The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (22 page)

Nighthawk was experiencing one of his few brief moments of solitude, staring absently at one of the ship's viewscreens. He ordered it to go to high magnification, hoping to get a glimpse of Malloy's ship, but all he could see were stars and the endless blackness of space.

Finally he decided to radio Malloy and try yet again to find out why he was being followed—but he couldn't raise Malloy's ship. It was there, it was tracking him, but it wouldn't respond to his signal. He frowned. Neither Malloy nor his ship presented a physical threat, but he didn't like things he couldn't understand, and he didn't understand why the little grifter was following him into the Oligarchy.

"If he bothers you so much,” said a voice behind him, “let's slow down, let him catch up with us, and blow him into a million pieces."

It was the Marquis, who had wandered over while Nighthawk was preoccupied with the radio.

"I didn't say he bothered me,” replied Nighthawk defensively.

"You didn't have to."

"I just want to know why he's there."

"Someone sent him, obviously,” responded the Marquis.

"Who—and why?"

The Marquis shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.” He paused and then smiled as a thought came to him. “If you don't want to blow him away, let him catch up with us and then threaten to lock him in a room with the Holy Roller. Five'll get you ten that he'll suddenly be overjoyed to talk to us."

"It's a pet, not a weapon,” said Nighthawk, stroking the Roller as it bounced up from the floor to his shoulder.

"It's a little of each,” said the Marquis. “You're not the first I've ever seen with a Holy Roller. I've known two other men that Rollers attached themselves to.” He paused and looked at Nighthawk's Roller admiringly. “Get one of those things angry, it can wipe out a roomful of men in ten seconds flat.
I'd
call that a weapon."

"I'd call it a friend."

"That's because you don't think big enough,” said the Marquis. “You don't understand what you could do with a thing like that."

"But you do?” said Nighthawk sardonically.

"Of course I do,” answered the Marquis. “That's one of the differences between us."

"If you're that hot to get one, go to Aladdin."

"I've been to Aladdin. Never saw one."

"So go again."

"Waste of time,” said the Marquis. “I've been there a dozen times.” He paused. “I think I'd rather trade for yours."

"It's not for trade."

"You haven't heard my offer yet."

"You don't have anything I want,” said Nighthawk.

"Oh, I think I do,” said the Marquis with a grin. “Melisande!"

The blue-skinned girl emerged from the cabin and walked over to join the Marquis.

"Well?” said the Marquis.

"Her?"

"For the Roller."

"It's a deal,” said Nighthawk.

"Don't I get some say in this?” demanded Melisande.

"I'm afraid not, my dear,” said the Marquis.

"You can't trade me for some alien animal as if I was a piece of property!” she said.

"We are all property,” answered the Marquis. “It is only the intelligent ones who know it.” He paused. “I am sure Mr. Nighthawk will cherish you as I have, my love."

"And what if I don't want to be cherished by Mr. Nighthawk?” she said.

"That's hardly my concern.” The Marquis paused. “I'm sure that he'll treat you with the same compassion that I have displayed up to now."

"Which is to say, none at all,” she snapped.

"Please don't make this more difficult than it is,” said the Marquis. “You have given me an inordinate amount of pleasure, and I regret losing you"—he smiled apologetically—"but the galaxy is full of women. There are very few Holy Rollers. For all practical purposes, there is really only one. Surely you would do the same thing in my position."

"I've never been in your position,” she said bitterly.

"Well, there you have it.” He reached out for the Roller, which suddenly became rigid and started humming softly.

"I don't think it likes the thought of you touching it,” offered Nighthawk.

"Well, explain to it that we've got a deal."

"I don't know its language."

The Roller began whistling a little louder.

"Make it stop!” said the Marquis. “I've seen them do this before."

Nighthawk plucked the Roller from his shoulder and cradled it against his chest, stroking it gently.

"We made a trade,” said the Marquis, backing away slowly. “It's up to you to deliver your end of it."

"Don't you think I
want
to?” shot back Nighthawk. “It doesn't like you, and there's nothing I can do about it. The alien back on Aladdin told me that it chooses one person and sticks with him for life."

"Too bad,” said the Marquis. “You had your chance, and you blew it.” He turned to the Pearl of Maracaibo. “It looks like we're reunited in eternal love, my sweet.” She glared at him but didn't say anything. “Go back to the cabin,” he continued. “I'll join you in a few moments."

She stood still and glared at him.

"Now,"
he said in a tone that allowed no disobedience.

She stalked off to the cabin without a backward glance.

"My offer stands for the duration of this trip,” said the Marquis. “You teach the Roller to accept me, and she's yours.” He paused and suddenly grinned. “Maybe I'll have to teach her to accept
you
."

Nighthawk made no reply.

"Well, she may be yours any day now,” said the Marquis, starting to walk back toward his cabin. “I think I'd better enjoy her while I can."

He grinned again and disappeared into the cabin. The Holy Roller squeaked loudly, and Nighthawk realized that he was squeezing it painfully. He released it, and it rolled down his leg onto the floor.

"Mind if I join you?” asked Father Christmas, emerging from his cabin and walking down the corridor toward the galley and the control cabin.

"Why not?” said Nighthawk without enthusiasm. “You heard it all?"

"Yep. Hard to keep secrets on a ship. Especially one as small as this.” He paused. “Sounded like a soap opera. Makes for an entertaining trip."

"So how do I make the Roller like him?"

"You don't,” said the older man. “They choose one person, and when all is said and done they're a lot more loyal than any man or woman I've ever met."

"You're not much help, are you?” said Nighthawk bitterly.

"I would be, if you'd ever listen to me."

"You don't say anything I care to hear."

"Nobody ever really wants the truth,” agreed Father Christmas.

"Let it be."

Father Christmas shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He glanced at the viewscreen. “Malloy still tracking us?"

"Yeah. I tried to raise him, but he's not answering his calls today."

"Assuming the Marquis was telling the truth—always a dangerous assumption—I wonder who the hell Malloy
is
working for?"

"I don't know."

"Why don't you think about it for a minute?” said Father Christmas.

"I'm thinking,” said Nighthawk. “Nothing's coming."

"You know, the guys who built you could have spent two less school days on killing people and two more on spotting subterfuges."

"What are you talking about?"

"Use your brain, son,” said Father Christmas. “What is Malloy doing?"

"Tracking the ship."

"Why?"

"I don't know,” said Nighthawk, feeling just like a frustrated schoolboy.

"What
do
you know?"

Nighthawk frowned. “What do you mean?"

"Let's assume for a moment that the Marquis is telling the truth, that he has nothing to do with Malloy or the ship. What does that tell you?"

Nighthawk looked blank.

"Look,” said Father Christmas patiently, “if he's not here for the Marquis, and he's not here for you, and he's not here for me, who the hell else
is
there?"

Nighthawk's eyes widened.
"Melisande?"

"Right."

"But why?"

"Beats me,” admitted the older man. “But I'd say she's probably a little more than she seems to be."

Nighthawk said nothing, but sat motionless, petting the Holy Roller absently, lost in thought. Finally he looked up, cleared his throat, and spoke.

"Maybe his employer wants to know where the Marquis is and what he's doing."

"Would
you
send someone like Malloy up against the Marquis of Queensbury?” retorted Father Christmas. “If it was up to me, I'd hire someone who could handle himself when the going got rough—someone like you."

"Then why is he following us?"

"I've got a notion or two, but let's wait a little longer and see what happens."

"How much longer?"

Father Christmas shrugged. “We'll know before we get to Deluros.” He pulled out a deck of alien cards. “Care for a quick game of
jabob
?"

Nighthawk shook his head. “They never taught me the rules."

"The rules are easy,” said the older man with a smile. “The odds are impossible."

"Then why do so many humans play it?"

"Because the rules are simple,” answered Father Christmas. “So they figure they ought to be able to beat it.” He paused. “Most men don't suffer from an abundance of intelligence—or hadn't you noticed?"

"I've noticed,” said Nighthawk.

The two of them sat silently for a few minutes, the older man shuffling and reshuffling his cards. Then the Marquis emerged from his cabin once again.

"Still here, I see,” he said.

"See what I mean?” whispered Father Christmas. Then to the Marquis he said, “We're traveling at 64 times the speed of light in a 3-man ship. Just where the hell did you think I'd be?"

The Marquis shrugged. “Sleeping. Eating. Pissing. How should I know?"

Father Christmas laughed aloud. “You'd better work on your muscles, son,” he said to Nighthawk. “It's a cinch she's not hanging around with him because of his brainpower."

"Watch your mouth, old man,” said the Marquis ominously. “I
want
part of your haul. I don't
need
it. Never forget that."

"My sincere and most humble apologies,” said Father Christmas, bowing low from his seated position and somehow losing his smile before he straightened up again.

The Marquis glared at him silently for a long moment, muttered “Old fool!", then ordered a drink from the galley.

"Well, Nighthawk,” he said at last, “are you still looking forward to killing the Widowmaker?"

"That's why I'm here,” answered Nighthawk.

"It must feel a little like killing your father."

"Not really."

"Ah, I forgot,” said the Marquis. “You don't have a father, do you?"

"Well, if I do, he's been dead a couple of centuries,” said Nighthawk.

"Then maybe it's really more like killing your brother,” suggested the Marquis. “Perhaps you are Cain to the Widowmaker's Abel."

"If you say so."

"I don't say anything. I'm just trying to understand what it feels like, as one killer to another."

"I'll tell you after I've done it,” said Nighthawk. He sighed deeply. “I rather suspect it'll feel like laying a bad memory to rest."

"I thought you'd never seen him,” said the Marquis. “How can you remember him?"

"Maybe I expressed myself poorly,” replied Nighthawk. “He's the ideal to which I have always been compared. His accomplishments created the hopes and expectations that I've been measured against.” He paused thoughtfully. “Most young men simply have to forget the role models that have been chosen for them. Me, I get to eliminate mine permanently. I find that a very satisfying notion."

"If he's half of what they say he was, you might not be able to kill him."

"He's a diseased, disfigured old man who can't move or breathe without help,” said Nighthawk. “Besides, I have no intention of waking him up. This is an exorcism, not a contest."

"An exorcism,” repeated the Marquis with a smile. “I like that."

"I'll like it when I've finished it."

Melisande stepped through the cabin door then, sauntered into the galley, and paused to run her hands through the Marquis’ tousled hair.

"I want a drink,” she announced.

"Order it yourself."

"I don't like this galley,” she complained. “It doesn't mix them right."

"What the hell do you want
me
to do about it?” asked the Marquis.

She nodded toward Nighthawk. “Make
him
mix me a drink."

"I don't mix drinks,” said Nighthawk.

"Just a minute,” said the Marquis, turning to face Nighthawk. “It's okay for
me
to tell her you don't make drinks. It's not okay for
you
to."

"Why not?” said Nighthawk. “Has she suddenly become my commanding officer?"

"No,” replied the Marquis. “But I give the orders around here, so when I'm around you don't refuse any request until you find out what I want you to do about it."

"Some chain of command,” said Father Christmas with a contemptuous snort.

"You stay out of this, old man,” snapped the Marquis. He turned to Nighthawk again. “Fix her a drink."

"I don't do coolie labor,” said Nighthawk. “Let her fix her own."

"I'm ordering you to."

"I kill very dangerous people for you,” said Nighthawk. “That's my job, and I'm goddamned good at it. It's
not
my job to mix Melisande's drinks just so you can prove to her that you can give me orders. Everything that makes you look good in her eyes makes me look like shit. If you want a drink mixed, mix it yourself."

The Marquis got to his feet. His left arm moved out slowly, sweeping Melisande behind him.

"I'm ordering you one more time. Mix her drink."

"Go fuck yourself,” said Nighthawk, still sitting comfortably on his chair.

"I'm not going to ask you again,” said the Marquis ominously.

"You didn't
ask
me a first time,” said Nighthawk. “Besides, what are you going to do? Fire me and make me walk home?"

"That's not a bad idea."

"Of course it's not,” said Nighthawk. “
You
didn't think of it."

"You guys don't want to fight in here,” said Father Christmas suddenly. “A stray shot could go right through the bulkhead and kill us all."