The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (20 page)

"Right."

"Then let's get the show on the road."

He turned and began walking back to the casino.

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"So where is he?” demanded Nighthawk, stalking angrily through the control cabin of his ship. Father Christmas sat in a passenger seat, while the Holy Roller perched atop the navigational computer, purring softly to itself.

"He'll be here,” said Father Christmas reassuringly.

"Are you
sure
he bought your story?"

"I'm sure."

"Then why isn't he here?"

"He's the Marquis of Queensbury, and he rules eleven worlds with an iron hand,” answered Father Christmas easily. “He's allowed to be twenty minutes late. He knows you won't leave without him."

Nighthawk came to a stop and looked at Father Christmas. “What if he doesn't show? We're already committed to leaving. We'll look damned silly changing our minds just because he didn't come along."

"I don't know why old people, who have so much less time remaining to them, develop patience, while young men like you, with a century ahead of them, go a little crazy when you have to wait for anything."

"He believes someone in Intelligence can finger him, right?” said Nighthawk, ignoring Father Christmas’ statement.

"Yes, he believes it."

"If I thought someone could put me out of business, or bring the authorities down on me, I'd be early, not late."

"Maybe that's why
he
runs the show, instead of someone like you,” suggested Father Christmas. “Do you mind if I change the subject?"

"Talk about anything you damned well please,” said Nighthawk irritably, as he recommenced his pacing.

"Fine. I will. Because you're worrying about the wrong thing. The Marquis will be here, never fear. What
you
should be thinking about is how you're going to kill the Widowmaker."

"Gun, knife, hands, what difference does it make?"

Father Christmas shook his head. “You don't follow me. If you can make it to the chamber where he's frozen, I'll grant you can kill him by any means you choose. But only the very, very wealthy can afford to be frozen. The Widowmaker was only a millionaire when he went in there. He's lying side-by-side with billionaires, with people who created financial empires and have every intention of waking up and ruling them again at some time in the future. How do you plan to get past the kind of security they've paid for with those enormous annual fees?"

"I'll find a way."

"Have you considered that you might not even be able to get through customs on Deluros VIII? All they really had to do is report the Widowmaker's passport missing. You'll give them an ID disk, it'll set off twenty alarms, they'll incarcerate you until someone who can identify Jefferson Nighthawk shows up—and you can bet your ass he'll show up with a gun."

"Why?” asked Nighthawk. “They don't know I'm coming to kill the Widowmaker."

"They don't have to know why you're coming,” answered Father Christmas. “All they have to know is that they've created the deadliest killer in the galaxy and told him to go out to the Frontier. Suddenly he's disobeying their orders and coming to Deluros without giving them any prior notice. Losing control of their creation will scare ‘em more than knowing you want to kill the Widowmaker."

"All right,” said Nighthawk. “I'll start thinking about it.” He paused. “
You're
wanted on dozens of planets. How do you get around it?"

Father Christmas smiled. “I never go back, so it's a moot point."

"But even when you go to a new planet, they must know who you are, and that you're wanted."

"I mostly stay on the Frontier, and most Frontier worlds don't have extradition treaties with the Oligarchy. Hell, most of ‘em don't have any laws at all."

"Okay,” said Nighthawk. “But now we're going to the capital world of the Oligarchy. So how will
you
get past customs?"

"How many passports do you possess?” countered Father Christmas.

"One."

"Well, I've got fifteen,” replied the older man with a triumphant smile, “each and every one able to pass a close inspection by a customs computer. I use the one that fits the situation."

"Tools of the trade?” asked Nighthawk.

"Even the original Widowmaker must have had a handful of them,” answered Father Christmas. “No sense announcing your presence when you're trying to sneak up on someone who doesn't know you're on his trail."

"I may need some myself,” said Nighthawk thoughtfully. “Where do you get them?"

"There are forgers all over the galaxy,” said Father Christmas. “After we're through with our business on Deluros, I'll introduce you to some of them."

"Some of whom?” said a familiar voice from the direction of the airlock, and they turned to see the Marquis of Queensbury, his arm around the Pearl of Maracaibo.

"What's
she
doing here?” asked Father Christmas.

"I never go anywhere without the necessities of life.” He ran his fingers through her hair and down her neck to her breast, then leaned over and kissed her on the ear while she grinned at Nighthawk. “Hi, Jefferson,” he said when he looked up again. “How's it going?"

Nighthawk realized that he'd been staring at the blue-skinned girl. He had no idea what his expression had become when the Marquis fondled and kissed her, but he realized there was enough tension in the air that the Roller had stopped purring. Suddenly he snapped to life.

"You're late,” he said. “I wanted to leave half an hour ago."

"Your victim can wait,” replied the Marquis easily. “He's past knowing what time it is."

"You should have said you'd be late,” repeated Nighthawk. “It's only common courtesy."

"This is
my
world,” answered the Marquis. “It obeys
my
laws.” He looked into Nighthawk's eyes and smiled. “That means you were leaving half an hour too early."

Melisande laughed, her eyes never leaving Nighthawk's.

"All right,” said Nighthawk. “Let's get going now, if it's all right with you."

"Just fine."

"It'll be a little cramped. I didn't know we were going to have a fourth passenger."

"No problem,” said the Marquis easily. “We only need three beds."

"I was referring to oxygen and meals."

"Then we'll put down on some world or other and get more when we need it."

"There's only room for three people on the bridge,” said Nighthawk.

"That's not a problem,” said the Marquis. “She and I will share the captain's cabin. You can bunk with the old man. Before Nighthawk could protest, he added, “Take her down there and show her around."

Nighthawk could smell her perfume as she passed him. There wasn't much room, and she had to turn sideways to enter the corridor that led to the sleeping cabins. She took a deep breath, and he couldn't help looking down her neckline. She grinned at him and undulated her way past him, then slowed her pace so he had trouble avoiding bumping up against her.

"You've gone too far,” said Nighthawk a moment later, stopping by the door to his cabin. She turned back and managed to lean against his arm and shoulder while the door slid into the wall. “This is it,” he said, taking a step into it while she followed him.

"This is your cabin?"

"It
was
my cabin."

"It's more like a prison,” she said, looking around. “Like the kind of place where you spend long, lonely nights.” She turned to him. “Do you?"

"This is the closet,” he continued, ordering a door to slide open.

"What's that?” she asked.

"What's what?"

"
That
,” she repeated, pointing to the Holy Roller, which had followed them and now bounced up to Nighthawk's shoulder. “I've seen it near you when I was dancing. At first I thought it was some kind of toy, and then I realized it was actually alive. Is it a pet?"

"Kind of."

"It doesn't
do
much,” she said. “Why do you keep it?"

"It loves me and it's loyal to me,” answered Nighthawk. “That's more than I can say for any person I know."

"Let me see it,” she said, approaching him and reaching out for the Roller.

The Roller tensed and stopped purring.

"That's not a very good idea,” said Nighthawk, stroking the Roller as he felt it tensing. It calmed instantly beneath his touch.

She pulled her hand back and glared at the Roller. “Who wants to touch such an ugly thing anyway?"

There was an awkward pause, and then Nighthawk spoke again. “And behind that door's the bathroom. It's got a dryshower and a chemical toilet."

"Maybe you'll come by later and scrub my back,” she said, lowering herself to the bunk and stretching.

Nighthawk stalked out and returned to the control cabin.

"Welcome back,” said the Marquis, who was now sitting in the captain's chair. “What kept you?"

"That's
my
chair,” said Nighthawk.

"Not any more."

"I own this ship."

"And
I
own
you
,” said the Marquis. “Now sit down."

"I've got to lay in a course to Deluros,” said Nighthawk.

"I've already done it. We'll be jumping to light speeds any second now.” He turned to Father Christmas. “Well, old man, have you got your churches all picked out yet?"

"Sure do,” said Father Christmas. “Just waiting to narrow ‘em down to a reasonable number."

"I take it you've been studying them?"

"All my adult life,” answered the older man. “There's a lot of gold in the churches of Olympus. I think I'll take some of it back with me."

"Olympus? What is that—a city?"

Father Christmas chuckled. “A continent."

"So who can know the geography of a thousand worlds?” said the Marquis with a shrug.

"Anyone who wants to get rich off ‘em,” replied Father Christmas, as the ship suddenly lurched and jumped to light speeds.

"Touche,” laughed the Marquis. He turned to Nighthawk. “What about you, Jefferson Nighthawk?” he asked with a certain smug amusement. “Do you plan to get rich on Deluros?"

"No,” answered Nighthawk. “I plan to get free on Deluros."

"Free of what?"

"Of a lot of things."

"For instance?"

"Ghosts, mostly."

"Of men you killed?"

Nighthawk shook his head. “Of the man I was ... or the man I was supposed to be."

"Not much profit in that,” remarked the Marquis with a faint air of disapproval.

"More than you can imagine,” said Nighthawk firmly.

The Marquis shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy.” He glanced down the corridor toward Melisande's cabin, and added, “Within reason."

Nighthawk tensed again, and the Holy Roller reacted instantly. It stopped humming and began a very low whining sound. Nighthawk picked it up, cradled it in his arms, and stroked it gently.

"You ought to get rid of that thing,” said the Marquis.

"I like it."

"As far as I can tell, it serves no useful purpose—and it wastes space."

"Not as much as Melisande."

"
She
has advantages that outweigh her disadvantages,” said the Marquis.

Nighthawk forced himself to relax, muscle by muscle, and tried not to think of the blue-skinned woman stretched out on his bunk. Finally the Holy Roller began purring again, and he realized that he had succeeded.

"You're going to have to learn to control that hot young blood,” remarked the Marquis, who had been watching him closely. “And you're also going to have to learn who gives the orders around here."

"We're learning just as fast as we can,” said Father Christmas, before Nighthawk could make a caustic reply.

"That's what I like to hear,” replied the Marquis.

Melisande suddenly appeared in the corridor. “I'm hungry,” she complained, “What have we got to eat?"

"Don't ask
me
,” said Nighthawk coldly. “Ask the ship."

Nighthawk walked to the galley and ordered it to come to life. Suddenly it was awash with lights, and an illustrated menu appeared in mid-air, the three-dimensional images of the food rotating slowly before the ship's occupants.

"Is that really steak?” she asked.

"It's all soya product,” answered Nighthawk. “But you won't be able to tell the difference."

"Sounds good to me,” said the Marquis. “If it looks like steak and tastes like steak, who cares what it is?"

And if someone looks like the Widowmaker and thinks like him and kills like him,
thought Nighthawk,
don't ever get him mad by taking over his ship and flaunting your woman in front of him.

"What'll you have, my love?” asked the Marquis.

"Nothing,” replied Melisande.

"You're sure?"

"I don't eat substitutes.” She paused briefly. “Besides, what I want now isn't in the galley."

She sauntered down the corridor and gave the Marquis a sexy smile as she passed by the cabin door.

"You can wait for him in the control room,” suggested Father Christmas as she reached the end of the corridor.

She walked slowly through the galley and came to a stop a few feet from Nighthawk.

"There are only three chairs,” she noted.

"That's right,” said Nighthawk.

She stared at his lap until he shifted uncomfortably on his chair, then turned around and returned to the galley, brushing against Nighthawk as she did so.

"By God, she looks good when she walks away!” said the Marquis enthusiastically. He got to his feet. “I think we'll retire to our cabin for a little while.” He headed toward the captain's cabin.

Nighthawk watched them, his face expressionless, his body rigid. The Roller bounced back down to the floor and began whining softly. Suddenly he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and found that Father Christmas had walked over to him.

"Don't do anything foolish, son,” said the older man.

"Am I supposed to let him fuck her on
my
bed and just sit by doing nothing?” demanded Nighthawk in strained tones.

"It's her choice."

"It's
not!
He'd kill her if she said no."

"I don't want to disillusion you,” said Father Christmas, “but she probably hasn't said no since she was twelve."