Chronica (Sierra Waters Book 3)

by Paul Levinson

  Flannery's big decision now was how much to tell Heron about Mary Anderson. If he told Heron that he believed she was lying about not knowing or knowing about Sierra Waters, that could amount to a death sentence for Mary. Because if Heron believed that Mary was working with Sierra, and Flannery refused to kill the actress, then Heron could find another way. Heron was obsessed with Sierra Waters.

  On the other hand, bald-facedly lying to Heron about this – which is what leaving out a crucial piece of information, probably the most crucial in the interview, would amount to – could result in Heron severing their relationship and his paycheck, which would leave his family at bay a century from now.

  Flannery was not one to ponder things too long. When Heron called him, shortly after he returned to police headquarters, he told Heron what he suspected about Mary Anderson. He didn't tell Heron about her near collision with a motorcar, and how he had saved her. "What would you like me to do next?" Flannery asked Heron. He didn't believe in waiting for the other shoe to drop – he preferred dropping it himself.

  "This is very useful information – Mary Anderson responding to the name Sierra Waters – we can use it to our advantage," Heron replied.

  "So you don't want me to—"

  "Not at this point, no," Heron interrupted. "I believe you have the wrong impression of me – I don't like taking human life. I once even saved Sierra Waters herself, back in the ancient world, in what we today call Asia Minor, many years ago in my lifetime." If only I'd known more back then, Heron thought.

  "Good," Flannery said, and exhaled quietly in relief. "Why do you suppose Edwin Porter asked Mary to come along with him to see Appleton? Is he part of this cabal to get your Chronica out to the world, too?"

  "He is attracted to her, certainly, as no doubt are you, too," Heron replied, "but I doubt that is the reason he included her on his visit to Appleton. He likely knew of Miss Anderson's preparation to play Hypatia, and this made her appealing to take along to see Appleton, given the publisher's great interest in the woman." Heron tried to control himself from saying Hypatia with obvious venom, and wasn't sure he succeeded.

  "Just coincidence, then, that Porter took Mary Anderson along to see Appleton, and she is on your radar?" Flannery asked with a little sarcasm. He knew from their discussions that Heron didn't believe in coincidence. "You know what 'radar' is? Yes – of course you do."

  Heron nodded and ignored the jibe about coincidence. "Who knows how long Mary Anderson has been attracted to Hypatia. Kingsley's novel was first published in 1853 – it's been widely read. His story has little to do with real history, of course, but it's made Hypatia an object of desire for men and a heroine to be admired and emulated by many women. Sierra Waters and Mary Anderson no doubt came upon Hypatia in very different ways, but their attraction to her is no coincidence. The more I think about it, Sierra Waters contacting Mary Anderson, once she heard about Anderson's interest in Hypatia, makes perfect sense."

  "And what does that mean for us?" Flannery asked.

  "It means the problem we need to most address is not Mary Anderson but Sierra Waters," Heron replied. "She's the one who needs to be stopped, as she always has been. But I've been attempting to do that for so long, with so little success, that I am beginning to think she is protected by some fundamental law of the universe of which I am unaware." Or the next closest thing, Heron thought, something in the distant future that he knew too little about.

  Chapter 8

  [New York City, February, 1899 AD]

  "To whom do you suppose William entrusted the translation of the Chronica?" Astor asked Sierra and Max, when the three were comfortably seated on the train back to Grand Central.

  "One thing I love about you people back here is the precision you have with the language," Max observed. "It's degenerated a bit in my and Sierra's time."

  "Thank you," Astor said.

  "We already discussed Mark Twain and H. G. Wells with William in 1896," Sierra said. "Chances are if the translator was either of them, he wouldn't have been so cagey."

  "You think he was being cagey?" Astor asked. "You don't take him at face value when he says he thinks it's safer that way?"

  "Oh, I agree it's safer," Sierra said. "But I guess after all we've been through, I don't quite believe that William wouldn't tell us the name."

  "He was trying to protect us?" Max asked.

  "Yes, always," Sierra said. "But by not telling us who the translator is, William is preventing us from giving that translator our protection, which could be very important, too."

  "He may also think the opposite," Astor said. "Keeping the translator's name secret may be the best way of protecting the translator."

  Max nodded. It occurred to him that maybe Appleton didn't reveal the translator because he didn't fully trust Astor. He wondered if that's what Sierra was trying to signal to him now, with the upshot that he and Sierra needed to be careful about what they said to Astor. Max was sitting by the window, and looked out of it now to gather his thoughts without Astor's eyes on his face. So far, Astor had done nothing untrustworthy, and he'd had ample opportunity to hurt Sierra if that's what he'd wanted. If Astor was working with Heron, he could have easily arranged to have Heron's legionaries meet them at the National Conservatory of Music – he and Sierra would have been easy targets in that front row.

  "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 39th 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 59th 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?"