Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future (22 page)

“Interesting,” he said
noncommittally.

“Fascinating,” she replied with
conviction. “There is one you cannot see, who lives beneath the sand. Not this
clumsy shellfish, but a beautiful animal, bright as the morning sun. The others
hunt for him endlessly, but they cannot find him.” She smiled. “I have named
him Santiago.”

“And which fish is Altair of Altair?”
he asked.

“None of them.” She stared at him
through half-lowered lids. “I kill only for recompense.”

“Nobody’s asking you to kill at
all,” said Cain patiently. “I just need to know where to find Santiago.” He
paused. “I’m prepared to give you a percentage of the reward if your
information proves useful.”

“Are you indeed?”

“Ten percent of the price on his
head would keep you in fish for a long time.”

“Do you know what I would do if
you tried to take my very bright fish?” she asked suddenly.

“What?”

“I would kill you, Sebastian Cain.
I would kill you because that fish is mine, and you would be taking something
that didn’t belong to you.”

“Are you trying to tell me that
you think you have some prior claim on Santiago?”

“Santiago is mine.”

“Then why is he still alive?”

“Because the reward increases
every year, and I am very patient. When it becomes large enough, then I shall
kill him.”

“It’s large right now.”

“It will become larger,” she said
with certainty.

“And you’re not worried about
someone beating you to it?”

“Do you really think it is that
easy to kill him?” she asked, obviously amused. “He is
Santiago
.”

“If you think he can’t be killed,
why not give me the information I want?”

“It would do you no good.”

“In that case, it would do you no
harm,” said Cain.

She stared at him for a long
moment, then sighed. “There are more important things than information.”

“For instance?”

“The gift of life,” she said. “No
one who has ever entered my lair has been given it. But because I lead the
solitary life of a killer, I respect all others who do as well. Pledge to
return to Keepsake and fish for lesser prizes, and you may leave here alive.”

“After I find Santiago,” he
replied, suddenly wary.

“Then you are a fool,” she said.
“Did you know that even as we speak, Virtue MacKenzie is racing to the Angel’s
side to betray you?”

He looked surprised for just an
instant, then shrugged. “It won’t be the first time I’ve been betrayed,” he
said. “And it won’t do her any good.”

“That much is true,” said Altair
of Altair. “For when we are through here, I must hunt down the Angel and all
who stand with him.”

“For poaching?” he asked wryly.

“Yes.”

“If you start killing every bounty
hunter who’s looking for Santiago, you’re going to have a full-time job on your
hands.”

“Most of them are insignificant
specks of debris in the cosmos,” she replied. “Even Peacemaker MacDougal and
Johnny One-Note will never find Santiago. Of them all, only you and the Angel
have the ability to find him.”

“What about Giles Sans Pitié?”

“The Angel killed him last week,”
replied Altair of Altair. “Giles Sans Pitié sought him out on Glenovar and
proposed an alliance.” She paused. “The Angel has no more use for competition
than I have.”

“I warned him to stay away from
the Angel,” commented Cain.

“You realize, of course, that I
have every reason to do to you what the Angel did to Giles Sans Pitié.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” said Cain
ominously.

“Forget your weapon, Sebastian
Cain,” she said, an unfathomable expression on her exotic face. “It will do you
no good.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take
your word for it,” he said, withdrawing his gun and pointing it at her.

“How will you kill me?” she asked,
her blue eyes alive with amused interest. “A bullet to the head? That
is
your trademark, isn’t it?”

“I don’t have a trademark.”

“
All
good killers have trademarks,” she replied. “With Giles Sans Pitié it was his
metal fist, with Peacemaker MacDougal it is a pencil-thin beam of light, with
ManMountain Bates it is his bare hands, with you it is a bullet. Only the Angel,
who is adept with all weapons, slaughters with variety.”

“And what is
your
trademark?” asked Cain.

“You shall see,” she said softly.

And then, suddenly, he was no
longer in a subterranean chamber on Altair III. Instead, he stood at the edge
of a clear blue brook, the hot Sylarian sun beating down on his neck. He was
barefoot, and the grass, long and swaying in the gentle breeze, felt like
velvet between his toes.

He looked across the brook and saw
a girl, her blond hair meticulously braided, her skin tanned and healthy. She
wore a plain blue dress, and she gingerly held its skirt up to her knees as she
stood ankle deep in the water.

“Help me,” she said, her voice
heavy with worry.

“It’s shallow,” replied Cain with
a laugh. “Just walk across it.”

“I’ll fall.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Don’t tease me, Sebastian,” she
pleaded, reaching her hand out to him. “Please!”

“All right,” he said with a smile.

It was funny, he reflected as he
placed a foot in the brook and felt the cold water swirl around it. He had
known her for years, had loved her from the first day he had met her, yet for
the life of him he couldn’t remember her name.

“It’s Jennifer,” she said.

“Right.” He nodded. “Jennifer.”

“Please hurry, Sebastian,” she
said. “I’m frightened.”

“I’m coming.”

He crossed the brook in five large
steps, feeling remarkably invigorated by the water.

“You see?” he laughed. “There’s
nothing to it.” He paused, momentarily disoriented. “Now what?”

“Now carry me across.”

“Why don’t I just hold your hand
and lead you?” he asked.

“The stones hurt my feet,” she
said, half crooning the words. “Won’t you please carry me?”

He sighed. “If that’s what you
want.”

“You’ll have to drop the stick
first,” she said.

He frowned. “What stick?”

“The stick you’re carrying in your
right hand. You can’t lift me up if you’re carrying a stick.”

“Sure I can,” he said, suddenly
uneasy.

“It will hurt me,” she said, “and
it might even rip my dress. Please drop it, Sebastian.”

He took a step back, still
reluctant to drop the stick. “Something’s wrong,” he said, frowning again.

“What is it?” she asked
innocently.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe
it’s the dress.”

The dress became a burgundy skirt
and a frilly white blouse.

“Is this better, Sebastian?”

He stared at it. “I suppose so,”
he said at last.

“Then carry me across the brook.
I’m late.”

“For what?”

She giggled. “
You
know,” she said with a sense of shared intimacy.

“Oh.”

He stood motionless.

“Well?” she said at last.

“It’s still wrong,” he said,
puzzled.

“What is, Sebastian?”

“I don’t know. Let me think for a
minute.”

“We haven’t got a minute,
Sebastian. I’m
late
. Don’t tease me like this.”

He took a step toward her. “I’ve
almost got it.”

“Hurry, Sebastian!” she said, a
note of urgency creeping into her voice.

He reached out to her uneasily.

“The stick, Sebastian,” she
chanted seductively. “Put it down.”

He dropped the stick.

“Thank you,” she said, a strange
smile on her lips. “Are you happy, Sebastian?”

“I suppose so,” he said, forcing
himself to return her smile.

“I’m so glad.”

“What’s that in your hand?” he
asked, peering at some shining object he hadn’t seen before.

“A flower,” she said. “A lovely
silver flower.”

“It’s very pretty,” he said, the
uneasiness growing within him once again.

“Would you like a closer look,
Sebastian?”

“Yes, I—
Shit!
”
he muttered, diving for the stick. He grabbed it as he rolled over on the
ground, pointed it at her, and squeezed it.

Suddenly there was a loud explosion,
and he was once again in the subterranean chamber, and Altair of Altair lay on
her back, blood pouring out from a small hole between her eyes, a silver dagger
clutched in her hand.

Cain stood motionless, panting,
sweat pouring down his body, trying to regain his bearings. It took his hands a
full minute to stop shaking, and finally he put the gun back in its holster.

Then he walked over to Altair of
Altair and looked down at her.

“There
aren’t
any brooks on Sylaria,” he said weakly.

He examined her to make sure there
were no signs of life, then stood erect, his hands on his hips.

“Great,” he muttered. “Back to
square one again.”

“Not necessarily,” said a voice.

“Who’s there?” he demanded,
crouching down beside the corpse and drawing his pistol.

“My name is Schussler,” said the
voice, and now Cain realized that it was coming from the computer. “If you will
retrace your steps, you’ll find me waiting for you at the entrance to the
labyrinth.”

“How will I recognize you?” asked
Cain.

“You’ll have very
little difficulty,” said the voice with a bitter chuckle. “This I promise you.”

He aches for
the touch of flesh upon flesh,

He wonders why
Fate had to end his beguine,

He longs for a
woman, all virginal fresh:

Schussler the Cyborg, unhappy machine.

Black Orpheus met many unique
characters during his wanderings on the Inner Frontier. There were killers and
gamblers, preachers and bounty hunters, millionaires and paupers, saints and
sinners, an entire panorama of outcasts and adventurers and misfits—but not one
of them measured up to Schussler the Cyborg, whose tragedy was that he didn’t
want to be unique at all.

Father William, for example, loved
the limelight; Schussler dreaded it. Socrates enjoyed power; Schussler
disdained it. Sebastian Cain sought solitude; Schussler hated it. The Angel had
killed men almost without number; Schussler cherished all life but his own. The
Sargasso Rose had no use for human contact; Schussler longed for it. The men
and women and aliens that Orpheus put into his song were all bigger than life;
Schussler was bigger than any of them, and wanted only to be smaller.

Most people saw him as a miracle
of science, a shining testament to the melding of man and machine—but Black
Orpheus looked beneath the gleaming surface, past the wonders of an alien
technology, straight into Schussler’s tortured soul, and wept at what he saw.

They met only once, on Altair III.
Orpheus stayed with him for a day and a night, while Schussler poured out his
strange, unhappy story. They parted the next morning, Orpheus to continue his
journey among the stars, Schussler to serve his mistress and wait, without
hope, for the release of death.

Things began to change when the
Jolly Swagman landed on Altair. By rights he and Schussler should have had a
lot in common, since one of them had been raised by aliens and the other had
been rebuilt by them; but the accumulation of other people’s property was the
driving force in the Swagman’s life—while Schussler, who
was
property, found all forms of private ownership immoral.

Still, each of them had a major
stake in Cain’s meeting with Altair of Altair, so they quickly reached an
accommodation and awaited the outcome.

It was midafternoon when Cain
emerged from the labyrinth, shielding his eyes from the pale yellow sun with
his hand. He looked around the barren red landscape and saw a very small
spaceship of inhuman design about eighty yards away. An elegantly dressed man
was leaning against it, but when he saw Cain he immediately began walking
toward him.

“I can’t tell you how delighted I
am that you survived!” he said with a distinct accent.

“You’re Schussler?” asked Cain,
starting to sweat already.

“I’m afraid not. People call me
the Jolly Swagman.”

“Virtue MacKenzie sent me a
message that I might be running into you,” said Cain. “Aren’t you a little out
of your bailiwick?”

“Not while you’re here, I’m not,”
replied the Swagman easily. He looked around at his bleak surroundings. “Though
one could wish for a more interesting world, I suppose. I can’t imagine why
anyone chooses to live here: I suspect the only things that grow on Altair
Three are dust and bugs.”

“Any deal Virtue may have cut with
you was hers, not mine,” said Cain firmly. “Where’s Schussler? Aboard the
ship?”

“In a manner of speaking.” The
Swagman grinned. “He
is
the ship.”

“What are you talking about?”
demanded Cain, slapping at a large red insect that had landed on his neck.

“Schussler,” said the Swagman.
“He’s a cyborg.”

Cain looked at the ship, its hull
shining in the midday sun. “There’s never been a cyborg like that,” he said
with conviction.

“Well, there is now. Orpheus gave
him three verses.”

“Orpheus writes so damned much,
it’s hard to keep up with all of it,” replied Cain.

“Maybe you should have tried,”
said the Swagman. “Then you’d have known about Schussler.”

Cain stared at the ship again.
“He’s
really
a spaceship?” he asked dubiously.

“Why should I lie to you?”

“Offhand, I can think of a hundred
reasons.” He waved his hand at a cloud of tiny, gnatlike insects, frightening
them away. “How does he communicate?”

“He’s got a speaker system. It
sounds just the same as a ship’s intercom.”