The Apostates (58 page)

“Alright, let’s get off this boat,” Blaze suggested, and Ravine nodded in agreement.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

“On behalf of the people and the government of Jamaica and the Two Tone Party: I welcome you to Jamaican waters. Please state your desired length of stay, your purpose for travel, and the size of your disembarkation party,” a voice from the port authority had answered the hails from the Iowa, and now Gale was connected via her neural implant to the official, who questioned her.

“Thank you for your warm welcome. We come
from the West Coast of New Megiddo and are trying to reach the capital, New
Megiddo City. We have a dispute to settle with them, and that is our reason for
sailing. We represent the interests of voiceless people within the country. As
for our intentions here: we just seek to trade and to make port call.
We have about five thousand to our number,” Gale explained the Apostate’s
situation as best she could, without divulging sensitive information.

“I see. I will relay this information to
officials in our government. It will be up to them to give you clearance to
come ashore. Please stand by,” the port official signed off for the moment,
leaving the Apostates in a holding pattern. Gale acknowledged and waited
patiently. The bridge crew was quiet, awaiting the decision. At least a
half-hour ticked by while the Iowa sat, then finally, a response,

“By order of President Zola Dekker and
Prime Minister Rudie McCook, I am to welcome your fleet crew and passengers to
Kingston, Jamaica! You are hereby cleared to come ashore. Please moor your
fleet at the Kingston Container Wharf. Once you are ready please send a
delegation of your choosing to the Port Authority. Once again, welcome to
Jamaica,” the port authority officer recited.

“We appreciate your hospitality. Thank you kindly!” Gale replied. The bridge crew celebrated the desperately needed shore leave that they were going to soon get. Gale felt relieved. She soon coordinated with other captains to lead their ships into port. Soon the fleet was being guided in along massive wharfs that stretched for miles along the water line. Once the ships were all moored up, gangplanks were brought into position and affixed to the sides of vessels. The crew of each began to disembark. A line of men and women standing in slim-fit black suits, white shirts, skinny black ties, black sunglasses, and black fedoras on the tops of their heads waited to receive the delegation. As Gale-Whirlwind, Hades-Perdition, and Angel-Seraphim stepped out onto the wharf surface, the row of suits saluted them. All looked to be native Jamaicans. A port officer stepped forward and greeted Gale, Hades, and Angel. He asked if this was their delegation, which they replied positively to, and so the port officer led them to an old, black and white checkered, taxi cab. The three Apostates got into the cab and it was off.

The cab wound through the old Colonial quarter: much of it was dilapidated or lay in ruin. They could see that there was newer construction further inland, as much of the town that laid near sea level was covered in several inches of standing water, so the old town had been abandoned and left to urban decay. The cab started up a hill. They could see at the top of the hill was a lush, green lawn. Crowning the top of the hill was a monolithic, white and beige, three-story mansion. The driver informed the Apostates that in centuries past the structure had been called “The King’s House”. It had been the residence of colonial governors. With independence from Britain, and then the subsequent Holy War and effects of climate change, Jamaica had lost touch with Britain and had only limited contact with its Caribbean neighbors. The King’s House now served as a receiving space for visiting dignitaries.

The cab pulled into to a blacktop drive that terminated adjacent to a grand front entryway. The black-suited driver ran out and got the rear passenger door for the three Apostates, which stepped out, thanking him. They moved to the front door, which was wood-framed and a bronze-plated. Another suit stood at the front entrance and opened the door for them. They walked into the grand foyer. As splendid as the foyer of Manuela Noriega’s town hall had been in La Chorerra, this one put it to shame. The foyer was full of antiques from many different periods of history, fine silver platters, and stained-glass lamps adorned ornate dark-wood tables. A man stood at the entrance to a conjoining larger hall. He too wore a modest slim-fit suit with matching black fedora, except on the fedora was a checkered band above the brim. It seemed to be a subtle notation of rank. The man was tall, and middle-aged, but with a chiseled face. The only indicator of age was a hint of silver in tightly-curled stubble around his chin, and around the hair of his temples, above the ears. He was a man of African-Caribbean descent.

“Welcome, welcome! I am Prime Minister Rudie McCook, but you can call me Rudie. Tell me now guests, what do I call the lot of you?” Prime Minister Rudie spoke with a thick Caribbean accent, but spoke English well, as it always had been the main language of the island nation. The Apostates looked at one another, they were not sure if they were keeping what they were secret anymore, after what happened in La Chorrera, the news must have traveled fast.

“Well, we refer to ourselves as Apostates.
We have unfinished business with the government of New Megiddo. So, well, we
set sail to make war on them. They are planning to bring about a kind of
Armageddon to their populace, under the guise of the “Second Coming”. We aim to
stop them.” Hades took it upon himself to answer for the group. Prime Minister
Rudie stroked the hair on his chin, contemplating what Hades had told him.

“Hm, very interesting. I can’t claim that
our government has ever really been a friend to New Megiddo. Our records say
Jamaica has barely heard a peep from them since the end of the Holy War.
Regardless, if what you say is true, then you do the right thing,” Prime
Minister Rudie responded.

“Every bit is true. They want to go out with a bang before they lose power completely and get toppled in a coup. The people are tired of their system,” Gale added.

“Yes. I am sure you are all exhausted from your journey. Let us move into the receiving hall. The President would like to meet you as well.” The Prime Minister led them into a massive chamber with high ceilings, a wide girth, and well-worn hardwood floors. On the far side of the chamber was a grand stone fireplace, with lounging furniture situated around its opening. It was much too hot for a fire this time of year, but it served as an excellent place to converse. A woman was perched on an ornate love seat. She appeared to be in her forties and was dressed in bright colors. Situated on the top of her head was a bright orange and green, tightly-bound head wrap that gave her an air of authority. When she looked over at the approaching group it was with large, almond-shaped eyes, and an amber colored  surrounded dark pupils. She stood and met their approach.

“Prime Minister McCook! Honored guests welcome to the King’s House. I am glad we could meet for a chat, no? I am President Zola Dekker, but please you can call me Zola.” President Zola warmly shook each of their hands. She too spoke with a very thick Caribbean accent and possessed a good command of the English language.

“Thank you for allowing us to come to
shore. I know that by the looks of things we could be construed as an attacking
fleet, and in a way we are, but Jamaica certainly is not our query.” Hades
tried to lessen any worry the President might have about the Apostate fleet
being hostile.

“It gladdens my heart that you have come to Jamaica in peace. As you might have anticipated we do have a nominal port tax that is required, but I am sure you have staff that can work out the details with the port authority. Also, your host will have access to our markets so that you may take on fresh provisions for your voyage.” The President made them feel very welcome. It was in stark contrast to the hostility and fighting that they had experienced for weeks on end.

“Madam President—” Angel began, but
the President interrupted her.

“No, honey, please call me Zola! We don’t
need such formalities among friends,” President Zola instructed her.

“Okay, Zola! Why do all of your people
wear those black suits and hats? Even the Prime Minister? I’m just curious,”
Angel asked, gazing at Rudie’s checkered band on his fedora.

“Oh honey, that be a man ting. Show a
Big-bout-yah!” she segued into a “Patois” manner of speaking. “That is it’s
mainly a man thing. They like how some of the people from our musical past had
dressed, makes them look respectable, and we take the musical heritage of this
island very seriously,” President Zola continued to explain. Angel nodded, to
hint at understanding what it was to be so into the musical heritage of the
people; it made her think of home.

“In fact our island still practices democracy: concepts that had been forgotten long ago in New Megiddo. Our political party is of the Two Tone. We built it around our love for those tunes, from centuries ago: Rocksteady, Ska, and Reggae. The style and sound had recently been revived here. It just so happened that the political and social messages and values contained within this music also meshed with our personal beliefs, and those people who elected us. It’s not perfect. We definitely have our “Tings a gwaan”, but we make due,” President Zola explained a complex history truncated to the best of her ability. The Apostates listened intently. Then they filled the President and Prime Minister in on their hazardous journey. The Apostates explained the situation that they had encountered at the Panama Strait, and the toll they had taken to win that battle.

“I have some knowledge from our intelligence gathering services of the closely-knit relationship between the Noriega Clan and the cartels. I can’t say we have ever been friends. Fortunately, Jamaica is far enough removed from the main ‘Database’ smuggling routes that we have never really been a target for the cartels,” Prime Minister Rudie explained.

“That is definitely a relief to us. We
would not want to repeat that run in,” Gale confessed, not wanting to the battle at the
Strait. They went on at length about other topics like areas of interest on the
island, the best beaches, and other matters. The President and Prime Minister
had invited the Apostates to a dance hall that was popular around the capital;
to show the Apostates how a good time was had in Jamaica, and they graciously
accepted.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Once Blaze-Scorch and Ravine-Gulch caught word that disembarkation clearance had been granted, the first thing they did was to make a beeline to the beach. Being bottled-up on the ships for so long had reached critical mass, and now they were ready for fun. A checkered cab was allocated to them for transportation to the beach. Driving along the coast with the windows rolled down rejuvenated Blaze and Ravine. The Rude Boy driver had mentioned New Hellshire beach as a must-see site. He bragged about the white sand beaches and crystal-clear waters. He also explained why the beach had the “New” prefix attached to it: the original having been another casualty of sea-level rise. The driver seemed to have the low-down on the entire area; having grown up there, fishing Hellshire Bay and the surrounding waters as a boy.

The checkered cab pulled into shoddily-paved parking lot, passing under an old “sand castle” themed sign welcoming people to Hellshire Beach. The parking lot was relatively close to the beach and waterfront. Families had constructed waterfront cabanas, as both dwellings and as places of small business. Life was lazy on these sandy beaches and people lived beyond the social chaos of the powder keg that was New Megiddo. Blaze ran out ahead of ahead of Ravine onto the beach. Wearing combat boots, she was quick to unlace them and got barefoot to experience the hot sand between her toes. She wandered off toward the incoming tide that met the flat, wet sand nearest the water. Ravine followed suit and removed his foot ware, heading out toward the sapphire tide. He caught up with her as she splashed
through the shallow foam washing across the sand.

“I could spend the rest of my life here.
It’s so nice! Don’t you agree?” Blaze exclaimed, raising her face to the
sunshine. Ravine pondered the answer to that question.

“They certainly do live well here: cut-off
from the chaos in the world,” Ravine agreed.

“I would seriously come back here once our
mission is done. Fuck reconstruction, or whatever it’s going to be called once
the Regime is gone. I’m done with the overly-complicated life. This is
paradise.” She proclaimed. Ravine thought that Blaze took a superficial view of the island based on its serene
atmosphere and tropical surroundings.

“It might look nice, but I wouldn’t call it utopia, Blaze,” Ravine said.

“Well, they certainly aren’t subjugating
the people or using the cartels as means to enrich themselves. I see people
that are relatively happy here,” Blazed observed.

“For now, yes. Only because Jamaica wasn’t located along any smuggling routes. But, as I recall hearing from Angel, the Order of the Pentagram had gutted all the old routes and new smuggling routes will take shape. What happens when the cartels move in with a ton of lead and a whole lot of silver?” Ravine was a realist, but more to the point: a pessimist.

“Goddamnit, Ravine. Can’t you just go five minutes within thinking about the worst case scenario? I mean, it’s fairly obvious that the cartels are dangerous and would look for more territory. Christ, sometimes I think you have Asperger’s! Just let me enjoy this, will you?” Blaze did not want to hear his analysis at that moment.

Ravine tightened his lip and tried to say no more, but his thoughts dwelt upon the subject. There was so much to say and so many permutations. How long could a Utopian island nation hold out against the corrupting force of the cartels? If they did manage, how long would it be before a new superpower arose to colonize the rest of the world? How long could they hold out then?

His thoughts shifted to what Blaze had
said a moment ago. Asperger’s? What was that? He had never heard the term
before. He consulted the [Apostate-net] for a definition, and when he read the
nature of the syndrome his heart sank. A realization swept over him. Was this
the source of his woes in life? It made perfect sense that he was so
hyper-focused on, and excelled at technologically-related pursuits, but was a
total amateur in social interaction. He had winged it in life, but if he had
been graded on his social graces, he would have been assigned a “C minus”. Asperger’s
Syndrome could be the reason he had been so depressed throughout life: at the
disappointment with failed relationships and missed opportunities. Then he came
to the realization that he was self-diagnosing and that Blaze could have just
lashed-out in anger, and hadn’t been serious. The thoughts threatened to
consume him, so he willed them out of his head.