Prophet
Authors: Mike Resnick
Fictionwise, Inc.
www.fictionwise.com
Copyright ©1993 by Mike Resnick
Part 1: THE GRAVEDANCER'S BOOK
Part 3: THE SILICON KID'S BOOK
Part 4: THE ANOINTED ONE'S BOOK
Prophet
by Mike Resnick
Volume 3 of the Oracle Trilogy
To Carol, as always,
And to absent friends:
Lou Tabakow
Bea Mahaffey
John F. Roy
Isaac Asimov
It was a time of giants.
There was no room for them to breathe and flex their muscles in mankind's sprawling Democracy, so they gravitated to the distant, barren worlds of the Inner Frontier, drawn ever closer to the bright galactic Core like moths to a flame.
Oh, they fit into human frames, most of them, but they were giants nonetheless. No one knew what had brought them forth in such quantity at this particular moment in human history. Perhaps there was a need for them in a galaxy filled to overflowing with little people possessed of even smaller dreams. Possibly it was the savage splendor of Inner Frontier itself, for it was certainly not a place for ordinary men and women. Or maybe it was simply time for a race that had been notably short of giants in recent eons to begin producing them once again.
But whatever the reason, they swarmed out beyond the furthest reaches of the explored galaxy, spreading the seed of Man to hundreds of new worlds, and in the process creating a cycle of legends that would never die as long as men could tell tales of heroic deeds.
There was Faraway Jones, who set foot on more than 500 new worlds, never quite certain what he was looking for, always sure that he hadn't yet found it.
There was shadowy figure known only as the Whistler, who had killed more than one hundred men and aliens.
There was Friday Nellie, who turned her whorehouse into a hospital during the war against the Setts, and finally saw it declared a shrine by the very men who once tried to close it down.
There was Jamal, who left no fingerprints or footprints, but had plundered palaces that to this day do not know they were plundered.
There was Bet-a-World Murphy, who at various times owned nine different gold-mining worlds, and lost every one of them at the gaming tables.
There was Backbreaker Ben Ami, who wrestled aliens for money and killed men for pleasure. There was the Marquis of Queensbury, who fought by no rules at all, and the White Knight, albino killer of fifty men, and Sally the Blade, and the Forever Kid, who reached the age of nineteen and just stopped growing for the next two centuries, and Catastrophe Baker, who made whole planets shake beneath his feet, and the exotic Pearl of Maracaibo, whose sins were condemned by every race in the galaxy, and Father Christmas, and the One-Armed Bandit with his deadly prosthetic arm, and the Earth Mother, and Lizard Malloy, and the deceptively mild-mannered Cemetery Smith.
Giants all.
Yet there was one giant who was destined to tower over all of the others, to juggle the lives of men and worlds as if they were so many toys, to rewrite the history of the Inner Frontier, and the Outer Frontier, and the Spiral Arm, and even the all-powerful Democracy itself. At various times in her short, turbulent life she was known as the Soothsayer, and the Oracle, and the Prophet. By the time she had passed from the galactic scene, only a handful of survivors knew her true name, or her planet of origin, or even her history, for such is the way with giants and legends.
But she had an origin, and a history, and a name.
This is her story.
A hot, dry wind swept across the surface of Last Chance, a remote world on the edge of the Inner Frontier. Dust devils swirled up to heights of 60 feet, breathing became almost impossible, and the few indigenous animals burrowed into the ground to wait out the duststorm.
A lone figure, his clothing nondescript, his face protected against the elements by a dust mask, walked down the main street of the planet's only Tradertown, looking neither right nor left. The door of an abandoned building suddenly buckled from the force of the wind, and he quickly crouched, withdrew a hand weapon, and fired at the source of the noise. The door briefly turned a bright blue and then vanished. The man remained motionless for a moment, then holstered his weapon and continued walking toward the brightly-lit building at the end of the street.
He came to a stop about twenty yards from his destination, then placed his hands on his hips and studied the structure before him. The walls were made of a titanium alloy with a tight molecular bonding, finished to look like wood. The front veranda possessed two large doorways, both leading to the crowded interior of The End of the Line. From where he was standing, he couldn't tell which section was the bar and which was the casino, though he suspected the casino was at the back, where it could be more easily protected against any potential robberies.
A door slid open for a moment, and the man ducked behind a vehicle and withdrew his weapon again as a tall woman emerged, took one step into the dust, then shook her head and went back into the building, coughing heavily.
The man strode back out into the middle of the street and continued staring at the building. Finally he began walking again, turning to his left after a moment and circling the entire building. There weren't any windows, which didn't surprise him given the force of the duststorm, but he hadn't survived this long by not being thorough, and he methodically checked out every means of ingress. All the various doors were closed, probably locked, certainly tied in to a security system. Briefly he considered climbing to the roof—it was not beyond his capabilities to scale the side of the building, made rough by the abrasive action of the wind and the dust—but he couldn't see any advantage to be gained, and he rejected the idea.
He finally decided that he had no choice but to enter through one of the doorways at the front of the building. He was unhappy about it—not that he minded being identified after his work was done, but he preferred not to call any attention to himself before he'd earned his money—but no viable alternative had presented itself, and the dust mask made him feel constricted, even claustrophobic.
He realized that he was still holding his weapon in his hand, that he had been holding it since the woman had temporarily emerged from the building, and he once again replaced it in his holster. Then he climbed the three stairs to the veranda, walked across it, entered The End of the Line, and removed his mask. He would get the feel of the place, spot his quarry, wash the dust in his mouth away with a beer or two, and then go to work.
The place was as crowded as he had anticipated. A long chrome bar lined the left side of the front room, with perhaps a dozen tables scattered around the right side. The clientele was primarily human, for this was a human outpost world, but here and there were Canphorites, Lodinites, and a pair of beings of a type he had never seen before.
The back room was as large as the tavern, and even more crowded. There were roulette tables, dice tables, poker tables, two tables boasting alien games of chance. He scanned the faces at the tables, wondering which of them, if any, was his quarry. Then, finally, he turned and walked over to the bar.
A balding, overweight man with a slight limp approached him from the other side of the bar.
"Good evening,” he said. “What can I get for you?"
"A beer."
"Coming right up,” said the man behind the bar, placing a mug under a tap and activating it. “I haven't seen you around here before."
"I just got here."
"Sorry we have such lousy weather today,” continued the bartender. “Usually Last Chance is a pretty pleasant place, even a bit on the cool side."
"I didn't come here for the weather."
"Good. Then you won't be disappointed."
The man lifted the mug to his lips and downed half of it in a single long swallow.
"I need a little information,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"If it's mine to give,” replied the bartender.
"I'm looking for someone."
"Well, I know almost everyone here. Who is it?"
"A man named Carlos Mendoza. Some people call him the Iceman."
"Mendoza, eh?” said the bartender. He looked around the room. “You owe him some money? I can give it to him for you."
"Just point him out to me."
"I hope you're not looking for trouble,” said the bartender. “They say Mendoza is a pretty tough customer."
"What I'm looking for is none of your business,” said the man coldly.
"Fine by me,” said the bartender with a shrug. “I just figured that since you don't know him, probably you've been hired by someone who
does
know him. Thought I could save you a little misery."
"Save your thoughts for Mendoza."
"Well,” said the bartender with a shrug, “at least you've been warned."
"All right, I've been warned,” said the man. “Now point him out to me."
"See that fellow sitting by himself in the corner?” asked the bartender. “The one dressed all in black?"
The man nodded. “He's armed like he's going into battle,” he said. “Laser pistol, sonic gun, projectile pistol. Probably got a knife tucked into that boot, too."
"Actually, he's got a knife in
each
boot,” said the bartender. He paused. “Are you really sure you want to go through with this?"
"It's my work,” said the man, turning to face his prey.
"You could talk,” suggested the bartender. “The Iceman's always willing to talk instead of fight."
"He is, huh?"
"That's what I hear."
"I don't get paid to talk,” answered the man.
He took a few steps toward the man in black, then stopped.
"Mendoza!” he said in a loud voice.
Most of the action at the gaming tables stopped as the man in black looked up at him curiously.
"Are you talking to me?"
The man's fingers hovered above the hilt of his sonic pistol.
"Time to die, Mendoza."
"Do I know you?” asked the man in black.
"All you have to know is that I'm the last thing you're ever going to see."
Suddenly the newcomer flinched, and a puzzled expression crossed his face. He blinked his eyes rapidly, as if trying to comprehend what had happened, then groaned once and pitched forward on his face, a large knife protruding from his back.
The bartender limped over to him, withdrew the knife he had thrown with deadly accuracy, and wiped it off on a bar towel.
"They get younger and dumber every week,” he said, turning the dead man onto his back with a foot. “No problem, friends,” he announced, raising his voice. “Just our weekly visitor from wherever."
And because of who he was, most of the patrons took his word for it and returned to their drinks and their gambling.
The man in black walked over and stared at the corpse.
"Ever see him before?” asked the bartender.
"No,” said the man in black. “You know who he is, Iceman?"
The Iceman shook his balding head. “No idea. But that's four of them this month. Somebody
really
wants me dead.” He paused. “I just wish I knew why. I haven't been off the planet in damned near four years."
"If you hadn't killed him, maybe we could have found out,” said the man in black. “After all, that's what you hired me for. You're not making my job any easier."
"I
made
your job easier,” replied the Iceman. “He would have taken you."
The man in black frowned. “What makes you think so?"
The Iceman knelt down, gripped the corpse's left hand in his own, and displayed the index finger.
"Prosthetic,” he said. “I spotted it at the bar, and when he turned his back, I saw the powerpack under his shirt. While you were drawing your weapon, he'd have just pointed at you and burned a hole right through your chest."