The Long Run Read online

  Devlin said aloud, "Acknowledged," and removed his finger from the earphone stud. "How," he said with the perfect evenness of real anger, "did you do that?"

  "Do what?"

  "Not five minutes after I tell the Peaceforcers we're charging you, our witness changes her mind and decides she's not going to testify against you. She didn't see you with the emblade, she's not sure you're the one who cut her purse, she's not testifying. No way, no how." The anger glittered in Devlin's eyes. "How did you get to her?"

  "How could I have?"

  Devlin leaned back in his seat, taking long, slow breaths.

  "Honestly, how could I have gotten to her? Maybe Jimmy did, I don't know."

  Devlin scowled at Trent. "How could you have?"

  "That's what I said," Trent agreed.

  Devlin said abruptly, "Do you know what they call you in Department Five?"

  Department Five was the city's equivalent of the Peaceforcer's DataWatch. "No."

  "'The damned magician.'"

  Trent grinned swiftly, in delight. "Do they really?"

  "Yes." Devlin's brow smoothed. Slowly. "Nonetheless," he conceded at last, "I don't actually see how you could have gotten to the girl." A waitbot appeared at the table side, bearing one cup of coffee, a glass of iced tea, and Trent's scallops and french fries.

  As their drinks were served, Devlin placed his spoon upside down, parallel to his fork. Trent froze

  The Chief of Police for the City of New York was a Johnny Reb.

  He recognized the opening, and knew the correct Johnny Reb response, but--what chapter was he a member of? Who was his sponsor? Trent gave no response to the sign, and Devlin sighed slightly and picked up the fork to squeeze his lemon against.

  "Have you ever considered becoming a cop?"

  "You've got to be kidding."

  "Yeah. Actually." After a moment Devlin said, "I think you'd be good at it."

  "I'd be good at a lot of things I don't want to do. I'd be a great accountant." Trent speared three of the eight scallops on his plate with his fork, ate them all at once. "Cooking books isn't my idea of fun. Neither," he said carefully, swallowing, "is playing third string to the Left Hand of the Devil."

  For a moment Trent thought he had said the wrong thing; Devlin simply stared at Trent for a long moment before saying finally, quietly enough, "No ... no, I don't suppose it would be."

  Trent looked down at the tabletop, at the scallops and fries. "Mac, I don't hate the Peaceforcers. I don't hate the Ministry of Population Control. I don't hate the United Nations and I don't hate Secretary General Eddore." At the expression on Devlin's face, Trent said, "I don't like them either. But--we can't afford another war, Mac, so we need either the Peace Keeping Force or something like it. We can't afford to support twenty billion people on this planet, so we need the Ministry of Population Control or something like it. And we can't trust individual countries to behave responsibly--so we need the United Nations, or something very like it, to administer those things."

  Devlin studied Trent. "I think," he said after a moment, "that is the longest meaningful speech I've ever heard out of you."

  "I mean it, Mac. Do you think we can do without a Peace Keeping Force?" Trent ate two more scallops, quickly.

  "No." Devlin did not hesitate. "But that doesn't mean it has to be the PKF we have now."

  "And do you think we can get rid of the current PKF without violence?"

  "The tree of Liberty," said Mac Devlin simply, "must from time to time be refreshed with the blood of patriots. Jefferson said that."

  "Mac?"

  "Yes, Trent?"

  Trent said, "Killing is wrong." He ate the remaining three scallops, and the largest number of french fries he could get into his mouth--politely--at once.

  "Yeah," said Mac Devlin, "tell it to the Peaceforcers." His eyes widened slightly at something over Trent's shoulder. Trent ate french fries quickly.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Trent saw a girl in a green dress with a single long, glowing, spiral scarlet zipper being led to a table not far from the one he and Devlin were seated at. Devlin's eyes followed her every step of the way, watched Denice Castanaveras as the hostess seated her. Trent devoured more of his french fries. The girl requested a glass of water in a high, clear voice, and once the hostess had left turned slightly and smiled directly at Maxwell Devlin.

  It was fascinating to watch. Devlin's eyes lost focus, and then his gaze wandered back to Trent. He came back to himself with a small shake. "What were we talking about?"

  Trent drank the last of his coffee. "I was telling you," said Trent, "that I had to leave."

  "Oh." Devlin blinked. He looked at Trent's empty plate.

  "My people are going to be wondering what's happened to me, Mac."

  "You're done eating," Devlin observed.

  "You never know," said Trent, "when you might have to move fast."

  Devlin nodded wearily. Trent stood, and the older man said simply, "This has been a very odd day. Department Five might be right about you."

  Trent stood watching the man for just a moment. "Mac?"

  "Yes, Trent?"

  "Jerry Jackson? The name mean anything to you?"

  "Not a thing, Trent."

  "I keep wondering," said Trent softly, "who out there might go to such lengths to warn a small-time contract thief like myself that the Peaceforcers were after him."

  "I couldn't imagine, myself."

  "Thanks, Mac."

  "Dinner," said Devlin, "wasn't that expensive."

  Mac Devlin watched Trent walk away. He did not even see the girl in the green dress who followed Trent to the exit. Once Trent was out of his sight he touched his handheld to the payment strip at the side of the table. The payment strip went from red to blue; Devlin said aloud, "Tip, one CU, twenty-five points," and the strip went green.

  He sat motionlessly at the table, and finally beckoned to a passing waitbot. "'Bot, is there a phone in you?"

  "Yes, monsieur."

  The number came out of nowhere, simply appeared in Devlin's mind; except when he needed it he could never remember it. "Access 108080-CATR."

  The wavering flat silver phonefield, approximately twenty centimeters diagonally, appeared in the air before Devlin.

  The call was answered immediately; Mac Devlin could not recall a time when it had not been.

  The silver surface of the phonefield shimmered, then sank in to provide depth; the head and shoulders of a dark-haired man of indeterminate age appeared within those depths.

  Camber Tremodian said softly, "Yes?"

  The man had eyes as black as a Peaceforcer's heart, flat black with no whites in them, no internal structure. Devlin had, now, spent almost fifteen years in M. Tremodian's employ, and he knew little more about the man today than the day he began that service.

  Try as he might, Devlin could not recall having ever actually agreed to work for M. Tremodian; he had simply found himself doing so.

  "I attempted to interest Trent in the Johnny Rebs, M. Tremodian. I failed."

  Tremodian smiled easily. "I said you would, my friend."

  "From his description of tonight's events, it sounds like somebody tried to tip Trent off. He thinks it was me."

  "Was it?"

  "No, sir. I'd have warned him if I'd known the Peaceforcers were after him; I did not."

  M. Tremodian nodded. "Did he leave the restaurant alone?"

  "Alone? I ... yes," said Devlin after a long moment. "Yes, he did."

  The smile came again, ever so slightly wider than before. "Of course he did," agreed Camber Tremodian. "You may contact me again if anything of note happens between now and August eighth of this year."

  "Anything of note, sir?"

  Tremodian shrugged. "I leave it to your judgment, Maxwell. But..." He was silent a long moment, no expression in the blind dark eyes. "Deviation in this year is less than two percent. Leave Trent alone, Devlin; I wouldn't dare touch him myself, and neither, I think, would the
competition--and we know what we're doing, which is more than anyone else within a hundred years of here could say. As for" The smile came once more. "A young lady will be joining Trent shortly. A Denice Daimara. Keep an eye on her, if you would."

  Devlin said simply, "I will, sir."

  "Maxwell? From a distance."

  "Sir?"

  "You're of no use to me, Maxwell, if you can't remember what you've seen."

  Mac Devlin had no idea what the man meant. "Yes, M. Tremodian."

  "Very good. Good night, Maxwell."

  "Good night, sir."

  The holofield went flat and then silvered, vanished, and left Devlin sitting alone in the nearly empty restaurant.

  He had difficulty, at times, refraining from dwelling on his peculiar employer. Fifteen years; he could count the things he actually knew about Camber Tremodian on the fingers of one hand.

  Out of all those fifteen years, there was one comment in particular that stayed with him, a response M. Tremodian had made to a hesitant inquiry about his eyes.

  "I would be surprised, my friend--and worried--had you ever seen anyone else with eyes like mine. The first human with Kabhyr eyes won't be born for another three hundred and eighty years." And then Camber Tremodian had smiled at Mac Devlin, and better than a decade later the memory of that terrible smile disquieted Mac Devlin sufficiently that he had no inclination to attempt to question Camber Tremodian in such a fashion ever again.

  * * *

  4.

  "Denice Daimara?"

  They walked home together, eleven blocks in the rain through nearly empty night streets.

  "A friend I had when I was in Public Labor, Carrie Daimara. The Ministry of Population Control sterilized her when she was thirteen. She died during the operation." Denice Castanaveras walked with her arms folded against the cold; aside from that she did not even seem to notice the rain. She kept looking at Trent's wet features, shiny beneath the street lamps, and then looking away as though she could not believe her eyes. "I couldn't very well go by the name Castanaveras. Green eyes alone are bad enough; I've almost had them dyed any number of times. Sometimes I wear contacts."

  Trent nodded. The public's hysteria over the green-eyed telepaths had carried over; there was a degree of prejudice that green-eyed people ran into today that had not existed ten years ago. "Is David alive?"

  Denice shook her head. "I don't know. We were separated during the riots. I was nine; I ended up in Public Labor." She looked at Trent then, met his eyes. "Nobody's ever really guessed what I am. You know there's rumors some of the telepaths survived?"

  Trent did. "Yes. I've audited the news Boards; I've seen the tapes of Carl taking Andy's Lamborghini up through the park before the Complex was nuked."

  "There's recordings of that? I've never seen them."

  "I have them on file at home. I'll play them for you if you like."

  "I would." They walked on through the quiet drumming of the rain a while longer without speaking. Finally Denice said softly, "Trent."

  "Yes?"

  "I don't know where to start. It's been seven years." She did not look at him. "I don't even know if you're the same person any more."

  "Neither do I. I spent six years in the Fringe."

  Her expression changed visibly, grew visibly more distant. Without moving she seemed to pull away from him. "Oh. I'm sorry, Trent." She hugged herself more tightly. "I'm really sorry."

  Trent blinked. "Well, it wasn't that bad. At least not after I got into business it wasn't. I ended up in Temple Dragon territory; they're not nearly as bad as the Gypsy Macoute." He shrugged. "But it's true, the Fringe is a brutal, violent place. Why, it turned me into a pacifist. I didn't used to be, you know."

  Denice glanced quickly sideways at him. "You didn't?"

  "When I was thirteen a pack of Temple Dragons recruited me. In the process they beat me for about a week. I mean, they took turns. They wanted a Temple Dragons webdancer--the Macoute had one of their own. I kept telling them I wasn't a webdancer, I wasn't, I wasn't, and right about the point where it was either kill me or believe me they decided they believed me." Trent grinned at her. "I've been a firm believer in nonviolence ever since."

  "I bet."

  "So it changed me, being in the Fringe. But I'm basically still the same person," he said sincerely. "I still have too many pairs of sunglasses, for example. Really. Do you know what the square root of 443,556 is?"

  "No."

  "Me neither. But then, I didn't know seven years ago either, so there you go." They walked on together a few more steps, and Trent said suddenly, "And I still don't have an inskin. Shouldn't that count for something?"

  Denice Castanaveras said quietly, "You're trying too hard."

  "Oh?" The first eleven years of Trent's life had been spent among telepaths. He remembered them clearly, the things telepaths liked and disliked, and why. "All right." He paused just a moment, thinking, and then said simply, "Can we still hold hands when we walk?"

  "I don't know." She shook her head slowly. "I don't think so."

  Trent held his hand out to her. "Try."

  She froze, stood stock-still in the street, in the rain, and then without saying anything shook her head swiftly no.

  Trent said, "Please?"

  "Trent ... I ... I can't. I'm sorry, I just can't." He heard the trace of panic in her voice and without waiting or asking stepped in close to her, reached up without haste and laid the palm of his hand flat against her cheek.

  Denice made no move to stop him. Her breath came in quick, short gasps, and then her eyelids dropped to cover the brilliant emerald eyes. She had long, dark eyelashes; with her eyes closed and features still she looked amazingly like her mother.

  Trent watched her; he was not aware that he had stopped breathing. "Does it hurt?" She did not answer him and it seemed to Trent that he could hear his own heart pounding even over the sound of the rain. "Does it hurt when I touch you?"

  Her eyes were closed and she was shivering and Trent knew that it was not from the cold. Trent had no idea what she was experiencing, none.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, her left hand let go of her right shoulder, crept up to cover Trent's hand. Her voice was the barest whisper. "It's really you. Oh, God, it's really you."

  "Yes."

  "I guess," she said quietly, "you can hold my hand if you want." She opened her eyes and looked directly at him. Trent did not know if she was crying or if it was merely the rain; her eyes were bright. When she spoke her voice was shaky. "Oh, Trent. Of course I still love you."

  Kandel Microlectrics Sales and Repair was a tiny shop at the corner of Flushing and Hall. The neighborhood was less than a kilometer inland from the expensive waterfront developments.

  It was another world.

  The buildings were old and shabby; some of them were over a century old. Only a few of them were more than five or six stories tall, and even those few reached only twenty or thirty stories. After midnight on an early Wednesday morning there were dozens of people, most of them without umbrellas, walking in the rain; it was as empty as the streets in that section of town ever got. Trent knew many of the people they passed, at least by sight. Twice in the time it took them to reach the shop, Peaceforcer AeroSmiths cruised by. Somebody shot at the second AeroSmith after the car had passed by Trent and Denice; Trent saw the steam trail where the maser cut through the rain, and the sparks as the beam showered off the surface of the car. The AeroSmith slowed, and then the Peaceforcers inside apparently thought better of it, and continued on their patrol route.

  The Temple of Eris Reverend Andy ran was next door to Kandel Microlectrics; a boy, eight or nine years old, sat under an umbrella on the steps that led up to the Temple's entrance. The boy wore a rain coat over a blue and white sari, jeans and running shoes.

  In the six months Trent had been on Hall Street, he could not recall a time, day or night, when there had not been somebody at the Temple's entrance, greeting people as they went by
, offering help to those who wanted or needed it. Sometimes it was one of the older Temple members, sometimes it was one of the children; always there was somebody. It still surprised him; the Temple had not done such things in the Fringe.

  The boy said loudly, "Greetings, 'Sieur Trent," as Trent and Denice approached.

  Trent did not know the boy's name. "Hi there."

  "Jimmy said you were in jail," the boy continued.

  Trent was not surprised that Jimmy knew the boy; Jimmy Ramirez made friends more quickly than anybody Trent had ever met. "I was framed," he told the boy. "I explained to them and they let me out."

  The boy nodded as though he had never expected anything else. "Yes, 'Sieur Trent. Jimmy said you would get out, and so did Reverend Andy. Go with God," he added serenely.

  Denice Castanaveras stood looking at the boy for just a second. Then she smiled at him, and after a surprised moment the boy smiled back. "Go with God," she said quietly.

  The young boy's shy smile widened noticeably. "We're trying, 'Selle."

  There were ten people waiting for Trent inside the shop; they had pulled the chairs away from the sales displays and clustered them into a group in the center of the shop and sat there drinking beer and wine. There was a portable Slo-Mo set up in the middle of the circle, sucking heat from the liquids as they were passed through its field. The only light came from the neon-laser sign that flashed the shop's name, and the various display holographs showing off particular pieces of stock. Old Jack Kandel, who owned the place, sat behind the parts counter, keeping an eye on everybody else--Jimmy and Bird, Tammy the Rat and her midget boyfriend Big Clarence, and five BloodSilk Boys: Master Timothy, a small, skinny Latino with an inskin whom Trent had never seen before, and three troopers. Master Timothy wore a Personal Protection System; Trent could see the vest's bulge beneath Master Timothy's black and scarlet robes.

  With the exception of Old Jack, they were all fairly drunk; Trent and Denice stood just beneath the shop's neon-laser sign, dripping in the doorway for several seconds before being noticed. Finally Bird looked up at them, blinked twice as though he were not certain about what he was seeing, and then nudged Jimmy.

  "Now, there's a pair of nice high big ones," said Bird excitedly, pointing at Denice.