Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future (29 page)

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“This happens all the time?” she
continued.

“Yes.”

“You must be a very lonely man.”

“There are compensations,” he
replied dryly. “Surely Sebastian Cain has said as much to you.”

“I’m not certain that he agrees
with you.”

“Then why is he a bounty hunter?”
asked the Angel, suddenly interested.

“He wants to do something
important,” she said with a cynical smile. “Or meaningful. Whichever comes
first.”

“God save us from moral men with
good intentions,” said the Angel. He took another sip of his wine and relit his
cigar, which had gone out.

“I can see where an abundance of
them might put you out of business,” commented Virtue.

“I don’t foresee that as an
imminent danger,” said the Angel. “Let’s get back to Cain. The money trail is a
lot easier to follow than the smuggling trail; why did he choose the latter?”

“That was where he got his first
hard information.”

“Information’s not that difficult
to come by.”

“Maybe you’re better at extracting
it than he is.”

“You make him sound something less
than formidable,” remarked the Angel. “This is contrary to my assessment of
him, especially considering how far he’s gotten.”

“Bounty hunters aren’t all alike,”
replied Virtue, reaching into her satchel and withdrawing a cigarette. “For
example, I have a hard time envisioning Cain killing anyone—and I have an
equally hard time picturing you letting anyone live.”

“You misjudge me. I only kill
fugitives.”

“What about Giles Sans Pitié?”

“And fools,” he amended.

“I’ve heard a lot of things, good
and bad, about him,” said Virtue, “but I never heard anyone call him a fool
before.”

“That’s because most people were
afraid of him.”

“Why
did
you kill him?”

“He proposed an alliance. I
refused. He threatened me.” He smiled mirthlessly. “
That
was foolish.”

“You killed him because he
threatened
you?”

“You doubtless feel it would have
been more sporting to wait until he’d taken a few swings at my head with that
metal fist of his?” suggested the Angel.

“How do you know he wasn’t
bluffing?”

“I don’t. But when a man takes a
position, he must be prepared to live—or die—with the consequences of his
actions. Giles Sans Pitié threatened to kill me. There was only one possible
consequence.”

“How did you kill him?” she asked
curiously.

“Efficiently,” he replied. “Now
reach into your satchel and turn your recorder off. We’re supposed to be
discussing Cain, not creating a biographical feature on me.”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying,”
she said nonchalantly while deactivating the recorder.

The Angel poured himself another
glass of wine as the four cardplayers silently left the tavern.

“What was Cain’s reaction when he
found out that he would have to confront Altair of Altair?”

“He wasn’t scared, if that’s what
you mean,” said Virtue.

“That wasn’t what I meant. Any man
who’s been in our profession as long as Cain has learned to master his fear.”
The Angel leaned forward slightly. “Was he excited?”

“Not much excites him. Resigned is
the word I’d use.”

“What a pity.”

“Why? Does killing people excite
you?”

“Killing most people is just a job
to be done as quickly and efficiently as possible,” said the Angel. “But
killing someone like Altair of Altair...” His face came alive. “The highest
levels of competition in
any
field of endeavor are
indistinguishable from art—and I find art exciting.”

“Then that’s why you’re after
Santiago?” asked Virtue. “Because he affords you the greatest competition?”

He shook his head. “I am hunting
Santiago because I need the reward. The challenge he presents is merely an
added bonus.”

“Come on,” said Virtue
skeptically. “I know your record. Do you really expect me to believe that
you’re after still more money?”

“What you believe is a matter of complete
indifference to me,” replied the Angel.

“But you’ve made tens of millions
of credits!” she persisted.

“My creditors have expensive
tastes,” he said.

Suddenly his attention was taken
by a small, portly, balding, red-faced man who cautiously entered the tavern.
The man looked around uneasily, saw the Angel, and walked over to the table.

“Mr. Breshinsky?” said the Angel.

The man nodded, sweat dripping off
his face as he did so. “I was told you wanted to see me,” he said in a wary
voice.

“You were also told what
information I needed.”

“I regret to inform you that I
don’t have access to it,” said Breshinsky nervously.

“You
are
the account officer of the New Ecuador branch of the Bank of Misthaven, are you
not?”

Breshinsky nodded again.

“Then you know on which world
Dimitrios Galos initially established his business account.”

“I’m forbidden by law to tell you
that,” protested Breshinsky. “That’s privileged information.”

“Which you are now going to give
to me,” said the Angel, staring intently at the uncomfortable banker.

“It’s out of the question!”

“If it were out of the question,
you wouldn’t have shown up.”

“I came because nobody says no to
the Angel.”

“Then don’t say no now, or I could
become very annoyed with you,” said the Angel gently.

“This could cost me my job!”

“This could cost you considerably
more than your job.”

Breshinsky seemed to shrink within
himself.

“Who is your companion?” he asked
at last. “I can’t divulge sensitive information like this in front of a third
party.”

“I personally guarantee her
silence.”

“You’re sure?” asked Breshinsky,
staring at Virtue.

“I just gave you my word.”

There was another uncomfortable
pause.

“Can we at least discuss some
compensation?” asked Breshinsky, his hands trembling noticeably. “My entire
future is at stake if this should get out.”

“Of course,” said the Angel. “I’m
not an unreasonable man.”

“Good,” said Breshinsky, pulling
out a silk handkerchief and mopping his forehead. “May I sit down?”

“That won’t be necessary,” replied
the Angel. “I never haggle. I’ll make one offer, and you can take it or leave
it.”

“All right,” said Breshinsky.
“What’s your offer?”

“Your life, Mr. Breshinsky,” said
the Angel calmly.

The portly little man gasped, then
emitted a nervous giggle. “You’re joking!”

“I never joke about business.”

Breshinsky stared at him for a
long moment, then uttered a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a sob.
“The account was initiated on Sunnybeach.”

“Thank you, Mr. Breshinsky,” said
the Angel. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“May I leave now?”

The Angel nodded, and the little
banker walked rapidly to the door.

“Would you really have killed him
if he hadn’t told you what you wanted to know?” asked Virtue.

“Of course.”

“I thought you only killed
fugitives.”

“And fools,” added the Angel.
“Eventually one comes to the realization that everyone is one or the other.”

“Including Santiago?”

“
Almost
everyone,” he amended.

“You’re a very cynical man,” she
said.

“It must be the company I keep,”
he replied. He noticed that his cigar had gone out again, and unwrapped and lit
a fresh one. “We’ll leave for Sunnybeach at sunrise tomorrow morning.”

“Then I’d better go back to my
hotel and start packing,” said Virtue. She paused. “What will I do with my
ship?”

“That’s not my concern,” said the
Angel.

“Thanks a lot.”

“If you’re unhappy with the
arrangements, you can always remain on New Ecuador,” said the Angel.

“Not a chance,” she replied.
“We’re partners now. I’m staying with you.”

“We are
not
partners,” he corrected her. “We are traveling companions, nothing more. And you’ll
stay with me only so long as you prove useful.” He stood up. “Meet me at my
ship at sunrise.”

“How will I know which one it is?”
she asked as he began walking toward the doorway.

He stopped and turned to her.

“You’re an investigative
reporter,” he said. “You’ll find it.”

Then he was gone, and Virtue
MacKenzie found herself sitting alone in the almost deserted tavern. She
remained motionless, lost in thought, for a number of minutes, trying to
assimilate what she had seen and learned of the Angel. There was no longer any
question in her mind that he would find Santiago, and very little that he would
succeed in killing him. But for the first time since she had begun her search,
she felt unsure of her course of action; the Angel frightened her as no other
man she had ever met.

She reviewed her various options,
which included finding and teaming up with Cain or the Swagman once more,
proceeding on her own, or chucking the whole thing and living on the remainder
of her unspent advance, compared them against remaining with the Angel, and
finally concluded that while she hadn’t made the safest decision, she had made
the right one.

She stood up,
walked to the far side of the table where the Angel had placed her bottle,
downed two large swallows, and headed back to her hotel, trying to come up with
various facts about Cain and Santiago that would make her of continuing value
to the Angel.

Come to the
lair of the cold Virgin Queen!

Come and see
sights that have never been seen!

Money that’s
piled as high as the sky,

And a bandit queen anything other than shy!

People used to ask Black Orpheus
about that verse, since it seemed so different from his original stanza about
Virtue MacKenzie. At first he was genuinely puzzled—after all, he hadn’t
written it—but after a while he put two and two together, figured out who wrote
it and why, and decided to let it stand, probably to further confuse the
academics who had made careers out of continually misinterpreting him.

Once the Angel had let drop that
he had a constant need for money, Virtue decided to convince him that she had
access to it—so she jotted down the four lines, spread some untraceable cash
around, and made sure that the verse continually came to his attention.

She was guilty of overwriting a
bit more than usual; at any rate, it didn’t have quite the effect she had
anticipated. The first time the Angel heard it he remarked that Orpheus must
have discovered a second Virgin Queen; he never referred to it again. When it
reached the Swagman’s ears, he concluded that money wasn’t the only thing
Virtue was capable of piling as high as the sky. As for Cain, who heard it
after he’d reached Safe Harbor, he grimaced and commented to Schussler that
some of the sights referred to had been seen altogether too often. Of all the
men and aliens Virtue had met on the Inner Frontier, only Sitting Bull, chief
of the Great Sioux Nation, assumed that the verse had actually been written by
Black Orpheus, and he found himself in full agreement that shyness was not
exactly one of the Virgin Queen’s more noticeable traits.

In truth, the only positive effect
it ever did have was that Virtue gained another little piece of immortality
when Orpheus incorporated it into his ballad.

In the meantime, it was business
as usual during the two-day voyage to Sunnybeach. The Angel questioned her
thoroughly about every aspect of Cain’s character, every portion of his past,
every hope he may have expressed for his future. She answered with the truth
when she could and lied when she couldn’t.

Even though he assumed that her
knowledge of Cain was fragmentary at best, the picture that emerged puzzled and
disturbed the Angel. He understood men who killed for profit, and men who
killed for hatred, and even men who killed for ego—but Cain seemed to fall into
none of those categories. And, as with anything that ran counter to his
experience, he distrusted it, as he now distrusted Cain.

For her part, Virtue tried to
learn more about the Angel, especially his past and his reasons for becoming
first an assassin and then a bounty hunter. He didn’t overtly refuse to answer
her; he merely ignored her questions, and when he stared at her with his
colorless eyes, she felt disinclined to force the issue.

Finally they reached Sunnybeach,
which handled considerably more traffic than she had expected. On most Frontier
worlds one simply decelerated and landed, but the procedure here was not unlike
that back in the heart of the Democracy.

First a voice came over their
radio and asked them to identify themselves.

“This is the
Southern
Cross
, two hundred eighty-one Galactic Standard days out of Spica Six,
William Jennings, race of Man, commanding,” replied the Angel.

“Registration number?”

The Angel rattled off an
eleven-digit number.

“Purpose of visit?”

“Tourism.”

“Are you equipped to land
planetside, or will you require use of an orbiting hangar?”

“I can land in any spaceport rated
Class Seven or higher.”

“Please maintain your orbit until
we can confirm you,” said the voice, breaking the connection.

“Who is William Jennings?” asked
Virtue.

“I am—until we pass through
customs.”

“I assume the ship’s point of
origin and registration number are phony, too.”

“They’re untrue,” said the Angel.
“Which is different from being phony. I can prove they’re what I say, just as I
can prove that I’m William Jennings.”