The Widowmaker Unleashed: Volume 3 of the Widowmaker Trilogy

by Mike Resnick

He left the store, walked across the street, picked up the spices he wanted, and returned to the vehicle, which was empty. He looked into a couple of restaurant windows, spotted Kinoshita sitting down to an omelet made from imported eggs and mutated ham, and joined him.

  “Thanks for waiting,” said Nighthawk sardonically.

  “I was starving.”

  “You must have been some lawman. What happened when you got hungry during a hot pursuit?”

  “I ate. No sense going up against a killer in a weakened condition.”

  “A weakened condition is three bullets in your abdomen, or a hand sliced off by a Burner. What you're describing is a hungry condition.”

  “Make fun of me all you want,” said Kinoshita defensively, “but I made it past 40 without your skills. I must have done something right.”

  “Yeah,” said Nighthawk, smiling. “You stopped for dinner while all the really dangerous outlaws got away.”

  “Have your fun,” said Kinoshita, “but if you start talking about calories and diets, I'm going to get a room in town.”

  “Hell, eat all you want. Our days of chasing bad guys are over.”

  “Speaking of which, I saw that young gun going into the bar across the street.”

  “He starts his drinking early, doesn't he?” remarked Nighthawk.

  “That's all you have to say?”

  “There's no law against getting drunk before noon.”

  “If he sees you...”

  “If he sees me, I'll step aside. It doesn't take all that much effort.”

  “I still don't understand you.”

  “I'm not wearing any weapons,” said Nighthawk. “What would you have me do?”

  Kinoshita sighed. “Nothing. It's none of my business.”

  “Right the first time.”

  Nighthawk called up a menu, made his selections, and ate in silence. Kinoshita keep looking nervously out the window for Johnny Trouble, but Nighthawk paid attention only to the meal in front of him.

  When they were done they walked out to the vehicle.

  “You want to jog back?” asked Kinoshita.

  “I'm an old man,” answered Nighthawk, climbing in. “In fact, right now I'm a stiff, tired old man. Two miles a day is plenty.”

  They had driven about half the distance when Nighthawk asked Kinoshita to stop.

  “What is it?”

  “That bird up there,” said Nighthawk, pointing. “It's lovely. I wonder what it is?”

  “What bird where?”

  “Right over there. Eleven o'clock, about a quarter mile away. Top branch, to the left of the bole.”

  Kinoshita peered for a moment, then shook his head. “All I can see is a kind of reddish lump. You can actually make out details?”

  “And colors.”

  “Well, there's sure as hell nothing wrong with your eyes.”

  “There never was. Eplasia doesn't affect the vision.”

  “So are you going to become a bird-watcher now?”

  “No. It just caught my attention.” Nighthawk paused thoughtfully. “You know, I could get into birding, now that I come to think of it.”

  Kinoshita shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy.”

  “I think a pastoral existence in my old age is what will make me happy. At least, it has so far.” Suddenly he peered ahead and frowned.

  “What is it?” asked Kinoshita, instantly alert. “What do you see?”

  “I'm not sure. But get this thing moving and head for home—fast!”

  Kinoshita peeled away on the dirt road.

  "Shit!" muttered Nighthawk.

  “What's the matter?” demanded Kinoshita, almost losing touch with the road as he raced around a turn.

  “Smoke,” said Nighthawk. “Plenty of it.”

  “Coming from near the house?”

  “Very.”

  They sped on for another two miles, then halted fifty yards from the house, which was totally ablaze.

  “What the hell could have happened?” demanded Kinoshita, emerging from the vehicle. “Maybe some embers from last night's fire?”

  “This wasn't any accident,” said Nighthawk grimly. He saw something fluttering from the stump where he had buried his ax, walked over, picked it up, and frowned.

  “What is it?” asked Kinoshita, joining him.

  “A message,” he said, handing it over.

  “'This is for Colonel Hernandez!'” Kinoshita read aloud.

  “Who the hell is he?” said Nighthawk. “I never heard of any Colonel Hernandez.”

  “I have,” said Kinoshita grimly.

  “He's one of yours?”

  Kinoshita shook his head. “No, Jefferson. You killed him.”

  “The hell I did.”

  “I know,” said Kinoshita. “I was there.”

  7.

  “Explain!”

  “The first clone was created for Colonel James Hernandez of Solio II,” answered Kinoshita. “He was the one who instigated the creation of the clone, and he paid the bill.”

  “Surely I didn't kill him for that?”

  “The first clone didn't kill him at all. He—the clone—was as efficient a killer as you were at 23, but mentally and emotionally he was only a few months old. He was naive and innocent, and it cost him his life.”

  “How?”

  “He found out, somehow, that Hernandez was using him for his own ends, and he went to Solio and tried to kill him. I don't know all the details, but I'm told there was a woman involved. Anyway, it was a trap, and it was the clone who died.”

  “But he killed Hernandez in the process?”

  Kinoshita shook his head. “No.”

  “Then who did?”

  “The second clone.”

  “Did Hernandez pay for the second clone as well?” asked Nighthawk.

  “No,” said Kinoshita. “The second clone was commissioned by Cassius Hill, the governor of a world named Pericles. But the second clone found out what had happened to his predecessor, and he made it his business to settle accounts on the way to Pericles.”

  “And he killed Hernandez?”

  “Right. I know; I was there.”

  “Then you know who else was there?”

  “He shot him in the middle of a crowded restaurant on Solio II. In fact, he killed Hernandez and four or five bodyguards.”

  “So some survivor spotted one of us and burned the house down.”

  “What do you mean, ‘one of us'?” demanded Kinoshita. “You're the one who killed him.”

  “I'll wager you've changed a hell of a lot less in the last three years than I have,” answered Nighthawk. “I'm still 20 pounds lighter than I was in my prime, my hair is halfway between gray and white, my face is lined. It's much more likely that they recognized you and then doped out who I was.”

  Kinoshita was silent for a long moment. “You know,” he admitted at last, “you've got a point.”

  “Well, at least you'll be able to identify them when we find them.”

  “I don't know that for a fact,” answered Kinoshita. “I don't know if I could identify everyone who was in that restaurant. Besides, Hernandez was the most powerful man on the planet, and he was as corrupt as hell. If the new regime replaced all his cronies and loyalists, you could have thousands of embittered men and women out for revenge.”

  “Only half a dozen of which you might possibly recognize,” suggested Nighthawk grimly. “Is that what you're trying to tell me?”

  “Yeah, I think that's pretty much it.”

  Nighthawk stood, hands on hips, watching the last wall of the house collapse. “How much was it insured for?” he asked, surveying the damage.

  “About twenty percent of cost.”

  “No more?”

  “The land was worth eighty percent, and you still own it.” Kinoshita paused. “Do you want to rebuild?”

  “What's the point? They know where I live. They'll just come back.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We collect
the insurance, put the land up for sale, and leave.”

  “Leave for where?”

  “I don't know. We'll go deeper into the Frontier until we find another world.”

  “Should I get us a room at the hotel in town?” asked Kinoshita.

  “Why?”

  “I thought you might want to come back in a couple of days, when the ruins have cooled down, and see if there's anything left.”

  “It was a wood house. What the hell do you think will be left?”

  “Well, actually, I was thinking we might find a clue as to who did this.”

  “I don't much give a damn,” said Nighthawk. “If they're in town, you'll point them out to me. If they've already left the planet, I'm not about to spend the rest of my life tracking them down.”

  “Jefferson Nighthawk's just going to walk away?” demanded Kinoshita disbelievingly.

  “Jefferson Nighthawk's going to vanish. I want a new identity before we settle on the next world. I don't plan to be a target for people I can't even recognize.” He walked back to the vehicle. “There's nothing we can do here. Let's get going.”

  “The fire might spread.”

  “Let it. We're never coming back.”

  Kinoshita stared thoughtfully at him. You're nowhere near as devastated as you should be. I thought you loved this place, that you wanted to spend the rest of your life here. But if you can just shrug and walk away, I was wrong. You're not quite the Widowmaker yet, or you'd be after whoever did this with blood in your eye; but you're not Jefferson Nighthawk either, or you'd be more deeply affected. I don't know which one you're going to wind up being; in fact, I don't know which one I want you to be. Yet.

  “Are we just going to sit here all morning?” asked Nighthawk sardonically.

  “Sorry,” said Kinoshita, ordering the vehicle to accelerate.

  “When we get to town, report the fire to the authorities, put in a claim for the insurance, and see if you can buy a new ship. If you can, trade ours in.”

  “Ours works fine.”

  “Ours is registered in my name. If there's an easier way to trace a man, I've never found it.”

  “So what name do you want me to register the new ship in?” asked Kinoshita.

  “Shit!” muttered Nighthawk. “I'd forgotten. I won't get a new ID and passport until we're deeper into the Frontier.” He sighed deeply. “All right, we'll keep the ship a little longer.”

  “What are you going to be doing while I'm talking to the insurance company and the police?”

  “The fire department, not the police,” Nighthawk corrected him.

  “But it was arson!” protested Kinoshita.

  Nighthawk pulled the message out of a pocket ripped it to shreds, throwing the pieces out the window. “If they think it was arson, we'll be stuck here for a week answering questions and filling out forms.”

  “You're the boss.”

  “Hold that thought.” The vehicle slowed down as they approached the town. “Anyway, in answer to your question, I've got a bunch of things on order, everything from furniture to flowers. I've got to cancel them. And there's something I have to buy.” They neared the feed store. “Drop me here. I'll meet you at the bar.”

  Nighthawk got out of the vehicle, walked into the store, and canceled the morning's order. He walked up and down the street, doing the same thing at a hardware and a furniture store.

  Finally he entered a small shop next to the restaurant.

  An old, bald man squinted across the room at him. “I've seen you around, Mr. Nighthawk. Can I help you find something?”

  “Probably. Do you handle just new equipment, or do you have some old stuff lying around?”

  “Half and half. What are you looking for?”

  “I'll know it when I see it,” said Nighthawk, starting to examine the display cases. “Pull this one out, please.”

  “Nice choice. Belonged to a lawman. Kept him alive long enough to retire.”

  Nighthawk examined the laser pistol, hefted it, checked the sights with an expert eye.

  “Power pack?”

  “Right there.”

  “Where?”

  “When's the last time you used a Burner?” asked the old man, curious.

  “A long time ago,” answered Nighthawk.

  “It's right there in the handle.”

  “This?” asked Nighthawk, pointing to the tiny battery.

  “Yeah, that's it.”

  “How long is it good for?”

  “Depends how much you're using it. It'll hold up for a 20-minute blast in a lab. In the field, when you stop and start, probably about half that.”

  “How much are the batteries?”

  “200 credits each. I can take Maria Theresa dollars or Far London pounds. Word is that there's been a revolution on New Stalin, so I'm not taking New Stalin rubles this week.”

  “I'll take the Burner, and a dozen batteries. Got a holster?”

  “New or old?”

  “Old. I want one that I know works.”

  “I can give you the one it came with. It's kind of ratty, but it'll hold the gun.”

  “Fine. Now show me your Screechers.”

  Nighthawk examined eight sonic pistols with an expert eye, chose the one he wanted, and picked up another dozen batteries fitted to that model.

  “Anything else?”

  “Something that makes a bang.”

  “Only got one, and it's brand-new.”

  “Let's have a look.”

  Nighthawk examined it, pulled the trigger several times, rolled the cylinder, and returned it to the old man.

  “Won't do,” he said.

  “What's the matter with it?”

  “Feels stiff.”

  “Of course it feels stiff. It's metal.”

  “I meant the mechanism.”

  “So oil it.”

  “I'd never trust it,” said Nighthawk. “And if I don't trust it, I'll never use it—so why buy it in the first place?”

  “You feel this way about every new weapon you buy?”

  “I've never owned a new one.”

  “You owned many?” asked the old man dubiously.

  “A few.”

  “Can I show you anything else?”

  Nighthawk looked around, saw a knife with a serrated blade, slipped it comfortably inside his right boot. “Yeah, I'll take this, too. What's the total?”

  The old man totaled up the amount, scanned Nighthawk's retinagram and thumbprint, waited for the bank's computer to validate them, transferred the money to his store's account, and began to wrap the weapons.

  “Don't bother,” said Nighthawk. He positioned the Burner's holster on his thigh, waited for it to bond with his trousers, then attached the Screecher's holster to the small of his back. He took the tiny batteries and shoved them into a pocket.

  “You know,” said the old man, “you look like a man who was used to carrying weapons once upon a time.”

  “Once upon a time I was.”

  “You develop a sudden grudge against someone?”

  “Maybe someone's got a grudge against me.”

  “Who'd want to bother a dignified old guy like you?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” said Nighthawk, walking toward the door. Suddenly he stopped.

  “Hey, old man,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You have to register those weapons, don't you?”

  “Yeah, but there's no problem. I know your name: Jefferson Nighthawk.”

  “Tell you what. Register them to Doctor Gilbert Egan of Deluros VIII, and I'll give you my vehicle. You can pick it up at the spaceport tonight.”

  “The papers are in it?”

  “Right.”

  The old man grinned. “Doctor Egan, you got yourself a deal.”

  Nighthawk turned and walked out into the street. He looked around for Kinoshita, couldn't see him, and walked over to the bar. The doors irised, and as he walked in he found himself facing Johnny Trouble.

&
nbsp; “Well, look who's here,” said the young man in mocking tones.

  “I'm just meeting a friend here,” said Nighthawk. “I don't want any trouble.”

  “Looks to me like you came dressed for trouble, old man,” said Johnny Trouble, gesturing toward the Burner at Nighthawk's side.

  “Look, kid,” said Nighthawk, “I've had a bad morning. I don't need any more hassles.”

  “Then take your Burner out real carefully, drop it on the floor, and buy me a beer, and you won't have any problems.” Johnny Trouble flashed a grin at the handful of men who were seated at tables toward the back of the tavern.

  “If I've done anything to offend you, I apologize,” said Nighthawk. “I'm leaving the planet in another half hour, and you'll never have to see me again.”

  “Your money's good here. Your apologies aren't.”

  Nighthawk stared at him. “Back off, kid. I apologized once. I'm not going to do it again.”

  “Then you're going to wish you had,” said Johnny Trouble, stepping closer.

  Suddenly Nighthawk's right hand shot out, so fast that it was almost a blur, and slapped Johnny Trouble's face, hard. The young man spun around from the force of the blow. When he had completed the circle and was facing Nighthawk again, he found his nose two inches from the business end of the older man's Burner.

  “Who are you?” demanded Johnny Trouble.

  “You'll find out soon enough,” answered Nighthawk. “Now take that pistol out—gently—and place it on the bar.”

  Johnny Trouble did as he was told.

  Nighthawk placed his own pistol on the bar, an equal distance away.

  “Okay, big shot,” he said. “Are you ready to face the Widowmaker down a second time?”

  Johnny Trouble stared into Nighthawk's cold, unblinking eyes, and didn't like what he saw there. He froze for a moment, then managed to shake his head vigorously.

  “Then walk away and don't come back.”

  Johnny Trouble walked stiffly out the door.

  There was a long silence. Then one of the men at the back of the tavern spoke up. “You really the Widowmaker?” he asked.

  “Don't believe everything you hear,” said Nighthawk, picking up his pistol and putting it back in his holster.

  “Are you saying you're not?” asked a second man.

  “I wouldn't believe that either,” said a third.

  Nighthawk smiled at them, then walked out into the street. He saw their vehicle parked in front of the bank building that also housed the insurance agency, walked over, and sat in the passenger's seat. Kinoshita came out a moment later, spotted him, and joined him inside the vehicle.