The Last Dancer

by The Last Dancer (new ed) (mobi)

  "And?"

  "She's not satisfied with the explanation of the events in Los Angeles. She doesn't want to believe that Daimara was a PKF spy; if true, it means that Denice's psychometric profiles were faked, which probably implicates 'Selle Sierran--she ran them, with Bennett Crandell, who was a spy."

  Sedon chuckled. "She believes you, and doesn't want to. Sierran and Crandell and Daimara; that the three of them were working together will, given her reflexive paranoia, make sense to her. So?"

  The rogue Elite shrugged, grinned a touch sourly. "Her people were unharmed, if slightly confused. It all happened pretty fast. Lovely's in a tight place; she doesn't have a lot of choice."

  "The Claw is moving forward."

  "They can't pull out now."

  Sedon smiled. "Sensible woman."

  Summers nodded, followed Sedon back up the path to the house. "Clearly none of them have realized yet that the girl was a Castanaveras."

  That evening, at the downtown San Diego offices of Greenberg & Bass, Sedon met with the Player, a girl named Michelle Altaloma. He found her interesting; she was a TrueBreed, sixteen years old, one of the second wave of a small group of genies produced by an ongoing Johnny Reb genegineering project. TrueBreed had begun almost twenty-five years prior, in late '52; only a year after the infamous PKF-run Project Superman had ended.

  Her met with her alone, in the library, a medium-sized room with half a dozen tracesets for data, two of the oversized sensable tracesets, a pair of full sensory Net terminals, and a wide array of holo equipment.

  He had the difficulty with her that he always had with women; she had been warned to expect it, apparently, and wasted no time attempting to be pleasant. Sedon did not rise when she was led in to him; 'Selle Altaloma unpacked, jacked her handheld into the library equipment, and waited. Her inskin was one of the more expensive model radio packet systems, and had no external socket for input. She was a thin young blond girl, attractive by the standards of the time; nearly in shape, even by Sedon's stringent standards. She was not of Denice's caliber--or even Callia Sierran's--but women such as Sierran were rare, and Denice was unique.

  Sedon had not even noticed that he was thinking of the genie telepath by her first name.

  'Selle Altaloma seated herself in the chair facing Sedon, and looked at him. "What are you looking for?"

  "I would like to be told about Project Superman."

  The girl nodded. "Yes. Summary first?"

  "Please."

  "Funded by Special Order 11-212 of the Unification Council, February 14, 2029, 'Project Superman' was its popular name; its official title was 'The Advanced Biotechnology Research Initiative.' There were eight significant lines of research involved. They involved things as diverse as research into improved intelligence, genegineering, and cyborging. Three lines of research were particularly successful; they were the feline de Nostri, the Castanaveras telepaths, and the Peace Keeping Force Elite. The Peace Keeping Force itself already existed, but until 2046 there were no Elite cyborgs as we know them today; the technology to create them did not exist. All but those three lines of research were discontinued in the early '40s. The de Nostri program was terminated with the death of Doctor Jean Louis de Nostri, in 2044, and the feline de Nostri were relocated to New York. Doctor Suzanne Montignet, the researcher who created the Castanaveras, was briefly placed in control of them; she resigned in 2046.

  "In 2042, the most significant event in Project Superman's history took place; Carl Castanaveras, born in 2030, entered puberty. The telepathic gift of the Castanaveras is associated with the hormonal changes which take place during puberty; sometime during 2042, the PKF realized that Carl Castanaveras could read minds.

  "The next eldest genie whose genetic map significantly resembled that of Castanaveras was his clone, Jany McConnell. The PKF monitored her closely; in 2047 she underwent puberty. She too had the gift.

  "The PKF envisioned a world where no revolution could succeed, where telepaths loyal to the Unification would monitor and warn long before any insurrection could be planned. In 2048 forty-three genies based upon the Castanaveras map were born; in 2049, seventy-three; in 2050, eighty-six; and in 2051, twenty-four. In 2051 Carl Castanaveras was twenty-one, and virtually unmanageable; the PKF grew concerned that they might be unable to control the telepaths. 2051 was, officially, the last year that the Unification indulged in the creation of genies. Late in 2051 all funding for Project Superman was suspended, and the telepaths were taken from the control of the Bureau of Biotechnology and turned over to the PKF."

  "TrueBreed began in 2052."

  'Selle Altaloma nodded. "Yes. TrueBreed was primarily a response to the PKF Elite program, not the Castanaveras. Unlike the Castanaveras, we are a fairly conservative design. Faster, stronger, significantly more resistant to disease. Smarter than the human norm, but not so much as to make us unstable; only a few TrueBreed can be considered geniuses."

  "But you're one of the few," said Sedon softly.

  "Yes."

  "Good. Project Superman, properly speaking, ends in 2051."

  "Yes. Are you interested in the PKF, or the de Nostri, or the telepaths? Or all of them?"

  "Specifically, the telepaths. While I was ill, I audited several texts on them; I know the outlines of their story. In detail--"

  Altaloma shrugged. "Mister Obodi, nobody knows the story in detail, except possibly the surviving telepaths, if any of them do survive. In 2053, two years after Project Superman ended, Carl Castanaveras fathered two children with Jany McConnell; they were twins, Denice and David Castanaveras. There are persistent rumors to the effect that the twins were not present at the Chandler Complex when Space Force nuked it. There is video of a hovercar carrying Carl Castanaveras, leaving the Chandler Complex before it was destroyed; but Castanaveras' body, positively identified, was found outside Unification Councilor Jerril Carson's hotel room. Apparently Castanaveras killed the Councilor, and was killed by him. The only Castanaveras who certainly survived the Troubles is Trent the Uncatchable, and though he's definitely a genie, he's just as definitely not a telepath. He was one of the last batch of genies Project Superman produced, from the twenty-four born in '51; apparently quality control slipped a bit. There are rumors of a green-eyed girl who was with Trent in mid-2069, but they are only rumors, and have never been adequately substantiated. And even today having green eyes doesn't make you a Castanaveras. Callia Sierran, the woman from the Claw, has the greenest eyes I've ever seen, but she's no telepath; I've seen her gene map."

  Sedon leaned forward very slightly, fixed his eyes upon the Player. "These twin children. One was a boy."

  "Yes. He'd be twenty-three today."

  "How would you go about looking for him?"

  "I wouldn't. It's a waste of time. You must assume, Mister Obodi, that the PKF DataWatch, the Bureau of Biotech, Trent the Uncatchable, his old image Ralf the Wise and Powerful, F.X. Chandler for sure, probably Tommy Boone before he vanished--" She made an impatient gesture. "--and a hundred other groups, all of them very good at looking for people, have looked for those two. Assuming--which no one has ever proven--that they weren't both at the Complex when it was nuked, the only way either of those children could have evaded the searches that have gone on for them would be if they'd been found. With protectors they might have avoided discovery. But they'd have needed protectors. One of the reasons--and it's a small thing to go on--that I think Denice Castanaveras might be alive, is that if she is she probably has Trent as a protector. I will tell you this much, Mister Obodi; I for one would hate to try and search through the Net for someone Trent the Uncatchable was trying to hide. Life is short."

  "What does your schedule look like?"

  "I'm going to Halfway on Monday morning. The InfoNet Relay project."

  Sedon leaned back into his chair, crossed his legs and made a steeple of his hands. His pale blue eyes were steady and unblinking, and Michelle Altaloma found them very hard to look at for any length of time. "Three days, th
en? We will spend it productively, looking for the boy."

  "The boy."

  Gi'Suei'Obodi'Sedon said without irony, "I like boys."

  Michelle Altaloma stretched, spoke around a yawn. "I need sleep."

  "Go ahead," said Sedon absently. He did not even look up from the field he was auditing; it showed information gleaned during their search. "I'll have you awakened in a few hours."

  She nodded, rose, and stumbled out of the room. Chris Summers glanced in as she left. "Mister Obodi?"

  "Yes, Christian?"

  "Joe Chang would like to see you when you have a chance. We've found out what happened to--to Daimara."

  It brought Sedon out of his reverie, up to his feet. "You took long enough. Where?"

  Summers said one word: "Chandler."

  "Jesus, I can barely see straight."

  "I have you for only another day, 'Selle Altaloma. You are, I'm told, the best Player in our organization."

  The girl flushed. "Damn straight."

  Sedon studied her. "Indeed?"

  "All right, Obodi, you tell me what I've missed. I've been through every adult male of the correct age, listed with any Unification agency from summer '62 through today. I've been through Public Labor, the Bureau of Traffic Enforcement, the Peace Keeping Force, I even frigging got into a Ministry of Population Control Board for you, and that's not easy; they're more paranoid than the PKF. I've been through Claw records, Reb records. I can't get into Biotech, their Boards are protected by replicant AIs, and don't even stop to tell me it's illegal, I know it. Maybe you should report them to DataWatch. I can't get into DataWatch either, obviously. I've been through the records from the '70 Census, I've been through the Ministry of Population Control's summary extraction of that Census. I've been through passport applications, I've been through city and state police mug holos, I've scanned the files on every single adult male who's ever served time in a PKF Detention Center or Occupied America penitentiary. I've searched everything I can get my hands on for East Coast biosculptors, '62 to present. I have searched every green-eyed male, every black-haired Caucasian male, of the correct age range, in every public record I can get my hands on. There's not a hell of a lot left, and I can list what remains on the fingers of one hand. Boards run by Players, Biotech, or AIs. Biotech and AIs, I wouldn't even know where to start. There's only one Biotech, maybe two thousand replicant AIs. There's about forty, fifty thousand Players out there--I should say, webdancers calling themselves Players--maybe a couple of hundred I'd call Players. And if one of them is helping your target hide, I could hunt a thousand years and never find him."

  "Who employs the finest Players?"

  Altaloma stared at Sedon. "Nobody employs the finest Players."

  "We employ you."

  "I volunteered because this is a cause I believe in. Otherwise you couldn't afford me."

  Sedon smiled at her. "Of course. To which organizations are Players known to donate their time?"

  Altaloma leaned forward, put her face in her hands. "I don't believe this. Look--okay," she said after a moment. "We have some good ones. The Rebs do, I mean. Mostly from the TrueBreed project, three of us. Erisian Claw, I don't know of any, but they might have one. Couple different corporations--there used to be a Speedfreak Player, back before the Speedfreaks were wiped out by the Bureau of Weather Control. The Catholic Church has three or four; the Temples of Eris might have one, and if they do, he's probably the same one the Erisian Claw uses. The SpaceFarers Collective has at least two. The Belt CityStates have a couple, Free Luna has one." She stopped, searching her memory. "I can't think beyond that. DataWatch has hundreds of very, frighteningly good webdancers. But they don't use Image, which makes them not Players in any real sense of the word."

  "And these organizations have Boards to which you do not have access."

  Altaloma sighed. "I can't believe you know so little about the Net. Look, most of the really critical data in the world I don't have access to. Even today a lot of it's simply offline, and the stuff that's not offline is protected by AIs or other Players. Groups that don't have good protection don't publish a Board for me to get to. If there's no Board, the only way to get at their information is to physically go to where it is. The Tax Boards are a great example; the only thing you can do online with them is send in a return. Everything else they have is disconnected from the Net. Tax Boards, all the other organized crime--"

  Sedon said quickly, "Other organized crime?"

  Michelle Altaloma lifted her head from her hands. She looked at Sedon with wide eyes. "Joke, man. It's a joke. I don't really mean the Tax Boards are run by criminals. Not like the Syndic, or the Corporation, or the Old Ones."

  Sedon sat quietly for a very long time, looking at the Player. "Would it--be of help to you--to have access to the records of such organizations?"

  "The Tax Boards?"

  "Yes. And the Syndic, and the Corporation, and the Old Ones."

  Altaloma blinked. "Is this a joke?"

  "Would it be of help to you?"

  "It--couldn't hurt."

  Sedon nodded. "Go to bed, 'Selle Altaloma. In the morning, I will have arranged access for your search."

  "You used to be with the Old Ones, the Italians?"

  "Go to bed, 'Selle Altaloma."

  "But the Tax Boards?"

  "Cooperation is a popular concept in Occupied America. It's good for business. Good night, 'Selle Altaloma."

  At 10:22 a.m., on Sunday, June 21, Michelle Altaloma said aloud, "Fuck me gently with a chainsaw."

  Sedon did not stir in his chair. "Tell me."

  The Player was silent for a long moment. She sat still, shoulders rigid, eyes closed. Sedon sat watching the back of her head; he could not even imagine what she was doing. When she spoke she did so rapidly, in a quick tumble of words: "Age unknown. Estimated early to mid-twenties. Contracted with the Old Ones originally, like you, but he bought out his contract five years ago. They were using him to move wire in the New York Metro area; waste of talent, frankly. He's done much better on his own; moved in on a numbers operation in New Jersey, just outside the Camden Protectorate, and took it away from Larry Farillio despite the fact it was in his family for three generations. Nobody knows how he did it exactly, aside from the obvious; Farillio vanished, and his mother, wife, mistress, three kids. The boy made nice with the Old Ones, sends payments regularly, squared it with a couple of Farillio cousins, and nobody's bothered him since. Some rumor to the effect that he's on the wire, from when he ran it."

  "What color are his eyes?"

  "Blue." Michelle Altaloma paused briefly, then said, "Bingo. Dyed that color when he was fourteen." The girl turned around in her seat, looked at Sedon. "Not necessarily indicative. That wasn't that unusual back then, with all the hysteria. Lots of green-eyed people got dye jobs."

  Sedon said simply, "What's his name?"

  "David. David Zanini."

  "Thank you, 'Selle Altaloma. Enjoy Halfway. I understand you helped design the Relay Station attack."

  "I did." Altaloma unjacked her handheld, stored it in her jacket pocket.

  Sedon nodded. "Having seen you work, I have faith that your input was valuable. Good luck."

  The girl stopped at the doorway. "I know you used to be a pimp. But if you'd learn to treat women like they were people, you'd do a lot better. Every now and again, when you forgot I was a girl, you were almost likeable."

  A flicker of rage touched Sedon, but it was distant and muted, more reflex than anything truly felt; he nodded and said gravely, "Thank you for the advice. I did appreciate your aid."

  "Any time."

  * * *

  49.

  I thought at first that Jay's cousin Michelle--"Shell," he called her--was an astonishing bubblehead.

  We had dinner at 6 p.m., over at Observation Bubble. Somehow it seemed appropriate. The Bubble's the most famous and most expensive restaurant at Halfway; I'd been there twice, on disturbances, but I'd never eaten there before. They gav
e us a good table, in one of the bubbles around the edge, with Earth above us. I'd expected a good table, simply from identifying myself when making reservations. I doubted I'd see a bill when we were done. There can't be half a dozen people at Halfway who have more real importance than the Chief of Security when it comes to the concerns of your average business owner.

  I was never a particularly sociable person; even if I had been, a stint as Chief of Security at Halfway would have cured me. It is, pretty nearly, the equivalent of being Chief of Police for any major downside city, with a few unique twists caused by the nature of Halfway itself. If you're not careful, you can get yourself beholden to the local business people without any real difficulty. One of the reasons I hang out at Highland Grounds is that, in all the time I've been Chief, Homeboy Rick has never once offered to eat the check. He expects me to pay, and I do.

  Observation Bubble's cheap seats are spectacular enough; the bubble tables are usually booked two to three months in advance. They'd bumped somebody to get us in. A walkway, forty meters long, leads from the bubbles back to the rest of the restaurant, and the bubbles themselves are completely transparent, down to the tables inside them.

  I met Jay and Shell at the restaurant, and I kept my p-suit with me when we were led out to our table; Jay shot a disapproving look at me. Probably thought I looked paranoid.

  Could be.

  They made a gorgeous couple, and I understood why Jay had leaned on me to get the reservations at Observation Bubble. Jay was in dinner clothes, maybe a hundred CU worth of white silk suit, cleanly shaven; he'd cut his hair sometime that morning, and done something subtle, I couldn't say exactly what, with his makeup key.

  I wasn't sure if the perfume I smelled was his or hers, and it seemed impolite to ask.

  I'm not indifferent to male beauty, but the girl made Jay, one of the prettiest and most graceful men I know, look clumsy. She was fifteen or sixteen, at a guess, a little blond thing in a black sheathe dress and black calf-high boots, wearing matching black gloves and hat that were out of Breakfast at Tiffany's. I didn't tell her that she reminded me of Holly Golightly; she'd never have recognized the reference.