The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy

by Mike Resnick

  “Sounds like it,” Nighthawk agreed.

  “I went to the head of my church, back on Earth itself, and explained the situation. He promised to help me, and I went home—but when my ship landed, I found that his notion of helping was to transfer me to the Rim. And through a friend I had in his office, I learned that the surgeon had made a handsome donation to the church less than an hour before my transfer orders were written.”

  “So what did you do?” asked Nighthawk.

  “I bought a laser pistol and burnt a hole in the middle of the surgeon's chest. Then I killed my superior, broke into jail and let the young man loose, took every credit from every bank account the church possessed, plundered half a dozen churches on Earth, and declared war on all churches from that day forward. It's my experience that they're all a bunch of money-grubbing hypocrites who deserve any misfortune I visit upon them.”

  “Why the name?”

  “Father Christmas?” He smiled. “I declared my war on December 25 on Earth's calendar.”

  “So what?”

  “Once upon a time, before we went to the Galactic Standard calendar, that was the date on which they celebrated Christmas.” He paused. “I've been Father Christmas for fourteen years now. Never killed anyone who wasn't associated with a church, never robbed anything that wasn't owned by a church. You've got no argument with me, Nighthawk.”

  “Nobody's arguing.”

  “You're trying to exact tribute,” said Father Christmas. “That's got a religious feel to it.”

  “I have a feeling anything you don't like has a religious feel to it.”

  “You put your finger on it, all right,” said Father Christmas with a smile. “The Marquis wants half of what I have in my hold, right?”

  “Right.”

  “How much of that will he give to you?”

  Nighthawk shrugged. “I don't know. Probably nothing.”

  “Probably, my ass,” retorted Father Christmas. “You know you'll never see a credit of it.”

  “Okay, I'll never see a credit of it.”

  “Let me leave in peace and I'll give you ten percent. You won't even have to report it to him. Just tell him I never set down on Aladdin.”

  “He'll know you did.”

  “Tell him any damned thing you please,” said Father Christmas irritably. “Do you know how much 10% of what I'm carrying comes to?”

  “A lot.”

  “You bet your ass!” he said emphatically. “Do we have a deal?”

  “He'd know.”

  “All right, then. Come to work for me, and it'll be a down payment.”

  “Robbing churches and killing ministers?”

  “And priests,” added Father Christmas. “I wouldn't want it said that I was bigoted.”

  “God's not my enemy.”

  “He's everyone's enemy!” snapped Father Christmas, his eyes glowing with a private passion. “It's just that most people live their lives without knowing it.”

  Nighthawk shook his head. “Your god is a biblical deity with a long flowing white beard. I've met mine. He wears a lab coat and has a neatly-trimmed brown beard ... and I don't have any desire to kill him. I'm after the devil.”

  “How will you spot your devil?” asked Father Christmas. “If he doesn't have horns and a tail, what does he look like?”

  “Just like me,” said Nighthawk. He paused thoughtfully. “Have you got any help on that ship of yours?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “I never plan to work alone,” admitted Father Christmas, “but that's the way it usually ends up.”

  “They desert you?”

  “Or I desert them. It depends on the circumstances.”

  “Then why should I even consider working for you?” asked Nighthawk.

  “I'm offering to pay you so much I'd have to keep you around. Couldn't let that kind of money loose in the galaxy; some of it might end up in a church.”

  The Holy Roller somehow bounced and rolled up to Nighthawk's shoulder and perched there, purring gently. He reached up and rubbed it gently. “I'm not going to come to work for you,” he said after a moment's consideration, “but I'll tell you what I am going to do: I'm giving you a pass.”

  “You mean I'm free to get my fuel and leave?”

  “That's right.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe I like meeting a dedicated man, and I don't much care what he's dedicated to.”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it,” said Father Christmas. “As you yourself pointed out, the Marquis will know we've met. If you let me leave with my cargo intact, he'll probably kill you.”

  “He'll try, anyway,” agreed Nighthawk.

  “You want him to?”

  She'll never come away with me if I call him out and murder him. But if I kill him in self-defense...

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Pity you won't come with me,” said Father Christmas, extending his hand. “I could use a man like you.”

  As Nighthawk reached out and clasped the outlaw's hand in his own, the alien desk clerk approached them, a pistol in his hand and a small miniaturized receiver in the other.

  “I regret to inform you that the Marquis foresaw this possible turn of events, and commissioned me to spy upon you and take the appropriate action if it became apparent that Mr. Nighthawk was going to ignore his duty.”

  Slowly, leisurely, he aimed the pistol between Nighthawk's eyes. He was only a fraction of a second from squeezing the trigger when the Holy Roller went berserk.

  13.

  At first Nighthawk thought it was simply a shrill whistle. But it continued, and got louder, and higher, and louder still, and suddenly he couldn't think clearly. He doubled over and clasped his hands to his ears. Father Christmas fell out of his chair and rolled on the floor, also holding his ears. The alien fired his pistol, but he was in such sense-destroying agony that the laser beams burned two holes in the ceiling, and then the gun fell to the floor. The alien began shrieking. Droplets of blood appeared in his ears and nostrils and soon became gushing streams. Still the Holy Roller's whistle continued.

  Nighthawk realized through a haze of pain that the Roller was actually able to direct the force of its whistling, that as painful as it was, he and Father Christmas were not bearing the brunt of it. Glasses near the alien began shattering, bottles burst, the alien kept screaming and bleeding, and finally collapsed in a heap on the floor. Instantly the Holy Roller went back to purring and rubbing up against Nighthawk.

  “That's some pet you've got there,” said Father Christmas groggily, rising to one knee and staring at the Roller. “It sure packs a wallop.”

  “It does, doesn't it?” said Nighthawk, still trying to focus his eyes.

  He waited until all his senses were working properly again, then got up, walked over, and examined the alien. It was dead.

  “That gonna get you in a mess of trouble with the authorities?” asked Father Christmas.

  “He was probably the closest thing to an authority this world had,” said Nighthawk, gesturing toward the dead alien.

  Suddenly two servo-mechs entered the room.

  “Clean the broken glass,” ordered Nighthawk. “Leave the body alone until I tell you what to do with it.”

  They immediately went to work straightening up the room, with special attention to the shards of glass.

  “Well,” said Father Christmas, “it's obvious that the Marquis doesn't put a lot of trust in you, and when his stooge doesn't report back he's going to figure out that you killed it.”

  “I didn't; the Holy Roller did.”

  “Same difference. Who do you think he's going to blame—you or an alien animal that looks like a kid's doll and purrs all the time?” Father Christmas smiled. “If it was me, I'd pack my belongings right quick and start considering finding employment elsewhere. I'll still take you on, of course, but I have a feeling not too many other people in this section of the Frontier will once word gets out that the Marquis
is looking for you.”

  “He won't have far to look,” answered Nighthawk. “I'm going back to Tundra.”

  “Without any part of my cargo?”

  “I told you—you're free to go.”

  “But the situation has changed,” noted Father Christmas. “Now you've got a dead spy on your hands.”

  “I'll say you killed him.”

  “And you just stood by while I walked away?” asked Father Christmas.

  The Holy Roller began bouncing again, while still purring, and finally bounced high enough to settle on Nighthawk's shoulder. He reached over and petted it without thinking, and the fluffball began purring so loudly that it sounded like an engine.

  “You have a point,” admitted Nighthawk. “I suppose I'll just have to tell him the truth.”

  “Thereby guaranteeing that he kills you.”

  “Guaranteeing that he'll try, anyway. It's a little sooner than I'd anticipated, but it was bound to happen. It might as well be now.” The servo-mechs had finished sucking up the glass shards and now approached him for more orders. “Take the body to its office, lock the doors, and wait there for further orders,” said Nighthawk. The machines left the bar, returned a moment later with a cart, placed the alien onto it, and took it away.

  “None of this is necessary,” said Father Christmas. “Just come away with me and forget about the Marquis.”

  “It's not the Marquis I can't forget,” replied Nighthawk wryly. “He's just an obstacle.”

  “So it's a woman!” said Father Christmas with a grin. “But then, it always is at your age.”

  “It's a woman,” admitted Nighthawk.

  “She belongs to him?”

  “People shouldn't belong to anybody.”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Father Christmas. “It's against all the laws of God and man.” He looked sharply at Nighthawk. “And you'd like her to belong to you.”

  Nighthawk nodded. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “So you need an excuse to kill the Marquis.”

  “Right. But...”

  “But?”

  “But he's been decent to me. He made me his second in command, he's trusted me...”

  “He didn't trust you to kill me, did he?” noted Father Christmas. “If he had, we wouldn't have a dead alien on our hands.”

  “That's true,” said Nighthawk, frowning. “But he knows what I am, and it doesn't bother him. He treats me like anyone else.”

  “You look like anyone else to me,” said Father Christmas. “What are you?”

  “I'm a clone.”

  “Ah! You are the Widowmaker reborn, risen from the ashes!”

  “He's not dead.”

  “He must be. He'd be 150 years old.”

  “He's been in the deep freeze for the past century.”

  “Let me think about this,” said Father Christmas. “He's alive, but he's frozen. They spent a lot of money and took a lot of risks to make a clone. Why would he freeze himself? Probably a lot of reasons. Disease. An enemy he couldn't handle. He invested a bundle of money at a good return, and hopes to be worth billions when he wakes up.” He paused, considering all the possibilities. “But if it was an enemy, he could wake up now. He wouldn't need a clone. If it was money, he definitely wouldn't want the potential legal hassle of sharing it with a clone. But if it was a disease...” He frowned. “But why a clone?”

  “Costs have gone up.”

  “Of course,” said Father Christmas. “He's been paying for the deep freeze with interest from his investments. As expenses increased, they had to dip into capital, and suddenly they're facing a situation where he won't have enough money to stay frozen. So they created you...” He frowned again. “But what are you doing, working for the Marquis? If it's money they need, you should be here on an assignment. Gun down some killer, collect the reward, and return to wherever they're keeping the original Widowmaker.”

  “I'm working on it. Kind of. Things have become very complicated.”

  “Will killing the Marquis make it easier for you? Is he the one you're after?”

  “No. He knows who I'm after, but so far he hasn't been willing to tell me.”

  “I imagine he won't be very willing, and even less able, after you've killed him.”

  “I've thought about it,” said Nighthawk. “I'll claim he was the man I was after, take the reward, and...” He paused, momentarily lost in thought.

  “And send it back to the Widowmaker?” suggested Father Christmas.

  “No. I'll take it back to Deluros myself.”

  “Deluros? That's halfway across the galaxy. Why not send it?”

  “I've got to deliver it in person.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I'm probably the only man alive who can kill him,” answered Nighthawk.

  “I thought you said he was sick.”

  “I don't know if I can handle him once he's healthy. He's a killer by choice; I'm one by necessity.”

  “Comes to the same thing in the end,” said Father Christmas.

  A middle-aged man, his luggage hanging from his shoulder by a strap, entered the lobby of the hotel. When no one came to greet him, he wandered over to the bar and froze when he saw the still-wet bloodstains on the floor. Nighthawk and Father Christmas stared coldly at him, and after a moment he retreated without a word, backing up until he careened off the front desk. Then he raced out the front door.

  “Well, son,” said Father Christmas, “I think we'd better take our leave of this place.”

  Nighthawk began walking toward the door. The Holy Roller chirped in surprise, then bounced down to the floor and positioned itself about eighteen inches away from Nighthawk's left boot.

  “I have no reason to stay,” Nighthawk said, walking around the bloodstains and out into the lobby. He turned to Father Christmas. “Where are you heading?”

  Father Christmas shrugged. “I don't know. Might be interesting to see if there are any religious goods worth stealing from Tundra.”

  Nighthawk looked at him, surprised.

  “I've taken a liking to you,” continued Father Christmas. “And I never did have much use for the Marquis. We thieves are supposed to stick together, not extort each other when we stop for a little fuel.”

  “You have half a dozen police ships on your tail,” noted Nighthawk. “They're only a few hours behind you.”

  “I'll transfer all my goods to your ship,” said Father Christmas. “With our alien friend dead, I'm not likely to find someone to enrich my ship's pile in the next hour anyway. Let ‘em do whatever they want to my ship.”

  “I don't want to be responsible for your loot,” said Nighthawk.

  “Nobody's asking you to,” said Father Christmas. “In fact, I'd deeply resent it.” He paused. “Time's running short. Can I use your ship or not?”

  Nighthawk considered it for a moment, then nodded his head. “I'm taking the Roller, too.”

  “Can't say that I blame you. Damned thing's more effective than most weapons I could name.”

  “I wish I knew what it ate,” said Nighthawk as he walked out the front door of the hotel. “I'd like to take some along.”

  “It doesn't seem to have a mouth,” observed Father Christmas. “Why not assume that it ingests through osmosis. Give it nice things to rub against and it'll do just fine.”

  “What constitutes nice things?”

  “You,” suggested Father Christmas with a smile.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I've seen animals with no ingestion orifices on other worlds, a couple of ‘em. They feed by osmosis. Figure this critter probably kills small animals by draining the life force from them. You're too big for it to hurt, so it feeds off your energy when it gets hungry, and keeps you alive for future meals by killing off your enemies.”

  “You might be right,” said Nighthawk. He stared down at the Roller. “But I liked it better when I thought it was protecting me because it cared for me.”

  “Maybe it does. I'm j
ust guessing.”

  “I wonder if it'll even go into my ship,” said Nighthawk. “Maybe it'll decide it would rather stay here.”

  “Not a chance,” said Father Christmas.

  “Why not?”

  “If we were back in my preacher days, I'd say that the Holy Roller—especially with a name like that—is a sign from God.”

  “A sign?”

  “That you're protected. If God hadn't supplied you with an alien entity that can't think and can't talk but nonetheless decided to attach itself to you, you'd be dead back there in the hotel. It means God had other plans for you.”

  “Like killing the Marquis?”

  “Who knows?”

  Or spending my life with the Pearl of Maracaibo?

  “You're the preacher,” said Nighthawk. “How will I know when I've accomplished what God had in mind for me?”

  “Easy,” answered Father Christmas. “Once you've done what you're supposed to do, your little fluffball here will stop protecting you.”

  As if to emphasize that it wasn't ready to part company yet, the Roller began purring loudly and bounced up to Nighthawk's shoulder again.

  14.

  Lizard Malloy looked up from his game of solitaire and saw Nighthawk and Father Christmas approaching him.

  “Welcome back,” said the leather-skinned little man. “Who's your friend?”

  “Call me Kris,” said Father Christmas.

  Malloy suddenly stared at the Holy Roller. “You know you're being followed by something round and yellow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I assume it's alive, but I can't see any eyes or ears or anything like that.”

  “It's alive,” said Nighthawk. “Where's the Marquis?”

  “It's pretty late,” replied Malloy. “I think he and the Pearl have gone off to bed.”

  Nighthawk tensed, but made no reply.