Ghosts of Time

by Steve White

  “Go ahead, Alexandre,” Jason prompted, “you can speak freely.” He essayed an encouraging smile. “Besides, I already know you’re an insubordinate smartass, so you’ve got nothing to lose.”

  Mondrago did not smile back. “All right, I’ll say it flat out. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Jason sighed. He had known this was coming, but had been in no frame of mind to worry about it. “I won’t pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I won’t answer your question with any of the bad jokes that spring to mind.”

  Mondrago drew a deep breath. “Sir, ever since day before yesterday, it’s been pretty obvious what you and Zenobia were up to that night—you haven’t exactly succeeded in being discreet about it. And you’ve been at it ever since, whenever you got the chance. How you still have the strength to go out and search for the Teloi is beyond me. Now, don’t get me wrong: not for the world would I begrudge any man his jollies. But this is crazy! It’s now June 6. You know what’s going to happen tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Jason miserably.

  “Then you know we can’t stay any longer than that. Remember the guidelines: you have to activate our ‘controllable’ TRDs and take us all home as soon as it becomes unsafe for us to stay here and observe any longer. Are you going to be able to do that?”

  Jason said nothing.

  “Furthermore,” Mondrago continued inexorably, “you also know that Zenobia is going to die soon. Has it occurred to you that maybe she dies tomorrow in the earthquake? It’s sort of the obvious way to go around this time; thousands of others will.”

  “Of course it’s occurred to me!” snapped Jason, guiltily aware that in fact he had been stubbornly pushing it out of his mind.

  “But have you carried the thought one step further? If that is in fact the way she dies, maybe you’re the cause of her death.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Think about it—if you’re in any shape to think straight just now. There’s been no sign of the Teloi. If we hadn’t met Zenobia on the third, she might have decided by now that it’s just a wild goose chase, and given up and left Port Royal. As it is, ever since day before yesterday she’s been in no hurry to leave—thanks to you. You’re the reason she’s going to be here tomorrow morning.”

  Jason was again silent, face to face with a possibility he had not considered because he had not been in a mood to consider it. His state of denial about Zenobia’s impending death and its perfectly logical linkage with tomorrow’s disaster had shielded him from it.

  “And don’t forget,” said Mondrago, softening his tone a notch or two, “with that digital clock in your head, you’re going to know exactly when it’s going to happen.”

  “Eleven forty-three A. M.,” Jason nodded. Grenfell had explained to them that a stopped pocket watch had been recovered from the bottom of the harbor in the 1960s, allowing the time of the catastrophe to be pinned down so precisely.

  “So,” Mondrago continued implacably, “watching that countdown tick down, are you going to be able to deal with it?”

  “I’ll tell you in the morning,” said Jason, and turned away.

  June 7 was the most unbearably hot and stifling morning yet. The oppressive air matched the mood that hung over Port Royal, and, indeed, contributed to it.

  For the past three days, they had seen the signs. Half-crazed men wandered up and down Market Street, ranting that God’s judgment was at hand. Their message resonated more than it would have most places, here in this town built on privateering and best known for drunkenness and whoring; the various clergymen had been saying the same thing, in their more decorous way, for a long time. And an astrologer had recently added his prediction of impending disaster. Not to mention the usual sorts of rumors—unrest among the slaves, French raids on Jamaica’s northern coast. Small wonder that the earliest risers on this enervating morning included physicians, scurrying to dispense “cures” such as rum punches and opium-based elixirs to their patients, notably the high-strung wives of wealthy merchants.

  Jason, Mondrago and Chantal rose early, for the heat and their foreknowledge made sleep out of the question. It left them with time on their hands, and also privacy, for Zenobia and her Maroons were still out. So Jason knew certain matters could no longer be evaded.

  But he didn’t care, for in the course of the sleepless night he had come to a decision. Now he felt the fatalistic calm of irrevocable commitment.

  Mondrago and Chantal looked like he was fairly sure he himself did, with puffy, shadowed eyes in exhaustion-hollowed faces. He imagined they also shared his slightly headachy feeling. But Chantal seemed somehow less surly than she had the past couple of days. Perhaps, Jason thought, she was drawing strength from Mondrago, to whom she was keeping almost clingingly close despite the heat. They both looked as though they were expecting him to say something. They also looked puzzled by his seeming serenity.

  The silence had grown brittle when Mondrago finally broke it. “Well? How much longer?”

  Jason summoned up his clock display. It was 9:31. “A little over two hours to go.”

  “So at what point do you plan to activate the TRDs?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. As you know, I have the discretion to determine the exact moment. Of course I’ll give you warning. And … there’s one thing I need to make sure of before I do it.”

  Chantal began to look apprehensive. “What would that be?”

  Jason met her eyes unflinchingly. “I’m going to tell Zenobia about the earthquake. And if it appears that she’s in danger of being killed in it, I’m going to save her.”

  For a time, they simply stared at him, motionless in the unnaturally still heat.

  “Are you out of your goddamned mind?” Mondrago finally blurted. “Sir,” he added as an afterthought.

  Chantal spoke, her voice charged with an urgency that momentarily banished all her earlier resentments. “Jason, you can’t! The Observer Effect—”

  “I’m well aware of the Observer Effect. But we don’t know that she’s due to die in the earthquake. We’ve just been assuming that, because it’s such an obvious way for her to go. If she does!” Jason looked back and forth between his two listeners, urging them with his eyes as he extemporized freely. “Think about it: the only proof we have of her death around this time—the only thing that makes it part of ‘observed history’—is Gracchus’s letter, whose writer is unknown, so we can’t exactly verify his reliability. Maybe he was wrong! Maybe she doesn’t need to die! Maybe—”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this bullshit,” Mondrago cut in coldly. “It’s the purest kind of rationalization. You’re just trying to convince yourself.”

  That which had been smoldering inside Chantal for two days burst into a flame that glared through her eyes. “And we know why you are, don’t we?” she hissed.

  Jason met her glare with one of his own. “My motives are none of your concern—just as my relationships are none of your business. At any rate I’ve made my decision. And, over and above the legalities of my position as mission leader, I’m the one with the implant that controls all our TRDs. So what I say goes.”

  Chantal’s expression changed to one of near-desperation. “Jason … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But surely you must understand that you can’t do this!”

  At that moment, the door was flung open and Zenobia strode into the inn, followed by the two Maroons.

  “I can’t?” Jason said quietly to Chantal. “Just watch me!” He turned, and he and Zenobia met in a quick, hard embrace.

  “Zenobia, listen carefully. There’s something urgent I have to tell you. Two hours from now—”

  “Later, Jason. There’s no time now. Come on, we’ve got to go.”

  “But Zenobia—”

  “Jason, we’ve located the Teloi!” Zenobia’s dark eyes, bionic or no, were alight, for now the hunt was on in earnest. “You and Alexandre get your weapons. Chantal
, you probably ought to stay here.”

  “Like hell!” snapped Chantal, out of character.

  “Well … maybe it would be best if we all keep together. Now, everyone get moving!” And Zenobia was out the door, the Maroons in tow. Jason and the others could only follow.

  She led them north, into the most noisome parts of the dockside area. And even deeper into the area that’s going to fall into the sea, Jason thought. He resisted the temptation to consult his clock display. Instead, he hastened his steps, catching up to Zenobia.

  “What happened?” he demanded. “How did you find him?”

  “You know that ship that’s been lying out in the harbor to the east, flying no flag?”

  “Yes. With all the paranoia around here, people thought it was a pirate or a French scout. But the last I heard, it had turned out to be a Bristol merchantman that had somehow managed to work its way in using whatever occasional breeze came along, and was waiting for this morning to offload its cargo and passengers.”

  “Right. Well, it turns out that on the way here it stopped in Hispaniola for food and water. While it was there, the houngan Donnez used loot his followers had stolen from the French plantations to buy passage here. But they’ve been becalmed, so they didn’t get here on schedule.”

  “That must have been fun for the Teloi,” remarked Mondrago, who had also caught up despite his relatively short legs, with Chantal somehow keeping abreast. “Didn’t you say something about a large crate … ?”

  “Yes.” Zenobia’s expression was notably devoid of sympathy. “The ship’s captain offloaded at dawn today, which was why we missed it last night. My informants among the dockworkers tell me that the box was brought ashore then, by boat, and that it was hastily taken to a location somewhere around here. We need to split up and cover as much territory as possible.”

  “Right. But let’s stay in groups of three. I’ll be able to track you, as long as we don’t get too far separated, because I can detect your bionics.” Unfortunately, she’ll have no way of knowing where I am, Jason reflected. And God knows when I’m going to get another chance to talk to her. And … the clock is still ticking. “Alexandre, Chantal, let’s go!”

  They headed right, in the maze of alleys, while Zenobia led the two Maroons to the left. Jason’s map display was of some use, for the general layout of Port Royal was known to twenty-fourth-century scholars; otherwise it would have been easy to get lost in the chaotic, tightly packed warren of taverns, whorehouses, and assorted mercantile houses of varying degrees of disreputability. Jason fought down his anxiety and forced himself to methodically seek information. As he did so, he saw the little blue dot that denoted Zenobia’s position flicker and go out as her own search had led her outside the implant sensor’s very limited range.

  A series of inquiries at various establishments finally yielded a tavern keeper’s nodding recollection of having seen “some niggers with a prodigious great wooden chest” headed up a certain alley not long before. Jason led the way, noting with relief that the blue dot had reappeared. She had evidently looped back around, having found nothing in her area. If only I had a means of communicating with her …

  “Chantal, get behind us,” he said as they reached the corner of the alley. “And no argument!” He and Mondrago hefted their muskets to the position of high port, and they rounded the corner.

  There were only a few passersby in the narrow, noisome street. About halfway along it, a black man in sailor’s garb, armed with a musket, stood watchfully outside a shack that leaned against the side of a somewhat more substantial structure. He spotted them at once, and something about their approach warned him. He brought up his musket and aimed it. At once, Jason and Mondrago did the same.

  The bystanders immediately scattered, always a good policy at moments like this in Port Royal. For a moment the tableau held. Then a scream from behind them split the air. Jason whirled, to see a black man with his left arm around Chantal’s throat. His right hand held a dagger in an underhand grip, its point just over her heart. When he spoke, his voice held the accent of a native speaker of the French-based slave patois of Saint Domingue.

  “Since this bitch is white, maybe you care whether or not she’s killed. So lower your muskets.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  For a time that seemed longer than it was, the standoff remained frozen in place.

  Mondrago and the guard by the door continued to cover each other with their muskets across a distance of a few yards, although the former’s eyes occasionally flicked over his shoulder in the direction of Chantal and her captor. Jason remained facing in that direction, musket leveled but unwilling to risk attempting a head shot with such a crude and misfire-prone firearm, even at this range.

  The man holding Chantal shattered the moment with a harsh rasp. “I said drop your weapons, you damned slavers!” he pressed the knife-point against Chantal’s blouse, eliciting a choked yelp.

  “That would be real smart on our part, wouldn’t it?” Jason forced himself to speak levelly. “I’ve got a better idea: you release her, alive and unharmed. Your other choice is to die … and my friend here knows how to make it last.”

  The man’s eyes ignited with the most intense hate Jason had ever seen on a human face. “Oh, yes,” he said, almost crooning, “I know all about how you slavers know how to make it last! Like the way you nail a rebellious slave flat on the ground with crooked sticks and burn him alive little by little, first the hands and then the legs and then the head!”

  “We’re not slavers—” Jason began. But the man was now in full rant, his voice rising gradually to a full-throated shriek.

  “Liar! All you blancs are slavers! And you can feel like good Christians at the same time, because black people don’t matter, do they? God made black people out of His own shit, didn’t He? Didn’t He?”

  “It’s too bad you feel that way about yourself,” said Jason quietly. “But don’t put it on me.”

  At once, he decided he’d gone too far. The dark face was transported with a rage that left no room for anything else, not even self-preservation, not even sanity. The man’s body quivered with the force of his need to plunge the dagger through Chantal’s white skin and into her heart.

  Jason’s trigger finger tensed as he prepared for a desperate shot.

  From behind him a familiar voice shouted, “Donnez!”

  Jason, who hadn’t exactly been paying attention to the little blue dot of his sensor, risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Beyond Mondrago and the guard he was facing, Zenobia stood at the far end of the alley, cutlass in her right hand and flintlock pistol in her left.

  “You!” hissed the houngan, his captive momentarily forgotten. “Don’t try your tricks on me, witch! I know about them, so you have no power over me.” This, Jason knew, was true. Zenobia’s vocal enhancement implant could not overcome conscious resistance to its siren song by a target who was aware of it.

  She advanced a couple of steps into the alley, leveling her pistol. “I can still put a lead ball through your putrid guts.” Behind her, the two Maroons appeared, muskets at the ready.

  The guard at the door, now caught between Mondrago (who had kept his musket motionlessly leveled through all of this) and the new arrivals, was beginning to look jittery. He blurted something in the slave patois. The door opened cautiously and two other musket-armed black men emerged from the shack, pointing their weapons at Zenobia and her men with cautious slowness.

  Jason forced himself to keep his attention focused on the sights of his musket, keeping Donnez covered, not daring to move even though he knew he was in Zenobia’s line of fire. This standoff is getting both complicated and crowded, he thought.

  What finally broke it was almost farcical.

  Three piratical-looking seamen, who had obviously gotten started early on the day’s drinking, came lurching around the corner into the far end of the alley, behind Zenobia and her Maroons. Their purpose in entering the alley was clear, for one of
them was awkwardly lowering his pants. The other two immediately came to a goggle-eyed halt, as the realization of what was transpiring in the alley penetrated the alcohol mist. But the one seeking to urinate, absorbed in the task of untying his rope belt, staggered into the Taino, sending him off balance.

  At once, the tableau dissolved with an ear-shattering blast of musketry, and the alley filled with the rotten-eggs smell of burning black powder.

  One of the newly-emerged cultists fired first, sending a musket ball into the Taino’s midriff. His companion also got off a shot, but missed the other Maroon and hit one of the drunks. Some small fraction of a second later, Zenobia brought him down with a pistol shot. At the same instant, Mondrago fired, and the first guard slammed back against the door of the shed before sliding to the ground, painting a trail of blood down the door from the brain matter adhering to it.

  Just as Jason was turning, Chantal gave a heave that must have taken every erg of strength in her slight body, jabbed an elbow backwards into the houngan’s stomach, and broke free, dropping so the knife only raked her shoulder. She fell to the ground with a sobbing gasp of pain.

  Ha! thought Jason exultantly as he brought his musket to bear on the now exposed Donnez.

  As he began to squeeze the trigger, there was a crash behind him. He involuntarily looked over his shoulder, just in time to see the shed’s door flung open with a force that sent the one surviving guard sprawling forward onto the point of Zenobia’s cutlass. With a powerful thrust, she drove the weapon through him, its bloody blade emerging through his back.

  But no one paid attention, for what now emerged from the open door in a crouch and rose to its full height had no business in this world.

  It all came back to Jason in a rush. The nearly eight-foot stature. The almost dead-white skin. The fine hair like an alloy of silver and gold. The features, more disturbing in their elvish near-humanity than something honestly weird would have been, with up-tilted brow ridges and cheekbones, almost nonexistently thin lips, and long narrow nose with flaring nostrils. And, worst of all, the eyes: huge, tilted, opaque, with no clear demarcation between the pale-blue “whites” and the azure irises.