A Tale Of The Continuing Time - The Last Dancer Part 6

Denice grinned. "You sit there and tell me there is no such thing as wisdom, and then pour a bucket of it over me. I'm glad to be back, Robert. I am glad to be home."

He nodded, then said slowly, "I thought, as the weeks became months and I did not hear from you, that I had lost you forever. I am more pleased than I can say that I have not."

After she had gone Robert waited quietly in the darkness at the far northern edge of the practice mat. He sat upon the mat itself, facing north. On the wooden floor that surrounded the mat, where the mat ceased, a polished blue stone teapot rested upon a base of the same material. Within the base flickered a small candle. One candle would keep the tea within the pot hot, for most of a night.

Robert sat and sipped tea, and waited for nightfall, and his visitor.

While he waited he listened to music.

It was a strangeness of his era, that a knowledge of music, once the hallmark of civilized men and women, was now a thing of the streets. Robert was not enough of a historian to know how it had come to pa.s.s; he suspected the trend had begun back near the turn of the century; as serious a period, he thought, as the world had ever seen. Following the dawn of the new millennium men and women had faced the prospect of long decades of work to recover from the mistakes of the century just done. And, led by Sarah Almundsen, the world had risen to the challenge. The Unification War had resulted, and after the Unification- Nearly every ecological problem that mankind had faced, and most of the social ones, were directly a result of the fact that the planet groaned beneath the weight of too many human beings. It was a fact that could not be disputed.

After the Unification had come the Ministry of Population Control.

A serious time, to deal with serious problems; problems that had in a real sense threatened the survival of the race.

But on the other side of the problems, once the very question of human survival was no longer in doubt, something had been lost, some refinement, some taste for culture and laughter. The world had grown a grimmer place. It was a thing Robert had not even known until perhaps eight years ago, after meeting Denice Daimara. She guarded herself well, and it had been most of a year before he had been certain she was a genie, and several years after that before he had known her, beyond doubt, for one of the infamous Castanaveras.

Robert counted himself fortunate to have known and loved her. Already well trained as a dancer when he met her, he had taught her a degree of control over her body she had never known; and she, a child of the streets, had taught him music. It amazed him that he had never missed the lack of music in his life; it seemed to him that wrapped in the music was the source of all movement.

Fragments reached out to him form the midst of the songs, s.n.a.t.c.hes of melody, phrases:

Well Elvis sanctified me I tell you Elvis saved my soul He flew to me through time and s.p.a.ce And we shared a jelly roll

The lyric amused him; he wondered sometimes who Elvis might have been. Some religious leader, he guessed, one of the dozens that the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries had produced in such profusion; perhaps one of the Prophet Harry's compet.i.tors. The old songs that played now were among his favorites; he did not even know the name of the man who sang them. They were simply a set of songs-an "alb.u.m"-one of his students had given him about two years prior; the student had moved with his family to Europe shortly thereafter, and Robert had lost touch with him.

Tonight he waited for his visitor, waited with the music and the thin wail of the singer's voice. The music rolled along, washed over him, and then, out of stillness, a figure cloaked in shadows stepped forward, out of the darkness and into the light. And the music playing in the background, the smooth warm stone of the cup in his hand, every awareness of the outside world, ceased to exist for Robert Dazai Yo.

He put the cup down on the wooden floor and inclined his head slightly. Aside from that he did not move at all.

"Good evening, sir."

He was a painting come to life, Camber Tremodian, slightly taller than Robert, a monochrome image in black and white and grays. Shadows swirled around him like living things. In the place where his face should have been was a featureless dark gray mist the color of slate. In times past Robert had found that the more deeply he gazed into that mist, the more strained his eyesight had become. After a time he had learned not to look.

Upon Camber's breast was a circle of concentric rings, and a single line of writing that Robert could not read; the circles and the words wavered in Robert's eyesight like an image seen on the highway in the desert heat.

When Camber spoke his voice was smooth and even and featureless. "h.e.l.lo, Robert."

"She came back to me."

"I know."

"Of course you do." Robert paused. "I've missed her. I've missed her a great deal."

Camber took another step forward, farther into the light. Still his form grew no clearer; the shadows traveled with him, wrapped themselves about him as he moved. "I know, Robert."

Robert kept his features stilled, gave no sign of the anguish in his heart. "In your service I have lost everyone I ever cared for. Must I lose her as well?"

The dark figure said gently, "I do not know if it will be necessary. I can tell you merely that which you already know; if you can protect her, do. But her path is not yours, and if in serving me you lose her, then lose her you must. I have, I think, denied the enemy access to Trent the Uncatchable; beyond that I cannot say. Deviation in this year is almost twelve percent: you are approaching a cusp over which my opponent has secured control. This is perhaps my last visit to you. For at least the next two years and four months, and possibly longer, I will not be here to aid or advise you."

Robert said slowly, "You won't be here?"

Robert did not think he imagined the weariness in the voice. "My opponent has effectively prevented it, Robert. We traded, he and I; there are no guarantees that one of Trent's enemies of this time will not harm him, but unlessmy enemy has an avatar in this time, then from him at least I have kept Trent secure.

The details of our agreement need not concern you-but through, perhaps, the end of this decade, if you see me again it will be in the Other Place; and in that place I am a different order of person. As you have learned, I will not always recognize you there."

"You... told me once... that if I were unlucky, I might someday meet your opponent."

"It is more likely now than previously, and grows likelier still the closer we come to the cusp. Even my visit tonight is dangerous; the opponent's agents in this time are more numerous and more powerful than mine. I think you have probably been identified as mine; there is a chance the enemy will attempt to turn you from my service."

"Or Kill me?"

Camber Tremodian hesitated, and spoke directly, as though to an equal. "Robert, I don't think so. You are one of the six living s.h.i.+vata of this era; I don't think my opponent will dare inflict the Kill upon you, artistic though your death might be. I am a night face; so is he, and if s.h.i.+abre died out because of your loss it would destroy both of us. But there are five other night faces in this time, and I don't know with certainty that the enemy willnot make that attempt. Robert, I can'tsee."

"If I meet the opponent, how will I know him?"

The man shrugged. "If he wishes you to know him, you will. If he does not, you won't." The dark figure laughed suddenly, a deep amused sound. "If you see someone dressed like me who'snot me, it's him.

Except he'll be in white."

"In white."

The amus.e.m.e.nt was still evident in Camber's voice. "Yes. It's a long story. Perhaps someday a decade or two from now I'll tell it to you. Though, if you have the opportunity, feel free to ask the enemy about it-you'll never meet a better storyteller. I promise you."

"Is Denice in danger?"

Camber shook his head. "No. Not from him, not the way you mean. I could not protect her as I have protected Trent, but Denice is his direct ancestor, and needs the protection less; he won't risk harming her. No more would I. She is no ancestor of mine, but her descendant's lives have touched mine in many places. I once tried to kill her father, but Denice had been born by then, and her father's death, at the time I sought it, would have saved her from a greater loss." The shadowed features turned toward Robert; Robert had the eerie impression that Camber Tremodian met his eyes. "But Robert, if it were necessary that she die, I would have it. If it is necessary that you lose her, I will have that."

"It is hard, what you ask of me."

"Others have been asked more. And given it." He paused. "More will be asked of Denice than has been asked of you."

Robert looked directly at Camber Tremodian. "You are cruel, sir."

"No, Robert," said Camber Tremodian, and Robert did not think he imagined the pain in the smooth, smooth voice: "I am necessity." And with the word, the shadows reached out to enfold him, and he was gone.

Robert glanced down at the cup of his tea.

He knew without touching it that it would be cold. He sat for a long while by himself, alone in the dark with his music.

I think you loved me as I loved you And why we stopped I just don't know I guess your guess is as good as mine...

I miss you though

He rose after a while and went upstairs to bed, and in his sleep he dreamed, with pain and longing, of a woman he had not even seen in thirty years.

DateLine:Shawmac on Writing (Taken from an address to a writer's group in Des Moines, Iowa. Shawmac appeared with a bottle of smoke whiskey in hand; his opening line to the group was, "When the bottle's done, I'm done.") Where do I get my f.u.c.kingideas?Is this the best question you punks can come up with? You want to be a writer and you ask thatquestion?

Back in '63, when the UN. outlawed manually operated vehicles, it was a relief for some of us.

How do younotget ideas? I used to get them while I drove. It was dangerous.(Okay so yes it was fun. But it was still dangerous. If somebody asks me, someday I'll tell you the story about the time I hit a van, and the rear doors swung open and two blondes and a trampoline fell out. If you ask nicely -it's much too painful a story to remember for a measly thousand-CU speaking fee.) Okay, the truth is, I call an Idea Board in Peoria, Illinois. And I download new ideas from them whenever I need a new one. It's an expensive way to work, but it's where 1 got the idea for the motorpigs.

... what's thenumber?You schmuck, you yellow dog f.u.c.khead, that was ajoke. Humor.There is no f.u.c.king Idea Board . I made it up.

You see, itcomesto me. It percolates around my skull, combining and recombining, growing more potent with every pa.s.sing moment, until I awaken in the middle of the night and the brew spews forth through my traceset. And becomes a story or sensable script or Dateline column.

It's an interesting way to live. Can you imagine what it's like? To be unable to operate heavy equipment, or weapons, or explosives, safely? To get a reputation for rudeness because you can suddenly, in the middle of a conversation, come back to yourself from some fine conceit, and realize you have no idea at all what the person you're speaking to has just been saying? To come back with a rude, unpleasant jar from some wonderful place, and realize that you have absolutely no ideahow much time is left on the hand grenade you're holding?

Some of youcanimagine. You'll be writers and people will ask you stupid questions. And you won't get any sympathy, either, ever,not from anyone.Certainly not from me, 'cause I got problems of my own.

So you'll just have to suck it in and tough it out.

As for the rest of you-the rest of you are yellow dog punks and you'llalwaysbe punks.

Period, end of discussion.

- 5 -.

On the afternoon of July 3, 2075, Terry Shawmac sat at a banquet table toward the rear of the hall and watched as people arrived.

He was exceptionally drunk.

To the man sitting next to him, he said suddenly, "It's not like any of the people whogot nominated are anygood."

William Devane, newsdancer for theElectronic Times, nodded. When he spoke his voice held a distinct Irish lilt, and for a man of his size-for a man of any size-his voice was very soft and gentle. "I've often thought."

William Devane did not look like a newsdancer. He was black Irish with black eyes, a face so smooth it looked as though he had just depilated; even in his tuxedo he looked more like a bodybuilder than a nominee for anElectronic Times Award for Excellence in News Reporting.

A hundred and fifty years earlier he'd have been the meanest, toughest Irish cop in his precinct.

"You,for example," Shawmac continued. "Don't take this personally, but do you really think your article on the Johnny Rebs was one of the five best pieces of feature reporting in the last year?Really? Not like my extended column on recreational explosives. Nowthere was a subject that people responded to."

William Devane's lips curved into a slight smile that did not reach his black eyes. "I heard."

"And my story onretirement benefits," Shawmac continued. "My examination of the ways in which the fact that people areliving longer affects the willingness of large corporations to pay retirement benefits that workers havelegitimately earned. Brilliant," he said briskly, "fine,fine writing." Shawmac suddenly upended the bottle of smoke whiskey on the table in front of him, held it upside down for a good ten seconds, and drank straight from the neck. After putting it down again, he fixed Devane with a hostile stare. "So. Think you're going to win?"

Devane shrugged, ma.s.sive shoulders moving easily beneath the black cloth of his tuxedo. "I have no idea, 'Sieur Shawmac."

"I've never been nominated, you know."

"Yes."

"Oh." Shawmac blinked. "Thought I'd mention it." He returned to his bottle.

William Devane sat quietly and watched the hall fill up. He did not much like visiting New York; if he had not been nominated for an award, he would not have come.

He did not much like Terry Shawmac.

There was one advantage to visiting the city of New York; only one.

Six hours later William Devane, in his tuxedo, pa.s.sed through the Barrier and walked down the nighttime streets of the Long Island Fringe. Peaceforcer glowfloats and spyeyes bobbed quietly in the air above, but Devane did not allow it to lull him into a false sense of security; the PKF would not rouse itself to come to the aid of a single man, walking alone at night in the Fringe, should trouble befall him.

Devane did not intend to allow trouble to befall him.

Twice, as he walked the ten blocks from the Patrol Sectors Barrier to McGee's, bands of the Gypsy Macoute, draped in American flags in honor of tomorrow's Independence Day, came upon him.

Both times Devane ignored them.

Both times the Macoute-perhaps not certain themselves why they did so-let him pa.s.s.

A single hunting waldo sat next to the doorway that led into McGee's. Two men stood immediately inside the door. One carried an Excalibur laser rifle, the other appeared unarmed.

Both were the equals of Devane's own not inconsiderable height.

"William Devane," said Devane. "Here to see Mister McGee. He's expecting me."

After dinner they retired to McGee's study upstairs on the third floor. The study was a place of windows; one window faced inward, overlooking the restaurant below; another looked out into the Fringe. A third looked off across the water, toward the s.p.a.cesc.r.a.per-dominated nighttime skyline of Manhattan.

They were in fact real windows, not holos. The Fringe had, in years past, been a more brutal and violent place than it had since become. It was inevitable; those who had been damaged the worst during the Troubles were now dead, and the children of the Troubles, if deadlier than their parents, were also saner.

The random sniper fire that had once been endemic was now rare, and windows had once again become safe.

The one wall that lacked a window bore a large American flag.

A photograph, grainy and two-dimensional, hung over the desk; it held the image of a boat McGee had once owned.

A holo in the corner was tuned to theElectronic Times Board; a second holo, beside it, showed imagery fromNews-Board. Images of rioting-burning cars, pitched battles with PKF troops-flickered through the fields.

An irony; as the Independence Day riots had grown more violent in the outside world, they had grown less so in the Fringe. From his study McGee could see only one building afire.

"It was fascinating," said Devane, "to be sure. Newsdancers, nominated themselves, kept sneaking out of the proceedings to check on the status of the riots."

The old man nodded. "Did you mind losing?"

Devane sipped at the coffee and brandy McGee had prepared for him, and smiled. "Only a bit, if the truth be told. The award would have made it more difficult for me to work on stories in anonymity. I don't generally write features material anyway." He wondered, briefly, if there was any chance at all McGee could have understood how deeply he had wanted to lose. After a moment he said, "The Credit would have been nice."

"CU:five-thousand, isn't it?"