The Widowmaker Reborn: Volume 2 of the Widowmaker Trilogy Read online

  “Well?” he said. “Am I leaving alone or with you?”

  “Give me a moment to get dressed.” She got to her feet and walked to a closet, then turned to him. “Mr. Nighthawk, you've bought yourself an empath.”

  5.

  “Why not a telepath?” asked Kinoshita after they had taken off and were heading deeper into the Inner Frontier.

  “Find me one and I'll hire him,” responded Nighthawk, relaxing in the pilot's chair.

  “They say the Domarians are telepaths.”

  “They're aliens.”

  “They have less reason to fear or distrust you than most humans.”

  “Swans swim with swans, ducks swim with ducks,” answered Nighthawk.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I'll attract enough attention with a Balatai.”

  Kinoshita turned to the Balatai woman, who was sitting near the navigation tank, watching holographs of the ship making its way among the stars of the Inner Frontier. “I meant no offense,” he said. “But my fortune is intertwined with his, so I want him to have the best chance.”

  “I know,” she replied. “You don't believe it, Mr. Kinoshita, but reading your emotions isn't very different from reading your thoughts.”

  “It isn't?”

  “Nine times out of ten.”

  “And the tenth time?” asked Kinoshita.

  She smiled. “That's why he's the Widowmaker. Because the tenth time can get messy.”

  Kinoshita stared at her for a long moment and finally nodded his approval. “You'll do,” he said decisively. “What's your name?”

  “What name do you like?” she responded.

  “I didn't realize it was up to us.”

  “Choose one.”

  “Melisande,” said Nighthawk.

  “Fine,” she said. “Then I'm Melisande.” She paused. “Who was she?”

  “Nobody very important,” said Nighthawk.

  “Your emotions say you're lying,” said Melisande. She turned to Kinoshita. “Perhaps you'll tell me.”

  “She was the woman who betrayed his predecessor,” said Kinoshita.

  She turned to Nighthawk. “Do you expect me to betray you?”

  “No.”

  “Then why—?”

  “It's a pretty name. I thought you might redeem it.”

  “In that case, I'm honored.”

  Kinoshita studied Nighthawk carefully, and finally spoke. “First Hernandez and now Melisande. I think you'd be better off if you forgot about the previous Nighthawk's life and concentrated on your own.”

  “I'm an orderly man with an orderly mind,” answered Nighthawk. “I'm just taking care of the things that affect all Jefferson Nighthawks.”

  “I'd concentrate on Ibn ben Khalid if I were you.”

  “If you were me you'd be six inches taller and a hell of a lot faster with a gun—and you'd be an orderly man.”

  “It seems to me that an orderly man wouldn't proceed without a plan. How do you intend to make contact?”

  “The simplest and most efficient way possible.”

  “Jeff—your predecessor—shot up a bunch of the Marquis of Queensbury's men and offered himself as their replacement,” noted Kinoshita. “I seem to remember from the reports that he also fought the Marquis to a standstill.”

  “My predecessor was three months old,” said Nighthawk. “He can be forgiven for his methods.”

  “So what do you plan to do?”

  “I plan to use the tools at my disposal.”

  Kinoshita frowned. “Your weapons?”

  “God gave you a brain,” said Nighthawk irritably. “You offend Him when you refuse to use it.”

  “Why don't you just tell me what tools you're going to use and stop insulting me?”

  Nighthawk stared calmly at him. “I'm going to use you and Melisande, of course.”

  “How?”

  “She'll enter a bar or a restaurant and sit down alone. A few minutes later you and I will come in and sit elsewhere. After we've had a drink or two, we'll start discussing Ibn ben Khalid, and we'll make sure we're overheard. I'll praise him to the skies, you'll argue that he's the worst kind of slime—and Melisande will read the emotional reactions. When she finds one that's strong enough, we'll assume he's working for Ibn ben Khalid and I'll follow up on it.”

  “If he doesn't kill me first,” added Kinoshita ruefully.

  Nighthawk shrugged. “You want to come along. That's the chance you take when you play for high stakes.”

  “I'm not playing for them,” Kinoshita reminded him.

  “Of course you are,” said Nighthawk. He leaned forward on his seat and stared intently at the smaller man. “Do you really think I haven't figured out that you're here to keep an eye on me for Dinnisen, and that you're to report to him the second it looks like I might wander off the reservation?”

  “There no sense denying it,” said Kinoshita. “Sure I'm being paid to keep tabs on you—but I just look on it as found money. I can't stop you from doing anything you want to do. Hell, I wouldn't if I could. Like I told you, I'm a fan.”

  “I know that,” said Nighthawk. “But you'd better understand that there'll come a day when you'll have to choose between me and your employer.”

  “Easy choice. Dinnisen can't kill me; you can.” Suddenly Kinoshita grinned. “You see? I do have an orderly mind.”

  “In the meantime,” continued Nighthawk, ignoring his companion's attempt at humor, “I'll dictate your reports back to Deluros VIII.”

  Suddenly Melisande spoke up. “You're good, Widowmaker!” she said admiringly. “You don't need me. Hell, you don't need anyone!”

  “I'm flattered that you think so, but I know what I need. My job is to kill Ibn ben Khalid. Let's suppose, just for the sake of argument, that he has a million followers; that's just a tiny drop in the bucket when you consider that there are almost two trillion men abroad in the galaxy. But it means the odds are a million-to-one against me. If you can lower the odds, then I'll use you.”

  Melisande broke in. “So where are we going?”

  “I'm not sure yet. Deeper into the Frontier.”

  “Any world in particular?”

  Nighthawk shook his head. “I don't suppose it makes much difference—except that I don't want to set down on any world where my predecessor landed.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just in case he wasn't as efficient as I am.”

  “I don't follow you.”

  “He may have left some enemies alive. I won't know who they are, but some of them might recognize me. That's a suicidal situation, and if the Widowmaker was suicidal, he would have taken his life when he contracted eplasia rather than freezing himself on the slight chance that someone would effect a cure.”

  “You have eplasia?” she asked, backing away.

  “Do I look like I have eplasia?” he asked.

  “Your flesh says no, your emotions say yes.”

  “That's because my flesh doesn't know it yet,” replied Nighthawk. “It's in the very early stages. You won't be able to notice it for another year or two—and by that time I'll be dead or cured.”

  “You should have told me before I agreed to come with you,” said Melisande.

  “It's like cancer used to be—deadly, but not contagious. You may contract it someday, but you won't catch it from me.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then relaxed. “Okay, you're telling the truth.” She paused. “As you know it, anyway.”

  There was a high-pitched beeping sound.

  “What was that?” she asked, as Nighthawk got to his feet and walked to the galley.

  “Time for another shot of whiskey,” he said, pulling out a bottle and taking a swallow.

  She frowned. “You have to remind yourself to drink?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” answered Nighthawk.

  “I don't understand.”

  “I woke up a month ago in a body that had never had a drink of alcoh
ol. I work in a profession where a lot of information gets traded in taverns. The first few times I took a drink I was giddy and uncoordinated for an hour afterward. I'm trying to get my system used to it, so a few shots of whiskey won't affect my judgment or my reflexes.”

  “You're a very careful man.”

  “The graveyards are full of careless ones.”

  “Someone ought to collect your little homilies and put them in a book,” she said with a smile.

  “Are you volunteering?”

  “Not me. My talents lay in other directions.” Suddenly she looked around. “Where do I sleep?”

  “We'll probably be two or three more days before we touch down,” said Nighthawk. “How about a DeepSleep machine?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “I don't trust them.”

  “I can vouch for at least one of them working for over a century.”

  “Not interested.”

  “All right,” replied Nighthawk. “There are two cabins. You can have mine, and either Ito or I will sleep out here in the control room.”

  “Thank you,” said Melisande. “Where is it?”

  “You've already been to the head. Mine is the door just past it on the left.”

  “Just making sure. I wouldn't want to open it and find myself bumping into the nuclear pile.”

  She walked to the door, waited for it to melt before her, and walked into the cabin while the door quickly reconstituted itself behind her.

  “You know,” said Nighthawk, sitting down and ordering his chair to fold around him, “I could use some sleep myself.”

  He closed his eyes, and was soon breathing regularly.

  I don't know, thought Kinoshita, looking at the Widowmaker with concerned eyes. This guy is obsessed with the first clone. He seems stable enough, but I wonder...

  Suddenly he was aware of Melisande, standing in the doorway to her cabin.

  “I read your concern,” she said softly.

  “It's a legitimate one,” answered Kinoshita.

  “Then let me address it: Jefferson Nighthawk is as normal and well-adjusted as any man I've met.”

  She turned and went back into her room.

  That's a pretty comforting statement, thought Kinoshita. Until I remember just what kind of men you've been meeting...

  6.

  The Blue Dragon wasn't a typical Frontier bar. For one thing, it was run by its namesake. For another, it catered to Men and aliens in almost equal percentages. For a third, it offered no sexual services. For a fourth, it didn't have any gaming tables.

  It was also one of the few leads provided by Cassius Hill on the possible whereabouts of Ibn ben Khalid.

  It was that first item, though, that made its reputation. The owner was a blue-skinned alien, covered with octagonal scales, with a face almost as elongated as a Shetland pony's. He stood erect and had opposable thumbs. He also possessed vestigial wings from an earlier point in his race's evolution where his progenitors either flew or, more likely, rode high upon the thermals.

  His chest was angular and oddly-shaped, as if once, a few thousand generations ago, his wings were much stronger and were manipulated by a coil of muscles that was clearly visible around his rib cage. He had a short, flat tail, one that in eons past had functioned as a rudder.

  His eyes were the palest blue, and his teeth were a rich violet. He had two sets of nostrils, separated by a couple of inches, on each side of his long face. There were no ears, just pulsating slits on the side of his head.

  He wasn't the only member of his race, but he was, so far as anyone knew, the only member that had migrated to a human-occupied planet in the Inner Frontier. Whenever anyone asked the name of his race, or the name or location of his home planet, he answered them promptly and truthfully—in his native language, which was an assortment of guttural clicks, grunts, and whistles.

  He called himself Blue Eyes, and pretty soon so did everyone else.

  “Good evening, good evening,” he crooned as Nighthawk and Kinoshita entered his bar on Sylene IV, which circled a dull yellow sun, dragging two moons with it. “I don't think I've seen you here before.”

  “Probably we all look alike to you,” answered Nighthawk wryly, looking around until he spotted Melisande nursing a drink at a table in the darkest corner of the place.

  Blue Eyes threw back his head and hooted.

  “Is that a laugh?” asked Nighthawk.

  “You think only Men have a sense of humor?” shot back Blue Eyes. “Where are you two from and where are you heading, and how long can I entice you into staying on Sylene?”

  “Don't tell me—you own the hotel, too.”

  “Okay, I won't tell you.”

  Nighthawk stared at Blue Eyes for a moment. “Never saw an alien like you before.”

  “Never will again, either,” said Blue Eyes. “But let's keep in mind that on this world, you're as much an alien as I am.”

  “You speak the language very well,” continued Nighthawk. “No accent, and no formality—your slang sounds very natural.”

  “Languages are easy for dragons,” said Blue Eyes. “Giving up virgins—now that was hard.” He threw back his head and hooted again.

  “As long as you feel compelled to entertain us, the least I can do is buy you a drink.”

  “I never drink with the customers, but I'll be happy to sit with you for awhile.” He turned to the bar. “Nicholas, bring me my chair.”

  A young man, underweight and carelessly dressed, immediately stood up, walked over to a strangely-configured chair, and carried it over to the empty table where Blue Eyes was waiting.

  “Thank you,” said the dragon. “Gentlemen, this is Nicholas. He has spent the last three years recording everything I say in my native tongue and trying to create a dictionary of my language.”

  “How far along are you?” asked Kinoshita.

  “About thirty words,” said Nicholas. “Maybe thirty-two.”

  “In three years?”

  “That's more progress than is made on a lot of alien tongues in the same period of time,” replied Nicholas. He frowned thoughtfully, then continued. “The biggest problem is determining whether the alien is intelligent. A lot of non-sentient animals communicate by vocalizing.”

  “How long did it take you to learn Terran?” Kinoshita asked Blue Eyes.

  “About a week.” The dragon smiled—as much as he could smile, anyway. His jaws parted and his eyes narrowed. “It's a knack.”

  “The government could use you in the Alien Affairs section,” remarked Nighthawk.

  “The Oligarchy doesn't hire non-humans, or hadn't you noticed?” said Blue Eyes.

  “They used to,” said Nighthawk.

  “Not since the Domarian Rebellion,” answered the dragon, as Kinoshita put his heel atop Nighthawk's toe and leaned on it.

  All right, it happened in the past hundred years and I'm supposed to know about it. Now leave my toes alone.

  “I used to work for them,” volunteered Nicholas. He grimaced. “Until we had a slight disagreement about taxes.”

  “Oh?”

  Suddenly Nicholas grinned. “They said taxes were mandatory, and I said they were voluntary. So I came out to the Frontier where there aren't any taxes at all.”

  “So let's all sit down and get to know one another,” said Blue Eyes, finally lowering his bulk onto the chair Nicholas had brought. He signaled to the bartender, who brought over a bottle and three glasses.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Nighthawk, as he and Kinoshita sat down across from him.

  “Try to get him mad,” said Nicholas, picking up a chair from a nearby table and carrying it over.

  “Why?” asked Nighthawk, curious.

  “Because when he gets mad, he curses in his native language. The rest of the time he speaks Terran, just to annoy me.”

  “Be careful, my friend,” said the dragon. “If you annoy me enough, I'll start speaking in dead tongues like English or Swahili and really drive you crazy.”


  “Can you really speak dead human languages?” asked Nighthawk.

  “Of course,” answered Blue Eyes. “Languages are easy. Giving up drugs is hard.”

  Nighthawk saw what he hoped was a small opening, and plunged in. “How about Arabic?”

  “Arabic's a very broad word, Mr. ... ah ... you know, I never did catch your name.”

  “Nighthawk. Jefferson Nighthawk. And this is Ito Kinoshita.”

  “You know, I used to hear stories of a Jefferson Nighthawk,” said the dragon. “He had quite a reputation.”

  “I've heard ‘em too. But that Nighthawk lived more than a century ago.”

  “So they say,” replied Blue Eyes. “Where were we?”

  “We were talking about Arabic.”

  “And I was about to explain that what we know as Arabic probably covers a couple of hundred dialects. To say that two people are similar because they both speak Arabic is like saying that the Raphinites and the Yorbans are the same simply because they both breath chlorine.”

  “Point noted.”

  “Still, I'm curious to know why you were interested in Arabic.”

  “Simple enough,” said Nighthawk, finally pouring himself a glass of blue-tinted whiskey and taking a swallow. “Ibn ben Khalid is an Arabic name. If he has to issue orders and he's not sure that his communication system is secure, he can do it in an Arab dialect, and probably no one monitoring him would have any idea what he's saying.”

  “An intriguing thought,” admitted Blue Eyes. “But I suspect Ibn ben Khalid is as ignorant of dead languages—including that one—as you yourself are.”

  “Still, it's an interesting idea,” interjected Nicholas. “Maybe I'll suggest it to him the next time I see him.”

  Nighthawk wanted to ask, Do you see him often?, but fought back the urge.

  “Lots of death tonight,” remarked Blue Eyes. “Dead languages, dead gunfighters.”

  “Lot of death on the Frontier,” responded Nighthawk.

  “Maybe a little less than there used to be.”

  “Why should you think so?” asked Nighthawk.

  “You brought up the reason—Ibn ben Khalid.”

  Speak up now, Ito, or you're going to find out what getting your toes ground under someone's heel really feels like.

  “I hear he's nothing more than a kidnapper,” said Kinoshita, as if he had somehow heard Nighthawk's thoughts.