The Return of Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future

by Mike Resnick

  "Where would they have come back from?" asked Dante.

  "I don't know."

  "How did you contact them?"

  "Through an intermediary."

  "Who?"

  "I can't tell you," she screamed, panic reflected in her face. "He'll kill me!"

  "And I'll kill you if you don't," said Dante harshly. "I'm a lot closer to you at the moment than he is. I want you to consider that very carefully."

  "If I tell you who, you've got to protect me from him!" whimpered Belinda.

  "The way you protected your sister?" he asked.

  "She never needed any protection or any help! She was always the smartest and the prettiest and the most popular and . . ." Her words trailed off into incoherent sobs.

  "She needed protection from the aliens," said Dante coldly. "It may have been the only time in her life she needed help, and you betrayed her." He stared contemptuously at her. "I think Santiago and I are going to let you live, just so your sister can take her own revenge on you."

  "If my sister isn't dead already, she will be soon."

  "Don't bet on it," said Dante. He paused. "We're going to rescue her."

  "Why?" asked Belinda, the tears suddenly gone. "What did she ever do for you?"

  "She saved my life."

  A look of fury crossed Belinda's face. "That figures. She's just the type."

  "It's an admirable type," said Dante. "Certainly more admirable than an overgrown petulant brat who sells her sister out to aliens."

  Belinda glared at him but made no answer.

  "I'm still waiting," said Dante after a moment.

  "For what?"

  "The name of the man who can contact Tweedledee and Tweedledum."

  She considered the question. "You'll protect me?"

  "I'll let you live," said Dante coldly. "That's enough of a bargain."

  She seemed torn, and finally slumped in resignation. "It's Moby Dick."

  "Moby Dick?" he repeated. "Someone's really walking around with that name?"

  "Yes."

  "You know what will happen to you if you lied to me?"

  "Yes, goddammit!" she snapped.

  "Where do I find him?"

  "The Fat Chance. It's a casino."

  "Where is this Fat Chance in relation to the Windsor Arms?" asked Dante.

  "A block north, two blocks west."

  "Does Moby Dick work for the aliens?"

  "He works for himself," said Belinda.

  "What does he look like?"

  "You'll know him when you see him."

  "All right," said Dante. "I'm off to find him." He checked his timepiece. "You've got two hours to clear your stuff out of here."

  "This is my house too!"

  "You forfeited your right to it. I want you and all your possessions gone today, and I don't want to see you back here. If you disobey me, you'll have to answer to Santiago. Is that understood?" "

  No answer.

  He took a step toward her. "Is that understood?" he repeated ominously.

  "Yes," she muttered.

  "Then get going."

  "I wish you as much luck with Moby Dick as Ahab had!" she said as he turned and headed off to the Fat Chance.

  37.

  He's bigger than big, he's whiter than white,

  He's got an IQ that's plumb out of sight.

  Moby Dick is his name, and his talent is vast:

  He changes the future and toys with the past.

  The Fat Chance wasn't like any casino Dante had ever been in. There were no craps tables, no roulette wheels, no poker games in progress. All but a handful of the customers were aliens—Canphorites, Lodinites, Mollutei, plus a few species he'd never seen before—and all the games were of alien origin.

  There was a long, polished metal bar, manned by two robot bartenders. Given the clientele, Dante hated to think of what was in all the oddly-shaped containers displayed behind the bar.

  The poet stepped further into the casino, looking around, and finally he saw the man he knew had to be Moby Dick. He was a big man, big everywhere—he stood almost seven feet tall, and weighed close to 500 pounds. The wild part, decided Dante, was that he'd be willing to bet there weren't 25 pounds of useless fat on the man. He was huge, but he was hard as a rock, and despite his weight he somehow managed to look fit.

  His eyes were an dull pink, his lips were thick, his ears small, his head almost bald. When he opened his mouth, he revealed two rows of shining gold teeth.

  But the thing that drew Dante's immediate attention, even more than all his other features, was the fact that the man was an albino. It wasn't hard to see how he'd come by his name.

  The man sat alone at a table, a drink in front of him, watching the action at a nearby jabob pit. Dante approached him slowly, and came to a stop a few feet away.

  "You gonna stand there all day?" asked the albino. "Or are you gonna sit down and tell me why you've come looking for me?"

  "I'll sit," replied Dante. The huge man snapped his fingers, and a chair floated over and adjusted to the poet's body. "And I'll have something to drink, too."

  "Do I look like a bartender?"

  "No," said Dante. "You look like a white whale."

  Moby Dick smiled. "Most people are afraid to say that, even though it's true." He paused. "I like you already."

  "Good," said Dante. "I wouldn't want anyone your size taking a dislike to me."

  This time Moby Dick laughed. "Okay, you've ingratiated yourself enough. Now tell me why you want to see me—and don't deny that's why you're here. No human comes to the Fat Chance to gamble."

  "Why are you here?"

  "I own the place."

  "A casino just for aliens?"

  "My own kind doesn't go out of its way to make me feel wanted," said the albino. "So I repeat: why are you here?"

  "I need some information," said Dante. "My name is Dante Alighieri, and—"

  "How divine is your comedy?" interrupted Moby Dick.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Never mind. You're not the same one."

  "But I chose his name for my own."

  "Do you write poetry?" asked Moby Dick.

  "After a fashion."

  "Then it's a fine name for you. Unlike Herman Melville, I don't write epics about whaling. But I'm a whale among men, I'm whiter than any of them, and I'm ready to kill any one-legged man named Ahab." He smiled again. "Haven't found one yet."

  "Maybe you'd like to go hunting more dangerous game?" suggested Dante.

  The table glowed, and the albino stared at a holocube. "That's his limit," he said to it. "No more credit for him until he makes good his losses." He turned back to Dante. "Why do I think you have someone in mind?"

  "Maybe because I haven't got a poker face."

  "Go home, Dante Alighieri," said Moby Dick. "You don't want any part of them."

  "Any part of whom?"

  "We've finished the social niceties," said the albino. "I'd really appreciate if you didn't play stupid with me."

  "All right," said Dante. "October Morn told me you can contact Tweedledee and Tweedledum."

  He chuckled. "The little bitch would love to see them kill the pair of us."

  "Probably," agreed Dante. "But was she telling the truth?"

  "Yeah, I can contact them," said Moby Dick. "But you don't want me to."

  "Why not let me be the judge of that?"

  "Because you've never met them, and your courage is born of ignorance," was the reply. "Believe me, no sane man wants to mess with them."

  "The man I work for does."

  "Then the man you work for's not long for this plane of existence," said the huge man.

  "Nevertheless."

  One of the jabob pit bosses, a Lodinite, waddled up and showed a slip of paper to Moby Dick. He grunted, signed it, watched the alien waddle away, and then looked at Dante. "Maybe I should talk to your boss myself."

  "He'll be here in a few days' time," said Dante. He paused. "His name is Santi
ago."

  Moby Dick seemed amused. "Why not Caligula or Conrad Bland, while he was at it?"

  "Because he is Santiago."

  "Somebody's been feeding you a fairy tale, Dante Alighieri," said the albino. "Santiago died 70 or 80 years ago, maybe even longer than that."

  "A galaxy that can produce you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum and some of the aliens walking around this casino can produce a man who doesn't age and die like other men. I work for the King of the Outlaws."

  Moby Dick was silent for a long moment, analyzing what he'd heard. Finally he spoke. "If he really on his way to Hadrian, I'd like to meet him."

  "I thought you didn't believe in him half a minute ago," noted Dante.

  "I don't necessarily believe in him now," said Moby Dick amiably. "All the more reason to want to meet him."

  "In the meantime, can you set up a meeting between the two aliens and me?"

  Moby Dick shrugged. "I can ask. What should I tell them you want to talk about? The lady poet?"

  Dante considered his reply for a moment. "Tell them Santiago's coming to kill them, but I might be able to bargain for their lives. I might be able to convince him to take September Morn and hold her for ransom if they'll turn her over peacefully."

  "They can't laugh," said Moby Dick. "They're physically incapable of it. But if they could, they'd laugh in your face."

  "Just deliver it."

  "You're bluffing, of course," said the albino. "Or out-and- out lying. It won't work. They don't understand bluffs. They'll believe what you say."

  "I want them to."

  "No you don't," said Moby Dick. "I keep telling you: you don't want any part of them. Neither does your boss, whoever he is."

  "How is it that you alone know how to contact them?" asked Dante, changing the subject.

  "Lots of people know how. I might be the only one currently on Hadrian, or the only one the little bitch sister knows, but there are lots of us."

  "Why are you and this small handful of men and women so favored?"

  "There are only two of them in the whole damned universe," answered Moby Dick. "There's just so much they can do, so they rule through hand-picked men and women."

  "And they picked you?"

  The huge man shook his head. "Do I look like a ruler? I'm just a supplicant. If things work out, they may toss me a couple of crumbs someday."

  "Would I be correct in assuming one of those crumbs will be Hadrian II?" asked Dante.

  "Why not?" Moby Dick shot back. "They can't live everywhere. They can't be everywhere. Someone has to bring order to their empire."

  "How many planets do they control right now?"

  "Maybe eight or nine."

  "That's not much of an empire. The Democracy controls about 150,000 worlds, and they influence at least than many more."

  "It's a start. Even Man started out with just one world, you know," said Moby Dick.

  "So you're going to fight for them?"

  "They may never ask me to, and if I do it'll be without much enthusiasm," answered Moby Dick. "Show me a better side to fight for."

  "I intend to," said Dante. "Order something to drink. This is going to take a while."

  For the next two hours, Dante filled the huge albino in on what had been transpiring for the past few months, about the poem, and Matilda, and the Bandit, and Silvermane, and—always—the ideal of Santiago. When he finally finished, Moby Dick stared at him for a very long time, and then spoke:

  "It's an interesting idea," said the albino. "If you had the right Santiago, I'd join up this minute. But you don't."

  "You haven't even met him."

  "I don't have to. You've described him. That was the giveaway."

  "The giveaway?" repeated Dante, puzzled.

  "Yeah. You described his gun and his bullets, you told me how tall and graceful he is, you told me that he looks like some artist's dream, you told me about his silver hair. You told me almost everything I need to know about him—except who and what he is."

  "I told you: he's Joshua—" began Dante.

  "You described a very beautiful and efficient killer," interrupted Moby Dick. "And except for being very beautiful, I don't see much to differentiate him from your last killer, the Santiago you and September Morn . . . ah . . . deposed right here on Hadrian II."

  "He's totally different," said Dante. "For one thing, he's not a fanatic. For another, he really does understand what being Santiago means, what's required of him."

  "I don't know," said Moby Dick. "I think they're both dead ends."

  "Would you care to explain that?"

  "Sure. But first let's generalize a bit. What causes a species to evolve?"

  "What are you talking about?" asked Dante irritably.

  "You heard me," said the huge albino. "What makes a species evolve?"

  "How the hell do I know?"

  "You would, if you were using your brain. If you don't, you're just like them."

  Dante stared at him, but made no reply.

  "The answer," continued Moby Dick, "is that evolution is a response to environmental need. Are the branches of a tree too high? Grow a long neck. Is the sun too bright? Grow bigger eyes and better ears and sleep all day. Are you too small to kill prey animals? Develop opposable thumbs and a brain, and learn to make weapons."

  "You are going to get to the point sooner or later, aren't you?"

  "The point is obvious. You found two of the most efficient killers on the Frontier, maybe the two best. But because they've always been able to get anything they wanted with their weapons and their physical skills, why should they develop social skills, or be adept at teamwork, or inspire loyalty when they've never required any help before? I'm sure your Silvermane is a dangerous man, and I'm sure he wants to be Santiago—but based on what you've told me, I don't think I'd be inclined to lay down my life for him, or to follow him into battle if the odds were against us."

  "You wouldn't be asked to risk you life—or lose it—for him," said Dante, "but for the cause."

  "The two should be indistinguishable," answered Moby Dick. "And I get the distinct impression that neither of your Santiagos could describe the cause in terms that would make people willing to die for it."

  "All right," said Dante. "So you won't join us. Will you at least help us?"

  "You really want me to contact them, even after what I've told you?" asked the albino.

  "She saved my life. I owe her."

  "Noble," commented Moby Dick. "That's not a trait I see much of out here—nobility."

  Another pause. "Then you'll do it?"

  "I'll do it. Where can I reach you?"

  "The Windsor Arms."

  "Wait for me there. I'll be in touch."

  Dante got up. "Thanks."

  "It's a pity," said Moby Dick.

  "What is?"

  "I like you, Dante Alighieri. You're a little too noble for your own good, but I really like you. I hate to send you and your boss to your deaths."

  "I've got to at least try to save her," answered Dante simply.

  "I know."

  Dante turned and left the casino, window-shopped his way back to the hotel, and took the airlift up to his room, where he found a message from Virgil waiting for him.

  "I'm on Laministra IV, encouraging a couple of drug dealers to voluntarily join our network of freedom fights"—a nasty grin—"and I realized I'm just a hop, skip and a jump from Hadrian, so I thought I'd pop over there and take my ship back if you're through with it. See you in the morning."

  Dante wiped the message, waited a few minutes for Moby Dick to contact him, and finally lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

  He didn't know how long he'd slept, but his computer awoke him by gently repeating his name over and over. Finally he sat up groggily.

  "All right, I'm awake," he mumbled. "What is it?"

  "A Mr. Dick is attempting to communicate with you, Mr. Alighieri."

  "I don't know any—" Suddenly he straightened up. "Put him th
rough!"

  Moby Dick's image flickered into existence above the computer.

  "I've contacted them," he announced, staring straight at him.

  "And?"

  "As I told you, they can't laugh—but they did seem amused."

  "Will they meet with me?"

  "No. I gave them the message, exactly as you worded it. They'll meet only with Santiago."

  "Where?"

  "Kabal III."

  "Never heard of it. How far away is it?"

  "Perhaps ten light-years."

  "Is it an oxygen world?"

  "Yes," replied the albino. "That's their only concession to Santiago."

  "Concession?" repeated Dante, surprised. "Don't they breathe oxygen?"

  "I'm not aware that they breathe anything at all," answered Moby Dick.

  "Why would they choose this particular world?"

  " It's a deserted colony world, with a couple of empty Tradertowns. There won't be anyone there to interfere."

  "Which means they'll have time to booby-trap every inch of it."

  "They won't need to," said Moby Dick. "Try to understand: These are aliens who conquer entire worlds with no help from anyone. You have no conception of their powers, no idea what they're capable of."

  "So tell me."

  "I don't know the specifics. I just know that time after time they accomplish the seemingly-impossible with no visible effort."

  Thanks for nothing, thought Dante. "I want you to get back to them and tell them Santiago will only meet them on a world of our choosing."

  "If you insist, but . . ."

  "But what?"

  "But they have September Morn. It would seem to be a seller's market."

  "Tell them anyway. If they don't know what a bluff is, they might think Santiago won't come under any other conditions. I mean, hell, he's never even met her. He has no reason to walk into a trap to try to save her."

  "Whatever you say. Stay there."

  Moby Dick broke the connection, and contacted him again twenty minutes later.

  "Well?" demanded Dante.

  "No deal. They may not know how to tell a lie, but they know how to spot one. They'll only meet him on Kabal III."

  "At least we tried."

  "What now?" asked Moby Dick.

  "It's obviously a trap. We can't let him go there alone." Dante did some quick mental calculations. "I can have half our men here in six days' time. Let's set the meeting for then."