Chronica (11 page)

Could the DNA facial reconstruction make the recipient look much younger? Of course it could, that's how this surgery had started in the first place, and was still by far its most frequent usage in the 21
^st
century. Could it change the face of the recipient enough to make him or her look like a different gender? This was no doubt done for some number of people, too. But following through on what your new gender could do obviously would require a different kind of surgery.

Sierra had turned over in her sleep, and her hand was now resting right below his abdomen. He thought about waking her up, for a third go. But she needed her rest, and she was sleeping so peacefully. No, not tonight.

Maybe he wasn't as young as he used to be.

But her hand felt so good where it was. He carefully swiveled around, and glancingly kissed her sleeping lips. Hell, he still felt younger than most of the people in the world, in this or any time.

***

Sierra found a note under the door the next morning. She woke Max.

"He wants to meet us for breakfast in an hour," she said.

"Who?" Max rubbed his eyes and sat up. "Astor?"

"Yep."

Max got out of bed. "You showered yet?"

Sierra nodded.

Max walked into the bathroom, left the door open, and started to shower. "One thing I don't like about this guy is he yanks us around like puppets on his string," he said loudly.

"If we believe he's on our side, his wanting to see us so often could be a good thing," Sierra said, right outside of the bathroom door.

"You've softened your attitude about Astor," Max said. "Surely the symphony wasn't that persuasive."

***

The two joined Astor for breakfast. He was already seated at the table, and rose to greet them.

"I have news that might interest you," he said, after the waiter took their orders.

'Tell us," Sierra said.

"I have a report from one of my contacts that Heron may now be in 1899," Astor said. He lowered his voice. "Whatever 'now' may mean in this context." He laughed loudly.

"How did your contact come to tell you this?" Sierra asked.

"Traveled from there – 1899 – to where, or when, we are now," Astor replied. "All of this is happening in New York."

"And you're not going to tell us who your contact is, right?" Max noted with a frown.

"Not until I know the two of you a little better," Astor replied. "Let me be honest with you." He put out his hands, open palms, on the table. "I told you that Thomas O'Leary and I spoke. He was very thorough. He explained to me that the face he had when we were speaking was not his original face. He told me automata in the future can be fashioned with faces that look like specific humans. I won't pretend to you that I understood it all. But I comprehended enough to understand that the two of you may not be who you seem to be. Don't get me wrong – I believe that you are Sierra Waters and you are Maxwell Marcus. Certainly William Henry Appleton believes that, and he's in a much better position than I to know. But I just can't yet be 100% sure, and the stakes, as you know, are awfully high."

"I guess we should be grateful that we've found a champion like you," Sierra said, "especially with William declining. And I don't mean that the least bit sarcastically."

Astor bowed his head slightly. "Thank you. But I wasn't fishing for compliments."

"What do you think Heron is doing in 1899," she asked Astor, though she knew the answer.

"To wring what he can out of William," Astor replied, sadly, "including the
Chronica
, if it's not already under translation in other hands. Heron must know that William does not have many days left in 1899."

Sierra nodded, and thought again, does Astor know he himself will die on the Titanic in 1912? She controlled an urge to blurt this out. Unless Astor already knew about his death, telling him about this now would only pitch this whole conversation and whatever help Astor was trying give into wild disarray. But she didn't know how much longer she could keep this out of her mind and her speech.

"You're suggesting we travel to 1899, to protect Appleton?" Max asked.

"Yes," Astor said, "all three of us. He's certainly no match for Heron on his own, especially in his deteriorating health. By the way, William has been thoroughly briefed since 1896 about my knowledge and use of the Chairs, so you need not be concerned on that account."

***

"One good thing about short leaps into the future or past is that you needn't worry about time-appropriate apparel," Astor said to Max and Sierra as the two met him in front of the Millennium Club a few hours later, to take their trip to 1899. It was his way of saying he approved of what Max and Sierra were wearing.

"How far into the future or past have you traveled?" Max asked Astor.

Sierra shot Max a look which she hoped Astor didn't catch. She fervently hoped Astor hadn't traveled anywhere past April 15, 1912, the date of the Titanic's sinking.

"Not very far," Astor said, cheerily. "I'm trying to first develop my time-travel legs."

Sierra smiled. "You've confirmed that the room at the top of the spiral stairs has three Chairs?" She knew that he had, but wanted confirmation anyway.

"Oh yes," Astor replied. "Cyril Charles told me in fact that there were four Chairs up there, not more than an hour ago."

Max and Sierra both started to speak—

"Yes, I know," Astor interrupted. "This raises the question of who arrived here and when in that surplus of Chairs. But if we decide to wait here, until we find out who arrived, well . . . if the people who arrived mean us harm, then waiting is the strategy of sitting ducks, which surely we do not want to be."

"I agree," Sierra said. "Let's proceed with our plan."

Max looked a little less positive about this, but did not raise any objections.

The three entered the Millennium Club. "Good afternoon, Mr. Astor," the man inside said, and smiled courteously at Sierra and Max.

"These are my guests, James," Astor said.

James nodded. "Of course."

Sierra and Max returned his smile and proceeded with Astor.

"I've never seen him before," Sierra said to Astor.

"He's new here," Astor said, "a lot younger than the usual, as you can see."

The three walked up the first, second, and third flights of stairs to the second floor of the library, then up the winding set of stairs to the room with the Chairs.
 

Astor put a key to the door and it opened.

Sierra looked at Max. Astor apparently had an authorized key, she thought. More evidence that he was truly on their side? No – because Heron's people apparently had such keys as well.

There were indeed four Chairs in the room.

"What specific date in 1899 are we headed to?" Max asked Astor.

"My contact says Heron was spotted in March 1899," Astor said. "We probably should aim for the end of February, to be safe."

"Are we dressed warmly enough?" Max asked.

"Probably not," Astor replied. "But we can see to proper overcoats after we arrive. I know some very nice shops."

The three sat in the Chairs. "I'll do the honors," Sierra said. "I'm setting our arrival for February 25, 1899, at 10 o'clock in the morning."

"Sounds good," Max said, and Astor nodded.

Sierra lowered the go lever. Transparent bubbles arose around each head. The cosmos kissed them and the bubbles receded.

 
[New York City, February, 1899 AD]

"One thing I need to be especially careful about is not running into myself here in 1899," Astor said. "You two are no doubt aware of the problem. I could be having a drink right now at the bar downstairs."

"We won't stop at the bar," Sierra said, "and the likelihood of encountering yourself as you walk down the stairs is slim."

"Of course," Astor said, and the three left the room.

They encountered no one of note as they proceeded downstairs to the Millennium Club's entrance, at which Mr. Bertram was standing.

"I have seen him at the Club," Sierra told Astor. "Max knows him, too."

Astor nodded.

"Hello," Bertram said to Max and Sierra. "Mr. Astor, I do not believe we have met. My name is Reginald Bertram."

"The pleasure is all mine," Astor said with a bright smile, and shook Bertram's hand.

"You're not going out there like that?" Bertram said, a little appalled. "We had a blizzard here 11 days ago – 'The Snow King,' it's being called – 16 inches in Central Park, and one of the coldest days on record."

Max had already opened the front door. A frigid face-numbing blast confirmed what Bertram was saying.

"Where can we get some warm clothing?" Sierra asked and shivered.

"The Club has a nice selection of overcoats," Bertram replied. "I don't know if they'll suit your style, but they're well packed wool, and you can borrow them for as long as you like."

"That would be wonderful, thank you," Sierra said.

"Would you like to come with me?" Bertram asked. "Or, it might be faster if I just pick three coats out for you." He eyed Sierra, Max, and Astor. "I have a good eye for size and fit – I was a haberdasher in London, before the Parthenon Club hired me away!"

"You choose, by all means," Sierra said. Max and Astor nodded agreement, and Bertram left to get the overcoats.

"One of the hazards of temporal travel in intemperate climates," Sierra said. "We never had such problems in Athens or Alexandria."

A group of men entered. One, with a moustache, thick head of hair, and a pair of spectacles attached to his vest with a silver chain, instructed a younger man who was holding the door open while he scraped the snow off of his boots. "Shut that door, man – you'll make it feel like Siberia inside the Club!"

The man apologized and complied.

"J. P.!" Astor said with delight and pumped the extended hand.

"Jack," J. P. said more sedately. "You look younger every time I see you."

Astor laughed. "These are my friends, Sierra Waters and Maxwell Marcus, just returned from Egypt."

"I ought to go there one of these days," J. P. said, shaking hands with Max and gently squeezing Sierra's. "I have business upstairs, even though no business is allowed in the Club," he said and he took his leave.

"J. P. Morgan," Astor whispered to Sierra and Max. "He financed Thomas Edison a few years ago – actually, more than a few years ago, now. Tesla was
furious
."

Bertram appeared with the overcoats. "I think this greatcoat should suit you," he said to Sierra, and graciously dressed her in a deep beige coat with a cloak. "This should keep you warm as toast."

"Thank you," Sierra said.

Bertram did the same to Max, who received a stylish dark grey greatcoat.
 

Astor looked on approvingly, beaming at Sierra and Max. He put his arms through the black greatcoat Bertram extended to him.

A man appeared with three hats. "Thank you," Bertram said to the man, then to Sierra, Max, and Astor, "I can't let you go out into this cold with bare heads."

"Thank you," Astor said again, and took the black hat, with wide brim and flat crown, offered to him. Max did the same.

Sierra's was even more stylish, and mauve.

"Return all of this whenever convenient," Bertram said, and left with the hat bearer.

Sierra, Max, and Astor said thanks again, and walked out into the street. The cold hit their noses, unprotected by the greatcoats and hats.

"Let's proceed up to Wave Hill," Astor said, his breaths forming visible puffs in the icy air. "The trains from Grand Central run frequently."

"Should we call first?" Max asked.

"Not necessary," Astor replied. "I'm sure William will be happy to see us."

***

Astor professed to find the seven-block walk south to Grand Central Terminal invigorating. Sierra was happy that most of the snow had been cleared. But all three had to walk as close to the buildings and as far away from the street as possible, "lest we be splashed in the face by one of those horses or horseless carriages," Astor advised, grumpily.

They checked the schedule inside the Terminal. "Good timing," Astor observed. "There is a train to Riverdale in 20 minutes."

"Do you think we'll be able to make the climb up to William's house with all of the snow?" Max asked. "There's likely to be more of it in the Bronx, right?"

"Yes," Astor replied. "But we won't need to hike it. Did you notice the electrical hansom cabs in front of the Terminal? If they haven't made it as far as the Bronx as yet, there should be a few old-fashioned horse-drawn carriages readily available."

The train left at its posted time. The ride was smooth. There indeed were no electrical vehicles at the Riverdale station. Astor summoned a horse-drawn hansom cab, as promised. "Wave Hill," he instructed the driver, after helping Sierra and Max up into the cab.

"Very good, Guvnor!" the cabbie replied.

"Are you from the other side of the pond, England?" Sierra asked.

"Yes, I am indeed, Miss," the cabbie replied, and coaxed the horse to start its journey.

"Commerce has increased between New York and London in our decade," Astor said to Sierra, "not only economic, but intellectual. Transatlantic cable has been commonplace for a while, and the ocean liners are faster and more reliable than ever."

Sierra nodded, and again put the Titanic out of her mind.

"Visiting Mr. Appleton?" the cabbie inquired of his passengers. "He hasn't been in the best of health of late – I brought a doctor up to see him, just last week, if I'm not speaking out of turn."

Sierra thought that he was, but didn't object, because she valued the information this cabbie might convey more than chiding him for the impropriety of talking about Appleton's health. "What was the purpose of the doctor's visit?" she asked the cabbie.

"Can't rightly say that I know," the cabbie replied. "But a visit from a doctor when the moon is out can never be good."

"Well, it could be," Astor said, "if the purpose of the visit, for example, was to see to a woman with child. Fewer things in this world than we suppose are one-hundred-percent bad or good."