by Mike Resnick
"It's not up to me to tell you anything," replied Dante. "I'm just a poet. Santiago will decide what needs to be done, and by whom."
"You'll tell him about me?"
"Of course."
"Do you think he'll let me join him?"
"We're just starting out. He'll need all the help he can get." He sighed. "Hell, he'll need all the help he can get 50 years and a hundred victories from now. This is the Democracy we're going up against, even if they're not allowed to know it." He pulled out his pocket computer. "Where can I get hold of you, Blossom?"
"As long as you've assured me that Santiago will be giving me my orders, I'll reserve that information for him."
"But—"
"Don't worry," said Blossom. "Neither you nor he will leave Heliopolis before I speak to him—but there's no sense doing that until he makes it official, is there?"
"It might help him decide."
"If I'm what it takes to make him decide, then you picked the wrong man for the job." She got to her feet. "I'll be watching, Rhymer."
"It shouldn't be long," said Dante.
She turned and left, and he watched her make her way through the lobby and the airlock. It seemed difficult to believe that such a gorgeous woman could have suffered so much—and then he realized that he was thinking in stereotypes. Santiago would know that it was the suffering that mattered, not the appearance of the sufferer.
Hurry up and make up your mind, Bandit. The Frontier is filled with Flowers of Samarkand. Someone has to step forward and make sure that the Democracy doesn't make any more of them suffer as this one has.
18.
He's the King of the Outlaws, the creme de la creme,
He's clever, he's deadly, he's knavery's gem.
He sups with the devil, he revels in pain.
He kills and he plunders—humanity's bane.
Dante wrote that verse just before he went to visit the One-Armed Bandit and learn his decision. Black Orpheus had never mentioned Santiago by name; he simply assumed that no one else could possibly fit the verses he wrote about the King of the Outlaws and that his readers would know that.
Dante followed suit for a number of reasons, not the lead of which was that he wasn't at all sure that the Bandit would agree to become Santiago. He was so moral, so out-and-out decent, that there was some doubt in Dante's mind that he could do all the unpleasant things that were required of him.
Dante tried to visualize the Bandit ordering his men to wipe out a Navy convoy filled with brave young men whose only crime was that they had been drafted to serve the Democracy. He tried to imagine the Bandit ordering Blossom to sleep with a degenerate man who had information Santiago's organization needed. He knew that Santiago would have to commit some actual crimes, some robberies and murders, if only to leave a false trail and convince the Democracy that he was an outlaw and not a revolutionary. All the previous Santiagos had blended in, had been able to hide out in the middle of a crowd—but none of them had the Bandit's reputation, or his easily-recognizable prosthetic arm. So do I want him to say yes or don't I?
Yes, he realized, of course he wanted the Bandit to say yes. There would be problems—but that was precisely why there was a need for Santiago. I need you, yes, thought Dante, but the Frontier, maybe even the galaxy, needs you even more. I could look for a couple of lifetimes and not find a better candidate than you, so please, please say yes.
He checked his timepiece, decided it was time to get his answer, and walked out into the crushing gravity and hot, thin, dusty air.
The first thing we do when we get the Democracy off our backs is get some public transportation here.
He stopped halfway to the Royal Khan to buy a cold drink, then forced himself back outside to complete the journey. Once inside the Bandit's hotel he found that his shirt was drenched with perspiration, and he stopped by a public bathroom to dry himself off. He looked at his face in a mirror, marveled at how tanned he'd become from the very days in which he'd been exposed to the blazing red sun, and finally, feeling a little more comfortable, went to the airlift and rode it up to the Bandit's floor.
As usual the door slid open before he could knock. This time, instead of using the floating, form-fitting easy chair, the Bandit was sitting on a window ledge, his shoulder pressed against it, glancing out to the street every now and then.
"Good morning, Mr. Alighieri."
"Dante."
"I'll get it right sooner or later."
"And who am I saying good morning to?" asked Dante.
"Me."
"And who are you—Santiago or the One-Armed Bandit?"
"We'll talk a bit, and then I'll tell you."
"Do you mind if I sit down?"
"Suit yourself," said the Bandit.
Dante walked over to the easy chair. As he sat down, it seemed to wrap around his body and begin rocking him gently. The rocking became a swaying as the chair rose and hovered a few inches above the ground.
Dante felt a grin of pleasure cross his face. "I've wanted to sit in this thing from the first minute I saw it."
"You look comfortable," observed the Bandit.
"I may never get out of it again," said Dante, still grinning. "Okay, I'm ready to listen if you're ready to talk."
"I have a few questions for you," said the Bandit.
"Shoot."
"You tell me there were five Santiagos."
"Right. The last one died when the Navy destroyed Safe Harbor."
"Did all five die violently?"
"I won't lie to you," said Dante, the grin gone. "Yes, they did."
"What was their average age?"
"I don't know as much about the first two as I should. I really couldn't say."
"It's not important anyway. The real question is: what was their average tenure as Santiago?"
"Maybe ten or twelve years. Less for the last one."
"And these were the best men the prior Santiagos could find, and they each inherited a massive organization." It was a statement, not a question.
"Except for the first," noted Dante. "He had to create it—and the legend, and the misdirection—from scratch."
"And even with those organizations, none of them lasted fifteen years, not even a man as accomplished as Sebastian Cain."
"That's right."
The Bandit frowned and fell silent. After a moment he turned and looked out at the street again.
"You're not afraid of dying in ten or twelve years, not with the odds you face almost every day," said Dante. "What's the real reason you're being so hesitant?"
The Bandit turned and faced him. "I don't know if I can accomplish enough before they kill me," he said. "You might be better off with some criminal kingpin or even a disgruntled military commander, someone who's already got an organization in place."
"Is that what this is all about?" asked Dante, suddenly relieved.
"I don't want to be the Santiago that failed," said the Bandit. "Is that so hard to understand?"
"I'm sure every Santiago had his doubts."
"Do you really think so?"
"I'm certain of it," answered Dante. "If you say yes to our offer, you'll become not only the most feared man in the galaxy, but the most hated as well. And you won't be hated just by the Democracy. You'll be hated by every decent, law-abiding, God- fearing colonist that you're trying to protect. You'll be hated and envied by the men and women who work for you, and most of them will be the scum of the galaxy. You'll only be able to leave your headquarters—I won't use the word 'hideout', but that's what it'll be—if you're heavily disguised. You'll send decent men and women to their deaths. The Democracy will put a huge price on your head, and it'll get higher ever month. You won't even be mourned when an underling or a bounty hunter finally kills you, because we can't let anyone know that Santiago is dead." Dante paused. "Don't you think the other Santiagos had their doubts?"
The Bandit sighed heavily. "When you put it that way, I guess they must have."
"Of cou
rse they did," said Dante. "And each of them thought the cause was worth it." He stared at the Bandit, studying his face. "You do a lot of good, and you're a hero." The Bandit was about to interrupt, but Dante held up a hand. "No, don't deny it. You're an authentic, bonafide hero. What we're asking is for you to do ten times, a hundred times as much good—and be thought of as a villain for the rest of your life. In the end, that's what it boils down to. Which is more important to you—being a hero or doing good?"
"You don't pull your punches, do you, Mr. Alighieri?" said the Bandit wryly.
"I'm asking you to become the most feared and hated man in the galaxy," replied the poet. "I don't know how to make it sound like anything other than that." He paused. "And there's something else."
"What?"
"If I had to couch it in diplomatic terms, then you're not the man we're looking for."
"Oh, I'm the man, all right," said the Bandit with another deep sigh. "I just wanted to make sure I knew what I was getting into, because there's no turning back."
"You're right about that. Once you're in, you're in for keeps." Dante paused thoughtfully. "Have you got any family?"
"Not much. A brother somewhere. I haven't kept in touch. Maybe a distant cousin or two. My parents are dead, and my sister died in the same battle where I lost my arm."
"No wife, no kids, no romantic attachments?"
The Bandit shook his head. "I never found the time for it. I always planned to someday."
"Forget about it. To you they'd be a wife and kids; to millions of men and women, they'd be targets."
The Bandit nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I can see that."
"How about your arm?" continued Dante. "Does it need servicing?"
"Never has yet. Why?"
"We couldn't let your doctors know, or even guess, that they were working on Santiago."
The Bandit frowned. "You'd kill them?"
"Not me," said Dante. "I'm just a poet."
The meaning of Dante's statement was reflected in the Bandit's face. "I see."
"Could you order it done?"
The Bandit stared at him, unblinking. "I'd have to."
"That's right—you'd have to."
"I don't imagine decisions like that get any easier to make over the years."
"Not if you're the man we hope you are," agreed Dante.
"Okay, I've asked my questions," said the Bandit. "What do we do now?"
"Now we meet the members of your organization that are currently on Heliopolis II, and we start making plans."
"There's really an organization?"
"The start of one."
"Are they down in the lobby?"
"No," said Dante. "I told them I'd contact them if and when you committed."
The poet pulled out a communicator, and a moment later had made contact with the four people he sought.
"This is Dante," he said. "We have plans to make. I expect to see you all in"—he paused, then smiled—"in Santiago's room at the Royal Khan in half an hour."
"Santiago's room," repeated the Bandit. "I like the sound of that."
"That's who you are. The One-Armed Bandit ceased to exist three minutes ago."
Dante spent the next few minutes telling him tales of the previous Santiagos, tales he hadn't told the day before. The Bandit was most interested in how they died.
"Violently," answered Dante.
"I know. But how?"
"The first was killed during a raid on a Navy convoy," said Dante. "The second one died from injuries he received in prison. The third—"
"They had Santiago in prison?" interrupted the Bandit.
"Yes," answered Dante, "but they didn't know who he was. Many men were tortured to death without telling them." He paused. "The third was killed by a bounty hunter named the Angel. The fourth, who I'm convinced was Sebastian Cain, was assassinated by another bounty hunter, either Peacemaker MacDougal or Johnny One- Note. The last of them, a former thief known as Esteban Cordoba, died when the Navy vaporized his world." Dante paused, almost overwhelmed by the litany of violent deaths. "None of them died in bed."
"Except maybe for the second one."
"It's not a death you'd want. I gather they mutilated him pretty badly."
"There are so many worlds on the Frontier, literally millions of them. I'm surprised none of my predecessors could stay in hiding for as much as 15 years."
"Probably they could have."
"Then why—"
"Because each of them seems to have reached a point where he decided not to run again." Dante shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe being Santiago affects your judgment after a decade or so. Maybe because you've held off the best killers the Democracy could throw against you, you start feeling that you can't be killed, that you're somehow immortal."
"The first might have felt that way," said the Bandit. "The others had to know better."
"Then you'll have to tell me someday. I sure as hell don't have any better explanation."
"I didn't mean any offense, Mr.—"
"Stop!" said Dante harshly.
"What's the matter?" asked the Bandit, surprised.
"Two things," said Dante. "Santiago doesn't call anyone Mister, and he never apologizes."
"I'll try to remember."
"See that you do," said Dante. "I'm serious about this. Any sign of deference or regret will be viewed as weakness not only by your enemies, but, worse still, by the men who work for you. Santiago bows to no one, he apologizes to no one, he defers to no one. Never forget that, or you'll be long buried when I want to ask you that question a decade from now."
"I'll remember," amended the Bandit.
Dante stared at him for a long moment.
"What's wrong?" asked the Bandit.
"Ordinarily I'd suggest cosmetic surgery, a whole new face, maybe prosthetic eyes that can see into the infra-red and ultra- violet and retinas that aren't on record anywhere, but . . ." He let his voice trail off.
"But what?"
"But there's no way to hide or disguise your arm. I don't know that we'd want to, anyway. Once people know what it can do, just threatening to use it may win us a couple of bloodless battles." He got to his feet and started pacing back and forth. "I suppose what we'll have to do is find a sector of the Frontier where you've never been, where no one knows you, and build our organization from there. We'll have to fake the One-Armed Bandit's death, and make it spectacular, so everyone knows about it."
"Why?" asked the Bandit. "Sooner or later they're going to figure out who I am."
"You're Santiago."
"You know what I mean."
"Santiago can't be anyone except Santiago. That's why everyone has to know that the One-Armed Bandit's dead. Perhaps he was Santiago's friend. Maybe he even saved Santiago's life, and Santiago had his real arm removed and this prosthetic weapon installed in its place as a tribute to the Bandit, or because its power and efficiency impressed him. But the thing you can never forget is that Santiago is more than a man. He's an idea, a concept, a myth. He can't be bigger than life if everyone knows who he used to be."
"It sounds like you've considered all this pretty thoroughly," remarked the Bandit.
"I'm as close to a biographer as you're ever going to have," said Dante, "so I have to know everything there is to know about Santiago."
There was a knock at the door.
"Open," said the Bandit.
The door slid back and Matilda, Virgil, Blossom and Wilbur Connaught entered the room.
"I know you," said the Bandit to Matilda. He turned to Blossom. "I've seen you." He gestured to Virgil and Wilbur. "These two I don't recognize at all."
"They work for you," said Dante. "Time for the introductions." He laid a hand on each of their shoulders in turn. "This is Matilda. This is Virgil. This young lady is Blossom. And this gentleman is Wilbur."
"No last names?" asked the Bandit.
"You'll learn them soon enough," said Dante. He walked over to the Bandit and turned to face the four of t
hem. "And this is Santiago. He has no past, no history. He is a spirit of the Frontier made flesh. That's all you have to know about him, and all you will ever tell anyone else. The One-Armed Bandit is no more, and will never be referred to again until we are free to talk about his untimely and very public death. Is that clear to everyone?"
The four agreed.
Dante turned back to the Bandit. "Dimitrios of the Three Burners has committed to our cause. We'll get word to him that we're ready to have him join us."
"Let him continue to do what he does best," said the Bandit. "When I have an assignment for him, that'll be time enough to meet him."
Dante stared at the Bandit. You look larger, somehow. Can you possibly be growing into the part right in front of my eyes?
"Well, let's get down to work," said Dante. "As money comes in, we'll turn it over to Wilbur. He'll have to open his books to me or to Matilda if we request it, but only Santiago can fire him."
"How much are we paying you?" asked the Bandit.
"Three percent of everything I make."
"That seems fair. Wait here a moment." He walked into the bedroom, then returned a moment later with a small cloth bag. "Here," he said, handing the bag to Wilbur. "There are 63 diamonds in it. Get what you can for them—probably you'll have to go into the Democracy for the best price—and put the money to work for us. There's no sense having you wait around until we start generating cash. And Wilbur?"
"Yes."
"Those diamonds belong to every under-privileged, abused colonist on the Inner Frontier. If you or they should disappear, I will personally hunt you down and make you wish you'd never been born."
"You didn't have to say that, Santiago," said Wilbur in hurt tones.
"The One-Armed Bandit didn't have to say it," replied the Bandit. "Santiago did."
By God, you're really him! thought Dante. Aloud he said, "I think our first duty is going to be to find a headquarters world, someplace parsecs away from anyone who's ever seen you in action."
"It makes no difference to me what world we choose," said the Bandit. "Any suggestions?"
