The Widowmaker Unleashed: Volume 3 of the Widowmaker Trilogy Read online

  Two men were waiting for him. Egan stepped forward to greet him.

  “Jefferson Nighthawk, I'd like you to meet ... ah ... Doctor X.” Egan gestured toward his companion. “Doctor X, Jefferson Nighthawk.”

  “I've worshiped you ever since I was a boy,” said Doctor X, and as he extended his hand, Nighthawk saw that he was a rather pudgy man in his mid-40s. “I'm thrilled to meet you in the flesh. I was responsible for one of your clones—the one who met such an unfortunate end in the Solio system.”

  “Egan's explained the situation to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you're willing?”

  “That's why I'm here. I have only one stipulation: I would like your assurance that both you and the clone will be returning to the Inner Frontier, and will not attempt to reside in the Oligarchy. It could be most awkward if the authorities learned of this.”

  “You have my word.”

  There was an uneasy pause.

  “Aren't you going to insist on knowing my real name?” asked Doctor X.

  “Will knowing it make the operation go any smoother?” asked Nighthawk.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then why should I care?”

  “Well, I thought—”

  “The police can't extract what I don't know,” explained Nighthawk. And besides, Ito will be following you home later tonight, so if you do betray me, he'll know who to kill.

  “A very reasonable attitude,” said Doctor X, looking much relieved. “When do you wish the process to begin?”

  “What's wrong with tomorrow?”

  Doctor X shook his head. “I can't be ready by then.”

  “Why not?” asked Nighthawk. “You're the cloning expert. I assume you have access to everything you need.”

  “It's not that simple, Mr. Nighthawk,” explained the medic. “When your first two clones were created, we had the protection of the most powerful law firm on Deluros VIII, so we didn't have to be quite so secretive. But for this procedure, security must be absolute, as we all face many years of imprisonment if we should be apprehended. I'll need at least three days to set up a lab, perhaps four. Then I'll be ready to take some skin scrapings from you.”

  “All right,” said Nighthawk. “How many people will be involved in the project?”

  “Four at most, all of them trusted aides of many years’ standing—and all of them men and women who worked on your first clone.”

  “And how long will the whole process take?”

  “The science of cloning has made phenomenal strides, despite government opposition,” said Doctor X. “We can have a fully-grown clone operational in six to eight weeks. The progress in nutrient solutions alone has been—”

  “I don't care how it gets done,” Nighthawk interrupted him. “Only when.”

  “I assume you care about more than that,” responded Doctor X.

  “For example?”

  “For example, what physical age should the clone be?”

  Nighthawk considered for a moment. “25.”

  “If you wish, we can supply him with your memories, right up to the instant of his creation.”

  “What will that require?”

  “Just you.”

  “Explain.”

  “The transfer of memories is rather like uploading data from one computer to another, but because the human brain is so much more complex and subtle, it's a much longer process. I'd have to put you under for almost three days. There's some minimal danger involved in being anesthetized for so long, but you seem to be in fine physical condition. I think you can handle it.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “There's no other way. That's how your second clone received your memories. Of course, you were already unconscious; frozen, in fact.”

  “The answer is no.”

  “It won't hurt at all,” Doctor X assured him.

  “I'm not worried about a little pain,” said Nighthawk. “But I'm commissioning a felony, and I've already made both of you wealthy men. There's no guarantee that you won't simply forget to wake me up.”

  “I assure you—”

  “I'm sure you do,” said Nighthawk, “but what are your assurances worth to a dead man?”

  The doctor shrugged. “I don't know what I can say to convince you...”

  “The only way I can be convinced is to have a confederate standing next to you with a gun—but that might make you nervous, and I don't want you doing the wrong thing at the wrong time.” Hell, in a way, it's just as well he won't have my memories. I don't want to be the Widowmaker any more; he's got to revel in it.

  “All right,” agreed the doctor with obvious reluctance. “We'll attach him to educator tapes day and night for the final month of his development. He'll enter the world with a basic education, fully able to speak, read and write.”

  “That'll be good enough,” said Nighthawk. “I'll handle it from there.”

  “We'll also have to give him a childhood,” added Doctor X. “They'll be false memories, of course, but pleasant ones.”

  “No,” said Nighthawk.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No memories are better than false ones.”

  “You're speaking from ignorance, Mr. Nighthawk,” replied Doctor X. “If he enters the world as an adult with no memories at all, he'll soon be a basket case. As he develops his own very real memories and you educate him, the ones we give him will soon fade.”

  “You're sure?”

  “We kept tabs on the first clone until he left on his mission—and by that time, only a month or two into his existence, he had already jettisoned most of his false memories.”

  “You mean, forgotten them?”

  “In a way. Once your new clone knows his memories are false, he will—how can I explain it? —push them into the attics and basements of his mind, replacing them with experiences he has undergone, experiences he knows to be true.”

  “How can he do that?”

  “When you see an exceptionally realistic holograhic entertainment, or experience a vivid dream, you accept it as real while it's happening—but once it's over and you realize that it was merely an illusion of reality, you have no difficulty separating it from real experiences, have you? Your clone will do much the same thing.”

  “You'd better be right,” said Nighthawk. “This clone is going to be under enough pressure from the real world. I don't want him hallucinating or going schizoid because he can't tell his real experiences from his false ones.”

  “It won't happen,” said Doctor X firmly.

  “It better not.”

  Doctor X stared at Nighthawk for a long moment. “May I ask exactly why you want me to create him?”

  “You can ask.”

  “You can trust to my discretion, Mr. Nighthawk.”

  “I'm sure I can,” replied Nighthawk. He smiled humorlessly. “And my clone can trust to mine.”

  Another awkward silence.

  “If we have nothing further to say to each other, I think I shall take my leave of you,” said Doctor X.

  “We have one thing further to say, or rather, you have,” said Nighthawk. “I want an address.”

  “Where we're creating the clone, you mean?”

  “That's the only address that interests me,” said Nighthawk.

  “As soon as I know, I'll tell Gilbert, and he can tell you. But I warn you, Mr. Nighthawk—we must have complete secrecy. Knowing where the clone is being created does not mean you will be allowed access after the day we take the scrapings.”

  “Suppose you let me worry about that.”

  Egan was unable to suppress an amused chuckle.

  27.

  The handsome young man opened his eyes and tried to focus them.

  “Where am I?” he rasped.

  “Take it easy, son,” said Doctor X. “You're just fine.”

  “Who are you?” Suddenly the young man looked very confused. “Who am I?”

  “You're in a very private ho
spital,” said Doctor X. “This gentleman standing next to me is Jefferson Nighthawk. He'll answer all your questions.”

  He nodded to Nighthawk, then left the room.

  Nighthawk walked over to the bed. “How do you feel?”

  “I don't know. Nothing hurts—but I can't remember how I got here.”

  “I'll be happy to tell you. But let's wait a few moments until you've got all your wits about you. You've been asleep a long time.”

  The young man stared at Nighthawk, puzzled. “Do I know you?”

  “Not yet, but you will.”

  “What was your name again?”

  “Jefferson Nighthawk.”

  The young man blinked furiously. “I seem to remember something about a Jefferson Nighthawk, something I heard or read when I was a kid. Were you an athlete or something?”

  Nighthawk smiled. “Something.”

  “Wait a minute,” said the young man, his face taut with concentration. “Now I remember! You're the Widowmaker!”

  “That's right.”

  “But you've been dead for a century!”

  “Not quite,” replied Nighthawk. “I contracted an incurable disease, and I voluntarily submitted myself to cryogenic freezing for a century—until it wasn't incurable any longer.”

  “Well, I'm thrilled to meet you,” said the young man. “But what interest does a famous lawman like you have in someone like me?”

  “More than you can imagine.”

  The young man looked expectantly at him.

  “I don't like beating about the bush,” continued Nighthawk, “and I don't think you do, either. So I'm going to tell you some things that are going to be difficult for you to accept. You won't believe them at first, but they're true nonetheless. Are you ready for them?”

  The young man sat up, and just as quickly collapsed back onto the bed.

  “Damn!” he muttered. “What's the matter with me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “There's something wrong, maybe the same disease you had,” he continued. “I can't even sit up by myself.”

  “You'll contract the disease eventually,” said Nighthawk, not without sympathy, “but you don't have it now. You can sit up, and if you try a few more times, you'll do it without any problems.” He paused. “You're not sick. You're just using muscles that you've never used before.”

  “What are you talking about?” said the young man. “All I'm doing is sitting up.”

  “Listen to me, son,” said Nighthawk. “You haven't used any of your muscles. Ever.”

  The young man stared at him. “All right, who the hell are you really?”

  “I told you: Jefferson Nighthawk.”

  “You also told me you're more than a century old, and that I've never used any of my muscles before. Why should I believe anything you say?”

  “Only one reason,” said Nighthawk. “I'm telling you the truth. I am Jefferson Nighthawk.” He paused, staring at the young man. “And so are you.”

  “What asylum did you escape from?”

  “Here,” said Nighthawk, handing a small mirror to him. “Take a good, hard look.”

  The young man studied himself very carefully, occasionally glancing up at Nighthawk with a curious expression on his face. Finally he handed the mirror back.

  “What am I—your son?”

  “Not quite.”

  “I'm not in the mood for guessing games.”

  “You're my clone,” said Nighthawk.

  The young man grabbed the mirror back and studied it even more intently. Finally he shook his head vigorously. “You're crazy! I remember things, things from when I was a boy!”

  “I know. Those are memories you've been allowed to borrow until you get some of your own.”

  “Bullshit! Nobody borrows memories!”

  “You think not?” said Nighthawk. “You remember growing up on a farm on Pollux IV. You always wanted a dog, and finally your father imported one from Earth itself. You called him Snapper. He drowned when the two of you were swimming in the river together, and you blamed yourself for years. Your first love was Becky Raymond from the neighboring farm, but you never told her. When you were fourteen, you—”

  “Enough!” shouted the young man. He stared at Nighthawk. “I never mentioned Becky to anyone, not even my brother!”

  “I know.”

  The young man looked distressed. “Was there a Becky?”

  “Yes,” said Nighthawk, not without sympathy. “But not in your past. In someone else's.”

  The young man was silent for a very long moment. Finally he spoke: “I thought clones were illegal.”

  “They are.”

  “Then how—?”

  “I paid a lot of people off.”

  “Why?”

  “That's something we have to talk about. I think we'd better wait until you've assimilated what I've already told you. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  “Now,” said the young man firmly. “You've just told me that yesterday I was a blob of protoplasm, and today I'm a younger version of you. I want to know why.”

  “Good,” said Nighthawk approvingly. “I don't like procrastination in my Jefferson Nighthawks.”

  “You make it sound like I'm not the only clone.”

  “You're the third—though you're the first I've laid eyes on.”

  “I take it the first two didn't make it out of the lab?” said the young man.

  “They made it out,” said Nighthawk. “The first one was killed. The second one's still out there somewhere, with a new name and a new face.”

  “Why do you need so many clones? In fact, why do you need any at all?”

  “While I was frozen here on Deluros, inflation was so rampant that I was in danger of running out of money before they found a cure for my disease. Someone on the Frontier offered a lot of money for a clone that could wipe out some enemies. That was the first one. He did his job, but didn't outlive it. That bought me a few years. The second clone bought me the rest of the time I needed.”

  “And you're cured now?”

  “That's right.”

  “So why am I here?”

  “I need you for a totally different reason.” Nighthawk smiled ruefully. “It seems that the galaxy needs a Widowmaker more than this particular Widowmaker needs the galaxy.”

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

  “I'm an old man,” said Nighthawk. “I've got a woman I care for, I'm tired of killing, and I want to live out the rest of my life in peace.”

  “So?”

  “There are a couple of million men and women out there who want the Widowmaker dead, enemies the first two clones made, enemies I don't even recognize. I killed some of them in self-defense, but now word is out that the Widowmaker is back on the Frontier, and every punk kid who's out to make a name for himself is seeking me out.” He paused. “Do you see where this is leading?”

  “Yeah,” said the young man, staring at him curiously. “I think so.”

  “Well, let me eliminate any doubts right here and now,” said Nighthawk. “Son, I created you to take over the family business.”

  28.

  They had no trouble leaving the Deluros system. Nighthawk, with five million credits still in his possession, spent a million on the best fake fingerprints, retinagrams and passport money could buy, and the scanners never once blinked as they passed the clone through.

  It took them three days to reach Serengeti and pick up Sarah, who was less surprised than Nighthawk had expected, and then they went deep into the Inner Frontier, finally landing on Dustdevil, an arid little world circling an unimpressive binary.

  Then Nighthawk began the task of training the new Widowmaker.

  * * * *

  “Kinoshita will teach you everything you need to know about shooting and freehand fighting,” said Nighthawk. “He did a fine job with the first clone, who was just about your age.”

  “Then why did the clone die?” asked the young man.

  “Not for
lack of physical abilities. You've got every one I ever possessed, and you're not even in your prime yet.” Nighthawk paused. “The problem with the clone was that his head wasn't on right. Ito will train your body; I'll train your mind.”

  * * * *

  The young man flew through the air and landed heavily on his back.

  “You cheated!” he said accusingly.

  “Of course I cheated,” said Kinoshita. “You think murderers and assassins don't cheat? Let's try it again.”

  “Give me a minute to catch my breath.”

  Kinoshita walked over. “Sure, kid. Take your time.” Suddenly he kicked the young man full in the face.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “First rule of the game, kid,” said Kinoshita. “Never trust a killer.”

  “I'm surprised the first clone didn't kill you,” muttered the young man, getting to his feet and facing his antagonist.

  “He tried,” said Kinoshita, dodging a heavy blow, grabbing an arm, and twisting suddenly. “But just like you, he telegraphed.”

  The young man went sprawling again.

  “I thought you were going to—”

  “Never picture what you think I might do, kid,” said Kinoshita. “If you do, that's what you're subconsciously prepared for. And if I do anything else, it takes you a fraction of a second to adjust.”

  “I wonder if the pair of you aren't wasting your time,” said the young man. “I don't think I'll ever be good enough to take you.”

  “Of course you will—and sooner than you think. After all, you're Jefferson Nighthawk.”

  “Okay,” said the young man, getting back to his feet. “Let's try again.”

  A moment later he went flying again—but this time he was a fraction of an inch and a fraction of a second closer to landing a near-deadly blow on Kinoshita.

  * * * *

  Every afternoon and every evening they would sit in the living room, man and clone, and the master would lecture the pupil.

  “The thing to remember,” said Nighthawk, “is that by the time there's paper on a man, he's no longer wanted on suspicion of anything. He's a killer, and while some of them are the nicest men and women you'd ever want to meet, the Widowmaker lives by a simple code: to feel compassion toward a killer is an insult to his victims.”