Chronica (30 page)

[London, July, 2050 AD]

Charles was at Blair Annex 45 minutes later. He stopped quickly at an automated medical station, where he was scanned and his blood was drawn and analyzed. "Low grade remaining infection. Likely recent bronchitis mostly resolved," the report on the screen advised. Rest and an antibiotic injection dispensed right at this facility were recommended. Charles took the injection.

The flight across the Atlantic was 90 minutes, smooth and comfortable, as was the cab he took from JFK Airport to the Millennium Club, which got stuck in traffic, and took almost as long as the flight.

Now he would have to wait, however long, for at least two Chairs, assuming none were already there in the room at the top of the spiral stairs.

[New York City, July, 2050 AD]
 

There was one Chair in the room upstairs, but taking it back to Sierra, Max, Astor, and Tesla in 1899 would allow only one of them to travel forward, which was not enough. Charles needed to wait for at least one other Chair, and, with any luck, more. In the meantime, Charles needed to round up some doormen to take the Chairs back with him.

The young man with the British accent was the only doorman Charles knew who was now in residence at the Millennium. Charles could not tell just by looking at him whether in his lifetime this was before or after the violence with Woodruff at the Millennium in 1899, and Charles knew not to ask. Say as little as possible, to anyone, was the mantra for everyone who knew about the Chairs who worked in the clubs in any century.

Charles set in for the wait, as long as it took. He kept reminding himself that once he and his colleagues embarked back to 1899 in the Chairs, it would seem to Sierra et al in 1899 that he had been gone just a minute, whether he had been gone for a month or a year of his life. In a way, air travel shared this psychological quality with time travel – you could travel from London to New York in 2050 AD in under two hours, but you when you arrived in New York, it would be at a time on the clock well before you left London. Fast air flights across time zones made the air passenger a kind of time traveler.

He occupied his days with watching movies he had missed over the years. The
Godfather
double trilogy was his favorite, and Asimov's
Foundation
trilogy was an outstanding piece of cinema indeed. He thought of Edwin Porter, and how far motion pictures had progressed since Porter's pioneering work. Charles felt bad that Porter had been in league with Heron in the
Chronica
business, but was glad that no harm had come to him on the day that Woodruff had died.

Other than the movies, Charles enjoyed seeing the Chinese-American Jupiter launch, with a crew of fifty-five people. The world was in pretty good shape, at this point, Charles reflected. That is why, although he supported Sierra, he was not completely unswayed by Heron's brief to keep the world as it was – if that, indeed, is what Heron really wanted, which was always the problem with that engineer.

On the 23
^rd
day of Charles's stay, Hastings the young British doorman informed him that two Chairs were now in the room. Charles was of course interested in who had arrived with the Chair, but protocol again strictly forbade him from even asking Hastings.

Charles now had to decide if should wait for another Chair or two. He made a decision, and spoke to Hastings.

"It might not be a good idea for me to accompany you now," Hastings told Charles. "I was on the premises in 1899 when the New York City police detective was killed, and it may not be a good idea for me to return to the scene with my younger self there, too."

So that answered the question of whether this was before or after that incident in Hastings' lifetime. "Of course," Charles replied. "So whom might you recommend to accompany me?"

"Our current chef has the used the Chairs," Hastings replied. "Mr. Psilakis."

Charles nodded. He had heard of the chef.

Hastings returned with Psilakis – shaven head, goatee, white chef's coat – in about 10 minutes.

"I have sampled your work," Charles said, as the two shook hands, "and have found it delicious!"

"Thank you," Psilakis said and bowed. "The cuisine in the clubs still needs improvement in some eras, but I'm trying my best – there's only so much that one person can do!"

"Of course," Charles said, "and we're most appreciative."

"Mr. Hastings tells me that you want to go back to 1899," Psilakis said. "I'm happy to accompany you – that's a time that could use a
lot
of improvement in its cooking. Far too heavy in fat and starches." He rolled his eyes.

"Absolutely," Charles said.

"When do we leave?" Psilakis asked.

"How about right now?" Charles asked.

"I—of course! I can leave with you right now. I had a meeting planned with the sous-chef here, but going with you is far more important."

"Good," Charles said, and the two parted company with Hastings, and walked upstairs to the room with the Chairs.

***

Charles and Psilakis each sat in a Chair.
We're in July 2050 not June, and I have to set these Chairs to arrive at a few minutes after the exact date and time that I left the Millennium in 1899, in what now feels almost as long as a lifetime ago
, Charles thought.

"I do nothing with the controls, and you will make sure our two Chairs are synced and will arrive at the same time in 1899, right?" Psilakis asked.

"Yes," Charles replied. He carefully put in the date and depressed the go lever. Bubbles ascended, foreheads felt kissed by the cosmos, bubbles descended – or so Charles thought. But when his bubble descended and he looked around the room, there was no other Chair in sight.

Charles got out of his Chair. What had gone wrong? Where was the chef?

He heard a pounding at the door, and hoped he wasn't dreaming. He knew that pinching himself provided no proof that he wasn't, because he could be dreaming that he was pinching himself. But he nonetheless felt that this was real.

He opened the door.

Psilakis was standing there, angry and confused. "What happened? You said we'd arrive at the same time! I've been waiting here at least five minutes – good thing I knew I had to leave the room when I heard that whirring sound!"

"I'm sorry," Charles said, "and glad you're unharmed. The Chairs did not work as precisely as they should have, but we both seem to have arrived back here in one piece – or two one-pieces, as it were." Charles tried to smile at his own joke, but failed.

"Let's go," he said to Psilakis, and the two walked down the stairs.

[New York City, June, 1899 AD]
 

Sierra, Max, Astor, and Tesla broke into spontaneous applause in the vestibule, as Charles and Psilakis walked down the wide stairs to greet, and in Psilakis's case, meet them.

"Amazing," Max said. "Hard to believe that you didn't just walk up those stairs, change your mind about the voyage, and come right back down here."

"Three minutes and 45 seconds," Astor marveled, looking at his pocket watch.

"You look tired," Sierra said, as Charles and Psilakis approached. She touched Charles's face. "Was the journey difficult?"

Tesla looked at Psilakis. "Are there two Chairs, then, upstairs now? Are you a doctor?" he asked Psilakis.

"A chef," Psilakis replied. "And I think I best retire to the kitchen now."

"Of course," Charles said and clapped him on the back. "Thank you for accompanying me on this trip – the Chair you took here will be crucial!"
 

"The police should be here any minute," Astor said quietly, after Psilakis left. "They were called about Woodruff, and told the story suggested by Mr. Bertram – that a deranged assailant came into the club, knifed the detective, then left."

Charles nodded.

"I think the two of you should take the Chairs right away, before the police arrive," Astor said to Sierra and Max. "They get crazy when one of their own are killed. Not that I blame them. But we can take care of things here."

Tesla looked disappointed, but nodded agreement.

"We'll come back and take you to the future as soon as we're sure that Mr. Appleton is ok," Sierra said to Tesla.

Tesla nodded again.

"I think I need some rest," Charles said suddenly, shakily, and leaned against the wall.

Astor propped him up. "Let's get you to the infirmary. You can keep Mr. Bertram company."

Charles shook his head no. "I can stay there, but you'll need to get Mr. Bertram away from the club. We can't have the police seeing the wound in his arm."

"Of course, you're right," Astor said.

Tesla pointed to the entrance of the club. Two police officers, as if on cue, were coming through the door. "I'll talk to them," Tesla said, turning towards the door. "I can get you a least a few minutes before they think to look in the infirmary. I'm good at playing the slightly hysterical immigrant."

Astor nodded. "Go," he said to Max and Sierra, who looked quickly at Charles.

"I'm ok," he said. "Astor is right – you should go."

Tesla was with the police. Sierra and Max walked quickly up the stairs, and Astor walked as quickly as he could with Charles to the infirmary.

Chapter 21

[New York City, 2096 AD]
 

Sierra was relieved that Max and she had arrived in sync, at the same time. It bothered her a lot, to say the very least, that she could no longer rely on this feature of the Chairs.
 

There was no one at the front door. If there had been, she knew she would get no answer if she asked if Heron had recently been here. Either he had or had not, and it was safest to assume that he had.

The weather was temperate this late June morning. Climate control had been in effect for decades, more than enough time to work out all the initial bugs in the system. She breathed in deeply and exhaled, then looked at Max and took his hand. It could be a beautiful world, if only people like Heron left it alone.

Of course, she knew that that's exactly what he thought she was doing – trying to change history as it was, which was why Heron was trying to stop her – but Sierra knew better, or was sure that she did. How could it be right, how could it be a better world, to burn all of the scrolls, many one-of-a-kind copies, in the Library of Alexandria? No, the way to a better world could not be through the destruction of knowledge. That was the path of the Nazis, of religious zealots throughout the ages, of people so insecure in their own beliefs that they felt the only way to preserve them was to destroy the beliefs of others.

"We catch the rail to Brewster, Massachusetts?" Max asked.

"Yeah," Sierra replied.

"Not far from that place on Sea Street, in Quivett Neck, near Dennis, where we first decided to really get into this, years ago," Max said.

Sierra nodded and squeezed his hand.

"Do you feel bad about our killing that detective?" Max asked. "We had no choice – he would have killed us, if not then, then sooner or later. He already tried once before, on the Weehawken ferry."

"I don't feel bad about that at all," Sierra said. "My father was Chief of Detectives with the NYPD. I know what decent, honest cops are like. Woodruff was a miscreant. Even Flannery had a conscience in the end." And she pulled Max close to her and kissed him, mouth open, right on the front steps of the Millennium.

Then she pulled slightly away. "Let's get some normal clothes for 2096, stock up on any small combat supplies we can obtain and carry, then on to Moynihan Station and catch a train."

***

The fast rail had them in Brewster in a little over an hour. Jeffrey Foucault's "Mesa, Arizona" was playing in the station, part of Amtrak's new policy of playing songs from the past with the names of places where the rail system operated.

The Brewster station was where the Post Office had been, long gone like just about every post office except a few in the big cities. The train station and the Post Office before it was on the rail trail, which had once had tracks but had been paved over and used for bicycles from the last quarter of the 20
^th
century to the middle of the 21
^st
, when the Biden rail initiative finally reached Cape Cod. That had resulted in a new set of electrified tracks and the fast rail trains that followed.

The Foster Square Facility was about a 15-minute walk. "I could use the exercise," Max said, breathing in the ocean air.
 

[Foster Square Facility, Brewster, Massachusetts, June, 2096 AD]
 

Heron knew better than to come here alone, or to entrust his fate to the ever unreliable performances of public transport. He had rented an automated car, which had taken him and four of his legionaries – trained in combat in Europe, taught appropriate American accents, and looking now like U. S. Federal law enforcement – up here to this sleepy place by the bay, which might well contain the key to his future and everything he had been attempting to accomplish for so long.

If he had to bet – and he was most definitely not a betting man, preferring always to make things happen, rather than leaving them to chance – Heron would have bet that Porter and Woodruff, inept as they were, had managed to destroy the original copy of the
Chronica
. He could feel that in his sinews and his neurons. And yet, nothing had changed. He could feel that, too. Which meant that somehow, somewhere, there was yet another copy of the
Chronica
. That scroll that he had stupidly written seemed to breed like rabbits, or a self-replicating amoeba gone out of control.

He believed the only place that could provide some inkling, more information now, about where a copy of the
Chronica
might be was right across Route 6A, well within reach, just a few hundred feet in front of him and his men.
 

***

She had the environs surveilled a hundred ways to Sunday, as the idiom she had picked up somewhere had it. She could see Heron and his four well-armed henchmen now crossing Route 6A. She could see Sierra and Max, now not more than 10 minutes from that very place, armed only with their knives and their courage. She felt what could best be described as a thrill when she saw Sierra – she had never seen Sierra so young, so vibrant, so beautiful - but she had more important matters to attend to now.