Chronica (15 page)

"Possibly it is the translator who doesn't want his name known," Astor spoke up, "and insisted upon that anonymity as a condition of his employment by Appleton."

"That makes some sense," Max said. "The translator would be on Heron's hit list."

Astor gave Max a quizzical look.

"On a list of people Heron would want to kill," Sierra provided a translation of the future jargon.

"And you would be at the top of the list," Astor said to Sierra, softly, with concern.

"Yes," Max replied. "We think Hypatia's horrible death in ancient Alexandria was orchestrated by Heron. He had good reason to think Sierra was Hypatia – we gave him good reason."

Astor was silent for a few moments. Sierra said nothing.

Astor spoke. "I have money, as you know. I can protect you," he said to Sierra.

She shook her head no.

"Protecting her and safeguarding the
Chronica
are mutually exclusive," Max said. Appleton understands that, I understand it, you probably understand that now, everyone understands it, except—" he looked at Sierra.

"I understand it," Sierra said, "but there's nothing to be done about it. Unless we want to abandon the field and give it all to Heron. And even then, he wouldn't be content with any of us alive, including you now, Mr. Astor."

"Jack," he said.

The conductor walked through their car and announced they would soon be arriving at Grand Central.

The three left the station and walked south to 39
^th
Street, where Astor's source was waiting for him in a small tavern.
 

Astor's source rose, and smiled especially broadly through his moustache when the three walked through the door and he saw Sierra.

Astor made the introductions. "William Kennedy Dickson, meet Sierra Waters and Maxwell Marcus."

***

"This is the honor of a lifetime," Dickson said to Sierra, when all were seated and ordered their libations, as Dickson had called them. "It's rare indeed that one person can do so much for civilization, and be as beautiful as you," he said to Sierra, and looked appreciatively into her eyes.

"You come from Scotland," Sierra observed.

"Yes, born in France, raised in Scotland, did lots of work here at Edison's Black Maria before heading back across the Atlantic," Dickson said. "I made the
Edison Kinetoscopic Record of a Sneeze
."

Max was impressed. "
Fred Ott's Sneeze
!
Five-second movie. First motion picture copyrighted in the United States – I saw it a hundred times in Shanahan's undergrad film class at Fordham University! It's an honor to meet
you
!"

Dickson turned to Max, deeply appreciative for a different reason. "I'd heard about that – through the time travel grapevine – that my work is venerated in the future. But it's nonetheless immensely gratifying to hear it from someone who hails from the future!"

"How did you find out about us?" Sierra asked, with a smile, but still wanting very much to know.

"Jack's a great fan of the photo-play," Dickson replied. "He sought me out and recruited me, as it were, last year in London."

"There are Chairs in the Parthenon Club in London, as you know," Astor added.

Sierra was again surprised about how much Astor knew – and was doing. It still made her uncomfortable. But she apparently needed to get used to it. "William Henry Appleton told us that Heron's
Chronica
is already deposited with a translator," Sierra said to Dickson. No need to keep that from him, since Astor already knew it. "Any ideas about whom that might be?"

Dickson tilted his face and considered. "Are you certain that Mr. Appleton was talking about a translator? Maybe he vested the book in someone's else keeping, in the expectation that such a person could in turn arrange for a translation."

"Come to think of it, he didn't use the word 'translator'," Max said. "He spoke only of 'translation'."

"Who could arrange for a translation?" Sierra asked. "Another publisher, with more suitable connections?"

"That could have appealed to Appleton," Max said, "given his knowledge of his own impending death."

Dickson couldn't suppress a shudder. "It's things like that that give me reason to think maybe the world was better off without time travel."

"Trust me, there are lots of reasons," Sierra said to Dickson. "I'm glad to have you with us," she added, partially truthfully. "What have you learned about what Heron is doing back here?"

"He's trying to get the
Chronica
for himself, as you know," Dickson replied, happy to switch from Appleton's impending death to what Sierra had asked. "He's been working with my former employer, Thomas Edison, for years, and now with Edison's new golden boy, Edwin Porter."

"That is why I approached you," Astor said, "to get a friend into that nest of photographer vipers."

Their beer arrived.

"Edison's far more than a photographer, I know," Astor said, "but—"

"That doesn't make him any less a viper if he's working with Heron," Max said.

"More than working with him," Sierra added. "Who knows how many of Edison's inventions were suggested by Heron. That's one of Heron's specialties."

***

Dickson got on an uptown trolley car when the meeting ended – to Mary Anderson's rooms in the little hotel north of 59
^th
Street.

She was expecting him, and opened the door in a negligee. They kissed. He soon removed her negligee and she his clothes.

He kissed her on the neck and ran his hand over her stomach as they lay in bed.

"Do you like me better than women of the future?" she asked him, with her patented slight pout.

"I don't know – I've never had any," Dickson replied, and moved his hand lower.

"Jack Astor told me they shave their private parts," Mary purred. "Would you like me better if I did that?"

Dickson touched her nipple with the tip of his tongue. "I like hair. It's nice to run my fingers through," Dickson replied, and demonstrated to Mary what he meant.

She moaned softly, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him passionately.

He was soon inside her. She wrapped her legs around his lower back. He came loudly. She came softly, soon after.

"It's a good thing that I'm too old to have children," Mary murmured, still in Dickson's arms. "I'm a devout Catholic, and the Church thinks contraception is a sin."

"I know," Dickson said. "I'm happier without a condom, of course, but if push came to shove, there's a fine one made of intestine that does the trick."

"Is there a joke somewhere in that?" Mary said, and laughed.

"No, I just like playing with words," Dickson said.

"You play very well," Mary said, and cuddled close to Dickson.

"Appleton says the
Chronica
is already out of his hands," Dickson said, eventually. "At least, that's what he told Jack Astor."

"You don't believe him?" Mary asked.

"I'm not sure," Dickson said. "What would you do with it if it fell into your hands?"

Mary had already delicately cupped one of her hands under Dickson. "The
Chronica
is unique," she said. "If I misplace a script, I can easily get a duplicate. What would happen if the
Chronica
were lost or destroyed? If I had it in my hands, the first thing I would do is figure out how to make a duplicate."

"Maybe by some kind of mimeograph?" Dickson said. "Believe it or not, a bloke by the name of Albert Blake Dick got the patent on that – based on Edison's autographic printing."

"Dick and Dickson," Mary said, "has something of a ring to it."

"I was thinking about 'dick' in the sense the military boys use it," Dickson said, "if you know what I mean."

"I know exactly what you mean," Mary said, and the two stopped talking, as she extended her body completely over his.

***

Sierra and Max were back in Astor's hotel, slightly different than the one they had enjoyed in 1896. A year later, in 1897, Astor had completed and opened his own hotel adjacent to his cousin's, connected by a corridor. "And superior in many ways," he had explained. Astor had graciously insisted that Max and Sierra stay in his accommodations again. Their room had a fireplace. Max started the fire, and the two sat close to it, enjoying the crackling and the warmth.

"Beats that cold outside," Max said, and rubbed his hands. "This room's even better than the one we had in 1896."

"It is," Sierra agreed. "But I'm thinking we may need to move to later in the year – another way to get out of the cold."

Max nodded. "Agreed. That's likely the only way we can find out more about what Appleton was talking about. You're thinking, what, a week, a month? And do we tell Astor?"

"We shouldn't talk about him in his room," Sierra said, raising the same point that had concerned her three years earlier. "The phonograph's now been around more than twenty years, so everything we say here could conceivably be recorded. But . . . I don't know, for some reason, I'm beginning to trust him more."

A log ignited and gave itself totally to the fire.
 

"I noticed," Max said, his face and Sierra's bathed orange in the big flame. "Why do you think that is?"

"You jealous?" Sierra asked with a smile.

"Absolutely," Max said, "of every guy who looks at you. But Jack Astor is a tough one to figure. I supported him more than you did, at first, as you know. And he's done nothing but help us since then – including this fabulous room and this wonderful fire. But . . ."

Sierra looked at him.

"I guess he's too enthusiastic," Max said. "And that's a ridiculous criticism, I know. We need all the help we can get. I don't know – I guess we have no choice but to trust him, he's too far into this with us to suddenly cut him loose."

"Look, we don't owe him any itinerary of where we're going, including through time," Sierra said. "He certainly hasn't done that with us. We can be allies without confiding in him everything we do." She looked at the little silver-plated pocket watch she had purchased here and wore around her neck. "Why don't we leave right now – the fire's inviting, but what else do we really have here that's better to do?"

Max thought for a second, and nodded. "That'll also allow us to end our mooching ways and return these coats," he pointed to the Millennium overcoats, now draped on an ornate armchair. Then he doused the fire.

Sierra stood, took her coat, and put it on. "Too bad about that," she said. "I was getting to like these coats – you look great in your greatcoat."

***

The two arrived at the Millennium about 20 minutes later. "Looks like the guy we saw here in 2062," Sierra whispered to Max, as the doorman opened the door and they walked in.
 

Max looked a little concerned. "Presumably they don't have any retinal IDs back here."

"Doesn't matter," Sierra continued her whisper, "as he long as he recognizes us."

He apparently did. He nodded and asked if Sierra and Max were looking for anyone at the Club.

"Not today," Sierra replied.

"Very good," he said in his crisp British accent. He bowed slightly and walked away.

The two left their borrowed coats in the cloakroom, with a note that said thanks. They ascended the necessary stairs and entered the room with the Chairs. There were two of them.

"Who took the third—" Max began.

"Doesn't matter," Sierra said again. "All we can do is speculate. If it's Heron, and he's waiting for us at the time we're going to, we'll find out about that soon enough."

Max agreed and unconsciously touched the hilt of the knife he always carried in his belt.

Each sat in a Chair.

"I'm setting it for one month from now," Sierra said.

"Works for me," Max said and threw her a small kiss.

Sierra set in the dates and initiated the go sequence. Bubbles ascended. The cosmos blew kisses.

[New York City, March, 1899 AD]

Sierra's bubble receded. She got out of her Chair.

"Max??!" She realized she was the only person in the room. "Max???" she shouted again to the empty room.

What the hell had happened? The two had jumped in sync dozens of times now, and it had worked just right every time. Had she done something wrong with the setting? No, she was sure she had done that correctly.

What should she do? Get back in her Chair and travel a month back – that's where Max would be if his Chair had malfunctioned. She felt a deep gnawing in the pit of her stomach – if the Chair had not worked right, Max could be in a lot worse shape than just a month earlier in time. What should she do? She felt more panicked now than in all the battles with Heron and his men.

She had to think clearly. There was an explanation for this—

She heard something in the air – the sound when a Chair was imminently arriving. Her first instinct was to stay in the room, so she could see if Max was in the Chair and all right. But that could be fatal to her. She left the room, and closed the door behind her.

She was shaking and was glad no one was there to see it.

She heard something in the room. She took a deep breath. It could be Heron in the Chair or someone else bent on killing her. She heard a muffled voice through the door. It sounded enough like Max that she opened the door.

"Hey," Max said, as Sierra rushed over and flung her arms around him. "What's the matter?"

"You weren't here," she said. She was still shaking but it was subsiding. "What happened?"

"Nothing different, on my end," Max said. He stroked her face and tried to comfort her, seeing how upset she was. "Everything's ok."

"Well, something happened," Sierra said, regaining most of her equilibrium. "Something went awry in the syncing."

"Could Heron have done that?" Max asked.

"I don't know," Sierra said.

"Let's get out of here and up to Wave Hill to see Appleton," Max said. "If there's something not right with the Chairs, something dangerous could still happen in this room."

***

Sierra was still not quite herself as they reached Grand Central. The Chairs working as expected was one of the few facts of her existence she relied upon, in this insane life she had chosen for herself, and which Max had joined.