Asimov's Science Fiction: February 2014 (11 page)

Ominous shadows, like a shoal of slow moving whales, dove among the clouds. A f lag emblazoned across each of their massive hulls, the crosses of three saints formed the Union Jack. Impassive and smug, the passing battalion represented little more than bloated saber rattling in the name of the Albion Empire. Their standing mission to raze Accompong Town amounted to a bombing raid on the well fortified city. A vain effort, as the town, and much of the island, was reinforced to withstand hurricane assault, much less the tepid shelling of airships.

Accompong Town launched artillery shells loaded with witchfire, petroleum refined to a gel that blazed with lava's white-hot fury when ignited. Neither side veered near enough to the other to do any real damage. The same dance repeated every few months as Albion warships violated Jamaican airspace on their way to other islands. Ostensibly securing their foothold in the American colony, the so-called United States, any incursion was strictly for show. Albion had its hands full warring with the Five Civilized Nations of the northwest territories and the Tejas Free Republic of the southwest territories.

Waiting for the smoke to clear, Desmond pinched a pile of dried chiba leaves and rolled them into his spliff. Lighting his spliff and inhaling deeply, the smoke filled his lungs and came out in a ropey fog from his nostrils. The coarsely serrated alternate facing leaves of the chiba plants were to be admired in their own way. Versatile, it found its chief purpose through its intoxicating smoke.

The cotton tree scraped his back as he shifted. Maroons considered cotton trees sacred. They believed duppies danced among the branches of those rooted in graveyards, the spirits free to play and flit about at whim. Muddled superstitions to some, Desmond clung to the old ways when they served him. No one would search him out where Old Hinge, that particularly fearsome duppy, hung her skin on branches as a warning before making mischief.

The booms faded into a sputtering thunderstorm without rain. Distant rumbles no longer shook the ground and what passed for tranquility returned to the island. Desmond stabbed out his spliff against the tree and fixed a broken smile to his face, tucking the unsmoked portion into his pocket. Still in the rush of the heady smoke, his thoughts floated above reality, the world moving at a much slower pace as his languid steps took him back toward the Cobena Park estate. Crickets renewed their evening chirping. A damp heat clung to the air. Chickens dashed about, their fluttering wings objecting to his presence. A tinge of sorrow nagged him as he passed the wood shanties many of his brethren slept in when not in the fields. Young, listless, machete-wielding laborers who knew nothing of their heritage, up before sunrise; by moonrise still working. Even without the crack of the whip, without the smack of the cane, without a Massa to take away his pickney and sell them up the way. Unlike the Maroons, the rest of the Jamaican populace was made up of people who fled the Americas, the descendants of slaves. The Chinese. The Taino. Not to mention Albion's undesirables, her convicts, debtors, and dissidents. A proud tradition of exiles who settled the island but were not permitted to live in the Seven Cities of the Maroon.

His life wasn't his own.

Descended from the Ashanti people, the sixteen thousand Maroons formed the ruling class of Jamaica. The nation's immense wealth stemmed from its production of sugar cane and rum. And chiba, though no one discussed the herb in polite company. The Cobena Park estate was known chiefly for two crops: bananas and chiba. This allowed the family to own a number of indentured servants. Unlike in Albion or the Americas, Maroon servants were considered part of the family. That nuanced difference helped Jamaica's aristocracy lay their heads to pillow at night.

"What took you so long?" August Cobena asked from behind a table in the kitchen.

"I just now finished."

"Come, nuh." August raised both his arms and waited in the middle of the large drawing room. As Desmond neared him, he realized the man wore only his white silk jumpa and a pair of briefs, thankfully covered by the fall of the collarless shirt. August nodded toward the pile of kente cloth. Its silk and cotton material ran smoothly over his fingers, a dark green pattern accented by yellow and black threads.

Desmond draped the interwoven cloth strips around August, thinking the man too old to be diapered like a child. He'd always considered August Cobena an avaricious man, whose tiny eyes gleamed from within his large face with a faraway gaze, as though staring through whoever he spoke to in order to fix them on his next goal. Black moles freckled his cheek, his smooth skin, dark like calf hide. His nose was too thin for his face and he never quite shut his mouth, leaving his fat tongue to loll on the cusp of his lips as if forgotten.

Desmond dutifully wrapped the fabric around him, leaving the man's right shoulder and arm exposed, then allowing the remaining cloth to trail along the ground. It was a sign of prosperity, and August never allowed an opportunity to acknowledge the class differences between him and others to go unattended.

Gaslit fixtures adorned the walls. Strictly an affectation of wealth well worth the extra heat produced. Putting on a pair of slippers, August moved toward the bar and poured himself a finger of colorless rum from a crystal decanter. The first glass went down in a single gulp. As did the second. He lingered on the third.

"Are you ready?" Ninky Cobena's voice had both a nasal quality and a sing-song measure to it. Too tall, too loud, and too young—she was nearly thirty years August's junior—her wide hips and high breasts cut a remarkable profile despite her wrappings. Her kente wrap was the inverse pattern to August's: a rich yellow, with green patterns woven against black threads. She, too, wore her cloth around her body styled as a toga, over an undercloth of white lace. The other main difference was a red calico scarf wrapping her head like ivy around a statue, folded in half, tied and tucked. It accentuated her high cheekbones and full lips. Her every move was sure.

Desmond backed away from the man and took his place in the corner of the room. The fact that they spoke English was the only acknowledgement he was present. The Maroon spoke Asante-Twi when they were among their own and English when
obroni
were present. Patois was spoken only by the "common" people. Desmond sat between them, among them yet unseen at the same time. Such was the power of class and caste, an accident of shade. All the better positioned to glean scraps of discarded conversation.

"No, I'm not ready. What's the point? This whole estate is cursed."

"August, don't be that way." The stack of bracelets on her right wrist dropped to the middle of her arm with each gesture.

"Our fortunes dwindle. Our family name is..."

"Fine. It still carries much weight in the empire. The colonel still needs us." Ninky adjusted the drape of his cloth. She snapped her fingers and held out her hand without meeting Desmond's gaze. He unfurled his pocket kerchief and handed it to her. She dabbed at some imagined spot on August's collar. Though young, she was wise as a serpent. The rest of the staff feared being in her presence, as she had a bit of the dragon about her; however, Desmond was the personal attaché for August and didn't fear her wrath. He'd dealt with worse in his own mother.

"You need to take better care of your charge."

"Yes, mum." Desmond pocketed his kerchief. She hated to be called mum, complaining it made her sound old. Desmond insisted that it was about issuing the proper respect. Her irritation was a quiet benefit.

"But for how long?" August brushed her fussing hands away.

"Not all power is found in coffers," Ninky said, undeterred. "We have been invited to dine at the colonel's table tonight for a reason."

"How can you be so calm?"

"There's no point in treating it like a funeral dinner."

"It might as well be a last supper."

"Hush, my husband." Ninky fastened gold disks to her ears. She hooked her parasol to the crook of her arm. "Desmond, hurry up and get dressed, man.

You will attend us tonight."

"Yes mum. Thank you, mum." With one simple sentence, years of planning and waiting fell into place. He would finally be close enough to kill the colonel.

Perched high up in the mountains, the St. Elizabeth parish in western Jamaica bordered the western parishes of St. James and Trelawny. Some stretches were a desperate collection of galvanized zinc-topped shacks dotting the hillside, working up the nerve to declare themselves a town. Desmond called this "the Jamaica within Jamaica," the areas that existed between the megapolises and the stately king homes, far from the intrusive view of tourists. They still had a ways to go before they arrived at Accompong Town, named for one of the seven leaders who helped to liberate Jamaica from Albion.

The lush green of the hills was a sea of palmate plants. The sun hovered overhead. A smattering of rain burst from a seemingly cloudless sky, more of a sprinkling than a downpour, not even worth turning on the wiper blades. Desmond drove along the hard-packed dirt road—a one-way road with room enough for a single car—struck by how quiet the wealthy were when they had to be around each other. Stitched together by copper rivets, twin brass tubes outlined the body of the car. The vehicle wound along the tight roads, with Desmond availing himself liberally of the horn to alert on-coming vehicles or passers-by. Men walked along the roads armed with machetes, returning from their day's labor. Shirtless or with their shirt completely unbuttoned and untucked, they hard-eyed the conspicuous vehicle.

Desmond wound around another bend and slowed as several cars blocked the road.

"Is everything all right, Desmond?" August's voice cracked with concern. If he had his way, he'd either never leave his compound or be whisked by private airship to wherever he needed to go. That way he'd never have to risk his safety by mingling with common folk, as if secretly fearing that poverty was contagious.

"Looks like a
passa-passa.
Nothing to worry about."

"As if they can't entertain indoors like decent folk." Ninky craned about studying the burgeoning street party. "Well, I suppose they can't. Still, they shouldn't block the road. It's a public nuisance. Go see about it, Desmond."

"Yes mum."

The air smelled of fresh baked bread, body odor, and chiba smoke. Music swelled from the stack of speakers pressed into the cleft of the hill. Aggressive, angry drumbeats accompanied by electronic squalls focused through an electro-transmitter, its driving rhythms pounded the air. A rotating cylinder gyrated up and down within a glass-fronted cabinet, the delicate machinery protected by a brass framed cabinet. A series of antennae lined the top of the device, electricity arced between them. The charges climbed the spires, inching along like a self-winding string. Men shouted into the amplifier, toasting without hope, screaming the soundtrack to their life.

Desmond approached a mud-coated box-shaped vehicle. Paint flecked from its copper-enhanced casing like it was eager to be free of it. A group of men, cloistered by shadows, ambled toward him. Their eyes darted back and forth calculating an internal gamble of how much money Desmond's charges represented. With the air of predators on the prowl, any last one of the gathered men would bash his brains in and leave him for dead, not bothering to drag his body out of the street. He adjusted the weight of his pistol. Ninky had insisted on him getting dressed, after all.

Another man pushed through the throng. His cream breeches dirty and loose, he was of the bush. Several welts marred his shirtless torso, probably from thumpings meant to correct too much spirit. His nest of dreadlocks tumbled from a multi-colored knit cap onto his broad shoulders, a sign of his covenant as an Israelite. He walked tall, meeting everyone's eyes, commanding respect like he had a gun in his pocket. Hands wizened and scarred, calluses ridged his fingers. He used a machete to split a coconut to drink from, then stabbed the blade into the earth beside him before sauntering over to Desmond.

"You fecka you! I should bust your jugular!" The man cocked his pock-marked face, fixing a cataract clouded eye on Desmond.

"Who do you think you're talking to, you mawga foot Rasta?" Desmond demanded.

The pair squared off against one another, wary eyes refusing to break their gaze. After a few heartbeats they broke up into laughter.

"You rude youth. No manners at all."

"Long time, Country."

Desmond clasped hands with the Rastafarian. Country and the law had an understanding of sorts. He was a top ranker in the Presidential Posse gang. The Albion colony of America issued a warrant for his arrest for trafficking narcotics. The way he evaded dragnets, frustrated American intelligence, and returned to Jamaican soil made him a hero to the people. Former actor, now puppet for Albion, Viceroy Ronald of the United States pressured the colonel to sign an extradition order but was told "We're Jamaica. We handle our own." Despite the bounty on his head in America, Country was safe in Jamaica. Though his ties to the Obeahists made him an enemy of the Kabbalists and the Kabbalists didn't care about borders. Or legalities.

"Where you off to with those
waitamigls?
"

"Dinner with the colonel. I'm supposed to clear your
passa-passa
so we can head on."

"You sup with the devil." Country sucked his teeth in disdain. "He would sell us to Babylon if he could."

"I know my duty. Now, I need to make this look good." Desmond did not relish his role as attaché, a glorified servant. Whenever he dealt with any of his "of the field" brethren, he wondered how they viewed him. His heart was with them, but because he was "of the house," a gulf separated them. "Give me a nanny." Desmond handed him a five hundred dollar bank note that pictured Grandy Nanny, the great freedom fighter.

"Nanny for Queen." Country held the note up to the firelight to make sure it wasn't a counterfeit bill. "You think me a thief now?" "Trust no shadow after dark."

The headlights, jutting cans more ostentatious than aerodynamic, slowly extinguished once the engine shut off. Desmond opened the door for the Cobenas. Ninky adjusted her wrap, then opened her parasol, a well-rehearsed gesture that gave time for August to come around and take her arm. When they were in place, she nodded at Desmond.