"I can think of only one solution to our problem—" Garzón added, raising his fists in the air, and all eyes looked upon him. "And it is a plan born of desperation. We may sit here and fight the Yabajin, fight the samurai of Motoki. If we do that, we will surely win shallow graves!" he opened his left hand, and in a melodramatic display dust sifted out to the floor, glittering in the sunlight.
"But if we follow my plan and succeed, we will win a world, a world where the sun rises lavender!" He opened his right palm, and his glazed eyes glittered like gems. He held in his palm a only a tiny red ball, a child’s globe of Baker.
Chapter 27
Garzón’s plan was audacious. He would let the Yabajin cross the continent, so their hovercrafts would not have enough fuel to return home, and then we would attack their capital at Hotoke no Za and claim the planet for ourselves.
It was a desperate plan. The grandiose scheme of a madman, and I wondered: Could this have been Garzón’s idea from the beginning. Did he see himself as a conquistadore? Did he so desperately want to steal this planet?
That afternoon, Garzón took Motoki’s only space shuttle and placed ten squadrons aboard with three cybertanks stripped of armor and sent them north of the city.
Then, while Motoki’s southern samurai approached, I spent three sleepless days with several hundred others tearing the plasma guns off 400 hovercrafts and replacing them with a quickly thrown-together version of Houser 50 caliber machine gun. We used molds made from the YCB flechettes to create 2000 copies of that rifle, then filled the rest of our days loading bullets.
Since we were no longer officially headed by Motoki corporation, we were no longer subject to the weapons limitations imposed against the corporation. We replaced most of our energy weapons with simple projectiles. Dirty and deadly.
Neither the Yabajin nor the southern samurai had had time to prepare for such a contingency. They couldn’t have upgraded their armor before leaving. They’d been fighting with energy weapons for so long they were locked into tradition.
I’d have slept if I could, but I knew that to sleep was to die. A strong wind blew from the sea, and the rain beat heavy on the roof. At times I found myself asleep in spite of my desire to stay awake. Standing, in a line, loading bullets into clips still hot from the forges, lulled by fingers of rain drumming on the roof, I’d find my head snapping up only to realize I’d been loading clips in my sleep.
Sometimes I heard voices—mocking, derogatory snarls from imaginary throats, my mother shrieking at me like a demon when I was a child: "What’s the matter with you? Don’t hit your sister! Pendejo! Little goat fucker! What’s the matter with you?" I felt reality collapsing around me. I didn’t believe my sweet kindly mother had said such things, but I wasn’t sure any more what she may or may not have said. I’d listen to those nearby, and they’d brag of those they’d killed in battle; their voices were no more comforting than my hallucinations.
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 t
hreat 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."
Chapter 28
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 near
ly 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.
We stuffed the crevices under the skull with dry grass and twigs, making our shelter air-tight, then got a large rock and gradually warmed it with short bursts from my little laser. We removed our helmets and the air was crisp and pure. We were all very cold by then, and we just sat and rested our eyes while the sun set, trying to get up enough energy to cook dinner. A day on Baker is only twenty hours long, so when the sun sets, it sets a bit more rapidly than on Earth, especially if one is in the mountains on a cloudy day. It almost seems that the world tilts away from the light instantaneously. That is the way the sun set.
After a long while, Zavala grunted and said somewhat nervously, "I wonder what kind of animal this was? I wonder what it ate?"
On My Way to Paradise Page 40
