to know if he shaved himself or had assistance, but there was a fuzz of uneven razor stubble on his chin and above his upper lip. I noticed a hearing aid in his right ear, and he tended to turn his left ear, his good one, towards us when we were talking.
“Nicholas, these are my friends Petra and Peter
and their dogs, Elani and Kipp,” Simon began, lightly touching his friend’s shoulder. I couldn’t help but notice he introduced the ladies, me and Elani, first. What an old dear.
“I’m happy to meet you,” Nicholas replied, trying to nod his head which was on the end of his stiff, immobile neck. “How nice that Simon gets a visit from young people.”
At this point, obviously all four of us were pouring through his thoughts, since such plunder of human minds was natural to us and not a violation of symbiont boundaries. But Peter, Elani and I could only really access his current notions and feeling tones. It would take Kipp to push through those and get into the repressed and hidden memories that humans kept in their brains for lifetimes. He’d done this before with the man known as Jack the Ripper to determine the psychological aspects of his early life to help explain his aberrant behaviors.
“And what handsome dogs,” Nicholas added. “Some of the people here have pets, but I don’t have any interest in putting up with the mess.”
“Mess? What mess?” Kipp was clearly offended. He narrowed his amber eyes and glanced up at me.
“Not about you, Kipp. He’s talking about curbing a poodle or scooping out a cat box,” I replied. “You’re on autopilot.”
“I’m 95 years old,” Nicholas was saying. “And I’ve been living here,” he said with a gesture, “for seventy years.” His voice was soft and monotone with a trembling waver.
Of course, he had his timing wrong, and as he chatted, it was clear that he did suffer from some moderate cognitive impairment that seemed to affect the context in which he framed his thoughts and memories. But he was a generally pleasant, cheerful old gentleman, and all of us, as we monitored his thoughts, found him to be an honest broker.
“You were telling me a story about your father the other day,” Simon said, gently prompting him. “About why he was on board the Titanic…”
After a moment of hesitation, Nicholas made a quick visual survey to make certain no one else was nearby and within listening range. Leaning forward, he said, “Well, I’d rather this not get out.” After we all nodded vigorously and almost symbolically crossed our hearts and hoped to die, he continued. “My father was a survivor of the sinking of the Titanic.” He glanced at me, smiling. “You know what that was, don’t you? Most young people don’t have a good grip on history anymore.”
I smiled and nodded. “Yes, I’m familiar with the name.” Nicholas would be startled to learn I was over four hundred years old, but there was no reason to give the old gentleman a heart attack.
“His name was Anthony Littleton–he changed it to Little after he arrived in America.” For a moment, he rambled off on another topic, easily distracted by a grounds worker who pushed a loudly squeaking wheelbarrow past our location. I noticed that when Nicholas’s attention wavered, his hands began shaking with a fine tremor, possibly from some type of palsy. Simon gently redirected the conversation to get him back on track. “He never spoke of his early life until he was dying. As I sat with him, he said he needed to unburden his soul and told me he’d planted a bomb on board the Titanic in order to cause her to sink.”
“Why would that be important to him?” Peter asked. He leaned forward and pushed his glasses, which had slid down, back up to perch on the bridge of his nose.
“He was from England and had become increasingly agitated over the social inequities in the system at the turn of the century. His parents were middle class, so he didn’t suffer in his upbringing as did the poor and lower classes who, no matter how hard they worked, couldn’t advance in society.” Nicholas’s voice was soft, his projection rather weak, so it was easy to see how humans might just listen to certain points and direct their attention elsewhere, nodding as if they were actually paying attention. None of this was an obstacle for telepaths, since we followed his thoughts, spoken or not. “The notion that so much money would be spent on building those wondrous ships such as the Oceanic and then the Titanic just, well, got under his skin.” He reached out with a thin hand to brush an imaginary piece of lint from his trousers. “Over time, he became covertly involved in groups promoting anarchism. His first wife became ill with consumption, and she died before their first child was born. I think that is what sent him over the edge, so to speak.”
His attention began to wander again as the arrival of a bright yellow minivan rolling along the circular drive caught his notice. He frowned, and his thoughts betrayed his worries that he was supposed to be on board that van, en route to destinations unknown.
“Nicholas, the van is taking some folks to appointments. You don’t have anything scheduled today,” Simon said, with a gentle reminder. With a little prodding, Nicholas was off again, unwinding his story as one might pull thread from a spool.
“My mother was his second wife; he met her here,” he said, meaning America. “But he developed a terrible problem with the bottle and began to drink heavily. Most people assumed it was the trauma he experienced as the ship was sinking which led to his problem. I think it was the whiskey that finally killed him.” Nicholas took a glance around at our odd party before letting his lips part in a tremulous smile. “I guess it’s safe to tell you all,” he finally concluded. “One night, after he’d been told that his days were numbered, he told me the truth about his trip on the Titanic.” It was clear Nicholas’s memory had meandered again, and he’d forgotten he’d just told us those facts. “He spoke of his mission, as he termed it, and that he took a quantity of gun cotton concealed in a steamer trunk on board to do the damage.”
Nicholas abruptly stopped speaking, and his eyes began to blink rapidly. When his speech stopped, the hand tremors returned and were more severe than previously. Simon leaned in to him, his face creased with worry. It was clear that Nicholas needed assistance, and Peter raced to the front desk to get help. I edged closer to Nicholas, so that I was on one side and Simon was on the other. Kipp and Elani both stood, concerned, but unable to assist. Reaching out, I took Nicholas’s hand, which was cool and dry; he didn’t look at me but his grip tightened around my fingers. In less than a minute, two staff members dressed in bright blue scrub uniforms darted towards us, pushing a wheelchair. They were discrete, of course, but it was evident from their unexpressed thoughts that Nicholas had suffered from similar spells before…a type of mild seizure it seemed. Simon, after a hurried goodbye, trailed after his friend.
There was no need for us to wait since the staff had things in hand, and Simon had departed to be with his friend, so I herded our small party back to the SUV. As Peter swung the vehicle into traffic, I half turned in my seat despite the constraint of the seat belt.
“Kipp, what impressions did you get?” I asked. He’d been conspicuously quiet during the interview, but I realized he had been intensely concentrating and had tuned me out for the duration.
He poked his head in between me and Peter; a moment later, Elani joined him and we made a sight as we drove along, with our four heads lined up in a row across the front seats of the vehicle. Kipp drew close and pressed the side of his face to my cheek. It was then I was aware how taxing his deep dive into the thoughts of Nicholas Little had been. After a pause, he let out a sigh.
“Well, I have no doubt that Nicholas believes what he was telling us. I was able to go back to his memory of what his father disclosed and recall the moment as his father told him of his efforts to sink the Titanic.” Kipp pulled back since he was acutely aware of his close physical proximity to Elani. Proper gent that he was, he never liked leading her on in any manner since he knew she harbored tender feelings for him. “The issue is that we have no way of knowing if his father was telling him the truth.” Kipp paused to yawn. He wasn’t sleepy but needed the sudden influx of oxygen to help clear his mind.
“Why on earth would someone lie about that?” Elani asked. “And especially on one’s death bed? It doesn’t make sense to me.”
“There was intense detail in the memories, as you all can see,” Kipp remarked, inviting Peter and Elan
i to share his thoughts. I was already busy canvassing them. “There was an original plan and then, after the ship hit the iceberg, there was a revised plan. If you know anything about the construction of the Titanic and what happened to the bulkheads that lead to the sinking, then what Nicholas was told is completely logical and believable.”
I watched the road, not speaking, as we clicked off the miles towards home. I wasn’t sure what any of the information meant but knew one thing for certain–a trip to the Titanic was unprecedented, dangerous and psychologically threatening. This might be one of those times for a wise symbiont pair to walk away from an assignment.
Kipp nuzzled the back of my head, his breath warm against my flesh. Privately he assured me we’d agree together or not at all. My hand drifted up to scratch his chin; there were a few bristly hairs–like those that might grow on the face of an old man—caught up in the soft pelt of fur. I knew I’d feel better when we could talk with Fitzhugh, just Kipp and me.
Chapter 8
Previously, I’d enjoyed time spent with Philo. Now it seemed, not so much. Kipp attributed my change in feelings to my natural opposition to authority and, if I was honest, there was some truth to that notion. But it was difficult for two beings who had been as close as us to make the transition to supervisor and employee while maintaining a friendship.
“I think it would be prudent to do some preliminary research on the Titanic in order to present a coherent plan to the Twelve,” Philo was saying.
I felt my eyebrows scoot so far up my forehead they threatened to disappear into my hairline. “Hold on, there,” I began, settling myself in the chair. “I don’t think that I said I was interested in going to the Titanic.” I glanced over at Peter whose face was neutral. At least the kid was letting me take the lead. Kipp looked up at me, his jaw opening as he began to pant. He knew the atmosphere in the room was about to get tense. Elani, bless her, maintained her predictably even keel. I was finding, over time, that she was a wonderfully steady ship to have in any storm.
Titanic, 1912 (The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series, Book 5): Young Adult Time Travel Adventure Page 8