Chronica (33 page)

[New York City, June, 1899 AD]
 

Heron got out of his Chair. He saw two other Chairs in the room. Could Waters and Marcus have survived and gotten back to the room in 2096, and fine-tuned the trip so precisely that they managed to arrive before Heron, but after he had left to go to 2096, when there had been only one Chair in the room, the one he had taken? Not likely, especially since Heron had been doing his best lately to make the Chairs less exact in their arrivals, as a way of slowing down some of Sierra Waters' plans. So who had used these Chairs here? It didn't matter, as long as they didn't get in his way now.

But it was a good idea to leave the club as quickly as possible. Heron moved as fast as he could down the spiral stairs, then down to the main library floor, and on to the top of the wide staircase that led to the vestibule and the front door. But he stopped as soon as he arrived at the top of the wide staircase. There were at least four police at the door.

Their presence here could be no help to him now, and could do some unexpected damage. There was another exit from the club – the door the servants used – no, not servants, workers in this time and place – but that door was his best option now. He turned quickly around and half-ran to the far side of the room with the bar and the dining hall—

"Sir?" a voice called out. "There's been an unfortunate incident in the club, and the police may want to talk—""

Heron pretended he didn't hear and continued to the door that would lead to the workers' entrance. The voice would have identified itself as the police, if it had been so.
 

"
Sir
?" the voice was louder and more insistent.

Heron ignored it and went through the door.

***

Hastings walked quickly up to Astor, who was chatting amiably with the bartender. "Sir, may I have a word?"

"Of course," Astor replied, and gestured to Tesla, who was drinking at a table, to join them."

"I believe I may have just seen Heron, based on the description you gave the police, leave the club."

"How?" Astor said. "He just walked by the police, and they forgot the description? You wonder why they're my least favorite profession – I'd rather take a fireman to dinner any day!"

"No," Hastings said. "He went out through the other exit – the one we used for Mr. Bertram."

"Ah, servant's entrance," Tesla said.

"Yes," Hastings said.

Astor nodded.

"Should we tell the police?" Hastings asked, "before he gets too far away?"

Astor thought for a moment. "No," he said. "And for two reasons. First, we told the police that the maniac left the club right after slashing that detective. If Heron is to be the maniac, and he appeared in the club now, that would invalidate our story."

Hastings nodded. "I see. And the second reason?"

"Heron in fact did not stab Woodruff," Astor said. "He presumably has no blood on him, bears no signs of a struggle . . . so his body would negate our story even further."

"Very true, as well," Hastings said. "Very good, Sir! Thank you for your clear thinking!"

"Any time!" Astor clapped him on the back. "Join us for a drink? We're just getting started."

***

Heron walked at a moderate pace down Fifth Avenue, as fast as he could without attracting suspicion. He had not changed his clothing in 2096, so his garb was still appropriate for this time. He hoped Porter and Woodruff were at the seafood restaurant near Grand Central, with the good news that the paper copy of the
Chronica
had also been destroyed. Heron's instinct said that it was, but he knew full well that instincts could be wrong.

Porter was at a table by himself, a bottle of scotch and a shot glass filled to the brim in his hands, which were shaking.

Heron sat down. "You look like you lost your best friend. What happened? Did you burn the
Chronica
?"

"Not my best friend – Woodruff – but it was horrible!"

"Good material for one of your photo-plays, I'm sure," Heron said. "Tell me the whole story."

Porter gulped down his scotch, poured himself another, and complied with Heron's request.

"It was the worst thing I've ever seen," Porter concluded, "his body just bleeding there!"

"But you put the
Chronica
into the fireplace, and you're sure the fire consumed it all?"

"Yes, yes! You've asked me the same question, five times, and I've given you the same answer!" Porter slammed his hand on the table. The bottle teetered on the edge. Heron steadied it.

"I don't blame you in the slightest for being upset," Heron said, soothingly. "But it was better him than you."

"I know, of course it was, I don't want to die," Porter said. "But—"

"I meant that more than personally," Heron continued. "You have a contribution to make to history. You will be lauded as a great master of the photo-play, believe me. As for Woodruff, he was just a police detective." Heron made a dismissive face. "A dime a dozen."

Porter nodded, still unhappy. "What do you want me to do now?"

"You do nothing," Heron said. "Just live your life. Let it play out. You can even see that whore of an actress, if you like."

Porter frowned. He wasn't going to tolerate Heron talking about his private life like that. "And what do I say if the police want to talk to me?"

"Just tell them you were indeed at the club, but you didn't happen to see Woodruff, and you left before the incident occurred," Heron replied.

"People saw me—" Porter began.

"They no doubt did, but you are still a nonentity at this point in your life," Heron said. "Nobody notices you. And if someone does speak up, it's your word against his. You and Woodruff arrived separately – the time that you were together with him after I left was very brief, right?"

Porter nodded.

Heron stood. He was feeling altogether good about the way events had transpired today. He put his hand on Porter's shoulder. "But you will be noticed soon. Stay with Edison – he's good at many things, when he's not poking his nose into other people's business. You will be something of a celebrity. Enjoy it."

Heron walked out into the June 1899 New York sunshine. He didn't want to stay in this year any longer. He wanted to savor the dissolution of all Sierra Waters had created from a safer vantage point, either in the past or the future. But he couldn't go back to the Millennium now. He walked instead to the train terminal. He picked up a newspaper.
 

Heron was a time traveler, but he could not see into the future, unless he already had been there. In two hours from now, there would be special editions, and newsboys hawking them, with a headline about the killing at the Millennium. They would carry a description of a suspect who looked like Heron. But the description would be vague, and could fit a thousand men.

Heron didn't know any of this, when he bought a ticket to Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love. He had had enough of Massachusetts, in any age. He would book a passage on the first ocean liner he could find in Philadelphia, to England, where he could travel to the past or the future, whichever he chose, at the Parthenon Club.

He took a horse-drawn carriage to the Hudson, presented his train ticket at the ferry, and enjoyed the short voyage across the river. The breeze off the water felt good. The sea was the first means of long-distance transport, and he'd always had a special love for it.

He boarded a train to the south, and enjoyed that slow clacking ride, too. For the first time in a long time, he felt at ease. He smiled at a boy bouncing a ball on the Trenton station. It seemed after all of these harrowing years that life and history were finally bouncing his way.

Chapter 23

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

She located Appleton in the lavatory, alive, "but not well," she told Sierra and Max, "because he was very weak already, and does not have much longer to naturally live."

Sierra went to get him.

"I thought the lavatory would be a good place to keep away from Heron, if he passed by here, again," Appleton said. "I would very much like to go home now, my dear, if that is still possible."

"Of course it is," Sierra replied. But she wasn't sure that it was. But she also was thinking, maybe it made sense, if they could bring him back, to bring him back to October, 1899, so he could die in peace at the time history had recorded.

She walked with him, half holding him, very slowly, to the room with the android and Max and the two dead bodies. She knew better than to plead with Appleton to let her get him medical attention here, in the future. He wanted to be with his Mary.
 

"No sign of Heron?" Max asked, but he knew the answer.

Sierra shook her head no.

The android spoke. "Most of my surveillance equipment is badly damaged. But I'm getting a blurry reading of him approaching the Brewster fast-rail."

"Should we stop him?" Max asked, reflexively touching the hilt of his knife again.

"No need," the android said.

"Because Heron destroyed the last copy of the
Chronica
in the hairpin stick, and there's nothing we can do about that now?" Sierra asked.

Appleton smiled weakly and looked at the android. "We had a plan, and it seems that it worked," he said, softly.
 

"The
Chronica
wasn't in the hairpin?" Max asked, hopeful. "But, you said–"

"It was," the android replied. "That's what we needed Heron to think, so we needed to actually have a copy in there. That was mostly Mr. Appleton's idea – the hairpin was more convincing, more authoritative as the ultimate copy, than another paper manuscript. Just as it was Mr. Appleton's idea to distract Heron by giving a copy of the
Chronica
to Thomas Edison – that was convincing, too, and pursuing that copy took up a lot of Heron's time. I used that time to perfect the plan." She turned to Appleton and smiled. "You were just masterful."

He smiled again and took in the praise. "Publishing has always been a cut-throat business. I picked up some tricks along the way." He looked tenderly at Sierra. "I wanted to tell you. I tried. But there were too many dangerous people around. And then the rain got in the way."

Sierra squeezed his hand. "You were probably right not to tell me. But – wait, are you saying there's another copy!" Sierra said.

"There are more than one," the android said.

"But . . . of course! You have the copy in your brain! I should have realized that!" Sierra exclaimed.

"True," the android said. "But, as you know, digital media, including data banks, do not survive transfers across time in the Chairs. So, if that is all we had of the
Chronica
, it would be of limited use to you – less useful, ironically, than a paper manuscript or a scroll."

"I still don't understand," Sierra said.

The android smiled again. "It was your idea, in the future. Not to have my kind store the
Chronica
, but have us
be
the
Chronica
– that's how we're able to track changes in events across time, and initiate and implement events throughout history. We are not the words of the
Chronica
, we are its implementation. Not the Chairs described in the words, but what the Chairs with people in them do."

"You
are
the
Chronica
," Sierra said, finally beginning to understand. "I'll leave aside the paradox, for now, of how my future self got this marvelous idea in the first place – where it came from, if my future self built you on the basis of it, told it to you, and now you're telling me. But how long will Heron go without realizing it?"

"He has already gone a long time," the android said. "He had no idea what he was destroying when he set that Nitrian mob on my sister in Alexandria, and they tore her to shreds."

"You got some of your revenge today," Max said. "As someone once said, it's best eaten cold."

Appleton started coughing. Sierra helped him to a seat. "We need to get you home," she said.

Max agreed. "What about Astor? He helped us enormously – do we just let him go down on the Titanic?"

"Please be careful with any big changes you make in history," the android said. "It's not my place to stop you, but you know the risks."

Max took that in. "By the way, do you have a name? It gets a little confusing, not knowing what to call you."

"We don't like using names," she replied, "because in our basic appearance we all look the same. Androids who all look the same having either different names or the same name could be confusing. Also, having no name to begin with makes it a little easier for us when we adopt someone else's name, as my sister did with Hypatia."

"Ok, but surely you can tell us," Max said. "Just us. We won't get any more confused than we already are. We promise not to tell anyone."

The android smiled. "Chronica," she said. "Our name is Chronica."

Appleton managed another smile. "Your story will be told in manifest places."

Appendix

The following real people either appear or are significantly referred to in 
Chronica
 
(along with characters for whom there is no historical record). The details provided below are what we know of them, as of the time of this writing (September 2014).

Alcibiades, 450-404 BC
. 
Reputed to be handsome, amorous, wealthy, brilliant, brave, unpredictable, egotistical, and Socrates' favorite student.  The two saved each other's lives as soldiers near the beginning of the Second Peloponnesian War between Athens and Sparta.  Alcibiades later became an Athenian general, with mixed results.  He fell in and out of favor with various oligarchic and democratic governments in Athens.  While taking temporary refuge in Phrygia, on the east side of the Aegean, he was murdered by a band of Spartans (either loyal to Sparta, or hired by Alcibiades' political opponents in Athens).  According to I. F. Stone in 
The Trial of Socrates 
(1988) and his sources, Alcibiades was surprised while in bed with a woman, and fought "naked, outnumbered, but brave with sword in hand" until the end.