Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future

by Mike Resnick

  "What would life be without new experiences?" he said with a smile. "I've always wondered what the world looked like before noon."

  "Which world?" she inquired dryly.

  "Any world."

  "Pretty much the same, I'd imagine," said Virtue.

  "Blurrier," he replied, blinking his eyes. "Where's your traveling companion?

  "He'll be along," she assured him.

  "Well, in his absence, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to talk a little business," said the Swagman.

  "I've got nothing to discuss with you," said Virtue, inserting the microphone into its slot in the camera.

  "We do have an agreement concerning the disposition of the artwork," persisted the Swagman.

  "That agreement's only valid if Cain kills Santiago," replied Virtue. "And in case you hadn't heard, Cain has joined him."

  "Then put in a good word for me with the Angel."

  She stared at him. "Swagman, I don't know any good words about you."

  "This is no time to deal in acrimony," said the Swagman. "Neither you nor the Angel knows how to dispose of the artwork; I do. You need me."

  "I don't care about the artwork," she said. "I'm getting what I want."

  "You think so?" asked the Swagman, amused.

  "The Angel wants the reward money, I want the story. Our interests don't overlap."

  "Ah, Virtue," he said with a sigh, "I wish you were as bright as you think you are."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Do you really think he's going to let you live?" asked the Swagman.

  "Why shouldn't he?"

  "Because Dimitri Sokol's put a price of one hundred thousand credits on your pretty little head."

  "The Angel had him take the hit off," she said.

  He shook his head. "The Angel had him stop advertising it. There's a difference."

  "Then why hasn't he killed me already?" she demanded.

  "Because he needed you to get Santiago to come here. Once he kills Santiago, he doesn't need you for anything—unless you can convince him that he can make a healthy profit by letting you and me dispose of the artwork."

  "You and me?" she repeated skeptically. "Why are you suddenly being so generous?"

  "Because he knows you, whereas my reputation has been besmirched by numerous small-minded parties who are jealous of my success." He leaned forward. "I'll cut you in for ten percent."

  "Ten percent?" she said with a harsh laugh. "Your generosity knows no bounds."

  He shrugged. "All right—fifteen. And you'll still have your story."

  "Not a chance."

  "You're making a big mistake," said the Swagman.

  "Somehow, as frightening as the Angel is, I find him more trustworthy than you."

  "It's your funeral," he replied. "Just think about what I said." He signaled to Moonripple, who emerged from the kitchen carrying Father William's breakfast on a huge tray. "A cup of coffee when you get the chance, my dear."

  "Right away, sir," she answered.

  "Coffee?" asked Virtue, grinning.

  "They tell me it contracts the pupils," said the Swagman. "I'm certainly willing to give it a chance."

  "It steadies the nerves."

  "Whatever," he shrugged. Suddenly he noticed that Father William had clasped his hands before him and lowered his head. "I've never seen you do that before," he said.

  "I pray all the time," replied Father William.

  "Not before a meal, you don't," said the Swagman. "Usually you just dig in like you're trying to break a speed record."

  "Maybe he's nervous," suggested Virtue.

  Father William stared sternly at her. "I was praying for the Angel's soul. I plan to remand it to Satan's custody this morning."

  "Maybe you'd better put in a good word for yourself, if you plan to go up against him," said Virtue.

  "I don't ask the Lord for personal favors," said Father William. He continued staring at her. "I think I'd better pray for you next. You've done a wicked thing, Virtue MacKenzie."

  "Don't you go blaming me for this," she said defensively. "I never even heard of Safe Harbor until yesterday. The Angel found this place without any help from me."

  "But you convinced Santiago to meet him."

  "All I did was deliver a message," she replied. "Hell, I told him he was crazy to come."

  "I'll pray for you anyway."

  "While you're at it," said the Swagman, "you might say one for me, just to be on the safe side."

  "It wouldn't do any good," answered Father William.

  Moonripple arrived with the Swagman's coffee, while Father William said a brief prayer for Virtue and then attacked his meal with even more gusto than usual.

  Moonripple placed the tray behind the bar, then hesitantly approached Father William.

  "Excuse me, sir," she said tentatively.

  "Yes, my child?"

  "I realize it's none of my concern, but I couldn't help overhearing what you said, and I just wanted to know if it was true?"

  "That the Swagman's going to hell?" replied Father William. "Absolutely."

  "No," she said. "That wasn't what I meant." She paused, nervously fidgeting with her apron. "Is it true that he is coming here today?"

  "I hope not," said Father William.

  She started to ask something more, then shook her head and retreated to the kitchen while Father William returned his attention to the diminishing pile of food on his plate.

  Virtue busied herself rechecking her equipment, while the Swagman sipped his coffee and tried unsuccessfully to pretend that it was Cygnian cognac.

  Then the door opened and the Angel, clad in a strikingly somber outfit, stepped into the tavern. His pale, no-color eyes surveyed the room, missing no detail.

  "You're a few minutes early," said Virtue.

  He made no answer but chose a table that was next to a windowless wall and walked to it, elegant and catlike, never taking his eyes from Father William. When he reached it he pulled out a chair and sat down.

  "I assume from your demeanor that you're the Angel?" said the Swagman cordially.

  "I am."

  "Good. They call me the Jolly Swagman. I have a mutually beneficial business proposition to put to you."

  "Later," replied the Angel.

  "It could mean a lot of money to you," continued the Swagman persuasively.

  "I said later."

  The Swagman looked into the Angel's cold, lifeless eyes.

  "I'll tell you what," he said hastily, getting to his feet and keeping his hands in plain view. "I think I'll just go across the street and relax for a little while. We'll talk later."

  The Angel paid no attention to him as he hurried out the door, but stared intently at Father William.

  "I won't let you kill him," said the preacher, glaring at him while continuing to eat.

  "I'm only here to talk to him," replied the Angel.

  "I don't believe you."

  The Angel shrugged. "Believe what you want—but don't do anything foolish."

  Father William continued glaring at him as Moonripple came through the kitchen door and approached the Angel.

  "May I help you, sir?" she asked.

  The Angel shook his head, never taking his eyes from Father William.

  "He should be here any minute," said Virtue.

  "Will Cain be with him?" asked the Angel.

  "No." She paused nervously. "I have to ask you a question."

  "Go ahead."

  "Has Dimitri Sokol still got a hit on me?"

  "No."

  "You're sure?"

  "Who told you otherwise?" asked the Angel.

  "I was just curious."

  "It was the Swagman," said the Angel.

  "Was he telling the truth?"

  "Does he ever?"

  "Damn it!" snapped Virtue, her anger overcoming her fear. "I want an answer!"

  He turned his head toward her slightly, still keeping Father William in his field of vision. "I already answered
your question. If you didn't believe me the first time, you won't believe me now."

  They sat in silence for another minute. Then Father William finished the last of his breakfast, took the napkin he had tied around his neck, wiped his mouth off, and tossed it onto the table.

  "You've had your warning," growled the preacher ominously.

  "You don't have to die," said the Angel. "There's no paper on you."

  "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want!" intoned Father William, rising to his feet, the handles of his laser pistols glinting in the tavern's artificial light.

  Suddenly Moonripple, her eyes wide with horror, took a step toward the Angel.

  "You can't kill Father William!" she said in hushed tones. "He's a servant of the Lord!"

  "It's his choice," replied the Angel calmly, his gaze never leaving the preacher's hands.

  "Stand back, child!" said Father William.

  "You can't!" she repeated, rushing toward the Angel.

  Father William reached for his pistols, and three long metal spikes appeared in the Angel's right hand as if by magic. Moonripple hit his arm just as he was hurling them, but all of them found their way into Father William's massive body before he could draw his pistols, and he collapsed with a surprised grunt.

  The Angel got to his feet and swept Moonripple aside with his arm. She careened off the wall and fell to the floor, motionless.

  "See if she's still alive," he ordered Virtue while he walked across the room and crouched down next to Father William. One of the spikes was buried in his chest, another protruded from his right arm, and the third was lodged in the left side of his neck, but he was still conscious.

  "You were lucky," said the Angel dispassionately, appropriating Father William's pistols. "You owe your life to that child. Try not to move too much and you may not bleed to death."

  "Kill me now!" rasped Father William. "Or as God is my witness, I'll hunt you down to the very depths of hell!"

  "Stupid," muttered the Angel, shaking his head. He frisked the preacher for concealed weapons, carefully withdrew the three spikes, stood up, and walked over to Moonripple.

  "She's breathing," said Virtue. "But she's got a hell of a bump on her head."

  He felt her head and neck with expert hands. "She'll be all right," he said.

  "What about Father William?"

  "He's in better shape than he has any right to be," replied the Angel. "That fat gives him a lot of protection."

  "Will he live?"

  "Probably."

  "Shouldn't we get the pair of them to a doctor?"

  "Later," said the Angel.

  She looked at the semiconscious preacher. "He's bleeding pretty badly."

  "You do what you want," replied the Angel, returning to his chair. "I'm here to meet Santiago."

  She stared at Father William for another moment, then shrugged and went back to her recording equipment.

  They sat without speaking for a few minutes, the silence broken only by Father William's hoarse breathing and occasional curses. Then the door slid open once again, and Santiago entered.

  "What's been going on here?" he demanded, kneeling down next to Father William.

  "Are you Santiago?" asked the Angel.

  "I am," replied Santiago without looking up.

  "Your associate made an unwise decision."

  "Is he alive?"

  "I'll outlive that spawn of Satan!" rasped Father William, regaining consciousness.

  Suddenly Santiago saw Moonripple.

  "What have you done to the girl?"

  "She'll be all right." The Angel gestured toward the chair opposite him. "Take a seat."

  "In a minute," said Santiago, walking over and examining Moonripple. His hands found the swelling on the side of her head. "That could be a fracture there." He turned to Virtue. "Have you summoned a doctor?"

  "All in good time," interjected the Angel. "We have business to discuss first."

  Santiago glanced back at Father William, then turned to the Angel.

  "I want your word that you won't kill them, however our negotiations turn out."

  "You have it."

  Santiago sighed. "All right," he said, sitting down. "Let's get on with it."

  "You realize that you are the most wanted man in the galaxy," began the Angel.

  "I do."

  "This is because you are the most successful criminal in the galaxy," he continued.

  "Get to the point," said Santiago.

  "The point is simply this: A criminal who has been as successful as you have been undoubtedly has accumulated a considerable amount of money. I wonder if you would be interested in spending some of it to purchase your continuing good health?"

  "How much did you have in mind?"

  "The reward is currently twenty million credits," said the Angel. He paused thoughtfully. "I should think that thirty million will do nicely."

  "Thirty?" exclaimed Virtue. "I thought you were talking about three!"

  The Angel smiled mirthlessly. "That was talk," he said. "This is business." He stared directly into Santiago's eyes. "The amount is payable in full before you leave this table."

  Santiago smiled grimly. "You never had any intention of making a deal, did you?"

  "I am a man of my word," replied the Angel. "I said that if you came here I would make you an offer, and I have. What is your answer?"

  "You go to hell," said Santiago.

  The Angel reached out with an incredibly swift motion, and an instant later Santiago fell out of his chair, blood spurting from his throat. He was dead before he hit the floor.

  Father William emitted a hideous gutteral yell, tried to get to his feet, and actually got one leg planted before he grabbed at his chest and collapsed, panting heavily.

  Virtue closed her eyes and fought the urge to vomit as the Angel got to his feet, walked over to Santiago's body, and looked down at it, studying the contorted face.

  "Well, you've got your story," he said at last.

  "It was gruesome!" she said weakly.

  He turned to her. "Death usually is."

  Suddenly a single gunshot rang out.

  For a moment nobody moved. Then the Angel, a trickle of blood starting to run out of his mouth, turned to the door, swaying slightly.

  "Fool!" said Cain softly. "Do you think Santiago can be killed that easily?"

  He fired another shot, and the Angel dropped to his knees.

  Father William laboriously raised himself onto his elbows.

  "You poor dumb bastard!" he rasped with a derisive laugh. "You murdered the wrong man!"

  Cain advanced slowly across the room.

  The Angel, puzzlement and pain reflected on his face, tried to speak, coughed up a mouthful of blood, and finally forced the words out.

  "Then who is Santiago?"

  Cain held up his right hand and displayed an S-shaped wound that was still oozing blood.

  "I am now," he said.

  "Poor sinner!" grated Father William. "Everybody knows that Santiago can't die!" He roared with laughter and was still laughing when he passed out.

  The Angel reached inside his coat for a sonic weapon, and a third shot rang out. He flew backward as if hit by a sledgehammer, then lay still.

  Cain turned to Virtue. "Go get a doctor." he ordered.

  She got up and began putting her camera into her satchel.

  "Leave it," said Cain.

  "Not a chance," she said, glaring at him. "I risked my life to get what's in there."

  "It'll still be there when you get back."

  "Then why can't I take it?"

  "Because I want to make sure you return. We've got things to discuss."

  She looked at the camera, then back at Cain again. "You promise you won't touch it?"

  "Unless someone dies because you stood here arguing." he replied. "If that happens, I swear to you that I'll blow it to pieces."

  She seemed about to argue with him, then turned and went out the door. Cain briefl
y examined the four bodies on the floor, two of them living, two of them dead, then walked to the bar, poured himself a drink, and waited.

  Virtue returned alone about two minutes later, her face flushed from running.

  "There's quite a crowd gathering outside," she remarked.

  "Where's the doctor?" asked Cain.

  "I told him he was going to need a lot of help," she replied. "He's getting his staff together, and hunting up a vehicle that can transport everyone to the hospital."

  "How soon will he get here?"

  "I don't know. About five minutes, I suppose."

  "Wait here," he said, walking to the door. He stepped out onto the street and found himself facing about twenty onlookers.

  "There's been some trouble," he said, "but it's under control now. There will be a medical team arriving shortly. I think it would be best if all of you would go back to your homes."

  Nobody moved.

  Cain held up his right hand and turned it so they could see the wound on the back of it.

  "Please," he said.

  They stared at his hand, and then, one by one, they began dispersing. One man lagged behind the others, then walked up and asked if there was anything he could do to help; Cain shook his head, thanked him, and sent him on his way.

  "That was pretty impressive," said Virtue when he came back into the tavern. "How long is this charade going to continue?"

  "What charade?" he asked.

  "Pretending to be Santiago."

  He stared at her expressionlessly. "I'm not pretending."

  "What about the reward?" she asked.

  "I imagine it'll go up," he replied. "The Angel was working for the Democracy."

  She met his gaze and was surprised at what she saw there. "You're serious, aren't you?"

  He nodded silently.

  "Then what about my story?" she asked.

  "What story?"

  "I've got a recording of the Angel killing Santiago."

  He shook his head. "I'm Santiago. You have a recording of a bounty hunter killing an imposter."

  "We'll jet the viewers judge for themselves."

  Cain shrugged. "It's a pity, though," he said softly.

  "What is?" she asked suspiciously.

  "That your story has to end here."

  She looked at him curiously.

  "And that you never got your interview," he added.

  "Oh?"

  "There were so many things you could have learned," he continued. "Enough for ten pieces."