by Mike Resnick
"You don't know?" repeated Henry unbelievingly.
"It's too complicated to explain. You'd have been working for someone else."
"The man you wanted me to kill?"
"The man I hoped you wouldn't have to kill."
"This is getting very complicated," said Henry. "I'm a simple man. Show me who you want dead and I'll kill them. Show me who you want to live and I'll leave them alone. Black and white makes sense to me. I don't like grays."
"That's the problem, all right," said Dante. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."
"No bother at all," said Henry. "Leave 200 credits at the bar."
"Why?"
"For my time. I didn't ask for this interview."
Dante considered it, then nodded his agreement. "Fair enough."
"If you ever decide what you really want, come on back and we'll talk some business," said Henry.
"If you're still alive," said Virgil with a smile.
"Oh, I'll be alive," Henry assured him. "If God wanted me dead, the son of a bitch would have taken me out 20 years ago."
"Well, I'll see you around," said Virgil, as the three of them got to their feet.
Henry was about to reply when a single gunshot rang out. The old man fell over backward in his chair, a bullet buried deep between his eyes.
Dante turned to the door to see who had fired the shot, then blinked his eyes very rapidly and shook his head. Maybe it was simply because Henry has been referring to the deity, but for just an instant it seemed to the poet that he was looking at God Himself.
28.
He's a master of each weapon, and he's got a lion's heart.
He turns mayhem into science, and then science into art.
He's Silvermane the hero, and there isn't any doubt
If you go and break the law he will surely call you out.
He was the most beautiful man Dante had ever seen. Not beautiful in a feminine way, but rather every feature perfect, the kind of beauty Michelangelo had striven for and never quite achieved.
He stood six feet eight inches tall, but so perfect were his proportions, so catlike the grace with which he moved, that he seemed smaller. His eyes were a clear and brilliant blue, his nose straight, his teeth perfect, his jaw firm without being overly square. His shoulders were broad, his waist and hips narrow, his legs long and lean.
His most distinctive feature was his hair. He had a huge thick shock of it, and it was silver in color—not black streaked with white to form a bright gray, but actual silver, every strand the purest color. It hung down his back, the longest section of it reaching his waist, and gave the impression of a huge, heavily-maned lion.
He wore a matched set of projectile pistols, and the belt that supported his holsters held perhaps a hundred bullets. A knife handle peeked out from the top of one of his polished boots. His clothes were black and silver, and fit him as they'd been designed by the finest tailor back on Deluros VIII. He wore no jewelry of any kind, not even a ring.
A thousand of the best commercial artists over the eons had tried to capture his likeness on the covers of adventure books and magazines, and had never succeeded. Heroic statues had always fallen short of the mark. Dante had a feeling that when women thought of their ideal man, they would have traded whatever their imaginations came up with for the man standing in the doorway of the tavern, putting his pistol in his holster.
The man stared at Dante and his two companions curiously, as if expecting a reaction.
"You know who that was?" said Dante at last.
"The Black Death," said the man in a strong, clear baritone.
"You meant to kill him?"
"I hit what I aim at."
Dante moved his chair away from Henry's corpse. "Well, you might as well pay the insurance."
"Pay the insurance?" repeated the man, frowning.
"Put a bullet in his ear, just to be on the safe side."
"I told you: I hit what I aim at."
"You never miss?"
"Never." The man noticed that a trickle of blood had rolled down the side of Henry's head and was moving slowly toward Dante's boot. "I'd move if I were you. His blood is probably as deadly as the rest of him."
Dante quickly stood up and walked a few steps away. "Thanks. Are you a bounty hunter?"
The beautiful man shook his shaggy silver head. "No."
"The law?"
The man smiled. "There isn't any law out here."
"Let me guess. You just didn't like the way he looked?"
"You don't strike me as a fool," said the man. "Don't say foolish things."
"I'm just trying to find out who you are and why you killed the man I was talking to."
"Then you should ask."
"Consider it done."
"My name is Joshua Silvermane, and I killed that man because he didn't deserve to live."
"Silvermane," repeated Dante. "I've heard of you. Dimitrios thinks very highly of you."
"Dimitrios of the Three Burners?" asked Silvermane.
"Yes."
"He's right."
"He never mentioned your modest streak," said Dante sardonically.
Silvermane stared at him without making any reply, and suddenly the poet became very nervous. Finally the tall man spoke. "I don't trade witticisms."
"I know why I think the Black Death deserved to die," said Dante, quickly changing the subject. "Why did you think so?"
"He killed a woman who had never done him any harm, a woman who was far better than he was."
"Your lover?" asked Matilda.
"I never met her."
"Someone paid you to hunt him down and kill him," concluded Dante. "That's pretty much like bounty hunting."
"No one paid me anything."
Dante frowned. "Then I don't understand."
"She had just married a friend of mine. A very bitter and unsuccessful suitor commissioned the Black Death to pay her a visit."
"And you hunted him down for your friend?" said Dante. "I'd call that a noble thing to do." He paused. "What do you do when you're not hunting down killers for your friends?"
"I right wrongs."
"For whom?"
"Sometimes you don't worry about that. Sometimes you just see something that's wrong, and no one is doing anything about it, so you have to."
"Why you?"
"Because someone has to."
"That's not much of an answer."
"When I was seven years old," said Silvermane, his perfect face reliving the event, "I was walking down the street of a Tradertown on Majorca II with my father. There was a fight in a building we were passing, and a stray laser beam caught him in the neck. He dropped to the ground, bleeding profusely, and for an hour I begged people to help him while they just walked around him or crossed the street and ignored him. He died before anyone helped get him to a doctor, and I swore that I would never walk past someone who needed help, would never be one of the ones who looked away."
"A not-for-profit avenger!" said Virgil, amused. "How do you pay your bills?"
"Sometimes people pay me out of gratitude," said Silvermane. "I've never asked for money, and I've never felt bitter or cheated when it wasn't given—but it comes often enough to feed and clothe me, and keep me in bullets."
"Why bullets?" asked Virgil. "I haven't seen half a dozen projectile pistols in my life."
"They make a bang," said Silvermane. "People aren't used to the noise, and it sometimes freezes them into immobility for a second or two. That's usually more advantage than I need. Also, my pistols never run out of power. I know how many bullets I have left in each and in my belt, and I don't have to constantly check my power packs."
"You know," said Dante, staring at him curiously, "Sebastian Cain used bullets, too."
"Never heard of him."
"He died a long time ago," said the poet. "I think you may have a lot in common with him."
"Interesting," said Silvermane with no show of interest whatever. He turned to the bartender. "Fi
nd me a waterproof groundsheet or something else that's airtight and doesn't leak and I'll take the body off the premises."
"Coming up," said the bartender.
"Have you got a burner?" continued Silvermane.
The bartender reached beneath the bar and produced a small laser pistol.
"Good," said Silvermane. "After I get the body out of here, take that thing and fry every drop of blood you can find on the floor."
"Was something wrong with him?" asked the bartender.
"More than you can imagine. Just do it."
"Right." He disappeared into a back room, then returned a moment later with the requested groundsheet, which he carried over to Silvermane.
"Have you got a trash atomizer out back?" asked the tall man.
"Yeah," said the bartender. "Just walk around the building. You can't miss it."
"I'm going to use it," announced Silvermane, bending over and wrapping Henry Marston's body in the blanket while being careful not to touch it with his bare hands, then hefting it to his shoulder as if it weighed almost nothing. "Even dead, this fellow is too dangerous to bury."
"Be my guest," said the bartender, as Silvermane walked out the front door.
Dante turned to his companions. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"I don't know," said Matilda, a troubled expression on her face. "We've been wrong once already."
"And the Bandit seemed a lot more tractable than this guy," added Virgil.
"But the Bandit's a fanatic," said Dante. "We couldn't know that up front."
"And this guy travels around the galaxy risking his life righting wrongs for free," Virgil pointed out. "Doesn't that seem a little fanatical to you?"
"Maybe," said Dante. "Maybe it's noble." He signed deeply. "It's almost as if Black Orpheus himself is telling me that this is the one. He uses bullets, just like Cain did . . ."
"But four other Santiagos didn't," said Matilda.
"I know," said Dante.
"Now why don't you admit the real reason you're considering him?" continued Matilda.
"And what is that?"
"The same reason I'm considering him," she replied uncomfortably. "He's the first man we've seen who might actually have a chance against the Bandit."
"What if he wins?" asked Virgil. "Are you really sure you want to replace one fanatical killer with an even more formidable one?"
"I don't know," said Dante. "I've just got this feeling."
"Take deep breaths and think pastoral thoughts," said Virgil. "It'll pass."
At that moment Silvermane re-entered the tavern and approached their table.
"The three of you are witnesses to a killing," he announced. "If you're going to report it, let me know, and I'll stick around and give my side of it. I don't intend to be a fugitive."
"Report it to who?" asked Virgil.
"I don't know," admitted Silvermane with a shrug. "I just got here half an hour ago. I don't know if they have any local law enforcement."
"My guess is that they don't even have any local laws," said Dante. "Anyway, we're not reporting anything. The man you killed was scum and we all know it."
"Good," said Silvermane. "Then I'll be on my way."
"I'd like to buy you a drink first," said Dante.
"I know you would," said Silvermane.
"You do?"
"Of course. You could only have one reason for talking to the Black Death, and now he's dead." He turned to the bartender. "Bring me a beer. A cold one." Then it was back to Dante. "Who did you want him to kill, and why?"
Dante uttered an embarrassed laugh. "I wasn't ready for such bluntness."
"There's a lot of evil abroad in the galaxy, and life is short," said Silvermane. "I have no time to waste. Who's your target?"
"It's not that easy."
"It never is—but I can't help you if you don't tell me what you want."
"I want someone to stand up for people who can't stand up for themselves," said Dante.
"That's what I do best," said Silvermane.
"So you say."
"Who's the enemy?"
"The Democracy."
Silvermane stared long and hard at him. "You don't look like a traitor."
"I'm not."
"Continue."
"There's a difference between being a traitor to your race and being opposed to the excesses of your government," continued Dante.
Silvermane stared at him and offered no reply.
"Well?" said Dante, uneasily breaking the silence.
"Well what?"
"What I said. Does it sound like something that might interest you?"
Silvermane continued staring at him. Finally he spoke. "Do you seriously expect me to believe that you were recruiting the Black Death to go to war with the Democracy?"
"No. I was interviewing him about eradicating a mistake—but he wasn't the man for the job. We were just about to leave when you showed up."
"What is the mistake?"
Now it was Dante's turn to stare in silence for a long moment, as he tried to decide how much to tell the tall man. "We chose the wrong man for the job."
"The job you're offering me?"
"The job I'm willing to discuss with you. I'm not offering anything yet."
"All right. Who did you choose originally?"
"A man known as the One-Armed Bandit."
"I've heard of him."
"Everyone has," Virgil put in.
"I heard he vanished from sight a few months ago," continued Silvermane. "I assumed he'd been killed. Eventually that happens to just about everyone in our line of work."
"The One-Armed Bandit is no more," said Dante. "But the man who was the One-Armed Bandit is still around."
"Oh?"
"These days he calls himself Santiago."
"The King of the Outlaws," said Silvermane. "If he wanted to attract attention, he couldn't have chosen a more obvious name. Tell me about it."
"We convinced him that it was time for Santiago to return to the Inner Frontier, to walk among Men again, to harass and harry the Democracy."
"The way I heard it, Santiago harassed and harried everyone for profit," said Silvermane.
"That's the way he wanted people to hear it," said Matilda.
Silvermane didn't have to be force-fed the proper assumption. "Okay, so he was a revolutionary. He didn't get very far. We've still got a Democracy."
"We need the Democracy," said Dante. "No one's trying to overthrow it."
Again the tall man surprised them with the speed with which he could assimilate what was being said. "So he was trying to lessen their abuses out here, and of course he had to convince them he was an outlaw. Even Santiago couldn't have held off the Navy."
Dante and Matilda exchange looks.
He's awfully fast on the uptake. Maybe, just maybe . . .
"That's it in a nutshell," said Dante.
"And what's the problem with the One-Armed Bandit?" asked Silvermane. "Has he gone overboard on the outlaw part?"
"I wish it was that easy," admitted Dante with a grimace.
"What is it, then?"
"We were on Madres a couple of weeks ago . . ." began Dante.
"That was him?" said Silvermane. "That made the news everywhere on the Frontier, as well as the Democracy. More than 300 kids slaughtered."
"That was him."
"What the hell got into him?"
"He says that's 300 kids that won't grow up to be 300 members of the Democracy."
"He's a fool," said Silvermane. "99 percent of the Democracy is just like the men and women who walked past my father when he was dying. They're not heroes or villains, they just don't want to get involved. Hell, they're what the Democracy's there to protect. If you've got a problem with the Democracy, eventually you emigrate and come out to the Frontier." He paused. "You've got yourself a real problem, and of your own making. I assume that without you, there'd be no Santiago."
"I was part of it," interjected Matilda. "It wa
sn't just him."
"We've been a century without Santiago," said Silvermane. "A trillion people have been born and died in that time, maybe more. Why is it that you two have decided to resurrect him?"
Matilda gestured to Dante. "He's the new Black Orpheus."
"Self-appointed?"
"I've got the original's manuscript," said Dante. "That's how I was able to find out what Santiago really was. I'm continuing his work—and if it's to be about anything besides a handful of misfits and losers, if there's to be any balance in the galaxy, then we need a Santiago."
"So you want me to become Santiago because it'll make a satisfying poem," said Silvermane noncommittally. He turned to Matilda. "What about you?"
"I'm his great-granddaughter."
"You want me to plunder the Frontier and then die so you can claim your inheritance?"
"It's simpler than that," she answered. "I need Santiago to take the heat off me, to give the Democracy a bigger target."
Silvermane smiled. "I was wondering if we'd ever meet, Matilda."
"I haven't told you my name."
"You didn't have to. I heard that Waltzin' Matilda was traveling with the new Black Orpheus. And you just told me as much yourself: if only Santiago will draw the Democracy's attention away from you, you have to be Waltzin' Matilda." The smile vanished as he stared at her. "I've been hearing about you for years. Given your accomplishments, you're younger than I expected."
"I started early."
Silvermane turned to Virgil. "What about you?"
"I'm with him," said Virgil, jerking a thumb in Dante's direction.
"Why?"
"It's too complicated to explain—or maybe too simple."
"Try."
"He's Dante. I'm Virgil."
"How many circles of hell have you led him through so far?" asked Silvermane.
"Sonuvabitch!" exclaimed Virgil, obviously impressed. "You've read it!"
"It seems to me there's an awful lot of poetry going on around here," said Silvermane. "But it seems that these days even poets wind up relying on the sword."
"Maybe the two aren't mutually exclusive," suggested Dante. "Maybe it's the pen that must direct the sword."
Silvermane patted his pistol. "Maybe I'm writing history with my own pen."
"Are you ready to write an epic?" asked Dante. "Or are you going to keep writing little unrelated pieces that will all be forgotten?"
