The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (23 page)

"Then it's damned lucky for you I never miss, isn't it?” said the Marquis.

Suddenly the Holy Roller, distressed by the tension in the room, became rigid and started humming.

"Turn that damned thing off or I'll kill it,” warned the Marquis.

"I wouldn't even if I knew how,” said Nighthawk, finally getting to his feet. “Which of us are you going to shoot first, and what do you think the other's going to be doing in the meantime?"

"I beat you before and I can beat you again!” snapped the Marquis.

He pulled out his laser pistol and fired it—and a beam of solid light almost split the Roller in half. It screeched once, burst into flames, and died. But as it did so, Nighthawk had his own gun in his hand and fired one shot. The bullet lodged between the Marquis’ eyes, and he plunged, face forward, to the floor.

Father Christmas knelt down next to the Marquis and rolled him over, examining the wound.

"Goddamned lucky the bullet didn't ricochet off and go through the bulkhead,” he said. “Either of you idiots could have killed us all with one bad shot."

"What did you want me to do—arm-wrestle him?” said Nighthawk.

"No,” said Father Christmas with a deep sigh. “But you might have mixed the lady's drink. He had information you needed, remember?"

"Fuck it,” said Nighthawk. “I needed that information so I could deliver an assassin and collect enough money to keep the Widowmaker alive until they came up with a cure for what ails him.” He paused. “Well, what's about to ail him is
me
, and there's no cure for what I plan to do. That makes the Marquis’ information kind of meaningless, doesn't it?"

"What about
her
?” asked the older man.

"She's mine now,” said Nighthawk, turning to face Melisande. What he found himself facing was the business end of one of the Marquis’ sonic pistols.

"I'll decide who I belong to,” she said coldly. “If you take one single step toward me, you'll be dead on the floor right next to him.” She looked him square in the eye. “I mean it."

Nighthawk gently holstered his pistol and sat back down on his chair.

"I hate to say ‘I told you so,'” said Father Christmas with an ironic smile, “but..."

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"Well,” said Father Christmas, breaking a long, tense silence, “we've got some decisions to make."

"I've made mine,” said Melisande.

"You don't have the slightest idea of what I'm talking about,” said Father Christmas, making no attempt to keep the contempt out of his voice. “Now put that gun away. I guarantee that Nighthawk's not about to pounce on you while I'm here and there's still a dead body on the floor."

She stared at Nighthawk for a long moment, then placed the pistol down on the galley table.

"All right,” continued Father Christmas. “First thing we have to do is...

"First thing we have to do,” interrupted Nighthawk, “is jettison what's left of the Roller."

"Forget it,” said the older man. “We've more important things to consider."

"How can you stand the smell?"

Father Christmas inhaled deeply, made a face, and nodded his consent. Nighthawk picked up the little Roller's charred corpse, carried it past the galley while Melisande and Father Christmas tried not to retch, and jettisoned it into space. On the way back he activated a small servo-mech that cleaned up the spot where the Roller had bled, and then had it deodorized.

"Better,” agreed Father Christmas when Nighthawk returned to his chair.

"All right,” said Nighthawk. “Now what decisions do you think we have to make?"

"Well, the first one's already out of our hands,” said the older man. “All we have to do is acknowledge it."

"What are you talking about?"

"We're going to have to alter course,” said Father Christmas. “We can't go to Deluros."

"Why?” demanded Nighthawk.

"Because Deluros has the best security in the galaxy.” Father Christmas paused. “In fact, we'd better get the hell out of Oligarchic territory while we have the chance."

"Why should you give a damn about Deluros’ security now?” said Nighthawk. “It didn't bother you when we were planning this job."

"We didn't have a dead body in the ship when we were planning this job,” answered Father Christmas. “There's no way you can hide that from Deluros security."

"Then we'll just jettison it, the way I did with the Roller,” said Nighthawk.

Father Christmas turned to Melisande. “Do you want to tell him, or should I?"

"Tell him what?” she asked, honestly confused.

"Jesus!” muttered Father Christmas. “I wonder if either of you have enough brains to write your name in the dirt with a stick!"

"Get to the point,” said Nighthawk irritably.

The older man turned to face him. “You can't jettison the Marquis’ body because a slimy little bastard called Lizard Malloy is still tracking us, and the second you dump it into space he's going to pick it up, and either blackmail us if we to return to Yukon or Tundra, or turn us in for the reward if we stay in the Oligarchy."

"Malloy,” repeated Nighthawk. “Shit! I'd forgotten all about him."

"Well, it's a goddamned good thing that I don't forget the scum that's following me across the galaxy."

"All right,” said Nighthawk, trying to control his temper. “We can't go to Deluros until we get rid of the body, and we can't jettison the body while Malloy's tracking us. That seems to leave us two choices: we land on a planet long enough to dump the body, or we go back to the Frontier with it."

"You've only got one choice, son,” said Father Christmas. “You've got to go to the Frontier and lose the body there."

"But there are hundreds of thousands of planets right here,” protested Nighthawk.

"You might park the ship in an orbiting hangar, or dock it at a space station, without getting searched,” said the older man, “but I guarantee that you'll be thoroughly scanned if you try to put down on a planet, and there's no way to hide the body from the kind of scanning they'll do. And if you can't jettison it with Malloy around, I guarantee you can't jettison it at an orbiting hangar or a space station."

"But I've got business on Deluros!” insisted Nighthawk.

"That's the seat of human government,” said Father Christmas. “They're more sensitive about security there than anywhere else in the Oligarchy. They'll scan you ten times between the moment you enter the system and the moment you park in orbit around Deluros VIII. And a couple of hundred police will be waiting for you to emerge from the ship once they've spotted the corpse.” He paused. “Now, if you'd have killed him with your hands, we could try to pretend that he tripped and fell against something hard, and if you'd killed him with your sonic pistol we might have been able to blame the Holy Roller, at least if you hadn't jettisoned it—but it's gonna be goddamned difficult to tell them that he shot himself right between the eyes while he was cleaning his pistol. Or
your
pistol, once they get done examining the bullet. You see what I mean?"

"I see what you mean,” said Nighthawk. “But I still want to get to—"

"Forget it!” snapped the older man. “First things first. We've got to go back to the Frontier and lose the Marquis. Otherwise, you'll never get within 500 miles of Deluros VIII's surface, and that's a fact."

Nighthawk fell silent, considering his options, rejecting each in turn. Finally he looked up and stared at the Pearl of Maracaibo.

"Just a minute,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

"What is it?” asked Father Christmas.

"We had a problem a few hours ago. We discussed it, but never solved it—and then, because of the killings, we forgot all about it."

"I don't think I follow you."

"Neither does Malloy,” said Nighthawk. “But
he
follows
her
. Maybe we should ask why."

"You're making foolish accusations,” said Melisande angrily. “Malloy is
your
friend, not mine."

"What reason would he have for following me?” asked Nighthawk.

"How the hell should I know?” demanded Melisande.

"Nobody knows,” said Father Christmas. “There isn't any reason.” He paused. “Now, what reason does he have for following
you
?"

"I don't even know him!” she protested. “I've seen him in the casino. He spends most of his time with you."

"Just a minute,” said Father Christmas. “Suppose you tell us who you worked for before you hooked up with the Marquis."

"I don't have to tell you shit!"

"That's what you think, lady,” said Father Christmas.

"Leave her alone,” said Nighthawk.

"Damn it, son,” said Father Christmas, “I know you've got the hots for her, but we're in a helluva dangerous situation here. You've killed one of the most powerful men on the Frontier, we've got a potential enemy tracking us—and we might have another one right here in the ship. So stop thinking with your gonads and start using your brain. We are in serious trouble, and I can't get us out of it alone."

"We'll get out of this,” said Nighthawk. “Just stop harassing her."

"Goddammit!"

"You heard me."

"All right,” said the older man with a heavy sigh. “We can't stay in the Oligarchy. We can't jettison the body. I say that we don't return to the Inner Frontier. Too many people know we left with the Marquis; they'll figure out that you killed him. Lord knows I couldn't have done it."

"So what?” responded Nighthawk. “He was just a crook, a little more powerful than most. It's not like some government will post a reward for me."

"You don't understand,” said Father Christmas. “There was a limit to what they could teach you in a couple of months."

"What don't I understand."

"The very people who are thrilled that he's dead, so they can divide the spoils and advance up the ladder, will be the ones who come after you. If you could kill the Marquis, you could kill any of them, and since they don't know for a fact that your current employer won't finger them next, you're a marked man.” The older man paused and cleared his throat. “So I say we stay away from the Inner Frontier."

"Where do we go?"

"The Rim, the Outer Frontier, the Spiral Arm—at least that portion of the Arm that's not officially a part of the Oligarchy."

"That's awfully far away,” said Nighthawk.

"Of course it is,” replied Father Christmas. “That's the whole point of this."

"I don't want to go to the Rim or the Outer Frontier,” said Melisande. “I haven't killed anyone."

"Fine,” said Father Christmas. “We'll drop you off at the next oxygen planet and you can make your way back home—or hitch a ride with Malloy."

"The hell we will!” snapped Nighthawk.

"Son, she doesn't want you,” said the older man. “Now, that seems pretty devastating to you right now, but there are trillions of women in the galaxy. Believe me: you're young, you'll find another."

Nighthawk stared into Melisande's eyes. “You're the one I want."

"That's
your
problem,” she said. “I have problems of my own. One of them is getting back to Tundra."

"I'm stronger than
he
was,” continued Nighthawk. “I can take better care of you, protect you better."

"But I don't want you to."

"I'll go back to Tundra and take over,” said Nighthawk. “I'll be as rich as he was. Richer. I'll be able to buy you anything you want."

"I want the Marquis,” she said. “Buy me that."

"You didn't give a damn about the Marquis,” said Nighthawk. “It was the money, the power he wielded."

"It was
him
."

"Bullshit."

"It was him, and the way he could please me,” she said. “But that's something you couldn't possibly know about, could you?” she added with a cruel smile.

"I'm naive, but I'm not stupid,” said Nighthawk. “You enjoyed it. I know you did."

"You can enjoy many meals in a restaurant,” she replied. “But there might be only one that you would pay to have again."

"There's nothing he could do that I can't do,” persisted Nighthawk. “I'll learn."

"Not with me, you won't."

"It'll work out. You'll see."

"Foolish, foolish clone,” she said, making no attempt to hide her contempt. “Conceived in a test tube, nurtured in a chemical bath. An educated blob of protoplasm. A laboratory
thing
that walks and talks like a man.” She paused. “I'll bet the original Widowmaker knew how to please a woman. Bring
him
around and maybe I'll stay."

His gun was out and aimed at her so quickly that she couldn't even reach out for her own. She just sat there, stunned by the speed with which he had moved.

"Don't ever say that again!"
he whispered so softly that she could barely make out the words.

Both Melisande and Father Christmas had seen Nighthawk under many conditions. They had seen him angry, and they had seen him bitter, and just a few minutes earlier they had seen him kill a man—but neither had ever been physically afraid of him until that instant.

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Nighthawk carried the Marquis’ body belowdeck, deposited it in the cargo hold, and sealed it in a quick-hardening plastic since he didn't know how long it would remain aboard ship. Then he returned to the control room, set a course that would take them to the Rim while avoiding the Oligarchy, and finally stopped by the galley. He couldn't remember the constituent parts of a Dust Whore, so he settled for ordering up a beer.

"It should take us ten, maybe eleven days to get to the Rim,” he announced. “I've never been there, so I don't know which worlds have been opened up, which ones might be friendly to us. Hopefully my ship's computer is up to date."

"Well,
I
don't want to go to the Rim,” said Melisande. “I haven't killed anyone, and no one wants to kill me. I want to go back to the Inner Frontier."

"I'm afraid that's out of the question, my dear,” said Father Christmas.

"Am I your prisoner?” she demanded.

"Nobody's a prisoner,” said Nighthawk. “You're a guest. Hopefully more than a guest."

"The hell I'm a guest,” she said. “I'm here under protest. I want to go home."