by Mike Resnick
“Do you want to go outside and talk?”
Father Christmas considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I think anything we have to say can be said in front of the Marquis.”
“Okay,” said Nighthawk. “Shoot.”
“We have to have a serious discussion about the future, Jefferson,” said the older man.
“I thought we had one on the way back from Aladdin.”
“That was then, this is now.”
“What's changed?” asked Nighthawk.
“I've got a bad feeling,” replied Father Christmas. “The Marquis was too willing to forgive you for not doing what he sent you to do.”
“I brought you back,” said Nighthawk. “That was even better.”
“I know you have your whole life ahead of you, but trust me: outlaws live for the moment. He might ultimately be willing to deal with me, but it doesn't make sense that he wouldn't try to grab the gold and the Moritas first. That's hardly the mark of a criminal kingpin. It makes sense for me to deal with him; it makes less for him to deal with me.”
“But you had the hatch rigged.”
“That's another thing,” continued Father Christmas. “He can't stay in power long if he lets people challenge his authority like that. Hell, it practically invites his henchmen to protect what they've stolen by booby-trapping the loot and then renegotiating terms with him. I would never allow it; neither should he.”
“But he did.”
“That's what makes me very uneasy.”
“What do you think his motive is?”
“I can't spot it. Except I know that it has nothing to do with me.”
“Why not?” asked Nighthawk.
“Because my plans were fixed before I met him, and I haven't changed them one iota.”
“If it has nothing to do with you, then who—?”
“You, of course,” said Father Christmas. “You disobeyed his orders, and if you didn't kill his spy, you at least didn't go out of your way to save him. So I have to ask myself: why are you still alive? He's not afraid of you; a man like the Marquis can snuff you out in an instant. He's not being altruistic, because altruism is totally alien to a man like that. He hasn't forgiven your infraction; he's chosen to ignore it. Why? Why is a 4-month-old clone suddenly his second-in-command?”
Nighthawk considered what the older man had said. “I don't know,” he admitted at last.
“Neither do I,” said Father Christmas. “But there must be a reason.” He paused. “Why are you here?”
“I told you.”
“All right, it's part of a mission. Who sent you here?”
“Marcus Dinnisen—the Widowmaker's lawyer, back on Deluros VIII,” answered Nighthawk.
“He sent you to Tundra?”
“No. He sent me to the Inner Frontier. A man named Hernandez, the Chief of Security on Solio II, sent me here.”
“What's his connection to you?”
“He's the one who arranged for me to be created.”
“Interesting.”
“Is it?”
“And frustrating,” said Father Christmas. “We don't know enough. Or if we do, I can't see it yet.”
“You're the guy with the bad feeling,” answered Nighthawk. “I still don't know what's got you so bothered.”
“There's something going on here, something that reaches at least to Solio II, and maybe all the way back to Deluros,” said Father Christmas. “I think we'd be well advised to get the hell out while the getting's good. There are too many things going on here that I don't like.”
Nighthawk looked around, his gaze coming to rest on Malloy, who sat at the bar, and he remembered what the leathery little man had said. “Are you sure you want to be saying all this where the Marquis can probably overhear you?”
“What difference does it make?” shot back Father Christmas. “If you agree to come with me, we'll be out of here before he can stop us. If you stay here, he'll know that my best arguments couldn't make you leave him.”
“What if I stay and you leave?” asked Nighthawk. “Won't that bother him?”
“Probably. That's why it won't happen.”
“I don't follow you.”
“Malloy is no fool,” said Father Christmas. “The only thing keeping him alive is you. I plan to put myself under your protection as well.”
“That's the silliest thing I ever heard,” said Nighthawk. “Why would you do something like that?”
“It's a fair trade,” said Father Christmas. “You're the one person on this world who can protect me and my treasure from the Marquis. And I'm the only person on this world who's been honest with you, who's tried to talk you out of doing stupid things, and who's stuck with you even when you did it. You are friendless and alone in the galaxy. I aim to be your friend, and I'll be everything a friend should be—but my price is high: my life. You're in charge of safeguarding it.” He extended his hand. “Have we got a deal?”
“You ask a lot for your friendship,” said Nighthawk, staring at his hand.
“If you get a better offer, take it.”
Nighthawk stared for another moment, then reached out and took Father Christmas’ hand.
“Good!” said the older man. “Now we stay together or leave together.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” said Nighthawk. “Not until she goes.”
“Then maybe we'll take her.”
“Kidnap her? The Marquis will have two hundred men after us before we're out of the system.”
“You overestimate the depth of his feelings for anyone besides himself,” replied Father Christmas. “He didn't get to be who he is by developing a deep and lasting commitment to every nightclub dancer who comes along.” He paused thoughtfully. “Still, it would be such a public humiliation that he'd have to do something.” He paused. “No, it'd probably be better to talk everyone into it.”
“Everyone?”
“Even the Marquis.”
“What kind of prize could get both him and her to come along?” asked Nighthawk.
“The biggest.”
“Deluros VIII?”
Father Christmas nodded. “The capital world of the race of Man.”
“It's half a galaxy away.”
“It's got a lot of churches—and it's got the Widowmaker.”
“How do we convince them to come along?”
“We find something he wants,” said Father Christmas. “Something he can't say no to.”
“Like what?”
“I've got an idea,” said Father Christmas. “But I need to work on it for awhile.”
“He knows you're trying to come up with a reason,” noted Nighthawk. “Or he soon will.”
“If it's a good enough reason, he'll come anyway,” answered Father Christmas.
“And if it's not?”
“Then,” said the old man grimly, “you'd better be prepared to prove your friendship.”
16.
Father Christmas entered the casino, spotted Nighthawk sitting alone at a table, walked over, and told him to don his spacesuit.
“What's the problem?”
“You look like you need some exercise,” said the older man. “A walk'll do you good.”
“I'm comfortable here.”
“Do it anyway.”
Nighthawk stared at him curiously for a moment, then shrugged, went to the airlock, and climbed into his suit. Then he and Father Christmas walked out into the frozen streets. A few robots were out clearing the snow from the streets. Here and there men would rush swiftly and silently from one building to another; other than that, the city might have been deserted.
“What frequency?” Nighthawk mouthed the words.
Father Christmas signaled “4748” with his fingers.
“All right,” said Nighthawk, making the adjustment. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes. And nobody else can.”
“Let me check that out,” said Nighthawk. “I've got a pretty sophisticated radio unit. Talk, and don't
say anything important.”
“Lovely morning,” said Father Christmas. “Reminds me of the winters back home when I was a boy.”
“That's enough,” said Nighthawk, scanning a panel on his radio pack. “No one's monitoring us.”
“Actually,” continued Father Christmas, “I grew up on a beautiful agricultural world, with waving rows of mutated wheat as far as the eye can see. I hate snow.”
“If you brought me out here to talk about your childhood, I'm going back in,” said Nighthawk.
“Actually, I brought you here to talk about Colonel James Hernandez.”
“Hernandez?” repeated Nighthawk. “What's all the secrecy about? You didn't mind being overheard three days ago.”
“That was then, this is now.”
“Okay,” said Nighthawk. “What's Hernandez got to do with anything?”
“More than you imagine,” answered Father Christmas. “Why do you think he sent you here?”
“To find out who killed President Trelaine and to bring him to justice one way or another.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah? What makes you think so?”
“He knows who killed Trelaine,” said Father Christmas as they walked slowly across the frozen surface of Klondike.
“All right,” said Nighthawk. “Who killed Trelaine?”
“The Marquis, of course.”
“You're guessing.”
“I don't guess, kid. I'm telling you, the Marquis is the man you're here to kill.”
Nighthawk stared at him. “Before we go any further, suppose you tell me how you figured all this out.”
“I did just what you'd have done if you had a little more experience,” answered Father Christmas. “Two days ago I paid a substantial fee to tie my personal computer into the Master Computer on Deluros VIII.”
“And?”
“And I asked it to find out everything it could about the Marquis of Queensbury. It took this long because I couldn't supply it with a holograph or a retina ID, and we were only dealing in possibilities until last night. Then I managed to swipe a beer glass that still had his fingerprints on it.”
“So what did the Master Computer say?” asked Nighthawk.
“His given name is Alberto da Silva. He had a couple of other names before he became the Marquis.”
“OK, he's had other names. So what?”
“He's also had other jobs,” said Father Christmas. “The last one was working as a independent subcontractor for Colonel James Hernandez.”
“An independent subcontractor?”
“He killed Hernandez’ enemies, and in exchange Hernandez looked the other way when he plundered Solio II.”
Nighthawk frowned. “That doesn't make any sense,” he said. “If Hernandez hired him to kill Trelaine, why does he want him dead now?”
“Now we come to theory instead of fact,” said Father Christmas. “But bear with me. I think it makes sense.”
“Go ahead,” said Nighthawk.
Father Christmas looked intently into Nighthawk's eyes and began. “What if someone saw the Marquis pull the trigger? Whoever it was would be one of the leading citizens of Solio II—remember, though Trelaine was killed at the opera, he was there to make peace between opposing factions of his party—and of course this citizen immediately took steps to protect himself. He probably hired bodyguards, and instructed his computer to release the truth about the assassination to every news organization in the sector if anything happened to him.”
“Okay,” said Nighthawk. “I'll buy that. What else?”
“Now that our citizen feels safe, he approaches Hernandez and says, in essence, this was your guy who killed Trelaine. I think you're preparing to seize power on Solio II. Hernandez denies it, of course; what the hell else can he do?”
“So far so good,” said Nighthawk. “Keep talking.”
“Okay. The citizen says to Hernandez, prove your innocence to me. Bring in the Marquis and I'll believe you were telling the truth; otherwise, you're on the hook as much as he is. And maybe he gives him a deadline: six Standard months, a year, whatever. Now, Hernandez can't just call the Marquis in and shoot him. The Marquis has got a reputation; if he brings him in too easily, he's still a suspect. So instead he hires a bounty hunter. And not just any bounty hunter, but the best who ever lived.”
“There are a lot of good bounty hunters out here on the Frontier,” said Nighthawk. “Why me?”
“Because he could count on you not to bring the Marquis in, but to kill him.”
“But—”
“Think back to your meeting with Hernandez,” said Father Christmas. “I'll bet he told you not to take any chances, to blow the Marquis away the first time you saw him.”
“Something like that,” admitted Nighthawk grudgingly.
“Don't you see?” said the older man. “He expressly asked for you because, unlike your namesake, you've had no experience. You don't understand nuances. Subtleties are lost on you. You could never have figured this scam out by yourself. The one thing you can do is kill, and that's exactly what Hernandez was counting on.”
“But sooner or later I'd have figured it out,” answered Nighthawk, “and then I'd be just as dangerous to Hernandez as the Marquis is.”
“He probably figures the Marquis’ men will kill you before you leave the planet, once you do what you were hired to do. And I'm sure he's turned his office into a death trap, just in case you manage to make it back there.” Father Christmas paused for a long moment, then shrugged. “He doubtless intends for you to die here or on Solio. And if not...”
He let the sentence hang, unfinished, in the air.
“If not, he figures that they'll ‘decommission’ me back at Deluros?”
“You're the consummate killing machine, kid,” said Father Christmas, “and once this job is done, you're beholden to no one. That makes you too dangerous to live.”
Nighthawk stood, silent and motionless, for a long moment while he considered what the older man had said.
“Yeah, it makes sense,” he replied in a cold, passionless voice.
“It's conjecture,” said Father Christmas. “Maybe Deluros will strew your path with flowers and send you out on more assignments. Maybe the Marquis didn't pull the trigger. Maybe I'm wrong about everything"—he rubbed his stomach—"but down here in my gut, it feels right.”
Nighthawk fought back his anger at the notion that he had been used. His face was totally expressionless, a mask that was the very last thing 122 young men had seen more than a century ago. “It is right,” he said at last.
“So that leads to the question: what do we do next?”
“You're the deep thinker,” answered Nighthawk. “What do you have in mind?”
“Same as before: we all go to Deluros VIII. I rob some churches, you kill the original Widowmaker, and the Marquis ... well, I'm still working on that.”
“I have an idea.”
“Let's hear it,” said the older man.
“What if there is one man in the Oligarchy's Intelligence arm who knows he was the assassin, one person Hernandez confided in. Wouldn't it make sense for the Marquis to want to dispose of anyone who could finger him?”
“He'd have to believe the man hadn't told anyone else yet,” responded Father Christmas. “Even the Marquis wouldn't try to wipe out the entire Intelligence Department.” He paused. “Still, why should he believe that?”
“Because a sweet-talking old bastard like you ought to be able to convince him of almost anything,” said Nighthawk. He stared at the older man, trying to martial his arguments. “For example, I fought him to a draw the day I arrived; one of these days I'll be able to beat him, and he knows it. All you have to do is convince him that once I kill the Widowmaker, I'm a free agent and I don't give a damn what happens to him or Hernandez. At the same time, come up with a name from Deluros VIII—real or phony, it makes no difference—and convince him that if he kills that name, there's no longer any connection between him
and Hernandez anywhere in the Oligarchy's files.”
Father Christmas lowered his head in thought for a moment, then looked up.
“You know, that's not bad at all,” he replied. “You're going to be damned frightening if they let you live another twenty years or so.” He paused. “No wonder they still talk about the Widowmaker.”
“I don't want to hear about him,” said Nighthawk irritably. “He's just a frozen old man who's never going to wake up.”
“He's you and you're him, whether you like it or not,” said Father Christmas.
“I don't,” said Nighthawk. “And if you say it again, you'll wish you hadn't.”
“You got a lot of hang-ups for a four-month-old,” muttered Father Christmas.
“Just remember what I said.”
“I'll remember,” said the older man. “But sometimes you make it very hard to be your friend.”
“It's a lot harder to be my enemy.”
“Let's hope so.” Father Christmas turned back toward the casino. “Shall we go back, or have you got anything else to say that we don't want the Marquis to overhear?”
“No, I think that's pretty much everything.” Suddenly Nighthawk stopped in his tracks. “Well, there is one more thing to consider.”
“Yeah?”
Nighthawk nodded. “I see how we're going to get the Marquis’ permission to leave, and how we're going to convince him to come with us. But...”
“But what?”
“After you rob your churches and I kill the Widowmaker, what do we do with him?”
“Well, that's pretty much up to you, isn't it?” said Father Christmas.
“Yeah,” said Nighthawk thoughtfully. “Yeah, I suppose it is. And of course, if he doesn't come back, if he's killed while he's away on a job...”
“Don't even think about her,” said Father Christmas. “You kill him, she'll be on her way so fast it'll make your head spin.”
“I'll be in charge here. I'll have the power, and the ability to protect her. She'll stay.”
“Not a chance.”
“You'll see,” said Nighthawk. “I'm young. If she sticks with me, I can get her anything she wants.”
“Others can get it faster,” replied Father Christmas. “Some of them already have it. She's the type who can sniff them out from two thousand light-years away.”
