The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy

by Mike Resnick

  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.

  “You're not going to be too proud to let me pay, are you?” demanded Marquis.

  “I like it when other people pay,” said Nighthawk.

  “Good,” said the Marquis. “We're going to get along fine.”

  “We've made a pretty good start, haven't we?”

  The Marquis threw back his head and guffawed. “You've got a fine sense of humor, Jefferson Nighthawk!” Suddenly he hurled the beer mug at Nighthawk's head. It split his forehead open and careened off.

  Nighthawk almost dropped to his knees, but managed to hang onto the bar with one hand. He saw a kick coming, and just managed to grab a floating barstool to protect himself. The Marquis bellowed in rage as the stool upset his balance; the huge man's head bounced off the bar, and his knees were suddenly wobbly.

  Nighthawk wiped away the blood that was pouring down into his eyes and cautiously closed in for the kill. He landed a left, two rights, and a chop to the shoulder that deadened the Marquis’ arm. He was so intent on putting the Marquis away that he didn't see the huge thumb coming for his ear until it was too late. A million bells chimed inside his head, and suddenly he had difficulty keeping his balance.

  He sensed that the Marquis was coming toward him, but all he could do was spin crazily to his left, extend his arms, and hope for the best. He felt the edge of his hand chop across the Marquis’ neck, and then he was grabbing the bar again, trying desperately to stay on his feet.

  He waited for the Marquis’ final charge, wondered what form it would take, wondered if he would even be able to see it coming ... but for a moment nothing happened.

  Then the Marquis laughed again. “By God, Jefferson Nighthawk, I do believe you're as tough as you think you are!”

  Suddenly Nighthawk felt a powerful arm supporting him.

  “We'll have another drink, and then we'll go to my office and talk business.” The Marquis paused and looked out at the crowd. “From this minute forward, this man works for me and speaks for me. An insult to him is an insult to me, and if anyone cheats him in any way, they've cheated me. Is that clear?”

  The crowd reaction—total silence, and a number of bitter glances—told him that it may not have been popular, but it was clear.

  “What about my friend?” asked Nighthawk, indicating Lizard Malloy.

  “I'm feeling generous today,” answered the Marquis. He turned to Malloy. “Listen to me, you little swindler: you return my money before you leave the casino, and maybe I'll let you live. You take one step outside before I get what's mine, you're dead meat. Do you understand?”

  “What's this ‘maybe’ shit?” demanded Malloy. “If I give you your money, I get to walk.”

  The Marquis turned to a burly bearded man. “Kill him.”

  “Wait a minute!” shrilled Malloy. “Wait a minute. It's a deal!”

  The man aimed his weapon at Malloy and looked at the Marquis.

  “You're sure it's a deal?” asked the Marquis. “I mean, I do admire bravery in a man.”

  “It's a deal,” repeated Malloy, deflated.

  The Marquis nodded, and the gunman put his weapon away.

  “And now, my friend,” said the Marquis, turning to Nighthawk, “let's go enjoy the comfort and privacy of my office.”

  “If your furniture's any good, maybe we'd better stop bleeding first,” suggested Nighthawk.

  “Good idea,” said the Marquis. He pulled a banknote out of his pocket and slapped it on the bar. “Fifty credits says I stop before you do.”

  Nighthawk matched the bet. “You're on.”

  The Marquis grinned again. “Jefferson, my boy, I have the feeling that this is the beginning of a beautiful working relationship.”

  5.

  The Marquis of Queensbury's office reflected its owner's tastes. The furniture was rugged, built for large, muscular men. The bar was well-stocked. There was a glass-enclosed room filled with boxes of cigars from all over the galaxy. Music—human music—was piped in. A reinforced window offered a view of Klondike. Paintings and holographs of human and alien nudes, far more provocative than those in the bar, hung on the walls or floated just in front of them. A trio of display cases held jeweled alien artifacts.

  As they sat down, the huge man looked intently at Nighthawk for a long moment, trying to see past the blood and the swellings.

  “You're a clone, aren't you?” he asked at last.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so!”

  “It was the name, right?”

  The Marquis shook his head. “No. Out here people change names like they change clothes. There are probably a dozen Jefferson Nighthawks on the Frontier.”

  “Then...?”

  “There are other ways of telling. For one thing, I've seen holos of the Widowmaker.” He paused. “I've never seen a clone before. I find that more interesting than whose clone you happen to be.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. For example, how old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Not physically, but actually?”

  Nighthawk sighed. “Three months.”

  The Marquis grinned. “I thought so!” He continued to stare at Nighthawk. “What's it like to have no past, no memories?”

  “I have them,” answered Nighthawk. “They're just not my own.”

  “Whose are they?”

  Nighthawk shrugged. “I've no idea.”

  “Who trained you? The original?”

  “No, he's dying from some disease he picked up more than a century ago. He was in his forties when he contracted it, and he was 62 when it finally disabled him.”

  “Frozen?”

  Nighthawk nodded. “On Deluros VIII.”

  “Let me see if I can put it together,” said the Marquis. “Someone had a job for the Widowmaker. Somehow they knew he was alive, but when they tried to find him, they discovered that he was frozen. Probably they knew it up front, since he'd be well over a century old. But old or not, he was supposed to be the best, and they wanted him anyway—so they bribed every well-placed official they needed in exchange for a clone.”

  “That's about it.”

  “Oh, no, there's more,” continued the Marquis. “Why are you here, at this place, at this time? Well, it could be that you're after one of my men—but the message you sent was for me, not for them. So why are you after me? What crime have I committed that's so important they cloned the Widowmaker?”

  “You're doing pretty well so far. What's the answer?”

  “Easy. You're obviously here to hunt down Winslow Trelaine's killer.”

  “That's right.”

  “Well, I didn't kill him,” said the Marquis. “Hell, I liked him. He left me alone, I left him alone. We had an understanding.”

  “An understanding?”

  “He and Hernandez let me plunder the planet six ways to Sunday in exchange for a few favors.”

  “But you know who did kill him—and who paid for it?”

  “It's possible,” said the Marquis easily. “I know a lot of things.”

  “So why not tell me?”

>   The Marquis chuckled. “If I told you other people's secrets, you'd never trust me with your own.”

  “I don't plan to, anyway.” Nighthawk paused. “So what happens now?”

  “What happens?” repeated the Marquis, leaning back on his chair, which floated gently just above the floor. “Back in the casino you offered to come to work for me, remember? We're negotiating your contract right now. I don't give a damn what brought you here. I need a good lieutenant; there's none better than the Widowmaker.”

  “I'm not the Widowmaker. I'm me.”

  “Same thing.”

  “It's not,” protested Nighthawk. “He's not even a man any more. His skin is covered with a hideous disease, and he's more than a hundred years old. He's a thing that used to be Jefferson Nighthawk.”

  “And you're a laboratory creation, three months out of the test tube,” said the Marquis. “So what? I prefer to think of you both as men.”

  Nighthawk grimaced. Thoughts about his own relationship to humanity made him uncomfortable.

  The Marquis lit up a thin cigar imported from distant Antarres III. An ashtray sensed the smoke and floated over to hover just beside his hand.

  “Care for one?” he asked, offering a cigar to Nighthawk.

  “I don't know. I can't remember.”

  “Try one. It's the only way to find out.”

  Nighthawk agreed, accepted a cigar, and lit up. He decided he would have to try a few more before he knew if he liked them.

  “Anyway,” continued the Marquis, “what the hell do you owe those people back on Deluros? If they didn't want something, you wouldn't be here. You're not legal anyway; it's a felony to clone a human, so they broke a bunch of laws just to make you. You catch their man for them, they'll probably hire you out again or turn you into a vat of protoplasm; either way you haven't got much of a future to look forward to.”

  “What kind of future are you offering me?” asked Nighthawk.

  “The very best,” answered the Marquis with a smile. “Skip being a man altogether. Go right from test tube to kingship! I control eleven worlds already; by the time I'm through, I'll have an empire of 25 worlds, maybe 30. You'll be my major domo. You want a couple of worlds of your own, just prove your worth to me and they're yours.”