The charts showed hundreds more—a redesign of the vascular network in the brain provided better circulation to a cerebrum enlarged by 200 grams. Redesign of the teeth got rid of her canines, giving her a closer-fitting bite that allowed her to chew food more quickly and thoroughly than a human could. Longer intestines and better absorption of nutrients through the intestinal wall made Abriara capable of sustaining life on half the food a human needed. Her cartilage was more elastic than normal, making it easier for her pelvis to widen when giving birth, while at the same time providing the added benefit that she would never get a broken nose. One didn’t need to look at her genes to guess the kinds of upgrades Robles had made on her eyes, but I was surprised to find that the design for her ears was only slightly different from normal.
Many upgrades required changing only one or two pairs of nucleotides in a gene, often calling for modifications of organ size and function, and some changes were seemingly minor, almost superfluous, while other upgrades required the assemblage of hundreds of thousands of nucleotides within entire families of genes. Yet each upgrade had been carried out in a thoughtful manner that took all considerations into account. Each was an act of genius. And when you looked at the whole it was obvious that Robles had specified the changes for one simple reason—he sought to create a perfect human. The best genetic engineer I’d ever seen was but a tinkerer compared to Robles. Even if man were to live for another two million years, he’d never evolve into something so perfect as Abriara. My respect for her as an organism grew with each upgrade I discovered. I felt as if I were witnessing a symphony, not a symphony of music, but a symphony played out on human genes, but only I in our little group could comprehend the beauty of it.
I remembered a joke about chimeras I’d once read in a medical journal back when people were much afraid of the work General Torres’s engineers were doing in Chile. The joke said, "When God created man, he made him good. When General Torres creates a man, he makes him better." Ironically, the joke was truer than the comic would ever know.
García and Zavala had been studying the samurais’ biographies in a corner. They began bickering. Apparently, both samurai began attending Kontani Academy at age 16, and it was probably a military academy. García argued that he’d won that part of the bet, since the samurai hadn’t begun formal military training until they were 16. But Zavala pointed out that each samurai had been tutored as a child—both by a human and by the company AI—and many of their classes provided them a strong military background, though they were not specifically military in nature. For example, their training in gymnastics, and self-defense was helpful in combat situations. Everyone became embroiled in the argument, and Zavala finally lost, since he had to concede that almost every child in the world was trained in gymnastics and self-defense to some degree.
As they argued I found something that made me uneasy about Robles’ work: chromosome 4, cistron 2229, gave an instruction for the neuroglia cells in the cerebral cortex to produce a protein simply labeled: Behavioral Modifier 26. In structure this protein was closely allied to the neural transmission blocker responsible for biogenic sociopathy. In fact, Robles needed only remove two amino acids to get the transmission blocker. Clearly, Robles wanted to somehow dampen Abriara’s ability to feel empathy for others, yet empathy is a trait necessary for survival of the species. A mother must care about her children for them to survive to adulthood. And Robles obviously knew he couldn’t completely remove that trait. I resented the fact that he’d tried to suppress it at all.
I asked the computer for a scan of behavioral modifiers, and found several. Seven modifiers were labeled by patent number. I had no idea what their effects might be, since this was outside my field of expertise. But I did find one patent for a family of genes that was not created by Robles; it was made by Bernardo Mendez, and since I knew of his work in engineering biogenic territorialism I was able to guess by the early date of his patent the nature of the modification: The chimeras’ biogenic territorialism was strengthened so they’d be more competitive. It explained why Perfecto found it necessary to paint lines on the floor in our room so no one would trespass into his area. I remembered Abriara telling me the chimeras weren’t dangerous to the Argentines as long as they stayed in their own country, and it made perfect sense: If the chimeras felt their territory to be violated, they’d indeed go berserk. And because of their sociopathic bent, the chimeras wouldn’t hesitate to destroy the invaders. I hadn’t paid heeded Perfecto’s blue lines in the past. I made a mental note to avoid his territory, lest he decide to break my legs. It struck me as odd that these chimeras were the antitheses to the beings the socialists were trying to engineer—instead of rooting out human territorialism, Torres had chosen to strengthen it. I wondered if Torres had designed the chimeras specifically to resist the possibility of the viral wars that rumor said the socialist would someday initiate. Yet that seemed implausible. Torres had started his work a decade before the socialist’s began engineering their own people. At least, I had heard about Torres’ work that much earlier.
I began to wonder, Was Robles trying to create perfect humans, or perfect warriors?
I exhausted the behavioral modifications and went back to studying physical upgrades. The list seemed endless. Several people came to the infirmary for medications, and I had to get up from the computer to serve them. This made me uneasy. Sooner or later someone would think to question our presence.
After nearly two hours I asked the computer to print Abriara’s files, then told my compadres. "I’d like to take these gene charts home for study. But we have surely lost this part of our bet. The chimeras are genetically superior to the samurai. Our chimeras should be stronger, faster, and more intelligent than the samurai."
Zavala smiled. "Then I have beaten you on two counts: The samurai are not better trained than we are, and they are not genetically superior."
"Perhaps they aren’t genetically superior, but I am not so sure about the other," García said. "We’ll have to go to the library tomorrow to study their early training better. If their classes in self-defense include simulated battles like those we go through, then I will have to take your money." García stretched and yawned, for it was getting late.
Everyone agreed that García was right, and they began filing from the room. Miguel hung back, standing too near, as Perfecto often did. He clearly wanted to stay with me.
I patted him on the back. "Go with García, my friend," I said. "Serve him well." It was a command spoken softly.
Miguel looked at me with his sad brown eyes, and left without speaking a word. I could tell he felt rejected.
Mavro, Perfecto, and Abriara stayed behind. I saw Perfecto staring at me. He obviously knew Miguel had bonded to me. He appeared sad that I’d sent Miguel away.
When the others had left, Abriara bent over my shoulder, her chocolate-brown hair brushing my neck, and said, "I have a question, Angelo: Am I human?"
I considered. At first it seemed she obviously wasn’t. No one with so many upgrades could be human. It was as if her outer form were a cloak to hide the engineering that had gone on beneath. And as I looked into the silver webs of light in her eyes I reminded myself that I must never think of her as human, never make the mistake of thinking of her as a comrade, but as an animal as different from me as a rat is from a dog.
But if her question were revised to ‘Can I mate with a human to produce viable offspring?’ which would be the ultimate test of whether she was a member of our species, I couldn’t be sure. Most of the upgrades Robles had made were minor and had historical precedent, meaning they’d been found in rare individuals, and those traits could certainly be passed to humans. But considering the structure of her muscles and eyes, I wasn’t sure. I asked the computer to cross-check the results of a mating between Abriara and García to see if it would work.
To my astonishment, the results were positive—her offspring would physically express an amazing 98% of her upgrades.
"Yes," I
told her.
"Oh," she said. "I thought not. I thought not." She sounded very sad, and I wondered if she was disappointed to be human when she was so close to being something better.
"Ah, don’t take it so hard," Mavro said. "Think of all the great humans there have been—people like Jesus Christ and Simon Bolivar."
That night I lay awake for a long time, thinking of the battles we’d fought, how each had brought us defeat. I was still trembling from the evening in the simulators, and the images from the day’s battles—flashes of plasma fire arcing into the night, a dead body falling at my feet—would not let me sleep. Yet it seemed strange: Though I was shaken, I hadn’t noticed the feeling while reading the gene charts. It was as if my body had saved the aches until I had time to deal with them. I listened to the uneven breathing of the others, and realized they were all awake, going through the same thing as I. Eventually the breathing of Zavala and Mavro evened out, and they began to snore softly.
In one form or another, Tamara had invaded my dreams each night on the ship. I wondered if I’d dream of her tonight. If it would be a peaceful dream. I longed to dream a peaceful dream of her. I wondered where she was, if she were recovering. I told myself she’d be all right. Garzón would take care of her. But then I realized I didn’t care anymore. What if she lived? What if she died? Why should she mean anything to me? I had enough concerns of my own. Why did I still want to find her, to caress her as if she were my child?
I began to drift into an uneasy slumber, marred by a rumbling, droning noise. I woke and thought the rumbling noise was Perfecto talking in his sleep. But as I listened I realized he wasn’t speaking in his sleep. He spoke very softly, in a slurred tone without inflection, so that if anyone overheard they’d think he was mumbling in his sleep.
He said, "I remember when you were six and sneaked out of the compound to play with the Nito Diez and his brother. I remember how they pushed a pile of lumber on you, and left you screaming. They thought you’d die, and they thought it was funny. And when we found you that night, you were bloody all over."
"They were children," Abriara mumbled in return. I’d not heard them speak like this before. The only sound I’d ever heard at night was Zavala’s snoring or when Perfecto occasionally cried out to his wife in his sleep. I wondered how many late-night conversations I’d missed.
"And when you were twelve and tried to go to Mass, and the priest threw you out, was he a child?"
"It was his church," Abriara said.
"It was God’s church," Perfecto corrected. "I’d rather not remind you of other things that have happened," he mumbled. "But I saw on the news how you murdered three mestizo boys."
"Three rapists. The police do not care what mestizos do to a chimera."
"Yet you mutilated their bodies. That speaks of more than mere vengeance. It speaks of hatred. A Quest. Why do you deny that you hate humans? It gains you nothing. I don’t ask you to curb your hatred for them—that you not hate yourself for being one of them."
Abriara made a choking noise, as if she were sobbing, and I wondered at this: She’d always seemed strong, oblivious to emotion. "I am not human," she said. "They have never allowed me to be one of them. I will not be one of them now."
"So, you admit that you hate them?"
"Yes. Sometimes."
"Then do you hate me?" Perfecto asked. "I have fathered eight children to a human wife. I am human, too."
"Don’t try to trick me with arguments over semantics. If you were born in the vats on the compound, you are chimera—that is the only criterion the Chileans used when they hunted us after the revolution. If you took your eight children back to Chile, the Chileans would kill you and your children with you."
"That’s true," Perfecto said. "But I point out these things only so you’ll know: the dividing line between human and chimera is sometimes thin. You straddle the line and say you will be chimera, not human. But that choice was made by your engineers; you cannot make that choice yourself."
Perfecto quit speaking and I waited for Abriara to argue with him some more. I considered what I’d learned: When I’d tried speaking to Abriara privately, she talked about places she had lived and people she had known with a curious dispassion—she never talked about old loves, old hates. She was emotionally distanced, like a person encased in amber, unable to touch, unable to feel. And—as on the day I first met her when she used the animated gestures so typical of Chileans—I soon found that when she appeared to show emotion, it was only practiced emotion. Meaningless smiles over stupid jokes. Almost as if she were trying to placate us, trying to convince us that everything was okay in her world. I’d instinctively been revolted by her behavior, since it made her seem so false. Now I realized her emotion was false because she was so brutalized by her past she couldn’t afford to let us see her as she was.
I marveled once again that she was so human—that 98% of her traits would be expressed in her offspring. And like a lightning bolt, the truth struck me. Abriara had said chimera women hadn’t been created to be warriors, that they’d never fought in battle. And I realized that when Robles created Abriara he hadn’t been trying to create either a perfect human or a perfect warrior. He’d been trying to create a perfect breeder—a machine to spread the genetic traits he’d engineered among the general population.
I listened for a long time, but Abriara made no answer to Perfecto. Perhaps they’d heard my uneven breathing, learned I was awake, and quit speaking. I do not know.
That night I dreamed I struggled to hold on to a child who clung to a rocky ledge high above an immense ocean of brass-colored water. In the sea were dead seagulls, floating on their backs, their wing tips bobbing up and down in time with undulating waves. The small girl I’d dreamed of so often lately clutched my wrist as she tried to pull herself up to the ledge, her eyes wide with terror. Huge drops of her blood spattered from scratches on her hand into the sea, forming red circles. And from each circle a Yabajin samurai would burst forth, wearing his red armor and shooting plasma and streams of light at me.
The small girl said to me, "Grandfather, hold tight. Stay low!"
I looked into her eyes. "Who are you?" I shouted to the girl, "What is your name?"
"You don’t know!" she said accusingly.
A plasma blast flashed in the air over my head, and I grabbed the child and crouched low, afraid to move.
Chapter 12
"Angelo, Mavro, everyone—wake up!" Perfecto enthused. I looked up. He was crying. His thick hair was ruffled, unruly. The lights were low, and the 3-D tattoo of the beast on his neck seemed to glow in the shadows. The ship trembled with vibrations caused by people screaming and cheering. Perfecto grinned. "Come hear the good news!"
Perfecto went to the lights and turned them up. Abriara was jacked into the wall monitor, listening to music piped in over the radio. Her whole body was shuddering from sobs, and tears streamed down her cheeks. I sat up, and Perfecto grabbed my hand, pulled me over to the spare monitor. Mavro was just rousing and Zavala hadn’t yet moved at all. Perfecto plugged the wall jack into the socket at the base of my skull.
". . . are still shut down. Meanwhile, Independent Brazil has launched an air strike against 4000 disabled cybernet tanks stranded in a caravan 30 kilometers north of Lima."
Lima? I wondered. Independent Brazil’s military front is hundreds of kilometers from Lima.
"The tanks were on their way to the Estados Unidos Socialistas del Sur front in Panamá under the direction of the artificial intelligence Brainstormer 911 when saboteurs bombed the AI’s housing complex. Brainstormer 911 is one of 14 artificial intelligences in South and Central America to have been destroyed within the past six hours. Seven other artificial intelligences in Europe, and two in space have also been killed. So far, only two allied nations have lodged formal protest to the bombings, which violate the Inter-sentient Accord of 2087 that grants AI’s political neutrality from humans, protecting them from the ravages of war. This is the first time in
over a century that AI’s have become military targets.
"In Colombia, freedom fighters from Panamá now claim they’ve secured Bogotá—which means both Bogotá and Cartagena have been recaptured—and socialist generals in Colombia have ordered their soldiers to lay down their weapons. However, because of reports of rampant executions, most EUSS soldiers have refused, and fighting still continues heavy in Medellin.
"An unconfirmed report from Porto Allegre in socialist-occupied Brazil indicates that hundreds of marines there revolted against superior officers this morning. General Ricardo Mueller, known as the Serpent of Montevideo, was reportedly killed along with many other officers. Marines from that base boast that they will attack Buenos Aires by ..."
Mavro pulled out my jack and plugged himself in. Abriara had given up her jack to Zavala. In the halls below mercenaries cheered and celebrated, thousands of voices united. The walls muted and smothered the noise.
Perfecto slapped me on the back. He opened my last bottle of whiskey. "Let us celebrate!" he cried, and he forced the bottle to my lips.
I swallowed a drink and asked, "What happened?"
Perfecto grinned, "The socialists are being routed from all the countries they stole. They’ve lost more in a single night than they gained in the past seven years!"
"But how?" I asked. I knew how. Tamara must have regained consciousness. When I thought about this, it was as if something inside me snapped. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. I hadn’t realized how concerned I’d been about her. She’d supplied the names of the artificial intelligences who’d aided the socialists, and Garzón had relayed the information to his compadres on Earth. With the local AI’s destroyed, banks, roads, and communications would be down in most of the EUSS.
On My Way to Paradise Page 20