by Alex Scarrow
‘I don’t know … I … will we not be spreading ourselves too thin?’
‘You stay with the galleon, we’ll be back!’
‘No! Hang on! Look, this is enough.’ Liam nodded at the waiting carracks. ‘That’s enough for one day, surely?’
Rashim shook his head. ‘Good God, Liam! Where’s your sense of adventure?’
Adventure?
‘Look, Rashim. I think this is enough of a win for us, OK? It’s enough!’
Rashim laughed at that. ‘Rubbish … there’s an even bigger win waiting for us out there. I just have to go and grab it.’ He turned away from the rail and began calling out orders for Old Tom to ready the men to set sail immediately for the pursuit.
‘Wait! Hey! Rashim!’ But he was shouting at his friend’s back. ‘Rashim!’
Tom’s baritone voice echoed across the deck and the Pandora’s crew were already scrambling up the rigging to the lowest yards.
‘Goddammit! Rashim!’
The Pandora lurched slowly forward, beginning to pull away. Liam caught sight of Rashim again, scooting up the ladder to the afterdeck to stand beside the helmsman.
‘Rashim!’
His friend looked back at him and Liam could see the flash of a broad smile on his face. He waved back at Liam, then cupped his hands around his mouth. The afterdeck passed by him as the Pandora pulled away. Rashim shouted out something across the choppy water, but it was lost against the bark of orders being passed down the ship, the hiss of the hull cutting through the waves, the lively rustle and snap of the sails finding the wind.
Liam cursed as he watched the high rear of the schooner as she pulled away from them.
‘We’re supposed to be a bleedin’ team, here,’ he muttered. ‘Dammit … a team.’ He cursed his gallivanting friend for treating this like some kind of a game.
Over the rear rail of the receding ship he caught sight of one last good-natured wave from Rashim, and it was then that he finally figured out what his friend had called back to him.
This is fun!
Chapter 43
1889, London
Sal wanted to do this quickly. She wanted to be gone before Maddy and the support units came back from the market. She didn’t want to have a big shouty row with her. She didn’t want Maddy trying to coerce her into her way of thinking – and she knew Maddy could do that easily. If shouting at her didn’t work, she’d implore Sal to stay because, after all, all they had now was each other. And, God help her, if it wasn’t going to be a row, it would be worse: a tearful goodbye.
I can’t face that.
So, this was the cowardly way. Sal had spent the night struggling to write a farewell note. So much to say and none of the words she scribbled down quite seemed to get on paper what she felt.
I love you, Maddy, like the big sister I never had. I love Liam too. There was a time, which now seems like ages ago, when I thought we were almost like a family, the three of us …
It went on – a couple of pages of emotional outpouring. Rambling, meandering thoughts that filled up the last few pages of her diary, but it added up to something more coherent than she’d ever be able to do face to face.
‘I’m sorry, Maddy,’ she’d muttered as she left the diary open on the bed, somewhere it would easily be found when she got back. Right now, though, she had computer-Bob to deal with and he was fussing like an old woman.
> Sal, has Maddy approved this time-stamp request?
She looked at the webcam. ‘Yes, Bob. She and I discussed this earlier.’
> What is the purpose of the mission?
‘Research. I’m … I’m going there to acquire some useful data.’
> What useful data?
Damn him. ‘That’s not necessary for you to know right now.’
> I require approval from Maddy. This is not normal protocol.
‘Bob, look, there are no protocols left. No procedures. We’ve just been making things up as we go along for a while now if you hadn’t already noticed.’
The cursor winked silently on the dialogue box for a while as Bob weighed up his response. Finally …
> Sal, I sense discord among the team.
She nodded. ‘Oh, you can say that again.’
> You appear to be distressed. You are crying.
Self-consciously she swiped at her cheeks to dry them. ‘Yes … yes, well done, you. I guess you’ve spotted things aren’t so great with us right now.’
> I am concerned. Why do you want to visit this time-stamp location?
She laughed. So easy to underestimate Bob’s intelligence. Inside his human frame the same AI appeared to be almost completely human now, if a little dry and humourless. But the same intelligence presented on-screen as no more than text in a dialogue box made it easy to think of him as nothing more than a rather clever, human-friendly operating system.
‘I want to know who I am, Bob.’ She dabbed at her red-rimmed eyes. ‘I need to know who I am.’
> You have chosen a location and time from the memories you have of your life before you were in the agency?
‘Yes … I remember being right there. At that precise time. I’m sure of it.’
> Sal, do you intend to meet yourself?
It wasn’t really meeting herself in the way that would cause a whole heap of time-travel-related cause-and-effect problems. No. She was meeting someone else. She would be meeting her progenitor. The girl she was copied from. Her original.
‘I remember being right there, Bob. Or at least I remember Saleena Vikram being there. I just want to see her for real. See if she looks exactly like me. Sounds like me. I want to talk with her.’
Maddy had gone to her supposed home in Boston in the hope of finding the same thing. And what had she found? Strangers living there. But maybe it’s different for me. Sal was sure her memories weren’t a patchwork quilt of borrowed scenes. What she recalled seemed like a real life. A complete life lived by a real person.
> How will this help you?
‘It’ll keep me from going completely insane, Bob. That’s a start, isn’t it?’
Again the softly blinking cursor. She wondered what loops of code he was running through in there. What possible code could he have in those linked PC circuit boards to make a value judgement on her state of mind right now?
‘Bob … I need to know if I was once a real person.’ She could feel fresh tears welling up. ‘If I could have just that, to know that I lived one proper life once upon a time, it … ’ She shook her head, not really certain yet exactly what that might mean to her. ‘It would help me. Does that make any sense? Any sense at all?’
> I am unable to answer that, Sal. There are too many unquantifiable variables.
She pressed her lips together. Of course. How the hell could she expect him to even begin to understand what she was feeling? She couldn’t even understand it herself. There was a desperate feeling of hope in there somewhere. Hope for what, though? If she did find herself standing in front of the real Sal Vikram, what then?
‘Bob, please … let this one through. I have to go.’
> I will suspend normal procedure.
‘You’ll do it?’
> Affirmative. I am logging the time-stamp in and initializing the displacement machine now.
She suppressed a whimper. ‘Why?’
> I am concerned for you, Sal. You are experiencing emotional distress. This trip may ameliorate that.
She looked back at the webcam. Concerned? Dry and clinical as his response was, ‘concerned’ was the most human response he’d ever come up with. Right then Sal wished she could hug this thing. But what to hug? The mouse? The keyboard? The monitor? If he was inhabiting his fleshy meatbot frame, then she would have at least had the opportunity to wrap her arms round him – as far as they could reach – and plant a kiss on one granite-hard cheek.
‘Thank you, Bob.’
> Will you require the normal return-window procedure?
She shook her head. ‘I …
I don’t know.’
> You do not intend to return?
‘I’m not sure what I intend to do. Perhaps … ’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet. I suppose it makes sense to have a way back if … yes, best set up something.’
> In that case I will program a two-hour return interval. A twenty-four-hour interval. A week interval. Is that OK?
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
> Information: I will inform Maddy of your location when she returns.
Sal nodded. ‘That’s fine.’ She looked at the diary lying wide open on her bed. ‘She knows where I’m going and why.’
> The displacement machine has a full charge already.
She got up off the stool, touched the screen gently in front of her. ‘You know something? You’re the best, Bob.’
The cursor jittered to the right.
> Information: correct.
Chapter 44
1667, Port Royal, Jamaica
‘How much?’ Schwarzmann’s eyes bulged.
Rashim sat back in his seat and stroked the thick thatch of dark bristles on his chin. ‘Seven thousand doubloons.’
‘Seven thousand!’
Liam leaned forward and ran his fingers down their ledger. ‘Seven thousand three hundred and seventy-eight pieces of eight, to be precise.’ He looked up at the gunsmith. ‘That is your five per cent share as was agreed between ourselves, Mr Schwarzmann. Not a penny more, sir.’
‘Mein Gott!’ He shook his head and gasped several long, wheezy breaths. ‘I am not complaining, Mr O’Connor! That … iss … that iss … incredible!’
‘Liam? Would you do the honours, old chap, and hand this gentleman his well-earned plunder?’ said Rashim. His voice was slurred somewhat. The afternoon had been spent in the King’s Head, the tavern that was now serving as their informal ‘office’. They’d gone through their accounts and paid each crew member his share. The rum was flowing freely and Rashim, despite a promise to Liam that he’d not touch a single drop until all the account work had been settled, had finally weakened and was on his second jug.
Ninety-three men, each of them handed a bulging hip pouch of coins containing just over eight hundred doubloons, and each of them doffing their caps, knuckling their foreheads with a wide grateful smile, as they’d backed away. Seven men had died, their shares returned to the communal pot. Thirteen of the surviving crew had received additional compensation payments for injuries sustained. Five hundred for the loss of one man’s arm. He’d gleefully walked away with his bound stump swinging uselessly. Another had been equally ecstatic with his additional two hundred piece of eight compensation payment for the loss of his eye; the other one bulged wide and round as he cradled his pouch and shook their hands vigorously.
All said, a rather satisfying afternoon spent in something of a carnival atmosphere. News, of course, had spread across Port Royal shortly after the Pandora and the crippled galleon, the Santa Maria, had docked. Every harlot, every merchant, every pedlar, every craftsman in the town had descended upon the tavern as the crew had queued patiently for their pay, the line snaking beneath the low-timbered ceiling of the inn out into the baking sunshine of Queen Street. An impromptu market had appeared out of nowhere and blocked the street directly outside the tavern as merchants offered silks, liquors, pipe tobacco, smoked boar jerky at double, triple their normal prices to the drunken men partying in the afternoon sun.
Rashim took another slug of rum and set his tankard down heavily on the barrel-top table beside him. ‘I presume we can repeat our business arrangement with you, Mr Schwarzmann?’
‘For certain!’
‘The arrangement, of course … will remain exclusively with us?’ added Liam.
The German nodded emphatically. He looked around, lowering his voice. ‘Your miracle shot, I will make just for you. How many more will you require?’
Rashim turned to Liam. ‘Liam?’
He consulted their ledger once more. ‘We used a total of forty-two. Nearly all of them. We counted seven shots that disintegrated, though.’
‘Then make us twice the number!’ said Rashim. ‘I have some suggestions on a refinement of the design, but –’ he shrugged – ‘I’m a little the worse for wear right now. We’ll discuss that tomorrow.’
Schwarzmann smiled and offered a courteous half-bow. ‘Tomorrow, sir. At your convenience!’
They watched him weave his way through the press of bodies in the tavern and now, with one last payment to settle – Sir Thomas Modyford’s ‘tax’ – they were finally done with business matters for that afternoon.
Liam looked down at the ledger. ‘After we’ve restocked our ship with essentials –’ the tip of his quill hovered above the parchment as he did some quick arithmetic – ‘this expedition will have made us a tidy seven thousand pieces.’
Rashim grinned at him. ‘Marvellous!’
Liam looked out of the small leaded window beside them. Outside in the street, the market looked like a fair, a miniature festival. He caught sight of Gunny and his cannon crew dancing inelegantly in a clumsy circle as a fiddle and bodhrán played for them. He spotted their little helmsman, Culper, swaying, quite catatonic, held on his feet by two painted ladies giggling at his drunken mutterings. He saw Kwami trying on a variety of different brightly coloured shirts and smocks being presented to him by a haberdasher who held up a mirror for the large man to check himself in. Liam smiled at that. Kwami looked like a man of means now, someone important. No longer a slouching giant in rags staring at his feet, but holding himself proudly.
‘Isn’t it amazing how a few yards of silk can transform a person?’
‘Whazzat?’
‘Rashim,’ said Liam with a sigh, ‘you’re drunk. I thought we’d agreed to save the partying until after –’
‘Oh, please … who are you? My mother?’
‘I’m just saying … you and me, we agreed to keep our wits about us.’
Rashim wafted the comment away like an unwelcome fart. ‘Pfft … I think we have earned ourselves a good time, have we not?’ He leaned forward and slapped Liam’s arm. ‘Come on, Mr O’Connor … I was beginning to think you and I could enjoy ourselves a little!’ His brown eyes locked on him intently. ‘Isn’t this damned wonderful? You an’ I, partners in crime.’ He stroked his beard. ‘Partners in time?’
Liam looked at him closely. ‘Rashim? Hang on! Are you wearing eyeliner?’
‘Indeed.’ He shrugged. ‘Why not? It’s what gentlemen of leisure wear.’
‘Sirs?’
Both of them looked up to see Old Tom. Standing behind him was the captain of Modyford’s guard, looking as sour and humourless as the last time they’d met.
He stepped forward. ‘Gentlemen –’ somehow he was still managing to make that word sound like a poorly veiled insult – ‘Sir Thomas has invited you, Captain Anwar, to dinner at his plantation residence this evening.’
Rashim pursed his lips thoughtfully then smiled. ‘Lovely. Why not?’ He nodded at Liam. ‘I presume my best friend here is invited too?’
The officer shook his head ever so reproachfully at Rashim’s drunken slur. He turned to Liam and offered him only a slightly less disdainful glare. ‘Of course … you two are a pair, aren’t you?’ He sighed. ‘Yes, you are both invited. A carriage will be sent for you at six bells on the clock.’
‘Marvellous! A party!’
‘And where should the carriage pick you … gentlemen up from?’ He addressed his question to Liam, the sober one of the two. ‘Should I send it here or to your ship?’
Rashim shrugged, deferring to Liam to handle the details as he pulled himself up out of his chair, grabbed his empty tankard and wove his way towards the tavern’s serving counter.
‘I think we’ll be taking rooms here for the foreseeable future.’
‘Very good.’ The officer turned to go, then hesitated. He turned back. ‘Might I suggest you encourage your friend to sober up before you arrive?’
Liam nodded. ‘Oh, for sure I wi
ll.’
‘And if you have clothing more … suitable for an evening at a governor’s residence, may I suggest you wear it?’
Liam looked down at his sweat-stained cotton shirt. Despite having been vigorously scrubbed in a bucket of seawater, it was still spotted with one or two dark sepia spatters of blood.
‘Aye … right, yes.’
Chapter 45
1667, Port Royal, Jamaica
‘Oh … oh God,’ groaned Rashim, burying his face in his hands, ‘I think I’m going to throw up.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re going to be fine.’
‘No … seriously, I think I … ’ Rashim suddenly got up, reached for the carriage door, wrenched it open and stuck his head out. Liam listened to him heave – the miserable sound reminded him of some unfortunate wild boar squealing. He decided there was more where that was coming from and rapped on the carriage roof for the driver to stop his horses.
The rocking and bumping along the dirt track ceased and Rashim dropped down on to the sunbaked dirt and finished emptying his guts into a thicket of dried reeds at the side. He straightened up, wiped his beard with the back of his hand and climbed back aboard the carriage.
‘Better?’
‘Better … although my head feels like there’s a gravity-spin separator thumping around in there.’ He pushed long strands of sweaty hair back from his forehead and massaged his temples. ‘What in God’s name kind of toxic additives do they put in the alcohol here?’
‘You probably wouldn’t want to know. I do believe it serves you right anyway.’
The journey took an hour and a half, winding uphill through thick copses of tall mahogany and cedar trees, beneath which thickets of cane and reeds clustered. They passed by several cocoa plantations. With the sun already set and the sky becoming a deep-sea blue stained to the west with the last hint of a peach dusk, the crops of cocoa beans were still being tended to by dozens of slaves. Liam spotted them: dark forms in rags moving slowly among the rows of squat, shrub-like trees, plucking the yellow cacao pods from the low branches and tossing them over their shoulders into large wicker baskets on their backs.
