by Mike Resnick
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"
"Oh, shit! He's going to think she wrote it!"
"Almost certainly."
"We'll contact her via subspace and tell her to get the hell off the planet!"
"Do you think the Bandit will stop looking for her if she's gone when he gets there?" asked Matilda.
"No," said Dante. "No, of course he won't. But what the hell do you expect me to do if I get there ahead of him?"
"I don't know, but this was your idea. I think you owe it to her."
"To do what?" he yelled in frustration.
"You're the big thinker," said Matilda angrily. "Think of something."
"All right, all right," he said, getting to his feet. "Give me ten minutes to pack some things, and tell Virgil I need to borrow his ship. It's faster than mine."
She nodded her assent. "Anything else?"
"Hell, I don't know." He paused. "Yeah. See if you can contact Dimitrios of the Three Burners and have him meet me there. Tell him I really need some help."
Nine minutes later Dante took off from Brandywine, convinced that he probably wouldn't live to see it again.
He turned control of the ship over to the navigational computer and began preparing the Deepsleep chamber.
I don't know how it happened, he thought. Suddenly everything's falling apart. 300 children are dead because of events I initiated. I don't know if Silvermane can beat the Bandit, or even if he's the right man for the job. And now I've endangered a brilliant poet who I didn't even know existed half an hour ago, and if I luck out and find her, then I'm going to become the prime target of the most competent killer I've ever seen.
He lay down in the pod, and as consciousness left him, he had time for one final thought: I wish I'd never found that goddamned poem.
Part 5: SEPTEMBER MORN'S BOOK
33.
He's not what he seems, he's not what he claims,
He's as fake as his phony arm.
He lives on Valhalla, playing his games,
And he means you nothing but harm.
That was the second poem to appear in the Hadrian newsdisc. The first was the one Dante had written while Silvermane was watching him.
The third one made it clear that there was a real Santiago, and that he would soon take his vengeance upon the One-Armed Bandit for impersonating him.
The fourth and fifth named two of the Bandit's most-trusted henchmen.
The next half dozen told more details, details the Bandit would gladly have killed to keep secret, and, Dante was sure, would now kill to punish the poet for making them public.
By the time the Deepsleep Chamber gently roused him from his sleep to inform him that he was in orbit around Hadrian II, 22 stanzas had appeared, and there actually wasn't much more to reveal.
Dante lay still for a moment, his brain coming back to life more quickly than his body. Then he sat up, climbed out of the pod, realized that he was starving, and headed off to the galley, where he assuaged his hunger. He took a Dryshower, changed clothes, and finally went to the control cabin, where he found that his navigational computer had already answered all of the spaceport's questions and was preparing to break out of orbit and land.
The radio hummed to life. "May I speak to the captain, please?" said a voice.
Dante took over manual control of the radio and opened a channel.
"This is Dante Alighieri, captain of The Far Traveler, registration number R26SM362, 5 days out of Brandywine. What's the problem?"
"Your ship is registered to Virgil Soaring Hawk."
"Contact him on Brandywine. He'll confirm that he loaned it to me. In the meantime, let me land, and you can hold the ship until you speak to him."
A brief pause. Then: "Agreed."
"I also need a favor."
"How may we help you, Mr. Alighieri?" said the voice at the other end of the transmission.
"I'm supposed to meet a business associate on Hadrian. If he's already landed, it would surely be within the past six Standard hours. He travels under two names—The One-Armed Bandit and Santiago—and I don't know which he's using. Can you tell me if he's arrived yet?"
"Santiago? He's got a sense of humor."
Dante ignored the comment. "Has he landed?"
Another pause. "Let me check . . . No, no one of either name has landed."
"All right," said Dante. "I need one more favor. I'm a writer, and I'm supposed to interview one of your local poets, a woman who called herself September Morn. Can you tell me where to find her?"
"We can't give out addresses or even computer ID codes," came the answer. "I can transmit your message to her and have her contact you."
"Tell her I'm staying at . . ." He checked the computer screen. "At the Windsor Arms, wherever the hell that is. And tell her I've got to speak to her at her earliest convenience, and not to make her presence known to anyone else."
"You're making this sound more like espionage than an interview," commented the voice sardonically. I can't tell you the truth. If you even hint that you know why the Bandit is coming to Hadrian, if you make any attempt whatsoever to protect her, he'll blow the whole spaceport to Kingdom Come.
"There's a rival reporter coming out to interview her," said Dante, making it up as he went along. "It's the man I asked you about, the one who writes under the pen-name of Santiago. If he gets to her first, I could lose my job." He paused. "Please. This means a lot to me."
There was a final pause.
"All right, Mr. Alighieri, we'll do what we can to help you keep your job."
"Thank you," said Dante. "And I can't overstress the need for speed and secrecy."
"You journalists!" said the voice, half-amused, half- disgusted. "You'd slit each other's throats for a scoop. Signing off."
Dante leaned back and watched the viewscreen as the ship approached the surface. There were six cities spread across the face of the planet, more than usual for a colony world, especially one on the Inner Frontier, where small Tradertowns were the order of the day. He had no idea which city September Morn lived in, but then, neither did the Bandit, and he was getting here first, so with any luck he'd make contact with her first. If nothing else, he was sure the Bandit wasn't subtle enough to fabricate a story about why she should seek him out.
He touched down and cleared Customs. To make things go more smoothly he identified himself as Danny Briggs; the ID would check, and no one on the Frontier except the occasional bounty hunter would give a damn if the Democracy had put a price on his head. Finally he hired a limo to skim above the surface and take him into Trajan, the planet's capital city, which was home to the Windsor Arms Hotel.
He stopped at the desk to register, took an airlift up to the eighth floor, found his room, waited for the security system to scan his retina and compare it with the scan he'd just undergone downstairs, and finally entered the room as the door dilated to let him pass through.
The first thing he did was walk across to the desk that was positioned by a corner window and activate the computer that sat atop it.
"Good morning, Mr. Alighieri," said the computer in a soft feminine voice that startled him. "How may I help you?"
"I need to find a woman named September Morn. I know she lives on Hadrian II," replied Dante. "Check all the vidphone directories and see if she's listed."
"Checking . . . no, she is not," announced the computer. "This means that she either does not possess a vidphone, or else she possesses an unlisted number."
"Tie into the Master Computer on Deluros VIII and access any information it has on her."
"That will be a extra charge of 500 credits, or 1,228 New Kenya shillings. Press your left thumb against the spot indicated on my screen if you agree to the charges."
Dante pressed his thumb against the screen, then waited almost two minutes for the computer to address him again.
"The only information the Master Computer possesses is that September Morn is a writer residing on Hadrian II, that she has sold four nov
els and two volumes of poetry, and that her poem entitled The King of the Outlaws won this year's Questada Prize for literature."
"Contact her publisher and see if you can get her address, or her ID, if she's got one."
"Contacting . . . It is against their policy to give out such information."
"The local newsdisc must have a morgue with all prior issues. See if you can find any information on how to contact her directly."
"That could take as much as ten minutes, Mr. Alighieri."
"Why so long?"
"They use a primitive filing system, and I will have to re-access it by year."
"Don't go back more than a four or five years. I need current information."
"Understood."
"One more thing. Let me know if a man named either Santiago or the One-Armed Bandit lands at the spaceport."
"Yes, Mr. Alighieri. Is there anything else?"
"No."
"My screen will go blank, and I will not speak until I have finished my assignments, but although I will appear to have shut down all systems, this is not the case, so please do not mistakenly report me as broken or inactive to the management."
"No problem," said Dante. The computer went dead so quickly he wasn't sure it heard him.
He ordered the wet bar to pour him a beer, and had just taken his first swallow when there was a knock at the door.
"Open," he ordered, and the door dilated again to reveal Dimitrios of the Three Burners.
"I got Matilda's message," he said, entering the room. "What the hell's going on?"
"To borrow an ancient saying, we put our money on the wrong horse."
"So he's turned pure outlaw instead of helping the Frontier?" asked Dimitrios.
"It's not that simple," replied Dante. "He's become a fanatic. If it has anything to do with the Democracy, it can't be permitted to survive."
"Isn't that the purpose of the exercise?"
"He just slaughtered 300 children who might have someday grown up to be Democracy soldiers or bureaucrats."
"Ah," said the bounty hunter. I see."
"The original plan was for me to lure him out here and never even show up myself—but everything's gone to hell. If we can't find some way to stop him, he's going to kill a woman who doesn't even know he's alive, let alone after her."
"Back up a minute," said Dimitrios, frowning. "Why did you want to lure him here in the first place? What's so special about Hadrian II?"
"It's about as far as you can get from Valhalla and still be on the Inner Frontier."
"Valhalla. That's the planet where he's set up his headquarters, right?"
"Right."
"So what is supposed to happen while he's gone?" asked Dimitrios.
"His successor will move in and take over, and present him with a fait accompli."
"And who is this successor?"
"Joshua Silvermane." Dante couldn't help but notice that Dimitrios grimaced at the mention of the name. "Do you disapprove?"
"He's as good a symbol as you could ever find," began Dimitrios. "He looks like a statue, and he's certainly as good with his weapons as the Bandit."
"But?" said Dante. "You look like there's a 'But'."
"But he's a cold, passionless son of a bitch," continued the bounty hunter, "and he's so self-sufficient that he doesn't inspire much loyalty, if only because it's apparent he doesn't need it or want it."
"But he's a moral man without being a fanatic."
"He's a man of his word," agreed Dimitrios. "He's so beautiful and so deadly that people will watch him in awe, but I don't know if he's the kind of man other men will follow." He paused. "I guess you'll find out—if the Bandit doesn't go back and kill him once he's done here. Exactly what's drawing him here in the first place?"
Dante explained his plan, and even quotes a few of the poems to Dimitrios.
"Sounds fine to me," said the bounty hunter. "What went wrong?"
"Just a stroke of bad luck," replied Dante. "Of all the goddamned planets on the Frontier, this is the one that's home to a woman who just wrote an award-winning poem about, of all things, Santiago."
"Suddenly things make a lot more sense."
"Her name is September Morn," Dante concluded. "And we've got to find her before he does."
"Well, on your behalf, you couldn't know she'd gone and won a prize for a poem about Santiago," said Dimitrios. "It was a hell of a good idea except for that."
"Thanks," said Dante with grim irony.
"Problem is, you've endangered this woman, and we don't know how to reach her to protect her or warn her off."
"Neither does he," Dante pointed out.
"That's one thing in our favor. If we're starting out even, I'll put my money on you to out-think him."
The computer suddenly hummed to life.
"I am sorry, Mr. Alighieri," it said, "but the newsdisc morgue gives no indication of how to contact September Morn. All I could learn is that as of two years ago she resided in Trajan."
"Well, that's a start," said Dante. "What's Trajan's population?"
"110,463 at the last census."
"So much for going door-to-door." The poet paused. "Thank you, computer. You may deactivate until I need you again."
"This contradicts your order that I alert you if a man named Santiago or the One-Armed Bandit lands on Hadrian II," the computer reminded him.
"I forgot that," admitted Dante. "All right, do that and nothing more."
"Understood."
The machine seemed too go dormant again, but Dante knew it was monitoring the spaceport.
"So what do you suggest we do?" asked Dimitrios. "I'm at your disposal."
"I asked the authorities to contact September Morn and let her know I had urgent business with her," replied Dante. "And I gave the Windsor Arms as my address. I don't think we should leave the place until I hear from her."
"I haven't eaten today," said Dimitrios. "I saw a restaurant in the hotel, just off the lobby. Let's grab a bite there. If she tries to contact you by vidphone or computer, the hotel can transfer it to our table, and if she shows up in person they can point us out to her."
"I don't see any harm in that," agreed Dante, getting to his feet. "Let's go."
They took the airlift down to the main floor, and were soon sitting in the restaurant. Dimitrios ordered a steak from a mutated beef animal. Dante just had coffee.
"You're not hungry?" asked Dimitrios.
"No."
"Don't be so nervous. We'll find her."
"We'd better."
"Get some calories into you," said Dimitrios. "Maybe they'll get that brain of yours working again."
"All right, all right," muttered Dante irritably. He called up the menu and placed a finger on a holograph of a pastry.
"They have wonderful meat," said Dimitrios.
"You said calories. This has calories."
"What the hell—do what you want," said the bounty hunter with a shrug.
They ate in silence, got up, and were walking to the airlift when Dante glanced out the window and suddenly froze.
"Do you see her?" asked Dimitrios.
"I don't even know what she looks like," replied the poet. "I saw him."
Dimitrios walked to the window. "I don't see anyone. The street's empty."
"He's in the hotel right across the street. Probably looking for her."
"Or you."
"Or me. If he sees me here, that lets her off the hook. He'll know I wrote those verses."
"You're not seriously considering walking out there?" demanded Dimitrios.
"I can't let him kill her."
"Are you going to challenge him to a thinking match?" said Dimitrios angrily. "Or maybe a poetry contest? They're the only two things you can beat him at."
"What do you suggest?" snapped Dante. "I don't want to die, but I can't let him find and kill September Morn!"
"What do I suggest?" repeated Dimitrios. "I suggest you step aside and let someone face him who's a
t least got a chance!"
And before Dante could stop him, Dimitrios had stepped out into the street. He stood there patiently for a few seconds, and then the Bandit came out of the hotel.
"Dimitrios?" said the Bandit, surprised. "It's been a long time. What are you doing here?"
"I'm here on business," replied Dimitrios.
"Who is he? Maybe I know him."
"I'm sure you do. He wiped out a schoolhouse on Madras."
"Forget your business," said the Bandit. "You're a good man, and you're no friend of the Democracy. Go in peace."
"You're a good man, too," said Dimitrios. "But you've gone a little overboard. We should talk, Bandit."
"My name is Santiago," the Bandit corrected him.
"Not any more. That's what we have to talk about. You can work for him, you can help him, but you can't be him."
"Stand aside, Dimitrios. I'm only giving you one more chance to walk away."
"I can't," said Dimitrios.
"I know," said the Bandit sadly. He pointed a finger at Dimitrios. The bounty hunter went for his burners, but never got them out of their holsters. An instant later he was dead, a black, bubbling, smoking hole in the middle of his forehead.
"Shit!" muttered Dante. "He'll kill the whole fucking city if he doesn't find what he's after."
He walked to the hotel's doorway and stepped outside.
"I knew I'd find you here," said the Bandit.
"You killed my friend."
"I'll kill more than your friend if I don't find the woman who writes poems about Santiago."
"She only writes about the real Santiago," said Dante. "I wrote the ones you read."
The Bandit stared at him. "Why?"
"To lure you out here."
"Still why?" asked the Bandit, frowning and scanning the area for hidden gunmen.
"To get you away from Valhalla. You'll find some changes when you get back." Dante smiled grimly. "Dimitrios was telling the truth. You're not Santiago any more."
"We'll see about that when I return to Valhalla," said the Bandit, pointing his finger at Dante. "In the meantime, I told you that the next time we met I'd—"
Suddenly he stopped speaking. A puzzled expression crossed his face. He opened his mouth, but only blood came out. Then he pitched forward on the street, stone cold dead.