and place. He had brokered the potentially disastrous conflict between science and the Church, with neither side fully understanding what had happened. Science would progress and the Church would continue. He'd had more than his fill of those longwinded sanctimonious Church fathers. He believed in no God, except what was in himself, and he knew that the Church and all dogmatic religion did plenty of damage to humankind. But he also believed that humanity was always in need of some moral guidance, especially in this age, as the Renaissance was about to move into full gear.
He also had concluded that Sierra Waters or whatever she now called herself was not here. Heron had come here in the first place because his erstwhile colleague in 150 AD Alexandria, Claudius Ptolemy, had been concerned that Sierra Waters might have come to this early Renaissance time to coax Galileo in his Copernican, anti-Ptolemaic ideas. But Heron could find no sign of her here.
He thought she was no longer in the further past, either. There was nothing left of Alexandria now, had not been for nearly a millennium, and if she had been back there even earlier – had traveled back there after she had feigned her own horrible death as Hypatia – then he would have known about it. There would have been some sign of her. What he did know, or at least strongly suspected, is that she had taken his Chronica before the Library has burned – the book he had foolishly written in his vain youth, teaching her and all the world about the mechanics of time travel, and, worse than that, what could be done with it.
But if she was neither here nor in the past, that left just one time – the future. But where? He had at one time installed a tracking device on all of the Chairs, which would have told him where and when Sierra Waters was now. But she had apparently disabled that, some time in the future, as she had done with so much of his work.
Heron sighed. There was one man, that puttering nuisance William Appleton, who might know the whereabouts of Sierra Waters.
Heron booked passage to Athens. He had toyed, many times, with setting up a portal here in Rome, but had always concluded that the convenience was not worth the danger. The Vatican had too many priests with too much time on their hands. Sooner or later one of them would stumble onto the room with the Chairs, and that could create complications Heron did not want to engage.
[Athens, 1615 AD]
The sailing voyage to Athens was smooth. Hakam was fortunately right inside his coffee house.
"The business with the Cardinal and the scientist was concluded to your satisfaction?" Hakam asked, after the formalities of greeting had been concluded.
"Very much so," Heron replied, and gave Hakam a pouch of silver. It was much in excess of what Heron usually paid for this work, but he had come to rely on Hakam's efficiency.
Hakam gestured to the room beyond the room. "All is ready for you," he said.
Heron thanked him again, entered the room, and locked the door. He looked at himself in the small mirror on the wall. He had had his face DNA-fashioned to look like St. Augustine, but that had not been needed for his sojourn here in the early 1600s. He knew exactly what the real Augustine had looked like – he had conversed with him, long into the night, enough times – but Bellarmine and these priests hadn't the vaguest idea. The surviving pictures of the saint looked nothing like the man.
Heron sat in the Chair and set it for the future, 2087 to be exact, where the technology for precise facial reconstruction was readily obtainable. His first step would be to set his face to someone recognizable as a friend of Appleton in the 1890s. Then he would travel back to 1899, shortly before Appleton's death, and see what he could wring out of the man in the last months of his life, when he would be too weak to travel anywhere to sound the alarm on Heron's visit, if somehow Appleton were to realize who Heron
He also had concluded that Sierra Waters or whatever she now called herself was not here. Heron had come here in the first place because his erstwhile colleague in 150 AD Alexandria, Claudius Ptolemy, had been concerned that Sierra Waters might have come to this early Renaissance time to coax Galileo in his Copernican, anti-Ptolemaic ideas. But Heron could find no sign of her here.
He thought she was no longer in the further past, either. There was nothing left of Alexandria now, had not been for nearly a millennium, and if she had been back there even earlier – had traveled back there after she had feigned her own horrible death as Hypatia – then he would have known about it. There would have been some sign of her. What he did know, or at least strongly suspected, is that she had taken his Chronica before the Library has burned – the book he had foolishly written in his vain youth, teaching her and all the world about the mechanics of time travel, and, worse than that, what could be done with it.
But if she was neither here nor in the past, that left just one time – the future. But where? He had at one time installed a tracking device on all of the Chairs, which would have told him where and when Sierra Waters was now. But she had apparently disabled that, some time in the future, as she had done with so much of his work.
Heron sighed. There was one man, that puttering nuisance William Appleton, who might know the whereabouts of Sierra Waters.
Heron booked passage to Athens. He had toyed, many times, with setting up a portal here in Rome, but had always concluded that the convenience was not worth the danger. The Vatican had too many priests with too much time on their hands. Sooner or later one of them would stumble onto the room with the Chairs, and that could create complications Heron did not want to engage.
[Athens, 1615 AD]
The sailing voyage to Athens was smooth. Hakam was fortunately right inside his coffee house.
"The business with the Cardinal and the scientist was concluded to your satisfaction?" Hakam asked, after the formalities of greeting had been concluded.
"Very much so," Heron replied, and gave Hakam a pouch of silver. It was much in excess of what Heron usually paid for this work, but he had come to rely on Hakam's efficiency.
Hakam gestured to the room beyond the room. "All is ready for you," he said.
Heron thanked him again, entered the room, and locked the door. He looked at himself in the small mirror on the wall. He had had his face DNA-fashioned to look like St. Augustine, but that had not been needed for his sojourn here in the early 1600s. He knew exactly what the real Augustine had looked like – he had conversed with him, long into the night, enough times – but Bellarmine and these priests hadn't the vaguest idea. The surviving pictures of the saint looked nothing like the man.
Heron sat in the Chair and set it for the future, 2087 to be exact, where the technology for precise facial reconstruction was readily obtainable. His first step would be to set his face to someone recognizable as a friend of Appleton in the 1890s. Then he would travel back to 1899, shortly before Appleton's death, and see what he could wring out of the man in the last months of his life, when he would be too weak to travel anywhere to sound the alarm on Heron's visit, if somehow Appleton were to realize who Heron
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