The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy

by Mike Resnick

  “You have a point,” conceded Hernandez. “But a moot one. I'm putting you out of business this morning.”

  “Be quiet and show some respect for the dead,” said Father Christmas.

  “When you're through praying for him, you might say a brief one for yourself,” continued Hernandez. “You're going to be joining him, wherever he's at.”

  “Don't be foolish,” said Father Christmas easily. “You don't really think I'd show up here without protection, do you?”

  Hernandez looked around the cemetery. “I don't see any protection.”

  Father Christmas chuckled. “And you won't—unless I turn up dead.”

  “What do you think you've got?”

  “This is hardly the place to discuss crass worldly matters,” said Father Christmas.

  “What is the proper place?”

  “You got any drinkin’ stuff in your office?”

  “Yes,” replied Hernandez.

  “That'll do.”

  The two of them turned and walked across the cemetery together, then entered the impressive Security headquarters, and took an airlift to the third floor.

  “It's a lot easier to get here today,” noted Father Christmas. “How many of your people did he take out before you killed him?”

  “Enough,” said Hernandez grimly.

  They stepped out of the airlift and onto the third level.

  “You cleaned up the mess pretty quickly,” said Father Christmas.

  “It looks better than it is,” replied Hernandez. “There was some structural damage to the staircase. Everyone above the second floor is required to take the airlift.”

  “Well, when all is said and done, lots of things look better than they are,” said Father Christmas. “I hate to think of how many industries would go broke if that weren't so.”

  “Spare me your quaint homilies.”

  They reached the door to Hernandez’ office, where the colonel waited for the standard retina and palmprint scan, after which the door slid into the wall.

  “What's your preference?” asked Hernandez.

  “Anything that's wet.”

  Hernandez poured them two drinks, handed one to Father Christmas, who seated himself on a leather chair, then went behind his desk and sat down himself.

  “All right, old man,” he said, “what do you think you have on me?”

  “You hired the Marquis of Queensbury to kill President Trelaine,” replied Father Christmas. “And then you got them to create young Nighthawk to kill the Marquis so you could cover it up.”

  “Why would I do that?” asked the colonel, lighting up a thin Antarrean cigar.

  “Oh, lots of reasons,” answered the older man, sipping his drink. “The way I see it, you wanted to be President. You hired the Marquis to kill Trelaine ... but then he began blackmailing you. He probably got a little too greedy, and eventually it was a matter of kill him or be exposed.”

  “You couldn't be more mistaken.”

  Father Christmas shrugged. “The reason doesn't make much difference. What matters is that you hired the Marquis to pull the trigger, and he confessed to it before Nighthawk killed him.”

  “Rubbish. Why would he tell you?”

  “Maybe he was trying to buy his life.”

  “Nonsense,” said the colonel. He noticed that his cigar had gone out and relit it. “The Marquis was as brashly fearless as young Nighthawk.”

  “Maybe he was bragging,” said Father Christmas. “Who cares what the reason was? I've got recordings of it stashed on three different worlds in the Oligarchy. If I don't report in to each of them every month, those recordings go—”

  “To the Oligarchy?” interrupted Hernandez. “Somehow, I'm not trembling in my boots.”

  “To the press on Solio II, and to half a dozen select politicians just down the street.”

  Hernandez stared at him. “I think you're bluffing.”

  “Ah, but would you stake your life on it?” said Father Christmas. “All I want is to go out to the Rim and plunder God's churches at my leisure. If you let me go, you'll never hear from me again. If you kill me, you'll be joining me within, not to be too pessimistic about it, a year.”

  Hernandez downed his drink in a single swallow, then carefully placed the empty glass down on a corner of his polished desk. “Do you want to know the truth of it?”

  “I'd like to,” said the older man, glancing out the window at the cemetery. “But I can live without it. It's up to you.”

  “Trelaine was a tyrant, but he was a weak tyrant. He allowed the Marquis to rob the Solio system because he didn't have the guts to stand up to him.” He paused. “The Marquis had once worked for me on, shall we say, a freelance basis. We'd had a cordial relationship. I finally managed to convince him that if he killed Trelaine, I would put in a puppet who would allow him even greater freedom in plundering Solio II.”

  “Yourself?”

  “If I could have rounded up the support, yes. If not, then a man who was amenable to my suggestions. The Marquis’ muscle would help keep us in power, and we'd show our gratitude by looking the other way. At least, that was the plan I laid out to him.” He paused. “Of course, the moment we took power we'd have driven the Marquis and his henchmen out of the system.”

  “The Marquis might have considered that a bit of a double-cross,” observed Father Christmas.

  “By then it wouldn't have mattered,” answered the colonel. “I'd have had the power to make it stick, and he could have been just as rich and happy preying on other worlds.”

  “So he killed Trelaine...”

  Hernandez nodded. “But he was smarter than I had anticipated. He had his own puppet, and he took me by surprise. The new President kowtowed to him even more than Trelaine did. That's why I contacted Deluros about the Widowmaker. I'm a patriot, damn it!”

  “Patriot, murderer, we'll leave it to posterity to judge,” said Father Christmas. There was a meaningful pause. “Or we can leave it to your peers. It's your choice.”

  Hernandez stared at him for a long moment. “All right,” he said at last. “You've got a deal.”

  “Good,” said the older man. “It's a pity you had to waste a promising young man.”

  “Nighthawk? There was no place for him in our plans,” said Hernandez. “And this way we justify our decision not to pay millions more to his people back on Deluros. The official line is that he died before accomplishing his mission.”

  “It just means they're going to make another one, you know,” said Father Christmas. “Who knows? Maybe next time they'll do it right.”

  “What was wrong with this one?” asked Hernandez curiously. “He was good enough to kill the Marquis, and wipe out half of my staff.”

  “Oh, he had all the physical skills,” said Father Christmas. “They made sure of that. Trained him to kill from the instant he was born, if ‘born’ is the right word.” He finished his drink. “But when all is said and done, they couldn't give him the heart of the Widowmaker. He was too soft.”

  “Soft?” repeated Hernandez, surprised. “Look at the people he killed.”

  “Makes no difference,” said the older man. “He had a fatal flaw, one that's maybe even worse than a bad aim or a shaky hand: the poor son of a bitch cared. The one thing you can never do in his business is get emotionally involved.” He paused. “The Widowmaker chose to become a killer. Jefferson Nighthawk's tragedy is that he was never allowed to choose not to become one.”

  “I think perhaps he was toughening up there towards the end,” offered Hernandez.

  “Oh?”

  The colonel nodded. “His last words. He knew that I'd have killed her if he hadn't. She'd outlived her usefulness, and she knew too much.”

  “Well,” said Father Christmas, “I think I'll have one more drink, and then I'll take my leave of you.”

  Hernandez got up and poured them each a refill.

  The older man held up his glass. “To lost innocence.”

  “Whose?” a
sked Hernandez.

  “Everybody's,” answered Father Christmas.

  * * *

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