The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (9 page)

"My first obligation is to find Trelaine's assassin."

"I'm counting on
that
, too.” The Marquis flashed him a grin. “You know he couldn't have killed Trelaine without my approval. You know you can't beat his name out of me, and that if you luck out and kill me, you still won't get it. So the logical course of action is for you to do such a brilliant job that you win my trust and place me under obligation to you—right?"

"Perhaps,” agreed Nighthawk. “On the other hand, I may disappoint you and find the assassin without your help."

"I've been disappointed before. I'll survive.”
You may not,
was the strong implication,
but I will.

"Still, until I do find him, I might as well work for you. I'll need a job once my current one is over."

"Even the Widowmaker must genuflect to logic,” said the Marquis with a satisfied smile.

"From time to time,” agreed Nighthawk. “Where do I start? What do I do?"

"First, you take a few days to recover. I'm just egocentric enough to think I did you some damage. Use the time to learn your way around Klondike, meet some of the men and women who work for me. I keep a suite on the 6th floor of the hotel down the block; it's yours for the time being."

"Where will
you
stay?"

"On the 10th floor,” replied the Marquis with a grin. “I like penthouses.” He paused. “Anyway, I'll send a medic by to stitch you up and straighten your nose. If there's anything you want, just order it though room service. If you go anywhere in town for food, drink, clothes, anything at all, just tell ‘em who you are until they get to the point where they recognize you. I'll pass the word before you leave that you're working for me."

"Does everyone who works for you get this kind of service? I'm surprised the merchants haven't left for better pickings."

"I'm a businessman, not a philanthropist,” laughed the Marquis. “How can I tax them if they don't make any money? No, only you and Melisande have carte blanche."

"Melisande?"

"That's the girl you're never going to touch."

"The Pearl of Maracaibo?"

"Her professional name. Like The Marquis of Queensbury, or the Widowmaker."

"Okay, she's Melisande and I'm Jefferson Nighthawk. Who are you, really?"

"My name wouldn't mean a thing to you."

"I'd like to know it anyway."

"I'm sure you would,” said the Marquis. “But I've no intention of telling it to you. It's much better if everyone thinks I'm dead."

"As you wish,” said Nighthawk with a shrug. “But it hardly seems fair."

"Of course it's not fair,” said the Marquis. “I'm the boss and you're not. What's fair got to do with anything?"

"Not much, I guess."

"You have an interesting expression on your face."

"I do?"

The Marquis nodded. “It says, ‘Someday when he least expects it, I'm going to remind the Marquis of what he just said—probably after I take his woman away and shoot his legs out from under him.'” He paused. “Forget it. It's not going to happen."

"It's your fantasy, not mine,” said Nighthawk.

"What's yours—and how many women does it involve?"

"None."

"No women at all? What kind of fantasy is that?"

"I'll tell you someday when I know you better,” said Nighthawk. “I might even enlist your help."

"How comforting."

"It is?"

"Certainly,” said the Marquis with a smile. “It means that it doesn't involve killing me."

"To borrow an old expression,” said Nighthawk, “I've got bigger fish to fry."

And perhaps a very old one to kill, before his attorneys and medics decide to kill me.

"Really?” said the Marquis, interested. “So you think the assassin is a bigger fish than I am?"

"You want the truth?"

"Definitely."

"I think you
are
the assassin."

"I told you I wasn't,” replied the Marquis.

"I know. But I don't believe you."

"What do you plan to do about it?"

"I plan to hunt for evidence. As slowly as I can. And hope that you're right."

"I don't think I understand,” said the Marquis, frowning. “I thought you explained to me that your first obligation was to bring in the assassin."

"My first obligation is to hunt for him. I'll be just as happy if I don't find him."

"Ah, I was right!” said the Marquis with a smile, finally comprehending. “You fulfill your mission and it's back into the vat with you."

"Not if I can help it."

"Just stay out here and they'll never find you."

"There's one man back there who can find me wherever I go,” responded Nighthawk.

"Nonsense! You're the Widowmaker!"

"So is
he
—and if they cure him, he'll be after me the next morning."

"What makes you think so?"

"It's what I'd do—and I'm him."

"It's foolish,” protested the Marquis. “Why should the Widowmaker want to kill his clone—especially if no one is paying him to do so?"

"You can't have two Jefferson Nighthawks walking around at the same time. I've got something that he spent his whole life acquiring: his identity. He'll want it back."

"I don't know how you can be so sure."

"Because I want to kill him for the same reason,” answered Nighthawk. “As long as he lives, I'm just a shadow. I'm not even legally alive. Every credit I make is his, everything I do, both good and bad, accrues to him.” He paused, trying to order his thoughts. “Jefferson Nighthawk's just a name. I can answer to it as well as any other. But Widowmaker's a
definition
. I won't be the Widowmaker until
he's
dead."

"But he doesn't have that problem,” noted the Marquis. “He
is
the real"—Nighthawk winced—"forgive me, the original, Widowmaker. His money, his identity, they're his own."

"But who will they hire when they want the Widowmaker—an old man they can't even stand to look at, or me? He can't let me live any more than I can let
him
live. God didn't mean for there to be two of us alive at the same time."

The Marquis stared at the young man for a long minute. “I wouldn't have your dreams for anything,” he said at last.

"My dreams are very pleasant,” said Nighthawk wryly. “It's just my life I have problems with."

"Well, we'll simplify and improve it, starting tomorrow."

"I hope so,” said Nighthawk, getting up to leave. He heard a door dilate behind him and saw the Pearl of Maracaibo's image in a mirror as she emerged from another room, one with a large unmade bed in it.

But somehow I doubt it,
he added mentally as he left the office and went back to join Malloy in the casino.

And for just a moment it seemed that a very old, very diseased man was walking beside him with an unseemly vigor.

You think it's going to be this easy?
asked the old man.
You think you're going to kill the bad guys and get the girl and spend your life hunting villains on the Inner Frontier?

I hadn't thought that far ahead, admitted Nighthawk. But it's a pleasant future.

It's a pipe dream. Do you really think I'll let you live once I'm out of that frozen tomb? God made one Widowmaker, not two.

How will you stop me? You're an old man, and I'm in my prime.

But I'm the real Widowmaker. You're just a shadow that will vanish in the light of my day. Think about it: the better you are, the sooner I can dispose of you.

Then the image vanished ... but the words stayed with Nighthawk long after he reached the casino.

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Marquis proved to be a man of his word. Whatever Nighthawk asked for, he received, and payment was never requested.

Nighthawk spent a couple of days exploring the city of Klondike. He visited each of its four restaurants, all of its many bars and casinos and brothels. The drug dens he avoided; his borrowed memories were increasingly vague as they were replaced with his own experiences, but those that remained told him that nothing good or useful ever came of drugs or users.

Most of his time, though, was spent in the Marquis’ casino, where he was on call for anything the Marquis might want. Lizard Malloy stuck close to him, as if he were the little man's only protection in this hostile environment, and in exchange for offering that protection Nighthawk picked his mind, learning the names and dubious accomplishments of most of the men and woman who worked for the Marquis.

There was another reason for spending time in the casino, and Malloy was quick to spot it.

"Don't even think about her,” he said as Nighthawk watched the Pearl of Maracaibo undulating atop her floating platform.

"Last time I thought about her, it got me a job with the Marquis,” replied Nighthawk.

"All the more reason not to push your luck twice,” said Malloy.

"I wonder what she sees in him?"

"You mean, besides the fact that he's ten feet tall and owns forty or fifty worlds?” asked Malloy.

"He's not that tall, and he only owns eleven worlds."

"Well, that makes all the difference in the universe,” said Malloy sardonically.

"Where does she come from?"

"I don't know."

"Find out for me, by tomorrow,” said Nighthawk, smiling up at the Pearl of Maracaibo as she finished her dance.

"You got yourself a serious death wish, you know that?” said Malloy.

"Just do it."

Malloy shrugged and fell silent. A moment later one of the Marquis’ men approached Nighthawk and took him to the office.

"What's up?” asked Nighthawk as he sat down opposite the Marquis.

"We've got a little problem over on Yukon that I want you to clean up."

"Oh?"

The Marquis nodded. “Seems someone has set up shop there without my permission. I sent an emissary to explain that this was a breach of etiquette, and she killed him on the spot. We can't allow her to get away with that. Too many other people might start flexing their muscles."

"'She'?” repeated Nighthawk.

"Name's Spanish Lace."

"Sounds intriguing."

"There's nothing intriguing about her. She's operating on my territory without a permit. That's against the law."

"
Your
law?"

"You know of any other?” said the Marquis.

"Not on Yukon and Tundra,” admitted Nighthawk.

"Well, then, that's your job."

"I'm not quite clear,” said Nighthawk. “Do you want me to sell her a permit to operate, or run her off?"

"I want you to kill her,” said the Marquis. “And then I want you to take what's left of her and nail her to a cross or hang her from a tree—anything out in the open—as a warning to anyone else who might be having similar ideas."

"There are only a few thousand people on Yukon,” noted Nighthawk. “How many are likely to see her stretched out on a cross or spinning slowly in the wind?"

"It's cold there. She'll keep."

"Why not just charge her a couple of million credits and send her packing?” suggested Nighthawk.

"I'm going to answer you this time,” said the Marquis, “because you've just started working for me and you don't know that I have a reason for everything I do. You haven't learned that you
never
question one of my orders; that's the same as arguing with me, and I won't tolerate that in an employee.” He paused. “If you ever question another order, you'd better have a nice cemetery plot picked out. I don't care how good you are, I'll kill you on the spot—and if I can't, I've got 200 men who'll see to it that you don't live long enough to leave Klondike."

Nighthawk simply stared at him without saying a word.

"All right,” continued the Marquis. “If you fine her and chase her off Yukon, you'll have made a powerful enemy who'll think that I have wrongly humiliated her and appropriated her money, though of course I have every right to whatever money is brought to one of my worlds. If, on the other hand, you kill her, we'll have at least as much of her money, probably even more, and we
won't
have a bitter and successful woman out there"—his vague wave encompassed half the galaxy—"plotting out ways to get her money back and to punish me for appropriating it."

"So you don't really care whether anyone ever sees the body..."

"Certainly I do, but that isn't my primary purpose for killing her.” The Marquis paused. “Any more questions?"

"What's her line, and how many men has she got?"

"Spanish Lace? It all depends on which world you ask that question. She doesn't believe in specialization. She's a bank robber, an arsonist, an extortionist, an assassin. She usually works alone, but she may have brought a little protection along."

"She's an assassin, you say?"

"Don't look so interested. She had nothing to do with Trelaine."

"How do you know?"

"Nothing goes on in this sector that I
don't
know."

"All right,” said Nighthawk. “When do you want me to leave?"

"Immediately. Why else would I be telling you all this?"

"Where will I find her?"

"I've already had the landing coordinates fed into your ship's computer. Take that little snake-skinned bastard Malloy along with you. He's been to Yukon before; maybe he can be of some use to you.” The Marquis chuckled. “At least he won't block your vision or get in your line of fire. I don't think I've ever seen a bigger coward."

"That's probably why he'll outlive us both,” replied Nighthawk.

"It's possible—but you have to consider the quality of his life."

"
He
considers the quality of his death,” said Nighthawk with a smile. “Hasn't found one that lives up to his high standards yet."

"Somebody should explain to him that very few of us fuck ourselves to death,” said the Marquis.

"I'll try to remember that."

"Especially when you're around Melisande,” added the Marquis meaningfully.

"I'm not going to get myself killed over a blue-skinned mutant,” said Nighthawk.

"Nothing personal,” replied the Marquis. “I like you, I really do. But you were put together in a lab three months ago. How the hell do I know what you will or won't get killed over?"