Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future

by Mike Resnick

  "Whenever you're ready," said Sokol.

  She proceeded to conduct a thorough and professional interview for the next thirty minutes, on the off chance that she might someday be able to sell it, if not to Leander Smythe's network, then to some other Pegasus news agency, or perhaps to Lodin XI if Sokol actually got himself assigned there.

  "Well," she announced at last, shutting off the recording device, "I think that's it."

  "It was my pleasure," replied Sokol. "You will let me know when it's ready, won't you?"

  "Certainly," replied Virtue. "Of course, it all depends on how you answer the next question."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I have another question."

  "Don't you want to turn the machine back on?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "This one is off the record."

  "Okay," he said, leaning back comfortably. "Ask away."

  "I want you to consider it very carefully before answering."

  "I think I'm pretty used to loaded questions." he replied confidently.

  "I'm glad to hear that," said Virtue, staring at him. "Where can I find Santiago?"

  For just a moment he looked surprised. Then his professional politician's smile spread across his handsome face. "It's my opinion that this Santiago is just a Frontier myth. If he ever did exist, he must be dead by now."

  "He's alive."

  "I very much doubt it."

  "If you want someone who doesn't exist, Mr. Sokol," she said, "try Sidney Peru."

  Suddenly the smile vanished. "Who's Sidney Peru?"

  "He's a smuggler who was murdered six years ago."

  "I never heard of him."

  "How about Heinrich Klausmeier?" she asked.

  "The name's totally unfamiliar to me."

  "They both worked for you," she said. "And they were both murdered."

  "What's this—some last-minute smear campaign?" he said coldly. "Because if it is, you've come to the wrong place. Anyone who wants to can go over my record. I have nothing to hide."

  "I think you have a great deal to hide, Mr. Sokol," said Virtue. "Such as a smuggling ring on Binder Ten."

  "I haven't been to Binder in five years," he replied. "Besides, the press tried to pin that on me the first time I ran for office. You won't get any further with it than your colleagues did, for the simple reason that I am not a criminal."

  "My predecessors didn't know what I know."

  "What do you think you know?" he asked, unperturbed.

  "I know that if you don't point me in Santiago's direction, there's going to be a very interesting piece of investigatory reporting on your videoscreen before the week is out."

  He looked long and hard at her, then smiled confidently. "Do your worst. I never heard of anyone called Peru or Klausmeier."

  She stared at him. There was no question in her mind that he knew exactly what she was talking about; the only question was how well insulated he thought he was. She decided to take one more shot at it.

  "That's not what Salvatore Acosta told me before he died," she said.

  He snorted derisively. "Another mystery man. Who the hell is Salvatore Acosta?"

  "He used to work for you, a long time ago."

  "Nobody named Acosta has ever worked for me."

  "I have a tape of him in which he implicates you in the murders of Peru and Klausmeier."

  "I very much doubt that."

  "Can you afford to take the chance?" she said. "Maybe it won't hold up in court, and maybe it will—but it will sure as hell cost you a post on Lodin Eleven."

  "You don't have any such tape—and if you do, then the man's a liar."

  She shrugged and walked to the door. "You're welcome to your opinion." She turned to him. "Our editing lab can't go to work on your interview until we have a signed release; I'll send over a blank form tomorrow morning."

  Sokol stared at her.

  "You know, you could have made this much more pleasant for yourself if you'd simply been open and straightforward with me," he said at last.

  She laughed. "How much more straightforward can I be?"

  "If you had just said, 'Mr. Sokol, I think you're wrong about Santiago's being dead, and I'd like any information you might have that could help lead me to him,' I'd have been happy to talk to you. But I don't like being bullied and blackmailed, especially when all you've got are lies and slander."

  She stared at him for a moment, then spoke:

  "Mr. Sokol, I think you're wrong about Santiago's being dead, and I'd like any information you might have that could help lead me to him."

  He smiled at her. "That being the case, I'll be more than happy to help you in any way that I can. The man you want to see is a bandit out on the Frontier."

  "What's his name?"

  "I have no idea what his real name is—but he calls himself the Jolly Swagman."

  "Where do I find him?"

  "He makes his headquarters on a planet called Goldenrod, out in the Jolain system."

  "What's his connection to Santiago?"

  "He used to work for him."

  "So did a lot of people," Virtue pointed out. "What makes him unique?"

  "He knows Santiago personally."

  "You'd better be telling the truth," she said ominously.

  "Do what you want with your tape," he said casually. "The truth can't harm me, and lies can't help you." He walked to the doorway, waved his hand before a hidden sensor, and the door slid into the wall. "I'll be looking forward to seeing the interview after it's been edited."

  "That's the very least I'll be showing you," she replied, walking through the reception foyer to the elevator.

  Sokol stood staring at the spot where she had been standing, lit another cigar, and walked back to his supply of liquor, where he poured himself another cognac.

  "Did you hear all that?" he said in conversational tones.

  "Yes," replied a disembodied voice.

  "I want her followed."

  "Just followed?" asked the voice.

  "Until we find out where she's got the tape, or decide that she was bluffing. And I don't want her leaving the planet until I know one way or the other. In the meantime, I want a complete dossier on her. Not the crap they dished out at the network this morning, but the real stuff." He paused. "You've got four hours."

  "It might take a little longer."

  "Four hours," repeated Sokol.

  In point of fact, it took only three hours and ten minutes, during which time Sokol gave out another interview, this one to a local reporter, and began preparing a speech he was to give at a political fund-raiser the next evening. Finally a blond man of indeterminate age entered the room, a small notebook in his hand.

  "Have a seat," said Sokol. It was not a request.

  "I've put all this in the computer," replied the man. "But I thought you'd want to go over it in person, just in case you had any questions."

  "What have you got on her?"

  "Her name is either Virtue Patience MacKenzie or Virtue Patia MacKenzie," said the man. "The records are a little unclear. It's my own feeling that she changed her middle name from Patience to Patia when she came of age. She's thirty-six years old. She was born on Belore, grew up on Sirius Five, got her degree at Aristotle—"

  "That's the university planet they created a few years ago?" interrupted Sokol.

  "Right. Her grades were mediocre, but Aristotle's a pretty classy place, and she was able to hire on with a news network right after that."

  "How long has she worked out of Deluros?" asked the politician.

  "She's never been to Deluros in her life. She worked on salary for about ten years, mostly in the Alphard sector, then went free-lance."

  "Personality profile?"

  "She's always been very bright, even precocious. She drinks more than she should, and has been known to gamble—badly, I might add. She appears to have a problem forming relationships; at any rate, she's entered into six serious liaisons, none of which have lasted for as
much as a year."

  "That hardly sounds serious to me," commented Sokol.

  "That's as serious as she gets about anything except her career."

  "Then you'd better tell me a little about her career."

  "She resents authority; in fact, she's been fired twice for insubordination. Her work has been pretty good, well above average, but she hasn't come within hailing distance of the kind of breakthrough story that could make her reputation. She's very success-oriented; she's afraid time is running out on her, and she's getting very impatient. About a year ago she managed to fast-talk a couple of backers into tossing almost two million credits into this Santiago project. I still don't know how; it's possible she slept with them, and more likely that she blackmailed them. She's been working on the project for about eleven months, and she's run through two-thirds of the money." He paused. "I've got a feeling that this is a make-it-or-break-it situation for her. If she comes up empty, she's through."

  "Why didn't she just take the money and disappear?"

  "She'd rather be rich and famous than just rich."

  "I know that feeling," muttered Sokol wryly. He looked at the blond man. "Anything else?"

  "Yes. She found Whittaker Drum about three weeks ago, and may even have killed him."

  "What kind of half-assed statement is that?" demanded Sokol. "Either she killed him or she didn't."

  "It's not that simple. While she was on Declan Four, she teamed up with a bounty hunter called Cain, who's after Santiago for the reward. From what I can tell, he's pretty good at his job. Both of them were in Drum's apartment at the same time; it's anyone's guess as to who actually killed him." He glanced at his notebook. "There's another person involved: a gambler called Terwilliger. Cain took him on at Port étrange, and they've been traveling together ever since. I don't know if he's part of their partnership or not. My own guess is that he put Cain onto Drum, or someone who could identify Drum, in exchange for some favor or another."

  "What kind of favor?"

  "I don't know—but gamblers tend to make enemies. A bounty hunter is probably a pretty handy person to have nearby, especially on the Frontier."

  "All right," said Sokol, lighting up a cigar and staring at the glowing tip for a moment. "Let's get back to MacKenzie. How did she get to me? Drum didn't even know I exist."

  The blond man shrugged. "I don't know."

  "Then I'll tell you how," continued Sokol thoughtfully. "Somebody told her—either Acosta or someone else. Who has she seen since she's been on Pegasus?"

  "Just Leander Smythe."

  Sokol smiled. "There's the answer. That little bastard hand-fed her all the stuff he's been trying to pin on me all these years."

  "Perhaps," agreed the blond man. "But I think we'd better be sure before we move."

  "That shouldn't be too hard. Who was this Acosta, anyway?"

  "A smuggler. He probably did handle a little stuff for Santiago from time to time."

  "Did we ever have any dealings with him?"

  "Not directly."

  "Could he have known my name?"

  "Anything's possible."

  "Let's attack it another way," said Sokol. "When was he killed?"

  "A couple of weeks ago."

  "Before Virtue MacKenzie landed on Pegasus?"

  "Right."

  Sokol smiled. "Then she never met him."

  "You can't be sure of that. She didn't have to meet him on Pegasus."

  "Of course she did," replied Sokol. "She'd have come straight to me the second she had that interview. She's been bluffing all the way."

  "Can you afford to take the chance?"

  He frowned. "Not really. She can't do any serious harm to me, but she could screw up this Lodin Eleven appointment." He paused, rolling his cigar between his fingers. "Trace Acosta's whereabouts for the past year and see if the two of them could possibly have met somewhere other than Pegasus."

  The blond man was back an hour later.

  "Well?" demanded Sokol.

  "You were right: Acosta and MacKenzie were never within fifty light-years of each other."

  "I knew it!" said Sokol triumphantly.

  "What would you like done next?" asked the blond man.

  "She's got to have a message drop somewhere in Hektor. There's a chance that she's already contacted Cain, so tomorrow I want you to find some way to get word to Santiago. Warn him to be on the alert, just in case Cain or this gambler actually manage to hook up with the Swagman."

  "Tomorrow?"

  Sokol nodded. "This afternoon you're going to hunt up Leander Smythe and see to it that he never again spreads any malicious gossip about me. We don't want to kill a member of the press, but I want you to give him a lesson he remembers. And don't say who sent you. He'll figure it out."

  "That takes care of this afternoon and tomorrow morning," said the blond man. "What about tonight?"

  "Tonight? Go home and go to sleep."

  "What about Virtue MacKenzie?"

  "She doesn't have the tape, so she's no immediate threat. I don't want any harm to come to her while she's on Pegasus."

  "And once she leaves?"

  Sokol smiled. "That's another matter, isn't it?"

  8.

  His name is Father William,

  His aim is hard to ken:

  His game is saving sinners;

  His fame is killing men.

  * * * *

  Whenever people would sit around talking with Black Orpheus, sooner or later the question would come up: Who did he think was the most memorable character he had met during his wanderings? He'd lean back, sipping his wine and staring off into the distance, enjoying the moment and the memories, and then, just when his listeners began to think that they weren't going to get an answer, he'd smile and say that he'd seen a lot of men and women on the Inner Frontier—killers like the Songbird and One-Time Charlie, tragic figures like Schussler the Cyborg, entrepreneurs like Descartes White (whom he had renamed Carte Blanche, a sobriquet with which he was inordinately pleased), good women like Silent Annie and Blessed Sarah, bad women like Flat-Nosed Sal and Sister Sleaze, even virtual supermen like ManMountain Bates—but not a one of them held a candle to Father William.

  It had been love at first sight. Not a physical or personal love, but the kind of love a landscape artist feels toward a beautiful sunset. Black Orpheus painted his word pictures on a very broad canvas, and even so, Father William was almost too big to fit.

  The first time Orpheus ever saw him was in the Corvus system, preaching hellfire and damnation from a pulpit, and daring anyone in his audience—which included some pretty notorious characters—not to make a donation to his personalized, monogrammed poorbox. The next time was two years later, out by the Quinellus cluster, where Father William was serenely blessing the departed spirits of four men and a woman he had just killed. Orpheus ran into him a third and final time on Girodus II and watched, fascinated, as he shot down two outlaws, turned in their scalps for the reward (the taking of scalps was unnecessary, but nobody felt obligated to argue that particular point with Father William), donated the money to the local church, and spent the next two days spreading the gospel to the elephantine natives of the planet.

  Orpheus tried to find out more about his past, but it was a fruitless quest. The only thing Father William wanted to talk about was God, though with a drink or two in his massive belly he'd be willing to segue into a discussion of Sodom and Gomorrah. He was a fabulous figure, standing just under six feet five inches, weighing close to four hundred pounds, always clad in black. He wore a pair of black leather holsters, each equipped with laser pistols which he insisted contained the purifying fire of the Lord. He had forsworn all pleasures of the flesh except gluttony, explaining that a weak evangelist was an ineffective evangelist, and that he aimed to run through a lot of calories bringing Christianity to the godless worlds of the Frontier. It was his earnest belief that any world that played host to a wanted killer was more in need of salvation than most, and it
was his intention to bring those worlds into the fold by eradicating the evil and spreading the Word among the survivors. The already damned would simply start serving their infernal sentences a little early, and the remainder, freed from their evil influence, would be snatched from Satan's avaricious grasp for all eternity—or until such time as the government issued paper on them.

  Father William wasn't as famous as he might have been. Black Orpheus only gave him three verses, a third of what he'd given to Giles Sans Pitié, who wasn't anywhere near as colorful or interesting, but that was mainly because Orpheus figured the Bible-toting bounty hunter was so much bigger than life that there simply wasn't a lot more that could be said about him. And since the stanzas were brief and muted, and the ever-growing epic was now well past two thousand verses, people who hadn't heard Black Orpheus expound upon him could be forgiven for having overlooked his exploits.

  Virtue MacKenzie was one of those people. She didn't know that Father William was preaching on Goldenrod, and wouldn't have cared even if she had known. Her only interest was in finding the outlaw known as the Jolly Swagman, and, through him, Santiago.

  She landed her ship on Goldenrod, a temperate little world that was owned by a cartel of farming syndicates. The crops were harvested by robots, which worked under the direction of a handful of men and women who pretended that they were executives but knew in their hearts that they were only mechanics and caretakers. There was only one city, an ancient Tradertown that predated the farms and had expanded to the point where it now housed almost eight thousand inhabitants; and, like so many Tradertowns on the Frontier, it bore the name of the planet.

  She had a feeling that she wouldn't be staying there long, so rather than reserving a room at a hotel, she left her gear in her ship and took a shuttlecart into the Tradertown. When the cart came to a stop, she found herself in the middle of a town square, surrounded by long, low buildings and standing next to a monument of the planet's founder.

  Unlike Cain, who had spent two decades traveling from one Tradertown to the next and usually sought his information in bars and brothels, she hunted up the local news office—the world was too small to possess its own network and in fact employed only one stringer—presented her credentials, and asked for the Jolly Swagman's whereabouts.