by Mike Resnick
He walked over to it, and found it was a small holograph of a group of girls, perhaps ten or eleven years of age, their arms interlinked, all smiling at the camera. He studied it for a long moment, trying to pick out the girl who would someday become Spanish Lace, and found that he couldn't.
Interesting. One of you might have grown up to be an artist. One an accountant. One a mother of six. One a bitter, barren old woman. One a spaceship mechanic. One a professor of ancient languages. And one a notorious thief and assassin.
And suddenly he understood why she should keep that, of all holographs, of all mementos.
It was the last time you could be mistaken for normal, the last time you fit anywhere.
He stared at the holograph again, at all the smiling girlish faces.
I envy you. At least you had ten years.
He located his laser pistol on the way out, then hunted up her powersled and was about to take it back to his ship when he decided that she deserved to be buried. He walked back into the Ice Palace, attached his laser pistol to his power pack, rigged the charge to overload, and left both the gun and the pack right next to her corpse. Then he returned to the powersled and began racing over the frozen plains. When he was five miles away he stopped and looked back, shading his eyes against the sun and its blinding reflections. He could barely see the Ice Palace. He waited five seconds, ten, fifteen—and suddenly he could hear the explosion. Another moment and the towers and turrets began collapsing inward upon themselves. He thought it would be appropriate to whisper a prayer, only to discover that he still didn't know any.
He rejoined Lizard Malloy at the ship. The leather-skinned little man had witnessed the entire fight on his receiving device and wanted nothing more than to talk about it, while Nighthawk wanted only to put it out of his mind.
“What's the matter with you?” complained Malloy as their ship took off for Tundra. “You kill the most dangerous woman on the Inner Frontier, and suddenly you're acting like you just lost a friend.”
“Maybe I did.”
“Are you crazy? She did her damnedest to kill you.”
“We had a lot in common, she and I,” answered Nighthawk thoughtfully.
“You think so, do you?”
Nighthawk nodded his head. “She was just a friend I hadn't made yet.”
“You're crazy, you know that?” said Malloy.
Nighthawk shrugged. “You're entitled to your opinion.”
Malloy pulled a small cube out of his pocket. “If I show this to the Marquis, if he sees you offering that bitch her life, you're history. He'll throw you out on your ass so fast you won't know what happened.”
“I can live with that.”
Malloy tossed the cube into the ship's atomizer. “I probably can't,” he said wryly. “You're still the only thing standing between me and a very slow, very painful death.”
“Then you're still under obligation to me.”
“I suppose, if you put it that way,” acknowledged Malloy uncomfortably.
“I do.”
“I have a funny feeling you're bringing that up for a purpose.”
“When we land, I want you to take a message to the Pearl of Maracaibo for me.”
“I thought the Marquis told you she was off-limits,” said Malloy.
“He did.”
Malloy stared at him. “You're crazy, you know that?”
“I've decided that life is too short to worry about what you or the Marquis or anyone else wants,” said Nighthawk. “I'm going to start thinking about me while there's still time, because every other person I've met, without exception, has either tried to use me or kill me.”
“Not me!” said Malloy devoutly.
“You, too—or don't you want me to protect you from the Marquis?”
“That's a trade,” said Malloy. “I do favors for you, you do them for me.”
“Right,” answered Nighthawk. “And it's about time you started fulfilling your end of the bargain.”
“What the hell happened to you in the Ice Palace?” demanded Malloy. “You're different somehow.”
“I realized that life is short, and that everybody goes through it alone,” said Nighthawk. “Today is the first day of the rest of my life, and from now on, I'm living it for me.”
“All that from killing one woman?”
“All that, and more,” said Nighthawk, wondering idly why he didn't feel more free for having declared his freedom.
9.
“Well, Widowmaker, you're as good as you're supposed to be,” said the Marquis of Queensbury as he looked across his desk at Nighthawk.
“I'm not the Widowmaker. And you didn't warn me what I was going to be up against.”
“You're who I say you are,” replied the Marquis. “As for the rest of it, I want my second in command to be resourceful. View it as a test.”
“I thought my test was fighting you in the casino.”
“It was.”
“Well, then?” said Nighthawk.
The Marquis looked amused. “Did you think life involves only one test?”
“You're supposed to be a good businessman,” said Nighthawk, trying to hide his anger. “It was bad business to send me up against someone with Spanish Lace's powers without letting me know what she could do. Why risk getting me killed by not telling me everything I needed to know before I went up against her?”
“It'd be worse business to keep you in your current high position if you couldn't improvise well enough to kill her,” answered the Marquis. “Just out of curiosity, how did you finally do it?”
“By deceit and trickery. If she could be killed in any other way, it still hasn't occurred to me.”
“You're young yet.”
“How would you have killed her?” asked Nighthawk.
“Me?” The Marquis laughed aloud. “I'd have someone else do it for me. That's what being the boss is all about.”
“I suppose so,” acknowledged Nighthawk. “The thing is, talk like that makes me want to be a boss too.”
“That's good. I admire ambition in a man.” The Marquis’ smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “But you would do well to remember that this organization only has room for one boss—and I'm him.”
Nighthawk stared at him, but made no reply.
“You know,” continued the Marquis, “in most employees that kind of sullen look would constitute insubordination. In your case, I think I'll write it off to the arrogance of youth. This time. But don't press your luck. You'll need it all just to kill our enemies.”
“Your enemies.”
“You work for me. That makes them your enemies too.”
“If you say so.”
The Marquis stared at him through narrowed eyes. “You know, I can't decide if you're trying to annoy me, or if you're so socially maladroit that you can't help it. I have to keep reminding myself that you're only a couple of months out of the lab.”
“And now you're trying to annoy me,” responded Nighthawk.
The Marquis shook his head. “Not at all. I'm just stating facts.”
“Let's say, then, that you choose very unpleasant facts to state.”
“You've got a lot to learn,” answered the Marquis. “Facts are true or false. Pleasant or unpleasant is just the spin you put on them.”
“That sounds reasonable, but it's bullshit and you know it.”
“You're in a lousy mood. They tell me this happens in three-month-olds, so I'll forgive it this time, but if I were you I wouldn't make a regular habit of it—at least, not when you talk to me. Are we clear?”
Silence.
“Are we clear?” repeated the Marquis.
Nighthawk nodded his head. “We're clear.”
“I think I know what's got you depressed,” said the Marquis. “I'll tell you what: Let me catch up on business here and maybe I'll go to Deluros in a week or two and kill the real Nighthawk for you.”
“I am the real Nighthawk.”
“Let's not get into se
mantics. Once I kill him, you'll be the only Nighthawk.”
“That's no good.”
“What isn't?”
“I have to kill him.”
“You know, you could become a real pain in the ass without half working at it,” said the Marquis irritably. “Get the hell out of here before we really do come to blows.”
Nighthawk left the office without another word and, still annoyed with the Marquis of Queensbury, returned to the casino. The place was more crowded than usual. Most of the gaming tables were operating at capacity, and whores of both sexes were cadging drinks and trying to make their business arrangements for the night. The jabob table was surrounded by humans who found the alien game fascinating, while the craps table was populated by Lodinites, Canphorites, and a six-limbed golden-shelled Lambidarian.
Malloy was busy playing poker with a couple of flashily-dressed miners and a green-hued creature of a species Nighthawk hadn't seen before. He watched as the little man bet up a flush and lost to a full house. Finally he wandered over to the bar, ordered a Dust Whore, and idly watched the various dancers until the Pearl of Maracaibo appeared on the floating platform.
He was sipping his drink and staring at her intently when she suddenly winked at him, then laughed at his reaction. He waited until her dance was through, then made his way to her dressing room, a glass in each hand. The red eye of the security system scanned him and reported his presence to the room's occupant.
“Come in,” she said, and the door dilated long enough for him to step into the room.
She sat on an elegant gilt chair, naked from the waist up. A small mirror hovered in the air perhaps 30 inches from her face. She had been staring into it, meticulously removing her stage make-up, but she turned to face Nighthawk as soon as he entered.
“How nice to see you again,” she said. “The Marquis tells me you're a hero.”
“The Marquis exaggerates,” said Nighthawk.
“A modest hero,” she said. “Now that is a rarity around here.”
“I brought you a drink,” he said, placing it down next to her.
“I didn't ask for one.”
“Try it,” he said. “You'll like it.”
“In a moment, perhaps.” She paused and stared at him. “Do you know what the Marquis would do to you if he knew you were here?”
“I know what he'd try to do,” answered Nighthawk, his anger returning at the mention of the Marquis.
“And you have no fear of him?”
“None.” He paused. “Besides, you invited me here.”
“I did?”
“You winked at me,” he said. “I consider that an invitation. And you haven't told me to leave.”
“Leave.”
“Not just yet.”
She smiled but chose to make no reply, and an uncomfortable silence ensued. She stared at her mirror and he looked at her. “You're a very good dancer,” he said at last.
Still no reply.
“I noticed that the first time I saw you.”
Silence.
“You don't have to be afraid to talk to me,” he said. “I'll settle for just being friends.”
She uttered a disbelieving laugh. “Just friends?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm lonely.”
“There are many women here. Why me?”
He stared at her for a moment before answering. “Because we're both freaks,” he said. “I'm sure the Marquis has told you what I am, and with that blue skin you're some kind of sport or mutant. We're each the only one of our kind here. I thought you might be lonely too.”
“You were mistaken.”
“I'm not so sure of that. Except when you're with the Marquis, you keep entirely to yourself.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might enjoy my own company?”
“No, it never did.”
“Why? Just because you don't enjoy yours?”
He stared into her clear, almost colorless eyes for a long moment. “We're getting off on the wrong foot here,” he said at last.
“Yes, I know,” she said in amused tones. “You just want to be my friend.”
“That's right.”
“Funny,” she said, making no attempt to shield her naked breasts from his gaze. “I thought you wanted to look at my body.”
“That too.”
“Does your notion of friendship include sharing my bed?”
“If you ask me to.”
“And if I don't?”
“Sooner or later you will,” he replied. “In the meantime, two lost souls can take some comfort in each other's company.”
“You do not look at me like a lost soul,” she said, arching her back and stretching sensuously, “but rather like a lustful man.”
“You're a very beautiful woman. How would you prefer that I look at you?”
“Perhaps, given your situation, you shouldn't look at me at all.”
“The Marquis just told me that he wants his employees to display initiative,” said Nighthawk with a smile. “Besides, if no one looked at you, you'd be out of a job.”
“Very clever,” she said. “Now, if you're all through looking, I think you'd better leave.”
“I'm still looking,” he replied. “Why not have the drink?”
“I could call the Marquis.”
“Yes, but you won't,” said Nighthawk confidently.
“Why not?”
“Because you don't want me to kill him.”
She laughed in amusement. “You? Kill him?”
“That's right,” he answered seriously.
“So instead of merely a lustful underling, I find myself confronted by a lustful egomaniac,” she said. “I suppose I shall have to accept your drink or you will kill me, too.”
“Now you're making fun of me.”
She shrugged and turned back to her mirror.
“I've had very little experience with women,” said Nighthawk awkwardly. “Believe me, the very last thing I want to do is seem comical to you.”
“Not comical. Just suicidal,” she replied. “And the Marquis tells me that you have had very little experience with anything.”
She stared at him with open curiosity. “Is it true that you are only three months old?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What is it like, to remember no childhood?”
“I have vague memories of a childhood,” he replied. “It's not my own, though, and the memories fade daily.”
“How wonderful not to remember one's childhood,” she said. “I wish I could not remember mine.”
“You didn't enjoy it?”
“Would you enjoy being—how did you call it—a sport?” she asked. “Children can be very intolerant.” She paused, frowning at the memories. “That is why I came to the Inner Frontier. Here they care no more that I have blue skin than that you are three months old. They care only about what we can do, who we are rather than who we aren't.”
“Interestingly put,” said Nighthawk. “I thought the Oligarchy was based on that same principle.”
“They may give lip service to it, but it is valid only out here.”
“Perhaps when I'm a year old I'll be less trusting,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.
She laughed. “You can be very amusing.”
A satisfied smile spread across his face.
“You look happy,” she said.
“It's nice to be appreciated for something other than my ability to kill people.”
“Who was the original Jefferson Nighthawk?” she asked.
“He was the best bounty hunter who ever lived,” answered Nighthawk. “He spent most of his life on the Frontier. They called him the Widowmaker.”
“The Widowmaker? I've heard of him.”
“I think just about everyone has.”
“How did he die?”
“He didn't.”
She frowned. “But I thought he lived more than a century ago.”
>
“He did. He came down with a disease, and went into the deep freeze before it could kill him.”
“It must be very strange for you to know he still exists.”
“It makes me feel like a ghost.”
“A ghost?”
“Insubstantial,” said Nighthawk. “Like he's the real thing, and I'm just an ephemeral shadow, here to do his bidding and then vanish.”
“I would hate that feeling!” she said passionately.
“I'm not especially pleased with it myself,” he replied. “But it's probably no worse than dancing half-naked so all the men in the audience can lust for your body.”
“Nonsense,” she said heatedly. “For men to admire my body is perfectly natural. What you have described is sick!” She reached out, grabbed the drink he had brought her, and downed it in a single swallow.
“Tell me—how did you come to be known as the Pearl of Maracaibo?”
“I think we are through talking.”
“We are kindred souls,” said Nighthawk. “We have many things in common, many things to share. I told you how I came to be the Widowmaker; now you tell me how you came by your name.”
“I have agreed to no trades or bargains,” she said. “If you have a kindred soul here, it is more likely Lizard Malloy than me. Each of you wants things you cannot have. In his case, it is money.”
“And in my case?”
“Don't play the buffoon,” she said. “You are here right now because of what you want.” She stood up and removed the single garment that had been wrapped around her waist. “Take a good look, Jefferson Nighthawk, for this is as close as you're going to get to it.”
“I don't give up easily,” he said, staring at her nude body.
“Even if I felt attracted to you, I have a strong sense of self-preservation,” she said. “I belong to the Marquis as surely as you do. He would kill one or both of us.”
“I'll protect you,” said Nighthawk.
“Don't be a fool. This is his world.”
“Just promise to give it some thought.”
“All right, I promise,” she said. “Now go. I have to get ready to dance again.”
“Your last dance of the night is coming up, right?” asked Nighthawk.
“Yes.”