The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (13 page)

Nighthawk left the office without another word and, still annoyed with the Marquis of Queensbury, returned to the casino. The place was more crowded than usual. Most of the gaming tables were operating at capacity, and whores of both sexes were cadging drinks and trying to make their business arrangements for the night. The
jabob
table was surrounded by humans who found the alien game fascinating, while the craps table was populated by Lodinites, Canphorites, and a six-limbed golden-shelled Lambidarian.

Malloy was busy playing poker with a couple of flashily-dressed miners and a green-hued creature of a species Nighthawk hadn't seen before. He watched as the little man bet up a flush and lost to a full house. Finally he wandered over to the bar, ordered a Dust Whore, and idly watched the various dancers until the Pearl of Maracaibo appeared on the floating platform.

He was sipping his drink and staring at her intently when she suddenly winked at him, then laughed at his reaction. He waited until her dance was through, then made his way to her dressing room, a glass in each hand. The red eye of the security system scanned him and reported his presence to the room's occupant.

"Come in,” she said, and the door dilated long enough for him to step into the room.

She sat on an elegant gilt chair, naked from the waist up. A small mirror hovered in the air perhaps 30 inches from her face. She had been staring into it, meticulously removing her stage make-up, but she turned to face Nighthawk as soon as he entered.

"How nice to see you again,” she said. “The Marquis tells me you're a hero."

"The Marquis exaggerates,” said Nighthawk.

"A
modest
hero,” she said. “Now that
is
a rarity around here."

"I brought you a drink,” he said, placing it down next to her.

"I didn't ask for one."

"Try it,” he said. “You'll like it."

"In a moment, perhaps.” She paused and stared at him. “Do you know what the Marquis would do to you if he knew you were here?"

"I know what he'd
try
to do,” answered Nighthawk, his anger returning at the mention of the Marquis.

"And you have no fear of him?"

"None.” He paused. “Besides, you invited me here."

"I did?"

"You winked at me,” he said. “I consider that an invitation. And you haven't told me to leave."

"Leave."

"Not just yet."

She smiled but chose to make no reply, and an uncomfortable silence ensued. She stared at her mirror and he looked at her. “You're a very good dancer,” he said at last.

Still no reply.

"I noticed that the first time I saw you."

Silence.

"You don't have to be afraid to talk to me,” he said. “I'll settle for just being friends."

She uttered a disbelieving laugh. “Just friends?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I'm lonely."

"There are many women here. Why me?"

He stared at her for a moment before answering. “Because we're both freaks,” he said. “I'm sure the Marquis has told you what I am, and with that blue skin you're some kind of sport or mutant. We're each the only one of our kind here. I thought you might be lonely too."

"You were mistaken."

"I'm not so sure of that. Except when you're with the Marquis, you keep entirely to yourself."

"Did it ever occur to you that I might enjoy my own company?"

"No, it never did."

"Why? Just because you don't enjoy yours?"

He stared into her clear, almost colorless eyes for a long moment. “We're getting off on the wrong foot here,” he said at last.

"Yes, I know,” she said in amused tones. “You just want to be my friend."

"That's right."

"Funny,” she said, making no attempt to shield her naked breasts from his gaze. “I thought you wanted to look at my body."

"That too."

"Does your notion of friendship include sharing my bed?"

"If you ask me to."

"And if I don't?"

"Sooner or later you will,” he replied. “In the meantime, two lost souls can take some comfort in each other's company."

"You do not look at me like a lost soul,” she said, arching her back and stretching sensuously, “but rather like a lustful man."

"You're a very beautiful woman. How would you prefer that I look at you?"

"Perhaps, given your situation, you shouldn't look at me at all."

"The Marquis just told me that he wants his employees to display initiative,” said Nighthawk with a smile. “Besides, if no one looked at you, you'd be out of a job."

"Very clever,” she said. “Now, if you're all through looking, I think you'd better leave."

"I'm still looking,” he replied. “Why not have the drink?"

"I could call the Marquis."

"Yes, but you won't,” said Nighthawk confidently.

"Why not?"

"Because you don't want me to kill him."

She laughed in amusement. “
You
? Kill
him
?"

"That's right,” he answered seriously.

"So instead of merely a lustful underling, I find myself confronted by a lustful egomaniac,” she said. “I suppose I shall have to accept your drink or you will kill
me
, too."

"Now you're making fun of me."

She shrugged and turned back to her mirror.

"I've had very little experience with women,” said Nighthawk awkwardly. “Believe me, the very last thing I want to do is seem comical to you."

"Not comical. Just suicidal,” she replied. “And the Marquis tells me that you have had very little experience with
anything
."

She stared at him with open curiosity. “Is it true that you are only three months old?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"What is it like, to remember no childhood?"

"I have vague memories of a childhood,” he replied. “It's not my own, though, and the memories fade daily."

"How wonderful not to remember one's childhood,” she said. “I wish I could not remember mine."

"You didn't enjoy it?"

"Would you enjoy being—how did you call it—a sport?” she asked. “Children can be very intolerant.” She paused, frowning at the memories. “That is why I came to the Inner Frontier. Here they care no more that I have blue skin than that you are three months old. They care only about what we can do, who we
are
rather than who we
aren't
."

"Interestingly put,” said Nighthawk. “I thought the Oligarchy was based on that same principle."

"They may give lip service to it, but it is valid only out here."

"Perhaps when I'm a year old I'll be less trusting,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.

She laughed. “You can be very amusing."

A satisfied smile spread across his face.

"You look happy,” she said.

"It's nice to be appreciated for something other than my ability to kill people."

"Who was the original Jefferson Nighthawk?” she asked.

"He was the best bounty hunter who ever lived,” answered Nighthawk. “He spent most of his life on the Frontier. They called him the Widowmaker."

"The Widowmaker? I've heard of him."

"I think just about everyone has."

"How did he die?"

"He didn't."

She frowned. “But I thought he lived more than a century ago."

"He did. He came down with a disease, and went into the deep freeze before it could kill him."

"It must be very strange for you to know he still exists."

"It makes me feel like a ghost."

"A ghost?"

"Insubstantial,” said Nighthawk. “Like he's the real thing, and I'm just an ephemeral shadow, here to do his bidding and then vanish."

"I would hate that feeling!” she said passionately.

"I'm not especially pleased with it myself,” he replied. “But it's probably no worse than dancing half-naked so all the men in the audience can lust for your body."

"Nonsense,” she said heatedly. “For men to admire my body is perfectly natural. What you have described is sick!” She reached out, grabbed the drink he had brought her, and downed it in a single swallow.

"Tell me—how did you come to be known as the Pearl of Maracaibo?"

"I think we are through talking."

"We are kindred souls,” said Nighthawk. “We have many things in common, many things to share. I told you how I came to be the Widowmaker; now you tell me how you came by
your
name."

"I have agreed to no trades or bargains,” she said. “If you have a kindred soul here, it is more likely Lizard Malloy than me. Each of you wants things you cannot have. In his case, it is money."

"And in my case?"

"Don't play the buffoon,” she said. “You are here right now because of what you want.” She stood up and removed the single garment that had been wrapped around her waist. “Take a good look, Jefferson Nighthawk, for this is as close as you're going to get to it."

"I don't give up easily,” he said, staring at her nude body.

"Even if I felt attracted to you, I have a strong sense of self-preservation,” she said. “I belong to the Marquis as surely as you do. He would kill one or both of us."

"I'll protect you,” said Nighthawk.

"Don't be a fool. This is
his
world."

"Just promise to give it some thought."

"All right, I promise,” she said. “Now go. I have to get ready to dance again."

"Your last dance of the night is coming up, right?” asked Nighthawk.

"Yes."

"I want to see you after it's over."

"You are a fool."

"I know. But you didn't answer me. Can I stop by here afterward?"

"You are a notorious killer. How can I stop you?"

Nighthawk grinned, then got up and left her to secure a spot at the bar where he could watch her dance again.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Nighthawk lay on his back, head propped on a pillow. The bed floated a few inches above the floor, and constantly changed shape to mold itself to the forms of its occupants.

"That was great!” he said. Suddenly he grinned. “I'm glad I didn't have to wait 23 years for it."

"From now on, whenever you go to bed with a woman, you'll have me to compare her to,” said Melisande, the Pearl of Maracaibo.

"What makes you think I want anyone else?"

"You're a man. If you don't now, you soon will."

"Not me,” he said. “You're the woman for me."

She turned on her side and looked into his eyes. “But you're not the man for me."

He frowned. “I don't understand."

"I belong to the Marquis. You know that."

"But I thought..."

"You thought just because I went to bed with you once, I was prepared to leave him forever?” she asked with a smile. “You really
are
very young, you know."

"Then why did you go to bed with me in the first place?"

"Because you looked at me like a hungry puppy dog,” she said. “And because I was curious to see what it felt like to have sex with a clone."

"And?"

She shrugged. “You've got a lot to learn."

"You can teach me."

"Teaching awkward young men is not part of my job,” she said with a chuckle.

"I'm sorry the experience was so unpleasant,” said Nighthawk bitterly.

"I didn't say it was unpleasant,” she replied.

"Not in so many words."

"It was all right."

"But nothing more."

"That's right."

"Nowhere near as good as with the Marquis."

"Don't feel badly,” she replied. “Most men do a lot worse their first time."

"I don't find that especially comforting."

"Would you rather I lied to you?"

"Much,” said Nighthawk.

"But then you'd insist on doing it again."

"Why not?"

She shook her head. “Once was curiosity. Twice would be infidelity."

"You've got a funny notion of morality,” said Nighthawk.

"I've developed mine over a period of thirty Standard years,” she replied. “How long have you been honing
yours
?"

He made no reply, but swung his feet over the edge of the bed, stood up, and walked to the window that overlooked the frozen streets of Klondike.

"Notorious killers aren't supposed to sulk like spoiled children,” she said.

"Look,” he snapped, turning to her, “this is the first time I've been with a woman, and also the first time I've been rejected by one. Now, maybe the Widowmaker would know how to handle it, but I'm having a little trouble."

"You
are
the Widowmaker."

"I'm Jefferson Nighthawk."

"Is there a difference?"

"More than you can imagine."

"Well, whoever you are, do you know how silly you look, standing there without any clothes on?"

He walked over to the bed, ripped the covers off, and threw them on the floor.

"Now we're even."

"Do you feel better now?” she said.

"Not much."

She stood up, examined her image in the mirror with a critical eye, brushed a few strands of hair into place with her fingers, and started searching for her clothes.

"What are you doing?” he demanded.

"I'm getting dressed and leaving,” she replied. “You stopped being fun a long time ago. Now you're not even interesting."

"And you're going right to the Marquis."

"That's right."

He walked over and grabbed her arm. “And what if I decide not to let you?"

She winced and pulled her arm loose. “That
hurt!
Keep your goddamned hands to yourself!"

"I didn't squeeze that hard,” he said. “What's the matter?"

"Nothing,” she said, turning away and picking up some clothing from the floor.

"Let me see your arm,” he demanded, grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her around.

"Leave me alone!"

He took her arm in his hand and studied it carefully. “That's a hell of a bruise. I can't imagine how I missed it when you were dancing."

"I cover it with make-up."

"How did you get it?"

"None of your business,” she said, trying to pull her arm loose.

"The Marquis gave it to you, didn't he?"

"I fell and bumped it."

"Not there you didn't, unless you fell with your arms splayed out. The Marquis did it."