Unburning Alexandria (7 page)

The short walk north to the Millennium Club on West 49th Street, just off of Fifth Avenue, was uneventful – except for the robot taxis in some kind of standoff stalemate on Madison and 47th. If she remembered her traffic programming correctly, whichever robot got to the intersection even a fraction of a second earlier was supposed to have right of way. And if by some fluke both arrived at the same instant, a whole protocol based on urgency of trip, communicated from one robot to another, was supposed to decide which car went first. So what was going on here? Likely a new model, with some crucial function from the 2042 program inadvertently left out. Progress.

But one benefit of this showdown on Madison Avenue was that it had pulled her mind far away from the butterflies in her stomach. They returned now in fluttering force as she made her way to 48th and then 49th Street . . . . She could see the Millennium, its shim-shield glinting, at the end of the block.

She wondered if the doorman would know her. Surely some of them from 2042 would still be at their posts. Even in 2042, people regularly lived until their hundred-and-teens, and usually worked at one job or another at least until a hundred. The life-and-work-spans likely had improved since then. . . .

But the doorman at the Millennium looked closer to 40, and unfamiliar. "I'm not a member," Sierra said sweetly, "but Thomas O'Leary or Cyril Charles, if either are in, would be happy to see me."

"Terribly sorry." The doorman bowed unctuously. "I am afraid I have only been on the job a few weeks, and have yet to fully master the membership names by heart–"

Great, Sierra thought.

"I could check the membership presence rosters for Mr. O'Leary," the doorman continued, "or, I believe Mr. Charles is in right now. Which would you prefer?"

Good old reliable Mr. Charles! "Mr. Charles would be perfect – thank you!"

"I won't be long," the doorman assured her. "Please wait in the vestibule." He showed her to a room with real paper newspapers and computer screens, and left to fetch Cyril Charles.

Sierra realized just how much she missed computers. There had been none in Heron's bucolic prison room, and the texts in Alexandria of course said nothing more than what they already said, when you addressed them or ran your finger on its words. That's why Socrates, presumably without ever seeing a computer, had yearned for an "intelligent writing" – one that could answer questions put to it – at least according to Jowett's translation of the
Phaedrus
. But humanity could not afford to lose those scrolls back there, those stubborn but vulnerable guardians of knowledge. . . . She spoke to the screen: "Thomas O'Leary–"

"Miss, can I help you?" Cyril Charles, looking confused, was beside her.

Sierra jumped up–

The computer spoke: "Thomas O'Leary, independent scholar and academic, deceased 2058–"

"What? No! Repeat!" Sierra screamed at the computer.

"Thomas O'Leary, independent scholar and academic, deceased 2058," the computer complied.

"Yes, of course," Charles said, mostly to himself. "Thomas told me about Hypatia. . . . Forgive me for not recognizing you." He looked at Sierra, who was staring, shaking, mouth open and horrified, at the computer screen. "You didn't know about Thomas." Charles said softy and put his arm around her. "Let's go upstairs."

* * *

"He was in his 80s at most, died suddenly of a stroke," Charles told Sierra, when they were seated at a quiet table. A beautiful Raphael painting – an original – hung on the wall near them. "It was fast, instant," Charles continued, and wiped a tear from his own eye, "at least we can be thankful for that. But who dies in their 80s in this day and age? Modern medicine – educated quacks who don't know what they're talking about. . . ."

Sierra couldn't speak. Sorrow coursed through her system and all but short-circuited her brain. But with the slender part of her mind that could still think, she wondered how much Mr. Charles knew about what was actually going on, about what had really happened. She knew Charles knew about Socrates – he had been there, here in the Millennium, the last time she had seen Socrates. The last time she had seen Thomas. . . .

Charles continued. "He spent a very happy period of months with Socrates in 2042, I can tell you that. I never really got to know Thomas very well, but I don't think I had ever seen him happier. We laid Socrates to rest in a nice quiet corner of Woodlawn, when the philosopher finally succumbed to that inoperable brain tumor. . . . Our bumbling medicine failed again. . . . We keep the gravesite in good appearance. I can take you there, if you like. . . ."

Sierra nodded. Why hadn't Jonah told her about Thomas? Could he not have known?

Charles went on. "And after Socrates left us, Thomas retreated. . . . If I had never seen him happier than during those months with Socrates, I don't believe I had ever seen Thomas sadder than he was, afterwards. He seemed to take no joy in life. It was as if he was suffering from a broken heart – which I guess, in a sense, he was. . . ."

Sierra caught just the flicker of an inscrutable expression in Charles's eyes. It occurred to her that, just as she was being careful with Charles, he might be speaking very carefully to her, unsure of what he thought she knew or did not know about all of this, especially given her different face. "Are there any chairs in the room upstairs?" she asked, quietly.

"You would like to go back, prior to his death in 2058? But I am afraid there has not been a chair in the room for several months – three months, twelve days, four hours and fifty-six minutes, to be exact."

Sierra looked at Charles quizzically.

"I have the room monitored," Charles explained. "I have a device."

Heron had taken her from Alexandria to Athens in 413, where they had taken two chairs to 2061, and then a private plane to New York. So she had seen no evidence of chairs upstairs at this specific time. She knew full well that the rooms were frequently bereft of chairs. . . . Was this just more bad coincidence or more of Heron's manipulation?

And something else about what Charles had just said caught her attention. He had "a device" – no doubt something connected to a video or holographic surveillance of the room at the top of the winding stairs. But why had he used just the general word "device," and not something more specific like holographic cam? Because it would not arouse suspicion with whomever he might be conversing about this, whatever their time of origin?

"What century do you originally come from, if you'll pardon such a personal question," Sierra asked him.

"Mid-nineteenth – same as Mr. Appleton. A glorious age – so much hope in the powers of humanity! But I have spent so much time in the 20th, 21st, and 22nd lately – I sometimes feel like a denizen of all eternity itself!"

He was indeed reminiscent of her dear Appleton. She hoped that the publisher was safe at home in his beloved 1890s, as Heron had at some point assured her Appleton was. "What century did Thomas originally come from?" she asked Charles.

Charles coughed, and sipped some of his ginger seltzer. "Apologies – I am just recovering from a bit of the croup, I think – I guess they call it minor Mutando virus now." He laughed, and then coughed again.

Sierra kept her sympathetic gaze on him.

"Yes . . . about Thomas. I'm afraid I honestly do not know," Charles said. "He was a very private man, as you know."

Sierra quelled an unexpected surge of tears. "Could you take me to Woodlawn now? Would that be possible? I assume Thomas is buried near Socrates?"

Charles nodded silently and called for the check.

* * *

Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx was very quiet this early, rusty, late September day. They came upon the grave of Socrates first, under an oak. Like most of the trees in the cemetery, it had seen better days. Much like the people here, Sierra reflected. The grass was neatly trimmed. "The grave diggers keep the dandelions at bay," Charles said.

"Dandelions don't bother me," Sierra said quietly. She looked at the plain marble headstone. Carved upon it, in equally plain letters, was "Socrates, 470 BC – 2042 AD. He preferred speaking to writing, but the impact of his writing is beyond measure." Sierra smiled, just slightly.

"Thomas was confident this would not attract attention – given some of the absurdities, the outright obscenities even, you see carved on other tombstones. . . ." Now Charles smiled. "I guess my public morality will always be a result of my father's cane, and the mid-nineteenth century," he added, apologetically. Then he pointed, delicately, to another grave, with a smaller headstone, about five feet away. There were no other graves between it and the grave of Socrates.

Sierra approached it. It said: "Thomas O'Leary, ? – 2058 AD. I ask the forgiveness of all whom I disappointed."

"We found a note," Charles said, shakily. "It's what Thomas wanted–"

And Sierra found her herself sobbing in huge waves. She wrapped her arms around the gravesite. "You didn't disappoint me. You made my life." Her tears ran from her cheeks down the rough grey stone. A few collected in the "o" of the carved "forgiveness". The rest evaporated, or were absorbed in the stone, before they reached the ground.

Charles helped her up. She didn't know how long she had been crying, or what she had been saying. She was still shaking. "I've lost everyone I love," she said. "Everyone. I'm the one who's disappointed everyone."

Charles hugged her for a while, then spoke softly but intensely. "Listen to me. Thomas never lost faith in you. He told me, many times, 'I do not worry for Sierra – she is destined to do great things.' He loved you, very much. He believed in you."

She put her head against Charles' chest, cried, and realized something about him at that moment. He could not be an agent of Heron. She also thought she understood now why Heron had let her leave. He had wanted her to come here, to founder on her sorrow and guilt, to retire now from the stage he also had helped set her upon. She understood this, because that is what she most wanted now.

She pulled away and managed a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Charles. I'm lucky to have you as a friend. . . . Can we go back to the Club, now?"

* * *

They took the Woodlawn line back to Manhattan – the reverse of the conveyance they had taken to the cemetery. A static, non-digital plaque mounted above the seats opposite theirs advised that a train of one sort or another had been making this trip for better than 150 years. Sierra knew that this current model was one step below fastrain. But it was still pretty fast. It would be in Grand Central in 12 minutes.

Another sign said that they could press a button under each of their seats, and get a clacking sound piped in to each of them. "Many of the trains in the 20th century made this sound as they traveled this route," the sign concluded. "Many of our passengers say they find this sound comforting."

Sierra looked at Charles, who nodded. "Yes, I find it comforting, too," he said. The two pressed their buttons.

Sierra closed her eyes. "I like it. . . . Mr. Charles, do you have records of what your device sees in the room at the top of the spiral stairs?"

"You mean digital recordings? No, I'm afraid not."

Sierra looked at him.

"There is something in the lighting of the room that prevents permanent recording, and prevents making copies of the recordings," Charles elaborated. "After 24 hours precisely, the original recording fades."

Sierra shook her head slowly and frowned.

"I assume it is some trick of Heron's, from the future," Charles said. "Thomas agreed. He said it was akin to some early forms of photography, before Daguerre in France."

Sierra nodded. "Before the right chemical compound was discovered, the precursors of the first photographs would always fade – and usually well before 24 hours."

* * *

The train arrived at Grand Central exactly on time. Sierra and Charles walked the old Northcut promenade, which would take them to Madison and 53rd. It was filled with spicy new restaurants and hi-tech boutiques.

Sierra stopped, suddenly.

"Is everything ok?" Charles inquired.

"I've changed my mind about going to the Millennium. I . . . I'm going someplace else."

"Where?" Charles asked, concerned. "Don't you think it would be better if–"

"No," Sierra replied. "It's something that I need to do now, as soon as possible. And it's better that you do not know what that is."

Charles started to object, thought the better of it, then took Sierra's hand and walked over to an ATM. "I don't know what kind of resources you have in this year–"

"My eye-scan should still give me access to my 2042 accounts–" It had the last time she'd been in this year, with Socrates.

"True, but just in case. . . ." Charles did some quick silent work with his fingers on the ATM, and it produced a thin, gleaming earring.

"Looks like a silver teardrop," Sierra said.

Charles took it and put it in Sierra's palm. "There's ten thousand dollars in there. Use it as you see fit."

"I can't–"

"It's what Thomas would have wanted," Charles said. "Don't worry – I won't tell anyone I even saw you today."

"You can tell Jonah, if you see him. He'll know where I've gone."

"The young Alexandrian man?"

"Yes." Sierra hugged Charles, then kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, for everything. You Victorian gentlemen are very lovable."

* * *

Sierra made a quick stop in an Apples & Oranges digi-boutique – "a device for every conceivable and inconceivable communication" – and dashed onto a train for the airport.

She used the comm on the arm rest of her seat to confirm that her eye scan still worked– good, it did. She sighed in relief. She had Hypatia's eyes now, but the retinas were her originals. So the scan should have worked. If it hadn't, she no doubt eventually could have gotten complete claim and control of her identity by appealing to the DNA in her body, any place other than her face. DNA facials, after all, were not uncommon. She would have prevailed. . . . But this way was better. Now she had complete access not only to her money, but to passport privs, etc.