"Police who had been searching Lake Gatún for the injured woman last known to have been living in the home of Osic have shifted their search to the banana field where Rivera was buried. An eye witness saw Osic and the woman "
I slammed the convalescence tube closed so I could no longer hear the radio. The news sickened me. I have never trusted the news media, and the things I’d just heard reaffirmed my paranoia. I was consoled by the knowledge that I had been right to flee Panamá. With media coverage like that, I’d have been lucky to live long enough to get the firing squad. But as I considered, my mood brightened. The police were searching for Tamara’s body: Whatever else had happened, Tamara had escaped unnoticed. Jafari and the Alliance might well believe Arish had killed Tamara and disposed of her body, then had been killed when he returned for me. I could hardly believe it—Tamara could well be safe!
I opened the tube again and switched radio stations till I found some good music, Los Arpones singing "My Heart Cries." The thought that Tamara may have totally eluded the Alliance lifted my spirits so sharply that I wanted to dance. I was opening another tube, when a woman entered the operating room.
I jumped away from the tube. She was a chimera with chocolate-colored hair of a shade I’d never seen before. A silver kimono with red dragons appeared to be her only clothing, leaving her tan legs bare. Her shoulders were broad and muscular in a feminine way, the way a gymnast’s body is firm. She carried a white shirt draped over her arm, and a bowl of green soup in her hand. I thought she must be the nurse.
She stopped just inside the door. "Are you looking for something?" she asked, nodding toward the convalescence tube I’d opened.
"I had a friend with me when I came in. I thought she’d be here."
"No women were brought in with you," she said. "Most of your friends from Sol Station are on another module of the ship. You won’t be able to visit until we reach Baker. No one is allowed to pass between modules."
I looked in the chimera’s eyes—dark brown with strange streaks of silver in them, like webs of light—and I knew I had never seen her before. She hadn’t been one of the mercenaries at Sol Station. She said in a joking tone, "Our beloved employer regrets that for modesty’s sake you must wear this fifty-nine grams of clothing," and she tossed a pair of white underwear and a white kimono onto the bed beside me and smiled a tight-lipped smile, as if struggling to be pleasant.
"Our employer regrets what?"
"I think the Japanese originally planned to hire only men, and you’d have flown naked. Fifty-nine grams times 10,000 mercenaries is a lot of extra weight—so they regret paying to haul it." She handed me the soup, then pulled two convalescence-tube drawers open all the way, sat on one of the beds, and motioned for me to be seated on the bed across from her.
I felt embarrassed. My hospital gown was too short, so my privates felt exposed, and my gown was open in the back. I picked up the clothes and started looking for a place to change.
"It’s okay," she said, "I’ve seen sweet potatoes before." She jutted her chin, motioning toward my privates. I decided it was okay, and pulled the underwear on. She averted her eyes by looking at the ceiling.
When I had put on the kimono top, she said, "You missed the orientation meetings yesterday, so I thought I’d fill you in. I’m Abriara Sifuentes, commander of your combat team. There are five of us on the team. You’ve met some others: My big brother, Perfecto. You’ll get to meet Zavala soon enough. Mavro’s on our team. You look surprised."
"I had thought you were a nurse," I said. Mavro, the Whorehouse Rat. I remembered the little man with the tattooed tears. My stomach turned at the thought of being in a combat team with him. In my drug-induced delirium I’d been sure he was out to kill me, and first impressions die hard. The big chimera, Perfecto, on the other hand, seemed like a good person. I looked at the soup. Out of mere politeness I said, "I’ll be happy to serve under your command."
Abriara laughed. "Some would think it a slap in the face."
"How so?"
"There are 700 combat teams on this module, and yours is the only one led by a woman. Truthfully, I’m not as qualified to lead as either Mavro or Perfecto. You’ll be the subject of much ridicule. You may not be able to suffer such a blow to your machismo." She waved her hand as if to dismiss the problem, an overly animated gesture typical of Chilean women.
"You don’t really expect trouble from one of us?"
She shrugged. "That depends—will you give me trouble?"
I laughed. "You can’t be serious. Who cares about machismo? That’s so old-fashioned! I can’t imagine any of us giving you trouble." I couldn’t keep from gazing into her eyes, the silver webs of light, they were mesmerizing.
Abriara appeared concerned. "You treat it as a joke, don Angelo, as a man of your background would. But to men here on ship, machismo is no joke. Many of them were culled from prisons in Peru and Colombia, where men who have been stripped of everything else cling to their dignity. You’ve seen Mavro’s tattoos—a symbol of bravery he got for murdering two boys in the ghettoes of Cartagena. You’ve never been part of his world, or you would know that to him machismo is no joke. And Zavala, he’s young and eager to prove himself.
"And I must warn you that among the chimeras we feel something very strongly, something akin to machismo." She struggled for a definition. "Call it ... pride of position. Torres created chimeras for his soldiers—and only males were created to fight, though we women learned to fight since. But the men still jealously guard their role as warriors: They allow us to fight, but never with rank or title. Never has a female chimera commanded a male in battle. And I do not know how Perfecto will react. He may respect my skills, but it won’t be enough to control him. We have another bond that I hope will prove stronger: We were both baptized Catholic. He might treat me with dignity for fear of God."
I must have appeared incredulous at this. Only a few rogue priests will dare defy the Vatican to baptize a chimera.
Abriara saw my expression and said, "It happens. So, he may feel some loyalty to me, perhaps enough, being Catholic. To make sure, I’d like you to speak to him for me."
I shrugged. "If you like." I did not see how my words could affect him. She frowned a bit, upset that I hadn’t made a stronger commitment. I couldn’t judge how Perfecto would treat her, but I could judge how humans would treat her. I’d occasionally met men in Panamá who held machismo as an ideal, but I thought of them as anachronisms. Such a person could indeed give her trouble. "It seems to me that the one you need to fear most is Mavro. I know for a fact that he wants to be a captain, yet the general has made him a private beneath the only woman leader. He may take it hard."
She laughed, a high-pitched unpleasant laugh meant to be disarming. "I think I like you," she said. "From your tone, you sound very concerned about me. I like that in a person. Still ... you may be right. I don’t trust him much. He sits on his bed and glares at me."
"That is not a good sign," I warned.
She nodded. "Indeed. Also, don Angelo, some people have been talking about you. Several governments want to extradite you back to Earth. And some people fear the Allied Earth Marines will board ship to take you. Some men discussed the possibility of turning you in, and Mavro threatened to kill anyone who spoke of it. He called them ‘steers,’ and they backed down for now. But Mavro is using this whole affair as an excuse to prove his machismo. Sooner or later he’ll start a fight. Maybe he’ll kill someone. Anyone who gets within arm’s length of Mavro—they’re the ones in danger."
I considered this. She was right. "So, what should we do?"
Abriara looked up at the ceiling and shrugged. "I’ll think about it."
And unlike most people, who only say they’ll think about things and then never do, she stopped talking and looked up in the air and almost immediately appeared to lose herself in thought, so I picked up the soup and began to eat. The green algae tasted like broccoli. My ankle still ached, so I got off the cot, found a refrigerato
r and got out a tube of cortisone cream. I sat at a desk in the corner and applied the cream. There was a computer terminal at the desk.
On a hunch, I flipped on the computer and requested the medical files for Tamara de la Garza. The computer responded: "None Available." I requested files for Tamil Jafari. The computer responded: "None Available." I requested a list of mercenaries who’d been picked up at Sol Station, and the computer gave me 19 names.
Tamara wasn’t on the list, unless under a pseudonym. I requested information on the medical status of the 19 persons. None were convalescing from brain damage. General Garzón obviously wasn’t stupid enough to list Tamara in the computer under any name.
Abriara watched me during all this. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"Trying to locate the friend I told you about. It’s all right to use this terminal, no?"
She shrugged. "There’s no one here to stop you." I requested a list of all persons currently occupying convalescence tubes. Five people were listed; none had physical problems remotely similar to Tamara’s. I had no way to learn her location from the terminal.
But another thought struck me: One of the 19 people we’d picked up at Sol Station was an Alliance assassin. I called-up the biographies and current housing assignments for each person, then requested a hard copy. The printer spat out a handful of thin papers with almost microscopic print. I began studying the file of a particularly ugly chimera named Miguel Mendoza.
"Ah," Abriara said, "I almost forgot. A present from the General." She reached into a fold of her robe and tossed me a small oblong package wrapped in gold foil. "He also left some liquor and cigars in that big chest you brought. In a few weeks, you can sell them for a fortune."
I tucked the papers into my kimono and picked up the package and unwrapped it.
"It’s strange, don’t you think? He treats you like a dog, putting you under my command, then gives you extravagant gifts?" She smiled, and when she smiled her teeth were small and strangely even, as Perfecto’s had been. Something about her smile reminded me of a lizard or a porpoise. I looked closely and discovered the difference: She had no canine teeth. Instead, all her teeth were small and round and evenly matched.
"Please don’t do that," she said.
"Do what?"
"Stare at my teeth. Or my eyes. Or my hair. Or my breasts. You humans always do that. It makes me nervous."
"I’m terribly sorry," I said, looking away. I fumbled with the package. Under the foil was a small box. I opened it and two knives fell out—knives I’d taken from Arish. Both were set in aluminum wrist-sheaths that had Arabic characters written along the length. I hadn’t looked closely at them before. I pulled out a knife and was surprised to see that the blade was made of crystal, flawless molded graphite, pure diamond—sharper than any metal blade.
"Carrumba!" Abriara said. "Those are worth a fortune!"
The blade was slightly longer than my hand; the handle was light and balanced, weighted for throwing. The second knife was identical. When I pulled the blade free, a note fell from the scabbard. I set it on the bed and strapped the wrist-sheaths on under the sleeves of my kimono. The knives remained well concealed. I read the note as I worked.
Señor Osic:
I’m sure you know that weapons aren’t allowed in living quarters. But a hundred years ago, during the Islamic Jihad, it is said the Faithful used these blades as toothpicks, so they are listed as such on the ship’s logs. You may have need for such toothpicks. The Alliance has offered me tremendous bribes for your return to Earth. I’m playing the part of a greedy man, but soon they will figure out that I won’t turn you over for any price. When that happens, watch your back.
I give you Perfecto, since he has already bonded to you. I’d prefer that he were bonded to me, but a man can serve only one master. Mavro also requested to be in your combat team—a very talented and dangerous man. You need friends like him.
Abriara quickly read the note over my shoulder.
"What does he mean here," I asked, "where he says that Perfecto is bonded to me?"
She stared at me, as if to gauge me. She spoke hesitantly. "I suppose this is something you should know. I’d never mention it if Garzón hadn’t brought it up. And it lies at the root of the real reason I came to speak to you. Remember what our father, General Torres, looked like?"
"An old man with silver hair," I said, recognizing the similarity in appearance between Torres and General Garzón. "He had a sharp nose, and a strong chin."
"Close enough," Abriara said. "In his old age, Torres became paranoid, afraid of assassins within his ranks. So when we were created, some chimeras were given an extra gene containing a biochip. And that biochip makes them loyal to old men with silver hair and sharp features—men who look like Torres. You, with your hair going gray, look almost exactly like Torres."
I considered the consequences of this. "You mean Perfecto won’t be angry with me for slugging him?"
"You broke his nose; he broke your leg. You’re even." She sat on her cot and watched me.
"Even after I called him a puto?"
Her feet hung off the bed, and she swung them back and forth. "Perfecto won’t hold a grudge against you because it’s not genetically possible. Understand? You fit the mold of the man he was created to protect and serve, and every fiber of his being knows it."
This surprised me. I remembered how Perfecto had tried to befriend me from the moment he saw me. "But won’t he know that I fit the mold? Won’t he resent it?"
"On the contrary, he’ll feel comforted to have you around. It’s like eating or breathing. We know why we eat and breathe, but we don’t resent the fact that we must do it.
"But because Perfecto is bonded to you, I had to speak with you. You see, he will imitate you—he will try to seek your approval by doing the things you want him to do. If he believes even for a moment that you resent my command, he could revolt. He might even attack me. He’d certainly conspire with Mavro to undermine my authority. Understand?
"That is why I must have you speak with him about me, convince him to obey me." Her tone became harsh. "I must warn you, Señor Osic, that I cannot tolerate the slightest disobedience from you." She stopped a moment, leaving me to imagine what her threat might mean. "If, on the other hand, you treat me with unfeigned respect, Perfecto will show me complete loyalty."
"Ah, we get to the heart of the matter. So you want assurance of my intentions? Then I must admit: I treat people kindly from long habit, and I seldom become angered."
She said, "I have already seen this. And I take comfort in your words. The thing I don’t understand is why General Garzón let you aboard the ship. If Perfecto has bonded to you, others may too. Your presence here could disrupt his command."
"Garzón is indebted to me." I said. I remembered how excited Garzón had been to get Tamara as a prisoner. His own little spy to interrogate—he might even be wringing information from her now.
But in order to keep her presence a secret, he’d have to resist Earth’s demands for my extradition—as an ambassador from Baker, someone who could grant citizenship to Mavro and me as easily as he had, I believed he’d have authority to refuse extradition.
On top of this, the fact that he had not turned me over suggested that Tamara was still alive and hadn’t suffered too much brain damage. Otherwise, Garzón would have no reason not to ship me back to Earth. In fact, he had every reason to return me as soon as possible.
My presence was certainly causing him trouble with the Alliance; and if more chimeras bonded to me, I could pose a threat to him in other ways.
I realized for the first time: Garzón had put Abriara in command of our team to humiliate me personally, not to humiliate Mavro. He wanted to make sure I remained a peon in the eyes of the chimeras in hopes that they wouldn’t bond to me.
Abriara watched me as if trying to divine my thoughts. "You won’t be able to sway me with your appearance. I was created later than Perfecto—when public opinion against To
rres was so strong he knew he’d soon be assassinated. I won’t bond to you."
"It’s not that," I said. "A biochip is a powerful tool—especially when used to program the human mind. I was just wondering: Are there other things like this that you’re forced to do?"
Abriara smiled. For a moment, it was as if the web of light in her eyes opened, and her eyes sparkled though her voice was sad. "Don’t you know? Homo homini lupus. We kill people. We are forced to kill people like you, don Angelo."
The way she smiled, it was like a sad joke. I was certain that she’d killed more than once, that the memory caused her grief.
There are several ways to perform such a genetic manipulation: Some hormonal imbalances can cause severe anger in a patient—so much so that the patient becomes victim to uncontrollable rage. Chimeras are marvelous fighters, but I’d never heard of them going berserk.
On the other end of the spectrum is sociopathy, a lack of capacity to feel emotion—empathy, remorse. And Bastian proved back in the early 2100s that sociopathy can have a biological base—a defective amino acid sequence in a waste product produced in the cerebrum can block the bonding sites of thymotriptine, causing the victim to lose the ability to feel remorse.
But it seemed implausible that Abriara was a sociopath. The tone of her voice showed concern for Mavro, and her sad smile when she spoke of her murders betrayed her pain.
But how much remorse? I wondered. The guilt I felt after killing Arish threatened to tear me apart. Even now it tormented me. But she only managed a wan smile. She presented me with a puzzle, and I decided to watch her, to discover what she was. She studied my face, still trying to discern my thoughts.
"I’d heard rumors of your murderous nature," I confessed, "but I never believed them. I always thought it was just propaganda the socialists used to overthrow Torres."
"Propaganda works best when it’s based on fact," she said. "But we posed no threat to Argentina or even our own people. It was only when the Argentines crossed the border that they had to worry, so they twisted the truth to frighten our own people ..."
On My Way to Paradise Page 11