The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (6 page)

Nighthawk shoved the small man back onto his chair, and an instant later Malloy was looking down the barrel of a wicked-looking gun.

"You don't have any choice in the matter,” said Nighthawk, his conversational tone belying the meaning of his words. “I saved you. Your life is mine. I'll spend it any way that I choose."

Malloy looked long and hard into Nighthawk's eyes before moving, or even breathing deeply.

"You'd really do it, wouldn't you?” he said at last. “You'd really kill me!"

"I'd prefer not to."

"Yeah, but you'd do it."

"Without hesitation,” said Nighthawk, holstering his gun and sitting back down.

Malloy was silent for a moment. “I could make a break for it,” he said at last. “The door's not that far away."

"You could,” agreed Nighthawk.

"Just how good a shot are you?"

"Pretty good."

"Pretty good,” repeated Malloy sardonically. “I'll bet you could hit a speck of dirt at four hundred feet."

"Maybe even five hundred,” said Nighthawk easily. “Now have a drink and relax. I'm buying."

Malloy frowned. “I don't understand you at all. First you save me, then you threaten to kill me, and now you're buying my drinks."

"It's easy enough. As long as you are under my protection, I pay your way."

"And how long is
that
?” asked Malloy suspiciously.

"You'll know when it's over.” Nighthawk signaled the bartender to bring two more drinks.

"No more for me,” said Malloy. “I want to be sober enough to duck if I have to."

"Just relax. Nothing's going to happen to you."

"What makes you any better than every other kid who's gone after the Marquis? They were all good, and now they're all dead. Are your hands any faster? Are your eyes any better? Why should you succeed when so many have failed?"

"Because I'm the best there is."

"You're just a kid, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three years old,” said Malloy derisively. “Who'd you ever kill? What makes you the best?"

"Take my word for it,” said Nighthawk.

"If we were just two guys talking in a bar on some other world I would—but we're on
this
world and you're using me as bait, so no, I don't take your word for anything. Who have you killed?"

"Cherokee Mason,” said Nighthawk. “Zanzibar Brooks. Billy the Knife."

"Wait a minute!” said Malloy. “What kind of idiot do you take me for? Those guys are all out of the history books!"

Nighthawk shrugged. “So am I."

Malloy stared at him and frowned. “Jefferson Nighthawk, Jefferson Nighthawk,” he repeated. “It's familiar, but I don't place it. And you're not out of any book more than a year or two old."

"Maybe you know me by another name,” said Nighthawk.

"Maybe I do,” replied Malloy dubiously. “What is it?"

"The Widowmaker."

"Bullshit! He died a century ago!"

"No he didn't."

"Well, if he's alive, he's a hell of a lot older than
you
."

"He's in DeepSleep in a cryonics chamber on Deluros VIII,” said Nighthawk.

"What are you trying to tell me?” demanded Malloy.

"I'm his clone."

"I don't believe it!"

The two orange-skinned aliens looked up briefly at Malloy's exclamation, then went back to conversing in their low, hissing voices.

Nighthawk shrugged again. “Believe what you want."

Malloy stared at him, puzzled. “Why would they clone him? You even
think
of cloning a human, you're looking at thirty to life on a prison planet.” Suddenly his eyes narrow. “Are you telling me they cloned you just to kill the Marquis?"

"That's right."

"What happens to you after you're done? Do they send you back to the factory?"

"I don't think they've thought that far ahead,” said Nighthawk. He paused. “But I have."

"And you're
really
the Widowmaker?"

"Yes."

Suddenly Malloy grinned. “I'll have that drink now.” He turned to the bartender. “Hey, Gold Eyes! Another round here!” As the bartender prepared the drinks, he turned back to Nighthawk, speaking in low tones. “You know, there may be a way for everyone to profit from this."

"How?"

"Watch."

The bartender approached them and delivered their drinks.

"Hey, Gold Eyes, what's the odds on the kid here living til tomorrow?"

The bartender shrugged. “Beats me."

"What are the odds if he goes up against the Marquis tonight?"

Gold Eyes stopped and scrutinized Nighthawk for a long moment. “Three hundred to one, against."

"I'll take twenty credits’ worth of that,” said Malloy.

"Where's your money?"

"Hey, Jefferson,” said the small man, “loan me twenty credits, will you?"

"I buy your drinks,” said Nighthawk. “I don't pay for your bets."

Gold Eyes kept staring at Nighthawk. “Are you here to kill him?"

"I never said that,” replied Nighthawk.

"Then you're not?"

"I didn't say
that
, either."

"Want a piece of advice?” said Gold Eyes.

"How much are you asking for it?"

"It's gratis."

"Then keep it,” said Nighthawk. “It's probably worth about what you're charging for it."

Gold Eyes chuckled. “I like you, kid. Take my advice and get the hell out while the getting's good. He already knows you're here."

"Where is he?"

"Who knows?” said Gold Eyes. “But this is his world. Nothing goes on here that he doesn't know about.” He picked up the empties and headed back to the bar.

"What happened to your money?” asked Nighthawk, turning to Malloy. “When you said the Marquis was after you, I figured you'd swindled him somehow."

"I did,” said Malloy unhappily.

"How?"

"I had the most perfect set of cards you ever saw,” said Malloy. “They were beautiful. I mean,
nobody
could spot them. Even if you knew they were marked, you couldn't read them until I showed you how.” He paused. “I took the Marquis for 275,000 credits last night."

"And he spotted them?"

"No. I told you no one could spot them. Hell, if he had, I'd have been dead before morning."

"What happened, then?"

"Since I was planning to leave, I sold the deck to one of the locals for a couple of thousand credits.” Malloy smiled ruefully. “Wouldn't you know we'd have the first blizzard in a month? No ships could take off, so I came back here for a little warmth and companionship—and found out that the son of a bitch I'd sold the deck to had cashed in by fingering me to the Marquis! I hid out until morning, and then tried to make it to the spaceport."

"So?"

"So what?"

"So where's the money?"

"Taped behind one of the chemical toilets in the men's room in his casino,” answered Malloy.

"All right,” said Nighthawk, slapping some money on the table. “Let's go get it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your money,” said Nighthawk. “I assume you want it?"

Malloy blinked furiously, looking like a lizard suddenly exposed to the sun. “You don't propose to just walk into the Marquis’ casino, take the money, and walk right back out with it?” he demanded.

"Oh, we might stop for a drink or two, just to make sure we're spotted."

Malloy studied him for a long moment. “You're sure you're the Widowmaker?"

Nighthawk didn't answer, but started putting on his spacesuit, and Malloy finally climbed into his coat and boots.

"How far?” asked Nighthawk.

"Halfway down the next block,” answered Malloy.

"Can you make it?"

"I have 275,000 credits waiting for me there,” said Malloy. “What do you think?"

The door dilated for them as they passed through to the frigid street.

"God, I
hate
this iceball!” said Malloy, already starting to shiver. Nighthawk, as before, refused to remove his faceplate, and so could not hear his companion. They walked rapidly to the casino and wasted no time entering it. Nighthawk left his spacesuit and helmet in an Anti-Thief Field just inside the airlock, and Malloy—who couldn't afford the protective device—simply hung his coat on a wall.

If Gold Eyes’ tavern had been empty, the Marquis’ casino was overcrowded. The walls changed color to match the mood of the live music, and the place was brilliantly illuminated although no light source was visible. Built to comfortably accommodate perhaps one hundred and fifty Men, it currently held upwards of two hundred, plus another forty aliens. Floating three feet above the floor were tables for roulette, and baccarat, and ten variations of craps (with six-sided, eight-sided and twelve-sided dice), and even two tables of
jabob
, an alien game that had become incredibly popular all across the Inner Frontier. A sleek chrome bar, stocked with intoxicants from a hundred worlds, lined one wall, and hovering a few feet above it was a tiny stage that featured a sultry half-clad girl whose undulations passed for dancing. Holographs of beautiful females, both human and alien, mostly nude, lined the walls, glowing gently as they spun slowly around in the air.

"He does pretty well for himself,” remarked Nighthawk.

"Ninety percent of these guys work for him,” answered Malloy, his features becoming more animated as he became warmer. “They're just playing with money he gives ‘em.” He looked around nervously. “I don't want to ask any embarrassing questions or anything—but have you thought of how you're gonna get out of here if you
do
kill him? There's a couple of hundred guns in here. Even the Widowmaker wasn't
that
good."

Nighthawk made no answer, but scanned the crowd, checked all the exits, and measured the distances involved while his brain computed the odds.

"You know, if
I
could figure out what you're here for, it ain't gonna be too long before someone else does, too,” whispered Malloy. “Let's get the hell out of here. I can get my money some other time."

He started walking toward the door, but Nighthawk reached out and grabbed his arm. “We're staying."

Malloy seemed about to jerk his arm free, then thought better of it. “Well?” he insisted as they turned back into the casino. “Are you taking on them
all
on?"

"Not unless I have to,” said Nighthawk.

"Then what
are
you gonna do?"

"I'm working on it."

"What if one of
them
works faster?"

"He'll wish he hadn't."

"Look,” said Malloy in low tones, “maybe you Frontier legends don't feel any fear, but us real people, we get scared shitless at the thought of facing a couple of gunmen, let alone a couple of hundred. Tell me something comforting about why I shouldn't worry."

"Shut up and think about your money."

"Right now all I can think is that it'll pay for a hell of a fancy funeral,” complained Malloy. “I mean, you
seem
sane, but you don't look even a little bit afraid, and that makes you stupid or crazy. He paused. “
Are
you crazy? Did you maybe just imagine all this about the Widowmaker and everything?"

Nighthawk turned away from Malloy, an expression of distaste on his face. As he did so, his gaze fell upon a new dancer atop the floating platform. Her appearance was striking: her hair was auburn, her eyes almost colorless, her figure lean and lithe. But it was her skin that captured Nighthawk's attention: it was light blue.

The music began again, an alien melody with an insistent rhythm, and the blue-skinned girl started dancing atop the platform. Tiny chimes attached to her fingers and ankles augmented the primal rhythm as she spun and whirled in the confined quarters with an almost inhuman grace.

"Who is she?” asked Nighthawk.

"Her?” replied Malloy. “I don't know her real name. They call her the Pearl of Maracaibo. Comes from somewhere in the Quinellus Cluster."

"A mutant?"

Malloy grinned a reptilian grin. “Unless you know anyone else with blue skin."

Nighthawk continued staring at her. “Just that mutant bartender.” Pause. “She's very beautiful, isn't she?"

"A lot of people think so. The smart ones keep it to themselves."

"Oh?"

"She belongs to the Marquis."

"You mean she works for him?” said Nighthawk.

"I meant what I said."

"Didn't they fight eight or nine wars to abolish slave labor?"

"For all the good it did."

Nighthawk smiled. “I stand corrected.” He paused. “Interesting man, the Marquis."

"Does that matter?"

"Maybe so, maybe not,” said Nighthawk without taking his eyes off the Pearl of Maracaibo. “You never know."

[Back to Table of Contents]

The music stopped and the blue-skinned girl vanished behind the floating platform.

"Go tell her that I'd like to buy her a drink,” said Nighthawk.

"I don't know where she is,” said Malloy with obvious relief.

"Then tell the bartender to send her one with my compliments."

"Doesn't it bother you that you're completely surrounded by all these cold-blooded killers whose only loyalty is to the Marquis?"

"The only thing that bothers me is that you're talking to me instead of walking over to the bartender."

Malloy got up and stared long and hard at Nighthawk. “You ain't
him
,” he said at last.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I know
he
lived to see 40. No way you're going to.” And turning on his heel, Malloy approached the bar. He forced his way between two shaggy Lodinites, signaled to the bartender, said something to him, pointed to Nighthawk, then returned to the table.

"You know any prayers?” asked Malloy, taking his seat.

"Nope. Why?"

"Probably just as well. I don't think you're gonna have time for one."

"What's it like to spend your whole life being afraid?” asked Nighthawk, genuinely interested.

"Healthy,” said Malloy. “And if you're
not
afraid, you've got a gene missing or a screw loose or something. These guys don't know you're a legend come back to life. They think you're a just a kid—and any moment now, when the bartender shoots his mouth off, they'll think you're a kid who listens to his gonads instead of his better judgment."