Daniel Keys Moran - A Tale of the Continuing Time 03

THE

LAST

DANCER

Daniel Keys Moran

DEDICATION…

For Holly. I love you.

… AND THANKS TO …

My friend Richard Sommers, who helped make it possible for me to finish this bitch of a book, and

whose sound advice and perspective kept me from going off the deep end on at least one occasion;

Angel and Jodi and Kathy, for their love; Doctor Death for allowing me the use of Nicole Eris Lovely, a

character fromFalse Prophets, her second novel about the Prophet Harry; David Gerrold, for giving me

the opportunity toeat his brain, the way the Japanese do to the monkeys; Dorothy Fontana, who fed me

the second best chili in the world, and who tried, against all reasonable expectations, to improve me as a

human being by exposing me to the Big Band sound at the Hollywood Bowl one night; Steve Barnes and

Toni Young, for their friendship and support, and Steve and Toni and Dawn Callan forThe Warrior

Within workshop; Amy Stout and Lou Aronica and Ralph the Wise and Powerful, for their astonishing

patience; The Kinks, forRock and Roll Fantasy; Melissa Etheridge, who sangWill Never Be the Same

for me in concert one night during the craziness; and

Don Henley, forThe End of the Innocence. I am deeply grateful forThe Heart of the Matter, a song

that helped keep me sane. Perhaps gratitude from the audience is out of order where art is concerned; I

paid him for that music with cold cash, as you presumably have paid for this book; but "what the head

makes cloudy, the heart makes very clear." Thank you.

… AND A NOTE.

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Usually in this part of the book the author says something to the effect that the experts he's mentioned

are not to be faulted in the event he screwed something up despite their invaluable help. Not this time. I

did my best. If anything is wrong inThe Last Dancer it's their fault. Particularly Amy Stout, Steve Barnes,

David Gerrold, Dorothy Fontana, and Ralph Vincinanza, all of whom are professionals and should have

known better.

The Last Dancer

A Tale of the Continuing Time

There are no longer "dancers," the possessed. The cleavage of men into actors and spectators is the

central fact of our time. We are obsessed with heroes who live for us and whom we punish… We have

metamorphised from a mad body dancing on hillsides to a pair of eyes staring in the dark.

—Jim Morrison

Prolog: The Dancer

In the last hour of sunlight the Dancer fled through the forest covering the base of the mountains.

The trees were tall, emaciated things of some pale wood, with dull, silver-white leaves. They spread

themselves thinly but evenly, and in the shadows of approaching night the Dancer could see no more than

fifteen or twenty paces ahead at any moment. The winds blew cold, growing colder, dropping down

below freezing even before the sun had set. The Dancer barely noticed except to wonder, briefly, if it

might in some way slow the Shield who pursued him.

If the Shield was Marah, perhaps. But the Dancer suspected Marah was dead, and if so, the Shield

pursuing him was Dvan. Dvan might well notice the cold; he was no Dancer.

But he would not permit it to stop him.

The Dancer ran faster as the slope of the ground began to rise, whipcord muscles moving gracefully

beneath the sheath of his skin.

One way or another it would all be over soon.

From behind him came a shrill scream, the cry of the kitjan. Closer than it had been. The Dancer's neural

system, vastly more sensitive than any normal human s, registered a twinge of pain. The kitjan was a

terrifying weapon; the Dancer's companions, four of the eight, had died in agony at its touch, and if the

Shield chasing him got much closer he would be the fifth. He picked up speed, pushed his amazing body

to its fullest, demanding more speed, and getting it. He wove through the shadowed trees, pushing aside

the barrier of the cold night air. His breath came smoothly, drew the air, the life-giving oxygen, through

his nostrils, warming it, and then deep into his lungs. The trees thinned around him as he moved higher up

the mountainside, and the slope grew steeper. Now and again as he climbed he used his hands to help

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himself along.

Above the cover of the trees, the huge chain of mountains became visible again. He moved upward

through a long ravine, the sides of the ravine rising away on either side of him. It was shadowed here, but

not shadowed enough; from nearly any point outside the thickest part of the forest, the Dancer would be

visible now. This was the point of greatest danger, where, for long moments, he would be in plain view.

A lucky shot; at that distance it could be nothing else. The kitjan whiplash touched the Dancer, held him

for the merest instant. Nerves fired at random; every superbly trained muscle in the Dancer's body

spasmed at once. He fell in midstride and struck the ground hard, rolling limply, tumbling back

down-slope in complete loss of control.

He ended up in a crevice beneath an overhanging, ice-scoured boulder. The Dancer lay on the cold hard

ground, fighting the unconsciousness that crept in around him. He monitored his heart, found it had

ceased beating at the kitjan's touch. He restarted it, inspected its operation briefly to ensure that it would

continue beating unattended. Spasms ripped the muscles of his abdomen, made breathing impossible.

The Dancer concentrated on the abdominal muscles, and well before he was in danger of losing

consciousness from anoxia had regained control of his breath. His eyesight cleared slowly of its own

accord. The Dancer lay on the frozen ground, waiting. The kitjan screamed once, twice, while he waited

there. The first shot came nowhere near him; the Shield had not seen him clearly when he fell. The next

shot came closer, sent another wash of wracking pain across the Dancer's frame; more of the unlikely

luck that had felled him in the first place.

It was dark now. Once, long ago, before the Dancers had learned to control the temperature of their

bodies, that lack of visible light would have meant little; the Shield saw body heat as well as any Dancer.

Now that darkness might well make the difference between life and death. Lying motionless at the base

of the boulders, looking down the mountain, the Dancer saw the first flicker of motion among the thinning

trees, of the Shield closing in. The Dancer let his heartbeat slow, let the blood move sluggishly through his

veins. He felt it first in his hands, as his body temperature dropped slowly toward freezing, toward the

ambient temperature of the world around him. At last he moved, rolled carefully into a crouching position.

He could not feel his extremities well. He moved cautiously now, not certain how close the Shield might

be, up through the ravine, through what little cover existed above the tree line.

To the cave.

There was little enough inside besides the cache of hardware from the ship. The cave was small, and

even though the

Dancer had not been there in a very long time he found the device he needed quickly: a key meant to be

held in the palm of a mans hand.

In the darkness the Dancer felt for the studs on the surface of the key, and moved his thumb to cover the

oval stud which would bring him safety.

Behind him, at the entrance to the cave, Gi'Tbad'Eovad'Dvan said quietly, "Good-bye, Sedon."

The kitjan found him while Dvan was still speaking. The Dancer never heard his name uttered. In the

moment of his death, as the air left his lungs in a desperate, convulsive scream, the Dancer's thumb

spasmed on the stud controlling the stasis bubble.

They were up above the tree line; Gi'Tbad'Eovad'Dvan unslung the ancient laser from across his back,

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and with it set the side of the rock face near him to glowing. He sat outside the entrance to the cave, with

the mirror-surfaced stasis bubble at his back, and waited. In the hours before morning it grew deadly

cold from the arctic wind coming down off the nearby glaciers. Dvan shivered so badly that even with his

glowing rock, lased regularly to a cherry red, he was not certain he would survive the night. His clothing

was cured leather inlaid with fur; crude, warm enough most of the time, but perhaps not for tonight.

He did not sleep that night. He wasted no time thinking about the Dancer; Sedon was dead. The stasis

bubble might postpone the moment of death, but Dvan was content that his work was done. The sort of

medical technology necessary to save a Dancer touched at close range by the kitjan existed nowhere on

this planet, and had not for a long, long time.

The night wore on forever. Once Dvan nearly slept, but found himself jerking awake to the conviction

that blazing red eyes hovered out in the darkness beyond the glowing slab of stone, watching him—the

red-furred beast that had led him to Sedon, the spirit sent by the Nameless One—but when he shook

himself fully awake the eyes were gone.

When dawn finally came, the morning sun lighting the peaks of the mountains around him, Dvan looked

around, fixing the place in memory, the relationships of the peaks to one another. It took some time,

imprinting the image into deep memory, but at length he was satisfied; though eons might pass between

visits, he would know this place again.

After a while he got up and stretched to relieve his stiffness, and headed back down the mountain.

Thirty-seven thousand years passed.

Interlude:

2062-2069

Gregorian

- 1 -

On July 3, 2062, on a night of nightmares that would in years and centuries to follow become a part of

human mythology, at the Eastgate Hotel in mid-Manhattan, two French Peaceforcers in black patrol

fatigues held vigil, deployed at opposite ends of an otherwise empty lobby. The junior officer, Maurice

Charbonneau, sat in one corner on the hotel's carpeted floor, autoshot covering the entrance to the hotel.

Outside, on the opposite side of the street, he could see a pair of wrecked cars burning in the fierce rain.

A car came down out of the sky as he watched, blossoming into flames as it struck an apartment

complex across the way. The shock wave of the explosion rattled the long glassite panels that faced the

street.

Maurice sat and watched Nils Logrissen walk up and down before the entrance to the hotel. Logrissen,

a terrorist of the Erisian Claw, was the only man Charbonneau had ever killed. Occasionally Logrissen's

body stumbled and then jerked back up again like a marionette on strings. Logrissens bulging,

dead-man's eyes were fixed on Maurice, never left him except once; when the car struck the building

across the street, Logrissen turned and watched the accident for a while.

Charbonneau was grateful for the respite. He was trying to pretend that everything that had happened in

the last few hours was part of some particularly unpleasant sensable he had made the mistake of playing.

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(Asensable where you're the star, the voice whispered.Right.) It hadn't worked yet, but perhaps that

was because he wasn't trying hard enough.

Charbonneau was deathly afraid that Logrissen was getting up his nerve to come inside, and if that

happened Charbonneau was not certain what he would do.

At the other end of the lobby Charbonneau's superior officer, Peace Keeping Force Sergeant Georges

D'Argentan, paced restlessly back and forth in front of the maglev hits, chain-smoking, his multifrequency

combat laser held loosely in one hand. With every few steps he left the carpet and crossed onto the tile

area immediately before the maglev. It was the only sound in the echoing emptiness of the lobby: the

clicking of the boots, followed by silence, followed by boots, followed by silence. The rhythm of it had

grown so comforting, so predictable, that Charbonneau was startled when it ceased. He glanced over at

Sergeant D'Argentan, saw the older Peaceforcer standing motionless, finger touching a point immediately

below his right ear.

D'Argentan stood still while listening in on the command channel. Finally he shook himself slightly,

resumed his pacing. Maurice.

Charbonneau was not certain that the voice in his head was real; his father, dead these fifteen years, had

been talking to him for the last hour, ever since the Castanaveras telepaths had struck out at the world

around them, at the United Nations Peace Keeping Force that was trying to destroy them. After a bit

Charbonneau touched his own earphone. Sergeant? Is that you?

There was a moment's silence before D'Argentan spoke, and Charbonneau could guess at his thoughts.

Councilor Carson had actually ordered that Maurice be sedated; D'Argentan had ignored him, and now

he was rethinking the wisdom of the decision. Yes, of course it's me. Your father is dead, Maurice. SO

IS Logrissen. They have been for a long time.

Charbonneau knew better than to argue with Sergeant D'Argentan. He was sane enough, even yet, to

know that he was quite mad at the moment. Charbonneau remembered burying his father, remembered

killing Logrissen more clearly yet. Yes, Sergeant, I'll try to remember that.

I've just been told that Space Force is ready. Secretary General Amnier has approved Elite Sergeant

Vance's request; Vance is going to order a thermonuclear strike on the Chandler Complex.

Charbonneau digested that. So they're dead, then.

SO, THEY'RE DEAD, THEN. ALL THE TELEPATHS ARE TRAPPED INSIDE THE COMPLEX.

Across the length of the hotel lobby, D'Argentan nodded.

SO THEY SAY.

Charbonneau clutched his autoshot more tightly.

EXCEPT FOR THE TWO CARSON'S GOT UPSTAIRS.

JUST CHILDREN, said D'Argentan sharply. THEY DON'T HAVE THE POWER YET. ONLY THE

ADULTS DO, AND THE ADULTS ARE SOON DEAD.

YES, SERGEANT.

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At that moment, thirty-five floors above them, Carl Castanaveras had just finished killing the Peaceforcer

guard stationed on the hotel's roof. As Maurice Charbonneau turned back to continue his observation of

Nils Logrissen, the oldest and deadliest telepath on Earth was riding down in the maglev to Unification

Councilor Jerril Carson's room, to the eighth floor, autoshot in one hand, Series II Excalibur laser rifle in

the other. Coming for his children.

Denice Castanaveras had ceased crying only a few minutes ago. They were not tears of fear, but of

anger. She had passed into a place beyond fear, into a rage so vast and elemental it bore only a passing

resemblance to any emotion she had ever experienced before.

She was nine years old and she was going to kill Jerril Carson if given any opportunity at all.

She sat on the floor with her twin: two black-haired Caucasian children with pale skin and green eyes.

Both she and David had their hands snakechained behind their backs, with tape covering their mouths.

Her feet were free, as were David's; they could have stood if allowed. A few hours prior David had

made the mistake of trying. A bruise on the side of his face was slowly turning purple; Councilor Carson

had knocked David back down to the floor without even looking at him.

She sat with her rage, not thinking. She did not understand how the situation she was in had come to

pass; did not comprehend the details of the conflict between Carson and her father, how it had come to

be that the personal animosity between Carson and her father had grown into a conflict which had, this

night, pitted the Castanaveras telepaths against the entire armed might of the Unification.

Denice did not understand, and did not care.

She sat and thought about killing him.

Councilor Carson clutched an autoshot in his right hand; he hardly paid attention to the twins. Denice

watched him, sitting in front of a huge holofield that showed an image of their home, of the Chandler

Complex. He had turned off the audio; except for the whistling sound of the wind and the drum of the

rain it was utterly silent inside the hotel room.

The image of the Chandler Complex vanished suddenly, was replaced with a split field; the Chandler

Complex in one half of the field, a shot from the hotels security holocams in the other. The security

holocams showed the long stretch of corridor outside, and the two Peaceforcers who guarded it. One of

the Peaceforcers stood in front of a bank of elevators, covering the entrance with an autoshot; the other

lay on his stomach at one end of the corridor, covering his partner with a variable laser.

After the long silence the sound of the Peaceforcer's voice rang shockingly loud. "We've lost contact

with the roof."

Carson stood with startling abruptness, turned and glared wildly at the twins. Denice met his eyes for a

long moment and returned the glare:I'm going to kill you. The Gift had not touched her yet, and Carson

was as deaf to thought as any normal human; still he froze for a second under the sheer physical impact of

her rage. He shook himself visibly then and crossed the distance between them in two strides, pulled the

twins to their feet and turned them to face the door. He stood behind them holding the autoshot with his

right hand, holding their snaked hands behind them with his left. Where his hand gripped her Denice

could feel Carson shaking.

The holofield moved with Carson, came to hover in front of them, a meter off to the right so that

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Carson's view of the door was not obscured.

For a very long time nothing happened. Twenty seconds. Thirty—

In the holofield, Denice watched the maglev doors curl open. The Peaceforcer with the autoshot stood in

front of the door, autoshot at waist level, and began firing the instant the doors had opened sufficiently.

Denice heard the boom of the autoshot through the hotel room's closed door. The angle of the holocams

prevented their seeing the inside of the elevator; suddenly a flash of purple light came up off the elevator's

floor, and the Peaceforcer stiffened, ionization corona crackling around him; the black uniform he wore

burst into flames and he fell.

Councilor Jerril Carson whispered, "Shit."

On the right side of the field, the pale, elegant image of the Chandler Complex glowed white in the rain.

An arm holding an autoshot extruded from inside the maglev, fired twice off to the right, down the

hallway in the direction of Councilor Carson's room. The Peaceforcer on the floor to the left of the

holofield fired then, and Denice watched the maser's ionization trail track across the hand and the

autoshot holding it. What happened next came so quickly that Denice almost missed it; the injured man's

right hand darted out into the corridor, grabbed the autoshot and flipped it over to the left and fired twice

again. Denice saw both shots strike the remaining Peaceforcer, saw his head and shoulders literally

dissolve in a spray of flesh and shot. The maglev doors started to close—

—her father lunged forward, into the hallway, firing again as he moved. Twice more he shot the

crumpled form on the hallway floor, fifteen meters away. The Peaceforcer's body twitched and came

apart some more.

Jerril Carson said softly, "Oh God no."

Carl Castanaveras struggled to his feet, a death's-head grin plastered across his features. His left arm,

cooked by the master burst, hung dead and limp at his side. He staggered as he walked down the

hallway, and stopped just before reaching the door to Carson's room.

There was a moment's silence.

The door exploded inward as though a giant fist had smashed into it.

At that instant a flash of bright light appeared in the holofield, lit the hotel room for an instant in unreal

colors.

Carl Castanaveras appeared in the doorway, a grinning black-haired apparition with emerald eyes—and

hesitated at the sight of his children standing as a living shield immediately before Carson.

In the holofield that had moments before shown an image of the Chandler Complex, a mushroom cloud

was slowly climbing into the night sky over south Manhattan.

Jerril Carson's autoshot blast took Carl Castanaveras square in the chest, picked him up off his feet and

slammed him backward out against the wall of the hotel corridor. Denice's father fired in midair, the beam

of light from his Series II Excalibur cutting through the tiny space between Denice and her brother,

reaching past them to slice Jerril Carson's head in half.

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Carl struck the wall hard. He slumped, sliding down to the floor, leaving a long trail of blood on the wall.

Next to her Denice saw David on the ground, bringing his bound hands under his feet and around to the

front. David ripped the tape off his mouth, and in a voice rusty with disuse said, "Turn around." Denice

knew what was coming; she felt Carson's dead hand being placed up against her wrists, the lifeless thumb

being pushed against the snakechain until the snakechain recognized it and released her. The sudden

freedom of movement sent spasms of pain through her shoulders. She worked the tape free from her

mouth with hands grown numb from lack of circulation.

Their father's thoughts touched them both.David, get the lasers.

Her twin vanished down the corridor, came back holding the laser with which their father had been shot.

It seemed to be an immense effort for Carl to release the laser clutched in his own hand.Take it, Denice.

Denice bent, scooped the laser up off the floor quickly, before her nerve could fail her. Her father's

thoughts were faint, unlike anything she had ever felt from him before. Fading.Listen. There's a

Peaceforcer downstairs, maybe two, and I can't kill them, so you have to.

David nodded. "We will, Father."

They'll hesitate when they see you. They'll hesitate before they'll shoot children.

Denice was aware of the tears tracking down her cheeks, but her voice was steady. "We won't hesitate,

Daddy."

Carl sagged back against the wall of the corridor.Good. Remember that you're tougher than they

are. The word reached out to them, burned itself into the depths of Denice's mind with all the strength of

the dying man's pain and lifelong rage:Better.

David nodded. "We'll remember."

Good.Carl's head sagged back against the wall.Go.

David rose and punched for the maglev. Denice hugged her father suddenly, fiercely,felt the pain that

rolled through him at the contact. Blood covered her when she let go. "Good-bye, Daddy." She rose and

ran to the maglev when the doors opened.

Carl Castanaveras's last thought reached out to them after the doors to the maglev had rolled shut upon

them.Kill the fuckers.

As the maglev descended, David Castanaveras said grimly, "We will."

I've lost touch with upstairs.

It took Charbonneau a long moment to understand what D'Argentan had said to him. His father was

growing angrier and angrier over Maurice's insistence that he was dead; Logrissen had ceased walking

and now simply stood motionless at the entrance to the hotel, staring in at Maurice. Charbonneau could

see Logrissen's lower intestines, hanging out of the hole Charbonneau's autoshot had made in him back in

the summer of '59. Finally Maurice said, Sergeant? Did you say something?

<Sigh.> Yes. I've lost touch with Conseiller Carson.

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Want me to go up and see what's happened?

Sergeant D'Argentan hesitated, then said reluctantly, No. No, don't do that. I'll go. Watch the door,

make sure nobody enters the hotel. Maurice nodded, and D'Argentan turned to the maglevs.

The door to the center maglev flexed slightly before D'Argentan had even touched the pressure point

that controlled it.

The door curled open.

Maurice watched D'Argentan jerk as though he had touched a live wire, one hand still reaching for the

pressure point, as the converging beams reached him and his uniform burst into flames.

They came out into the lobby slowly, cautiously, stepping across Sergeant D'Argentans burning body.

As Maurice had heard, they were mere children; it was the first time Maurice had seen them since their

kidnaping. Maurice sat with his autoshot, watching the genegineered telepath children move across the

lobby, toward the entrance. The boy had his laser trained on Maurice, and Maurice smiled at him. The

girl was very pretty, but she did not look at Maurice after the first quick glance to make sure her brother

had him covered. Maurice said politely, in heavily accented English, "Hello."

The boy hesitated at the door after the girl had ventured outward, onto the slidewalk in front of the hotel.

For the first time Maurice seriously considered the possibility that Sergeant D'Argentan had told him the

truth; neither of the children seemed to notice Nils Logrissen's grinning corpse standing just outside the

hotel's entrance.

The girl turned back. "David, come on!"

David Castanaveras took one slow, halting step toward Maurice Charbonneau. Maurice smiled at the

boy one more time as David brought the maser down to focus on the center of Maurice's chest.

"Hello," Maurice said again. "I am Maurice Charbonneau."

David Castanaveras whispered; Maurice had to strain to hear him. "Hello. My name is David

Castanaveras, and this is for my father."

Then for the barest instant Maurice felt a pain so great that he thought for a moment it was something

else entirely—the touch of God, perhaps, calling him home. And perhaps it was. The maser beam swept

across him and then there was no pain, nor anything else, forever and ever again, amen.

The twins ran out into the night, into the riots.

Into the first hour of the Troubles.

- 2 -

I am the Name Storyteller.

On July 3, 2062 of the Gregorian Calendar, the United Nations Peace Keeping Force, at the command

of PKF Elite Sergeant Mohammed Vance, used tactical thermonuclear weapons to destroy a group of

genetically engineered telepaths living at the Chandler Complex in lower Manhattan. Over 240 telepathic

children and adults died in nuclear fire.

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In the battle preceding their destruction, the telepaths sent better than a quarter of the population of the

state of New York into permanent insanity; caused the two years of the Troubles, as legal and social

systems throughout metropolitan areas broke down beyond repair. The old order could not be

resurrected; the Peaceforcers created the Patrol Sectors, and left the vast bulk of what had once been

New York City to become the lethal, desolate area known as the Fringe.

Three children from the Chandler Complex survived the destruction of the telepaths. Two of them were

the nine-year-old twins David and Denice Castanaveras, the children of Carl Castanaveras and Jany

McConnell.

The third child was not a telepath. He was a webdancer.

A Player named Trent.

Seven years passed before Denice saw him again.

- 3 -

On August 13, 2069, Denice Castanaveras lay in the darkness with Trent. Earlier that day she and

Trent's oldest friend, Jimmy Ramirez, had rescued Trent from the PKF Detention Center in the middle of

Capitol City.

She was sixteen years old.

Through the windows of their thirty-second-floor room at the Red Line Hotel, Denice watched the

Peaceforcers hunt for Trent. Thousands of PKF AeroSmiths flew through the sky above the city; tens of

thousands of spyeyes. In the distance the AeroSmiths and spyeyes merged into a dancing swarm of

scarlet fireflies, highlighted by the bright white pinpricks of their searchlights.

They were both genies, the products of the late Suzanne Montignet's brilliance in genetic engineering; but

even between them the differences outweighed the similarities. For Denice the scene outside was suffused

with the deep glow of infrared light from the Peaceforcer night scopes; but not for Trent. As the night

grew colder moisture condensed at the window, smearing the bright sharp lights together with the dim

glow of the infrared.

She stirred, felt Trent's arms tighten around her. "When will you go?"

His voice was so quiet she could barely make it out. "Soon. Not yet."

"And where?"

"I don't know yet."

Her thoughts were slow, sluggish, in the moments before sleep. "Okay."

"They need to follow me," Trent said distantly. "They need to be drawn away from you, and if they're

looking for me they're not looking for you. If I die it's just me. If you die—then they've won. David's

probably dead, Denice. If you die, there's nothing left of what they were, and Amnier, Eddore, Vance, all

of them, they've won at last." He stirred restlessly, sat up against the bed's headboard. Denice curled up

against him, left her head resting in his lap, staring up in the darkness toward the ceiling, seeing only an

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Daniel Keys Moran - A Tale of the Continuing Time 03 - The Last Dancer

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