The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy

by Mike Resnick

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Why not ask him?” suggested Father Christmas. “It sounds like they'll be through in a minute or two. Just give him a chance to put his pants on.”

  “And if he doesn't know why Malloy's out there?”

  “Then it might be interesting to know who did send Malloy after us.”

  Nighthawk tried to think about Malloy, or the Marquis, or the Widowmaker, but he kept coming back to the same thing again and again: Goddamn it, she never sounded like that with me!

  He knew he wanted to kill someone, but at the moment he wasn't sure if it was the Marquis, or perhaps the Pearl of Maracaibo, or maybe even himself.

  18.

  Nighthawk was sitting in the galley, nursing a cup of coffee a few feet away from the command chair, as the ship sped through the void on autopilot. Father Christmas was asleep in his half of the crew's cabin, and the Marquis was snoring noisily across the corridor.

  Finally Melisande emerged from the Captain's cabin, wearing nothing but a towel she had wrapped around her.

  “May I sit down?”

  Nighthawk indicated the empty chair across from him.

  “And could I have some coffee, please?”

  “Don't ask me,” he said. “Ask the galley.”

  She repeated her request as an order, and a moment later a cup of black coffee was deposited on the table in front of her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “If you're waiting for it to say you're welcome, you're out of luck,” said Nighthawk. “Only the control deck talks back to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that's the way I like it.”

  “Don't be so defensive,” she said with a smile. “I'm not criticizing you.”

  “I'm not defensive.”

  “You sound like you are.”

  "I'm not!"

  “Okay, have it your way,” she said with a shrug. The shrug caused the towel to come loose and slip to her waist. “Excuse me,” she said with a catlike smile.

  “Cover yourself up!” snapped Nighthawk.

  “What's the problem?” she asked innocently, as she slowly adjusted the towel. “This isn't anything you haven't seen before—or have you forgotten already?”

  “I haven't forgotten.”

  “Come over and help me do this,” she said, wrapping herself again in the towel.

  “Fix it yourself.”

  “All right—but I can't promise that it won't slip again.”

  Nighthawk grimaced, got to his feet, and walked over.

  “Right here,” she said, pointing to the spot where she wanted it joined.

  She handed Nighthawk a gaudy, ornate clasp and he put the two ends together, trying to ignore the scent of her perfume.

  “You're all right now,” he announced, walking back to his chair.

  “You're sure?” she asked, getting to her feet. “It's very short.”

  “So what?”

  “So what if I have to raise my arms like this?” she said, starting to do so.

  “Just sit down and it won't happen again.”

  “I can't sit for the whole voyage.”

  “Then get dressed.”

  “I don't want to wake the Marquis.” She grinned. “I think I wore him out.”

  Nighthawk made no reply.

  “This is very good coffee,” she said at last.

  “How do you know?” he answered. “You haven't tasted it yet.”

  “But it warms my hands.” She reached out and lay her hand on top of his. “See? No one wants to be touched by a cold hand.”

  “It doesn't bother me.”

  “Well, maybe it wouldn't bother your hand, but there are other places I could touch you where you'd jump.” She paused. “Or you would if my hands were cold. Next time they are, I'll prove it to you.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “I don't mind,” she responded. “After all, we're all friends here, aren't we?”

  “Maybe you should stick with the friend that brought you,” suggested Nighthawk tightly.

  “But he's sound asleep,” she said. “If you listen, you can hear him snore.”

  “So what?”

  “He needs his sleep ... but I've already had mine. It's boring in there, just watching him.” Suddenly she smiled. “Of course, he is naked.”

  “I'm sure you find that wildly exciting.”

  “Well, it all depends,” she said. “I mean, it's no fun being excited all by yourself. I could find it exciting if he did. Would you like me to tell you how I would excite him?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?” she said. “It might even excite you.”

  “Leave me alone!” he snapped, getting to his feet and walking to the command chair.

  “I thought you liked me.”

  “I do,” he said softly.

  “I even thought you wanted me,” she continued.

  “How come you only come on to me when both cabins are in use?”

  “You think we have to have a cabin?” she said. “All a cabin has is a bed.” She stood up and removed her towel. “We've got everything we need right here.” Mock hurt. “You're frowning. Don't you like what you see?”

  “I like it.”

  She approached him slowly, making sure to avoid the Roller, which was perched on a panel a few feet away. “Yes, I can see that you like it,” she said, staring at his groin.

  He grabbed her arm, pulled her onto his lap, and kissed her hungrily.

  “Careful,” she said, shifting her position. “You're going to impale me.”

  “That's the general idea,” he said.

  “What if the Marquis wakes up and walks out into the corridor right this second?” she said.

  “I'll have to kill him.”

  “But how can you, if I'm in the way?”

  “Stop talking so much.”

  “Maybe I should check and make sure he's still asleep.”

  “Forget it.”

  “No,” she said, getting up. “I really should. I don't want to be caught in the crossfire.”

  Before he could stop her, she walked back to the galley and wrapped her towel around her, then disappeared into the captain's cabin. She emerged a few seconds later and mouthed the words, “Sound asleep.”

  Then, as she was approaching Nighthawk again, Father Christmas's sleepy voice rang out. “What the hell's going on out there?” A moment later he emerged from his cabin, stopped abruptly, and sized up the situation as he stared at Melisande.

  “Dressed in a bit of a hurry, didn't you?” he said sardonically.

  “I just came out for some coffee,” she said.

  “Galley, serve up two coffees,” commanded the old man. Two cups filled with black coffee appeared a moment later. The Pearl of Maracaibo turned to Nighthawk and shrugged helplessly, almost falling out of her towel.

  “So how long was I asleep?” asked Father Christmas.

  “Maybe four or five hours,” replied Nighthawk.

  “Too bad I didn't sleep another hour,” he said. “You might have made a little progress with the lady here.”

  “Not a chance,” answered Melisande. “I'm totally loyal to the Marquis.”

  “And I'm the reincarnation of Ramses II,” said Father Christmas.

  She turned to Nighthawk. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that?”

  “You're totally loyal to the Marquis,” said Nighthawk. “Let him defend your honor.”

  “Some hero,” she snorted contemptuously.

  Suddenly the Marquis stuck his head out into the corridor and stared at the galley. “What's going on?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “We're just talking.”

  “You woke me up.”

  “We didn't mean to,” she said. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Come on back to bed,” he said. “I don't like to sleep alone.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “That's what I say,” answered the Marquis.

/>   She stood up, clutching the towel to her, and turned to Nighthawk. “Perhaps we can continue our discussion later.”

  “Perhaps,” he said noncommittally.

  “Get your ass in here,” said the Marquis, withdrawing to the interior of the cabin. She joined him a few seconds later.

  “You're a little young to have a death wish,” said Father Christmas as the door to the cabin slid shut. “I hope what I think was going on here wasn't going on.”

  “I don't want to talk about it.”

  “I'll just bet you don't,” said the older man. “I wonder how many pets she tortured to death when she was a little kid.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Have it your way,” said Father Christmas. He took a sip of his coffee. “How long until we reach the Oligarchy?”

  Nighthawk looked at a screen. “We entered it about five hours ago.”

  “And when do we hit the Deluros system?”

  “At this speed, maybe another thirty hours.”

  “Thirty hours more,” mused Father Christmas. “That's a long time for her not to precipitate a killing.”

  “I don't want to discuss her,” said Nighthawk ominously.

  “We still got our shadow?”

  “Malloy? Yeah, he's back there a couple of million miles.”

  “Sounds like a lot until you realize it's, what, maybe ten seconds?”

  “A little less.”

  “You want some sleep?” asked Father Christmas. “I can keep an eye on things.”

  Nighthawk shook his head.

  “You've been awake a long time,” continued Father Christmas. “I want all your reactions to be one hundred percent when we get there. Get some sleep.”

  “How can I sleep when I know she's in bed with him not twenty feet away?” demanded Nighthawk irritably.

  “So that's what it is,” said Father Christmas. “You think if you stay here in the control room maybe he won't fuck her anymore?”

  “They're not fucking—they're sleeping,” said Nighthawk. “Or, at least, he is.”

  “And you don't like that any better, do you?”

  “No, I don't,” said Nighthawk.

  “Well, then,” said Father Christmas, “I have a suggestion.”

  “Oh?”

  “You won't like it, but it makes the most sense.”

  “Let's hear it.”

  “This girl is messing up your mind, son,” said Father Christmas. “She's tying you into knots. She's all you're thinking about, and that's deadly.”

  “You want me to kill the Marquis?”

  “You can't kill the Marquis ... yet,” said the older man. “Don't forget your original assignment: You need him to finger the assassin for you.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Kill her.”

  “Are you crazy?” snapped Nighthawk.

  “Not even a little bit,” said Father Christmas. “Every time the Marquis takes a nap or turns his back she's teasing the hell out of you. Don't bother to deny it; I've got eyes. You let her live, eventually she'll precipitate a fight between you and the Marquis before you're ready for it.”

  “But the whole purpose of this trip was to kill the Marquis so I could finally have her,” said Nighthawk.

  “She's not worth having, son,” said the older man. “Let me plunder my churches while you're killing the Widowmaker, and then let's both blow this life and go retire somewhere where neither the Good Guys or the Bad Guys will ever find us.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “It's a deal, then?”

  “As soon as I kill the Marquis,” said Nighthawk. “We'll take Melisande with us.”

  The old man sighed once, deeply, but made no reply.

  19.

  They were 38 hours out of Tundra, and life wasn't getting any easier for Nighthawk. When he wasn't busy fantasizing about Melisande, she was there in front of him, sending him secret smiles, finding reasons to accidentally brush against him, taunting him with the touch and smell of her.

  Her behavior radically altered whenever the Marquis was around. She never willingly left his side as such times. No portion of her anatomy was forbidden to his hands, even in plain sight of Nighthawk and Father Christmas. But the Marquis had no interest in the workings or navigation of the ship, and he spent most of his time in his cabin. As quickly as he was out of sight she went back to teasing Nighthawk with the same single-mindedness with which she ignored him when the Marquis was around.

  Nighthawk was experiencing one of his few brief moments of solitude, staring absently at one of the ship's viewscreens. He ordered it to go to high magnification, hoping to get a glimpse of Malloy's ship, but all he could see were stars and the endless blackness of space.

  Finally he decided to radio Malloy and try yet again to find out why he was being followed—but he couldn't raise Malloy's ship. It was there, it was tracking him, but it wouldn't respond to his signal. He frowned. Neither Malloy nor his ship presented a physical threat, but he didn't like things he couldn't understand, and he didn't understand why the little grifter was following him into the Oligarchy.

  “If he bothers you so much,” said a voice behind him, “let's slow down, let him catch up with us, and blow him into a million pieces.”

  It was the Marquis, who had wandered over while Nighthawk was preoccupied with the radio.

  “I didn't say he bothered me,” replied Nighthawk defensively.

  “You didn't have to.”

  “I just want to know why he's there.”

  “Someone sent him, obviously,” responded the Marquis.

  “Who—and why?”

  The Marquis shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.” He paused and then smiled as a thought came to him. “If you don't want to blow him away, let him catch up with us and then threaten to lock him in a room with the Holy Roller. Five'll get you ten that he'll suddenly be overjoyed to talk to us.”

  “It's a pet, not a weapon,” said Nighthawk, stroking the Roller as it bounced up from the floor to his shoulder.

  “It's a little of each,” said the Marquis. “You're not the first I've ever seen with a Holy Roller. I've known two other men that Rollers attached themselves to.” He paused and looked at Nighthawk's Roller admiringly. “Get one of those things angry, it can wipe out a roomful of men in ten seconds flat. I'd call that a weapon.”

  “I'd call it a friend.”

  “That's because you don't think big enough,” said the Marquis. “You don't understand what you could do with a thing like that.”

  “But you do?” said Nighthawk sardonically.

  “Of course I do,” answered the Marquis. “That's one of the differences between us.”

  “If you're that hot to get one, go to Aladdin.”

  “I've been to Aladdin. Never saw one.”

  “So go again.”

  “Waste of time,” said the Marquis. “I've been there a dozen times.” He paused. “I think I'd rather trade for yours.”

  “It's not for trade.”

  “You haven't heard my offer yet.”

  “You don't have anything I want,” said Nighthawk.

  “Oh, I think I do,” said the Marquis with a grin. “Melisande!”

  The blue-skinned girl emerged from the cabin and walked over to join the Marquis.

  “Well?” said the Marquis.

  "Her?"

  “For the Roller.”

  “It's a deal,” said Nighthawk.

  “Don't I get some say in this?” demanded Melisande.

  “I'm afraid not, my dear,” said the Marquis.

  “You can't trade me for some alien animal as if I was a piece of property!” she said.

  “We are all property,” answered the Marquis. “It is only the intelligent ones who know it.” He paused. “I am sure Mr. Nighthawk will cherish you as I have, my love.”

  “And what if I don't want to be cherished by Mr. Nighthawk?” she said.

  “That's hardly my concern.” The Marquis paused.
“I'm sure that he'll treat you with the same compassion that I have displayed up to now.”

  “Which is to say, none at all,” she snapped.

  “Please don't make this more difficult than it is,” said the Marquis. “You have given me an inordinate amount of pleasure, and I regret losing you"—he smiled apologetically—"but the galaxy is full of women. There are very few Holy Rollers. For all practical purposes, there is really only one. Surely you would do the same thing in my position.”

  “I've never been in your position,” she said bitterly.

  “Well, there you have it.” He reached out for the Roller, which suddenly became rigid and started humming softly.

  “I don't think it likes the thought of you touching it,” offered Nighthawk.

  “Well, explain to it that we've got a deal.”

  “I don't know its language.”

  The Roller began whistling a little louder.

  “Make it stop!” said the Marquis. “I've seen them do this before.”

  Nighthawk plucked the Roller from his shoulder and cradled it against his chest, stroking it gently.

  “We made a trade,” said the Marquis, backing away slowly. “It's up to you to deliver your end of it.”

  “Don't you think I want to?” shot back Nighthawk. “It doesn't like you, and there's nothing I can do about it. The alien back on Aladdin told me that it chooses one person and sticks with him for life.”

  “Too bad,” said the Marquis. “You had your chance, and you blew it.” He turned to the Pearl of Maracaibo. “It looks like we're reunited in eternal love, my sweet.” She glared at him but didn't say anything. “Go back to the cabin,” he continued. “I'll join you in a few moments.”

  She stood still and glared at him.

  "Now," he said in a tone that allowed no disobedience.

  She stalked off to the cabin without a backward glance.

  “My offer stands for the duration of this trip,” said the Marquis. “You teach the Roller to accept me, and she's yours.” He paused and suddenly grinned. “Maybe I'll have to teach her to accept you.”

  Nighthawk made no reply.

  “Well, she may be yours any day now,” said the Marquis, starting to walk back toward his cabin. “I think I'd better enjoy her while I can.”

  He grinned again and disappeared into the cabin. The Holy Roller squeaked loudly, and Nighthawk realized that he was squeezing it painfully. He released it, and it rolled down his leg onto the floor.