The Last Dancer

by The Last Dancer (new ed) (mobi)

  His memories of the last decades were sharp, but no sharper than those of his childhood. He remembered the Dancing, his own worship, in the Temples at the city of Kulien, on the World, as clearly as he remembered Sarah Almundsen's declaration of the Unification of Earth, only fifty-seven years prior. He remembered his training to become a Shield, and the nightmare of shiabrè. He remembered the penal colony--

  --this world.

  He remembered the heretic.

  The Dancer.

  He stood staring sightlessly out at the brilliant green of southern Ireland, remembering the battle in which he had fallen, the battle wound that had left him without his long-term memory, with nothing but shadowed memories of an existence prior to that evil day in 527 A.D., when the King had fallen at his own son's hand.

  He was better than fifty thousand years old, and remembered all of it.

  Remembered the training that had made him what he was, the skills he had been taught, the Dedication he had accepted before the childhood of his body had ended.

  We are born broken, and live by mending.

  "I see that I am broken."

  You are a Shield, a servant of the Living Flame. Will you live in the service of the Flame?

  Standing in the sacred circle at Kulien, fifty-one thousand years prior, Gi'Tbad'Eovad'Dvan had whispered, "I will."

  Will you kill if you must?

  "Aye."

  Will you die if needed; will you live when you no longer wish to, if the service is required of you?

  "Aye."

  The Living Flame exploded around him--

  --and fifty-one thousand years later, standing atop a hill in southern Ireland, a brief Flame flickered around William Devane, sheeted across his nude body and turned it for an instant into a statue of light; and for that instant outshone the sun itself.

  Later that day William Devane boarded a semiballistic for Amiens, France, to begin the search.

  Gi'Suei'Obodi'Sedon, the man Dvan had most admired and hated in his life, was alive.

  He must not remain so.

  * * *

  13.

  A garden covered the top of Robert's old brownstone, a landscaped area of grass and flowers; there were even a pair of trees, one an apple tree, one lemon.

  Early on the morning of July the Fourth, as the people across Occupied America prepared for the violence they knew would come, Robert Dazai Yo and Denice Castanaveras pulled weeds.

  They worked the garden together, slowly, through most of the morning. Robert had canceled his classes for the day; he did not expect his students to brave the streets when he himself would have done so only under the gravest duress.

  Even the discipline of shiabrè had its limits; even a night face could die at the hands of a mob. And this close to Capitol City, on this day of days, anything could happen.

  "When do you start?"

  "Next Monday. Ripper left Capitol City until after Independence Day."

  Robert nodded. "I am not surprised. Most of the Unification Council does. Eddore would like to, I'm sure; but the ammunition it would give his enemies would be too powerful. Will you look for an apartment?"

  "Perhaps this weekend."

  "You are welcome to the guest room."

  "It's close, which would be convenient. I'd like to be close to the job."

  Robert nodded.

  "I'm a little nervous about it."

  After a bit Robert said, "I am sure you will do well."

  "I hope so. I hope the work is--meaningful."

  Perhaps half an hour passed. The sun was very warm.

  Denice said, "Is this a plant or a weed?"

  "Let me see--a plant."

  "I already pulled it."

  "In time," said Robert, "a flower."

  "It's dead now."

  "Alas." Robert put down his trenching tool. "I think we are done."

  They sat on the grass together, in the shade of the apple tree, and drank unsweetened lemonade together. "I have noticed an interesting thing about people who wish to be of service, Denice. Such people tend to have problems with their self-image. It seems to me that in their service they seek to--define--themselves."

  Denice drank her lemonade, not looking at him. "Okay."

  "Are you happy?"

  After a long moment Denice said, "Not very."

  "Do you love yourself?"

  "Of course." Denice heard the indignation in her voice, could not suppress it. "What do you think?" She paused. "If I wasn't me already, I'd certainly want to be."

  Robert smiled. "But if you love yourself, why are you unhappy?"

  Denice stared at Robert. "Does it mean anything to you when I tell you that sometimes these days I don't know who the hell I am anymore?"

  "That is a good trick. You love yourself, though you are not sure who you are." Robert Yo nodded, and poured himself another glass of lemonade from the pitcher, and then said, "Who do you want to be?"

  * * *

  Spring: 2076 Gregorian

  I saw the crowd around you

  You danced there with your pain

  Made love with all the other slaves

  Made music with your chains

  You say you didn't do it

  Doesn't matter anyway

  I saw you in the crowd that night

  of Independence Day

  --Mahliya Kutura, Independence Day

  * * *

  14.

  Tuesday, April 28, 2076 Gregorian.

  On her twenty-third birthday Denice arranged to leave work early to have dinner with Jimmy Ramirez.

  He was one of her best friends; after Trent and a dancer named Tarin Schuyler, her oldest.

  He called at lunch to confirm dinner. His image hung in the holo field over her desk; a young lawyer in an exquisitely tailored suit. When he spoke his voice held none of the Fringe accent it had possessed when Denice had met him, in the summer of 2069. "We're still on?"

  "The Red Line at eight?"

  Jimmy Ramirez, once a Temple Dragon, once Trent the Uncatchable's right hand--today an assistant public defender for the City of New York--smiled at Denice. "I'll see you there."

  After lunch Ripper, Denice, and Ichabod Martin worked through the materials from the Unification Council's Peace Keeping Oversight Committee; Ripper chaired that Committee.

  They sat together in Ripper's office. After her first interview with Ripper, Denice had never again seen it so intimidatingly bleak; usually the empty space was filled with some interesting illusion. Today they sat inside a huge green cathedral of trees. The sound of a brook bubbled in the background, just audible under the sound of normal speech.

  "Who's this?"

  "Relatively new," Martin said. "He's risen through the ranks of the Johnny Rebs with remarkable speed, though. He calls himself 'Sieur Obodi. Speaks English with an accent, possibly Italian; has strong ties to the Old Ones, the old Mafia. Some rumors to the effect that he pimped for a bit, but saying it to his face can get you killed. He's definitely a player in the Reb power structure, though exactly where he stands in relation to Tommy Boone is a good question--nobody's seen Boone in a couple of weeks."

  Denice and Ichabod Martin sat in the chairs before Douglass Ripper's desk. Ripper sat behind it with his eyes closed, the trodes of a large and rather out-of-date traceset touching each of his temples. Out of politeness, though Denice and Ichabod had both seen it already, Ripper had duplicated the holo he was looking at; it hung off to Denice's right, blocking a patch of the larger holo of the forest.

  The man was tall, two meters or more. His hair was long and blond, tied in a pony-tail. His eyes were bright blue, with a slightly Asian appearance. His features were not sharp; the holo had been taken from a distance of about two hundred meters, as Obodi hurried toward a waiting semiballistic. The car he had come in was visible in the background of the shot; a long black limousine with darkened windows. A pair of known Johnny Rebs followed after him.

  "And the PKF is doing what about him?"

/>   "They're rounding up twice the usual number of suspects," Denice said quietly.

  Ripper nodded. "Wonderful." He opened his eyes, said moodily, "What is wrong with them?"

  Denice said nothing. Ichabod Martin said quietly, "The Peace Keeping Force has faced so little real threat, for so long--perhaps the Peaceforcers are unable to believe they have a worthy opponent."

  Ripper grunted. "I'd have thought Trent the Uncatchable would have broken them of that conceit. Where does core membership stand today?"

  "Nearly fifteen thousand," said Denice without pause. "In the past when the Rebs have gotten past some fifteen thousand core members the PKF has cracked down. I don't know why they're not doing it this time, especially given the indicators on how the Rebs are arming themselves. Something interesting, though--did you notice the memo by Commissioner Vance?"

  Ripper said, "No--wait." His eyes dropped shut. "It is interesting," he agreed a moment later. "What's this reference to Amiens?"

  Denice shook her head. "I don't know, 'Sieur Ripper. There is a PKF Detention Center near Amiens. Perhaps the PKF once had this Obodi in custody? It's one interpretation of Vance's memo that makes sense."

  "Can we find out?"

  Ichabod Martin smiled wryly. "We can ask. You know the PKF, especially where Vance is concerned. Fifty-fifty we get told to mind our own business."

  "This is our business." Martin nodded, and Ripper sighed. "Do your best. What's next?"

  "Bill in committee on the AI property question."

  "I'm inclined to vote against it. It's already illegal for an AI to even exist; I fail to see the purpose of this bill, aside from the obvious anti-AI paranoia."

  "The PKF DataWatch is one of the bill's sponsors," Denice said. "They have something on Pena, I'm not sure what; it's why Pena submitted the bill. Vote against it and you're going to piss them off a lot."

  Ripper sat up straight. "DataWatch is sponsoring this?"

  "Yes."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Just doing my job," said Denice evenly. "DataWatch thinks that if it can prevent AIs from owning property, it can deny them access to safe processors. Your average AI is not particularly friendly to the Unification; some of them work with the Claw and the Rebs. Preventing them easy access to secure processors--well, there's something to the idea."

  Ripper said patiently, "How do you know that?"

  Ralf had told her; to Ripper she said merely, "I know more than one Player."

  Ripper studied her. "I don't know whether to thank you or fire you. Damn it, Daimara, association with Players is not part of your job. The last thing in the System I need is to get on DataWatch's bad side."

  "I know." Denice repeated, "You might want to vote for the bill. If," she said, "you don't want to get on DataWatch's bad side."

  Ripper nodded slowly. "I'll talk to you about this later. Martin, do we have any more security issues to discuss?"

  "No."

  "All right, you stay. Daimara, that's all for now." Denice rose, left without saying anything further. Ripper and Ichabod were already involved in another discussion; neither of them took notice of her as she left.

  They sat together in lotus on the mat after Robert's afternoon class had ended, in the hour before Robert's first evening class was scheduled to begin.

  "I feel like I don't have time to breathe these days," Denice complained.

  "Bad," Robert agreed. He sat chewing a piece of Wrigley's Spearmint Gum. "People die when deprived of air. It happens among the SpaceFarers." He cocked his head to one side. "It's rare on Earth, though."

  "That's not funny."

  Robert shrugged. "One woman's opinion."

  "On Saturday we're going on another leg of the campaign. India, then Australia, then Japan, and then back to New York. I won't be out of Ripper's presence for more than an hour or two the whole time."

  Robert nodded.

  "You know how I feel about Ripper. He's a good man. But this sort of enforced contact--it's hard, Robert. Every time we go on one of these damn trips I find myself not wanting to talk to him before we're back. And the longer we're on the road the more intensely I want to not talk to him. Sometimes he's a real jerk."

  "Douglass can be very focused," Robert observed.

  "Yes, and it's a problem. The level of detail is incredible, Robert. I never felt incompetent before I took this job; but recently I haven't felt much but incompetent. Especially since that assassination attempt in Portugal."

  "Which you stopped. I could have done no better myself."

  "He shouldn't ever have gotten that close. A lot of that was Ichabod--he's been even less focused than me, and that's saying something--but the rest of it was me. We should have checked the room beneath Ripper's." Denice was silent, brooding. "I don't know if I can take another seven months of this. You know, this wasn't remotely what I had in mind when I decided to get into politics. It's tedious and boring and--do you have to chew gum while we talk?"

  Robert blinked. "No. Not really." He swallowed visibly, continued. "A disgusting habit," he admitted, "but if I did not chew gum then I would be perfect, which would be worse. How much time do you have?"

  "An hour. Then I have to shower and go to see Jimmy Ramirez."

  "We will skip meditation today and start with stretching, then."

  Denice took a deep breath. "Back when I danced, I didn't feel like I was getting anything done--that anything I was doing made a difference. But it was a lot more enjoyable."

  Robert stood, gestured to Denice to join him. "And then Tai Chi, for relaxation."

  Denice sat in lotus, did not move. "What I'm doing now matters," Denice told Robert.

  "Indeed. Rho deset enelli."

  "Why do you keep talking to me like that?"

  "Why indeed," said Robert Dazai Yo. He held a hand out to her, helped her gently to her feet. "The language is called shiata, and someday soon I will tell you more about it. But now, let us begin."

  At 8:00 she met Jimmy Ramirez at the Red Line Hotel.

  Two of Trent's old friends worked at the Red Line; Jodi Jodi and Bird, a pair of street kids who had come out of the Fringe with Trent and Jimmy Ramirez. Bird had required help to adjust to the Patrol Sectors; Jodi Jodi, by contrast, had taken to the Patrol Sectors like a Peaceforcer to cheap wine.

  In a society grown increasingly age-conscious, Jimmy Ramirez was, at twenty-eight, the youngest assistant public defender in the state of New York.

  Sometimes, these days, Denice felt that she did not know him any longer. If she had not known that behind the facade was a street kid and gang member from the Fringe, an ex-semi-pro boxer and ex-thief, she would never have guessed. He was a handsome man who had never had biosculpture. A mix of Haitian blood, and white, and Puerto Rican, his genes came from almost as many different sources as her own. He wore long-sleeved dress shirts, always, so that the faint scar that separated his old arm from the new would not be seen. He had a similar pair of scars on each of his legs, reminders of the night she and Jimmy had broken Trent out of the PKF Detention Center in Capitol City.

  She wondered, sometimes, how Jimmy Ramirez would have ended up had he not met Trent. Oh, certainly his life would not have been the same; but they had been involved in great events, and they had shaped him as they had shaped her, and Trent. Though she did not believe in destiny, it struck her that some people were born to accomplish great things, that their lives would, under any circumstances, have been of note; others achieved greatness only under the pressure of events.

  She did not even think she condescended in placing Jimmy Ramirez in the latter category.

  Jodi Jodi, who seated them for dinner, was the Manager of Guest Services at one of the premier hotels in New York; Denice had never known quite what to make of her. A blond woman with blue eyes and the strangest sense of humor Denice had ever encountered, it was likely she had not personally led a pair of guests to their tables in perhaps five years. As she seated them at their table, in a quiet corner of the
hotel's restaurant, she whispered to Denice, "Happy birthday."

  Denice was surprised Jodi Jodi had remembered. "Thank you."

  She and Jimmy did not talk much through dinner. Jimmy had brought a gift, wrapped in gold foil, and it sat at the side of the table until after dessert was served. Denice allowed herself a slice of non-dairy cheesecake, and upon finishing it opened Jimmy's gift.

  A hat.

  Denice lifted it out of the box slowly.

  A black bowler with a red silk ribbon about the base of the crown.

  "You know," she said after a pause, "I've never owned a hat before." She thought back. "I don't think I've ever even worn one."

  "Put it on."

  She did, slowly, let the felt rim of the hat settle gently against her hair. "How does it look?"

  Jimmy Ramirez looked straight at her. "It's a shame you don't have a lover these days. It looks like I thought it would look."

  "Oh?"

  His tone of voice contained only the slightest hint of teasing. "You probably ought not to wear it in public. It's an incitement to which most men and some women should not be subjected."

  Denice took it off, put the hat back in the box. "I think you have a thing about hats."

  "Who, me? No, no. No. Not at all. No." Jimmy grinned. "Well, a bit, okay? Just a little."

  Perhaps it was the wine she'd had to drink; Denice did not even stop to consider the question. "Jimmy, how come you've never made a pass at me?"

  The grin vanished and Jimmy Ramirez stared at her without speaking for a long moment. Finally he said, "Are you serious?"

  "Yes."

  Jimmy looked distinctly uncomfortable. "You don't know? I mean--"

  Denice said quietly, "I don't do that. I Touched you once, the first time I met you, because you scared me. After that I knew you loved Trent, and I never had to again."

  Jimmy said directly, "You're a frightening person in some ways."