Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future

by Mike Resnick

  Cain withdrew the weapons in question and tossed them through the small gap.

  "Now your friend."

  "My name's Terwilliger," said the gambler, moving to the spot Cain vacated. "And I don't carry any guns."

  "Okay," grunted the voice. "You're clean." There was a brief pause and then the door slid open the rest of the way. "Come on in."

  They stepped into a small vestibule from which the weapons had already been removed, and walked through it to a large, opulently furnished living room. The carpeting was thick and expensive, the chairs and tables were crafted of rare hardwoods from distant Doradus IV, the lighting was discreet and indirect, a large window overlooked the city, alien art objects were displayed in abundance, and the walls were covered by literally scores of icons and gold and silver crucifixes. A pudgy man with thinning gray hair, clad in a silk lounge suit, stood in the middle of the room, a huge smile on his face.

  "How the hell are you?" said Socrates, walking over and giving Cain a friendly bear hug. "What have you been doing with yourself since the old days, Sebastian?"

  "Bounty hunting."

  "Well, why not?" said Socrates. "Killing people was always one of the things you did best." He smiled. "Damn, but it's been a long time! Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?"

  "Later, perhaps," said Cain, sitting down on the couch. "How come I don't see any bodyguards?"

  "What for? I'm a respectable businessman, and I don't keep any cash up here."

  "There are probably some people on Sylaria who'd like to see you dead," suggested Cain.

  Socrates laughed. "Even if they knew how to find me, which they don't, I very much doubt that any of them even remember me. They've overthrown four or five dictators since I left." He turned to Terwilliger. "Are you a bounty hunter, too?"

  "Nope," replied the gambler, amused. "I'm just a visitor who appreciates your offer of a drink."

  "What'll it be?"

  "Anything that's wet."

  Socrates walked to a wall and touched a particular spot on it, and a moment later a panel slid back to reveal a small but well-stocked bar.

  "How about whiskey?"

  "Whiskey's fine," said Terwilliger, swinging a small, straight-backed chair around, throwing a leg over it, and pressing his chest against the back of it. Socrates poured the drink and handed it to the gambler, then turned to Cain.

  "Damn, but it's good to see you again, Sebastian!" said Socrates, sitting down opposite him on a beautifully handcrafted chair. "It must be—what?—maybe twenty years now."

  "Twenty-one," said Cain.

  "I hope you're doing well."

  "I've got no complaints."

  "Neither have I, when you get right down to it. In point of fact, I've embarked on a whole new life—new name, new world, new money."

  "I see you still have the same taste for life's little luxuries," remarked Cain, indicating the expensive furnishings.

  "True," was the answer. "But then, what's life without a few luxuries?" He paused. "So tell me, Sebastian, why have you paid a visit to me after all this time?"

  "Information."

  Suddenly Socrates was all business.

  "Buying or selling?"

  "Buying."

  "I've got someone coming by in a few minutes, so we'll have to make this briefer than I'd like, though perhaps we can have dinner later and talk about old times. In the meantime, what kind of information are you after?"

  "I'm looking for someone. You can help me find him."

  "If it's within my power. Who is he?"

  "Santiago."

  Socrates frowned. "I'm sorry, Sebastian. Ask me about anyone else, and there won't be any charge for the answer."

  "I'm not looking for anyone else," said Cain.

  "Then you should be. Leave him alone."

  "A friendly warning?" asked Cain.

  "A serious one. He's out of your league." Socrates paused. "Hell, he's out of everyone's league."

  "Then what does he want with a loan shark?"

  "I'm a financier," replied Socrates.

  "I know exactly what you are," said Cain. "What I don't know is why he has to deal with you. He can't be short of money."

  "I have, from time to time, arranged meetings between the various parties in a business transaction." Socrates smiled. "My calling, as I see it, is to match opportunists with opportunities."

  "From what I can see, I would have thought your calling lay along different lines," said Cain, indicating the crucifixes and icons.

  Socrates shrugged. "One does what one must. The good Lord is very understanding—especially when He sees the size of my weekly donations."

  "I'll make a healthy donation myself if you can tell me what I need to know about Santiago."

  "Out of the question."

  "Name your price."

  "There isn't any price," replied Socrates. "It's not for sale."

  "Not to put too fine a point on it, Whittaker, everything you've ever owned was for sale."

  Socrates sighed deeply. "You're referring to Sylaria, no doubt."

  "As a matter of fact, I was," said Cain.

  "That was an entirely different situation. I took over a corrupt and stagnant government—"

  "And made it so much worse that the Democracy finally bought you off."

  "That is an unfair and unjustified comment, Sebastian."

  "Come on, Whittaker. I was there when your firing squads slaughtered ten thousand men and women."

  "We all make mistakes," said Socrates easily. "I'll be the first to admit that was one of mine."

  "I'm sure it's a comfort to them to know you feel that way."

  "I should have killed thirty thousand," said Socrates seriously.

  Terwilliger chuckled, while Cain merely stared at him.

  "After a revolution," continued Socrates, "you either assimilate your enemies or you dispose of them. The one thing you don't do is leave them free to plot against you. There were too many to assimilate, so I should have gotten rid of them. As it turned out, I was too soft-hearted; I believed all that guff I used to spout. So I spent ninety percent of my time protecting my ass and ten percent trying to put Sylaria back on its feet. Is it any wonder that I failed?"

  "You did more than fail, Whittaker," said Cain. "You left it a hell of a lot worse than you found it."

  "I very much doubt that," replied Socrates. "I may have raised taxes and kept martial law in effect, but I got rid of the illegal searches and allowed some local elections."

  "And assassinated the winners."

  "Only some of them. Just the ones who were trying to sabotage my regime." He smiled. "Besides, in the long run they won, didn't they? I mean, hell, they're in control of the damned planet, and here I am, hiding out under an alias."

  "After plundering the treasury," noted Cain.

  "Travel expenses and incidentals," said Socrates with a shrug. "The Democracy didn't pay me all that much to vacate my position—certainly not as much as it should have." He leaned back comfortably on his chair. "You've got to learn to be a realist, Sebastian."

  "I've become one," said Cain. "Thanks in no small part to yourself."

  "You see? There's no need for this residual bitterness. We've each gone on to become better people. I have found God, as well as modest fortune, and you have become a successful bounty hunter and a realist. Obviously Sylaria did us both a lot of good."

  "Did you find God, or did you buy Him off?"

  "It's all a matter of viewpoint," answered Socrates. "I contribute thousands of credits to His churches and sing His praises every morning, and He pretty much protects me and helps take care of business. It's a mutually nourishing relationship."

  "I'm sure," said Cain wryly. "But we're getting away from the subject."

  "Sylaria?"

  "Santiago."

  Socrates shook his head. "I already told you: that subject is closed."

  "What'll it cost to open it?"

  "More money than you'll ever have,"
said Socrates. "All the Democracy could do was depose me. I assure you Santiago can do a lot worse."

  "Santiago's not the only one," said Cain, reaching into one of his many pockets and withdrawing a small ceramic weapon, which he pointed at Socrates.

  "How did you get that past my security system?" asked Socrates with no show of fear or alarm.

  Cain smiled. "Do you think you're the only person in the galaxy with a security system? Bounty hunters see them every day. The molecular structure of this gun has been altered so that it won't show up on any detection device."

  "Very ingenious," commented Socrates. "But it still won't do you any good. After all, if you kill me, how can I tell you what I know?" He slowly reached into a pocket, withdrew a cigar, and lit it.

  "And if you refuse to tell me," responded Cain, "why should I let you live?"

  "You're a bounty hunter," said Socrates confidently. "You kill for money. There's no price on my head."

  "Don't push your luck," said Cain. "You're one man I wouldn't mind killing for free."

  Socrates chuckled in amusement. "We turned out a strange crop of humanitarians back on Sylaria, didn't we?"

  "I'd be a little more worried if I were you, friend," said Terwilliger. "That's the Songbird pointing that pistol in your direction."

  "Is that supposed to mean something?" asked Socrates, puffing on his cigar and displaying a total lack of concern.

  "It means he'll do what he says he'll do," said Terwilliger. "This is just business to him. He does it all the time."

  "I'm counting on his being just a little bit brighter than you," replied Socrates calmly. "Killing me won't get him the information he wants, and you already know that I'm expecting company momentarily."

  "There's no reason to let you live unless you tell me what I want to know," said Cain. "As for your visitor, you've been known to lie before."

  "Not this time, Sebastian," said Socrates, checking his timepiece. "She's already a few minutes late." He smiled, "She's a reporter. You kill me now and you'll make every newscast from here to Deluros."

  Cain stared at him for a long moment. Then he glanced quickly around the room.

  "That's a very pretty bowl," he said, indicating a delicate fluted structure. "Made by Canphorites?"

  "Robelians," replied Socrates. "Why?"

  "What's it worth—about twenty thousand credits?"

  "Give or take."

  Cain fired off a quick shot, and the object shattered into a thousand tiny pieces as Terwilliger emitted a startled yell.

  "What the hell are you doing?" demanded Socrates furiously. He jumped to his feet, then sat back down just as quickly when Cain pointed the weapon at him again.

  "Negotiating," answered Cain. "How much did you pay for the gold crucifix with the jeweled Christ?"

  "Damn it, Sebastian! That's a priceless work of art!"

  "You've got ten seconds to put a price on it," replied Cain. "And if you haven't told me what I want to know, you've got one more second to kiss it good-bye."

  Socrates slumped back in his chair. "Destroy them all," he said resignedly. "I can replace them easier than I can replace me."

  "You mean it, don't you?"

  "I do."

  "Maybe I've been approaching this all wrong." Cain lowered his aim a few inches. "What's the going price on a kneecap?"

  "Not high enough." said Socrates defiantly.

  "Courage from Whittaker Drum? Now that is surprising."

  "I'm no hero," said Socrates. "But there's nothing you can do to me that'll compare to what he can do."

  "I wouldn't bet my life on that if I were you," said Cain.

  "That's precisely what I'm betting. Whatever else you do, you won't kill me."

  Just then there was a high-pitched beeping noise.

  "That's her," said Socrates, turning his head and staring at a small holographic viewscreen. "You'd better put your gun away and leave while you can."

  "Not a chance," said Cain. "What does she want?"

  "Probably the same thing you do."

  There was another beeping sound.

  "We'd better answer it," said Terwilliger, checking the viewscreen to make sure Socrates wasn't lying. "She's got to know he's here."

  Cain nodded, and the gambler walked over to a small control panel on the wall just behind Socrates' chair. The first two buttons he pushed flooded the apartment with music and dimmed the lights in the vestibule, but finally he hit the proper one and they heard the front door slide open.

  A moment later a blonde woman in her midthirties entered the room. She was a few pounds overweight, though far from fat, her tunic and slacks were functional rather than stylish, and she wore no makeup at all. A leather satchel was slung over one shoulder.

  She took in the situation in a single glance and immediately turned to Cain.

  "Don't kill him until I talk to him," she said. "I'll make it worth your while."

  "Nobody's killing anybody just yet," interjected Socrates, unperturbed. "We're still in the threatening stage."

  "Who are you and what's your business here?" asked Cain, getting to his feet and backing up a few steps to incorporate both her and Socrates into his field of vision.

  "I might ask you the same thing," she replied.

  "You might," he agreed. "But I asked you first, and I've got the gun."

  She stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. "My name is Virtue MacKenzie. I'm a journalist; I make holographic documentaries."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I came here to do a feature on Socrates."

  "Where's your technical crew?" asked Cain.

  "I do my own tech work," she said. "And I'm all through answering questions. Now it's your turn."

  "I've got one more," said Cain. "Have you talked to Whittaker Drum yet?"

  "Who the hell is Whittaker Drum?"

  Cain smiled with satisfaction. "Okay, You've told me everything I need to know." He paused for a moment. "Terwilliger, get her out of here."

  The gambler began approaching her.

  "That's close enough," said Virtue menacingly.

  Terwilliger grinned and took another step forward. As he did so, she lashed out with a foot, catching him just below the knee. He dropped to the floor, cursing and groaning and holding his leg tenderly. "You don't listen too well, do you?" she said contemptuously.

  "Oh, my!" said Socrates, vastly amused. "This is getting interesting."

  "You shut up!" snapped Cain.

  "Are you ready to answer my questions yet?" demanded Virtue, ignoring Terwilliger and turning back to Cain.

  "All right," he said.

  "Who are you?"

  "Sebastian Cain."

  "The one they call the Songbird?" she asked.

  He grimaced. "Yes."

  "Why do you want to kill him?"

  "I don't," replied Cain. "I want the same thing you do."

  "And what do I want?"

  "Information about Santiago."

  "What makes you think so?"

  "Because you didn't know that Socrates used to be Whittaker Drum—and the only important thing he's done since changing his name is to meet Santiago."

  "I resent that," said Socrates.

  "What's your interest in Santiago?" asked Virtue.

  "Professional," said Cain. "And yours?"

  "The same," she replied. "I really do produce documentaries. I convinced a couple of backers that I could get an exclusive feature on Santiago, and managed to wring a pretty substantial advance out of them."

  "And now you have to deliver," suggested Cain, amused.

  She nodded. "It's taken me almost a year to get this far; I don't want you killing him before I talk to him." She glanced at Terwilliger, who was getting painfully to his feet. "Who's this one?"

  "Nobody very important," said Cain.

  "Thanks a heap," muttered the gambler, flexing his leg and wincing in pain. "I think something's broken."

  "If it was, you wouldn't be able to move
it like that," said Virtue. "Now stop whining and shut up."

  Terwilliger glared at her, then went back to massaging his knee.

  "All right, Mr. Cain," she said, turning to the bounty hunter. "What now?"

  "What do you suggest?"

  "Our interests are parallel, but not identical," she replied. "I don't care if you kill Santiago, as long as I get my feature—and I assume you don't begrudge me my feature as long as you get your reward. I don't see much sense fighting to the death over who gets to extract the information we need."

  He nodded. "Which brings us back to you, Whittaker."

  Socrates smiled. "Nothing has changed, Sebastian. You can't afford to kill me, and I can't afford to let Santiago know I've betrayed him. So, while you can certainly cause me a great deal of pain, you're not going to get what you want."

  "It's a possibility," admitted Cain. "On the other hand, finding out if you've got a breaking point is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me."

  "Don't be an ass, Cain," said Virtue. "There's an easier way to do this."

  "I'm open to suggestions," replied Cain.

  "We'll shoot a couple of cc's of niathol into him and he'll tell us anything we want to know."

  "Niathol isn't something that bounty hunters tend to carry around," Cain said wryly.

  "Then isn't it lucky for you that I came prepared?" she said, unfastening her satchel.

  "You expected to have to use it?"

  "I anticipated the possibility," she replied, withdrawing a small package and starting to unwrap it.

  "You couldn't have known I'd be here. How did you plan to get him to hold still for it?"

  "The same way I convinced your friend to leave me alone," she replied, pulling out a small vial that had been wrapped in refrigerated tape. A moment later she had filled a small, sterile syringe with it.

  "Well, Whittaker," said Cain, "are you going to make this easy on yourself, or am I going to have to hold you down?"

  "All right, Sebastian," said Socrates with a sigh. "Skip the drug. I'll tell you what you want to know."

  "That's very thoughtful of you, but I think as long as we have the niathol we won't bother relying on the eccentricities of your memory. Roll up your sleeve."

  Socrates did as he was told, and Virtue walked across the room to him with the syringe in her hand.

  "That looks like a hell of a lot more than two cc's," remarked Cain.