The Return of Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future (51 page)

      
Dante reached across the table and placed a reassuring hand on hers. "You saved my life," he said. "The least I can do is return the favor. No one's going to harm you."

      
She looked questioningly at him.

      
"I'll get Santiago to protect you," promised Dante. "The
real
Santiago."

35.

      
      
Mongaso Taylor, churchmouse poor,

      
      
Bites the hand that feeds him.

      
      
Embittered man, he will not save

      
      
The family that needs him.

      
Dante sat alone in his room, waiting for Silvermane's face to reappear. For almost a minute it had been popping into and out of existence, terribly distorted. Finally the signal came through, and his perfect features took shape.

      
"I got your message," he said. "I'm sorry about Dimitrios of the Three Burners."

      
"So am I," replied Dante.

      
"And the Bandit is really dead?"

      
"That's right." Dante smiled wryly. "The girl I came here to protect killed him and saved my life."

      
"I'm almost sorry," said Silvermane. "I was looking forward to meeting him."

      
"To killing him, you mean."

      
"If it had been necessary." He paused. "Well, you might as well come back to Valhalla. There's nothing to keep you there now, and I've got plenty of work for you here."

      
"I can't."

      
"Why not?"

      
"The girl," said Dante.

      
"The one who saved your life?"

      
"Right. She's in danger."

      
"Just a minute," said Silvermane, frowning. "I thought you told me the Bandit was dead."

      
"He is. But—I'm not quite sure how to put this—she's the most important person on the planet. Or maybe I should say the most popular, or the most revered, or . . ."

      
"I get the picture," interrupted Silvermane irritably. "What about it?"

      
"The planetary government would pay any amount to get her back if she was kidnapped."

      
"Are you suggesting we kidnap her?" asked Silvermane, who didn't look unduly upset by the proposition.

      
"She killed the Bandit," Dante pointed out, lighting up a smokeless Antarean cigar he had picked up in the hotel's gift shop. "She's on our side. We
owe
her."

      
"Okay, you're my man on the scene. If you feel we should protect her, go ahead and do it." A pause. "Have you got any idea who's after her?"

      
"A pair of aliens—I gather they're called Tweedledee and Tweedledum."

      
Silvermane's expression darkened noticeably. "You're sure?"

      
"That's what she tells me."

      
"Get off the planet right now."

      
"I don't know if I can do it that quickly," said Dante. "She's been declared a living monument, whatever the hell that means, and there's all kinds of red tape, and—"

      
"I'm not talking about
her
!" said Silvermane sharply. "Get your ass off Hadrian II right now!"

      
"I can't."

      
"Trust me, you're not in their league, Rhymer," said Silvermane. "You can't even protect yourself from them, let alone your ladyfriend."

      
"Then send help."

      
"I'll send someone. Just get the hell out of there."

      
"Not without her," said Dante, fighting back a surge of frustration. "She stood up to the Bandit and saved my life. I can't desert her."

      
Silvermane sighed deeply. "All right," he said at last. "I can't argue with that kind of loyalty."

      
"Thanks."

      
"And arguing with that kind of stupidity hasn't gotten me anywhere," he added sharply. "Where are you staying?"

      
"The Windsor Arms Hotel."

      
"I know a man who's not too far from Hadrian, a man who owes me a favor. He's probably not up to taking the aliens either, but at least he'll buy you some time. I'll have him leave for Hadrian today; he should be there in two days' time, maybe sooner."

      
"Has he got a name?"

      
"Mongaso Taylor."

      
"I've heard that name before. I think maybe Dimitrios mentioned him."

      
"Could be," said Silvermane. "He used to be a hell of a commando for the Navy, back when he lived in the Democracy. They dropped him behind enemy lines on Cyrano IV during the Sett War. He took out 18 of the purple bastards and blew an ammunition dump all by himself."

      
"He sounds like he should be all we need."

      
"He hasn't got a chance," said Silvermane. His voice began crackling with static. "He'll buy you some time, that's all. Do your red tape or whatever's necessary, but get off the planet before Tweedledee and Tweedledum show up."

      
"It's difficult to take them seriously with those names," remarked Dante.

      
"Don't let the names fool you," said Silvermane. "I was eager to go up against the Bandit. I've no desire to ever find myself in the same sector with those two."

      
"Your picture's breaking up," said Dante. "Is there anything else?"

      
The holograph vanished before Silvermane could reply.

      
Dante went over to the bathroom, muttered "Cold", rinsed his face off in the flow of water, ordered the blower to dry him, ran a comb through his hair, and prepared to leave the hotel room.

      
"Open," he said as he approached the door.

      
The door remained shut.

      
"I said open."

      
The mechanical voice of a computer answered. "I must bring to your attention the fact that you have not shut off the water in the bathroom, and that if you leave it will continue running until you return. If that is your desire, say so and I will instruct the servo-mech not to disrupt the flow when it cleans the room. If it is not your desire, I will be happy to shut it off."

      
"Shut it off and let me out of here," said Dante.

      
He heard the water stop flowing as the door dilated and he stepped through to the corridor. He took the airlift down to the main floor, then climbed into a robotic rickshaw and had it take him to September Morn's house on the outskirts of town.

      
It was an old stone building that had a couple of additions grafted onto it, obviously signs of her success in the world of letters. The gardens were carefully tended, filled with flowers he had never seen before. Avian feeders abounded, and several leather-winged little creatures watched curiously him as he approached the from door. He answered a series of questions from the security system, and finally the door dilated. He entered the living room, where September Morn was waiting for him.

      
The walls were covered with holographic prints of pastoral artworks by human and alien artists alike. One small section held some holos of September Morn accepting various honors. There was a false fireplace, and the mantel was lined with trophies and awards.

      
"Where are all the books?"

      
"I actually have very few books," she replied. "They cost too much. My library consists mostly of discs and cubes."

      
He held up the thin book he'd been carrying. "I wonder if you'd autograph this for me."

      
"What is it?"

      
"
The King of the Outlaws
. I bought it last night at the hotel's gift shop."

      
"I'll be happy to," she said, producing a stylus as he carried the book over to her. "What did you think of it?"

      
"It depressed me terribly," said Dante.

      
She looked concerned. "Oh? What didn't you like about it?"

      
"I liked everything about it," said Dante. "I realized about three pages into it that the wrong person is trying to be the new Black Orpheus." He paused. "I envy the way you use words. I just write these little stanzas. You create textures and tapestries than I can only marvel it."

      
"I'm flattered. But what I write is far removed from the way Black Orpheus wrote. The person who carries on his work should write in his style."

      
"That's generous of you to say so, but you can write rings around me in any style you choose and we both know it." He took the book back and looked at the autograph. "I'll cherish this. It's one hell of a piece of work."

      
"I don't know how many times I can thank you before it starts sounding false," she said with an embarrassed smile. "So please stop praising me."

      
"All right."

      
"Besides, we have more important things to discuss."

      
He nodded. "I spoke to . . . Santiago."

      
"And?" said September Morn.

      
"He can't come himself, but he's sending help."

      
"Good."

      
"But he wants us off Hadrian as soon as possible."

      
"This is my home," she replied adamantly. "I'll leave it when I choose, but I won't be threatened or frightened into running."

      
"You're sure?"

      
"If I run once," said September Morn, "I'll run every time I'm threatened, and then every time I think I
might
be threatened, and one day I'll look around and realize I've spent most of my life running away from things rather than
to
them. That's not a life I care to live."

      
"All right," said Dante. "If I were a little bigger and a little stronger, maybe I could tie you up, sling you over a shoulder, and carry you to my ship. But one thing I know is that I'm not about to win an argument with the wordsmith who wrote the poem I just read."

      
"Thank you," she said. "And for what it's worth, you couldn't tie me up and carry me off even if you were twice your size."

      
"Probably not," he admitted.

      
"So I'm staying right here. I'm a crack shot, and I'm not afraid. I know how dangerous they are; they have no idea how dangerous
I
can be. My sister and I will be safe here."

      
"Your sister?" said Dante.

      
"Yes."

      
"I didn't know you had one. It's not in your bio," he said, holding up her book. "Does she live here?"

      
"Sometimes." He looked at her curiously, and she continued: "We don't get along very well. I suppose a lot of siblings are like that. But when push comes to shove, blood is thicker than . . . than whatever those aliens have coursing through their veins. She'll stand up and be counted if they come after me."

      
"Well, that's you, me, your sister, and Mongaso Taylor," said Dante. "Maybe it'll be enough."

      
"I doubt it," she said.

      
"So does Santiago."

      
"But even if we can't beat them, maybe we can convince them that kidnapping me is more effort than it's worth."

      
"We can try," agreed Dante.

      
"All right, we've covered that about as thoroughly as we can until your man Taylor gets here," she said. "Make yourself at home. I'm going to get us some drinks, and then you're going to spend the rest of the day telling me about Santiago—
all
the Santiagos."

      
It was a pleasant afternoon, and the next morning she showed him around the town of Trajan. They had just finished lunch at a local restaurant when his hotel paged him and told him he had a visitor.

      
"That's got to be him," said Dante. "Go home and lock all your doors, and don't let anyone in unless he's with me."

      
"You're overreacting," said September Morn. "They might be 20 systems away from here."

      
"And they might be 20 minutes away," answered Dante. "It doesn't hurt to play it safe."

      
"All right, I'll do what you say," she replied. "But I won't
keep
doing it. I value my freedom too much to stay locked up in my house."

      
"It's your freedom we're trying to protect," he said, getting up and walking out of the restaurant.

      
He reached the Windsor Arms in five minutes, and looked around the lobby. Standing by the artificial fireplace, his back to the desk, was a tall, slender, almost emaciated man dressed in muted shades of gray. There were a pair of telltale bulges under his tunic.

      
Dante approached him. "Mongaso Taylor?" he asked.

      
The man turned to face him. His face was long and lean, like the rest of him, and he had a thick handlebar mustache. "You must be Dante . . . Dante something. I've forgotten your last name."