The Widowmaker Unleashed: Volume 3 of the Widowmaker Trilogy Page 16

  “Do you want me to come or not?” asked Kinoshita bluntly.

  “You can make my mission a little easier if you come with me, but I'll accomplish it regardless.”

  “Okay, I'm coming.”

  “You're sure you don't want to consider it?”

  “I did consider it. I'm coming.”

  “Then, thank you.”

  “Everything we've done since we left Thaddeus was part of a plan, right?”

  “That's right.”

  “You really plan to commit a felony?”

  “At least one.”

  “I hope to hell you know what you're doing,” said Kinoshita.

  “That makes two of us,” answered Nighthawk.

  24.

  Deluros VIII was a freak.

  It possessed ten times Earth's surface area, with an almost identical atmosphere and gravity, two large freshwater oceans, and enough land mass to house 33 billion bureaucrats in some semblance of comfort. It was right in the middle of the most populous, star-studded section of the galaxy, while Earth was isolated not even in the galactic suburbs, but out in the rural extremities of the Spiral Arm.

  Man began moving his seat of government to Deluros VIII during the middle years of the Republic, and by the time of the Oligarchy, almost four millennia later, even huge, awesome Deluros VIII was inadequate to the task of ruling Man's empire.

  There were fourteen other planets in the Deluros system. The outer six were all gas giants, totally useless for Man's purposes, but Deluros VI provided the answer to the Oligarchy's problem. After consultation with hundreds of leading scientists, it was decided to break it apart with a number of carefully placed and extremely powerful explosive charges. The small fragments, as well as the larger irregular ones, were then totally obliterated. The remaining 48 planetoids were turned over to the largest governmental departments of the Oligarchy: one was reserved for Agriculture, one for Alien Affairs, one for Exobiology, and so on. (The military promptly claimed the four largest, and was soon feeling cramped for space. Domes were erected on each planetoid, worldwide bureaucratic complexes were constructed, and life-support systems were implemented. The orbits of the planetoids were adjusted so that they danced their slow minuet around huge Deluros millions of miles from each other, and tens of thousands of ships sped daily between the enormous ruling world of the Oligarchy and its 48 extensions.

  “You know,” remarked Kinoshita, staring at the viewscreen as they approached their destination, “every time I see Deluros VIII I feel like some kind of country bumpkin. The last time I was stationed here they announced that you could finally reach any location on the planet without taking a step outside. Can you imagine that—a single building that covers the whole goddamned planet?”

  “I seem to remember some parks, and some outdoor pavilions,” said Nighthawk.

  “Oh, I didn't mean to imply that every inch of the planet is a building. It's got courtyards and atriums—some of them extending for hundreds of acres. I'm just saying that you don't have to step outside to get from any point to any other point unless you want to—and sometimes not even if you want to.”

  “I suppose they think that's something to be proud of.”

  “They think it's an achievement unmatched in the history of architecture.”

  “Then they belong here,” said Nighthawk, making no effort to hide his distaste.

  “There are worse places to be,” said Kinoshita. “It's got the best restaurants and theaters and art galleries and sports stadiums and hotels in the galaxy.”

  “No argument,” replied Nighthawk. He studied the screen, which was showing a transmitted view of the world, as seen from a height of some 40 miles. “It's got everything you could ever want—except character.”

  “You think those dry, dusty, underpopulated worlds we work on have character?”

  “When you're standing on one of them, you know it's that world and not any other.”

  “You know it on Deluros, too,” responded Kinoshita. “It's the only world where the buildings are so tall that there are only a few places where you can stand on the ground and still see the sky.”

  “And you think that's a good thing, do you?”

  “I didn't say that. I said it makes Deluros as unique as any Frontier world.”

  “You can meet every man who lives on a Frontier world before you can find a given location on Deluros.”

  “That's because you're a stranger here. I've lived on Deluros VIII. It's the most logically laid-out city I've ever seen. What it lacks in character it makes up for in order.”

  “If you say so.”

  Nighthawk went to the galley for a beer. When he came back, they had entered an orbit some 600 miles above the huge planet's surface. Once, centuries ago, there had been many spaceports on Deluros VIII, but after the increasing congestion caused numerous fatal crashes, the planetary planners gave in to the inevitable and created dozens (then hundreds, and still later thousands) of orbiting hangars. Ships docked at the hangars, Customs and Immigration were be cleared hundreds of miles above the surface, and only authorized government-run shuttles were allowed to transfer the tens of millions of daily (and sometimes hourly) travelers to and from the planet.

  The ship's radio suddenly came to life.

  “Please identify yourself and your ship,” said a cold, emotionless voice which may or may not have been human.

  “My name is Jefferson Nighthawk, passport number M3625413C, fifteen days out of Alpha Flint IV on the Inner Frontier. My ship is a Class H 341 Golden Streak, registration number 677LR2439. Crew of two: myself and Ito Kinoshita.”

  “I have just uploaded a list of 174 contraband substances into your ship's computer. Are you carrying any of them?”

  “I doubt it, but I won't know until I study the list.”

  “You have a Class H ship. It can answer.” Pause. “In fact, it just has. You are cleared to dock at Hanger 113H. I will feed the coordinates and bay number to your navigational computer.”

  “Fine. Is that all?”

  “Have you a place to stay? I can make reservations at more than six thousand hotels.”

  “I'd like a two-bedroom suite in the vicinity of the John Ramsey Memorial Medical Center. Price is no object.”

  “Done. You have a guaranteed suite at the Wellington Arms Hotel, a six-mile underground monorail ride from the John Ramsey Memorial Medical Center. Your confirmation number is 10733422. If you choose to cancel your reservation, you must inform the hotel by 1800 hours, Deluros North Central Time.”

  “Thank you.”

  “When you clear Customs and Immigration, take either a blue-coded or orange-coded shuttle, then transfer to a Sector 179 shuttle at the 10-Mile Platform.”

  “Blue or orange?” repeated Nighthawk.

  “That is correct. Any other shuttle will land you on the wrong platform, and you will be thousands of miles from your destination.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My deep scanner informs me that you are wearing the following weapons: a laser pistol, a sonic pistol, a projectile pistol, and two knives; and that Ito Kinoshita is wearing a laser pistol and a sonic pistol.” The voice paused. “You will have to leave these aboard your ship, as weapons are not permitted on Deluros VIII.”

  “I'm a licensed bounty hunter,” said Nighthawk. “Most planets have a provision that allows bounty hunters to carry registered weapons.”

  “Deluros VIII did indeed have such a provision,” said the voice, “but it was repealed in 5073 G.E. You are not permitted to bring any weapons with you.”

  “All right. Is there anything else?”

  “I have no further questions, though of course Immigration and Customs will have their own questions to ask of you. Your ship will finish docking in approximately 90 seconds. I can answer any questions you may have during that time.”

  “None,” said Nighthawk, breaking the connection. He looked at Kinoshita. “Can you say ‘over-regulated'?” he asked wryly.

&nb
sp; “It may be over-regulated, but there hasn't been an assassination on Deluros in almost two decades.”

  “What about simple everyday murders?”

  “Most husbands and wives don't need guns to kill each other,” replied Kinoshita with a smile.

  “A point well taken,” said Nighthawk.

  There was a momentary silence. Then: “Why did you want your weapons?” asked Kinoshita.

  “I feel comfortable with them.”

  “I wish you'd stop lying to me,” said Kinoshita. “I'm here in your service. I'm prepared to lay down my life for you. I'll continue to do it whether you lie or not, but I'd feel less like a fool if you'd start telling me the truth.”

  “You'll know soon enough,” said Nighthawk. “And I don't plan on firing any weapons.”

  “Then why do you think you need them?”

  Nighthawk shrugged. “Things don't always go according to plan.”

  The ship shuddered as it docked in its bay, and a moment later Nighthawk and Kinoshita were in one of many long lines at the Immigration center. The questions were more numerous and more thorough than on the Frontier worlds, but eventually they got through them, had temporary visas added to their passport cards, and accompanied their luggage through the Customs scanners.

  Finally they went to the Deluros Departure Terminal, walked past some two dozen shuttles carrying the wrong color coding, finally found a blue-coded one, and boarded it along with almost a thousand other passengers. It took less than two minutes to fill to capacity, and then they were floating down to the enormous 10 Mile Platform that encircled the planet like a wedding ring. Here they took a seemingly endless tram ride until they came to a Sector 179 shuttle and boarded it.

  It took this somewhat larger shuttle almost ten minutes to fill to capacity, and then it took off for the surface. They landed gently on a rooftop some two miles above the ground, took an airlift to the sub-basement level, and found themselves in an enormous monorail station. Hundreds of tracks crossed the area, heading out in all directions, and as quickly as one train departed another instantly appeared to take its place.

  “So how do we find the Wellington Arms?” muttered Nighthawk.

  “We ask,” said Kinoshita, walking to one of a hundred Tourist Aid computers along the wall.

  “Good afternoon,” said the computer as its lens registered his proximity. “How may I help you?”

  “How do I get to the Wellington Arms from here?” asked Kinoshita.

  “Take Monorail Number 206 South to Station RL—that will be four stops from here. Transfer to Monorail Number 1701 East, and exit at Station SC.”

  “And we're there?”

  “You will be within walking distance,” answered the computer. “Once you are at Station SC, ask another Tourist Aid computer for exact directions.”

  “Thanks,” said Kinoshita. He turned to Nighthawk. “That's the way you do it around here. There are natives who still need these damned things to get around.” He walked toward the platform for Monorail Number 206 South, and Nighthawk fell into step beside him. “I don't imagine things have changed all that much in a century. Don't you remember using the computers when you came here before?”

  “I was ninety percent dead,” answered Nighthawk. “I don't remember much of anything.” He glanced around at the mass of humanity, each hurrying toward one of the six hundred monorails. “Just as well,” he added. “If this is living, I think I'd prefer death.” He looked around contemptuously. “Hell, I'd welcome it.”

  “You've been on the Frontier too long.”

  “And you haven't been there long enough,” countered Nighthawk.

  They soon reached the platform, caught a tram, and within a few minutes had transferred at Station RL, ridden another mile, and exited at Station SC.

  This time it was Nighthawk who approached the computer to get directions to the hotel—"One block east of Exit 14, turn north 172 feet to the front door, enter, turn left 80 feet to the registration desk"—and in a few more minutes they were finally in their suite.

  A robot brought their luggage up to the room, explained how to use the plethora of gimmicks and gadgets that had been built into the suite, and then made a graceful retreat.

  “Nice place,” said Kinoshita, walking around the sitting room that connected the two large bedroom. “I wonder how much it's costing you?”

  “I'm sure they'll tell me before I leave.”

  “You ready to talk yet?”

  “We've been talking all day.”

  “You know what I mean,” said Kinoshita. “Why are we here? What is there on Deluros that managed to pull you halfway across the galaxy?”

  “Nothing,” said Nighthawk. “Yet.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “That's just as well.”

  “Damn it, Jefferson!”

  Nighthawk walked to the door. “I'm going out for awhile. Wait here for me. If I'm not back by morning, check to see if I'm being held in one of the local police stations, and if I am, bail me out.”

  “That's all?” said Kinoshita. “Can't I do anything more?”

  “Yes, you can,” replied Nighthawk. “I need a piece of information from you. Once you give it to me, you'll figure it all out or you're a lot dumber than I think you are.”

  Kinoshita stared curiously at him. “I know something of value to you?”

  “It's nothing I can't find out for myself, but you can save me some time and give me some details I can't get anywhere else.”

  “If it's mine to give, you're welcome to it,” said Kinoshita. “What is it?”

  “An address.”

  25.

  Gilbert Egan rode the walkway down the long underground corridor to his office, passing a pair of security checkpoints. He stood before his door, waited for the scanners to register his retina, weight, and bone structure, and entered.

  The door slid shut behind him, and Egan walked over to his cluttered desk. He stopped, startled, when he saw the man sitting behind it.

  “Good morning, Dr. Egan,” said Nighthawk. “Pull up a chair. We've got some business to discuss.”

  “Who the hell are you?” demanded Egan.

  “You really don't recognize me?”

  “Should I?” asked Egan, staring at him. Then: “Shit! You're Nighthawk!”

  “That's right.”

  “What are you doing here?” demanded Egan. “How did you get in?”

  “I never saw a security system I couldn't crack,” said Nighthawk.

  “But you missed a century of technological improvement!” Egan pointed out.

  “Yeah ... but I'm the Widowmaker.”

  “You realize you've broken at least one law sneaking in here, possibly several.”

  “Suppose you let me worry about that,” said Nighthawk.

  “Fine,” said Egan, getting to his feet. “You can discuss it with the authorities.” He walked to the door.

  “Take one step outside or call for help and I'll break another law,” said Nighthawk, and Egan turned to find himself covered by a burner.

  “How the hell did you get a gun on Deluros?” demanded Egan, half frightened, half outraged.

  “I have my methods.”

  “What do you want?” asked Egan. “If it's money...”

  “Shut up and listen,” said Nighthawk. “All I want from you is a favor. As for money, I'm prepared to pay you ten million credits for it.”

  “Ten million credits?” repeated Egan unbelievingly. “Who do you want me to kill?”

  “No one. In fact, quite the opposite.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “There have been two clones of me already,” said Nighthawk. “I want a third one.”

  “Your eplasia has been cured, and you seem to be in good health,” said Egan. “Why do you want another clone?”

  “My reasons are no concern of yours. I want it, and I'm prepared to pay handsomely for it.”

  “Creating a clone is a felony, p
unishable by—”

  “Five million is for your skill,” interrupted Nighthawk. “The other five million is for the risk.”

  “Look,” said Egan, “even if I wanted to, you've got the wrong man. I'm just a doctor who specializes in cryonics.”

  “I'm offering to make you a filthy rich doctor.”

  “Mr. Nighthawk, my job was keeping you alive. That's what I do. Others cloned you; I didn't.

  “You know who they were.” Nighthawk tossed a thick envelope on the desk. “There's ten million credits in there, in unmarked bills. Talk one of them into it for two million and you've earned eight million credits for ten minutes’ work.”

  “How long have I got to make up my mind?”

  “About a minute,” said Nighthawk. “If your answer is no, that's the end of it—with this stipulation: if you tell anyone I was here, I'll kill you. And believe me, I can do it before they can stop me.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Thirty seconds left.”

  “All right,” said Egan. “I'll do it.”

  He reached for the envelope, but Nighthawk was faster, pulling it back. He opened it up, pulled out five million credits, and placed them on the desk.

  “A down payment,” he said. “You get the other half when I get the clone.”

  26.

  It was an hour after midnight as Nighthawk approached Egan's exclusive apartment, more than a mile above the planet's surface.

  Security was tight in the luxury titanium-and-glass structure. He had to get a robotic doorman to announce his presence while still on the main floor. After being cleared, his ID and retina were read by the airlift before it ascended, and when he got off at the 353rd floor he went through the entire process again before he was permitted to leave the vicinity of the lift.

  There was a final scanning at Egan's front door, and at last he was allowed to enter the apartment. A sleek, shining robot butler greeted him and ushered him into a huge, sprawling room with constantly changing murals on the walls. State-of-the-art furniture floated gently a few inches above a plush carpet with an almost hypnotically swirling pattern, and a huge window looked down on a cloud layer.