Those who spoke, quietly and insistently boasted their prowess in battle that morning. A few minor victories made them feel less vulnerable. They bragged that they’d someday beat the Yabajin as ruthlessly as they beat each other. Many brave sentiments were expressed, but beneath it I still felt the thrill of electricity, the fear that made boasts necessary. I lifted weights next to Giron, a man with little mouse eyes who looked more nervous than most. For a long while he captured the attention of others by loudly proclaiming his exploits in Peru. If half his stories were true, he’d have beaten the socialists single-handedly.
He stopped doing leg presses momentarily, and I inserted into the sudden quiet, "It is a shame we’re not back in Peru now. I’d love to give those socialists a good beating."
"Sí, sí," everyone around us said. At home was a war that had turned. At home was a battle we could win. I’m sure they were all thinking that. But only a coward would have dared speak it. I said loudly enough so those nearby could hear: "Did you know the ship’s AI forecasts that 78% of us will die on Baker? Technically, Motoki is violating our contract. I’d not be surprised if they send us home so we can fight alongside out amigos."
Everyone stared at me in stunned silence. Halfway across the room García was exercising. His chimera Miguel, who had his back to me, turned and shouted, "Hola, Angelo, my amigo, where did you hear that?"
I was surprised that Miguel could be listening from so far away. "A friend on module A heard it from General Garzón," I answered.
The name "Garzón" attracted much attention, and around the room people began asking "What did Garzón say?" and those nearby answered, "Motoki is violating our contract. He says 78% of us will die on Baker." The noise in the room rose to a soft rumble. From across the gymnasium someone said, "Is it true?" and I nodded. Around the room several people worked their jaws as they jacked-in calls to friends who’d be interested in such news. The room suddenly exploded into sound as people tried to be heard over one another.
There were only two hundred people in the room, but I knew that within ten minutes everyone aboard ship would hear of the AI’s forecast.
Mavro shouted, "It makes no difference! It just makes the fight more challenging!" and I laughed to myself: I who’ve always refused to judge people, to stick them in molds, had predicted Mavro’s response perfectly.
Giron said to no one in particular, "We should demand that they turn the ship around!" and another man nodded sagely at Giron’s advice.
Everywhere, everywhere, the same arguments were being voiced.
My team mates and I took it as a signal to head for the door. We ran up to our room. Three times within the next twenty minutes people came with the news, "Hey, have you heard the latest forecast on the battle?" I was very pleased with myself. I’d planted a seed, and all I needed was sit and see what grew.
All afternoon we stayed in our rooms. The atmosphere became more charged, and I thought it strange: there was no static electricity on ship to make one itch with anticipation, to make the hair stand on one’s head. Yet I felt it. I felt thunderclouds forming. I wondered if there was a pheromone released by anxious people. It seemed it must be so, though I’ve never read any studies done on the subject. It would make sense—men are herd animals, and if they sensed one another’s anxiety, it could prove valuable for survival.
Mavro sat in front of the monitor, jacked in on an open line, and gambled on battles half the afternoon. Then he lay on his bed and I listened as his breathing grew shallow. I soon found that we all breathed in a common rhythm. I didn’t understand what it signified. Mavro said, "Do you know what this feels like?"
No one spoke for a long moment. Abriara said, "Yes."
Mavro said, "It feels like a riot. The electric excitement before a riot."
Abriara said, "Yes."
Mavro said, "I lived through one when I was in prison, in Cartagena. This feels just like it did then. Only now our prison floats through space." We didn’t speak or answer. "Don Angelo, do you know what to do in a riot?"
"No," I said.
"Find a place to hide," Abriara said, "And put your back to a wall. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t let anyone stand behind you. Kill any fucker who comes within arm’s reach."
"Sí," Mavro said. "You’ll be surprised how many people have fashioned weapons. You’ll see plenty of clubs and knives. People will break into the infirmary to get as many drugs as possible. Even if you see your best friend coming, he may be crazy from drugs, and he’ll probably have a weapon. Don’t carry anything of value with you, anything anyone will want to steal—no food, no water, no drugs or alcohol. Let them see nothing but your weapon—and even then, carry a wooden dagger—don’t let them see your pretty crystal knife.
"Anyone who has a grievance against you will come looking for you. And he’ll bring friends. Don’t trust anyone who wants to get close to you, especially if he’s smiling.
"We have plenty of enemies. Some are people you don’t know—people who felt snubbed when I passed out cigars and liquor and gave them none."
I thought of Lucío. And there was an Alliance assassin who’d want me dead. Mavro’s words were not comforting.
Mavro said, "When I was in the riot in Cartagena, my friends and I knew a man we wanted to kill in another cell block. He was a snitch, but we could not prove it. Six of us hid in a cell for two hours, until the riot quieted. When we went into the halls it looked as if a bomb had dropped. Men had pulled steel bars from windows to use as clubs, and they’d beaten the bullet-proof windows of the guard’s cages with the steel bars until the glass smashed. There were fires everywhere.
"We found dozens of bodies of snitches who were fucked in the mouth until they choked, bodies of guards who’d had their hair burned off with acetylene torches, bodies of men killed with broken bottles and screwdrivers. At dark we got hungry and went to the kitchens. We found a whole crowd of men fucking half a dozen prisoners and taking drugs. I knew most of them, and some of them were friends. They killed two of us and chased the rest of us away from the food. My friend Raul and I got separated from our amigos—Pablo and Xavier—when we tried to escape.
"Raul and I doubled back in the dark hall, looking for our amigos, and found an air vent above a guard’s cage—a little tunnel—and we crawled in to hide for the night. Raul was in front of me. He was a weight lifter, very strong. We crawled back about ten meters and met another man in the darkness, crawling the other way. Raul and the other man fought in the cramped tunnel, and Raul tried to strangle the other man, but got stabbed in the neck with a long drill bit, and he bled to death.
"The tunnel was so cramped that Raul’s murderer could not get past the corpse to attack me, so we kept Raul’s body between us. I slept in the tunnel while my amigo’s body cooled, and in the morning the guards came and pulled me out. They pulled out Raul, and behind that they pulled out Raul’s killer—it was Pablo, the friend we’d been looking for."
Abriara said, "Yes."
I lay on the bed, and I couldn’t help thinking: In the spaceship a riot will be worse than in prison. Someone could destroy the navigational instruments and throw the ship off course. Someone could puncture the hull and we’d all breathe vacuum. Someone could jettison the ramjets and we’d be stuck for months, floating slowly toward Baker in 0-G. Normally in a riot a person’s violent impulses are turned toward destroying property. But in a spaceship, no sane person would risk damaging the vehicle, so the violence would be turned against others. Even then, one reckless person could destroy us all.
A few moments later, Sakura came to visit us with a strange samurai, a tall man with a long blue-black ponytail and receding hairline whose head and face seemed to be the only natural parts left to his body. His artificial legs and arms and torso were encased in a simple black plastic housing. At his throat a shiny black vacuum hose—an economical substitute for an esophagus—ran from his chest up to the cleft between his jaws. Unlike most samurai on ship, who seemed to shun cybertechnology, he al
most reveled in it. He was much more like the high-tech Japanese I’d known on Earth. Yet like his fellows, his epicanthic folds were unnaturally accented. He seemed familiar, and I soon recognized him by his posture, the tilt of his head. He was Lazy Neck, one of the samurai who’d defeated us so often in the simulator.
They came in and waited, standing as if at attention. Their custom forbade them from socializing with inferiors, and they held to it strictly. When we met them outside of class, they pretended we didn’t exist, even when we had to squeeze past each other in the narrow halls. It was obvious the samurai still weren’t inviting the inferiors to tea. Master Kaigo came in after them and they sat seiza on the floor and invited us to do likewise.
Kaigo chose his words very carefully, often pausing as he spoke. "I’m forced to speak to you because of a distressing situation," he said. "There are many rumors that Motoki is violating its contract, and some have been so bold as to suggest we return to Earth. I’ve heard someone in this room may have initiated this uprising." He was very tense, but his hand was not upon his sword.
"Forgive me, Master," I said. "No one here initiated this uprising. I only told what I’d learned about the computer’s battle projections, and suggested we might need to return to Earth to recruit more men."
Kaigo watched me a long time, and I met his gaze. "I understand," he said. "I didn’t think you a coward."
"No offense is taken," I said.
Kaigo said, "You understand, of course, that it is very difficult? It would take weeks to return to Earth. The Japanese government has hired a spaceship and is recruiting mercenaries for the Yabajin even as we speak. They’ll try to overtake us on our flight to Baker.
"Even if this were not the case, we’ve already ejected our pulse rockets. We’re running on ramjet power now. You understand that the majority of expense for a trip such as this comes from the fuel that is consumed? It will cost us the same to continue to Baker as to return to Earth, and should we return to Earth it would take several weeks for Motoki corporation to liquidate the assets necessary to finance another expedition." I understood this. The big pulse booster rockets propelled the ship with small nuclear explosions. The fuel for these boosters required a great deal of space and cost a fortune. Once the ship was propelled to sufficient speed, the ramjet engine kicked in and began scooping up hydrogen atoms from space to burn as fuel. In other words, we travelled for free once the ramjets fired, since our fuel cost nothing. But if we slow the ship, we’ll eventually need to eject the ramjet and return to pulse engines, and Motoki would see it as a waste if the ship used that energy to slow down to return to Earth.
"I see the difficulties this would cause," I said.
"You understand that it is very difficult?" Kaigo asked.
"It is difficult" was a phrase I’d heard much lately. It was Kaigo’s non-confrontational way of telling us there wasn’t a chance in hell that he’d let us go home.
We all nodded.
Kaigo sighed and turned so that he was no longer facing us and said, "Now I must speak of something that causes me much distress: You told me three days ago that you feel you do not owe on to Motoki corporation. You do not feel you owe a debt of honor. I cannot understand this wrong-thinking. We samurai came to teach you how to become warriors. But there is more to being a warrior than to master battle skills. The way of the warrior is the way of death, but it is also a way of ordering one’s life.
"We’ve been teaching you self-control and courage—these things a samurai must know, and they are in line with the pure teachings of bushido—but I never thought I’d need to teach you about honor.
"At moments like this, language tends to hide one’s thoughts. I ...” Kaigo sat back and pondered as he struggled to express a concept so integral to his way of life that he may never before have needed to voice it. "When a man accepts a gift from another, he incurs a debt of on, an obligation to repay that gift. His worth as a person depends upon repayment of the gift, ne? He must repay his debt at all costs, even at the cost of his own life, for life is a small thing and is easily taken, but a man’s virtue cannot be taken. Therefore, to lose life is less than to lose honor." He watched our eyes to make sure we understood.
"If a man does not want to incur a debt to another, he should refuse any gift another might offer. Therefore one must beware of those who lightly give gifts, lest one incur a debt one does not wish to repay. But even when one has incurred a debt one does not wish to repay, one must repay the debt. Do you understand?"
We all nodded. Kaigo didn’t turn to see our actions, sparing us the embarrassment of having to see his face as he talked about these things.
"This is part of the code of the samurai," Kaigo said. "The samurai have always been the most honorable of people. We repay our debts willingly. And you’ve begun the training to become samurai. Motoki has given you a great gift—the opportunity to become samurai, to be lifted above your natural station in life, even though you are only foreigners—"
Sakura broke in quickly, perhaps because he knew how offensive Kaigo’s bigotry would be. "What Master Kaigo means to say is that he considers you to be samurai now, or at least pupils. He expects you to accept the obligations of samurai. You must accept the inevitable duties along with the prestige!"
"And what exactly do you mean by ‘duties’?" Abriara asked.
Kaigo said, "Long ago a certain warlord journeyed through a forest inhabited by robbers. He had only a few samurai guards in his retinue, and as he walked he came upon a ronin, a masterless samurai. He asked the ronin if he would like to be employed, and the ronin was very hungry, so he heartily agreed. The Lord was not taking a long journey, and did not have much food, but he ordered his men to prepare a meal so the ronin would not have to walk on an empty stomach. Since the lord was only on a short journey, he could give the ronin only a small bowl of oats, and he apologized that he did not have rice. The ronin accepted the small gift and was glad to eat.
"Later, the Lord and his men were ambushed by a multitude of robbers. A tremendous battle ensued, and each samurai fought against terrible odds. During a lull in the battle, the Lord idly wondered if the ronin would remain faithful or if he’d run into the hills. When the battle ended, only the Lord and two samurai remained alive, wounded with many wounds. They found the newly-hired ronin among the slain. At his feet lay fourteen dead robbers—twice the number any other samurai had slain. Though he’d received for his wages only a bowl of oats, he proved the most faithful servant."
Kaigo stopped and let the message sink in.
"You are ronin," Kaigo said. "You have been paid well by Motoki Corporation. You have received food, clothing, water, air to breathe, and training. The odds in your battle may appear staggering, but you cannot lose heart. You should not fear death, but take joy in the fight to come. You must repay your debt of on. I will fight with you. I will die with you. It shames me as your master that I should be forced to explain these obligations to you."
Kaigo abruptly heaved his huge body off the floor, turned and left the room, his midnight-blue kimono fluttering behind him. Sakura and Lazy Neck silently followed.
"He’s crazy," Mavro said when they’d closed the door. "I do not mind fighting on Baker, but I do not want to do it with crazy people."
We all nodded. It was obvious the samurai wouldn’t turn the ship around. They considered it a personal affront that we even think of retreat a possibility.
Mavro went to the dorms a few hours later and reported that all over the ship the samurai delivered the same message. It was as if they’d thrown a wet blanket on our smoldering fire. We went to battle practice and lost two out of three. Zavala was released from the infirmary and he demanded more anesthetics, struggling to relieve countless imagined pains. The anesthetics left him passive as a drugged baby. At dinner the air was still tense, but in the eyes of my compadres was resignation. Inertia carried us forward. They were convinced we should continue on. News reached us that Garzón and the samurai were searching fo
r ways to improve our chances on Baker, to arrange affairs so we could lower the expected fatalities. Men trusted Garzón and were willing to wait. No one seriously spoke of return to Earth. But the men on module A that trained during our sleeping cycle were not so easily persuaded to continue, and I was totally surprised when the riot suddenly broke.
In the middle of the night I woke to a distant throbbing, like the sound of blood rushing behind one’s ears, accompanied by a roaring sea. Thousands of feet pounded in unison; thousands of voices were chanting in the distance. I tried to make out the words to the chant, but the voices were indistinct. I could feel the tension in the air as if it were cobwebs, electric cobwebs brushing my face. Perfecto was rushing to his locker. The rest of us rose simultaneously. Through the thin walls I heard the slap of feet as samurai ran down the hall, a samurai shouted excitedly like the sound of a badger growling in its den. I slid from bed and searched in darkness for my crude wooden dagger.
"What’s happening?" Zavala asked sleepily.
"A riot is building on A-module," Abriara ran into the bathroom while we armed ourselves. Then we stood, not knowing what to do. Down below us, men began stamping their feet and chanting in unison, "Let’s go home! Let’s go home! Let’s go home!" Working themselves into a frenzy, and I understood that sharper ears than mine had picked out those words from the module above us, and we’d begun to echo them as if we were a single organism.
Someone on the floor below shouted "Noooo!" a heavy instrument smacked flesh.
Abriara came out of the bathroom holding her dagger in a protective position, eyeing us, "I’m going downstairs, to find some amigas," she said evenly.
I was shocked that she didn’t trust us, that she felt she had to seek out the protection of other women. "Would you like an escort?" I asked.
"Keep away from me!" she said. Even though she was the one who’d said that we should put our backs to the wall and stab anyone who got near during a riot, I could not believe she would do it. She opened the door and peered into the hall. Her muscles were tense. Her movements were graceful and powerful, like those of a panther. Three samurai ran past the door, flashes of blue kimonos and steel swords.
On My Way to Paradise Page 29
