The Widowmaker Reborn: Volume 2 of the Widowmaker Trilogy

by Mike Resnick

  He stood in silence for a moment, then turned to Egan. “Okay, let's go see the world.”

  1.

  Jefferson Nighthawk stood two hundred yards from the burning targets, a laser pistol in his hand, and grimaced.

  “Six shots, five hits, elapsed time 4.13 seconds,” announced Ito Kinoshita, the small, wiry man who was standing near him. “Very good.”

  Nighthawk shook his head. “It stinks. Set ‘em up again.”

  “You're sure you don't want to rest? We've been at this for over an hour now.”

  “Not until I get it right.” He looked around at the rolling green countryside. “It's not as if we're bothering anyone. I'd be surprised if there's a neighbor within five miles.”

  “You hit one hundred percent with your Screecher and your bullet gun,” said Kinoshita. “And you've got the laser up from fifty percent to five out of six, and doubled your speed. I'd call it a good morning's work.”

  “The laser's the one I'll use the most often,” answered Nighthawk, frowning at the targets. “Makes the least noise, lightest in weight. And that's not five out of six targets I just burned. It's five out of six armed men; the sixth one just killed me.”

  “You're a perfectionist.”

  “In my business you don't live much past twenty if you're not.”

  “How often did you practice when you were...?” Kinoshita paused, trying to find the right word.

  “Alive?” asked Nighthawk wryly.

  “Actively engaged in business, let us say.”

  “Not regularly. But I was used to my body and my weapons. They haven't made any major changes to these pistols"—he indicated the various weapons that were laid out on a table beside him—"but they're a little lighter in weight. It makes a difference. As for my body,” he continued, “it's in perfect shape, and that requires adjustments.”

  “That's a problem?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Why?”

  “I broke my hand when I was 28,” explained Nighthawk. “I didn't realize it until now, but it made a difference in the way I held a gun. Not much of one, but enough to throw my aim off. Also, I'd taken a few burns and bullets in my younger days; that made me hold my body differently. A tiny difference, to be sure ... but the difference between a kill and a miss can be pretty small, too.”

  Kinoshita gave a brief order to his control board, and six more targets flashed into existence.

  Nighthawk stared at them for a moment, then aimed and fired the laser pistol again. There was a soft humming noise, and an instant later all six targets were ablaze.

  “Time?” he asked.

  Kinoshita checked the automatic timer. “3.86 seconds.”

  Nighthawk laid the laser pistol down next to the other weapons. “Better. Not great, but better.” He turned to Kinoshita. “Let's get something to drink. This afternoon we'll try again, and tomorrow we'll work on fast draws. Blowing away six targets in three seconds won't do you much good if it takes you a couple of seconds to get your gun out of its holster.”

  They stepped onto the carefully-manicured sliding trail that took them past the large angular main house at the center of the compound. Dozens of impressive-looking machines were caring for the grounds, sweeping up fallen leaves and atomizing them, mowing the vast lawn to a height of exactly two inches, dispensing insecticides. A robot maid exited one bungalow and made its way to the next.

  “How many people can this place accommodate?” asked Nighthawk.

  Kinoshita shrugged. “Twelve bungalows plus the main house. Maybe 40 people. Any given day there are usually three or four members of the firm and their mistresses of all genders, and I've seen up to 300 at their parties.” He paused. “Of course, it's empty now except for you and me and the chef. I don't think they want anyone trying to buy you away.”

  “Is this where you trained the last clone?”

  “No. Dinnisen's firm only bought this place about a year ago.” They reached the door to Nighthawk's bungalow, which slid back after identifying them. Kinoshita immediately walked into the kitchen. “What would you like?”

  “Water or coffee,” answered Nighthawk.

  “We have beer and whiskey.”

  “I don't drink alcohol when I'm working. Besides,” he added, “I don't know how my body will react to it, and I'd rather not experiment until all my reflexes are up to par.”

  “It's your own body. How can you not know?”

  “It's never had any liquor before. The last time I was this age, I'd probably consumed a swimming pool's worth. I have a feeling that makes a difference to a body's tolerance.”

  Kinoshita nodded in agreement. “I'm beginning to see why you lived so long,” he said. “You're a very cautious man. You think of everything.”

  “There's more to being a bounty hunter or a lawman than being good with a gun,” answered Nighthawk as Kinoshita ordered the kitchen computer to prepare two tall glasses of ice water. “Especially out on the Frontier. Which reminds me: when will Dinnisen be here?”

  “Any time now. Late morning, he said.”

  “Good.”

  “Is there a problem?” asked Kinoshita, carrying Nighthawk's drink to him.

  “Could be.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don't buy his whole bullshit story,” replied Nighthawk. “I've got a lot of questions for him.” He downed half his glass of water in a single swallow, then stared at Kinoshita. “Unless you'd like to answer them?”

  “Not me,” was the reply. “I'm just your trainer. Which,” he added, “is ridiculous. You're already twice as good as I am, and you know your body far better than I do.”

  “Did you train the last clone?”

  “Yeah ... but he was a baby with your body. I had to teach him how to shoot a gun, how to break a skull, everything.” Kinoshita looked at Nighthawk with open admiration. “There's nothing I can teach you, Widowmaker.”

  “Sure there is,” said Nighthawk. “There's a computer in the next room. They've changed a lot in the past century. I don't even know how to turn it on.”

  “What do you need from the computer?”

  “The Widowmaker file. I'm sure it's protected, but you work for the organization. You ought to know how to access it.”

  Kinoshita frowned. “Why?”

  “This organization sent a clone out two years ago, and as near as I can tell, he did what they asked him to do, and no one in Dinnisen's firm lifted a finger to save him. That's not going to happen to me. If I find they can't be trusted—and I suspect they can't—then I don't plan to ever put myself in a position where I need their help. I want to learn everything I can about the last clone: what he did, where and how he did it, who killed him, and why.”

  “I doubt I can access all that,” answered Kinoshita. “But I'll be happy to bring up my own file. The problem is that it stops the day he left for the Frontier.”

  “I suppose it's better than nothing,” said Nighthawk. “Will you get in trouble for letting me read it?”

  “I don't think there's anything all that sensitive in it,” said Kinoshita, walking to the next room. “Besides, if push comes to shove, I'd much rather be in trouble with Dinnisen than with you.”

  Kinoshita opened the file, then left him alone until Dinnisen showed up.

  Nighthawk looked up from the computer as Dinnisen entered the bungalow. He deactivated the machine, then walked across the glowing carpet that was woven from exotic alien filaments. When he reached a form-fitting chair that floated a few inches above the floor, he sat down.

  Dinnisen and Kinoshita soon joined him in the small, cozy room. Dinnisen sat down opposite Nighthawk, while Kinoshita remained standing.

  “Well, how are you coming along?” asked the lawyer.

  “A couple of more weeks and I'll be ready.”

  “That long?”

  “Just making sure I can properly protect your investment,” said Nighthawk.

  “My investment?” asked Dinnisen, puzzled.

>   “Me.”

  “I thought I explained that time was of the essence.”

  “Surviving is of the essence,” said Nighthawk. “Time is secondary.”

  Dinnisen turned to Kinoshita. “Does he really need two more weeks.”

  “It's not his decision,” interrupted Nighthawk.

  “Your predecessor was a much more pleasant person,” said Dinnisen, making no attempt to hide his annoyance.

  “That's probably why he's dead.”

  “I don't like your attitude, Mr. Nighthawk.”

  “I couldn't care less, Mr. Dinnisen. I'm not going out until I'm ready.”

  “I'm told that you put all three of your sparring partners in the hospital yesterday. How much readier do you have to be? Couldn't you at least have pulled your punches?”

  “He did pull his punches,” interjected Kinoshita. “That's why they're still alive.”

  Dinnisen stared at Nighthawk for a long moment, then shrugged. “All right,” he said at last. “Two weeks.” He took a deep breath, released it slowly, and made another attempt to be charming. “How do you like the facilities?”

  “They're fine,” said Nighthawk. “And Selamundi seems a nice enough world.”

  “And it's only two systems removed from Deluros, which is quite convenient,” noted Dinnisen. He leaned forward. “Do you need anything? Different weapons? Protective clothing? Anything at all?”

  “Yes, I need something.”

  “Just name it.”

  “Answers.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This cock-and-bull hunt you're sending me out on,” said Nighthawk. “It reeks.”

  “I assure you—”

  “Spare me your assurances,” said Nighthawk. “I want the truth.”

  “I told you what you need to know.”

  “You haven't begun to tell me what I need to know, and I'm not putting my life on the line until you do.”

  “I'll go over it again,” said Dinnisen irritably. He pulled out a tiny, pen-sized holo projector and cast an image of a slender young blonde woman in the middle of the room. “Cassandra Hill, the daughter of Cassius Hill, governor of Pericles V, has been kidnapped by a revolutionary named Ibn ben Khalid.” The holograph of a ruggedly handsome man in his early thirties replaced the woman's image. “I have supplied you with dozens of holographs of each of them, and told you that he is presumed to be on the Inner Frontier. You have been given a considerable amount of money to draw from for whatever you need. You'll have your own ship. Ito will accompany you until you're comfortable with the changes that a new century has brought about. What more could you possibly want?”

  “Plenty,” said Nighthawk. “For starters, why me?”

  “You're the best,” said Dinnisen. “Or, once upon a time, you were.”

  “Not good enough,” said Nighthawk. “The Governor of Pericles V has the entire resources of his planet at his disposal. He can send out the Navy, and post a reward that will attract hundreds of bounty hunters. After all, he'll only have to pay one of them.” He paused. “But someone has already paid to create me—and they've paid more than the girl is worth. I want to know why.”

  “Rescuing Cassandra Hill is only part of your mission,” said Dinnisen, looking just a bit uncomfortable. He paused almost imperceptably. “The other part is killing Ibn ben Khalid.”

  “He's what's worth all those millions, not her,” said Nighthawk. Then, sardonically, “My sympathies to the grieving father.”

  “He is a grieving father,” said Dinnisen.

  “Sure he is,” said Nighthawk. “But if the only way to kill him is to kill her too?”

  Dinnisen sighed. “Then you kill them both.”

  “Yeah, he sure loves his daughter, this politician,” said Nighthawk. “How comforting to know that nothing's changed in a century.” He paused. “Hell, if I were her, I'd choose Ibn ben Khalid over Cassius Hill every time. Maybe she wasn't kidnapped at all.”

  “Look,” said Dinnisen, “he would much prefer that you rescue his daughter and bring her back to him in one piece. That is the ideal scenario.”

  “You've been a lawyer too long. You couldn't utter a simple factual sentence if your life depended on it.” Nighthawk lit a smokeless cigar. “All right, we'll overlook all the nuances of the father's motives. My job is to rescue her and kill him, and that's what I'll try to do.” He paused. “Now, he's enough of a revolutionary that his death is the most important part of this assignment. How big is his army?”

  “I don't know,” said Dinnisen. “Big.”

  “So big that Cassius Hill doesn't really expect anyone to try to earn the reward?”

  “If someone can find the girl, by herself, of course they'll claim it.”

  “But they won't go up against Ibn ben Khalid.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I doubt it. He's got informants all over the Frontier. It would be almost impossible for anyone to infiltrate his organization.” Dinnisen stared at Nighthawk. “Anyone but you. That's one of the reasons Hill made us the offer. Not only are you the best at what you do—but you haven't been around for a century. His agents won't know who you are, won't spot you as a bounty hunter or an employee of Cassius Hill.”

  “You undercharged,” said Nighthawk.

  “What?”

  “If Hill's afraid to go up against Ibn ben Khalid's men with his own planetary forces, you're not charging him enough.”

  “It's not a matter of fear. It's a matter of legality and cost. Pericles V has no authority on the Inner Frontier, and even if it did, equipping such a mission could cost billions.”

  “All the more reason to demand triple what he offered. If the alternative was putting billions into a military operation, with no guarantee of seeing his daughter alive again, he'd have paid.”

  “You're not going to hold him up for more money again?”

  “No, I'm getting what I want,” said Nighthawk. “But for a smart lawyer, you're a lousy bargainer, Mr. Dinnisen. It makes me wonder why.”

  “I assure you—”

  “So you've said. Now let's get back to the business at hand. Has there been a second ransom demand?”

  “No. Nothing since the tragedy on Roosevelt III.”

  “Let me make sure I've got this straight. Ibn ben Khalid contacted Hill through intermediaries, explained that he'd kidnapped his daughter, and demanded two million credits for her return. Hill sent his bag man to Roosevelt III with the money, as instructed. Once the man landed, he was killed and the money was stolen. Right?”

  Dinnisen nodded. “Right.”

  “Is there any proof that Ibn ben Khalid was responsible for it?”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “Anyone who wanted two million credits in cash.”

  “It was him, take my word for it.”

  “I don't take your word for anything,” replied Nighthawk. “In fact, until you tell me how Hill knew that Ibn ben Khalid had his daughter, I don't even take your word that he kidnapped her. He could just be an opportunist who heard she was missing and tried to pry a couple of million credits from a grieving father while she's shacked up somewhere with a lover. It wouldn't be the first time a smart man has pulled a bluff like that.”

  Dinnisen reached into a pocket, pulled out a small computer cube, and tossed it to Nighthawk.

  “Here's a holo duplication of the first ransom demand. I just got it this morning.”

  “Okay, I see Ibn ben Khalid,” said Nighthawk, looking at the cube. “Are you sure the girl's not an actress or a double?”

  “The voiceprint checks out. It's her.”

  “I'll look at it later,” said Nighthawk, placing the cube on a table.

  “If we get anything further, I'll of course see that you get a copy.”

  “Fine. And I want everything you have on Hill.”

  “You have it.”

  “The father, not the daughter.”

  “Cassius Hill?” said Dinnisen, surprised. “Why?�
�

  “He's involved. Why not?”

  Dinnisen shrugged. “Whatever you say. I'll have it sent here this afternoon.” He paused. “Do you have any more questions?”

  “When I do, you'll be the first to know.”

  The lawyer turned to Kinoshita. “How's his progress?”

  “He's the fastest and most accurate shot I've ever seen with every weapon he's tried,” replied Kinoshita. “I should add that he's very disappointed in his performance. He's the Widowmaker, all right.”

  “That just means he's an exceptionally able killer.”

  “And you're an exceptionally able lawyer,” said Nighthawk. “Ironic, isn't it?”

  “What?”

  “You get guilty people off the hook,” said Nighthawk. “And eventually I get paid to hunt down your triumphs.”

  “You haven't liked me from the first moment you opened your eyes,” said Dinnisen. “Why? What could I possibly have done to you in your four days of life?”

  “To me? Nothing.”

  “Well, then?” demanded the lawyer.

  “You sent my predecessor out without preparing him for what he would face.”

  “Nonsense. He knew what he had to do.”

  “Oh, he knew who to kill. But he didn't know how to live, and you didn't give him enough time to learn. That may work here in the heart of the Oligarchy, where you have laws, and lawyers, and more social safety nets than you can count—but out on the Frontier, that's a death sentence. And I think you knew it. I think you were fully prepared to kill him if he made it back alive.”

  “Kill him? Hell, we'd have rented him out again. He was a valuable commodity!”

  “Well, I'm a human being and not a commodity,” said Nighthawk. “Do you think you're going to rent me out after this assignment?”

  “The firm of Hubbs, Wilkinson, Raith and Jiminez would be happy to enter into any such arrangement as your representative,” said Dinnisen. “But I suspect you're too independent. I truly don't foresee us having a working relationship with you.”

  “You bet your ass.”

  “Have you any further questions before I leave?” asked Dinnisen.

  “Just one,” said Nighthawk. “You mentioned that I would have my own ship.”