Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future

by Mike Resnick

  Virtue Mackenzie wished he had written a little more, if only so she'd have a better idea of what to expect if she ever caught up with the Angel. She had reached the Lambda Karos system two days after he had departed, and missed him again on Questados IV. She arrived on New Ecuador three days later, checked for word of his whereabouts at the local news offices, received only negative answers, and finally returned to her hotel, where she took a brief nap, showered, changed her clothes, and went down to the main floor restaurant for dinner.

  Three hours later she was sitting at a table in the back of The King's Rook, a tavern that served as the gathering place for local journalists. Two men and a woman—all newspeople—and another man, a prospector who had hit it rich in the asteroid belt two planets out from New Ecuador, sat around the table, staring at the exposed cards in front of Virtue.

  "It's up to you," said the prospector impatiently.

  "Don't rush me," said Virtue, sipping her whiskey and staring at her hole card until it came back into focus. "I'm thinking." Finally she pushed a one-hundred-credit note across the worn felt to the center of the table. "Call," she said.

  The prospector and one of the men dropped out, the woman raised the pot another fifty credits, the other man folded, and Virtue, after still more consideration, matched her bet.

  "Read 'em and weep," grinned the woman, turning her hole card face up.

  "Damn!" muttered Virtue, tossing her hole card onto the table. She grabbed a nearby bottle and poured herself another drink. "You didn't learn to play from a little rodent called Terwilliger, did you?"

  "Anyone for quitting?" asked one of the men, staring directly at Virtue.

  "Not when I'm down almost two thousand credits," she replied pugnaciously.

  "Anyone else?"

  "Hell," said the prospector. "If she wants to keep on playing, I'm willing to keep on taking her money."

  "I don't plan to keep losing," said Virtue.

  "Then you'd better cut back on the booze," said the prospector. "She had you beat on the table."

  "When I want your advice, I'll ask for it," said Virtue, trying to remember exactly what the winner's cards were.

  "More power to you." He shrugged. "Whose deal?"

  "Mine," said a journalist. He began shuffling the cards.

  A well-dressed man entered the tavern just then, looked around, and walked directly over to the five cardplayers. They paid no attention to him until he stopped a few feet away.

  "I beg your pardon," he said, "but I wonder if I might join you?"

  The four locals stared at him and made no reply.

  "Suit yourself," said Virtue.

  "Thank you," he said. "By the way, I'm told that there is an excellent game that's in need of players."

  "Oh?" asked the prospector nervously. "Where?"

  "Right there," he said, pointing to an empty table at the far end of the room.

  The prospector and the three journalists almost fell over each other racing to the other table. Virtue, confused, rose to join them, muttering, "What the hell's wrong with this table?"

  "Not you," said the man firmly, seating himself on one of the hastily vacated chairs.

  She stared across the table, studying him in the dim light of the tavern. He was tall, though not as tall as Cain, and quite well built without being heavily muscled. His hair was so blond that it appeared almost white, and his eyebrows were barely visible. It was impossible to guess his age. His cold, penetrating eyes were not quite blue, not quite gray, practically clear. The rest of his face was unmarked and rather handsome, but it was the almost colorless eyes that instantly commanded attention.

  He was dressed in a dark gray outfit that seemed black at first glance; it was severely cut and exquisitely tailored. He wore a conservatively styled silver tunic beneath his coat, and his boots, while lacking the embellishments of the Swagman's, nonetheless seemed more expensive. On the small finger of his left hand was a platinum ring that housed a truly fabulous diamond.

  "You're the Angel," she said. It was not a question.

  He nodded his head.

  "I thought you'd look different," she said at last, trying to buy time while everything came into sharper focus.

  "In what way?"

  "More like a killer."

  "What does a killer look like?" asked the Angel.

  "Leaner and hungrier," she said. Suddenly a thought occurred to her. "Are you here to kill me?"

  "Probably not," he said, pulling out a long, thin cigar and lighting it. "You don't mind if I smoke?"

  She stared into his colorless eyes and shook her head.

  "Good," he continued. Suddenly he leaned forward. "You've been following me for more than a week. Why?"

  "What makes you think anyone's been following you?" replied Virtue.

  The Angel smiled—a cold, lifeless smile. "You reached Lambda Karos Two two days after I left and began asking questions about me. Your next stop was Questados Four. Again you inquired into my whereabouts. Now you're here. What am I supposed to think?"

  "Coincidence?" she suggested lamely.

  He stared at her until she began fidgeting uncomfortably.

  "I must appear very stupid for you to make such an answer," he said at last. "Now, let me ask you once more: Why are you following me?"

  "I'm a journalist," said Virtue. "You're a romantic figure. I thought you might make a good story."

  He stared at her again, without expression, without passion, and again she found herself increasingly uneasy.

  "I'm only going to ask you one more time," he said, "so I want you to consider your answer very carefully."

  "You're making me very nervous," said Virtue self-righteously.

  "Being followed makes me very nervous," replied the Angel. "Why have you been doing it?"

  "I wanted to meet you."

  Virtue noticed that her glass was empty and reached for the bottle, but the Angel was faster and placed it on the far side of the table.

  "Why did you want to meet me?" he persisted.

  "I think we may be able to help each other."

  He stared at her, offering no reply, and finally she resumed speaking.

  "You're after Santiago. So am I."

  "Then we're competitors."

  "No," she said hastily. "I'm not after the reward. All I want is the story." She paused. "And I really could use a story on you as well."

  "I have no interest in your journalistic aspirations," said the Angel. "Why should I let you come along?"

  "I have information that you may not have," said Virtue.

  "I doubt it."

  "Can you afford to take the chance?"

  "I think so." He paused and stared at her again. "But I don't know if I can take the chance that you'll return to Sebastian Cain and tell him where I am and where I'm going next."

  "Who's Sebastian Cain?" she asked innocently.

  "He's a very foolish man who has taken on too much excess baggage," replied the Angel. "Did you offer him the same deal you offered me—he gets the reward and you get the story?"

  "Yes. Except that the Swagman gets something, too. Santiago's art collection, I think."

  "And Cain sent you here to spy on me?"

  She shook her head. "Coming here was my own idea." He stared silently at her, and again she felt herself compelled to say more than she had intended. "I've sized up the candidates, and I'm going with the winner. If anyone can kill Santiago, you're the one."

  "And you'll remain completely loyal to me?" he said sardonically. "Until you hear of someone else who's even better, that is?"

  "That's unfair."

  "But selling out your partner isn't?" he asked, a note of distaste in his voice. "I wonder what it is about Cain that makes people desert him. The Jolly Swagman has left him, too, you know."

  "Who told you that?" asked Virtue, genuinely surprised.

  "I have my sources. I expect him to contact me any time now to see if I've changed my mind about not requiring a partner."
He paused. "I will tell him that I haven't."

  "Is that what you're telling me?" she asked, suddenly apprehensive about what happened to would-be partners. She looked around for support or comfort, only to discover that one by one the customers were quietly leaving the tavern, casting frightened glances at the Angel as they did so.

  "I'm not sure," he said. "You possess some information that might prove useful to me."

  "I told you so," she said smugly.

  "Not about Santiago," he replied disdainfully. "You know less than nothing about him."

  "Then what are you talking about?"

  "Sebastian Cain," said the Angel. "I'm getting close to Santiago. Three or four more worlds, another week, another month, and I'll be there." He took a puff of his cigar. "Cain is getting close, too. He's got that cyborg ship, and he's already visited the drug addict on Roosevelt Three." He paused. "And he killed Altair of Altair," he added with a touch of admiration.

  "I can tell you all about him," said Virtue triumphantly.

  "I know."

  She paused. "What's in it for me?"

  "Exclusive coverage of Santiago's death."

  "And a series of features on you," she added quickly.

  He stared at her once more. "Don't push your luck. I'd like information about Cain; I don't need it."

  "One feature?"

  He made no reply, but his cold clear eyes seemed to bore into hers.

  "All right," she said at last.

  "You've made a wise decision," said the Angel.

  "Well, now that we're going to be traveling together, where are we bound for next?" asked Virtue.

  "I'll know in a few minutes."

  "Based on something I'm going to tell you?" she asked skeptically.

  He shook his head. "I've already told you: you don't possess any useful information about Santiago—but there's a man on New Ecuador who does. I expect him to stop by our table momentarily."

  "Why?"

  "Because I asked him to."

  "Does everyone do what you ask them to?" she inquired with a trace of resentment.

  "Most people do," said the Angel.

  "And those who don't?"

  "They soon wish they had." He paused for a moment. "I think it's time you started telling me about Cain."

  "Right now?"

  "As soon as you sober up," he replied, signaling to the bartender, who hurried over, bowing obsequiously.

  "The lady would like a cup of black coffee," said the Angel.

  "And yourself, sir?"

  "A white wine, I think," said the Angel. "Not too sweet. Perhaps something from Alphard."

  "Right away, sir," said the bartender, scurrying off. He returned a moment later, placed a large cup of coffee in front of Virtue, and offered a glass to the Angel.

  "This isn't an Alphard wine," said the Angel, taking a sip from the glass.

  "No, sir," said the bartender nervously. "We don't have any. But it's from Valkyrie, which has excellent vineyards. It's a fine vintage, truly it is."

  The Angel took another taste while the bartender watched him apprehensively, and finally nodded his approval. The bartender immediately signaled to an assistant, who brought the bottle to the table.

  "What do I owe you?" asked Angel.

  "It's on the house, sir."

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes, sir. It's a pleasure to serve you."

  "Thank you," said the Angel, dismissing them and watching as they rapidly retreated to their posts behind the bar.

  "This isn't very fair," said Virtue.

  "What isn't?"

  "I'm drinking coffee and you're drinking wine."

  "Were you under the impression that life was fair?" asked the Angel ironically.

  "I could be drinking whiskey and playing cards," she continued sullenly, glancing over toward the reporters, who were casting furtive glances in her direction.

  "They don't want your company."

  "What makes you think not?" demanded Virtue.

  "Because you've been sitting here talking to me. They'll wait for what they think is a proper interval—perhaps another five minutes—and then leave before you can rejoin them."

  "You're sure?"

  "Absolutely."

  "This happens all the time?" she continued.

  "Yes."

  "You must be a very lonely man."

  "There are compensations," he replied dryly. "Surely Sebastian Cain has said as much to you."

  "I'm not certain that he agrees with you."

  "Then why is he a bounty hunter?" asked the Angel, suddenly interested.

  "He wants to do something important," she said with a cynical smile. "Or meaningful. Whichever comes first."

  "God save us from moral men with good intentions," said the Angel. He took another sip of his wine and relit his cigar, which had gone out.

  "I can see where an abundance of them might put you out of business," commented Virtue.

  "I don't foresee that as an imminent danger," said the Angel. "Let's get back to Cain. The money trail is a lot easier to follow than the smuggling trail; why did he choose the latter?"

  "That was where he got his first hard information."

  "Information's not that difficult to come by."

  "Maybe you're better at extracting it than he is."

  "You make him sound something less than formidable," remarked the Angel. "This is contrary to my assessment of him, especially considering how far he's gotten."

  "Bounty hunters aren't all alike," replied Virtue, reaching into her satchel and withdrawing a cigarette. "For example, I have a hard time envisioning Cain killing anyone—and I have an equally hard time picturing you letting anyone live."

  "You misjudge me. I only kill fugitives."

  "What about Giles Sans Pitié?"

  "And fools," he amended.

  "I've heard a lot of things, good and bad, about him," said Virtue, "but I never heard anyone call him a fool before."

  "That's because most people were afraid of him."

  "Why did you kill him?"

  "He proposed an alliance. I refused. He threatened me." He smiled mirthlessly. "That was foolish."

  "You killed him because he threatened you?"

  "You doubtless feel it would have been more sporting to wait until he'd taken a few swings at my head with that metal fist of his?" suggested the Angel.

  "How do you know he wasn't bluffing?"

  "I don't. But when a man takes a position, he must be prepared to live—or die—with the consequences of his actions. Giles Sans Pitié threatened to kill me. There was only one possible consequence."

  "How did you kill him?" she asked curiously.

  "Efficiently," he replied. "Now reach into your satchel and turn your recorder off. We're supposed to be discussing Cain, not creating a biographical feature on me."

  "Can't blame a girl for trying," she said nonchalantly while deactivating the recorder.

  The Angel poured himself another glass of wine as the four cardplayers silently left the tavern.

  "What was Cain's reaction when he found out that he would have to confront Altair of Altair?"

  "He wasn't scared, if that's what you mean," said Virtue.

  "That wasn't what I meant. Any man who's been in our profession as long as Cain has learned to master his fear." The Angel leaned forward slightly. "Was he excited?"

  "Not much excites him. Resigned is the word I'd use."

  "What a pity."

  "Why? Does killing people excite you?"

  "Killing most people is just a job to be done as quickly and efficiently as possible," said the Angel. "But killing someone like Altair of Altair..." His face came alive. "The highest levels of competition in any field of endeavor are indistinguishable from art—and I find art exciting."

  "Then that's why you're after Santiago?" asked Virtue. "Because he affords you the greatest competition?"

  He shook his head. "I am hunting Santiago because I need the reward. The challenge h
e presents is merely an added bonus."

  "Come on," said Virtue skeptically. "I know your record. Do you really expect me to believe that you're after still more money?"

  "What you believe is a matter of complete indifference to me," replied the Angel.

  "But you've made tens of millions of credits!" she persisted.

  "My creditors have expensive tastes," he said.

  Suddenly his attention was taken by a small, portly, balding, red-faced man who cautiously entered the tavern. The man looked around uneasily, saw the Angel, and walked over to the table.

  "Mr. Breshinsky?" said the Angel.

  The man nodded, sweat dripping off his face as he did so. "I was told you wanted to see me," he said in a wary voice.

  "You were also told what information I needed."

  "I regret to inform you that I don't have access to it," said Breshinsky nervously.

  "You are the account officer of the New Ecuador branch of the Bank of Misthaven, are you not?"

  Breshinsky nodded again.

  "Then you know on which world Dimitrios Galos initially established his business account."

  "I'm forbidden by law to tell you that," protested Breshinsky. "That's privileged information."

  "Which you are now going to give to me," said the Angel, staring intently at the uncomfortable banker.

  "It's out of the question!"

  "If it were out of the question, you wouldn't have shown up."

  "I came because nobody says no to the Angel."

  "Then don't say no now, or I could become very annoyed with you," said the Angel gently.

  "This could cost me my job!"

  "This could cost you considerably more than your job."

  Breshinsky seemed to shrink within himself.

  "Who is your companion?" he asked at last. "I can't divulge sensitive information like this in front of a third party."

  "I personally guarantee her silence."

  "You're sure?" asked Breshinsky, staring at Virtue.

  "I just gave you my word."

  There was another uncomfortable pause.

  "Can we at least discuss some compensation?" asked Breshinsky, his hands trembling noticeably. "My entire future is at stake if this should get out."

  "Of course," said the Angel. "I'm not an unreasonable man."

  "Good," said Breshinsky, pulling out a silk handkerchief and mopping his forehead. "May I sit down?"

  "That won't be necessary," replied the Angel. "I never haggle. I'll make one offer, and you can take it or leave it."