The Return of Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future

by Mike Resnick

  "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."

  "It's not important," said Dante. "The important thing is that you're here."

  "I had to come," said Taylor bitterly. "I needed the money."

  "Silvermane's paying you? I thought he told me you owed him a favor."

  "I don't owe him a big enough favor to put my life on the line without money—five thousand credits up front, twenty more when I'm done."

  "Well, that's between you and him. I'm just here to lay out the situation for you."

  "You can buy me a drink in the bar while you're talking."

  "I thought he just paid you five thousand credits," said Dante with a smile.

  "That's more t
han I've seen in two years," said Taylor. His eyes became unfocused, as if he was looking back across the last few years. "You back out of one goddamned fight . . ."

  He fell silent, and while Dante was curious, he decided it would be best not to ask any questions at present. He led Taylor to the bar and let the newcomer order for both of them.

  "A pair of Dust Whores," Taylor told the bartender. "Light on the smoke." He turned to Dante. "Okay, I'm paid and I'm here. Who does Silvermane want me to kill?"

  "Hopefully no one. But there are two sisters who live on the edge of town, and one of them seems to have become a prime kidnap target."

  "You got to have more information than that," said Taylor. "I can't just hang around until some local makes a move. It could take months."

  "We're not worried about locals."

  "Off-worlders?"

  "Aliens," said Dante.

  "Lady must be worth a bundle," said Taylor, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  "Don't even think of it. You don't want Silvermane after you."

  "You've got a point," admitted Taylor with a sigh. "So who are the aliens—Canphorites? Lodinites?"

  "I don't know what they are. I've never seen them, and I don't think the ladies have either."

  "Have you got anything I can go on?"

  "Just their names—Tweedledee and Tweedledum."

  Taylor didn't reply for a full minute. Finally he downed his drink, placed the empty glass on the bar, and turned to Dante.

  "Nice to have met you," he said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean I may be poor, but I'm not crazy." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a wad of banknotes. He counted through them, and placed a pile on the bar. "That's three thousand credits. You tell your boss I'm keeping the rest for expenses. If he doesn't like it, he can try to take it back."

  "You can't just leave!"

  Suddenly Dante was looking down the barrel of a screecher. "Are you gonna stop me?" asked Taylor softly.

  "No, but—"

  "Then get the hell out of my way."

  And with that, he was gone.

  Wonderful, just wonderful, thought Dante. I've got a woman who's too proud to leave and a gunman who's too scared to stay. What the hell do I do now?

  36.

  The little sister, Fortune's bane,

  Wishes she had not been born.

  Filled with rage and hate and pain,

  There she slinks—October Morn.

  "He did what?" demanded Silvermane's image.

  "You heard me," said Dante, sitting in the pilot's seat of his stationary ship and staring at the holograph that appeared just above the subspace radio. "That's why I'm not transmitting from my room. I don't think anyone's watching me, but if they are I don't want this to be overheard."

  "He can't get away with this! I don't give a damn about the three thousand he returned."

  "I don't care about the money either," replied Dante. "I'm still here with a woman who's a target for these two aliens. What are we going to do about it?"

  "Get off the planet," said Silvermane. "I told you that the last time we spoke."

  "And I told you that it's not that easy."

  "If she's still there when I get there, I'll convince her to leave," said Silvermane confidently.

  "Then you're coming to Hadrian?" said Dante, relieved.

  "Eventually. First I have to hunt down Mongaso Taylor and make an example of him, or others will think they can break their word to Santiago."

  "Goddammit!" shouted Dante. "He's nothing but a has-been killer who's lost his nerve! I'm the one who made you Santiago, and I need your help right now!"

  "Nobody made me Santiago," answered Silvermane coldly. "You merely pointed out the fact of it."

  "And nobody made your fortress on Valhalla and presented you with two hundred loyal men and women, and nobody killed the Bandit for you!"

  "You didn't kill the Bandit," was Silvermane's calm reply. "She did."

  "And now she needs your help."

  "Everything in its proper order—first Taylor, then Hadrian."

  "What do we do in the meantime?"

  "You're the bright one," said Silvermane. "Use that brain of yours."

  Dante broke the connection, cursed under his breath, then left the ship and returned to his hotel. Once there, he tried to raise September Morn on the vidphone. There was no answer.

  "Damn it!" he snapped to her holo-message tape, making sure his face looked properly grim. "I told you not to leave your place without me!"

  He went out, had lunch, and returned to his room, where he tried again without success to contact her. He checked his timepiece; it was only an hour and a half since his first attempt. He left another message about staying put, then lay down and took a nap.

  He awoke in late afternoon and called September Morn a third time. The result was the same.

  He went down to the lobby, had the desk clerk summon a robotic rickshaw, and took it out to her house.

  The door was missing.

  Not broken, or melted, or shattered. Missing. Like it had never been there.

  He wished he had a weapon of some kind. He looked cautiously into the interior, took a tentative step inside, then a second and a third.

  The place was as neat as ever. Nothing was out of place. There were no signs of a struggle. There were no messages, written or transcribed.

  And there was no September Morn.

  He spent half an hour scouring the house for clues. There weren't any. Finally he sat down on a chair in the living room to consider his options.

  He'd been sitting there pondering the situation for perhaps five minutes when he heard footsteps approaching the house.

  "Who's there?" he said.

  Suddenly the footsteps began retreating. He jumped to his feet and raced to the door, just in time to see a feminine figure racing away.

  "September Morn!" he shouted. "Wait!"

  The figure kept running, and he took off after her.

  "Damn it! Wait for me!"

  The figure kept ahead of him for perhaps 200 yards, then began slowing noticeably, and finally he was able to reach out and grab her by the arm.

  "Stop!" he snapped. "What the hell is—?"

  He stopped in mid-sentence as the girl turned to face him. There were similarities to September Morn—the same high cheekbones, the same light blue eyes, the same neck, the same rounded shoulders—but this girl had a stronger jaw, a broader mouth, and was between five and ten years younger.

  "You're the sister," said Dante. It was not a question. "Why did you run away?"

  "I wasn't sure who you were."

  "Who did you think I might be?"

  She wrenched her arm free. "I don't have to talk to you!"

  "You have to talk to me now or Santiago later," he lied. "I'm a lot more pleasant."

  She glared at him without answering.

  "What's going on?" continued Dante. "You saw that the door was gone. That didn't frighten you. I frightened you." Still no reply. "But I'm not a frightening guy—at least not until you know me better—and besides, you didn't see me. You were frightened by who you thought I was." He gripped her arm harder. "Suppose you tell me who you were expecting?"

  "No one!"

  "Let me re-word that. I know you expected to come home to an empty house. But if it wasn't empty, who did you think would be waiting for you?"

  "None of your business!" she snapped, trying to pull her arm free.

  "I told you: it's Santiago's business, and he has very unpleasant ways of getting what he wants."

  "Fuck off! He's been dead for a century!"

  "The king is dead, long live the king. He's back, twice as big and three times as deadly. If you don't tell me what I want to know, I'll turn you over to him." He paused. "You won't enjoy it, take my word for it."

  "Why should I believe you?"

  Dante shrugged. "Okay," he said, pulling her by the arm. "We'll wait for him at your place."

&nb
sp; "Stop pulling me!"

  "Stop dragging your ass."

  She stared at him. "He really exists?"

  "I just told you he does."

  Another paused. Then: "All right, I'll tell you what you want to know." Thank God for that. I don't know what I'd have done if we got to the house and you hadn't given in.

  "Let's start with names," he said. "Mine is Dante. What's yours?"

  "It depends on who you talk to."

  "I'm talking to you."

  "It's Belinda—but ever since my sister got famous, they call me October Morn."

  "I take it you don't like the name?" said Dante.

  "I hate it!"

  "You don't like her much either, do you?"

  "That's an understatement."

  "She likes you," said Dante.

  "She told you that?"

  "In essence."

  "Then she's an even bigger fool than I thought," said Belinda.

  "Next question," said Dante. "Why did you run from the house?"

  "I thought it had been broken into."

  "One more lie and you can tell your story to Santiago." He continued pulling her toward the house. "Why did you run?"

  "I thought they had come for me."

  "They?" asked Dante.

  "The aliens."

  "Tweedledee and Tweedledum?"

  "Yes." She came to a stop.

  "Why would they come for you?" he asked. "Your sister's the one who's worth all the ransom money."

  "I thought she had tricked them," said Belinda.

  "Explain," said Dante, taking her hand and once more leading her to the house.

  "I told them where we lived, when she was likely to be home, what she looked like, and—"

  "You sold your sister out to aliens?" Dante interrupted.

  "I didn't take any money!"

  "Then why—?"

  "Because I hate her!" yelled Belinda as they reached the house and entered it.

  "Okay, you hate her and you gave her to the aliens. Why did you run?"

  "She's smart, smarter than anyone suspects," said Belinda bitterly. "I was afraid she'd convinced them that she was me and I was September Morn. When I realized someone was inside the house, I was afraid they'd come back for me."