Authors: Mike Resnick
"I thought it was your name."
"It used to be. Nowadays I'm the Silicon Kid."
"Never heard of you,” said Mboya.
"You will,” said the Kid. “That's a promise."
"So you think you can make your reputation by taking out the Prophet, is that it?” asked Mboya, obviously amused by the thought. “Take my advice, Kid, and forget about her. Go after the Gravedancer, or maybe Lizard Malloy. Who knows? If you get lucky, or you catch them on a bad day, you just might live through it."
"I'm didn't come to Mozart to kill anyone,” replied the Kid. “I'm just here to sell computer chips."
"Ah, I understand now!” said Mboya with an amused grin. “We're all going to hear about you because you're going to become the galaxy's most famous traveling salesman."
"You're going to hear of me because there's always going to be someone like you who doesn't take me seriously,” said the Kid. “And that's a mistake."
"Well, I'll certainly take that under advisement,” said Mboya. He paused and stared at the Kid. “By the way, where's all the silicon that makes you the Silicon Kid?"
"It's in place,” said the Kid.
"That's right,” said Mboya. “You specialize in implants, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, you'll have to pardon me if I don't faint dead away with terror,” said Mboya.
"I pardon you,” said the Kid seriously.
Myoba placed his glass on the table. “You're an interesting young man,” he continued. “I bear you no ill will, and I wish you a long and happy life."
"Thanks. I plan to enjoy it."
"Then take my advice and don't go looking for—” Suddenly Mboya froze, his eyes on the doorway.
"Is something wrong?” asked the Kid, turning to see what Mboya was staring at.
Three men, all dressed in nondescript outfits, their pockets bulging with weapons, had entered the casino, but instead of walking to the tables they fanned out across the front of the room, staring at Mboya.
"Time for me to go to work,” said Mboya wryly.
He got up and walked halfway across the room, stopping about twenty feet from the newcomers.
"I thought I told you you weren't welcome here,” he said, facing the man in the center.
"I know what you told me,” replied the man.
"Nothing's changed since last week. You're still not welcome on Mozart."
"Oh, something's changed all right,” said the man. He grinned. “This time I'm not alone."
"Nothing's changed,” repeated Mboya. “I think the three of you had better turn around and go right back to the spaceport."
"Not a chance,” said the man.
"Well, I can't
make
you behave sensibly,” said Mboya with a shrug. “I can only suggest it."
"You know what we're here for,” continued the man. “Where is she?"
"Where is who?"
"No games now,” said the man. “We've come for the Prophet."
"The Prophet?” repeated Mboya. “Never heard of her."
"If we have to kill you to get to her, we will."
"What's all this talk of killing?” asked Mboya pleasantly. “This is a peaceful little world."
The man laughed. “If it's such a peaceful world, what are
you
doing here?"
"Keeping the peace,” said Mboya.
"I'm going to ask you just once,” said the man. “Where is she?"
"None of your business,” said Mboya. “Now I've got a question for you."
"Yeah?"
"Can you count to five? Because that's how many seconds you've got to get out of here."
The man glared at him for the briefest of instants, then he and his two cohorts all reached for their weapons. Mboya's own sonic pistol appeared in his hand as if by magic, and two of the men were dead before they could draw their weapons. Mboya crouched as he pivoted toward the third man, only to find that he was already wounded, his left arm smoldering from the blast of a laser beam. The man got off a quick, inaccurate shot at Mboya, who killed him a second later.
"Somebody go for the police!” ordered Mboya as the patrons, most of whom had hit the floor, began getting to their feet. Two men immediately left the building.
"I suppose I should thank you,” continued Mboya as he turned to the Kid, whose laser pistol was still in his hand, “but it was stupid to get involved. Why the hell did you do it?"
"I wanted to see if I was faster than you,” said the Kid. “I am."
"You shot a man you never saw before just to see if you were faster than me?” repeated Mboya incredulously.
"That's right."
"Some people might call that attempted murder."
"If they arrest me, they'll certainly have to arrest you too,” said the Kid. “Do you think they're going to?"
Mboya stared at him for a long moment. “You're a dangerous young man, you know that?"
"I know that."
"How many men have you killed?"
"None yet,” admitted the Kid. “But I have a feeling I'm going to enjoy it when I finally get around to it."
"I'll just bet you are,” said Mboya. He paused. “You'd better get your ass back to the hotel. I'll take care of the authorities."
The Kid nodded and walked around the bodies. When he got to the doorway, he turned back to Mboya.
"I
was
faster than you,” he said.
"But you didn't kill him,” Mboya pointed out. “You missed."
"I'm still adjusting to the chips. I'll aim better next time."
"If it had been me instead of him, you wouldn't have lived to have a next time,” said Mboya. “You took him by surprise. He was looking at me when you shot him.” He paused. “Now that I know what you can do, you'll never take
me
by surprise."
"I don't want to. If I ever take you, it'll be in a fair fight."
"Well, that's comforting to know,” said Mboya wryly.
The Kid remained in the doorway. “Do you think she'll meet with me now?” he asked at last.
"I don't know."
"Remind her that they were out to kill her."
"I don't
have
to remind her,” answered Mboya. “That's why I left the restaurant and came here. She knew they were going to show up."
"Remind her anyway,” said the Kid. “I still want some investment advice."
"Sure you do,” said Mboya.
The Kid heard a commotion about a block away. The police were accompanying the two gamblers, and he decided that he might as well follow Mboya's instructions and return to his hotel. Remaining here wouldn't get him any closer to the Prophet, and the resultant publicity might cost him enough customers so that he would no longer have an excuse for spending two or three weeks on the planet.
"I'm staying at the Manor House,” he said to Mboya.
"I know."
"I'll be waiting to hear from you."
"Don't hold your breath,” said Mboya.
The Kid stepped outside, waited until the policemen and gamblers had passed him and entered the casino, and then walked back to his hotel.
It had been an interesting night. He had made contact with a man who worked for the Prophet, and he seen a shootout. In fact, he had participated in it, and the adrenaline his body had produced wasn't totally dissipated yet. It was a hell of feeling, that sense of excitement, and he knew that he had found his future vocation, once this business with Penelope Bailey was over. As he took the airlift to his room and sprawled, fully dressed, on his bed, he promised himself that those minstrels who wandered from world to world, singing songs of Santiago and Billybuck Dancer and the Iceman, would someday sing songs about the Silicon Kid as well.
The Kid was having breakfast across the street when Mboya entered the restaurant and walked over to his table.
"She'll see you,” he said.
"When?” asked the Kid.
"Now."
"Just wait until I finish my breakfast and I'll be right with you."
"You're finished,” said Mboya. “You don't keep the Prophet waiting."
"I do,” said the Kid, taking another mouthful and chewing it thoughtfully.
"If you're doing this to impress, you're wasting your time,” said Mboya. “You're less than an insect to her."
"
You
may be less than an insect,” said the Kid. “I'm not."
"What makes you think so?” asked Mboya contemptuously.
"Because you don't invite insects for interviews,” said the Kid. He spent a few more minutes finishing his meal while Mboya watched him, then drank his coffee, left a pair of New Stalin rubles on the table, and finally got to his feet. “All right. Let's go."
He followed Mboya to a groundcar, and a moment later they were speeding south, out of the city. They passed a number of farms, then came to still another farm, no different in any respect from the last dozen, and pulled up to a geodesic dome that overlooked a small pond.
"No guards,” noted the Kid.
"She doesn't need any."
"Not even you?"
"Not even me,” said Mboya.
"Well, let's go on in."
"She wants to see you alone,” said Mboya. “I'll be waiting for you out here."
"What room is she in?” asked the Kid, getting out of the landcar.
"How should I know?"
The Kid shrugged, let the slidewalk take him from the car to the front entrance, and waited for the door to open. There were no cameras, no retina identification scanners, no signs of any security system. The door slid into the wall after a moment, and he walked into a circular foyer.
"I am here,” said a feminine voice, and he followed it into a large room that possessed a window wall overlooking the pond.
Seated on an exotic chair carved from some alien hardwood was Penelope Bailey. She was blonde, slender, dressed in a loose white gown. The Kid decided that she
should
have been rather pretty, but somehow she seemed to possess no sexuality, and precious little humanity. There was something about her eyes, something he couldn't quite put his finger on; even when she looked at him, she seemed to be focusing on something beyond him, something that only she could see.
"Welcome, Mr. Cayman,” she said, and even her voice seemed remote, as if her mind were elsewhere and the rest of her was going through some pre-ordained performance.
"Good morning, Prophet,” replied the Kid.
"Please be seated."
"Where?"
"Wherever you choose."
"Thank you,” said the Kid, sitting down on a couch covered in a metallic fabric that continually changed colors as the sun shone in on it.
Suddenly Penelope shifted her position, and raised her right arm above her head for just an instant.
"Is something wrong?” asked the Kid.
"No."
"You seem uncomfortable,” he noted.
"You are very transparent, Mr. Cayman,” she said with an almost alien smile.
"I don't think I understand what you're saying."
"You know why I changed my position, so why pretend that you do not?"
"I have no idea why you moved the way you did,” answered the Kid.
She shook her head, still smiling, her eyes still focused on some unimaginably distant point. “You come to ask for my advice, Mr. Cayman, and yet you refuse to be honest with me."
"I
am
being truthful with you."
"No, Mr. Cayman.” She arose and walked over to the window. “You were sent to Mozart to find me, and I know that you were not sent by that bizarre criminal who calls himself the Anointed One.” She paused. “That means whoever sent you knew me many years ago, before I became the Prophet. Only two such men are still living, and one of them is retired.” She turned to him, her eyes staring into his, but focusing beyond them. “You were sent by Carlos Mendoza, who is known as the Iceman, and since he would not send you here without telling you who and what I am, you know that when I make sudden movements or commit acts that seem incomprehensible to you, as many of them must, I am controlling or manipulating various futures."
The Kid stared at her without answering for a long moment. “You're as good as he said you were,” he replied at last.
"I take that as high praise,” she said. “He is the one man who has ever stood against me, the one man in the whole of creation whom I have ever feared."
"Are you still afraid of him?” asked the Kid.
She shook her head. “No, I am not."
"You haven't got much reason to be,” said the Kid. “He's a fat old man with a limp."
"A limp
I
gave him twenty years ago,” she said, staring off into the distance.
"Why didn't you kill him then?"
"I was very young,” replied Penelope. “I thought he would die of his wounds, and I wanted him to suffer."
The Kid was about to make a comment when she held up a hand.
"What is it?” he said.
"Watch,” she said, indicating the far side of the pond.
"What am I supposed to be looking at?” he asked, staring out through the window.
"There is a small animal atop its burrow, is there not?” she asked, still looking into his eyes.
"Yes,” he said. “Kind of a muddy red in color."
"Watch closely,” she said.
A few second later an avian swooped down, grabbed the animal in its claws, and flew off with it.
"You knew that was going to happen."
"I know
everything
that is going to happen,” she said. “I am the Prophet."
"Could you have saved the rodent?"
"Certainly,” she said. “There are an infinite number of futures. In some of them, the rodent spotted the avian in time to retreat to its burrow. In others, the avian was distracted and did not see the rodent."
"How could you have changed what happened?” asked the Kid.
She smiled again, but did not answer him.
"Would you care for something cool to drink, Mr. Cayman?” she asked after a moment. “It promises to be a warm day."
"Why don't you make it cooler?” suggested the Kid.
"The house is climate-controlled,” she replied. “And I have more important things to do."
"In that case,” said the Kid, “I'll have some water."
"Follow me, please,” she said, walking down a gleaming white corridor to the kitchen.
"Don't you have any servants?” asked the Kid, as he looked around the gadget-filled room.