The Last Dancer | Page 7

Alaya's friends. The pain of Alaya's incomprehension, that men and
women alike, people she cared for, should misunderstand her advances,
should interpret her love as interference, and her fear as anger. Alaya's
desperate fear that she was already too old to find the love she craved,
that if she had not found it yet she would never find it, and would age
alone, unloved, and friendless.
And die so.
Alaya blinked. It took a moment for her eyes to focus. When they did

she looked at Jasmine with sudden concern. "Are you all right, dear?"
"I'm--fine," Jasmine managed to say. A lethal headache pulsed
immediately behind her eyes; it happened every time she used the
deepest elements of the Gift. She gathered herself and wiped away the
tears, picked up her travel bag, and stood, a little uncertainly. "Thank
you for talking with me. I--never mind. Thank you. I appreciated the
opportunity to know you a little better."
A look of distant incomprehension flickered across Alaya's features,
was gone. Alaya said with real compassion, "I'm sorry you have to go.
But it's only normal for you to grieve for the life you leave behind. If
Goddess Home has not been everything you wanted, it has still been
your home."
Jasmine stood still a beat. Then she said, simply, "Thank you," and left.
She caught the 9:15 Bullet with twenty seconds to spare.

2.
At speeds surpassing those of aircraft, the Bullet sped eastward through
an evacuated tunnel beneath the surface of Earth.
Jasmine had paid for passage to Atlanta, Georgia. Fifteen minutes
before the Bullet was scheduled to stop in Dallas she rose from her seat
and went to the bathroom. In the bathroom she stripped off her
jumpsuit and her boots. Standing naked before the mirror she flicked
through the settings in her makeup key; her skin, tuned black to match
the jumpsuit, changed colors rapidly, a brief storm of rainbows, and
then stabilized on a dark shade of gold. Her lips and eyelids turned a
pale golden green; a speckle of faint silver stars appeared immediately
beneath her rather high cheekbones. Jasmine considered contact lenses
for her eyes, decided against it--her makeup implant was almost ten
years old, and she had never had it updated. Unlike the more recent
makeup implants, her skin did not glow and the implant had not even
touched her eyes. If she wanted to change the color of her eyes, contact

lenses were her only option.
She shook her hair out as it changed colors to a shade of strawberry
blond, then changed the part and tied it into a long ponytail. From her
bag Jasmine withdrew a pair of sandals and a yellow sundress and put
them on. She tapped the ID key on her handheld twice, waited a
moment, and tapped it a third time. The handheld said quietly, "Which
ID do you wish?"
There were three IDs in the handheld; Denice Daimara, Jasmine
Martinez, and Erika Muller. The first was the name they had known her
by in Public Labor, when she was nine years old; the last two identities
had been programmed for her by Trent the Uncatchable, the last day he
had ever spent on Earth, before beginning what newsdancers had called
the Long Run.
Jasmine said softly, "Erika."
The handheld said, "Enabled."
In Dallas the rain poured down out of the black night sky.
At Dallas Interworld Spaceport Erika Muller stopped at the TransPlanet
booth, still slightly wet from the rain outside; the Bullet debarking
station was separated from Spaceport Gate A-8 by thirty meters of
empty space. When she spoke her voice had picked up a slight but
noticeable New York accent. "I'm here to pick up my ticket. Muller,
Erika."
The 'bot at the counter said politely, in a voice strongly reminiscent of
sensable star Adam Selstrom, "Yes, 'Selle Muller. Please identify."
Erika touched her handheld to the payment strip; it lit green. Adam
Selstrom's voice said, "Thank you, 'Selle Muller. Your semiballistic
leaves from Gate A-11 at 1:05 a.m.; it arrives at Unification Spaceport,
New York, at 4:12 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. Thank you for
traveling with TransPlanet."

Her ticket specified a window seat. Once launch boost ceased, the slim,
short man who had been seated next to Erika Muller tried to start up a
conversation. "What are you going to New York for, anyway? I've got
a sales meeting myself--I sell high-speed molar memory products.
Capitol City's no fun but the rest of New York is still good for--"
The clouds beneath her were a pale ocean that nearly hid the Earth from
view; patches of blue and brown peeked through the cotton white. The
curve of Earth grew visible as she watched. Without looking at the man
at her side Erika said, "I don't