A Tale Of The Continuing Time - The Last Dancer Part 2

After the stretches she did weight work, then pushups, and then situps. At 7:15 two witches Jasmine knew slightly came in, warmed up too quickly, and started running on the padded quarter-kilometer track that ran around the gym's perimeter. Jasmine ignored them; after finishing her situps she waited sixty seconds for her heartbeat to slow, then came to her feet and strapped a pair of fifteen-kilo weights to each wrist. She stood motionless a second, thinking. She considered Kutura, and then rejected it; Mahliya Kutura was her favorite musician, but Kutura was too slow: she wanted tomove.

Jasmine said aloud,"Command: The Politics of Dance."

The music, the work of a Brazilian artist who had been dead for fifteen years before Jasmine had even been born, came up slowly enough, as slowly as anything by Kutura. Jasmine closed her eyes, let the sound wash over her, the slow beat of the drums, the rising saxophone, and the sax rose and rose, higher and higher, and despite herself Jasmine felt her breath quickening in antic.i.p.ation of the coming moment- -the music broke like a wave, enveloped Jasmine inside a wall of sound. She took a slow step forward, arms unfolding like a flower greeting the sun, pivoted, lifted a foot and turned, spun, brought her hands and the weights back in toward herself, the spin whipped her to a dizzying speed, and then the drums came back, faster now, and faster, and Jasmine Martinez danced into the music, brought the music into herself, and ceased to be aware of the world, of the witches who had stopped running to watch her, and with the music holding and enveloping her moved and moved and moved andmoved.

Until she could move no more.

Darkness descended around Jasmine as she walked to Alaya's office.

She wore traveling clothes: a black jumpsuit with silver zippers, and a pair of soft gray boots that came to midcalf. Everything she owned in the world was packed into the black satchel in her right hand: a makeup key, changes of clothing, her InfoNet link. Hardcopy of two letters, unsigned, from Trent the Uncatchable.

That Thursday evening was warm, with a gentle summer breeze; the sky to the south glowed slightly with the lights of Los Angeles. White and yellow glowfloats bobbed over the streets of G.o.ddess Home, came flickering on one by one as Jasmine walked the two kilometers to Alaya's office. G.o.ddess Home was a small place, a feminist witch's enclave of eight thousand. Men-some witches themselves-were welcome to visit, and Jasmine saw a few on the streets as she walked; but they were not supposed to spend the night and were not allowed to live among the witches.

For most of the witches the exclusion of men was not an inconvenience. Many were lesbians, and those who were not often found the lack of enforced day-to-day contact with men refreshing.

From her handheld a voice issued, the voice of Ralf the Wise and Powerful: "Flight confirmed. I had to kill a web angel at the Dallas changeover; stay out of the InfoNet while pa.s.sing through the Dallas exchange. Otherwise your journey should be safe."

Jasmine knew a response was not expected of her, and so did not give one. Indeed, Ralf's message barely altered the flow of her thoughts, impinged only slightly upon her melancholy awareness of the home she was leaving.

G.o.ddess Home was different from any other place Jasmine had ever known. There were no slidewalks, and no powered vehicles of any sort except for those employed by the three witches crippled beyond even the reach of modern medicine. In her adult life it was the first place Jasmine had ever lived where she had felt any sense of community. Four women greeted her by name as she walked through the streets to see Alaya Gyurtrag, and everywhere women were gathered in groups: at the town's only park, at one of the town's five sidewalk cafes. Their voices floated at the limits of comprehensibility, hundreds of women, a few male voices: the sounds of home.

I'm,going to miss this.

The thought came unbidden, closely followed: But it is not safe to stay.

"I'm catching the Bullet out of Burbank at nine-fifteen. If we could make this quick, I'd appreciate it."

"Certainly," said Alaya warmly. "Have a seat."

Jasmine seated herself in the indicated chair, travel bag between her feet. She was distantly amused to note that the chair left her eyes about eight centimeters below the level of Alaya's, who was not a tall woman. Alaya had changed from the business suit she had been wearing that morning; now she was dressed almost as casually as Jasmine, in a pair of yellow shorts and a white silk blouse. She was barefooted on the pale blue s.h.a.g rug of her office.

The office reflected the personality its occupant wished to project. A single power crystal hung on a solid gold chain over the doorway, and another crystal, somewhat larger, sat on a small stand at the side of Alaya's desk. The desk itself was antique American, real redwood, over 150 years of age and hand polished on every surface until it glowed a dusky shade of crimson beneath the office's pleasant yellow sunpaint. The walls were hung with neo-Impressionist paintings, dating largely from the 1920s: women with parasols at the beach, a man on a bicycle, two children sharing an ice cream cone, all done in warm yellows and blues and greens.

"What can I do for you, Alaya?"

Alaya Gyurtrag sat with her hands folded before her. Her silver hair was pulled back from her face and hung in a single long braid down her back. Bright blue eyes fixed themselves upon Jasmine. "We're going to miss you, you know that."

"So I've been told. But between us, Alaya, you and I have never been close, and neither of us is going to miss the other. So what can I do for you?"

Alaya chuckled with what seemed to Jasmine genuine amus.e.m.e.nt. "Your point is well made. What you can do for me, Jasmine, is-relieve my curiosity about a business matter."

"Oh? In what way?"

"Why are you leaving us?"

The blunt question gave Jasmine a moment's pause.

"Really," Alaya continued, "you could not choose a worse time for it if you tried. July the Fourth is only six days away; the Independence Day riots are due to begin shortly. G.o.ddess Home issafe; we haven't had Independence Day riots in our history. And you're not the only one leaving us; we've had resignations pick up twelve percent this year."

"Twelve percent?"

Alaya nodded. "I haven't publicized the figure. Next month I will complete my first anniversary as City Manager, and women are leaving G.o.ddess Home, for the first time, faster than they are joining. And I know it's my fault but I don't knowwhy."

Jasmine considered. "Many of the reasons I'm leaving are personal, Alaya. But there are two Iwill share with you. My finances are poor. I haven't worked except at community tasks in over two years, and my savings are nearly gone. The two ways I am capable of making a living-as a dancer and as a martial arts instructor-are inapplicable to G.o.ddess Home. The population is too small to support a dance troupe-"

"We tried to get you to teach a cla.s.s in self-defense."

"You don't need it," said Jasmine patiently. "As I said at the time. Violence within G.o.ddess Home is rare. Those of you who venture outside are handicapped by unfamiliarity with violence and insufficient time for training. If I were to teach the women here to defend themselves, they would still, most likely, be hurt in any encounter where they were required to defend themselves. The willingness to hurt an opponent, todamage him, is more important than simply knowing how; and that willingness is something I can't teach. And I'm not sure I wish to. Personal Protection Systems, expensive though they are, are a better investment of G.o.ddess Home's time and Credit. You just don't go outside that often?' Jasmine shrugged. "You've heard this before. The fact is that in Los Angeles, in any major city, I can make a living at both of my trades. In G.o.ddess Home I cannot make a living at either.

"The second reason I'm willing to share with you is simple. When I joined G.o.ddess Home, Marta Tracing held your job. She was a quiet person, and I found her easy to get along with. Since Marta pa.s.sed away, intolerance over ideological purity has grown to the point where I am no longer comfortable here. I don't think I need to be more explicit."

Alaya nodded slowly. "You've evaded this question before, but we are alone, and you are leaving-what do you truly think of Wicca?"

Jasmine sighed. "Why does it matter?"

"Wicca is-" Alaya's frustration was apparent. "It's the entirepoint of G.o.ddess Home. It's the reason this town exists. If you're not here because of Wicca, why are you here?" She paused. "Or, if you like, whywere you here?"

"I didn't say that I did not find Wicca attractive. It is-a life-affirming system of beliefs. Theologically it's no sillier than Christianity; it seems so at times only because it doesn't have two thousand years of ornate rationalization to fall back upon. Emotionally it's at least as healthy as any other religion I'm familiar with.

The rituals are less elaborate than those of the older religions, but that, too, is part of the charm.

But-Alaya, when you make the doctrine, the detail of ritual, more important than the connection to Deity that it is supposed to serve, you are in the process of turning Wicca into something very much like the patriarchal, authoritarian religions you detest. I don't believe in your G.o.ddess, Alaya. I also don't believe in the Christian G.o.d. I believe in something, becauseI've felt it in my own life. When I was younger I used to think it was what everybody else called G.o.d, and for a little while I did think it might be what Wicca calls the G.o.ddess. But today I admit I don't know what it is, that I have no words for it. And when you insist that what I feel is-or should be-what you have written down on paper, or what you speak in ritual, you lose me, Alaya. And a lot of other people, apparently."

Alaya bit her lower lip. "Thank you for your frankness."

"I hope it's of some help."

"Well. So much for that." Alaya dismissed the subject with a visible effort. When she spoke again she was clearly nervous. "There was something else I wanted to talkto you about, if you have a moment. I'll make it quick."

"Please. I have less than half an hour to make the Bullet."

"I'm curious as to how you came to join us, three years ago."

"I believe it's in the records."

"Very little of it is in the records, Jasmine; Marta left us two rather terse paragraphs explaining it as a matter of personal obligation. A 'Sieur McGee did some work for us about ten years ago-the nature of that work isn't in the records either. Then three years ago he pet.i.tioned to have you admitted for residency in G.o.ddess Home. I think you may be the only woman who has ever lived here whose pet.i.tion was presented by a man."

Jasmine nodded. "Marta said she thought I was."

Alaya waited expectantly.

Jasmine let the silence stretch, smiling. When twenty seconds had pa.s.sed she said softly, "My father used to do this to people. Throw silence at them and wait for them to start talking. It seemed so obvious when I was nine years old, even then I was always surprised when I saw it work."

"But it's not going to work on you, is it? And you're not going to tell me how you came to G.o.ddess Home."

Jasmine shook her head. "It was a private matter between myself and 'Sieur McGee and Marta. Marta is dead and I would not know how to contact Sieur McGee if my life depended upon it."

Alaya nodded, hesitating, and then said abruptly, "You'rereal."

Jasmine said carefully, "I beg your pardon?"

"A lot of the women who study Wicca, who cast the spells and make the circles, they-" Alaya hesitated again. "A lot of them-almost all of them, d.a.m.n it-are kidding themselves. But you're real, you have something. I have a little bit of it, enough to know when a spell has worked, when a circle closes correctly. Sometimes I get some of what people are thinking and feeling. But when you walk into the same room with me-there's a sound, except it's not a sound, like a thousand bees buzzing all around me, and I can't hear anything. People have lied to me when you were nearby and I couldn'ttell."

Jasmine nodded slowly. Not counting Alaya, there were three women she had met at G.o.ddess Home who had some small fragment of the Gift, some touch of real ability. Most of the women at G.o.ddess Home were no more gifted than any other human; and the three that were, Alaya again excepted, did not seem to have made much productive use of their fragmentary Gift. "I know what you mean," Jasmine said quietly. "I've felt the same in you."

"You lie," said Alaya without anger. "I'm no more in your league than Marien Lisachild is in mine. She may be the most popular psychic at G.o.ddess Home, but she's a fraud and we both know it. I'm not a fraud, but I'm not what you are, either." Alaya paused. "Your eyes are green."

Jasmine was grimly certain she knew where this was going. "So?"

"Were you born with eyes that color?"

Jasmine sat silently a long moment, letting the question hang in the air, and then said, "I think we're done."

"I don't think so."

Jasmine stared bleakly at the woman. "Meaning what?"

A less self-a.s.sured woman might have taken warning from the tone of her voice. Alaya Gyurtrag forged ahead. "Back in 2062 two genies, two of the Castanaveras, were kidnaped from the Chandler Complex in Manhattan, before the Complex was nuked by s.p.a.ce Force. They never found out what happened to them, to those children. And you're-"

The images tore through Jasmine, the smell of Alaya's mother, the calm and steady warmth of her father.

Her father's smile, the gentle rea.s.surances in the face of adversity, the promise that what Alaya attempted she would be competent to do. The inconsolable ache at their loss, lessened only slightly with the pa.s.sage of thirteen years, particularly the loss of the man who had taught her to read, who had praised her early attempts at painting, who had consoled her when she was twenty, after the loss of her first love- Jasmine pulled free of the link, mildly impressed that Alaya had managed it in the first place. "I'm sorry, Alaya. But it wasn't my fault."

Alaya voice shook slightly. "My parentsdied during the Troubles."

"I know, and I am sorry. But so did both of mine."

Alaya nodded, eyes not moving from Jasmine's and her right hand dropped below the edge of her desk.

Jasmine Martinez said simply, "Please don't do this."

Alaya licked her lips quickly. Her expression held a very good attempt at innocence. "Don't do what?"

Jasmine heard the desk drawer sliding open. She exhaled, let the living air flow from her lungs, closed her eyes and stepped out of her body.

The room lit with a flat, grainy gray light.

In the stillness between heartbeats Jasmine Martinez moved away from her body and walked through the desk.

She did not recognize the make of the gun Alaya was taking from her desk drawer. A double-action automatic of some land; from the size of the barrel, perhaps a 9mm. The safety was already off. She touched the magazine, ran a finger through the metal and up into the chamber; fifteen shots staggered in the magazine, one shot in the chamber, ready to be fired.

Jasmine had no idea at all what Alaya expected to do with the weapon, and did not intend to wait and find out. She let go of the automatic, grasped Alaya's arms just above the elbows and reached out for the glowing blue filaments of Alaya's nerve network.Here, andhere, she touched, quieted the flow of neurons, and then opened her eyes to a world of color and movement.

The gun in Alaya's hand fell noiselessly from her nerveless hands to the surface of the carpet. Jasmine stared at Alaya, eyes glittering, and with the full force of her Gift reformed the link Alaya had attempted, and, as Alaya Gyurtrag drew breath to scream, Touched her soul.

Jasmine came back to herself slowly, distantly aware of tears dripping down her cheeks; knew as though it were something happening to someone else that she shook with the force of her sobs. She mourned for the parents Alaya had lost in the Troubles, for the slow loss of Alaya's friends. The pain of Alaya's incomprehension, that men and women alike, people she cared for, should misunderstand her advances, should interpret her love as interference, and her fear as anger. Alaya's desperate fear that she was already too old to find the love she craved, that if she had not found it yet she would never find it, and would age alone, unloved, and friendless.

And die so.

Alaya blinked. It took a moment for her eyes to focus. When they did she looked at Jasmine with sudden concern. "Are you all right, dear?"

"I'm-fine," Jasmine managed to say. A lethal headache pulsed immediately behind her eyes; it happened every time she used the deepest elements of the Gift. She gathered herself and wiped away the tears, picked up her travel bag, and stood, a little uncertainly. "Thank you for talking with me. I-never mind. Thank you. I appreciated the opportunity to know you a little better."

A look of distant incomprehension flickered across Alaya's features, was gone. Alaya said with real compa.s.sion, "I'm sorry you have to go. But it's only normal for you to grieve for the life you leave behind.

If G.o.ddess Home has not been everything you wanted, it has still been your home."

Jasmine stood still a beat. Then she said, simply, "Thank you," and left.

She caught the 9:15 Bullet with twenty seconds to spare.

-2 -.

At speeds that surpa.s.sed those of aircraft, the Bullet sped eastward through an evacuated tunnel beneath the surface of Earth.

Jasmine had paid for pa.s.sage to Atlanta, Georgia. Fifteen minutes before the Bullet was scheduled to stop in Dallas she rose from her seat and went to the bathroom. In the bathroom she stripped off her jumpsuit and her boots. Standing naked before the mirror she flicked through the settings in her makeup key; her skin, tuned black to match the jumpsuit, changed colors rapidly, a brief storm of rainbows, and then stabilized on a dark shade of gold. Her lips and eyelids turned a pale golden green; a speckle of faint silver stars appeared immediately beneath her rather high cheekbones. Jasmine considered contact lenses for her eyes, decided against it-her makeup implant was almost ten years old, and she had never had it updated. Unlike the more recent makeup implants, her skin did not glow and the implant had not even touched her eyes. If she wanted to change the color of her eyes, contact lenses were her only option.

She shook her hair out as it changed colors to a shade of strawberry blond, then changed the part and tied it into a long ponytail. From her bag Jasmine withdrew a pair of sandals and a yellow sundress and put them on. She tapped the ID key on her handheld twice, waited a moment, and tapped it a third time.

The handheld said quietly, "Which ID do you wish?"

There were three IDs in the handheld; Denice Daimara, Jasmine Martinez, and Erika Muller. The first was the name they had known her by in Public Labor, when she was nine years old; the last two ident.i.ties had been programmed for her by Trent the Uncatchable, the last day he had ever spent on Earth, before beginning what newsdancers had called the Long Run.

Jasmine said softly, "Erika."

The handheld said instantly, "Enabled."

In Dallas the rain poured down out of the black night sky.

At Dallas Interworld s.p.a.ceport Erika Muller stopped at the Trans Planet booth, still slightly wet from the rain outside; the Bullet debarking station was separated from s.p.a.ceport Gate A-8 by thirty meters of empty s.p.a.ce. When she spoke her voice had picked up a slight but noticeable New York accent. "I'm here to pick up my ticket. Muller, Erika."

The 'bot at the counter said politely, in a voice strongly reminiscent of sensable star Adam Selstrom, "Yes, 'Selle Muller. Please identify."

Erika touched her handheld to the payment strip; it lit green. Adam Selstroms voice said, "Thank you, 'Selle Muller. Your semiballistic leaves from Gate A-ll at one oh five a.m.; it arrives at Unification s.p.a.ceport, New York, at four-twelve a.m. Eastern Standard Time. Thank you for traveling with TransPlanet."

Her ticket specified a window seat. Once launch boost ceased, the slim, short man who had been seated next to Erika Muller tried to start up a conversation. "What are you going to New York for, anyway?

I've got a sales meeting myself-I sell highspeed molar memory products. Capitol City's no fun but the rest of New York is still good for-"

The clouds beneath her were a pale ocean that nearly hid Earth from view; patches of blue and brown peeked through the cotton white. The curve of the Earth grew visible as she watched. Without looking at the man at her side Erika said, "I don't want to talk to you," and then turned her head away from him and looked out the window, at the sphere of Earth, the rest of the way down to New York.

She did not think she had been followed after leaving G.o.ddess Home.

At least not in Realtime-and if anyone had attempted to follow her through the Crystal Wind, Erika thought that Ralf the Wise and Powerful would surely have stopped him.