Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future (24 page)

“If you’re that unhappy, why
haven’t you killed yourself?” asked Cain. “It shouldn’t be that difficult to
crash into a planet, or fall right into the heart of a star.”

“A
man
could choose to do that,” said Schussler bitterly. “A
machine
can’t.”

“But you
are
a man,” said Cain. “You’re just wearing this ship the way other men wear
clothes.”

“I wish that were so, but it
isn’t. I am the ship and the ship is me, and when the Graal joined the two of
us in this unholy alliance, they inserted two directives that are so powerful I
can’t override them. The first of them is to protect my own existence.”

“And the other?”

“It cost the Graal a lot of money
to build me. They made some of it back by selling me at auction. They explained
to me that since my life expectancy is now virtually infinite, they were sure I
would be happy to spend an insignificant segment of it helping them amortize my
cost.” He sighed, a melodic sound that somehow reminded Cain of air flowing
through a pipe organ. “My other directive was to obey the commands of my owner
for a period of thirty years.”

“Who is your owner?”

“She was Altair of Altair,”
replied Schussler.

Just then the Swagman entered the
ship.

“Too damned hot out there,” he
said, walking over to a cushioned seat and flopping down on it. He turned to
Cain. “Has he popped the question to you yet?”

“What question?” asked Cain.

The Swagman laughed. “If he’s got
more than one, he’s been holding out on me.” He paused. “Well, Schussler—have
you?”

“Not yet,” said the cyborg.

“I repeat: what question?” said
Cain.

“We still have things to discuss,”
said Schussler. “Then I will make my request.”

“You know,” said the Swagman to
Cain, “I offered him good steady work back at Goldenrod, and he turned me down
flat.”

“I won’t transport stolen goods,”
said Schussler firmly.

“You yourself might be considered
stolen goods,” noted the Swagman amiably, “since there’s still thirteen years
outstanding on your contract.”

“I am not stolen goods,” replied
Schussler. “I belong to Cain for the next thirteen years.”

“What?” said Cain, startled.
“That’s not Altairian law.”

“It is one of the conditions of my
contract with the Graal,” said Schussler. “They understood that Altair of
Altair operated beyond the scope of human law, and it was explicitly stated
that should she be killed by any representative of any human government before
my contract was up, I would become the possession of that representative. As a
bounty hunter who will ultimately be paid by the Democracy for slaying her, you
qualify as my new owner.”

“I don’t
want
to be your owner,” said Cain.

“Just a minute,” interjected the
Swagman. “Let’s not be too hasty about this.”

“Schussler, when I was in the
cavern, you indicated that you might be able to help me,” said Cain, staring at
the panel behind which the essential Schussler existed. “What did you have in
mind?”

“I can show you where Altair of
Altair has been, and who she spoke to, and many other things.”

“If you’ll feed it all into my
ship’s computer, I’ll make you a free agent right now,” said Cain. “I don’t
have any use for another ship.”

“Terwilliger needs your ship, if
you’re really sending him to Lambda Karos,” the Swagman pointed out.

“He can use yours,” said Cain.
“We’re partners, remember?”

“It’s a moot point,” said
Schussler. “I can’t feed my information to your computer. The language my
systems use is different.”

“Come off it,” said Cain. “You use
the same language as my computer every time you receive landing coordinates.
What’s your real problem?”

“Please take me with you!” said
Schussler suddenly, a note of desperation in his voice. “It’s been so long
since I’ve been able to
talk
with another human
being!” Cain seemed hesitant, and Schussler continued: “I will serve you with
complete loyalty until we find Santiago. I will guide and protect you, feed and
ferry you, and I ask nothing in return except your company.”

“Nothing?” repeated the Swagman
meaningfully.

“Until you have found Santiago,”
said Schussler. “Then I have one single request to make of you.”

“What is it?” demanded Cain.

“Kill me,” said
Schussler the Cyborg.

The Songbird
stalks, the Songbird kills,

The Songbird
works to pay his bills.

So, friend,
beware the Songbird’s glance:

If you’re his prey, you’ll have no chance.

“Those don’t belong to you,” said
Schussler.

The Swagman, tired of sitting in a
chair that was almost comfortable, had gotten to his feet and was examining a
number of alien artifacts that were attached to a wall of the command cabin.

“By the same token, they don’t
belong to you, either,” he replied easily. He pulled at an onyx carving,
breaking the magnetic field that joined it to the wall. “Interesting piece,” he
commented, examining it closely. “Where did your late lamented owner pick it
up? Hesporite Three?”

“Neiburi Two,” answered Schussler.

“Same star cluster,” remarked the
Swagman with an air of satisfaction. “I wouldn’t have given her credit for such
exquisite taste. Do you know what this little piece is worth on the open
market?”

“No,” said Schussler.

“Neither do you,” interjected
Cain, looking up from the table where he had disassembled one of his pistols
and was meticulously cleaning it. “But I’ll bet you can give us its black
market value to the nearest tenth of a credit.”

“Touché,” grinned the Swagman.

“Put it back now,” said Schussler.

“I’m admiring it.”

“Evaluating it, anyway,” said Cain
dryly.

“Force of habit,” admitted the Swagman,
holding the carving near the wall until the magnetic field took it from him. He
began studying another piece.

“I’m still watching you,” said
Schussler.

“How comforting.”

“You’d better not try to steal
anything,” continued the cyborg.

“I never steal from my friends,”
said the Swagman.

“I know all about you, Swagman,”
said Schussler. “You don’t have any friends.”

“It
does
simplify matters,” replied the Swagman with a smile. “If it will allay your
fears, I also don’t steal from my partners when one of them happens to be a
bounty hunter.” Suddenly a small carving caught his eye, and he pulled it out
of the field. “Well, well,” he mused. “Life is a torrent of never-ending
surprises.”

“What have you got there?” asked
Cain.

The Swagman held the piece up.

“It doesn’t look all that
special.”

“As a matter of fact, it’s a
rather mediocre work of art,” agreed the Swagman. “It’s where it originated
that makes it interesting.”

“And where was that?”

“Pellinath Four.”

“Never heard of it,” said Cain.

“It’s the planet where I was
raised. This was carved by one of the Bellum.”

“Your benefactors?” asked
Schussler, interested.

The Swagman nodded, studying the
carving. “I think I must have sold this thing, oh, ten or twelve years ago, out
by New Rhodesia. I wonder how Altair of Altair got her hands on it?”

“What were the Bellum like?” asked
Schussler.

“Not bad at all, considering that
we had some serious disagreements about laissez-faire capitalism,” replied the
Swagman. “Still, they fed me and gave me shelter, and I’m grateful to them for
that.”

“Not so grateful that you didn’t
rob them,” noted Cain wryly.

“True,” agreed the Swagman. “On
the other hand, if God had any serious objections to what I do, He wouldn’t
have made insurance companies.” He paused. “Besides, I didn’t take very much.
They were exceptionally poor artisans. I suppose it comes from being
color-blind and not having thumbs.” He glanced at the piece again and replaced
it on the wall, then turned to the panel that hid Schussler’s essence. “Tell me
about the Graal.”

“They were basically humanoid,”
replied the cyborg, “if you consider a race humanoid because it walks erect on
two legs. Beyond that, they didn’t have a lot in common with Men.”

“That’s not too difficult to
believe, given the contours of the seats in here,” said the Swagman with a
grimace. “What kind of art did they produce?”

The ship uttered an amused,
melodic chuckle. “Nothing that would interest you. They don’t have any eyes;
they use a form of sonar. And while I never saw their artwork, I’m sure it
would reflect their limitations.”

“What a pity,” sighed the Swagman.
“At least
my
aliens gave me a little something to
remember them by, however unwillingly.”

“So did mine,” said Schussler, the
melody of his voice conflicting with the irony of his words.

“Where
is
this world where they put you together, anyway?” asked the Swagman. “I’ve never
heard of the Kalkos system.”

“In the Corbellus Cluster,”
replied Schussler.

“I was out there once,” remarked
the Swagman. “Ever hear of Fond Hope?”

“I’ve heard of it,” answered the
cyborg, “but I’ve never been there.”

“I’ve heard of it, too,” said
Cain. “Didn’t Orpheus write it up? Something about the Deneb Arabian, or the
Delphini Arabian, or something like that?”

“The Darley Arabian,” said the
Swagman. “Orpheus gave him his name. In fact, he gave all three patriarchs
their names.” He paused. “My own modest dealings were solely with the Barb.”

“I don’t recall any mention of
him,” said Cain.

“I fear I may have left him with a
certain distrust of outsiders,” grinned the Swagman. “He refused to speak to
Black Orpheus.”

“Smart man,” muttered Cain.

“I didn’t understand the song,”
volunteered Schussler. “It sounded, well, racy.”

“The Darley
Arabian, tall and wild,/Has gotten another wife with child,”
quoted the
Swagman. “I suppose that’s as close to racy as Orpheus ever gets.” He turned to
the panel that hid Schussler from view. “Fond Hope was settled by three very
large families, who immediately had a falling-out and began fighting with each
other. Since this was a blood feud, none of the families wanted to import
outside mercenaries. Then one day the Arabian conceived the notion of buying a
couple of hundred mail-order brides and siring his own army—all in the line of
duty, to be sure.” He chuckled. “It took each of the other two patriarchs about
a week to follow suit, and they’ve spent the past twenty years fighting all day
and making little soldiers all night.”

“What about the names?” asked
Schussler.

“Orpheus found out that all the
racehorses back on old Earth descended from three foundation sires, so he named
the three patriarchs the Darley Arabian, the Byerly Turk, and the Godolphin
Barb, after the three horses.”

“What was your business with the
Barb?” asked Cain.

“I knew that he had no need for
mercenaries, but I thought he might be interested in purchasing a shipload of
weapons to carry on the battle.”

“Hot?”

“Lukewarm,” admitted the Swagman.
“The navy confiscated them a month after I delivered them.”

“I wasn’t aware that the navy ever
got out to the Corbellus Cluster,” said Schussler.

“They didn’t—until someone
thoughtlessly appropriated a few thousand laser weapons from one of their
munitions warehouses.”

“Is that why Santiago dropped
you?” asked Cain.

“Why should you think so?”

“Because stealing from the navy
isn’t your style. You’d need Santiago’s muscle for an operation like that. My
guess is that he threw you out for selling weapons he wanted to keep.”

“You couldn’t be more mistaken,”
said the Swagman indignantly.

“Are you seriously trying to tell
me that you stole those weapons yourself?” said Cain.

“Oh, it was Santiago’s operation
from start to finish.” acknowledged the Swagman. “And yes, we did have some
slight disagreement over their ultimate disposition. But we parted ways for a
totally unrelated reason.”

“The mind boggles,” commented Cain
wryly.

“I’m surprised that Santiago or
the Godolphin Barb didn’t commission your death,” said Schussler.

“The Barb did,” replied the
Swagman. “Fortunately, my would-be assassin tried to attack me at my fortress
on Goldenrod, where even the Angel would find it difficult to do me any
damage.”

“How do you know that it was the
Barb who hired the assassin, rather than Santiago?” asked the cyborg.

“Because I’m still here.” The
Swagman wandered over to the table, where Cain had replaced the bullets in his
first pistol and was preparing to clean and oil a second. “You know,” he said,
staring at the pieces that were neatly laid out on the table, “there’s
something I’ve been curious about ever since I observed you with Altair of
Altair.”

“Ask away,” said Cain without
looking up.

“Why do you use a projectile
weapon?” said the Swagman.

“It’s more accurate than laser or
sonic pistols, and since it doesn’t have an energy pack to begin with, it can’t
run out of power.”

“But it makes such a loud noise.”

“So what?”

“I would have thought stealth and
silence were essential to your profession.”

Cain smiled. “They’re essential
while I’m stalking my prey. Once I start shooting, I don’t much give a damn who
knows I’m there.” He paused. “I’m not one of your menials, Swagman. I operate
within the law; I don’t have to sneak away when my work is done.”

“A point well taken,” admitted the
Swagman.

“A laser gun is all right if you
have to fan a large area,” continued Cain. “But it’s not a precision instrument.
To each his own; I prefer bullets.”