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

      
"See that you do," said Dante. "I'm serious about this. Any sign of deference or regret will be viewed as weakness not only by your enemies, but, worse still, by the men who work for you. Santiago bows to no one, he apologizes to no one, he defers to no one. Never forget that, or you'll be long buried when I want to ask you that question a decade from now."

      
"I'll remember," amended the Bandit.

      
Dante stared at him for a long moment.

      
"What's wrong?" asked the Bandit.

      
"Ordinarily I'd suggest cosmetic surgery, a whole new face, maybe prosthetic eyes that can see into the infra-red and ultra- violet and retinas that aren't on record anywhere, but . . ." He let his voice trail off.

      
"But what?"

      
"But there's no way to hide or disguise your arm. I don't know that we'd want to, anyway. Once people know what it can do, just threatening to use it may win us a couple of bloodless battles." He got to his feet and started pacing back and forth. "I suppose what we'll have to do is find a sector of the Frontier where you've never been, where no one knows you, and build our organization from there. We'll have to fake the One-Armed Bandit's death, and make it spectacular, so everyone knows about it."

      
"Why?" asked the Bandit. "Sooner or later they're going to figure out who I am."

      
"You're Santiago."

      
"You know what I mean."

      
"Santiago can't be anyone except Santiago. That's why everyone has to know that the One-Armed Bandit's dead. Perhaps he was Santiago's friend. Maybe he even saved Santiago's life, and Santiago had his real arm removed and this prosthetic weapon installed in its place as a tribute to the Bandit, or because its power and efficiency impressed him. But the thing you can never forget is that Santiago is more than a man. He's an idea, a concept, a myth. He can't be bigger than life if everyone knows who he used to be."

      
"It sounds like you've considered all this pretty thoroughly," remarked the Bandit.

      
"I'm as close to a biographer as you're ever going to have," said Dante, "so I have to know everything there is to know about Santiago."

      
There was a knock at the door.

      
"Open," said the Bandit.

      
The door slid back and Matilda, Virgil, Blossom and Wilbur Connaught entered the room.

      
"I know you," said the Bandit to Matilda. He turned to Blossom. "I've
seen
you." He gestured to Virgil and Wilbur. "These two I don't recognize at all."

      
"They work for you," said Dante. "Time for the introductions." He laid a hand on each of their shoulders in turn. "This is Matilda. This is Virgil. This young lady is Blossom. And this gentleman is Wilbur."

      
"No last names?" asked the Bandit.

      
"You'll learn them soon enough," said Dante. He walked over to the Bandit and turned to face the four of them. "And this is Santiago. He has no past, no history. He is a spirit of the Frontier made flesh. That's all you have to know about him, and all you will ever tell anyone else. The One-Armed Bandit is no more, and will never be referred to again until we are free to talk about his untimely and very public death. Is that clear to everyone?"

      
The four agreed.

      
Dante turned back to the Bandit. "Dimitrios of the Three Burners has committed to our cause. We'll get word to him that we're ready to have him join us."

      
"Let him continue to do what he does best," said the Bandit. "When I have an assignment for him, that'll be time enough to meet him."

      
Dante stared at the Bandit.
You look larger, somehow. Can you possibly be growing into the part right in front of my eyes?

      
"Well, let's get down to work," said Dante. "As money comes in, we'll turn it over to Wilbur. He'll have to open his books to me or to Matilda if we request it, but only Santiago can fire him."

      
"How much are we paying you?" asked the Bandit.

      
"Three percent of everything I make."

      
"That seems fair. Wait here a moment." He walked into the bedroom, then returned a moment later with a small cloth bag. "Here," he said, handing the bag to Wilbur. "There are 63 diamonds in it. Get what you can for them—probably you'll have to go into the Democracy for the best price—and put the money to work for us. There's no sense having you wait around until we start generating cash. And Wilbur?"

      
"Yes."

      
"Those diamonds belong to every under-privileged, abused colonist on the Inner Frontier. If you or they should disappear, I will personally hunt you down and make you wish you'd never been born."

      
"You didn't have to say that, Santiago," said Wilbur in hurt tones.

      
"The One-Armed Bandit didn't have to say it," replied the Bandit. "Santiago did."

      
By God, you're really him!
thought Dante. Aloud he said, "I think our first duty is going to be to find a headquarters world, someplace parsecs away from anyone who's ever seen you in action."

      
"It makes no difference to me what world we choose," said the Bandit. "Any suggestions?"

      
Dante turned to Matilda. "You're far more familiar with the Inner Frontier than I am. What do you think?"

      
"Let me think about it for a day," she replied. "Probably someplace in the Albion Cluster. You haven't been there, have you, Santiago?"

      
"Just once, ma'am, a long time ago—before I lost my arm."

      
"I think that's probably long enough," said Dante.

      
"Besides, his arm's his most distinctive feature," added Blossom. "It's what people remember."

      
"Okay, check out the Albion Cluster and come up with a safe haven by tomorrow." Suddenly Dante smiled. "Well, now I know how Safe Haven got its name."

      
"What can I do?" asked Blossom.

      
"Come to the Cluster with us," said the Bandit. "When I decide where I want to strike first, I'll send you ahead to be my eyes and ears until I arrive."

      
"Now, once we've got a headquarters world, we'll start building an organization from the ground up," said Dante. "We'll recruit whoever we need, and we'll come up with some kind of battle plan." He paused. "Correction:
Santiago
will come up with a battle plan." He looked around the room. "Has anyone got any questions, or anything else to say?"

      
No one spoke up.

      
"Then I guess that's it," said Dante. "We'll meet again tomorrow when Matilda has come up with some worlds for our consideration—though again, we can only suggest and advise. It's Santiago's choice."

      
They began walking to the door, and then the Bandit spoke: "Before you leave, I want to say something."

      
They stopped and turned to him.

      
"You've given me an honor I don't deserve, and at the same time you've given me a challenge I can't refuse. From this moment on, I am Santiago, and the only thing that matters to me is protecting the colonists of the Inner Frontier from the Democracy. I realize that we will never overthrow it, and we wouldn't want to if we could—it serves its purpose in a galaxy where we're outnumbered hundreds to one—but we will devote our lives to reminding it with whatever degree of force is required that we of the Inner Frontier are Men, too, and that we are not the enemy." He looked at each of them in turn. "I pledge to you that I will never give you any reason to be ashamed of me."

      
There was a moment of silence, and then Dante began applauding, and soon all the others had joined in. Finally they walked out to the airlift and descended to the lobby. Matilda, Blossom and Wilbur all left to go about their business, but Virgil made a beeline to the bar, and Dante joined him a moment later, sitting down next to him.

      
"You didn't say a word up there," noted the poet. "Not a single word."

      
"I didn't have anything to say."

      
"And do you now?"

      
"Not really."

      
"No comment on Santiago at all?"

      
"None," said the Indian. "What do
you
think of him?"

      
"He's humble, he's decent, he's polite, he's the deadliest man I've met but he only kills when he has to, and he seems to be adjusting to the role he's going to play."

      
"He only kills when he has to?" repeated Virgil.

      
"That's why he hasn't wiped out the Unicorns. He could, you know."

      
"Well, I'll tell you something," said Virgil. "While you were busy indoctrinating him, I went out and got some facts and did a little math."

      
"And?" said Dante.

      
"You know how many people our Santiago has killed?"

      
"I haven't the faintest idea."

      
"37 men and an unspecified number of aliens, thought to exceed the thousand mark," Virgil paused and looked at the poet. "Do you think they
all
needed killing?"

      
"If
he
killed them, yes," said Dante sincerely. "Hell, he'd be justified in killing ten thousand Unicorns, the way they attack humans at every opportunity."

      
"If you say so."

      
"Listen to him, Virgil," persisted the poet. "This guy is the hero every kid wishes he could be. He's well-mannered. He's humble. He's moral. He's almost too good to be true."

      
"That's the gist of it," agreed Virgil.

      
"I don't follow you."

      
"It's been my experience," said the Injun, "that when you come across something that seems to be too good to be true, it usually
is
too good to be true."

19.

      
      
Gloria Mundi, born on Monday,

      
      
Gloria Mundi, died on Sunday,

      
      
Gloria Mundi, rose on Tuesday,

      
      
Which qualified as a bad news day.

      
No one ever knew her real name. The betting is that she herself had long since forgotten it. It didn't make any difference. What really matters is not
who
she was, but rather
what
she was.

      
Gloria Mundi had been a beggar woman, living out her life in squalor in the slums on Roosevelt III—until the day (and yes, it was a Sunday) that she was struck by lightning. It killed her, but because of the thousands of deaths and casualties caused by the Sett War, which had reached the Roosevelt system two weeks earlier, they didn't have time to perform a post mortem or prepare the body for a funeral. They were working around the clock, saving the wounded and trying to identify the dead, so Gloria's body was shunted aside until they finally had time to work on it.

      
And, miraculously, two days later she woke up, found herself in a room with dozens of corpses, and began screaming. She kept the screaming up for a very long time, until they finally found and sedated her.

      
When she awoke from the sedative, she claimed to remember what she had experienced while dead. A number of the medics felt she had merely been in a deep coma, that no one comes back from the dead after 36 hours . . . but when they checked the records of the medical computers and sensors that had examined her, they had to admit that yes, she really had been dead for a day and a half.

      
The moment that fact was made public, a number of news organizations offered her millions in exchange for her exclusive story. But before she could choose among them, or even adjust to the fact that she no longer had to worry about where her next meal was coming from, suddenly there were more people out to kill her than ever went after Santiago. And if the would-be killers weren't fanatical priests, ayatollahs, ministers, rabbis, and shamans themselves, then they were in the employ of such men. Publicly they all believed that their religion was the only true one, and that Gloria Mundi would confirm it . . . and privately their first thought was to make sure she didn't reveal any experience she may have had or knowledge she may have gained that would confirm the truth of a rival religion.

      
As for Gloria herself, she never spoke about what she experienced. Somehow she eluded her assassins until they finally decided she had died of old age or at the hands of another killer, or their employers gradually lost interest in her.

      
And so, at age 86, Gloria Mundi found herself on Heliopolis II, temporarily (and, for all she knew, permanently) safe from the men who had tried to hunt her down. Her health was gone—she had just about every disease of the aged except senility, and her brain hadn't functioned all that well since she had revived—but she kept to herself, didn't bother anyone, and seemed likely to live out her few remaining months or years in some semblance of peace.

      
She was far from everyone's thoughts when they met at the Bandit's rooms the next morning. Matilda had come up with Beta Cordero II, a world in the Albion Cluster, and she was extolling its virtues to the group.