The Return of Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future (42 page)

      
"Oh, I'll be alive," Henry assured him. "If God wanted me dead, the son of a bitch would have taken me out 20 years ago."

      
"Well, I'll see you around," said Virgil, as the three of them got to their feet.

      
Henry was about to reply when a single gunshot rang out. The old man fell over backward in his chair, a bullet buried deep between his eyes.

      
Dante turned to the door to see who had fired the shot, then blinked his eyes very rapidly and shook his head. Maybe it was simply because Henry has been referring to the deity, but for just an instant it seemed to the poet that he was looking at God Himself.

28.

      
He's a master of each weapon, and he's got a lion's heart.

      
He turns mayhem into science, and then science into art.

      
He's Silvermane the hero, and there isn't any doubt

      
If you go and break the law he will surely call you out.

      
He was the most beautiful man Dante had ever seen. Not beautiful in a feminine way, but rather every feature perfect, the kind of beauty Michelangelo had striven for and never quite achieved.

      
He stood six feet eight inches tall, but so perfect were his proportions, so catlike the grace with which he moved, that he seemed smaller. His eyes were a clear and brilliant blue, his nose straight, his teeth perfect, his jaw firm without being overly square. His shoulders were broad, his waist and hips narrow, his legs long and lean.

      
His most distinctive feature was his hair. He had a huge thick shock of it, and it was silver in color—not black streaked with white to form a bright gray, but actual silver, every strand the purest color. It hung down his back, the longest section of it reaching his waist, and gave the impression of a huge, heavily-maned lion.

      
He wore a matched set of projectile pistols, and the belt that supported his holsters held perhaps a hundred bullets. A knife handle peeked out from the top of one of his polished boots. His clothes were black and silver, and fit him as they'd been designed by the finest tailor back on Deluros VIII. He wore no jewelry of any kind, not even a ring.

      
A thousand of the best commercial artists over the eons had tried to capture his likeness on the covers of adventure books and magazines, and had never succeeded. Heroic statues had always fallen short of the mark. Dante had a feeling that when women thought of their ideal man, they would have traded whatever their imaginations came up with for the man standing in the doorway of the tavern, putting his pistol in his holster.

      
The man stared at Dante and his two companions curiously, as if expecting a reaction.

      
"You know who that was?" said Dante at last.

      
"The Black Death," said the man in a strong, clear baritone.

      
"You meant to kill him?"

      
"I hit what I aim at."

      
Dante moved his chair away from Henry's corpse. "Well, you might as well pay the insurance."

      
"Pay the insurance?" repeated the man, frowning.

      
"Put a bullet in his ear, just to be on the safe side."

      
"I told you: I hit what I aim at."

      
"You never miss?"

      
"Never." The man noticed that a trickle of blood had rolled down the side of Henry's head and was moving slowly toward Dante's boot. "I'd move if I were you. His blood is probably as deadly as the rest of him."

      
Dante quickly stood up and walked a few steps away. "Thanks. Are you a bounty hunter?"

      
The beautiful man shook his shaggy silver head. "No."

      
"The law?"

      
The man smiled. "There isn't any law out here."

      
"Let me guess. You just didn't like the way he looked?"

      
"You don't strike me as a fool," said the man. "Don't say foolish things."

      
"I'm just trying to find out who you are and why you killed the man I was talking to."

      
"Then you should ask."

      
"Consider it done."

      
"My name is Joshua Silvermane, and I killed that man because he didn't deserve to live."

      
"Silvermane," repeated Dante. "I've heard of you. Dimitrios thinks very highly of you."

      
"Dimitrios of the Three Burners?" asked Silvermane.

      
"Yes."

      
"He's right."

      
"He never mentioned your modest streak," said Dante sardonically.

      
Silvermane stared at him without making any reply, and suddenly the poet became very nervous. Finally the tall man spoke. "I don't trade witticisms."

      
"I know why
I
think the Black Death deserved to die," said Dante, quickly changing the subject. "Why did
you
think so?"

      
"He killed a woman who had never done him any harm, a woman who was far better than he was."

      
"Your lover?" asked Matilda.

      
"I never met her."

      
"Someone paid you to hunt him down and kill him," concluded Dante. "That's pretty much like bounty hunting."

      
"No one paid me anything."

      
Dante frowned. "Then I don't understand."

      
"She had just married a friend of mine. A very bitter and unsuccessful suitor commissioned the Black Death to pay her a visit."

      
"And you hunted him down for your friend?" said Dante. "I'd call that a noble thing to do." He paused. "What do you do when you're not hunting down killers for your friends?"

      
"I right wrongs."

      
"For whom?"

      
"Sometimes you don't worry about that. Sometimes you just see something that's wrong, and no one is doing anything about it, so you have to."

      
"Why you?"

      
"Because someone has to."

      
"That's not much of an answer."

      
"When I was seven years old," said Silvermane, his perfect face reliving the event, "I was walking down the street of a Tradertown on Majorca II with my father. There was a fight in a building we were passing, and a stray laser beam caught him in the neck. He dropped to the ground, bleeding profusely, and for an hour I begged people to help him while they just walked around him or crossed the street and ignored him. He died before anyone helped get him to a doctor, and I swore that I would never walk past someone who needed help, would never be one of the ones who looked away."

      
"A not-for-profit avenger!" said Virgil, amused. "How do you pay your bills?"

      
"Sometimes people pay me out of gratitude," said Silvermane. "I've never asked for money, and I've never felt bitter or cheated when it wasn't given—but it comes often enough to feed and clothe me, and keep me in bullets."

      
"Why bullets?" asked Virgil. "I haven't seen half a dozen projectile pistols in my life."

      
"They make a bang," said Silvermane. "People aren't used to the noise, and it sometimes freezes them into immobility for a second or two. That's usually more advantage than I need. Also, my pistols never run out of power. I know how many bullets I have left in each and in my belt, and I don't have to constantly check my power packs."

      
"You know," said Dante, staring at him curiously, "Sebastian Cain used bullets, too."

      
"Never heard of him."

      
"He died a long time ago," said the poet. "I think you may have a lot in common with him."

      
"Interesting," said Silvermane with no show of interest whatever. He turned to the bartender. "Find me a waterproof groundsheet or something else that's airtight and doesn't leak and I'll take the body off the premises."

      
"Coming up," said the bartender.

      
"Have you got a burner?" continued Silvermane.

      
The bartender reached beneath the bar and produced a small laser pistol.

      
"Good," said Silvermane. "After I get the body out of here, take that thing and fry every drop of blood you can find on the floor."

      
"Was something wrong with him?" asked the bartender.

      
"More than you can imagine. Just do it."

      
"Right." He disappeared into a back room, then returned a moment later with the requested groundsheet, which he carried over to Silvermane.

      
"Have you got a trash atomizer out back?" asked the tall man.

      
"Yeah," said the bartender. "Just walk around the building. You can't miss it."

      
"I'm going to use it," announced Silvermane, bending over and wrapping Henry Marston's body in the blanket while being careful not to touch it with his bare hands, then hefting it to his shoulder as if it weighed almost nothing. "Even dead, this fellow is too dangerous to bury."

      
"Be my guest," said the bartender, as Silvermane walked out the front door.

      
Dante turned to his companions. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

      
"I don't know," said Matilda, a troubled expression on her face. "We've been wrong once already."

      
"And the Bandit seemed a lot more tractable than this guy," added Virgil.

      
"But the Bandit's a fanatic," said Dante. "We couldn't know that up front."

      
"And this guy travels around the galaxy risking his life righting wrongs for free," Virgil pointed out. "Doesn't that seem a little fanatical to you?"

      
"Maybe," said Dante. "Maybe it's noble." He signed deeply. "It's almost as if Black Orpheus himself is telling me that this is the one. He uses bullets, just like Cain did . . ."

      
"But four other Santiagos didn't," said Matilda.

      
"I know," said Dante.

      
"Now why don't you admit the real reason you're considering him?" continued Matilda.

      
"And what is that?"

      
"The same reason
I'm
considering him," she replied uncomfortably. "He's the first man we've seen who might actually have a chance against the Bandit."

      
"What if he wins?" asked Virgil. "Are you really sure you want to replace one fanatical killer with an even more formidable one?"

      
"I don't know," said Dante. "I've just got this feeling."

      
"Take deep breaths and think pastoral thoughts," said Virgil. "It'll pass."

      
At that moment Silvermane re-entered the tavern and approached their table.

      
"The three of you are witnesses to a killing," he announced. "If you're going to report it, let me know, and I'll stick around and give my side of it. I don't intend to be a fugitive."

      
"Report it to
who
?" asked Virgil.

      
"I don't know," admitted Silvermane with a shrug. "I just got here half an hour ago. I don't know if they have any local law enforcement."

      
"My guess is that they don't even have any local laws," said Dante. "Anyway, we're not reporting anything. The man you killed was scum and we all know it."

      
"Good," said Silvermane. "Then I'll be on my way."

      
"I'd like to buy you a drink first," said Dante.

      
"I know you would," said Silvermane.

      
"You do?"

      
"Of course. You could only have one reason for talking to the Black Death, and now he's dead." He turned to the bartender. "Bring me a beer. A cold one." Then it was back to Dante. "Who did you want him to kill, and why?"

      
Dante uttered an embarrassed laugh. "I wasn't ready for such bluntness."

      
"There's a lot of evil abroad in the galaxy, and life is short," said Silvermane. "I have no time to waste. Who's your target?"

      
"It's not that easy."

      
"It never is—but I can't help you if you don't tell me what you want."

      
"I want someone to stand up for people who can't stand up for themselves," said Dante.

      
"That's what I do best," said Silvermane.

      
"So you say."

      
"Who's the enemy?"

      
"The Democracy."

      
Silvermane stared long and hard at him. "You don't look like a traitor."

      
"I'm not."

      
"Continue."

      
"There's a difference between being a traitor to your race and being opposed to the excesses of your government," continued Dante.

      
Silvermane stared at him and offered no reply.

      
"Well?" said Dante, uneasily breaking the silence.