Authors: Mike Resnick
Prophet (10 page)
"That remains to be seen,” said the Iceman.
The name of the planet was Sweetwater, and it was a relatively new concept in interstellar real estate: a retirement world for the Very Wealthy.
Sweetwater boasted a golf course for every 50 of its 35,000 residents, indoor and outdoor pools in every house, quick home delivery from local stores, a doctor for every 200 people, a guarantee of one mile of coastline along a freshwater ocean for every property owner, imported birds of every shape and color, daily spaceliner service to more than a dozen major worlds of the Democracy, literally hundreds of private hangars, half a dozen brokerage houses that were tied in to every major stock market in the Democracy, high security fences around every piece of property, and a large but unobtrusive private security force for the entire planet.
"It must cost a bundle to set up housekeeping here,” said the Kid as he and the Iceman emerged from their ship.
"Most of the people who live here can afford a bundle or two,” replied the Iceman dryly.
"Who
does
live here?"
"Anyone who can afford it."
"Must not be a large population,” remarked the Kid.
"There isn't,” said the Iceman.
They walked through the spaceport, which housed an elegant restaurant and two very upscale gift shops, one of which dealt exclusively in rare and expensive pieces of alien art, then emerged into the bright sunlight and warm dry air of Sweetwater.
"The man I have to see isn't going to talk in front of strangers,” said the Iceman, turning to the Kid. “Doctors aren't exactly an endangered species on this planet. Why don't you get your chip implanted while I take care of my business, and I'll meet you back here in front of the restaurant in about five or six hours. We can have a decent dinner before we take off."
"Suits me,” agreed the Kid.
The Iceman pointed toward an airlift. “That leads to a monorail platform, from which you can get into what passes for a town in about ten minutes. You won't have any trouble finding a doctor once you get there."
"You're not going into town?"
The Iceman shook his head. “My man lives in the opposite direction. I'll rent a groundcar and drive out there."
"Okay,” said the Kid. “See you later."
The young man walked off toward the airlift, and the Iceman made arrangements for his vehicle. In a few minutes he was driving through the carefully-landscaped countryside, passing one oceanfront estate after another, until he finally came to the one he sought.
He turned into a driveway, proceeded for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and then came to a high-voltage electronic field.
"Who's there?” asked a mechanical voice emanating from a holographic imaging station. “Carlos Mendoza."
"Checking files...” said the voice. “Positive identification made."
Then another voice was heard, a human voice. “Well, I'll be damned! Come on in!"
The field dissolved and the Iceman drove the remaining three hundred yards to an angular house constructed of an alien material that seemed to reflect hundreds of changing colors in a continuous pattern. It was surrounded by pools, decks, and exotic gardens filled with tinkling crystalline flowers, and one long glass wall offered a panoramic view of the blue-green ocean.
He brought the vehicle to a stop, then stepped onto a moving cushion of air that brought him gently to the second level of the house. When he arrived at the front door, he found it open, and he stepped into a mirrored foyer where an old, balding man with spindly arms and legs but sporting a small pot belly, greeted him.
"Carlos Mendoza! It's been a long time!"
The Iceman nodded. “How have you been?"
"I can't complain,” said the old man, leading him through the foyer into a large, circular room that afforded a fantastic view of the shoreline.
The Iceman's gaze swept the room, and he smiled. “They'd lock you away if you did. This is some place."
"Haven't you been here before?"
"Once, just when you moved in."
"Ah, yes—my retirement party.” The old man paused. “Can I get you something to drink?"
"Why not?"
"What'll it be?” he said, walking to a bar that rose out of the floor as he approached it.
"Whatever you're having."
"Well, I've been saving a bottle of Cygnian cognac for a special occasion,” said the old man. “Since you're my first visitor in more than a month, I figure that makes it special enough."
"Sounds good to me,” said the Iceman, walking over to the window wall and looking out at the ocean. “Nice view."
"Isn't it?” agreed the old man with a show of pride.
"Nice world, for that matter. Makes me think I could learn to adjust to retirement."
"There are a couple of properties for sale up the road,” said the old man. “No reason why you shouldn't consider it.” He touched a button on his wristwatch and a shining metallic robot entered the room. “Two Cygnian cognacs, please, Sidney."
The robot bowed and left the room.
"Sidney?” repeated the Iceman with a smile.
"Beats the hell out of calling it Model AU-644,” answered the old man. “Have a seat, Carlos."
The Iceman walked over and sat down on a chair that instantly adapted itself to his body, while the old man seated himself a few feet away. The robot reentered the room a moment later with two cognacs on a shining tray made of some alloy the Iceman didn't recognize.
"Thank you, Sidney,” said the old man. “That will be all."
The robot bowed again.
"How much did the little piece of machinery cost you?” asked the Iceman.
"Plenty."
"Does it do anything besides serve you drinks?"
"It does—on those rare occasions when I can think of something else for it to do,” answered the old man. He took a sip of his cognac. “Excellent! They still make it better in the Cygni system than anywhere else."
The Iceman sipped his own drink. “You'll get no argument from me."
There was a momentary silence, as the old man stared at him.
"So, Carlos,” he said at last, “are you really thinking of retiring?"
"I think about it all the time."
"No reason why not,” agreed the old man. “You've certainly put in your time out there on the Frontier, and Lord knows you've made enough money. What's to stop you?"
"Five different men have tried to stop me in the last two months,” said the Iceman.
"I don't think I follow you."
"Someone's put a hit out on me,” said the Iceman. “I thought you might be able to help me find out why."
"I've been retired for almost four years, Carlos,” said the old man. “I don't know what's happening on the Inner Frontier—or anywhere else, for that matter."
"But you can find out."
"How?"
"I know the name of the party that wants me dead."
"I told you—I'm out of touch."
"Come on,” said the Iceman. “You were in the service for half a century. You can't make me believe that they don't still call you to pick your mind, or that you haven't got a computer that's tied in to the Master Computer on Deluros VIII."
The old man looked annoyed. “You're asking a lot for a man who just showed up out of the blue."
"I
gave
you a lot, 32,” said the Iceman.
"I'm not 32 anymore,” said the old man. “They retired my code name when I quit. These days I'm just plain Robert Gibbs."
"If I hadn't agreed to go up against Penelope Bailey six years ago, you'd have been fired before you had a chance to quit,” said the Iceman firmly. “It was 32's fat I pulled out of the fire a little over six years ago, and it's 32 who owes me a favor. I'm here to collect it."
"You were well-paid for that incident,” said Gibbs.
"So were you, as your current surroundings go to prove.” The Iceman paused. “You still owe me."
"I don't see it that way, Carlos,” answered Gibbs. “I was working for the government. You were a free-lancer who extorted an enormous fee for your services."
"And gave you value received when no one else in the galaxy could have done so,” said the Iceman. “And don't give me that holier-than-thou attitude just because you stayed in the service. I put in fifteen years with them before I went my own way. They got their pound of flesh and then some."
"Nevertheless..."
"Damn it, I wouldn't ask for this favor if I didn't need it!” snapped the Iceman. “I told you: there have been five attempts on my life!"
"You've made a lot of enemies over the years."
"True. But the Anointed One isn't one of them, and he's the one who's after me."
Gibbs looked at him, startled. “The Anointed One?” he repeated.
"That's right."
Gibbs got to his feet, walked over to the window, and looked out at the ocean. “Why does he want you dead?"
"That's what I want to know. I need whatever information you have on him."
"I don't have anything."
"But you can get it,” said the Iceman.
Gibbs nodded. “I can get it."
Now it was the Iceman's turn to frown. “Why this sudden change of mood? I thought you were digging in your heels and telling me I had no business asking you for information."
"This is different,” said Gibbs, turning to face him. “The Democracy's been after the Anointed One for close to three years."
"Why?"
"Because he's grown from a minor upstart into a serious problem,” answered Gibbs. “The man may have as many as two hundred million followers."
"Why haven't I heard of him, then?"
"He began his operation on the Outer Frontier, out by the Rim and in the Spiral Arm. He just reached the Democracy about a year ago. That's why I'm surprised that he's after you: to the best of our knowledge, he hasn't made any inroads on the Inner Frontier yet."
"Tell me about him,” said the Iceman, taking another sip of his cognac.
"He purports to be a religious leader,” answered Gibbs, finishing his own drink and walking over to a small table, where he deposited the empty glass. “He had some tax problems, and one day the government's witnesses showed up dead. That's when we started keeping an eye on him."
"Go on."
"We don't know what his eventual goal is, but we can tie him to more than fifty murders. We know he's been buying arms at a phenomenal rate, we know he's got a fair-sized army in his employ, and we know he finances them through a number of illegal businesses. We've taken him to court on tax charges on more than eighty worlds, and ninety percent of those cases are dragging on through endless postponements while he claims that he's a tax-free religious institution.” Gibbs snorted contemptuously. “How many religions do
you
know of that possess a sizeable army?"
"What do you think he's after?"
Gibbs shrugged. “I don't know; hell, no one knows. At first we thought he actually planned to take over a number of worlds out on the Rim and set up his own little empire, but then he began expanding into the Democracy itself."
"Surely he doesn't plan to go up against the Democracy?"
"For a while we thought he did,” said Gibbs, staring out at his terrace, where a trio of gold-and-purple avians had landed at an automated feeding station.
"But the Navy's got a billion ships,” said the Iceman.
"And they're spread out over fifty or sixty thousand worlds. One quick strike at Deluros VIII could cause so much chaos that we might actually be willing to strike a deal with him."
"I very much doubt it."
"Well, that was our original assessment, anyway,” said Gibbs. “In fact, we pulled the 23rd fleet back to help defend the Deluros system against an assault, even though he's years away from having enough firepower to seriously consider it. But in the last year or so, he seems to have changed his focus."
"Oh?"
Gibbs nodded. “Yes. According to our informants, he seems obsessed with another religious figure called the Prophet, who is probably a rival in the cult business.” He smiled and shook his head in wonderment. “I don't know where they get these names—or these followings, for that matter.” He paused. “Anyway, these days he seems to be skirting the Democracy and expanding toward the Galactic core, which means he'll reach the Inner Frontier any time now."
"Why?"
"I was hoping you might tell me,” said Gibbs. “After all, you're the one he's trying to kill."
"I never heard of the man until two days ago,” said the Iceman, staring through the window wall as two of Sweetwater's three moons moving rapidly across the sky.
Gibbs shrugged again. “Well, I've told you everything I know about him."
"But not everything the Democracy knows,” said the Iceman. “I want to know where he's at right now."
"If we knew, we'd go in after him."
"I still want to know what the Democracy knows,” said the Iceman. He stared directly at Gibbs. “I want his confidential file."
Gibbs ordered Sidney to bring him another cognac. “I don't think there is one."
"Come on,” said the Iceman contemptuously. “I used to work for the service, remember?"
"I'm not kidding, Carlos. They don't know a damned thing about him."
"They've got to have photographs, holographs, a past history, a list of current associates..."
"That's classified material, Carlos,” said Gibbs, accepting the cognac from Sidney. The robot bowed, picked up Gibbs’ empty glass, and retreated to another room. “I can't give you that."
"Sure you can. Just tie in to Deluros and tell them you want it. You're still cleared for it."
"There's bound to be some sensitive material that could embarrass the government and wouldn't help you at all,” said Gibbs. “The service is not without its own elements of corruption. If there are any agents or officials under investigation who have not formally been charged, I won't turn their names over to you.” He paused and stared at the Iceman. “That's my deal: if I do get the file from Deluros, I insist that I go through it first—and in private—and give you only what I think is safe for you to have."
"Fair enough,” replied the Iceman. “I'd like a file on the Prophet, too."
"Can't help you there, and that's the truth,” said Gibbs. “We don't have a thing on him. In fact, if our informants hadn't mentioned that the Anointed One is obsessed with him, we wouldn't even know the Prophet existed."