The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (25 page)

"Nobody says you have to come along,” said Nighthawk. “I can set you down on the first inhabited world we come to."

"How do I know it'll have a church?” said Father Christmas. “You need a keeper, son. That's me."

"Then you're coming with me?"

"When we're ready."

"I'm ready now,” said Nighthawk.

"The hell you are,” said Father Christmas. “The second Hernandez speaks to the Pearl of Maracaibo—and he doesn't have to wait for her to land on Solio to do that—he's going to know you killed the Marquis, and that you're probably coming after the girl. First thing he'll do is put a price on your head."

"But I killed the man he wanted dead."

"Yeah—but now that the Marquis is dead, and there's no proof linking him to Trelaine's assassination, the easiest way to save however many millions of credits he owes to your people on Deluros VIII is to kill you before you can explain
why
you think the Marquis was the hit man, or was at least connected to the crime. He'll have posters transmitted to every Frontier world, and if his people don't kill you, the bounty hunters will. Hell, once he tells your people on Deluros that their illegal clone is off the reservation and killing people on his own, they'll probably double the reward."

"So what do you suggest?"

"A little subtlety, a little misdirection,” answered the older man. “Remember I told you about phony passports and ID's? That's what we need now. He's looking for you to sneak onto his world, to land where no one's around to challenge you and then come after him under cover of night. I think you'll do better walking boldly right in the front door. You don't identify yourself until you're behind 99% of his defenses."

"How long will this take?” asked Nighthawk, seriously considering the suggestion.

"It all depends,” said Father Christmas. “How far are we from Purplecloud, Terrazane, or Antarres III?"

"I have no idea,” replied Nighthawk.

"Neither do I. That's what we have a navigational computer for."

A moment later the ship informed them that the closest of the three worlds, Purplecloud, could be reached in seventeen hours.

"Lay in a course for Purplecloud,” said the older man, ordering another beer.

"That's where one of your forgers lives?"

"One of my equipment managers,” Father Christmas corrected him with a smile.

"Equipment?"

"You'll see,” Father Christmas assured him.

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Purplecloud wasn't all that impressive a world, despite the fact that it lay firmly within the boundaries of the Oligarchy. It had been opened as an agricultural world early in Man's galactic expansion, supplying food to fifteen nearby mining worlds. But the soil wasn't very rich in nutrients, and other worlds with far better farmland were soon opened up.

So Purplecloud was deserted and forgotten for close to two millennia. Then gold was discovered in one of its mountain ranges. There wasn't all that much of it, and the veins were soon played out, but not before half a dozen Tradertowns were built. Two of them still existed, one serving the employees of the huge corporations that had taken over the abandoned farmland and were now growing hardy hybrid crops, the other acting as a refueling stop on the way to the Inner Frontier.

Nighthawk set his ship down near Tomahawk, the second of Purplecloud's Tradertowns. He and Father Christmas emerged, passed a row of advertising and wanted holographs, and caught an airbus into town.

"I know this place,” said Father Christmas, as they came to a small restaurant. “Great food."

"Good,” said Nighthawk, following him inside. “I was getting sick of the ship's menu."

The older man found a table that suited him and sat down. “It was a fine menu. Problem was that everything was made with soya products. You can get real meat here—a kind of mutated buffalo they farm a few hundred miles to the west. You ought to see those suckers: blood red, and maybe six thousand pounds apiece. They make great eating."

"What are they called?” asked Nighthawk.

"Redbison,” answered Father Christmas. “Get yourself a tenderloin. Fabulous piece of meat."

They ordered, and as they were waiting for their meals to arrive, Nighthawk turned to Father Christmas.

"Where's your contact from here?"

"Just up the street."

"You're sure he's still here?"

"I'm sure, and he's a she."

"How did you ever find her on a little backwater world like this?” asked Nighthawk.

"I ran into some associates with better-forged papers than my own, and asked them where they got the work done."

"I wouldn't have thought they'd reveal a source like that."

"I had a partner at the time. Young feller, a lot like you.” Father Christmas grinned. “The survivor was more than happy to share his information with me."

"Yeah, I can see where he might have been,” said Nighthawk, as the food arrived at the table. He cut off a small piece of meat, chewed it thoughtfully, and nodded his approval.

"Anyway,” continued Father Christmas, “I came here, introduced myself by returning the dead men's papers to her, and suggested that since I had cost her some clients, it seemed only fair that I take their place. We did a little negotiating, and that's all there was to it."

"If she's so good, why do you also have forgers on Terrazane and Antarres III?"

"Great steak—as good as I remember it,” said Father Christmas, cutting into his meal. Finally he got around to answering Nighthawk's question: “You never know when you'll blow a particular identity, or need a new one in a hurry—and you can't go racing halfway across the galaxy when you need new papers. There probably aren't more than a dozen top-notchers in the whole damned galaxy."

"You'd think there'd be more of them,” commented Nighthawk.

"There were."

"What happened to them?"

"People like you happened to them,” said Father Christmas. “This is, shall we say, a highly-competitive business. A man of your talents could make a handsome living hiring out as an assassin to one forger after another. In fact, a lot of men of your particular talents have done just that."

"Well,” said the older man when they were through with the meal, “was it as good as I said?"

"Better,” answered Nighthawk, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I'm going to have to stop here whenever I come to this part of the Oligarchy."

"Tell you what,” said Father Christmas. “Before we leave, we'll buy a couple of dozen frozen Redbison steaks and put ‘em in the galley."

"Sounds good to me,” agreed Nighthawk.

"Let me pay for this,” said the older man, pressing his thumb against a sensor. “You don't have any accounts in the Oligarchy, and it'll take forever for a Frontier account to clear."

The computer took less than twenty seconds to verify his thumbprint and match it with his bank account on a nearby world.

"What now?” asked Nighthawk, as they stood up and walked to the door.

"Now I visit my supplier and haggle out a price for everything we need,” said Father Christmas. “It's probably best if you don't come along. If she doesn't know you, she might not let either of us in."

"No problem,” said Nighthawk. He looked around as they left the restaurant. “I'll be at that bar across street."

"Fine,” said Father Christmas. “I'll meet you in about twenty minutes."

Nighthawk nodded and walked slowly to the tavern. It was dimly lit inside, and housed an equal number of Men and aliens. He entered, looked around for an empty table, spotted one, and walked over to it.

He sat down, lit a small, thin cigar, and surveyed his surroundings. Though well within the Oligarchy, the place was primitive even by Frontier standards. The furniture was made of a native hardwood, and didn't float, or adjust to fit his form, or indeed do anything but sit there. The lighting, though poor, was direct; the lights didn't move, raise, lower, or adjust their intensity to accommodate his pupils; all they did was cast a dim illumination throughout the place. The bar was also made of a poorly-finished hardwood; it neither sparkled, glittered, nor shone. It also didn't house a complex computer. A small three-legged alien, a native of Moleroi II, walked from table to table, taking orders and dispensing drinks, while a human bartender, a bored expression plastered permanently on his face, mixed the drinks and manned the cash drawer.

The little Mole approached Nighthawk and spoke into its translating device.

"How may I help you, sir?"

"Bring me a Dust Whore."

"I would love to oblige you, sir,” responded the Mole, “but this is a tavern, not a brothel. I regret that I cannot bring you any kind of prostitute."

"That's the name of a drink."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

"I have never heard of it."

"I'll bet we could fill a book with things you've never heard of,” said Nighthawk. “Just tell the bartender what I want. He'll know."

"Have you a second choice, in case he too has never heard of a Dust Whore?"

"Just do what I told you to do."

The Mole bowed and waddled off to the bar, where the bartender nodded and began mixing up Nighthawk's Dust Whore. When he was through he handed it to the Mole, who dutifully carried it back to Nighthawk.

"He has heard of it, sir."

"Why am I not surprised?” said Nighthawk sardonically.

"I have no idea why you are not surprised,” answered the Mole, “but if I were to hazard a guess, it would be that this drink is popular among Men."

Nighthawk stared at the Mole without responding, and finally it began to feel uncomfortable and waddled over to another table to serve some Lodinites.

Nighthawk sipped his drink, and had just decided that the bartender may have heard of a Dust Whore somewhere but had never actually made one before, when Father Christmas entered, spotted Nighthawk, and walked over to join him.

"She's still in business?” asked Nighthawk.

"I told you she was,” said Father Christmas, sitting down wearily.

"Well?"

"She can supply everything we need."

"How soon?"

"Tomorrow, if we want it that soon."

"We do."

"There's just one little problem,” said Father Christmas. “Nothing we can't take care of before the night's over, or certainly by tomorrow,” he added hastily.

"What is it?"

"She's got a computer expert handling her financial transactions,” said the older man, “and this young man says that the police have put a Watch-And-Track on all my Oligarchy bank accounts."

"What does that mean?"

"It means any time I transfer funds, an alarm will go off in some computer somewhere, and they'll follow the money to find out who I paid."

"Well, hell, they already know you're here on Purplecloud,” said Nighthawk. “You charged dinner, remember?"

"I know."

"So what's the problem?"

"Well, if all they find is that I charged dinner and some uranium rods for the ship's pile, there's nothing to lead them to my friend, who definitely doesn't care to have the government looking into her business."

"All right,” said Nighthawk. “You said we could get around the problem. How do we do it?"

"The answer should be obvious,” said Father Christmas with a smile. “We go out and rob a couple of churches."

"I don't rob churches."

"You can make an exception this one time,” said Father Christmas. “We need some untraceable money."

"We wouldn't need a thing if you hadn't let Melisande go,” said Nighthawk.

"No use dwelling on the past, son."

"The past?” exploded Nighthawk. “That was yesterday, for Christ's sake!” He glared at the older man. “You couldn't have slept through all that clamor. If you couldn't stop her yourself, why didn't you wake me?"

"Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said Father Christmas. “That girl was going to get you killed."

"That girl is the reason we're here, trying to get new identities."

"Well, we're not getting anything until we rob a church,” said the older man sullenly.

"And what happens if I agree to rob it?” demanded Nighthawk. “Will your forger accept payment in candlesticks?"

"Certainly not. We'll have to go to a fence first."

"The woman I love is racing for Solio, and you want me to go out robbing churches and visiting fences?” said Nighthawk angrily.

"You know a faster way?” said Father Christmas pugnaciously.

"You bet your ass I do!” snapped Nighthawk.

He pulled his gun out of its holster, aimed it at a man who was huddled with three friends at the bar, and shot him in the back of the head. Before the body had hit the ground every patron had ducked for cover.

"Have you gone crazy?” yelled Father Christmas.

"There's a reward for that man, dead or alive,” answered Nighthawk. “I saw his face on a poster at the spaceport."

He stood up and faced the dead man's three companions.

"There's paper on all of you,” he announced. “But I'm not interested in you. Your friend will bring me all the money I need. If you want to live, drop your weapons and walk out of here."

"Who the hell
are
you?” demanded one of the men.

"I'm the man who's offering you your lives."

"Yeah? Well, here's what I think of your offer!"

The man reached for his pistol. Nighthawk put a bullet between his eyes, then crouched and whirled to face the other two. Both had gone for their weapons. Nighthawk took out the man who actually had his hand on his gun, then waited for the other to take one wild shot and blew him away.

"Stupid!” muttered Nighthawk. “They should have listened to me!"

"You think
they're
stupid?” said Father Christmas disgustedly. “How about the man who killed them for nothing?"

"What do you mean, nothing?” demanded Nighthawk. “The four of them are worth close to fifty thousand credits."

"And the second you collect it, your people on Deluros will know where you are."

"Who gives a damn?” shot back Nighthawk. “We're not waiting around to meet them. The second I collect it, we visit your forger and then we're out of here."