The Widowmaker Unleashed: Volume 3 of the Widowmaker Trilogy Page 10

  She stood in the trail in front of him, staring into his eyes. “Why are you here?”

  “Just chance.”

  “I don't believe in chance.”

  “I didn't believe a healthy man could contract eplasia. Fat lot of good it did me.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Pretty bad.”

  “I've heard of it, of course, but I've never seen anyone with it.”

  “Consider yourself lucky,” said Nighthawk.

  “I take it you don't want to talk about it?”

  “I don't even want to think about it. Children dream of things that look half as bad and wake up screaming.”

  She set the basket down, pulled out a blanket, spread it on the ground, and sat down. Nighthawk joined her a moment later, and she passed him a sandwich and a container of beer, then served herself.

  “What did you mean about two younger Widowmakers?”

  “When I entered the cryonics lab, I left a fortune with my attorneys. They were to invest it conservatively and pay for my upkeep with the interest.” He smiled wryly. “That's before Nadine Kirogi became Governor of Deluros VIII and started applying her theories to the economy. The result was 23 percent inflation for six years, and suddenly the interest wasn't enough to cover my expenses.”

  “What happened?” asked Sarah. “They obviously didn't throw you out in the street.”

  “What happened was that an offer came in for the Widowmaker's services. I was incapable of going out to the Frontier—hell, I was incapable of even standing up—but they decided to create a clone and send him out.”

  “I thought that was illegal.”

  “When did a little thing like legality bother doctors or lawyers?”

  “So the clone went out and did what he was supposed to do?” she asked.

  “I think so.”

  “You think so?”

  “He was very young and very naive. He never made it back, and the man he was working for swore he didn't fulfill his contract.” Nighthawk paused. “Of course, the man he was working for also killed him, so I tend to discount his statements. But the fact remains that the clone only earned half the money he was promised—the remainder was due upon completion of the job—and two years later I was in the same situation again. This time they managed to create a clone that possessed not only my skills but also my memories. I gather that caused him some difficulty—the memories were a century out of date—but he accomplished his mission, and that's why I'm here.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Nighthawk shrugged. “Out on the Rim with a new name and a new face, according to Kinoshita.”

  “What has Kinoshita got to do with all this?”

  “He trained the first clone.”

  “And the second?”

  “The second didn't need any training, but Kinoshita traveled with him. He knew if he ever came back to Deluros they'd terminate him—after all, they'd broken half a dozen laws just by creating him—so he sent Kinoshita back with the money that kept me alive while he established a new identity.”

  “And you've never met him?”

  “Never.”

  “Aren't you curious?”

  “Not really. I know what I was like when I was 41, which is what he'd be now.”

  “But to see a perfect replica of yourself...”

  “He's not a perfect replica any more. And if he wanted to see me, he'd find me. I'm not hiding from anyone.” He paused. “He did his job. He's under no further obligation to me or anyone else. I think if I were him—and in a way, I am—I'd have no desire to see the original either. It's almost like coming face to face with your God, or your creator.”

  “That second clone—was he the one who caused all the ruckus on Pericles IV?”

  “Yes.”

  “I should have known that nothing short of the Widowmaker could have pulled that off!”

  “How could you know?” said Nighthawk. “The Widowmaker vanished a century ago.”

  “The Widowmaker is more than you, Jefferson,” she explained. “It's you, and your clones, and your legend. You're more alive today that you ever were.”

  “Then maybe you should consider letting the Widowmaker help you.”

  Sarah shook her head. “For your own good, I can't let you do it.”

  “Don't worry about me,” replied Nighthawk, totally without bravado. “Over the years a lot of men have tried to kill me. I'm still here.”

  “That's not it,” she said.

  “Then what's the problem? I like you, and I want to help you.”

  “You have no official standing here. And the Oligarchy's sting nailed all the known members of the gang. To the best of my knowledge, none of the men or aliens who are still at large have prices on their heads.” She paused. “Don't you see? If you kill them, you're breaking the law. It seems ridiculous on the face of it, but you could conceivably be arrested for murder.”

  “We can sort it out later,” answered Nighthawk. “If worst comes to worst, I'll just leave Tumbleweed and go further toward the Core.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I can't let you do it on my behalf.”

  “And that's the only reason?”

  She stared at him silently for a long moment. “There could be as many as twenty of them.”

  “And you plan to face them alone?”

  “Of course not,” she responded. “But I plan to protect myself. This is my world; I know where to hide, how to set traps. What would you do?”

  “I'd wait for them at the spaceport and explain they weren't wanted here.”

  “And when they laughed in your face?”

  “Not many people laugh at me,” said Nighthawk.

  “You'd just stand there and face all twenty of them?” she said. “All by yourself?”

  “Why don't you leave that to me?”

  “Because I like you, too, and I don't want you getting killed on my behalf.”

  “I don't plan to get killed. I've spent too much time and energy and money staying alive.”

  “I appreciate your offer, Jefferson,” she said, “but it's not your fight.”

  “We'll discuss it later,” said Nighthawk, opening up his cannister of beer.

  “Let's discuss it now,” she insisted. “You have no legal right to kill any of them. If you face them and lose, you're dead; if you face them and somehow manage to win, you're a felon. I won't be responsible for that.”

  “All right,” he said. “We'll do it your way.”

  “Thank you.”

  A long pause.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

  “You're a man who's gotten his way all his life,” she replied. “You gave in too easily.”

  He smiled. “Try to be a more gracious winner.”

  “When I'm convinced I have won.”

  “No problem. I've never been an outlaw; I don't plan to start now.”

  They finished their meal in silence.

  “You must have seen a lot of worlds,” she said as they got to their feet and began following the trail again.

  “A few.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “There's not much to tell. I was always there on business. You start watching birds, you forget to watch for bullets and laser beams.” He shrugged. “Besides, it's been over a century. Most of them will have changed beyond recognition by now.”

  “It seems sad, to have been so many places and not to have any memories of them.”

  “Oh, I have memories. But not of the worlds; just what happened on them.”

  “Didn't you ever just want to relax?”

  “I've been relaxing for the past 112 years,” he replied. “It's an easy habit to get into. Now I'd like to relax for the rest of my life.”

  “So you really came here to settle down?”

  “It seems remote. That's what I need.”

  “Why?”

  “The less people, the less enemies.”

  “All your enemies s
hould have been dead for fifty or sixty years,” she said.

  “You'd think so, wouldn't you?” he said with a trace of bitterness.

  “What am I missing?”

  “My clones managed to get a few thousand very dangerous people pissed at them.” He paused. “At least I knew what my enemies looked like. These guys come out of nowhere, and I've never seen any of them before.”

  “The clones’ enemies really come after you?”

  “I'm the Widowmaker,” said Nighthawk. “That's all they have to know.”

  “How long have you been out of the cryonics lab?”

  “Maybe four or five months. Then I spent some time in the hospital, getting cosmetic surgery and regaining my strength, so I haven't been on my own too long—but it was long enough for them to burn down my house on Churchill, and I had to kill some of them on Pondoro, and more on Bolingbroke.”

  “And you didn't know any of them?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Well, some deity with a sense of humor is getting even with you for giving children nightmares. You're living a nightmare yourself.”

  “At least I'm still living it.” said Nighthawk. He ran a hand through his thick shock of gray hair. “Anyway, that's why I wanted a remote, sparsely-populated little world like Tumbleweed. On a place like this I can see them coming.”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Sarah. “But still, that's no way for anyone to live.”

  “Says the woman who's waiting for a gang of drug runners to come looking for her.”

  “I'll hide from them and set traps for them and whatever happens, that will be the end of it.”

  “If there's one thing I've learned, it's that that's never the end of it.”

  “Those bastards turned my son into a seed chewer. I informed on them, and I'd do it again.” She set her jaw. “I did what I had to do. I'll take what comes.”

  “Well,” said Nighthawk with a shrug, “if I can't talk you out of it, I can't talk you out of it.” He started off down the dirt path. “Let's go find some birds.”

  They spent the next hour walking through the forest, spotting an occasional bird, exchanging an occasional reminiscence, just relaxing and enjoying each other's company. Nighthawk found himself attracted to her. It certainly wasn't her looks: he'd never been attracted to small, wiry women or to blondes. Probably it was her self-assurance and independence, two traits he admired wherever he found them.

  Finally they came to the end of the path and found themselves back at her vehicle, which she had driven to the edge of the forest.

  “Shall we go back to town?” she suggested.

  “Might as well,” replied Nighthawk. “I've got something to do there.”

  “Hunt for real estate?”

  “Not just yet. I think I'll stay in town for a few days and get the feel of the place.”

  “I think that's a good idea. This isn't exactly a flourishing market. Any property that's for sale today will be for sale next week and next month ... and probably even next year.”

  “Good.”

  “Then, if I'm not being too nosy,” she continued, “what's your business?”

  “Oh, mostly just paperwork. Where do I go to apply for citizenship?”

  “We've only got one government building,” she said. “It houses the mayor, the tax collector, the sheriff, the fire department, the building inspector, everything. Probably even the army if we ever have one.”

  “Then that's where I want to go.”

  “It's in the next block,” she said as they reached the outskirts of the city and turned onto the main street. “I'll drop you there.”

  “Fine.”

  “Would you care to join me for dinner when you're through?”

  “Very much,” said Nighthawk, as the vehicle came to a stop. “I'll come by as soon as I'm done here. It won't take long.”

  She left him at the door to the building, drove back to the restaurant, oversaw the changing of the shifts, and was just completing an order for the following week's supplies when Nighthawk walked in.

  There was something different about his appearance. It took her about two seconds to spot what it was.

  “What the hell is that?” she demanded, pointing to the glowing golden badge on his tunic.

  He smiled wryly. “Well, I thought as long as I was going to stay here, I ought to be gainfully employed.”

  15.

  Nighthawk spent an idyllic two weeks. He slept late, ate three hot meals a day, spent most of his time with Sarah Jenner, and his sole duties as a lawman consisted of arresting one unprotesting drunk.

  “Maybe they won't come after all,” said Kinoshita, sitting in a comfortable wooden chair opposite Nighthawk's desk one evening after dinner. “I mean, hell, there are millions of worlds. If they were smart, they'd open up two dozen new channels. No sense being predictable, not in their business.”

  “They'll come to Tumbleweed,” said Nighthawk with absolute certainty.

  “What makes you so sure? Like I said, there are hundreds of possible routes.”

  “Sarah's here, and they want her.”

  “You sure she's not just being hysterical?” asked Kinoshita.

  “Does she strike you as the hysterical type?”

  “No,” admitted Kinoshita. “No, she doesn't.” He paused. “You're getting fond of her, aren't you?”

  “Is there some law against it?”

  “No, of course not. But I hear talk that she's got a kid off at college somewhere who had some drug problems.”

  “I didn't say I was fond of the kid.”

  “I would think he comes with the mother.”

  “He's on Aristotle,” replied Nighthawk. “It's not as if I have to help raise him. Besides, he may never come back. And if he does, he'll have a degree, which I suspect is more than you or I ever had.”

  “I'm not trying to interfere,” said Kinoshita. “I just worry about you.”

  “I know. What I don't know is why.” Nighthawk stared at him. “I keep thinking you're getting me confused with my clone. You've only known me since I woke up. You may think I'm him, but I'm not.”

  “I like you.”

  “That's a pretty lame answer,” said Nighthawk. “One of these days I'm going to insist on the truth.” He paused. “In the meantime, check with the spaceport and see what ships are due in tonight.”

  “It's two miles away!” protested Kinoshita.

  “I didn't say to walk there. There's half a dozen communication devices in the office. Take your choice.”

  While Kinoshita was raising the spaceport, Nighthawk walked back to the cells to see if his prisoner needed some coffee, but the man was sleeping it off, and he chose not to wake him. He turned and walked quietly back to the office.

  “I think they're on the way,” announced Kinoshita.

  “Explain.”

  “There's a ship of Darbeenan registry due to land in an hour. But according to its manifest, it's traveling practically empty, and it's only 38 Standard hours out of Quixote.”

  “So?”

  “They grow alphanella in the jungles of Quixote. And there are all kinds of servicing and refueling facilities there. Why should an empty ship that just took off land here less than two days later?”

  “Okay, it makes sense.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Whatever I do, I think I'd better do it at the spaceport. Except for you, no one else in this building looks capable of defending himself against the kind of men who figure to be on that ship.”

  “I'll come with you,” said Kinoshita.

  Nighthawk shook his head. “You'll stay with Sarah. If they get past me, I want you there.”

  “You're sure? If I stand with you, there's a lot less chance of them getting past us to Sarah.”

  “Just do what I say.”

  Kinoshita sighed. “All right.”

  “Thanks. I don't want her alerted, so just go on over, order a beer, and if she asks about me tell her I went to bed
early. I'm an old man; she'll buy it.”

  Kinoshita got up and left, and Nighthawk went back to the cells, unlocked the door to the only occupied one, shook his inebriated prisoner awake, and told him to go home. He didn't think he'd be needing the space, but he knew there was a chance that he wouldn't survive the night and he saw no reason to let the drunk go without food and water until someone remembered he was there.

  Then he went to check his armory. He searched through it until he found what he wanted, closed up his office, walked out to the official vehicle the planet had provided for him, and drove to the spaceport. He felt he had at least an hour to prepare for his visitors, and he made good use of it.

  When the ship landed, he was the only living being on the grounds. He'd sent the skeleton staff home, and stood waiting as the entire crew of the ship—nine men and five aliens—approached the Customs building. They were a mean-looking bunch, all heavily armed.

  When they were about thirty yards away, Nighthawk stepped out of the shadows.

  “That's far enough,” he said.

  “Who the hell are you?” demanded one of the men.

  “The law.”

  The man laughed. “You mean they went out and found themselves another sheriff?”

  “Actually, my badge says I'm the Commissioner of Police,” replied Nighthawk.

  “What's the difference?”

  “Not much. I'm still the law. And the law says that you have to state your business.”

  “You go to hell!” snapped the man.

  “Then you'd better turn around and go back to your ship,” said Nighthawk. “You're not welcome on Tumbleweed, now or anytime in the future.”

  “Do you know who you're talking to, old man?”

  “Yeah. I'm talking to a bunch of drug runners who are about to leave the planet.”

  “We're not here after you. Let us pass.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “You got a death wish?” demanded the man. “Look around you. There are fourteen of us.”

  “That's okay,” said Nighthawk. “We've got a big graveyard.”

  The man looked at him unbelievingly. “Who the hell are you, old man?”

  “I've had a lot of names,” answered Nighthawk. “The one that stuck is the Widowmaker.”

  “You're him? I heard rumors that you were back!”

  “For once, the rumors were right.”