Prophet (19 page)

"Millions of them,” she replied, holding a glass under a tap. “Cold,” she whispered, and the water poured out. When the glass was filled she said, “Stop", the flow of water ceased, and she handed the glass to the Kid.

"Thank you,” he said, draining the glass with a single swallow.

"You are welcome, Mr. Cayman,” she said. “Come sit outside with me, beneath the shade trees."

"Are you sure you want to go out?” he asked. “As you pointed out, the house is climate-controlled."

"I had an unpleasant experience, which I am certain you were told about,” she replied, leading him out to a shaded patio. “I don't like feeling confined."

The Kid recalled the dust and asteroids circling Alpha Crepello. “No, I guess you don't."

He sat down on a wooden bench and she seated herself on an identical bench about ten feet away from him, then stood up instantly.

"What's the matter?” asked the Kid.

"Nothing is wrong, Mr. Cayman."

"Then why—"

She smiled. “There is an event—its nature need not concern you—that must come to pass on a world called Cherokee. The past is a fixed event, Mr. Cayman, but there are literally an infinite number of futures. In every future in which I remained seated, it did
not
come to pass. In a handful of those in which I stood up, it may yet happen."

"But how can standing up on Mozart effect something light years away?” asked the Kid.

"I neither know nor question the why of it; I only know the truth of it.” She paused. “Now shall we get down to business, Mr. Cayman?"

"That's what I'm here for."

She stared at him, and for just a moment her eyes focused. He decided uneasily that he preferred her to stare off into what he imagined was the future.

"You must excuse me, Mr. Cayman, but I'm not at all sure what you're here for."

"I thought you knew everything,” said the Kid.

"I know the plethora of futures that will be,” she replied. “I do not know everything that was."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It makes sense to
me
,” she said. “Now perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me why you have come to Mozart."

"If you know the future, you already know what I am going to say."

"You
might
say any of a hundred things,” replied Penelope. “You are quite a liar, you know, and a bit of an egomaniac as well. I wish to hear whatever it is that you
will
say."

"How will you know if I'm lying?” asked the Kid.

"Because I already know most of the answer to any question I ask."

"Then why ask at all?"

"To determine how trustworthy you are, Mr. Cayman."

"Why do you care?"

"All in good time, Mr. Cayman,” said Penelope, staring off into time and space again. “Please answer my question now."

"I've come to Mozart to sell computer chips,” said the Kid.

"That is the fact of it,” she said serenely, “but not the truth of it."

"All right,” he said with a shrug. “I was sent here by the Iceman."

"I know."

"That's it, then."

"Why did he send you?"

"He doesn't think anything can kill you, so when he heard about Hades blowing up, he figured you had escaped before it happened."

"And does the Democracy agree with him?"

"No.” The Kid paused. “He thinks they're fools."

"He is correct."

"Anyway, he wants to know what you plan to do."

"Of course."

"Not your immediate plans,” continued the Kid, “but your long-term plans."

"I plan to survive in a universe that has proven itself hostile to me at every opportunity,” answered Penelope without emotion.

"Well, from what I've seen, survival seems to be the least of your problems—assuming you have any problems at all."

"I am just flesh and blood, Mr. Cayman,” she replied. “Someday I will die, just as any other human being dies.” Suddenly she smiled in amusement. “It will not be at your hands, Mr. Cayman. If you pull out your laser weapon and attempt to fire it, as you are considering doing, it will misfire and explode in your hand."

"I wasn't considering any such thing,” lied the Kid.

"You have been warned, Mr. Cayman,” she said. “Your fate is in your hands."

The Kid withdrew his pistol and studied it. “It was working just fine last night,” he said.

"In a million futures, it will function correctly this morning,” said Penelope. “I will not allow any of those futures to come to pass."

The Kid stared at his pistol for a moment, then shrugged and replaced it in its holster.

"Now I've got a question for you,” he said.

"About investments?” she asked in a mocking tone.

"No."

"Ask your question, Mr. Cayman."

"Why haven't you made yourself ruler of the whole damned galaxy? It doesn't seem to me that anyone's got the power to stop you."

"Perhaps someday I shall,” she replied. “I have other, more pressing things to do first."

"Such as?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

She stared at him, and a contemptuous smile crossed her face. “If you could see what I see, if you tried to make sense of it and bring order to it, it would drive you quite mad. Even as we speak, a starship on its way to Antarres must malfunction, a miner on Nelson 5 must dig a mile to the west of his camp, a politician on New Rhodesia must accept a bribe, a chrystaline alien on Atria must receive a subspace message from far Orion. There are a thousand events that must transpire, each in its exact order; a million futures must vanish every nanosecond; and you ask me to explain all this to you? Poor little human, who seeks only a full belly and a fat wallet, who dreams of heroic deeds and grateful maidens, and who is doomed only to become a speck of dust in a galaxy already overflowing with dust.” She paused. “No, Mr. Cayman, I do not think you could comprehend my goals or my explanations."

The Kid stared at her for a moment. “Whatever your goals are, you need a better lieutenant than James Mboya,” he said.

"You have a candidate in mind to replace The Black Death?” she asked, and he got the distinct impression that she was laughing at him.

"You're looking at him,” he said.

"I thought you worked for the Iceman."

"I work for winners,” said the Kid. “You're a winner."

"I am very happy with The Black Death's services,” replied Penelope.

"I'm better than he is."

"In what way?"

"I'm quicker, stronger, faster,” said the Kid. “And I can make you just as quick and strong."

"With your chips?” she suggested.

"That's right,” said the Kid. “You fire Mboya and take me on and, as much as you are, I can make you more."

"You can make me even less human than I am?” she asked mockingly. “That's an interesting proposition, Mr. Cayman."

"You don't even have to fire him,” said the Kid. “I can kill him as soon as I leave the house. He's waiting outside for me."

"But I don't want you to kill him, Mr. Cayman,” she said. “Nor do I want your chips.” She stared at him, and once again her eyes seemed to focus on the here and now. “I never wanted to be the Prophet, Mr. Cayman. What seems a gift to you has often seemed a curse to me. I wanted to be like every other human being, and I have been harassed and chased and imprisoned for most of my life because I was different. And now you offer to make me even more different? You'll have to do better than that."

"If you want to be like everyone else, why not just take a new identity and move out to the Spiral Arm or the Outer Frontier?” asked the Kid.

"Because I
am
different,” replied Penelope. “I didn't wish to be, but I cannot deny the fact of it. Wherever I go, they will seek me out; wherever I hide, they will find me. Fate has been very cruel to me, Mr. Cayman; now that my powers are mature, I plan to defend myself as best I can."

"You can defend yourself by hiding."

"I can defend myself by making sure that no one alive or yet to be born can ever harm me again,” she said. “I will do whatever must be done to protect myself."

"Including blowing up planets?” asked the Kid.

"An eye for an eye, Mr. Cayman—and there were a lot of eyes on Hades. What happened there was justice on a grand scale.” She paused. “You might consider that before opposing me."

"I'm not trying to oppose you,” said the Kid. “I'm trying to
join
you."

"If I allow you to serve me, I must have your complete obedience,” she said.

"You'll have it."

"You will be well paid, but you will also be asked to do many things that you may find unpalatable."

"You just pay me the money, and let me worry about the rest of it,” said the Kid.

"One of the first things I will have you do is betray Carlos Mendoza."

"I kind of thought you might,” said the Kid with a grin.

"That doesn't bother you?"

"No."

"Even though he is your friend?"

"He's on the wrong side of the fence,” said the Kid. “There's no way he can win. If I don't deliver him to you, someone else will—so I might as well get paid for it."

Penelope stared thoughtfully at him. “You seem like a very practical young man, Neil Cayman,” she said. “I think you may prove useful to me in ways you do not even comprehend."

"Then I'm hired?"

"You are hired."

"We haven't talked about money yet,” he noted.

"You will find that I am more than generous,” answered Penelope. “And if you are loyal, you will wield such power as you have heretofore only dreamed about."

"Sounds good to me,” said the Kid. “And by the way, I'm not Neil Cayman any longer."

"Oh?"

"Everyone out here on the Frontier seems to choose a new name for themselves. I'm the Silicon Kid."

She smiled. “That is a very impressive and descriptive name. It will suffice for the time being."

"You've got another one planned for me?” he asked.

"Perhaps."

"I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what it is?"

"When the time comes,” said Penelope. She got to her feet. “And now our interview is over. The Black Death will take you back to your hotel. I know that you wish to pit your skills against his.” She paused. “From this day forth, you are not to fight with
anyone
except on my express orders. Is that clear?"

"It's clear,” he said reluctantly.

"Good. You will hear from me when I need you."

"You can see the future,” said the Kid as she ushered him through the house. “So why not tell me now when you'll need me?"

"Because
I
do not exist to serve
you
, Mr. Cayman."

He walked out the front door and climbed into Mboya's groundcar. Penelope watched them pull away, then walked to her bedroom and emerged, a moment later, with a small rag doll. She clutched it lovingly to her bosom and continued to stare blindly into time and space, occasionally making a gesture or striking a pose that would help bring the particular future she envisioned into being.

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Mboya was waiting for the Silicon Kid in the groundcar as the slidewalk took him away from the Prophet's domicile. He climbed in, still assimilating what he had heard, and a moment later Mboya was driving him back toward Minuet. “So how did it go?"

"I'm working for her,” answered the Kid.

A humorless smile crossed Mboya's face. “Remind me never to turn my back on you."

"What is that supposed to mean?” demanded the Kid.

"I know why you came here and who sent you,” said Mboya. “You sold him out, Judas."

"I plan to get a hell of a lot more than thirty pieces of silver,” said the Kid. “Besides, he hasn't got a chance. You know that."

"That doesn't make any difference,” replied Mboya. “When you make a commitment, you're supposed to keep it."

"Why don't you let
me
worry about that?” said the Kid angrily.

"What if you decide the Anointed One is more powerful than the Prophet?” said Mboya. “You going to change sides again?"

"He'd have to be something awfully special to be more powerful than
her
."

"Maybe he is. He's supposed to have more than a hundred million followers who all but worship him."

"He's just a Man,” said the Kid. “She's something ... well,
more
."

Mboya drove in silence for a few moments, passing the same farms they had driven by on the way out. As they reached Minuet, he spoke again. “I hope you have to go up against him."

"The Anointed One?” asked the Kid.

Mboya shook his head. “The Iceman."

"He's a fat old man,” said the Kid. “I can take him."

"A lot of people have thought they could take him,” said Mboya. “But he's still here. Even the Prophet couldn't kill him."

"He won't pose any problem at all,” said the Kid. “Hell, he still thinks I'm on his side."

Mboya smiled. “Kid, he
never
thought you were on his side."

"How the hell do
you
know what he thinks?” demanded the Kid. “You've never ever met him."

"He's lived seventy-odd years on the Inner Frontier,” answered Mboya easily. “You don't get that old out here by being stupid."

"Are you saying
I'm
stupid?” asked the Kid heatedly.

"If you think you can fool the Iceman or take him out, you are,” responded Mboya. “Even if he didn't know
you
, he knows
her
. He knows what she can do, how she can influence people and events."

"So who's going to kill him? You?"

"When the time comes,” answered Mboya.

"What makes you better able to than me?"

"I respect him,” said Mboya. “I won't make any careless or foolish mistakes."

"And you think I will?"

"It's a possibility.” Mboya paused. “You know that he's gone up against the Prophet twice and lived to tell about it, and yet you keep describing him as a fat old man who poses no threat to you."

"That's right."

"You still don't see it, do you?"

"See what?” asked the Kid irritably.

"You don't think he survived his meetings with the Prophet because he was
faster
than you, do you? What difference do physical attributes make when she knows what you're going to do before you yourself do?” Mboya paused again. “He survived because of his brain, not because of his gun. And he'll beat you the same way."