The Widowmaker Reborn: Volume 2 of the Widowmaker Trilogy

by Mike Resnick

  “You won't turn over the money until he turns over your daughter,” Nighthawk explained patiently.

  “That's part of what I want,” said Hill. “I also want that wild-eyed radical scum dead, remember?”

  “First one, then the other,” said Nighthawk agreeably.

  “It won't be that simple. We'll be walking onto his world, under his conditions. He'll have five hundred guns pointed at me the second I show up.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Because that's what I'd do!” snapped Hill. “He's not stupid, you know.”

  “I know. In fact, he's remarkably well read.”

  “Most of these revolutionary fools are.”

  “I need to know your decision, Governor Hill. Are you coming out here?”

  “Not yet. There's too much to be considered, too many preparations to make.” He paused. “I want you to come to Pericles.”

  “I think you're making a mistake.”

  “I told you before: I don't like people telling me how to do my job.”

  “Your job is being a governor. Mine is getting your daughter back and killing Ibn ben Khalid.”

  “And since you haven't done it, I want you here to discuss strategy.”

  “All right. When?”

  “Immediately.”

  “I can be there in about twenty Standard hours.”

  “Fine. And come alone.”

  “I have a friend who goes where I go,” said Nighthawk.

  “Human or alien?”

  “Human.”

  “Male or female.”

  “Female.”

  Hill considered it for a moment, then nodded. “All right. But no one else.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I'll see you tomorrow,” said Nighthawk, deactivating the machine.

  Cassandra returned a few minutes later.

  “Well?” she said. “What do you think of him?”

  “I'm very grateful to him.”

  “You're grateful?” she repeated with a frown.

  “That's right.”

  “Why?”

  “Because every now and then, I wonder about the moral and philosophical implications of my business. Then I meet someone like your father, and I realize that I was put here to kill men like that.” He paused. “I find the thought of killing him very satisfying.”

  She stared at him. “You puzzle me. You love literature, and you have excellent manners, and you're considerate of my wishes, and you seem to have a well-developed sense of right and wrong—and every time I think I'm growing fond of you, you say something like that.”

  “And now you're not fond of me?” he asked.

  “I wish I knew,” she said in troubled tones.

  23.

  The ship settled down gently on the Pericles V landing strip.

  “Are you certain that you don't want me to accompany you?” asked Friday, getting to his feet and stretching his legs, one at a time, as a dog might.

  “You take one step outside the ship and they'll either blow you away or cancel the meeting,” answered Nighthawk.

  “Then I still don't see why you brought me.”

  “You like to blow things up, don't you?”

  “Yes.”

  “If Melisande and I aren't back in 24 Standard hours, blow the whole fucking planet to Kingdom Come.”

  Friday smiled an alien smile. “I knew I would enjoy working with you, Widowmaker.”

  “Don't jump the gun,” cautioned Nighthawk. “I have every expectation of being back here long before the deadline.”

  “Deadline,” repeated Friday. “I like that word.”

  “Somehow I'm not surprised,” muttered Nighthawk. He turned to Melisande. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded her head.

  “Okay,” continued Nighthawk. “Remember, you don't have to say a word during the meeting. I just want to know afterward when he was lying and when he was telling the truth.”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I'm not a fool, Nighthawk.”

  “Nobody's a fool,” he replied. “But you'd be surprised how many people can pass for fools when things go wrong.”

  He ordered the hatch to open and escorted her out onto the tarmac. A vehicle with a built-in robotic chauffeur was waiting for them.

  “Jefferson Nighthawk?” asked the mechanical driver.

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask the name of your companion?”

  “Her name's Melisande.”

  “That's a lovely name.”

  Melisande smiled, and Nighthawk suddenly winked at her.

  “I was mistaken,” he said. “Her name's fungus.”

  “What an absolutely beautiful name!” said the driver enthusiastically.

  Nighthawk grinned. “But everyone calls her Melisande.”

  “I see.”

  “You know,” said Melisande, “I think that might be the first time I ever saw you smile.”

  “Stick around a decade and maybe I'll do it again,” said Nighthawk. He looked ahead and leaned forward. “Driver, where are we going? The spaceport's off to your left.”

  “We are going to the Governor's mansion, friend Nighthawk,” replied the driver.

  “Don't we have to clear Customs?”

  “You already have.”

  “We have?”

  “I have transmitted your retinagram, fingerprint and bone structure to Security at the Governor's mansion, and they have identified you as the clone of Jefferson Nighthawk, born 4933 G.E., still living.” It paused. “I regret to inform you that we have not yet identified the woman Fungus, who prefers to be called Melisande.”

  “I was mistaken,” said Nighthawk. “Her true name is...” He frowned and looked at Melisande. “What the hell is your real name?”

  “Private.”

  “Whatever you wish.”

  “Am I to understand that the woman's name is Private?” asked the driver.

  “No,” said Nighthawk. “You are to understand that she does not choose to divulge her name, but that you may call her Melisande.”

  “It's a lovely name.”

  “We're delighted that you think so.”

  They took a sharp left turn and began speeding along a paved road that cut through some farm fields.

  “To your left,” announced the driver, “we are growing the mutated soybeans that form the staple of the Periclean diet. To your right, the hybrid cattle, imported from Earth itself, that yield 99.2% meat and only .8% fat. The tall plants just past the cattle pasture are native to this world, and closely resemble the nutritious Calaban Fruit of Pollux IV. Have you any questions, friends Nighthawk and Melisande?”

  “How long until we reach the Governor's mansion?” asked Nighthawk.

  “In terms of distance or time?”

  “Whichever makes you happy.”

  “I am incapable of emotion,” answered the driver. “I feel a certain mathematical satisfaction by answering a question completely and accurately. The answer to your question is 3.27 miles and/or four Standard minutes and 19 seconds.”

  “Thanks,” said Nighthawk. “Are you programmed to answer all questions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. How many Security personnel are at the Governor's mansion?”

  “Please withdraw your question, friend Nighthawk.”

  “Why?”

  “You have created a conflict within me. I am programmed to answer all questions, but I have been specifically forbidden to answer any question relating to Security.”

  Nighthawk was silent for a moment, and the vehicle started veering crazily.

  “I withdraw the question.”

  “Thank you,” said the driver as the vehicle once again began moving straight and true.

  Nighthawk had been studying the countryside during the trip, filing bits and pieces away for future use. If he had to hide in this sector, that tree was hollow and this hill could shield him from the road. If he needed to
get to the spaceport, an airsled could shave two minutes off the time it was taking this vehicle to get to the mansion while keeping to the roads. If he had to approach under cover of night, which means of approach offered the least number of obstacles? Could a ship land in one of these fields, and if so, in which one? Was the grass too tall and too dry to chance using a laser pistol? Were there enough trees and rock outcroppings to deflect the almost solid sound of a sonic gun?

  A large estate soon came into view, and the vehicle made a beeline toward it.

  “I have a question, driver,” said Nighthawk.

  “Yes?”

  “The city looks to be about eight miles to the north. Isn't this very far out for a Governor's mansion?”

  “There have been attempts on Governor Hill's life,” answered the driver. “His Security staff felt that he could be better protected in this location. When his physical presence is required, he is only a short trip from the various government buildings.”

  “And what are all those long low buildings to the left?” continued Nighthawk, staring at a series of concrete structures. “They look like barracks.”

  “They are. That's where his Security forces reside.”

  “He's got a lot of them, doesn't he?”

  “I couldn't say,” replied the driver. “I have no basis for comparison.”

  They pulled up to a shimmering gate and stopped.

  “Force field?” asked Nighthawk.

  “That is correct.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “We wait. I have been identified. They are now checking you.” The driver paused. “I am sorry, friend Nighthawk, but you will have to relinquish your sonic pistol, your projectile pistol, and the three knives you have secreted around your person. If you will place them here"—a hidden compartment opened up—"you may retrieve them when you leave.”

  Nighthawk did as he was requested, and the door to the compartment slid shut.

  “What about my laser gun?” he asked out of curiosity. “Surely your Security system didn't miss it.”

  “Once inside the gate your laser pistol will be totally ineffective,” answered the driver.

  “How is that possible?”

  “Our power plant projects a field that instantly drains the charge from your pistol, while simultaneously rendering your powerpack impotent.”

  Good thing to remember. Someone ought to program you to be a little less forthcoming.

  “The force field is still up,” noted Nighthawk. “Maybe you should tell them to shut it off now that I'm disarmed.”

  “That will not be necessary,” answered the driver as the vehicle slowly began moving forward. “Please do not stick your head or any limbs out beyond the limits of my body. I can neutralize the field, but only within the parameters of my physical structure.”

  Nighthawk watched as the vehicle went right through the force field. There was no bump, no jolt, no buzzing; one moment they were outside the property, the next they were inside, and the same force field that kept intruders out would now serve to keep Nighthawk in.

  There was a long winding driveway leading to the front doorway of the mansion, where three men and a pair of robots stood guard. The vehicle slowed to a stop, and Nighthawk and Melisande got out.

  “I will be waiting for you, friends Nighthawk and Melisande,” said the driver. “I don't want to block traffic, so I will pull some 40 meters ahead and then stop. Enjoy your visit.”

  “Friendliest damned car I ever met,” said Nighthawk wryly to one of the guards, who ignored his comment.

  “Please follow me,” he said. “You are expected.”

  “I've been scanned, sonogrammed and x-rayed,” said Nighthawk. “I'd damned well better be expected.”

  He waited for Melisande to take his arm, then followed the guard into the mansion's enormous hexagonal foyer. The walls were a phosphorescent alien marble, with streaks of some shimmering metal running through them. Nighthawk noted them, but was more intent upon the number and placement of the doors.

  They were led through the foyer to a grand circular stairway. The guard stopped at the foot of the stairs and signaled to a pair of robots.

  “You will accompany Mr. Nighthawk and his companion up to the Governor's office,” he ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” answered the robot in a more grating monotone than the robotic driver had possessed. “Please follow me.”

  They ascended the stairs, then turned down a long corridor. At the end of it was a large outer office containing a number of comfortable chairs and sofa, as well as a selection of tasteful alien paintings, and another robot immediately approached and offered them their choice of drinks.

  “Nothing for us,” said Nighthawk. “We're here to see Cassius Hill.”

  “You are expected,” said both robots almost in unison.

  “Well?”

  The robots exchanged mechanical glances.

  “We do not understand the question, sir.”

  “If he's waiting for us, why don't you take us to him?” asked Nighthawk.

  “There is a difference between the Governor's expecting you and being ready to meet with you,” explained the robots that had offered them the drinks. “He will signal me when he is ready to meet with you.”

  “You tell him he's got five minutes or I'm leaving,” said Nighthawk. “Tell him that the Widowmaker doesn't like to be kept waiting.”

  “I will deliver your message immediately, sir,” said the robot.

  The robot stood at attention, and Nighthawk stared at it for a long moment, then said, “Well?”

  “We do not understand the question, sir.”

  “I thought you were going to deliver my message to Cassius Hill.”

  “I already have, sir. He is aware that you will leave in"—slight pause—"207 Standard seconds if he has not invited you into his office by that time.” A longer pause. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  Nighthawk looked from one robot to the other. “Yes,” he said at last.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Send this other robot away.”

  “I cannot do that, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “He is a Security robot, programmed to protect the Governor. I am merely an office robot, unqualified to analyze the potential risk to the Governor in any real or hypothetical situation. Therefore, I cannot order a Security robot to leave the Governor's office.”

  “Who do you think might harm the Governor?” asked Nighthawk.

  “No one, sir.”

  “Then why can't you order him to leave?”

  “Because I may be wrong, sir.”

  “You,” said Nighthawk, turning to the Security robot. “Do you think he's wrong?”

  “No, sir,” answered the robot. “I think there is only a 17% probability that he is wrong.”

  “That's rather a high probability, isn't it, given that we're unarmed?”

  “If you were any human other than Jefferson Nighthawk, I would rate the probability at 4%.”

  “I'm flattered.”

  “I am pleased that you are flattered.”

  “Are you really?” asked Nighthawk.

  “No, sir, but I have been programmed to respond with those or similar words.”

  “I thought robots couldn't lie.”

  The robot was silent for a moment, as if it were internally scanning some data. “You have been asleep for more than a century. During that time, the directive against lying has been eliminated from most robots.”

  Nighthawk considered the robot carefully. “What makes you think I've been asleep for a century?”

  “You are Jefferson Nighthawk,” said the robot, as if that was the only answer required.

  Well, you're not infallible, thought Nighthawk. That's a comfort of sorts.

  The other robot took a step forward. “The Governor will see you now.”

  “I will accompany you,” said the Security robot, walking toward a door that dilated to let the three
of them pass through. They found themselves in a small office, manned by three more robots, all busy doing secretarial work. The Security robot led them to still another door, and this time when they passed through there was no doubt that they were in Cassius Hill's opulent office.

  The Governor, cigar in hand, sat behind a large desk made of an alien hardwood. The wall behind him was covered with holographs showing him in the company of the rich and the famous and, occasionally, the notorious. A Security robot was stationed in each of the four corners of the office. Nighthawk suddenly realized that Hill's desk and chair were on a small platform, so that seated visitors would have to look up to him.

  “Mr. Nighthawk,” acknowledged Hill, getting out of his chair and walking around the desk to shake Nighthawk's hand. “I'm glad to finally meet you in person.”

  “This is Melisande,” said Nighthawk.

  Hill glanced briefly at her. “She goes.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What kind of fool do you take me for?” demanded Hill. “Do you think I don't know a Balatai woman when I see one? We don't talk until she leaves.”

  “What have you got against Balatai women?” asked Nighthawk.

  “Come on, Widowmaker,” said Hill contemptuously. “If I was stupid enough to let her stay here, we wouldn't have anything to discuss.” He turned to the Security robot that had escorted them to the office. “You! Take the woman back downstairs to wait for Nighthawk.”

  The robot took Melisande gently by the arm.

  “Please come with me,” it said.

  She looked at Nighthawk, who nodded his acquiescence, then accompanied the robot out of the room.

  “I'm disappointed in you,” said Hill, sitting back down and puffing on his cigar. “Imagine thinking that I couldn't spot a Balatai woman!”

  “They're very rare,” said Nighthawk.

  “Maybe they were a century ago, but not these days.”

  “Perhaps I was misinformed.”

  “You can't depend on your memories, you know,” said Hill. “They're all a hundred years out of date. They'll betray you when you least expect it.” Suddenly he leaned forward. his chin jutting out. “I'm the man who's responsible for your being alive, and I'm the man who's paying you. Why did you think you needed a Balatai woman in the first place?”

  “I don't know you,” said Nighthawk. “And therefore I don't trust you.”