The Return of Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future (48 page)

      
"I've been thinking about that," said Dante. "We'll use Wilbur Connaught."

      
"Santiago's accountant?" said Silvermane, surprised. "The one they call the Grand Finale?"

      
"That's the one."

      
"Why him?"

      
"Because I can give him a reason for reading the classified section of the Hadrian newsdisc," answered Dante. "He told me once that he used to work for Barioke, one of the major warlords out on the Rim. That was a long time ago. Barioke's probably dead by now; he's certainly not a warlord any longer."

      
"So?"

      
"So we run a classified saying that Barioke needs to speak to Wilbur about a very private matter, and that since he's lost track of him he's trying classifieds all over the galaxy." Dante paused. "Then we put the same ad in 20 other newsdiscs, but we wait two days to insert it. Since Wilbur has to get into the Democracy now and then to keep an eye on Santiago's investments, he's still got a Democracy ID, which means all of Barioke's messages will be routed to his code no matter what computer he's using. But the one we want him to read will get there first—the others are just to convince him he's not being used—and we'll make sure that it appears right next to the poem. He'll see it, and bring it to the Bandit's attention. The Bandit may make sure the poem originated on Hadrian, but I don't think he'll check Barioke's message, or even read it."

      
"Sounds good to me," said Silvermane. He looked around. "Does anyone have any objections to it?"

      
No one did—until Matilda burst into Dante's room three days later, a worried expression on her face.

      
"What's up?" he asked, looking up from the stanza he was working on.

      
"You'd better get your ass out to Hadrian II
quick
!" she said. "The Bandit's probably got a half day's start on you. You have to beat him there!"

      
"What are you talking about?" said Dante. "I'm not going anywhere—and we
want
the Bandit to go to Hadrian."

      
"You don't understand!" snapped Matilda, tossing a computer cube across the room to him.

      
"What is it?" he asked.

      
"The Hadrian newsdisc," she replied.

      
"The ads are there?"

      
"Yes."

      
"Well, then?"

      
"That's all anyone else read," said Matilda. "But I read the whole damned thing. Do you know the name September Morn?"

      
"Sounds like a painting, if memory serves."

      
"Screw memory! She's the poet laureate of the Questada Cluster, and she lives on Hadrian."

      
"I didn't know they had a poet laureate."

      
"There are a lot of things you don't know," said Matilda. "For example, I'll bet you don't know that she's won an award for a poem about Santiago."

      
His eyes widened. "You're kidding!"

      
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

      
"Oh,
shit!
He's going to think
she
wrote it!"

      
"Almost certainly."

      
"We'll contact her via subspace and tell her to get the hell off the planet!"

      
"Do you think the Bandit will stop looking for her if she's gone when he gets there?" asked Matilda.

      
"No," said Dante. "No, of course he won't. But what the hell do you expect
me
to do if I get there ahead of him?"

      
"I don't know, but this was your idea. I think you owe it to her."

      
"To do what?" he yelled in frustration.

      
"You're the big thinker," said Matilda angrily. "Think of something."

      
"All right, all right," he said, getting to his feet. "Give me ten minutes to pack some things, and tell Virgil I need to borrow his ship. It's faster than mine."

      
She nodded her assent. "Anything else?"

      
"Hell, I don't know." He paused. "Yeah. See if you can contact Dimitrios of the Three Burners and have him meet me there. Tell him I
really
need some help."

      
Nine minutes later Dante took off from Brandywine, convinced that he probably wouldn't live to see it again.

      
He turned control of the ship over to the navigational computer and began preparing the Deepsleep chamber.

      
I don't know how it happened,
he thought.
Suddenly everything's falling apart. 300 children are dead because of events I initiated. I don't know if Silvermane can beat the Bandit, or even if he's the right man for the job. And now I've endangered a brilliant poet who I didn't even know existed half an hour ago, and if I luck out and find her, then I'm going to become the prime target of the most competent killer I've ever seen.

      
He lay down in the pod, and as consciousness left him, he had time for one final thought:
I wish I'd never found that goddamned poem.

Part 5: SEPTEMBER MORN'S BOOK

33.

      
      
He's not what he seems, he's not what he claims,

      
      
He's as fake as his phony arm.

      
      
He lives on Valhalla, playing his games,

      
      
And he means you nothing but harm.

      
That was the second poem to appear in the Hadrian newsdisc. The first was the one Dante had written while Silvermane was watching him.

      
The third one made it clear that there was a real Santiago, and that he would soon take his vengeance upon the One-Armed Bandit for impersonating him.

      
The fourth and fifth named two of the Bandit's most-trusted henchmen.

      
The next half dozen told more details, details the Bandit would gladly have killed to keep secret, and, Dante was sure, would now kill to punish the poet for making them public.

      
By the time the Deepsleep Chamber gently roused him from his sleep to inform him that he was in orbit around Hadrian II, 22 stanzas had appeared, and there actually wasn't much more to reveal.

      
Dante lay still for a moment, his brain coming back to life more quickly than his body. Then he sat up, climbed out of the pod, realized that he was starving, and headed off to the galley, where he assuaged his hunger. He took a Dryshower, changed clothes, and finally went to the control cabin, where he found that his navigational computer had already answered all of the spaceport's questions and was preparing to break out of orbit and land.

      
The radio hummed to life. "May I speak to the captain, please?" said a voice.

      
Dante took over manual control of the radio and opened a channel.

      
"This is Dante Alighieri, captain of
The Far Traveler
, registration number R26SM362, 5 days out of Brandywine. What's the problem?"

      
"Your ship is registered to Virgil Soaring Hawk."

      
"Contact him on Brandywine. He'll confirm that he loaned it to me. In the meantime, let me land, and you can hold the ship until you speak to him."

      
A brief pause. Then: "Agreed."

      
"I also need a favor."

      
"How may we help you, Mr. Alighieri?" said the voice at the other end of the transmission.

      
"I'm supposed to meet a business associate on Hadrian. If he's already landed, it would surely be within the past six Standard hours. He travels under two names—The One-Armed Bandit and Santiago—and I don't know which he's using. Can you tell me if he's arrived yet?"

      
"Santiago? He's got a sense of humor."

      
Dante ignored the comment. "Has he landed?"

      
Another pause. "Let me check . . . No, no one of either name has landed."

      
"All right," said Dante. "I need one more favor. I'm a writer, and I'm supposed to interview one of your local poets, a woman who called herself September Morn. Can you tell me where to find her?"

      
"We can't give out addresses or even computer ID codes," came the answer. "I can transmit your message to her and have her contact you."

      
"Tell her I'm staying at . . ." He checked the computer screen. "At the Windsor Arms, wherever the hell that is. And tell her I've got to speak to her at her earliest convenience, and not to make her presence known to anyone else."

      
"You're making this sound more like espionage than an interview," commented the voice sardonically.
I can't tell you the truth. If you even hint that you know why the Bandit is coming to Hadrian, if you make any attempt whatsoever to protect her, he'll blow the whole spaceport to Kingdom Come.

      
"There's a rival reporter coming out to interview her," said Dante, making it up as he went along. "It's the man I asked you about, the one who writes under the pen-name of Santiago. If he gets to her first, I could lose my job." He paused. "Please. This means a lot to me."

      
There was a final pause.

      
"All right, Mr. Alighieri, we'll do what we can to help you keep your job."

      
"Thank you," said Dante. "And I can't overstress the need for speed and secrecy."

      
"You journalists!" said the voice, half-amused, half- disgusted. "You'd slit each other's throats for a scoop. Signing off."

      
Dante leaned back and watched the viewscreen as the ship approached the surface. There were six cities spread across the face of the planet, more than usual for a colony world, especially one on the Inner Frontier, where small Tradertowns were the order of the day. He had no idea which city September Morn lived in, but then, neither did the Bandit, and he was getting here first, so with any luck he'd make contact with her first. If nothing else, he was sure the Bandit wasn't subtle enough to fabricate a story about why she should seek
him
out.

      
He touched down and cleared Customs. To make things go more smoothly he identified himself as Danny Briggs; the ID would check, and no one on the Frontier except the occasional bounty hunter would give a damn if the Democracy had put a price on his head. Finally he hired a limo to skim above the surface and take him into Trajan, the planet's capital city, which was home to the Windsor Arms Hotel.

      
He stopped at the desk to register, took an airlift up to the eighth floor, found his room, waited for the security system to scan his retina and compare it with the scan he'd just undergone downstairs, and finally entered the room as the door dilated to let him pass through.

      
The first thing he did was walk across to the desk that was positioned by a corner window and activate the computer that sat atop it.

      
"Good morning, Mr. Alighieri," said the computer in a soft feminine voice that startled him. "How may I help you?"

      
"I need to find a woman named September Morn. I know she lives on Hadrian II," replied Dante. "Check all the vidphone directories and see if she's listed."

      
"Checking . . . no, she is not," announced the computer. "This means that she either does not possess a vidphone, or else she possesses an unlisted number."

      
"Tie into the Master Computer on Deluros VIII and access any information it has on her."

      
"That will be a extra charge of 500 credits, or 1,228 New Kenya shillings. Press your left thumb against the spot indicated on my screen if you agree to the charges."

      
Dante pressed his thumb against the screen, then waited almost two minutes for the computer to address him again.

      
"The only information the Master Computer possesses is that September Morn is a writer residing on Hadrian II, that she has sold four novels and two volumes of poetry, and that her poem entitled
The King of the Outlaws
won this year's Questada Prize for literature."

      
"Contact her publisher and see if you can get her address, or her ID, if she's got one."

      
"Contacting . . . It is against their policy to give out such information."

      
"The local newsdisc must have a morgue with all prior issues. See if you can find any information on how to contact her directly."

      
"That could take as much as ten minutes, Mr. Alighieri."

      
"Why so long?"

      
"They use a primitive filing system, and I will have to re-access it by year."

      
"Don't go back more than a four or five years. I need current information."

      
"Understood."

      
"One more thing. Let me know if a man named either Santiago or the One-Armed Bandit lands at the spaceport."

      
"Yes, Mr. Alighieri. Is there anything else?"

      
"No."