The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy Page 8

  “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?”

  “I'm as much a man as you are!” snapped Nighthawk heatedly.

  “If you weren't, I wouldn't worry about your doing something stupid because of Melisande.”

  The answer seemed to mollify Nighthawk, and he visibly relaxed.

  “Now that you've made up your mind not to kill me, get the hell out of here and go kill the person you're being paid to kill,” said the Marquis.

  Nighthawk nodded and got to his feet.

  “Cigar?”

  “I still haven't decided if I like them,” answered Nighthawk.

  “By the same token, you really can't know if you like blue-skinned ladies, can you?” asked the Marquis meaningfully.

  “Don't start on me again!” snapped Nighthawk. “There's more to me than just a killing machine!”

  “And you'll kill me to prove it?”

  Nighthawk glared at him for a moment, then turned and left the office.

  He hunted up Malloy, got into a spacesuit and found one for his companion. Then they made their way across the ice fields to the spaceport. Within an hour they were ensconced in the pilot's cabin of Nighthawk's ship, leaving Tundra behind them and heading for Yukon.

  “I hate traveling within a solar system!” complained Malloy, looking at a viewscreen. “It takes longer to go from one world to another than from one star to another.”

  “Can't do light speeds within a system,” answered Nighthawk. “You know that.”

  “Yeah, but I don't have to like it.”

  “Find some way to occupy yourself. Like telling me about Melisande, for instance.”

  “I found out what you wanted to know,” said Malloy. “She comes from Greenveldt.”

  “That's a Frontier world?”

  “Right.”

  “Are all the colonists on Greenveldt blue-skinned?” asked Nighthawk.

  Malloy shook his head. “She didn't evolve, she mutated.”

  “Explain.”

  “She's a sport—there's just one of her.”

  “I like that,” said Nighthawk.

  “You do? Why?”

  “Let's just say I have a certain compassion for people who are one of a kind.”

  “Then you ought to love Spanish Lace,” said Malloy. “There ain't ever been anyone like her.”

  Nighthawk checked his navigational computer and found that he had almost forty minutes before the ship entered Yukon's orbit. “We've got time,” he said. “Fill me in.”

  “Didn't the Marquis tell you?”

  “Just that she's moved in on his territory, and he wants her off.”

  “He didn't tell you that she's killed the last three men who had your job?”

  “No.”

  “Or that she's not quite human?”

  “Explain,” said Nighthawk.

  “She looks pretty much like a normal human woman,” said Malloy. “But I've heard stories about her. She's got powers that no human ever had.”

  “For instance?”

  “I don't know.”

  “So it could just be bullshit.”

  “If it was, would the Marquis’ last three hired guns be dead?”

  “Go on,” said Nighthawk. “I need details.”

  “Nobody knows any. She's robbed some banks back in the Oligarchy, I know that. And they say she killed Jumbo Willoughby with her bare hands. Oh, and there was that affair on Terrazane—”

  “What affair?”

  “Somebody blew up the whole parliament. Killed about three hundred men and women. Nobody ever proved anything, but they say it was her doing, that if she didn't set off the bomb herself she at least arranged for it to go off.”

  “She sounds interesting.”

  “What she is is deadly,” said Malloy devoutly.

  “Don't worry—you won't have to meet her.”

  “No way. I'll be at your side.”

  Nighthawk stared at him. “You don't have to.”

  “I don't care. I'm coming with you.”

  “I'd have thought you'd be happier keeping out of the line of fire.”

  “I'm supposed to wait in the ship or some bar, wondering who's going to come to meet me, you or the worst killer on the planet?” demanded Malloy. “No, thanks! First time a door or a hatch opened, I'd be wound so tight I'd probably explode.”

  “To hell with your reasons,” said Nighthawk. “I thank you for your loyalty.” He paused. “It's strange, but you're just about the only friend I've got.”

  “I'm not your friend,” said Malloy. Nighthawk started to protest, but Malloy raised his hand for silence. “But let's pretend that I am for a minute, so I can give you a piece of friendly advice.” Nighthawk stared silently at him, and he continued. “I know you've never had a mother or a family, and you've probably never even had a woman, let alone lived with one. I know you're probably looking for people to talk to and drink with at the same time you're hunting for victims. Well, let me tell you something, something the first Jefferson Nighthawk must have known to have lived so long: out here on the Frontier, you must never mistake self-interest for friendship. They're a harder breed out here than back in the Oligarchy. They came out here for a reason, and they stay out here for a reason, and friendship isn't it. So be as cordial as you like, Widowmaker, and most people will be cordial right back at you because of who you are and what you can do if you get mad at ‘em—but never think that a cordial overture out here will lead to friendship. If it leads to another day's survival, that's enough.”

  Nighthawk considered what Malloy said for a long moment, then shook his head. “I don't buy that. You're too cynical by half.”

  “You were created solely to kill people, and I'm cynical?” said Malloy sarcastically.

  “Killing is what I do,” said Nighthawk. “It's not what I am.”

  “Not yet,” agreed Malloy. “But you'll grow into it. Or die.”

  They fell silent for a few minutes, and then Malloy spoke again.

  “What's he paying you to go up against her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You're facing Spanish Lace for free?” demanded Malloy.

  “Not exactly,” answered Nighthawk. “He's paying me a ton of money to do a job. This is part of the job description. Probably today I'm being underpaid; yesterday and tomorrow I'll be overpaid. It evens out in the end.”

  “That depends on when the end comes,” noted Malloy.

  “If you can tell me what to prepare for, maybe it won't come too soon,” suggested Nighthawk.

&n
bsp; “I don't know her powers. I just know that a couple of times they had her dead to rights, but she's still alive and everyone who's ever tried to kill her is dead.”

  “Maybe she's just good with her weapons,” offered Nighthawk.

  Malloy shook his head again. “She's faced odds even you wouldn't face, Widowmaker.”

  “She comes of human stock. Just how many strange talents can she have?”

  “Enough,” said Malloy unhappily, as the ship entered Yukon's frigid atmosphere.

  7.

  The ship touched down in the city-state of New Siberia, which differed from its namesake only in that it was bigger, colder, and a few hundred thousand light-years away. Nighthawk and Malloy were about to exit the ship and take the heated tram to spaceport tower when a voice rang out through the ship.

  “Passports, please?”

  “When we get to Customs,” answered Nighthawk, staring at the young woman's face that had suddenly shown up on all the viewscreens.

  “This is Customs, sir,” she replied. “So few people come and go here that we found it more convenient to clear you before you leave your ship, rather than set up a permanent booth in the tower.”

  The two men held up their titanium passport cards for scanning.

  “Welcome to Yukon, Mr. Nighthawk. Welcome back to Yukon, Mr. Malloy. What is the purpose of your visit?”

  “Tourism,” said Nighthawk.

  “We don't have a tourist industry, Mr. Nighthawk.”

  “That's hardly my fault,” he said. “I plan to see such natural wonders as your lovely planet affords.”

  “I think you are here to gamble, Mr. Nighthawk,” continued the woman, oblivious to his answer.

  “You make it sound like it's against the law.”

  “Absolutely not. In fact, it is encouraged. I see that you have recently opened an account on Tundra. We can bill your account for a gambling license if you will give us permission.”

  “And you don't have tourist licenses, is that it?” asked Nighthawk with a smile.

  “Verbal permission will be sufficient,” she continued. “A holocopy of this conversation will be kept on file.”

  “You have my permission.”

  “I am sure you will enjoy your stay here, Mr. Nighthawk, and I wish you good luck at the gaming tables.” Pause. “Your purpose for visiting Yukon, Mr. Malloy?”

  “I'm with him.”

  “I cannot find any account bearing your name and voiceprint in either the Inner Frontier or the Oligarchy, Mr. Malloy,” she said. “How will you pay for your gambling license?”

  “Bill me,” interjected Nighthawk.

  “If you wish,” she said. “However, the laws of Yukon require me to tell you that the purchaser of a license is responsible for all debts incurred on that license.”

  “I see,” said Nighthawk. He paused for a moment. “Mr. Malloy will purchase his own license with cash when he finally reaches one of your casinos. Is that acceptable?”

  “Quite,” said the woman. “I should further point out that until he places a certain minimal amount on deposit here, any purchase he makes is payable in cash. In advance.”

  “He understands.”

  “I must hear him say it.”

  “I understand, I understand,” muttered Malloy.

  “Fine. You are each cleared to remain on Yukon for seven days. If you wish to go beyond the borders of New Siberia, the nation you are in, you will have to ask and receive permission from whichever country you plan to visit. If you wish to extend your vacations, please check in here again more than one Galactic Standard day before your current visa expires. Are there any further questions?”

  “Yes. Where can I find a map of New Siberia?”

  “Please wait ... A map has just been transferred to your ship's navigational computer.”

  “And how does one get around on New Siberia?”

  “There are powersleds for rent at the tower,” was the answer. “They are heated, and come with radar, a radio, and a three-day supply of food for a crew of six men.”

  “Do I need a crew of six?”

  “No. That is the maximum number a sled can transport at one time.”

  “Thank you,” said Nighthawk. “You've been most helpful.”

  The screen deactivated.

  “Bring up the map and find Spanish Lace,” Nighthawk ordered the computer. “We might as well see exactly where the hell we're going.”

  The computer threw the map on a viewscreen, then cross-indexed it against the planetary census, and suddenly a tiny spot, some forty miles distant, began blinking brightly.

  “Nearest city?” demanded Nighthawk.

  There was a blinking right next to the spaceport.

  “Nearest neighbor?”

  Another spot, some fifteen miles away, began blinking.

  “Off.”

  The screen went dark, and Malloy turned to Nighthawk. “She doesn't seem to like crowds.”

  “An understatement.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We rent a power sled and pay her a visit.”

  “She's got to have defenses,” said Malloy. “She'll know you're coming.”

  “Probably.”

  “Why not contact her from here? You could talk.”

  “I'm not being paid to talk.”

  “You're not being paid to get killed, either,” said Malloy.

  “I don't plan to.”

  “Neither did the three guys who went before you.”

  “If you're frightened—” began Nighthawk.

  “Of course I'm frightened!” snapped Malloy. “Only a crazy man wouldn't be frightened!”

  “Then stay here.”

  “What if she kills you?”

  “You've got more chance to get away if you're here than if you're standing next to me.”

  “Too cowardly,” said Malloy.

  “But you are a coward,” replied Nighthawk with a chuckle.

  “But I'm not blatant about it.”

  “In other words, you want to stay here, but you want a good reason to—one that will keep your self respect intact?”

  “Basically,” admitted Malloy.

  “All right. You don't know what powers she possesses, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Does anyone?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Then stay here and keep in radio and visual contact with me, and if she uses those powers to kill me, you can report what she's got to the Marquis. You might even get yourself a nice reward for that kind of information.”

  “You really think so?”

  Nighthawk smiled. “Not a chance. But you will be bringing him information he needs.”

  “Well, that's all fine and well for you,” said Malloy. “After all, you work for him. But I don't.”

  “Then don't go back to Tundra. Get as far away as you can and send him a subspace message offering to sell what you know.”

  “Now that makes sense!” said Malloy.

  “And it's more in keeping with your character,” added Nighthawk sardonically.

  “We can't all be heroes and killers,” said Malloy defensively. “Some of us are just normal men.” He looked at his scaled hands and arms and smiled ruefully. “Well, maybe not exactly normal,” he amended.

  Nighthawk donned a spacesuit, then began going through the ship's minimal stores.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Malloy. “You're already packing three different kinds of weapon.”

  “Four,” corrected Nighthawk. “I'm looking for an eye.”

  “You leave your eyes lying around in cabinets?” asked Malloy, confused.

  “A 360-degree camera,” explained Nighthawk. Suddenly he reached out and picked up a small, circular object, less than an inch in diameter. “Got it.”

  “That must be spy gear,” said Malloy. “I never saw anything like it before.”

  “I'll put it down on a chair or table,” said Nighthawk, ignoring his remark. “
It'll transmit a visual of the entire room it's in—walls, floor, ceiling, everything. The computer will receive the signal, sort out all the angles and images, and display something that makes sense to you.”

  “What if she's got a killer pet that eats it?”

  “Then you'll see what the inside of its digestive system looks like, and you'll have to sell your information to a exoveterinarian instead of the Marquis.” He paused. “I'll keep my communicator activated. If she hasn't got some way to nullify the signal, it should transmit everything we say.”

  “Are you sure you'd rather go alone?”

  “As a matter of fact, I'd much rather have company,” said Nighthawk, repressing a smile. “Give her two targets instead of just one.”

  “Damn it!” exploded Malloy. “You were supposed to say that you wanted to face her alone!”

  “I do, really. I just wanted to see your reaction.”

  “Cold-blooded killers aren't supposed to have a sense of humor,” muttered the little man.

  “Then I must be a hot-blooded killer.”

  “Let's just hope you're a long-lived one.”

  “One of me is.”

  Nighthawk left the ship, found a waiting tram, and got off at the tower, where he rented a heated powersled. It was a type with which he was unfamiliar, so he had the saleswoman program it for him.

  “You're sure these are the coordinates you want?” she asked.

  “Why not?”

  “I'll need a larger deposit,” she said apologetically. “Lots of people go out to the Ice Palace. Almost none of them come back.”

  “What happens to them?”

  “Beats me,” she said. “I don't know. I don't want to know. I just want a bigger deposit.”

  Nighthawk pressed his thumb against a contract rider that she produced.

  “You got any advice for someone going to the Ice Palace?” he asked while waiting for the thumbprint to be cleared and approved.

  “Don't believe your eyes.”

  “I don't think I understand,” said Nighthawk, as the computer approved his print.

  “She looks human, but she's not.”

  “What is she?”

  “If you survive and return the sled, maybe you can tell me,” said the woman.

  8.

  Nighthawk could see the Ice Palace from five miles away. It appeared, truly, to be a structure of snow and ice, blindingly white in the midday sun. There were huge turrets, crenelated walls, towers and ramps and balustrades, and literally millions of icicles hanging down from every section and structure. All that was missing was a moat, and he was sure it was only because it was too cold for water.