The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (11 page)

"Are you sure you'd rather go alone?"

"As a matter of fact, I'd much rather have company,” said Nighthawk, repressing a smile. “Give her two targets instead of just one."

"Damn it!” exploded Malloy. “You were supposed to say that you wanted to face her alone!"

"I do, really. I just wanted to see your reaction."

"Cold-blooded killers aren't supposed to have a sense of humor,” muttered the little man.

"Then I must be a hot-blooded killer."

"Let's just hope you're a long-lived one."

"One of me is."

Nighthawk left the ship, found a waiting tram, and got off at the tower, where he rented a heated powersled. It was a type with which he was unfamiliar, so he had the saleswoman program it for him.

"You're
sure
these are the coordinates you want?” she asked.

"Why not?"

"I'll need a larger deposit,” she said apologetically. “Lots of people go out to the Ice Palace. Almost none of them come back."

"What happens to them?"

"Beats me,” she said. “I don't know. I don't
want
to know. I just want a bigger deposit."

Nighthawk pressed his thumb against a contract rider that she produced.

"You got any advice for someone going to the Ice Palace?” he asked while waiting for the thumbprint to be cleared and approved.

"Don't believe your eyes."

"I don't think I understand,” said Nighthawk, as the computer approved his print.

"She looks human, but she's not."

"What is she?"

"If you survive and return the sled, maybe you can tell me,” said the woman.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Nighthawk could see the Ice Palace from five miles away. It appeared, truly, to be a structure of snow and ice, blindingly white in the midday sun. There were huge turrets, crenelated walls, towers and ramps and balustrades, and literally millions of icicles hanging down from every section and structure. All that was missing was a moat, and he was sure it was only because it was too cold for water.

He approached to within a mile, then slowed the powersled to half speed, alert for any possible danger. Small white animals scurried to and fro, some even racing alongside the sled for a moment, but they veered off as he neared the main gate.

Finally he came to a halt in front of the Ice Palace and stepped off his sled. He looked around for guards and was mildly surprised not to find any. He walked up to the gate and tried it. It was locked, and he turned his laser pistol on it, melting both the locking mechanism and the latch itself.

He stepped cautiously inside. The walls and floor still seemed to be made of ice, but his spacesuit told him that the temperature was 23 degrees Celsius. He cautiously removed his helmet, then quickly slipped out of his suit. He touched some icicles that hung down from the ceiling; they were quartz, quite warm to the touch. Spheres of light, not quite solid, with no discernable power source, floated near the ceiling, illuminating the room.

He walked through a number of chambers, accompanied by about half the spheres, which seemed to sense his presence and anticipate his needs, racing to provide light whenever he turned his head to look in a new direction. The walls and floors glittered like polished diamonds. Some of the chambers were furnished with pieces that matched the magical decor of the palace, others were empty. Nowhere was there any sign of life. No humans, no aliens, no pets, no guard animals, nothing.

Finally he came to an exceptionally large room, perhaps sixty feet on a side. Lilting alien music came from a tiny speaker that hovered near the ceiling at the exact center of the room, and a number of the light spheres floated about it in a stately dance that had no pattern but displayed a form and grace that seemed to match the music perfectly. Lining the walls were exquisite statues of ice, or perhaps quartz that resembled ice; Nighthawk couldn't tell which they were.

As he crossed the room, a door slid into place behind him. He whirled, gun in hand, as he heard the sound, then quickly moved toward the next doorway. A glittering white door slid shut before he was halfway there.

A low chuckle told him that he wasn't alone, and he turned to find himself facing a small, lithe woman with wild dark hair and matching eyes. She was dressed in a form-fitting black outfit made of a delicate lace.

"How did you get in here?” demanded Nighthawk.

"This is my home,” she replied. “I come and go as I please."

"You're Spanish Lace?"

"And you are Jefferson Nighthawk."

"Who told you so?"

"I have my sources,” she replied. She stared at him. “Of all the lackeys the Marquis of Queensbury has sent, you are the youngest. You must be very skilled at your trade."

"I'm not a lackey."

"But you
are
a killer?"

"I'm many things,” he said. “That's one of the less important ones."

She uttered a mocking laugh. He stared at her for a moment, then began examining the room, walking through it, studying the artifacts, while she stood perfectly still, watching him intently. Finally he stopped and turned back to her.

"What's so special about you?” he asked. “Why does he want you dead?"

"He wants me dead because he fears me,” said Spanish Lace.

"He doesn't strike me as a man who is afraid of anything,” replied Nighthawk.

"If he doesn't fear me, why did he send you to do his dirty work?"

"Because I'm not afraid of you either—and he's got all the money,” answered Nighthawk with a smile.

"Have you thought of how you are going to get back?"

"Same way I got here."

"I don't think so,” she replied. “Why not go and check for yourself?"

"After you."

She shrugged and retraced his route through the palace. Doors dilated or slid back as she approached, and in less than a minute she came to the main gate. As it slid into the wall, she stepped aside and Nighthawk saw what remained of his powersled, a crushed, twisted mass of metal.

"What the hell happened to it?” muttered Nighthawk, more to himself than to Spanish Lace.

"Poor Jefferson Nighthawk,” she said. “How are you to leave here?"

Suddenly Nighthawk was aware of the freezing cold, of the wind whipping across his face and body. He turned to Spanish Lace, who stood next to him, totally oblivious to the wind and cold. His first instinct was to stay out there and outlast her, to prove that he could stand anything she could stand, but he quickly realized that it was precisely that kind of machismo which could get him killed, for she seemed truly impervious to the elements.

He turned and walked back into the Ice Palace. Spanish Lace fell into step behind him.

"You asked a question a few moments ago,” she said when they had reached the chamber they had left.

"I did?"

"I think your precise words were: ‘What the hell happened to it?'” She smiled. “
I
happened to it."

"You were with me."

"I know."

"You did it before you came into this room?"

"I did it
while
I was in this room,” she replied.

"How?"

"I promise you that you will discover that before this day is over, Jefferson Nighthawk.” She sat down in a chair that looked like sculpted ice. “Have you decided how you will kill me yet? Will it be death by heat or death by sound? Will I die before a weapon, or beneath your fists? Will my end be swift or slow?"

"I haven't said I would kill you at all,” replied Nighthawk. “I only said that I was
sent
to kill you."

"Ah,” she said, smiling again. “You await a counter offer."

"Not necessarily."

She looked puzzled. “Then what?"

"Let's just talk for awhile."

"Why?"

"Have you got anything better to do?” asked Nighthawk.

She stared at him for a long moment. “What kind of killer
are
you?"

"A reluctant one. Why does he want you dead?"

"I am a rival, and he is very territorial. What better reason is there?"

"Offhand, I can think of hundreds,” said Nighthawk. “Why is life held so cheaply on the Frontier?"

"Probably because it
is
the Frontier. Life is never very expensive on the furthest borders of civilization."

"You people have pasts and futures. Don't you want to hang on to them?"

"
You
have a past and a future too,” she pointed out. “Why should anyone else's attitude puzzle you?"

He shook his head. “I have no past, and my future is, at best, uncertain."

"How can you have no past?” she demanded.

He merely stared at her.

Suddenly her dark eyes widened. “Of course! You're a clone!"

He nodded an affirmative.

"Remarkable! I've never seen one before.” She got to her feet and approached him. “And that explains why you are so young.” She reached out a hand. “May I touch you?"

He shrugged and made no reply as she ran her fingers over his face and neck.

"Remarkable!” she said again. “You feel human."

"I
am
human."

"I mean that there is nothing artificial about you."

"That goes with being human."

She stared at him, obviously fascinated. “And who were you, Jefferson Nighthawk? A mass murderer? A decorated soldier? A celebrated lawman?"

"I am ... I
was
... the Widowmaker."

"Ah! A bounty hunter!"

"And a lawman."

"Perhaps, but that is not why we all remember you.” She returned to her chair. “So I am to be killed by the Widowmaker!"

"I told you, I just want to talk."

She closed her eyes and nodded her head. “Of course you do. Poor little clone, with all the Widowmaker's skills and none of his experiences. He
chose
to become a killer, was probably driven to it, doubtless reveled in it. But you were
created
to become one, ordered to be one. No one ever asked you if you wanted to kill, did they? No one ever thought you might have other goals and desires."

Nighthawk exhaled deeply. “You understand."

"Certainly I do. Even among the outcasts and misfits who inhabit the Frontier, you are different, as I am. You were given certain physical attributes that you did not ask for, as was I. You find yourself an outsider in a galaxy of outsiders, as do I. How could I
not
understand?"

"What do you mean?” asked Nighthawk. “You look normal to me."

"Never trust the eye, which sees only the facade and never the truth,” she replied. “You appear perfectly normal to me, too—and yet you are the Widowmaker, and how many men did he kill? Two hundred? Three hundred?"

"A lot."

"But less than me,” she said proudly.

He frowned. “You've killed three hundred men?"

"More. And before this day is over, I will add to that total."

"We have nothing to fight about,” said Nighthawk. “As you pointed out, we're two of a kind."

"What I didn't point out is that I'm as territorial as the Marquis, and you have invaded my home."

"I'll tell him I couldn't find you."

"Poor clone,” she said with mock sympathy. “
You
may need a friend and confidant, but
I
do not. My life was not forced upon me; I have
chosen
to be an outlaw and a killer. You will not leave here alive."

"This is stupid!” he protested. “I'm offering you your life! I could kill you in two seconds if I wanted to!"

"Try,” she said, amused.

"Don't push me!"

"
Push
you?” she repeated with a laugh. “I
challenge
you, Widowmaker!"

"I don't want to kill you."

"But
I
want to kill
you
."

"You're not carrying any weapons. This is murder."

"Do you really think the Marquis would want me dead if I were harmless?” responded Spanish Lace. “I don't
carry
my weapons like you lesser beings. I
am
a weapon."

Nighthawk faced her and reached for his laser pistol. It leaped out of his holster before he could touch it and hovered, tantalizingly, about four feet away from him.

"What the hell?” he exclaimed.

"What is the loss one weapon to a man like you?” she said, still amused. “Try another."

He reached for his sonic pistol. He closed his fingers on the handle and pulled. Nothing happened. He tightened his grip and yanked. And found that he couldn't budge it so much as a millimeter.

"Now do you know what happened to your powersled?” she asked.

"You're telekinetic?"

She nodded. “I have always had the ability to move material objects with the power of my mind alone. In fact, I think I was seven or eight years old before I realized that no one else could do it.” She held out her hands to grab his weapons as each in turn left him and flew across the room into her grasp. “How do you feel
now
about killing a poor, helpless woman?"

"A lot better,” he said, reaching into a boot, removing a knife, and hurling it at her, all in one fluid motion. It flew straight and true toward her heart, and then froze in space about six inches from its target.

"Fool!” she said, allowing a contemptuous sneer to replace the look of amusement on her angular face. “Don't you realize that you are completely helpless?” Nighthawk heard a sound above him and dove to one side just before a section of the ceiling crashed down where he had been standing. “Can you fight the Ice Palace itself?"

He began approaching her cautiously. Just as he was tensing his muscles for the final charge, a small chair flew into his back, sending him sprawling on the glittering floor.

He was on his feet in an instant, and managed to duck another chair that came at him out of nowhere.

"Very good, Widowmaker,” she said. “You inherited good instincts—if ‘inherit’ is the proper word, and I suspect it isn't. I shall almost be sorry to dispose of you."

He stared at her, reluctant to approach, unwilling to retreat.

"Now, how shall I kill you?” she continued. “It might be amusing to use your own weapons."

Suddenly his three pistols—laser, sonic, projectile—formed a line just to her left, five feet above the ground, and spun until they were aimed directly at him.