Ghosts of Time (18 page)

Abruptly, Zenobia spoke. “I’ve never forgotten you, you know. But it’s been a long time. Why didn’t you come back at an earlier date?”

“I’ve told you why I had to come here yesterday,” he reminded her.
And nothing happened yesterday. So why did the letter specify June 4?
“But I probably should have.”

“And of course, you never
will
come back, at some later point in your own lifetime, to a date earlier than this. Because if so, I’d already remember it, wouldn’t I?” She shook her head at the perplexities of time travel, then turned and met his eyes. “I wish you had.”

A moment passed before Jason trusted himself to speak. “I thought it was Henri that you—”

“Oh, I’ll never forget him. But he’s been dead for almost twenty-four years of my lifetime. And after he died . . . when we were stranded and took that trek along the southern shore of Hispaniola, and I got to know you . . .” Her eyes shifted away, and her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “I never told you.” Then her eyes took his again, and would not let go.

“I never told you either,” he heard himself say.

This is insane,
he frantically told himself.
I’m not some adolescent boy letting his balls do his thinking for him. And this is wrong on every conceivable level. It would be wrong even if I didn’t know she’s going to die shortly and can’t tell her I know. And—

And then she was in his arms and none of that mattered any more.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Sir, I need to have a word with you in private.”

That got Jason’s attention. For Mondrago to say “Sir” in that formal tone of voice was unusual, and generally ominous. His facial expression went with it.

“All right, Alexandre.” Jason took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his hair, for he had just come into the common room of the inn from the afternoon heat where Zenobia was still observing the docks. “Let’s go upstairs.”

They left the area of the door, where the Taino Maroon was keeping watch in his usual inscrutable silence. Walking toward the rickety stairs, they passed a table where Chantal sat in stony, tight-lipped silence. She had done that a lot lately. Jason wondered why.

Once they were in the upper room—more like a loft, really—Jason sat down, for his head barely had clearance. He waited for Mondrago to speak up, but the Corsican suddenly seemed overtaken by awkwardness.

“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 off-loaded 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.”