The Last Dancer

by The Last Dancer (new ed) (mobi)

  Ripper blinked. "What?"

  "My friend Jimmy Ramirez," Denice said reluctantly. "I think Jimmy is getting involved with the Johnny Rebs. I'm not sure what to do about it."

  Ripper started to sit down on the bed, thought better of it, and dropped down on the sofa near the window. He sat rubbing his temples. "Okay. Let's do a deal. I need you in Japan. I need Ichabod in Japan, and I'm going to talk to him separately." He ceased rubbing his temples, looked up at Denice. "For you, let's do this. When we get back to New York we'll pull all of the Oversight Committee reports, everything in the database. If we're missing anything on the Reb buildup, no matter how trivial, we'll requisition it. We'll find out to what extent, if any, your friend is involved in the Rebs. If he's involved we'll file a Notice of Research under his name and put him on the payroll. When the PKF finally does crack them open--whenever the hell that ends up being," Ripper muttered, slightly distracted, "he'll have been protected from the effects of his stupidity. Fair enough?"

  "Okay. Fair enough."

  Ripper simply looked at her without expression. "Are you going to be on top of things for the rest of this trip?"

  "I'll do my best, Douglass."

  He nodded wearily. "Okay. Get dressed, we're having dinner with Randall Cristofer and President Greenwood in an hour, and Cristofer's going to want to negotiate at dinner. Aside from the fact that Cristofer owns him I don't know much about Greenwood, but Cristofer himself is a shark and I need to be able to concentrate on him, and nothing else."

  Denice thought back over the personnel briefing she'd been given for Australia. "Randall Cristofer's one of the primary sources of funds for Australia, isn't he?"

  Ripper snorted. "He is my Australian organization, the whole damn thing. I have nothing else to speak of on this whole slithy damn continent. At one point I approached a local politician about working with me, just for redundancy; Cristofer found out, got in touch with the man and told him that if he moved forward with me he'd end up like Harold Holt."

  "Say again?"

  "Shark food. Relatively famous incident in Aussie politics; one of their Prime Ministers, back when they were a part of the old British Commonwealth, went swimming one day and sharks ate him."

  Denice smiled, tentatively. "I see."

  Ripper nodded. "Cristofer wasn't joking. Are we done?"

  "Yes. Thank you."

  "It's all right. Get Ichabod. I need to talk to him too, and it might as well be now."

  Denice worked through the briefing materials for Japan on the semiballistic. Japan was a swing vote; Ripper and Sanford Mtumka, Ripper's only real opposition, were running neck and neck in Japanese polls. Like Mexico and PanAfrica, and unlike most other countries in the Unification, Japan was a winner-take-all country; a win of one percent in the general Japanese election translated into a hundred percent win of Japanese electoral votes.

  Denice wondered who had written the briefing:

  They are in many ways a schizophrenic people. They have a long tradition of militarism, stretching back to the conflict between the Imperial court at Kyoto and the provincial war lords, nearly a thousand years ago. The war lords won that conflict, and set the pattern for an entrenched Japanese militarism that lasted until the end of World War II in 1945, when the United States of America dropped a pair of thermonuclear warheads on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

  During the Unification War, Japan, along with much of Asia except China, chose to fight. In some ways they were not damaged so badly as the United States--they did not suffer the city-to-city fighting that was the hallmark of the Unification conquest of the United States--and in some ways they suffered worse: in the summer of '18 the Peace Keeping Force exploded fourteen thermonuclear warheads over Japanese territory.

  Nearly six decades later this is a trauma from which the Japanese have never truly recovered. Many Americans think that New York City was bombed by the Unification; this is largely untrue. Tactical thermonuclear warheads were used, both during the Unification and the Troubles; but the yields were quite low. Japan was struck with multi-megaton warheads: that Japan is the only country in history to have had thermonuclear weapons used upon it--not once but twice--has left them with a deep aversion to violence.

  Today, the Japanese remain a significantly racist people. This is a relevant factor; Ripper, as a Caucasian American, a citizen of the country that once defeated Japan in war, is accorded a significantly greater degree of respect than is, for example, Sanford Mtumka, a black man.

  Zhao Pen has an insignificant percentage of the Japanese vote, and is not expected to get more under any likely scenario.

  Australia was bad; Japan was worse.

  There were no assassination attempts in Japan. A pair of Red Army ideologs were arrested by the PKF on general suspicion in the week before Ripper's arrival, but nothing came of it. Nonetheless there were holes in security, gaps in preparedness, and Ripper noticed them. His relationship with Denice and Ichabod alike degenerated to business pure and simple.

  Australia had been a two-day affair; in Japan Ripper gave fourteen different speeches over the course of four days. His agenda was tight; under the best of circumstances it would have been a rigorous schedule. They arrived in Japan on Tuesday, the fifth of May. That Tuesday was the lightest day on Ripper's schedule, with only two speeches scheduled. There were four on Wednesday, five on Thursday, and three on Friday. By Wednesday Denice had reached the point where she did not speak to Douglass unless spoken to, or unless there was some business communication which needed to take place. Wednesday night she slept sitting up on the sofa in their hotel room, gun on the sofa next to her, while Ripper snored alone in the bed. Thursday Ripper's temper was frayed even further; he awoke in a foul mood that did not improve, except before crowds, as the day wore on.

  Thursday Ripper spoke twice in Tokyo, once at a rally, once to a group of fund raisers; spoke once each in the cities of Yokohama, Kyoto, and Kobe.

  It happened again in Kyoto.

  She stood immediately behind Ripper, handgun holstered beneath her coat, scanning the crowd, and suddenly the headache was back and the crowd was naked, skinless, a glowing collection of blue nerve nets; and in the depths of the crowd, where the people were packed most closely, a Flame arose, dancing gold with a cold black center, a column of light that rose up out of the crowd and fountained up into the sky.

  She blinked and it was gone, and did not come back.

  By the time Ripper's last speech, in the city of Kobe, was done, it was nearly 10 p.m. and all of them, including Denice, were exhausted. Ripper fell asleep in the limousine on the way back to their Tokyo hotel. Bruce and John sat together up front; Denice, crowded in the back seat with both Ripper and Ichabod's bearish hulk, found it nearly impossible to relax.

  Ripper's skin touched hers, and his dreams, restless and unhappy, were barely perceptible to her, jittering at the edge of her thoughts. Normally she found his thoughts--gentle and disciplined and generally kind--pleasant. But his dreams that night were anything but pleasant.

  Denice moved slightly away from Ripper, to break the contact with his skin--was aware of Ichabod noticing it--closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

  They returned to Capitol City early Saturday morning, two hours before dawn. Denice saw Ripper safely to the edge of Capitol City. She had the limo stop, said curtly, "Good night," and walked south the four kilometers to Robert Dazai Yo's dojo.

  Patrolling PKF stopped her twice, requested her handheld and a retinal check. She endured it patiently and politely--they were checking attitude as much as identity--and continued on when the checks were complete.

  It neared dawn when she reached the dojo, walked upstairs to Robert's quarters, and let herself in.

  Robert sat where she had expected to find him, waiting for the sun in the center of the mat. Earlier in the night, she knew, he would have worked out; stretched, done weight work and speed training; perhaps, though this was something new to the last decade of his life
, he might have danced.

  In the last hour before dawn, he sat and meditated.

  She took her running shoes off and joined him.

  He did not speak while the sun rose, while light flooded in through the high eastern windows, lit the dojo in bright true sunlight. He breathed slowly, and Denice let her breathing match his, felt the tension of the trip draining away from her. She faced Robert, and he faced the sun; the light struck her back and shoulders, and she sat in the warmth and let the tight knots of her muscles relax.

  Some time later Robert said, "You look like something out of a Fringe back alley."

  "I feel like hell."

  "Ah."

  "I love Douglass."

  "I know."

  "I hate my job."

  "I know."

  Shadows crawled across the floor of the dojo.

  "What are you doing tonight?"

  "I have no plans." Denice paused. "My friend Tarin Schuyler is dancing in an off-Broadway play. She asked me to stop by and see it. But I can do that any time; it'll run a couple of weeks at least."

  Robert opened his eyes for the first time. The flat Asian features struck Denice as oddly grave. "You are the best student I have ever had, the only one I have ever thought to teach shiabrè. I have never seen anyone move as you do; until recently I never doubted that what I had to teach, you could learn."

  "But--I thought I had been learning what you had to teach. Everything you've shown me I've picked up--"

  "--astonishingly fast." Robert nodded. "I have never seen anyone learn so fast. But the movement, the motion, is not the discipline of shiabrè, any more than the form of Tai Chi is the point of Tai Chi. Have you never wondered what I mean by shiabrè?"

  "You know I have."

  "What did you think?"

  "I thought it a discipline you had created yourself," Denice said simply. "It is similar to other martial arts I'm familiar with."

  Robert nodded. "The movement is not the discipline, but the movement can be imitated, and has. Shiabrè came first. Before karate, before judo, before aiki-jutsu, before the first kenjutsu school ever opened in Japan; before all this, was shiabrè. It is more than an art, more than a martial discipline; it is a direct connection with Deity."

  "You sound like a Wiccan."

  "Perhaps in its darkest aspects Wicca has some relation to shiabrè; I have not studied Wicca except casually, to know that it, like many religions and many disciplines, contains echoes of shiabrè. I do not know Wicca; I know shiabrè, and the discipline, Denice, is very old and very real. When I speak of a direct connection to Deity, I do not do so metaphorically. Shiabrè, Denice, is the discipline that is called, in English, nightways. And there is a core to it." Robert paused; his gaze was steady. "A Kill."

  "I see."

  "I do not think you do. Have you ever killed anyone?"

  A memory flickered through the back of her mind; she buried it without knowing she had done so. "I don't think so. The boy in Portugal survived."

  "I know. When you shot him--did you feel a joy? A soaring?"

  "No. I was just scared." Denice did not know what made her say it: "I shot at some Peaceforcers once. And another man died while he was chasing me. But I didn't enjoy it either time."

  Robert simply nodded. He did not seem surprised. "I think accidental death would not be the same. If it ever comes to you, the chance to take a life with your own hands, I shall be interested to learn of your response."

  Denice Castanaveras said softly, "Killing is wrong."

  Robert Dazai Yo smiled at her. "Many people think so," he agreed. "And for most people it is. They don't do it right. If you Kill, I do not doubt you will do so in a most exquisite fashion. A proper Kill, child, is art of the highest order. Someday you will appreciate this." He rose slowly, stood in his white gi facing the sun. "I'm going to bed. Come see me this evening."

  "Do you mind if I stay here today?"

  Robert walked off the mat. "Feel free. The guest room is empty."

  "It's just that Ripper is keyed for my apartment."

  Robert shrugged, did not look back. "He paid for it."

  Denice said quietly, "Yes. I guess he did."

  Robert taught no classes on Saturdays, the one day of the week he had reserved for himself.

  Denice spent the day dancing, varying the tempo of the music; classic jazz and roots rock, slower pieces written for the ballet. Fusion music from the turn of the century, and then atonal synth from the '50s; and then Brazilian jazz from the '60s. She moved through the sound like a ghost, lost track of herself in the rhythm of her heart, wrapped herself into the dream of a blue turtle and then pumped up the volume with a screaming rendition of Chuck Renkha's classic '20s scorcher, Heat and Love; moving until her body would no longer move as she wished it to.

  Toward lunch she took a break, went upstairs to Robert's bathroom and ran a bath as hot as she could stand it.

  Ten months in Ripper's employ had taken its toll; the edge was gone. Perhaps no one else could see it; perhaps even Robert could not see it.

  Ten months ago she could have danced all day and not been tired. Today her muscles were tired and the buildup of fatigue toxins in her system was excessive even considering the fact that she'd been up all night.

  She soaked in the bathtub for almost an hour. When the water got cool she ran it again; after the bath she took a nap.

  At 4:00 P.M. she got up. Robert was awake, puttering around in the kitchen, examining the contents of the slowtime field. "Are you hungry?"

  "Yes. What should I eat?"

  Robert paused. "Trust your body. What do you want?"

  "Something alive."

  He nodded. "Apples on the roof."

  She took the stairs to the roof, plucked and ate two apples. When she had finished both of them, including the cores, she waited ten minutes, decided she wanted a third, and took it.

  Robert was done eating when she went back downstairs again; the kitchen had been straightened up and the kitchen's slowtime field turned back on. She went to the guest room, pulled one of the black gis Robert kept there for her, and donned it. She went downstairs barefoot, found Robert setting up at the edge of the mat.

  He laid a flat slab of long, uncured wood atop a pair of bricks, to raise the wood slightly off the floor. Upon the wood he placed certain items, in a certain pattern. He did not look at Denice as he worked. He laid the items out slowly, one by one, as though engaged in ritual. When he was done Robert Dazai Yo said softly, "Do you recognize these items?"

  "They look like the tools on a Wiccan altar."

  "They would. They are not." Without moving he gestured to Denice to join him on the other side of the board. "Center with me."

  Denice sank into lotus, met Robert's eyes and began breathing in rhythm with him. Her breathing and heartbeat dropped into rhythm together; she was aware of the moment when the cycle of her breathing matched Robert's. With one hand he reached forward, took one of the button mushrooms he had laid on the surface of the wood, and ate it.

  Denice did not question; she did the same.

  The mushroom was dry and chalky, and otherwise without taste.

  "Give me your hands."

  Denice reached forward and placed her hands in Robert's.

  His eyes held steady on hers.

  "Speak with me. Rho! Etra shivat--"

  "Rho! Etra shivat--"

  "--elor ko'obay k'shia--"

  "--elor ko'obay k'shia--"

  "--vata elor ko'obay shiebran."

  "--vata," said Denice Castanaveras, "elor ko'obay shiebran."

  Robert's hands tightened around hers. "Enshia, ensitra." Swiftly: "Do not repeat those words."

  Denice stopped with her mouth open. "Why not?"

  "Later. How do you feel?"

  "Light. Floating. From the dancing earlier, I think. Otherwise nothing." Denice paused. She did not know what made her add, "Not yet."

  "Close your eyes and continue holding my hands. We will wait for da
rkness together."

  I am the Name Storyteller.

  I sit at the edge of reality and watch my past, watch Denice Castanaveras, my ancestor, the grandmother of the man who did and will found the House of November.

  Earth turns slowly away from Sol; the shadow of the planet falls across New York City, across a small dojo in Greenwich Village.

  In that room, a Master of the oldest discipline on Earth, the creature of my Enemy in this time, prepares to test the finest student he has ever seen, or ever will.

  When there is no light in the room, no light from any source except the distant street lamps, barely visible through the dojo's high windows, Robert Dazai Yo, one of the six living night faces in all the Continuing Time--not counting time travelers, which I suppose one should not--releases Denice Castanaveras' hands.

  From a matchbook that says Jack's Happy Time Bar he takes a match, and lights the single red candle in the center of the altar, and then the pile of orange incense. The smell of orange blossoms rises from the altar's surface.

  Robert ascends from lotus in a single smooth motion. "Are you ready?"

  "Yes."

  "Stand." She does, and Robert says again, "How do you feel?"

  Her eyes, the eyes of a lord of the House of November, are open, brilliant green even in the dim light from the flickering candle. "As though something is going to happen. Not nervous--just ready. The light is so beautiful."

  "Silence." He speaks in shiata, though the accent is corrupted by the long separation from the mother tongue. Denice stands motionless in the darkened dojo. "Silence and darkness: these are nightways."

  Denice stares at him.

  Robert says in English, "Begin."

  She takes several steps backward, raises herself onto her toes, and brings her right knee up to her chest with immense grace. She pivots without haste, bringing her center of gravity closer to the floor. Her right foot extends in a slow kick directly up to the ceiling, and she holds the position, toes of her right foot pointing toward the sky, for three breaths.

  Then she Moves, like the Dancer she is.

  A controlled explosion, right knee back down to her chest, pulling her arms in from an extension of twenty centimeters, turns the angular momentum from the inpulled arms into a tight spin, and kicks with her right foot, three times, one hundred and twenty degrees apart on the circle of the spin. Her right foot comes down, touches briefly, adds momentum to the spin and she moves back toward him, with a series of kicks and punches that no human of her time, not Yo, not the Dancer Sedon, no one, could have matched for grace, for speed, for accuracy.