Firedance

by Steven Barnes

  “All right,” the voice in his ear said. “You have the manual down. System’s had an opportunity to read your reflex patterns. We should be in the groove. Switch to Autonomic, and let’s see how it goes.”

  Aubry switched it in, and held his breath. In simulator module-based practice, the switch to Autonomic had been a belly flop of an experience, a sudden expansion of his ego boundaries to include a great glider wing of metal and plastic, and all of the electronic guts thereof.

  The wing shuddered, and Aubry screamed.…

  He watched his body expanding, knew it to be illusion, but was still unable to reduce the shock and pain.

  His skin peeled back, nerves and veins lifting free from his flesh, muscle melting into the tubes and wires cocooning him.

  He felt his fingers at the edge of the wings. His eyes and ears and nose joined with the sensors sandwiched into the skin of the fighter. What remained was some strange hybrid creature, man melded with machine, hovering above the lake.

  If he concentrated, brought to bear every iota of his will, he could resolve a human image from the electromechanical phantasmagoria, a fading image that seemed now a dream.

  He had always been a creature of steel and ceramic. His life as a human being had been an illusion, fading now, fading …

  Time trials. Disorientation stage four.

  He didn’t hear those words, or see those words. He just knew that it was time. It seemed natural for him to be tested, and to perform.

  Aubry felt a stinging sensation on the underside of his left wing. A wave of frost passed over him, sweeping from left to right, leaving havoc in its wake.

  The world was inside out and upside down, colors and sensations inverted. Panic. Then a hydraulic sigh, as he found a way to breathe that resolved the world into its rational form once again.

  There was a moment of struggle, almost a tug-of-war, and something snapped. There was a metallic scream …

  And the flying wing was altered. It was Aubry Knight who flew, an Aubry with metal-ceramic skin, and fingers stretched wide. Aubry felt an electric tingle at the back of Aubry’s neck, and knew, as he had often known, that there was danger. Something was approaching him.

  His breathing thrummed, sonorously. The entire surface of his skin pulsed with each cycle of respiration. He reached into his own core, into his processors and turbos and metallic vitals, seeking some form of balance.

  Knight—you have sixteen secondsssss.…

  Behind him, the target drone released the first of its missiles. It stretched toward him like a finger of silver fire.

  Missiles. Why not energy weapons? Oh, yes—to give sluggish human reflexes any chance at all.

  He felt a flash of pain in his side. Lock-on. They had him.

  They sought him.

  Sought the boy.

  (Slow motion now. The missiles were crawling toward him, and he was moving, moving away toward a tumble of snow-crested mountains. In the same moments another part of him, the part that embraced his humanity, that clung to his past, sank into fragmented memories.)

  The boy was in the back room of a house, and caked in filth. Small, thin, black. Perhaps eleven years old. Eyes as wide as twin moons. Hiding. Hiding from what? Everything. Father dead. Blood. Everywhere. Danger, everywhere. Fear.

  Everywhere.

  Alert. You now have ten seconds before terminal impact—

  The world switched and tilted through a crazy quilt of visual and kinesthetic options, each of them taking Aubry a click or two further away from reality, but also each and every one of them—

  The boy lay, curled on his side, matted with filth. Crying. Little black boy, his little black hands stretched out into the dark, afraid, hearing doors open where there were no doors. Heard wind blowing, an evil wind, where there was no sound. Wrapped thin arms around his hungry stomach, and cried out for a father who could no longer answer …

  There is no one there, little boy. Trust no one but yourself—

  Aubry, in the grip of forces he could hardly understand, felt his emotions reach out to the controls—

  Reach into yourself. If it isn’t within you, it isn’t yours.

  And held on, as if his feelings, his intellect, his essence intertwined with the machinery, enmeshed with the machinery, combined with it—

  And the boy screamed: I can’t! There’s nothing there. Won’t Father, God, someone help me, find me, feed me teach me—

  No.

  It is time to grow up. You are not that boy anymore. It isn’t your father. Or Luis Ortega. Or Chan, or Guerrero. Or Warrick. Or Promise.

  It is time to be your own father, Aubry. Your own mother. Only then will that boy stop crying.

  And the pod gently swayed, just enough so that the dummy rockets passed harmlessly this way and that beneath him, blossoming like flowers against the rocks, as the tears streamed down his forehead, and dripped into his hair.

  17

  Aubry lay asleep on the slab. Gagnon touched him gently, her thin, compassionate face relaxed.

  The man Aubry was at peace. He seemed to have found something … comforting. From time to time the great fingers extended, and then relaxed. Almost as if he were holding an invisible hand. A small hand.

  A child’s hand.

  “And what results this time?” Koskotas asked abruptly.

  Gagnon monitored her face and tonal inflections carefully as she replied. “Well, of course his coordination is superb, but that just isn’t enough with the neural net. We have to access a very early stage in development, what Piaget called the ‘sensorimotor period,’ from zero to twenty-four months. We’re growing pilots younger and younger these days. He’s done … all right. There are blocks that stand between the adult and a sufficiently youthful Aubry.”

  She paused, and then continued. “I was hoping to find that same adamantine quality all the way back to his youth. Apparently, that isn’t going to work. I’m afraid to regress him any further. When we get back to around ten years old, he collapses. His father’s death created massive trauma, and he built his physical walls around it.”

  “I see.” Koskotas thumped his finger against Aubry Knight’s chest, almost as if testing a side of beef. “So. What is next?”

  “Languages. Implantation of linguistics. Then the map implantation. These have to be tied into his optical/kinesthetic track for instant recognition. There are a number of unpleasant days ahead for Mr. Knight—but he’s getting what he wants.”

  The general concluded his impersonal inspection. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. “Warm in here.” He folded the cloth carefully and tucked it away, as if it contained something precious. “You know, I know that you disapprove of me. All I can promise you is that I didn’t initiate the attack against Knight. I don’t even want him. But—if he really can pull this off, I will damned well use him.”

  “And if he doesn’t survive?”

  “Then he doesn’t. But do you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I know this man. I’ve known others like him. He was dying up there in Oregon, one day at a time. Chopping trees? Teaching bullshit karate moves to a bunch of dykes? Raising some freak kid? Do you really think that a man like this was built for that? Don’t kid yourself. This man needs war like roses need rain.

  “Hell. Blowing away the Warrick woman was the kindest thing Swarna could have done. Knight should kiss the guy.”

  The general turned and left the room. Gagnon moistened her lips. Then she whispered, “Bastard,” sighed, and returned to her unconscious charge.

  18

  AUGUST 3, 2033. EPHESUS, NORTHERN OREGON.

  Promise Cotonou-Knight sat in the central conference room. Its long, low ceiling somehow flattened the light. The paneling was genuine oak, the chairs upholstered in synthetic leather. An undeniable aura of power emanated from the room, a smooth and consistent sense that things happened here, that the person who sat in that chair had the reins firmly in hand.

&n
bsp; But now there were no councils deciding the planting or harvesting of trees, or bemoaning market prices, or negotiating water rights between the lumber and farming concerns. For now, Promise was alone with her mental dragons, making a decision that she alone could make.

  Finally she spoke a name and number aloud.

  A window opened in the air before her. A man’s head appeared, floating in the air above the table. The man had straight, shoulder-length brown hair, and intelligent eyes above a small sharp nose and a wide, sensuously Latin mouth. The entire effect was devastating.

  “Hi there,” the head said in a voice that dripped sex appeal. “I’m not available right now, but I can promise you that I want to be in touch. If you’ll just leave your codes, and a message—”

  Promise said, “Interrupt. Jeffry. This is Promise Cotonou. I need your help. Now.”

  The head froze, and rippled with static. The come-hither voice disappeared. “Yes, I remember you,” the head said emotionlessly. “You would like to speak with Jeffry?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “Is this a priority message?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Is this business, or personal?”

  Promise paused for a moment. “Both,” she said honestly.

  “Thank you. I will try to reach him.”

  There was a pause, during which recorded music played. The computer-generated love-god’s face smiled out at her with a dazed, meaningless smile.

  The screen juddered, and Jeffry Barathy, aka Moonman, appeared. Jeffry Barathy was one of the heroes of the Virtual Underground: computer maven, phone phreak par excellence. He was also a disabled veteran of the first PanAfrican campaign. From the waist down he was stainless steel, hooked into one or another of his mechanized home transport systems. He had no facial fuzz at all, his skin was blistered pink as if with an eternal sunburn, and his hair was cut in a ragged mohawk.

  “Promise. Lovechick. You look great. Listen—sorry about Mira. What a shit deal.” He seemed to be dressed in some sort of snakeskin suit-shirt, and wore shades now. Video images danced along the lower edge of the shades, and she figured that he must be monitoring a small empire’s worth of communication lines as they spoke.

  “I’ve … been better. You’re doing well.”

  “Well. Saving the president does wonders for your credit rating. And your rap sheet. Suddenly, I’m not underground anymore.”

  “Doing well by doing good?”

  “The very thing. What’s up?”

  “Is this line secure?”

  “Third-level merchant.” Suddenly, his face was serious. “Do we need more than that?”

  “Let’s scramble.” The air before Promise clouded and filled with sparks, the visual field temporarily destroyed. Jeffry’s computer shook hands with Promise’s, and made the requisite connection. Then it cleared again.

  “All right,” he said. “This will keep out everything but NipTech or maybe the NSA. Is that good enough?”

  “It will have to do.”

  “I heard a rumor that Aubry was on the move.”

  How had he heard that? Promise was irritated and relieved at the same moment. “Yes. It’s true.”

  “Does it have something to do with Mira’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “We were told that the murder was Phillipe Swarna’s way of saying hello.”

  “Shit.” Jeffry threw some internal switch, becoming completely alert and aware. “Go on.”

  “Aubry is … trying to protect us. I don’t want to say any more, even over these lines. Can I come to see you?”

  “Day or night.”

  “I’m on my way. About eight o’clock tomorrow evening be all right?”

  “Only if you can’t get here sooner.”

  Promise felt as if a stone had been rolled off her heart. “Thank you.”

  The screen dimmed.

  Promise turned the display off. She settled back into her chair, and rested her hand gently on her throat. Her pulse was erratic. She didn’t know if she had done the right thing, but she had done the only thing she could.

  19

  “How did it go?” Jenna asked Promise.

  “I’m not sure. He can help, I’m sure of that. Where’s Leslie?” How Leslie was keeping herself under control, Promise wasn’t sure.

  “I’m not sure—I haven’t seen her for a couple of hours. The last thing I saw, she was playing. With other children.”

  That was possible, although a picture that Promise found difficult to form. Skulking through ventilator shafts, yes. Teaching adults unarmed combat, yes. Hacking into the Japanese Consulate’s direct-induction link and playfully scrambling programs, yes.

  But playing with other children?

  Jenna might have been reading her mind. “I think there are a few avoidance patterns running here. She doesn’t want to think about what might be happening. So. What do we do now?”

  “I go to Las Vegas,” Promise said. Her face looked long. Her eyes cast dark, ringed shadows. She seemed to have aged five years.

  Jenna watched her sister walk off to the communications building, shoulders slumped with care. Goddess. This was a mess.

  There was a rustling in the brush beside Jenna. She didn’t bother to turn around.

  “Making an unusual amount of noise this evening, aren’t we?”

  “Well,” Leslie said, “I wanted to announce myself. Wouldn’t want you to be all shocked and surprised and everything. Might be bad for your heart.”

  “What a considerate child you are.”

  “Lying a little to my mom, weren’t you?”

  “Just a leetle beet.”

  Leslie grabbed Aunt Jenna’s hand and looked up at her. “Jenna, you made me promise to stay out of this. I promised you, and Mommy, and Daddy. A three-way promise is hard for me—everybody I love being pissed—”

  Jenna looked at the child sharply.

  “Sorry about that. Miffed at me. Is miffed all right?”

  “Much improved.”

  “All right. Miffed.” She drew her aunt down, and hugged her around the neck with thin arms. “But if one of you—just one of you—would let me off the promise. Share the guilt a little?”

  Jenna pulled Leslie to her. Promise and Aubry would never forgive her if she let anything happen to Leslie. And yet, if something happened to Aubry, and there had been any way to prevent it, any way that Leslie could have gained knowledge or leverage …

  She sighed. “All right. Information. Information only. And on a full-scramble circuit. And this is who I want you to contact …”

  Leslie’s eyes glittered.

  20

  AUGUST 4, 2033. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. 7:45 p.m.

  It was a boulevard of demons, of giants, of gilded titans who walked the night and beckoned, of goddesses of impossibly lurid proportions, a thousand feet tall, who licked their lips and shimmied, painted breasts barely restrained by brassieres the size of circus tents. Of galloping Lippizaners the size of the Dakotas, of Vesuvius in bloom, of starships alight and descending, of the Savior of the world, resplendent in his robes, beckoning to the faithful to come and render unto Caesars Palace.

  It was a boulevard of dreams, of nightmares, an organic outgrowth of some not wholly explicable malaise, something that had taken hold in the 1930s in an obscure corner of the world called Las Vegas, Nevada. It had blossomed unendingly, until now it was a world unto itself, apart from and yet inexorably joined to the world, unique and yet as common as shattered dreams. The ultimate symbol of decadence and greed and yet in some small sad way, a cry for innocence lost.

  For what eye but a child’s could remember the feeling of being dwarfed in such a fashion? Adults know the girders and steel, the lights and plastic, the glass and electricity that go into the creation of such glitter. And so no matter how overwhelming, one can reduce it to its constituent flaws, and thus find refuge for sanity.

  But a child …
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br />   A child still believes in giants, in steamboats that paddle-wheel their way through glittered streets at midnight, luring customers to the never-ending cacophony of spinning dials and wheels, its pasteboard fortunes. A child sees it all, and believes, believes in it more than he believes in the reality of the piece of green paper, or the plastic, or the trademark union scrip that represents hours of toil or promised toil. That child steps into the dream, agog, and awakens hours or days later, poorer but in some terrible sense, wiser.

  Long ago, Promise had followed that dream. She had left honor and soul and skin here in this town. She had hoped never to return.

  Promise turned away from the window, and back to her host.

  “A bitch, isn’t it?” Jeffry said. Moonman was happy today, and for that, she was grateful. He was doing better than the last time she had seen him, four years ago. He had a little more hair, and his chest had filled out. Only mechanics remained below the waist. Or, to quote Moonman more precisely, “There’s nothing down there but eighty kilos of steel and seven inches of love.”

  Promise felt no inclination to investigate his claim.

  He glided around his suite on the magnetic repulsor coils built into the floor. It played hell with watches and pacemakers, but he really didn’t give a damn.

  The suite was the top floor of a four-story communications studio. Virtual, multi-vision, data processing, satellite link, paced feedback, and a library of approximately eleven million films, television and radio shows, books, magazines, and newspapers.

  “You seem to be doing very well.”

  “Notoriety does that to you,” he said. “When the facts came out about our little to-do in Los Angeles, I became a bit of a poster boy. Some of the turbo-trunk lads and lasses decided to have me come and speak at their monthly gathering. Me being a hero and all.”

  “Of course.”

  “I went, and told them all about sliding down the line into the Fat Man’s lair—” His little eyes suddenly turned shrewd. “Rumor says that McMartin is still alive, you know.”