Lyon's Legacy: Catalyst Chronicles, Book One (6 page)

“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 h
e 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 po
or 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 yoursel
f 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 reque
st 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 hi
s 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 se
ttled 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:

You said forever,

You said you’d stay,

This boy trusted you,

Then yo
u went away.

My spine turned to ice. Back in my world, I’d seen some of Sean’s handwritten songs, including an early one named “Dad’s Song.” When Sean was in his thirties, he rewrote it and released it as “Father, Farewell.” We had no record of him performing the early version. After hearing the anguish in his voice, I could understand why. Was this what it had felt like to have been abandoned? I remembered the day my dad left my mother, how I’d come home from school to find her slumped over in the kitchen, muttering over and over “What am I going to do?” She didn’t even glance at the perfect score I’d gotten on my spelling test. I felt like I’d lost both of them.

Sean’s voice rose soulfully for the middle section:

Why did you leave
me,

Won’t you come back home,

Can’t you forgive me,

And never more roam?

It wasn’t your fault, I wanted to tell him. It wasn’t your fault that your father was too immature to cope with a baby and the doctors didn’t find your mother’s ovarian cancer in time.
But why did I feel I should have done more to protect my own mother?

I feel so guilty,

Even though I was true,

That was how I felt about my mom.

I wish I could see you,

And say, “I love you.”

But I couldn’t say that to her anymore.

I’d spent my lif
e up to that point hiding from my deepest emotions behind a wall of anger raised the day my parents split. But Sean had honed his own pain into a knife only his voice could wield, and he sliced through my inner barrier as if it didn’t exist.

I couldn’t ke
ep my tears in any longer; they blended with the sweat on my face. I wiped them off, but I was helpless to stop them.

Silence filled the White Knight for a minute when the song ended. Applause came slowly, as if no one else could appreciate what Sean had d
one. A scowl flashed over his face before he stepped back and gestured to his band. They ripped into a raucous version of “What’d I Say.” It was probably meant to diffuse the emotions Sean had stirred, but for me it wasn’t enough.

I rose and pushed my way
through the crowded tables. A few girls muttered as I blocked their view. I dashed up the steps leading from the club, past the surprised bouncer, to the street. Leaning against a cold lamppost, I sobbed out all the tears I’d been saving since I was a child.

Chapter Six

I wasn’t sure how long I wept before I heard Sean calling, “Jo? Joanna? Where are you?”

I looked toward his voice. All I could see of him was his face
and the orange glow from his cigarette. The trails of my tears chilled my face. What if he noticed them? He’d be sure to mock me. I gulped deep breaths of frigid air, trying to regain control. Damn; he homed in on me so quickly I couldn’t even find my handkerchief. The best I could do was shake my hair so that it curtained my face.

“What are you doing out here by yourself?” Sean asked as he entered the lighted area. He scowled as if he’d been sent into a snowstorm to round up a naughty child. “This isn’t th
e best neighborhood.”

“I’ll tell the muggers that if I see any.” I winced as I heard myself. I’d tried to sound confident and capable, but my voice came out strained.

He stepped a little closer, and his scowl disappeared. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Peachy
. Whatever you say around here.” I sniffed. “Why aren’t you on stage?”

“We get a break between sets. I could sure use one after that song.” He shook his head. “I forgot what it does to me. What did you think?”

“The slow one? It...it was very sad.” Trying to turn his attention away from me, I asked, “What is it about?”

“My dad.” He dropped his cigarette stub and ground it out. “My
bandmates say no one cares about that kind of stuff, that I should stick to love songs. But I got all these feelings inside me, and they just have to get out.”

Why was he telling me this? Had he actually doubted himself? That was something left out of the biographies. But was I supposed to encourage him? Was that interfering with the way his life was supposed to develop?

Sean stared at me as if waiting for a response, then snorted. “I guess a square like you wouldn’t understand. But I thought....”

It shouldn’t have stung as much as it did; maybe he’d flayed all of my emotions raw. But I couldn’t let that challenge pass unanswered. I
raised my head slowly and shook my hair away. “Your song...it made me think of my mom.”

Something somber flickered in his eyes. “Your mother?”

“Yeah. She’s been ill for a long time. I didn’t want to leave her alone and come here, but I had to. Then I found out she...she died.” Fresh tears sprung up from the inexhaustible well inside of me. I wanted to wipe them away, but I didn’t want to draw attention to them.

Sean touched a rough finger to my damp cheek. “Go ahead, cry for both of us.” His voice had an od
d note in it. “I lost my mother too.”

He pulled me to him. I leaned on his shoulder, put my face on his sweat-soaked leather jacket, and washed it with my tears. He held me awkwardly, as if he didn’t console others often, but I didn’t mind. I knew he had a
hard time showing his own emotions at this point in his life, but I also knew he shared mine. And at least for those few moments, the similarity was a comfort, not a bother.

“Feeling better?” he asked after I stopped.

“Yeah,” I answered. I felt exhausted but also relieved, like I’d put down a heavy burden. I fumbled around in my purse for a handkerchief.

“We’ve got to go back in there, you know. I’ve got another set to do.” He wiped a tear track roughly with his thumb. “And you’ve got to get on with your o
wn life. Think you’re up to it?”

I shrugged. “Don’t have much choice, do I?”

“The way I see it, you have two choices, you can live or die.” He spat in the street. “Me, I’m going to live, no matter what my parents did to me.”

He turned, put his hands in his
pockets, and sauntered back to the club entrance. I watched him disappear below the street, annoyed with him. Maybe we’d shared a couple moments of sympathy, but he’d returned to his macho, tough guy pose pretty fast. And thanks to him, I’d never be able to trust my own armor of anger again. Now that I’d cried once, it’d be much easier to do it some other time.

But Sean was right about one thing; protected or vulnerable, I had to get on with my life. And right now, that meant dealing with Sean long enough
to steal his DNA so I could return home. I followed him downstairs for the second half of the show.

* * *

I bought myself a cup of coffee to warm up. Someone had taken my seat, so I stood in back and listened to the second set. It went much like the first, except Sean was even rowdier, as if he were compensating for his sympathy for me during the break. He jumped around the stage, traded insults with the other musicians, and swore a blue streak when the amps died during a Buddy Holly cover. Cole jury-rigged the amps back to life, and they closed with a wild version of “Shout,” with everyone sharing vocals. They stretched it out to nearly ten minutes and got the audience to join them.

I didn’t know what to do once the show was over, so I hung around by t
he stage while Sean and the others put their instruments away. Several other girls waited with me; I discovered they were Cole’s, Willie’s, and Paul’s girlfriends. “We’re going to check out another group playing at a bar near Wrigley,” Paul’s girlfriend said. “Are you and Sean coming?”

I looked at him, willing to go along with what he wanted. But after staring at me for a minute, he shrugged. “Maybe not tonight. I better get my cousin home before my grandma complains I’m corrupting her.”

The others teased him a bit, but he ignored them. I have to admit I was glad to go back. Between the traveling, the show, and my breakdown, I was drained enough to sleep for a week. I nearly nodded off on the bus, but walking to Sean’s house from the bus stop revived me a bit, enough to wonder when I should take the DNA sample. The house was dark; Grandma Mary must have been in bed. Good; one less witness. But could I outlast Sean? He still looked lively enough to dance a jig.

Sean let us into the kitchen and turned on a light. In the still, dark room, he seemed a menacing figure in his black outfit. I was suddenly conscious of being alone with him. He’d already breached my defenses once tonight; God knew what else he would do t
o mess up my mind.

I bundled up my overcoat and purse in my arms. “Thanks for taking me to your show,” I said. “It was really great.”

“I know,” he said. “The four of us work well together, and people aren’t complaining too much anymore when I slip in my own songs.” He grinned. “Now all I need to do is find a record company that likes them too.”

“I’m sure you will someday.” I tried to make it sound like casual encouragement, not prophecy. I mimed a yawn. “Now, good night.” I started to leave.

“Are you really that tired? It’s still early.”

I turned around and gave him my best are-you-kidding stare. “Not all of us are night owls, Sean. You won’t believe how far I’ve traveled today.”

“So? Do you have somewhere you have to be tomorrow?” He leered at me. “Or are you afraid I lured you back here under false pretenses?”

Oh, please. I raised my knee. “You try anything, Sean Franklin Lyon, and you’ll be singing in a higher register at your next show.”

“You wouldn’t!”

As tempting as it was, I couldn’t, not with my fami
ly’s future in this universe at stake. But he didn’t have to know that. “Are you sure you want to risk it?”

He chuckled. “I like feisty women, but not when they’re related to me. God knows I have enough of that with my Grandma.” His expression grew solemn.
“I just wanted to have a talk. It’s not every day I meet someone with parents as messed up as mine.”

If he only knew.

Sean filled a kettle with water and placed it in a ring of flame on the gas stove. Then we sat down at the table. He leaned forward, peering at me as if he had trouble seeing me even at this short distance. “So, wanna talk about them?”

I took a deep breath,
then told him a carefully edited version of my life. The words came easier than I thought they would. Perhaps that was because Sean wasn’t mocking me the way I’d expected him to. He listened closely, occasionally adding his own anecdotes. There were a few times when tears welled in my eyes again, but even though he watched me, I wiped them away and continued with my story. At one point he brought me some strong Irish tea, and it was comforting to hold the steaming mug between my hands.

“Well, at least this is a good place to make a new start,” Sean said when I’d finished. “What did you say you were going to study again?”

I decided to be more general this time. “Science.”

“So you can become a nurse?”

“No, I want to do research.”

“Like Einstein?” Sean snorted weakly, as if he were losing energy. “You don’t look much like him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Irritation chased away my own fatigue. “Women can be scientists too.” I had to stop myself before I added “even in your time.” “Look at Marie Curie. She and her husband isolated radium from pitchblende. She won two Nobel prizes for her work. And Rosalind Franklin, she’s my favorite. I bet you never heard of her, but she managed to take some pictures of DNA that helped Watson and Crick figure out how it was put together.”

“DNA? What’s that? Desperately Needing Amour?”

“Not quite. DNA stands for deoxyribonucleic acid. It’s the stuff our genes are made of, the stuff that makes us us.” The stuff that made me so much like him.

He yawned. “Sounds dull, science. All test tubes and white coats and regular routine jobs. There’s no art in it.”

“Oh, yes there is.” I set my cup down and leaned forward. “Yeah, sometimes it does get dull, running the same experiment over and over, looking for the answer you want. Most of the time you can’t tell for sure, so you have to change the design of your experiment. Sometimes the experiment works out completely opposite from what you predicted; then you have to change your working theory. But sometimes you get a result that actually tells you something, something that takes you a little farther than you were before, or joins two things you thought were unrelated. That’s the joy in science. And science itself is an art, just like your guitar playing. I had to practice the techniques over and over until I got good at them, and I’m always trying to learn new ones. And then you have to learn how to work with other scientists too, so your combined efforts make sense, not a bunch of noise….” I realized I’d gone on too long. “Anyway, maybe you don’t see much beauty in science, but if you knew as much about it as I do, you would.”

Sean stared at me, eyes wide, for what felt li
ke a long time. One hand crept towards the pocket of his jacket, as if he wanted a cigarette, but he jerked it back. “Maybe you’re not so much like me after all,” he said finally.

Maybe you’re not so much like me…
it was like hearing the key open the lock of my prison door. I’d told George I was different from Sean, but I hadn’t been sure. But now, after having experienced him and his world, I knew I wasn’t him. Hearing it directly from Sean, from an unkempt, shortsighted, witty, and dominating Sean, still smelling of smoke and sweat, weariness showing on his face, confirmed it. No matter how many times people had compared me to Sean before, or how many times they would do it for the rest of my life, I would know the truth. And the truth would set me free.

“I’m not you.” I grinned as I looked Sean in the eyes. “I’m not you.”

He frowned. “Well, you needn’t sound so pleased about it.”

I couldn’t help it; I laughed. “Never mind,” I said as he raised his eyebrows. “It’s a personal matter.”

We finished our tea and talked about everything: books, music, and the differences between California and Chicago. He was an excellent conversationalist; if he didn’t have something intelligent to say about a topic, he’d crack a joke. I had a hard time keeping up with him, especially since I didn’t want to talk about things that didn’t exist yet and didn’t know much about California in this time period.

Sean seemed more open and friendly during our talk than he had before. I wanted to confide in him, tell
him who I really was and what I was doing here. But I didn’t dare. For one thing, he might not have believed me, and if he did, I couldn’t believe he’d agree to let me sample his DNA. Everything I knew about him suggested he wouldn’t like the idea of being cloned. Sean changed his mind more often than he did his clothes, but on something like this I couldn’t expect him to agree at any time. Odds were, he’d only get furious at me and kick me out, leaving me stranded here.

Our conversation slowed. I pushed my
exhausted brain cells to the limit, trying to think of a way I could feel out Sean’s opinions on a procedure that for him existed only in science fiction. Suddenly I realized he was breathing heavily. “Sean?”

He was slumped forward, head resting against h
is arm, lips slightly open as he blew air through them. He’d taken off his leather jacket; maybe that’s why he seemed younger than he really was.

Even legends of rock and roll have to sleep sometime.

I couldn’t believe I’d outlasted him. This would be my best chance to sample him without his knowledge—assuming he didn’t wake up. I watched him for several moments to make sure he didn’t. I tried to think of other alternatives to this—sampling someone else, or even doing a little genetic surgery on my own DNA to pass it off as his. But I didn’t have the equipment to do that. More importantly, it was just as unethical to falsify a sample as it was to take it without his permission. I’d known all along I’d have to do this; I might as well get the dirty deed over with.