The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (7 page)

"I can't help what they think."

"Yes, you
can
help it,” said Malloy bitterly. “Or at least you could have until you sent me over to buy a drink for some goddamned mutant who probably can't metabolize it anyway."

"You worry too much. It's going to make you old before your time."

"Yeah? Well, you're going to make me dead before my time!"

"I saved you, remember?"

"To use as bait!"

"Only if I have to.” Nighthawk looked over Malloy's shoulder. “And it's starting to look like I won't."

Malloy spun around on his chair and saw two men and a hulking, gray-skinned alien from Pellenorath VI approaching the table.

"I don't have a weapon!” whispered Malloy urgently.

"You won't need one."

"You don't know who they are! The one on the left is Bloody Ben Masters. He's killed maybe 20 men all by himself—and I've seen the Pellenor rip men to pieces!"

"Shut up and keep out of the line of fire,” said Nighthawk calmly. He looked up as the three killers reached his table. “Is there something I can do for you, friends?"

"Yeah,” said Masters. “You should be very careful who you buy drinks for when you're in Klondike."

"You mean my friend Lizard?” he asked innocently, gesturing toward the leather-skinned Malloy. “He looked thirsty."

"You know exactly who I mean,” said Masters.

"Ah! You're speaking about the lovely young dancing lady."

"You got it."

"But she looked thirsty. Besides, it hardly seems fair that the Marquis of Queensbury should have a whole world and her, too."

"You are pushing your luck,” said the Pellenor in heavily-accented Terran.

"Just consider this a friendly warning,” continued Masters.

"Well, I thank you for your concern,” said Nighthawk. “And I'll certainly be careful about who I buy drinks for."

"Good."

"Oh, I'll still buy them for the young lady,” said Nighthawk, getting to his feet as the three were turning to leave. “But I'll make sure I never offer any to scum like you or your ugly gray pet here."

Bloody Ben Masters had his pistol out before he had fully turned back to the table, but Nighthawk was even faster. There was a brief hum of power, and Masters and the other human collapsed to the floor, their flesh charred and smoking from Nighthawk's laser gun.

The bulky Pellenor emitted a roar and lunged for Nighthawk, but the young man was too quick, sidestepping him and bringing the barrel of his gun down with killing force on the back of the alien's head. The skin broke open, shooting out jets of purple blood, and the alien collapsed to the floor.

"You all saw it,” said Nighthawk without raising his voice.

"A clear-cut case of self-defense,” added Malloy, amazed to find himself still alive. “Bloody Ben went for his gun first. I'll testify to it!"

Nobody said a word for almost a full minute, while Nighthawk kept his laser pistol in his hand, hanging down past his hip but ready to use again if he had to. Finally someone spoke up: “So whose deal is it?” and a few seconds later everyone went back about their business.

"Have you got any law officers here?” asked Nighthawk, holstering his weapon and sitting back down.

"Not much point to it,” answered Malloy. “We ain't got no laws on Tundra, except those that the Marquis makes up."

"Who's going to take care of the bodies?” continued Nighthawk, staring at the three corpses that lay where they had fallen.

"There are some maintenance mechs somewhere,” said Malloy. “When they see the mess, they'll come on over and cart the bodies away."

"They're just going to lie here until then?” asked Nighthawk, surprised.

"I suppose so."

Nighthawk looked around the casino. No one paid any attention to the bodies; they could have been invisible. “It's like it never happened. I thought maybe you were kidding when you said they didn't have any laws here."

Two small robots suddenly approached with an airsled. They placed both human corpses on it, then piled the alien atop the humans. There was a whirring of overtaxed motors, and the sled gently sank to the floor. The robots studied the situation for a moment, then rolled the alien off the sled and left with the two men.

"You're awfully good,” said Malloy admiringly. “I half think you might have a chance against the Marquis after all. In a fair fight."

"Thanks."

"Doesn't make much difference,” added Malloy. “The Marquis doesn't believe in fighting fair."

"I assume he's on his way here."

"If he's on Tundra."

"And if he's not?"

"Don't worry—
someone
will be laying for you,” answered Malloy. “You killed three of his people. He can't let you get away with that. It's bad for business."

Nighthawk studied the room again, wondering where the next attack might come from. Finally he turned to Malloy.

"I want you go up to the bartender again,” he said.

"You're not buying her another drink?” said the little man incredulously.

Nighthawk shook his head. “I want you to go and tell the bartender that if the next person to come after me isn't the Marquis, I'm going to consider it a direct attack by
him
and this place will need a new bartender two seconds later."

"Are you sure?” asked Malloy. “I mean, hell, he can't help who tries to kill you."

"Who do you think passed the word to those three?” responded Nighthawk irritably. “I'm through with underlings. If the Marquis is around, he'll know how to contact him."

The two robots came back with an empty airsled to collect the Pellenor. Malloy watched them load the body and leave, then looked up. Suddenly his leathery face registered total fear.

"Uh, that ain't gonna be necessary,” he said, his voice shaking.

Nighthawk turned in the direction Malloy was looking. A tall man was staring at him. He had wild red hair, bright blue eyes, and as square a jaw as Nighthawk had ever seen. He was tall, close to six feet eight or nine inches. His shoulders were broad, his waist solid without being fat, and he possessed an animal grace that was rarely seen on men a foot shorter. There was a deep scar on his left cheek, from just below the corner of his eye down to his jaw, but rather than looking bizarre or ugly it seemed to add to his charisma.

And charisma he had: he seemed to fill the room just by being in it. Everything about him was just a bit bigger than life. He wore no visible weapons. He carried a bottle of alien liquor in one hand and an empty glass in the other.

Nobody had to tell Nighthawk that this was the Marquis of Queensbury. The crowd parted as if by prior signal as the huge redheaded man approached his table.

"You're dead,” he said to Malloy, then ignored him as if he were some insignificant insect and turned his attention to Nighthawk. “Your name's Jefferson Nighthawk."

Nighthawk simply stared at him.

"You killed three of my men."

Nighthawk made no reply.

"You don't talk much, do you?” asked the Marquis of Queensbury.

"I haven't heard any questions,” replied Nighthawk.

The Marquis nodded his approval. “A good answer.” He sat down at the table, commandeered an empty glass, and poured himself a drink from the bottle he was carrying. “You want a question? I'll ask one.” The blue eyes bored into Nighthawk's own. “Who gave you permission to kill three of my men in my casino?"

"They went for their weapons first,” answered Nighthawk.

"Makes no difference,” said the Marquis. “They belonged to me, and you killed them.” He paused ominously. “How are you going to make that up to me?"

"Well, I suppose I could go out and recruit three more fools for you,” said Nighthawk.

"Are you calling my men fools?"

"Yes."

The Marquis stared at him for a long moment, then laughed aloud. “I
like
you, Jefferson Nighthawk!” He shook his head with mock sadness. “It grieves me to have to make an example of you."

"Then don't,” said Nighthawk.

"It can't be helped,” said the Marquis. “How long could I stay in business if I let everyone make advances to my woman and kill my men?"

"Longer than you can stay alive if you don't walk away,” said Nighthawk. He placed the muzzle of his laser pistol against the Marquis’ belly beneath the table, where no one else could see it.

The Marquis looked nonplused. “You're going to kill me in front of two hundred witnesses?"

"I'd rather not."

The Marquis chuckled. “I'll just bet you'd rather not."

"On the other hand, I don't plan to let
you
kill
me
in front of two hundred witnesses, either,” said Nighthawk.

"Put the pistol away,” said the Marquis. “I'm not armed."

"I'm told you're a man of your word,” said Nighthawk. “Promise not to kill me and I'll let you walk away."

"I can't promise that,” said the Marquis. “Who knows what the future holds?” He paused. “But I'll promise not to kill you today. Good enough?"

Nighthawk nodded.

The Marquis got up, turned his back, and began walking away—and just as Nighthawk thought the situation had been diffused, or at least postponed, he felt his arms being grabbed and twisted behind his back, and he was yanked painfully to his feet, held motionless by half a dozen men.

"It's nice to have friends,” said the Marquis as he turned back to Nighthawk. “Of course, you wouldn't know about that, would you?"

Nighthawk grimaced, and for a moment his gaze fell on Malloy, who hadn't moved since the Marquis had entered the room.

"Him?"
said the Marquis with a contemptuous laugh. “That's not a friend, that's a parasite."

"Let me go, and you'll be surprised how few friends I need,” said Nighthawk.

"The bravado of youth!” said the Marquis, amused. “Half adrenaline, half testosterone, and totally foolish."

He nodded to two of his men, who quickly removed Nighthawk's visible weapons, frisked him for hidden ones, and came away with two knives and a small sonic pistol.

"You have an impressive number of toys,” observed the Marquis. “Now that we've removed them, perhaps you'll tell me why you were looking for me."

Nighthawk glanced around, found himself surrounded by a hostile crowd of men and aliens, and then looked back at the Marquis.

Think fast. What would
he
have done?

"I have a business proposition for you,” he said at last.

"Well, it's fortunate I came by when I did, isn't it?” said the Marquis. “Before you had totally decimated my customers, that is."

"I thought it might get your attention,” admitted Nighthawk.

"Oh, it did that, young Jefferson,” said the Marquis. “You offer whiskey to my woman, and instead of announcing your presence like a normal visitor, you kill three of my men. It certainly does attract my attention.” He paused and stared at Nighthawk. “Just what is it that you want?"

"Hire me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm better than any twenty men you've got,” said Nighthawk. “And I'll only charge you what you pay ten of ‘em."

The Marquis stared at him with an amused expression. “I can't decide whether you're very young or very foolish."

"I'm very good."

"Do you know how many very good men I've killed?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

"Sixty-four."

"How many of them were being held motionless before you?” asked Nighthawk.

Another grin, half amused, half satisfied, appeared on the Marquis’ face. “Let him go."

Suddenly Nighthawk's arms were hanging loose at his side.

"All right,” said the Marquis, folding his hands into a massive pair of fists, “let's see what you can do. And in the meantime, I'm going to show you what happens to brash young men who kill
my
men on
my
world."

His hand shot out. Nighthawk saw it coming, but even his youthful reflexes weren't good enough, and an instant later he felt the cartilage in his nose give way.

"You okay?” asked the Marquis with false solicitation. “You look terrible."

"I'll live,” answered Nighthawk, spinning and delivering a kick that should have knocked the Marquis halfway across the room if it had landed, but the Marquis sidestepped it.

"Oh, one more thing,” said the Marquis, feinting with a left, then barely missing a thunderous right.

"What's that?” asked Nighthawk, connecting two quick jabs to the Marquis’ chin, then attempting a chop to the bridge of the nose, only to have it blocked.

The Marquis picked up a glass filled with Cygnian cognac and hurled the contents into Nighthawk's eyes. “We fight by the Marquis of Queensbury rules."

"What the hell are they?” said Nighthawk, backing away quickly and blinking his eyes furiously.

The Marquis grinned. “I thought you'd never ask,” he said, lifting a chair over his head and hurling it at him. “They're whatever I say they are."

He followed up with a flying kick, but Nighthawk ducked, reached an arm beneath the Marquis’ legs, and lifted upward. His equilibrium upset, the Marquis landed on his back with a loud thud.

Nighthawk kicked him twice, and was about to deliver a third when the Marquis recovered, grabbed his foot, and twisted. Nighthawk went sprawling, but was up in an instant.

"You know, you're not half bad,” said the Marquis as he slipped a punch, stepped in close, and delivered a flurry to Nighthawk's belly.

Nighthawk doubled over to protect himself. Then, as the Marquis moved even closer, he brought his head up quickly, splitting the Marquis’ chin open.

"Goddamn!"
bellowed the Marquis as blood gushed down over his shirt. “That
hurt!
"

"It was supposed to,” rasped Nighthawk, following up with a left that closed the Marquis’ right eye.

The Marquis fell to the floor, but even as he did so, he whipped out his legs and tripped Nighthawk.

"You're good, I'll give you that,” panted the Marquis as he regained his feet.

"You're not so bad yourself,” mumbled Nighthawk through his split lips.

"Tell you what,” said the Marquis. “Let me buy you a drink and then we'll have Round Two."

"Sounds good to me,” said Nighthawk, following him to the bar. The bartender slid two large beer mugs over to them.