The Long Run

by The Long Run (new ed) (mobi)

  At 8:05 exactly the Federal Express messenger arrived.

  Mayor Hoff ran on: "... our violent crime, as a percentage of our population, is amazingly low, among the lowest in any human society in ..."

  There was a momentary hangup at the door; Officer Stout had not been instructed to let the messenger in. The argument was brief; Trent heard relatively little of it. Then the Federal Express man was inside, threading his way through the newsdancers up to the dais where Mohammed Vance and the other Peaceforcers were sitting. There was another brief delay at the stage, as one of the junior Peaceforcers attempted to prevent the man from delivering his package to Vance. Vance himself waved the young Peaceforcer away, reached down to the messenger to take the long, slim tube the messenger carried.

  Trent nudged the SBJ newsdancer standing next to him, gestured at Vance, and said, "You might want to record this."

  The newsdancer glanced at Trent. Trent nodded wisely at him, and the man got his holocam up on his shoulder and turned on just in time to win himself an Electronic Times Award for Excellence in News Reporting; the conference room's fixed holocams were focused on the podium, and of the seventy-odd portable holocams present, his was the only one focused on Commissionaire Vance as the Elite undid the tie on the box, opened the box itself and withdrew a single long-stemmed white rose.

  Vance sat looking at the rose, holding the white rose in one black-gloved fist, without expression, clearly without comprehension. The SBJ newsdancer kept his holocam on Vance, and an instant later Vance's hand curled around the rose, crushed it and dropped it to the floor of the dais. In that instant his features went scarlet; Trent had not even known that Peaceforcers Elite were capable of blushing.

  "Trent," Trent whispered to the SBJ newsdancer, "is supposed to have a long-stemmed white rose tattooed on, uhm, a certain part of his body."

  The newsdancer kept the holocam on Vance a moment longer, then turned it off and lowered it when it became clear Vance was going to do nothing at that particular moment. Just as quietly, he whispered back, "Where?"

  Trent glanced around to make sure that nobody was listening to them, leaned very close to the newsdancer and whispered in the man's ear. He finished, "... and that's the only way you're supposed to be able to tell whether it's a long-stemmed or a short-stemmed rose."

  The newsdancer was chuckling. "I hadn't heard that one."

  "It's true," Trent assured him.

  The newsdancer looked at him skeptically. "How would you know?"

  Trent shrugged and grinned at the man; the newsdancer started to turn back to Mayor Hoff, and then stopped dead, looking at the insignia on Trent's jumpsuit. He whispered, "You're not with us."

  Trent whispered back, "I know that, and you know that," and he grinned again at the newsdancer, "but they don't know that."

  Mayor Hoff concluded his speech; the newsdancer started to speak again and Trent said, "Shh."

  Most of the newsdancers had still not turned on their holocams when the mayor stepped away from the podium.

  A Peaceforcer Trent did not recognize stood and took the podium. He did not introduce himself, but the newsdancers stilled somewhat in respect. "I've a brief recording to play for you," the man said quietly. "Lights down."

  The holo ran some fifteen minutes. Trent, who had been there for almost all of it, watched in fascination. It started with stills taken of him while in custody at the PKF Detention Center. A voice-over in Mohammed Vance's deep, gravelly tones said, "We have no recordings of the criminal during his escape from the Detention Center. The Player Johnny Johnny, whom we are almost certain is the Image of the criminal Trent, destroyed three quarters of the PKF's online storage in Capitol City." The images shifted as the voice-over continued, became a grainy scene of the Hoffman Spacescraper as seen from a hovering AeroSmith. Trent was clutching a girder while the wind whipped at his hair, and Emile Garon leaped toward him, fell to his death.

  The scene changed again, became a flat image. The view was from a holocam near the elevators that led to the rotating wheels at Spacebase One. Trent walked a pace behind Roger Colbert, wearing a SpaceFarer uniform. "We have tentatively concluded that the SpaceFarers' Collective had nothing to do with Trent's escape from Earth." There were chuckles from the audience at what followed, as Trent squirtgunned five Peaceforcers into unconsciousness. The chuckles stopped when the recording cut to a still image of Spacebase One; they all knew what was coming. Whoever had edited the holo had done a good job; he held the image still for three seconds, four, and then the north end of Spacebase One blossomed into flame.

  Standing in the back of the conference room, Trent nodded thoughtfully. The PKF could not possibly have had holocams available to record the explosion from that angle; the image they were showing the newsdancers was animated. Excellent work; Trent, who had done a fair amount of animation work, could not have done the sequence better himself.

  The lights came back up. The Peaceforcer whom Trent did not know said quietly, "I give you Commissionaire Mohammed Vance of the PKF Elite."

  Vance stood slowly, moved to the podium. In Lunar gravity, he bounced less than anyone else Trent had seen since he had arrived on that planet, including native loonies. At the podium he did not pause to make the customary eye contact with the crowd; he stared straight ahead and began speaking in quiet, measured tones. Perhaps a quarter of the newsdancers knew of him as the Peaceforcer who was reputed to have ordered the destruction of the Castanaveras telepaths; as a group they rewarded him with first real silence of the news conference.

  "I am Mohammed Vance. I have come to Luna for the specific purpose of capturing and seeing to the execution of this thief, this Player, Trent. With your aid I believe we will accomplish this quickly. We have evidence that Trent is still in United Nations territory. I am taking this opportunity to inform the citizens of United Nations Luna that a reward in the amount of five thousand Credit Units has been posted for information leading to the capture of this criminal." Vance's stiff expression did not change; for the first time he glanced around the room, at the assembled newsdancers. "Press kits have been assembled and will be given out when we are finished here. If you have any questions, please feel free to ask them now."

  There was some method by which priority had been assigned, though Trent had no idea what it was; the newsdancers asked their questions in some pre-determined order.

  "Commissionaire Vance, how close are you to capturing Trent?"

  "I do not know."

  "Commissionaire Vance, how has Trent managed to evade capture for so long?"

  "Cleverness."

  "Commissionaire, is it true Trent's one of the Castanaveras telepaths?"

  "I do not know. I think it unlikely. Much has been made of the fact that the Bureau of Biotechnology's records show a child named 'Trent Castanaveras' was born March 9, 2051. And indeed, the Trent we are searching for is of approximately the correct age to be that child. Still, I do think it unlikely--Trent has had difficulties in places where no telepath would have had difficulties."

  "Commissionaire, is Trent a genie?"

  "It is possible, but I cannot say with certainty."

  "Commissionaire, if he is a genie, in what area might he show enhancements?"

  "He might show enhancements in virtually any area."

  "Commissionaire, is Trent dangerous?"

  "Very. I must caution the public that if they feel they have identified Trent, to notify the PKF at once. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to apprehend this criminal yourself. As his attempted destruction of Spacebase One at L-5 clearly shows, he possesses a disregard for human life which--"

  Hiding behind a tall loonie newsdancer from the Electronic Times, Trent said, loudly enough to be heard across the length of the room, "Oh, come on. It's not, 'his disregard for human life,' it's 'our disregard for human life'."

  The newsdancer Trent had been speaking to earlier faded slowly away from Trent, stood holding his holocam casually at waist level, focused on Trent.
Trent leaned toward him and whispered loudly enough for the holocam to catch it, "Pronoun troubles."

  Vance glanced across the conference room, looking without expression and without success for the source of the comment, and then backed up slightly and continued. "--a disregard for human life which ranks him with such ideologs as the Erisian Claw and the Johnny Rebs. He is--"

  Trent stepped to his left, so that he stood immediately before the open double doors. "Commissioner Vance."

  Vance looked directly at Trent. He did not say anything. Around the conference room, heads were craning to look back at the door.

  "Isn't it true, Commissioner, that you were warned that it wasn't safe to use the weapons at Spacebase One, and that you did anyway?" A few of the quicker newsdancers had their holocams on Trent by the time he had finished the question; the SBJ newsdancer at Trent's side kept his holocam rock-steady, focused on Trent.

  "No," said Vance slowly, "it is not. We--"

  "Isn't it true," said Trent loudly, "that your dangerous criminal ran through Peaceforcer Heaven with no weapon more dangerous than a squirt gun filled with Complex 8-A? And isn't it true that Trent, when advised that the stolen Space Force vehicle he was in was about to be destroyed, immediately jettisoned Colonel Piers Webster from the spacecraft, and that Webster was then rescued by Space Force?"

  "What news service are you with, young man?" Vance stared at Trent.

  "Commissioner Vance, isn't it true that virtually without exception the damage that has been caused to the Peaceforcers has been caused by the Peaceforcers?" Trent shouted to be heard over the growing noise from the newsdancers talking into their holocams. Better than half of them had their holocams focused on him. "Specifically, by the man who gave the order to fire the North Bay missiles after having been told that it was not safe for him to do so? By you?"

  The glittering cyborg eyes did not move. From across the conference room Trent could see smoke curling up from the glove covering the laser embedded in Vance's right fist.

  Mohammed Vance said, "Who are you?"

  Trent let the question hang for just an instant, and then said very softly indeed, to Vance and the assembled newsdancers, "I sent you the rose, Vance."

  There was sudden and complete silence.

  "Did you like it?"

  Vance took a step away from the podium, toward the crowd of newsdancers, toward Trent. "I did not. Is it you, Trent?"

  Trent said into the hushed stillness, "Yes."

  Vance took a step off the platform, dropped to the ground. Newsdancers were fanning away from him as he walked toward Trent, flames dancing around his right hand, smoke wafting slowly upward in the gentle Lunar gravity.

  Vance was thirty meters away; perhaps forty of the newsdancers were still blocking his way to Trent. Through the crowd Trent locked eyes with the huge cyborg, and said so quietly that it could not have been heard in less silent surroundings, "Catch me if you can."

  He took one step backward, into the corridor, and slapped the pressure pad to close the double doors. From a jumpsuit pocket he withdrew his squirt gun and shot Officer Stout in the face. She crumpled in slow motion in the Lunar gravity, sporting a woefully surprised expression. Trent worked swiftly but without hurrying, did it as he had practiced; from his tool kit Trent took a small suction pump, placed it over the corridor's pressure sensor and turned it on. The corridor sirens went off almost immediately; the door to the conference room locked with an audible snap. Trent jacked his handheld into the doorgrid and said aloud, "Breached corridor at City Hall. Emergency seal in place." The words boomed out over the corridor intercom, through every public outspeaker in all of Luna City. Trent kicked off his shoes and undressed in the empty corridor with Officer Stout's still form, watching the door. Not five seconds had passed since the closing of the door. Trent had the jumpsuit off; underneath it he wore a pair of floral print Hawaiian shorts and a black t-shirt. Vance must be having a time of it, getting newsdancers out of his way. Six seconds, seven--

  The door shuddered in its frame, buckled slightly. The doors dented outward once, twice, where they joined at the center, as the cyborg tried to force the doors apart. Trent bundled up the jumpsuit and tucked it into the tool kit, watching the door. This was the place where it all either came together or fell apart. If Vance managed to open that door it was all over.

  A third and even stronger blow struck the door; the door frame actually rang like a bell.

  Silence.

  Trent put his shoes back on.

  For the merest instant, a spot on the surface of the door glowed red, orange, approached white, and then faded. Trent grinned and said aloud, "Sucker," pulled his handheld free of the doorgrid and hooked it to his belt, turned and walked away down the empty corridor without haste, leaving the empty tool kit behind with Officer Stout.

  In his mind, he pictured it happening; the laser in Vance's fist touching the door, as Vance attempted to cut through to get at Trent. The vacuum glue bursting into fierce flames, the very efficient Lunar sprinkler system cutting in to douse the flames, and everything else in the conference room, with a fine mixture of water and fadeaway.

  The corridor let out onto the only large plaza on A2; Trent glided down a ramp to A1. On A1, just before 8:30 a.m., there would normally be a couple of thousand people out on various errands. Not sixty seconds had passed since the false warning of a breach at City Hall; Trent could not see anyone, on all of A1, who was not either in a pressure suit or running like mad toward whatever they perceived as safety. A squad of Peaceforcers trotted across A1 on its way toward Luna City Hall. Trent ran, like everyone around him, ran with long bouncing strides to the Luna City transfer station, checked his p-suit from the public locker, paid for his ticket with untraceable hard SpaceFarer CU, and boarded the 8:30 monorail to Kepler.

  Katrina Trudeau kept an underground four-room house just outside of the city of Kepler. In addition to being her official place of residence, it doubled as a pickup hospital for those clients who required surgery or other services that were not convenient to provide at Luna City.

  Katrina sat beneath dimmed lights in a sunken, white rug-covered area of her living room, watching a recording of the news conference at Luna City, when Trent cycled through the airlock. She wore a long gray silk robe, tied at the waist with a green sash, with nothing beneath it that Trent could see. Katrina smiled at him quickly and went back to watching the recording while Trent stripped off his p-suit and rubbed it down.

  "I'm ready."

  Katrina glanced at him, patted a cushion on the floor next to her. "I hope you're ready. We're going to need to do your voice box as well. After this--" In the holo, Trent was saying I sent you the rose, Vance. Katrina said, "Command, holo off. I suppose you know how this ends?"

  Trent joined her, settled in to get comfortable. There was a "fireplace" in the wall next to them: a combination of holo, sound, and radiant heater. The effect was remarkably realistic; Trent would have hesitated to put his hand into the flame. "Peaceforcers and newsdancers sprawled all over the place. The good guys win."

  "You're impossible. Trent," she said, trying the name out for size. "I liked Thomas better."

  "Thomas was safer for you."

  Katrina laughed, looking at him with amusement and some real degree of affection. "I want an extra two thousand CU, Trent. For the added danger."

  Trent said sincerely, "I respect you too much to haggle."

  Katrina laughed again. "I'm sure you do." She glanced back at the empty holofield, as though it still held the image of the prone forms in the City Hall conference room. She stood. "Come in back with me."

  "I thought you were never going to ask."

  Katrina said slowly, "I have some reluctance to do this to you."

  Lying on the long flat table, staring straight up at fluorescent white glowpaint, Trent said, "Hell of a time to mention it. Why?"

  She looked undecided for a moment. "There is--it--" She chewed on her lower lip. "Trent, you're perfec
t."

  Trent said, "Thank you."

  "I mean it," she protested. "I've been going through your X-rays, the physical I ran on you the last time you were here. Trent, you have no flaws."

  Trent said again, "Thank you."

  Katrina said gently, "You're not surprised."

  "Should I be?"

  "Yes, you should." Indecision battled clearly behind the golden eyes. "You're so exquisite--if you were a painting you'd be a masterpiece, Trent."

  Trent sighed. "Ask the question."

  "I'm not prejudiced," she said. "It's important you believe that. I'm not."

  "You could just ask, you know. It'd save us both a lot of time."

  "Those questions they asked at the news conference--Trent, who designed you?"

  Looking up into her eyes, Trent said, "Suzanne Montignet."

  "Doctor Montignet?" Katrina nodded slowly. "I see that in you. I studied under her, you know. She--"

  "Was the best, and I didn't pick one of her students by accident. Katrina, could we talk about this some other time?"

  The woman stood still, then relaxed. "I would really like to hear about it sometime."

  "Sometime I'll tell you." Trent was silent then, while Katrina moved the machines into place around him.

  "Trent?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm going to put you under now. It'll take a few moments, and you'll feel a bit disoriented before you go out. Just don't worry, and don't get tense; it'll be okay."

  Something cool brushed Trent's arm. "Katrina?"

  "Yes, Trent?"

  "It's not that I don't trust you."

  She said patiently, "Yes?"

  "You notice my handheld's not here. My Image is not here."

  "So?"

  A wave of dizziness touched Trent. "So, if anything goes wrong, if I don't get in touch with my Image after this, my Image is going to come get you. My Image," said Trent, somewhat blurrily, "has replicant code in him. Even in the LIN I think he'd last--long enough."

  Katrina Trudeau leaned over Trent's reclining form, and murmured in his ear, "It's a suspicious world we live in, love. I wouldn't hurt you." Her voice grew very remote. "How could I? There's too little art in the world to begin with...."