by Steve White
“Why?” she challenged. “And what kind of help can you and your party give me, even if I wanted it?”
“As to the latter . . . I don’t know, at least not yet. But before you decide you’re in no need of allies, you ought to know this: there is at least one Transhumanist in this fleet. We’ve spotted him aboard Oxford. It seems they’re still after you.”
Her features revealed her startlement for only a split second before closing up again like shutters. “I’ll deal with them in my own way,” she said stonily.
“I only hope your confidence is justified. Oh, by the way, what’s your real name?”
“It really is Zenobia.” She paused and seemed to reach a decision. “Zenobia, Category Thirteen Delta, Twenty-Fourth Degree.”
He stared. “So you really are—”
“Yes. Sorry to disappoint you. And if you knew anything about the Transhuman Dispensation, that Delta would tell you that it’s an unusual designation—a non-standard genetic upgrade tailored for a particular purpose. Specifically, I was . . . designed to be instrumental in the establishment of a cult among the slaves in Saint Domingue, which will eventually become Haiti—a variation on Voodoo which will bear fruit at a much later time, calculated by a highly advanced form of mathematical sociodynamics, like all the other sociological time-bombs with which the Movement has been filling the out-of-the-way parts of the human past. Everything about me—including the bionics you’ve observed—was intended to maximize my effectiveness in that role.” She smiled slightly. “By ancestry, I’m not altogether African. I didn’t need to be. I was darkened up, and my features slightly altered, by resequencing of my DNA. The side effects weren’t too unpleasant.”
Why is she telling me all this? wondered Boyer from the depths of his shock. But the important thing was to induce her to keep on telling it. “Then why were your fellow Transhumanists pursuing you?”
“They’re no longer ‘my fellow Transhumanists.’” Her eyes grew very hard. “The cult I was supposed to found was one of unspeakable foulness and depravity—a cancerous growth within the body of Vodou. I could no longer stomach it. And besides . . . do you know what it’s like for women in the Movement?”
“I can’t honestly say I do, although I’ve always understood that they were regarded primarily as breeding stock.”
“It may not be as bad as it once was. Ever since the Movement went underground, it can’t afford to waste any of its resources. And there were always exceptions for special purposes. In my case, for example, they wanted a woman because women traditionally had a prominent religious role in West African societies. But the attitude was always there. Almost never anything blatantly abusive or grossly degrading, you understand. Just small things. Constant, demeaning small things.” She grew silent, and seemed to forget his presence.
“So you deserted,” he prompted after a moment. “But how—?”
She raised her left arm. On its underside, a few inches from the armpit, was a scar, surrounded by burn tissue as though a wound had been very crudely cauterized.
“I cut out my TRD,” she stated matter-of-factly, “and threw it away. Without its built-in tracking feature, they were no longer able to follow my movements. I got out of Haiti and crossed over to Jamaica. There, I made my way into the Blue Mountains and took up with the Maroons there. I hadn’t been given this century’s English, but working back from our own language I was able to learn how to communicate with them.”
“That must have been very difficult,” offered Boyer, inadequately. He was trying to imagine the epic of escape and survival that Zenobia was skimming over in a few brief sentences.
“Not as much as you might think. You see, I still had my . . . special features. I was able to set myself up as a leader among them.” She gave him a challenging smile. “I’ve found I actually like this century better. You’d be surprised at all the things I don’t miss. Except . . . people I can talk to. People who can understand.”
Yes, the Maroons probably have their limitations in that area, Boyer thought. He decided he could stop wondering why she was being so loquacious with him.
“Is piracy one of the things about the era that you like?” he risked asking. “It must be a terrific advantage, knowing in advance what’s going to happen next.”
“But I don’t. I was never an historian. And I wasn’t given any orientation in anything except the religions and folkways the slaves brought from Africa. I didn’t need to know anything more—besides being a mere woman. No, I’ve had to make my own way without any real foreknowledge.”
So you don’t know what’s going to happen to HMS Oxford tomorrow night, do you? Boyer filed the datum away in his mind.
“And yes,” she continued, “I like some things about it. For one thing, it gives me a ‘support system’ in the form of the Brethren of the Coast. You saw in Port Royal how useful that can be when my former . . . employers come looking for me. And I never know when they’re going to be looking for me.”
Boyer thought he saw a perfect opening. “Then you admit, in effect, that you do sometimes need help. Welcome to the human race! Maybe we can offer you some. And as you tell the story, we’re natural allies.”
“No!” Zenobia’s vehemence rocked him back. Her eyes, artificial though they might be, were like burning black coals. “I hate the Transhumanists, but I hate the Authority—and the whole society it’s a part of—just as much! My ancestors were Transhumanists back when the Movement ruled Earth. Do you know what was done to them in the late twenty-third century when the Dispensation was overthrown? Do you?”
“I think I have a general idea,” said Boyer, recalling the way Earth had been washed clean of the Transhumanist aberration with a torrent of blood.
“Then you know why my loyalties are to nobody but myself and my men. And why I’ve chosen to strand myself in the past: it’s a better neighborhood! You may think my Maroons are barely above the level of savages, but they’re clean!” She drew a deep breath. “Tell your mission leader that. I think you’d better leave. The crew are starting to get curious.”
“Very well.” Boyer turned to go, then paused. “Just one thing I’m still curious about, Zenobia. Those ‘demons’ you described to your men, that night—”
“No. I think I’ve already told you enough. Maybe too much.”
“All right. I’ll go.” As he clambered over the rail, he paused once more. “Anyway, maybe I’ll see you tomorrow when you come aboard Oxford for the captains’ council.”
“Maybe.” A ghost of a smile came back to life, and as she turned away he was barely able to hear her add, “I hope so.”
* * *
“You what?” exclaimed Jason when Boyer reported to him aboard Oxford. Mondrago muttered something, the only intelligible word of which was “Civilians!”
“That’s right, Commander,” Boyer admitted unflinchingly. “I revealed that we’re time travelers, and that we know she’s one. It seemed the only way to induce her to open up. And it did.” He proceeded to relate Zenobia’s story. “And so,” he concluded, “she’s out for herself now. She’s not inclined to join us, but she’s hardly likely to tell the Transhumanists about us.”
“What if she had still been on speaking terms with them?” Mondrago demanded. “How could you be sure she wasn’t?”
“I couldn’t be sure,” Boyer admitted. He turned to Jason. “I’m sorry, Commander. I know I took a risk, in violation of orders. But . . . I felt a need to be honest with her.”
Jason considered for a moment. “All right. What’s done is done, and you did obtain some valuable information. And I gather that there are a couple of things you didn’t reveal. One is that we know the ‘demons’ are Teloi.”
“That’s right. I was hoping she’d volunteer some information about them, but she didn’t. Maybe she doesn’t know what they really are.”
“I suppose that’s possible. Same goes for the spacecraft wreckage Asamoa found. You didn’t tell her about that either, did you?”
“No. I felt I’d already told her enough—”
“That’s one way to put it,” Mondrago interjected.
“—and for that reason I also didn’t tell her about the Oxford explosion, even though I really wanted to. Commander, we’ve got to warn her about that!”
“Why?” Mondrago sounded genuinely puzzled.
Jason shushed him. “Maybe. But for now, no more revelations without my express permission. We’ve got to hold on to all the cards we have left to play.” Then, as an afterthought: “Oh, one other thing, Henri. Don’t tell Nesbit about any of this. He might have a stroke. And,” he added, addressing Mondrago before the latter could open his mouth, “don’t say it!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Morgan had a great bowl of rum punch set up on Oxford’s quarterdeck. The captains needed to have their wits more or less about them for their council where the fleet’s destination would be chosen and the articles approved The real drinking would begin afterwards.
The council would be held on deck in the afternoon sun, in full view of the crew crowding around. It was part of the overall rough-and-ready democracy of buccaneer society, unique in this century. Jason and his companions had elbowed their way into a good position, against the starboard rail in the waist just forward of the quarterdeck, for viewing the proceedings, which Grenfell would have cut off one of his own arms rather than miss. From there, they watched the procession of small boats arrive carrying the captains.
Nesbit’s jitters had waxed as the day had progressed. He glanced around the deck as though expecting it to erupt in flames at any moment. “Are you sure the explosion isn’t supposed to happen yet?” he asked Grenfell, not for the first time.
“Quite sure, Irving,” Grenfell sighed. “The historical record is quite clear. It doesn’t occur until late at night, well after the captains’ conference has adjourned and the subsequent party has been in progress for some time. We’ll have plenty of time to slip off the ship and steal a boat.”
“But what if someone sees us and raises the alarm?”
“We’ve been over all that, Irving. No one will be in any condition to notice our departure.”
Jason paid no attention to the conversation. He was watching the captains as they clambered up the gangway one by one and came aboard. The French captains looked like what they were: men whose cupidity just barely had the upper hand over their smoldering resentment. All, regardless of nationality, were about as villainous-looking a crew as Jason would have expected. Grenfell thought he could identify some of them by name: Richard Norman, captain of the Lilly, Joseph Bradley of the Mayflower, Richard Dobson of the Fortune, Lawrence Prince of the Pearl, John Morris of the Dolphin (a particularly close associate of Morgan’s) and others. The Dutch were represented by Bernard Claesen Speirdyke, whose name his English associates perhaps understandably shortened to Captain Bart. Morgan greeted each of them effusively, generally confirming Grenfell’s guesses as to their identity. For this occasion he was dressed as they had first seen him in Port Royal, in his flamboyant version of gentleman’s attire as he felt befitted the Admiral of the Coast.
One of the last to come aboard took a while to get up the gangway, for he was a very big man indeed, and presumably very strong as well, judging from his almost simian arms. He was also, Jason thought, one of the ugliest human beings he had ever seen. His hair, parted in the middle of his massive head, and his drooping mustache were a yellow suggesting exceptionally greasy butter. His eyes, under beetling brow ridges and a notably low and sloping forehead, were a grey so pale as to be practically colorless; they were like empty holes in a face that was hideously scarred and screwed up into a seemingly permanent scowl, lower lip outthrust.
“So much for evolution,” Jason heard Mondrago mutter.
“Roche Braziliano!” Morgan exclaimed. “I hadn’t dared hope that you’d be able to make this rendezvous. Welcome! Thrice welcome! We’ll drink later.” The new arrival’s scowl went down a couple of notches of intensity; Jason got the impression that this was his equivalent of a smile. He gave a couple of grunts; Morgan beamed in apparent agreement with whatever the grunts signified.
Grenfell looked fascinated. “Well, well! We never knew that Roche Braziliano was involved in this particular expedition. It’s recorded that he raided Campeche in 1669, but that could be later in the year.”
Da Cunha looked askance at the name. “If he’s Brazilian, I’m Tibetan!”
“Actually,” Grenfell explained, “he was born Gerrit Gerritszoon at Groningen in the Netherlands. His family moved to Brazil during the mid-1600s when the Dutch controlled it. When the Portuguese recaptured it, he made his way to Jamaica and joined the buccaneers after leading a mutiny. He rose rapidly to the status of captain—of a vessel stolen from other pirates. His greatest claim to fame is the time he was captured by the Spanish at Campeche. He escaped by tricking the local governor, by means of a forged letter, into thinking his followers were standing ready to avenge him if he was hanged.”
“He must be cleverer than he looks,” said Da Cunha in a damning-with-faint-praise tone.
“True. Evidently, he could even read and write. Afterwards, he got back in business by buying a new ship from L’Ollonais, who was an associate of his.”
“What a surprise,” commented Mondrago.
“Finally, I should mention that he is widely regarded among his fellow buccaneers as being . . . well, insane.”
Mondrago stared at the throng around him. “How could anybody tell?”
“How did they even notice?” Da Cunha added.
“It might have had something to do with his practice of cutting the limbs off Spanish farmers and roasting them alive over pits if they refused to hand over their pigs to him. Also . . . if he ever offers you a drink, I advise you to accept it. He was noted for killing anyone who didn’t.”
Zenobia was the last to arrive. As she strode like a lioness across the deck to greet Morgan, she ostentatiously ignored both leers and surreptitious signs against evil. But she exchanged a brief eye-contact with Boyer and flashed a smile at him before the captains got down to business, surrounded by the audience crowding the deck and clinging to the shrouds and ratlines. When it came to their leaders’ decision-making proceedings, buccaneers were evidently believers in “transparency.”
“My friends,” Morgan began after wetting his throat with rum punch, “I propose that we first settle on the articles to govern our company for the duration of our voyage.” There was a chorus of affirmative-sounding noises.
“This is a departure from the usual procedure,” Grenfell whispered in Jason’s ear. “Generally, pirates would settle on a target first, then hammer out the articles. I suspect that Morgan’s articles are standard ones, and are so well known and so widely accepted that in this case it’s mere routine, to be gotten out of the way at once, without much discussion.”
And so it proved. First came the not unimportant matter of compensation. Plunder was to be allocated on a basis of one share for each common pirate, while a master’s mate got two and a captain got five. As Admiral of the Coast, Morgan would get six. Ships’ boys had to settle for half a share. There were additional bonuses for specialists: a carpenter got a hundred and fifty pieces of eight, a surgeon two hundred and fifty. (Boyer and Nesbit had to endure their companions’ elbows in the ribs at that.) And then came the provisions for recompense for serious wounds. Anyone who lost an arm got six hundred pieces of eight if it was the right and five hundred if the left. For the right and left legs it was five hundred and four hundred respectively. And so forth, down through lost eyes and fingers.
“Disability insurance among pirates!” said Nesbit wonderingly. “I never would have thought it.”
“It was a quite standard element of these articles,” Grenfell assured him. “As was incentive pay,” he added as bonuses for various acts of bravery in battle were enumerated. “In some ways, the Brethren of the Coast were centuries ahead of their times.”
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br /> “But what if they didn’t capture any booty?” Da Cunha sounded curious.
“Then nobody got anything. The basic rule was: no prey, no pay.”
“Which must be quite an incentive in itself,” Jason reflected. It was yet another reason why the buccaneers fought better than their ill-paid Spanish adversaries.
Next the captains turned to the provisions of the articles governing shipboard conduct. These too were approved expeditiously. Most were fairly commonsensical. Fighting was prohibited, as was gambling—Jason suspected that the latter was considered likely to lead the former. Theft, cheating on the division of spoils, and failure to keep one’s arms fit for action were strongly interdicted. Punishments for violations included death and marooning (which, no doubt, amounted to merely an elaborate and gratuitously cruel sentence of death), but in some cases they were left up to the discretion of the captain and company. Then came a provision that piqued Jason’s interest. When it was read out, there was no dissent, and indeed a mutter of agreement arose from the spectators:
“Any man who shall, in the hold, snap his firelock, or light matches, or smoke tobacco, or carry a lighted candle uncovered by a lanthorn, shall receive Moses’ Law.”
“‘Moses’ Law’?” queried Nesbit in an undertone. “I didn’t know these people were Jewish.”
Grenfell smiled. “It means thirty-nine lashes on your bare back. There were very few offenses for which buccaneers were willing to agree to flogging as a punishment. This was one of them. However wild and crazy these men may seem in most respects, they’re only too well aware that the ships they live aboard are floating fire bombs.”
“And they’re not likely to get drunk enough to forget that,” Jason mused. It made what history said was going to happen to Oxford more difficult to understand—downright puzzling, in fact.