The Last Dancer

by The Last Dancer (new ed) (mobi)

  "Touching..." Denice bit her lip. "It hurts, Jimmy. You hurt, all of you. You walk around with this terrible pain inside of you, from all the violence and betrayals in your lives, and it doesn't bother you--because it's your pain and you're used to it. But when I Touch you I get all of your pain, all at once. I don't do it unless I have a very, very good reason."

  "When I met Trent," said Jimmy Ramirez, "he was eleven. I was thirteen. The PKF was in the process of putting up the Patrol Sector Barriers, of creating the Fringe. I was born in what turned into the Fringe, and it was a poor neighborhood, very tough, even before the Troubles. Social mores," he said carefully, "were...different. Among the people I grew up with-- forgive my language--fucking your buddy's girl was a good way to get killed. Fucking a boy set you up for ridicule, for beatings and harassment. I understand you and Trent were raised differently." He paused. "Lord, were you raised differently. When I met Trent he was the strangest thing I'd ever seen in my life. He was this tough little white boy who was innocent about such an incredible variety of things I didn't know where to start teaching him. I took care of him for about two years, and then he did something, I don't even remember what, that made some of the older Dragons think he was a webdancer. They beat him for about a week, trying to get him to say he was a webdancer. He kept telling them he wasn't, cause he didn't want to be a slave again the way all your people had been, and he knew that if he admitted to being a webdancer the Dragons wouldn't ever have let him free again. Finally they had to decide, kill him or let him be. They were still pretty sure he was a webdancer, but they were so impressed with his courage they figured even if he wouldn't dance for them, he could still be a trooper."

  "Trent told me some of this."

  "I never saw anyone so brave," Jimmy Ramirez said simply. "He was the best. I liked him before that, but after that--" Jimmy shrugged. "He was my man. My brother forever. When he decided to get out of the Fringe, I never even stopped to think about it. He said go, Bird and Jodi Jodi and I picked up." Jimmy paused. "Denice, I love you."

  Denice could not think of anything to say.

  "Trent is the best thing that ever happened to me. He taught me to read. If it wasn't for him I'd be a warlord in the Fringe today, or else dead. There are," said Jimmy with devastatingly simple logic, "many women in the world. But in your life you only get a few friends."

  "You must know Trent wouldn't have minded." Denice blinked. "Not that I'd have said yes. Necessarily."

  "I'd have minded. Listen," said Jimmy impatiently, "this is a story I haven't ever told anyone. When I was fourteen, one night it was deadly cold, I mean old ladies turning into corpsicles on the street outside. Trent and I shared a room at the Temple, and we only had one blanket and one bed. I slept on the bed with my coat on and Trent had the blanket and was sleeping on the floor with it. About midnight he asked me if he could sleep with me, cause he was so cold. I got up and barred the door so nobody could walk in on us, and we got into bed together. That was fourteen years ago," said Jimmy precisely, "and to this day I sometimes wake up at night feeling guilty about that."

  "I understand."

  "Maybe some people let go of their childhoods. The best I've ever managed is to cover it up."

  Denice said softly, "I love you too. Want to argue about politics for a while?"

  Near 11 p.m., toward the end of their second bottle of wine, their argument degenerated into an argument.

  Jimmy Ramirez--it was not news to Denice--believed, fiercely, that armed insurrection was inevitable, that it was the only possible way to remove the Unification's hold on Occupied America.

  His opinion of her employer was just short of feeling that Ripper should be shot for treason. "How do you represent," said Jimmy patiently, "the rights of an occupied people, when all of your power arises from the military infrastructure of the occupiers? How can Ripper possibly reconcile his reputation as a champion of Occupied America with the fact that whatever power he has derives from the continued might of the Unification?"

  "If you think that revolution is possible," said Denice slowly, "then Ripper is--I'm--wrong. The Unification has not been a good thing for Occupied America, I concede the point. But it's not possible, Jimmy. There are fifteen thousand core members of the Johnny Rebs, perhaps three or four thousand Erisian Claw. There are over twelve million PKF under uniform across the globe, another six hundred thousand off Earth. For God's sake, Jimmy, a quarter of a million of those Peaceforcers are Americans. Not even a popular uprising with millions of Americans joining in gives either of those groups any realistic chance of dislodging the Unification from any part of Earth. They are," said Denice, "terrorists. Ideologs. Not rebels."

  "Terrorists?" Jimmy was clearly offended, more than a little angry. "Listen, girl, you're talking about people who've dedicated their lives to a great purpose, about people who are doing work that damn straight matters. Compare their commitment to your own and tell me how you come out."

  The point struck home; Denice struggled not to let it show. "Okay. Maybe I shouldn't have called them terrorists--but regardless of their commitment, it doesn't count for anything if they can't win. And they can't."

  Jimmy spoke rapidly. "On Saturday I'm going to Kansas City. Let's use Kansas City as an example, because I've studied this one. The PKF garrison there is thirty-five thousand strong. The population of Kansas City is over a million. You think--you seriously think--that a million Americans, armed and ready to fight, can't take that city away from thirty-five thousand PKF?"

  "Who's going to arm them, Jimmy? Who's going to make them ready to fight? A lot of them--most of them--don't want to fight. Even if they want the PKF out of Occupied America, they don't want it so badly that they'll die for it. Or kill for it. The people who feel that passionately are the minority, Jimmy. Maybe there's a hundred thousand of them in Kansas City; I wouldn't know. But they're not trained, they're not armed; and if you tried to train or arm them the PKF would put you up against a wall and shoot you dead."

  Denice had not been aware of her voice rising; suddenly Jodi Jodi was there at the side of their table, whispering furiously, "If the two of you want to argue treason, feel free to do it in someone else's restaurant. We've got a pair of French Unification officials at a table down the way, and they're complaining that you're ruining their dinners. Stop it."

  Denice blinked, and Jodi Jodi was gone. "Um."

  Jimmy looked slightly embarrassed. "She's right. Sorry about that."

  Denice took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, too. It's just that--oh." The word held audible frustration. "You've changed a lot, Jimmy."

  "Haven't we all?" From somewhere, Jimmy Ramirez found a smile for her. "There are few people I trust as much as I trust you, Denice. I think you're trying to do right. But you know, you're not succeeding. You're doing the wrong thing with the wrong people."

  "There's still room to work, Jimmy. While there's room to work we have to take it."

  "Room to work?" Jimmy's voice took on an edge. "For who? For you, for the man with the nice office in Capitol City and the ten-room house upstate? Girl, there's always room at the top. That's not ever the problem."

  "How do you know how large his house is?"

  Jimmy sighed. "Look, I read it somewhere, okay?"

  Denice looked across the table at Jimmy Ramirez, at the serious young features. "I'm not the enemy, Jimmy. I promise I'm not."

  "I know that." Jimmy drained the last of his wine and stood. "But I'm not sure you're part of the solution anymore either." His expression softened slightly. "Good night, angel."

  Denice nodded, expression troubled. Her stomach was upset. "Thanks for having dinner with me."

  "Thank you," he said with complete sincerity. He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. "And happy birthday again."

  "Have a nice trip." Abruptly, she added, "Where are you going again?"

  Jimmy stood motionless, looking down at her. Finally he said, "Kansas City. I think I said Kansas City."

  D
enice nodded without looking away from him. "Yes. I think you did."

  She called a cab to take herself home.

  In the cab she touched her Net handheld once, said quietly, "Ralf?"

  "Yes?"

  "I think Jimmy may be getting into something stupid. Do me a favor, if you would. He's going to Kansas City this weekend. Keep an eye on him."

  "Do you think," asked Ralf, "that this is an appropriate action to take concerning a man who is, after all, both your friend and Trent's?"

  "I promised Trent I'd look out for him. He's bright, but he's--impulsive."

  "Very well. If you wish it, I will do it."

  Her midtown security apartment, just outside Capitol City, was small: a single bedroom and an attached bathroom. Despite its size it was remarkably well appointed; the tub was large enough for two people, and the bed had more settings than she knew how to use; the kitchen had a gourmet waitbot that prepared meals nearly as well as the human cooks at the Red Line. The media access in the bedroom was as complete as anyone could have wished; holo projectors in five different places, two different Net terminals, one of them a full-sensory connection that rivaled the efficiency of an inskin.

  Denice was not certain what the apartment cost per month; Ripper had paid for it, so that she might be closer to the office.

  Denice stood nude before the mirror in her bathroom, contemplating outfits for Ripper's interview with the Electronic Times, scheduled for tomorrow morning. After a moment she turned off her makeup key and filled the sink's basin with warm water. The makeup pattern she'd worn faded slowly; her normally pale skin reappeared as she washed, as though she were washing away her makeup with the soap and water. She was distantly aware of tension in the muscles of her neck and shoulders.

  "This has not been a good day."

  She did not think she had spoken loudly enough to be heard; nonetheless a response, no more than a disinterested grunt, drifted out from the direction of the bedroom. "Mmm-hmm."

  She raised her voice to be certain she was heard. "I had a fight with my friend Jimmy at dinner. I think I really made him angry." Denice rubbed the cleanup pad over her face and neck, crumpled the cloth and tossed it toward the 'bot in the corner; the 'bot snagged it out of midair and stuffed it inside itself. "Jimmy made me angry; he sounded like a Johnny Reb at dinner. I know he's smarter than that, but--how can a man as intelligent as he is be so blind?"

  "Mmm-hmm."

  She pulled on the suit she intended to wear the following day, a black pinstripe with a gold belt; the pants were slightly baggy and gave her room to move if she needed to. She did not put on a shirt with it. She slipped on a pair of black running shoes with soft soles; they almost looked like dress shoes. She put Jimmy's hat on, looked at herself in the mirror. Aside from her breasts, half visible beneath the coat, she looked as she always looked in that suit; a slim teenage boy with gorgeous green eyes. The hat accentuated the effect, made her look as though her moderately long hair had been cut short.

  She nodded at her image in the mirror and stepped out into the bedroom. "For tomorrow. What do you think?"

  New York Metro Unification Councilor Douglass Ripper, wearing a green silk robe and auditing text on a field that floated twenty centimeters in front of his eyes, looked up as Denice entered the bedroom.

  She turned slowly, showing the ensemble. "Well? With a shirt?"

  Ripper sat up in bed, looking at her. "Where did you get the hat?"

  "A gift from my friend Jimmy. For my birthday. Do you like it?"

  "Yes," he said after a moment. "Yes, I do. Is today your birthday? You're twenty-three today?"

  "Yes."

  "Why didn't you say anything?"

  "You were busy."

  Ripper said quietly, "I'll get you a gift tomorrow."

  Denice took the hat off and laid it atop the bedroom dresser. "Okay. So, this suit tomorrow."

  "Um..."

  "Yes?"

  Ripper said slowly, "What you're wearing. It's fine, wear it tomorrow. Professional enough for an interview. But for right now--"

  Denice grinned. "Yes?"

  Ripper said softly, "Take off what you're wearing. Put the hat back on."

  Denice looked at the hat, and then back at him, and her grin grew wider. "Okay. If you like."

  "Um. Trust me."

  Later, as she snuggled up against Ripper's unconscious form, Denice drifted into gentle sleep; and dreamed.

  She stood alone on a vast, featureless black plain, smooth as glass, flat and level as a ruler. The plane ran away toward a far distant flicker of lights.

  No matter what direction she turned, she saw the same thing; inky blackness above, a smoother, glossy blackness below.

  Where the two darknesses met the lights glowed and flickered.

  I have been here before.

  It was different this time.

  She lay on the sweaty sheets of the Girls' Dormitory bunk she had been assigned. The Gift had come upon her, and it was nothing like what she had been told to expect by her parents, nothing like the Gift they had been granted by Suzanne Montignet's genegineering.

  She was barely there on the bunk. Most of her was elsewhere, a dark crystal plain--

  She hurt. Lives like candles burned in the darkness around her, wavered through the crystalline darkness, came alive and then burst into emptiness, their deaths accompanied by moments of sheer terror that burned themselves into the depths of the young girl's mind.

  This place seemed the same...but empty. Darkness all around her.

  Lights in the far, far distance.

  In the Beginning, said the voice, was the Flame.

  Suddenly the Flame appeared around her, solitary and splendid, and with the appearance of the Flame a hot fierce joy descended upon her, filled her with a love like rage, like the wrath of angels.

  When she awoke in the morning Ripper was already gone.

  Denice awoke with an ache in her heart, an overwhelming sense of loss, for what she did not know.

  She did not remember having dreamed.

  It did not seem possible that her life should be so empty.

  * * *

  15.

  Tommy Boone gasped and cried out.

  The voice came out of the darkness. His voice, that had worn away at Boone for two days now. "They are crude techniques," it said quietly, "but they work. And so we use them."

  Boone sat in a straight-backed chair, wrists bound to the armrests, ankles bound to the legs. His head was strapped back against the headrest and his eyelids had been cut off and a spotlight shone into his face. He was nearly blind from it. His cheeks were one purplish mass of bruises. His right eye had swollen almost shut.

  He wore only a white T-shirt and underwear--he had been asleep when they came for him. There was barely a white spot left on them; they were black with old blood or red with new.

  Blood spurted from the index finger of his right hand; the finger itself lay on the floor, still twitching.

  One technician flattened Boone's hand out, and the second tied a string around the stump of the finger; a maser set at low intensity seared the stump until the bleeding stopped.

  Boone screamed while they did it to him, and did not stop screaming until the maser beam ceased.

  "I wish to share my name with you," said the voice. "But first I must have yours."

  Boone tried to speak. The inside of his mouth was bone dry, and the last time it had been wet had been with his own blood. Finally he managed to whisper harshly, "Suck me, Obodi."

  "I have grown to appreciate your people," said the voice from beyond the lights. It was softer, that voice, gentler, than anything Boone had ever heard before in his life. Not even his mother had had a voice like that; not even his wife, who had died when Boone was only twenty. "You are an imaginative and vigorous and brutal people. Why, the unpleasantness I am inflicting upon you, it comes from a famous incident in your own history. When the Carthaginian tribe fought the Roman tribe, a Roman general named R
egulus was caught by the Carthaginians; they removed his eyelids and tied him facing east at dawn." A chuckle. "I have had little enough time to learn of your past, so busy I've been kept these last years. Perhaps later I will have time to study more; I would like to understand you, and the forces that shaped you. Who are you?"

  The crack of the voice penetrated the pain and fatigue; Boone heard himself answering as though another person used his tortured vocal cords. "Thomas Daniel Boone."

  "That is very good," said the gentle voice. "I am Gi'Suei'-Obodi'Sedon. I was a Dancer of the Nameless One; today I am the instrument of your death. The release from your pain." The words wore away at Boone, as he floated half-conscious in the haze of his pain, under the blaze of the lights. "Here in this moment together, you and I, we are one. You are all of my world and I am all of yours. I know you as no one has ever known you before; I understand you, the dark and bright places within you, as no one has understood you in all your life. And I love you, Thomas Daniel Boone, for the good that is within you. Release him."

  Boone heard a hushed, rapid exchange out beyond the circle of the light, heard the flat finality of Obodi's voice: "As I said."

  The technician came forward, into the light, a glowing white blob in Boone's ruined eyesight. The bonds that held his ankles were cut, and then those that held his wrists. The pain that struck him as the blood rushed into his extremities would have seemed, on any other day of his life, intense; now he barely noticed it. The strap that restrained his head was left in place, and in some distant corner of his mind Boone found himself absurdly grateful; if they'd cut it he would, he knew, have pitched forward from the chair like a rag doll.

  The technician placed a laser in his numb, but otherwise undamaged left hand, and stepped back into the darkness of the cellar.

  The man who Tommy Boone knew as Obodi, who had called himself Gi'Suei'Obodi'Sedon, came forward into the light. Boone could barely make out the shape of the man, never mind his features; all Boone could see was that he wore a long robe of some reddish color.

  "The device in your hand is a laser, Thomas. My good and true Thomas. A weapon with which you can kill me if you wish, punish me for the pain and fear I have inflicted upon you."