by Mike Resnick
“Because I'm the best there is.”
“You're just a kid, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three years old,” said Malloy derisively. “Who'd you ever kill? What makes you the best?”
“Take my word for it,” said Nighthawk.
“If we were just two guys talking in a bar on some other world I would—but we're on this world and you're using me as bait, so no, I don't take your word for anything. Who have you killed?”
“Cherokee Mason,” said Nighthawk. “Zanzibar Brooks. Billy the Knife.”
“Wait a minute!” said Malloy. “What kind of idiot do you take me for? Those guys are all out of the history books!”
Nighthawk shrugged. “So am I.”
Malloy stared at him and frowned. “Jefferson Nighthawk, Jefferson Nighthawk,” he repeated. “It's familiar, but I don't place it. And you're not out of any book more than a year or two old.”
“Maybe you know me by another name,” said Nighthawk.
“Maybe I do,” replied Malloy dubiously. “What is it?”
“The Widowmaker.”
“Bullshit! He died a century ago!”
“No he didn't.”
“Well, if he's alive, he's a hell of a lot older than you.”
“He's in DeepSleep in a cryonics chamber on Deluros VIII,” said Nighthawk.
“What are you trying to tell me?” demanded Malloy.
“I'm his clone.”
“I don't believe it!”
The two orange-skinned aliens looked up briefly at Malloy's exclamation, then went back to conversing in their low, hissing voices.
Nighthawk shrugged again. “Believe what you want.”
Malloy stared at him, puzzled. “Why would they clone him? You even think of cloning a human, you're looking at thirty to life on a prison planet.” Suddenly his eyes narrow. “Are you telling me they cloned you just to kill the Marquis?”
“That's right.”
“What happens to you after you're done? Do they send you back to the factory?”
“I don't think they've thought that far ahead,” said Nighthawk. He paused. “But I have.”
“And you're really the Widowmaker?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly Malloy grinned. “I'll have that drink now.” He turned to the bartender. “Hey, Gold Eyes! Another round here!” As the bartender prepared the drinks, he turned back to Nighthawk, speaking in low tones. “You know, there may be a way for everyone to profit from this.”
“How?”
“Watch.”
The bartender approached them and delivered their drinks.
“Hey, Gold Eyes, what's the odds on the kid here living til tomorrow?”
The bartender shrugged. “Beats me.”
“What are the odds if he goes up against the Marquis tonight?”
Gold Eyes stopped and scrutinized Nighthawk for a long moment. “Three hundred to one, against.”
“I'll take twenty credits’ worth of that,” said Malloy.
“Where's your money?”
“Hey, Jefferson,” said the small man, “loan me twenty credits, will you?”
“I buy your drinks,” said Nighthawk. “I don't pay for your bets.”
Gold Eyes kept staring at Nighthawk. “Are you here to kill him?”
“I never said that,” replied Nighthawk.
“Then you're not?”
“I didn't say that, either.”
“Want a piece of advice?” said Gold Eyes.
“How much are you asking for it?”
“It's gratis.”
“Then keep it,” said Nighthawk. “It's probably worth about what you're charging for it.”
Gold Eyes chuckled. “I like you, kid. Take my advice and get the hell out while the getting's good. He already knows you're here.”
“Where is he?”
“Who knows?” said Gold Eyes. “But this is his world. Nothing goes on here that he doesn't know about.” He picked up the empties and headed back to the bar.
“What happened to your money?” asked Nighthawk, turning to Malloy. “When you said the Marquis was after you, I figured you'd swindled him somehow.”
“I did,” said Malloy unhappily.
“How?”
“I had the most perfect set of cards you ever saw,” said Malloy. “They were beautiful. I mean, nobody could spot them. Even if you knew they were marked, you couldn't read them until I showed you how.” He paused. “I took the Marquis for 275,000 credits last night.”
“And he spotted them?”
“No. I told you no one could spot them. Hell, if he had, I'd have been dead before morning.”
“What happened, then?”
“Since I was planning to leave, I sold the deck to one of the locals for a couple of thousand credits.” Malloy smiled ruefully. “Wouldn't you know we'd have the first blizzard in a month? No ships could take off, so I came back here for a little warmth and companionship—and found out that the son of a bitch I'd sold the deck to had cashed in by fingering me to the Marquis! I hid out until morning, and then tried to make it to the spaceport.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“So where's the money?”
“Taped behind one of the chemical toilets in the men's room in his casino,” answered Malloy.
“All right,” said Nighthawk, slapping some money on the table. “Let's go get it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your money,” said Nighthawk. “I assume you want it?”
Malloy blinked furiously, looking like a lizard suddenly exposed to the sun. “You don't propose to just walk into the Marquis’ casino, take the money, and walk right back out with it?” he demanded.
“Oh, we might stop for a drink or two, just to make sure we're spotted.”
Malloy studied him for a long moment. “You're sure you're the Widowmaker?”
Nighthawk didn't answer, but started putting on his spacesuit, and Malloy finally climbed into his coat and boots.
“How far?” asked Nighthawk.
“Halfway down the next block,” answered Malloy.
“Can you make it?”
“I have 275,000 credits waiting for me there,” said Malloy. “What do you think?”
The door dilated for them as they passed through to the frigid street.
“God, I hate this iceball!” said Malloy, already starting to shiver. Nighthawk, as before, refused to remove his faceplate, and so could not hear his companion. They walked rapidly to the casino and wasted no time entering it. Nighthawk left his spacesuit and helmet in an Anti-Thief Field just inside the airlock, and Malloy—who couldn't afford the protective device—simply hung his coat on a wall.
If Gold Eyes’ tavern had been empty, the Marquis’ casino was overcrowded. The walls changed color to match the mood of the live music, and the place was brilliantly illuminated although no light source was visible. Built to comfortably accommodate perhaps one hundred and fifty Men, it currently held upwards of two hundred, plus another forty aliens. Floating three feet above the floor were tables for roulette, and baccarat, and ten variations of craps (with six-sided, eight-sided and twelve-sided dice), and even two tables of jabob, an alien game that had become incredibly popular all across the Inner Frontier. A sleek chrome bar, stocked with intoxicants from a hundred worlds, lined one wall, and hovering a few feet above it was a tiny stage that featured a sultry half-clad girl whose undulations passed for dancing. Holographs of beautiful females, both human and alien, mostly nude, lined the walls, glowing gently as they spun slowly around in the air.
“He does pretty well for himself,” remarked Nighthawk.
“Ninety percent of these guys work for him,” answered Malloy, his features becoming more animated as he became warmer. “They're just playing with money he gives ‘em.” He looked around nervously. “I don't want to ask any embarrassing questions or anything—but have you thought of how you're gonna get out of here if you do kill him? There's a couple of hundred guns
in here. Even the Widowmaker wasn't that good.”
Nighthawk made no answer, but scanned the crowd, checked all the exits, and measured the distances involved while his brain computed the odds.
“You know, if I could figure out what you're here for, it ain't gonna be too long before someone else does, too,” whispered Malloy. “Let's get the hell out of here. I can get my money some other time.”
He started walking toward the door, but Nighthawk reached out and grabbed his arm. “We're staying.”
Malloy seemed about to jerk his arm free, then thought better of it. “Well?” he insisted as they turned back into the casino. “Are you taking on them all on?”
“Not unless I have to,” said Nighthawk.
“Then what are you gonna do?”
“I'm working on it.”
“What if one of them works faster?”
“He'll wish he hadn't.”
“Look,” said Malloy in low tones, “maybe you Frontier legends don't feel any fear, but us real people, we get scared shitless at the thought of facing a couple of gunmen, let alone a couple of hundred. Tell me something comforting about why I shouldn't worry.”
“Shut up and think about your money.”
“Right now all I can think is that it'll pay for a hell of a fancy funeral,” complained Malloy. “I mean, you seem sane, but you don't look even a little bit afraid, and that makes you stupid or crazy. He paused. “Are you crazy? Did you maybe just imagine all this about the Widowmaker and everything?”
Nighthawk turned away from Malloy, an expression of distaste on his face. As he did so, his gaze fell upon a new dancer atop the floating platform. Her appearance was striking: her hair was auburn, her eyes almost colorless, her figure lean and lithe. But it was her skin that captured Nighthawk's attention: it was light blue.
The music began again, an alien melody with an insistent rhythm, and the blue-skinned girl started dancing atop the platform. Tiny chimes attached to her fingers and ankles augmented the primal rhythm as she spun and whirled in the confined quarters with an almost inhuman grace.
“Who is she?” asked Nighthawk.
“Her?” replied Malloy. “I don't know her real name. They call her the Pearl of Maracaibo. Comes from somewhere in the Quinellus Cluster.”
“A mutant?”
Malloy grinned a reptilian grin. “Unless you know anyone else with blue skin.”
Nighthawk continued staring at her. “Just that mutant bartender.” Pause. “She's very beautiful, isn't she?”
“A lot of people think so. The smart ones keep it to themselves.”
“Oh?”
“She belongs to the Marquis.”
“You mean she works for him?” said Nighthawk.
“I meant what I said.”
“Didn't they fight eight or nine wars to abolish slave labor?”
“For all the good it did.”
Nighthawk smiled. “I stand corrected.” He paused. “Interesting man, the Marquis.”
“Does that matter?”
“Maybe so, maybe not,” said Nighthawk without taking his eyes off the Pearl of Maracaibo. “You never know.”
4.
The music stopped and the blue-skinned girl vanished behind the floating platform.
“Go tell her that I'd like to buy her a drink,” said Nighthawk.
“I don't know where she is,” said Malloy with obvious relief.
“Then tell the bartender to send her one with my compliments.”
“Doesn't it bother you that you're completely surrounded by all these cold-blooded killers whose only loyalty is to the Marquis?”
“The only thing that bothers me is that you're talking to me instead of walking over to the bartender.”
Malloy got up and stared long and hard at Nighthawk. “You ain't him,” he said at last.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I know he lived to see 40. No way you're going to.” And turning on his heel, Malloy approached the bar. He forced his way between two shaggy Lodinites, signaled to the bartender, said something to him, pointed to Nighthawk, then returned to the table.
“You know any prayers?” asked Malloy, taking his seat.
“Nope. Why?”
“Probably just as well. I don't think you're gonna have time for one.”
“What's it like to spend your whole life being afraid?” asked Nighthawk, genuinely interested.
“Healthy,” said Malloy. “And if you're not afraid, you've got a gene missing or a screw loose or something. These guys don't know you're a legend come back to life. They think you're a just a kid—and any moment now, when the bartender shoots his mouth off, they'll think you're a kid who listens to his gonads instead of his better judgment.”
“I can't help what they think.”
“Yes, you can help it,” said Malloy bitterly. “Or at least you could have until you sent me over to buy a drink for some goddamned mutant who probably can't metabolize it anyway.”
“You worry too much. It's going to make you old before your time.”
“Yeah? Well, you're going to make me dead before my time!”
“I saved you, remember?”
“To use as bait!”
“Only if I have to.” Nighthawk looked over Malloy's shoulder. “And it's starting to look like I won't.”
Malloy spun around on his chair and saw two men and a hulking, gray-skinned alien from Pellenorath VI approaching the table.
“I don't have a weapon!” whispered Malloy urgently.
“You won't need one.”
“You don't know who they are! The one on the left is Bloody Ben Masters. He's killed maybe 20 men all by himself—and I've seen the Pellenor rip men to pieces!”
“Shut up and keep out of the line of fire,” said Nighthawk calmly. He looked up as the three killers reached his table. “Is there something I can do for you, friends?”
“Yeah,” said Masters. “You should be very careful who you buy drinks for when you're in Klondike.”
“You mean my friend Lizard?” he asked innocently, gesturing toward the leather-skinned Malloy. “He looked thirsty.”
“You know exactly who I mean,” said Masters.
“Ah! You're speaking about the lovely young dancing lady.”
“You got it.”
“But she looked thirsty. Besides, it hardly seems fair that the Marquis of Queensbury should have a whole world and her, too.”
“You are pushing your luck,” said the Pellenor in heavily-accented Terran.
“Just consider this a friendly warning,” continued Masters.
“Well, I thank you for your concern,” said Nighthawk. “And I'll certainly be careful about who I buy drinks for.”
“Good.”
“Oh, I'll still buy them for the young lady,” said Nighthawk, getting to his feet as the three were turning to leave. “But I'll make sure I never offer any to scum like you or your ugly gray pet here.”
Bloody Ben Masters had his pistol out before he had fully turned back to the table, but Nighthawk was even faster. There was a brief hum of power, and Masters and the other human collapsed to the floor, their flesh charred and smoking from Nighthawk's laser gun.
The bulky Pellenor emitted a roar and lunged for Nighthawk, but the young man was too quick, sidestepping him and bringing the barrel of his gun down with killing force on the back of the alien's head. The skin broke open, shooting out jets of purple blood, and the alien collapsed to the floor.
“You all saw it,” said Nighthawk without raising his voice.
“A clear-cut case of self-defense,” added Malloy, amazed to find himself still alive. “Bloody Ben went for his gun first. I'll testify to it!”
Nobody said a word for almost a full minute, while Nighthawk kept his laser pistol in his hand, hanging down past his hip but ready to use again if he had to. Finally someone spoke up: “So whose deal is it?” and a few seconds later everyone went back about their business.
“Have you got
any law officers here?” asked Nighthawk, holstering his weapon and sitting back down.
“Not much point to it,” answered Malloy. “We ain't got no laws on Tundra, except those that the Marquis makes up.”
“Who's going to take care of the bodies?” continued Nighthawk, staring at the three corpses that lay where they had fallen.
“There are some maintenance mechs somewhere,” said Malloy. “When they see the mess, they'll come on over and cart the bodies away.”
“They're just going to lie here until then?” asked Nighthawk, surprised.
“I suppose so.”
Nighthawk looked around the casino. No one paid any attention to the bodies; they could have been invisible. “It's like it never happened. I thought maybe you were kidding when you said they didn't have any laws here.”
Two small robots suddenly approached with an airsled. They placed both human corpses on it, then piled the alien atop the humans. There was a whirring of overtaxed motors, and the sled gently sank to the floor. The robots studied the situation for a moment, then rolled the alien off the sled and left with the two men.
“You're awfully good,” said Malloy admiringly. “I half think you might have a chance against the Marquis after all. In a fair fight.”
“Thanks.”
“Doesn't make much difference,” added Malloy. “The Marquis doesn't believe in fighting fair.”
“I assume he's on his way here.”
“If he's on Tundra.”
“And if he's not?”
“Don't worry—someone will be laying for you,” answered Malloy. “You killed three of his people. He can't let you get away with that. It's bad for business.”
Nighthawk studied the room again, wondering where the next attack might come from. Finally he turned to Malloy.
“I want you go up to the bartender again,” he said.
“You're not buying her another drink?” said the little man incredulously.
Nighthawk shook his head. “I want you to go and tell the bartender that if the next person to come after me isn't the Marquis, I'm going to consider it a direct attack by him and this place will need a new bartender two seconds later.”
“Are you sure?” asked Malloy. “I mean, hell, he can't help who tries to kill you.”
“Who do you think passed the word to those three?” responded Nighthawk irritably. “I'm through with underlings. If the Marquis is around, he'll know how to contact him.”