The Last Dancer

by The Last Dancer (new ed) (mobi)

  "So far, not very. I only got it because of your position on the Oversight Committee; apparently Vance has decided you're an ally."

  Ripper chuckled sourly. "Today."

  "Last item, I don't know how much faith to place in this; apparently the PKF are planning an assault directly on Japan as soon as the laser cannon are taken out. Or maybe before, if Commissioner Vance gets his way; clearly Mirabeau is all that's holding him back right now."

  Ripper pushed his dinner aside, sat back in his chair, and watched the Unification Ambassador from Sri Lanka speak in favor of a truce that no one, on either side, was going to offer.

  Even with all of Ripper's pleading to move things along, voting went slowly. About 10 p.m. Ripper left; his bodyguards, John and Bruce, picked him up at the exit, and followed a few steps behind him as he went down a level to the small Chamber office set aside for his use. He rolled out the cot to take a nap, and was asleep in seconds. He awoke around 2:30 a.m., shaved and showered in the office's small bathroom, and dressed in the suit that had been laid out for him. He knocked back two cups of coffee, waited, and when it did not rouse him sufficiently went into his bathroom and took two ephedrine tablets, and then headed back upstairs.

  It had gone dramatically slower during his absence; people had been giving speeches for the holocams. Only a little better than half of the Unification Councilors had voted. So far voting was running 168-151, in favor of declaring martial law. Ripper was not perturbed; it was the nature of the beast that most of the strongly pro-Unification Councilors voted first. To be behind by only seventeen votes after 319 Councilors had voted was two or three votes better than he had expected.

  The Council tables were a quarter empty; many of those who had voted had left, returned to their offices, or gone off to nap. Still, for just after 3 a.m., it was easily as busy as on any normal day. Even now the air of frantic urgency had subsided only slightly; Councilors stood clustered in groups, murmuring voices establishing a gentle background susurration against which all else took place.

  Ripper stopped, spoke briefly with several of his allies, and returned to his table. His holos, turned off while he was gone, automatically relit at his approach, and hovered in the air off to his right and his left.

  NewsBoard looked interesting, a map of near-Earth space; he turned on his earphone, listened to the excited babble of voice, was aware of the slight reduction of background noise, throughout the Chamber, as others did the same.

  "... there are sixteen Relay Stations, most of them small units called 'talk-to-me's'; apparently only the large InfoNet Relay Station at Halfway, protected by a group of Space Force commandos, is still secure. Most of the balance of the--"

  The map of near-Earth space shown on NewsBoard suddenly vanished, as did the voice of the announcer. It was replaced by the image of a clean-shaven, fit-looking middle-aged man wearing what Ripper vaguely tagged as "military" clothing. The man did not look into the holocams for several seconds; he was apparently still setting up, turning on a handheld that was just visible in the holofield. A patch of blurriness in the holofield--bloody amateur, Ripper thought--showed where the handheld's field established itself.

  As the man looked up into the holocams, his image abruptly appeared in the Electronic Times holofield next to it; and a moment after that, in the feed from the Council Chamber itself.

  Ripper barely had time to notice the man's stiff features, characteristic of a PKF Elite of some twenty years ago, before the skin treatments had been improved to allow PKF more facial expressiveness. The thought flickered through his mind briefly, in a bright confused flash--PKF Elite, did we take back the Relay Stations already?--and then the man spoke. "I am the representative of the united Erisian Claw and Johnny Rebs. Today we have taken the step--" The Elite's voice was drowned out in Ripper's earphone, underneath a growing wave of noise from the assembled Councilors. The man spoke several sentences that Ripper could not hear; Ripper yelled at the top of his lungs, "Shut up!"

  The babble died slowly; Ripper pumped up the volume on his earphone to its highest volume and the voice of the man in the holofield grew audible again:

  "--complete control of the Halfway InfoNet Relay Station, and all supporting Relay Stations. A fierce battle is being fought, even as we speak, for the laser cannon platforms. We have reinforced our Japanese allies, and before the day is out we expect to have the cannon in our hands." The man paused. "We have chosen this day and this time to bring you this message. My name is Christian J. Summers, and I was once a Peaceforcer Elite. Today I am a member of the Johnny Rebs, an associate of the Erisian Claw; and today, in a meeting of the banned United States Congress, the following resolution was approved for release."

  Ripper knew what was coming; surely most of those in the Council Chambers had to. Nonetheless the knowledge did not prevent the sudden fierce chill that ran down his spine, the prickling of the hairs at the back of his neck.

  It was 3:10 a.m., just after midnight on the West Coast; for them, the first moments of the TriCentennial. Christian J. Summers spoke in measured cadence, solemnly, words carrying to all of Earth, broadcast beyond Earth to the rest of the Solar System:

  "In Congress, July 4th, 2076. The unanimous Declaration of these unlawfully occupied United States of America:

  "When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which have connected them..."

  This time the roar of sound grew until Ripper, standing motionless and watching Christian Summers speak, could not hear a word though the volume control on his earphone was pumped all the way up.

  Ripper found himself coming to his feet, stood motionless and watched Summers speak. In his heart was a profound void. He had once been a United States Senator, and he would until his death be an American at the core of his person.

  But in the bravery shown by Christian Summers, in the slow reading of what newsdancers would, in half an hour, be calling the Second Declaration of Independence, Douglass Ripper saw nothing but disaster.

  After a while he turned and made his slow, solitary way from the Chamber. No one tried to stop him, no one spoke to him as he left; virtually no one even noticed him leaving.

  He knew the words by heart; though he could no longer hear Summers' voice, could no longer even hear the noise of the Chamber, the somber phrases rolled on through his awareness.

  That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed--

  Ripper did not realize that tears were running down his cheeks. He knew only that he could not remember having felt such vast pain since his mother's death, nearly twenty years prior.

  That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or abolish it--

  Douglass Ripper sat down abruptly, sat at the base of the stairs leading up to the Chamber, and in front of thirty Peaceforcers and half a hundred newsdancer spyeyes, buried his face in his hands and through his tears whispered to himself, "Oh, God. You stupid fucks."

  * * *

  62.

  "We are out of here."

  "Whaa?"

  It was Trent, fresh clown makeup applied, a sad face this time, rousing me from where I slept at my desk. He was grinning at me. "Wake up, Neil. Time to go."

  The briefcase with the gold was next to my desk. I said groggily, "What's happening?"

  "Rebs just declared independence. Twenty minutes ago. And we got attacked by a group of Rebs who clearly had no idea that Space Force was protecting the Halfway Relay Station--"

  "Wait--"

  "We made noises like a couple of battalions, exploded a nuke close enough to them to scare them a bit--"

  "What's the hurry?"

  "Eddore," said Trent impatiently, "has what he needs. Japan rose, the U.S. is rising, he'll get the martial law he wants. Now he can send real Space Force in to protect the InfoNet Relay Station, and he doesn't have to worry abou
t the Rebs not rising, cause they already have. Clear?"

  "He doesn't need you any more."

  "Need me?" Trent laughed aloud. "As of twenty minutes ago I'm the most dangerous enemy he has left. Come on, Neil, grab your gold and let's get out of here."

  Trent wasn't kidding; his Collective crew was boarding the Lew Alton, moving at an easy trot, when Trent and I, the really big clown right behind us, passed through Lock Ten on the way to Marc's private yacht. We stopped at the yacht's airlock. "Somebody's going to go let Marc out, aren't they?"

  Trent blinked. The big clown loomed behind him. "Sure. I mean, eventually. I suppose."

  "I can't leave him in jail for Space Force to find him. That's not--"

  "Sure you can," Trent said briskly. "You don't have time to do anything else, your yacht is leaving in four minutes. And I have less time than that."

  I took a deep breath. "Okay. Thank you--I think."

  "You're welcome." Trent the Uncatchable's voice softened. "Good luck. It's not easy being a legend, is it?"

  "No. I never really got used to it myself. And you're going to have it worse."

  "I know." He shrugged, changed the subject. "I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help, but I have no time." He paused a second, a distant expression flickering across his face. "Here they come. Space Force is on its way already. We're going to have us a chase for sure; you might. We'd probably be dodging laser fire from the Unity all the way back to Venus if I hadn't knocked out their weapons control last night."

  I simply stared at him. "You took out the Unity's laser cannon?"

  "No, just the targeting mechanisms."

  "How did you--"

  Trent grinned at me. "Monofilament fineline. It's a neat trick, I'll tell you all about it some day."

  "You are the most amazing person I've ever met."

  Trent blinked. "A Peaceforcer said that to me once. Then he tried to kill me. Goodbye, Neil." Trent turned away without looking back; the big clown paused a moment.

  "Just 'amazing'?" It was the first time I ever remember hearing anybody call Trent the Uncatchable this, and I think the big clown who did it was joking. "Don't you know? The man is God." The clown grinned at me. Trent was gone, out of sight around the corridor bend. "Have a good flight."

  Jay and Shell were inside the yacht, snakechained to the seats.

  They both glared at me as I strapped into the pilot's seat and stowed my briefcase in the webbing beneath it. "He couldn't very well leave you behind, now could he? And you certainly didn't want to go with him, Shell in particular I imagine."

  Neither of them said a thing. Couldn't, really, with their mouths taped shut.

  I'm not much of a pilot; I pulled up Trent's re-entry path, scanned the quick and slow versions, and said, "Command, launch. Let's go home."

  The shipcomp said quietly, in Trent the Uncatchable's voice, "Launching. Someday again, Neil Corona."

  The rockets kicked me in the back.

  No one came after us, and shortly Earth's horizon opened up and swallowed us.

  * * *

  63.

  Three days at Halfway, cooped up with a group of totally humorless SpaceFarers, sharing a cabin with F.X. Chandler, who, for all he might have been a wild "heavy metal" musician once an infinity ago, was today a fucking old man and kept acting like it.

  Early on the morning of July the Fourth, the TriCentennial, a young black man in civilian clothes--black jeans, magslips, a T-shirt with a holo of the singer Mahliya Kutura on it--came for Jimmy. "You're Jimmy Ramirez, aren't you?"

  Chandler was asleep in the other bed, webbed in, float chair folded up at his side. Jimmy looked up at the opening of his cabin door. "Yeah. Who are you?"

  "Do you want to come up to the bridge with me? We're leaving orbit in a couple of minutes and I think you might find it interesting."

  Jimmy shrugged. "Sure."

  "Great." The man raised his voice. "'Sieur Chandler?"

  The old man stirred, sat up, and said in a rusty voice, "Yeah?"

  "We're boosting in five minutes. It'll be announced, but you'll want to be awake for it."

  Chandler nodded, spoke around a yawn. "Okay. Thanks."

  "In case we go above three gees, you know how to use your stasis bubble?"

  "Yes. Thank you."

  On the way up to the bridge--a trip in itself, the ship was large--the young man kept looking at Jimmy. Finally, in annoyance, Jimmy said, "The answer is no."

  "What was the question?"

  "You're gay, right?"

  "Well, no. I mean, not very." The young man seemed to consider it. "I don't think so."

  "What the hell are you looking at?"

  The young man glided steadily forward, magslip covered feet drifting bare centimeters over the deck. Jimmy had the feeling that he could have moved much faster if he had not had to wait for Jimmy, hampered as he was by both an unfamiliar prosthesis and drop. The man glanced at Jimmy yet again. "Been a while, my man. You've put on some weight, lost some muscle." He chuckled. "Become a lawyer. Want to hear a good joke?"

  Jimmy shook his head. "Look, I don't know you and I don't--" and then his voice trailed off.

  His guide glided to a stop at the entrance to the bridge, and turned around to face Jimmy. "Don't you?"

  Jimmy had to put a hand out to the bulkhead to stop his progress; he was learning to dislike drop. After he bounced off the wall once he managed to get himself turned around, facing the black man. "What?"

  "Scenes like this," the man said, "should be played under gravity. So that you can run in slow motion down the beach. It's kind of hard to do in drop. Actually."

  For a long moment Jimmy did not breathe. He thought his heart had stopped. "Is--Trent?"

  The impossible brown eyes held him. "Want to go share a blanket and find out?"

  "You--Trent?"

  "Not that you were any good."

  Jimmy Ramirez said slowly, "I've had better, myself."

  "Hey, bro. I'd give you a hug or something, but you used to have problems with that."

  Jimmy Ramirez stared at him, then stepped forward, wrapped Trent in a bear hug and whispered fiercely in his ear, "My man."

  The bridge door curled aside. The woman who stepped through, elderly and white-haired, in a Collective uniform with a patch that said Captain Saunders, said mildly, "Sweet. But you're blocking the door."

  Jimmy let go of Trent abruptly, left Trent drifting in midair. Trent grinned at Jimmy, grabbed the frame of the door and pushed himself back into contact with the deck, and went inside to the bridge.

  Jimmy Ramirez followed, aware that everyone on the bridge was watching them as they entered.

  It is virtually impossible for even a light-brown-skinned man to blush convincingly. Jimmy Ramirez managed it.

  "They're the cheap seats," Trent commented, "but they're still the best in the house if you're a civilian."

  They had strapped into a pair of seats off to the far right of a rather largish bridge. At least Jimmy thought it was a large bridge; he didn't have much to compare by.

  "Large," Trent said briefly in response to his question. "Everything about the ship is. Crew of thirty-five, passenger capability of about two hundred fifty. And fast, though she doesn't look it; chameleon polypaint, radar quiet, the works. We're going to need it all; there's a Space Force task force headed for us; left L-4 about sixteen minutes ago. Space Force is boosting at three gees. If they put all their people in stasis bubbles--and they will have them on board--they can get up to fifteen."

  "We're going to boost out of here at fifteen gees?"

  "No, of course not," Trent said mildly. "This is a civilian ship. We don't have nearly enough stasis bubbles to do something like that. We have to arrange to get lost instead. A Collective escort is waiting for us at Venus, but first we have to make Venus. Then we'll slingshot in around the sun, and then head for the Belt."

  "But first we have to get away from Earth/Luna."

  The Captain returned, moved forwar
d to her seat. "That's the general idea, 'Sieur Ramirez. Now, if you please, will both of you shut up?"

  Trent held a finger up to his lips, whispered in a stage whisper, "She means it."

  Captain Saunders did not glance at Trent. "Command, outspeakers." Her voice boomed out across the length of the ship. "BOOST IN TEN SECONDS, 980 CENTIMETERS PER SECOND SQUARED. THAT'S ONE GEE TO DOWNSIDERS. SUCK IT IN."

  Gravity came up slowly; suddenly forward was up. It took a couple seconds to reach full boost. In the viewholos, the vast bulk of Halfway seemed to drift slowly away, to their left.

  Jimmy's earphone came alive. Trent's voice; not this voice, which had a deeper timbre, but the tenor he remembered from their childhood. "Really don't talk until we're out of danger; she'll get seriously upset. She has no sense of humor. Of course SpaceFarers don't."

  The viewholo split into three separate perspectives; behind them, Halfway fell away, slowly turning from a mass that covered half the sky, to something that was merely as large as Earth; and then smaller yet. Before them, an optically enhanced image showed five bright sparks against a star speckled background. "Space Force; the task force that's going to try chasing us."

  Jimmy glanced over at Trent, found Trent staring at the holos, a faint grin playing across his lips, coming and going; clearly vastly entertained. "This is my favorite part," Trent said. "Please accept my apologies now in case we die doing this."

  The third segment of the holofield showed a map, not to scale, of the Earth/Luna system. Their ship was a bright yellow triangle, moving away from a stylized Earth that was being devoured by a swarm of gnats. Bright red patches marked the remains of destroyed ships; the map showed eight. Green dots were laser cannon, about forty of them; blue dots were craft whose beacons identified them as Space Force. There were no rebel craft shown in the field; that was to be expected. It didn't mean there were no rebel craft in orbit--highly unlikely--merely that the rebels wouldn't be identifying themselves to anyone who asked.

  Toward the far edge of the map holo, five blue arrows moved slowly toward the Lew Alton. Luna, L-4, and L-5 were visible. "They'll have realized by now that we're moving away from Halfway. In another minute or two they'll realize where we're headed."