Asimov's Science Fiction: February 2014

by Penny Publications

  Grounation Day was the Rastafarians' second holiest day of the year. While they spoke, Desmond scanned the lab. A scalpel lay on a table's edge. He detested being undressed. It was an easy palm and Malcolm was more concerned with showing off his gadgets and tubes. A thought nagged him as he wondered why they would need scalpels down here.

  "What is it they say?" Malcolm glanced at Desmond and then back to his guests. " ' The older the moon, the brighter it shines'? We are an old, old moon. To see Emperor Selassie, to realize he was divinely appointed and could deliver us from the ways of poverty and emptiness, it changed our life. We're here now. First, let us show you the next generation in our defense."

  Malcolm barged through the doors. People in long white coats scurried about under an azure light. Coils of wire ran between wood planks and metal sheets. The thrum of dynamos filled two adjacent rooms. The energy crackled from one glass sphere to another. The hair along Desmond's exposed wrist and neck stood on end. The energy's intensity almost formed a wall for them to push through. Desmond couldn't begin to calculate the profligate sums spent building this complex or assembling the machinery inside.

  "Here we use the forces of attraction and repulsion to create an electromagnetic cannon. With it, we can fire rockets with exploding ordinance or use the energy of lightning. Leave the steam to Albion."

  "Such power. I can feel it along the skin." August's voice took on an enraptured tone.

  "That's the thing about power: it is always felt. As we speak, our dynamos are under construction about the seven cities. In fact, by Albion's next incursion over our airspace, we will see them greeted in a manner that will discourage further breaching of our shores."

  "This is magnificent, Malcolm. Why keep it a secret?" Ninky asked.

  "Because our scientists are also experimenting with harnessing what they call ectoplasmic resonance. It's a power source derived from the residual energy of spirits who have left us."

  "Duppies?"

  "As we said, 'duppies dead out' in the age of true science. It is only one piece in a greater puzzle."

  "It's... abhorrent," Desmond said. Duppies weren't just the spirits of their ancestors. They were their cultural heritage. Stories passed down, parent to child, which connected them to their past. Malcolm was tampering with the fabric of his people and didn't realize it. Or worse, didn't care. "My apologies, mum."

  "We suspect you voice what your mistress thinks, so we forgive you the impertinence. Let me explain: long have we been frustrated by the ways of Albion."

  "As have we all," August said.

  "Well, specifically, the moral decline rotting them from inside. They worship at the altar of science and enlightenment, the sun never sets on their empire, yet they don't seem to progress as quickly as they ought. Here it is, 1988, and their world decays for lack of vision."

  "What twisted game do you play at, Malcolm?" Ninky asked. Malcolm arched an eyebrow at her, irritated but in control.

  "Come, see our second laboratory."

  Another set of doors hummed open and closed as they entered the laboratory. Desmond checked his pocketwatch. The early hour of the day still had him unsettled and his belly reminded him of that fact. When he glanced up, he spied the boy from dinner approaching, wearing all white, with gold embroidery along the V of his chest and around a matching hat. Two guards escorted him. Eyes wide and alert, the boy took it all in without a trace of fear. He walked as though preoccupied with his own imagination, lost in young boy thoughts, but with eyes older than any man Desmond knew. It was all right there in those not-quite-right eyes of his. His stride was at ease and confident, each step his own regardless of how many guards surrounded him. The guards avoided his gaze, keeping a careful distance from him.

  The boy turned to Desmond and in that moment Desmond felt the physical thrust of his body failing him in inches. The taste in the back of his mouth stolen. The faint scent in the back of his nostrils swept away. A wave rippled through him as if he were a dime novel whose pages were being rifled through. Scrambling and scribbling, desperate to find a corner of himself to call his own. Yet, for all the terror in that instant of unraveling, Desmond had the overwhelming sensation of being free. Loved. All of his secrets, all of his burdens, all of his plans and agendas, all of the lies he told himself to get out of bed and face the day—day after day after day after day— he no longer had to do it. All in a single gaze. A terrible, knowing, kind gaze.

  Dismissing the guards with a gesture, Malcolm took the stairs leading to a dais.

  "All living things are made up of discrete units called cells," Malcolm began. "If a two-celled sea urchin were put into a beaker of sea water and shaken until the cells separated, each cell would grow separately and form a whole sea urchin. One identical to the other. However, creatures as simple as sea urchins pale in comparison to the inherent complexity of human beings. Look at us: glorious creatures created in the image of Jah. Maroon, Jamaican, African, Albion, we continue in form and function, diversity, robustness, and variety, all from the mating of two sexes. Physiques, predilections, mayhaps even disposition such that echoes from generations past could emerge again as if plucked from time. Or the body's memory. To understand this is to know the mind that could create such intricacies, such elegance, such..."

  "Order," August said.

  "Precisely."

  "What do you propose?" Ninky asked.

  "Cutting out the middle men. What if we could take inert cells, infuse them with life energy, and allow them to grow. Layer upon layer, knitted together in a chamber like a series of micro-machines in a glass womb."

  "It sounds a lot like the Kabbalists and their tales of golems."

  "The Kabbalists, like the Rastafarians, have their own interpretations of the Old Testament, seeing mystic portents in everything. Numbers. Letters. Names. But perhaps they aren't the only ones interested in working out the ways of the Tree of Life."

  Ninky approached one of the glass bowls, the murky liquid obscuring all visibility. She touched it and immediately withdrew her hand. She turned from the glass bank and staggered back.

  "This ectoplasmic energy, this energy of life... Malcolm, tell me about the boy."

  "You always were the clever one, Ninky. He who controls the naming controls life. There is great power in names. Haile Selassie was born Tafari Makonnen, and became the King of Abyssinia."

  "What have you done?"

  "He is a copy created in a laboratory after years of attempts. A number of failed... growths. But we dissected, studied, and learned from our mistakes."

  "He's an abomination. His eyes..." Ninky's voice trailed off.

  "There was a defect in his eyes. Yet, the green hue adds to his unique status. Otherwise, he's just a boy. An extraordinary boy."

  This changed everything. The Order of the Niyabingi existed to fight imperialism wherever they found it, even in their own mad despots. But long had they waited for the Great King from the East to deliver them. Desmond had prayed with holy impatience for that day to come. Some dark nights, he believed he waited in vain, but those were few and far between. Emperor Selassie was theirs. Unfiltered through others' experiences. No need for clergy or hymnals or translations or interpretations. And now, if everything the colonel said was true, he was here. After a measure.

  "All we needed was a sample from HIM. As befitting his destiny, his conception was on Grounation Day four years ago. Lij Tafari. Lij means 'child,' but one day he will be Ras. Ras means 'head,' head of a way of life. The messiah who will lead the peoples of Africa and the African Diaspora to freedom. Such is the power of names."

  "There is a greater power in the nam e r. Is that what this is truly about?" Ninky asked.

  "What we need is faith and pride. Our people have lost their way. Soon, they will find themselves on the same path as Albion: fat, lazy, sick on their own excesses. We need someone to lead us. Who better than the Messiah, descendent of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba?"

  "What you propose is mad
ness. What about those who disagree with you?" Ninky asked.

  "Disagree. Agree. As those in Albion deal with Kabbalists, we have Obeahists. Even in my own cabinet. Not to mention the various factions collectively called Christians. The Maroon may dictate the caste, but we are still the minority." "So you appeal to the Rastafari to help wrangle the voices?"

  "Appeal? No. Venerate their story? Yes. The greater the vision, the more people want to believe."

  "The bigger the lie..." Ninky sucked her teeth.

  "So you say."

  "Colonel, this is so... big," August said.

  August was never a strong man. His mother was the source of their family's strength. She had the dragon about her, too. August enjoyed the entitlement of being a Cobena but lacked the steel to wield the power that came with such a family. His face too soft, all jowls, he quaked as if he were ready to blubber.

  "What would you have from us?" Ninky's hard gaze was a mix of consternation and irritation.

  "Ever pragmatic. We want your support and, as need be, your silence. Next November 2 we celebrate Emperor Selassie's coronation day. We will also be celebrating two hundred years of independence. On that day, Lij will be presented to the world. Until then, we ask that you begin to take him in as his parents and raise him as your own."

  "This is... a lot to absorb," August said.

  "Oh, I don't expect your decision today. However, you shall remain my guests until you've made up your mind."

  IV. Exodus

  Desmond dreamt of fire and awoke to the darkness gripping his throat. Wiping his mouth of pooled saliva, he stank of his own sour sweat. In the distance the familiar booms echoed as Albion harried the other side of the island for a change.

  Things had gone so wrong since Peace Cave. His Niyabingi cell leaders no longer trusted him, each communication tinged with suspicion. All he'd reported was dinner with Malcolm and vague hints about a possible lab he couldn't access. They suspected he knew more than he let on, especially with Malcolm's elite guard now stationed about Cobena Park. He was as trapped as the Cobenas, playing for time until he could figure out his next move.

  His stomach rumbled. Desmond snuck toward the kitchen of the Cobenas' main house. Worldly problems always seemed less dire on a full belly. These days, even simple trips to the kitchen required dodging patrols and avoiding the rear door's sentry. But he knew the grounds better than any of the colonel's men.

  The kitchen smelled faintly of ginger and curry. Fruit flies buzzed around oranges on the counter. A pot of goat belly soup remained in the refrigerator, with the yams a little hard, the way he preferred them. The family wouldn't miss a bowlful.

  "You come knick me potatoes?" Ninky asked in faux patois. She sat cross-legged on the corner stool, hidden by the deeper shadows of the kitchen. When she leaned forward, her hair, plaited in two at the side, fell past her nightdress' bosom. And she seemed much, much older. The few months since their visit to the cave had worn on her. As had the company of soldiers attached to their house to "ensure their safety."

  "Sorry fe mawga dog, mawga dog wi tun round bite you." Desmond exaggerated his accent and smiled. Reaching for the refrigerator handle, he waited for Ninky's nod before proceeding. "May I ask a fool-fool question?"

  "You go on play the fool to catch wise," Ninky said. "You don't deceive me. You see more, hear more, and know more than you let on."

  "I'm like a fly on the wall. No one notice flies until they buzz around."

  "And that's when they get swatted. What's your question?"

  "What do we do next?"

  "We?"

  "Let's say that I have... friends. I joined up with them because I had nowhere else to belong. I studied with them. I trained with them. Not everyone agrees with my friends, what they believe in, or how they go about doing things."

  "They sound like dangerous friends to keep."

  "And yet, a person like myself, with the kind of friends that I have, no matter how hard we might try to remain discreet, would not be allowed near certain factions without a benefactor. Perhaps an obeah man. Or obeah ma. Someone to provide an umbrella of protection, never anything overt, merely provide access."

  "You dance around topics and never speak plain."

  "You never know who may be listening." Desmond took out the scalpel he'd swiped from Peace Cave. It was tangible proof the experience had been real. Besides Lij. But the boy loomed too... large in his mind. He cleaned his nails with it. "Nanny for Queen."

  "Nanny for Queen. Do you mind if I smoke?"

  "No, mum."

  Ninky withdrew a long spliff. She licked its side then lit it. The heady aroma of chiba filled the kitchen.

  "In some circles, chiba is considered sacred. A rite. Would you like to share this?"

  "Yes, mum."

  Desmond took the spliff but didn't take his eyes from Ninky. The cigar tasted of her. He sucked deep and held the smoke before returning it to her.

  "Speak... as if you were among friends," Ninky said.

  "The colonel is a madman. A dangerous and powerful madman. He's creating a mythology for the people. Lij must be seen as coming from them. The Kabbalists are his primary obstacle."

  "Feh. For all their talk of working out the Tree of Life and the mysteries of the Divine Throne, all they are amounts to Albion business interests who have formed a cabal. Mystical nonsense as cover to keep their numbers small and their manipulations of the market secret."

  "Lij represents technology. Secret knowledge, tru, but money to be made, moreso. In the mean time, you play the blessed parents of the Messiah."

  "I don't play the virgin well," Ninky said.

  Desmond choked on his smoke. He waved off another hit.

  "The Messiah, His Imperial Majesty, grows up before the people, rallying and inspiring them. The colonel offers to have Lij stay at the palace, heir apparent, all the while brainwashing him. Assuming he hasn't already done so."

  "I don't think he has. Some part of him, whatever deep corner of him that remains unspoiled and decent, knew that for Lij to ring true, he had to be his own man at first." Desmond recalled the boy's gaze.

  "It's a risky gambit."

  "He's tightening his grip on power from all sides. Even if it fails and he doesn't win the heart of the people, his technology and military will garner him their loyalty."

  "If you can't be loved, be feared. Lij represents a powerful symbol. In the right hands."

  "Are we the right hands?" Desmond asked.

  "You are. But you can't remain here. He's too young and it's too dangerous here."

  "So we run?"

  "I fear I am too much of a coward. Besides, they watch my every movement. However," Ninky stood up and walked toward the door, "a fly who knows how to avoid being swatted, an old fly..."

  "Me old, but me nuh cold." Desmond smirked. "Watch your step, my dear, and walk good."

  The sun glowed red, the waking dawn over the rain-soaked land. The loamy smell of earth filled the groves of palms. The hills were colors caught on a painter's brush: lilac, grey, and blue-green. An abeng blew its mournful wail in the distance. During the Maroon Wars it warned of a British marauding party. Now it signaled that the hunters drew near.

  "I'm scared." For all of his aplomb and cool-headedness, Lij was still a boy. A boy woken in the still of the night to a hand over his mouth and a voice telling him to hush and trust.

  "It's only a little bit further. Then we'll be safe," Desmond said.

  "You promise?"

  "I'd like to. I probably should. But I can't. I can promise I'll be by your side as long as I'm able."

  Desmond worried that he sounded more like a lawyer trying to hedge than a paternal figure. But he wanted to be as honest, as realistic, as possible. His heart wanted to tell of promises broken, of men he loved dying in flames. Those were the world's life lessons.

  "Where are we going?" Lij asked.

  "To visit a friend. But we have to be careful. There are a lot of people, bad people, look
ing for us. But I know the Blue Mountains. Those soldiers will go round and round in circles, probably fall into the same pit traps that ambushed Albion Redcoats while we hide in back-o-water caves."

  "Is he a good friend?"

  "We're close as batty and bench."

  The boy stared with those pale green eyes, large as an owl's. Desmond didn't have much of a plan beyond sneaking past the guards and evading patrols long enough to get to Country. Lij took his hand. The boy still trembled.

  Desmond spent his life looking in, watching others live their lives. To the Maroon, he was obroni, an outsider, as were all of the brown people. Desmond had no place among his own, as they considered him "a man of the house." He couldn't tell them what he'd sacrificed for them. In the Cobena house, though high ranking, he was considered a servant. His family had Rastafari roots, but he had not joined, only been a sympathizer. And once the conservative Bobo Ashanti sect of the Rastafari assumed control, even non-member allies were considered outsiders. When Desmond examined his life with true eyes, he realized he was alone. He soldiered on anyway, knowing he'd find a place where he belonged and held that hope close.

  "How about I tell you a Br'er 'Nansi story to pass the time? My mother used to tell me Br'er 'Nansi stories all the time when I was your age. I hated them. Thought she was just a silly old woman. I didn't know the power of stories then. Now I miss them. Would that make you feel better?"

  Lij squeezed his hand.

  "There was a mad witch who hated her name. Wherever she went, she never told anyone her true name. Names have power and she knew that her name was the source of her power. To say it would be her undoing."

  "What was her name?" Lij asked.

  "If I tell you, you have to keep it to yourself. You promise?"

  "I promise." Lij smiled. It was the first time Desmond had seen the boy do so. In that moment all Desmond knew was that he wanted to keep him safe forever.

  "It was Five. The witch ruled the land. Everyone was scared of her power. She cursed fields and the gungoo pea roots would shrivel. She cursed the goats and their meat would rot on their bones. Everyone put up with her madness, giving her anything to keep her happy. Everyone except Br'er 'Nansi."