"We call it the Doctor. It usually blows all day. Then there's the night wind off the island, it's called the Undertaker. It doesn't smell as good, but it'll keep you cool." Valentine enjoyed hearing her speak. There was something of the music of a Caribbean accent mixed with Hispanic pronunciation.
"Pretty view," Valentine said, applying it both to the woman and the island, though he kept his eyes on the bay.
He was used to the coastlines of North America: flat expanses of beach, wood, and marsh. On Jamaica, the hills rose right out of the ocean like a green wall.
"Yes. You'll want a hat. The sun is strong, even this time of year."
"What's that big ship in the center?"
"She's the hospital. Once was the Royal Fleet Auxiliary Argus. She's been here my whole life; I was born in her. So were a lot of the men you see around here."
"How many people do you have?"
"A census isn't one of our priorities. There are the townspeople and plantation families proper. I'd guess around seven hundred or so. Then there are the ships' crews. You could add in the folks inland and along the coast, fishermen, and a few free spirits who come in with a hold full of grain or pork when it suits them. Oh, and the rum distillery. You might say that they're allies of ours, even if their product goes out on Kurian ships, as well. Maybe six thousand people could call Jay home."
"Jay? Does that refer to Commodore Jensen?"
She looked away from the ship's bow for the first time. "You've heard of him?"
"He's not the most popular man up north. They're starting to take Jayport seriously in the KZ."
"KZ?"
"Kurian Zone. My former employers."
"Ahh, I see. We call it Vampire Earth."
Valentine smiled, his first unforced smile in days. "Lurid."
"Saying the name is inaccurate?"
"I wish. Our maps show this island as Kurian controlled-Vampire Earth."
"Most of Jamaica is theirs-or his. We call him the Specter."
"Friendly terms?"
Her mouth writhed. "No. We're no lackeys of his. As
long as we don't bother him, he leaves us alone. Better for us."
"Better for the Specter, too."
She crossed her arms, and looked him up and down. "Just like ..." The sentiment trailed off. "Would you like to meet Commodore Jensen? I suppose he'll have to decide what to do with you and your men, in the end."
"I'd be grateful if you could arrange a meeting, if you think you can."
Her lips parted, revealing white teeth as she smiled. "I'm sure of it. I'm his granddaughter."
The ships docked and began to disembark wounded. Valentine said a quick good-bye to Post as attendants carried him and the other injured off and placed them on wheeled litters. The attendants then pushed the litters toward the hospital ship, which in proximity dwarfed even the bulky Thunderbolt.
Then the Jamaican soldiers, then prisoners, and finally sailors came down the gangway Valentine had last climbed a week ago in New Orleans.
Valentine, with nothing to do but wait, watched Jayport's inhabitants. They were for the most part black-skinned, long-limbed, and healthy looking. A messenger boy received a hollow wooden tube from an officer on the Rigel and sprinted off toward the shore like a runner in a relay race. He wondered which building held whatever passed for government headquarters among the low, whitewashed buildings clustered around the bay. Fishing shacks and a few hung nets dotted the beach.
Valentine felt the odd sensation of standing on a firm surface after days at sea. Some of the Grogs sat down hard, holding their heads in their hands at the motionless feel of terra firma. He enjoyed the brassy sunshine-the climatic changes still echoing from the cataclysm of 2022 that cut the amount of sunlight north of the tropics were not so noticeable in the central Caribbean. Farther down the dock, the
"loyal" hands of the Thunderbolt squatted on the bare concrete surface, slapping at flies hardy enough to venture out this far from shore. Some glared in his direction, some looked to him plaintively, but most just contemplated their surroundings with a fatalism bred by a lifetime in the KZ.