Authors: Mike Resnick
"I've heard enough of this crap!” said the Kid. “I can take him
and
you together without drawing a deep breath—and don't you forget it!"
"Can you take the Gravedancer, too?” asked Mboya.
"What do you know about him?"
"I've researched you thoroughly, Kid. I know every place you've been since you left Greycloud, and who you've been with."
"Bully for you,” said the Kid sullenly.
"By the way, that wasn't a rhetorical question. Can you take the Gravedancer?"
"Why?"
"Because he's working for the Anointed One now,” answered Mboya. “That means sooner or later one of us is going to have to go up against him."
"I can take
anybody
,” said the Kid confidently.
"Once you learn to shoot straight,” said Mboya sardonically.
"Anybody,” repeated the Kid.
"Even men who know your secret?"
"What the hell is
that
supposed to mean?"
"Just that the Iceman and the Gravedancer both know that whatever you are, you owe it to those implanted chips. If they know they're going to go up against you, don't you think they'll find some way to negate them?"
"There's no way it can be done,” answered the Kid. “These are biochips. I'm their energy source. There's no field you can create that can make them stop functioning."
"I don't know about that,” said Mboya.
"I do."
"Maybe ... but just about the time you tell a Man he can't do something—whether it's climb down from the trees, or cross an ocean, or fly a starship, or negate a biochip—he usually finds a way to do just that. We're a very successful race of lawbreakers: we've broken all the laws of gravity, and Einstein, and—"
"Spare me the lecture,” said the Kid. “These chips will keep functioning until I'm dead."
"Well, I wish them a long and happy life,” said Mboya, pulling up to the Kid's hotel.
"You know,” said the Kid, as he got out of the groundcar and turned to face Mboya, “before you worry about the Iceman or the Gravedancer, you've got a bigger problem."
"Oh?"
"You're going to have to face
me
."
"Why?” asked Mboya.
"She can't have two enforcers,” said the Kid. “I'm going to have to prove to her that I'm the best. There's only one way to do that."
"We can do it right here and now, if you're dead set on it,” said Mboya with no show of fear or surprise.
The Kid shook his head. “I'll choose the place and time."
"What makes you think I'll let you?"
The Kid grinned. “Because you're an honorable man."
He turned on his heel and walked into the lobby of the Manor House. He picked up a newstape, took it to his room, watched its headlines flash by with disinterest, and then walked over to a mirror, where he studied himself moodily.
His clothes were flashy and stylish, but he decided they needed to make more of a statement, become an identifiable trademark. It was true that the Iceman dressed for comfort, but Lomax always wore black, and the holos he had seen of Father Christmas always showed him in a modified red-and-white Santa Claus outfit, with a pair of sonic pistols suspended from a shining black patent leather belt.
But what kind of outfit would instantly label him as the Silicon Kid? A shirt with chips sewn into it? He shook his head; too garish. Something with his “S.K.” initials monogrammed onto it? He quickly rejected the notion as amateurish. Then what?
He could simply dress as he had been dressing, but what was the use of being the Silicon Kid if people didn't know it? That was the problem with the Iceman and Mboya; they had the credentials, but they lacked a certain style. And if he was going to be the Prophet's right-hand man—at least until he figured out how to get rid of her—he wanted people to know him the instant he landed on a planet, the moment he entered a town or a room.
Perhaps some weapon that was uniquely his own? After all, with his implants, he could handle any weapon with such speed and dexterity that no one alive could match him, so why be limited to laser, sonic or projectile weapons?
The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He would create a weapon of a type that no one else possessed, one that would forever be his trademark. And if it was one that could kill the Prophet when the proper time came, so much the better.
Excited, he walked over to the computer on his desk, activated it, and had it tie into tiny Minuet library, accessing information on the various types of weapons currently in use. He found nothing very useful there, and was considering accessing a larger library on a nearby world when the computer's screen went blank.
"What's wrong?” he demanded.
"I have an incoming message,” answered the computer in a mechanical voice.
"All right, let's see it."
It was from a young woman who had lost the use of her left arm in an accident, and wondered if he could create a chip that would restore the arm to its former state.
"Tell her that if the nerves have been damaged, she'd be better off with a prosthetic arm. If it's something else, have her doctor forward her records to me."
"Working...” said the computer.
"Wait a minute!” he said suddenly.
"Operation suspended."
He'd already made contact with the Prophet, so why bother with the facade?
"Just tell her that I'm sorry, but I can't help her."
"Working ... done."
"Deactivate."
The computer went dead, and an instant later the vidphone came to life.
"Yeah?” said the Kid, activating it.
The holographic image of Penelope Bailey hovered above the machine.
"I see my two guard dogs have been growling at one another,” she said in amused tones.
"I thought he was enough of a man not to go running to you for help,” said the Kid contemptuously.
"He is in my employ, as are you,” she said serenely. “My employees have no secrets from me."
"Send him on his way,” said the Kid.
"Why?"
"You don't need him. You've got
me
now."
"Poor, futile little Man, thrashing about in the darkness, dreaming of triumph and glory,” said Penelope. “How can you have any idea what I need?"
"You didn't hire him for his personality,” answered the Kid. “You hired him because he's The Black Death.” He paused. “Well, you've got someone better working for you now."
"Better at what?” she asked with a smile. “Do you really think I need
you
to do my killing for me?"
"You didn't seem to have any objection to letting him do it last night,” noted the Kid.
"He merely saved me the bother of dispatching three unpleasant individuals. I was never in any physical danger from them."
"Come on, lady,” he said. “If you don't need killers, what are men like Mboya and me doing on your payroll?"
"Great forces have been set in motion,” she answered, “forces far beyond your ability to fathom. Each of you has a role to play, and each of you will play it."
"What role?"
"You will learn your destiny in the fullness of time."
"Have I
got
a destiny?"
"Most assuredly,” she replied. “That is why I let you live."
"What were you going to do—have Mboya gun me down on the way out if you decided you didn't want to hire me?"
"You still don't understand what you are dealing with, do you?” she said. “In a million times a million futures, you will live out the day, Neil Cayman. But you are a very high-strung young man, and in a tiny handful of the futures I can foresee, you will die of a sudden cerebral hemorrhage. And in
one
future, you will have an intimation of your death. That future will occur when I do
this
.” And with that, she walked to her window wall and placed both hands against it, fingers splayed wide, as she looked out on her pond.
The Kid felt a sudden pain flash through his head. He yelled incoherently, then dropped to one knee. The pain became worse, more intense than any he had ever known, and he curled into a fetal ball, his fists pressed against his temples.
And then, suddenly, the pain was gone. It took him a full minute to regain his feet and focus his eyes, and he saw Penelope's image smiling at him a from a few inches over the vidphone.
"Do you begin to comprehend?” she asked serenely.
"How the hell did you do that from thirty miles away?” he muttered.
"You have seen what I did to Hades, and yet you wonder at my abilities? Perhaps The Black Death was correct; perhaps you are not bright enough to be useful to me."
"He told you that?” demanded the Kid.
"Certainly,” she replied. “He has no secrets from me."
"Well, if I'm too dumb to work for you, maybe I'll just go back to the Iceman!” he snapped.
For just the merest fraction of a second he thought he finally detected an emotion on her face—terror, perhaps, or hatred, or possibly simply contempt—but then it vanished and she focused her gaze on him again.
"That would not be very wise, Neil Cayman,” she said. “You would be dead before you left the planet.” She paused. “You have given your allegiance to me. Only I can return it to you; you may not take it back.” She smiled an emotionless smile. “Or perhaps you would like another demonstration of my power."
"No,” he said. “You win.”
For the moment
, he added mentally.
"You are high-spirited, just like a young animal,” she said. “I do not hold that against you. In fact, I find it admirable. But like any other young animal, you must be trained. Your spirit must be directed.
Then
you will begin to earn your keep."
"I'm no animal,” said the Kid.
"You are all animals,” she said, and broke the connection.
The Kid spent the next five days lounging around the Manor House, eating, sleeping, watching holos, doing a little drinking and a little gambling, trying unsuccessfully to keep from being bored. He accepted a couple of assignments to create biochips, just to alleviate the boredom.
He impatiently awaited a summons from Penelope Bailey, and couldn't figure out why she had hired him only to let him rot in a tiny hotel on a nondescript planet. Then, on the fifth evening after his meeting with her, he happened to catch a newscast on the holo set, and realized that she had far from inactive.
According to the report, more than eighty temples on some thirty different worlds, each belonging to the followers of Moses Mohammed Christ, known as the Anointed One, had burned due to unknown causes, killing almost two hundred thousand men and woman and injuring twice that many. Foul play was suspected, of course, but to date not a single instance of arson had been uncovered at any of the sites.
And why should they have found any evidence of arson, thought the Kid with a grim smile. You want this temple burnt to the ground? Hold your hand thus and so, and the wind will blow the flame from a candle up against the window coverings. You want that temple consumed by fire? Move eight feet to the right, and a man with a lit cigar in his hand will have a heart attack, and the rug will catch fire an instant later. Stand on one leg and lighting will strike another temple.
It was power beyond imagining—and yet she needed him, needed Mboya, needed still others whose names he didn't know and whose functions he could only guess at. She was power incarnate, but she was not all-powerful; the inhabitants of Hades had kept her imprisoned for almost seventeen years. She needed help—
his
help, although he couldn't yet imagine why. And she could be defeated, or at least fought to a draw. The Iceman had proven that, and he was certainly more than equal to anything that the Iceman might have done.
He checked the news the next morning—twelve more temples had been added to the total—and went out for breakfast. He waited for a pair of trucks to pass by, then crossed the street and entered the small restaurant where he had been having most of his meals. To his surprise, Mboya, who usually slept quite late after a night at the casino's gaming tables, was sitting alone at the back of the nearly-empty establishment, drinking a cup of coffee.
"Good morning,” he said when he saw the Kid.
"'Morning,” replied the Kid.
"Come join me,” said Mboya.
The Kid looked around the restaurant for a moment, then shrugged and walked past half a dozen empty tables. He sat down opposite Mboya and ordered coffee and a roll.
"I haven't seen you for a couple of days,” said Mboya.
"I've been around,” answered the Kid. “Working on chips, mostly."
"Why bother? You're working for
her
, now. No need to keep up pretenses."
"I'll stop if she ever gets around to giving me something to do,” said the Kid. He gazed out the window. “I grew up on a planet just like this one. There's nothing to do here."
"Have you practiced your marksmanship lately?” asked Mboya with a grin.
"I don't need to. It's just a matter of adjusting to the implants. I'm used to them now."
"Then I assume you'll never miss again?"
"That's right,” said the Kid seriously.
"Good,” said Mboya. “I'm glad to hear it."
"And I don't need someone taunting me this early in the morning,” added the Kid, making no attempt to hide his irritation.
"I wasn't taunting you,” answered Mboya. “I was being sincere."
"Sure you were."
"I was,” repeated Mboya. “I'm calling it quits. That means sooner or later she's going to send you up against the kind of men I've been pacifying for her. Being a lousy shot isn't conducive to your health."
"You're quitting?” repeated the Kid, surprised.
"That's right."
"Aren't you a little young for retirement?"
"I'm not retiring,” said Mboya. “I'm just not going to work for
her
any longer."
"Why not?” asked the Kid as his coffee finally arrived.
"Don't you listen to the holo or scan the newstapes?” asked Mboya. “She's just launched an undeclared war on the Anointed One."
The Kid frowned. “Do you know something about him that I don't know?"
"Probably not."