by Mike Resnick
“Halt!” yelled a voice.
Nighthawk spun and fired, dropped a guard, then crouched down and shot two more as they raced down the stairs at the sound of the first one's voice.
He stood motionless, listening intently, for almost a full minute, then turned to Cassandra.
“All right, let's go,” he said softly, heading toward the stairs.
“Not that way!” she whispered.
“They lead to your father's office, don't they?”
“And they're wired. The first step will read your weight and the structure of your foot, and since you're not in the computer, the second step will fry you to a crisp.”
“Then how do we get up there?”
“There are three ways. Two will be guarded—the main staircase, and an airlift right next to it. The third way I discovered when I was a little girl—a secret stairway that I think he put in as an escape route—but I don't know if it's wired too.”
“If it is, we won't have any warning before he activates it,” said Nighthawk. “We'd better use one of the public routes and take our chances with the guards.”
She nodded her agreement and set off down the corridor. When they reached the summer kitchen she stopped as Nighthawk destroyed yet another camera. He turned and saw her standing hesitantly, her face troubled.
“What is it?”
“Something's wrong,” she said.
“What?”
She frowned. “There are always staff members here. This is where they cook their own food when it's not being used for some big ceremonial dinner.”
“Nothing's wrong. There are dozens of alarms going off. They're all out looking for the bad guys—meaning us.”
“Cooks don't carry weapons,” she said. “Someone should be here.”
As if on cue, the heavy metal door to the walk-in freezer opened and two middle-aged men walked out, each carrying slabs of meat.
“Freeze!” said Nighthawk softly.
One of the men was so startled he dropped his meat noisily to the floor and held his hands up. The other simply stared at Nighthawk as if he was the latest in a long line of minor irritations.
“Can you regulate the freezer's temperature from the inside?” asked Nighthawk.
“Yes,” said one of the men.
“Okay. Go back inside.”
“But—”
“No arguments. Just do it.”
When both men were inside the freezer, Nighthawk began shutting the door.
“You're going to be here for a few hours, so raise the temperature and relax.”
Before they could protest he had shut and locked the huge, gleaming door.
“So much for your missing men,” he said, turning to Cassandra. “Now where do we go?”
“Follow me.”
"No!" he said sharply. “I'll go first. You just tell me where.”
“Out this door,” she said, pointing, “then follow the corridor to the right, pass through the sitting room, and we're at the grand foyer.”
“That's where the staircase is?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, let's go.”
He walked out into the corridor, a pistol in each hand, alert for the slightest noise or movement. Suddenly he heard the sound of footsteps coming through the country kitchen. He stepped back, passing Cassandra, waited with frightening calm until three men burst through the door, and fired. All three were dead before they hit the floor.
“Damn!” he muttered.
“What is it?” asked Cassandra.
“We should have set off more alarms inside the house. With only one sounding, they'll know security has been breached.”
He walked back into the kitchen and blew out a window. The alarm went off, adding its whine to all the others.
Then he re-entered the corridor and led the way to a large sitting room. He blew away the camera and gestured her to join him. As she did so, he shot out yet another window and activated the room's alarm.
“The main entrance is right past that door, you said?” he asked, indicating a massive door at the far end of the room.
She nodded. “The staircase and elevator will both be off to the left.”
“How many men should be there?”
“Ordinarily there's a color guard of a dozen, plus a few minor functionaries,” replied Cassandra. “But with all these alarms, who knows? They could all be outside, looking for enemies—or they could have smelled a ruse and tripled the guard.”
A nearby explosion made the entire mansion shake.
“I hope he remembers he's not supposed to blow this place up until we're out of it,” muttered Nighthawk.
“My father's got a couple of hundred men on call,” she replied. “He couldn't get much closer.”
“Never underestimate Friday,” said Nighthawk. “He can blow them all to hell before you know it.” He walked to the door. “Are you ready?”
She pulled her pistol out and nodded.
“Then let's go.”
He ordered the door to open and burst into the grand foyer. There were eight uniformed men and a pair of robots standing guard. Five of the men were dead before they knew he was among them, and Cassandra downed two more. Nighthawk quickly turned his fire on the robots, melting the first with a laser blast and disrupting the circuits of the other with a solid burst of sound from his sonic pistol. The one remaining man turned and raced to the airlift.
“Get him!” snapped Nighthawk, still concentrating on the second robot, which was firing lethal pulse blasts from a finger that had been created for that purpose. He kept his sonic pistol trained on it, decided that the first robot was no longer a threat and added his laser fire to it, and heard a scream from the direction of the airlift just as the second robot finally collapsed, its limbs moving aimlessly, its weaponry no longer functional.
“Jesus, you're good!” said Cassandra admiringly. “You didn't need me at all, did you?”
“I needed you to stop that last one from warning your father or calling for reinforcements.”
“He's stopped—but my father has to know someone's here by now.” She paused. “I destroyed the airlift controls. We're going to have to climb the stairs.”
“Doesn't make much difference,” replied Nighthawk, staring at the dead bodies and deactivated robots. “We've protected our rear, and what's waiting for us will be waiting no matter which way we approach it.”
“Yeah, we're okay unless someone enters the house,” she agreed.
“No one will,” he said, walking over to the entrance and fusing the lock with a blast from his laser pistol.
“Don't you think that will just alert them?” she asked.
“Probably.”
“Then won't they immediately break the door down?”
“They can try,” said Nighthawk. He checked his timepiece. “There's a six-foot lady who's going to have something to say about it in 40 seconds or so,” he added with a smile.
“Pallas Athene?”
“That's right,” he said, starting to ascend the sweeping staircase.
“I was wondering what she was doing.”
“Pretty much what we've been doing the last couple of minutes, but on the outside.”
Nighthawk stopped at a landing, looking into every nook and cranny, peering into every shadow. When he decided it was safe, he climbed the rest of the stairs, then waited for Cassandra to catch up with him.
“So far so good,” she said.
“That was the easy part,” he replied. “Your father's no fool. You can bet the last hundred feet will be a hell of a lot harder than the first hundred.”
He began walking cautiously along the corridor to Hill's outer office. Twice men emerged from rooms to stop him, and twice he shot them before they could take aim at him.
A robot emerged from the outer office and confronted them. Nighthawk turned his laser and sonic pistols on it, but with no discernable effect.
He looked around as the robot approached, spotted an overhead ch
andelier, and shot it loose from the ceiling. It fell heavily on the robot, which staggered and spent a moment getting free of it. During that time Nighthawk, no longer worried about keeping his presence secret, pulled out a projectile gun and fired a bullet into each of the robot's eyes. The sensors began smoking, and Nighthawk crouched down against a wall of the corridor, motioning to Cassandra to do the same. The robot continued walking in a straight line, crashed through a railing that overlooked the grand foyer, and fell some thirty feet to the marble floor below.
“Why the hell didn't my other weapons stop it, or even slow it down?” muttered Nighthawk, as much to himself as to Cassandra.
“It was made of a titanium alloy with a super-tight molecular bonding,” she answered.
“I've seen titanium before,” he replied. “But I never saw one that a laser couldn't even char.”
“There have been a lot of advances in the last century,” she said. “Don't count on your memories, because if it's a state of the art security device, my father owns it.”
“I'll keep it in mind,” he said seriously, finally straightening up. He tucked the sonic pistol into his belt and kept the projectile gun out. “I think I may need this one.”
“You'll need them all before you're through,” she said. “My father's a dangerous man. I wish you'd kept the molecular imploder.”
He shook his head. “Fire it at a man standing against a wall and you not only turn the man to liquid, you do the same to the wall. And, sometimes, the trees beyond the wall.” He smiled. “You really don't want to use it on the second floor of a house with high ceilings. Besides, Ito had to get back to the ship. It's better that he has it.”
He turned back to the outer office, approached it silently, and burst into the room, weapons at the ready, only to find that it was empty. He waited until she caught up with him, then went through the doorway to the inner office. A robot stood at attention, staring at him.
“Good evening, Mr. Nighthawk,” it said. “How nice to see you once again.”
Cassandra turned her gun on it, but Nighthawk held up a hand.
“He's just an office robot. He's not programmed for violence.”
“But he'll warn my father we're here!”
“He already has.”
“Governor Hill has no idea you are inside the building, Mr. Nighthawk,” said the robot.
“You're lying, right?” said Nighthawk.
“That is correct, sir.”
“Sit down behind a desk and keep your mouth shut.”
“I think I should remain at my post, sir.”
“If you don't sit down right now, I'll melt you with a laser,” said Nighthawk. “Consider that carefully and then make your decision.”
“I will be of greater use to my master if I sit down,” announced the robot, walking over to a desk and seating himself behind it.
“How many men and robots has Cassius Hill got behind that next door?” asked Nighthawk, indicating Hill's office.
“None, sir.”
“You're lying again.”
“That is correct, sir.”
“How many?”
“Three thousand and fourteen.”
Nighthawk pointed his pistol at the robot. “If you lie once more, I'm going to blow your goddamned head off. Now, how many men and robots has he got protecting him?”
“Quite enough, sir,” said the robot. “You may fire when ready.”
“If you insist.” Nighthawk squeezed the trigger and melted the robot from the neck up.
“What was that for?” asked Cassandra. “It was only a machine.”
“No sense giving it a chance to tell every other robot on the grounds exactly where we are. Pallas Athene's good, but she's not that good.”
“It probably told them already.”
“Then that's what it gets for telling them,” said Nighthawk irritably.
He cautiously approached the door to Hill's office. As he reached it, it dilated before him, allowing him and Cassandra to pass through.
Cassius Hill sat at his desk, flanked by four Security robots. He was elegantly dressed, and was smoking an Antarrean cigar.
“Good evening, Widowmaker,” he said. He turned to Cassandra. “How very nice to see you too, my dear.” Back to Nighthawk. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“You owe me five million credits,” said Nighthawk. “I'd like it in cash.”
“Nonsense,” said Hill. “I told you I didn't want her back. I want Ibn ben Khalid.”
“I know. You still owe me five million credits.”
“I just told you, I—” Suddenly Hill's eyes widened and he stared at Cassandra. “Of course! What a fool I've been! No wonder I could never find out anything about Ibn ben Khalid's past! No wonder he always seemed to know my next move!” He stood up. “I commend you, Cassandra. I couldn't ask for a more exceptional daughter. You have everything it takes to succeed me in office.” He paused, then added with mock sadness: “What a shame that I'm going to have to kill you.”
“You're not killing anyone,” said Nighthawk, leveling his pistol at Hill.
“Don't be a fool, Widowmaker. I'll admit you showed enormous resourcefulness to reach my office, but you'll never leave here alive if you kill me.” He placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “You've fulfilled your commission. You've returned my daughter and presented me with Ibn ben Khalid. You're free to leave Pericles. The money will be transferred to your lawyers’ account.”
“What happens to her?”
“What happens to her is going to happen whether I kill you first or not.”
“I don't think we have a deal,” said Nighthawk. He pointed toward a solid-looking safe that stood in a corner. “Open your safe.”
“No.”
“I can open it whether I kill you first or not.”
“You agreed to fulfill my commission,” said Hill. “I was given to understand that the Widowmaker always honors his contracts.”
“A lot can change in a century,” said Nighthawk. “Open the safe.”
“And then what?” said Hill. “You'll kill me anyway.”
“I have no intention of killing you.”
“You just admitted that you break your word—so why should I believe you?”
“Once I've got your money, what purpose would be served by my killing you?”
“If you let me live, I'll hunt you to the ends of the galaxy.”
“I doubt it,” said Nighthawk. “If I let you live, you'll be grateful for the gift of life and won't chance losing it by following me.”
Hill stared at Nighthawk. “I could order my robots to kill you right now.”
“I don't think so. They're programmed to protect you.” He raised his voice. “The instant I see a robot move, I'll shoot Cassius Hill at point-blank range.” He smiled at Hill. “All right, give them the order.”
“This isn't over, Widowmaker. Every man has his weaknesses, including you. You've just signed your death warrant.”
“I've been dead for a hundred years,” replied Nighthawk. “There's no future in it.” He pointed to the safe with one of his pistols. “Get busy.”
Hill turned to Cassandra. “Have you nothing to say, daughter? No word of regret for turning against your father? No plea for forgiveness?”
“Just get the money,” she said.
He shrugged, walked over to the safe, and rapidly touched a combination, then whispered a trio of code words so softly that Nighthawk couldn't hear them. The door swung open.
“There it is,” said Hill, indicating the tall piles of crisp banknotes. “Little good may it do you.”
“Step aside,” said Nighthawk.
“This is your last chance, Widowmaker. You can still walk away.”
“You're in no position to be giving orders.”
“I'm Cassius Hill,” he said, walking back to his desk. “I'm always in a position to give orders.”
“Keep your gun trained on him,” said Nighthawk. “I
f he or the robots make a move, shoot him first.”
Nighthawk approached the safe, peered into it, then holstered his gun and reached in for the money with his left hand—
—and the door slammed shut—
—and the safe suddenly grew legs and grew to a height equal to Nighthawk's—
—and the safe developed arms that reached for Nighthawk's throat.
“Poor, stupid clone,” said an amused Cassius Hill. “A lot can happen in a century. Meet the newest, finest security device on the market—a weapon that can assume any shape that I choose for it.”
Nighthawk pulled his laser pistol, but the safe—the Weapon—slapped it away.
“Call it off or she'll kill you!” he yelled as one of the metal arms clamped shut on his left shoulder.
“Call her off or I'll have it kill you,” countered Hill.
Cassandra fired, and her father grabbed his right arm.
“The next one will take your head off,” she said coldly.
Nighthawk uttered an involuntary groan as the metal hand crushed his shoulder. He continued bobbing and weaving to keep his head away from the second hand—but now the Weapon had sprouted three more arms, each longer than the first two.
"Now!" shouted Cassandra.
“All right,” said Hill. He turned to the safe. “Kiss!”
Suddenly the metal arms flowed back into the walls of the Weapon, though the door still pressed against his left arm, holding it motionless.
“Kiss?” repeated Nighthawk, almost amused despite the agony of his crushed shoulder.
“I wanted a word an enemy wouldn't think to utter,” said Hill almost conversationally, as if being confronted in his office by an armed assassin was an everyday occurrence. “What now? Do you kill me or do I kill you, or do we find some common ground?”
“Make it let go of my arm,” said Nighthawk.
“I don't think so,” replied Hill. “You're a very dangerous man, Widowmaker. Much better to keep you incapacitated until we've reached some understanding.”
“Kiss,” ordered Nighthawk.
“It only responds to my voice,” explained Hill. “And kiss is the command that makes its limbs vanish. It requires another word to make it let go of you—a word I have no intention of uttering.”
Cassandra took a step nearer to him and aimed her pistol at a point between his eyes.
