The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy

by Mike Resnick

  “Well, I'd like a drink,” said Father Christmas. “You mind if we join you?”

  “Ask him,” said Malloy, indicating Nighthawk. “He's the boss.”

  “Sit,” said Nighthawk, pulling out a chair and seating himself. The Holy Roller chirped happily and bounced up to his shoulder, where it settled down to do some serious purring.

  “What the hell is it?” asked Malloy.

  “Just a pet.”

  “Looks harmless,” offered Father Christmas, suppressing a smile.

  “Absolutely,” said Nighthawk.

  Malloy looked at it suspiciously for a long moment, then shrugged.

  “When can we figure on meeting the Marquis?” asked Father Christmas.

  “You know him, Kris?” asked Malloy.

  “I know of him,” replied Father Christmas. “I'd like to meet him. And I have a feeling that it's reciprocal.”

  “Well, once his lady is bedded down for the night, he usually comes back here for a nightcap,” offered Malloy. “Stick around awhile and you'll probably run into him, or vice versa.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Father Christmas.

  “And he'll probably want a report from you,” added Malloy to Nighthawk. “Did everything go smoothly?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Did you get the money, or did you have to kill him?”

  “I've got his entire haul in my cargo hold.”

  “Then you killed him?”

  “No.”

  Malloy looked puzzled. “I thought this Father Christmas was a big time Bad Guy. What kind of crook gives you everything he's got without a fight?”

  “One who wants to live to see the next morning,” suggested Nighthawk.

  “I happen to know Father Christmas intimately,” added Father Christmas, “and I guarantee that he would do almost anything to avoid a physical conflict with young Nighthawk here. Or with the Marquis, for that matter.”

  “Too bad,” said Malloy. “The name was so interesting, I kind of hoped a really interesting crook went with it.”

  “Oh, he's fascinating beyond belief,” said Father Christmas. “I never tire of talking about him.”

  “Well, you'll have to fill me in on him, Kris,” said Malloy. “Only later.”

  “I'm happy to do it right now.”

  “I don't think so,” said Malloy, looking across the huge casino toward the large man who was approaching him. “Here comes our lord and master. It'll have to wait.”

  “That's the Marquis?”

  “Big, ain't he?”

  The Marquis of Queensbury strode up to the table. “Welcome back, Widowmaker,” he said. “I hear you had a little problem.”

  “No problem at all,” answered Nighthawk.

  “You shot the wrong man, you asshole!” bellowed the Marquis.

  “I didn't shoot anyone, and he wasn't a man, he was an alien.”

  “All I know is that I told him to keep an eye on you, and suddenly he's dead and Father Christmas’ ship is empty and you're sitting here with a stranger and some kind of idiot animal and telling me that everything is okay. So you'll have to excuse me if I seem a little out of sorts, but I don't think everything is okay.”

  “I've got Father Christmas’ entire haul in my ship,” said Nighthawk.

  “Oh?” said the Marquis, genuinely surprised. “You killed him?”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn't.”

  “You mean he just let you empty his ship and move all his cargo to yours?” asked the Marquis sardonically.

  “No,” said Nighthawk.

  “I knew it.”

  “He helped me,” continued Nighthawk.

  The Marquis looked from Nighthawk to Father Christmas. Finally he turned to face the latter. “Father Christmas, I presume.”

  “You certainly do. Imagine trying to extort 50% for the privilege of refueling.”

  “What are you doing here?” demanded the Marquis.

  “I wanted to see what kind of thief robs his fellow thieves,” answered Father Christmas.

  “You're looking at him,” said the Marquis with no display of embarrassment. “And I'm looking at a man who robs the deeply religious. Which of us do you suppose has more demerits in the Book of Fate?”

  “It'd be a close call,” said Father Christmas.

  “You'd win in a walk,” said the Marquis firmly.

  “I would, if it was written by the same hypocrites who wrote the bible and the church services,” agreed Father Christmas. “Fortunately, they don't speak for God.”

  “And you do?”

  “God doesn't need my help. I'm just a stopgap, until He Himself razes the temples to the ground.”

  “Temples? I thought you robbed churches.”

  “A poetic flourish,” replied Father Christmas. “Actually, I rob any religious institution I come across.”

  “I know. And now you've presented me with a serious ethical problem,” said the Marquis.

  “I have?”

  The Marquis nodded. “I've never stopped you from practicing your profession. You've robbed churches on my worlds, and I've never lifted a finger against you. But now you've taken advantage of my hospitality on Aladdin without paying for it, and one of my most trusted employees is dead. Hell, for all I know, you've corrupted the Widowmaker here.” He uttered a mock-theatrical sigh. “What am I to do with you, Father Christmas?”

  “Well, the way I see it, you have three choices,” answered Father Christmas. “First, you can kill me. That would unquestionably make you feel better—but I suppose it's only fair to tell you that I rigged the cargo hold on Nighthawk's ship, and if you try to remove any of my treasure without knowing the proper codes, you'll blow up the ship and everything in it. Second, you can let me go, but I don't want to go, and I probably wouldn't avail myself of the opportunity.”

  The Marquis stared thoughtfully at him, more amused than outraged.

  “And third?”

  “Third, you can use your brain and offer to become my partner. There are thousands of churches on the Frontier, millions back in the Oligarchy. We could die of old age before we've plundered two percent of them.”

  “Why should I want to rob churches?” asked the Marquis.

  “Because you're a thoroughly corrupt man, and there's a fortune to be made,” answered Father Christmas.

  “I rule eleven worlds already, and I influence twenty more,” said the Marquis. “That's 31 worlds under my sole control. Why should I need a partner?”

  “Because you want what every corrupt man wants.”

  “And what is that?” asked the Marquis.

  “More,” said Father Christmas.

  “True,” admitted the Marquis. “But if robbing churches won't make me any less corrupt, then I'll always want more.”

  “You always will,” agreed Father Christmas. “That's why men like us never retire.”

  “And you only rob churches, right?”

  “Who else forgives you for your misdeeds and prays for your soul?”

  “Do I detect a note of cynicism?” asked the Marquis with a grin.

  “Absolutely not,” said Father Christmas earnestly. “Back on Earth—and I have plundered some of its finest churches, including Notre Dame and the Vatican—there is an insect called the ant. It lives in colonies, and is very industrious. It builds small mounds and creates incredibly complex passageways and food chambers and nurseries just beneath the surface. It takes days, sometimes weeks, to create these anthills ... and yet you can destroy them in seconds, with the toe of your boot. And do you know what the ants do then?”

  “Attack you?”

  “No,” answered Father Christmas. “They go right back to work rebuilding the mound.”

  “And you're saying churches are like anthills?”

  “Only in this respect: they don't seek revenge once you've plundered them. They rebuild with all the industry of ants. It is counter to their philosophy to blame the thief. They prefer to consider me an
agent of God, Who for reasons unknown to them is punishing them. It would make much more sense to think of me as the devil incarnate, but they don't really want to believe in a devil. It's easier to blame God, and hence their own sinful lives, for what I do without conscience or ethical consideration. And when disaster—meaning myself—strikes, they go about their business like the ants, rebuilding so that I can plunder them again.”

  Suddenly a huge smile spread across the Marquis’ face. “I like you!” he exclaimed.

  “Why shouldn't you?” asked Father Christmas. “I'm very likeable.”

  “I think we can reach an agreement,” continued the Marquis.

  “Give me safe passage and asylum and I'll give you twenty percent,” said Father Christmas.

  The Marquis shoved Malloy out of his chair and sat down on it. “Take a walk,” he said. “We're about to talk business.”

  Malloy, obviously feeling insulted, got up and left the table.

  The Marquis turned back to Father Christmas. “Twenty percent isn't even worth talking about,” he said. “Now, here's my proposal, my friend. You tell me what worlds you plan to hit. I'll supply you with all the firepower you need, and I'll give you safe haven on any world within my sphere of influence, for, shall we say, half?”

  “I thought half was your criminal extortion rate, not your very best offer to possible partners,” said Father Christmas. “I'll agree to it for, shall we say, a quarter?”

  The Marquis turned to Nighthawk. “You brought back a good man, Jefferson Nighthawk. I really like him.” He stared at Father Christmas. “In fact, I like you so much I'll do it for a third.”

  “Like me a little less and take thirty percent,” said Father Christmas with a grin.

  “What the hell, why not?” said the Marquis, sticking out his huge hand and shaking Father Christmas's much smaller one. “You've got a deal.”

  “Well, it's nice to be in business with you,” said Father Christmas. “I think this calls for a little celebration. I'll treat for a bottle of your finest Cygnian cognac.”

  “I'll go get some from the bar,” said the Marquis, getting up.

  The Marquis of Queensbury returned a moment later with the bottle and some oddly-shaped glasses on a glowing tray. He opened the bottle with a flourish, and carelessly filled each of their glasses, splashing some of the expensive cognac onto the tray and table.

  “To friendship, partnership, and success,” he said in a loud voice.

  “To friendship, partnership, and success,” echoed Father Christmas.

  “And to death,” added Nighthawk.

  “Death?” repeated the Marquis curiously.

  “In our business, how else will you know you've succeeded?” asked Nighthawk.

  “True,” agreed the Marquis after a moment's thought. “To death.”

  “May it visit our enemies first, and ourselves not at all,” intoned Father Christmas.

  If I work it right, thought Nighthawk, that toast just may come true.

  15.

  Nighthawk sat at the bar, next to Lizard Malloy, staring at the Pearl of Maracaibo in rapt fascination. His drink was untouched, his thin cigar had gone out. The Holy Roller sat motionless on the bar, an inch from his left hand.

  Father Christmas walked into the casino, spotted him, and walked over. He looked up at the undulating, nearly-nude blue-skinned girl with a bored expression, ordered a drink, and turned to Nighthawk.

  “Close your mouth,” he said. “You never know what might fly into it.”

  “Shut up,” said Nighthawk, never taking his eyes off the dancing girl.

  “Just trying to be helpful,” said Father Christmas with a shrug. He nodded a greeting to Malloy, waited for his drink to arrive, took a sip, and reached out to pet the Roller, which allowed him to touch it but displayed neither interest nor pleasure, refusing to purr or move closer to him.

  Finally the performance was over and Melisande vanished backstage.

  “Never interrupt me when I'm watching her,” said Nighthawk, finally turning to Father Christmas.

  “She won't vanish if you take the time to say hello to a friend,” replied Father Christmas. He got to his feet. “Come on over to a booth. It's more comfortable, and I'm an old man with all kinds of aches and pains.”

  Nighthawk and Malloy picked up their drinks and followed him. The Roller chirped twice, then bounced to the floor and soon caught up with them. When they reached a booth and sat down, it came to rest on the toe of Nighthawk's boot.

  “You spend a lot of time watching her,” noted Father Christmas.

  “What's it to you?”

  “He's in love,” said Malloy with a smirk.

  “Have either of you got anything useful to say?” demanded Nighthawk irritably.

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” replied Father Christmas. “You know, you'd be immature even if you were as old as you look, and I happen to know you're a good deal younger than that.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “The point, my young friend, is that you're in the throes of first love. You're not going to want to hear this, but trust me: you'll get over it.”

  “I don't want to get over it.”

  Malloy grinned. “They never do.”

  “Now, I know you won't believe this,” said Father Christmas, “but girls like her are a credit a crate. Any Tradertown has a hundred just like her.”

  “There's no one like her!” snapped Nighthawk.

  “She's the two T's, kid—trouble and trash.”

  “Be careful what you say,” replied Nighthawk ominously. “You may be a friend, but there's a limit to what I'll let even a friend say about her.”

  “Listen to him,” urged Malloy, enjoying Nighthawk's discomfort. “You don't know it yet, but there are a lot of women who look even better.”

  “And a handful who are even less trustworthy,” added Father Christmas.

  “What do you mean—less trustworthy?”

  “I've seen her type,” said Father Christmas. “They're drawn to power the way you're drawn to a good-looking girl.”

  “So I'll prove I'm more powerful than he is.”

  “You don't understand. I said power, not physical prowess. If it's not the Marquis, it'll be some millionaire or politician or something. Never an outsider like you or me.”

  “You're wrong,” said Nighthawk stubbornly. “I can make her care for me.”

  “How? By killing her protector?”

  “Oh, she'd love that,” said Malloy sardonically.

  “If it's a protector she wants, I can protect her better than he can.”

  “From outlaws, yes. From economic recessions, I doubt it.” Father Christmas paused. “Let her go, Jefferson. All she is, all she'll ever be, is bad news. Believe me; I'm not an involved party.”

  “You don't understand,” said Nighthawk. “I love her.”

  “You've been alive four months, and you've found the only woman in the galaxy that you can love?” chuckled Malloy.

  “Doesn't that seem just a little far-fetched, even to you?” added Father Christmas.

  “She's what I want.”

  “I know. I'm just suggesting that you are not what she wants.”

  “What do either of you know about it?” demanded Nighthawk. “He's a repulsive little freak, and you're a wrinkled old man! When did you ever love anyone?”

  “You think being old and gray-haired and wrinkled stops you from falling in love?” asked Father Christmas with a chuckle. “Just because you don't appeal to nubile 20-year-old women any more doesn't mean they don't appeal to you.” He paused. “But if age has made you any wiser, you realize that there's a big difference between wanting them, which is acceptable, and loving them, which must be done with judgment and discretion. Especially when you have as many enemies as I do, or as you will if you live to be my age.”

  “Did you come all the way over here from the hotel just to give me a lecture on women?”

  “No, though it's obvious you n
eed one,” said Father Christmas. He paused and stared at Malloy. “I think it's time we considered our next career move.”

  Nighthawk turned to Malloy. “Go to the bar. The drink's on me.”

  “Damn it!” snapped Malloy. “I'm sick of everyone always trying to get rid of me!”

  “I've got business to discuss with Father Christmas,” said Nighthawk.

  “You think this place isn't wired for sight and sound?” demanded Malloy. “Or that it's not making a permanent record of everything you say so that the Marquis can watch and listen to it later?”

  “Go away.”

  “Some fucking friend you are!” muttered Malloy.

  Nighthawk stared at him coldly. “You are no longer under my protection. We owe each other nothing from this moment on.”

  “Big deal! He gives me back my life. Hallelujah.” Malloy glared at him. “I don't want the goddamned thing back! As long as it belonged to you, people left me alone and I got to stay alive. If word gets out that I'm not beholden to you any more, my life expectancy is about three hours, tops.”

  “Just go away,” said Nighthawk. “You make my head hurt with all your convoluted reasoning.”

  “But am I still under your protection?” persisted Malloy, holding his ground.

  “Whatever makes you happy.”

  “That does.”

  “Fine,” said Nighthawk. “Now beat it.”

  “But if I belong to you, you shouldn't have any secrets from me.”

  Nighthawk whipped out a pistol and pointed it at the tip of Malloy's leathery nose.

  “See?” said Malloy accusingly. “See? I knew you replaced me with the Roller!”

  “The Roller always keeps its mouth shut and doesn't give me unwanted advice,” said Nighthawk. “That's more than I can say for some half-pint gamblers.”

  “All right, I'm going, I'm going!” said Malloy bitterly. “But someday you'll wish you'd been nicer to me.”

  “I saved your life,” responded Nighthawk. “How much nicer do I have to be?”

  “You'll see,” muttered Malloy, stalking off to the bar.

  “He's right, you know,” said Father Christmas.

  “You told me to dump her,” said Nighthawk irritably. “Now you're going to tell me to be nice to him?”

  “No,” answered Father Christmas. “I mean that he's almost certainly right about the place being wired.”