The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (26 page)

Father Christmas looked at the four bodies on the floor. “You sure as hell didn't give that first one much of a chance,” he said.

"He was a killer with a price on his head."

"He was a man."

"He was an obstacle,” said Nighthawk. “He stood between me and Melisande. I plan to handle any other obstacle the very same way."

And as he looked into the young man's eyes, Father Christmas realized that he meant every word of it.

[Back to Table of Contents]

They picked up the reward money the next morning—fifteen thousand credits for the first one Nighthawk killed, ten apiece for the other three. Father Christmas immediately converted the credits into Maria Theresa dollars and Far London pounds. He then explained to Nighthawk that once they got back to the Frontier, where people had very little faith in the Oligarchy's longevity and even less in its currency, the other currencies would be worth much more. Nighthawk, who had seen all kinds of currency on Tundra and the other Frontier worlds, had no objection.

Then, their financial transactions completed, they went down the main street until they came to the forger's place of business, an apartment above a weapons shop. There was no airlift, not even an elevator, simply a set of stairs leading up to the second floor. The door was plain, made of wood, with no name or number in evidence. Still, as they approached it, it scanned them briefly, then opened long enough to let them through to the foyer.

A small, wiry woman, her auburn hair turning grey and in need of brushing, stood in the living room of the apartment, staring at them.

"Did you bring the money?"

"Yeah, we've got it,” said Father Christmas.

"You know better than to bring credits,” she said, anticipating him. “We'll use the exchange rates on Sirius V as of 9:00 this morning, Standard time.” She paused and stared at him, as if expecting an objection.

"Fine by me."

She walked over to Nighthawk and studied his face. “So this is your young friend."

"Any problem?” asked Father Christmas.

"Not if you have the money."

"Here it is,” he said, pulling a wad out of his pocket.

"Just lay it on the table,” she said, walking over to a desk, unlocking one of the drawers, and reaching into it. She withdrew a large envelope, which she brought over to the two men.

"Now this,” she said, withdrawing a small cube and handing it to Father Christmas, “is your passport. You are Jacob Kleinschmidt, a platinum miner from Alpha Bednares IV."

Father Christmas studied the cube for a moment. “Shouldn't this be round and flat?"

"They've changed them in the Altair sector, and that's where you're coming from.” She reached into the envelope and pulled out more items, none of them more than an inch square, most made of titanium. “Your birth certificate. Your employment record. Your most recent tax form. Your health certificate. Three blank visas, good for most of the worlds within the Oligarchy."

She turned to Nighthawk. “Have you ever been to the Deneb system?"

"No, ma'am. I come from—"

"I don't want to know where you come from,” she interrupted. “And if you're using your real name, I don't want to know that either.” She paused. “You know,” she added, studying his face, “you don't have to be from Deneb after all. You're young enough to be on a field trip from Aristotle."

"Aristotle, ma'am?” he repeated.

"A university world. I understand that you wish to approach the Chief of Security of one of the Frontier worlds."

"Yeah. He's—"

"I don't want to know who or where he is. Just his job.” She paused thoughtfully. “You can't study security—they don't give degrees in it—let's see, yes, I think we'll make you a student of ciphers. That at least is associated with security, and should validate any request you have to speak to your prey."

"Will you need a holograph of me, ma'am?” asked Nighthawk.

"I took it when you were waiting for the door to open,” she replied. “Your passport is being processed right now."

"Fine."

"It'll just take a moment."

She left the room.

"Has she got a name?” asked Nighthawk. “I feel awkward calling her ma'am all the time."

"I'm sure she does,” replied Father Christmas. “But she's never felt compelled to reveal it to me."

"It doesn't make sense,” said Nighthawk. “If you're caught, and they want to know where you got your papers, you can give them her address as easily as her name."

"There are no addresses on this street, in case you haven't noticed. And this building is identical to the next three or four. With no name for the police to ask after, by the time they get to this apartment, she's seen them coming for at least half an hour and has managed to hide anything incriminating."

"For a whole hour, actually,” said the woman, returning to the room. She walked over to Nighthawk and handed him his envelope. “Everything is here. You are Vincent Landis, a student from Aristotle, majoring in ciphers with a minor in communications. You are 21 years old, and you come from Silverblue, out on the Rim. Your parents are farmers."

"Got it,” said Nighthawk. He turned to Father Christmas. “Are we done here?"

The older man laughed. “Not by a long shot.” He turned to the woman. “Have you got what we discussed last night?"

"The pistol?” she said. “Yes. But as I told you, it will be expensive."

"Makes no difference,” said Father Christmas. “He'll never get past customs or any of the security checkpoints with what he's carrying now."

"What are you talking about?” demanded Nighthawk. “I'm happy with the weapons I have."

"I'm sure you are,” answered Father Christmas. “But they've got to go."

Nighthawk was visibly upset. “But they're the ones I was trained with!” he protested.

"Son, you try to get anywhere near the Colonel with them,” said the older man, scrupulously avoiding mentioning Hernandez by name, “and you'll set off every alarm on the planet."

"What kind of gun have
you
got for me?” asked Nighthawk unhappily.

"May we see it, please?” asked Father Christmas.

The woman walked to the desk, unlocked another drawer, and handed him a small carrying case.

Father Christmas opened the box.

"Lovely,” he said, looking at the small pistol. “Just lovely!"

"It looks like one of
my
guns,” said Nighthawk. “What's so special about it?"

"It's made of molecularly altered ceramics,” explained the woman. “Trust me: it can pass through any security device yet created."

"Looking like
that
?” said Nighthawk sarcastically.

"Of course not.” She quickly, expertly broke the pistol down into four pieces. “This part, with the trigger, will pass for your belt buckle,” she explained, demonstrating for him. “These two pieces will act as orthodic inserts in your boots. And I've tampered with the molecular structure of this final piece: just touch a match to it and it expands and loses its physical integrity. You can use it as a hatband or belt or anything else you can think of. Then, when you're ready to assemble the pistol, just touch it to a cold metal surface and it will instantly revert to this shape."

"I don't see any bullets,” said Nighthawk.

She smiled. “That's the beauty of it. Even if they suspect what it is, even if they confiscate it, they'll never find the ammunition, and eventually they'll have to return it to you and let you go."

"So where is it?"

"In your pocket."

"My pocket?” he repeated.

"It shoots coins,” she said. “I have this one configured to shoot gold Maria Theresa dollars."

"Well, I'll be damned!” said Nighthawk.

"Nice idea,” said Father Christmas. “Could get expensive in wartime, though."

She ignored the older man's attempt at humor. “I think you'd better practice with it before you use it,” she said. “It's not balanced like a normal handgun. At more than thirty yards, you'll have to adjust for a tendency is to shoot low—about an inch per yard."

"I won't be that far away."

"All right. Our business is done.” She escorted them to the door. “Your face is familiar,” she said to Nighthawk as he stood in the doorway, “yet I'm sure we've never met before."

"You don't want me to tell you why,” he said.

"No, I don't."

"I'll let you know when I've succeeded."

"I'd rather you didn't,” she said. “It would only remind me of all my clients who didn't succeed."

"How do you know there are that many?” asked Nighthawk.

"An identity is an ephemeral thing,” she replied. “The successful ones come back for more."

The door opened.

"Go,” said the woman. “And good luck to you."

"What about me?” asked Father Christmas with a smile.

"You don't need any luck, old man,” she said. “You'll never be half the man your young friend is, but you're a survivor. I
know
I'll see you again."

Then they were walking down the stairs and heading for the ship. Father Christmas was basking in the glow of being called a survivor, while Nighthawk was too busy planning his approach to Solio to wonder why he had not been considered one as well.

[Back to Table of Contents]

They were two hours out of Purplecloud and headed for the Inner Frontier when his lawyer on Deluros VIII finally tracked him down.

"This is Marcus Dinnisen of Hubbs, Wilkinson, Raith and Jiminez, trying to contact Jefferson Nighthawk."

Nighthawk ignored the signal.

"Please come in."

"You're gonna have to talk to him sooner or later,” said Father Christmas.

"Damn it, I know you're on that ship, Jefferson!” said Dinnisen angrily. “Please respond. I'm not going to break contact until you do."

"All right,” said Nighthawk after another lengthy pause. “How did you find me and what do you want?"

"Finding you was easy,” said Dinnisen. “You put in a claim for forty-five thousand credits."

"You learned about it awfully fast."

"We're a very powerful law firm,” replied Dinnisen. “We have connections all over the Oligarchy."

"All right, so you know I did some bounty hunting,” said Nighthawk. “So what?"

"So what?” repeated Dinnisen, surprised. “So what the hell are you doing on Purplecloud?"

"Killing bad guys, just like you and Kinoshita told me to do."

"Damn it, Jefferson—you were sent to Solio II to accomplish a specific mission. If it's not done, I want you to go back there immediately. If it
is
done, then we want you to come back to Deluros VIII."

"What you want doesn't matter to me,” replied Nighthawk easily.

"What the hell are you talking about?” yelled Dinnisen.

"You heard me. I have business to take care of. Leave me alone."

"The only business you have is working for the team that created you!"

"You're welcome to think so,” said Nighthawk.

"Look,” said Dinnisen placatingly. “Let's stop before we say things we'll both regret. Why don't you come to Deluros and we'll talk it over?"

"Not a chance,” said Nighthawk.

"I think it would be best, Jefferson,” continued Dinnisen in persuasive tones.

"Yeah? Well, I think it would be suicide."

"What are you talking about?"

"The second you get your hands on me, you'll toss me back into a vat of protoplasm."

"Don't be melodramatic, Jefferson,” said Dinnisen, trying to control his temper. “We don't have vats of protoplasm, as you well know. We just want to
talk
."

"Anything you've got to say, you can say right now."

"We're not the enemy, Jefferson,” continued Dinnisen. “We
created
you. You're like family to us."

"That's funny,” said Nighthawk. “You don't feel like family to
me
."

"You're being difficult, Jefferson,” said Dinnisen. “You've changed since I last saw you. What's happened, son?"

"I'm not your son, and the galaxy is what happened to me. I've been out here, and I'm not going back."

"No one wants you to stay on Deluros VIII,” said Dinnisen. “I'll be perfectly frank with you: you represent an enormous investment in time, money and technology. Since you're alive, it means you've been able to interact with the scum that live out there on the Frontier and survive. We'll have many lucrative assignments for you."

"Most of the scum I've interacted with would look down their noses at a lawyer,” said Nighthawk. “Any lawyer. But especially you."

"Why are you being like this? We just want to examine you and make sure you're holding up all right. One day and out. Is that so much to ask?"

"I have work to do."

"Our work?"

"
My
work."

"You don't
have
any work!” exploded Dinnisen. “You're less than six months old, for God's sake!"

"Wrong,” said Nighthawk coldly. “I'm the Widowmaker, and I was an old man when your great-grandfather was less than six months old."

He terminated the communication.

"Well?” he asked, turning to Father Christmas.

"Does it bother you when I call you ‘son'?” asked the older man.

"No. But it bothers me when
he
does.” He paused and suddenly grinned. “Hell, it bothers me when he calls me Jefferson."

"Well, I hope you enjoyed your conversation with him, because it's going to cost you."

"Money?"

"Everything
but
money,” responded Father Christmas. “Five'll get you ten he's already contacting Hernandez to warn him that you're off the reservation."

"Why?"

"Because he and his people have created the perfect killing machine, and suddenly you've got your own agenda. They don't know what it is, but they're going to warn the guy who commissioned you.” Father Christmas smiled suddenly. “And you can bet your ass
he'll
know what your agenda is."

"I hope so,” said Nighthawk. “He's responsible for it all: Trelaine, me, the Marquis, Melisande, Malloy, everything. I want to look into his eyes when I kill him."

"He's awfully well protected,” noted Father Christmas. “It may be a very short look."