The Stardance Trilogy (90 page)

Literally! Clouds came toward Eva, and wind into her face: she and the dancers were rising, leaving unseen Terra behind them. The illusion was utterly convincing, and quite breath-taking. The wind fell away, and they left the clouds below; the golden sky began to darken again—not the turgid dark of the storm, but the pure star-spattered blackness of space.

No, not pure. They traveled through a fine mist of some kind of dust. Red dust. It began to accumulate on the bodies of the dancers, until they were caked with it, coated by it, covered in it, each of them glowing a shade of red: ochre, umber, amber, crimson, scarlet, ruby. It was Symbiote, and they a dozen newborn Stardancers, spreading their wings now, spinning them out into lightsails, joyously learning a new way to dance together, rubbing together like blobs in a lava lamp.

Eva put all of her attention on keeping perfectly still and calm. It was difficult—but Reb had trusted her. Many decades of lucrative poker came to her aid.

Briefly the twelve boiled together at the center of the stage like swarming bees, a “quotation” of the Fireflies who had given mankind the Symbiote—then they opened out again, formed a spherical matrix…and folded gracefully together into the
kûkanzen
posture of those who meditate in space, each facing out from the center, away from all the others. Together they bowed, to the Universe; the music resolved at last into a major chord spanning the entire audible range; dancers and music began to fade away, like Cheshire cats, until there was only silence and infinite space and the burning stars; then they too dwindled and were gone.

Five full seconds of total silence. Then, pandemonium—

One of the many reasons art in space is performed in spherical theaters is acoustics. Applause reinforces itself, just as a person standing in a hemispherical building on Earth can hear with total clarity a whisper from someone standing precisely opposite him. Any ovation in space sounds like a Terran audience going mad; it makes up for the fact that they cannot stand to deliver it. But
this
ovation would have shaken the walls of the Bolshoi.

Eva let herself glance at Jay and Rand, now, as the house lights came up. They were together at the opposite end of the vip section, unbuckling their belts to join the dancers for the bow. Her eyes were not what they had once been, but she had a century of experience in intrigue: one glance at Jay’s face and she was intuitively certain
he
didn’t know Reb’s secret. Rand was much harder to read. Ev Martin—hearing that Rand’s wife had left him yesterday, taking his daughter back to Provincetown with her—had spoken with the house physician. The shaper was stoned to his cheeks, smiling beatifically. His eyes were wounds, and he was jaunting like a tourist, but he would pass muster for the media.

Could
Rand
know something? Unlikely…but then, it was a visual that had shocked her, rather than choreography. Still, perhaps it was just coincidence…

The crowd was merciless in its admiration, demanding eight curtain calls before the exhausted dancers were allowed to go backstage and peel off their soaked costumes. Eva stopped clapping much sooner; her aged hands gave out. Finally the ovation was over, and her companion, Chen Ling Ho, was murmuring, “I liked it very much…despite the ending.”

Again she had recourse to her poker experience. “Wasn’t that blackout section terrific? Where they did the tableaux in the lightning flashes? How do you suppose they got around in the dark without a train wreck?”

“‘How do I get to Carnegie Hall?’” the trillionaire replied.

“You can’t possibly be old enough to remember that joke—Carnegie Hall was torn down before you were born!”

His eyes twinkled. “I like to think of myself as a student of classical humor.”

She blinked. “‘Your money or your life?’” she asked, quoting an ancient radio joke.

Chen gave the correct response: dead silence.

She rewarded him with a smile, unbuckled herself with one hand and took his arm with the other. “Let’s head for the reception—I want to congratulate the boys before the crowd beats them stupid.”

Rand and Jay were already glazing over by the time Eva elbowed her way into the receiving line with Chen, but she caught their attention—and managed to fluster them both—when she said, “Lads, somewhere Willem Ngani is smiling tonight.”

“He’d have loved that piece,” Chen agreed, and the two thanked them, both stammering. Then Eva let herself be chivvied away by assistant cronkites—this was the worst possible time and place to probe Rand’s secret thoughts.

She and Chen returned to her suite. He accepted a drink, and they moved to the window. Terra was about a quarter full. The illuminated crescent contained China; twilight in Beijing. They shared silence for a few minutes. Then he said, “You did not respond to my criticism of the ending of
Kinergy
. Did you like it?”

She felt like she was juggling eggs in a gravity field. “Yes, I did. It resonated for me. What didn’t you like about it?”

“The Stardancer motif.”

“Too obvious?”

He hesitated. “Yes, that.”

“Something else?”

Again he hesitated. “You know my true feelings toward the ones in red.”

“Not really,” she said. “I’m aware that you’re not a major fan—and that you don’t want that publicly known. Given your father’s history with the Starmind, I understand that. But do they really bother you so much that a reference to them spoils a work of art for you?”

“Yes.”

“For heaven’s sake, Ling, why? Personal feelings aside, you of all people must know how much the human race owes them—”

“Precisely. How then can I not resent them?”

“Oh, that’s silly!”

There might not be another person alive privileged to say that to Chen Ling Ho; from Eva he took it. “Gratitude implies obligation. The scale of the obligation is, in this case, horrifying.”

“But there’s almost nothing they want that we have—just trace elements we’ll never miss. The bill will never come due.”

He nodded, and again said, “Precisely. That makes the obligation even more intolerable. It is, on both sides, literally unforgivable.”

She frowned. “There’s more to it than that.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You’re not mankind. Your personal share of the debt…well, with your resources you could probably pay cash. At most, it’s a philosophical abstraction. To spoil a dance, something has to have its roots in your gut, not your head. What really bothers you about the Starmind?”

“Their virtue,” he said.

“Come again?”

For the first time, emotion came into his voice. “They are so damned virtuous! So relentlessly admirable. My instincts tell me to despise and fear anyone who appears above reproach. Their harmlessness disarms us. Again, literally! We allowed them to abolish war for us, allowed them to strengthen the United Nations into a true world government. Perhaps war is not, after all, a truly necessary evil—there are more efficient ways of getting rich now—but we may find one day that it was necessary in ways we do not yet grasp.”

“Jesus, Ling—you want
war
back? Even I’m not that nostalgic.”

“I feel in my heart that in the old days, when we were a brawling, clawing, struggling world, we were more human. Now we grow fat and soft on the riches flung down to us from on high—and because our short-term wealth has temporarily overtaken population growth,
we have stopped fearing population growth
. One day we will reach a point where no input of new wealth can help us…and then civilization will fall, and millions, billions, will die. Conceivably
all
. All humans. But not the Stardancers. They may
never
die.” He heard emotion creeping into his voice and caught himself. “You understand, I do not discuss these matters publicly. Stardancers are much beloved. In this age, no man can hold real wealth or power save he treat with them. Humanity is drunk, today, happily drunk, and in no mood for grim warnings. But how can the Neanderthal not hate the Cro-Magnon, Eva?”

She nodded. Time to change the subject. “Well, I can’t say I share your feelings, but at least I think I understand them now. Thanks for explaining. I’ll remember not to buy you the new Drummonds holo for your birthday.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “Please do, if you like. One may admire the exquisite gyrations of cancer cells in the microscope. The choreography of the Stardancers themselves I find very interesting; it’s only their existence that offends me.”

That made her smile. “It’s a shame your country gave up emperors, Ling. You’d have been one of the great ones.”

“One hates to be a merely good emperor,” he agreed, and finished his drink.

She followed suit. “Are you sleepy?”

“No.”

“Shall we go to bed?”

He bowed and took her hand. “All my life I have wondered why other men prize young women.”

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “they do not feel they deserve the best.”

He smiled, and came closer.

Washington, D.C.
28 January 2065
 
 

T
HE ASSISTANT DIRECTOR OF THE
U
NITED
S
TATES
I
NTERNAL
R
EVENUE
S
ERVICE
knew that her office was as snoop-proof as human ingenuity could make it. Nonetheless she got up from her desk and personally made sure her office door was locked. Then she told her AI to cancel all appointments for the day and hold all calls, and opened a “Most Secure” phone circuit to Brussels.

Her global counterpart, the Right Honorable Undersecretary of Revenue for the United Nations, and Assistant Chairman of the Committee on Fiscal Anomalies, answered promptly. “Hello, LaToya. This is early in the day for you to call. What is it, 8
AM
in Washington?” He looked closer. “My God—are you ill?”

“I’ve been up all night, George.”

The Undersecretary sighed. “Something serious, then. All right, which hat shall I wear?”

“Both of them, I think. And hold on to both. You may have to invent a third hat: I don’t think there’s any precedent for this.”

A sigh. “Go ahead.”

“George, I’ve run the integrations through again and again. I used three methods, different machines, I even had the software triplechecked.”

“And—”

“You’ll be receiving more than you’re expecting from us this year.”

The Undersecretary lifted an eyebrow. “How much more?”

“On the order of ten percent.”

The other eyebrow rose to join the first. “You are telling me the gross national product of the United States has taken a ten percent jump.
Up
.”

“That is part of what I’m telling you. I talked with Jacques and Rogelio last night…and they report nearly identical bulges. Jacques puts his at nine percent; Rogelio is running behind, but says Mexico will probably run eleven and a half.”

The Undersecretary was frowning. “So someone is pumping serious money into North America. Is it real, or just pixels?”

“As far as I can learn, it’s genuine money.”

“Where is it coming from?”

“It falleth as the gentle rain from heaven. Drop by drop—all over.”

A grunt. “Stonewalled, eh? Very well—where is it
going
? Who’s paying taxes on it? What categories?”

“Take a tranquilizer.”

The Undersecretary frowned, then did as he was bid. At once the frown smoothed over. “Go ahead.”

“One category: self-employed income.”

“Self-employed?” That was the last sector in which he would have expected such a surge in earnings. “Any breakdowns as to subcategories yet?”

The assistant director nodded. “Again, one. Self-employed artists.”

The Undersecretary stared. After a full ten seconds of silence, he said, “What kind of artists?”

“All kinds of artists. Live theater, dance, film, music, literature, sculpture, painting…what it comes down to is, in every genre and subgenre there is, from grand opera to street theater, roughly ten percent of the working professionals have had a very good year.”

“And all from the same source?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. I suspect it, because it all seems to be coming in the same way: anonymous donations, rather than grants or box office. One donation per artist or arts group. Substantial ones.”

“But then it’s simple!” the Undersecretary said. “Who’s declaring the increased donations on their taxes?”

“That’s the problem. Nobody. Not in North America anyway. But why the hell would someone overseas want to take such a huge flyer in North American art?”

“Confusing,” the Undersecretary agreed.

“Confusing, hell. It
worries
me, George. Good news on this scale is ominous. I smell a swindle of some kind.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance these benefactors are North Americans who elected for some reason not to claim…” He trailed off.

She politely pretended she hadn’t heard him. “Will you look into it, George?
Quietly?
”

“I’ll get back to you,” he said, and broke the connection.

For the rest of the day work devoured her attention, but she fretted most of the night. The next morning at the office she flinched when her AI said, “The Undersecretary of Revenue.”

“Accept!” she said at once.

“He is not on the phone, ma’am. He is in your outer office.”

“Jesus.” She took a deep breath, and rose to her feet. “Admit him.”

Two bodyguards entered first, scanned the room carefully, and nodded through the door. The Undersecretary came in, and dismissed them with some unseen signal. She started to come around her desk to greet him, but he waved her off. They sat together; he came to the point without formalities. “This room is secure?”

The assistant director checked a telltale. “Yes.”

“It’s happening all over the globe. And in space. High Orbit, Luna City, everywhere. Has been for over six months now.”

“
Everywhere?
The same way?”

“Not everywhere. Just the places where people make art for money. But all of those.”

She looked surprised. “All? You don’t have up-to-date data from all, do you? I thought there were several nations still refusing to switch over to a December 31 tax deadline.”