Pirates of the Timestream (12 page)

Now Boyer had a chance to look around him, and recollections came crowding back. He felt his gorge begin to rise.

“Come on!” He felt a hand grip his upper arm, and Zenobia hauled him to his feet. She wiped blood from her eyes and spat out a bit of gray matter. “What’s the matter? It’s over now. And it looks like your boat is all right, as is ours; they didn’t bother with those. So,” she finished matter-of-factly, “now we can finish fixing our rudder.”

“But . . . but . . .” He gestured vaguely around, and once again thought he was going to be sick.

She grinned—the first time he had seen her do that. “And besides, I think we’re even now.” She indicated the practically headless horror that had been Captain Gaspard, and then the two severed hands on the deck that still convulsively clutched a cutlass. “See what I mean?”

“I suppose I do.” Boyer found he couldn’t hold back a shaky laugh, and the wave of nausea retreated.

Still, he didn’t feel up to trying to press Zenobia with any questions before returning to
Oxford.

CHAPTER TWELVE

As expected, Morgan didn’t bother pursuing
L’Enfer
and her now leaderless crew. The fleet proceeded to the rendezvous point with only a slight delay.

Most of the French buccaneers (none of whom seemed to be wasting any tears on Captain Gaspard) were already at Cow Island—including one ship,
Le Cerf Volant
, whose presence not only delayed the rendezvous but almost disrupted the fragile alliance of English and French privateers. A captain from Virginia accused her of robbery and piracy, which was something that had to be settled before matters could proceed further. So Morgan and HMS
Oxford
took her back to Port Royal—a particularly easy run given the prevailing winds—where the Court of Admiralty promptly condemned her as a prize and sentenced her captain to hang. The latter was commuted, which smoothed ruffled Gallic feathers somewhat, and Morgan returned to Cow Island with
Oxford
and the former
Cerf Volant
, now renamed
Satisfaction.

All of which comings and goings kept them away from
Rolling-Calf
, with no opportunities to try to unravel the multiple mysteries surrounding Zenobia. They did have the chance to scour
Oxford
for other Transhumanists, but discovered none except the one Mondrago had already spotted (and Jason’s sensor now confirmed), and he kept to himself as much as was possible on this ship.

Now, on the first day of 1669, they finally lay at anchor at the rendezvous point, just off the tiny speck of land that was Cow Island. And Morgan was sending out word to the captains to meet aboard
Oxford
the next day for the traditional war council that would choose a target.

Jason stood by the rail, looking northward. Across a channel to the north, the mountainous spine of Hispaniola’s southwestern peninsula loomed: the Massif de la Selle to the east and the Massif de la Hotte to the west. With
Oxford
was a multinational fleet of twelve other ships and over nine hundred men, which Jason doubted would have held together for anyone but Morgan, the conqueror of Portobello. He picked out
Rolling-Calf,
which was somewhat farther away than most. Then he looked around the deck. Morgan was in the process of dispatching boats to the other ships.

Boyer joined him and looked across the water at
Rolling-Calf
. “So near and yet so far,” he philosophized. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more help with her.”

“Not your fault,” Jason replied absently. “You had other things to occupy your mind last time you saw her.”

Morgan stepped up to Boyer. “As usual,” he growled, “I can’t find anyone who wants to set foot on
Rolling-Calf.
Henri, take a boat over there and tell Zenobia about the captains’ council. I know
you
don’t mind—especially after that fight the other day! Come on, your boat is waiting.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” said Boyer. And, in an aside to Jason: “Maybe this time I’ll get lucky.”

* * *

“Well, well!” greeted Zenobia as Boyer clambered aboard
Rolling-Calf.
“It’s you again. And with a message from Morgan?”

“Yes.” Boyer delivered the news of the next day’s captain’s council. “Besides, I wanted to pay my respects. We never got to talk very much in the course of our unpleasant encounter with the late unlamented Captain Gaspard. For that matter, I also never had a chance to talk to you that night, on the way back to Port Royal, after the
Koo-min-ah
.”

“Well, here I am now,” she said with a lazy smile, leaning back with her elbows on the taffrail, up on the poop and therefore looking slightly down at him. “What did you think of what you saw that night?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“You don’t think I’m a witch?” she asked boldly.

“No. I saw some things I can’t explain, but I don’t believe that.”

“You wouldn’t.” She cocked her head and looked him over. “You’re not like the others. There’s something odd about you . . . you’re not just an ordinary runaway slave, whatever you may claim. I don’t know what to make of you.”

Does she suspect?
Boyer wondered.
But of course if she does she can’t say so outright. And I’m not supposed to state outright what I know about her.
He noticed that the Maroons had all moved forward and busied themselves with various tasks, as though sensing that Zenobia wanted to have a private conversation. He cautiously stepped up onto the poop with her. It was barely large enough to accommodate two. She made no objection.

“You puzzle me a lot more than I do you. In fact, you’d be a mystery even without . . . what I saw and heard that night ashore.”

“Why?”

“You’re no simple runaway either.” Boyer decided to risk the
either
, even though he was tacitly confirming that there was more to him than he had admitted
.
“Where
do
you come from anyway?”

“I’ve told you before, that’s none of your business!” All at once, the fire in her eyes died down to something resembling warmth, with underlying flickers of amusement. “If you don’t believe I’m what I seem to be, then just where do you think I
do
come from?”

He held her eyes and would not let go. “Even though you aren’t a runaway slave, I think you come from a place where you were never treated as a full human being.”

For a long moment, the creaking of a wooden ship swinging at anchor seemed unnaturally loud.

Her eyes slid aside and would no longer meet his. “What are you talking about?” she muttered in a surly voice . . . and then stopped short. Her head swung around and she stared at him with eyes that were wide with sudden realization.

He had spoken in twenty-fourth-century Standard International English.

He smiled, and continued in the same language. “I got tired of fencing. It’s contrary to my orders, but I think we ought to start being honest with each other. I’m a time traveler—like you.”

“What babble is this?” she demanded with an attempt at bluster.

“It’s no use. Our mission leader has a sensor that detected your bionics—and, of course, I saw them in action. You don’t belong in this century any more than I do. By the way, don’t bother trying that vocal enhancement implant of yours on me. As you’re probably aware, it’s ineffective against someone who is alert to it and is consciously resisting.”

Her eyes turned to black ice. “If I say the word,” she hissed, “my men will chop you into shark chum.”

“I know. But I don’t think you will. You see, I think you need help—and my companions and I may be able to provide it. But only if you’re frank with us.”

“What makes you think I need any help? Least of all from the Authority,” she added with a sneer, all pretense gone. “That
is
who sent you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and our mission leader is firmly convinced you’re a Transhumanist, because that seems to be the only possibility. And yet, we know those men chasing you in Port Royal were time travelers . . . and we’re certain that
they
were Transhumanists. Very perplexing. That’s why I’ve been sort of assigned to try and find out more about you.”

“And I thought you liked me! I’m crushed!” Her sarcasm somehow lacked a hard edge.

“Actually, I do. That’s why I’m still hoping, in the teeth of all logic, that you’re not really a Transhumanist. It’s also why I hope I can talk you into accepting our help. Whatever you may say, or think, I believe you need it.”

“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!”