"So what?" said the Rocker bitterly. "How do you go to war with the whole Democracy?"
"That's the easy part. You join me."
"Just you and me against the whole Democracy?"
"You and me—and them," said Silvermane, indicating his companions. "And the whole of Santiago's organization."
"How can Santiago have an organization?" said the Rocker in exasperated tones. "He's been dead for a couple of hundred years, if he ever really existed at all. You're not making any sense, Jushua."
"Santiago is alive," said Dante.
The Rocker turned to him. "Another quarter heard from."
"Santiago is more than a man," continued Dante. "He's an ideal, and he changes outfits just the way you and I do. Today he's wearing Joshua Silvermane."
"Well, I'm sure that's very interesting, but it doesn't make any sense," said the Rocker.
Dante was about to explain, but Silvermane cut him off. "It doesn't have to," he said. "All you have to know is that you can punish the Democracy for what they did to Priscilla, or you can stay here and mourn her and never do anything about it. It's your choice."
The Rocker stared at Silvermane for a long moment. Dante thought he was actually going to take a swing at him, but instead he finally got to his feet.
"I'll only come if I can take Priscilla with me," he said at last.
"If that's what you want."
"It's not negotiable. Wherever I die, she's got to be there or they'll never mingle our ashes."
"Have you considered living?" suggested Silvermane.
"Not lately," admitted the Rocker. "But now you've given me a reason to, even if we only last an hour—which, I might add, seems optimistic." He walked to a closet, pulled out a very old pulse gun, and tucked it in his belt. Then he went to the pedestal and gently, tenderly took the urn in his arms. "Okay, I'm ready. Let's go."
"Don't you want to take anything else?" asked Dante.
"Like what?" asked the Rocker.
Dante shrugged. "I don't know. Some clothes, maybe, or perhaps another weapon?"
"I'll buy 'em when I need 'em."
A few moments later they were racing back to the spaceport, as Dante and Silvermane took turns filling in the newest member of their organization.
32.
They didn't all leave Bodini II together, since they had come in a number of ships. Dante, Silvermane, and the Plymouth Rocker took off first and landed on Brandywine, a lovely little world in the Spinos system, where Silvermane had a mountain retreat. He hadn't visited it in close to three years, but it had a full-time staff—a husband-and-wife team, plus a groundskeeper—and it was in perfect repair. Dante left messages to Matilda and Virgil to meet them there. He wasn't sure how far he could trust Blossom, so he kept her out of the loop.
"Nice layout," commented the Plymouth Rocker, walking through the rustic retreat. "Build it yourself?"
"I appropriated it from someone who didn't need it any longer," replied Silvermane.
"Who was it?"
"Nobody very important," answered Silvermane in tones that made it clear the subject was closed.
"Well, Joshua, what's our next step?" asked the Rocker.
"We're about to decide—and call me Santiago."
"Sorry."
"I've been thinking about it," said Silvermane. "And it seems to me that there's no reason to build a new organization when it's so much easier to take over the One-Armed Bandit's. How many men does he have working for him now?"
"I'm not sure," answered Dante, settling down in an angular chair of alien design that was more comfortable than it looked. "He has people recruiting all over the Frontier. I would think he's got between 75 and 100 by now, maybe even more."
"That proves my point. It could take us months to get that many men—and then we'd have to go to war with his men. Much better to just take over what he's got."
"Won't the One-Armed Bandit have a little something to say about it?" asked the Rocker.
"Not if we work it right," said Silvermane.
"You're not talking about walking right in and killing him?" said Dante. "We don't have any idea what defenses he's installed since I left—not that he needs very many."
"No, I don't plan to confront him on his own world," replied Silvermane. "I may be brave, but I'm not suicidal."
"So the trick is to get him off Valhalla," said the Rocker.
"That's right."
"How?"
Silvermane turned to Dante. "I thought our resident poet might have an idea. It seems that he's never short of them."
"Are you being sarcastic," asked Dante, "or are you really asking for suggestions?"
"Both."
Dante lowered his head in thought for a moment, then reached into a pocket and pulled out a notebook and a stylus and began scribbling something.
"What's he doing?" asked the Rocker.
"I'm sure he'll tell us when he's done," said Silvermane, watching the young poet as he crossed out words, wrote in new ones, and stared off into space, obviously thinking. Finally he looked up.
"Here's how we do it," he announced, and then read aloud:
"Women scream and children shake,
Lawmen hide and strong men quake.
The world is turning upside down—
The One-Armed Bandit's come to town."
"What the hell does that have to do with anything," asked the Rocker.
Silvermane smiled. "You're on the right track, Rhymer."
"Would someone explain what's going on to me?" said the Rocker.
"Dante is the new Black Orpheus," said Silvermane. "He's the reason that Santiago is being resurrected in the first place. The One-Armed Bandit knows this. Do you start to follow?"
"Okay," replied the Rocker. "So the Bandit sees the poem, and he realizes that Dante is telling the Frontier that he's not the hero he's cracked up to be. So what? From what you tell me, he's already going to kill Dante the next time he sees him."
"He's calling himself Santiago these days," said Silvermane. "He's done everything he can to separate himself from his identity as the One-Armed Bandit. He's going to make enough enemies as Santiago; he doesn't need the ones who have reason to kill the Bandit."
"That's not enough," said the Rocker. "Are you telling me he's going to drop everything he's doing and come after Dante here just because he writes one lousy stanza calling the Bandit a villain?"
"Use your imagination," said Silvermane. "This is the opening shot, the Bandit's wake-up call." He turned to Dante. "Am I right?"
"You're right."
"Okay," said the Rocker. "What comes next?"
"I find a remote planet maybe 100,000 light-years from Valhalla," said Dante, "and I start printing poems in the classified section of its major newsdisc—and each poem is more explicit. I point out who he deals with, what he looks like, where he lives. I start naming his key people. Then we get a third party to transmit all this to the Bandit. How long do you think it'll be before he comes after me himself?"