The Long Run

by The Long Run (new ed) (mobi)

  As she had been. But I healed, Denice thought drowsily. He never did. It did not occur to her that she might be wrong about either herself or him. Pain touched her again, muffled only slightly by the approach of stillness. He doesn't even know how much he loves me. And he doesn't believe me when I tell him.

  Some time after that she slept. An image stayed with her as she descended into the darkness. An image of her, at the age of nine, of the way Trent had seen her then when he was eleven. They were together in the park across the street from the Chandler Complex, on a hazy day in Spring, and she was sleeping with her head in his lap, long black hair falling half over her features as she slept. That was the image that she remembered when she awoke the next morning; the memory that stayed with her that night, the memory that stayed with her through the long years to follow.

  The memory of how he loved her.

  Trent the Uncatchable did not sleep that night. When morning came, he lifted Denice's head from his lap, gently, left a note on the terminal next to the bedside, and left Denice Castanaveras behind to become a legend.

  At the hotel's desk he left instructions that a single white rose be delivered to her room, first thing in the morning.

  The note he left on the terminal said:

  * * *

  Don't worry. It's going to be all right.

  --Trent

  * * *

  11.

  "He was a product of his time, Mohammed Vance, an ideolog who believed that the values of the Unification were good values, worth defending from the likes of Trent the Uncatchable.

  "For many years, he was right. Things were not always so bad as they became toward the end.

  "He was in many ways a good man. That fortune chose Mohammed Vance to play the role of Trent's enemy does not change that."

  --The Peaceforcer Elite Melissa du Bois, as quoted in The Exodus Bible.

  "Commissioner? Commissioner Vance?"

  "Oui." The voice that answered was deep, rumbling.

  "Your pardon, sir. I do not speak French."

  "Yes, what? You dragged me from my bed; this had better be good."

  "Sir, you are directed to report for duty in Capitol City, by ten hundred hours today Capitol City time. The orders are direct from the Secretary General's office, sir."

  "The Capitol? What the Hell for?"

  "Sir, we have a Peaceforcer Elite killed here."

  There was a brief, flat pause. "Killed?"

  "Sir, it appears so. His body was dumped from the top of the uncompleted Hoffman Spacescraper--murder, as nearly as we can tell. Apparently there are recordings of the event taken by nearby PKF."

  "Have you seen them yourself?"

  "No, sir."

  "I see. Has the news leaked?"

  "No, sir."

  "Thank God for that." Another pause. "Names?"

  "Sir?"

  "The murderer and the dead Elite, idiot."

  "Yes, sir. The Peaceforcer's name was Garon, sir, PKF Elite Sergeant Emile Garon. As nearly as we can determine, the murderer was a minor New York area webdancer; perhaps a Player. Or thief, something like that. He escaped PKF custody early Tuesday."

  "Emile is dead?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And the thief's--or webdancer's, or Player's--name, if I might inquire?"

  "Sir? Trent."

  "Trent?"

  "Yes, sir."

  There was another pause. "Trent what?"

  "It's all I have, sir. Just Trent."

  Trent walked down the corridor on the one hundred and eighty-third floor of the L'Fevre Spacescraper, the fourth tallest building in New York, the tallest that was not on Manhattan island. In his left hand he carried the briefcase Jodi Jodi had given him.

  Trent stopped before one doorway like any other in the corridor, except that there was no name plate next to the doorgrid. Without pausing he withdrew a small, spidery black-metal object from the right-hand pocket of his suit, and placed it over the doorgrid.

  The suit was made of optical polycloth; it had been tuned to a dark marine blue. The briefcase Trent carried was also a deep shade of blue.

  They nearly matched.

  The pick Trent had attached to Booker Jamethon's door beeped once. Trent plucked the pick off the doorgrid, and put it back in his pocket.

  The door was solid wood, not memory plastic; it slid aside without flexing or curling, into a compartment within the wall.

  Trent stepped inside, the door closing itself behind him. The room he stepped into was dark after the brightness of the sunpaint in the hallway outside. Tiny red dots danced before his eyes. The room was cool, at least five degrees below the temperature of the rest of the building.

  As Trent's eyesight adjusted to the dimness, he made out a remarkably cluttered room. Its living room was also the kitchen, and held one table and two benches. Shelves covered every wall. SpaceFarer booknets strengthened for gravity hung down forty centimeters from the ceiling. Everything held some measure of esoteric equipment: reels of monofilament fineline, bundles of the optic fiber that SpaceFarers called lasercable, superconductor strips, chemical apparatus and chipglue; one shelf held half a dozen blocks of very expensive molecular circuitry, with equally expensive viewtracers attached to them. There were two half-assembled (or half-disassembled) serving robots, and what Trent recognized as an ancient FrancoDEC LapVax.

  Tools lay scattered everywhere.

  In the room there was only one place to sit, an overstuffed chair that looked quite comfortable, just to the left of the door that doubtless led to the bedroom. Booker Jamethon, sitting in it, also looked quite comfortable. He was pointing an unrecognizable amalgamation of gadgetry at Trent; Trent suspected it was a weapon.

  Trent said, "Hello, Booker." He looked around for a place to put down his briefcase.

  Booker Jamethon was the ugliest person Trent had ever met in his life. Somewhere in his late fifties, he was at least thirty kilograms overweight, and he depilated too rarely. His inskin was ancient, seven years old at least. His arms were massively muscled and incredibly long. One of his legs was shorter than the other.

  Booker was, Trent was certain, the world's hairiest living human.

  Trent did not know who Booker's Image was, though he had some guesses. He was certainly one of the half-dozen best Players in the world.

  Booker said gently, "Hello, Trent. May I ask some questions?" He spoke in a deep baritone, the words themselves uttered in a precise, cultured manner. "What are you doing in my apartment? How did you find my apartment? How did you acquire my door code? What do you want of me?"

  Trent stood still. "Don't you ever audit the news, Booker?"

  "No."

  "Oh."

  "The news Boards are obnoxious institutions," said Booker. "They should be abolished in favor of rumor mongering. I did hear you'd been arrested, and that the Player Johnny Johnny took down three quarters of the PKF Boards in Capitol City when you escaped. I also heard that the PKF thought you were the Player Ralf the Wise and Powerful, from back a few years ago." Booker smiled broadly at Trent. "I remember Ralf. He was a punk."

  "Look, Booker--"

  "Look, Trent." Booker waved the thing in his hand at Trent. "You are not answering my question."

  "I need to get off Earth, Booker."

  "Excuse me," said Booker Jamethon. "Questions, in the plural; you are not answering my questions."

  Trent found an empty spot amid the junk on the floor. He put down the briefcase on it. "I'm in trouble, Booker. The Peaceforcers are after me, and I need to get off Earth. The further off the better. I came to you because your love for the Left Hand of the Devil is known far and wide."

  Booker Jamethon smiled for the first time since Trent had entered his apartment. "My dear boy. I fully understand that you will be even less inclined to answer my questions after I have shot you, but you are beginning to annoy me."

  "I'm in your apartment because I need help. I've known where you lived ever since we boosted Toomey's place. I di
dn't have your door code until just now, and I don't actually know what it is because I haven't dumped my pick since it opened the door. What I want from you," said Trent seriously, "is your help."

  Booker chuckled. Trent would not have sworn that the booknets above his head started moving at that precise moment, only that it was the first time he had noticed it. "What did they arrest you for, Trent? Did you finally boost the wrong article? Or was there some complication in one of your generally brilliant operations that you had not foreseen? In the past, as I recall, complications have included enraged bankers, enraged fathers, enraged Peaceforcers, enraged husbands, at least one enraged wife that I know of, and one enraged midget."

  "That's not true," said Trent, "that story about the midget."

  "What," said Booker Jamethon slowly, "does the United Nations Peace Keeping Force want you for?"

  Trent said, "They think I'm a telepath, and they think I killed a Peaceforcer."

  Booker Jamethon sat motionless for several moments, fixing Trent with one of his patented five-Credit stares.

  "Well, I'm not. And I didn't."

  Booker carefully laid the weapon on a small stool next to him that had the sole virtue of being slightly less crowded with machinery than everything surrounding it. He stood like a small mountain moving. "You didn't?"

  "It was an accident," said Trent quickly. "A mistake. He fell."

  Standing motionless, Booker Jamethon's eyes dropped slowly shut. Trent would have given a great deal to know what Image stirred and ventured forth into the Network in that moment. A moment later he wondered where that Image had gone; the information Booker's Image came back with was nothing out of any public Board. "Oh, my God," said Booker quietly. He opened his eyes again and stared through the gloom at Trent. "You stupid shit. You killed a Peaceforcer Elite."

  "He fell, Booker! It wasn't my fault."

  "Do you have a short between the trodes, Trent? You came to me with the Peaceforcers chasing you?" After a long moment Booker Jamethon said far too quietly, "I don't like this, Trent. How close are they?"

  "Not very. I audited a PKF Board I have a tap in while I was on my way over here; it says they've assigned a Peaceforcer named Mohammed Vance to oversee the investigation."

  "Should that mean something to me?"

  "I suppose not."

  "You know of him?" Booker demanded.

  "Vaguely."

  "Is he any good?"

  "Probably." Trent paused. "Yes."

  "DataWatch?"

  "Elite. According to the personnel file on him, DataWatch has received help from him in Realtime hunts; he took down the Wizard Woz two years ago."

  Booker Jamethon took a long, deep breath, not looking away from Trent, and said again, "How close?"

  "I think I lost them. At least temporarily. There's this huge search going on for me, Booker...."

  Booker stared through the gloom at Trent. Trent tried to gauge how angry Booker was. Very, was his guess. "You think you lost them. I feel better now."

  "Free Luna, Mars, the Belt CityStates...."

  "Why me, damn it?" roared Booker abruptly.

  "Because," said Trent, "they're not sure who my Image is, but they know who I am and they know I don't have an inskin. Every full-sensory terminal within fifty klicks is locked down right now. There are webdancers all over the damned InfoNet, just waiting for me to come across the interface. I need to see a makeup artist, which I could do myself, but I also need to place passage and for work that detailed I need a full sensory. I can't go back to mine. The Peaceforcers have had that since this time yesterday. I don't even have my traceset any more." Booker was just looking at him, and Trent said simply, "You're the only other Player I know."

  Booker snapped, "Luna?"

  "That would be fine. It's the tourist in me, Booker," said Trent sincerely. "I've always wanted to see Luna."

  Booker Jamethon closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again Trent could not quite make out the expression on Booker's face. "Very well," said Booker after a moment. "How would you like to leave Earth as a Peaceforcer?"

  Trent blinked. "I'd love to. Booker?"

  "Yes?"

  "Could I leave as a particular Peaceforcer?"

  Trent froze when the woman turned on the holocams. "What are you doing?"

  "Recording the session, sonny." The makeup artist was a pleasant, chubby woman who had introduced herself to Trent as Mick. Mick was easily old enough to begin geriatrics treatments, if she had not already started; she was one of perhaps half a dozen women Trent had ever seen in his life who had wrinkles on her face. Women in the Patrol Sectors could afford geriatrics, and women in the Fringe didn't usually live long enough to grow wrinkled. "This is a Syndic shop," Mick said, "and we keep records."

  Trent sat up in the long chair, reaching for his shirt. "Not a chance."

  The woman sighed. "Booker said you'd be difficult. Listen, kid, you're shipping to Free Luna tonight? Yes?"

  Trent said cautiously, "Yes."

  "So no time for biosculpt. You're on a ship tonight and you need to look different than you do now when you go through Unification Spaceport. At the end of the day the Syndic local terminal polls my machine, and my terminal spills its guts. Now, I don't care how bad the PKF wants you, no way are my records going to get indexed in time for the Syndic to sell your face to the PKF before this time tomorrow--by which time, kid, you're on the damn Moon and outside their reach and you can get biosculpted proper. You get the idea? You should trust Booker. If he wanted to send you off there would have been brass balls or Syndic enforcers or somebody at my door when you got here."

  Trent sighed. "All right."

  "You're a nice boy. Lay back and shut up. This is going to hurt."

  Trent spent most of the afternoon atop an abandoned building at the edge of the Fringe. It was a gorgeous day that could not make up its mind whether it wanted to be sunny or cloudy; it was windy enough that the huge gray clouds were scudding across the blue sky above him at a just perceptible clip. From atop the building he could see, across the Hudson River, midtown Manhattan, home of the Unification Council of the United Nations. He could see lower Manhattan, once the business capitol of the world. It was no longer the business capitol of the world, had not been since being nuked the first time, during the closing days of the Unification War. The swarm of tactical nukes had destroyed Wall Street and a huge chunk of New York city and state government offices. Irreplaceable financial records had been lost in the destruction; a fifteen-year global depression had followed.

  The United Nations had helped rebuild lower Manhattan into one of the most prestigious residential areas in the world, and then, in 2062, they'd nuked it again; a smaller destruction this time but still sufficient to make the southern tip of the island uninhabitable for over a year.

  In the other direction Trent could see the Fringe. Five minutes of battle between the Peaceforcers and the telepaths had caused that stretching desolation; nearly a quarter of the population of southern New York and New Jersey had gone insane that night of July 3, 2062, when the telepaths, at the Chandler Complex in lower Manhattan, had fought and been destroyed.

  He sat atop the gravel-strewn rooftop until night fell, looking out over the sprawling city that had been his home. Once her thoughts touched him, glancingly, searchingly, but he did not respond.

  Booker had been unable to find a traceset for Trent amidst the junk in his apartment. Booker himself did not need a traceset; even his obsolete inskin was more useful.

  Trent's ship was lifting from Unification Spaceport at 8:15.

  At 6:20 he removed his handheld from the briefcase and said, "Johnny?"

  Johnny Johnny said, "Hello, Boss. Status: on over two thirds of the Boards on Earth, two hundred fifteen million Boards at present, there has been no mention of the name 'Trent' in conjunction with the death of PKF Elite Emile Garon. Insufficient processing time to check the remaining hundred ten million Boards, but I hit every major commercial Bo
ard, every institutional Board open to the public, every government Board, every Player Board where I have access. The PKF has not yet released to the news Boards the fact that it was a PKF Elite who died yesterday. Nor," said Johnny Johnny in his best newsdancer voice, "have they released your name, or a description of you, or any pertinent background on the escape from the Detention Center in Capitol City. PKF Boards in Capitol City are still largely in a state of higgledy-piggledy since the infamous Player Johnny Johnny crashed them early yesterday morning. Mohammed Vance arrived on a chartered semiballistic from France early this morning, and has been directing the hunt for you since that time. To date, they have not caught you." Johnny Johnny paused. "In nine hours and forty minutes we are scheduled to arrive at the city of Alphonse, port of entry into Free Luna."

  "Higgledy-piggledy?"

  "That means 'in confusion: TOPSY-TURVY, RANDOMLY.' Or, 'A real mess,' Boss."

  "Thanks, Johnny."

  "No problem."

  At 6:30 exactly Trent stood, brushed the dust off the seat of his pants, walked down five flights to street level, and called for a cab to take him into Manhattan.

  Into Peaceforcer territory.

  Trent relaxed in the back seat of the hovercab with his eyes closed. The hovercab was waiting in line with about forty other vehicles, to be processed across Almundsen Bridge and onto the island of Manhattan.

  The cab's radio was tuned to channel 9.1.46; Capitol City, Metro News, Crime.

  When Trent's cab reached the checkpoint, two gendarmes approached it from each side.

  Trent did not open his eyes.

  Without addressing Trent, one of the two opened the front door and checked the cab's readout.

  The gendarme closed the front door. He called out, "PKF business. Priority routing." The cab pulled out of the line, and entered the flow of traffic crossing the bridge.

  On the radio, the announcer stated that a Peaceforcer had been killed at approximately 9:30 yesterday morning, in the vicinity of the uncompleted Hoffman Spacescraper. She repeated the fairly stale news that Commissioner Mohammed Vance had assumed control of the investigation, and that, given Vance's past success in Realtime manhunts of this sort, apprehension of the murderer was expected shortly.