Authors: Mike Resnick
"Obvious he considers the Prophet a threat,” said the Iceman. “If a man of such obvious power is worried about the Prophet, how the hell can the Democracy not know a thing about him?"
"Beats the hell out of me, Carlos,” admitted Gibbs. “But if anything turns up on him, I'll make it available to you under the same conditions: I won't release any material that might embarrass the service.” He paused. “That's the best I can do."
"All right,” agreed the Iceman.
Gibbs left the room, walked down a long corridor, entered his study, activated his computer, and put through his request for the Anointed One's file, while the Iceman got out of his chair and walked around the room, admiring the pieces of alien and human art that Gibbs had acquired—or, more likely, had purchased from his decorator.
A few moments later the old man reentered the room. “It should be just a couple of minutes,” he announced.
"What I mainly want,” said the Iceman, “are a list of the places I'm most likely to find him or his chief underlings, a couple of holographs, some material concerning his past, and a list of the hit men he's used in the past."
"I think he hires free-lancers whenever he can,” answered Gibbs. “And I'll tell you right now: there aren't any photos or holos of him. He's always had his associates represent him in court."
"Then how do you know he's a male?” demanded the Iceman.
"Why do you think he's not?"
"Because no one seemed to have heard of him six years ago."
Gibbs paused, trying to follow the Iceman's train of thought, and finally smiled. “You think he's Penelope Bailey?"
"It's possible,” said the Iceman, taking his seat again.
"You're wrong, Carlos. His name is Moses Mohammed Christ, which I think you will agree is a most unfeminine name. Also, we've taken a number of his followers into custody, and they've testified that the Anointed One is a male in his forties.” He paused. “Besides, Penelope Bailey is dead."
The Iceman leaned forward intently. “Say that again."
"She's dead, Carlos."
"Not a chance,” said the Iceman with absolute certainty.
"She was confined in a cell on Alpha Crepello III."
"Last time I saw her, yes,” said the Iceman. “The locals called it Hades."
"Well, Hades no longer exists."
"What are you talking about?"
"It was struck by a huge meteor about eighteen Standard months ago,” answered Gibbs. “There's nothing left of it except some dust and a bunch of asteroids in orbit around Alpha Crepello."
"You're sure?"
"Fly out there yourself if you don't believe me.” Gibbs got to his feet. “The file should be here by now. If you'll excuse me..."
The Iceman sat, silent and motionless, for the entire time that Gibbs was censoring the Anointed One's file. Finally the older man re-entered the room and handed the Iceman a hard copy in a folder.
"I hope this file proves useful to you,” said Gibbs. “I'm no longer empowered to make such assignments, but the Democracy would be very grateful if you found a way to terminate the Anointed One."
"The Democracy has got a bigger problem than some half-baked religious fanatic with delusions of empire,” said the Iceman grimly. He stood up and walked to the door.
"What are you talking about?” asked Gibbs.
The Iceman reached the doorway and turned. “None of you ever understood what you were dealing with.” He paused. “You still don't."
"Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me,” said Gibbs, his voice reflecting his annoyance.
"Why bother? You won't believe me."
"Try me."
The Iceman stared at him. “Penelope Bailey is alive."
"You're mistaken,” scoffed Gibbs.
"The hell I am,” said the Iceman.
"I told you: Alpha Crepello III was destroyed by a meteor."
"I don't doubt it."
"Every living being on the planet was killed—including her."
The Iceman looked at Gibbs for a long moment and sighed deeply.
"You're a fool,” he said, and walked out to his waiting vehicle.
The Kid was waiting in front of the restaurant when the Iceman returned to the spaceport.
"Everything go okay?” asked the Iceman.
"I'm a little bit sore,” replied the Kid. “He used a local anesthetic, and it's starting to wear off."
"Small price to pay to be the fastest gun in the galaxy,” said the Iceman wryly. “Now if you were only the most accurate gun as well..."
"I'm working on it,” the Kid assured him.
"It'll take a lot of practice."
"Practice is for losers. I'll do it with chips.” Suddenly he grinned. “I'm the Silicon Kid, remember?"
"I'll try not to forget again,” said the Iceman sardonically.
"How was
your
day?” asked the Kid after a momentary silence.
"Not good,” said the Iceman, frowning. “Not good at all."
"Oh?"
"There's no sense standing here talking,” said the Iceman. “Let's get some dinner, and then we'll take off."
He summoned the
maitre d'
, who led them past a multi-colored fountain in the middle of the floor and escorted them to a secluded table toward the back of the restaurant.
The Kid immediately picked up a menu and studied it. “Everything seems imported,” he noted. “You'd think a temperate world like this could grow its own food."
"That's not what this world was created for,” replied the Iceman.
"But it's so expensive to do it this way."
"If you live on Sweetwater, you don't worry about prices."
"I suppose you're right,” said the Kid, surveying his surroundings and toying with his crystalline wine and water glasses. “It's a pretty nice place."
"I've seen worse,” said the Iceman. “See those shellfish in that tank?” he added, pointing to a saltwater tank that was discreetly place against a wall.
"Yeah?"
"Those are mutated shellfish,” said the Iceman. “They come from the Pinnipes system.” He paused. “I can't pronounce their name, but they're supposed to be the best-tasting seafood in the galaxy."
"I've never been a seafood fan."
"Well, take my word for it,” said the Iceman. He looked across the room. “And those are real Hesporite paintings on the wall, not fakes,” he continued.
"How can you tell?"
"Watch when a waiter passes in front of them,” said the Iceman. “They'll glow wherever his shadow falls."
"How come?"
"They use the larvae of some phosphorescent insect in their paints,” answered the Iceman. “They look like oils in the daylight, but they glow in the dark."
"I never knew that."
The Iceman smiled. “There are probably a lot of things you never knew. Live long enough and you'll learn some of them."
"I get the feeling that you don't have much use for anyone younger than the Gravedancer,” said the Kid wryly.
"Not much,” agreed the Iceman. He signaled a waiter and ordered an Antarrean wine, while the Kid requested a beer.
"You know, I'd never seen a live waiter until I left Greycloud,” remarked the Kid. “Now I've seen them twice in a week."
"They're like most luxuries,” responded the Iceman. “You pay for what you get—and you pay
plenty
at a place like this."
"Uh ... until I figure out exactly what I'm going to do on the Frontier, I'm on a budget,” said the Kid.
"No problem,” said the Iceman. “When you travel with me or work for me—and right now you're doing both—I pick up the tab."
"Are you that rich?"
"As a matter of fact, I am."
"How does someone get to be as rich as you?” asked the Kid.
"Live a long time and don't do anything too stupid,” replied the Iceman with a smile.
"There it is again,” said the Kid.
"There
what
is?"
"This contempt for people my age."
"Not for all of them,” answered the Iceman. “Right now the most dangerous person in the galaxy is a 28-year-old woman named Penelope Bailey. She's probably been the most dangerous person since the day she was born."
"I never heard of her."
"Yes, you did,” said the Iceman. “You just never knew her real name."
"Who is she?"
"At various times she's been known as the Soothsayer and the Oracle."
"The Oracle?” asked the Kid, suddenly enthused.
"Right."
"Tell me about her."
"In a minute,” said the Iceman, as their waiter brought them their drinks and recited the day's special off-the-menu selections. The Kid had a plain steak, and the Iceman ordered a shellfish in a cream sauce.
"Would you like to select your own, sir?” asked the waiter.
The Iceman shook his head. “I'll trust to your taste."
"Very good, sir."
"I
do
love seafood,” said the Iceman when the waiter left. “You sure you don't want to have some? You can get steak anywhere."
"No, thanks."
"You're making a big mistake,” continued the Iceman. “The sauce alone is worth the price of the meal."
"Get back to the Oracle,” said the Kid impatiently. “What is she like?"
"She's a young woman with a gift,” answered the Iceman. “I first met her twenty years ago, when she was just a frightened little girl—but even then, two hundred of the best bounty hunters on the Inner Frontier were no match for her."
"You're telling me an eight-year-old girl stood off two hundred armed bounty hunters?” said the Kid skeptically.
The Iceman smiled and shook his head. “You make it sound like she beat them in a shoot-out. Her gift doesn't work like that."
"How
does
it work?"
"She's precognitive."
The Kid frowned. “What does
that
mean?"
"It means she can see the future,” said the Iceman. “More to the point, it means she can see a number of futures, and through her actions she can bring about the one that's the most favorable to her."
"How?"
The Iceman shrugged as a string quartet walked over to the fountain and started filling the room with their music. “I don't know how it works. I only know that it
does
work."
"Give me an example,” said the Kid.
"All right,” said the Iceman. “Let's say she's hiding from you in the cargo area here, and you've been hired to kill her.” He paused and leaned forward. “Whatever approach you take, whatever entrance you use, she'll know it even before you do. She'll see an infinite number of futures. Maybe you kill her in all but three of them. She'll figure out what she has to do to bring one of those three favorable futures into being."
"How?” asked the Kid.
The Iceman shrugged. “Maybe it'll be something as simple as her walking out one door while you walk in through another. Maybe it will be more complex, like positioning you under a crate that will drop on you and kill you once in a million times, and doing whatever it takes to make that million-to-one possibility come to pass. Maybe she'll see that of all the possible futures, there's one in which you die of a sudden heart attack; she'll analyze every facet of that future, see how it differs from all the others, and do what she can to bring it into being."
"But surely there must be some futures in which she doesn't survive,” said the Kid. “What if I surrounded the building with fifty gunmen?"
"Probably she'd still manage to find a future in which she escaped."
"Hah!” said the Kid, and one of the violinists glared at him.
"Keep your voice down,” said the Iceman. “Most of the diners would rather hear the music."
"Sorry,” said the Kid. “But you said ‘probably.’ What if she couldn't?"
"Then she'd surrender to you, and find some way to escape an hour or a day or a week from now.” The Iceman paused. “Not all problems are capable of immediate solution. She was a prisoner of some alien bounty hunter, chained to a bed in his room, when a friend of mine first found her.” He paused. “To this day, I still haven't decided whether my friend actually
found
her, or if she manipulated events so she would be found."
"That's some gift, that—what did you call it? —that precognition,” said the Kid.
"That it is,” agreed the Iceman. “That's why the Democracy was so set on exploiting it."
"The Democracy?"
"Who do you think hired all those bounty hunters?” said the Iceman. “Think of what someone who could not only see but manipulate the future could do. They'd never lose a war, or even a battle. They'd know exactly how to handle a galactic economy. They could probably just stand her on a new world and have her tell them whether it was worth the effort to set up mining operations or not.” He paused, then smiled. “And of course, if they found a way to control her, they'd never lose an election, never make a bad investment in the market, never cheat on their spouses if there was a chance of being caught. They'd know
before
they contracted cancer or some other disease, and take whatever precautions were necessary to avoid it."
"I begin to see now,” said the Kid. “Hell, she'd be worth
billions
."
"That's what
they
thought,” answered the Iceman. “That's why they were so hot to get their hands on her."
"You make it sound like they were wrong."
"They didn't know what they were dealing with,” said the Iceman, lowering his voice still further as the quartet's violinist began walking slowly throughout the room, playing romantic solos at those tables where he thought he might cadge a tip.
"What did they
think
they were dealing with?” asked the Kid.
"From their point of view, this was a little eight-year-old girl who just managed to elude their grasp. From mine—and I think time has proven me right—this was a child who managed to remain free despite the best efforts of the largest and most powerful government in history to capture her. A lot of legendary bounty hunters caught up with her at one time or another—Cemetery Smith, Three-Fisted Ollie, Jimmy Sunday—but when the dust cleared, they were dead and she was still free."
"She killed them all?” asked the Kid, his voice filled with disbelief.
"Not directly, but yes, she was responsible for their deaths as surely as if she had killed them herself.” The Iceman paused again, thinking back to the first time he had encountered Penelope Bailey. “The thing was, she didn't
look
like the most dangerous human being in the galaxy. She looked like a frightened little girl who was always hugging a rag doll for comfort. But in the end, everyone who was associated with her—those who tried to capture or kill her and those who tried to protect her—was dead, and she was still free."