The Last Dancer

by The Last Dancer (new ed) (mobi)

  She sat in her office and read through the report, holo-stamped Eyes Only in pale blue on every page. There were stock holos and thumbnail bios of several of the principles attached to the report:

  Lan and Callia Sierran, a brother and sister team who had, Denice read, worked with Trent during the theft of the Lunar Information Network Key, back in '69. Callia was a martial arts and small weapons expert; her brother had planted bombs that had killed perhaps a dozen PKF, possibly one Elite, and better than twenty civilians.

  Next: a rather old holo of an Italian woman named Domino Terrencia; relatively high in the Claw, no one knew quite how high. Her bio said she had worked as a liaison with the SpaceFarers' Collective, and had served two terms as Vice-Mayor of Bessel Free Luna, a Free Luna city sponsored by a Belt CityState corporation.

  There was a bio, but no holo, of Nicole Lovely, the woman who had founded the Erisian Claw. Denice skipped it, turned the page and found herself staring at a holo of Jimmy Ramirez.

  "Make me a promise, Denice?"

  "Done."

  "Don't you want to know what it is?"

  Jimmy, of course. "I do know."

  "Oh." After a moment he nodded. "All right. But don't let him know you're watching out for him. He wouldn't like that."

  James Ramirez, the biography said. Ex-gang member, prob. the Fringe Temple Dragons; rumored to have known Trent the Uncatchable, though this is suspect information which has not been verified. Served in the New York City Public Defender's office since 2072; since 2074 as Assistant Public Defender for the State of New York. Quit abruptly on April 30 of this year. A known associate of former NYC Police Chief Maxwell Devlin; core member of the Johnny Rebs for six years.

  Denice closed the report, sat alone in her office and stared into emptiness.

  Core member.

  Six years.

  He'd never mentioned a word of it to her.

  She searched back, remembering the time after Trent had left Earth, the two years when she had seen Jimmy nearly every day, trying to recall a moment when he had tried to sound her out, when he had made any attempt to interest her in the Rebs.

  And could not.

  It struck her again, without warning, the horrible emptiness that came upon her so often these days. She sat alone in her office and thought about Jimmy Ramirez saying, "I love you."

  She found herself coming to her feet; tried to remember whether she knew anything that could, in the hands of the Rebs, damage Douglass Ripper. She had difficulty ordering her thoughts, but she could not think of anything at the moment. If they can't hurt him, I can go.

  She wanted to hit something so badly her hands shook.

  Instead she went back up to Douglass Ripper's office.

  Ripper was in a meeting with Ichabod and a webdancer, a woman named Sally Cunningham, who was largely responsible for maintaining the expert system which ran Ripper's campaign.

  Denice entered without knocking, made the long walk through the illusion of an Arab desert to Ripper's desk.

  Ripper looked up at her approach.

  "I need to take a week off."

  Ripper shook his head. "No. And don't interrupt me right now, I'm busy."

  "I have something I have to do, Douglass. I need the time."

  Denice saw Sally Cunningham take notice of the "Douglass," saw Ripper notice Cunningham noticing. The muscles in Ripper's jaws tightened. "Excuse me, Sally." He looked straight at Denice. "The answer is no, Daimara, and I don't care to discuss it any further. Certainly not now."

  Denice ignored the hint. "This is important. I need you to say yes."

  Ripper took a deep breath, held it for a five-count, and released it. Denice could see him holding back the anger, and somewhere deep inside her, beneath the emptiness and the pain, a part of her waited eagerly for the anger to be released, so that she might--

  "I can't do that," Ripper said finally. "I need you here. If this is about Ramirez, and I'm sure it is, perhaps we can arrange to send a team from the MPC's Special Tasks after him. I'll call in a favor for it that I'm owed over there. If we do that, if we get Ramirez out without too much trouble, we might--might--get him a sentence for Public Labor. I'll see what I can do. But I can't let you go. Not now."

  "I can't take that for an answer. I have a question I have to ask Jimmy. And--I made a promise to someone. I can't break it, it's the only thing that person ever asked me to do."

  "I'm not giving you leave."

  Denice almost hesitated: "I quit."

  "You can't," he snapped. "You have a contract."

  Sally Cunningham watched them without pretense; Ichabod Martin sat with his eyes closed, as though he were not there.

  The emptiness inside her spoke, using her voice: "I'm sorry, Douglass. Are you really going to sue me?"

  He shook his head after a moment, a quick jerky movement. "No. I'll have your office cleaned out for you, and all your personal effects sent to Robert's. Do you want to keep the apartment?"

  "We can talk about it when I get back."

  "All right." They stared at one another for a long moment, and then Ripper said, in a voice that lacked steadiness, "Go. I have business to take care of."

  She turned and walked out through the bright sunlight and the drifting Arabian sands.

  On a morning of hazy sunshine they sat together on the grass in Central Park, beneath a shade tree, and watched the traffic go by: the people on foot; hovercabs, bicyclists; a man carrying a harp roller-skated back and forth along the bike path to the south.

  Occasional joggers ruined their knees on the ferrocrete running paths.

  Maxwell Devlin, once Chief of Police for the City of New York, wore a gray sweatsuit the same color as his hair; only his beard still contained some of his natural brown. Denice did not know for sure how old Devlin was. From his skin she would have guessed no more than one series of geriatric treatments, if that. Fifty, perhaps. Whatever his age, he appeared quite fit; thinner than when he had been on the force, with considerably better color.

  She could see the faint outline of a Personal Protection System harness beneath his sweatsuit.

  Denice had not seen him in over four years, since before the MPC's Agent McGee had chased her out of New York.

  From where they sat Denice could see over fifteen Peaceforcers; about twice the usual number for Central Park at the time of day.

  "Those are mine," said Devlin with a grin. "They're pretty sure I'm with the Rebs, and they're harassing me. Have been the last few months." Devlin shrugged, plucking a strand of grass. "They have no evidence, or they'd have me braindrained and been done with it. But they haven't been able to get a court order, and they won't."

  "I'm glad to hear it."

  Devlin smiled at her, a good smile that took in his face and brought crinkles to his eyes. "I'm a careful man. Now, there's no place near here that the PKF can set up a shotgun mike, and my PPS says that there aren't any midget spyeyes it can detect, but I expect that'll change soon. We need to do our business now." He paused, said, "How's Trent?"

  "I never hear from him."

  Mac Devlin nodded. "I wish he'd come back. We could use him."

  Denice said slowly, "He thinks what you're doing is wrong."

  "I know." Devlin sighed. "A lot of people do. Even a lot of Americans. I doubt there's been a time since the Civil War this country has been so deeply divided over one issue."

  "I wouldn't know. History isn't my strong point."

  "What can I do for you, Denice?"

  "I want to join the Rebs."

  "I thought so. Why?"

  Denice's answer was simply the truth. "I'm disenchanted with what I'm doing. And I think I can be of service. Beyond that, if you want to hear me spout Reb cant back at you, I can."

  Devlin watched her carefully. "If I send you, you'll end up talking to an analyst with a truth plate in each hand. I know you've been working for Ripper; if you have some idea of doing anything other than making a complete commitment to our work, do
n't go. Where I'm sending you, if they think you're lying they'll put you up against a wall and shoot you."

  "I'm ready to go. I'm ready to go right now."

  Devlin smiled a genuinely friendly smile. "All right. Lord knows, we can use people of your caliber. You know L'Express restaurant?"

  "I've been there once."

  "Be there tonight at 5:15. Bring the infochips from your handheld, but don't bring the handheld; you'll be provided with one that doesn't call out."

  "I'll be there."

  "Don't be late." As she rose to leave, Devlin said, "Oh, one last thing."

  "Yes?"

  "Ramirez asked me to tell you, if you came, that he was proud of you."

  "What?"

  Devlin repeated himself.

  "Oh....thank you."

  It was not until an hour later that she realized that, for the first time in two days, the ache in her heart had lessened somewhat.

  She was greeted by a middle-aged woman in a black evening gown. "'Selle Daimara?"

  "Yes. I have a reservation."

  The maitre'd nodded. "Please follow me." She led Denice back toward the rear of the restaurant, past a row of private booths; a door leading into the kitchen curled open, and the maitre'd gestured Denice through.

  The door uncurled behind her.

  A young man wearing a cook's apron gestured to her to follow, and turned away without waiting to see if she had. He led her back past rows of automated kitchen equipment which Denice did not recognize; it occurred to Denice that she had never been inside a restaurant kitchen before. A pair of bounce tubes were positioned toward the rear of the kitchen; the young man gestured toward the right-hand bounce tube.

  Denice stepped in and dropped.

  She came to a stop after about ten seconds, and stepped out into Level G of an underground parking structure. There were relatively few cars parked on that level; a single car, a black Chandler sedan with a tinted canopy, had its headlights on. Denice walked to the car; the canopy rose at her approach.

  The young man waiting for her, who had been auditing text on his handheld in the back seat of the car, was about her own age, perhaps a bit older. He was not, to Denice's surprise, a Reb; he wore a necklace with an Erisian medallion on it.

  His long, flowing brown hair hung down well past his shoulders; his grayish-green military fatigues were just a bit too stylish for Denice to find the image convincing; in all he looked as though he belonged on a dance floor.

  He stood up as the canopy rose away from him. "You're Denice?"

  "Yes."

  He gestured at the seat next to him. "Get in. It's a long drive, and we need to get started." He flipped the handheld closed, stored it in his coat pocket, and held out his hand. What he said then did not surprise her; she had recognized him by then, from his holo, which she had seen for the first time just yesterday. "I'm Lan Sierran."

  Before nightfall she was sitting in the back of a covered truck, in the dark, headed for Reb headquarters in Iowa.

  Before morning she was there.

  * * *

  20.

  Denice supposed that being interrogated by one of the Erisian Claw's top people was a compliment.

  Callia Sierran impressed Denice.

  They sat together several floors beneath the surface of Earth. A dark, middle-aged man whom Denice had been introduced to as Bennett Crandell sat with them, listening. She supposed that Crandell was a Reb, there to watch Callia as much as Denice; the alliance between the Rebs and the Claw was recent enough that there could not yet be much trust between them.

  An American flag hung upon one wall; a pair of holocams, mounted near the ceiling, recorded the scene.

  It was so strongly reminiscent of her first meeting with Ichabod Martin that it gave Denice a shiver.

  Callia Sierran was about thirty. Aside from that, and minor exterior details such as hair and skin color, she reminded Denice of herself; Denice's height, with much the same build. Denice was certain she was in better condition than Callia, but it was a relative thing; Callia was so finely toned that she put to shame many of the professional dancers Denice had known during her career, with muscles such that Denice knew the woman must work out two or three hours a day.

  Remembering Callia's biography, she wondered briefly if Trent had slept with her; Callia was entirely his type.

  She wore combat fatigues of the same cut as Lan's, except that on her they looked like work clothes.

  Callia's eyes were the same color, exactly, as her own.

  Callia Sierran said mildly, "You quit?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you tell anyone where you were going?"

  "My teacher, Robert. I told him I was going, not where. He'd have guessed anyway, and he's as close to family as I have."

  "Why did you quit?"

  Neither Callia nor Bennett Crandell appeared to be, so far as Denice could tell, actively monitoring the truth plates Denice held; therefore, unless one of them had an inskin, someone else, somewhere else, was. "I was--am--disenchanted with Ripper." It came to her with surprise that she could say that in all honesty. "And I think that what the Rebs are doing is morally correct. I'm not sure that it's smart; you'll understand that, given that I've been working for Douglass Ripper. I've seen a lot of the inner workings of the PKF--Ripper sits on the PKF's Oversight Committee, I'm sure you know--and they are a deeply impressive organization."

  "They are, yes. You understand this is an irrevocable decision, that once you've come among us you can never, never leave. If you try we'll kill you."

  "I know. 'Selle Sierran, this is my country. My home. I don't like what's been done to it. I don't like being interrogated on the street in my home town by French PKF, for no better reason than the fact I'm an American. I spent four years in Public Labor and I have no love for the Unification."

  "Can you tell me the reservations you have regarding joining us? And don't feel afraid to express reservations; we all have them."

  Denice thought about it, was aware after a bit that Callia was waiting for her to reply, and said slowly, "Do you know how sometimes you don't know what you think until somebody asks you?"

  Callia Sierran said seriously, "Yes. I do."

  "The great reservation I have regarding the Rebs, or the Claw for that matter, the reservation that I have always had, is that I do not believe you can win. If you could convince me that your rebellion has any chance, I'd commit. Completely."

  Callia studied her. "We've done that before, on occasion, when the person who had questions was someone whose skills, or knowledge, were important to us. In your case, presuming the balance of this interview is satisfactory, I think we would be more than willing to brief you. You have knowledge we need and skills we can use."

  "Skills?" Denice looked at her in surprise. "I don't want to misrepresent myself to you. I'm only a dancer who's had occasion to work as a bodyguard, 'Selle Sierran. I don't know what skills you think I have, but outside dance and the martial arts I've never received training at much of anything. I read fairly well, write poorly; I'm terrible with the Net. I haven't been formally schooled since I was nine. If you're thinking that I know much about weapons, you're wrong there too; I've been trained with small arms, but that's about it."

  Callia chuckled. "No skills? You are the top student of one of the deadliest men I've ever met in my life. If I wanted to kill Robert Yo, or you, I'd do it with a bomb, or else with a sniper rifle from as far away as I could possibly get. And I'm good, 'Selle Daimara. I saw you at a tournament once, about six years ago. I guarantee you, you have skills we can use. Now, are you ready to continue? We've got many hours of this before we'll be done."

  "Hours? Surely you don't interrogate everyone this way--you wouldn't have time."

  Bennett Crandell laughed aloud.

  Callia said dryly, "Let's call it an interview, 'Selle Daimara. I rarely interview anyone myself. The people who do this tend to be lower echelon. But we rarely, you understand, get the personal assista
nts of Unification Councilors--people with security clearances--coming over to us. You either have information we can use, or you're a plant and you're going to die before the day is out."

  Denice stared at Callia. "Let's get it done."

  Denice knew, because she had lightly Touched the people around her for the information, that she was in a structure beneath a farmhouse in the state of Iowa. Its sheer size amazed her; during her first day there she met not less than forty people, and saw over a thousand in the halls and corridors. Everything was somewhat oversized; the hallways were wide enough for four or five people to pass abreast, and the ceilings, which glowed with bright sunpaint, ran about four meters high.

  She could not understand how such a large operation could be going on completely undetected by the PKF.

  Lan Sierran, who showed her to her room and gave her a brief tour of the unsecured areas, explained it to her as clearly as he was able. "I'm pretty new here myself; the Reb and the Claw have only had our operations consolidated for the last few weeks. Apparently this place was built back in the '20s, immediately after the end of the Unification War. I won't tell you where you are--obviously somewhere within a night's flight of New York, but that's not saying a lot."

  Denice kept her mouth shut; she knew exactly where she was.

  "Reb leaders sat on it for fifty years," Lan continued. "They never reached critical mass to actually stage a rebellion, so there was never need to open this place up for training. Today, though--the public is ready, Denice, and the PKF knows it. Polls across Occupied America show it; the whole damn continent is one big tinderbox. That's the cafeteria, there--you eat what the cafeteria serves, I'm afraid. The kitchen equipment is antiquated; can't program it worth a damn. You're a vegetarian?"