‘Cowboys and Indians, huh?’ Sal could see the appeal of that. Wide-open prairies, crisp blue skies and rocky mountain skylines. A largely undiscovered frontier world full of adventure and all manner of possibilities. ‘Nice idea. I like it.’
‘Thanks!’
She had the name now. She had it! Came to her out of the blue. ‘SpongeBob!’ she said.
SpongeBubba cocked an eyebrow. ‘What’s that?’
‘SpongeBob SquarePants … that’s the name of the character Rashim tried to make you look and sound like!’
SpongeBubba frowned. ‘I prefer SpongeBubba! That name you just said sounds stooo-pid. And it’s too long. Too many characters to fit on a command line. Stoo-pid, stoo-pid, stoo-pid … ’
But Sal wasn’t listening to his babbling. Her mind was elsewhere. Far away. She was seeing a small apartment. A faux wood-slat floor, cool to the touch. A wall-mounted flex-screen next to stylized portraits of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. The smell of coriander, turmeric, cumin and of rice cooking, an intoxicating smell wafting through from a kitchen. She could see glass sliding doors leading on to a modest balcony on which a clothes horse stood. Brightly coloured saris and head wraps were pegged to it and fluttered in the high-tower breeze. And beyond, emerging through the sulphur-coloured smog of pollution like stout cedar trunks from a bed of snow, other tenement blocks.
A crystal-clear memory of Mumbai. A child’s memory. Because here she was, lying on the cool floor, gazing up at the flex-screen watching a rerun of an old cartoon called SpongeBob SquarePants. A memory triggered randomly by this discussion about a lab robot’s wrongly remembered name.
My God …
No AI technician could have predicted she was going to have this exact conversation, surely? A conversation about an obscure and ridiculous cartoon character from the beginning of the century. And therefore – Sal’s mind reeled – no technician was likely to say to him or herself, ‘Oh, hang on! We’d better make up and put in a SpongeBob SquarePants memory for this support unit … you know … just in case the subject crops up?’
‘My God,’ she whispered.
Maybe her memory wasn’t merely a montage of made-up things, just enough to convince a support unit that there’d been a life before this one. Maybe, just maybe, there was once a real girl that all those memories came from.
A real Saleena Vikram.
All of a sudden, Sal knew exactly where she wanted to go.
Chapter 39
1667, the Caribbean Sea
Two weeks later they had cast off from the north docks, the Pandora’s hull catching the tugging current ebbing out of the harbour, the sails quickly fluttering and filling with a fresh easterly breeze. Heading south, the ship leaned to starboard as the yards swung round on their iron braces to the right, pulled by the crosswind.
Liam steadied himself against the rail as the deck slanted over and the schooner began to build momentum, her bow beginning to carve through the smooth sheltered water of the harbour, then twenty minutes later, and further out from the shelter of land, she began to cut through lively waves that thumped and splashed against her hull. The wind was steady, occasionally gusting, tugging hard at the sails and pushing the ship over to a steeper angle.
With each lurch to starboard, Liam found his grin spreading wider. After several weeks moored up in the fetid heat of Port Royal the cool downdraught of wind from the mainsail felt wonderfully refreshing. The rolling motion of the ship beneath his feet was exhilarating, the steep angle of the deck … simply fun.
‘I hate it when the ship leans over so much,’ muttered Rashim unhappily. His knuckles were white on the rail. ‘It feels like it’s going to tip over.’
‘She won’t do that. The mast would break before the wind could turn over something of this size.’
‘Right.’ Rashim nodded. ‘Very comforting.’ Their journey west across the Atlantic had been mostly with the wind behind them – no leaning.
The course they were on now was taking them due south from Jamaica, down towards Puerto Bello, where the tapering end of Central America met the very top of the continent of South America; where a man with a plan would one day build the Panama Canal. The enterprise – as it was presented to the crew – was very simple.
The rumours were true. A pirate captain called Henry Morgan, something of a close personal friend to the governor, was planning a raid up to Spanish-held Cuba. Already he had enlisted a fleet of ten ships who’d signed up for the endeavour, and something like four hundred men had already signed his charter. It was going to be a big raid and news of its preparation was undoubtedly already making its way to the Spanish authorities. Which meant that up around Cuba they were going to be on their guard. Whereas south, down towards Puerto Bello, the regular transatlantic traffic of merchant ships would consider themselves comparatively safe, assured that most of the pirates in the area were going to be six or seven hundred miles further north, involved with this Cuban raid.
Hopefully, the ships they would undoubtedly stumble upon were going to be easy pickings, although perhaps not quite as easy as that storm-damaged carrack they’d happened upon. The men were all in a buoyant mood, eager to get their hands on Spanish loot, preferably a hoard of crudely struck gold escudos, or doubloons as the men called them. Their mood, their confidence that this enterprise was going to be a resounding success, Liam suspected, was down to Rashim’s ‘miracle shot’. That’s what the lads were calling it. He did wonder how much help thirty-six rocket-shaped cannonballs were going to be to them if they happened to stumble upon a whole fleet of Spanish ships.
Still, it was the confidence the men had that counted. That and the fearsome reputation among the Spanish crews that the pirates operating out of Port Royal had. From the stories he’d overheard being told in the taverns, quite often a raid was over with very quickly. A fast, intercepting approach with lots of noise and cannons booming, and the frightening, close-quarters sight of a hundred or more men armed to the teeth were usually more than enough to convince a lone merchantman to call it a day.
He caught a glimpse of Kwami being instructed by young William how to splice the bitter end of a rope. Dress that giant just right, a few leathery ears on a string, flintlocks on ribbons around his bull neck, a blood-smeared sword in each hand and a loud snarl …
Jay-zus … the stuff of nightmares.
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ muttered Rashim.
‘Well, for God’s sake go and do it in your cabin … and not out here in front of the crew!’ They finally had the crew’s respect and confidence now. Rashim getting all pasty-paced and tossing the contents of his breakfast all over the afterdeck probably wouldn’t help matters much.
‘You are right.’ He belched and held a fist to his mouth. ‘I’ll … just … ’
Liam nodded. ‘See you when you’re done.’ He watched Rashim stagger against the slant of the deck to his cabin door, pull it open and disappear inside. He turned back to look over the rail at the main deck below, at the deep blue sea, the rising-falling horizon, the ballooning sails, and heard the snatched notes of a fiddle being played along with an accompanying bodhrán.
‘Ahoy there, m’hearties,’ he muttered to himself, mustering his best piratey snarl. ‘Ahaaarrr! Make way for the notorious Cap’n O’Connor … aharrrrrr.’ Liam choked on a gob full of his own spittle. ‘Aharrrrghhhh!’
‘You all right there, sir?’ asked Josh Culper, the helmsman. Liam had quite forgotten the little shrew-faced man was right there.
‘Uh … yes … quite fine. I, uh … I swallowed a bug, that’s all.’
Chapter 40
1667, the Caribbean Sea
‘This is actually quite good,’ mumbled Rashim, his mouth full.
Liam nodded, finishing work on the fibrous hunk of mutton in his mouth. ‘Cookie picked up some spices in the marketplace. It’s pretty hot, though – spicy-hot.’
‘It reminds me a little of my mother’s cooking. She used to make a prickly-hot Chicken Patia.
All soyo-protein substitutes and vat-grown rice, of course, but the spices were real.’ He spooned another mouthful from his bowl and nodded appreciatively. ‘It’s all about the spices really.’
‘Aye. And it seems Cookie’s decided to throw the whole lot in.’
‘Liam, is that really our cook’s name?’
‘Our Cookie? Yup. Jeremiah Cooke.’
Rashim snorted a laugh. ‘We have got a chief gunner whose surname is Gunny and our cook is called Cooke.’ He shook his head. ‘I suspect Teale was having a laugh when he hired the crew. I won’t ask you the name of the poor sod who twines our ropes.’
Liam laughed. ‘No, best not.’
They ate in silence for a while. Through the cabin door they could hear the noise of pots being banged and scraped on the main deck; Cookie was serving the rest of the crew with his spicy mutton broth.
‘I wonder what’s become of him,’ said Liam. ‘Jacob Teale. I still feel a little guilty about us casting him adrift.’
‘I, on the other hand, don’t. The man was a fraud. A liar. Nothing but a silver-tongued conman.’ Rashim shook his head. ‘And a bit of an idiot. Anyway, I’m sure he made his way to land somewhere and, as we speak, is busy conning some foolish merchant out of his savings.’
‘True.’
Just then they heard the clump of boots up the ladder and across the afterdeck, the muffled sound of Old Tom’s voice barking angrily. An exchange of other voices in protest then eventually a timid rap of knuckles on the cabin door.
‘Enter!’ said Rashim.
The door opened and Tom’s face appeared. ‘Awful sorry, sirs, I told these godless rascals you was both busy eatin’ yer supper. But they insisted … said they got grievances they needed to air.’
‘Grievances? With what?’
‘Ship’s charter, Skipper.’
All the men had had the new terms and conditions read out to them before they’d made their mark and signed on. Even the original men Teale had hired had been required to sign on again. New captain, new enterprise … new charter.
‘They agreed to the terms,’ said Rashim irritably. ‘Tell them to go away and stop bothering us.’
‘Rashim,’ Liam cut in. ‘Uh … our terms also included the right for the men to knock on the door and speak freely.’
Rashim gritted his teeth. ‘Dammit, yes, I suppose you’re right.’ He nodded at Tom. ‘All right, let them in.’
Tom stepped aside and allowed three of the crew to duck in through the low door. They removed their caps respectfully, a good sign.
‘Hey, Gunny,’ said Liam, ‘we were just talking about you.’ Beside him was one of his gun crew, Lenny, and Jamieson, one of the new recruits they’d picked up at Port Royal.
‘Evening, sirs,’ said Gunny.
‘Tom says you gentlemen have a grievance?’ prompted Rashim.
‘Aye, it’s … er, it’s about one or two of them conditions in the charter, sir.’
‘Which ones?’
‘Well … the grog, sir. No alcohol on the ship.’ Gunny shrugged. ‘Seems to all of us to be just a little harsh, that.’
‘OK, look, James,’ said Liam, ‘there’s a good enough reason for that. And you above all the others should understand why. You remember what happened last month? That fool, Cobbler, blew himself up because he was drunk.’
‘Aye, but … well … maybe that was because Cobbler couldn’t handle his drink?’ Gunny backed that up with a hopeful, half-hearted shrug.
‘We didn’t have that foolish rule on me last ship,’ said Jamieson.
‘That’s not really my concern,’ said Rashim. ‘On this ship, I’m afraid we do.’
‘That ain’t right to ’spect us to work weeks ’n’ weeks without no grog. Me and some of the boys ain’t ’avin’ that!’
Liam shot a quick glance at Rashim. The man was openly challenging their authority.
‘Perhaps it would help if I explained why,’ replied Rashim patiently. ‘We are carrying six kegs of gunpowder and a number of barrels of highly flammable lamp oil aboard a vessel made entirely of wood, tar, rope and –’
‘Beggar that!’ The man spat. ‘We’re all bloody well experienced mariners ’ere. Not boys! We knows our way about a ship! ’Tis a stupid rule which we ain’t minded to –’
‘Shut yer gaping hole!’ snapped Old Tom. ‘How dare yer speak to the captains like that!’
Liam stood up slowly. ‘Now you signed the charter and these are the conditions we will be operating under until we return to Port Royal. It’s not negotiable.’
Be firm, Liam. He looked at Rashim. One of us has to be.
‘The crew of this ship will remain sober until … until the job’s done. Then, if you want, Jamieson, you can take your share and go drink to your heart’s content as far as we’re concerned. But, until that time, we’re all staying sober and that’s all there is to it!’
Rashim offered a placating smile. ‘Think about it, we could encounter a ship at any moment. The crew, all of us, need to be in a constant state of readiness for that. Not drunk.’
Liam could see Gunny and Lenny were having second thoughts about challenging this issue any further. The point was made and quite reasonably so.
‘That ain’t our way!’ pressed Jamieson, however. ‘The men all agree with me.’
‘Now look,’ started Rashim calmly. ‘It’s basic common sense –’
‘We want the charter changed! Or we –’
‘You’ll what?’ Jay-zus, Rashim … you’ve got to be firmer than this. Liam took a step towards the men. ‘You’ll do what?’
‘I’ll –’ he looked at Gunny and his mate for support – ‘we’ll take steps.’
Liam realized he was trembling. Damned if he was going to let that creep into his voice. ‘I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.’ He reached for a deeper, more commanding tone. ‘You will accept this rule, Jamieson, or we will clap you in irons and you’ll forfeit your share when we get back to Port Royal!’ Liam took another, hopefully intimidating, step towards him. ‘Is that quite clear?’
To his surprise, and relief, the man’s challenging stare dropped to the floor.
‘I said … is that clear?’
‘Aye,’ he mumbled. ‘S’pose.’
‘Aye … SIR!’
‘Sir.’
He looked at Gunny. ‘And what’s your other grievance? I believe you had a couple of them?’
Gunny shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Well … some of the lads ain’t too happy ’bout the Negro slave aboard.’
‘Tha’s right,’ said Jamieson. ‘Now we ain’t ’avin’ it that that Negro is gettin’ the same share as the rest of –’
‘Jay-zus!’ Liam shook his head. Then felt a stab of sudden anger. ‘GET OUT!’ he snapped. ‘OUT!’
Tom grabbed Jamieson’s arm. ‘Come on, you scabs, as the co-skipper said. Out with yer.’ They ducked through the doorway, Gunny offering an apologetic nod back at them and knuckling his forehead before the cabin door closed behind them all.
Liam realized he was shaking with a mixture of nerves and … yes, outrage. He turned to see Rashim staring wide-eyed at him. ‘That was … uh … that was a rather impressive display of testosterone there.’
‘Some things … arghhh! Some things really get to me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And that’s one of them.’
‘Racism?’
‘Unfairness.’ He sat back down at the table and looked at the cooling bowl of broth in front of him. ‘Just … just unfairness … ’ He sighed. ‘Every man out there stands an even chance of losing their life, right? So, why should one man’s life be worth any less than another’s? We can all stop a musket ball just as good as the next man!’
‘Different times, I suppose,’ said Rashim with a shrug, ‘different values.’
‘That’s no excuse! People in this time know it’s wrong just like you and I do. I’m sure of that. But it’s too convenient, isn’t it? Too easy to point at a slave in rags and say, “He’s not the sa
me as me.” That’s how one group of people enslaves another, by convincing themselves they’re not even human. It’s a cop-out!’ Liam picked up his spoon and stirred the broth absently. ‘The unfairness of it just annoys me, so it does.’
The silence in the cabin felt long and uncomfortable to Rashim. But there was something else. Something he felt he needed to say. ‘So … ’ He leaned forward across the table and gently rapped his knuckles next to Liam’s arm. ‘So, now I think I’ve seen a different side to you.’
Liam looked up at him. ‘And what’s that?’
‘I suppose … the Mr Serious side,’ he said, grinning.
‘What? Are you laughing at me?’
‘No.’ Rashim shook his head. ‘No, definitely not that. On the contrary. I … just realize there’s a bit more to you than I previously thought. You have ideals.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘There’s not much of that in the future, in my time, Liam. Like everything else … not much of it left.’
Rashim regarded his colleague silently.
You may be an artificial – a meat product, my friend – but you are more human than most people I’ve met.
Chapter 41
1667, the Caribbean Sea
The shout came down the next morning, as Cookie and William were preparing a skillet of freshly cooked spiced yams for breakfast. Cookie growled at the boy around the pipe stem in his mouth, ‘’Ere we go … ’nother fine meal ruined.’
Liam and Rashim tumbled out of their hammocks, pulled on breeches and boots and met Old Tom on the afterdeck as he bellowed at the crew to muster for action.
‘Lookout spotted several sails ten degrees off the port bow, sirs.’
Rashim slid down the ladder to the main deck, jogged along it and climbed the ladder to the foredeck, Liam right behind him. Bracing himself against the rail right at the front of the ship, he pulled out his spyglass, extended it and put it to his eye.