The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy Read online

“You're the Widowmaker,” replied the Marquis. “If I thought you needed anyone before, your last assignment proved just what you can do on your own.”

  “What do you have all these gunmen for if you won't use them?” asked Nighthawk.

  “Oh, I use them when I need them. But you don't really hope to convince me at this late date that you need any help against just four men.”

  “You're a real sweet guy to work for,” said Nighthawk caustically.

  “Melisande thinks so.”

  Nighthawk took one look at the Marquis’ smirking grin and knew that she had told him about the night they'd spent together.

  “Every once in a while she has to go slumming, just to remind herself why she hooked up with me in the first place,” continued the Marquis. “I don't blame her, since it reminds her why she stays with me. The problem,” he added, “is that sometimes the man involved doesn't understand what's going on. He gets it into his head that she actually cares for him, and then he makes a nuisance of himself, and then, unhappily, I have to dispose of him.” He pulled his gun out of his holster, flipped it in the air, caught it in his other hand, and pulled the trigger. There was a deafening BANG! and the Electric Monitor scored another bulls-eye.

  “You're very good,” acknowledged Nighthawk.

  “We both are,” replied the Marquis. “I hope we never have cause to find out who's better.”

  “No reason why we should,” said Nighthawk.

  But in his mind's eye he could see the Marquis running his hands and mouth all over Melisande's nude body. He felt a wave of jealousy sweeping over him, and he knew that they had more than ample reason.

  12.

  Aladdin had once held the promise of great riches—hence its name. But, like Yukon and Tundra, its mines were exhausted in less than two decades, the miners went further toward the Galactic Core, and not much remained except a handful of prospectors who kept hoping to find another mother lode, and the usual gamblers and outcasts and adventurers who were endemic to the Inner Frontier.

  As with many of the Frontier worlds that no longer held major populations—or, indeed, never did—Aladdin was dotted with a number of deserted Tradertowns, quickly-erected structures that had catered to the needs of a transient population. There were some worlds with 40 or 50 functioning Tradertowns, but Man was an efficient animal, and usually within two or three decades of his arrival, most of the Tradertowns had become ghost towns as the plunder of the planet was completed and the plunderers moved on to the next world. Such a planet was Aladdin, with seventeen ghost towns and one working Tradertown.

  It was the first planet within his admittedly limited experience that allowed Nighthawk to land his ship without first requesting permission. The spaceport had fallen into disrepair and the landing pads were cracked and broken; most of the ships landed on a flat, open savannah about a mile from the Tradertown.

  Nighthawk made sure that the fueling station was inoperative. Then, satisfied that his prey would have to go into town to obtain fuel, he set his ship down on the plain, activated the alarm system, and began walking across the hot, arid plain toward the Tradertown. Suddenly he became aware of the fact that he was not alone. A spherical ball, bright, yellow and fluffy, totally round, with no visible sensory organs, was rolling alongside him, purring gently to itself.

  Nighthawk stopped; the ball of fluff stopped too. He started walking again, altering his direction every few strides; it matched him move for move. He stopped again, and it rolled over to him and rubbed against his boot, purring more loudly. Nighthawk kept his fingers poised above his weapon, just in case it bit, but after rubbing against him for a few more seconds, it backed away, as if waiting for him to start walking again. He stared at it for a long moment, then shrugged and continued on his way.

  He soon reached the town, still accompanied by the thing. He couldn't spot any place that was likely to sell fuel, so he tried to imagine what Father Christmas would do when confronted with the same situation.

  He'd seek out some locals, of course, men who could tell him where to obtain his fuel. He'd probably keep clear of the bar and the drug den; there was always a chance that one of the patrons might consider playing bounty hunter and try to kill him for the reward. The assay office was closed; so was the postal station. That left the whorehouse, the restaurant, and the hotel. He arbitrarily chose the hotel and walked down the street until he stood opposite it. He took one more look up and down the street, just to make sure that he hadn't missed an even more likely spot, then turned and entered the hotel.

  It was nondescript, much like Aladdin itself. It had changed hands so many times, and so many owners had tried to shape it to their tastes, that it seemed a catch-all of influences, non-representational holographic art sharing wallspace with alien carvings and the stuffed heads of Aladdin's now-extinct carnivores.

  The furniture was the same: angular chrome chairs floated above the floor, sandwiched between oddly-shaped chairs for strangely-jointed aliens and leather lounge chairs that recalled the gentleman's clubs of Earth's 19th Century.

  Nighthawk approached the front desk, still accompanied by the little yellow ball of fluff. An alien, mildly humanoid, with green skin, protruding golden fangs, a bulbous forehead, and huge, luminous purple eyes, stood behind the desk. As Nighthawk approached, it spoke into a translating device that it wore attached to the shoulder of its shining silver tunic.

  “Good morning upon you, sir,” said its inflectionless translated voice. “How may I help you?”

  “I ran short of fuel,” answered Nighthawk. “I was forced to divert and land here. Where can I purchase some?”

  “What type of ship do you have?” asked the alien.

  “A 341 Golden Streak.”

  “Ah! You need your nuclear pile enhanced!”

  “I know what I need. Where do I go for it?”

  “It is not necessary to go anywhere. I will send an experienced mechanic to your ship.”

  “Has he got an office?”

  “No, sir. No more than one ship per Standard week needs work done on its pile. I will contact him immediately.”

  “Not right now.”

  “But you just stated that you had almost no fuel.”

  Nighthawk leaned halfway across the counter and lowered his voice confidentially. “I have a young lady aboard the ship. Her social position is such that she must not be seen or identified. She's waiting until dark, and will then join me in the suite I intend to rent here.” He paused. “Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” the alien assured him. “You may count upon my discretion.”

  “All right. What's available?”

  “We have an exquisite corner suite on the third floor.”

  “That'll be fine.”

  “Will you be taking your Holy Roller with you?”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Nighthawk.

  “Your Holy Roller,” repeated the alien. “I must know if you intend for it to stay with you.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  The alien pointed to the yellow fluffball that was about eighteen inches from Nighthawk's boot. “That is your Holy Roller, sir.”

  “Interesting name,” said Nighthawk. “However, it's not exactly mine. It followed me here.”

  “I can see that, sir, but it's yours nonetheless,” said the alien clerk. “They spend years by themselves, manifesting their presence to no one. Then, for reasons no one can fathom, one of them will suddenly appear and befriend a human. Though I have heard of such instances, I have never actually seen it prior to today—but legend has it that once it happens, they never willingly leave the human's presence again.”

  Nighthawk looked down at the Holy Roller, which purred and rubbed up against his boot. He frowned.

  “Let me get this straight: you're telling me that I'm stuck with it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For how long?”

  “They are said to be truly fait
hful companions,” answered the alien, leaning over the counter to stare at the Roller. “It is almost always a lifetime relationship.”

  Nighthawk stared at the yellow fluffball. “Whose lifetime—ours or theirs?”

  “They are virtually immortal.”

  “I don't need a lifetime companion.”

  “I'm not at all sure that your needs are meaningful to it, sir.”

  “Wonderful,” muttered Nighthawk. “Who named them Holy Rollers?”

  “They have been called that since I immigrated to Aladdin,” said the alien. “I have always assumed that the name was given to them by Men.” The alien paused awkwardly. “I really must know, sir: will it be staying with you?”

  “What's it to you?”

  “I must program your room's security system, sir. It is quite sensitive: if I don't inform it that you are accompanied by a Holy Roller, the alarm will go off incessantly.”

  “I see.”

  “Would you like to see your suite now?”

  “Not just yet.” He tossed a disk on the desk. “Bill it to that account.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Nighthawk leaned down and picked up the Roller. It made no attempt to elude him, and in fact began purring louder than before as he stroked it absently with his hand.

  You'd have blown it away, wouldn't you, Widowmaker?

  “Well, it's nice to find something that likes me,” he said softly. “Maybe I'll let you stick around for awhile.”

  He placed it back on the floor and walked through the lobby into the small restaurant. He found a small table, sat down, pressed his thumb against the scanner until it identified him and verified his credit, and read through the menu, touching his thumb to those items he wanted. He ordered coffee and a roll for himself, and a small bowl of milk for the Roller. When the robot trolley arrived, he took his food from it and placed the bowl on the floor.

  The Roller approached it, circled it warily, and finally backed away, rubbing against Nighthawk's boot and purring loudly. Nighthawk reached down and gently pushed it toward the bowl. It emitted a piercing high-pitched whistle, bounced over the bowl, made a semi-circular return to Nighthawk, and was soon rubbing up against his boot again.

  “All right, have it your way,” said Nighthawk, picking up the bowl and placing it on the table.

  Suddenly the Roller started bouncing, gently at first, then higher and higher until it reached table height. One more bounce, and it landed gently atop the table and rolled to a spot just opposite the milk. It had no visible sensory organs, but Nighthawk would have sworn it was staring suspiciously at the bowl.

  He finished his coffee, offered to show the empty cup to the Roller, which raced to the far side of the restaurant, then shyly returned to the table and lay up against his boot. He ordered another coffee, remained where he was for perhaps ten minutes, then walked out into the lobby.

  “You left before I could tell you the number of your suite,” announced the alien clerk. “It is 302-B, and it has been adjusted to recognize your voiceprint, thumbprint, or retinagram.”

  “Thank you, but I think I'll stay down here.”

  “But why? Nothing ever happens down here. In your room there are video entertainments, and a liquor cabinet, and an Imaginarium, and...”

  “It'll give me something to look forward to.”

  The alien simply stared at him and realized that he was never going to comprehend this species in whose company Fate had thrust him.

  Nighthawk walked over to a comfortable-looking chair that floated a few inches above the floor and sat down. He crossed his legs, and the Roller hopped onto the toe of his boot and remained there.

  “Slow spin,” he commanded, and the chair began spinning very gently in a circle. It didn't move fast enough to make him dizzy, and it allowed him to see the entire lobby in a matter of seconds without having to move or draw attention to himself.

  A pair of women entered the hotel a few minutes later and went straight through to the airlift. A miner emerged from the restaurant, wearing his spotless smock, ready to direct his robots in the day's search for Aladdin's remaining riches.

  Then, perhaps two hours later, a short, burly man entered the hotel, sweating profusely. He looked around briefly, then walked directly to the desk.

  “How may I help you, sir?” asked the alien.

  “Got a hungry 341 Golden Streak,” replied the man. “I need someone to tickle its pile.”

  “I assume you landed to the west of town, out on the savannah?”

  “Right.”

  “If you will give me your ship's registration number, I can have a skilled mechanic there in fifteen minutes.”

  “R3201TY4J,” was the man's answer. He slapped a wad of credits on the desk. “And get him there in ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir!” said the alien, pocketing the money. He cast a map of the Tradertown on his computer's holoscreen, highlighted the most likely places the mechanic might be, and directed the computer to begin establishing vidphone connections to each location.

  Nighthawk got out of his chair and approached the man. “Buy you a drink while you're waiting?”

  “Sounds good to me,” said the man. “Mighty neighborly of you.”

  Nighthawk turned to the clerk. “The bar's closed,” he said.

  “Oh, no, sir,” replied the alien. “The bar is open. It just doesn't have any customers.”

  Nighthawk handed a few bills to the alien. “The bar is closed,” he said again.

  “Yes, sir. The bar is closed.”

  Nighthawk accompanied the man to the bar, which was situated across the lobby from the restaurant. Like the rest of the hotel, it showed the influence of too many owners. Holographs of human and alien athletes mingled with paintings of nudes, a huge tank of alien fish, and a pair of Imaginarium games.

  “What'll it be?” asked Nighthawk.

  “Hot, dry day out. Anything that'll kill my thirst.”

  “You ought to be a little more careful how you say that,” answered Nighthawk. “Someone could make the case that a bullet'll kill your thirst about as well as anything.”

  “A point well taken,” said the man. “I'll have a beer.”

  “Let's make it two,” said Nighthawk, punching the order into the computer. “By the way,” he added, extending his hand, “my name's Jefferson Nighthawk.”

  “A proud name, that,” said the man, accepting his hand.

  “You've heard it before?”

  “I think everyone's heard it before. Are you a relation, or just a pretender to the throne?”

  “A little of each. And you are...?”

  “You know damned well who I am, Jefferson Nighthawk,” said Father Christmas. “You weren't sitting in that lobby, carrying a small arsenal, just for the hell of it, and I didn't stop on Aladdin just to satisfy my thirst. You were waiting for me. Eventually you'll get around to telling me why. In the meantime, I propose to enjoy my beer.”

  “This world is under the protection of the Marquis of Queensbury,” said Nighthawk. “He has no desire to hinder you in your flight from the police.”

  “That's right thoughtful of him.”

  “He asks only that you acknowledge that Aladdin belongs to him...”

  “Gladly done.”

  “...and that you pay him a small tribute for allowing you to refuel here.”

  “How small a tribute?”

  “Half,” said Nighthawk.

  Father Christmas threw back his head and laughed. “Do you know what I have in my hold?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And the Marquis thinks I'm going to give him the equivalent of twenty million credits just for letting me replenish my atomic pile here?”

  “He hopes you will,” said Nighthawk.

  “Well, he can hope. I take it you're the alternative?”

  “That's right.”

  The two beers arrived, and each man took one.

  “Well, if you're half as good as your namesake, you're
twice as good as me. I freely admit it. So why don't we put off the shooting and talk a little business first?”

  “That's what I thought we were doing.”

  “No,” answered Father Christmas. “We were talking threats and extortion and the Marquis. Let's just you and me talk some business. Okay by you?”

  Nighthawk sipped his beer and considered the older man's offer. Finally he nodded his agreement. “It doesn't cost anything to listen.”

  “By the way, what's that ... uh ... thing on your knee?”

  “You should approve,” said Nighthawk. “It's called a Holy Roller.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Not much that I've been able to tell.”

  “That makes it holy, all right.”

  “I take it you're not enamoured of religion,” said Nighthawk.

  “Yeah, that's a pretty fair assessment of the situation.”

  “Have you always hated churches?”

  “Fact of the matter is that I used to be a minister,” said Father Christmas with a grin. “Spent sixteen years saving souls, and worshipping God, and avoiding the temptations of the flesh. You'd have been proud of me; I was what every mother wants her boy to grow up to be.”

  “So what happened?”

  “There was a young man in our church. Looked a lot like you, though he was no killer. Still, he got arrested for raping and killing a pair of sisters in the congregation. A lot of the evidence pointed to him, but he swore to me on his bible that he was innocent, and I believed him. So I did a little digging, and I found out that a surgeon, one of our wealthiest and most respected members, had actually committed the crime. Problem is, I didn't have any proof that would hold up in a court of law.”

  Father Christmas paused long enough to drain his beer glass. “So I figured, well, maybe I couldn't prove he was guilty to a court's satisfaction, but if I turned over all the facts to a good lawyer, he could at least give a jury a reasonable doubt that the young man had killed the girls.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Never got a chance to. Next day my superiors contacted me and told me to tend to the spiritual and leave the temporal to those whose domain it was. The bishop explained to me that if we dragged the surgeon's name through the muck, he'd stop making generous donations to the church. Others pointed out that the young man had been arrested for robbery a few years earlier, and his loss wouldn't mean much. Then, when they couldn't scare me off, the surgeon hired the most expensive lawyer on the planet, and within two days they'd filed fifteen motions against me. I couldn't talk about this, I couldn't do that, I couldn't appear here, I couldn't offer an opinion on such and so. They really tied me up, let me tell you.”