by Mike Resnick
“So what?” responded Nighthawk. “He was just a crook, a little more powerful than most. It's not like some government will post a reward for me.”
“You don't understand,” said Father Christmas. “There was a limit to what they could teach you in a couple of months.”
“What don't I understand.”
“The very people who are thrilled that he's dead, so they can divide the spoils and advance up the ladder, will be the ones who come after you. If you could kill the Marquis, you could kill any of them, and since they don't know for a fact that your current employer won't finger them next, you're a marked man.” The older man paused and cleared his throat. “So I say we stay away from the Inner Frontier.”
“Where do we go?”
“The Rim, the Outer Frontier, the Spiral Arm—at least that portion of the Arm that's not officially a part of the Oligarchy.”
“That's awfully far away,” said Nighthawk.
“Of course it is,” replied Father Christmas. “That's the whole point of this.”
“I don't want to go to the Rim or the Outer Frontier,” said Melisande. “I haven't killed anyone.”
“Fine,” said Father Christmas. “We'll drop you off at the next oxygen planet and you can make your way back home—or hitch a ride with Malloy.”
“The hell we will!” snapped Nighthawk.
“Son, she doesn't want you,” said the older man. “Now, that seems pretty devastating to you right now, but there are trillions of women in the galaxy. Believe me: you're young, you'll find another.”
Nighthawk stared into Melisande's eyes. “You're the one I want.”
“That's your problem,” she said. “I have problems of my own. One of them is getting back to Tundra.”
“I'm stronger than he was,” continued Nighthawk. “I can take better care of you, protect you better.”
“But I don't want you to.”
“I'll go back to Tundra and take over,” said Nighthawk. “I'll be as rich as he was. Richer. I'll be able to buy you anything you want.”
“I want the Marquis,” she said. “Buy me that.”
“You didn't give a damn about the Marquis,” said Nighthawk. “It was the money, the power he wielded.”
“It was him.”
“Bullshit.”
“It was him, and the way he could please me,” she said. “But that's something you couldn't possibly know about, could you?” she added with a cruel smile.
“I'm naive, but I'm not stupid,” said Nighthawk. “You enjoyed it. I know you did.”
“You can enjoy many meals in a restaurant,” she replied. “But there might be only one that you would pay to have again.”
“There's nothing he could do that I can't do,” persisted Nighthawk. “I'll learn.”
“Not with me, you won't.”
“It'll work out. You'll see.”
“Foolish, foolish clone,” she said, making no attempt to hide her contempt. “Conceived in a test tube, nurtured in a chemical bath. An educated blob of protoplasm. A laboratory thing that walks and talks like a man.” She paused. “I'll bet the original Widowmaker knew how to please a woman. Bring him around and maybe I'll stay.”
His gun was out and aimed at her so quickly that she couldn't even reach out for her own. She just sat there, stunned by the speed with which he had moved.
"Don't ever say that again!" he whispered so softly that she could barely make out the words.
Both Melisande and Father Christmas had seen Nighthawk under many conditions. They had seen him angry, and they had seen him bitter, and just a few minutes earlier they had seen him kill a man—but neither had ever been physically afraid of him until that instant.
21.
Nighthawk carried the Marquis’ body belowdeck, deposited it in the cargo hold, and sealed it in a quick-hardening plastic since he didn't know how long it would remain aboard ship. Then he returned to the control room, set a course that would take them to the Rim while avoiding the Oligarchy, and finally stopped by the galley. He couldn't remember the constituent parts of a Dust Whore, so he settled for ordering up a beer.
“It should take us ten, maybe eleven days to get to the Rim,” he announced. “I've never been there, so I don't know which worlds have been opened up, which ones might be friendly to us. Hopefully my ship's computer is up to date.”
“Well, I don't want to go to the Rim,” said Melisande. “I haven't killed anyone, and no one wants to kill me. I want to go back to the Inner Frontier.”
“I'm afraid that's out of the question, my dear,” said Father Christmas.
“Am I your prisoner?” she demanded.
“Nobody's a prisoner,” said Nighthawk. “You're a guest. Hopefully more than a guest.”
“The hell I'm a guest,” she said. “I'm here under protest. I want to go home.”
“Where is home, now that the Marquis is dead?” asked Father Christmas.
“What makes you think it's anywhere but Tundra?” she asked pugnaciously.
“Because nobody goes to Yukon and Tundra unless they have business there,” answered Father Christmas. “What's your business? Surely you're not going back there just to dance with your clothes off?”
“My business is none of your concern!” she snapped.
“Then you do have business there?” he persisted.
“I've told you before to stop baiting her,” interrupted Nighthawk.
The older man shrugged. “Okay. What would you rather talk about?”
Nighthawk glared at him and made no reply, and an uneasy silence descended on the ship for the next ten minutes. Then he ordered another beer.
“I'll have one too,” said Father Christmas.
“How about you?” said Nighthawk to Melisande.
She shook her head.
“Something to eat, then?”
“No.”
“You must want something,” said Nighthawk.
“I want to go back.”
“I can't take you back there just yet,” he said.
“Why not?”
“I'm not ready to be a target. Once word gets out that I killed the Marquis, dozens of men, maybe hundreds, will be after my scalp. None of them live on the Rim.”
“The Rim has its share of bounty hunters, too,” she pointed out.
“Yeah, but there won't be a price on my head,” noted Nighthawk. “Have you ever seen a bounty hunter kill anyone for free?”
“Just one,” she said. “You.”
“I'm not exactly a bounty hunter,” he corrected her. “And I didn't kill the Marquis for free. I killed him for you.”
“I didn't ask you to.”
“Not in so many words.”
“Not in any way whatsoever!” she snapped. “You've killed him, and now you're taking me half a galaxy away from where I want to be. And then you wonder why I don't like you.”
He stared at her. “Would you like me better if I took you back?” he asked.
“No,” she answered. She smiled a slow, seductive smile. “But I might hate you less.”
Nighthawk was silent, as if thinking about his options.
“You can't do it, son,” said Father Christmas softly. “Not if you want to live to an old age.”
“I know,” said Nighthawk at last. He turned to Melisande. “You're coming to the Rim with us. It won't be so bad. You'll see.”
She stared at him coldly, then stood up and stalked off to her cabin.
“You want a suggestion?” said Father Christmas.
“Not particularly.”
“I'm going to make it anyway. If you join her in her cabin, frisk her before you climb into bed with her.”
“I'm not joining her.”
“Good decision.”
“I don't want to rape her,” continued Nighthawk. “I love her. I want her to love me.”
“You're a little new to the game to understand what love is,” said the older man. “As for her, she doesn't love anyone but herself. Never has
, never will.”
“Shut up.”
“You're the boss.”
They were silent for a few minutes. Then Nighthawk got to his feet. “I need some sleep.”
He went off to the crew's cabin and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep...
...that was broken by the high-pitched wailing of the ship's alarm sirens.
He shot up, banged his head against the bulkhead, sat down heavily on the bed, tried to clear his head while the sirens kept screaming, and finally lunged out into the corridor. Father Christmas was in the control room, looking for the control that would deactivate the alarms.
“Off!” shouted Nighthawk. The sirens stopped immediately. “They're keyed to my voice,” he explained to the older man.
“No wonder I couldn't find a way to turn them off.”
“What happened?” demanded Nighthawk, glancing around. “All the systems seem to be working.”
“The airlock's been opened and closed,” said Father Christmas. “So has the aft hatch. I tried to stop her—but it seems that half the ship's protective devices are keyed to your voiceprint.”
"Her?" repeated Nighthawk. He turned to a viewscreen. “Magnify.” He couldn't see anything. “Extreme magnification.”
And now, suddenly, he was able to make out two tiny figures: the space-suited Melisande, and the plastic-coated corpse of the Marquis.
“What the hell's going on?” murmured Nighthawk. “This doesn't make any sense.”
“Now it does,” said Father Christmas, as Lizard Malloy's ship suddenly came into view. It stopped and hung motionless in space, waiting for Melisande to maneuver herself and the corpse into an open hatch. A moment later they both disappeared inside the ship. It turned its nose back toward the Inner Frontier, then accelerated and vanished from the screen as it reached light speeds.
“As soon as the ship's computer can dope out its course, we'll go after it,” announced Nighthawk, finally looking away from the screen.
“And do what?” asked Father Christmas. “This isn't a military ship. We don't carry any weaponry. You can't blow him apart. So what will you do? Follow him into the middle of the Marquis’ territory?”
“What makes you think he's going there?”
“They've got the Marquis’ body. Where do you think they're taking it?”
“To claim a reward.”
“There isn't one,” said Father Christmas. “There was never any paper on him, or someone would have killed him long before you did.” He paused. “Face it, son—Malloy and your ladyfriend are partners, or at least they work for the same employer.” He paused. “I told you before that Malloy had to be following us because of her. It was the only logical conclusion. If you decide to chase them, someone's going to get blown out of the sky, all right—but it won't be him.”
“All right,” said Nighthawk bitterly. “You have all the answers. Who do they work for?”
“I don't have ‘em all, but I do have a logical mind,” answered Father Christmas. “You start by asking who wants the Marquis dead, and everything else follows.”
“There's no price on him,” said Nighthawk, frowning. “You said so yourself.”
“There's no price on your head either, but I think we can safely assume there are people who want you dead.”
Nighthawk lowered his head in thought for a moment, then looked up. “I don't know.”
“Well, I suppose not many four-month-olds could dope it out,” said Father Christmas. “But you're going to have to grow up fast if you want to survive out here.”
“Spare me the lecture and get to the point,” said Nighthawk in annoyed tones.
“All right,” replied Father Christmas. “Who sent you after the Marquis in the first place?”
“Colonel Hernandez, back on Solio II.”
“Well?”
“Well what?” demanded Nighthawk. “He told me the Marquis would know who shot Trelaine.”
“The Marquis knew, all right,” said Father Christmas. “But then, so did Hernandez.”
“What are you talking about?”
The old man lit a cigar and settled more comfortably into his chair. “Let me do a little serious hypothesizing here,” he said at last.
“Go ahead.”
“All right. Let's say my name is Hernandez. I've been in charge of Security on Solio II for years, which means I command the best-trained forced of armed men on the planet. Now, we call the big boss our President, but he's just a more accomplished tyrant that the rest. You with me so far?”
“So far,” said Nighthawk.
“Let's say that I decide that I would make a better President than Hernandez. What would I do?”
“Kill him.”
Father Christmas shook his head. “Too many potential witnesses, too much chance of being seen. But that doesn't mean I can't carry out my plan. All I have to do is contact a criminal who operates on my world—and would like to operate even more freely—and suggest that he do it. Maybe I pay him money, more likely I forgive all his past crimes and promise him a free hand in the future. Now, I don't care if the Marquis pulls the trigger or hires it out; all I care is that he sees to it that Trelaine gets killed. And so he does.”
“But you're not President.”
“I know,” said Father Christmas with a smile. “I guessed wrong. Remember, Trelaine went to the opera to make peace between two warring factions. What if neither of them was strong enough to take over, but both of them were strong enough to stop me from taking control. In fact, suddenly I have to prove that I had nothing to do with the assassination.” He paused and puffed on his cigar. “Well, I can't bring the Marquis in. He'll never go quietly to the gallows; if he stands trial, he's a cinch to implicate me. So I want him dead. Now, how do I go about it so no one will know?”
“You hire me.”
“Right,” said Father Christmas. “Not because you're the best killer in the galaxy, though that's a pretty good job qualification. I insist on a clone of the Widowmaker because I know he'll be all of two or three months old in real time when he gets out to the Frontier. I not only need someone who can kill the Marquis, but I need someone so naive, so innocent, that in all the time he's out here he never puts two and two together to figure out why I've finessed him into a situation where he almost has to kill the Marquis rather than bring him in.”
“It's an interesting hypothesis,” said Nighthawk uncomfortably. “But what does it have to do with Malloy or Melisande?”
“Melisande is Hernandez’ spy,” answered the older man. “She wasn't there to have you fall in love with her. She was there to sleep with the Marquis and let Hernandez know if he ever had an inclination to talk—or to blackmail Hernandez, which was much more likely.”
“And Malloy?”
“I doubt that he was working for Hernandez at all. From what you told me, if you hadn't shown up exactly when you did, the Marquis would have killed him or he'd have frozen to death trying to get away. No, my guess is that once you became friendly with him, Melisande reported it and that was when Hernandez hired him.” Father Christmas took another puff of his cigar and looked at Nighthawk. “Well, what do you think?”
Nighthawk considered the scenario for a long moment. Finally he looked at Father Christmas. “I think you're probably right,” he said.
“Probably?”
Nighthawk angrily slammed a fist against the arm of his chair. “Okay, you're right. Period. Are you happy now?”
“Thank you,” said Father Christmas. “I presume this means you're going to set a course to the Rim?”
“I haven't decided.”
“But I told you what a double-crossing bitch your Pearl of Maracaibo is!”
“I know.”
“Well, then?”
“You don't love someone because she's perfect.”
“You're kidding!” exclaimed Father Christmas. “We're not talking about a woman who falls a few notches short of perfection. We're talking about someone who is, and always has been, in
the employ of the enemy and wants you dead. What the hell is the matter with you?”
“You haven't been to bed with her,” said Nighthawk. “You can't know what you're asking me to give up.”
“A quick death!” answered Father Christmas. He stood up as if to pace off his frustration, then realized there was no room to do so and sat down tensely. “If you'd ever fucked anyone else, you'd know there's nothing unique about her. And remember: it was all an act, all in the line of duty. She'll never go to bed with you again, now that you know who and what she is.”
“She doesn't know I'm aware that she works for Colonel Hernandez.”
“She jumped ship with the Marquis’ corpse,” said the older man sardonically. “She's got to figure that even you can draw the logical conclusion about whose side she's on.”
“I want her.”
“I want to be King of Deluros VIII,” retorted Father Christmas. “We're both doomed to be disappointed.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Nighthawk.
22.
Father Christmas sipped his beer and tried to control his temper. “Goddammit, son—will you please, just for once, use your brain!”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Nighthawk.
“I know it's difficult, but try to think things through. You want to follow the girl, right?”
“Right.”
“And you know she's with Malloy, and they're almost certainly in the employ of this Colonel Hernandez.”
“Have you got a point?”
“Just this,” said Father Christmas. “Where do you suppose they're going right now?”
“Probably Solio II.”
“And if you follow them, that's where you'll wind up, right?” continued the older man.
“So what?”
“How much does Hernandez owe your creators?”
“I'm not sure,” said Nighthawk. “Somewhere around five million credits.”
“But you haven't told your people on Deluros that you've accomplished your task and killed the Marquis,” Father Christmas pointed out. “So if you land on Solio, what is Hernandez’ most reasonable course of action?”