The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy Read online

  “What if the clone's every bit as efficient a killer as the original was?”

  Dinnisen looked puzzled. “That's what we're hoping for.”

  “How will you control him then?”

  “The original Widowmaker repressed all his emotions. This one won't have any reason to—and loyalty has an emotional basis.”

  “Have you considered the fact that you'll only have a few weeks to give him a moral and ethical code of behavior at the same time you're teaching him a hundred ways to kill?”

  “I'm not teaching him anything,” answered Dinnisen defensively. “I'm just a solicitor. I'll be hiring specialists—not just specialists in killing, but in behavior as well. How difficult can it be?”

  “I'll bet Pandora said those very words just before she opened the box,” replied Egan as the drawer containing Jefferson Nighthawk slide silently back into place.

  1.

  The jungle planet of Karamojo was the jewel of the Quinellus Cluster. A fierce, primitive world, it was a hunter's paradise, overflowing with enormous horned grass eaters and deadly carnivores.

  The Oligarchy, having seen what happened to such over-exploited worlds as Peponi and Karimon, had declared Karamojo off-limits for colonization. Instead, it became an exclusive planet for sportsmen, and hunting licenses were strictly limited. It took an awful lot of money, or clout, or both, just to land on Karamojo, and even more to be allowed to hunt there.

  Afficionados said that the fishing was better on Hemingway, out in the Spiral Arm, but everyone agreed there was no better hunting to be found anywhere. It made the men who visited the planet willing to put up with its hardships: swarms of deadly insects, an atmosphere so thin that a hunter's blood had to be medically oxygenated every fifth day, a temperature that rarely dipped below 30 degrees Celsius even at night, a landscape that made adrenaline pills all but mandatory.

  Only nineteen hunters in the planet's history had been granted permanent licenses. One was the fabled Fuentes, considered by most experts to be the best hunter who had ever lived. Another was Nicobar Lane, whose trophies filled museums across the galaxy.

  And yet another was Jefferson Nighthawk, known as the Widowmaker.

  It had taken almost a day for Nighthawk and his companion, a small, balding man named Ito Kinoshita, to clear customs. His fingerprints checked out. So did his retinagram and his voiceprint. Preliminary DNA tests seemed also to confirm his identity—but he was more than 150 years old, and the man who bore his name was clearly under 25, and hence a clone.

  Finally the authorities decided that a clone had the right to use the original's license, and he and Kinoshita disappeared into the endless alien bush for four days. When they emerged, it was with the carcasses of two enormous Demoncats, the 700-pound catlike carnivores that preyed on the huge herds.

  Kinoshita drove their safari vehicle toward Pondoro Outpost, a luxurious fortress in the middle of the bush where tired, wealthy hunters could relax in comfort. The outpost contained a restaurant, a tavern, an infirmary, a weapons and ammunition shop, a map shop, a taxidermist, and one hundred chalets which could hold up to four hundred Men. There were only three such outposts on the planet—Pondoro, Corbett and Selous—and at no time were more than fifteen hundred humans hunting or relaxing on a planet that possessed almost twice Earth's surface area.

  Upon reaching the outpost, they unloaded their Demoncats at the taxidermy shop, retired to their chalet to bath, shave and change into fresh clothes, and then met at the restaurant for dinner. The menu consisted of imported game meats, as there was something about the indigenous Karamojo animals that humans couldn't metabolize.

  Then they headed over to Six-Finger Blue's, the tavern run by a huge human mutant whose skin was tinted a striking shade of blue. His left hand ended in a shapeless mass of bone, while his right possessed six long, multi-jointed, snakelike fingers. He had been a fixture on Karamojo for the better part of thirty years; if he had ever left the planet during that time, no one could remember it.

  Blue himself was no hunter, but he believed in creating an ambience that would appeal to his clients, and so the heads of Demoncats, Fire Lizards, Battletanks, Silverskins, and half a dozen other local species were stuffed and mounted on the walls, making the tavern look far more like a rustic hunting lodge than a bar from the 52nd Century of the Galactic Era.

  Blue kept a colorful blue-red-and-gold Screechowl in a large cage over the bar. Customers were encouraged to feed it, and a small supply of live lizards was always handy. Just beyond the cage was a computer readout, constantly being updated, of the current exchange rates in credits, Maria Theresa dollars, Far London pounds, and half a dozen other currencies.

  One wall was lined with a discreet set of holographic screens, as remote cameras stationed all over the area flashed scenes of animals and where they could be found. A few short-timers, men and woman in for one-day safaris, watched the screens intently. Whenever the animal they were looking for came up, they went out after it. There was no such thing as a white hunter or a guide, not in an age when the safari vehicle could read spoor and track game on its own.

  Upon reaching the table, Kinoshita moved the chairs, then sat down and gestured for his young companion to do the same.

  “You're through rearranging the table?” asked Nighthawk, staring at him curiously.

  “Never sit with your back to a door or a window.”

  “I don't have any enemies yet,” replied Nighthawk.

  “You don't have any friends, and where you're going, that's more important.”

  Nighthawk shrugged and took a seat.

  An alien servant, humanoid in form and speaking Terran with a harsh accent, approached them and asked for their drink orders.

  “A pair of Dust Whores,” said Kinoshita.

  The alien nodded and walked away.

  “Dust Whores?” repeated Nighthawk.

  “You'll like them,” Kinoshita assured him.

  Nighthawk shrugged and looked around the room. “Interesting place. Feels exactly like a hunting lodge should.”

  Kinoshita nodded in agreement. “There's a place just like this on Last Chance.”

  Nighthawk shook his head. “No, it's on Binder X.”

  Kinoshita smiled. “You're right, of course. My mistake.”

  Well, your memory—or whoever's memory you've got—is functioning perfectly, you poor bastard.

  The alien waiter returned with the drinks. Nighthawk stared at his dubiously.

  “They're good,” Kinoshita assured him.

  “They're green,” he replied.

  “Trust me, Jeff,” said Kinoshita. “You'll love it.”

  Nighthawk reached out for a glass, brought it slowly to his lips, and took a sip.

  “Cinnamon,” he said at last. “And Borillian rum. And something else I can't quite put my finger on.”

  “It's a fruit they grow on New Kenya. It's not quite an orange or a tangerine, but it's in the citrus family—as much as an alien fruit can be, anyway. They wait until it ferments, then process and bottle it.”

  “Good,” said Nighthawk, taking another sip. “I like it.”

  Of course you like it. The real Widowmaker was practically addicted to these things.

  Nighthawk downed his drink, then looked across the table at his companion.

  “Are we going out again tomorrow?” he asked.

  “No, I don't think so. We wanted to see how good you were with your weapons after a month of training. We saw.”

  “Too bad,” said Nighthawk. “It was fun.”

  “You think being charged by a Demoncat is fun?”

  “Well, it's certainly not dangerous,” came the answer. “Not when I've got a rifle in my hands.”

  “The taxidermist probably agrees with you,” remarked Kinoshita.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “When I brought the carcasses in, he said that you didn't just shoot them in the eye to avoid damaging the heads, you shot them in the pupil.”

/>   “Like you told me when we started, it's just like pointing your finger.”

  “I lied,” said Kinoshita. “But you seem to have turned it into the truth.”

  A disarming boyish smile crossed Nighthawk's face. “I did, didn't I?”

  Kinoshita nodded. “You did.”

  “Damn!” said the young man happily. “That calls for another drink!” He signaled to the alien waiter. “Two more Dust Whores.” Then he turned back to Kinoshita. “So what do we do next?”

  “Nothing,” said Kinoshita. “Today is your graduation.”

  “Wasn't much of an exam,” said Nighthawk.

  It hasn't started yet. Aloud, he said, “You'd be surprised how many men have been killed by Demoncats. You had less than half a second to aim and fire, you know.”

  “You were the one who wanted to go into heavy cover after them,” noted Nighthawk.

  “I wanted to test your reactions under the harshest field conditions,” said Kinoshita.

  “Do you do this a lot?”

  “Go into thick bush after Demoncats? No, thank God!”

  “I meant train men to fight.”

  “You're the first.”

  “What do you do, then?”

  “A little of this, a little of that,” replied Kinoshita noncommittally.

  “Have you ever been a lawman or a bounty hunter?” persisted Nighthawk.

  “Both.”

  “And a soldier?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “What about an outlaw?” asked Nighthawk.

  “I give up,” said Kinoshita. “What about an outlaw?”

  “Have you ever been one?”

  “Depends on who you asked,” said Kinoshita. “No court ever convicted me of anything.”

  “How did you wind up working for Marcus Dinnisen?”

  “He's got a lot of money to spend. I need a lot of money. It's only natural that we got together.”

  “When is your job over?”

  Kinoshita stared at the head of a Fire Lizard, which stared blindly back at him. “Soon.”

  The young man frowned unhappily. “How soon?”

  Kinoshita sighed. “Oh, I might come out to the Frontier with you for a week or two, until you're settled, but after that I'd just be in the way. It's not very likely that the man you're after will simply announce himself. You've got a lot of work to do, and the sooner you start, the better.” Kinoshita sipped his own drink. “The Frontier's as empty as the Oligarchy is crowded. It's almost impossible to sneak up on anyone out there. They see you coming from too far away.”

  “They won't see me at all,” said Nighthawk. “I'll be in a ship until I land.”

  “I was speaking metaphorically.” Nighthawk looked unconvinced. “Look,” continued Kinoshita, “I was right about the drinks. Trust me, I'm right about this too. I'd be a hindrance.”

  “If I'm the guy who has to do the dirty work, I should be able to make some of the decisions.”

  “Once you're out there on your own, you'll be making all the decisions,” Kinoshita assured him.

  “Then I should decide whether I go alone or not.”

  “I don't want to argue with you,” said Kinoshita. “We had a nice, satisfying hunt and a nice, satisfying meal. We'll talk about it later.” If I can figure out a graceful way to explain to you that you're expendable but I'm not.

  Nighthawk shrugged and nodded his agreement. “All right. Later.”

  The young man was considering ordering yet another round of drinks when suddenly Six-Finger Blue walked over to the table.

  “Hello, Ito!” he said in his deep bass voice. “I thought I spotted you when you came in. Where the hell have you been keeping yourself?”

  “Oh, here and there,” said Kinoshita.

  “Last I heard, you were shooting bad guys out on the Rim.”

  “Gave it up,” answered Kinoshita. “Decided I liked the thought of living to an old age.”

  “Yeah, making it past 40 has got a lot to recommend it,” agreed Six-Finger Blue. He turned and stared at Nighthawk. “Who's your friend? His face is familiar, but I can't quite place it.”

  “His name's Jeff,” said Kinoshita.

  Nighthawk extended his hand, and Blue wrapped his six fingers around it. “Howdy, Jeff. You been out here to the Frontier before?”

  “No,” answered Nighthawk.

  “Well, if you're half the man your pal is, you'll make out just fine,” said Six-Finger Blue. He stared again. “Damn! I could swear I've seen your face somewhere!”

  He wandered off to greet other patrons, and Kinoshita turned to Nighthawk. “An old holograph, probably,” he suggested as a possible explanation. “I could almost guess when and where, because by the time you were 23 you were wearing a huge handlebar mustache. It didn't look like much, but it added ten years to your appearance.”

  “It wasn't a holo of me,” answered Nighthawk. “You're confusing me with him.”

  “You are him, in a way,” said Kinoshita. “Now that I've worked with you, in a lot of ways.”

  Nighthawk shook his head. “He's an old man, dying of some horrible disease. I'm a young man with my whole life ahead of me. Once I take care of this business on Solio II, I've got a lot of places to see and things to do.”

  “What kind of things?” asked Kinoshita.

  Nighthawk tapped his head with a forefinger. “As real as these things seem to me, I know they can't be my memories. I'm going to replace them with real ones. There's a whole galaxy out there to see and experience.”

  “It sounds like you've been giving it some serious thought.”

  “Well, I've been working all my life—all 48 days of it.” Nighthawk smiled awkwardly at his rudimentary attempt at humor. “I'm looking forward to my first vacation.” He paused thoughtfully. “Though for the time being, I'll settle for just one night of sleep when I'm not plugged in to an Educator Disk.”

  “It was necessary,” replied Kinoshita. “You've been force-fed the equivalent of twenty years of living in little more than a month. We couldn't send you out there with no knowledge and no social skills. Hell, you wouldn't even be able to speak yet if it hadn't been for the Disks.”

  “I know, and I'm grateful,” said Nighthawk. “But I still have my life to live, once I'm through saving his life.” He looked around the room, over the mounted heads on the wall, then back to Kinoshita. “I want to see him before I leave.”

  Kinoshita shook his head. “He might not survive being awakened again—at least, not until we have a cure for him.”

  “I don't have to talk to him,” persisted Nighthawk. “I just want to see him.”

  “They say he looks pretty awful.”

  “I don't care. He's the only family I've got.”

  “They won't allow it, Jeff. Why not plan on seeing him after you've done your job and science has found a way to cure him?”

  “Science hasn't made any progress in a century. Why should I expect them to find a cure now?”

  “I'm told they're getting close. Just be patient.”

  Nighthawk shook his head. “I don't have a father or a mother. All I've got is him.”

  “But there's more to it than that, isn't there?” said Kinoshita.

  “Why should you think so?”

  “Because I've already told you what an unpleasant experience it will be to see him. Now, what's the real reason?”

  “I want to see what's in store for me if they don't come up with that cure.”

  “You've got enough things to think about, Jeff. You don't need to carry around an image of what this disease can do to you.”

  “Will do.”

  “Can do. You might not contract it.”

  “Come off it, Ito. I'm not his son; I'm his clone. If he got it, I'll get it.”

  “They could have a vaccine in two years, or ten, or twenty. You're physically 20 years old. He didn't contract it until he was in his late 40s.”

  “That's not that far off,” said Nighthawk.

/>   “It's far enough.”

  “You won't let me see him?”

  “It's not up to me,” said Kinoshita.

  Nighthawk sighed. “All right.” He paused. “I'll have another Dust Whore. They kind of grow on you.”

  You gave in too easily, Jeff. The real Nighthawk would have demanded what he wanted, and then if I hadn't helped him, he'd have taken it himself. If he wanted to see a frozen body, God help anyone who stood in his way. That's what made him the Widowmaker. We had to tone you down, make you controllable, but now I wonder if you're tough enough to do what must be done.

  Two more drinks arrived, and Kinoshita looked around the tavern. His gaze fell on two burly men standing at one end of the bar.

  They're here, just as we'd been tipped they would be. He glanced surreptitiously at Nighthawk. It's time for your final exam, Jeff. I hope you're up to it.

  “You see those two guys at the bar?” asked the small man.

  Nighthawk nodded. “You know them?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” answered Kinoshita. “I know of them.” He paused and studied the two men. “The one with the beard is Undertaker McNair, an assassin from out on the Rim. The other one's his bodyguard.”

  “What does an assassin need with a bodyguard?”

  “Everyone needs someone to watch his back—especially a man with his reputation and enemies.”

  Nighthawk frowned. “If you know who he is, so must Customs. Why would they allow a hired killer to hunt here?”

  “Because he can afford it.”

  “That's the only reason?”

  “This is an exclusive place. People are expected to pay for that.”

  “How much has this cost us so far?”

  “Don't worry about it,” said Kinoshita. “You're about to earn more than enough to cover the coat.”

  “You're being optimistic. It could be months before I finish my work on Solio II.”

  “You're going to earn it right now.”

  Nighthawk looked his puzzlement.

  “There's paper on Undertaker McNair—half a million credits, dead or alive.” Kinoshita paused. “Dead is easier.”

  “I don't even know him,” said Nighthawk uncomfortably.

  “You won't know the man you're after on Solio, either.”