wondered Jason. “Remember, we’re arriving in Richmond three and a half months before Pauline learned about her. And when I saw Pauline in April, 1865 and she spoke briefly about this secret organization, she said nothing to indicate that they had told her Mary Bowser had encountered a ‘Captain Landrieu’ the previous December. Admittedly, we were a little rushed. But unless there’s something you haven’t told me, I gather that she said nothing about it in her debriefing either.”
“No, she did not.” Rutherford spread his hands helplessly. “But, to repeat, it’s all we have to work with.”
Jason thought for a moment. “Chantal, you were in on Pauline’s debriefing, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was.” Her eyes met his. She was one of the very few people who knew how Pauline Da Cunha had subsequently met her death on that firelit night in an upland clearing in the mountains of seventeenth-century Hispaniola. Learning of it, she had lost her last illusions that there were some things even Transhumanists didn’t do. And they both knew nothing should be said about it in this room. Jason gave Mondrago a warning glance, but the Corsican, who also knew, was still keeping his ferocity under tight rein. He turned back to Chantal.
“In the course of that debriefing, did she say anything suggesting to you that this secret organization might possibly have some kind of connection with the Transhumanists? Perhaps even be a breakaway group? Or, more plausibly, could the leader be a rogue Transhumanist.”
“We know that’s not impossible,” offered Mondrago. “Chantal, you remember what we told you about Zenobia.”
“Yes, I do.” Her eyes held the faraway look that often came over them at the mention of the seemingly almost superhuman black woman Jason’s expedition had encountered in Henry Morgan’s Caribbean: a fearsome pirate, a pagan priestess . . . and a Transhumanist renegade. Unable to stomach the cult she had been brought in to establish among the blacks of Hispaniola, had cut out her own TRD and fled to join the Jamaican Maroons and found a kind of counter-cult. “But,” Chantal continued, “there was nothing to suggest that. And I find it highly improbable. Remember, all the evidence suggests that the expedition that originally placed Zenobia in the seventeenth century departed from a date prior to the one whose presence in 1865 Inspector Da Cunha discovered. If they already knew that there had been a case of an operative going rogue, they would have taken steps to prevent it from happening again.”
“Such as?” Aiken was curious.
“Oh, all sorts of ways. For example, a tiny implant in each member of the expedition which, on a neural command from the leader, kills in a manner undetectable by the medical science of that century. Or maybe the implant would merely inflict excruciating pain at the leader’s discretion. Or, best of all, each member could be inoculated with something agonizingly fatal unless he gets periodic doses of an antidote only the leader can provide.”
A subliminal shudder of distaste ran around the table. Over and above their inherent unpleasantness, these methods of control violated cultural taboos burned into the human psyche by the Transhuman madness and enshrined in the Human Integrity Act.
“All right, then,” said Rutherford, ending the moment. “We must assume that Zenobia was the first, last and only Transhumanist turncoat. But whoever these people are, I repeat: they’re all we can turn to, and Mary Elizabeth Bowser is our only link to them, however tenuous. This is the basis of our plan.” He activated a map on the viewscreen behind him. A river snaked from left to right near the bottom, dotted with islands and spanned by three bridges. From the northern shore spread an urban gridwork. Jason instantly recognized Richmond as it was in the mid-nineteenth century. He had studied it thoroughly, for his computer implant, spliced into his optic nerve, could
“No, she did not.” Rutherford spread his hands helplessly. “But, to repeat, it’s all we have to work with.”
Jason thought for a moment. “Chantal, you were in on Pauline’s debriefing, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was.” Her eyes met his. She was one of the very few people who knew how Pauline Da Cunha had subsequently met her death on that firelit night in an upland clearing in the mountains of seventeenth-century Hispaniola. Learning of it, she had lost her last illusions that there were some things even Transhumanists didn’t do. And they both knew nothing should be said about it in this room. Jason gave Mondrago a warning glance, but the Corsican, who also knew, was still keeping his ferocity under tight rein. He turned back to Chantal.
“In the course of that debriefing, did she say anything suggesting to you that this secret organization might possibly have some kind of connection with the Transhumanists? Perhaps even be a breakaway group? Or, more plausibly, could the leader be a rogue Transhumanist.”
“We know that’s not impossible,” offered Mondrago. “Chantal, you remember what we told you about Zenobia.”
“Yes, I do.” Her eyes held the faraway look that often came over them at the mention of the seemingly almost superhuman black woman Jason’s expedition had encountered in Henry Morgan’s Caribbean: a fearsome pirate, a pagan priestess . . . and a Transhumanist renegade. Unable to stomach the cult she had been brought in to establish among the blacks of Hispaniola, had cut out her own TRD and fled to join the Jamaican Maroons and found a kind of counter-cult. “But,” Chantal continued, “there was nothing to suggest that. And I find it highly improbable. Remember, all the evidence suggests that the expedition that originally placed Zenobia in the seventeenth century departed from a date prior to the one whose presence in 1865 Inspector Da Cunha discovered. If they already knew that there had been a case of an operative going rogue, they would have taken steps to prevent it from happening again.”
“Such as?” Aiken was curious.
“Oh, all sorts of ways. For example, a tiny implant in each member of the expedition which, on a neural command from the leader, kills in a manner undetectable by the medical science of that century. Or maybe the implant would merely inflict excruciating pain at the leader’s discretion. Or, best of all, each member could be inoculated with something agonizingly fatal unless he gets periodic doses of an antidote only the leader can provide.”
A subliminal shudder of distaste ran around the table. Over and above their inherent unpleasantness, these methods of control violated cultural taboos burned into the human psyche by the Transhuman madness and enshrined in the Human Integrity Act.
“All right, then,” said Rutherford, ending the moment. “We must assume that Zenobia was the first, last and only Transhumanist turncoat. But whoever these people are, I repeat: they’re all we can turn to, and Mary Elizabeth Bowser is our only link to them, however tenuous. This is the basis of our plan.” He activated a map on the viewscreen behind him. A river snaked from left to right near the bottom, dotted with islands and spanned by three bridges. From the northern shore spread an urban gridwork. Jason instantly recognized Richmond as it was in the mid-nineteenth century. He had studied it thoroughly, for his computer implant, spliced into his optic nerve, could
Similar Books
