by Greg Bear
The sky overhead was dusty blue. Through a gap in some mountains to the north she could see an edge of sea and horizon beyond. A few clouds gathered above southern peaks, feathering their gray wings in the winds.
She left the window to perform her morning ablutions. Looking in a full length mirror mounted behind the heavy wooden bathroom door, she observed that her pale cleft mark was darkening. Soon she would be uniform black. Healing by itself. Dr. Sumpler would be so pleased.
During her time on Hispaniola Mary had passed through the spectrum of dark emotions: fear, anger, dismay. Now she was simply calm. Before sleeping she had dytched; now she performed War Dance, assigning her bodily tensions to specific roles to be acted out. Let them watch. Let them execute her, frighten her, confuse her; nothing caused a tremor throughout the dance, and after the dance she was centered again. She felt she might keep control under all circumstances.
Madame Yardley had left the table the night before and the servants had brought in a sumptuous feast. Soulavier had eaten a great deal; Mary had eaten sufficiently to keep up her strength. They had not talked any more. They had parted company after dinner and Mary had been escorted to her room.
She had come up with some hypotheses which she hoped to pare down as the day progressed. Her first hypothesis: that this was not Yardley’s mansion but an historical relic used now for some strategic reason. Her second: that nobody knew much about Yardley after all, certainly not the people he ruled. Her third: that everything she had heard about Goldsmith before Madame Yardley’s appearance had been a lie. Her fourth: that Madame Yardley was not in her right mind and knew nothing.
A woman fasting to get the attention of her own husband.
The door to the room was not locked. Still, Mary had stayed within the room. She no longer regretted the loss of the pistol. Revenge was a weak satisfaction when taken against ants performing their social obligations.
War Dance had not eliminated her emotions. It had simply focused them. What she felt now was a strong and observant calm; an aggressive peace made up of equal parts patience and well channeled anger.
She adjusted her hair in the bathroom, inspected her midsuit and emerged to the sound of a gentle knocking on the door.
“Mademoiselle, are you ready for breakfast?” a woman asked.
“Yes,” she said. She looked at her watch. Nine hundred.
The door opened tentatively and a small round face poked through, found her, smiled. “Come, please.”
She followed the diminutive servant down the hall of bedroom doors, to the left instead of the right, and past the stairs. They were now in the west wing of the house where she had not been before.
The servant opened a door and she looked into a small room outfitted as an office. An elderly woman wearing a simple black shift stood before a case of memory boxes. Soulavier sat typing on an old display terminal. He glanced up at the servant and Mary, nodded with a frown, spun his chair around and stood.
“You will take breakfast with Colonel Sir,” he said. The elderly woman watched Mary with a fixed pleasant smile. Soulavier addressed her in Creole. She nodded silently and returned to her work.
“That was Madame Yardley’s mother,” he said as they walked alone the rest of the distance.
Mary remembered seeing a four story tower on this side of the building. They came to the end of the hall and Soulavier knocked gently on a broad double door made of solid mahogany. A muffled voice behind told them to enter.
Six men and two women stood around a long oak table within the high ceilinged, broad, turret shaped room. All around the room to a height of thirty feet rose a magnificent library, ornate wood cases equipped with leaded glass doors. Two balconies gave access to the upper shelves. Near the door a wrought iron staircase double helixed up to the balconies.
The two women and five of the men were black or mulatto; all wore black uniforms, some with the Samedi figure pinned to their chests. Mary focused on a tall, husky, white haired man seated at the head of the table. He did not look at her immediately, however; his attention was on a book. The table was covered with perhaps five or six hundred books of all sizes and kinds from leatherbound folios to crumbling paperbacks.
She had never seen so many books in all her life. She did not let them distract her for more than an instant from Yardley, however. He looked up from the book he held, closed it quietly and lay it down on the table. “Good to see you again, Henri. How’s little David? And Marie-Louise?”
“They are fine, Colonel Sir. I would like to introduce Lieutenant Mary Choy.”
“Thank you. Please sit. We’ll be served breakfast in here. A good meal, not one of Madame Yardley’s punishments. I trust she finally fed you last night.”
“Yes. She did,” Mary said. Yardley smiled broadly and shook his head sympathetically; such a nice man, he seemed to want her to think, quite English and familiar after all. Nothing exotic here.
Mary reserved judgment.
“All right. I think we’re through for this morning,” Yardley told the seven. They bowed stiffly, turned and filed past Soulavier and Mary out the door. The last man closed the double doors behind them with an enigmatic close lipped smile.
“I’ve given in to my wife, you know,” Yardley said. “We had a domestic dispute. She seems to think that my techniques for bringing this nation up from barbarism lack…finesse.”
“She is a remarkable lady,” Soulavier said, clearly ill at ease. Yardley returned his smile with a kind of sunny severity. Soulavier straightened perceptibly.
“Henri, I think I’ll be fine alone with Mademoiselle Choy. Please join the others in the main dining room downstairs. I’m serving all my staff a healthy breakfast this morning.”
“Of course, Colonel Sir.” Now it was Soulavier’s turn to exit through the double doors, closing them behind.
“The servants will clear a space on this table,” Yardley said, sweeping the air with one hand. “I find this the most congenial room in the whole building. I would happily spend my life in retirement here, reading Monsieur Boucher’s books.”
Mary said nothing.
“Monsieur Boucher,” he repeated, taking her blank look for puzzlement. “Sanlouie Boucher. Prime minister to the previous President of Haiti before my takeover. He built this marvelous mansion and had it fortified a year before my arrival. Unfortunately he was sequestered in Jacmel and never made it to his fortress.”
Mary nodded.
“Now. As to your case, if you don’t mind talking about it before breakfast is served…” He frowned almost comically and threw his hands up in the air. “Please, do not be so solemn. On my word of honor these people will do nothing to harm you. I see you’ve been through a few indignities…I apologize. I’ve been distracted and I haven’t had time for all the details. One man’s details can be another man’s catastrophe. I apologize again.”
“I’m being held against my will,” Mary said, conceding nothing to Yardley in exchange for his confession.
“Yes. A tug of war between your State Department and Justice Department and my government. It will be settled soon. In the meantime you can complete your investigation. You’ll have the closest thing to carte blanche I can provide. And no more indignities.”
“Can I speak with my superiors?”
“Your superiors and your government know that you’re not being mistreated.”
“I’d like to speak with them as soon as possible.”
“Agreed. As soon as possible,” Yardley said. “You’ve greatly impressed my people. Jean-Claude and Roselle are some of my finest and their report on you is most flattering. Henri is too nervous right now to be very objective. His family is in Santiago. Santiago is under siege by opposition forces. We’re safe here and in most of Haiti…But the Dominicans have always had a chip on their shoulder.”
“I’ve been told Emanuel Goldsmith is here,” Mary said. She had not moved from where Soulavier left her. “I’d like to see him as soon as possible.”
/> “That’s a bit more complicated. I haven’t seen him myself. This is a story I’d rather tell after breakfast. Please join me at table. You’re a transform, I understand…and a very attractive one. I’m not sure I approve of such an art, but…if it must be, obviously you’re a masterpiece. Are you pleased with your new self?”
“I’ve been this way for some time,” Mary said. “It’s second nature now.” Or should be. “Colonel Sir, breakfast isn’t really necessary…I’d just as soon—”
“Breakfast for me is essential and as absolute dictator of all I survey—your country’s opinion of me—surely I have the right to eat before being cross examined.” He smiled his most ingratiating smile. “Please.”
She would gain nothing by resisting his hospitality. He pulled a chair out for her and she sat facing a stack of leatherbound volumes in French. Three of the small servants entered through a single side door, carefully pushed aside stacks of books until a space across one end was clear, set two place settings—the silverware and plates ornately initialed S.B.—and then brought in bowls of fruit, covered plates of broiled fish and ham, steamed rice, curried shrimp and kippers. Yardley sat to the feast with an audible sigh.
“I’ve been up since four this morning,” he confided. “Only coffee and panbread.”
Mary ate enough to satisfy her hunger and be distantly polite but said nothing. The food was excellent. Yardley finished a large plate quickly, pushed it aside, shoved back his chair and said, “Now on to business. You’re convinced Goldsmith committed the crimes you accuse him of?”
“A grand jury was convinced enough to indict him.”
“Ah. He called me, you see, to say he was coming and that he was ‘in a rough.’ That’s colloquial, I assume. He said he would soon be accused of the murder of eight people. He needed sanctuary. I asked him if he was guilty. He said he was. He assumed I would protect him under any circumstances.” Yardley shook his head dubiously. “I invited him to come.
“Right after his phone call I began to receive clues that I myself was about to be indicted by your government on quite different charges. I haven’t had time to meet with Emanuel but he’s here.”
“We’d like to make arrangements for extradition,” Mary said. “I understand our governments aren’t cooperating right now, but when—”
“There probably won’t be such a ‘when’ for some time, years perhaps,” Yardley said, contemplating his empty plate with a long skeptical face. “You’re aware of the Raphkind controversies, aren’t you? Recent history.”
Mary nodded.
“You’ll pardon me if I do most of the talking…I seem to be the one with the information to relay and we only have an hour or so…Quite a generous amount of time considering I’m facing a full scale Dominican rebellion in Santiago and Santo Domingo. I’m doing this you understand only because Emanuel Goldsmith was someone special to me.”
Mary inclined. Yardley put his arms on the table, leaned forward and lifted his hands to square the air before him. “Here’s how it is. I made a good many deals with President Raphkind, who believed as I do that justice demands more than simple therapy for criminals. Crime is not a disease that can be treated by doctors; it must be treated in a way that satisfies the common people, and the common people demand retribution to fit the crime.
“Raphkind found enough resistance that he rearranged your Supreme Court. He was accused of assassination, I believe…Probably guilty. He cut secret deals with vigilante organizations. Now I agree, he made a nightmarish mess of things and he was perhaps the most vicious and reprehensible leader in the history of your country, but…”
Mary could join this spin easily enough. “He was the man in charge,” she said with a wry smile.
Yardley regarded the smile with frank suspicion. “Surely not even the police supported him after the revelations.”
“No. Not officially.”
“Well. Whoever’s in charge, when the USA speaks firmly all of our little nations tremble. And truth to tell his ideal legal system was not too dissimilar to our own. We treat crimes with more than just therapy.”
“You use hellcrowns,” Mary said.
“We do indeed. Raphkind’s people arranged to make export deals for clandestine delivery. Your vigilantes obtained a number of hellcrowns from our reserves at a discount…Raphkind was hounded to suicide by public outcry over the Justice Friedman case. Everything came unraveled for him so he chose the silver bullet of Christophe—poison, in his case—rather than the tumbrels. He would have been therapied if convicted, I presume. Still, he preferred death to public dishonor.”
“You’re still exporting hellcrowns,” Mary said.
“Not directly to the USA. We supply a world wide market and all of our contacts are legitimate. Raphkind was the sole exception and what could I do? He could have caused Hispaniola serious harm. He didn’t need the services of our soldiers by the beginning of his second term, having wrapped up his actions in Bolivia and Argentina. He was riding a wave of immense popularity. I could see no alternative but to supply hellcrowns.”
Mary listened impassively.
“Be that as it may hellcrowns are legal in the nation of Hispaniola. Their appropriate usage is just, in my opinion. The laws are very strict and firmly administered. Confession is sufficient for a court to pass sentence.”
“Selectors don’t hold formal court proceedings,” Mary said.
“Theirs is the politics of an underground resistance,” Yardley said. “I don’t presume to pass judgment on them or on any aspect of your society. Hispaniola has only the power to react, to stay alive, and so far it’s done very well under my command.”
“Where is Goldsmith?” Mary asked.
“He is nearby, ninety kilometers from here, in the Thousand Flowers Prison.”
“And you didn’t meet with him? Your friend?”
Yardley’s face hardened. “I have my reasons. Primary reason, no time. Secondary reason, I heard his confession. He wanted to escape to Hispaniola to find sanctuary. He thought to impose on my friendship after committing a horrible and senseless crime. Even my very best friend—and Emanuel while a good friend is not that—cannot presume I will violate the laws of Hispaniola. We have no formal extradition treaties. We do accept criminals from other nations for incarceration, however, formally and otherwise.”
Mary had heard of this; she did not think it relevant until now. “They’re kept in the Thousand Flowers Prison?”
“And elsewhere. We have five such international prisons. Some governments pay well for this service. But Goldsmith…We will not charge the USA for him. He stays here.”
“Why? The laws of my country—”
“Your country would treat him and release him, a new man. He does not deserve such leniency. The misery of the relatives of his victims lives on. Why should he not suffer too? Retribution is the core of all legal systems. We are simply more honest here.”
“He was your friend,” Mary said, dumfounded. “He adored you.”
“All the worse. He betrayed all of his friends, not just those he killed.”
“But nobody knows why he killed them,” Mary said, forced into the uncomfortable position of devil’s advocate. “If he truly is unbalanced and not responsible…”
“That is not my concern. We do not execute prisoners here. We conduct our own sort of therapy. And you know very well, those who undergo the hellcrown never repeat their crimes again.”
“He’s in a clamp?”
“If not at this moment then by the end of the day. Judgment has been made.”
Mary leaned back in her chair, momentarily shocked beyond words. “I never expected such a thing,” she said softly.
“We do your work for you, my dear,” Yardley said, reaching forward to tap her knuckles with a finger. “You’ll be taken to Thousand Flowers. The prisoner will be shown to you. Then I imagine sometime in the next three or four days arrangements will be made with your government and you can return to Los Angeles
. You can close your casebooks. Emanuel Goldsmith will never leave Thousand Flowers. Nobody has ever escaped; we guarantee that to all our subscriber nations.”
She shook her head. The room with its tens of thousands of books felt as if it might close in on her. “I demand the release of Goldsmith into my custody,” she said. “In the name of international law and common decency.”
“Good, good,” Yardley said. “But Goldsmith came here voluntarily and he has openly admired and supported our laws and reforms. It is only just and decent that he should live by his beliefs. Unless you have something particularly clever and observant to add, I think our meeting is at an end.”
The double doors opened and Soulavier entered. “Mademoiselle Choy is to be shown Emanuel Goldsmith in Thousand Flowers and then, when I give the word, put in touch with her country’s embassy in extension. Thank you for your patience, Mademoiselle.”
Yardley stood and gestured at the door. Six uniformed men entered and passed around Soulavier. Soulavier stepped into the room, took her arm and led her into the hall.
“That is a rare privilege,” he said. “I myself have never breakfasted with Colonel Sir. Now please come. It is two hours’ journey from here to the prison. The roads are not the best and there will be much military traffic. It is not so very far from Santiago, after all.”
BOOK THREE
As chaos contained the possibility of matter, so this creature contains the possibility of mind, like a fifth limb latent in man, structured to make and manipulate meaning as the fist is structured to grasp and finger matter.
—Maya Deren, Divine Horsemen: The Living Gods of Haiti
56
Waiting to begin full entry into the Country, Martin mentally asked for and received access to the toolkit, reaching up to pull it down with his right hand, which he still could not make out distinctly. The toolkit was the only thing he could see clearly: a simulated bright red box within which floated a display of circumstances of the probe. Activating the toolkit also revealed a searcher and tuner combination, with which he could move his locus of connection from neuron to neuron, frequency to frequency or channel to channel. On one side of the red box hung a ripcord in case of emergency.
