On My Way to Paradise (41 page)

It struck me that Abriara and I were the only living
things on this module. The air didn’t carry even a single bacteria.
Never had I been in an environment so sterile. Though noise seeped
in from distant parts of the ship, everything was still nearby. It
was like being in a wooded glen at evening when the cicadas have
been singing and they suddenly become quiet. The air becomes filled
with what seems an unnatural stillness, and you keep waiting to
hear something nearby. The air becomes charged with a sense of
expectation.

There was a soft rustling from below, then Sakura,
down in his narrow tunnel, began singing Motoki Sha Ka. His voice
was distant, harsh, and slurred, and I knew he must have been
severely injured when Abriara pushed him, yet there was a hopeful
tone to his song. Was it a prayer? I wondered. Was he praying to
his corporation? There was a great roar from module A, an explosion
of shouting—and the men in module C answered with a shout of their
own. Sakura stopped singing, apparently in an attempt to better
hear what was going on. The men below began chanting and stamping
their feet again, but above me the stamping stopped and the shouts
turned to wails. People were dying up there.

I was bewildered by Abriara’s actions. When humans
become terrified, they seek help from others. But Abriara was
reacting differently: She was extending her body space, trying to
put distance between herself and others. She was terrified even of
me. I did not know how to fight that terror, and I myself was
afraid. I wanted to get near her, be in the same room with her
behind that nice safe door. I remembered Felicia, the way she had
comforted others before she died, and I began talking to Abriara,
saying, "The air here smells so clean! It is like being home in the
mountains in Mexico when a cool rain would come in from the ocean,
no? I remember such days from when I was a student—sitting on my
porch after a cool rain. We never got such cool rains in Panamá. It
was always muggy after a rain. I imagine you got such cool rains in
Chile, in the mountains, no?"

But Abriara did not answer. It was as if she had gone
into that room and become deaf. So I talked on and on, taking some
comfort in my own voice.

Comlink tones sounded in my head. I thumbed the
subdural switch beneath my ear.

Perfecto said, "Are you all right, Angelo?" His voice
sounded very distant, drowned by background noise.

"Sí, I’m fine. I’m lonely up here. Abriara has locked
herself in a room."

"I wish I could keep you company," he said, sounding
relieved to hear my voice.

"It would be good," I said. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, we are fine. Some muchachos down on the fourth
floor broke through the lines and came up to visit us—García and
some friends. They had a hard time getting here. They’re pretty
beat up. There’s some bad fighting going on down there. I would not
want to be down there." There was a long pause.

Intuitively I knew Miguel had come up the ladder to
protect me. It seemed a stupid gesture. A vivid picture came to
mind: Miguel sitting at my feet, petting my hand, while we drank in
my room. With his sweaty bald head and pale blue eyes he was so
ugly I found the memory mildly revolting. I tried to think of
something to say, some words to comfort Miguel. I said, "Tell
Miguel I am safe, like a child in its mother’s arms," and realized
these words would be of greater comfort than any.

"Sí," Perfecto said.

I heard a scraping noise above me and looked up. The
airlock began to slide open.

I realized that I was weaponless and that no matter
who was coming down the ladder, I didn’t want to be found. I leaped
through the nearest doorway—into the water purification plant—and
hid in a corner. Perfecto began saying something on comlink, and I
thumbed the subdural switch beneath my ear, cutting him off.

I tried to still my breathing and scanned the room
for a weapon. There was a cabinet nearby, and I opened it and found
many tools. One instrument like a heavy wrench was as long as my
arm. I carefully lifted it from its pouch.

I heard the rustle of cloth and the clang of metal on
metal as someone climbed down the ladder. Only a cyborg with metal
legs would make that clanging. He breathed in great gasps.

When he reached the bottom of the ladder, the door
above him hummed closed. He snuffled and took a few slow steps,
looking through doorways, too cautious to search the rooms. After a
moment the door to the airlock below us began to open.

Distantly the voice of Sakura came up from the
airlock, "Who’s there?"

"A friend," a deep gravelly voice whispered. With a
shock I recognized that voice. It was Juan Carlos, the man with the
silver face, the man I suspected was the Alliance assassin. He
could have had only one reason for trying to get from module A to
module C.

He was searching for me.

For weeks I’d practiced stabbing him in my mind. I
wished to God that Abriara had left me my good knife. I’d have been
better off practicing how to fight with giant wrenches.

I hefted the wrench and dodged around the corner and
through the doorway as silently as possible. Juan Carlos was
dressed in the silver and red kimono of a sergeant, wearing black
metal legs, and he stooped over the airlock looking down at Sakura.
His right hand held a
wakizashi
, a short samurai sword, and
his left hand was a bloody mess. He carried a transmitter in his
left palm, and he’d relieved the transmitter’s owner of a
finger.

I was certain I’d made no noise, but he must have had
an upgraded auditory system, for he whirled as if I’d been wearing
bells around my neck.

"Osic!" he shouted slicing the air with his sword,
his voice angry even though his metal face held the perpetual smile
of Buddha in repose, the single green gem between his eyes. Arish
had addressed me with that same tone of hate, and I wondered
why.

I swung the wrench down on his right shoulder. Juan
Carlos crumpled under the blow and I felt a jolt of pain in my
belly.

I looked down. The onyx handle of the wakizashi stuck
through my belly just below the rib cage. He’d inserted the sword
so swiftly I hadn’t even seen it coming.

I wondered, How many men have died looking at sword
handles?

It didn’t seem to matter. I’d died so many times in
the simulators. I dropped the wrench and examined my wound. It
would be a mistake to pull the blade out—it would cause me to bleed
faster.

Juan Carlos groaned. I hadn’t killed him. He was
curled in a ball on the floor, shaking his head, struggling to
regain consciousness.

I kicked him in the jaw, stunning him, then untied
his obi, his thin belt, from around his kimono. I wanted to
question him, learn why he hated me, but the pain in my belly was
growing, and I wasn’t sure I’d live long enough. I wrapped the obi
around his neck, flipped him to his back, and began strangling
him.

It takes a long time to strangle a man. Too often a
strangler chokes someone a few moments and thinks he’s completed
his job just because his victim goes limp, but in reality a man
must be deprived of oxygen for several minutes before he’ll die. I
knew this, and vowed to finish Juan Carlos.

I gripped the obi at two ends and pulled. Juan Carlos
was unconscious, but as he began to strangle he awoke and kicked
with his metal legs and flailed his arms. I was afraid of his legs,
not knowing how powerful they might be, and edged away. I
readjusted my position and put a knee in his back, forcing his
lungs to stay empty, and at the same time positioned myself so he
couldn’t kick or grab me.

He flailed about. His muscles convulsed and he tried
to get his knees under him and rise. I yanked one leg straight and
he dropped to the floor and didn’t try to repeat the tactic.

He reached behind his neck and pinched my right
wrist, digging his thumbnail into my flesh. I continued strangling
him. My arms became tired, and I realized I needed to readjust my
grip. I was afraid that if I let go for even a second he would get
a breath of air, and I’d have to begin all over. I took one end of
the obi in my teeth and maintained pressure by pulling with my
teeth, then readjusted my grip on my left hand.

I tried the same procedure with my right hand, but I
must have slackened for a moment, for Juan Carlos became frenzied.
He let go of my right wrist and tried to grab the obi.

I pulled tighter and he caught hold of my knee and
tried to yank me down. The effort of the struggle depleted the
oxygen from his lungs, and he went limp.

My God, I realized,
This will work. I can really
strangle him!
My teeth began chattering. Beads of sweat dripped
from my armpits and ran down my arms. Sweat dripped from the back
of my hands, drenching the obi. I felt myself losing my grip on it.
It began to slip.

I became unreasonably frightened and shouted,
"Abriara, come help me! Quick! Come help me!"

I put both knees on Juan Carlos’s back and wrapped
the ends of the obi around my hands and pulled tighter and screamed
for Abriara. I suddenly realized I didn’t know how long I’d been
strangling him. He’d gone limp, but that was no guarantee he
wouldn’t regain consciousness if I let go. I realized that this is
what other stranglers must go through—they become excited and lose
track of time and let go too soon, so I held on and began counting
the seconds, vowing to myself that I wouldn’t release my strangle
hold until three minutes had passed. One ... two ... three ... four
... five ...

My stomach ached where the sword had punched through.
I felt its point sticking through my back. I thought I should quit
and get some medical attention. The transmitter to open the airlock
lay on the floor two meters away. I screamed for Abriara, begging
her to come help. I watched her door. She didn’t open it. I kept
strangling Juan Carlos.

Juan Carlos began kicking again and flailing his arms
again, and I thought, The son of a whore was faking, just
pretending to be dead!

I jerked at the obi, trying to snap his neck. Juan
Carlos clawed at the floor and went limp. I held onto the obi. I
looked back at the door,

"Abriara, I have been stabbed," I explained. "I do
not feel well! I’m kind of dizzy! Come help me, you whore!"

Pinpoints of light began to flash behind my eyes.
"Flaco!" I yelled, "Flaco, come help me!"

Juan Carlos remained limp. I readjusted my grip again
and pulled tighter. The muscles in his back began bunching and
jumping in little spasms. I held my grip until the spasms passed,
then wiped the sweat from my brow.

I felt very tired, and quit strangling him, and he
didn’t move. My head ached, and the tiny pinpoints of light behind
my eyes dazzled me. Bile had risen into my throat. I carefully
turned Juan Carlos onto his stomach and watched his chest, to see
if he’d breathe. His chest didn’t rise or fall. His fingers
twitched in minor spasms, and I took his wrist and felt for a
pulse. I felt nothing.

I bent my head to his chest and listened for a
heartbeat. My own heart pounded in my ears, and I panted so badly
that with the distant stamping of feet and the chanting and the
screams I couldn’t hear if Juan Carlos’s heart beat.

"Listen, listen, become fluent in the gentle language
of the heart." Tamara’s words came to mind.

I knew that this was not what she’d had in mind. My
face was turned toward Juan Carlos’s feet, and as I watched, his
muscles relax. His kimono was pulled up so I could see his
underwear, and urine began yellowing his crotch as his bladder
emptied. I lurched forward and vomited, and blood was mixed in the
vomit. The floor rose to greet me.

Someone flipped me on my back. I heard distant
pounding and voices chanting. A strange man with a blotched face
whispered, "He looks almost finished."

Behind him a man said, "Take his sword, he won’t miss
it!" I saw that the airlock door above me was open. Someone else
had broken through.

The man above me said, "Forgive me, señor," and
pulled the sword from my belly. He wiped the bloody blade on my
kimono, then held the sword up to the light, inspecting it.

I grunted and everything went black.

I woke to the smell of fear. I felt rough hands on my
body. Someone furtively searched the pockets inside my kimono. I
opened one eye. A dark-skinned woman turned her face away and
slinked up the ladder. I thought I smelled smoke. The lights were
dim.

Whispering.

A foot caught me in the ribs, startling me awake. I
dimly distinguished the shape of a man. "Answer me! Answer me!" he
shouted. I opened my eyes wider, and a horrible face bent near me,
a face with a slash that ran from one eye, across the nose, to the
mouth. Lucío kicked me and turned away. There were many men behind
him, some holding laser rifles.
Where did they obtain
rifles?
I wondered. "Retrieve some medical supplies from that
room. Plug the holes in the fucker and put some blood into him. I
want him to know ... "

A shout arose from many voices, distant, like the
surf within a seashell. The air held the scent of smoke and the
tang of ozone. The riot has begun on module C, I reasoned, and I
was comforted. Now the samurai would turn the ship around and we’d
go home.

A woman shrieked nearby—a high thin sound, almost a
moan or the mewing of a kitten.

I opened my eyes and lolled my head to the side. The
door to Abriara’s room was open. Smoke roiled off the door, and it
hung askew. In places it glowed the pale orange of molten ore.
Someone had cut open her door with a laser, I realized. The woman
shrieked again, and I wondered if it were Abriara even though she’d
never uttered a sound so plaintive, even though I couldn’t imagine
her uttering a cry like that.