by Lars Teeney
She placed the butt-end of the spear on the deck and leaned her weight against it. She got to thinking about Nueva Grenada and Nicaragua. She feared for her family and her home, even more now that she realized that Friar Francis could still be out there. Friar Francis had always harbored a distrust of Angel-Seraphim, these days she was sure if the Friar was still alive that she would seek revenge against Angel’s home. Angel resolved that once this fight against the Church and Regime of New Megiddo was finished, that she would return home, to Nicaragua and defend it with her life.
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Ravine-Gulch stood alone at the bow of the Hermes. His mood and disposition were grim as usual. He had dwelt on his failure to save Captain O’Leary during the fight at La Chorrara. Also, he regretted not being able to prevail against that woman: the one with the scarified cross on her forehead. Every time he faced her, the woman had killed a talented member of their crew with impunity. Ravine had taken a hand away from the mysterious assassin, but it didn’t seem to have impeded her much. Most likely it just served to enrage her and increased her desire for vengeance. At least he got the sweet scar on his face; it made him look tougher than he actually was.
He wondered where she would rear her ugly, bald head again. He was sure she was not dead. He speculated it would take a direct hit from one of the Iowa’s guns to kill this woman. He had never faced such fury in a person. And yet, what if he had not been suffering the after-effects of ‘Database’? Could he have prevailed in the fight at his peak performance? The possibilities of what could have been plagued him. That was one of his fatal flaws: dwelling on the past. As many times as he strove to improve himself and leave his habits behind, they always managed to creep back in and take prominence. He was also stressed over the thought of taking that last dose of ‘Database’. He desired to get to the end of the visions and discover his fate, but, every time he dropped a dose someone had died as an indirect result. He could not do it while he sailed with the fleet and people might rely upon him.
Ravine contemplated the strategy of his next move. He had felt his existence one torturous exercise, and if reaching the end of this drama meant his demise he would welcome it. The one goal that remained for him to accomplish was to tear down the Church and Regime.
Ravine had received the message that the fleet had reached Jamaica. He looked off into the distance at the land mass that appeared to creep ever closer to the fleet. It would definitely do him good to get off the ships for some shore leave. He was certain that part of the reason he was so miserable was because he had been sequestered aboard ships for so long, at least that was part of the problem. Some downtime on solid ground seemed like it would be a good thing. So, he waited patiently as the bridge crew of the Iowa entered into negotiations with authorities in Kingston to allow the fleet clearance to come ashore.
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Blaze-Scorch and her medical staff had worked fervently to save Pale-Silence’s life. He had sustained a nasty wound, which had opened his large intestine and had spilled toxic materials into his body. She had performed a stressful surgery to repair the trauma, in which she had nearly lost him do to his body going into septic shock, then, she had to perform a cleaning procedure to remove the toxins from his core. She had given him an intravenous antibiotic to fight infection and also vasso-pressure medications to restrict blood vessels to help increase blood pressure. Her treatment had worked, saving his life, but he was still in critical condition.
On top of it all, the medical ward was filled with the injured and dying from the battle at La Chorrera. Many of the patients were no longer a priority and were convalescing, but many more kept her days and nights busier than usual. But, so was the life of a combat physician. Blaze stood over the demon man. She laid her hand upon his forehead to get a general idea of his body temperature, and as she felt he was burning up. This was actually a good sign because it meant his body was fighting infection, and healing.
Like all the other members of the Apostates, she too had received the message of the upcoming port call at Kingston, Jamaica. She wondered with the patient load being so heavy if she would even get a chance to leave the ship. Perhaps she could do as much as possible before the ships reached port, and then leave things in the hands of her orderlies. That plan of action could possibly work. She decided upon it and began to double check all the patients throughout the ward to see what she could take care of, preemptively. Once she made her rounds she figured she would go to the weather deck of the Hermes to get some fresh air. Blaze exited the medical ward and ascended a metal stairwell to get topside. When she opened the hatchway sunlight hit her like a brick: it was refreshing. Blaze had almost forgotten what it felt like, having been stuck in the dungeon-like medical ward.
She stretched her arms and looked around, off of the port side she caught a glimpse of the beautiful island. The forest on shore flashed an emerald green from miles away. She could make out cloudy mountain peaks further inland, and the surrounding waters seemed to be a deeper shade of greenish-blue than she had seen elsewhere in the Caribbean. She could hardly wait to leave the ship and walk along the white sand beaches of the island. Being a physician and also the pastiest member of the fleet, with her red hair and northern European blood, she knew the terrible damage the Caribbean sun could inflict upon her delicate skin. She would have to armor herself in the strongest sunblock available.
Blaze walked further along the length of the Hermes, toward the bow, and had caught sight of Ravine-Gulch at the tip of the bow. She approached him, and when he heard the footsteps he looked over his shoulder and nodded to her.
“Well, look who came out of her hole,” Ravine said in jest.
“Hey, mister sunshine, you’d be more liable to be down in a hole somewhere than I,” she returned the barb.
“Yeah, well, much like everyone on these ships, I sure could use a break,” Ravine confessed.
“You aren’t off the mark, there,” Blaze confirmed.
“By the way, how is he: Pale-Silence?” Ravine inquired, leaning on the bulwark.
“He’s fine. I mean, he’s stable anyway. And don’t go all whiny over Pale-Silence, because that one wasn’t your faul either,” Blaze preempted his tendency to blame himself for the misfortune of the other Apostates, no matter how accurate or off his assessment was.
“Yes, I know. Just wondering,” Ravine agreed with her, even though the thought passed through his mind that if he hadn’t been bed-ridden he could have been part of the away team, and that might have changed the circumstances.
“Alright, let’s get off this boat,” Blaze suggested, and Ravine nodded in agreement.
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“On behalf of the people and the government of Jamaica and the Two Tone Party: I welcome you to Jamaican waters. Please state your desired length of stay, your purpose for travel, and the size of your disembarkation party,” a voice from the port authority had answered the hails from the Iowa, and now Gale was connected via her neural implant to the official, who questioned her.
“Thank you for your warm welcome. We come from the West Coast of New Megiddo and are trying to reach the capital, New Megiddo City. We have a dispute to settle with them, and that is our reason for sailing. We represent the interests of voiceless people within the country. As for our intentions here: we just seek to trade and to make port call. We have about five thousand to our number,” Gale explained the Apostate’s situation as best she could, without divulging sensitive information.
“I see. I will relay this information to officials in our government. It will be up to them to give you clearance to come ashore. Please stand by,” the port official signed off for the moment, leaving the Apostates in a holding pattern. Gale acknowledged and waited patiently. The bridge crew was quiet, awaiting the decision. At least a half-hour ticked by while the Iowa sat, then finally, a response,
“By order of President Zola Dekker and Prime Minister Rudie McCook, I am to welcome your fleet crew and passe
ngers to Kingston, Jamaica! You are hereby cleared to come ashore. Please moor your fleet at the Kingston Container Wharf. Once you are ready please send a delegation of your choosing to the Port Authority. Once again, welcome to Jamaica,” the port authority officer recited.
“We appreciate your hospitality. Thank you kindly!” Gale replied. The bridge crew celebrated the desperately needed shore leave that they were going to soon get. Gale felt relieved. She soon coordinated with other captains to lead their ships into port. Soon the fleet was being guided in along massive wharfs that stretched for miles along the water line. Once the ships were all moored up, gangplanks were brought into position and affixed to the sides of vessels. The crew of each began to disembark. A line of men and women standing in slim-fit black suits, white shirts, skinny black ties, black sunglasses, and black fedoras on the tops of their heads waited to receive the delegation. As Gale-Whirlwind, Hades-Perdition, and Angel-Seraphim stepped out onto the wharf surface, the row of suits saluted them. All looked to be native Jamaicans. A port officer stepped forward and greeted Gale, Hades, and Angel. He asked if this was their delegation, which they replied positively to, and so the port officer led them to an old, black and white checkered, taxi cab. The three Apostates got into the cab and it was off.
The cab wound through the old Colonial quarter: much of it was dilapidated or lay in ruin. They could see that there was newer construction further inland, as much of the town that laid near sea level was covered in several inches of standing water, so the old town had been abandoned and left to urban decay. The cab started up a hill. They could see at the top of the hill was a lush, green lawn. Crowning the top of the hill was a monolithic, white and beige, three-story mansion. The driver informed the Apostates that in centuries past the structure had been called “The King’s House”. It had been the residence of colonial governors. With independence from Britain, and then the subsequent Holy War and effects of climate change, Jamaica had lost touch with Britain and had only limited contact with its Caribbean neighbors. The King’s House now served as a receiving space for visiting dignitaries.
The cab pulled into to a blacktop drive that terminated adjacent to a grand front entryway. The black-suited driver ran out and got the rear passenger door for the three Apostates, which stepped out, thanking him. They moved to the front door, which was wood-framed and a bronze-plated. Another suit stood at the front entrance and opened the door for them. They walked into the grand foyer. As splendid as the foyer of Manuela Noriega’s town hall had been in La Chorerra, this one put it to shame. The foyer was full of antiques from many different periods of history, fine silver platters, and stained-glass lamps adorned ornate dark-wood tables. A man stood at the entrance to a conjoining larger hall. He too wore a modest slim-fit suit with matching black fedora, except on the fedora was a checkered band above the brim. It seemed to be a subtle notation of rank. The man was tall, and middle-aged, but with a chiseled face. The only indicator of age was a hint of silver in tightly-curled stubble around his chin, and around the hair of his temples, above the ears. He was a man of African-Caribbean descent.
“Welcome, welcome! I am Prime Minister Rudie McCook, but you can call me Rudie. Tell me now guests, what do I call the lot of you?” Prime Minister Rudie spoke with a thick Caribbean accent, but spoke English well, as it always had been the main language of the island nation. The Apostates looked at one another, they were not sure if they were keeping what they were secret anymore, after what happened in La Chorrera, the news must have traveled fast.
“Well, we refer to ourselves as Apostates. We have unfinished business with the government of New Megiddo. So, well, we set sail to make war on them. They are planning to bring about a kind of Armageddon to their populace, under the guise of the “Second Coming”. We aim to stop them.” Hades took it upon himself to answer for the group. Prime Minister Rudie stroked the hair on his chin, contemplating what Hades had told him.
“Hm, very interesting. I can’t claim that our government has ever really been a friend to New Megiddo. Our records say Jamaica has barely heard a peep from them since the end of the Holy War. Regardless, if what you say is true, then you do the right thing,” Prime Minister Rudie responded.
“Every bit is true. They want to go out with a bang before they lose power completely and get toppled in a coup. The people are tired of their system,” Gale added.
“Yes. I am sure you are all exhausted from your journey. Let us move into the receiving hall. The President would like to meet you as well.” The Prime Minister led them into a massive chamber with high ceilings, a wide girth, and well-worn hardwood floors. On the far side of the chamber was a grand stone fireplace, with lounging furniture situated around its opening. It was much too hot for a fire this time of year, but it served as an excellent place to converse. A woman was perched on an ornate love seat. She appeared to be in her forties and was dressed in bright colors. Situated on the top of her head was a bright orange and green, tightly-bound head wrap that gave her an air of authority. When she looked over at the approaching group it was with large, almond-shaped eyes, and an amber colored surrounded dark pupils. She stood and met their approach.
“Prime Minister McCook! Honored guests welcome to the King’s House. I am glad we could meet for a chat, no? I am President Zola Dekker, but please you can call me Zola.” President Zola warmly shook each of their hands. She too spoke with a very thick Caribbean accent and possessed a good command of the English language.
“Thank you for allowing us to come to shore. I know that by the looks of things we could be construed as an attacking fleet, and in a way we are, but Jamaica certainly is not our query.” Hades tried to lessen any worry the President might have about the Apostate fleet being hostile.
“It gladdens my heart that you have come to Jamaica in peace. As you might have anticipated we do have a nominal port tax that is required, but I am sure you have staff that can work out the details with the port authority. Also, your host will have access to our markets so that you may take on fresh provisions for your voyage.” The President made them feel very welcome. It was in stark contrast to the hostility and fighting that they had experienced for weeks on end.
“Madam President—” Angel began, but the President interrupted her.
“No, honey, please call me Zola! We don’t need such formalities among friends,” President Zola instructed her.
“Okay, Zola! Why do all of your people wear those black suits and hats? Even the Prime Minister? I’m just curious,” Angel asked, gazing at Rudie’s checkered band on his fedora.
“Oh honey, that be a man ting. Show a Big-bout-yah!” she segued into a “Patois” manner of speaking. “That is it’s mainly a man thing. They like how some of the people from our musical past had dressed, makes them look respectable, and we take the musical heritage of this island very seriously,” President Zola continued to explain. Angel nodded, to hint at understanding what it was to be so into the musical heritage of the people; it made her think of home.
“In fact our island still practices democracy: concepts that had been forgotten long ago in New Megiddo. Our political party is of the Two Tone. We built it around our love for those tunes, from centuries ago: Rocksteady, Ska, and Reggae. The style and sound had recently been revived here. It just so happened that the political and social messages and values contained within this music also meshed with our personal beliefs, and those people who elected us. It’s not perfect. We definitely have our “Tings a gwaan”, but we make due,” President Zola explained a complex history truncated to the best of her ability. The Apostates listened intently. Then they filled the President and Prime Minister in on their hazardous journey. The Apostates explained the situation that they had encountered at the Panama Strait, and the toll they had taken to win that battle.
“I have some knowledge from our intelligence gathering services of the closely-knit relationship between the Noriega Clan and the cartels. I can’t say we have ever been friends. Fortunatel
y, Jamaica is far enough removed from the main ‘Database’ smuggling routes that we have never really been a target for the cartels,” Prime Minister Rudie explained.
“That is definitely a relief to us. We would not want to repeat that run in,” Gale confessed, not wanting to the battle at the Strait. They went on at length about other topics like areas of interest on the island, the best beaches, and other matters. The President and Prime Minister had invited the Apostates to a dance hall that was popular around the capital; to show the Apostates how a good time was had in Jamaica, and they graciously accepted.
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Once Blaze-Scorch and Ravine-Gulch caught word that disembarkation clearance had been granted, the first thing they did was to make a beeline to the beach. Being bottled-up on the ships for so long had reached critical mass, and now they were ready for fun. A checkered cab was allocated to them for transportation to the beach. Driving along the coast with the windows rolled down rejuvenated Blaze and Ravine. The Rude Boy driver had mentioned New Hellshire beach as a must-see site. He bragged about the white sand beaches and crystal-clear waters. He also explained why the beach had the “New” prefix attached to it: the original having been another casualty of sea-level rise. The driver seemed to have the low-down on the entire area; having grown up there, fishing Hellshire Bay and the surrounding waters as a boy.
The checkered cab pulled into shoddily-paved parking lot, passing under an old “sand castle” themed sign welcoming people to Hellshire Beach. The parking lot was relatively close to the beach and waterfront. Families had constructed waterfront cabanas, as both dwellings and as places of small business. Life was lazy on these sandy beaches and people lived beyond the social chaos of the powder keg that was New Megiddo. Blaze ran out ahead of ahead of Ravine onto the beach. Wearing combat boots, she was quick to unlace them and got barefoot to experience the hot sand between her toes. She wandered off toward the incoming tide that met the flat, wet sand nearest the water. Ravine followed suit and removed his foot ware, heading out toward the sapphire tide. He caught up with her as she splashed through the shallow foam washing across the sand.
