The Long Run

by The Long Run (new ed) (mobi)

  It was silent except on ship frequencies. Either none of the Peaceforcers in the compartment had inskins, or they had them and weren't using them.

  The Peaceforcers had finally held a news conference concerning Trent; there were eight major news Boards following the story of the hunt for Emile Garon's killer. NewsBoard, the third Board Trent scanned, had the information he needed. The first section of the NewsBoard story was simply a recounting of the circumstances of Emile Garon's death, as described by the Peaceforcers. The story went on to describe the steps the Peaceforcers were taking in their search for the murderer; according to NewsBoard, the average Peaceforcer had not learned of Emile Garon's death until nearly two o'clock that afternoon, and the Peaceforcers aboard the Flandry, on detached duty awaiting transfer to L-5, probably did not know about it.

  Certainly Melissa du Bois did not.

  The next thing Trent did was pull up the Flandry's listed ports of call: Mars, via Luna City, via the United Nations Peace Keeping Force Base at Lagrange Five.

  "I wonder why Booker didn't mention that to me," Trent said softly, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip.

  Probably didn't want you to worry, said Johnny Johnny through the traceset.

  Melissa said, "Trent?"

  "Yes, I am," said Trent definitely.

  She started to say something, then shook her head. "Never mind. What are you doing?"

  Trent shut off the handheld and looked up at her as the holofield faded. "Excuse me?"

  Melissa seemed to be searching for words. "That was ... inequiétante ... I do not know the word."

  "Odd?"

  "Uncanny. I have never seen anyone pull data up onto an InfoNet handheld like that. The field, itblurredas the data flowed by. How could you understand?"

  Trent's thoughts spun briefly, an engine with the load removed. "Oh, yes." He leaned toward Melissa. "Actually, in real life when I'm not being Trent the thief, I'm the youngest member of Secretary General Eddore's private webdancing staff." He added as an afterthought, "My parents are very proud of me."

  Trent had never had parents.

  Carl Castanaveras, whom Trent had called father, had been killed by Peaceforcers.

  Suzanne Montignet and Malko Kalharri, who were the architect and the will behind Project Superman--the man and woman who had raised the men and women who had raised Trent--they too had died at the hands of Peaceforcers.

  With the exception of Denice Castanaveras and possibly her brother, everybody whom Trent had grown up with had been killed by Peaceforcers.

  "That's nice," said Melissa du Bois.

  Trent smiled at Melissa du Bois the Peaceforcer. "Isn't it?"

  He lay back in his seat then, tightening the straps slightly to keep himself in place.

  He slept the sleep of exhaustion.

  More than a thousand years later, when the second largest religion in the Continuing Time was the religion that had grown from the seeds sown by The Exodus Bible, children and adults, human and otherwise, on tens of millions of worlds, read Melissa du Bois's account of her first meeting with Trent.

  He had no equals, save, in some ways, Mohammed Vance, the man who hunted him for all those years. He was young when I first met him, and improvising as he went. The meticulous preparation for which he later became known was not so evident when I first met him--not surprisingly, perhaps. He was running for his life, from us.

  I think I did not know the meaning of the word humility, then. I was one of the best of the PKF, and I did know it.

  Before Trent I had never failed at anything.

  Some two hours later Trent awoke to free fall, to silence.

  The lights in the compartment had been dimmed. The bulkhead that Trent and Melissa's seats were lined up against now seemed to have vanished; a holograph displayed upon its surface showed deep space, blazing white and yellow and blue stars against the purest blackness Trent had ever seen.

  Many of the Peaceforcers were sleeping. A few were auditing text on their handhelds, the pages glowing in midair; other Peaceforcers were simply looking, hypnotized, at the holograph of deep space.

  Trent played back the excerpts his handheld had recorded for him while he was asleep. NewsBoard had nothing of note since his last audit, but the Electronic Times had just posted a story saying that there were rumors circulating to the effect that the murdered Peaceforcer in New York City had actually been a member of the Peaceforcer Elite. The Electronic Times was not certain, but they thought that a Peaceforcer Elite had never been murdered in the line of duty before.

  Melissa du Bois said sleepily, "It's lovely, isn't it?"

  "Yes. Yes, it is." Looking at the young Peaceforcer's profile, as she watched the glowing stars, Trent was not surprised by the sudden realization of how desperately he wanted to take her to bed.

  "When I was very young, I thought I would be an astronomer. Live on farside at one of the observatories; Zvezdagrad perhaps, Star City at Tsiolkovsky Crater. My parents indulged me, bought me a telescope and set it up on the balcony on the third floor." She sighed. "I had no skill for it, not the math, and not really the inclination. My father is PKF Elite; after my brother died he wanted very much for me to follow him in the service." She smiled at him, somewhat diffidently. "You listen well. What did you want to be as a child?"

  Trent intentionally did not use the word Player. "A webdancer. Do you regret it--being a Peaceforcer, I mean?"

  "As opposed to what?" she said evenly.

  "I don't know. A clown? Did you ever want to be a clown in the circus?"

  Melissa du Bois blinked abruptly, swiftly, and then laughed. "No. But I did, the first time I saw the Ringling Brothers circus, I wanted to be one of the women who swung on the trapezes and got caught by the beautiful boys. I think I was twelve." She looked sideways at Trent again. "What did you want to be when you were twelve?"

  "Thirteen."

  "What was your childhood like--you are American?"

  There was hardly point in denying it. "Yes."

  "Growing up in the O.A.," she said slowly, "were you taught to hate us?"

  "Taught? No."

  She did not seem to catch the distinction. "Where did you grow up?"

  "New York. Not far from Capitol City. It's how I ended up on the Secretary General's webdancer staff."

  Trent thought she asked the question quite seriously. "What was it like, your childhood?"

  "Depraved."

  She thought about this for several seconds. "You mean 'deprived'?" she said carefully.

  "Sure," said Trent cheerfully, "that too. Tell me more about your childhood. I've never been to France."

  "You are too polite. We--"

  "I'd really like to hear about it." Melissa met his eyes quickly, and Trent said simply, "Please?"

  They talked for nearly two solid hours while a cabin full of Peaceforcers slept around them.

  Melissa du Bois had been born and raised in Narbonne, a small town in southern France, near the Gulf of Lions in the Mediterranean Sea. Her father had owned a house right on the beach; she had acquired her current tan there, while on leave preparatory to reporting for duty at L-5.

  "I've always wanted to go to the South Seas, myself," Trent told her. "There are beaches in New York, but they don't count, the sand is gray. The South Seas--one of the French Polynesian islands, maybe. Live on an island somewhere and sleep in the sun on the beach." He grinned at her. "So instead I'm going to visit Luna, where if you step outside to get a tan you blow up and freeze to death and fry all at once."

  Melissa had actually been to L-5 before, three years previously. She and her parents had toured it briefly on their way to Luna for a vacation; her parent's first vacation following her father's retirement from the PKF, Melissa's last vacation before joining. On the Moon they had stayed at the Hotel Copernicus; Melissa du Bois had learned to fly there, at the Luna City Flight Caverns.

  "I wanted to go to New Vegas, but--" Melissa shook her head with a rather sad smile. "New Vegas is in
Free Luna. My father got very angry at the suggestion that we visit. I think he wanted to pretend that there was no such thing as Free Luna." She paused a moment and then added, "My brother was stationed on Luna in 2064, during the Fizzle War between United Nations Luna and Free Luna." She paused again and said without inflection, "He died."

  Trent spent most of the time listening, listening to the details of a life that had been so unlike his own that at times he was not certain that some of the things she told him, with a straight face, were not jokes. Had her parents really forbidden her to continue seeing her first boyfriend merely because he had been arrested once? And if so, why?

  During their talk, Melissa du Bois never used the word "Peaceforcer."

  "There is a tradition of public service in my family; my father is PKF Elite, and both of my uncles were PKF."

  "I understand," said Trent slowly, "the desire ... for public service. To help make things better. To say to the world, 'I have been here, and I made a difference.'"

  Melissa smiled at him dazzlingly. "Yes. You do understand."

  "But there's more than one way to make a difference. Accountants--talk to an accountant some day, and he'll tell you how critical what he does is, how without him commerce would grind to a halt. The same for salespeople, or engineers. Or babychasers, for that matter."

  Melissa du Bois nodded, thoughtfully. "I would hate to work for the Ministry of Population Control. But you are right, it is necessary."

  "And computerists--" Trent grinned. "A good filter routine, an Image description placed in the public Boards, things like that, I could make a good case that such things contribute as much to real improvement as, say, a Peaceforcer with a gun."

  "Really?" She seemed to be considering the idea.

  "The Peaceforcers are more visible. But--Peaceforcers are damage control, Melissa. They don't build spacescrapers or roads or computers, they don't raise food, they don't create art. They just stop wars from happening."

  "One would think," said Melissa slowly, "that this would be enough to ask of any public body."

  "Damage control is important. Somebody has to do it."

  Melissa du Bois chewed at her lower lip, looking at Trent.

  "Yes," she said finally. "Somebody does."

  Eight minutes and fifteen seconds before E.T.A. Spacebase One at L-5, Melissa said, "Trent, I have been thinking."

  "Is that unusual?"

  "What is your last name?"

  Half a dozen answers popped into his mind. "Smith," he said, without perceptible pause.

  "I was wondering," and she hesitated, "would you mind if I looked for you when I am back downside? I would like to see you again if I can. It cannot be soon," she said hurriedly, "for I will be on restricted duty at Spacebase One for the next six months, and when I do go downside ... well, there are people who are prejudiced against the Elite. You are a nice boy ... if you wouldn't mind...." Her voice trailed off.

  Trent said, "A nice boy?"

  "You are cute," she shrugged, "and funny. You have made me laugh"--she paused, thinking--"twice."

  "Not dashing?"

  "No." She shook her head definitely.

  "How about handsome? Or romantic?"

  "No. Cute, yes, and witty."

  "Okay." Trent nodded. "I'll take that."

  "Good. I can reach you through the office of the Secretary General?"

  "Oh. Yes, certainly of course. Sure."

  "Good." She smiled at him with a shyness that Trent had never seen on the streets of New York in any girl older than ten. "It will be something to look forward to when I come back."

  Trent nodded wordlessly. He felt like the greater of two evils, any two evils.

  He sat quietly, lost in his own thoughts. Presumably the Peaceforcers would disembark here; the SpaceFarers might load cargo; and then the ship would proceed to Luna. Trent wondered how long it would all take.

  The announcement, at four minutes and five seconds to E.T.A. Spacebase One, was given in French.

  The sound level in the passenger cabin jumped sharply.

  The Peaceforcers were talking to each other in a babble of swift French that Trent could not follow.

  Trent said to Melissa, "What did it say?"

  "Didn't you hear the announcement?"

  "The announcement? Yes."

  "They just made an announcement," Melissa told him.

  "I heard it. What did it say?"

  "Don't you speak any French?"

  "A little, but I wasn't listening."

  "You just told me you heard the announcement."

  "I heard it," Trent explained, "but I wasn't listening."

  "Oh."

  "What did it say?"

  "What did the announcement say?" Melissa du Bois repeated.

  "Yes," said Trent very clearly, "the announcement."

  "Two things. It said we would be quarantined for three hours, and it said there was a private message for us on PKF Band Two."

  "What did that message say?"

  Suddenly the wariness was back in her eyes. "I cannot tell you. Why do you want to know?"

  "Uhm. Curiosity?"

  "It said--" Melissa broke off, studying Trent as though for the first time. "Never mind."

  Oh, no. "Well," said Trent mildly, "if you won't tell me why we're being quarantined, I guess I'll go find out for myself." He smiled at her while unstrapping himself from the reclining seat. He replaced his handheld in his briefcase, and, hooking his foot into one of the rows of handgrips that ran along the deck, got out of his seat, clutching his briefcase in one hand.

  Melissa said quietly, "Where do you think you are going with your luggage?"

  The smile was frozen on Trent's face. "To find out what's going on. Don't worry, stay here, I'll be right back."

  Trent pulled his way along the grips, briefcase tucked beneath one arm, to the hatch that connected the rest of Deck Two to the passenger's cabin.

  Trent did not intend to be right back.

  The Peaceforcer nearest the exit, a kindly-seeming Frenchman in his mid-thirties, said, "Young man, I have dealt with the SpaceFarers' Collective before. Read the sign, and do not make the mistake I think you are about to make."

  The holo said, Except for Visits to the Restroom, Passengers Will Remain Seated Until Otherwise Instructed.

  Trent could not find the word 'please' anywhere on the sign.

  The kindly Peaceforcer, who was probably the oldest of those in the cabin, said, "You should really sit down again."

  "Without an up," said Trent, "there can be no down." He opened the pressure hatch and pulled himself through, dogging the hatch shut behind him.

  Trent had no use for kindly Peaceforcers, none.

  Trent floated in the corridor immediately outside the passenger's cabin, trying to think of what to do next, rationally considering his alternatives.

  None came to mind. After a moment Trent realized that he was "upside down"--the corridor's local vertical pointed the other way. He righted himself, to see if it would help.

  It didn't help.

  "Vance!"

  Trent found a grip, and turned around to face the sound. Lieutenant Zinth came floating down into the corridor through a hatch leading to the deck immediately above. He did not bother to align himself into the local vertical. With his face staring upside down into Trent's, he snarled, "The Captain wants you. Now."

  Trent said, "Really?"

  "What the hell have you quarantined our ship for?"

  "What?"

  "What the hell--"

  "Wait, wait. I heard you the first time." Trent stared into Zinth's upside down face. "Three hours, right?"

  "You should bloody well know, you--"

  "Ordered the quarantine," said Trent. "Right. I'm Mohammed Vance," he told Zinth, "and there's a chase ship coming from Earth, and it's going to be here in three hours?"

  Zinth screamed, "What the hell have you quarantined our ship for?"

  Trent let go of his briefcase. With a fli
ck of his foot he pushed himself closer to the SpaceFarer. He wrapped his left hand firmly through a grip near Zinth, and with his right, pointed behind Zinth. "Because of that!"

  The SpaceFarer twisted his head to look back down the empty corridor.

  Trent aimed for a spot five centimeters to the right of the exact geometrical center of Lieutenant Zinth's chin, and, swinging with his full strength, broke his hand against it.

  Zinth's head bounced once against the side of the accessway. Beads of blood began drifting away from the spot where Trent had struck him; Trent grabbed Zinth by his coat and pulled the SpaceFarer down into the corridor with him.

  Trent remembered how, when they had both been together downside, standing up, the young SpaceFarer had been exactly his height.

  To nobody in particular, Trent said, "I think I broke my hand."

  Retrieving his briefcase, with the body clumsily in tow, Trent began searching for a john.

  Muttering to Zinth, "I don't usually do this sort of thing on such short acquaintance, you know," Trent began stripping the SpaceFarer's uniform from him.

  After searching for a few seconds, Trent found a first-aid kit in the bathroom. Removing Zinth's ship coat and shirt, he used the adhesive tape to bind the SpaceFarer's wrists together behind him. He affixed another strip to the SpaceFarer's mouth.

  It was harder than Trent had expected to change clothes with Zinth. Among other things, the john was clearly intended for only one person at a time.

  After taking Zinth's pants from him, Trent stared blankly for a moment at the SpaceFarer's underwear.

  Trent could not recall ever having seen anything quite that shade of red before.

  When he was fully dressed, Trent turned Zinth's maser over in his hands for several seconds. His face held no expression as he examined it. Finally he found a slot on the butt of the weapon; he turned it, and a small cage containing the charge pack dropped out of the butt. He removed the charge pack from its cage, replaced the cage inside the maser, and holstered the weapon.

  As Trent left the bathroom, there was a gentle bump, transmitted through the hull of the ship; The Captain Sir Dominic Flandry had docked at Lagrange Five, the stronghold of the United Nations Peace Keeping Force in space.