The Dark Lady

by Mike Resnick

  “And what about the quality of her life?” I demanded.

  “She was in a prison cell when we found her,” he said. “What kind of quality was that?”

  “For whatever reason, she was there voluntarily,” I pointed out. “You are doing this against her will.”

  “You're becoming tiresome, Leonardo,” he said. “I liked you much better when you were completely subservient.”

  “I cannot stand by silently and let you do this to a lady.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Would it be different if she were a man?”

  “It would still be immoral.”

  “But you wouldn't be as upset?”

  “It is a heinous crime no matter who the victim is,” I said emphatically.

  “But worse if it's a woman?”

  “All females are sacred.”

  “That's a strange world you come from,” he said.

  “It is my world,” I responded. “I believe in it, and I cherish it.”

  “Well, next time we're in this situation, I'll be certain to kidnap a man,” said Heath. “In the meantime, the subject is closed.”

  “The subject is not closed,” I said. “I must make you understand what a terrible crime you are contemplating.”

  “The subject is closed,” he said firmly. “Or am I going to have to put you in the Deepsleep chamber again?”

  I realized that I could be of no service to the Dark Lady were I to continue arguing, so I meekly agreed, and waited until he fell asleep a few hours later. Then I silently entered her compartment to inform her of Heath's intentions.

  It was empty.

  I examined the interior of the small ship and could find no trace of her, and finally I woke Heath.

  “What are you talking about?” he demanded as he got up off his bunk. “People don't just vanish from a spaceship! Where is she?”

  “She is gone,” I said.

  “Gone where?”

  “I do not know.”

  “We'll see about this!” he muttered, walking rapidly to her compartment. He practically tore it apart, even looking beneath the bunk and in the undersized closet. This done, he proceeded to the control room, the storage area, the lavatory, and back to the galley.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded. “Computer— activate!”

  “Activated,” announced the computer. “Waiting... ”

  “How many sentient entities are currently aboard the ship?”

  “Two.”

  “Have any of the hatches been opened since we left Acheron?”

  “No,” answered the computer.

  “Is there any way we could have jettisoned the Dark Lady without our knowing it?”

  “No.”

  “Has she made any effort to leave the ship?”

  “No.”

  “Then what has become of her?” asked Heath.

  “I do not know,” said the computer.

  PART 3

  The Man Who Wanted It All

  13.

  Heath came in from the wooden deck that overlooked the snow-covered mountains, rubbed his hands together vigorously, and walked over to the bar.

  “Beautiful day!” he enthused. “A bit nippy, but beautiful.”

  “If you find it cold, why do you go out?” I asked without much interest.

  “Do you know what this place cost me?” he said with a laugh. “All the realtor could talk about was the climate and the view. Well, the climate may be lacking from time to time, but the view is positively spectacular.”

  “How much longer must we stay here?”

  “Leonardo, there are people who would give their eyeteeth to have a mountain chalet on Graustark. Just relax and enjoy yourself.”

  “Have you heard from your lawyers yet?” I asked.

  “They've still got another government official or two to enrich,” he explained. “Everything's coming along beautifully. Another day or two, three at the most, and we can go back to Charlemagne.”

  “I do not want to go back to Charlemagne.”

  “Then you can stay here.”

  “It has been nine days since we left Acheron. I must go back to work.”

  “We diverted to Graustark because Tai Chong told you to relax for a few days.”

  “I thought it was because you are hiding from the authorities,” I said.

  “That is another reason,” he agreed wryly. “Still, as long as you're here, why not try to get into the spirit of it?”

  “Must we go through all this again?” I asked wearily.

  “No, of course not,” he said. “But I know you've been feeling morose since you heard from your mother... ”

  “My Pattern Mother,” I corrected him.

  He shrugged. “Whatever. Why not take a walk with me before it starts snowing again? It's glorious outside!”

  “I am more affected by extremes of temperature than you.”

  “Then dress warmly.”

  “The paths are narrow and winding, and I would fall.”

  “All right,” he said, staring at me. “I have another suggestion.”

  “What is it?”

  “Why don't you just sit here feeling sorry for yourself?”

  “You simply do not understand the enormity of what has happened,” I said.

  “Your mother's mad at you,” he replied. “So what? She'll get over it. Tai Chong has squared things with the police, nobody thinks you're a thief or a kidnapper any longer, you're still working for Claiborne, and you're sitting in a chalet at the most exclusive resort on the most exclusive planet in the Quinellus Cluster.”

  “I have my work to do.”

  “For a zillionaire collector who hates the sight of you,” said Heath with a smile.

  “That cannot be helped.”

  “Of course it can,” said Heath.

  “How?”

  “Tell him to go to hell. Be a man!”

  “I am not a Man,” I pointed out.

  “That doesn't make you any worse than Abercrombie,” said Heath. “You really ought to stand up to him.”

  “He is my employer.”

  “He's also the most incompetent art collector I've ever heard of,” said Heath. “It took him a quarter of a century to find thirty portraits of the Dark Lady, and you found three in the first month you were working for him.”

  “I had special knowledge about two of them,” I replied. “That is why he hired me.”

  “But you found the third one,” continued Heath. “And, more to the point, you found the model.”

  “Actually, it was you who found her,” I pointed out.

  “You, me, what's the difference?” he said. “The main thing is that Abercrombie didn't find her. He never once went looking for her. He never even thought of looking for her. He sits alone in his house, surrounded by a fabulous collection that he can't begin to properly appreciate, and lets everyone else do his work for him.” Heath paused. “I can't for the life of me understand why you're so anxious to go back to work for him when you're sitting by a roaring fire atop the most beautiful mountain in the galaxy!”

  “Friend Valentine,” I said, slipping into the Dialect of Affinity, for indeed I felt affinity toward him, “why don't you simply say what you mean?”

  “I don't think I follow you, Friend Leonardo,” he replied, though a certain detached amusement in his eyes assured me that he did.

  “You think that if you can convince me that Malcolm Abercrombie is a reprehensible example of his species, and that he has received services from me far beyond what he is paying for, I will describe the more valuable pieces of his collection to you and tell you how best to steal them.”

  Heath grinned. “Then you admit that he's got valuable pieces in his collection!”

  “I never said otherwise.”

  “I thought you told me that almost none of the men who painted the Dark Lady were artists.”

  “That is true,” I agreed. “But he has almost four hundred paintings and holograms in his col
lection, and most of them are not portraits of her.”

  “Does he have any Moritas?”

  “I will not discuss his collection with you, Friend Valentine.”

  “I'm going to steal something from it whether you help me or not, Friend Leonardo,” he promised. “But you could make my life a lot easier by giving me the information I need.”

  “That would be unethical.”

  “True,” he admitted. “But it could also be profitable. I'd make you a partner.”

  “I want neither half the profits nor half the guilt,” I said.

  “No problem at all,” responded Heath smoothly. “If you'd prefer to live with a fifth of the guilt, I'll cut you in for twenty percent of the profit.”

  “No.”

  “You're absolutely sure?”

  “I am absolutely sure.”

  “Positively?” he persisted.

  “Yes!”

  “We'll discuss it again later,” he said.

  “My answer will be the same,” I replied.

  “You can't possibly feel any loyalty toward him.”

  “He is my employer,” I said.

  “Claiborne is your employer.”

  “And Claiborne says that I am to work for Malcolm Abercrombie,” I replied. “I must fulfill my contract to the letter.”

  “So that you can kill yourself when you've completed it?” he said sharply.

  “How did you know that?” I asked, startled.

  “Tai Chong told me.”

  “She had no right to.”

  “We're old friends,” he replied. “We don't have a lot of secrets from each other.”

  “She is guilty of a breach of confidence,” I said.

  “Because she doesn't want to see you kill yourself.” He paused awkwardly. “Neither do I— especially if you're doing it because of what happened on Charlemagne or Acheron.”

  “I had spoken to her before I went to Charlemagne. Although,” I added truthfully, “very little has happened since that moment to weaken my resolve.”

  Heath laughed heartily. “You're a master of understatement, Friend Leonardo.”

  “It is not necessary for you to call me Friend,” I said.

  “Why not?” he asked. “We're friends, aren't we?”

  “Only until you steal Malcolm Abercrombie's artwork.”

  He shrugged. “Nothing lasts forever.”

  “You are wrong, Friend Valentine.”

  “Oh? What do you think lasts forever?”

  “The Dark Lady.”

  He snorted in annoyance. “Forever, hell! She couldn't even last long enough to get back to Far London.”

  “She is not dead,” I said.

  “I have a horrible premonition that you're right,” he admitted. He paused. “I wonder what race she really belongs to?”

  “Yours,” I said.

  He shook his head emphatically. “I keep telling you, Leonardo: She can't be human. She's got to belong to a race that can teleport. That's the only way she could have gotten off the ship.”

  “And I keep pointing out that the only race of true telepaths are the Dorban, who breathe chlorine and are too large to fit inside your ship.”

  “Then there must be another race of teleporters that we know nothing about.”

  “If you say so, Friend Valentine.”

  “You don't believe it for a second, do you?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Do you?”

  He sighed deeply. “Not really.” He paused thoughtfully. “Whatever she is, I wish I knew what quality she possesses that makes men who don't know the first thing about art suddenly decide to paint her portrait.”

  “Even to my inhuman eyes, she is very beautiful,” I said. “And yet there is a certain ephemeral quality about her. Possibly they wished to capture her likeness because they knew she would soon be gone.”

  “Most of them seemed to have died pretty terrible deaths. I wonder if they painted her because they knew they would soon be gone?”

  “I do not think so,” I replied. “A number of them died of natural causes. And it seems to me that if they had a premonition of death, they would hardly take that as a mandate to paint her portrait.”

  Heath sighed. “I suppose not. Anyway, I've seen her and I don't have any urge to take up painting or sculpting.” He paused and suddenly stared inquisitively at me. “Well?”

  “I have drawn an ink sketch of her,” I admitted.

  “When?”

  “Last night, after you went to sleep.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I am not a very good artist, and it was not a very good rendering,” I replied. “I destroyed it.” I sighed unhappily. “I was also unable to capture the beauty of the ‘Mona Lisa.'”

  “The ‘Mona Lisa,'” he repeated. “Is that how you got your name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just out of curiosity, Leonardo, why did you want to draw the Dark Lady?”

  “She is the most interesting human I know, and the most beautiful.”

  “If she's human,” he said.

  “If she is human,” I agreed.

  “Who was the most interesting and beautiful human you knew before you met her?”

  “Tai Chong,” I replied promptly.

  “Did you ever feel compelled to draw a portrait of Tai Chong?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then I come back to my original question: What is it about the Dark Lady that makes people want to sit down and paint her?”

  “I do not know,” I said. “Perhaps it was because I wanted to preserve my memory of her face.”

  “But you can see her face whenever you want,” Heath pointed out. “You can have the nearest computer track down some likenesses of her and make prints of them for you.”

  “That would only show me what others saw,” I said. “I wanted to draw what I saw.”

  “Spoken like an artist,” he said wryly.

  “I am not an artist,” I replied. “I wish that I were, but I lack the necessary talent.”

  “So did Mallachi, but he painted her anyway.” Heath frowned. “I just wish I knew why.” He got to his feet. “A person could go crazy trying to come up with an answer. I don't know about you, but I'm going out for a walk.” He paused at the door. “Are you sure you won't come along?”

  “I am sure,” I replied. “The paths are very slippery, and I am not well coordinated.”

  “So what?” he said. “Neither am I.”

  “You are very graceful,” I said.

  He snorted contemptuously. “You always wanted to be an artist. Well, I always wanted to be a cat burglar, dressed in black, climbing up the sides of buildings and sneaking into milady's boudoir to steal her jewels.” He smiled wryly. “The one time I tried I slipped off a roof, fell onto a balcony, and broke my leg in three places.” He shrugged. “So much for graceful— and so much for the romantic life of a cat burglar.” He opened the door, and a blast of cold air blew past him. “If I'm not back in an hour, call the authorities and tell them to start looking for my frozen corpse. I'd like a modest funeral: four or five hundred floral wreaths, video coverage, nothing special. And don't tell my family— Heaths die in bed, not falling down mountains.”

  “I will observe your wishes,” I said.

  He grimaced.

  “That was a joke, Leonardo.”

  “Oh.”

  He muttered something that the wind drowned out, and then closed the door behind him.

  I waited for a moment, then walked to the desk in the living room and pulled out my stylus and stationery, intent upon finishing the letter I had begun writing earlier in the day.

  My Revered Pattern Mother:

  Yes, you were right. I have indeed become contaminated by my association with Men. I do not deny it... though I am certain that if you would relent and just consent to speak to me, I could explain how the present situation came to pass.

  Tai Chong has assured me that I am in no trouble with the human authoritie
s. Although I was an unwitting participant, I neither initiated nor contributed to the theft of the art objects on Charlemagne nor the kidnapping of the Dark Lady. Once I realized what Valentine Heath's intentions were, I did everything within my power to dissuade him. Such is the Rule of Honor; I live by the Rule of Honor.

  And yet you tell me that my contamination is such that it cannot be expiated, and that I may not return to Benitarus II. You are my Pattern Mother, and your voice is one with the House of Crsthionn, so I must obey you.

  Please know, though, that while my conduct has dishonored the House, I shall nonetheless try to comport myself in a manner that will bring no further discredit upon the race of Bjornn during the few months that remain before my contract with the Claiborne Galleries has been fulfilled.

  And yet, I have a terrible premonition that this will not be the simple task that, in my ignorance, I thought it would be when I first left the House. It seems like I have been abroad in the galaxy for a century, though in fact it has been little more than five Galactic Standard months. And the more I associate with Men, the less I understand them.

  Tai Chong, for instance, has been in every way a surrogate Pattern Mother to me. She is always considerate of my needs and thoughtful of my comfort, and constantly urges me to follow the moral dictates of my conscience. Yet I have come to believe that she knows full well that some of the paintings she purchases and resells have been illegally obtained, and she neither reports the transgressors to the authorities nor cancels the transactions. Hector Rayburn has always behaved in a cordial manner, yet he assumes that the eventual termination of his employment contract is a foregone conclusion, and the fact seems to amuse rather than horrify him. Valentine Heath is quite the most charming Man I have ever met, and at the same time I cannot conceive of a crime that he would not be willing to perpetrate. Malcolm Abercrombie donates millions of credits to charity, and yet, unbelievably, he has totally rejected the responsibilities of House and Family.

  How am I to understand these strange beings, Pattern Mother? How can I purify myself when I must remain constantly in their company? At a time when I need your guidance most, it has been denied to me.