The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (17 page)

"Costs have gone up."

"Of course,” said Father Christmas. “He's been paying for the deep freeze with interest from his investments. As expenses increased, they had to dip into capital, and suddenly they're facing a situation where he won't have enough money to
stay
frozen. So they created you...” He frowned again. “But what are you doing, working for the Marquis? If it's money they need, you should be here on an assignment. Gun down some killer, collect the reward, and return to wherever they're keeping the original Widowmaker."

"I'm working on it. Kind of. Things have become very complicated."

"Will killing the Marquis make it easier for you? Is he the one you're after?"

"No. He knows who I'm after, but so far he hasn't been willing to tell me."

"I imagine he won't be very willing, and even less able, after you've killed him."

"I've thought about it,” said Nighthawk. “I'll claim he was the man I was after, take the reward, and...” He paused, momentarily lost in thought.

"And send it back to the Widowmaker?” suggested Father Christmas.

"No. I'll take it back to Deluros myself."

"Deluros? That's halfway across the galaxy. Why not send it?"

"I've got to deliver it in person."

"Why?"

"Because I'm probably the only man alive who can kill him,” answered Nighthawk.

"I thought you said he was sick."

"I don't know if I can handle him once he's healthy. He's a killer by choice; I'm one by necessity."

"Comes to the same thing in the end,” said Father Christmas.

A middle-aged man, his luggage hanging from his shoulder by a strap, entered the lobby of the hotel. When no one came to greet him, he wandered over to the bar and froze when he saw the still-wet bloodstains on the floor. Nighthawk and Father Christmas stared coldly at him, and after a moment he retreated without a word, backing up until he careened off the front desk. Then he raced out the front door.

"Well, son,” said Father Christmas, “I think we'd better take our leave of this place."

Nighthawk began walking toward the door. The Holy Roller chirped in surprise, then bounced down to the floor and positioned itself about eighteen inches away from Nighthawk's left boot.

"I have no reason to stay,” Nighthawk said, walking around the bloodstains and out into the lobby. He turned to Father Christmas. “Where are you heading?"

Father Christmas shrugged. “I don't know. Might be interesting to see if there are any religious goods worth stealing from Tundra."

Nighthawk looked at him, surprised.

"I've taken a liking to you,” continued Father Christmas. “And I never did have much use for the Marquis. We thieves are supposed to stick together, not extort each other when we stop for a little fuel."

"You have half a dozen police ships on your tail,” noted Nighthawk. “They're only a few hours behind you."

"I'll transfer all my goods to
your
ship,” said Father Christmas. “With our alien friend dead, I'm not likely to find someone to enrich my ship's pile in the next hour anyway. Let ‘em do whatever they want to my ship."

"I don't want to be responsible for your loot,” said Nighthawk.

"Nobody's asking you to,” said Father Christmas. “In fact, I'd deeply resent it.” He paused. “Time's running short. Can I use your ship or not?"

Nighthawk considered it for a moment, then nodded his head. “I'm taking the Roller, too."

"Can't say that I blame you. Damned thing's more effective than most weapons I could name."

"I wish I knew what it ate,” said Nighthawk as he walked out the front door of the hotel. “I'd like to take some along."

"It doesn't seem to have a mouth,” observed Father Christmas. “Why not assume that it ingests through osmosis. Give it nice things to rub against and it'll do just fine."

"What constitutes nice things?"

"You,” suggested Father Christmas with a smile.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I've seen animals with no ingestion orifices on other worlds, a couple of ‘em. They feed by osmosis. Figure this critter probably kills small animals by draining the life force from them. You're too big for it to hurt, so it feeds off your energy when it gets hungry, and keeps you alive for future meals by killing off your enemies."

"You might be right,” said Nighthawk. He stared down at the Roller. “But I liked it better when I thought it was protecting me because it cared for me."

"Maybe it does. I'm just guessing."

"I wonder if it'll even go into my ship,” said Nighthawk. “Maybe it'll decide it would rather stay here."

"Not a chance,” said Father Christmas.

"Why not?"

"If we were back in my preacher days, I'd say that the Holy Roller—especially with a name like that—is a sign from God."

"A sign?"

"That you're protected. If God hadn't supplied you with an alien entity that can't think and can't talk but nonetheless decided to attach itself to you, you'd be dead back there in the hotel. It means God had other plans for you."

"Like killing the Marquis?"

"Who knows?"

Or spending my life with the Pearl of Maracaibo?

"You're the preacher,” said Nighthawk. “How will I know when I've accomplished what God had in mind for me?"

"Easy,” answered Father Christmas. “Once you've done what you're supposed to do, your little fluffball here will stop protecting you."

As if to emphasize that it wasn't ready to part company yet, the Roller began purring loudly and bounced up to Nighthawk's shoulder again.

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Lizard Malloy looked up from his game of solitaire and saw Nighthawk and Father Christmas approaching him.

"Welcome back,” said the leather-skinned little man. “Who's your friend?"

"Call me Kris,” said Father Christmas.

Malloy suddenly stared at the Holy Roller. “You know you're being followed by something round and yellow?"

"Yeah."

"I assume it's alive, but I can't see any eyes or ears or anything like that."

"It's alive,” said Nighthawk. “Where's the Marquis?"

"It's pretty late,” replied Malloy. “I think he and the Pearl have gone off to bed."

Nighthawk tensed, but made no reply.

"Well, I'd like a drink,” said Father Christmas. “You mind if we join you?"

"Ask
him
,” said Malloy, indicating Nighthawk. “He's the boss."

"Sit,” said Nighthawk, pulling out a chair and seating himself. The Holy Roller chirped happily and bounced up to his shoulder, where it settled down to do some serious purring.

"What the hell
is
it?” asked Malloy.

"Just a pet."

"Looks harmless,” offered Father Christmas, suppressing a smile.

"Absolutely,” said Nighthawk.

Malloy looked at it suspiciously for a long moment, then shrugged.

"When can we figure on meeting the Marquis?” asked Father Christmas.

"You know him, Kris?” asked Malloy.

"I know
of
him,” replied Father Christmas. “I'd like to meet him. And I have a feeling that it's reciprocal."

"Well, once his lady is bedded down for the night, he usually comes back here for a nightcap,” offered Malloy. “Stick around awhile and you'll probably run into him, or vice versa."

"Sounds good to me,” said Father Christmas.

"And he'll probably want a report from
you
,” added Malloy to Nighthawk. “Did everything go smoothly?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Did you get the money, or did you have to kill him?"

"I've got his entire haul in my cargo hold."

"Then you killed him?"

"No."

Malloy looked puzzled. “I thought this Father Christmas was a big time Bad Guy. What kind of crook gives you everything he's got without a fight?"

"One who wants to live to see the next morning,” suggested Nighthawk.

"I happen to know Father Christmas intimately,” added Father Christmas, “and I guarantee that he would do almost anything to avoid a physical conflict with young Nighthawk here. Or with the Marquis, for that matter."

"Too bad,” said Malloy. “The name was so interesting, I kind of hoped a really interesting crook went with it."

"Oh, he's fascinating beyond belief,” said Father Christmas. “I never tire of talking about him."

"Well, you'll have to fill me in on him, Kris,” said Malloy. “Only later."

"I'm happy to do it right now."

"I don't think so,” said Malloy, looking across the huge casino toward the large man who was approaching him. “Here comes our lord and master. It'll have to wait."

"That's the Marquis?"

"Big, ain't he?"

The Marquis of Queensbury strode up to the table. “Welcome back, Widowmaker,” he said. “I hear you had a little problem."

"No problem at all,” answered Nighthawk.

"You shot the wrong man, you asshole!” bellowed the Marquis.

"I didn't shoot anyone, and he wasn't a man, he was an alien."

"All I know is that I told him to keep an eye on you, and suddenly he's dead and Father Christmas’ ship is empty and you're sitting here with a stranger and some kind of idiot animal and telling me that everything is okay. So you'll have to excuse me if I seem a little out of sorts, but I don't think everything is okay."

"I've got Father Christmas’ entire haul in my ship,” said Nighthawk.

"Oh?” said the Marquis, genuinely surprised. “You killed him?"

"As a matter of fact, I didn't."

"You mean he just
let
you empty his ship and move all his cargo to yours?” asked the Marquis sardonically.

"No,” said Nighthawk.

"I knew it."

"He helped me,” continued Nighthawk.

The Marquis looked from Nighthawk to Father Christmas. Finally he turned to face the latter. “Father Christmas, I presume."

"You certainly do. Imagine trying to extort 50% for the privilege of refueling."

"What are you doing here?” demanded the Marquis.

"I wanted to see what kind of thief robs his fellow thieves,” answered Father Christmas.

"You're looking at him,” said the Marquis with no display of embarrassment. “And I'm looking at a man who robs the deeply religious. Which of us do you suppose has more demerits in the Book of Fate?"

"It'd be a close call,” said Father Christmas.

"You'd win in a walk,” said the Marquis firmly.

"I would, if it was written by the same hypocrites who wrote the bible and the church services,” agreed Father Christmas. “Fortunately, they don't speak for God."

"And you do?"

"God doesn't need
my
help. I'm just a stopgap, until He Himself razes the temples to the ground."

"Temples? I thought you robbed churches."

"A poetic flourish,” replied Father Christmas. “Actually, I rob any religious institution I come across."

"I know. And now you've presented me with a serious ethical problem,” said the Marquis.

"I have?"

The Marquis nodded. “I've never stopped you from practicing your profession. You've robbed churches on
my
worlds, and I've never lifted a finger against you. But now you've taken advantage of my hospitality on Aladdin without paying for it, and one of my most trusted employees is dead. Hell, for all I know, you've corrupted the Widowmaker here.” He uttered a mock-theatrical sigh. “What am I to do with you, Father Christmas?"

"Well, the way I see it, you have three choices,” answered Father Christmas. “First, you can kill me. That would unquestionably make you feel better—but I suppose it's only fair to tell you that I rigged the cargo hold on Nighthawk's ship, and if you try to remove any of my treasure without knowing the proper codes, you'll blow up the ship and everything in it. Second, you can let me go, but I don't
want
to go, and I probably wouldn't avail myself of the opportunity."

The Marquis stared thoughtfully at him, more amused than outraged.

"And third?"

"Third, you can use your brain and offer to become my partner. There are thousands of churches on the Frontier, millions back in the Oligarchy. We could die of old age before we've plundered two percent of them."

"Why should I want to rob churches?” asked the Marquis.

"Because you're a thoroughly corrupt man, and there's a fortune to be made,” answered Father Christmas.

"I rule eleven worlds already, and I influence twenty more,” said the Marquis. “That's 31 worlds under my sole control. Why should I need a partner?"

"Because you want what every corrupt man wants."

"And what is that?” asked the Marquis.

"More,” said Father Christmas.

"True,” admitted the Marquis. “But if robbing churches won't make me any less corrupt, then I'll
always
want more."

"You always will,” agreed Father Christmas. “That's why men like us never retire."

"And you only rob churches, right?"

"Who else forgives you for your misdeeds and prays for your soul?"

"Do I detect a note of cynicism?” asked the Marquis with a grin.

"Absolutely not,” said Father Christmas earnestly. “Back on Earth—and I have plundered some of its finest churches, including Notre Dame and the Vatican—there is an insect called the ant. It lives in colonies, and is very industrious. It builds small mounds and creates incredibly complex passageways and food chambers and nurseries just beneath the surface. It takes days, sometimes weeks, to create these anthills ... and yet you can destroy them in seconds, with the toe of your boot. And do you know what the ants do then?"

"Attack you?"

"No,” answered Father Christmas. “They go right back to work rebuilding the mound."

"And you're saying churches are like anthills?"

"Only in this respect: they don't seek revenge once you've plundered them. They rebuild with all the industry of ants. It is counter to their philosophy to blame the thief. They prefer to consider me an agent of God, Who for reasons unknown to them is punishing them. It would make much more sense to think of me as the devil incarnate, but they don't really want to believe in a devil. It's easier to blame God, and hence their own sinful lives, for what I do without conscience or ethical consideration. And when disaster—meaning myself—strikes, they go about their business like the ants, rebuilding so that I can plunder them again."