“It looks like a perfectly ordinary graft patch from a field medical kit,” said Andre.
“With something like a warp disc in it, only on the particle level,” Finn said.
“Really? There’s no such thing as a warp disc that small. I don’t buy it.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Lucas said, reaching for the envelope.
Finn gave it to him. “You’re going to chance it? It’s not smart.”
Lucas shrugged. “What do we have to lose? If Martingale’s not lying, I can’t afford not to chance it. Things can’t get much worse.”
“The last time you said that, things got a whole lot worse,” said Finn. “What if it’s a bug?”
“I’ll risk it,” Lucas said. “We can always cut it off. What’s a little pain?”
He ripped open the envelope and carefully removed the graft patch. Using two fingers, he spread the exceedingly thin square of plastiskin on the palm of his right hand. On contact with the skin, it began to grow warm. He put his hand inside his shirt and pressed the graft patch against the skin of his underarm. As it started to adhere, he smoothed it out with his fingers, spreading the softened patch evenly as it became part of his skin.
“It’s hot,” he said. “They aren’t supposed to get that hot.” He bit his lower lip. “Jesus, it’s really starting to burn!”
Finn came over to him quickly, pulled off his coat and raised his shirt. “Lift your arm,” he said. He examined the skin there closely.”It’s taken. I can’t see it anymore. The skin’s red in that area, but that’s normal.”
“Are you all right?” said Andre.
“I think so,” Lucas said. “It’s fading now. But it feels strange. A tingling sensation, like tiny needlepricks. It’s not supposed to do that, either.”
Land stood by, his brow furrowed with concern, wishing he could understand what was going on.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s part of me now,” said Lucas.
“I don’t like it,” Finn said. “I’m going to get that bastard Martingale and make him tell us-”
“It’s too late now,” said Lucas. “One way or another, we’ll find out what it’s all about eventually. What the hell, we’re not paid to play it safe. Let’s get topside before Drakov starts getting nervous.”
“Ah, there you are,” said Drakov, when they joined him on deck. “I was about to send Martingale back down to see what was keeping you.”
“Finn had some trouble finding clothes to fit,” said Lucas.
“You look splendid,” Drakov said. “The very image of corsairs. That is what you are, by the way. Corsairs, or privateers. I should caution you not to use the term ‘pirate’ in the presence of Lafitte. He has a nasty temper. He makes a great point of the fact his ships sail under letters of marque, with the official standing of privateers. It may be a small distinction, which he interprets rather loosely, but it is important to him.”
“What are we supposed to do in Barataria?” said Andre.
“Anything you like,” said Drakov. “You may even attempt to escape if you should choose to. No one will stop you. But you won’t do that. That would be dereliction of duty, wouldn’t it?” He gave them a mocking look. “Besides, without your warp discs, your chances of making it to the mainland would be very poor. Barataria Bay is located at the mouth of the Mississippi Delta, in marsh country. The coast of Louisiana is a vast, wet plain composed of hundreds of bayous, swampland veined with winding streams and overgrown with vegetation. You could easily become lost in it forever.”
“But Lafitte and his men know their way around?” said Land.
“Lafitte could find his way through the bayous blindfolded,” Drakov said. “He makes his headquarters on Grand Terre Island. He leads a commune of contrebandiers, smugglers who enjoy the sanction of the New Orleans citizenry by providing them with cheap, duty-free goods, especially Negroes. They are called Negroes in this time period, where racial distinctions are so fine. New Orleans is predominantly French, though quite cosmopolitan. The people of the bayou country are largely Creole, of Spanish-French ancestry. There is also a racial category known as quadroon, descendents of white fathers and black mothers. Such distinctions are important here.
“Lafitte is extremely wealthy. He has made much of his fortune smuggling slaves. Due to the ban on slave importation, there is a shortage. Lafitte takes advantage of it by raiding Spanish ships and bringing their slave cargoes to America, to sell. He has vast connections in this market, reaching as far as Memphis, where his principal buyers are the Bowie brothers. In Barataria, he is the law. It is a kingdom unto itself. Smugglers and corsairs are always made welcome.”
“How do you tie in with him?” said Lucas.
“He knows me as Captain Drako, an Italian navigator who led a mutiny aboard a Balkan trader, stole the ship and embarked for the Caribbean or the Indies, as they call the area, to pursue a career as a corsair. Since that time, I have moved up in the world, obtaining this wonderful ship by means of my profits. This story explains the accents of my crew and why some of them speak neither English nor French. We last visited Barataria a year or so ago, by the reckoning of this time. I will explain to him that you signed on with me in Martinique, Mr. Priest. Mr. Delaney, you will be an Irish seaman I encountered in my travels and Miss Cross, we shall make you a Frenchwoman from the seaport of Marseilles. It is important to establish the proper nationalities for you. Lafitte passionately hates the Spaniards. He hates the British only slightly less and they are at war with the United States at this time.”
“Then there is danger of our encountering a hostile ship?” said Land.
“Some slight danger, perhaps,” said Drakov, “but we are well armed and the Valkyrie can easily outsail any ship in the British navy. By the way, Mr. Land, we will devise no elaborate identity for you. A French-Canadian harpooner will be quite acceptable to Jean Lafitte.”
“What about Jules?” said Land.