The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (14 page)

"What if he did?” she said defiantly. “It has nothing to do with you."

"How often does he beat you?” demanded Nighthawk.

"I deserved it."

"For what?"

"For something a lot more serious than sleeping with a three-month-old,” she said.

"He won't beat you for sleeping with me?"

"Who's going to tell him? You?"

"What kind of man beats a helpless woman?"

"What kind of man
kills
a woman?” she shot back. “Isn't that what you just came back from doing?"

"I'm not going to let him hit you ever again,” said Nighthawk.

"I have no further interest in you,” she said. “I want you to display none in me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

He stared at her for a long moment. “I might be in love with you."

"'Might'?” she repeated.

"I don't know. I've never been in love before."

"You're not now. You had a good time in bed; let it go at that."

"I don't like to think of you going back to him."

"Fine. Think of something else."

She finished dressing and walked to the door. “I have every intention of forgetting tonight. I'd strongly advise you to do the same."

"Not a chance."

"That's
your
problem,” she said, walking out as the door sensed her presence and dilated.

Nighthawk walked back to the window and stared out at the frozen landscape for a long moment. Then he slowly climbed into his clothes, no longer interested in sleeping. Finally he walked over to a mirror to comb his hair, but as he looked into the glass, it seemed to him that the reflection he saw was that of a horribly disfigured old man, his eyes sunken, his cheeks hollow, the bones of his face sticking out through his rotting flesh.

The Widowmaker.

"What would
you
have done?” demanded Nighthawk bitterly.

I'd never have gotten into such a situation. I never let my libido rule my mind.

"How can you say that? I've been to bed with a woman exactly once."

You haven't been able to think of anything else since you saw her.

"You wouldn't have, either."

Never tell me what I would or wouldn't have done. You are the student here, not me.

"All right, then. What would you do now?"

Forget her.

"I can't."

She's just a woman. You're just a man. The only difference is she's had enough experience to know she can forget you. Sleep with a few more women, and you'll find her face harder to remember after each time.

"Is
that
what made you such a killer? The fact that no one ever meant anything to you?"

I never said that no one meant anything to me. I said that you can't let your gonads rule your mind.

"I'm tired of hearing that. Say something else."

Don't give me orders, son. I'm the Widowmaker. You're just my shadow. My surrogate.

"Then help me, damn it! I'm out here on the Frontier trying to help
you
!"

Why do you think you're seeing me? You're better start taking the help you can get. Don't hold out for the advice you want.

"What are you talking about?"

You want me to tell you how to win the blue-skinned girl. I'm not going to. Forget her.

"Maybe
you
could. I can't."

Then be prepared to kill the Marquis.

"I'm ready to do it tonight."

I know. And once you do, who's going to finger President Trelaine's assassin? Or have you forgotten why you were given life in the first place?

"The Marquis has got to be worth over five million credits. Why don't I just kill him, confiscate what's his, and send it back to Deluros?"

Because all you really want to confiscate is the girl. And because the Widowmaker has a code of honor. If he said he'd accept an assignment, he always kept his word.

"But I'm not the Widowmaker."

You will be, one day.

"No! I'm Jefferson Nighthawk!"

So am I—and I was Jefferson Nighthawk first.

"I'm my own man! I'm not you, and I don't take orders from you!"

You are more me than you can imagine.

"No!” shouted Nighthawk furiously.

Oh, yes, flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. You don't really think I'm here in the mirror, do you? This is just your mind's way of rationalizing my presence. I'm your conscience. More than that, I'm your essence. We are intertwined mentally, physically, every possible way. You fall and I hurt, you laugh and I rejoice, you reach for your weapon and I aim the gun and pull the trigger. There's no getting away from yourself, son, and that's what I am: your true self. I'm the man you are striving to become. I'm the ideal you strive to achieve, and I'm always out of reach. No matter how hard you try, you'll always know in a secret chamber of your mind that I am the better man with any weapon, or a woman.

"The hell you are!"

The hell I'm not. I'm thirty percent man and seventy percent disease, and I'm frozen away like a piece of leftover meat, but you're still afraid of me, still jealous. I haunt your dreams, young Jefferson; you don't haunt mine.

"I don't have to listen to this!” yelled Nighthawk. He pulled out his sonic pistol and pulled the trigger. The beam of sound shattered the mirror into a thousand pieces.

He calmed down as suddenly as he had become enraged, and realized that he still hadn't settled on a course of action. He walked into the bathroom and stood, contritely, before the mirror.

"I'm sorry,” he said. “I lost my temper. Probably you went forty years without losing yours."

A handsome young man stared out at him.

"I said I'm sorry,” he repeated. “And I still don't know what to do next."

It seemed to him that the face in the mirror turned rotten with disease just long enough to say, “
Of course you do,"
before reverting to the handsome young man whose uncertainty and indecision showed in his every expression and gesture.

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Nighthawk rode the ramp down to the sub-basement level beneath the casino. He walked past the swimming pool and the sauna, and finally came to the shooting gallery, where the Marquis of Queensbury was taking aim at a tiny target 50 meters away. The target spun and rose and fell, remaining in constant motion—and unlike any other target Nighthawk had ever seen, this one fired back.

It was a holograph of a Navy officer, kneeling, with his pistol clasped in both hands. Tiny laser beams emanated for it, not enough to do serious damage, but more than ample to cause a painful jolt.

Nighthawk stopped and watched, silent and motionless, as the Marquis swayed back and forth, bobbing and weaving like a boxer as he evaded the laser beams, and finally squeezed the trigger of his pistol. An instant later the Electric Monitor signaled a bulls-eye.

"Nice shot,” said Nighthawk, finally stepping forward.

"Thanks,” said the Marquis. “You haven't been down here before, have you?"

Nighthawk shook his head. “It's impressive."

"It's more than impressive. It's essential."

Nighthawk stared at him curiously.

"There are a thousand men carrying weapons up on ground level. If I'm to be their undisputed leader, it's because they know they can't kill me and take over the operation. The reason they know it is because every month or so I'm called upon to prove it.” He paused. “Most of them never pull a weapon out of a holster except to kill someone—or to try to. Their reflexes get rusty. The sights on their weapons fall out of sync. The power levels on their pistols get low. Me, I work with targets at least an hour a day, and my weapons are always in prime condition. It's the difference between the amateur and the professional."

"Very impressive,” said Nighthawk.

"How are
your
weapons?” asked the Marquis.

Nighthawk, who was facing the Marquis, spun and drew his weapons and fired them, all on one fluid motion. The gun in his right hand put a bullet through the left eye of a holographic Navy man who was peeking up over a protective barrier, and an instant later the pistol in his left hand burned a hole in the Navy man's chest with a beam of light.

"They seem okay,” he said, replacing each weapon in its holster.

"Even more impressive,” said the Marquis. “Though somehow I knew that of all the men on Klondike, you were the one most likely to keep his weaponry in perfect working order. And of course, the Widowmaker could probably hit his targets at 50 meters even if he were blindfolded."

"You didn't ask me down here to watch me shoot,” said Nighthawk. “And I didn't come to watch
you
shoot. So what's up?"

"They didn't teach you any small talk back on Deluros, did they?” asked the Marquis with a smile.

"No."

"All right. I sent for you because we have some business to discuss."

Here it comes. He's going to mention the Pearl of Maracaibo, and demand that I never touch her again, and I'm going to have to kill him.

"Ever hear of Father Christmas?"

"You mean like in the kid's nursery story?” asked Nighthawk.

"You should be so lucky,” replied the Marquis with a laugh. “No, this Father Christmas works the Frontier. Or, rather, he used to, until he got ambitious. He just pulled off a job in the Oligarchy, and now he's headed back here with maybe a dozen police ships on his tail."

"Why is he called Father Christmas?” asked Nighthawk.

"Out here you choose your name,” replied the Marquis. “Or sometimes it chooses you. At any rate, he only steals from churches."

"Is there a living in it?"

"Well, if he only went after priests and poorboxes, no. But there's a lot of gold and artwork in some of the churches. Not too many of them are out here on the Frontier, which is why he went into the Oligarchy looking for a big score."

"Sounds like he got it."

The Marquis nodded. “Yeah. I gather he stole about 500 pounds of gold from a church on Darbar II, as well as a couple of religious paintings by Morita."

"Morita? I never heard of him."

"I suppose there was a limit to what they could teach you in two months,” said the Marquis. “Morita was the finest artist of the late Democracy period. His paintings go for millions, and last time I looked, gold was going for seventeen hundred credits an ounce. Which means Father Christmas has what used to be called a king's ransom in his ship's cargo hold. His problem, as I mentioned, is that he's also got a bunch of police ships on his tail."

"What sort of lead does he have?"

"Oh, maybe seven hours, maybe eight."

"He'll lose them. Seven hours is forever at light speeds."

"He's riding a Model 341 Golden Streak."

Nighthawk looked blank.

"High speed, limited range,” continued the Marquis. “He's good for maybe six more hours, but then he's going to have to stop to refuel."

"I assume all this has something to do with me?"

"It does,” said the Marquis. “My computer has projected the possible worlds where he can freshen his atomic pile. There are only four. Two of them are military outposts, and he's too smart to stop there. The third is at war with a neighboring system, and no matter what assurances they give him, there's a fair to middling chance that he'll get blown out of the sky by one side or the other."

"Let me guess. Tundra is the fourth."

"No—but I run the fourth world. It's a little planet called Aladdin. I want you there immediately."

"And once I'm there?"

"My guess is that's where Father Christmas will put down. I want you to meet with him."

"Okay, I meet with him. What do I say?"

"You transmit my personal greetings and felicitations to him, and tell him, gently but firmly, that the price of fuel and safe passage has gone up."

"How high?"

"
Very
high,” said the Marquis. “I want fifty percent of his haul."

"And if he says no?"

"Do whatever you have to do,” said the Marquis with a shrug. “Just make sure that when he leaves, half of what he stole remains behind."

"How many men has he got?"

"A 341 Streak can only hold a crew of four, so the most he'll have with him will be three men."

Nighthawk nodded. “Is there anything else I should know about Father Christmas?"

"You already know it: He's carrying cargo we want."

"You know what I mean,” continued Nighthawk. “Has he any special talents or powers?"

"Not unless you believe that he and Jesus are in cahoots,” answered the Marquis. “There are some people who believe exactly that, you know."

"Any reason why?"

"He blundered into a trap where all his men were killed and he got out unscathed. And another time the police found his hideout, back on Roosevelt III, and blew it to smithereens. He was down the block at a bar at the time. Heard the noise, stole a ship, and never looked back."

"You want me to take anyone with me?"

"You're the Widowmaker,” replied the Marquis. “If I thought you needed anyone before, your last assignment proved just what you can do on your own."

"What do you
have
all these gunmen for if you won't use them?” asked Nighthawk.

"Oh, I use them when I need them. But you don't really hope to convince me at this late date that you need any help against just four men."

"You're a real sweet guy to work for,” said Nighthawk caustically.

"Melisande thinks so."

Nighthawk took one look at the Marquis’ smirking grin and knew that she had told him about the night they'd spent together.

"Every once in a while she has to go slumming, just to remind herself why she hooked up with me in the first place,” continued the Marquis. “I don't blame her, since it reminds her why she stays with me. The problem,” he added, “is that sometimes the man involved doesn't understand what's going on. He gets it into his head that she actually cares for him, and then he makes a nuisance of himself, and then, unhappily, I have to dispose of him.” He pulled his gun out of his holster, flipped it in the air, caught it in his other hand, and pulled the trigger. There was a deafening
BANG!
and the Electric Monitor scored another bulls-eye.