ReVISIONS by Julie E. Czerneda Page A

first time, divers were freed from lines connecting them to the surface, able to move freely (if only for very short periods of time, and at relatively shallow depths). At the time, traveling into the depths of the ocean was more the matter for novelists (Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea was published in 1873) than serious scientific consideration, and certainly not a matter for, say, businessmen.
    But what, I wondered, if some foresightful businessman had read about Fleuss’ invention and seen the long-term, practical applications? Say, Jordon Mott, an American millionaire who had both the quirky turn of mind and the money to invest in such a thing?
    Certainly, the invention of the first diving suit (actually in 1837) would have been sped up, with a wealthy investor funding undersea research. And once the money was there, the first underwater camera (Louis Boutan, 1893 in our time line) and the oxygen rebreather (Draeger, 1911) could conceivably have followed in close order, as natural human scientific curiosity developed the need for them.
    And if the government got involved in the possibilities of the deep sea (as they did in our time line during the early years of submarine warfare) it seemed entirely possible that we would have NEREUS rather than NASA. . . .
    L.A.G.

SILENT LEONARDO
    by Kage Baker
    1505 AD
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    T HE inn is dark, low, and uninviting. Its ale is not good, nor are its rooms cozy. The locals give it a wide berth. Even travelers benighted in English rain generally prefer to ride on to the next village, rather than stop at such an unpromising spot.
    This is precisely why it stays in business.
    The inn, as it happens, is subsidized by certain shadowy men. They made themselves so useful to the late king that their services have been retained by his usurper. Royal paranoia keeps them on the move, listening, spying, collecting evidence; and this remote country tavern has proved a great place to meet unseen, to interview witnesses, exchange information. Or to sequester those whose status is somewhere between political prisoner and guest. . . .
    The man entering the inn has no name, at least none that will ever make it into history books. He hangs his cloak of night on its accustomed peg. He climbs the stair without a word to the innkeeper. He has no need to give orders.
    Two men are seated at a table in an upper room. He sits down across from them, studying their faces by the light of one candle.
    They are both men of middle age, in travel-worn garments. The one leans forward, elbows on the table, staring into the eyes of his visitor. He has a shrewd, coarse, sensual countenance, like an intelligent satyr. The other sags back against the wall, gazing sadly into space. He has the majesty of a Biblical prophet, with his noble brow and milk-white beard, but also an inexpressible air of defeat. The visitor notes that his left arm, tucked into a fold of cloak, is withered.
    Preliminary courtesies are exchanged. The satyr speaks easily, with ingratiating gestures and smiles, congratulating the visitor on his precise Italian. Ale is brought; the satyr seizes up his tankard, drinks a toast to their enterprise, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He begins to speak. Unseen behind a panel, a clerk takes down every word.
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    No, he don’t talk. That’s what I’m for!
    Is he my master? No, no, Signore, we’re more sort of partners. Almost like brothers, you see? His mama and mine, they lived on the same farm. But Leo’s a gentleman, yes. Father was from a good old family. Much too good to marry his poor mama, but Ser Piero couldn’t get no sons by any other girl, so he kept his boy and brought him up, with a tutor and everything.
    And was the boy smart? Why, Leo was writing with his left hand (and, you know, that’s hard to do) by the time he was four! But then, one fine day, we boys were playing out in the orchard, and there was this big apple out on a