Nobody shot him. Lan was mildly surprised.
Sedon did not move. The glare of his pale blue eyes fixed on Lan, he shook his head slightly.
"It's a grenade, motherfucker. Deadman pressure switched. I let go of it, and we're all going up together."
Sedon spoke with deadly calm. "What do you want, Lan?"
"Everyone puts down their weapons."
Sedon nodded, the glare not lessening. "And then?"
"My sister."
Sedon simply shook his head. "No. Kill him."
In the last act of his life, as the brilliant laser light washed across him, Lan Sierran, with something very like fulfillment, let go.
There was only one route to life. Sedon felt the air pressure changing as the shock wave began to expand outward from where the bottom half of Lan Sierran's remains still stood. Sedon was on his feet now, moving laterally to the expanding surface of the shock wave. The shrapnel and the heat outraced the more lethal shock wave; Sedon felt his hair burning, skin blistering. Tiny slivers of some metal-ceramic tore through him--he did not even have sufficient time to see if any of the wounds were potentially lethal. He kept moving, toward the long pane of glassite which looked out over San Diego, and now the shock wave itself touched, lifted him up and off his feet. He curled into a ball, and the shock wave slammed him like a handball into the surface of the glassite window. Under normal circumstances the window could not be broken, or even opened. These were not normal circumstances. The window bulged outward slightly under the immense pressure of the expanding wave front, and then blew out, shards of glassite and superheated air and Gi'Suei'Obodi'Sedon exploding out together into the cool night air, three stories above the streets of San Diego.
And falling.
He hit the ground as Vance's semiballistic landed on the roof.
Denice Castanaveras ran out into the plaza, Dvan behind her--
And stumbled to a halt.
The sky was on fire.
The sky blazed with light, roared with the sound of their drives, like nothing she had ever seen before in her life; like something out of an entertainment. Dozens, no, hundreds of them, more arriving with every second, semiballistics filling the sky above her, the glare of their rockets a firestorm that lit the sky from horizon to horizon. Artillery fire detonated across the length of the sky at their approach; lasers mounted elsewhere in the city strobed up into the sky to greet the approaching Unification. Denice froze as a semiballistic came up over the roof of the Latham Building, a bare twenty stories above her, and the glare of its rockets lit the plaza around her with an awful scarlet brilliance.
She stood in the midst of the dazzle, staring up at the burning sky, at power made immanent in the world in such a fashion that she knew that though she lived forever she would never forget it, would never lose this moment's perfect understanding of the meaning of power; stood there motionless, for an instant that would never end, beneath the glare of the impossible might of the Unification.
Then it did end and she turned and ran for the AeroSmiths.
Four of them; she took the one that was closest, for no reason other than that it was closest. To her surprise, the side door was open; she hesitated just a moment, but it was dark inside, bereft of heat sources. She moved into the AeroSmith, forward to the front, Dvan behind her. A control panel with a steering wheel; like most vehicles in California, designed for auxiliary manual operation. She doubted she could start it; she said quickly, "Command, carcomp. Are you turned on?"
The carcomp answered instantly. "Yes--" It paused, apparently unsure of her voice. "Yes, 'Selle," it said at last.
"Will you respond to my instructions?"
"No, 'Selle."
Denice fought back an urge to unload the laser into the thing; the lights of the SB's were getting brighter and brighter. The plaza outside the van was like daylight. "Can you give me access to the Net?"
"Yes, 'Selle."
Denice said rapidly, "Access 113102-KMET. Ralf!"
Ralf's voice came instantly: "Denice! Where are you?"
The voice behind them, gravelly and tired, said, "Command, cease Net access. And don't either of you even try to move."
Denice did not. She turned very slowly, to where the monster sat, tucked into a corner of darkness in the back of the van, autoshot pointing at her and Dvan. "Weapons down. Command, close the door. We're leaving. Now."
The anger, frustration, every emotion of the last several minutes vanished. She did not know a word for what she felt, beholding the battered form of Gi'Suei'Obodi'Sedon; some thing that was at once profound rage and purest joy.
The smile that lit her face at his appearance would have terrified a less desperate creature than Sedon. Sedon had seen it before, the smile of the god whose service he had rejected fifty thousand years ago.
He sat with his knees drawn up toward his chest, leaning back against the inner hull of the AeroSmith, autoshot propped on his right knee--his left leg was broken in three places, and his hip.
His finger rested on the autoshot's trigger.
Sedon watched calmly as his enemies placed their weapons on the carpeted floor of the van, not managing to care much whether he or they lived or died. When they had done as he instructed, he said quietly, "Command, lift."
The AeroSmith picked up and flew west, away from the descending fleet of semiballistics, into the gathering dark, chasing the last dim light of day.
Fifty of the most finely trained professional soldiers on Earth, the best of the best, descended through the shell of the Latham Building. They moved downward in no tremendous rush, but with the practiced speed of professional soldiers, augmented by improved musculature, widened senses, subtler communication. Unarmed men and women on the eighteenth, fourteenth, and thirteenth floors were allowed to surrender; were snake-chained en masse, and the Elite moved on.
Deep radar showed the distinctive signature of bones covered by ceramic laminae, moving on the fifth and sixth floor, and, motionless, in the lobby; by now the Elite knew what they were dealing with. They took the sixth floor in a quick, savage assault whose outcome was never in doubt, left eight of the Japanese cyborgs in various states of dead before moving down to the fifth floor, without fatalities or injuries of their own.
The two imitation Elite on the fifth floor committed suicide before the true Elite could get to them. They had cut their own throats; apparently the skin of the imitation cyborgs' faces and throats had not been toughened.
Bad design, commented one Elite to another.
Or vanity.
Either way, a lack of commitment.
They moved down to the fourth floor, and then the third, where they found nineteen martyrs hiding in a stairwell.
The martyrs identified themselves as such by shooting at them after the Elite had identified themselves. The Elite obliged; martyrs were always happier in heaven anyway.
Commissionaire Mohammed Vance, in the darkened lobby of the Latham Building, used his toe to turn one of the dead cyborgs over on his back. Vance had seen holos of the Japanese cyborgs; but this was his first opportunity to see one in person.
Well. It looked Japanese, certainly. A soft, soft face; the skin not treated. Vance snorted with contempt. Twice in his early career he had taken laser shots to the face that would have killed one of these cheap Jap knockoffs. For vanity, or to let them stay concealed in the general populace--for whatever reason--it was a poor decision.
This one did not seem to have any visible marks on him. Vance wondered briefly what had killed him, but did not truly care enough to probe for the death wound.
Perhaps he had broken in some unexpected way.
Vance looked around the lobby. He was forty-seven years old; by Elite standards, old for such work as this. In the last two days he had not slept, had barely eaten; had reached San Diego, the place where the American rebels would make their last, most desperate stand; and found a city in disarray, scattered and ineffective opposition, and rebel headquarters with the reb
els killing each other and saving the PKF the need.
He shook his head slightly, in what might have been amusement if he had not been so bone-weary. These were the people who had dreamed of toppling the greatest power in all of human history; probably they had made detailed plans for what they would do after the overthrow; spent the Credit before they'd earned it.
Mohammed Vance shook his head again, and walked out into the plaza in front of the Latham Building. The PKF had knocked out power to most of the city; they had strung arc lamps, powered by the SB's onboard fusion plants, around the edge of the plaza, to light things. Corpses were scattered about, but most of the living humans in the plaza were PKF; a scant dozen, sitting snakechained together on the ground in front of a PKF semiballistic, were rebels. Vance walked over toward them.
His personal aide, Captain Hilè, approached him. "Commissioner."
Vance nodded, slowed slightly. "Report."
"Sedon is not among the prisoners; he may be among the dead."
"Go on."
"An AeroSmith VTL, civilian cargo model, lifted as we were approaching the city; it was the fourth vehicle of the three that still sit here in the plaza. In the general attack it was ignored--one car among thousands--but the satellite record shows that it headed out west, over the ocean. Toward Japan. We're tracking by satellite, and they're still moving."
Vance stopped in front of the snakechained prisoners. "Do they have the range to make Japan?"
"Not in that vehicle. No sir."
"Close?"
"Not even remotely, sir." Hilè hesitated. "Hawaii, possibly."
Vance nodded. "Send a bulletin. Alert them. If it reaches Hawaii, take the vehicle into custody, if possible; or destroy it."
"Otherwise?"
Vance shrugged. "Let it go. If its pilot wants to drown, it's one less we have to execute." He nudged one of the prisoners with his boot; the man seemed in some way vaguely familiar. "You!" The prisoner, an older Asian man, looked up at Vance with such a pitiably terrified expression that Vance was moved to compassion. His knees creaked as he lowered himself down to the old man's level, spoke to the man in English. "Calm down, old fellow. What is your name?"
"Ho, sir, Tommy Ho!"
"What were you doing with the rebels, Tommy?"
"Not work the rebels," Tommy informed him. "Work the shop. Sell candy, hot dogs, gum." Tommy paused, added diffidently, "Best chewing gum! Wrigley's Spearmint! Number One!"
Vance nodded. "Yes. I'm sure." He stood slowly, chuckled. "I'm getting old, Captain. He looked familiar to me."
The prisoner looked down again, and his features settled into an emptiness that might have been mistaken for serenity.
Vance's aide said, "They all look alike, sir."
Vance nodded. "True enough. Print him with the others, genes, eyes, palms and fingers. Let me know."
Hilè nodded. "Yes, Commissioner."
Over an hour had passed since David Castanaveras had flown south in a stolen Chandler 1790. He was, in a direct line, very nearly two hundred and fifty kilometers away from the Latham Building.
Up on the nineteenth floor, his handheld, taken away from him when he had arrived at the Latham Building and stored casually in an empty locker, listened very carefully for the tiny radio beacon implanted next to David Castanaveras' heart. Several times in the last few minutes it had not received enough of a signal to be sure that it was registering David's heartbeat.
It lost the signal again. The handheld waited, counting.
After David's heart had been stopped for a full thirty seconds, his handheld detonated itself.
The top eight floors of the Latham Building came off in gorgeous, majestic slow motion. Most of it fell down into the plaza where Mohammed Vance stood next to Robert Dazai Yo.
* * *
74.
The AeroSmith flew through the black night, five meters above the surface of the waves.
They had been moving westward for most of an hour and a half, at near two hundred klicks an hour.
Denice sat on the floor facing the monster, hands on her knees. In their movement there was no sound but the rush of the wind. "What did you do to him?"
It was the fifth time she had attempted to engage him in conversation. The first four attempts had failed. The last time he had fired a round from the autoshot by her head. In a larger space it would have killed her. Here he was so close that the buckshot did not have time to ungroup much.
A single pellet had dug a furrow in her left temple. The rest of the shot had struck the instrument panel behind her; some of the ricochet had struck Dvan.
Denice had not blinked and Dvan had not flinched. The van did not seem to be damaged. It continued to fly straight and level.
This time Sedon simply raised an eyebrow, said, "I?" in a voice cold and blank. "No more than he earned."
The subject of their conversation sat motionless, facing forward, where Denice had left him. After laying down his weapon for Sedon, Dvan had closed his eyes and gone still.
Denice watched the monster, made no attempt to hide her regard. The man was plainly exhausted. And badly injured; his leg and hip must be hurting terribly. Blisters made one side of his face livid, though not the other, and for a moment Denice was forcibly reminded of their evening together in his penthouse, of the white glow across one cheek, the pale infrared on the other.
He was bleeding even yet in several different places.
But Sedon's eyes upon her were never less than alert, and the barrel of the autoshot never wavered.
"And what was that?" Denice persisted. "What had he earned? Why?"
Sedon's voice was sleepy, but the sleepiness of a great cat, prepared for anything. "My dear. He took from me so many many things. Love, and youth, and plans. The community of my own kind. You have heard his tale of our coming into this eternal exile; I fought for justice, not power. For the right to determine my own life, for those around me to determine theirs. All my life that has been all I ever sought. To determine my life as I would."
Denice said in a small voice, "I empathize."
"Indeed. You would."
"What did you do to him? How can I fix it?"
Mild surprise crossed Sedon's features. "You don't know?" A weary smile touched him. "I thought you did. I have been sitting here impressed that you knew to invoke his Dedication, and surprised that the Shield Dedication should yield up a man who would fulfill that obligation even while the wire sits in his skull, pouring electricity into his pain centers." The smile sat on his features, distant and dreamy. "And to think I was admiring your ruthlessness in controlling your Shield."
Denice's eyes widened. "You mean--"
"At its highest setting, if it is as I left it." Sedon gestured with his free hand. "Go, take it from his skull. I won't stop you."
Denice rose, turned to where Dvan sat in the front seat, facing into the onrushing darkness. Her fingers probed the unruly thickness of his hair; and here. A small round plug, no larger than a thumbnail, tucked under the thick black hair; she got a grip on it with two fingers and tugged.
Dvan leaned backward in the seat, eyes staring up at the vehicle's ceiling, nothing visible in them but the whites, and sighed. Muscles she had not even realized he was holding tensed abruptly released, across his body.
His eyes closed again and he went limp.
"You said something to me, in our last conversation. I've been wanting to ask you about it."
Sedon nodded. "That being?"
"You said you had changed yourself. But I did not see it."
"Unfortunate."
"How did you mean?"
Sedon sat quietly for so long Denice did not think he intended to answer her. "There was a day when survival was not all I wished of the world. When I wanted companionship. Love. The respect of peers--the company of peers." He shook his head with a weariness so profound Denice believed it would have killed her to experience it, closed his eyes and leaned back against the hull. "And I believed that by res
urrecting the memories of the man who had wanted those things, I might find myself more able to comprehend the things that drove you."
"I don't understand that. Why was it important for you to understand me?"
"You are a Dancer, within a day or two. I see the Consecration recently within you."
"Yes."
"But you have not Danced yet. Am I a Dancer, though I Dance no more?"
Denice sat still, looking at Gi'Suei'Obodi'Sedon.
At length Sedon opened his eyes again, looked at her over the barrel of the autoshot.
Denice took a deep breath, steadying her shaking nerves, and said, "Who do you want to be?"
Gi'Suei'Obodi'Sedon leaned forward ever so slightly. "It's too late for me to make that choice."
The words came to Denice in a rush, a tumble: "But the reality is that you do have a choice. You are not just the description of your experiences; the one who was a Dancer once, or an exile, or who led a rebellion; with all of those things taken away, you are still here. You are a whole person, Sedon, and you must make choices as a whole person. Perhaps that part of you who was a Dancer is dead. But you are not dead. Some person you used to be is dead. But you are here, with me, right now." Sedon nodded, very slowly, and Denice said, "I've died twice already myself, and I'm only twenty-three. But it does not make me dead."
"I do not understand your people," he said later. "You are--very different from us."
"We would be," Denice said. "I forget how Dvan put it--the descendants of his people's criminals and insane. Even with modern geriatrics we don't live all that long. We have to live now."
Sedon nodded.
"It's the place I understand you least, Sedon. You're prepared to live tomorrow, remember having lived yesterday; but the man I'm sitting with isn't even sure he's alive, because he does not Dance."
Sedon said softly, "I wish you would Dance for me."
Denice shook her head. "There's no space."
"And if there was, you wouldn't." He spoke with calm certainty.
The Last Dancer Page 61