The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (8 page)

"You're not going to be too proud to let me pay, are you?” demanded Marquis.

"I like it when other people pay,” said Nighthawk.

"Good,” said the Marquis. “We're going to get along fine."

"We've made a pretty good start, haven't we?"

The Marquis threw back his head and guffawed. “You've got a fine sense of humor, Jefferson Nighthawk!” Suddenly he hurled the beer mug at Nighthawk's head. It split his forehead open and careened off.

Nighthawk almost dropped to his knees, but managed to hang onto the bar with one hand. He saw a kick coming, and just managed to grab a floating barstool to protect himself. The Marquis bellowed in rage as the stool upset his balance; the huge man's head bounced off the bar, and his knees were suddenly wobbly.

Nighthawk wiped away the blood that was pouring down into his eyes and cautiously closed in for the kill. He landed a left, two rights, and a chop to the shoulder that deadened the Marquis’ arm. He was so intent on putting the Marquis away that he didn't see the huge thumb coming for his ear until it was too late. A million bells chimed inside his head, and suddenly he had difficulty keeping his balance.

He sensed that the Marquis was coming toward him, but all he could do was spin crazily to his left, extend his arms, and hope for the best. He felt the edge of his hand chop across the Marquis’ neck, and then he was grabbing the bar again, trying desperately to stay on his feet.

He waited for the Marquis’ final charge, wondered what form it would take, wondered if he would even be able to see it coming ... but for a moment nothing happened.

Then the Marquis laughed again. “By God, Jefferson Nighthawk, I do believe you're as tough as you think you are!"

Suddenly Nighthawk felt a powerful arm supporting him.

"We'll have another drink, and then we'll go to my office and talk business.” The Marquis paused and looked out at the crowd. “From this minute forward, this man works for me and speaks for me. An insult to him is an insult to me, and if anyone cheats him in any way, they've cheated me. Is that clear?"

The crowd reaction—total silence, and a number of bitter glances—told him that it may not have been popular, but it
was
clear.

"What about my friend?” asked Nighthawk, indicating Lizard Malloy.

"I'm feeling generous today,” answered the Marquis. He turned to Malloy. “Listen to me, you little swindler: you return my money before you leave the casino, and maybe I'll let you live. You take one step outside before I get what's mine, you're dead meat. Do you understand?"

"What's this ‘maybe’ shit?” demanded Malloy. “If I give you your money, I get to walk."

The Marquis turned to a burly bearded man. “Kill him."

"Wait a minute!” shrilled Malloy. “Wait a minute. It's a deal!"

The man aimed his weapon at Malloy and looked at the Marquis.

"You're sure it's a deal?” asked the Marquis. “I mean, I do admire bravery in a man."

"It's a deal,” repeated Malloy, deflated.

The Marquis nodded, and the gunman put his weapon away.

"And now, my friend,” said the Marquis, turning to Nighthawk, “let's go enjoy the comfort and privacy of my office."

"If your furniture's any good, maybe we'd better stop bleeding first,” suggested Nighthawk.

"Good idea,” said the Marquis. He pulled a banknote out of his pocket and slapped it on the bar. “Fifty credits says I stop before you do."

Nighthawk matched the bet. “You're on."

The Marquis grinned again. “Jefferson, my boy, I have the feeling that this is the beginning of a beautiful working relationship."

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Marquis of Queensbury's office reflected its owner's tastes. The furniture was rugged, built for large, muscular men. The bar was well-stocked. There was a glass-enclosed room filled with boxes of cigars from all over the galaxy. Music—
human
music—was piped in. A reinforced window offered a view of Klondike. Paintings and holographs of human and alien nudes, far more provocative than those in the bar, hung on the walls or floated just in front of them. A trio of display cases held jeweled alien artifacts.

As they sat down, the huge man looked intently at Nighthawk for a long moment, trying to see past the blood and the swellings.

"You're a clone, aren't you?” he asked at last.

"Yes."

"I
thought
so!"

"It was the name, right?"

The Marquis shook his head. “No. Out here people change names like they change clothes. There are probably a dozen Jefferson Nighthawks on the Frontier."

"Then...?"

"There are other ways of telling. For one thing, I've seen holos of the Widowmaker.” He paused. “I've never seen a clone before. I find that more interesting than whose clone you happen to be."

"Oh?"

"Yes. For example, how old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"Not physically, but actually?"

Nighthawk sighed. “Three months."

The Marquis grinned. “I
thought
so!” He continued to stare at Nighthawk. “What's it like to have no past, no memories?"

"I have them,” answered Nighthawk. “They're just not my own."

"Whose are they?"

Nighthawk shrugged. “I've no idea."

"Who trained you? The original?"

"No, he's dying from some disease he picked up more than a century ago. He was in his forties when he contracted it, and he was 62 when it finally disabled him."

"Frozen?"

Nighthawk nodded. “On Deluros VIII."

"Let me see if I can put it together,” said the Marquis. “Someone had a job for the Widowmaker. Somehow they knew he was alive, but when they tried to find him, they discovered that he was frozen. Probably they knew it up front, since he'd be well over a century old. But old or not, he was supposed to be the best, and they wanted him anyway—so they bribed every well-placed official they needed in exchange for a clone."

"That's about it."

"Oh, no, there's more,” continued the Marquis. “Why are you here, at this place, at this time? Well, it could be that you're after one of my men—but the message you sent was for me, not for them. So why are you after me? What crime have I committed that's so important they cloned the Widowmaker?"

"You're doing pretty well so far. What's the answer?"

"Easy. You're obviously here to hunt down Winslow Trelaine's killer."

"That's right."

"Well, I didn't kill him,” said the Marquis. “Hell, I liked him. He left me alone, I left him alone. We had an understanding."

"An understanding?"

"He and Hernandez let me plunder the planet six ways to Sunday in exchange for a few favors."

"But you know who
did
kill him—and who paid for it?"

"It's possible,” said the Marquis easily. “I know a lot of things."

"So why not tell me?"

The Marquis chuckled. “If I told you other people's secrets, you'd never trust me with your own."

"I don't plan to, anyway.” Nighthawk paused. “So what happens now?"

"What happens?” repeated the Marquis, leaning back on his chair, which floated gently just above the floor. “Back in the casino you offered to come to work for me, remember? We're negotiating your contract right now. I don't give a damn what brought you here. I need a good lieutenant; there's none better than the Widowmaker."

"I'm not the Widowmaker. I'm
me
."

"Same thing."

"It's not,” protested Nighthawk. “He's not even a man any more. His skin is covered with a hideous disease, and he's more than a hundred years old. He's a
thing
that used to be Jefferson Nighthawk."

"And you're a laboratory creation, three months out of the test tube,” said the Marquis. “So what? I prefer to think of you both as men."

Nighthawk grimaced. Thoughts about his own relationship to humanity made him uncomfortable.

The Marquis lit up a thin cigar imported from distant Antarres III. An ashtray sensed the smoke and floated over to hover just beside his hand.

"Care for one?” he asked, offering a cigar to Nighthawk.

"I don't know. I can't remember."

"Try one. It's the only way to find out."

Nighthawk agreed, accepted a cigar, and lit up. He decided he would have to try a few more before he knew if he liked them.

"Anyway,” continued the Marquis, “what the hell do you owe those people back on Deluros? If they didn't want something, you wouldn't be here. You're not legal anyway; it's a felony to clone a human, so they broke a bunch of laws just to make you. You catch their man for them, they'll probably hire you out again or turn you into a vat of protoplasm; either way you haven't got much of a future to look forward to."

"What kind of future are
you
offering me?” asked Nighthawk.

"The very best,” answered the Marquis with a smile. “Skip being a man altogether. Go right from test tube to kingship! I control eleven worlds already; by the time I'm through, I'll have an empire of 25 worlds, maybe 30. You'll be my major domo. You want a couple of worlds of your own, just prove your worth to me and they're yours."

"I thought the Oligarchy didn't look too kindly on upstart emperors,” remarked Nighthawk wryly. “Even when the total populations of their empires don't equal the population of Solio II."

"We're doing them a favor,” answered the Marquis firmly. “No matter how vast the military becomes, the galaxy's always going to be too big for us to gobble up whole. So out here on the Frontier, enterprising men assimilate it piecemeal. In the long run, what difference does it make to history whether the Oligarchs control these planets or I do? They're controlled by the race of Man, and that's what really matters."

"That's as eloquent a justification for pillage, plunder and wholesale slaughter as I've heard,” said Nighthawk.

"I thought so,” agreed the Marquis, still smiling. “You don't like that explanation? Then try this one: you'll have more power than you ever dreamed of."

"I don't know,” said Nighthawk. “I have pretty big dreams. I might even want something
you
have."

The smile vanished and the Marquis stared coldly at him. “You try to take anything that's mine and you're the sixty-fifth footnote to my biography, just a slab of dead meat waiting to be carted away.” He paused. “On the other hand, do what I tell you to do, and do it well, and you'll find that everything's negotiable."

"Including the Pearl of Maracaibo?"

"
Almost
everything,” amended the Marquis. “She's private property, Widowmaker. Don't even think of it."

"I told you: I'm
not
the Widowmaker. And she's free to make her own choice."

"Nonsense. No one's ever free. You belong to your masters on Deluros—and when you leave them, you'll belong to me."

"And who do you belong to?” asked Nighthawk.

"I owe bits and pieces of me all across the Frontier."

"I thought you were in the business of killing and robbing people, not owning them."

"Would you rather I killed and robbed you?” asked the Marquis with an amused laugh. “I can, you know."

"Maybe."

"I thought I just proved it out in the casino."

"You're as good as you're going to get,” responded Nighthawk seriously. “I'm still learning."

"A telling point. Let's hope we never have to find out how much you've learned."

Nighthawk got to his feet.

"You leaving?” asked the Marquis.

"Just looking around at the spoils of conquest,” replied the younger man, studying the alien artifacts in the display cases.

"I haven't got an eye for art,” said the Marquis. “I just pick up what appeals to me. The rest gets sold to collectors on the black market."

"How did you get started?” asked Nighthawk. “Were you a thief? Or a killer?"

"Me?” said the Marquis. “I was a detective."

"You're kidding!"

"Not at all. About fifteen years ago I tracked down a suspect out here on the Frontier. Jewel thief. He was sitting on a pair of diamonds as big as your eyes. I tried to take him alive, but he put up a fight and I had to kill him. Well, the more I got to thinking about taking those diamonds back and turning them over to my superiors, who I knew were corrupt enough to pocket the diamonds and kill my report, the more it seemed like an exercise in futility."

"And they were worth a fortune."

"And they were worth a fortune,” agreed the Marquis. “So they vanished, and I vanished with ‘em. I took a new name, got into some trouble, shot my way out of it, and then I became the Marquis of Queensbury."

"What's a Marquis?” asked Nighthawk.

"Damned if I know, but some guy called the Marquis of Queensbury created the rules for karate, or maybe it was judo. Anyway, on my world I create the rules, so it seemed an appropriate name.” He paused for a moment as images of the past flashed through his mind. “After a couple of years I realized that a competent motivated man could become a hell of a lot more than a successful thief out here. He could, in fact, become an emperor. I started with Tundra and Yukon—it's not hard to take over a couple of worlds that haven't got two thousand inhabitants total—and then I just started expanding."

"What does owning a world entail?"

"Well, for starters, I'm the tax collector."

"Protection money?"

"That's such a vulgar term,” said the Marquis with an expression of distaste. “I prefer to call it a Security Assessment."

"Have you ever had to supply security?"

"Not yet, knock wood,” answered the Marquis. “But I've got enough manpower to hold off almost anyone except the Navy."

"If those three I killed were an example of it, I'd say you're in big trouble if someone tries to move in."

"Apples and oranges. They were just three men, and you're the Widowmaker. That's different from sending 300 hardened killers against an expeditionary force controlled by another..."

"Warlord?” suggested Nighthawk.

"I was going to say
entrepreneur
,” replied the Marquis.

"Yeah, well, I still wouldn't count too heavily on them."

"I don't,” replied the Marquis. “I'm counting on
you
."