The Widowmaker Reborn: Volume 2 of the Widowmaker Trilogy

by Mike Resnick

  “I've never seen so many books in one place,” he replied.

  “There used to be lots of libraries like this, I'm told, before you could fit an entire encyclopedia on a chip a tenth the size of my fingernail.” She picked a volume up from the shelf. “I like the heft and smell of a book. The reading experience seems inadequate and lacking when you read from a holoscreen.”

  “I see you even have one by Tanblixt,” noted Nighthawk.

  “The greatest of the alien poets.”

  “I know. I've read him.”

  “Recently?”

  He smiled. “About a century and a half ago.”

  She stared at him for a moment. “If there are any books you'd like to borrow...”

  Nighthawk paused, then shook his head. “I'd be afraid something might happen to them,” he said. “But if we're on Sylene for any length of time, I'd like to be able to read some right here in your library.”

  “You're welcome to.” She paused. “You're a most unusual man, Widowmaker. It's very rare to find a cultured, educated man in your line of work.”

  “You find all kinds of men in my line of work,” he replied. “There are as many reasons as there are practitioners.”

  “I would have thought most of you had an overdeveloped sense of justice, or perhaps a death wish,” she said with a smile.

  “Take a look at Friday,” responded Nighthawk. “All he wants is the opportunity to kill Men. Justice means nothing to him, and I doubt that he ever considers his own mortality.”

  “He's an alien.”

  “Don't aliens count?”

  “They have different motivations.”

  “Do they?” said Nighthawk. “An alien named Blue Eyes did his damnedest to lead me away from you, and when I came back he was willing to sacrifice both his life and Jory's to keep your identity a secret.”

  “That's Blue Eyes. He's one of us.”

  “I thought he was an alien.”

  She sighed. “You're right. Here I was, sounding like exactly what I'm fighting against.”

  “Suppose you tell me a little more about what you're fighting against?” suggested Nighthawk.

  “I'll be happy to,” she said. “Just let me serve our dinner first.”

  “You cook, too?”

  “Not when I can help it,” said Cassandra. “Actually, Nicholas cooked dinner tonight.”

  “You live with him?” asked Nighthawk.

  “I live with me,” she answered firmly. “Nicholas likes to cook.”

  “I always thought I'd take it up someday.”

  “Cooking?”

  He nodded. “You visit a couple of hundred alien worlds and suddenly nice bland digestable food becomes very important to you.” He smiled. “Especially when your life may depend upon not being sick.”

  “I never considered that.”

  “Stay in the revolution business long enough and you will,” he assured her.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Now suppose you tell me just how you got into the business,” said Nighthawk.

  “My father,” she replied. “He's the most corrupt man alive.”

  “I think every girl believes that at one point or another. Most of them outgrow it. How come you didn't?”

  “Because in my case it wasn't a fantasy. I've heard my father give orders to kill political rivals or ambitious subordinates. He's getting kickbacks from every contractor who ever worked for the planetary government, from every spaceship company that wants docking space at our orbiting hangars, from every interest group that wants a favor.”

  She paused for breath, and Nighthawk noticed that her cheeks were flushed. After a moment she brought their food to the table, and they both sat down.

  “He's especially vicious toward our alien population. It's his policy to hold them without trial and without bail. Any alien who kills a Man is summarily executed without a trial. The penalty for a Man who kills any alien was 200 credits.” She grimaced at the memory. “So I decided that he had to be overthrown. I created the myth of Ibn ben Khalid to misdirect his attention, and began building an organization of Men and aliens who want to see Cassius Hill overthrown.”

  “They say you number over a million now,” commented Nighthawk. “That's an impressive force.”

  “It's an inflated figure, just to scare him. Hell, if I had a million men, I'd have attacked already.”

  “You'd have lost.”

  “What are you talking about?” she demanded heatedly.

  “He's got a standing army of close to four million men, and he's got—what? —something like 30,000 ships. You're not going to overthrow him with a million men, or three million, or ten million.”

  “We will, if right is on our side.”

  “I'm no historian,” said Nighthawk, “but it's my observation that God tends to favor the side with the best weapons and the most manpower.”

  “Are you saying he can't be overthrown?” she said. “Tyrants are overthrown every year.”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “I said he can't be successfully attacked by a force ten times the size of the one that's at your disposal.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “I don't know that I'm in a position to suggest anything. Remember: he's my employer.”

  “What if I showed you proof that he's every bit as evil and corrupt as I claim he is?” she asked.

  “I believe you.”

  “But you insist that you owe him your loyalty?”

  “I don't judge the men I hunt, and I don't judge the men I work for.”

  “Maybe it's time you started.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe it is,” he agreed. “Let's discuss it while we eat.”

  “What's to discuss?” she said. “Either you're for me or you're against me. Or, in your case, either you're going to join me or you're going to try to take me back.”

  “Nothing's ever that simple.”

  “This is.”

  “Nothing is,” he repeated. “I like you. I'm predisposed to like people who take moral stands, and I'm predisposed to like people who still read books. You're smart, and you're tough, and you've managed to convince a hell of a lot of people to join your cause. I believe everything you said about your father, and I have no admiration for those who take advantage of the weak.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Half a galaxy away, on Deluros VIII, there's a cryonics chamber almost a mile beneath the surface of the planet. A few thousand men and women are frozen there. Most of them have diseases and are awaiting cures. A few committed crimes and are waiting for the statute of limitations to run out. A handful simply don't like the government or the economy, and are waiting for better times to live out the rest of their lives. There's even one, I'm told, a botanist who found a flower that only blooms once every three centuries, and wants to be alive to see it.” Nighthawk took a bite of his meal, chewed it thoughtfully, and nodded approvingly.

  “The one thing all these men and women have in common is that they're extremely wealthy,” he went on. “Wealthy enough to be able to afford the enormous expense of remaining frozen. There's only one man there who doesn't have the financial wherewithal to remain frozen until his disease can be cured. His name is Jefferson Nighthawk. He's not my father, he's not my twin brother. He's me, and I can't let him down.”

  “I see.”

  “I told you: nothing is ever as simple as it seems,” he said with a rueful smile. “If I don't deliver you to your father, I won't get paid—and if I don't get paid, the original version of me, the man who is the Widowmaker, who gave me his body and his memory so that I could protect his existence, is going to die. I won't allow that.”

  “So no matter what you feel about me or about my father, you're going to try to return me?”

  “'Try to’ is a misstatement. If I decide to return you, I'll do it.”

  “Not without a fight,” she promised.

  “I'd expect one.”

  �
��Even the Widowmaker can die.”

  “I'm living proof of that,” answered Nighthawk. “Or, rather, the original is dying proof of it.”

  “Then I guess the battle lines are drawn,” said Cassandra. “Do you just plan to eat dinner, read a good book, and then carry me off?”

  “There are always alternatives,” said Nighthawk. “I thought we might explore some of them.”

  “I'm willing,” she said. “What do you have in mind?”

  “How liquid is your father?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said he has ten million credits in his safe. Are you guessing, or do you know?”

  “Why?”

  “Because ten million is enough to keep the original Nighthawk alive, and pay for my cure as well, once a cure is developed.”

  “He's got it, and more,” she said decisively.

  “If I helped overthrow him, I'd want that money as payment for my services.”

  “You've already said that Pericles V is impregnable. How will my agreeing to pay you make a difference?”

  “What I said was an army of a million men couldn't overthrow your father,” he said. “I didn't say there weren't other ways to accomplish it.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, most obviously, we try to lure him out here, where he's vulnerable, and kill him,” said Nighthawk. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And if that doesn't work, we'll do it the hard way.”

  “All right, Mr. Nighthawk,” she said. “What's the hard way?”

  “We take my team to Pericles V,” he answered. “I assembled them for the purpose of killing one man, and that's still our purpose. Only now the man will be Cassius Hill instead of Ibn ben Khalid.”

  She stared at him. “I admire your confidence.”

  “I hand-picked that team for a reason. They're not much to look at, and they won't get along very well—but they're goddamned good at what they do.” He finished his food and shoved the plate aside. “Still, it'll be much easier if we can draw him out here, where he's not protected by so many men and devices.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “It shouldn't be too hard,” said Nighthawk. “After all, I've got something he wants.”

  “What is that?”

  “You.”

  20.

  Cassandra looked up from the book she was reading. “You're back again.”

  “Not much to do on this little dirtball,” replied Nighthawk, as he entered her apartment. “At least you've got books I can read.”

  She put her book on a table and stared at him. “I've also got an army you can use.”

  He shook his head. “Too disorganized. And too outnumbered.” He paused. “I keep telling you: you can't storm a well-armed fortress with a ragtag mob. Your father's probably got a ton of spies in your army, ready to tell him every order you give. And there's something else, too.”

  “Oh?”

  “Only Blue Eyes and Jory and maybe a handful of others know you're Cassandra Hill. When the rest find out, you life won't be worth ten credits. At least half of them will think the creation of Ibn ben Khalid was a trick created by your father to pinpoint who was disloyal to him.”

  “Not after I explain it to them.”

  “This is the Frontier. There's going to be at least one man in each audience who doesn't feel like waiting for an explanation.”

  “You're wrong,” she said adamantly. “These are my men. They're committed to my cause.”

  “Let's hope we don't have to find out. Much better to present them with a fait accompli.”

  “So when are you going to do it?” she asked.

  “It's too soon,” said Nighthawk.

  She looked annoyed. “He's not getting any weaker, you know.”

  “I know. But I haven't been out here long enough. If I find Cassandra Hill and Ibn ben Khalid too easily, he'll think something's wrong.”

  “How can you be sure of that?” she demanded. “You don't even know him.”

  “I know that he's suspicious of just about everyone. It's not as if he hasn't got his share of enemies.”

  Cassandra nodded. “His share and more.”

  Nighthawk walked over to a bookcase and started scanning the titles. He pulled a couple out, thumbed through them, and put them back.

  “Too much fiction,” he announced at last.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You want to be a leader,” he said. “You should be reading books about politics and leadership. Even Machiavelli. Ninety percent of your library is fiction.” He grimaced in contempt. “Totally useless.”

  “It teaches you about people.”

  “It's filled with lies.”

  “Its plots are lies—but it's filled with truth. The good stuff, anyway.”

  “You want to be a leader,” he noted. “How does a made-up story about people who never existed teach you anything about how real people think?”

  “That's very strange,” she said.

  “What is?”

  “It seems to me that you, the cold-blooded killer, should be the one who wants to escape into fiction.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “As an alternative to the horrors and grimness of your occupation.”

  “I've been a lawman and a bounty hunter,” answered Nighthawk. “I've never been a criminal.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “There's nothing horrible about my work,” he explained. “I bring felons to justice. There are times when it can be very satisfying.”

  “You take satisfaction in killing people?”

  “Not as much, I suspect, as you'll take in the death of your father.”

  “That's different,” she said. “It's personal.”

  “Are you saying you've assembled an army just to help you settle a personal grudge?” he asked.

  “No, of course not. They're the dispossessed and disenfranchised.”

  “And you're their spokesman?”

  “In a way.”

  “Then, in a way,” he said, “I'm the ombudsman for all those people who have been swindled or killed by men with prices on their heads.”

  He half-expected a furious outburst. Instead she threw back her head and laughed.

  “You're a very intelligent man.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You're wasted in your current profession.”

  “I don't think so,” he replied. “There are lots of bright men. There's only one Widowmaker.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?” he repeated.

  “What about the original—the man you were cloned from?”

  “As I told you, he's frozen until they come up with a cure for eplasia.”

  She made a face. “You hadn't said it was eplasia. Is there a chance you could catch it too?”

  “There's considerably more than a chance,” he said. “I've already got it.”

  She studied at him, looking for some sign of it.

  “It's in the very early stages,” he continued. “You won't see any sign of it for another year or two.”

  “It's a horrible way to die!” she said with a shudder. “The skin just rots away until the body is exposed to so many infections that it finally can't fight them off any longer.”

  “I don't plan to die.”

  “No one ever plans to die. But we all do.”

  “Let me amend that, then. I don't plan to die from eplasia. They'll have a cure before much longer. That's why I'm here—to earn enough to keep the original Widowmaker alive and eventually cure him.” He paused. “And I'll need some extra money for me.”

  “We'll get it,” said Cassandra. She paused thoughtfully. “You should get quite a thrill when you meet him after you're both cured.”

  “I don't think I will.”

  “Get a thrill?”

  “Meet him.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don't know,” he admitted. “I just have a feeling that the two of us should never meet, that it
would somehow be like a time paradox where you meet yourself. I'm sure it won't destroy the universe or bring Time to a stop, but I think it would be better if it never happens.”

  “Will he at least be able to thank you?”

  “It's not necessary,” said Nighthawk, and when she looked dubious, he added: “You don't thank yourself for brushing your teeth, or sterilizing a cut, do you? He's me, I'm him. This is just self-preservation.”

  “You must have some interesting nightmares,” she said.

  “A few,” he admitted.

  “Then why be something that disturbs you?”

  “That's the kind of question men are supposed to ask of women who are in Melisande's line of work,” he replied with a smile.

  “I'm serious.”

  He shrugged. “I don't know,” he replied. “It's one of those things you don't think about much. I guess I've just got a talent for it.”

  “How do you know you have a talent for it?” she persisted. “Did you kill the butler when you were three years old?”

  “I suppose I might have, if we'd had one,” he said with a amused smile.

  “You're not very forthcoming.”

  “That's because it's his life, and I don't know if he'd want me to answer you or not.”

  “But you told me you had all of the original's memories,” she said. “So it's your life as well.”

  “They're his memories, not mine,” answered Nighthawk. “He's got a proprietary claim on them.”

  “I've never met anyone quite like you.”

  “I'll assume that's a compliment.”

  She fell silent, and he continued looking at the spines of her books, considering first one title, then another, and finally withdrawing one.

  “What have you decided on?” she asked.

  “Tanblixt,” he replied.

  “That's a collector's item,” she noted. “It's in the original Canphorite.”

  “I can read it a bit.”

  “You continue to surprise me,” said Cassandra.

  “I've had to work with Canphorites in the past,” he said. “They're easier to get along with if you try to learn their language.”

  “Even though the law demands that all aliens must learn Terran or equip themselves with T-packs?”

  “Especially because of the law.”

  “Good,” she said. “I approve.”

  “Of course you approve. You're Ibn ben Khalid.”