by Mike Resnick
"So now you'll tell Santiago we're in business?"
"No."
"No?" demanded the Blade.
"He'll know it when he hears that the Candy Man is dead," said Dante.
They finished the meal, and Dante returned to his hotel. The next morning the entire city was abuzz with the news that the Candy Man had been murdered.
Dante paid for his room, went to the spaceport, and was soon on his way to Valhalla. He contacted the Bandit en route and told him what had transpired.
"Amazing!" said the Bandit.
"What are you referring to, sir?"
"They actually believed you, without any proof to support what you said. You must be one hell of an accomplished liar."
"Well, I am a poet, sir," replied Dante.
22.
Jackrabbit Willowby, lightning fast,
Built an empire made to last;
Sold his soul for works of art—
Fast he was, but not too smart.
Jackrabbit Willowby had never actually seen a jackrabbit. In fact, he'd never been within 60,000 lightyears of Earth. But he knew that the jackrabbit was one of the very few animals that wasn't extinct more than three millennia after the dawn of the Galactic Era, and that it survived because of its fecundity. Willowby himself had 43 children from 36 mothers, all of which he neglected, and took his name from that prolific animal.
He didn't have an abundance of virtues. He was an agent of the Democracy, in charge of monitoring the black market in a 50- world sector than included Beta Cordero II. He was in charge of close to a thousand men spread across those worlds, ready to respond to his commands.
In most cases, those commands were exactly what the Democracy wanted—but in a few cases they were not. Willowby and a handful of carefully-chosen confederates were happy to look the other way for a consideration, which averaged some 25% of the black marketeer's take. They afforded the very best protection, and no one who dealt with them ever had cause to regret it. Similarly, those few that they approached who chose not to deal with them soon found themselves serving long jail terms or else were mourned by their friends.
Willowby developed a taste for expensive works of art, which led him to expand his operation, reaching more and more worlds, even those not officially under his control, finding new routes for contraband material, and protecting those routes with the full force of the Democracy. Before too many years had passed he was worth tens of millions of credits, and none of his employees had any cause for complaint. He understood the need to keep them all happy—and loyal—and while his crew was far from the most honest on the Inner Frontier, they were unquestionably the wealthiest and most contented.
He had only one rule: no one retired. He wanted his team to work in the shadow of the gallows until the day each of them died. He never wanted any to lose contact, or feel they could make their own deal with the Democracy and supply evidence against their confederates. You could get filthy rich working for Willowby, but that was the price you paid—there was no end to it. Most of his employees had no problem with that. The few that did didn't live long enough to cause any serious complications.
Dante had heard rumors about Willowby, and he knew it was just a matter of time before he showed up and made his pitch. The sudden death of the Candy Man could only hurry the day, and Dante was anxious for the meeting to take place.
"We don't want anything to do with him," said the Bandit when Dante brought up the subject. "He works for the Democracy. That makes him the enemy."
"True," answered the poet. "But this one has a ready-made organization that could bring in 50 times what we're going to make from the Candy Man's operation."
"If we deal with enough Democracy members, we'll be no different than they are," insisted the Bandit.
"I think you're looking at it all wrong, sir," said Dante. "If we can put Willowby to work for us, or somehow take over his organization, we'll be plundering him of millions every week, money that would eventually be spent or invested in the Democracy. Think of the good we could do with that money! Think of the hospitals it could build."
"You're getting ahead of yourself," said the Bandit. "First we need a Frontier-wide organization. Then we'll worry about hospitals and everything else."
"Even the original Santiago didn't have that big an organization," said Dante. "He just made it seem like he did."
"What good are hospitals and schools and whatever else you want if I can't defend them?"
"It's not what I want," protested Dante. "It's what we want. And it's not just hospitals and schools. Hell, there's 200 alien races living in fear and poverty out here on the Frontier. They need our help."
The Bandit stared at him, seemed about to reply, then decided to remain silent.
"So can I tell the Knife and the Blade to send Willowby here if he starts making any inquiries?" continued Dante.
"Yes," said the Bandit.
"Alone, I presume?" said Dante. "Or just with his personal muscle?"
"Whatever makes him happy," said the Bandit. "It makes no difference to me."
Dante leaned back and relaxed. He'd been half-afraid that the Bandit had planned to kill Willowby, and while he had no moral problem with killing the enemy, it made a lot more sense to co-opt this one and leave him in place. The Candy Man worked just a handful of systems, really just six planets, and the Knife and the Blade knew all of his contacts. But from everything Dante had been able to learn, Jackrabbit Willowby's organization encompassed hundreds, perhaps thousands, of worlds, and if they killed him, there'd be no way they could keep his organization intact, or even find out who belonged to it.
Dante spend the next two days working on his epic, reworking the verses, honing the language, making lists of the colorful characters he'd heard about that he wanted to meet and include in the text.
Then Virgil checked in, stoned out of his mind. He'd found the drugs, which was admittedly the easy part of his assignment, but he couldn't remember where he'd gotten them or who he'd purchased them from. Dante checked the computer log of Virgil's ship, found out that the Indian had visited Nestor III, Lower Volta, and New Waco, and decided to send Blossom off to see if she could find out where Virgil had purchased his drugs, and from whom.
"And don't be a hero," he cautioned her. "We've already got one, and he'll handle any dangerous situation."
"We're all heroes, Rhymer," she said adamantly. "Everyone who fights the Democracy is a hero."
"Let's keep it to ourselves," said Dante. "The less people who think we're heroes, the less often we'll have to prove it. Remember: what we're doing only works as long as the Democracy thinks we're outlaws. Once they figure out what we're really about, that's the end of Santiago and everyone who has anything to do with him . . . so just make some very discreet inquiries, try not to call any attention to yourself, and then come back with whatever information you can get."
"Why should I listen to you?" she demanded. "I work for Santiago."
"And I speak for him," said Dante.
"I thought you were supposed to be a poet."
"I am. Don't make me write about how you turned Santiago down the first time he needed you."
She considered his remark, and finally nodded her assent. "But next time I want to hear it direct from him."
"All right, next time you will."
She left, and Dante spent another half hour working on his poem until he was summoned to the Bandit's office.
"What's up?" he asked upon arriving.
"I just heard from the Blade. Jackrabbit Willowby is on his way to Valhalla."
"Alone?"
The Bandit smiled. "Hardly."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"He's coming with a little display of force to impress me."
"How little?"
"20 men, maybe 25."
"I'm impressed already," said Dante. "Where do we put them all?"
"I'll meet them outside," answered the Bandit. "I might as well show them I have nothing
to hide."
"You can meet them there, but you'll want to deal privately with Willowby in your office. You don't want anyone else to hear your negotiations. You might have to get tough with him."
"Don't worry," said the Bandit. "I just want them all to see me, since they're going to be dealing with me from now on."
Dante shrugged. "Okay, if you're sure that's the way you want to do it."
"I'm sure."
Dante waited in his quarters until he heard Willowby's ship approaching the landing strip. He looked out a window as it came into view and soon settled gently on the slab.
Twenty men emerged from the ship and formed two lines. Five more climbed out, went to the end of the lines, and fanned out, ready to handle trouble from any direction.
Then, after a wait of perhaps three minutes, Jackrabbit Willowby came out of the hatch and climbed down to the ground. He was a short man, elegantly dressed, and he moved with an athletic grace. Dante couldn't spot any weapons on him, but then, with all those bodyguards, he didn't need any.
Dante noticed that everyone's attention was directed toward the lodge. He turned and saw that the Bandit had walked out the front of the compound and was approaching Willowby.
Six of Willowby's men moved to form a living wall between them. The Bandit came to a stop and looked expectantly at Willowby.
"Good day, sir," said Willowby, parting the men with his arms and stepping forward to stand between them. "To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"
"You know who I am," said the Bandit.
"They told me your name was Santiago, but that is either a joke or a lie."
"I'd be careful who I called a liar, Jackrabbit Willowby."
"You see?" said Willowby. "You know my name. It's only fair that I should know yours."
"You do," said the Bandit. "My name is Santiago."
One of the men walked over and whispered something to Willowby.
"I'm told that you are actually the One-Armed Bandit."
"You've been misinformed. I am Santiago." The Bandit stared at his visitor. "Are we going to spend all afternoon arguing about my name, or do you have some reason for being here?"
"You're a very brave man, to speak to me like that when I'm surrounded by my men."
"You haven't answered me."
"Of course I have a reason for being here," said Willowby. "You deal in contraband materials. I work for the Democracy."
"So you're here to arrest me?"
"Putting you in jail won't do either of us any good," replied Willowby easily. "I'm here to negotiate a fine with you."
"A fine?"
"If I put you out of business, someone would just replace you next week or next month, the jails would have one more mouth to feed, and what purpose would be served? Let's be totally honest: there is a continuing demand for the goods you sell. Someone is going to satisfy it; it might as well be you."
"I'd call that very reasonable of you," said the Bandit.
"I can see we understand each other," said Willowby with a smile. "How does 25 percent sound to you?"
The Bandit seemed to be considering the offer for a moment. Finally he shook his head. "No, that's not enough."
Willowby looked confused. "Not enough?" he repeated.
"I think a third makes more sense."
"You'd rather pay me a third than a quarter?"
"No," said the Bandit. "You're going to pay me a third."
"What are you talking about?"
"I want a third of your business. Give it to me and you can leave here alive."
"Are you crazy?" snapped Willowby. "I've got 25 men with me!"
"You mean these men?" asked the Bandit, waving an arm in their direction. As he pointed, a laser beam shot out of his finger and mowed them down before they knew what was happening. The last seven or eight had time to reach for their weapons, but the beam was replaced by an exploding energy ball, and an instant later Willowby was the only member of his party still standing.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"I told you: my name is Santiago. And you are a member of the Democracy. That's all I need to know."
The Bandit pointed a deadly finger at him, and an instant later Willowby fell to the ground, dead.
"That was stupid!" yelled Dante, rushing over to join the Bandit. "I told you—we needed his organization!"
"He worked for the Democracy," said the Bandit calmly. "The Democracy is our enemy."
"You were always going to kill him, weren't you?"
"That's what Santiago does to his enemies."
"Yeah, well Santiago could use his brain every now and then!" snapped Dante. "You've cost us billions. Billions!"
"I don't deal with the enemy."
"Then next time let me!"
The Bandit turned to him, and for just an instant Dante thought he was going to aim his lethal arm at him.
"You're a poet. Go write your poems. I'm Santiago. Let me handle my business in my own way—and don't ever stand between me and the enemy." He turned to one of the men who had run out of the house. "One of them is still alive. The fifth from the left."
"You want me to finish him off, Santiago?" asked the man.
"No," said the Bandit. "If I'd wanted him dead, I'd have killed him myself. Treat his wounds, drop him off on some colony world, and make sure he knows that it was Santiago who did this. Let him pass the word about what happens to anyone who stands against me." He turned to Dante. "Does that meet with your approval?"
"Hell, no!" said the poet bitterly. "What the fuck does he know about running an organization that spans a hundred worlds?" He tried to control his temper. "If you were going to let someone live, why not Willowby? He'd have been just as impressed as that poor bastard."
"Yes, he would have," agreed the Bandit. "And next time he'd have sent 200 men, or 500, or a thousand, and he'd have stayed away until it was over. He'd never give me another chance at him once he knew what I could do, and he couldn't let me live after I'd grabbed a third of his empire. If he'd shown any weakness of resolve, his own men would have been dividing the rest of his business."
"You could have negotiated," complained Dante. "Ten percent would still have been worth hundreds of millions."
"You don't negotiate with officers of the Democracy," said the Bandit coldly. "You kill them."
"But he was a corrupt officer, damn it! We could have reached an accommodation."
"They're all corrupt," said the Bandit, turning and heading back to the compound. "This conversation is over."
Dante watched him walk away.
Maybe you're right. Maybe you can't deal with representatives of the Democracy, even thoroughly corrupt ones. But damn it, you sounded a lot more reasonable when you were still just the One-Armed Bandit.
23.
Come inside the Blixtor Maze;
Spend your money, spend your days.
Nameless pleasures lie in wait—
Come along and meet your fate.
The Blixtor Maze was the brainchild of an alien architect named Blixtor. No one was quite sure what race he belonged to. Some said he was a Canphorite, but others said no, the Maze wasn't rational enough to have been created by a native of Canphor VI or VII, that he must be a native of Lodin XI. Still others said it was actually created by a human, but that his computer had crashed and he'd given up on the project, and other races built it based on what they could reconstruct from his shattered modules and memory crystals.
This much is known: no one ever succeeded in mapping the Blixtor Maze. It was said that parts of it went off into the fourth dimension, other parts were so complex that not even a theoretical mathematician could explain them. It was approximately one mile square. No one knew how many levels there were. The only thing that was certain is that no one had ever walked from one end to the other in less than a week, and even Homing Wolves, those remarkable domesticated creatures from Valos XI, were unable to retrace their steps.
It took four centuries to build the Maz
e on the isolated world of Nandi III. Legend has it that the original Maze was to be four miles on a side, but two crews got lost and starved to death. Nobody believed it—until they tried to find their way out of the Maze. There were some who felt the Maze was constantly moving, or rotating in and out of known dimensions, because you could wander into an antiquarian chart shop or a drug den, and when you walked out the same door nothing was where it had been. Further, if you had left something behind, you could turn and attempt to go back and retrieve it, only to find that the establishment you thought was two paces behind you was nowhere to be seen.
There were no warning signs as you approached the Maze, because the authorities operated on the reasonable assumption that you wouldn't be on Nandi II if you didn't have business there. Far from banning weapons, visitors were encouraged to enter the Maze heavily armed, since no lawman or bounty hunter was likely to respond to any entreaties coming from within the Maze. All laws were suspended the moment you took your first step inside the Maze. Murder was no longer a crime; neither were any of a hundred other actions that could get you executed or incarcerated in the Democracy, or the half-dozen that were still illegal across most of the Inner Frontier.
Dante was unsurprised to learn that Virgil was guilty of at least three of them. He was contacted by Blue Peter, who explained that Virgil was being held inside the Maze, that a group of permanent residents had him under what passed for house arrest, and that it was going to take a guide to find him and a lot of money to bail him out.
"How did you get out?" asked Dante over the subspace radio.
"The Maze spit me out," answered the alien. "It didn't want me."
"It spit you out?" repeated Dante.
"Come to Nandi," said Blue Peter. "It'll make more sense once you see it."
Two days later the Bandit's ship touched down at the Nandi spaceport. He and Dante passed through customs—both used false IDs and passports—and took a room in a run-down hotel that was 50 yards from the entrance to the Maze.
