by Mike Resnick
Yes, he was still there: Dimitrios of the Three Burners. I pulled it off right under your nose, bounty killer, and it's almost a pity that I did it so well you'll never know what happened. That's the only part of this business I don't enjoy; I can never let anyone know how good I am at what I do.
She was on such an adrenaline high that she not only gave them a five-minute dance, but a four-minute encore, and then another four minutes in which she and the band improvised wildly but in perfect harmony. When it was finally over, she bowed again, gave Dimitrios a great big smile, and returned to her dressing room—and found a small, slightly-built man sitting there on her chair.
"Hi," he said. "My name's Dante Alighieri. We have to talk."
"Who let you in here?" she demanded.
"I let myself in. It's one of the things I do really well."
"Well, you can let yourself right out!"
"Look," he said, "I'm not a bounty hunter, I'm not a security guard, I don't work for the Democracy or any police agency. I don't give a damn that you robbed the office next door."
Her eyes widened. "How . . . ?" She forced herself to stop in mid-thought.
"Because robbery is another of the things I do really well. I have nothing but professional admiration for you." Suddenly he smiled. "I wonder if Dimitrios knows how close he is to a real outlaw?"
"Probably not," she said, still eyeing him suspiciously.
"Where are my manners?" said Dante, suddenly getting to his feet. "This is your chair."
"I'd prefer to stand."
"All right," he said. "But hear me out before you start hitting and kicking. That's not one of the things I do well—though I'm learning."
"Just what the hell is it that you want?"
"I told you—I want to talk to you."
"If you think I'm going to pay you to keep quiet about tonight, you can forget it. They can question that old man all they want, his story will never hold up."
"I don't care about him or about what you stole."
"Then what do you want to talk about?"
"Santiago."
9.
He was a cop on the make, a cop on the take,
As corrupt as a cop gets to be.
The very same men that he saved from the pen
Are now owned by Simon Legree.
His name was Simon Legree, and he'd been after Matilda for a long, long time. She was the One Who Got Away, and it was a point of honor with him that he bring her to the bar of justice—or at least threaten to do so.
For Legree had his own profitable little business, not totally dissimilar from Wait-a-bit Bennett's. It was trickier, because he didn't have the advantage of a price on his prey's head—but when it worked, it was far more lucrative.
Oh, he took bribes, and he always managed to stuff a few packets of alphanella seeds in his pocket for future resale when there was a major drug bust—but what Simon Legree lived for was to catch a criminal in the act of committing a crime. Then it was a choice between jail and turning over a third of their earnings for the rest of their lives—and Legree had enough working capital to hire agents to make sure his new partners fulfilled their obligations.
He made millions from Billy the Whip, and millions more from the New Bronte Sisters, and he had almost fifty other partners out there earning money for him—but the one he wanted the most, the one he was sure had amassed the greatest fortune, Waltzin' Matilda, had thus far eluded him. Oh, he knew where she worked and where she lived, and whenever she changed planets—which she did on an almost weekly basis—his network of informants always let him know where she came to rest. But she was so damned creative in her lawlessness that he had yet to catch her in a compromising position, and she remained his Holy Grail.
He knew she was on Prateep IV. He knew she was dancing at the Diamond Emporium. He knew that she had signed a six-day contract, and had already been there five days. He knew that this was the night she figured to strike. He knew that by morning someone would be short hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions, of credits, and that her alibi would be airtight.
He tried to think like her, to predict what she might do, but he had nothing to go on, no past performance, no motus operandi. The damned woman never operated in the same way twice, and trying to predict and out-think her was driving him to distraction.
He sat in the audience, aware that Dimitrios of the Three Burners was there too, and wondered if Dimitrios had come for Matilda. He had no desire to go up against Dimitrios—no one in his right mind did—but he wasn't going to give Matilda up without a fight.
So Simon Legree sat there, silent, motionless, going over endless scenarios and permutations in his mind, and wondering how long it would be before Matilda emerged from her dressing room and returned to her hotel.
But Matilda had more important things on her mind—or confronting her from a few feet away. She stared curiously at the young man who knew she had just plundered the brokerage house but wanted only to talk about Santiago.
"He's been dead for more than a century," she said at last. "What makes you think I know anything about him?"
"Tyrannosaur Bailey seems to think you know more about him than anyone else alive," answered Dante.
"Probably I do," she agreed. "So what? He's still been dead for over a century."
Dante met her stare. "All of them have been," he said.
She looked her surprise. "I thought I was the only one who knew!"
"You were, until a few weeks ago."
"What happened a few weeks ago?"
"I found Black Orpheus' manuscript."
"The whole thing?"
Dante nodded. "Including a bunch of verses no one's ever seen or heard."
"Okay, so you know there was more than one Santiago," said Matilda. "So what? That was his secret, not mine."
"Tell me about them," said Dante. "And tell me why you're the expert."
"I'm the only living descendant of Santiago."
"Which Santiago?"
"What difference does it make?"
"It would help me to believe you."
"I don't give a damn if you believe me or not."
"Look, I have no reason not to believe you, and I want very much to. It's in both of our best interests."
"Why?" she insisted. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"
"My name is Dante Alighieri. The name I plan to be remembered by is The Rhymer."
"So you're the new Black Orpheus."
"You're very quick, Miss . . . ah . . ."
"Matilda." She frowned. "Okay, you're Orpheus. That's doesn't change anything. Santiago still died more than a century ago."
Dante stared at her for a long minute. "I think it's time for him to live again," he said at last.
Her eyes widened, and a smile slowly crossed her face. "Now that's an interesting idea."
"I'm glad you think so."
"Just a minute!" she said. "I hope to hell you're not thinking of me!"
"I'm not thinking of anyone in particular," said Dante. "But if we can talk, if you have any memorabilia, anything at all, I might get a better idea of what I'm looking for. As far as I can tell, of them all only Sebastian Cain could be considered truly skilled with his weapons, so they obviously had other qualities."
"They did."
"Qualities such as you exhibited tonight."
"I told you—I'm not a candidate for the job!" she snapped. "I'd like a Santiago, if only to take some of the pressure off me and give the law and the bounty hunters an even bigger target—so why in the world would I volunteer?"
"All right," he said. "I won't bring it up again." He paused. "Do you have any records or other memorabilia—letters, holographs, anything at all?"
"My family has lived like kings for three generations on what he chose to leave us—probably about two percent of what he was worth—but whatever we started with, it was converted into cash over a century ago. I've never seen any documents or anything like that."
"Did they ever spe
ak of him?"
"How else would I know I was his great-great-granddaughter?"
"What did they say?"
"When people were around, the usual—that he was the greatest bandit in the galaxy, that he was a terrible man, that he might not have even been a man at all."
"And when people weren't around?"
She studied his face again, then shrugged. "What the hell. Who cares after this long?" She leaned back against a wall. "They told me that he was a secret revolutionary, that he was trying, not to overthrow the Democracy, but to hold it in check, to stop it from plundering the human colonies on the Frontier when there were so many alien worlds to plunder." She paused. "Does that agree with what Orpheus said?"
"No," replied Dante. "But Orpheus didn't know. It agrees with what I pieced together after reading the manuscript. Orpheus was too close to things. He studied all the people, but he never stepped back and really looked at the picture." He looked at her. "What else did they tell you?"
"That he had to do some morally questionable things, that he killed a lot of men because he felt his cause was just. Since it was essential that the Democracy think of Santiago as an outlaw rather than a revolutionary, almost everyone who worked for him was a criminal. Some looted and murdered on their own and let him to take the blame—and some did terrible things on his orders." He paused. "They all served his cause, one way or another."
"Sounds about right. He came into existence because we needed him. I think we need him again."
"And if you and I select him and train him and control him, there's no reason why we shouldn't get a little piece of the action," she agreed.
"I don't want it," said Orpheus. "I just want him."
She looked at him like he was crazy. "Why?"
Dante shrugged. "It's difficult to explain. But he helps define me: there can't be an Orpheus without a Santiago. And God knows the need still exists. I've seen more brutality practiced in the name of the Democracy than I've ever seen practiced against it. Nothing's changed. They still don't seem to remember that they're in business to protect us, not plunder us."
"They would say they're doing just that."
"They're doing that if you're a citizen in good standing," replied Dante. "But out here, on the Frontier, they prevent alien races from running roughshod over us only so they can do it themselves. It's time to remind them just what the hell the Navy is supposed to be doing out here."
"What makes you think one man can stand up to them?" asked Matilda.
"Your great-great-grandfather did."
"They didn't know that, or they'd have used the whole Navy to hunt him down," she replied. "I know he robbed a lot of Navy convoys, and I know he ran the Democracy ragged trying to hunt him down—but what good did it do? All the Santiagos are dead, and the Democracy's still here."
"They stopped it from being worse," said Dante. "They built hospitals, they misdirected the Navy, they saved some alien worlds from total destruction. That's something, damn it."
"And who knows it besides you and me?" said Matilda. "Everyone he fought for thought he was a criminal out for their property."
"You know who knows it?" shot back Dante. "The Democracy knows it. They were scared to death of him—of them—for more than half a century . . . and if Santiago comes back, they'll be scared again."
She grimaced. "You know why there are no more Santiagos?"
"Why?"
"Because the Democracy blew Safe Harbor to smithereens when they got word that an alien force was hiding there. They never knew it was Santiago's headquarters, or that they'd killed him and his chosen successors. We live out here on the Frontier, so we think of him as King of the Outlaws—but if you're the Democracy, he's no more than a bothersome insect that's hardly worth swatting."
"You're wrong," said Dante. "I've studied it. The Democracy had eleven different agencies charged with finding and terminating him. Even today there's still one agency whose job is to find out who he was, how he got to be so powerful, and to stop history from ever repeating itself."
"Really?" she asked, interested.
He nodded. "Really." He paused. "So are you in or out?"
"Like I told you, I could use a Santiago to take the heat off me. Hell, I could use a couple of dozen. I'm in. Now what do I do?"
"Now we pool our knowledge and try to find the next Santiago."
"We could do a lot worse than the Tyrannosaur," she suggested.
"He's out. Doesn't want any part of it—and he's not what we need anyway."
"Why not? He's well-named."
"Santiago wasn't just a physical force, or even primarily one," answered Dante. "He was a moral force. Men who never gave allegiance to anyone laid down their lives for him." He paused. "Do you see anyone giving up their lives because Bailey tells them to?"
"If that's your criterion, we'll never find a Santiago," she complained.
"We'll find him, all right," said Dante firmly. "The times will bring him forth."
"They haven't brought him yet."
"He's out there somewhere," said Dante. "But he doesn't know he's Santiago. It was easier for most of the others, all of them except the first one; they were recruited by the man they succeeded. Our Santiago doesn't know that the Santiago business still exists."
"All right, we'll proceed on that assumption," said Matilda. "I'll see what I can remember from my childhood." She paused. "I'm leaving Prateep tomorrow, for New Kenya. What should I be looking for?"
"I don't know. They were all different. Reading between the lines, I figure the original collected animals for zoos, and he was followed by a chess master, a farmer, a bounty hunter, and a bank robber. You'll just have to use your judgment, look for the kind of qualities you think he should have."
"That's not much to go on."
"We're planning to take the Frontier back from the Democracy. We can't put too many restrictions on the man who will lead us."
"All right," she said. "Where will you be? How can I contact you?"
"I'll contact you." She stared at him curiously. "I'm a little hotter than you are right now," he explained. "I've got to keep moving."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing," he said wryly. "That's one of the things I have against the Democracy."
"I saw Dimitrios in the audience," she said. "Is he looking for you?"
"I doubt it," answered Dante. "If he was, I'm sure he'd have found me by now."
"He's one hell of a bounty hunter," Matilda noted. "You don't seem very worried about it."
"I'm not without my resources."
"They must be formidable."
"They're okay." He got to his feet. "I think I'd better be going now. I'll contact you again before you leave New Kenya."
"I don't know where I'll be staying yet."
"I'll find you."
He turned toward the door, which opened before he could reach it—and Simon Legree, dressed in his trademark navy blue, entered the dressing room, a burner in one hand, a screecher in the other.
"What have we here?" he said. "A carnival of thieves?"
"Go away," said Matilda contemptuously. "You don't have anything on me."
"I will soon, Tilly," he said.
"The name's Matilda, and you can tell me about it when you have it. Now get out of my dressing room."
"When I'm ready," he said with a smile. "As it happens, I didn't come for you." He turned to Dante. "Hello, Danny Briggs, alias Dante Alighieri, alias The Rhymer."
"All three of us bid you welcome," said Dante with no show of fear or alarm.
"Got a nice price on your head, Danny Briggs," continued Legree. "I could blow you away right now and take what's left to the nearest bounty office for the reward."
"The nearest office is halfway across the Frontier," said Dante. "I'd spoil."
"That wouldn't do either of us any good," said Legree. "Perhaps we should consider alternatives."
"I'm always happy to consider alternatives."
"What do you
do for a living, Danny Briggs?"
"My name's Dante, and I'm a poet."
Legree made a face. "Poets don't make any money, Danny. You're going to havbe to learn another skill if you want to live." He paused. "Do you rob or kill?"
"I write poems about colorful characters like you before history has a chance to forget them."
"Damn it, I'm trying to give you a chance to buy your way out of this!" snapped Legree. "Usually I take thirty percent of your earnings for life—but what the hell does a poet earn?"
"I'm rich in satisfaction," replied Dante. "I love my work and I have loyal friends. What more does a man need?"
Legree shook his head. "No good, Danny. If you know a short prayer, you've just got time to say it."
Danny look him in the eye. "I pray that you die quickly and painlessly," he said.
And before the words were out of Dante's mouth, Simon Legree blinked and frowned, as if he couldn't quite understand what had just happened. His weapons fell from his hands. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak; nothing came out except a stream of blood.
"I told you I have loyal friends," said Dante, just before Legree fell to the floor with a knife protruding from his back, and Virgil Soaring Hawk entered the room, stepping over the lawman's corpse.
"Ma'am," said Virgil, staring at her with unconcealed lust, "you are unquestionably the most gorgeous creature to grace this forsaken world since the Maker Of All Things set it spinning in orbit."
"Matilda, this is Virgil Soaring Hawk," said Dante.
"Dante's Virgil at your service." The Injun bent low in a stately bow. "Or the Scarlet Infidel, if you prefer."
"The Scarlet Infidel?" she repeated.
"It's a long story, ma'am," said Virgil. Suddenly he smiled. "But it's an interesting story, if you've got time to hear it over a couple of drinks."
"Leave her alone," Dante said. "She's one of us."
"What better reason to initiate her?" said Virgil.
"Don't," said Dante, and something in his voice made the Injun back off. The poet jerked his head toward Legree. "Get him out of here before someone sees him."
Virgil smiled apologetically at Matilda. "If you'll excuse me, ma'am, I'll just pick up this poor gentleman's body and put it somewhere where it won't bother anyone." He lifted Legree's corpse to his shoulder. "If you need anything, ma'am, now or anytime I'm around, just holler."
