national government of Jamaica—granting them self-government in certain locales. But of course all that lies far in the future. At the present time they are surviving by subsistence farming and raiding plantations.”
“Both of which occupations seem to have worn thin for some of them,” Grenfell pointed out. “At least one crew has taken to piracy.”
“Under the command of a woman,” Da Cunha added.
“Well,” Boyer smiled, “there’s a precedent for that—or will be a precedent. . . .” He trailed to a perplexed halt.
“Tenses are a problem for all of us in the time travel business,” Jason assured him.
“Thank you. One of the greatest Maroon leaders in the early eighteenth-century wars against the British will be a certain Queen Nanny, a renowned guerilla fighter. She’ll be remembered as one of Jamaica’s national heroes . . . the only female one.”
“The pieces are beginning to fit together,” Jason mused. “Remember, the cult Sam Asamoa’s expedition learned of in 1791 Haiti was supposed to have dated back to the 1660s and been somehow linked with Jamaica.”
“One piece that still doesn’t fit,” said Mondrago dourly, “is that crashed spacecraft Asamoa found in Haiti.”
“We’ll have to leave that for later. We don’t have enough data to even speculate. All we know for certain is that there are Transhumanists operating here and now—which was fairly certain anyway, given the spacecraft wreck. The only real lead we have is this Zenobia.”
“Who doesn’t exactly seem well-disposed toward us,” observed Grenfell.
“No, she doesn’t. Which is where you come in, Henri.” Jason turned to Boyer. “Whenever an opportunity presents itself, I want you to try to approach her and see what you can learn.”
Boyer looked slightly alarmed. “But I’m not a trained police investigator.”
“Of course you’re not. But a couple of times, I’ve gotten the impression that she’s a little more open to you than to the rest of us. I think you’d have a better chance of establishing some kind of relationship with her and obtaining information.”
“Tell me one thing, Commander: we know she’s from the future, but does she know that we are?”
“I can’t be certain, but I doubt it. Granted, if she has a sensor like mine, she knows about my brain implant. But my guess is that she doesn’t have one. Why should she? There aren’t supposed to be any bionics in the sixteenth century for her to detect. You’re just going to have to stick to our cover story, not reveal what we know about her, and play it by ear. I know it’s not supposed to be your job. But can you do it?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’m sure you will. And while you’re at it . . . try to find out what Morgan meant when he mentioned ‘silly stories’ about her.”
CHAPTER NINE
Morgan wanted, at least for the present, to restrict access to the ship that was his pride and joy. So HMS Oxford rode at anchor out in Port Royal harbor.
Grenfell had been fascinated by the seventy-two-foot frigate. The system of classifying warships into six “rates” would not assume its definitive form, based on the number of guns they carried, until 1746. Currently, the English navy used the much less satisfactory basis of number of crew, introduced during Cromwell’s Commonwealth in 1653. But Oxford was what would later be called a “fifth rate”—a frigate too light to stand in the line of battle but ideal for commerce raiding or hunting down the other side’s commerce raiders. In the epic fleet actions of the European wars, she would have been a marginal player. Here, “beyond the line,” she was a game-changer. Never before had the famously parsimonious English crown committed so formidable a warship to the defense of its colony of Jamaica.
Morgan had mentioned she was twelve years old, and according to Grenfell this meant she had come in after the revolution in design philosophy that would establish the basic
“Both of which occupations seem to have worn thin for some of them,” Grenfell pointed out. “At least one crew has taken to piracy.”
“Under the command of a woman,” Da Cunha added.
“Well,” Boyer smiled, “there’s a precedent for that—or will be a precedent. . . .” He trailed to a perplexed halt.
“Tenses are a problem for all of us in the time travel business,” Jason assured him.
“Thank you. One of the greatest Maroon leaders in the early eighteenth-century wars against the British will be a certain Queen Nanny, a renowned guerilla fighter. She’ll be remembered as one of Jamaica’s national heroes . . . the only female one.”
“The pieces are beginning to fit together,” Jason mused. “Remember, the cult Sam Asamoa’s expedition learned of in 1791 Haiti was supposed to have dated back to the 1660s and been somehow linked with Jamaica.”
“One piece that still doesn’t fit,” said Mondrago dourly, “is that crashed spacecraft Asamoa found in Haiti.”
“We’ll have to leave that for later. We don’t have enough data to even speculate. All we know for certain is that there are Transhumanists operating here and now—which was fairly certain anyway, given the spacecraft wreck. The only real lead we have is this Zenobia.”
“Who doesn’t exactly seem well-disposed toward us,” observed Grenfell.
“No, she doesn’t. Which is where you come in, Henri.” Jason turned to Boyer. “Whenever an opportunity presents itself, I want you to try to approach her and see what you can learn.”
Boyer looked slightly alarmed. “But I’m not a trained police investigator.”
“Of course you’re not. But a couple of times, I’ve gotten the impression that she’s a little more open to you than to the rest of us. I think you’d have a better chance of establishing some kind of relationship with her and obtaining information.”
“Tell me one thing, Commander: we know she’s from the future, but does she know that we are?”
“I can’t be certain, but I doubt it. Granted, if she has a sensor like mine, she knows about my brain implant. But my guess is that she doesn’t have one. Why should she? There aren’t supposed to be any bionics in the sixteenth century for her to detect. You’re just going to have to stick to our cover story, not reveal what we know about her, and play it by ear. I know it’s not supposed to be your job. But can you do it?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’m sure you will. And while you’re at it . . . try to find out what Morgan meant when he mentioned ‘silly stories’ about her.”
CHAPTER NINE
Morgan wanted, at least for the present, to restrict access to the ship that was his pride and joy. So HMS Oxford rode at anchor out in Port Royal harbor.
Grenfell had been fascinated by the seventy-two-foot frigate. The system of classifying warships into six “rates” would not assume its definitive form, based on the number of guns they carried, until 1746. Currently, the English navy used the much less satisfactory basis of number of crew, introduced during Cromwell’s Commonwealth in 1653. But Oxford was what would later be called a “fifth rate”—a frigate too light to stand in the line of battle but ideal for commerce raiding or hunting down the other side’s commerce raiders. In the epic fleet actions of the European wars, she would have been a marginal player. Here, “beyond the line,” she was a game-changer. Never before had the famously parsimonious English crown committed so formidable a warship to the defense of its colony of Jamaica.
Morgan had mentioned she was twelve years old, and according to Grenfell this meant she had come in after the revolution in design philosophy that would establish the basic
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