The Last Dancer

by The Last Dancer (new ed) (mobi)

  "I see."

  Summers was only a few centimeters taller than her; nonetheless he managed to look down at her when he said, "Blocks all over the place. You made a good call."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  Summers looked at her without expression, then nodded. "Thank you." The maglev doors curled open. "I always liked Bennett."

  Around midnight, down on Level Five, in an empty stone cellar, Denice waited with Nicole Lovely, Callia, and Chris Summers. Three men--Lan was one of them, Aguirre another, and the third a Reb Denice had not been introduced to--waited against one wall of the cellar, carrying laser rifles.

  The cellar lacked glowpaint; fluorescent bars of lights hung from the ceiling. Several of them were burned out and the balance flickered as though they might go at any moment.

  Bennett's hands were snaked behind his back when they brought him in. Denice's heart skipped a beat at the sight of him; he was still wearing the white coat in which he had examined Denice, and was plainly terrified. "What are you doing to me?"

  Chris Summers said quietly, "You know."

  Crandell shot a quick, clearly pleading look at Denice, then back at Summers. "Chris, you've known me almost four years. I don't know why you're doing this, but if you're trying to scare me, you're succeeding."

  "Put him against the wall." Nicole Lovely's voice was steady and even. "Mister Auerbach, we are going to execute you. We are going to do it right now." Bennett struggled, even with his hands snaked behind his back, as the two Rebs muscled him up against the wall. A shiver ran up Denice's spine at the expression on Lovely's face. "I am not trying to scare you and I'm not kidding. We know you haven't gotten a message out of here since we've made you, we know you're resistant to brain-drain, and we know you won't know anything worth torturing you for, or else we would. Listen to me."

  The crack of her voice penetrated his terror; he froze, then nodded jerkily.

  Nicole Lovely said, "I am offering you the courtesy of a message to your family, if you wish one."

  Bennett--even now Denice could not stop thinking of him by that name--had to work to get the words out. "'Selle Lovely, please. My family is dead. I lost them during the Troubles. The closest relative I have alive is somewhere in Germany; I haven't seen him in twenty years."

  Chris Summers said quietly, "Bennett, do you want a blindfold?"

  Bennett stared at him, trembling; his face twisted and he spat, "Fuck you."

  To the soldiers standing next to Crandell, Nicole Lovely said, "Stand away. Let's do it." The two rebs let go of Crandell and moved swiftly away. Lovely said, "Gentlemen."

  The three men standing against the wall opposite Crandell brought their rifles up. Bennett Crandall's breath came fast and loud. Denice found her own breath coming quick, her heat pounding. His eyes were impossibly wide, all whites, and he looked around the room as though in supplication, looking for someone who might take his cause.

  He stared for a brief moment at Denice.

  The memory hit Denice like a sledgehammer: Lan moving beneath her, lips brushing across her nipples--

  Chris Summers spoke in a completely dead voice. "He's our man. I'll do it."

  Nicole Lovely snapped, "Do it now."

  Christian J. Summers stood five meters away from Bennett Crandell and looked straight at the man and said, "Fire."

  Bennett Crandell's legs folded beneath him.

  The lasers took him across his face and upper body. Bennett screamed once, loud and wild, as the ionization corona from the lasers danced around him. Then the superheated air entered his lungs, and the scream died with the man.

  Denice did not remember fainting.

  "How do you feel?"

  Denice held the edge of the toilet with one hand and vomited again. When she could speak she said violently, "Why do you keep asking me that?"

  Callia Sierran said gently, "Because it matters." She brushed a stray hair from Denice's face; when her fingers touched Denice's cheek, Denice felt nothing; no imagery, no thoughts, no touch of what Callia felt. "Don't you think you've had enough to drink?"

  Denice remembered her other hand, was distantly grateful to Callia for having reminded her of its contents. "No," she said after a moment, "no, I don't think so." She let go of the edge of the toilet, sank back against the wall of the bathroom, and took a long swig of amber tequila directly from the neck of the bottle, used it to wash away the taste of vomit in her mouth. The tequila struck her empty, abused stomach like a firebomb; she closed her eyes and concentrated on keeping it down.

  Callia settled to the floor of the bathroom next to her, sat back against the wall with her. "Okay. You can't kill yourself with one bottle of tequila; I'll wait with you."

  "I love being drunk," said Denice after a bit. She floated in the warm darkness with her eyes closed, alone with herself and her thoughts, completely free, as she never was when sober, of the distant buzz of other people's thoughts. "It turns the world off for a while. Makes things go away," she said precisely.

  She drank in the warm silence.

  Callia Sierran said the wrong thing. "You did the right thing."

  Denice screamed at her, "Leave me alone!" She pushed herself to her feet, bottle clutched in one hand. "I didn't ask you to come in here, I didn't want you to." Her voice broke and she was suddenly tired. "Go away, okay?"

  Callia reached up, took Denice's right arm just beneath the elbow, and gently pulled Denice back down to the floor of the bathroom with her. "You're not going anywhere. If you vomit out in the bedroom I'm going to end up cleaning the rug. I'd rather not."

  "Oh." That seemed reasonable to Denice; she nodded, and the bathroom swayed around her. "I'll just...sit here, then," she announced. She took another drink. "Callia?"

  "Yes?"

  Denice heard the drunken despair in her voice, felt a distant disgust for it. "If I did the right thing, how come I feel so bad?"

  "It was a hard thing to do. That doesn't make it wrong." Callia brushed a tear off Denice's cheek. "It's okay to cry if you need to."

  Denice looked at Callia's blurry image. "I am not crying."

  Callia smiled the saddest smile Denice had ever seen; Denice could not understand why the woman was so sad. "I didn't say you were." Callia put one hand behind Denice's head, pulled Denice close and whispered, "You're the toughest little thing I ever saw in my life. But it's still okay to cry."

  Denice stared at Callia through her tears, and then leaned forward and kissed her.

  Callia pulled back, said sharply, "Stop that. This has nothing to do with me. It has nothing to do with anything except how you feel about what you've done."

  "How I feel?"

  Callia's voice gentled. "How do you feel?"

  Denice blinked. "I don't know. I don't really think about that much."

  "I know."

  "I mean, what's the point? You do what you have to do. That's all." It seemed to Denice that Callia must be considerably drunker than she; Callia's form swayed back and forth in front of her eyes. "It doesn't really matter how you feel about it, does it?"

  Callia whispered, "It matters a lot."

  "Oh." Denice upended the bottle, felt the last of the warm tequila empty out, and threw the bottle aside. She wiped her numb lips. "In that case I think I feel terrible." She paused. "I think I'm going to be sick again."

  She was, violently, moments later. She was vaguely aware of Callia's arms around her, holding her as she vomited. After the spasms stopped Callia gave her a glass of water and Denice drank it down in one shuddering gulp.

  Denice leaned back against the wall, distantly surprised to find that she was once again within the circle of Callia's arms. At first she found herself stiffening, and then relaxed with a conscious effort. They sat together on the floor of the bathroom, without speaking, for a long time. Denice closed her eyes and found herself drifting drunkenly, exhausted, aware of little in the world except the warm pressure of Callia's arms around her, of Callia's cheek touching her own.
r />   "Who told you you had to be so strong?"

  The question came without warning; Denice answered without thinking. "My father. The whole world was out to get him and he never backed down, never gave up. He told us we should be that way." She was surprised to feel the sudden tightness at the back of her throat that the thought of Carl brought her. She spoke through a gathering storm of tears. "It was the last thing he ever said to us, to me and my brother, to remember that we were stronger than everyone else. Better."

  "How old were you when he died?"

  "Nine. I was--" Her voice broke, and Denice Castanaveras, fourteen years after her parents' deaths, fourteen years after her life had vanished in a thermonuclear haze, fourteen years after the deaths of her friends and her family, whispered again, "Oh, God, I was nine," and then, for the first time, cried for what she had lost, and for what she had become.

  Lan knocked on the door as quietly as he was able. He barely heard Callia's voice telling him to come in.

  They were still in the bathroom, sitting together on the porcelain tile. Callia sat upright and motionless, posture as flawless as though she were on inspection, holding Denice.

  Denice sat fast asleep, curled up into a ball inside the protection of Callia Sierran's arms.

  "How is she?"

  "Passed out drunk. She's going to have a hell of a hangover. I checked Bennett's supplies; we have nothing for a hangover."

  "Didn't think there was any alcohol in this dump. Where did she find it?"

  "Tucked away in the kitchen."

  Lan nodded. "She surprises me."

  "Oh?" He had the sudden impression he had offended his sister. "Why?"

  "I thought she was tougher than this."

  "She's stronger than you'll ever understand. Good people aren't supposed to do what she did. It's going to take her a while to get past that."

  "He was a Peaceforcer," said Lan softly. "He deserved to die."

  "He was a good man," Callia snapped, "doing what he believed was right. And Denice had him killed." Callia looked away from him. "She has a conscience. Unlike some people."

  Lan stood abruptly, turned to leave. "I don't need a conscience," he muttered as he left. "I have a sister."

  DateLine: Shawmac on Retirement

  This is my last column.

  As I sit here tonight in these, the last moments of my old life, I am forced to reflect upon a life filled with bitterness, cheap drugs and cheaper alcohol. Face it: writing doesn't pay.

  Even as I write, the syndicate that publishes my work, the people--make that the evil lying scumsucking backstabbing lawyers, and who says anal sex doesn't cause pregnancy--the lawyers at Mondo Cool, Inc., are busy trying to deprive me of the retirement benefits I've earned from twenty years of hard labor as a corporate slave, a stone blind geek whose writings have served with equal vigor the twin gods of profit and pernicious excess.

  They got the profit, of course. Over the course of the years, better than eighty percent of the income from DateLine has been gobbled up by those sleazy, profiteering hacks in Redmond, those sordid Satans in eyeshades.

  Some have suggested that I'm feeling sorry for myself.

  Damn straight.

  Twenty years today.

  I should have known better, back when I started. So yes, I was innocent. Virginal, perhaps. And the lawyers at Mondo Cool Syndicated strung me up and hung me out to dry, spread my bleeding skin across their walls, salted me down and tied me to a contract no sane writer would ever have accepted, ruined my life for twenty years, left me with nothing but the sexual favors of my fans as recompense, and then cried crocodile tears all the way to the bank over my pain and agony.

  And did their perfidy stop there? Did it?

  Well, yes. Believe me, nobody is more shocked than I am. It's so unlike them.

  As of today and from now on, I write when I want to, as I want to, on my terms.

  But first I have to save the world, with this sensable script I wrote--

  Maybe I'll be back.

  * * *

  22.

  Thursday, May 28, near 5 p.m., Nicole Eris Lovely sent for Denice.

  Denice was told to bring her handheld.

  Lovely received Denice inside the farmhouse proper, above ground, in the living room. The furniture was old American colonial; Lovely sat in a rocking chair, and Domino Terrencia stood immediately behind her, one hand resting on the back of the rocking chair. Nicole gestured Denice to a straight-backed chair placed with its back to the window, and said, "Please sit."

  Bay windows let out on a view of the rows of corn, still bright with the day's last sunlight. Denice seated herself, said mildly, "I wondered why corn was such a staple in the cafeteria."

  "How do you feel?"

  In fact Denice still felt somewhat shaky; but nothing could possibly have brought her to share that with the dry old woman watching her. "I'm--fine, ma'am." She did not know why she said it: "A slight tickling sensation in the back of my head."

  Domino Terrencia lifted an eyebrow.

  Lovely said, "You're not hung over?"

  Denice said evenly, "No, ma'am."

  "Good. I've been wanting to talk to you," the older woman continued. "You've made quite an impression on all of us in your short time here."

  "I don't know what to say to that."

  "You don't have to say anything; it's merely an observation. I've been trying to decide what to do with you."

  "Callia didn't think that would be a problem."

  Lovely smiled thinly. "Callia is a charming girl. But I don't suppose she's read more than a hundred psychometric profiles in her life; I've averaged ten a day for the last forty years. I never do business without one. Yours was compiled from your responses during your interview with Callia, and as I say, it concerns me. You're in love with your former employer."

  Denice did not deny it. "That does not affect my opinions concerning the Unification itself, or the nature of my commitment here."

  "Your loyalty indices are incredibly high. Normally I find that an excellent sign; in your case, though, your loyalties are split in far too many directions. Ripper, your instructor Robert Yo, your friend Jimmy Ramirez, and who knows how many others. I will be blunt; I am inclined, 'Selle Daimara, to put you in front of a firing squad."

  A sniper behind me. Denice said softly, "Let's cut this short, shall we? If you thought you could get away with doing that, you'd have done it rather than open this conversation by threatening me with it. If you think that threatening me is going to make me do something foolish, give your sniper an excuse to take me out, you're wrong about that too."

  Domino, standing behind Lovely, grew very still.

  "It was a gamble," Lovely agreed. "Your profile is that of a dangerously unbalanced woman, 'Selle Daimara. You're barely in control of your passions most of the time, and I deeply distrust such people."

  "You mean you distrust all passion. 'All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity; but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.'" Denice smiled, said quietly, "You are a woman of dusty dreams, 'Selle Lovely."

  "You'll get along well with Obodi. He talks your language."

  Denice did not miss the implication. "I'm going to Los Angeles?"

  "Auerbach was scheduled to leave for Los Angeles in two days. We believe that he did not know where he was going when he was sent here, but we may be incorrect; between now and Saturday morning we're going to abandon this facility. You're leaving now because I want you away from here when we evacuate. Your friend Ramirez is waiting for you down at the garage; I'm sending you to Los Angeles with him, Lan and Callia."

  Denice stood. "Very good."

  "'Selle Daimara. Look at me." The old woman locked eyes with Denice, spoke without anger, without any particular show of emotion. "'Sieur Obodi requested that you be sent to Los Angeles. He requested you by n
ame. Ramirez vouched for you, said he's known you for seven years and that you are a woman who makes and keeps commitments. Ring recommended, in language it generally reserves for those actions needed to deal with the worst sorts of crises, that you be sent to Obodi."

  "So?"

  "I have no reason to believe you are anything but what and who you say you are. But people who attract attention to themselves concern me. A woman who has switched allegiances once will do it again. And a woman who describes herself, in all seriousness, as a dreamer of the day, is a woman I am unable to trust. If anything odd comes to light where you are concerned, no matter how trivial, I will have you executed."

  Denice stood looking down at the old woman, distantly aware of the easy smile curving her lips. The sniper was in the corn, at least sixty meters away. In the time it took him to realize that she was moving, to pull the trigger, Nicole Lovely could be dead, and Domino would not take much longer. Denice leaned forward, said, "I haven't even seen your psychometric profile; but I think I know you better than you know me. You've always been scared of Ring and you're more scared of Obodi. You're out of your depth and you know it. And the thing that scares you the worst about me is the thought that maybe what you can't deal with, I can. You're so scared you stink of it." Denice bent forward, brought her face close to Nicole Lovely's, and said, "Stay that way."

  Nicole Eris Lovely whispered, "Don't try me, girl."

  Denice straightened, glanced at Domino, turned her back on both of them and walked out.

  It occurred to her on her way down to the garage that her father, a master of the high stakes face off, could not have handled Nicole Lovely much better.

  I am my father's child, she thought to herself; and the thought filled her with a degree of self-assurance that surprised her.

  The car flew westward through the night.

  Lan and Callia sat together in the front seat; Denice sat in back with Jimmy Ramirez. The canopy was tinted black all around; it was impossible to see out. Jimmy had raised a barrier between the front and back seats, so that Lan and Callia could not hear their conversation.