Read Online Pirates of the Timestream by Steve White - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steve White
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instant before, they had been standing on the displacer stage. Then the brightly lit dome, with its concentric tiers of instrument consoles and its overhanging glassed-in control center, was no longer there. It had vanished like a dream, with no recollection of it having vanished and no sensation of time having passed. Sweat popped out on them, for the dry, conditioned air of the dome had abruptly been replaced by the moist warmth of a tropical dawn.
They were standing on a narrow beach where the town of Harbour View would one day arise, and the rising sun was just peeking over the jungle close behind them, sending multitudes of land crabs scuttling away into the forest after their nighttime feeding. Before them to the west stretched one of the most magnificent natural harbors in the world, the sun just beginning to glisten on its wavelets.
To their right, the beach curved away, stretching into the semi-darkness, with mountains dimly outlined in the far distance. On that northern shore, Grenfell had explained, a camp would be established in 1692 for refugees from Port Royal after that town’s destruction by an earthquake—or by the hand of God, according to contemporary clergymen, as a punishment for its wickedness. From that camp would grow the city of Kingston. Now only thick jungle fringed the shore, although Grenfell had mentioned that there were ever-growing sugar plantations further inland on the alluvial plains. Those hellish plantations acted as breeding grounds for pirates, as indentured servants and slaves, surfeited with the brutality of their lives, ran away to Port Royal.
To the left, the curving beach merged with the base of the long, narrow peninsula known as the Palisadoes, which enclosed the harbor to the south. At its far western end was Port Royal.
“All right,” said Jason after all of them—even Nesbit—had recovered their equilibrium. “Let’s get going. It’s about eight miles along the Palisadoes, and we’ll want to cover as much of that as possible before it gets too hot. Even in late December it can get into the upper eighties.”
As they walked, they all began to understand his impatience. The temperature rose rapidly, and even the sea-breeze that sprung up around ten o’clock did little to relieve the discomfort. With the heat came the insects. The clouds of malarial mosquitoes grew less as they proceeded along the Palisadoes and left the jungle behind, but the sandflies increased. Jason had tried, without success, to talk Rutherford into letting them bring insect repellant in containers disguised as in-period canteens.
“Was it really necessary for us to arrive so far from Port Royal, Commander?” whined Nesbit as he trudged along, wiping sweat from his brow and attempting to shoo away insects. He sounded as though romantic high adventure was already starting to pall.
“It’s because of the paramount importance of not having any of the locals see us pop into existence out of thin air, Irving,” said Jason with a painstaking care that would have been insulting had Nesbit been discerning enough to recognize it as such. “That’s why we always pick an out-of-the-way location, and time it for dawn. Actually, that timing is a compromise; we’d prefer the middle of the night, but for some reason transition in complete darkness has proven to have undesirable psychological effects.”
Mondrago, who had never ceased to marvel at past ages’ rudimentary notions of security, seemed to have a sudden thought. “I understand why we couldn’t simply materialize in Port Royal. But are we really going to be able to just walk into it?”
Grenfell answered that one. “I think you’ll find that no one pays much attention to the landward approach. All of Port Royal’s connections with the rest of the island are by boat.” He gestured at the cactus-fringed path—there was nothing really describable as a “trail”—they had been following along the Palisadoes, with the water visible
They were standing on a narrow beach where the town of Harbour View would one day arise, and the rising sun was just peeking over the jungle close behind them, sending multitudes of land crabs scuttling away into the forest after their nighttime feeding. Before them to the west stretched one of the most magnificent natural harbors in the world, the sun just beginning to glisten on its wavelets.
To their right, the beach curved away, stretching into the semi-darkness, with mountains dimly outlined in the far distance. On that northern shore, Grenfell had explained, a camp would be established in 1692 for refugees from Port Royal after that town’s destruction by an earthquake—or by the hand of God, according to contemporary clergymen, as a punishment for its wickedness. From that camp would grow the city of Kingston. Now only thick jungle fringed the shore, although Grenfell had mentioned that there were ever-growing sugar plantations further inland on the alluvial plains. Those hellish plantations acted as breeding grounds for pirates, as indentured servants and slaves, surfeited with the brutality of their lives, ran away to Port Royal.
To the left, the curving beach merged with the base of the long, narrow peninsula known as the Palisadoes, which enclosed the harbor to the south. At its far western end was Port Royal.
“All right,” said Jason after all of them—even Nesbit—had recovered their equilibrium. “Let’s get going. It’s about eight miles along the Palisadoes, and we’ll want to cover as much of that as possible before it gets too hot. Even in late December it can get into the upper eighties.”
As they walked, they all began to understand his impatience. The temperature rose rapidly, and even the sea-breeze that sprung up around ten o’clock did little to relieve the discomfort. With the heat came the insects. The clouds of malarial mosquitoes grew less as they proceeded along the Palisadoes and left the jungle behind, but the sandflies increased. Jason had tried, without success, to talk Rutherford into letting them bring insect repellant in containers disguised as in-period canteens.
“Was it really necessary for us to arrive so far from Port Royal, Commander?” whined Nesbit as he trudged along, wiping sweat from his brow and attempting to shoo away insects. He sounded as though romantic high adventure was already starting to pall.
“It’s because of the paramount importance of not having any of the locals see us pop into existence out of thin air, Irving,” said Jason with a painstaking care that would have been insulting had Nesbit been discerning enough to recognize it as such. “That’s why we always pick an out-of-the-way location, and time it for dawn. Actually, that timing is a compromise; we’d prefer the middle of the night, but for some reason transition in complete darkness has proven to have undesirable psychological effects.”
Mondrago, who had never ceased to marvel at past ages’ rudimentary notions of security, seemed to have a sudden thought. “I understand why we couldn’t simply materialize in Port Royal. But are we really going to be able to just walk into it?”
Grenfell answered that one. “I think you’ll find that no one pays much attention to the landward approach. All of Port Royal’s connections with the rest of the island are by boat.” He gestured at the cactus-fringed path—there was nothing really describable as a “trail”—they had been following along the Palisadoes, with the water visible
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