Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future

by Mike Resnick

  "Good idea," said Cain.

  "Why is he here?" asked Yorick, gesturing to the Swagman.

  "He likes your paintings," said Cain.

  "Oh, he does, does he?" Yorick cackled. "He likes more than that. So you're the Swagman, are you?"

  "The one and only," said the Swagman.

  "Well, one and only Swagman," said Yorick, "did the museum on Rhinegold ever discover the one and only North Coast Princess that I forged for you?"

  "It's still sitting right there in its display case under round-the-clock guard," replied the Swagman with a grin.

  "And you've got the real stone?"

  "Certainly."

  "Certainly," repeated Yorick. "Lee-certain," he said, moving the syllables around. "Cer-lee-tain." He got to his feet and glared at the Swagman. "My courier was killed!" he said accusingly.

  "Most regrettable," said the Swagman. "I hope you don't think I had anything to do with it."

  "You guaranteed his safety," said Yorick sullenly.

  "I guaranteed that he would gain safe entry to my fortress," the Swagman corrected him. "What he did after he left was his own business."

  "I never got my money."

  "I paid it to the courier. My obligation to you ended with that." He reached into his pocket. "However, I wouldn't want us to become enemies. Will this square accounts?" He withdrew a trio of small tan seeds.

  "Give give give give give give!" murmured Yorick, snatching them out of the Swagman's hand. He raced to a dilapidated dresser, pulled open the top drawer, and tossed two of the seeds onto a pile of dirty clothing. The third he put into his mouth.

  "Where the hell did you get those things?" asked Cain. "You didn't know back on Altair that we were going to see Poor Yorick."

  The Swagman smiled. "What did you think I paid the bartender five hundred credits for?"

  "Information—or so I thought."

  "Information's worth about twenty-five credits, tops, on a dirtball like this. The rest was for alphanella seeds."

  Yorick was sitting down on his chair again, his face suddenly tranquil as he slid the seed between his cheek and his gum and let the juices flow down his throat.

  "Thank you," he said, his face relaxed, his eyes finally clear. "You know, sometimes I think the only time I'm not crazy is when I've got a seed in my mouth."

  "Good," said Cain. "Just suck on it for a while. Don't chew it until we're through talking."

  "Whatever you say, Songbird," replied Yorick pleasantly. "Oh, my, this is good. I don't know how I lived before I discovered this stuff."

  "Responsibly," suggested Cain wryly.

  Yorick closed his eyes and smiled. "Ah, yes—the killer who's hindered by a moral code. I know about you, Songbird." He paused. "You gave my friend a pass."

  "A pass?" asked the Swagman, puzzled.

  "Quentin Cicero," said Yorick, nodding his head, his eyes still closed. "Hunted him down and then let him go. Good man, the Songbird."

  "You let Quentin Cicero go?" demanded the Swagman, turning to Cain.

  "It wasn't that open and shut," replied Cain. "He had a hostage."

  "That never stopped any other bounty hunter," said Yorick placidly. "So what if he'd have killed her? All the more reason for you to bring him in."

  "You let him go?" repeated the Swagman furiously. "That bastard killed two of my menials!"

  "I'm sorry to hear that," said Cain.

  "You're sorry? One of them had fifty thousand credits of my money!"

  "But the hostage lived," said Yorick.

  "You see?" said the Swagman. "You go around letting hostages live and sooner or later it winds up costing a respectable businessman money!"

  "I'll keep that in mind next time," said Cain.

  "Who are you after now, Songbird?" asked Yorick. He paused. "I know where you can find Altair of Altair."

  "I already found her."

  "Was she human or not?" asked Yorick. "I could never quite tell."

  "Neither could I," said Cain.

  "Beautiful, though."

  "Very," agreed Cain.

  "How much did you get for killing her?" asked Yorick.

  "Nothing."

  Yorick smiled. "Then you're after Santiago." He sucked contentedly on the seed. "It's amazing how clear everything becomes after a minute or two, how absolutely pellucid. You killed her, and you talked to her ship, and now you're here."

  "That's right."

  "And now you want me to tell you where to go next?"

  Cain nodded, and Yorick, not hearing an answer, cracked his eyes open.

  "How are you going to kill him, Songbird?"

  "I won't know until I find him," said Cain.

  "What if he has a hostage?"

  "Does he?"

  Yorick laughed. "How would I know?"

  "How would I?" answered Cain.

  Yorick stared at Cain for a long moment. "You're a good man, Songbird," he said at last. "I think I'll tell you what you want to know."

  "Thank you."

  "And I'm a good man, so I think you'll pay me three thousand credits."

  "Fifteen hundred," said the Swagman quickly.

  "Shut up," said Cain, pulling out a wad of bills and peeling off six five-hundred-credit notes.

  "Thank you, Songbird," said Yorick, looking for a pocket and then realizing that he was naked. He walked over to his dresser and tossed the money into the same drawer where he had deposited the two alphanella seeds. He then returned to his chair and sat down lazily. "The man you want is Billy Three-Eyes."

  "I've heard of him," remarked Cain.

  "Everyone out here has heard of him. There's a lot of paper on him, Songbird."

  "What's his connection to Santiago?"

  "He works for him."

  "Directly?"

  Yorick nodded. "When I forged a set of duplicate plates for New Georgia's Stalin Ruble, it was Billy Three-Eyes who picked them up and delivered them to Santiago. And the last time Santiago had an assignment for Altair of Altair, I was the go-between."

  "Where is Billy Three-Eyes now?" asked Cain.

  "On Safe Harbor. Ever hear of it?"

  "No."

  "It's a colony planet, out in the Westminster system."

  "How do I find him?"

  Yorick chuckled. "He'll be pretty easy to spot. Giles Sans Pitié caught up with him about eight years ago and put a notch in his forehead with that metal fist of his before he could escape. That's how Billy got his name; Orpheus thought it looked like a third eye."

  "How many cities are there on Safe Harbor?"

  "None," replied Yorick. "None none nine none nine none."

  "Suck on the seed again," said Cain. "You're drifting."

  Yorick sucked noisily, and his eyes became clear once more. "No cities at all," he said lazily. "There are two or three little villages. Most of the people are farmers. Just make the rounds of the local taverns; he'll be in one of them." He paused. "Do you need any more?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Good." Yorick smiled. "It's starting to wear off. It'll be gone in another couple of minutes unless I bite the seed."

  Cain got to his feet. "Thanks," he said.

  "Anything for the Songbird."

  Cain walked to the door, then turned to the Swagman, who remained where he was, leaning comfortably against a filthy wall.

  "Come on," he said.

  "You go ahead," said the Swagman. "I've got a little business to talk over with friend Yorick."

  "I'll wait downstairs."

  The Swagman shook his head. "It could take days to consummate."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" demanded Cain.

  "I want to commission some paintings."

  "Then do it and let's get out of here."

  "You've seen him," said the Swagman. "If I'm going to get what I want, I'm going to have to nursemaid him while he works."

  "Suit yourself," said Cain. "But I'm not hanging around this pigsty while you add to your collection."
r />   "You go ahead to Safe Harbor," said the Swagman. "I'll charter a ship and join you there."

  "If I walk out of this hotel alone, the partnership's over," said Cain.

  "If you kill Santiago before I catch up with you, the partnership's over," agreed the Swagman. "But if I get to you before you reach him, it's in force again."

  "For half the original deal."

  "You have no use for what I want," said the Swagman.

  "I'll find a use."

  The Swagman looked perturbed. "Safe Harbor is just another stop along the way. You still need me."

  "Not as much as you need me," said Cain. He frowned. "What brought this about, anyway? How much can his paintings be worth?"

  "Not as much as Santiago, I'll admit," said the Swagman. "But Yorick's here now, and Santiago could still be years away. I'll catch up with you."

  "For half."

  The Swagman sighed. "For half." He paused. "If you leave Safe Harbor before I get there, leave a message telling me where to find you."

  "Leave it where?"

  "If you don't find anyone you can trust, have Schussler send it back to Goldenrod."

  Cain turned to Yorick. "Once I leave here, nothing that happens between the two of you is of any concern to me—but I ought to warn you that leaving three thousand credits in the same room with the Swagman is like leaving a piece of meat in the same room with a hungry carnivore."

  "I resent that," said the Swagman, more amused than offended.

  "Resent it all you like," said Cain. "But if you're a religious man, don't deny it or God just might strike you dead." He walked to the dresser and stood next to it. "What about having the hotel hold it for you until he leaves?"

  Yorick smiled. "This hotel makes the Swagman look like an amateur."

  "Have you got any friends I can leave it with?"

  Yorick shook his head.

  "All right," said, Cain. "What if I deposit it with the branch bank at the spaceport and tell them to release it only to you? Your voiceprint ought to be registered there."

  "That would be nice," said Yorick. "But leave a thousand credits behind. I don't want to go to the spaceport the first time I run out of seeds."

  "He'll take it from you," said Cain.

  "A thousand credits? He doesn't need it."

  "That's got nothing to do with it."

  "It's my money. Leave a thousand credits."

  Cain opened the drawer and took out four of the five-hundred-credit notes. "I'm going to tell them not to release this to you unless you're alone."

  "Thank you, Songbird," said Yorick placidly.

  "Are you sure you don't want to count the phony jewels before you leave?" asked the Swagman sardonically.

  "No," said Cain. "But I'll have Schussler do a quick inventory of Altair of Altair's artwork before we take off."

  Cain turned and walked out the door. The Swagman immediately walked over to the dresser, searched around for another seed, and brought it over to Yorick.

  "Here," he said. "Don't start chewing until we've talked."

  Yorick removed the first seed, now a pale yellow, from his mouth and carefully set it down on his windowsill, then inserted the new one. The Swagman stepped over to the window and stared out through the rain until he could make out Cain's figure walking back to the vehicle.

  "What kind of paintings do you want, Swagman?" asked Yorick pleasantly, luxuriating in the juices of the fresh seed.

  "None," said the Swagman.

  "Then what was that all about?"

  "Billy Three-Eyes is dead. Peacemaker MacDougal caught up with him four months ago."

  "Poor Billy," said Yorick, smiling tranquilly. "I loved that notch on his forehead." He looked up at the Swagman. "Maybe you'd better go tell the Songbird."

  The Swagman shook his head. "I'm just waiting for him to get off the planet before I leave."

  "Well, nobody ever accused you of the sin of loyalty."

  "And nobody ever will," replied the Swagman. "Just the same, I was prepared to stay with him all the way to Santiago's doorstep." He paused. "But he isn't the one."

  "The one?"

  "The one who can kill Santiago."

  "I know," said Yorick with a euphoric smile. "That's why I told him the truth."

  "What truth?" demanded the Swagman.

  "About Safe Harbor. That's his next step."

  "I just told you: Billy Three-Eyes is dead. Now," said the Swagman, pulling out a roll of bills and holding them enticingly before Yorick's nose, "where's my next step?"

  "Who knows?" replied Yorick pleasantly. "Where are you going?"

  "Where do you think I should go to find Santiago?"

  "To find him?" repeated Yorick. "Go with the Songbird."

  "Let me amend that," said the Swagman. "Where should I go to kill him?"

  "He's my best customer," said Yorick. He paused thoughtfully. "He's my only customer. I don't want him killed."

  "I'll buy you enough alphanella seeds so that you never need him again."

  "I won't live long enough to spend the money the Songbird gave me," said Yorick placidly. "Why do I need more?"

  The Swagman stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. He began walking around the room, examining the artificial gems, and finally stopped in front of the canvas.

  "Are you ever going to finish this?" he asked.

  "Probably not."

  "I'll buy it from you if you do."

  "It's already sold to your friend Black Orpheus."

  The Swagman studied the portrait with renewed interest. "Eurydice?"

  "I think that's what he called her. He left a couple of holographs with me, but I lost them a long time ago."

  "You could have been one hell of an artist."

  "I'm happier this way," said Yorick.

  "What a stupid thing to say."

  "My painting brings pleasure to others. My weakness brings pleasure to me."

  "You're a fool," said the Swagman.

  Yorick smiled. "But I'm a loyal fool. Have you got anything else to say to me, Swagman?"

  "Not a thing."

  "Good." He ground the seed to pulp between his molars. "I've got about a minute before it hits. Do you mind letting yourself out?"

  The Swagman picked up a number of discarded sketches from the floor and carefully tucked them inside his tunic.

  "Mementos," he said with a smile, walking to the door.

  "Now that you've deserted your partner, where will you go next?" asked Yorick.

  "I am not without prospects," replied the Swagman confidently.

  "People like you never are," said Yorick, his vision starting to blur.

  "People like me get what they want," said the Swagman, taking a tentative step into the room and watching for a reaction. "People like Cain don't even know what they want."

  Yorick was beyond replying, his frail body totally catatonic. The Swagman watched him for another moment, then walked over to the dresser and took one of the two remaining five-hundred-credit notes.

  "Reimbursement of expenses," he explained to his motionless host.

  He took two steps toward the door, stopped, shrugged, and went back to the dresser, appropriating the final note and placing it in his pocket.

  "Filthy habit, drugs," he said, staring at Poor Yorick and shaking his head with insincere regret. "Someday you'll thank me for removing temptation from your path."

  A few minutes later he was on his way to the spaceport, lost in thought as he examined every angle of his situation with the cold precision of a mathematician. He finally balanced all the diverse elements and came up with a solution just before he arrived. Shortly thereafter he began making the arrangements that would once again put him back into the heart of the equation.

  Part 4: The Angel's Book

  15.

  They call him the Angel, the Angel of Death,

  If ever you've seen him, you've drawn your last breath.

  He's got cold lifeless eyes, he's got brains, he's got s
kill,

  He's got weapons galore, and a yearning to kill.

  * * * *

  Nobody knew where he came from. It was rumored that he had been born on Earth itself, but he never spoke about it.

  Nobody knew where he got his start, or why he chose his particular occupation. Some people say that he had been married once, that his wife had been raped and murdered, and that he took his revenge on the whole galaxy. Some were sure that he had been a mercenary who had gone berserk during a particularly bloody action—but no one who ever met him and lived to tell about it thought him crazy; in fact, it was his absolute sanity that made him so frightening. Others thought that, like Cain, he was simply a disillusioned revolutionary.

  Nobody knew his true name, or even how he came to be called the Angel.

  Nobody knew why he chose to work the Outer Frontier, out on the Galactic Rim, when there were so many more worlds within the Democracy where he could ply his bloody trade.

  But there was one thing everybody knew: once the Angel chose his quarry, that quarry's days were numbered.

  In a profession where reputations could be made by a single kill—Sebastian Cain, Giles Sans Pitié, and Peacemaker MacDougal actually had a combined total of less than seventy, and Johnny One-Note was still looking for his sixth—the Angel had hunted down more than one hundred fugitives. In a profession where anonymity went hand in glove with success, the Angel was known on a thousand worlds. In a profession where each practitioner carved out his own territory and allowed no trespassing, the Angel went where he pleased.

  Orpheus met him only once, out by Barbizon, the gateway to the Inner Frontier, three weeks before he killed Giles Sans Pitié. They spoke for only ten minutes, which was more than enough for Orpheus. His audience had expected him to give the Angel no less than a dozen verses—after all, he had given three to Cain and nine to Giles Sans Pitié—but with the insight that had established him as the Bard of the Inner Frontier, Orpheus wrote only a single stanza. When asked for an explanation, he simply smiled and replied that those four lines said everything there was to say about the Angel.