Titanic, 1912 (The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series, Book 5): Young Adult Time Travel Adventure

by T. L. B. Wood

  “I actually have a remote connection to the event,” Mark said. He took a chair in the small gathering of upholstered chairs placed in a comfortable semicircle near my worktable that was currently overflowing with manuscripts. I never thought I’d look longingly at the pile, but I did take a peek.

  “Yes?” Fitzhugh prompted.

  “One of my very good friends lives in the Atlanta collective. His name is Tristan Taylor, and we grew up together, since our families were very close. You know how it used to be before collectives…we just sort of gathered in small groups and kept on the move most of the time.” He looked at me and I nodded. That, too, had been my experience as a youngster.

  “Tristan decided to go to school in Germany and there he met John Pierpont Morgan, who later became the steel and railroad magnate of America and one of the world’s wealthiest men.” Mark leaned forward and warmed up his coffee from the carafe after Fitzhugh and I waved him off. “As you may recall from your readings so far, J.P. Morgan’s company, International Mercantile Marine, acquired control of the White Star Line in 1902, I think it was.” He raised his eyebrows. “My friend, Tristan, was close to him over the years and knows about him, the times in general, his involvement with the Titanic as well as his relationship with Bruce Ismay, who managed the White Star Line.” Mark smiled. “Tristan is a helpful person to know.”

  “How on earth would a symbiont manage to have an ongoing relationship with a human from college days to the man’s death at an old age and avoid being conspicuous by not aging?” Fitzhugh asked, sitting forward to replace his coffee cup. I knew he was not a coffee fan and longed for his Earl Grey, carefully brewed in his favorite antique porcelain tea pot, even if he wouldn’t admit that fact.

  “Well, I’ve heard him tell, but it probably needs to come directly from him. That in itself is a fascinating story.”

  “I bet,” I remarked.

  Our collectives moved us around every so often to keep humans from suspecting our origin, since our lack of aging made us stand out like a crimson colored cardinal in a flock of crows. Yes, it would be worth a drive to Atlanta to meet Tristan Taylor. After Mark walked back to his office to begin work, Fitzhugh looked at me, smiling.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You’re getting interested in this possible time shift, aren’t you?” He was wearing the Irish sweater I’d given him at Christmas. Even though it was not winter, the library tended to be on the cool side, and the sweater was buttoned from top to bottom. The walls of the library, at Fitzhugh’s insistence, wore a paint motif that hinted at Victorian days, and there were pieces of antique furniture scattered about. All we needed was a carved wooden mantle surrounding a roaring fire to make the scene cozily complete.

  “Kipp and I had a talk, and I realized I was driving the car a little too often. Kipp wants more time behind the wheel,” I explained lamely.

  “It’s about time,” Fitzhugh snorted. “Now we’re in for some adventure!”

  Chapter 9

  “Let’s play, for the moment, with the thought that we will make this trip,” I began. I felt very pleased with myself that I’d taken the adult, mature route and would systematically be able to demonstrate why a time shift to the Titanic would be ill advised. At some point, I believe I even managed a convincing smile during my introduction. With effort, I ignored Kipp who narrowed his eyes at me.

  It was after hours, and we–Philo, Fitzhugh, Peter, Elani, Juno, Kipp and me—were huddled in the library long after Mark Elliott had clocked out for the evening, even though the scent of his cologne lingered. Philo ordered a couple of pizzas so no one could whine and complain of an inability to concentrate due to hunger. Peter brought a stack of paper plates from the kitchen along with a roll of paper towels to serve as crude napkins. None of us really stood on ceremony.

  “Pizza makes me thirsty,” Kipp remarked as he downed his second slice.

  “Let’s assume that Littleton was on board the Titanic with his bomb material,” I began, ignoring Kipp’s comment, my plan of attack lined up in my head.

  “Actually, we don’t need to assume that fact anymore,” Peter said. “Littleton’s name is on the passenger lists, at least indicating he bought a ticket. I did further research yesterday and found the listing. What had thrown me off was that his name was not on the survivor list, which was where I’d started, but such omissions were not unusual due to the chaos. From what his son told us, he changed his identity and simply disappeared.”

  “Ha!” Kipp said, smirking that my self-satisfied and logical approach had been shot down so quickly.

  “Do we know what class?” Fitzhugh asked.

  “First class,” Peter replied. “Maybe the group of anarchists helped fund his passage, or he might have paid it himself, thinking it was a one way trip,” he speculated. “It would make sense that a first class berth would give Littleton more freedom to move about the ship as well as granting him a private cabin.”

  “Well, we’ve run into our first issue, and this threatened to be the problem up front,” I said. “If we go on the Titanic, I don’t know of any way to keep Kipp and Elani close by. There were kennels, and only a few first class passengers could get by with letting their dogs stay in their staterooms. The first class stewards, in order to keep the travelers happy, pretty much kept their mouths shut.”

  “I am not staying in a kennel,” Kipp began.

  “Of course not,” I said, nodding my head a little too vigorously. “See, the main issue is accessibility.”

  Philo stared at me. He’d known me too long for me to get by with acting that casual and reasonable. “So what if you all travel first class?” he asked. “I really view this as Peter and Elani’s trip with you and Kipp as support.” The comment was an unnecessary insert, designed to let me know my place. “You and Peter can travel as brother and sister…unless you want to go as a married couple this time.” The latter statement, to which I did not respond, was meant to embarrass me. I merely compressed my lips at Philo while avoiding Peter’s gaze. Kipp never helped those moments by giggling hysterically in the back of my head.

  “The first class berths were all taken. There is no way for us to get a first class passage,” I said. For once, I was happy I’d done the research. A lonely piece of pizza lingered on my plate, begging for my attention. After breaking off the crusty corner, I nibbled on it, savoring the salty tang of tomato paste on my tongue.

  “Technically that was true,” Kipp remarked. “But there were last minute cancellations and no shows, and the ship’s crew was busy moving a few people around after boarding to accommodate their wealthy clientele. But the problem would be on paper; if we just arrive expecting to get a ticket, they will show first class as booked. And if we try to reserve beforehand, we risk bumping someone and changing the timeline of history.”

  “So, the only way to board the ship and not change history is to show up at the very last minute and book passage when all the other passengers are set.” Elani’s jaw opened as she began to pant slightly. I hadn’t asked her if she wanted to go but figured she’d give an affirmative in the manner of impetuous youth.

  Fitzhugh sat back in his chair and stretched his long legs before crossing them at the ankles. As he closed his eyes, his fingers began to rub his jaw as if in contemplation. I noticed the knuckles on his hands were enlarged from arthritis. Even symbionts were not spared the rigors of aging…we just did it slower and perhaps with a little more grace than humans.

  “Maybe it is fortuitous that Mark Elliott came here to work,” he finally said, his voice soft. “Do you wonder about the timing of events and wonder if such things are happenstance or predestination?” He was mimicking a remark I’d made just a few days earlier.

  “Yes, just look at the Titanic,” I said, glancing at him from the corners of my eyes. What was he about to hatch?

  “Mark Elliott told us he has a good friend, Tristan Taylor, an associate of J.P. Morgan, who technically, through his conglomerate International
Mercantile Marine, owned the Titanic.” Fitzhugh took a deep breath. “As I recall, Morgan was scheduled to be on the maiden voyage but only cancelled at the last minute. He’d had some health problems and chose to be in France at his villa to take the waters, as they used to say. He had one of the posh suites on B deck with a private promenade and all the amenities.”

  “Yes, but Bruce Ismay took those rooms when Morgan cancelled.” I had done my reading, too.

  “Which indicates some last minute shifting around and would prove Ismay had some other place on board the ship that he could use. I don’t know if we could determine exactly where, but we know there would have been a room for him.” Fitzhugh reached up to smooth his beard, the way he did when he was engaged in serious, methodical thinking.

  “Where are you going with this?” I asked. The next moment, I wondered why Fitzhugh and I were the only ones talking. Everyone else was still or munching quietly on pizza. It was clear he had become the voice of promoting the time shift while I took the solid position of reasonable opposition. Or at least I saw myself in that positive light.

  “If there was some way to influence J.P. Morgan to give up his suite to your four, you could travel in style, with the lupines at your side. Undoubtedly if Morgan told the ship’s staff to let you be, that would happen.”

  “And how would that be arranged, Fitzhugh?” The entire discussion was making my head spin…and I was feeling my agitation grow in increments. “You’re suggesting there is some way for us to time shift, meet up with J.P. Morgan, who doesn’t know us from Adam, and get him to influence the crew on the Titanic to give us the nicest accommodations on board and let our lupines go to the first class smoking room for some brandy and a cigar.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Kipp does have the ability to insert thoughts, so yes, that could be one way.” Fitzhugh sighed. “But since we find such a manipulation to be, uh, unpleasant, I think it might be prudent to go visit Mark’s friend in Atlanta and see if he can help fill in the blanks.”

  Philo was the one who could make things happen, so it was only two days later when Peter, Elani, Kipp and I were traveling south along the interstate, following an unusually heavy line of traffic towards Atlanta. The SUV was a Technicorps vehicle from their motor pool that we’d used previously.

  “Whoever used this last was a slob,” Kipp remarked. “There is a bag full of trash back here.” His disgust and minor outrage filled the small space. “And I think I found a French fry from the 70’s.”

  “We’ll toss it at our next stop,” I promised.

  Pushing back against my seat, I pulled my fleece jacket closer, turning the collar up against my face. Although it was early November, the weather was unseasonably cold, and it felt more like January, with all its brittle harshness. I glanced longingly over my shoulder at Kipp and Elani, who were playing a lupine mind game with one another to pass the time; their fur looked invitingly thick and warm. We’d left home at daybreak and made it to the outskirts of Atlanta by noon in spite of the normally clogged traffic arteries. The collective was actually just north of the city itself, located in Alpharetta. As we drove up, the first thing catching my attention was that the buildings formed a cluster of poorly maintained structures, unlike the pristine condition of Technicorps. The collective must be on the financial decline, I thought, sharing my notions with Peter. The buildings were set in a heavily wooded area; November had stripped most of the leaves from the limbs, leaving only a few withered remnants to rattle as the wind passed.

  “This is an older collective,” Peter said. “Fitzhugh knows more about it, of course. While we’ve stayed competitive and try to change ourselves to adapt to a modern world, this group has not and suffers, as you can see.”

  Peter rolled down his window to ask a passing symbiont where we might find Tristan Taylor, and after a few minutes spent weaving around some narrow, hedge banked roads, we finally parked in front of a three story brick building topped by a stained, worn roof which had seen better days. The shrubs were overgrown and hovered ominously around the front entrance in a way that almost made a weary traveler think twice before entering. We were met politely, however, and directed to an office on the second floor.

  “Come in!” A baritone voice rang out from behind a heavy door scarred by too many close brushes with rolling carts and equipment being shoved without care past the aperture.

  As we opened the bruised door, I was amused to see the humanoid male symbiont who greeted us was almost lost behind a large, oak desk which was covered in stacks of papers and books threatening to collapse at any moment. To the right of the desk, a small electric fireplace made to look like a little wood burning stove glowed red as waves of heat radiated out to fill the air that was musty due to inadequate air circulation. With effort, I suppressed a sneeze originating from my toes. Sitting close in front of the heater was a mature lupine, black with some touches of gray on his muzzle.

  “I’m Tristan Taylor,” the humanoid introduced himself. He was tall and slender, almost to the point of gauntness. As he reached out to shake our hands, his flesh felt soft like that of a young child; it was evident he’d spent years working behind a desk. “I understand you are friends of Mark Elliott.” He introduced his symbiont, Meko, and Kipp and Elani touched noses with the older lupine in the traditional nod of respect for his age. Tristan’s face was still youthful, despite his hollow cheeks, and from what Mark had told us, Tristan was probably about a hundred years older than me. His mop of brown hair was tinged with gray at the temples and was worn long, the uneven ends touching his collar. His eyes were dark, their expression somewhat guarded behind the thick lenses of rimless glasses. With a sweep of his hands, Tristan invited us to sit.

  “We’ll get right to the point, if you don’t mind,” I began. “We are investigating the possibility there was a bomb placed on the Titanic that may have contributed to the accident. Mark told us you were close friends with J.P. Morgan, and since you were involved with him, you might be able to help us think through some problems we would encounter should a time shift take place.” I sat back in my chair, not aware I’d been sitting on the edge of the wooden seat, which looked like something that might have once been in a classroom, the chair where recalcitrant children were forced to sit due to some minor infraction of the rules. Perhaps I’d picked the most uncomfortable seat in the room as a reflection of my general negativity?

  Tristan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He walked to the window which was coated in a dewy layer of condensation; the building lacked adequate insulation, and the room was cold, except for the warmth provided by the free standing heater. As he composed his thoughts, I peeked furtively around the room. The walls were finished in dark paneling which, although not in step with contemporary fashion, appealed to me; two of the four walls were covered in ceiling to floor book cases. I was sitting close enough to one to pick out many valuable books, some of which were most likely first editions of classics and tomes that were long out of print. I could bury myself in that room in my guise as researcher and avid reader…just me, the electric heater, a cup of tea, and Kipp, of course.

  “I find it difficult to believe a collective would approve of a time shift to the Titanic,” Tristan began. He turned to look at me, then Peter. Meko’s dark head lifted as he glanced at his bonded partner. I was curious if they still traveled or if they were retired from such. As if he impolitely read my notions, Tristan said, “Meko and I haven’t shifted in quite a while, but we made many trips back to those times and are very familiar with the days.”

  “And how would you classify your relationship with J.P. Morgan?” Kipp asked.

  “You know, it’s kind of funny in retrospect. It is almost impossible for symbionts and humans to be close for any period of time due to our aging differences.” Tristan took a seat across from me. He knew I was the more experienced of our group and naturally showed me some deference. “But somehow, J.P. and I managed for most of his life to stay connected.” He sighed deeply. “I
met him at the University of Gottingen in Germany. He’d been sent there to finish his education, as it was called. He’d already had training in terms of business and finance but went abroad to study French and then German. He attained a degree in art history at the University.”

  “How did you connect with him?” Kipp was persistent, digging for details.

  “I was also at the University, pursuing a degree in art history, so we were in the same classes. Just one of my interests over the many years,” he said smiling. “From J.P.’s perspective, we seemed to be about the same age, and he assumed we were from the same social class, although he really didn’t care one way or the other. He was a product of American wealth and not European nobility so he wasn’t too impressed by lineage.” Tristan shrugged slender shoulders. “Quite simply, we liked one another. J.P. was not given easily to trust, but for whatever reasons he trusted me implicitly.”

  “How long did you maintain this relationship?” Peter asked.

  “From the time we attended the University until his death in 1913,” Tristan replied.

  “So, if your timeline ran concurrent to his, how did you manage your obvious lack of aging?” Kipp rose and moved a yard away from the heater before plopping down with a big sigh. His corner was getting too hot.

  Tristan laughed and glanced at Meko who returned his gaze. “It wasn’t easy. I took to growing a beard, wearing heavy glasses and would put graying powder in my hair. J.P. would enviously remark upon my health and vigor which I attributed to genetics. I even used a walking stick and affected a slower, arthritic gait during his later years.”