Authors: Mike Resnick
"Then what has that got to do with you quitting?"
"Look,” said Mboya. “I'm a gunman. I kill people for a living. I'm not especially proud of it, but I'm not ashamed of it. I live by a code: I've never gone up against a man who didn't have a chance, and most of those I've killed have deserved it."
"So?"
"Don't you understand?
She
can kill half a million men without even leaving her house.” He grimaced. “That's not killing any more, not the way I do it. It's genocide, and I don't want any part of it."
"What's the difference between killing three men or three thousand?” asked the Kid. “They all follow the Anointed One and they all want her dead."
Mboya sighed. “It's difficult to explain."
"Try."
"All right. To me, killing is a profession, and it's got rules to it. You stand close enough to look your opponent in the eye, you always give him a chance to back off, you talk to him, you try to see into his soul and seek out his weaknesses, you risk
your
life to take
his
life. It's a very
personal
thing.” He paused. “To her, it's just expediency. Ten men, ten million men, it's all the same—and none of them had a chance. None of them even knew what killed them."
The Kid considered what Mboya had said, then shook his head. “I don't see it,” he said. “
You
kill her enemies,
she
kills her enemies. The only difference is the number."
"It's a competition, or at least it should be,” said Mboya. “I'm competing against my opponent, sure, but I'm also competing against a standard of excellence I set for myself. I don't really care if the person I'm working for is on the right or the wrong side of the dispute; that doesn't affect me at all. It's the principle and the competition that counts.” He paused. “But
her
—she's gone beyond all reference points. I'm competing with myself, but she's competing with God, or maybe Nature. No one else can kill that profligately. She doesn't need me, and I don't want any part of what she's doing."
"But she
does
need you, or she wouldn't be paying you,” said the Kid.
Mboya shook his head. “She's got you now, and good luck to her. Me, I'm going out to the Quinellus Cluster, where no one has ever heard of the Anointed One
or
the Prophet."
"Soon everyone shall hear of me,” said a voice from the doorway, and they both turned to see Penelope Bailey standing there, staring at them.
"I thought you might show up,” said Mboya.
"What did you expect?” replied Penelope. “You made a commitment to me, and now you intend to break it."
"You must have known I would, or you wouldn't have hired
him
,” said Mboya, jerking his head in the Kid's direction.
"Why I hired him is not your concern,” she said.
"True enough,” agreed Mboya with a shrug. “My only concern is getting out of this situation.” He stared at Penelope. “You can keep whatever money I've got coming."
She shook her head. “I have no need of money,” she said. “I hired
you
. You have yet to serve your purpose."
"If you can see the future, you know that I'm leaving and that nothing can change my mind,” said Mboya. “If you force me to stay right now, I'll just catch the next ship out of here once you're gone."
"No you won't,” replied Penelope. “You will not leave until I say that you may."
"But
why
? You've got the Kid now. He says he's faster than I am, and for all I know he's right. You don't
need
me."
"I alone know what I need,” answered Penelope. “You made a commitment to serve me. I will not release you from that commitment."
"You can kill whole planets without even leaving your house,” persisted Mboya. “Why do you need me to kill your enemies off one at a time?"
"I owe you no explanation,” said Penelope coldly. “You came to
me
for employment. I gave it to you. Now you will fulfill the terms of our agreement."
"You probably manipulated me into coming, just as you manipulate everything else,” said Mboya. “Free will isn't a valid concept when you're involved."
"What
are
you doing here?” asked the Kid, who had been listening to them intently.
"I am here to stop The Black Death from betraying me,” answered Penelope.
"If you can see the future, you know I have no intention of betraying you,” said Mboya, trying to keep his voice level and reasonable. “I just want to get out of here."
Penelope stared unblinking into his eyes. “I will not permit it,” she answered.
"But
why
?” he insisted.
"I told you: you have not yet served your purpose."
"Just what the hell
is
my purpose?"
"To serve me faithfully and obediently."
"For how long?"
"Until I no longer need you,” answered Penelope.
"How long will that take?"
Penelope shrugged eloquently. “A day, a week, a month, a year, a lifetime—or perhaps only a moment."
"How will I know?"
"Because I will tell you,” she said.
Mboya stared at her long and hard, and finally he nodded. “All right,” he said. “But it had better be closer to a day than a lifetime."
"Are you giving me orders now?” she asked, making no attempt to mask her amusement.
"No,” he said.
"That was a damned quick change of heart,” said the Kid sardonically.
"She's the Prophet,” answered Mboya. “If I can't convince her to let me go, what else is there to do?"
"I'm glad you have seen the error of your way,” said Penelope. “Now I want both of you to come with me. We have business elsewhere."
Mboya and the Kid got to their feet, left a handful of coins on the table, and followed her out into the street. The sun was higher in the sky now, the morning dew had evaporated, and the air was warming up. There were a handful of vehicles parked in front of the various feed and general stores, but it was totally devoid of pedestrians.
Penelope turned to her left and started walking south, and the Kid and Mboya turned to follow her. After they had gone half a block, she stopped.
"What is it?” asked the Kid.
Penelope turned to him, though once again her eyes were focused far into the future. “The restaurant was the wrong place,” she said. “Here, in the street, is where we shall resolve our conflicts."
"I don't understand."
She pointed to Mboya. “That man tried to desert me. He still harbors the hope of leaving the planet once I have returned to my house. Such disobedience cannot be tolerated."
The Kid suddenly felt the muzzle of a sonic pistol jammed against his ribcage.
"Sorry, Kid,” said Mboya, “but I want your pistol."
The Kid remained motionless for a moment.
"Give it to him,” said Penelope.
"I don't give my weapon to anyone,” said the Kid.
"He will kill you if you disobey him,” said Penelope. “And then what use will you be to me? Give it to him."
The Kid paused for another moment, then very carefully withdrew his laser pistol and handed it to Mboya.
"Thanks for not being stupid,” said Mboya, tucking the pistol into his belt. He looked at Penelope. “I thought we had an agreement."
"You had no intention of keeping it,” she said.
"What happens now?” asked Mboya. “Do I die of a stroke or a heart attack? Or do you cause a meteor to fall on my head? I know I can't touch
you
, but whatever happens, I plan to take
him
with me."
"I will do nothing to hinder you,” said Penelope. She smiled at him, a smile that terrified him far more than the thought of the various fates awaiting him.
"You're just going to let me go to the spaceport and take my ship out of here?” Mboya said dubiously.
"You will not live to reach the spaceport."
"I thought you just said that you weren't going to kill me."
"I am not,” said Penelope. She looked at the Kid. “
He
is."
"What the hell are you talking about?” rasped the Kid. “He's got a gun in my ribs, and you made me give my own weapon away."
"I am the Prophet,” she said serenely. “Did you not promise to follow me blindly?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then kill him."
The Kid stared into her expressionless face for a moment. Then he pivoted on his heel and tried to slap the pistol out of Mboya's hand.
Mboya was ready for him and stepped back. The Kid missed, and went sprawling on the street.
"Get up,” said Penelope.
The Kid got carefully to his feet, staring at the barrel of the sonic pistol that was aimed at him.
"Don't make me do this, Kid,” said Mboya, alternating his attention between the Kid and Penelope.
"Now attack,” said Penelope.
"You're crazy!” snapped the Kid. “I take one step toward him and I'm a dead man!"
"Would you rather face him—or me?” said Penelope.
The Kid considered her question, then sprang toward Mboya with a howl of animal rage, fully expecting to be dead before he reached him.
Mboya pulled the trigger, and his sonic pistol sputtered once and then went dead. The Kid reached him an instant later, and the two men rolled on the street, scratching, gouging, kneeing, pummeling.
The Kid tried to pull a knife from his boot, but Mboya knocked it loose from his hand, and it flew some twenty feet away. Then, suddenly, they were on their feet again, and the Kid realized that he was up against a superior fighter, a man who knew every martial discipline, whose feet were as deadly as his hands, perhaps more so.
The Kid swung a roundhouse right at Mboya, who ducked, stepped inside it, gave him two quick blows to the ribs and a spinning kick to the jaw that sent him sprawling.
He was up again instantly, and this time he remembered the implants. No longer did he try to overpower his heavier antagonist, but concentrated on blocking blows and kicks while striking with lightning-like swiftness. He broke through Mboya's guard three times, but realized that he wasn't doing sufficient damage, that speed alone wouldn't carry the day against Mboya's expertise. He began backing away in the direction of the knife, and a moment later allowed Mboya to land a solid kick to his chest, hurling him backward onto the street.
This time when he got up it was with the knife in his hand. Mboya saw it and went into a defensive posture, but for all his many skills he was no match for the sheer speed with which the Kid wielded his weapon, and within seconds the Kid had slashed him twice on the ribs and once on the side of the neck. Mboya instinctively placed a hand to the neck wound, exposing his torso, and the Kid plunged the knife deep into his belly. He fell to the ground, holding both hands to his newest wound, and groaning.
"Finish the job,” said Penelope, as the Kid stepped back.
"Why bother?” replied the Kid. “He's not going to cause you any trouble for a long, long time."
"I said, finish the job,” said Penelope.
The Kid stared at Mboya, then looked up at Penelope. “Why?"
"Because I told you to, and no other reason is necessary."
"I thought you were keeping him for a purpose."
"He has served it,” said Penelope, staring off into the distance. “Finish the job."
The Kid looked at her for another moment, then knelt down next to Mboya, grabbed his hair with his free hand, and slashed his throat. Mboya gurgled once and then died.
"Satisfied?” said the Kid, straightening up.
"Yes,” said Penelope. “I am satisfied."
"What was that all about?” asked the Kid, looking up and down the street for signs of the police, but finding none. “Why didn't you kill him yourself?"
"Because this was a necessary part of your education,” answered Penelope.
"I didn't learn all that much,” said the Kid wryly.
"You learned the most important lesson of all,” said Penelope. “You learned that when I tell you to do something, it must be done, even in the face of certain death.” She paused. “You also learned that when I tell you to finish a job, you may not disobey me.” She smiled at him, her gaze back from the future and trained intently on his face. “Soon you will obey me without hesitation, without thinking. Soon you will be worthy of the tasks I shall give you and the rewards you shall receive. You are progressing very rapidly, Neil Cayman."
"I told you before: that's not my name anymore."
"I know,” she replied, “and I shall not use it again. You have proven yourself to me, and you have earned a new name."
"Good,” he said. “I'm glad we agree on that."
"Yes, we do,” said Penelope, stepping around Mboya's corpse and walking off toward her groundcar. “Follow me, Fido."
The Kid was about to protest. Then he remember the pain she had visited upon him at the beginning of the week, and he sighed and fell into step behind her.
Penelope commanded her front door to slide open, then ushered the Kid inside and led him through the foyer to the large room that overlooked the pond.
The Kid looked around and saw a rag doll lying on the couch.
"Whose is
that
?” he asked, pointing toward it.
"Mine,” said Penelope with no show of embarrassment. She picked it up and cuddled it to her breast.
"Aren't you a little old for dolls?"
"I had a kitten once,” she replied, tightening her grip on the doll as if afraid that someone would come into the room and take it away from her. “It wouldn't come near me, and whenever I reached out to it, it hissed and spat at me."
"Maybe it was just a spooky kitten,” he suggested.
She shook her head. “I bought a puppy three months ago. It ran up to every stranger, wagging its tail—but it would never remain in the same room with me."
"A rag doll's a poor substitute,” said the Kid.
"Perhaps,” she agreed. “But it has never run from me, and it has never attempted to betray me, and that is more than I can say about any human I've ever known."
"
Any
human?"
She paused, a wistful expression on her face. “There was one, a very long time ago, a woman who fed me and protected me, and whom I loved very much—but even she turned against me in the end.” She turned to face the Kid. “It is more difficult than you think to be the Prophet, to know that every member of the race that gave you birth hates and fears you."