The Return of Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future (49 page)

      
"My screen will go blank, and I will not speak until I have finished my assignments, but although I will appear to have shut down all systems, this is not the case, so please do not mistakenly report me as broken or inactive to the management."

      
"No problem," said Dante. The computer went dead so quickly he wasn't sure it heard him.

      
He ordered the wet bar to pour him a beer, and had just taken his first swallow when there was a knock at the door.

      
"Open," he ordered, and the door dilated again to reveal Dimitrios of the Three Burners.

      
"I got Matilda's message," he said, entering the room. "What the hell's going on?"

      
"To borrow an ancient saying, we put our money on the wrong horse."

      
"So he's turned pure outlaw instead of helping the Frontier?" asked Dimitrios.

      
"It's not that simple," replied Dante. "He's become a fanatic. If it has anything to do with the Democracy, it can't be permitted to survive."

      
"Isn't that the purpose of the exercise?"

      
"He just slaughtered 300 children who might have someday grown up to be Democracy soldiers or bureaucrats."

      
"Ah," said the bounty hunter. I see."

      
"The original plan was for me to lure him out here and never even show up myself—but everything's gone to hell. If we can't find some way to stop him, he's going to kill a woman who doesn't even know he's alive, let alone after her."

      
"Back up a minute," said Dimitrios, frowning. "Why did you want to lure him here in the first place? What's so special about Hadrian II?"

      
"It's about as far as you can get from Valhalla and still be on the Inner Frontier."

      
"Valhalla. That's the planet where he's set up his headquarters, right?"

      
"Right."

      
"So what is supposed to happen while he's gone?" asked Dimitrios.

      
"His successor will move in and take over, and present him with a
fait accompli
."

      
"And who is this successor?"

      
"Joshua Silvermane." Dante couldn't help but notice that Dimitrios grimaced at the mention of the name. "Do you disapprove?"

      
"He's as good a symbol as you could ever find," began Dimitrios. "He looks like a statue, and he's certainly as good with his weapons as the Bandit."

      
"But?" said Dante. "You look like there's a 'But'."

      
"But he's a cold, passionless son of a bitch," continued the bounty hunter, "and he's so self-sufficient that he doesn't inspire much loyalty, if only because it's apparent he doesn't need it or want it."

      
"But he's a moral man without being a fanatic."

      
"He's a man of his word," agreed Dimitrios. "He's so beautiful and so deadly that people will watch him in awe, but I don't know if he's the kind of man other men will follow." He paused. "I guess you'll find out—if the Bandit doesn't go back and kill him once he's done here. Exactly what's drawing him here in the first place?"

      
Dante explained his plan, and even quotes a few of the poems to Dimitrios.

      
"Sounds fine to me," said the bounty hunter. "What went wrong?"

      
"Just a stroke of bad luck," replied Dante. "Of all the goddamned planets on the Frontier, this is the one that's home to a woman who just wrote an award-winning poem about, of all things, Santiago."

      
"Suddenly things make a lot more sense."

      
"Her name is September Morn," Dante concluded. "And we've got to find her before he does."

      
"Well, on your behalf, you couldn't know she'd gone and won a prize for a poem about Santiago," said Dimitrios. "It was a hell of a good idea except for that."

      
"Thanks," said Dante with grim irony.

      
"Problem is, you've endangered this woman, and we don't know how to reach her to protect her or warn her off."

      
"Neither does
he
," Dante pointed out.

      
"That's one thing in our favor. If we're starting out even, I'll put my money on you to out-think him."

      
The computer suddenly hummed to life.

      
"I am sorry, Mr. Alighieri," it said, "but the newsdisc morgue gives no indication of how to contact September Morn. All I could learn is that as of two years ago she resided in Trajan."

      
"Well, that's a start," said Dante. "What's Trajan's population?"

      
"110,463 at the last census."

      
"So much for going door-to-door." The poet paused. "Thank you, computer. You may deactivate until I need you again."

      
"This contradicts your order that I alert you if a man named Santiago or the One-Armed Bandit lands on Hadrian II," the computer reminded him.

      
"I forgot that," admitted Dante. "All right, do that and nothing more."

      
"Understood."

      
The machine seemed too go dormant again, but Dante knew it was monitoring the spaceport.

      
"So what do you suggest we do?" asked Dimitrios. "I'm at your disposal."

      
"I asked the authorities to contact September Morn and let her know I had urgent business with her," replied Dante. "And I gave the Windsor Arms as my address. I don't think we should leave the place until I hear from her."

      
"I haven't eaten today," said Dimitrios. "I saw a restaurant in the hotel, just off the lobby. Let's grab a bite there. If she tries to contact you by vidphone or computer, the hotel can transfer it to our table, and if she shows up in person they can point us out to her."

      
"I don't see any harm in that," agreed Dante, getting to his feet. "Let's go."

      
They took the airlift down to the main floor, and were soon sitting in the restaurant. Dimitrios ordered a steak from a mutated beef animal. Dante just had coffee.

      
"You're not hungry?" asked Dimitrios.

      
"No."

      
"Don't be so nervous. We'll find her."

      
"We'd better."

      
"Get some calories into you," said Dimitrios. "Maybe they'll get that brain of yours working again."

      
"All right, all right," muttered Dante irritably. He called up the menu and placed a finger on a holograph of a pastry.

      
"They have wonderful meat," said Dimitrios.

      
"You said calories. This has calories."

      
"What the hell—do what you want," said the bounty hunter with a shrug.

      
They ate in silence, got up, and were walking to the airlift when Dante glanced out the window and suddenly froze.

      
"Do you see her?" asked Dimitrios.

      
"I don't even know what she looks like," replied the poet. "I saw
him
."

      
Dimitrios walked to the window. "I don't see anyone. The street's empty."

      
"He's in the hotel right across the street. Probably looking for her."

      
"Or you."

      
"Or me. If he sees me here, that lets her off the hook. He'll know I wrote those verses."

      
"You're not seriously considering walking out there?" demanded Dimitrios.

      
"I can't let him kill her."

      
"Are you going to challenge him to a thinking match?" said Dimitrios angrily. "Or maybe a poetry contest? They're the only two things you can beat him at."

      
"What do you suggest?" snapped Dante. "I don't want to die, but I can't let him find and kill September Morn!"

      
"What do I suggest?" repeated Dimitrios. "I suggest you step aside and let someone face him who's at least got a chance!"

      
And before Dante could stop him, Dimitrios had stepped out into the street. He stood there patiently for a few seconds, and then the Bandit came out of the hotel.

      
"Dimitrios?" said the Bandit, surprised. "It's been a long time. What are you doing here?"

      
"I'm here on business," replied Dimitrios.

      
"Who is he? Maybe I know him."

      
"I'm sure you do. He wiped out a schoolhouse on Madras."

      
"Forget your business," said the Bandit. "You're a good man, and you're no friend of the Democracy. Go in peace."

      
"You're a good man, too," said Dimitrios. "But you've gone a little overboard. We should talk, Bandit."

      
"My name is Santiago," the Bandit corrected him.

      
"Not any more. That's what we have to talk about. You can work for him, you can help him, but you can't be him."

      
"Stand aside, Dimitrios. I'm only giving you one more chance to walk away."

      
"I can't," said Dimitrios.

      
"I know," said the Bandit sadly. He pointed a finger at Dimitrios. The bounty hunter went for his burners, but never got them out of their holsters. An instant later he was dead, a black, bubbling, smoking hole in the middle of his forehead.

      
"Shit!"
muttered Dante. "He'll kill the whole fucking city if he doesn't find what he's after."

      
He walked to the hotel's doorway and stepped outside.

      
"I knew I'd find you here," said the Bandit.

      
"You killed my friend."

      
"I'll kill more than your friend if I don't find the woman who writes poems about Santiago."

      
"She only writes about the
real
Santiago," said Dante. "
I
wrote the ones you read."

      
The Bandit stared at him. "Why?"

      
"To lure you out here."

      
"Still why?" asked the Bandit, frowning and scanning the area for hidden gunmen.

      
"To get you away from Valhalla. You'll find some changes when you get back." Dante smiled grimly. "Dimitrios was telling the truth. You're not Santiago any more."

      
"We'll see about that when I return to Valhalla," said the Bandit, pointing his finger at Dante. "In the meantime, I told you that the next time we met I'd—"

      
Suddenly he stopped speaking. A puzzled expression crossed his face. He opened his mouth, but only blood came out. Then he pitched forward on the street, stone cold dead.

      
As he fell, the figure of a woman was revealed. She was standing behind him, a burner in her hand.

      
Dante stood motionless, finding it difficult to believe he was still alive.

      
The woman approached him. "I believe you were looking for me," she said. "I'm September Morn."

34.

      
      
She sings, she dances, she writes novels too.

      
      
There's nothing that she isn't able to do.

      
      
Just set her a task that all have foresworn:

      
      
Of course she can do it—she's September Morn.

      
They were sitting in the restaurant, which management had closed to all other customers. A lone waiter stood in the most distant corner, awaiting their pleasure.

      
September Morn poured Dante a stiff drink. "Take this," she said. "You look like you need it."

      
"Thank you," said Dante, swallowing it in a single gulp, then watching as she poured him another. "I owe you my life. If there's ever anything I can do for you . . ."

      
"You can tell me why he came here to kill me," said September Morn.

      
"I will," said Dante, looking out the window where medical crews were removing the two corpses from the blood-stained street. Finally the last vehicle raced away, bearing the Bandit's body, and he turned back to her. "But shouldn't we be expecting a visit from the authorities any minute now? I mean, you
did
kill him out there in broad daylight. I'll testify that you were saving my life, but surely they're going to want to ask us both some questions."

      
She shook her head. "Don't worry," she said. "They won't bother us."

      
Dante downed a second drink, and felt the tension finally ease.

      
"Why not? There are two dead men out there."

      
"It's very complicated," replied September Morn. "Let simply say that I'm not without a certain amount of cachet here on Hadrian."

      
"Oh?" He stared at her, waiting for her to continue, and finally she did.

      
"I'm the only native who ever won a major award for anything, and they're very proud of that. When I considered moving to the Binder system, they passed a law declaring me a Living Monument. My mortgage was cancelled, all my outstanding debts were paid, and by definition I cannot break the law—within reason, of course." She grimaced. "All that's on the one side. On the other is that I can't leave the system without a military escort whose sole purpose is to see that I return."