Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future (44 page)

“No,” said Cain. “Are you
suggesting that
I
become one?”

“I don’t think I follow you.”

“I looked at your
Tale of Two Cities
last night,” said Cain. “It occurs to
me that the Angel has never seen either of us.”

“And you think I want you to
impersonate me if and when he arrives?”

“Do you?”

“Absolutely not. I fight my own
fights.” He paused. “Other than that, how did you like the book?”

“Other than that, it was pretty
boring.”

“I’m sorry that you didn’t enjoy
it.”

“I had other things on my mind,”
said Cain. “I still do.”

“Such as?”

“Such as whether or not I can
believe you,” replied Cain. “I’ve killed an awful lot of people for men I
believed in, and I’ve always been disappointed.”

“I’m not asking you to kill anyone
for
me,
Sebastian,” said Santiago. “That would be
presumptuous. I’m asking you to help me
protect
people from the abuses of a distant government that couldn’t care less about
them.”

“Not ten minutes ago you ordered
Jacinto to kill someone for you,” Cain pointed out.

“That was for the cause, not for
me,” answered Santiago. “Since I can’t fund my operation through legitimate
means, I must resort to questionable tactics. Winston Kchanga cannot be allowed
to cheat us and escape punishment for his actions. If word got out that we
didn’t protect our interests, it wouldn’t be long before the criminal element
preyed upon us just as the Democracy does.” He turned and began walking
alongside a field containing row upon row of huge, mutated corn. “Revolution is
no place for the squeamish. Surely you must understand that.”

“I understand that,” said Cain.
“How many men will you want me to kill?”

Santiago stopped and met his gaze
levelly. “I’ll never ask you to kill anyone who doesn’t deserve killing.”

“I do that now, and I get well
paid for it.”

“If you come with me, you’ll
continue doing it. You’ll get paid nothing, there will be a price on your head,
and even the people you’re fighting for will want you dead.” Santiago smiled
wryly. “That’s not much to offer, is it?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Then let me sweeten the pot,”
continued Santiago. “You’ll have one benefit that you don’t have in your
present occupation.”

“What?”

“The knowledge that you’ll have
made a difference.”

“It would be nice to have, just once,”
said Cain sincerely.

“Nobody will know it but you,”
said Santiago.

“Nobody
has
to.”

There was a momentary silence.

“What are you thinking,
Sebastian?”

“That I’d like to believe you.”

“Do you?”

“I haven’t made up my mind.” He
paused in the shadow of a twelve-foot-high cornstalk. “What if I decide not
to?”

“I’m unarmed, and my bodyguards
are back at the house.”

“I was more concerned with what
you
might do to
me.
”

“We’ll worry about that when the
time comes.”

“You’ll have to kill me,” said
Cain. “Or try to, anyway. I know what you look like and where to find you.”

“There are a few others who do,
too,” said Santiago. “It would make things much less complicated if you joined
me, though.”

They continued walking, Santiago
listing his grievances against the Democracy, telling Cain of the actions he
had taken and the people he had saved and failed to save. Cain listened
thoughtfully, asking an occasional question, making an occasional observation.

“It’s the judgment calls that age
you,” said Santiago as they walked alongside a stream that made a natural
boundary between two of the fields. “There’s an enormous amount of work to be
done, and we have very little money and manpower. Do we spend it on salvation
or retribution? Do we put everything we have into patching up the Democracy’s
victims and sending them back to be stomped on again, or do we let them lie
where they’ve fallen and take steps to see that the same thing doesn’t happen
to their neighbors?”

“You prevent it from happening
again,” said Cain firmly.

“Answered like a bounty hunter,”
replied Santiago. “Unfortunately, it’s easier said than done. The Epsilon
Eridani raid was atypical. We don’t have the firepower to stand up to the
navy.” He sighed. “Oh, well, that’s what keeps it challenging. We do what we
can, where we can. It’s a balancing act—saving people when it’s possible,
punishing others when we can get away with it, and financing the whole thing
with enterprises and associates that make the Swagman look honorable by
comparison.”

“How did you miss killing
Whittaker Drum?” asked Cain.

“Socrates?”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m not some kind of
phantom avenger, righting all the wrongs of the galaxy,” said Santiago. “I knew
what he had done on Sylaria, even before I knew that you had fought for him.”
He turned to Cain and stared at him. “But that was twenty years ago, and
Sylaria is thousands of light-years away. Socrates was useful to me, so I used
him, just as I’ve used hundreds of men who are far worse than him.”

He stopped and inspected an
enormous ear of corn.

“Three more weeks and it’ll be
ready to harvest,” he announced. “Four at the most. Have you ever been on a
farm at harvesttime, Sebastian?”

Cain shook his head. “No, I
haven’t.”

“There’s a sense of
accomplishment, of nature fulfilled and renewed,” said Santiago. “Even the air
smells better.”

Cain smiled. “Maybe you should
have been a farmer.”

“I suppose I am, in a way.”

“I meant full-time,” said Cain. “I
wasn’t referring to this.”

“Neither was I,” replied Santiago.
“Saint Peter was a fisher of men. I’m a sower of revolution.” He seemed pleased
with himself. “I rather like that.”

They walked another quarter mile
or so. The cornfields were supplanted by long rows of soybeans, which in turn
dwindled into nothingness as they reached the top of a ridge.

“What’s that down there?” asked
Cain, pointing to a neatly manicured clearing within a small dell. There was a
wooden bench facing a pond that was dotted by colorful water plants.

“My very favorite place,” said
Santiago, leading him over to it. “I often come here to read, or simply
meditate. You can even see some of the livestock from here.” He took a deep
breath, as if even the air tasted better in this clearing. “I’ve planted some
flowers, but they’ve already blossomed and died; they won’t bloom again for
another five or six months.”

“Flowers aren’t all you’ve
planted,” commented Cain, gesturing to two mounds of earth.

“They were two of the best men I
ever knew,” said Santiago quietly.

“Then why put them in unmarked
graves?”

“Nobody ever comes here except me,
and I know who they are,” replied Santiago.

Cain shrugged, then noticed a
flash of motion out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw a man walking
toward them. The sun caught the white streak in the man’s hair, and Cain
realized that it was Jacinto.

“I thought I’d find you here,”
said Jacinto when he finally joined them. He turned to Cain. “Rain or shine, he
spends a couple of hours a day here.”

“It’s a pretty place,” said Cain.

“Are you just visiting?” asked
Santiago.

Jacinto shook his head. “Father
William is at the house.”

“It’s unusual for him to come out
to the farm. I suppose he’s just making sure that Sebastian hasn’t killed me.”

“He
did
say that he’s here to talk to Mr. Cain,” said Jacinto.

“He’s about as subtle as an
earthquake,” remarked Santiago. He stepped away from the graves. “Well, I
suppose we shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

He began walking back toward the
house, and Cain and Jacinto fell into step behind him.

“Will you be staying with us for
any length of time, Mr. Cain?” asked Jacinto.

“It’s a possibility,” replied
Cain.

“I hope so. We’ve needed someone
like you.”

“We need about a thousand people
like him,” said Santiago. “However, we’ll settle for the one we’ve got.”

“May I ask a question that
requires your professional expertise, Mr. Cain?” said Jacinto.

“Go ahead.”

“What do you think of our
security?”

“It stinks.”

Jacinto shot a triumphant smile at
Santiago. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell
him
for months.” He turned back to Cain. “How would you change it?”

“Triple your manpower and put them
on round-the-clock watches, for starters. And try to explain to them that if
they
can see in the dark, so can the Angel.”

“You see?” Jacinto demanded of
Santiago.

“We’ve been through all this
before,” said Santiago irritably. “I won’t be a prisoner on my own planet.” He
increased his pace, and Cain and Jacinto lagged behind.

“I apologize for involving you in
this argument,” said Jacinto softly. “But he simply will not bring any more men
back to Safe Harbor.”

“How many has he got here?” asked
Cain.

“You mean on the planet?”

“Not counting doctors and
technicians and the like.”

“Perhaps fifty.”

“And on the farm?”

“Fifteen, counting myself.”

“That won’t stop the Angel.”

“I know. Hopefully you will be all
that we need.”

“I haven’t said I’m staying.”

“Then perhaps Father William...”

“I doubt it.” Cain paused. “By the
way, there’s one other bit of professional advice I can give you.”

“Yes?”

“If you ever leave Safe Harbor,
dye your hair.”

Jacinto looked surprised. “I
will,” he said. “Thank you.”

They caught up with Santiago
shortly thereafter, and the three men walked the remaining distance to the
house together, Santiago pointing out various facets of the farm to Cain as
they passed them. Father William was waiting for them on the veranda.

“Good morning, Santiago,” said the
preacher. “Jacinto.” He turned to Cain. “Hello again, Sebastian. Have you
enjoyed your stay?”

“It’s been interesting,” replied
Cain.

“Are you getting along well with
your host?” he asked sharply.

“So far.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I was sure you would be.”

“I understand you want to talk to
Sebastian.” said Santiago. “If you wish, we’ll leave you two alone.”

“That won’t be necessary.” said
Father William with a curious smile. “Actually, I’m just here to deliver a
message from a new arrival.”

“The Angel?” asked Cain, suddenly
tense.

Santiago shook his head. “He’s out
by the Cantrell system.”

“Who is it, then?” persisted Cain.

“Why don’t you just read this?”
said Father William, handing him a folded sheet of very expensive stationery.

Cain saw that it was written in an
elegant, near calligraphic script, and read it aloud:

“The Jolly
Swagman sends Greetings and Felicitations to his Partner, Sebastian Cain, and
cordially invites him to the Barleycorn Tavern for aperitifs at four this
afternoon, at which time they will renew their Friendship and also discuss
certain Matters of Business.”

Cain tossed
the note onto a table. “That’s the Swagman, all right,” he said.

“Silent Annie urged me to kill him
while I had the chance,” said Santiago. “I think she may have been right.”

“Is there any reply?” asked Father
William, still amused.

“I’ll deliver it
in person,” said Cain grimly.

He robs and he
plunders, he kills and he loots.

He stealthily
sneaks up and suddenly shoots.

He never
forgets and he never forgives;

He never relents while an enemy lives.

One of the things Black Orpheus
never understood was why the Jolly Swagman, who was his friend, refused to give
him any information about Santiago, denying him even a physical description. He
was sure the Swagman knew Santiago, had overheard two of his associates say as
much, but that was the one subject upon which the loquacious criminal refused to
speak.

It made a lot more sense from the
Swagman’s point of view. What nobody understood about him, not Orpheus, not
even Father William or Virtue MacKenzie, was that money was just a tool, a
means to an end—and that end was his collection of alien artwork. He kept his
own counsel about Santiago not out of any loyalty or friendship for him, but
simply because Santiago alive and free was plunderable, if he could just come
up with a method, whereas Santiago captured and incarcerated was the property
of the Democracy, as were all his possessions.

The third alternative was Santiago
dead, and that was what he had come to Safe Harbor to discuss.

He sat in the tavern, sipping an
iced mixture of exotic liqueurs from Antares and Ranchero, a small alien
puzzle-game in his hand. He manipulated the oddly shaped pieces with a sureness
that came from long hours of practice, looking up every now and then to admire
Moonripple’s face and figure—what he could distinguish of them beneath her
unkempt hair and the ragged clothing.

Finally he tired of the puzzle,
put it back in the pocket of his elegantly tailored satin tunic, pulled out a
small, transparent cube from another pocket, and spent the next few minutes
admiring the tiny blue-and-white beetlelike insect, crusted with jewels, that
resided there.

He had just put it away when Cain
and Father William entered the tavern and approached him.

“Good afternoon, Sebastian,” said
the Swagman with a friendly smile. “I see you got my message.”

Cain sat down opposite him. “What
the hell are you doing here?”