Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future (50 page)

“I pray all the time,” replied
Father William.

“Not before a meal, you don’t,”
said the Swagman. “Usually you just dig in like you’re trying to break a speed
record.”

“Maybe he’s nervous,” suggested
Virtue.

Father William stared sternly at
her. “I was praying for the Angel’s soul. I plan to remand it to Satan’s
custody this morning.”

“Maybe you’d better put in a good
word for yourself, if you plan to go up against him,” said Virtue.

“I don’t ask the Lord for personal
favors,” said Father William. He continued staring at her. “I think I’d better
pray for you next. You’ve done a wicked thing, Virtue MacKenzie.”

“Don’t you go blaming
me
for this,” she said defensively. “I never even heard of
Safe Harbor until yesterday. The Angel found this place without any help from
me.”

“But you convinced Santiago to
meet him.”

“All I did was deliver a message,”
she replied. “Hell, I told him he was crazy to come.”

“I’ll pray for you anyway.”

“While you’re at it,” said the
Swagman, “you might say one for me, just to be on the safe side.”

“It wouldn’t do any good,”
answered Father William.

Moonripple arrived with the
Swagman’s coffee, while Father William said a brief prayer for Virtue and then
attacked his meal with even more gusto than usual.

Moonripple placed the tray behind
the bar, then hesitantly approached Father William.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said
tentatively.

“Yes, my child?”

“I realize it’s none of my
concern, but I couldn’t help overhearing what you said, and I just wanted to
know if it was true?”

“That the Swagman’s going to
hell?” replied Father William. “Absolutely.”

“No,” she said. “That wasn’t what
I meant.” She paused, nervously fidgeting with her apron. “Is it true that
he
is coming here today?”

“I hope not,” said Father William.

She started to ask something more,
then shook her head and retreated to the kitchen while Father William returned
his attention to the diminishing pile of food on his plate.

Virtue busied herself rechecking
her equipment, while the Swagman sipped his coffee and tried unsuccessfully to
pretend that it was Cygnian cognac.

Then the door opened and the
Angel, clad in a strikingly somber outfit, stepped into the tavern. His pale,
no-color eyes surveyed the room, missing no detail.

“You’re a few minutes early,” said
Virtue.

He made no answer but chose a
table that was next to a windowless wall and walked to it, elegant and catlike,
never taking his eyes from Father William. When he reached it he pulled out a
chair and sat down.

“I assume from your demeanor that
you’re the Angel?” said the Swagman cordially.

“I am.”

“Good. They call me the Jolly
Swagman. I have a mutually beneficial business proposition to put to you.”

“Later,” replied the Angel.

“It could mean a lot of money to
you,” continued the Swagman persuasively.

“I said later.”

The Swagman looked into the
Angel’s cold, lifeless eyes.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said
hastily, getting to his feet and keeping his hands in plain view. “I think I’ll
just go across the street and relax for a little while. We’ll talk later.”

The Angel paid no attention to him
as he hurried out the door, but stared intently at Father William.

“I won’t let you kill him,” said
the preacher, glaring at him while continuing to eat.

“I’m only here to talk to him,”
replied the Angel.

“I don’t believe you.”

The Angel shrugged. “Believe what
you want—but don’t do anything foolish.”

Father William continued glaring
at him as Moonripple came through the kitchen door and approached the Angel.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked.

The Angel shook his head, never
taking his eyes from Father William.

“He should be here any minute,”
said Virtue.

“Will Cain be with him?” asked the
Angel.

“No.” She paused nervously. “I
have to ask you a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Has Dimitri Sokol still got a hit
on me?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Who told you otherwise?” asked
the Angel.

“I was just curious.”

“It was the Swagman,” said the
Angel.

“Was he telling the truth?”

“Does he ever?”

“Damn it!” snapped Virtue, her
anger overcoming her fear. “I want an answer!”

He turned his head toward her
slightly, still keeping Father William in his field of vision. “I already
answered your question. If you didn’t believe me the first time, you won’t
believe me now.”

They sat in silence for another
minute. Then Father William finished the last of his breakfast, took the napkin
he had tied around his neck, wiped his mouth off, and tossed it onto the table.

“You’ve had your warning,” growled
the preacher ominously.

“You don’t have to die,” said the
Angel. “There’s no paper on you.”

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall
not want!” intoned Father William, rising to his feet, the handles of his laser
pistols glinting in the tavern’s artificial light.

Suddenly Moonripple, her eyes wide
with horror, took a step toward the Angel.

“You can’t kill Father William!”
she said in hushed tones. “He’s a servant of the Lord!”

“It’s his choice,” replied the
Angel calmly, his gaze never leaving the preacher’s hands.

“Stand back, child!” said Father
William.

“You can’t!” she repeated, rushing
toward the Angel.

Father William reached for his
pistols, and three long metal spikes appeared in the Angel’s right hand as if
by magic. Moonripple hit his arm just as he was hurling them, but all of them
found their way into Father William’s massive body before he could draw his
pistols, and he collapsed with a surprised grunt.

The Angel got to his feet and
swept Moonripple aside with his arm. She careened off the wall and fell to the
floor, motionless.

“See if she’s still alive,” he
ordered Virtue while he walked across the room and crouched down next to Father
William. One of the spikes was buried in his chest, another protruded from his
right arm, and the third was lodged in the left side of his neck, but he was
still conscious.

“You were lucky,” said the Angel
dispassionately, appropriating Father William’s pistols. “You owe your life to
that child. Try not to move too much and you may not bleed to death.”

“Kill me now!” rasped Father
William. “Or as God is my witness, I’ll hunt you down to the very depths of
hell!”

“Stupid,” muttered the Angel,
shaking his head. He frisked the preacher for concealed weapons, carefully
withdrew the three spikes, stood up, and walked over to Moonripple.

“She’s breathing,” said Virtue.
“But she’s got a hell of a bump on her head.”

He felt her head and neck with
expert hands. “She’ll be all right,” he said.

“What about Father William?”

“He’s in better shape than he has
any right to be,” replied the Angel. “That fat gives him a lot of protection.”

“Will he live?”

“Probably.”

“Shouldn’t we get the pair of them
to a doctor?”

“Later,” said the Angel.

She looked at the semiconscious
preacher. “He’s bleeding pretty badly.”

“You do what you want,” replied
the Angel, returning to his chair. “I’m here to meet Santiago.”

She stared at Father William for
another moment, then shrugged and went back to her recording equipment.

They sat without speaking for a
few minutes, the silence broken only by Father William’s hoarse breathing and
occasional curses. Then the door slid open once again, and Santiago entered.

“What’s been going on here?” he
demanded, kneeling down next to Father William.

“Are you Santiago?” asked the
Angel.

“I am,” replied Santiago without
looking up.

“Your associate made an unwise
decision.”

“Is he alive?”

“I’ll outlive
that
spawn of Satan!” rasped Father William, regaining consciousness.

Suddenly Santiago saw Moonripple.

“What have you done to the girl?”

“She’ll be all right.” The Angel
gestured toward the chair opposite him. “Take a seat.”

“In a minute,” said Santiago,
walking over and examining Moonripple. His hands found the swelling on the side
of her head. “That could be a fracture there.” He turned to Virtue. “Have you
summoned a doctor?”

“All in good time,” interjected
the Angel. “We have business to discuss first.”

Santiago glanced back at Father
William, then turned to the Angel.

“I want your word that you won’t
kill them, however our negotiations turn out.”

“You have it.”

Santiago sighed. “All right,” he
said, sitting down. “Let’s get on with it.”

“You realize that you are the most
wanted man in the galaxy,” began the Angel.

“I do.”

“This is because you are the most
successful criminal in the galaxy,” he continued.

“Get to the point,” said Santiago.

“The point is simply this: A
criminal who has been as successful as you have been undoubtedly has
accumulated a considerable amount of money. I wonder if you would be interested
in spending some of it to purchase your continuing good health?”

“How much did you have in mind?”

“The reward is currently twenty
million credits,” said the Angel. He paused thoughtfully. “I should think that
thirty million will do nicely.”

“Thirty?” exclaimed Virtue. “I
thought you were talking about three!”

The Angel smiled mirthlessly.
“That was talk,” he said. “This is business.” He stared directly into Santiago’s
eyes. “The amount is payable in full before you leave this table.”

Santiago smiled grimly. “You never
had any intention of making a deal, did you?”

“I am a man of my word,” replied
the Angel. “I said that if you came here I would make you an offer, and I have.
What is your answer?”

“You go to hell,” said Santiago.

The Angel reached out with an
incredibly swift motion, and an instant later Santiago fell out of his chair,
blood spurting from his throat. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Father William emitted a hideous
gutteral yell, tried to get to his feet, and actually got one leg planted
before he grabbed at his chest and collapsed, panting heavily.

Virtue closed her eyes and fought
the urge to vomit as the Angel got to his feet, walked over to Santiago’s body,
and looked down at it, studying the contorted face.

“Well, you’ve got your story,” he
said at last.

“It was gruesome!” she said
weakly.

He turned to her. “Death usually
is.”

Suddenly a single gunshot rang
out.

For a moment nobody moved. Then the
Angel, a trickle of blood starting to run out of his mouth, turned to the door,
swaying slightly.

“Fool!” said Cain softly. “Do you
think Santiago can be killed that easily?”

He fired another shot, and the
Angel dropped to his knees.

Father William laboriously raised
himself onto his elbows.

“You poor dumb bastard!” he rasped
with a derisive laugh. “You murdered the wrong man!”

Cain advanced slowly across the
room.

The Angel, puzzlement and pain
reflected on his face, tried to speak, coughed up a mouthful of blood, and
finally forced the words out.

“Then who is Santiago?”

Cain held up his right hand and
displayed an S-shaped wound that was still oozing blood.

“
I
am
now,” he said.

“Poor sinner!” grated Father
William. “Everybody knows that Santiago can’t die!” He roared with laughter and
was still laughing when he passed out.

The Angel reached inside his coat
for a sonic weapon, and a third shot rang out. He flew backward as if hit by a
sledgehammer, then lay still.

Cain turned to Virtue. “Go get a
doctor.” he ordered.

She got up and began putting her
camera into her satchel.

“Leave it,” said Cain.

“Not a chance,” she said, glaring
at him. “I risked my life to get what’s in there.”

“It’ll still be there when you get
back.”

“Then why can’t I take it?”

“Because I want to make sure you
return. We’ve got things to discuss.”

She looked at the camera, then
back at Cain again. “You promise you won’t touch it?”

“Unless someone dies because you
stood here arguing.” he replied. “If that happens, I swear to you that I’ll
blow it to pieces.”

She seemed about to argue with
him, then turned and went out the door. Cain briefly examined the four bodies
on the floor, two of them living, two of them dead, then walked to the bar,
poured himself a drink, and waited.

Virtue returned alone about two
minutes later, her face flushed from running.

“There’s quite a crowd gathering
outside,” she remarked.

“Where’s the doctor?” asked Cain.

“I told him he was going to need a
lot of help,” she replied. “He’s getting his staff together, and hunting up a
vehicle that can transport everyone to the hospital.”

“How soon will he get here?”

“I don’t know. About five minutes,
I suppose.”

“Wait here,” he said, walking to
the door. He stepped out onto the street and found himself facing about twenty
onlookers.

“There’s been some trouble,” he
said, “but it’s under control now. There will be a medical team arriving
shortly. I think it would be best if all of you would go back to your homes.”

Nobody moved.

Cain held up his right hand and
turned it so they could see the wound on the back of it.

“Please,” he said.

They stared at his hand, and then,
one by one, they began dispersing. One man lagged behind the others, then
walked up and asked if there was anything he could do to help; Cain shook his
head, thanked him, and sent him on his way.