Asimov's Science Fiction: February 2014 (12 page)

Desmond's lanky form bore the brown, single-breasted pinstripe suit with a scarecrow's bearing. Cut purposefully short, the jacket made his legs appear even longer. A pink shirt peeked from under the jacket, the corresponding pink stripes of the tie swirled against the alternating yellow stripes matching his pocket kerchief. The brown overlaid with yellow repeated on his two-toned wing-tipped shoes. Desmond donned a pair of sunglasses that hid a third of his face and placed an unlit pipe in his mouth. He twirled a tan-handled cane once, signaling they were ready to march, then strode ahead of the couple. Only the highest ranking of the bourgeois dandied their servants for such an entrance.

Eschewing the gleaming metal structures of the Montego Bay and Kingston megapolises, immense white concrete buildings formed a court around Accompong Town's central palace complex, though functionally, the entire town was an extension of the palace proper. The people scurried about in frenzied anticipation. Every January 6—on the birthday of the rebel leader Cudjoe, brother to Nanny—the people came together for a festival in celebration of the peace treaty between Jamaica and Albion. A group of elders hunched over tables, slapping dominoes into place and making fun of each other's play. The women roasted a pig over an open fire. The ceremony required that they shred it, mix it with fresh rice—careful to add no salt to either—then go under the nearby cave to throw the food. Only after their ancestors' duppies were fed could they cook for themselves. Like the rhythm of waves crashing against a slave ship, music built in intensity as people sang of rebellion and emancipation. Others danced, invoking the spirit of their ancestors.

Desmond never knew his own birthday nor even how many he should have celebrated.

Giant stone lions policed the entrance to the palace. The stationed guards mirrored those of Albion's Buckingham Palace, except for black uniforms with gold epaulettes in place of Albion's eye-bleeding red. Despite Jamaica's independence, much of it echoed Albion. Even its flag, modeled on the St. Andrew's Cross, was reminiscent of the Union Jack except in black, gold, and green. Apologists claimed the intent was to jab a stick in the eye of the great British Empire, but Desmond had little use for Albion's fripperies.

Two of the guards remained in position by either side of the main gate while a third approached them.

"Who you with?" His gold cap tilted off to the side of his head as he scanned them.

"The colonel."

"Who you represent?"

"August Cobena of the Cobena Park estate."

Desmond didn't meet the man's hostility, which stopped just short of open aggression. The Maroon loved their
jijifo,
"evasive maneuvers" designed to wrong foot
obroni.
The more confused an outsider was, the more advantage the Maroon had. The guard relented without a smile.

"No harm. Just conversing. Make sure you not here on bad business. Your weapon will be checked and returned upon departure."

Desmond felt uneasy unarmed. He'd heard reports that Kabbalists were on the island. Despite being in the colonel's compound, he'd prefer to be able to address matters on his own if need be. But he wouldn't let that get in the way of his primary mission. He deposited his weapon into the waiting tray by his fingertips. They waited in the greeting hall of the palace, surrounded by the lacquered mahogany of curving banisters and the polished brass of the fixtures. Automata, constructed of porcelain with not even the slightest whir of machinery, took their coats.

At the blowing of an
abeng,
a retinue of a half dozen men paraded into the large hallway and lined up to face one another. Wearing tall, cream-colored Brodie helmets, long red jackets, and cream-colored pantaloons, they withdrew the cutlasses that hung at their sides and held them aloft to form an arch. A squat, mahogany-skinned man entered next. An Albion admiral's hat, too large for his head, canted at an odd angle, revealing closely cropped hair. A white silk coat hung from his shoul ders in order to allow his dark blue jacket to be appreciated, with its long tails and gold tassels on the shoulders like an infantryman. A thick cravat bowed at his neck. His breeches and boots completed the quasi-military appearance. Colonel Malcolm Juba. Malcolm the First.

Over-sized, black-rimmed glasses masked a face ravaged by pox. A thin Van Dyke framed his mouth. Thick-necked, his gait had a bear-like quality to it. He often acted in a strange, wild manner, but by all accounts he was a brilliant chieftain. The way the colonel adopted British culture as affectation disgusted Desmond. There were those in certain circles who considered his lack of ideological purity worrisome. "Elected" every five years, typically running unopposed, an
osofu,
thirty-two members appointed by the colonel, assisted the Maroon leader. Despite being the highest ranking members of the
osofu,
August and Ninky genuflected in his presence.

The colonel stared through Desmond as if he wasn't in the room.

"August. Ninky. I'm so glad you could dine with us tonight." Used to being obeyed, Malcolm's voice had a thumbscrew timber, pressing down on all who heard him.

"We're honored," August said.

"Malcolm." Ninky's voice held a tone of total pleasure as she offered her hand. Thus they began their courtship of societal niceties.

"Please, come this way." Malcolm snapped his fingers.

Desmond had never met a pharaoh, but imagined it being much like this. Malcolm projected the essence of power, creating an aura about him as if he were the incarnation of a god. The procession passed the royal altar. The façade took up nearly the entire wall. Brass heads honoring the past colonels outlined the frame. Within the woodwork itself, several images formed scenes. Ninky's hard gaze stopped on it, studying its details.

"Do you know your history?"

"Everything's always a test with you, Malcolm," Ninky said.

"This time the question is a testament to the intricacy of the artisans' work."

His hand swept over a portrait of boats about to lay siege to the island.

"This was the forces of Albion in 1655, with their 'Western Design,' their offensive against the Spaniards who occupied Jamaica, two infant powers, wrestling over a tiny island plaything. But, even then, Albion revealed its hubris, sending only thirty-eight ships carrying eight thousand men—poorly equipped and poorly organized— to oust Spain's foothold. As if their mere appearance would carry the day. After all, who would dare oppose the will of the Queen?"

The scene moved to that of people opening doors to pens and fleeing. Malcolm stepped with a deliberate ease, ensuring all attention was on him.

"The sad reality of their overconfidence was that it worked on the Spanish. But before they retreated, the Spanish freed their slaves in hopes they would harry the English until they could return to re-conquer Jamaica. However, both sides underestimated the Maroon. To them we were savages and it was their duty to tame us. That was what the Spanish named us, you know. 'Cimarron' as in 'wild.' Untamed. We kept that name to show what the untamed spirit could do."

"To the British we were the Coromantee, after the slave forts on the Koramantine coast of Africa," Desmond said.

"Ashanti. Fanti. We were all the same shade of black to them. Your man knows his history, if not his place." "My place?" Four of the colonel's attendants assumed attack postures. Nothing too overt. August and Ninky probably didn't notice the spacing. They positioned themselves to neutralize Desmond with minimum fuss, but the cramped space worked to his advantage. He could think of eight ways to cripple them if they attacked. Nine if he wanted to damage the artwork. Desmond smirked in spite of himself. The colonel nodded ever so slightly and the men backed down, assuming closer ranks. "We don't attack
obroni
unless they move against us first. That is our way."

"Is that what I am now?
Obroni?
"

"It's all you ever were. You are a brown skinned man." Malcolm's voice held a sour note of disapproval. "Maroons are black."

All eyes studied Desmond, awaiting his reaction. His instinct was to rush the colonel. None of his attendants could reach him before he wrenched the man's skull from his neck. However, not one of the Niyabingi had gained such access to the palace, and he was obligated to learn as much as he could before completing his task.

Desmond swallowed hard before bowing. He stepped back, satisfying the colonel.

"Come, now." August clapped his hands. "The music, the art, it all is to celebrate our Independence Day."

"You're right, August. Come, we have much to discuss. And celebrate."

When they entered the dining room, Cuban mastiffs trotted up to greet the colonel. Such dogs at one time had been trained for man-hunting, unleashed on runaway slaves. Too many Maroons kept them as ironic pets. Custodians of their culture, the Maroon clung to the old ways as much as possible. All of the furniture was either mahogany or rosewood. Black lacquer cabinets accented with gaudy brass studs held sets of porcelain dolls. An empty Victorian birdcage stood in the corner. The entire design reminded Desmond of a plantation great house.

The attendants seated them around a mahogany table in a spacious salon, then lined up in formation against the back wall. They stood at rigid attention without sound or movement while the guests ate. They permitted Desmond to sit at a table off to the side. His plate served after the Cobenas', he finished quickly and sipped his tea. It was the finest tea he'd ever tasted.

An attendant poured Malcolm a libation from an array of bottles. Closing his eyes, he uttered a prayer in Asante-Twi. Desmond presumed this was to further remind him of his place as
obroni.
The Maroon loved their ceremonies.

"It has been 250 years since the end of the Maroon Wars, when Jamaica claimed its rightful independence. Becoming a beacon of hope in the west for Africans, a safe haven for runaways. But despite being that golden city on a hill, Jamaica is not without her problems."

"Do you mean the incident in Trenchtown?" August asked.

"That incident caused us to declare a state of emergency. We had schools and businesses shut down while armed vigilantes roamed the streets. We arrested their 'top ranker,' but we were forced to ally ourselves with ghetto strongmen to keep the peace."

"Such an action is not without precedent. We've always had community enforcers. Things have merely... evolved," Ninky said.

Desmond stifled the need to shift in his seat, instead choosing to sip his tea and betray no emotions. His father had been one of those gang leaders. Although he was romanticized as the Robin Hood of Trenchtown, Desmond clung to no illusions: his father was a drug dealer and weapons trafficker. The infamous Nesta Coke, up to his elbows in blood in the Rastafarians' war with the Kabbalists. A man of the people, never leaving the streets he was born into, he had risen to such folkoric heights of popularity, he'd been immortalized in song. The colonel couldn't have him killed or disappeared. But rumor skittered about that Nesta's location had been leaked to the Kabbalists. In the middle of the night they broke in and whisked him back to the United States. His father was burned to death in a prison cell in the American colony. That was how the colonel managed his alliances.

"We have grown stagnant," said Malcolm. "We have managed to avoid the culture of violence and absent fathers that so plagues our brethren in the American colony.

They are a people broken by the sting of the plantation and the lash. But the poison that afflicts their souls seeps onto our soil, like a virus searching for a host. Still, we have our
obayifo.
"

"Obeah?" August asked.

The Rastafarian movement had grown to encompass all of the dissident wings. The Niyabingi fancied themselves as secret soldiers ready to put into action the will of the people. The Obeahists were more political, choosing more "practical" methods. Rumors abounded about the powers of obeah men and obeahmas. Some said they could separate their soul from their body. Could change a man's heart. Could make harm befall an enemy.

"So you know of the old religion?"

"I know that when the social order is maintained, no one turns to 'The Science.' But when things deteriorate, become chaotic, people return to the old ways."

"You make our arguments for us."

"Arguments for what?" August asked.

"We know of their plots. Most of them are little more than con men. But true practitioners of 'The Science,' their power lies in their ability to poison. Wouldn't you agree, Ninky?"

"I wouldn't know." Ninkey straightened and turned to him without a smile. "I pay as much attention to them as I do tales of duppies."

" 'Duppy dead out' in the age of reason, but not for those of 'The Science.' "

"Surely you're being paranoid," August said.

"Perhaps. But you know the mark of a skilled politician? To make allies from enemies." Malcolm sipped from his drinking horn.

Desmond had heard the rhetoric before. No politician ever came out and admitted that many of the street level gangsters worked at their behest, thus creating the very problems they could come in and solve. Profiting at both ends of the situation. It was quietly feared that the colonel was in his heart a neocol, a tacit supporter of the movement to join the Albion empire, pining away for the rule of British law and order. Nostalgic for imperial glories, the colonel reminded Desmond of a former slave who didn't know what to do with his freedom, so desperate to retain his master's "protection" and attention.

"But we are Jamaicans. We're well off. We're free," Ninky said.

"We have a poverty of values. We have a poverty of caring. We have a poverty of education. We have a poverty of responsibility. We have a poverty of time. We're not free until all of us are completely free. And Emperor Selassie shall point the way."

"Colonel, if I may," August said. "I still don't see why we are here. And my apologies, but the ways of the Rastafari hold little interest to..."

Malcolm raised his hand to cut off August. A young boy stood in the doorway. Not like other pickney, his skin was dark as midnight and his eyes the palest of green. His white collared shirt and black slacks had the appearance of a uniform. He moved with a quiet elegance. Malcolm studied their reactions to the boy.