What was it the exile had said two nights before, Christmas Eve…That William Raphkind should have killed himself with a silver bullet as Christophe had, over two centuries ago. A silver bullet fired from a golden pistol to kill a supernatural being.
Raphkind had killed himself with poison.
A male announcer appeared in cameo over the virgin fortress. “Good evening, mesdames et messieurs. Colonel Sir John Yardley, President of Hispaniola, has scheduled this time for a public address. The President speaks before the parliament and the National Council in the Court of Columbus in Cap Haïtien.”
Mary settled back, drowsy with food. She heard Roselle singing softly in the kitchen in Creole.
Colonel Sir John Yardley appeared in closeup, tight full head of ashen hair, long tanned face quite wrinkled but still sharp featured and handsome, full lips held in a self assured half smile. He nodded to the unseen council and members of the island parliament and without formalities began.
“My friends, our situation this week is no better than last. Reserves in banks domestic and foreign have fallen. Our credit is refused in twelve nations now including the United States and Brazil, heretofore among our strongest allies. We continue to tighten our belts and fortunately, Hispaniola has been prosperous for long enough and we have enough reserves that we do not suffer.” Yardley retained a distinct British accent, but after thirty years it was tempered by the precise singing diction of the islands.
“But what lies in the future? In the past our children wandered around the globe seeking education, and now we accept students who travel here to be educated. Our island has come of age and we are mature enough to face hardship. But what of our anger at being slighted yet again? Hispaniola is well aware of the winds of history. Never has any spot on Earth suffered so much at the hands of outsiders. The natives who first dwelled here in Paradise were killed not just by Europeans, but by other Indians, the Carib, who in turn were massacred by Europeans…And then Africans were brought here by the French, and they were slaughtered, and they turned around and slaughtered their masters, and were slaughtered yet more; and then blacks slaughtered each other and mulattoes slaughtered blacks and blacks slaughtered mulattoes. Into this century the slaughters continued as we labored under travesties of Napoleonic codes and laws that condoned misery and starvation and the rule of incompetents.
“Dictators and democratic governments, more dictators, more governments. We have faced far worse times than these, have we not? And now we are cast out again, though our sons and daughters have bled and died fighting their wars, though we wine and dine them and give them refuge from their cities and overdevelopment…”
Mary listened to the droning words, wondering what was so dynamic about this man. His speech seemed to go nowhere. Jean-Claude brought her an aperitif which she politely refused. “I’m sleepy enough as is,” she said.
Mercifully the speech lasted only fifteen minutes, reaching no apparent conclusion, trailing off into platitudes about the corruption of the outside world and its continuing mistreatment of Hispaniola. Colonel Sir was blowing off steam and keeping up appearances. One message was clear enough; Colonel Sir and therefore all of Hispaniola was angry and resentful about their growing outcast status.
When the speech was over the vid almost immediately resumed with a flatscreen cartoon of the adventures of a skullfaced man in long pants, black coat and tails. Mary recognized Baron Samedi, Gégé Nago, the trickster loa of death and cemeteries.
Baron Samedi leaped into a river to go Under the Water, sou dleau, to the land of the dead and the gods of old Haiti. Colonel Sir had used vodoun to his advantage—as had many other rulers on the island before him—and then had slowly converted the countless loa into comic book and cartoon heroes, defusing the faith’s power for younger generations. Under the Water, Baron Samedi conversed with Erzulie, the beautiful loa of love, and with Damballa, a rainbow-colored snake.
She turned the screen off, retired to the bedroom and found there on the nightstand a bound volume of Colonel Sir’s speeches and writings. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mary thumbed through this book, picked up her slate and called up other research, trying to fight away the drowsiness. On her slate a map of the Gulf of Gonave showed a shape like an unhinged jaw waiting to swallow Gonave Island and whatever else came too close.
After an hour of reading and waiting she went into the kitchen and found Roselle sitting quietly knitting. Roselle looked up, eyes warm and welcoming. “Yes, Mademoiselle?”
“My companions’ flight should have arrived by now.”
“Jean-Claude checked on them a few minutes ago. He said the airliners are delayed.”
“Did he say why?”
“It often happens, Mademoiselle. Our citizen army maneuvers at one airport in the evening, and another airport must be chosen and flights arrive later. But he did not say why. Is there anything else?”
Mary shook her head and Roselle resumed knitting.
In the bedroom, lying under the gauzy canopy, she was far too out of place to feel out of place. She looked at her hands, more like the hands of a mannequin than the vitally black hands of Roselle. Mary’s palms were black, smooth and silken, tough as leather yet supple and flexible, super-sensitive on command; excellent high biotech skin. Then why did she feel vaguely ashamed to wear that skin here? Neither Jean-Claude nor Roselle seemed to think it a mockery; but theirs was a professional politeness and what they really thought might never be revealed.
The inhabitants of Hispaniola had earned their blackness across centuries of misery. Mary’s losses—friends, family and large parts of her past—were minor sacrifices. She picked up Colonel Sir’s book again and began a long article on the history of Haiti and the former Dominican Republic.
39
The advent of nano therapy—the use of tiny surgical prochines to alter neuronal pathways and perform literal brain restructuring—gave us the opportunity to fully explore the Country of the Mind.
I could not find any method of knowing the state of individual neurons in the hypothalamic complex without invasive methods such as probes ending in a microelectrode, or radioactively tagged binding agents—none of which would work for the hours necessary to explore the Country. But tiny prochines capable of sitting within an axon or neuron, or sitting nearby and measuring the neurons state, sending a tagged signal through microscopic living” wires to sensitive external receivers…I had my solution. Designing and building them was less of a problem than I expected; the first prochines I used were nano therapy status-reporting units, tiny sensors which monitored the activity of surgical prochines and which did virtually everything I required. They had already existed for five years in therapeutic centers.
“Goldsmith had a late lunch,” Lascal told Martin. “He says he’s ready.”
Martin glanced at Carol and his four assistants seated in the observation room. “We’ll break our group into three teams. One team will not enter the Country and can meet with Goldsmith, interview him, establish a relationship. Erwin, Margery, you’re in that team. You’ll ask questions, take care of him in the theater, keep him calm.” He sighed. “I’m still not happy with the remote diagnostic. I want to do some of my own background work.”