On My Way to Paradise by David Farland Page B

Perfecto
was—a chimera, one of the genetically upgraded men Torres had
created to fight the wars in Chile. Yet because his ears weren’t
deformed, as were the ears of chimeras who had sonar, and because
he was in his thirties, he must have been one of the early models,
a truly upgraded human rather than a humanoid species. His eyes
were wide-set, for greater depth perception; his thick hair
concealed an enlarged skull, for greater intelligence; his neck and
backbone were massive so that his frame could support the huge
muscles of his body.
    Most people considered it taboo to marry such a
creation, or even to carry its child full term. A chimera is even
lower than an Indian. When he had fathered eight children, his
community would truly have risen in an uproar. I saw all this in
the throb of a heartbeat, while the cocktail slid down my throat,
burning and numbing my neck and esophagus.
    I looked at the other people in the room, and saw
that most of them were lost in reflection. Their eyes had the
dulled quality I associated with the refugiados: burned-out,
lifeless, empty of hope. They had fought many wars in South
America, and lost them all. All of them were poor; their dirty
clothing attested to the fact that they lived in houses without
floors. Only the man in the silver face was unreadable. And across
the room was the man in gray slacks. He sat rigid, ready for
action, and he purposely avoided looking at me.
    I gauged the tension levels of the others in the
room. Three men and two women were of the same age and build as
Perfecto—they were chimeras, and I realized they were banding
together, perhaps to settle in a new world where they could form a
community so they would not be outcasts. On the ship would be many
chimeras; knowledge of mercenary jobs would have spread through
their community by word of mouth. I could read this in their faces
as easily as reading the stories that Brazilian woodcarvers etch
into the handles of their machetes. Only the man with the moustache
and cigar seemed out of place. Different. His eyes glittered as if
he stared into candlelight. He was aware. He was quieter than
others, more dangerous. He was looking at me.
    It all seemed fascinating. Even the gray walls and a
wad of paper beneath one chair fascinated me. My hands stopped
shaking and my breathing felt less restricted, but my chest was
thudding as if a rabbit were kicking against my ribs. I imagined I
felt the cocktail slide into my belly and sit, burning like a live
coal. Everyone was looking at the man behind the computer console.
He was fascinating. He wore a fascinating clean white shirt, and
when he moved his arm it left a fascinating white afterimage in the
air behind it. His pencil-bar moustache and narrow face were
fascinating. Like the face of a rat or a whorehouse owner. He was a
leader here. He was a whorehouse rat, and he was hitting the
buttons on the computer and laughing loudly in a fascinating
manner.
    His voice slurred. I heard him in slow motion. "My
friends," he said, "I have interesting news:" Fascinating. "Among
us is a dangerous murderer!" Fascinating.
    "No!" someone said. Oh, yes, I mouthed.
    "It’s true!" Whorehouse Rat said. Fascinating. "Even
today, in Panamá," Panamá ... Panamá ... Panamá ... "this murderer
slit a man’s throat!" Each word was like a fruit, like a ripe
avocado. I could see his mouth forming the words, and when each
syllable had grown and ripened on his tongue, he let it roll past
his lips and plop to the floor. Fascinating. I knew something was
terribly wrong: I couldn’t think straight, and I wondered if it was
because of the pill I’d taken, and yet I didn’t connect the problem
to the morphine levels in the cocktail.
    I did not like what Whorehouse Rat was saying. The
cocktail burned in my stomach like a glowing ember, giving off
waves of heat. I could feel the heat winding its way up my
entrails, and I knew that if I kept my mouth closed, it would
envelope my brain, consume me.