The Long Run

THE LONG RUN
A Tale of the Continuing Time
DANIEL KEYS MORAN
This is a work of fiction. None of the characters in it are real people
and any resemblance to anybody, living or dead, is a coincidence.
It is the author's intention that this work should be freely downloadable,
copyable, and shareable in electronic format. It may not be reproduced,
shared, or transmitted for a fee by any party to whom the author has not
contractually granted permission. The author retains all other rights.
Copyright (c) 1989 by Daniel Keys Moran

Dedicated to
Jodi Jodi, Kathy, Kevin and Richard.
Yeah, yeah, I know. The dedications change with each passing edition.
There's no law I'm aware of on the subject. And Jodi, Kathy, Kevin and
Richard? They rock.
And Richard? He's two years old now. While I was proofing this
manuscript I told him there was a scene where someone was Floating
In Space While Awaiting Rescue, just like in Winnie the Pooh ... and
he said wisely, "Christopher Robin saves him." Not a question; he was
telling me how it would go.
Christopher Robin doesn't appear in this book, actually, but it was
awfully cool that Richard thought he should, some twenty years after I
first wrote the scene where Pooh was mentioned.

(Richard's eight now. His baby brother, Connor, is five. Time passes.
DKM, 2007.)

THE LONG RUN
A Tale of the Continuing Time
The Last Summer of His Youth
2069 Gregorian
I killed my love to set him free
For fear I'd cause him pain
I killed him--we were very young
And now I'm old again
We lived a life together once
And I was so afraid
For every life I've lived, I've died
For every life I've made
I killed my love to set him free
He wasn't hard to kill
He ran into another life
I guess he's running still
Mahliya Kutura, Many Lives
"Street Songs," 2078 Gregorian

1.
"You're Trent."
"I am?"
The young man was conservatively dressed: a gray jacket and black
pants, and a white silk shirt that shone brilliantly even in the dim light
from L'Express's outdoor glowfloats. He wore immaculately clean
white running shoes; a single flat ruby stud shone in the lobe of his left
ear. Trent's temples, where an inskin InfoNet link might have been
implanted, were merely smooth skin. His hair was sandy blond, cut
short, and he either wore no makeup or had turned it off.
He wore flat black sunglasses though they were hardly necessary.
It was ten minutes after six o'clock.
"You're younger than I'd expected," said the middle-aged man who had
said his name was Jerry Jackson. On the phone Trent had not noticed it,
but in person his voice held the faint but definite traces of a Southern
accent.
"Am I?"
"And you're late," the man said. Despite the air, heavy with ozone as
though a thunderstorm were about to strike, Jackson had taken a table
outside beneath the gray-black skies, on the balcony level overlooking
the eternally crowded streets.
"Ten minutes late ..." Trent shrugged. "Ten minutes older."
He seated himself across the table from Jerry Jackson. To the waitbot
that had led him to the table he said, "A pot of coffee. With cream, no
sugar."
The waitbot paused, then said mildly, in the rich baritone characteristic

of opera singers, newsdancers and politicians, "Monsieur, that item is
not on the menu."
"Waiter, please," said Trent. They both waited while the waitbot rolled
away out of listening range.
L'Express sat on the western edge of what had once been the Brooklyn
Navy Yard, and was now one of the most expensive residential areas in
all the Patrol Sectors. From where he sat Trent could see to the
northwest, on the other side of the East River, the scarlet sparks of
spacecraft rising and descending at Unification Spaceport in lower
Manhattan. The dull, distant boom of craft breaking through the sound
barrier touched him every twenty seconds or so.
Eight spacescrapers reared high above the skyline, eight three- to
five-kilometer tall buildings; two of them did nothing but house
Peaceforcers and the babychasers from the Ministry of Population
Control; the Left and Right Hands of the Devil Himself, Secretary
General Charles Eddore.
Trent said, "How did you get referred to me?"
"You're in the Directory."
"That wasn't the question."
Jerry Jackson was drinking something cold and green with crushed ice.
He wore an exquisitely tailored blue pinstripe suit. A brushed
aluminum attaché case stood upright beside his chair. The cuffs of his
sleeves were fastened European style, folded back upon themselves.
"Actually, Booker Jamethon gave me your name."
"Booker's a great guy," said Trent.
"He said I shouldn't hire you, that you're not dependable."
"Of course, all those years on the