The Best of Nancy Kress (17 page)

I must have looked like a fish, staring at her with my mouth working. “But Caroline is the prima ballerina, she’s only twenty-six—”

“Caroline had a good run. For a dancer.” She made a signal, an imperious movement of her hand, and one of the bodyguards turned her chair and wheeled it away.

I trotted after it. “But, Ms. Olson, are you saying you think your daughter and her whole company
should
be replaced by bioenhanced dancers because they can achieve higher lifts, fewer injuries, more spectacular turnout—”

“I never give interviews,” she said, and the other bodyguard moved between us.

I gazed after her. She had spoken about Caroline as if her daughter were an obsolete Buick. It took me a moment to remember to pull out a notebook and tell it what she had said.

Someone dumped something into the fountain. Immediately the red disappeared and the water spouted clear once more. A bioenhanced dog trotted over and lapped at the water, the dog’s owner patiently holding the leash while his pink-furred, huge-eyed poodle drank its fill.

After an hour at a library terminal at
New York Now
, I knew that Anna Olson was a major contributor to the American Ballet Theater but not to the New York City Ballet, where her daughter had chosen to dance. Caroline’s father was dead. He had left his widow an East Side mansion, three Renoirs, and a fortune invested in Peruvian sugar, Japanese weather-control equipment, and German pharmaceuticals. According to
Ballet News
, mother and daughter were estranged. To find out more than that, I’d need professional help.

Michael didn’t want to do it. “There’s no money for that kind of research, Susan. Not to even mention the ethics involved.”

“Oh, come on, Michael. It’s no worse than using criminal informers for any other story.”

“This isn’t your old newspaper job, Susie. We’re a feature magazine, remember? We don’t use informants, and we don’t do investigative reporting.” He leaned against his desk, his peeled-egg face troubled.

“The magazine doesn’t have to do any investigating at all. Just give me the number. I know you know it. If I’d been doing the job I should have for the last two years instead of sulking because I hate New York, I’d know it, too. Just the number, Michael. That’s all. Neither you nor the magazine will even be mentioned.”

He ran his hand through his hair. For the first time, I noticed that it was thinning. “All right. But Susan—don’t get obsessed. For your own sake.” He looked at the picture of his daughter doing time in Rock Mountain.

I called the Robin Hood and arranged to see him. He was young—they all are—maybe as young as twenty, operating out of a dingy apartment in Tribeca. I couldn’t judge his equipment: beyond basic literacy, computers are as alien to me as dancers. Like dancers, they concentrate on one aspect of the world, dismissing the rest.

The Robin Hood furnished the usual proofs that he could tap into private databanks, that he could access government records, and that his translation programs could handle international airline d-bases. He promised a two-day turn around. The price was astronomical by my standards, although probably negligible by his. I transferred the credits from my savings account, emptying it.

I said, “You do know that the original Robin Hood transferred goods for free?”

He said, not missing a beat, “The original Robin Hood didn’t have to pay for a Seidman-Nuwer encrypter.”

I really hadn’t expected him to know who the original Robin Hood was.

When I got home, Deborah had fallen asleep across her bed, still dressed in practice clothes. The toes of her tights were bloody. A new pair of toe shoes were shoved between the bedroom door and the door jamb; she softened the stiff boxes by slamming the door on them. There were three E-mail messages for her from SAB, but I erased them all. I covered her, closed her door, and let her sleep.

I met with the Robin Hood two days later. He handed me a sheaf of hardcopy. “The City Ballet injury records show two injuries for Caroline Olson in the last four years, which is as far back as the files are kept. One shin splint, one pulled ligament. Of course, if she had other injuries and saw a private doctor, that wouldn’t show up on their records, but if she did see one it wasn’t anybody on the City Ballet Recommended Physician List. I checked that.”

“Two injuries? In four
years
?”

“That’s what the record shows. These here are four-year records of City Ballet bioscans. All negative. Nobody shows any bioenhancement, not even Jennifer Lang. These are the City Ballet attendance figures over ten years, broken down by subscription and single-event tickets.”

I was startled; the drop in attendance over the last two years was more dramatic than the press had ever indicated.

“This one is Mrs. Anna Olson’s tax return for last year. All that income—all of it—is from investments and interests, and none of it is tied up in trusts or entails. She controls it all, and she can waste the whole thing if she wants to. You asked about unusual liquidation of stock in the last ten years: There wasn’t any. There’s no trust fund for Caroline Olson. This is Caroline’s tax return—only her salary with City Ballet, plus guest appearance fees. Hefty, but nothing like what the old lady controls.

“This last is the air flight stuff you wanted: No flights on major commercial airlines out of the country for Caroline in the last six years, except when the City Ballet did its three international tours, and then Caroline flew pretty much with everybody else in the group. Of course if she did go to Rio or Copenhagen or Berlin, she could have gone by chartered plane or private jet. My guess is private jet. Those aren’t required to file passenger lists.”

It wasn’t what I’d hoped to find. Or rather, it was half of what I’d hoped. No dancer is injured that seldom. It just doesn’t happen. I pictured Caroline Olson’s amazing extension, her breathtaking leaps; she reached almost the height expected of male superstars. And her crippled horror of a mother had huge amounts of money.
“Caroline had a good run.”

I would bet my few remaining dollars that Caroline Olson was bioenhanced, no matter what her bioscans said. Jennifer Lang’s had been negative, too. Apparently the DNA hackers were staying one step ahead of the DNA security checkers. Although it was odd that the records didn’t show a single dancer trying to get away with bioenhancement, not even once, even in the face of Privitera’s fervency. There are always some people who value their own career advancement over the received faith.

But I had assumed that Caroline would have needed to leave the country. Bioenhancement labs are large, full of sensitive and costly and nonportable equipment, and dozens of technicians. Not easy to hide. Police investigators had traced both Jennifer Lang and Nicole Heyer to Danish labs. I didn’t think one could exist illegally in New York.

Maybe I was wrong.

The Robin Hood watched me keenly. In the morning light from the window he looked no older than Deborah. He had thick brown hair, nice shoulders. I wondered if he had a life outside his lab. So many of them didn’t.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Susan—”

“What?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know what you’re after with this data. But I’ve worked with friends of Michael’s before. If you’re thinking about trying to leverage anything to do with human bioenhancement…”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t.” He looked intently at his console. “That’s out of both our leagues. Magazine reporters are very small against the kind of high-stakes shit those guys are into.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I said. And then, on impulse, “Would you by any chance like a home-cooked meal? I have a daughter about your age, seventeen, she’s a dancer…”

He stared at me in disbelief. He shook his head. “You’re a
client
, Susan. And anyway, I’m twenty-six. And I’m married.” He shook his head again. “And if you don’t know enough not to ask a Robin Hood to dinner, you really don’t know enough to mess around with bioenhancement. That stuff’s life or death.”

Life or death. Enough for a bioenhancement corporation to murder two dancers?

But I rejected that idea. It was always too easy to label the corporations the automatic bad guys. That was the stuff of cheap holovids. Most corporate types I knew just tried to keep ahead of the IRS.

I said, “Most life-and-death stuff originates at home.”

I could feel him shaking his head as I left, but I didn’t turn around.

5.

Caroline and I ride in a taxi. It is late at night. We ride across the park. Then we ride more. Caroline says words to a gate. A man opens the door to a very big house. He smells surprised. He wears pajamas. “Miss Caroline!”

“Hello, Seacomb. Is my mother in?”

“She’s asleep, of course. If there’s an emergency—”

“No emergency. But my apartment pipes sprung a leak and I’ll be spending the night here. This is my dog, Angel. Angel, Seacomb is safe.”

“Of course, Miss,” Seacomb says. He smells very unhappy. “It’s just—”

“Just that you have orders not to let me use this house?”

“No, Miss,” the man says. “My orders are to let you use the house as you choose. Only—”

“Of course they are,” Caroline says. “My mother wants me to grovel back here. She’s been panting for that. Well, here I am. Only she’s taken a sleeping pill and is out cold until morning, right?”

“Yes, Miss,” the man says. He smells very unhappy. There are no cats or dogs in this place, but there are mice. The mice droppings smell interesting.

“I’ll sleep in the downstairs study. And, oh, Seacomb, I’m expecting guests. Please disable the electric gate. They’ll use the back entrance, and I’ll let them in myself. You needn’t take any trouble about it.”

“It’s no trouble to—”

“I said I’ll let them in myself.”

“Yes, Miss,” Seacomb says. He smells very very unhappy.

He leaves. Caroline and I go down stairs. Caroline drinks. She gives me water. I smell a mouse in a cupboard. My ears raise. There are interesting things here.

“Well, Angel, here we are at my mother’s house. Do you remember your mother, boy?”

“No,” I say. I am confused. The words are a little hard.

“There are some people coming for a party. Some dancers. Kristine Meyers is coming. You remember Kristine Meyers?”

“Yes,” I say. Kristine Meyers dances with Caroline. They run in circles and jump high. Caroline jumps higher.

“We’re going to talk about dancing, Angel. This is a prettier house than mine to talk about dancing. This is a good house for a party, which is what we’re going to have. My mother lets me use her house for parties. Remember that, boy.”

Later Caroline opens the door. Some people stand there. We go into the basement. Kristine Meyers is there. She smells frightened. Some men are with her. They carry papers. They talk a long time.

“Here, Angel, have a pretzel,” a man says. “It’s a party.”

Some people dance to a radio. Kristine smells angry and confused. Her fur stands up. Caroline says words to her. The words are hard. The words are long. I have a pretzel. Nobody touches Caroline.

We are there all night. Kristine cries.

“Her boyfriend is gone,” Caroline says to me.

In early morning we go home. We go in a taxi. Somebody is sick in the taxi yesterday. It smells bad. Caroline sleeps. I sleep. Caroline does not go to class.

In the afternoon we go to Lincoln Center. Kristine is there. She sleeps on a couch in the lounge. Caroline dances with Dmitri.

John Cole bends close to my ear. “You went out with Caroline all last night.”

“Yes,” I say.

“Where did you go?”

“We go to Caroline’s mother’s house. We go to a party. Caroline’s mother lets Caroline use her house for parties.”

“Who was at this party?”

“Dancers. Kristine is at the party. Kristine is safe.”

John looks at Kristine. She still sleeps on the couch.

“Who else was at the party? What did they do?”

I remember hard. “Dancers are at the party. We eat pretzels. We talk about dancing. People dance to the radio. Nobody touches Caroline. There is music.”

John’s body relaxes. “Good,” he says. “Okay.”