On My Way to Paradise (54 page)

We maintained complete radio silence from our
compadres and worked away from the prying eyes of the Japanese.
Garzón insisted this was imperative, for after the bombing of our
AI a Colonel Ishizu was caught sending messages by laser to an
outpost 12 kilometers outside town. He confessed spying for the
Yabajin and it was he who’d organized the destruction of the city’s
defensive perimeter—not so the southern samurai could enter, but as
a prelude to invasion by the Yabajin.

On the third morning we finished our weapons. We
needed to outrun enemy hovercrafts, so we resorted to the old
"Mexican hair" trick.

In a null-G vacuum chamber one can pull super-heated
high-carbon steel into flakes so thin they float in the air like
dandelion down. When this is thrown over the rear of a hovercraft,
the next few hovercrafts to follow suck steel wool into their air
intakes. The engines foul so quickly the damaged hovercrafts drop
like stone. We found a great deal of steel fiber in a warehouse and
packed it into sealed canisters that exploded on contact with the
ground.

A great many mercenaries gathered as we worked and
began loading all the valuable tooling equipment into the city’s
eight zeppelins, often simply unstrapping the gondolas and
strapping on machines that couldn’t otherwise be moved. Garzón did
this as a last resort. If his plan didn’t succeed, we’d need to be
able to build our own defenses. But to do that, one needed tools.
The Japanese would have no tools.

We didn’t finish our labors too soon, for we heard
the distant sound of puff mines exploding on our southern
border.

We went outside in the afternoon sunlight to load the
hovercrafts with our new rifles and Mexican hair bombs. Each person
got a bomb to hook to his utility belt. Our eyes were dazzled after
three days in the dark. The zeppelins lifted from above Old Town
and streaked north. The sky was a blue gauze cut by a yellow
lightning zag of opal kites. Someone behind me hummed a pleasant
tune, like the drone of a bee. My eyes watered in the brilliant
sunlight, and I felt fragile, ready to break. My hands shook.

Our men had already begun an orderly retreat from all
parts of town, and we met at the hovercrafts at the air field. Like
many others, I got in my assigned hovercraft and removed my helmet,
and my compadres soon found me. When everyone was more or less
loaded, Garzón gave his signal and as one we headed north—away from
Kimai no Ji, away from the southern samurai who cautiously
advanced.

Garzón’s plan was deceptively simple—wait north of
the city till the Yabajin came to attack, then head for Hotoke no
Za and take over their capitol. Alliance law favored any government
strong enough to establish global consolidation. If we could defeat
the Yabajin at their capital, we could count on the Alliance to
back our claim as the sole legal government on Baker.

We drifted slowly through the ruined town, a jumble
of hovercrafts. Whole sections of the city had been burned black.
The work of genocide we’d begun our first night had progressed
steadily—for every one of our dead, twenty houses had been burned.
No more than twenty thousand Japanese were left alive. There were
mounds of charred bodies left unburied, body piled upon broken
body, horror mounted atop horror.

We were eating the dust stirred up by our compadres,
so Abriara whipped our hovercraft out to the far edge of our
procession. I got a good view of the atrocities we’d committed. No
one chattered over the helmet mikes.

The last few inhabitants of Motoki left their houses
and clapped and cheered as we departed. A city made up almost
entirely of widows and orphans. We were bristling with weapons, yet
the Japanese stood and clapped almost in our path. If I’d removed
my helmet I’d have been able to smell the breath of their old women
as we passed.

Perhaps 500 remaining samurai had been prepared to
fight. Some came dressed in full armor to watch us leave. They’d
somehow concealed this armor in spite of our shakedown. Some
samurai carried knives, clubs, swords.

As we travelled up the road Master Kaigo stepped in
front of us, huge even among the largest men in the crowd. He was
dressed in his green armor and carrying a long sword in one hand,
his helmet in the other. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of
him. He watched the procession intently, and I was glad to be
invisible behind my armor, anonymous. Yet through long familiarity
he discerned his old pupils and waved us down. Abriara stopped the
hovercraft.

"I will come fight for you!" he shouted. "In Hotoke
no Za, at Buddha’s Throne!"

Abriara said, "Why would you fight for us? The
Yabajin are coming here." Her voice was wary, hesitant, bored.

"I made an oath as a child, someday to fight at
Buddha’s Throne." He smiled a deadly smile. "Yabajin will be there,
too. I’ve taken my tea. My mind is cleared. I am prepared for
battle."

"What of your wife?"

His smile faltered. "She is dead."

Up the road I saw other hovercrafts stop as samurai
talked to their pupils. Abriara simply shrugged. "What do you think
muchachos, do we have room for our old friend?"

I did not trust Kaigo. My teeth began to rattle and
my hands shook. I was very weary, and in no mood to play games. I
raised my laser rifle to his face, and Kaigo frowned as if my
threat were a minor insult. "A man of honor would speak truth when
asked his intent," I said. "Why do you wish to come? Would you kill
us in our sleep?"

Kaigo shook his head. "I would not harm you. I swear
it!"

Mavro said, "Then it is Garzón you samurai seek to
kill. You want to avenge Motoki. Swear on your honor that you would
not harm General Garzón!"

Kaigo’s frown deepened and his eyes blazed. "How
could I swear such a thing? A samurai could not live under heaven
without avenging his master! I would die first!"

"You won’t avenge Motoki. You won’t have the chance,"
I said. "Why don’t you kill yourself now? People in your culture
love suicide—I have seen it in your eyes!"

Kaigo spat on the ground, "And your people love
murder! I’ve seen it in
your
eyes!"

Rage filled me, bowled me over like a wave. Mavro
swung his turret and pulled the trigger; with a single "whuft" the
plasma split Kaigo’s forehead and for a moment his head filled with
light as if his skull were a light bulb. Kaigo dropped to his knees
and pitched backward. Abriara began to shift in her seat uneasily,
preparing to move forward.

"Wait!" Mavro said and he leapt over the side of the
hovercraft and retrieved Kaigo’s sword. "A fine souvenir of our
vacation in Kimai no Ji!" he laughed.

I just stared in surprise. We’d killed many people,
but no one who’d showed us any kindness. No one who’d taken us into
their homes and fed us. A strong breeze was blowing into our
faces. Up ahead a dozen old women began throwing stones at our
men. Our mercenaries opened fire, cutting them down. I imagined the
way our men would be talking among themselves, joking with one
another, saying, "Here comes a mean one! Watch her! Watch
her! don’t let her get too close!" before they opened
fire.

Your people love murder, he’d said, and the words
sang between my ears
, Your people love murder.
I’d once
nearly concluded that I’d joined a society of murderers, but the
idea had seemed so insane I’d considered the thought an
aberration.

Like everyone else, Mavro was surveying the city,
taking a last look. "Ah," he sighed, "Our job is at least half
done." Behind us buildings began to explode as our demolition crew
leveled everything that could possibly be of use to the Yabajin:
the sprawling buildings and warehouses in the industrial sector,
the shops in the business sector. They were small explosions,
calculated to do minor damage, to topple the buildings.

The Japanese stood by the roadway, a line of ragged
scarecrow people. Even after three days parts of the city still
smoldered. Strong winds and rains had stripped the blossoms from
the plum trees.

Kimai no Ji looked like a garbage dump. Garbage dump
buildings good for nothing, garbage dump people. And, as Mavro had
said, we were only half done with this planet. Your people love
murder.

The explosions lasted several minutes and I was
tired, lulled nearly to sleep, till I realized the explosions had
stopped and I was listening to a pounding in my own ears. My head
felt heavy, and my eyes were gritty.

Almost indiscernibly the sound of distant explosions
drilled itself into my consciousness, but this time the explosions
were not behind us, they were ahead: Garzón had sent cybertanks
ahead by remote to clear our path of puff mines. There’d be no
tanks left to defend the city.

We headed north a kilometer away from town, past our
old barracks. The air seemed tinted yellow as it sometimes does
when one is tired, and every line was unnaturally distinct. In some
bushes I saw a pile of twisted naked bodies, Japanese women who’d
been brought here to be raped before they were killed.

There were dozens upon dozens of them, bare legs
wrapped around torsos of other victims, on their faces the stupid
expression of surprise so common to those who’ve just died.

My stomach tightened in anger and Mavro said "Look!
Disposable people—use them once and throw them away!" His tone was
more sober than his words implied.

The fuel depot exploded behind us, sending up a huge
fireball that colored the world red. I didn’t turn to look. I gazed
forward for what could have been seconds or hours. In the orange
light of the fireball I saw something move in the bushes on the
hillside.

At first I thought it was a cat. But a small girl
with slim hips was running through the pines, scrambling through a
thicket like a wild animal, struggling up the hill away from us.
She turned her head to peer over her back, and I saw a pale
European complexion, dark eyes, dark brown hair tinged with almond
curving to cup her cheeks.

"Tatiana!" I called, for surely it was Tatiana.

Someone shoved me and Abriara shouted through her
helmet mike, "Wake up, Angelo! Be sharp! Switch your helmet mike to
subchannel 672."

I snapped to attention and found the world was
nothing like it had appeared in my dream. We were zipping through a
pine forest in a narrow valley behind a dozen other craft, and all
around detritus was dancing in the air, thrown in our wakes. I felt
fevered from loss of sleep. The sunlight slanting through darkened
trees took on a hard edge. I reached down to the controls at my
chin and dialed in the sub-channel.

"Ah, I had a terrible dream!" I said. "I dreamed we
passed a pile of women who’d been butchered by our amigos."

No one spoke for a long moment. Abriara said
bitterly, "We did."

The day grew gray and cold. We kept watch behind,
making certain the southern samurai didn’t follow. I felt numb and
dirty and my head throbbed. I’d been wearing armor nearly a week
and longed for a chance to bathe. My mind kept returning to the
image of the dead women, a tangle of arms and legs and hair. I
couldn’t think. I couldn’t imagine anyone doing such a thing.
Your people love murder.

I watched the anonymous people in hovercrafts beside
me, men hidden beneath chitin. I’d felt hollow when I’d killed only
a few days before, and with my thoughts numb and sluggish, I was
still hollow. We were all just hollow suits of armor.
Dragonflies.

I’d seen a film once where a dragonfly hovered over a
field and snapped up bluebottle flies, eating them while on the
wing, tiny mandibles shoving fly meat down its gullet.
Death
on
the wing. We are death
on
the wing.
I knew who’d
killed the women at Kimai no Ji, the hollow men who were just like
me.
Your people love murder.

I remembered how I’d spent my time in Miami in my
youth sunning myself like a lizard on the rooftop of my apartment,
dreaming of escape from the hollow people, seeking to learn to live
a life of passion. I remembered my village in Guatemala as a child,
where men occasionally peed by the roadside and choked back tears
when told a heartwarming tale, or laughed themselves to tears at
nothing at all. There was passion. All these years of running and
I’d never escaped the hollow people. r d never found my passion.
This war had diminished me.

All my life I’d sought passion, to experience the
full range of emotions. Now my focus had narrowed to one emotion: I
was on a quest to regain compassion. And I was losing even that.
Your people love murder.

Kaigo’s last words were so obviously untrue. I didn’t
love murder. I could have dismissed his words if there hadn’t been
so much blood on my hands. His sentiments overwhelmed me. If I
considered them seriously, I’d go insane.
But you are already
insane,
a voice whispered inside me.
You are already
insane.
I shoved the evil thoughts away and fought for
control.

Our journey over Baker promised to be a journey
through strangeness. Only twenty kilometers from town the native
flora and fauna began to appear: a pair of light blue lips perched
in the seam of a tree, apparently some parasitic plant. A great
river wound among the hills like a giant gray serpent. Here were
many short native grasses under the giant firs, sprouting buds like
oily black eggs. Opal birds skimmed over the water at great speeds,
dazzling entities of glass shooting above the gray river. We halted
to camp and Garzón released three spy balloons to watch the hills
nearby. No one had followed. It gave us the opportunity to try to
make up the sleep we’d lost.

A frigid drizzle began and the cold water seeped
through our armor, chilling us. We fanned out to search for shelter
from the rain. Most combat teams took refuge under fallen pines,
but we spent nearly an hour searching for a camp, and wandered
afield three kilometers from our compadres. Mavro insisted there
must be a nice warm cave somewhere. We came upon a large pale-blue
hollow log, big enough to hold us, and Zavala badly wanted to camp
inside, but Mavro fired his laser into it and both ends of the log
snapped closed tight. If we’d been foolish enough to step inside,
we’d have been swallowed whole. We finally found just what we were
hunting: along a hillside in some dense brush beside a creek the
skull of a giant carnivore was lodged against a tree. The huge
skull was just large enough so the five of us could sit in comfort
beneath the upper palate, protected from the wind and rain. The
skull was strangely translucent in its thinner parts, so one could
almost see through it, and the skull was not like the skull of any
living creature I’d ever seen-it was very sleek and angular, and
the teeth in the jaw were strange for a carnivore. Like the
cartilage teeth of some kinds of fish, the teeth and jaw were all
one bone-simple jagged ridges on the edge of the jaw.