Lyon's Legacy: Catalyst Chronicles, Book One Read online

Her eyes were flat with distrust. “His cousin?”

  “My father was William Lyon, James Lyon’s brother.” I was pleased I got the lie out smoothly, but my cheeks grew warm.

  “I know Jamie.” Her voice was cool. Sean’s father had joined the Army after getting his wife pregnant, but from what I knew of family history, he’d done so to get out of raising a child instead of to defend his country. Mary Murphy stared at me again. “Where are you from?”

  “California. I’ve come to Chicago for graduate school.”

  “You sure do look like a Lyon.” Now she opened the door enough to let me inside. “Where are you staying? Why don’t you come in for a while, and I’ll make you something to eat. You must be hungry, traveling all that way.”

  She led me down a dim hallway to the kitchen. A calendar of saints hung on one wall, and white lace curtains lent dignity to the scratched table and well-used pots. Grandma Mary—she insisted I call her that—gave me a cup of strong tea and a plateful of greasy meat and overcooked potatoes. With the food, the pollution, and the second-hand smoke, this trip was going to cut at least ten years off my life. Still, I was so hungry even the grease tasted good. I ate as best as I could while answering Grandma Mary’s questions about “the family out West.”

  “And what does your father do?” she asked as I finished my meal.

  How do you explain two mediocre albums, a handful of holo appearances, and a share in a celeb PR firm to a TwenCen person? “He’s an entertainer,” I started to answer. At Grandma Mary’s frown, words came to me. “But he’s given that up; he never was much good at it. These days he’s part owner of a business.” Not that he needed to work, with his own share of Great-Granddad’s money.

  “Well, at least he’s respectable, then.” Grandma Mary examined my appearance as if she still wasn’t sure about me. “Where are you going to school?”

  Our heads both turned as something dark flashed by the window, followed by a man at the back door. I clenched my fork as if it were a weapon. Was it Sean, or his grandfather? Judging by the black hair, it had to be Sean. My great-grandfather, as large as life and twice as intimidating. Why had I ever thought meeting him was a good idea?

  Grandma Mary pursed her lips as he stepped through the door. I couldn’t tell if she disapproved of his outfit—not just a leather jacket, but black leather pants as well—or the cigarette smoke that clung to him. I’d never smelled it before, but it was so foul it couldn’t be anything else. How could he tolerate, let alone enjoy, such a filthy habit?

  “I just got word of a gig downtown tonight, Grandma.” He unzipped his jacket. “It’ll run late, so don’t wait up.”

  He didn’t even look in my direction as he threw the jacket at my face. I caught it, but the stench made me sneeze. Grandma Mary gasped. “Sean Franklin Lyon, haven’t I taught you any decent manners? You don’t treat your cousin like that, especially when she’s come such a long way!”

  “Cousin?” He turned toward me and raised his eyebrows. Frowning, he leaned forward. I knew he was very nearsighted—and too vain to cover his dark blue eyes with thick-framed glasses. “Who are you?”

  I let him come a little closer before whipping his jacket at him. Even with his poor vision, he still raised his hands in time to protect his face. Too bad. “Call me Jo,” I said.

  “Jo What?”

  “Lyon.”

  He stood very still. “I hope you’re lying about that.”

  I had to phrase this carefully, or else he’d sense my falsehood. I tilted my face to meet his. “My name really is Lyon, and I share one-eighth of your genes.”

  Sean and Grandma Mary stared at me with curious faces. I wanted to slap my forehead; how much did the average person of this era know about genetics? Sure, Watson and Crick had figured out the structure of DNA by now, but that didn’t mean everyone knew it.

  “She’s your Uncle Will’s daughter, Sean. She’s here for school.” Grandma Mary reached past Sean to take my plate. “You still didn’t say where you were studying, or what. Teaching, maybe, or nursing?”

  “Thanks. And I’m not interested in nursing or teaching. I’m going to study genetics at the University of Chicago.”

  Now the stare of horror from Grandma Mary made me wonder if I’d sprouted another head. “You can’t go there, Joanna! That’s a bad neighborhood!”

  Oops. In my time the university still existed, but it was surrounded by vertical farms, research labs, and housing. Some of the areas were off limits, but it wasn’t any more dangerous than anywhere else in the city. “I didn’t know that. But I’m sure I can take care of myself.”

  Sean raised an eyebrow, but I wasn’t sure if he was impressed or scornful. “What kind of music do you like, Jobanana?”

  Great; he thought I was fruit. If he kept that up, he’d be wearing a banana. Would that change the timeline?

  Frowning, Sean asked, “Don’t you like music?”

  Focus, Jo. Don’t let yourself get distracted. Just play along for now. I shrugged. “I listen to all types of music.”

  “Including rock and roll?”

  “It’s...all right, I guess.”

  He scowled, and I suppressed my delight at annoying him. “You’ve probably never heard anything good. Do you want to come hear me play tonight?”

  Uncle Jack had specified I get live cells from Sean to make sure the DNA wasn’t degraded. I wouldn’t be able to take a sample at the concert, but it would be a good place to use my audiorecorder. And I could piss Sean off even more afterward by insulting his playing—but I’d have to be careful not to make him give up.

  “Sure.” I smiled, but then I remembered my suitcases. “But I haven’t found a place to live yet. I’ll have to go downtown anyway and book a hotel—”

  “Nonsense.” Grandma Mary shook her head. “You can stay with us. Sean, she can have your room.” She batted him lightly with a wooden spoon. “And for Heaven’s sake, clean up in there. Pigs would be ashamed to call that mess a sty.”

  “Yes, Grandma.” He pitched his voice into falsetto range. “Oh, please, not the spoon! Anything but the spoon!”

  I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. Sean had a sense of humor, but I didn’t want him to think I found him funny. One joke wasn’t going to make up for a lifetime of anger.

  Sean looked at me, stuck his tongue out, then grabbed my suitcases and left while Grandma Mary told me every horror story she could think of about the neighborhood surrounding the university. I nodded earnestly, as if I meant to take her advice. When she finally let me go to Sean’s room, my suitcase lay in the center of the unmade bed. I kicked my way through dirty socks and shirts to stare at the Elvis posters and crate of record albums and 45s. In a few years, teenagers would surround this house, drooling at a chance to see this room, and Grandma Mary would learn to be less trusting of strange girls. But as I stood in Sean’s bedroom, not much bigger than my room on the Sagan, the thing that impressed me most was how ordinary it seemed. His clothes looked so different from modern ones, and the only personal electronics device he had was a tiny radio, but I could picture Sean in here, strumming away the dreary Chicago winters with his plans to make it big. I thought about myself back on Earth, reading journal articles and dreaming of a Ph.D. Some things, like dreams, transcended history.

  Someone knocked on the door. “Hey, Jobanana, if you’re coming, let’s get going. I need to meet with the band before the show.”

  “Just a minute,” I called back. I considered wearing my red dress, but it reminded me too much of George. Instead, I changed my sweater for a white blouse and ran a comb through my hair. After checking on the recorder, I left the room. Sean had a new shirt on under his jacket, but otherwise he hadn’t made any preparations that I could see. He grabbed his guitar case and waved at Grandma Mary, who stood at the kitchen sink, her hands covered in soap bubbles.

  “One moment, you two.” She dried her hands on a towel. “We should get a picture for the family album while you’re all dres
sed up. Now, where did I put the camera?” She puttered over to the hall closet and peered at the inside. “No, not here. Must be in the bedroom....”

  “Grandma, can’t it wait?” Sean yelled at her as she disappeared. “We’re gonna miss the bus!”

  I was no more eager to get my picture taken with him than he was with me, but a couple of minutes later, when she returning brandishing some electronic device as big as my hands, beaming with pleasure, neither of us had the heart to deny her. She gestured at us to stand near the fireplace, then to put our arms over each other’s shoulders. I tried not to grimace at touching Sean’s jacket. Then we had to force fake smiles while she flashed a bright light at us, not once, but twice.

  I knew they didn’t have digital cameras in this era, so once I could see again, I asked, “When will the pictures be ready?”

  “Oh, I’m not even halfway through this roll yet,” Grandma Mary replied. “I’ll probably finish it for Christmas, then I have to have it developed.”

  I should be headed back to my universe by then. It was a little disappointing that I’d never see the picture, but I didn’t think it would be a very flattering one, even if it was only 2D.

  “Come on, Jobanana.” Sean grabbed his guitar. “Looks like we might have to run for it.”

  He bolted out the door without another word to his grandmother. I waved at her, then followed.

  * * *

  Sean didn’t say much on the bus ride back into downtown Chicago. The sun had already set, but lights illuminated a few office buildings. I was surprised by how much I missed the city I knew: the sleek, sculptured buildings; the speedy monorail system; the variety of restaurants. I wondered what Mom would have thought of this place, and I squeezed my eyelids shut.

  “You must really hate Chicago if you can’t even bear to look at it in the dark,” Sean commented.

  I willed my hatred into a laser beam, but when I opened my eyes, he didn’t disintegrate. “It’s not that.”

  “Did you leave someone behind?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I admitted.

  “That’s a load of cr—of nonsense. Who’d go for an over-educated girl like you?”

  “I don’t know, maybe someone a lot smarter than you?”

  The bus stopped. Sean rose so quickly a couple of people got between him and me. I hurried to follow him. Once outside on the street corner, Sean lit a cigarette as if it was a guide to our destination.

  “Grandma always wanted me to go to school, to make something of myself,” he said. Shoving his cancer stick in his mouth, he crossed the street. Most of the stores in this area were already closed, with metal bars blocking their entrances. “I suppose I could have made her happy, but it wouldn’t have made me happy being an architect or a dentist.” He glanced sideways at me. “I hope she doesn’t start nagging me to be more like you. What made you decide to study whatever-it-was again?”

  “Genetics. It’s the study of how traits are passed along, like height or eye color.” Or musical talent, I thought to myself. “As for why I want to study it, well, it helps me understand more about my family.”

  He let out a sharp laugh. “Are they as messed-up as mine?”

  Oh, the stories I could tell him if I could speak freely. Instead, I said, “Your grandmother seems nice enough,” in a tone that I hoped would encourage him to talk.

  “She’s the only one left who gives a—who cares about me.” I would have smiled at his change in word choice if he hadn’t sounded so bitter. “Everyone says Dad ran off to war so he wouldn’t have to take care of me. I stayed with my mom for a while, but when she took up with someone else who didn’t want another guy’s kid, she gave me to Grandma Mary and moved south. By the time I reconnected with my mom, she already had cancer.”

  I knew all this, but I hadn’t expected him to tell me himself. “I’m sorry” didn’t seem like an adequate response, and I didn’t think he’d want a touch, even in sympathy. “My parents didn’t get along either,” I said.

  He halted, turning an intense gaze onto me. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” I was surprised at his fascination for a moment before I remembered most people still got married in this era, and divorce wasn’t common. “I never saw much of my dad when I was growing up.”

  “Huh.” His voice was more surprised than angry now. “I guess some things run in families.”

  I scowled. “You think we’re doomed?”

  “I don’t ever want to get married. Women and kids tie you down.” He resumed walking. “Besides, when I’m famous, I’ll get all the girls I want.”

  I said nothing. I knew he’d hold this attitude for about another ten years; he wouldn’t marry the mother of his first son, Charlie, no matter how much she pleaded or raged, despite the large settlement he had to give her privately to avoid scandal. But once he toured the Philippines and met Baby, he’d mature into the activist and family man most people remembered him as. Pluckenreck would be furious if I told Sean his future, but I didn’t think he’d believe me anyway.

  We walked a couple more blocks, passing more storefronts. Soon, they gave way to restaurants and bars. I smelled meatloaf and pie in front of a diner and vomit next to a bar. The next bar seemed classier, with piano music and dressed-up customers. Sean led me two more doors down, to a metal door. The words “White Knight” were scrawled on it. Sean didn’t play here very often; I was expecting either the Casablanca or the Jupiter Juniper. Jackass and other fans back home would be elated to hear Sean’s performance tonight. As he preceded me down the poorly lit stairwell, I fumbled inside my purse and double-checked my recorder.

  A middle-aged man guarded the door at the bottom. “She’s with me,” Sean said to him.

  The guard stared at Sean’s guitar case before nodding and letting us pass.

  There was nothing noble about the White Knight. Numerous candles cast shadows on the walls. The air was so pungent it should’ve been classified as a chemical weapon. Despite the poor atmosphere, the tables were already about half full. Most of them were occupied by couples, but some of the ones closest to the stage were home to groups of girls who shrieked and waved at Sean. Maybe he played here more often than I knew.

  “Make yourself at home,” Sean said. He bounded onto the stage and disappeared behind the curtain.

  I managed to find an unoccupied table close enough to the stage for me to make my secret recording. The cramped place filled quickly, with dressed-up girls chattering over the background music—recorded, not live--about their favorite musicians. I didn’t recognize most of the names they mentioned, but Sean’s came up several times. Young men lined the walls, many of them in leather jackets like the musicians, but younger and with softer faces.

  At some signal I didn’t notice, all the girls around me whipped hairspray, makeup, and combs out of their purses and preened furiously. Never mind the ozone layer; the hairspray was thick enough to create holes in my lungs. I coughed and fanned myself. As I was wondering if I should pretend to primp too, the girls put their stuff away. The record playing in the background ended, and an older guy all in black with thinning hair stepped onto the stage. “Hi everyone, thanks for coming,” he said. “We hope you’re enjoying the drinks as much as you’ll enjoy tonight’s act. Ladies and Gentlemen, Sean Lyon and the Pride!”

  Furious applause erupted as the curtain opened. Sean stood off to the side as if he didn’t notice the audience. Since he didn’t have his glasses on, they were probably all a blur to him, but with the way he tilted his chin and thrust himself forward, he looked too cool to touch. Behind him were another guitarist, a bassist, and a drummer, all in enough black leather to make bovines afraid. I leaned forward, trying to identify them. “Cole Breadmann, Willie Hi-Hat, and Paul Grove,” I whispered into the recorder. They’d all played with Sean before, though not always in this configuration. Sean tended to switch his backing musicians around so none of them could challenge him.

  A dark-haired girl up front passed glass soda bottles onto
the stage. “Thanks, Deborah,” Paul, the bassist, said as he set his down. Cole brought one back to Willie, the drummer. Sean raised his guitar to his chest. As one, the four of them broke into “Be-Bop-A-Lula.”

  I’d heard this song before, of course, on Sean’s Roots of Rock album. But the sheer energy they put into it astounded me. Despite their primitive equipment, the sound resonated in my bones. Nothing on HitNet had a tenth of this emotion! I couldn’t tear my gaze from the tiny stage.

  After they finished the song, Sean stepped forward to speak; several of the girls around me sighed. “Good evening, everyone, thanks for coming here tonight. As a special request from Susan, we’re going to do ‘Twenty Flight Rock!’” He stepped back to play, jerking the neck of his guitar.

  As the set continued, Sean dominated the other musicians. Although Paul took lead vocals on a couple of songs, Sean put more of himself into his lyrics. Every reference to rock, every guitar solo, was a musical come-on directed to every single girl in the audience. They fawned over him like he’d already been anointed as the next rock star, leaning forward in their seats, moaning as if they were going to climax right there. Meanwhile, I sat stiffly, arms crossed over my chest. I’m not a prude, but seeing my ancestor as an object of sexual worship made me uncomfortable. I noticed Paul stare at me, then nudge Sean as if daring him to conquer the last stubborn female in the audience. I grinned. There was no way I was going to swoon over my great-grandfather, no matter how exciting his performance was.

  Sean drained the rest of his drink. “We’re going to slow things down a bit,” he said to the audience. “This next number...it’s not one we play very often, but my cousin’s in the audience tonight, and she made me think of it.” He smiled a challenge in my direction as if he could see me without glasses. “Anyway, it goes a little something like this.”

  Sean settled into his arrogant-seeming performance stance, guitar braced high on his chest, head tilted back, and legs slightly apart. But when he sang, his voice was as poignant as a child’s: