A Tale Of The Continuing Time - The Last Dancer Part 18

That's the whole bill.

There is no provision for return of improperly confiscated property.

If this bill pa.s.ses, it will, not coincidentally, be the end ofThe Rise and Fall of the American Empire, an anti-Unification Board generally believed to be owned by an Al.

Your representatives vote on this evil property-confiscating bill-Bill 58-1022-on Tuesday. You know what to do.

STAND UP-FIGHT BACK- SPREAD THE WORD.

- 5 -.

In an auditorium a kilometer beneath the surface of Capitol City, Mohammed Vance stood in the midst of the blackness and waited for the holograph.

The image of the person who had given his name as Sedon of the Gi'Suei hovered next to him, life-size.

It came from Sedon's brief imprisonment at the PKF Detention Center near Amiens.

Vance walked around the image, imprinting the man's bone structure deep in his memory. "Very good,"

he said at length. "Next."

The image that appeared was slightly fuzzy; two-dimensional, taken at a distance of some two hundred meters. The man was stepping from a limousine, hurrying with half a dozen known Rebs toward a parked semiballistic capsule. His hair was long and blond, tied in a ponytail; his skin was the color of a Caucasian with a deep tan, and his eyes were bright blue.

But the bone structure had not been altered at all. The same high cheeks, the same long Roman nose.

Vance said quietly, "Lights up, dim."

Three persons stood in the room with him; Alexander Moreau, Hand to the Secretary General; PKF Elite Commander Christine Mirabeau; and Terence LeFevre, the current appointed head of the Ministry of Population Control.

Vance largely ignored LeFevre; this was not a civilian affair, and if he had had his way in the matter, LeFevre would not have been invited to the briefing. It was not even a matter of the customary rivalry between the PKF and the Ministry; Vance did not trust LeFevre, did not consider him competent. If the Ministry had sent Gabrielle Laronde, the Ministry's senior nonelected official, Vance would have been little better pleased; except that, if business with the Ministry were required, Gabrielle would have conducted it in a professional manner.

LeFevre was merely a politician.

Vance turned to Alexander Moreau, one of the few persons who had been present when Sedon's bubble had been opened for whom Vance had any respect whatsoever. "What do you think, Hand Moreau?"

Moreau was young for a Hand, in his thirties, and that was due, unquestionably, to the name he had been born to; nonetheless he was modestly talented, and Vance had some hope that he might one day, after some seasoning, serve as the first French Secretary General since Tenerat, some forty-five years prior.

Moreau shrugged. A thin, intense young man, he spoke in quick, chopped sentences that gave the impression he was answering off the top of his head. "It looks like him to me."

"Christine?"

"I never met Sedon. I've done no more than view the holos of him." Vance's superior shrugged. "If you feel it is him, I will back your judgment in the matter."

Mohammed Vance nodded. He did not even consider requesting LeFevre's opinion. "I would like to submit to the Secretary General a request to place M. Obodi on the bounty listings at CU:six million."

LeFevre whistled. "That's a million more than Trent the Uncatchable lists for."

Vance did not even look at the man. "Don't call him that. He's not. Hand Moreau, I will arrange the request. I will expect it upon the Secretary General's desk within a day."

Moreau nodded. "It will be. The SecGen's a Christian, you know; he'll be in Church tomorrow. You probably won't receive a response until Monday."

"That's acceptable. We are done. Christine, may we speak privately?"

"Certainly." The two Elite headed for the door together, and might have left then had Elite cyborgs had less excellent hearing; Alexander Moreau said softly to Terence LeFevre, "I wonder how Trent's going to feel about that."

Vance stopped in midstep. After a long moment he turned back. "Hand Moreau? I beg your pardon?"

The young Hand blinked. "Yes?"

"What did you say?"

"Ah-I wondered how Trent would feel about not being Number One."

"I thought that was what you'd said. Perhaps," said Vance after a pause, "you should concern yourself less with the feelings of enemies of the Unification, and more with the performance of your job." Vance's voice did not rise, his expression did not alter. His glittering black eyes stayed fixed upon Moreau's. "If I stood in your skin, I would be rather more concerned about the possibility of being prosecuted for dereliction of duty, than about whether one of the Unifications enemies is upset over being judged somewhat less dangerous than another of our enemies."

Simply from the tone of his voice, Mohammed Vance might have been discussing what he had eaten for breakfast.

Hand Moreau swayed slightly when Vance was done: Vance's political enemies had an unpleasant habit of ending up unfortunately, accidentally dead. "Yes, Commissionaire. I will take your advice."

Vance made a dismissive gesture and turned away again. "See you do. This briefing is closed."

They spoke together in the only place in all of Capitol City that Vance knew, for a fact, did not possess listening devices; there would have been no point to it.

Beneath the air vents that fed the Capitol City s.p.a.cesc.r.a.per in which the Peace Keeping Force was headquartered, standing motionless, heads together like lovers in the tornado roar of the wind, Mohammed Vance and Christine Mirabeau whispered in one another's artificial ears.

Mirabeau said, "What is it?"

"Secretary General Eddore continues to refuse us permission to break the Johnny Rebs."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Mirabeau shook her head, just a fraction. "I don't know, Mohammed. He says he has a private investigation ongoing, which will allow him to end any threat from the Rebs."

"Do you know anything about this investigation?"

Elite Commander Mirabeau whispered, "No."

"Christine, I am not convinced it exists."

Mirabeau said slowly, "Nor I, Mohammed. Nor I."

The following Tuesday morning, four hundred million kilometers away, in the depths of the Asteroid Belt, two Security Services guards stood immediately inside the airlock door of the largest recording studio off Earth itself, laser rifles at the ready. "Are you Trent?"

The young man floating in front of the airlock, wearing a scalesuit whose chest bore a painting of a river of blood running through a deeper red jungle, said, "Yes."

"Look into the light."

"I'm here for breakfast," Trent explained. The laser flashed through the faceplate of Trent's helmet, played over the retina of his right eye.

The guard nearer Trent, wearing a scalesuit much like Trent's except that it was stripped clean down to the metal, said, "You're Trent."

"I said I was."

The guard gestured Trent through, commenting, "Nice design."

"It's a painting I stole once."

"What's it called?"

"Je Suis le Fleuve,"said Trent, going inside. "I'm going to steal it again someday."

After Trent was gone, the two guards stood silently together.

Finally one guard said, "I hear he walked through a wall once."

The other guard simply snorted.

She greeted him as he entered her bedroom with the words, "They're voting on the AI property bill today. Looks like it's going to pa.s.s."

Trent shrugged. "It will."

Mahliya Kutura nodded, slightly distracted. "Also, you got b.u.mped from number one on the PKF's bounty list."

"Say what?"

The young woman generally recognized as the greatest living musician in the System floated in midair, showing herself off to advantage in a pair of green shorts and a white bikini top. She was turned slightly away from Trent and about eighty degrees off his vertical. She did not pay much attention to Trent; the wisp of a new melody floated in the back of her mind, and she knew that with a little gentle encouragement she could get it out of her skull and into the synthesizer. So it was that it took a moment for Trent's response to penetrate, and she repeated, "They b.u.mped you from number one. The most wanted fugitive in the system is the new head of the Johnny Rebs. They're offering Cu:six million for his capture. They announced it this morning." She paused, auditing the article floating forty centimeters in front of her eyes. "Fellow named Obodi."

Trent stared at her. "They can't do that."

She stared back into his almost upside-down eyes. "Why not?"

"I-I-Iworked for this. I've killed Peaceforcers Elite, I blew up half of Peaceforcer Heaven. I-"

"You didn't do either of those things," Mahliya said reasonably. "Garon fell, it was an accident, I've heard you say that."

"Well yes but-"

"And Commissioner Vance blew up s.p.a.cebase One after youtold him it was b.o.o.by-trapped, he should have listened. I've heard you say that too."

It stopped Trent for just a second. "Well, thePeaceforcers say I did those things. It seems to me that if I'm getting blamed for them, I might as well get the credit for it. By Harry, this isn'tfair."

"The PKF isn't noted for being fair, Trent."

"That's easy foryou to say," Trent muttered. "I stole the LINK," he said abruptly. "Idid that. And then I walked through a wall and ran away and embarra.s.sed thembadly."

"That's true," Kutura conceded.

"Shouldn't thatcount for something?" Trent demanded. "Wouldn't you think that would count?"

Kutura looked at him for a moment. Trent was the only person she knew who was as famous as she was-if in different circles; she doubted Commissioner Vance would recognize her name-and if you figured his net worth as including the bounty on his head, which she did, then he was also the only person she knew who was worth as much as she was. Which was perhaps a juvenile thing to even consider, but still; her wealth seemed to matter to everyone she met these days except Trent, and she supposed that must be the reason for it.

He was her age, twenty-five; she rather liked him and was thinking about sleeping with him.

Unfortunately he occasionally exhibited terrible,terrible ego problems, almost as bad as her own. "You know," said Mahliya Kutura after a moment, "if you're going to sulk over this, I really wish you'd do it somewhere else."

Trent looked as though he'd been slapped. "All right. Fine. Justine."

"Seriously. You're ruining my breakfast, and I haven't evenhad it yet."

Without saying anything further Trent stalked back out; a good trick in free fall.

Obviously,thought Mahliya Kutura after he was gone,couldn't think of a good exit line.

Late at night on Monday, May 18, 2076, Callia Sierran and her younger brother Lan arrived at a farm in Iowa.

The farm was a Johnny Reb stronghold. The fields around the farmhouse itself were planted with corn, row upon row of tall corn, stretching away toward the horizon, a sight such as Lan and Callia, raised in cities across the world, had never seen before in their lives. About a hundred meters of s.p.a.ce had been cleared all around the farmhouse; automated items of farm equipment that neither of them could identify, large and bulky, were parked around one end of the farm.

On the downlot in front of the house were several cars.

They brought their car down on a gentle incline of hillside, two kilometers from the farmhouse, and Lan scanned the structure with imaging binoculars. "Six cars. Hot engines on four of them... the one on the left is Domino's." He pa.s.sed the binoculars to his older sister.

Callia glanced through the binoculars, handed them back. "Let's head in."

The car lifted, moved forward.

They met in a large conference room several floors beneath the surface. There were eight people gathered together in the conference room, seated in a rough circle with Rebs on one side of the conference table, Claw on the other. Four bodyguards, two each from the Claw and the Rebs, stood on opposite sides of the door, watching each other.

The Reb lawyer said, "I think perhaps we should introduce ourselves before beginning."

Domino Terrencia said softly, "Feel free."

The lawyer took it as acceptance. "My name is James Ramirez. I have a degree, in Unification Criminal Law. You may know of me; I've been in the Public Defender's office in New York City for the last four years. I've had occasion to serve as the criminal defense for, I think, two of your people. Instances when you didn't want to use a lawyer with known sympathies. I've done much the same for our own people over the course of the last few years. I quit that job a week ago and went full-time here." He gestured to the man sitting next to him. "This is 'Sieur Obodi. To my left is Christian J. Summers, and to his left is Akira Hasegawa. I don't think Mister Summers requires an introduction; 'Sieur Hasegawa is here representing Mitsubishi of j.a.pan, the company that has maintained Mister Summers' nonbiological components for the last twenty years or so." He paused. "Max Devlin wasn't able to get away. He's been made by the PKF and he's being watched too closely. We're going to pull him free in the near future; if he were available, he'd be at this table now. Tommy Boone will not be here, as I believe you were told two weeks ago." Ramirez paused again. "That covers us."

"Very well." Domino spoke rapidly, aggressively. "I am Domino Terrencia. I am the second-in-command in the Claw. You've met Callia; the young man is her brother Lan. If you don't know who-"

"My dear." The old woman sitting at Domino's side made a dismissing gesture with one hand; Domino Terrencia ceased speaking instantly. "I will introduce myself." The pale blue eyes fixed themselves upon the man seated across the table from her, upon 'Sieur Obodi. She spoke without blinking, without looking away; there might have been no one in the room but themselves. "My name is Nicole Eris Lovely.

I am eighty-six years old and when I was forty-two I founded the Erisian Claw. I have seen seven different men lead the Johnny Rebs during the time since I founded the Claw. All seven of those brave, patriotic, ambitious men are now dead, and I am still here. That's who I am." She smiled a gentle, polite smile at the Rebs across the table from her, at Obodi. "Who the f.u.c.k are you?"

- 6 -.