Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future (28 page)

Nobody knew his true name, or even
how he came to be called the Angel.

Nobody knew why he chose to work
the Outer Frontier, out on the Galactic Rim, when there were so many more
worlds within the Democracy where he could ply his bloody trade.

But there was one thing
everybody
knew: once the Angel chose his quarry, that
quarry’s days were numbered.

In a profession where reputations
could be made by a single kill—Sebastian Cain, Giles Sans Pitié, and Peacemaker
MacDougal actually had a combined total of less than seventy, and Johnny
One-Note was still looking for his sixth—the Angel had hunted down more than
one hundred fugitives. In a profession where anonymity went hand in glove with
success, the Angel was known on a thousand worlds. In a profession where each
practitioner carved out his own territory and allowed no trespassing, the Angel
went where he pleased.

Orpheus met him only once, out by
Barbizon, the gateway to the Inner Frontier, three weeks before he killed Giles
Sans Pitié. They spoke for only ten minutes, which was more than enough for
Orpheus. His audience had expected him to give the Angel no less than a dozen
verses—after all, he had given three to Cain and nine to Giles Sans Pitié—but
with the insight that had established him as the Bard of the Inner Frontier,
Orpheus wrote only a single stanza. When asked for an explanation, he simply
smiled and replied that those four lines said everything there was to say about
the Angel.

Virtue Mackenzie wished he had
written a little more, if only so she’d have a better idea of what to expect if
she ever caught up with the Angel. She had reached the Lambda Karos system two
days after he had departed, and missed him again on Questados IV. She arrived
on New Ecuador three days later, checked for word of his whereabouts at the
local news offices, received only negative answers, and finally returned to her
hotel, where she took a brief nap, showered, changed her clothes, and went down
to the main floor restaurant for dinner.

Three hours later she was sitting
at a table in the back of The King’s Rook, a tavern that served as the
gathering place for local journalists. Two men and a woman—all newspeople—and
another man, a prospector who had hit it rich in the asteroid belt two planets
out from New Ecuador, sat around the table, staring at the exposed cards in
front of Virtue.

“It’s up to you,” said the
prospector impatiently.

“Don’t rush me,” said Virtue,
sipping her whiskey and staring at her hole card until it came back into focus.
“I’m thinking.” Finally she pushed a one-hundred-credit note across the worn
felt to the center of the table. “Call,” she said.

The prospector and one of the men
dropped out, the woman raised the pot another fifty credits, the other man
folded, and Virtue, after still more consideration, matched her bet.

“Read ‘em and weep,” grinned the
woman, turning her hole card face up.

“Damn!” muttered Virtue, tossing
her hole card onto the table. She grabbed a nearby bottle and poured herself
another drink. “You didn’t learn to play from a little rodent called
Terwilliger, did you?”

“Anyone for quitting?” asked one
of the men, staring directly at Virtue.

“Not when I’m down almost two
thousand credits,” she replied pugnaciously.

“Anyone else?”

“Hell,” said the prospector. “If
she wants to keep on playing, I’m willing to keep on taking her money.”

“I don’t plan to keep losing,”
said Virtue.

“Then you’d better cut back on the
booze,” said the prospector. “She had you beat on the table.”

“When I want your advice, I’ll ask
for it,” said Virtue, trying to remember exactly what the winner’s cards were.

“More power to you.” He shrugged.
“Whose deal?”

“Mine,” said a journalist. He
began shuffling the cards.

A well-dressed man entered the
tavern just then, looked around, and walked directly over to the five
cardplayers. They paid no attention to him until he stopped a few feet away.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but
I wonder if I might join you?”

The four locals stared at him and
made no reply.

“Suit yourself,” said Virtue.

“Thank you,” he said. “By the way,
I’m told that there is an excellent game that’s in need of players.”

“Oh?” asked the prospector
nervously. “Where?”

“Right there,” he said, pointing
to an empty table at the far end of the room.

The prospector and the three
journalists almost fell over each other racing to the other table. Virtue, confused,
rose to join them, muttering, “What the hell’s wrong with
this
table?”

“Not you,” said the man firmly,
seating himself on one of the hastily vacated chairs.

She stared across the table,
studying him in the dim light of the tavern. He was tall, though not as tall as
Cain, and quite well built without being heavily muscled. His hair was so blond
that it appeared almost white, and his eyebrows were barely visible. It was
impossible to guess his age. His cold, penetrating eyes were not quite blue, not
quite gray, practically clear. The rest of his face was unmarked and rather
handsome, but it was the almost colorless eyes that instantly commanded
attention.

He was dressed in a dark gray
outfit that seemed black at first glance; it was severely cut and exquisitely
tailored. He wore a conservatively styled silver tunic beneath his coat, and
his boots, while lacking the embellishments of the Swagman’s, nonetheless
seemed more expensive. On the small finger of his left hand was a platinum ring
that housed a truly fabulous diamond.

“You’re the Angel,” she said. It
was not a question.

He nodded his head.

“I thought you’d look different,”
she said at last, trying to buy time while everything came into sharper focus.

“In what way?”

“More like a killer.”

“What does a killer look like?”
asked the Angel.

“Leaner and hungrier,” she said.
Suddenly a thought occurred to her. “Are you here to kill me?”

“Probably not,” he said, pulling
out a long, thin cigar and lighting it. “You don’t mind if I smoke?”

She stared into his colorless eyes
and shook her head.

“Good,” he continued. Suddenly he
leaned forward. “You’ve been following me for more than a week. Why?”

“What makes you think anyone’s
been following you?” replied Virtue.

The Angel smiled—a cold, lifeless
smile. “You reached Lambda Karos Two two days after I left and began asking
questions about me. Your next stop was Questados Four. Again you inquired into
my whereabouts. Now you’re here. What am I supposed to think?”

“Coincidence?” she suggested
lamely.

He stared at her until she began
fidgeting uncomfortably.

“I must appear very stupid for you
to make such an answer,” he said at last. “Now, let me ask you once more: Why
are you following me?”

“I’m a journalist,” said Virtue.
“You’re a romantic figure. I thought you might make a good story.”

He stared at her again, without
expression, without passion, and again she found herself increasingly uneasy.

“I’m only going to ask you one
more time,” he said, “so I want you to consider your answer very carefully.”

“You’re making me very nervous,”
said Virtue self-righteously.

“Being followed makes
me
very nervous,” replied the Angel. “Why have you been
doing it?”

“I wanted to meet you.”

Virtue noticed that her glass was
empty and reached for the bottle, but the Angel was faster and placed it on the
far side of the table.

“Why did you want to meet me?” he
persisted.

“I think we may be able to help
each other.”

He stared at her, offering no
reply, and finally she resumed speaking.

“You’re after Santiago. So am I.”

“Then we’re competitors.”

“No,” she said hastily. “I’m not
after the reward. All I want is the story.” She paused. “And I really
could
use a story on you as well.”

“I have no interest in your
journalistic aspirations,” said the Angel. “Why should I let you come along?”

“I have information that you may
not have,” said Virtue.

“I doubt it.”

“Can you afford to take the
chance?”

“I think so.” He paused and stared
at her again. “But I don’t know if I can take the chance that you’ll return to
Sebastian Cain and tell him where I am and where I’m going next.”

“Who’s Sebastian Cain?” she asked
innocently.

“He’s a very foolish man who has
taken on too much excess baggage,” replied the Angel. “Did you offer him the
same deal you offered me—he gets the reward and you get the story?”

“Yes. Except that the Swagman gets
something, too. Santiago’s art collection, I think.”

“And Cain sent you here to spy on
me?”

She shook her head. “Coming here
was my own idea.” He stared silently at her, and again she felt herself
compelled to say more than she had intended. “I’ve sized up the candidates, and
I’m going with the winner. If anyone can kill Santiago, you’re the one.”

“And you’ll remain completely
loyal to me?” he said sardonically. “Until you hear of someone else who’s even
better, that is?”

“That’s unfair.”

“But selling out your partner
isn’t?” he asked, a note of distaste in his voice. “I wonder what it is about
Cain that makes people desert him. The Jolly Swagman has left him, too, you
know.”

“Who told you that?” asked Virtue,
genuinely surprised.

“I have my sources. I expect him
to contact me any time now to see if I’ve changed my mind about not requiring a
partner.” He paused. “I will tell him that I haven’t.”

“Is that what you’re telling me?”
she asked, suddenly apprehensive about what happened to would-be partners. She
looked around for support or comfort, only to discover that one by one the
customers were quietly leaving the tavern, casting frightened glances at the
Angel as they did so.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “You
possess some information that might prove useful to me.”

“I told you so,” she said smugly.

“Not about Santiago,” he replied
disdainfully. “You know less than nothing about him.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“Sebastian Cain,” said the Angel.
“I’m getting close to Santiago. Three or four more worlds, another week,
another month, and I’ll be there.” He took a puff of his cigar. “Cain is
getting close, too. He’s got that cyborg ship, and he’s already visited the
drug addict on Roosevelt Three.” He paused. “And he killed Altair of Altair,”
he added with a touch of admiration.

“I can tell you all about him,”
said Virtue triumphantly.

“I know.”

She paused. “What’s in it for me?”

“Exclusive coverage of Santiago’s
death.”

“And a series of features on you,”
she added quickly.

He stared at her once more. “Don’t
push your luck. I’d
like
information about Cain; I
don’t
need
it.”

“One feature?”

He made no reply, but his cold
clear eyes seemed to bore into hers.

“All right,” she said at last.

“You’ve made a wise decision,”
said the Angel.

“Well, now that we’re going to be
traveling together, where are we bound for next?” asked Virtue.

“I’ll know in a few minutes.”

“Based on something I’m going to
tell you?” she asked skeptically.

He shook his head. “I’ve already
told you: you don’t possess any useful information about Santiago—but there’s a
man on New Ecuador who does. I expect him to stop by our table momentarily.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked him to.”

“Does everyone do what you ask
them to?” she inquired with a trace of resentment.

“Most people do,” said the Angel.

“And those who don’t?”

“They soon wish they had.” He
paused for a moment. “I think it’s time you started telling me about Cain.”

“Right now?”

“As soon as you sober up,” he
replied, signaling to the bartender, who hurried over, bowing obsequiously.

“The lady would like a cup of
black coffee,” said the Angel.

“And yourself, sir?”

“A white wine, I think,” said the
Angel. “Not too sweet. Perhaps something from Alphard.”

“Right away, sir,” said the
bartender, scurrying off. He returned a moment later, placed a large cup of
coffee in front of Virtue, and offered a glass to the Angel.

“This isn’t an Alphard wine,” said
the Angel, taking a sip from the glass.

“No, sir,” said the bartender
nervously. “We don’t have any. But it’s from Valkyrie, which has excellent
vineyards. It’s a fine vintage, truly it is.”

The Angel took another taste while
the bartender watched him apprehensively, and finally nodded his approval. The
bartender immediately signaled to an assistant, who brought the bottle to the
table.

“What do I owe you?” asked Angel.

“It’s on the house, sir.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir. It’s a pleasure to
serve you.”

“Thank you,” said the Angel,
dismissing them and watching as they rapidly retreated to their posts behind
the bar.

“This isn’t very fair,” said
Virtue.

“What isn’t?”

“I’m drinking coffee and you’re
drinking wine.”

“Were you under the impression
that life was fair?” asked the Angel ironically.

“I could be drinking whiskey and
playing cards,” she continued sullenly, glancing over toward the reporters, who
were casting furtive glances in her direction.

“They don’t want your company.”

“What makes you think not?”
demanded Virtue.

“Because you’ve been sitting here
talking to me. They’ll wait for what they think is a proper interval—perhaps
another five minutes—and then leave before you can rejoin them.”