The Widowmaker Unleashed: Volume 3 of the Widowmaker Trilogy

by Mike Resnick

  “That's why he died,” answered Kinoshita promptly. “He wasn't you, not where it counted. He had your physical attributes, but not your memories or your experience. Truth to tell, I don't think he wanted to be the Widowmaker.” He frowned. “I wish he had taken me with him on his assignment. I might have been able to help him.”

  “Well, you helped the second one.”

  Kinoshita snorted his disagreement. “He never needed my help. Or anyone else's, for that matter.”

  “He seems to have made quite an impression on you,” noted Nighthawk.

  “He was you,” answered Kinoshita. “At the height of your powers. Before you decided you didn't especially want to be you any longer.”

  “I like being me. I'm Jefferson Nighthawk. I don't want to be the Widowmaker any more.”

  “This is getting a little too schizophrenic for me,” interjected Sarah. “I think it's time to start considering our options.”

  “It's too soon,” replied Kinoshita. “It'll be another ten or twelve Standard hours before we can be sure no one's following us.”

  “That doesn't mean we can't consider what do to,” insisted Sarah. “We should have some plan of action. Two plans, really—one if we're being followed, one if we're not.”

  “If we're being followed, the only course of action is to lose them,” said Kinoshita. “We're not going to fight them, ship to ship or man to man.”

  “All right,” said Sarah. “Then let's see what worlds are within reach, on the assumption that no one's coming after us.”

  Kinoshita brought up a holograph showing their sector of the Inner Frontier, and had the navigational computer highlight every oxygen world that had been colonized.

  “Fare-Thee-Well, Giancola II, Chrysler IV, New Angola, Lower Volta, Rashoman, Purpleveldt, Tigerstripe III, Nelson 23, Tallgrass...” Kinoshita's voice droned on and on, identifying each world.

  “How about this one?” asked Sarah, pointing to a blue-and-green world about the size of Tumbleweed.

  “Thaddeus,” said Kinoshita.

  “Thaddeus? That's a human name. Who was he?”

  “I don't know. It could be the name of the navigator who first discovered the world, or the Pioneer who opened it up, or one of the planet's more famous citizens.”

  “It looks interesting.”

  “It looks like every other world,” commented Nighthawk dryly.

  “That's not so, Jefferson,” she said. “Look at how much water it has. And cloud cover. Except for its size and location, it could be Earth itself.”

  “And except for my name, my looks, and my profession, I could be a chorus girl.”

  “All right, all right,” she said. “Which world do you want to land on?”

  “Makes no difference to me,” answered Nighthawk. “Thaddeus is as good as any.”

  “Good.” She turned to Kinoshita. “When you know for sure we're not being followed, divert to Thaddeus.”

  “All right,” he said. “Let's get a readout and see what we can learn about it.” He uttered a terse command to the computer, and instantly a series of notations appeared and hovered before their eyes:

  Planet: Alpha Flint IV

  Local Name: Thaddeus

  Atmosphere: 19% oxygen, 78% nitrogen, 3% inert gases

  Gravity: 98% Deluros VIII normal

  Population: 18,203 humans, no indigenous sentient species

  Currency: Maria Theresa dollars. Most locals will accept Far London pounds or New Tanganyika shillings. The Oligarchy credit is not honored.

  “Is that okay with you?” asked Sarah.

  “Yeah,” said Nighthawk. “I've got enough Far London pounds to see us through until I convert my credits.”

  “I wonder why they don't accept them?” mused Kinoshita.

  “The farther you get from the Oligarchy, the more certain the people are that it won't last any longer than the Republic or the Democracy did, and they don't want to be stuck with useless money.”

  “But that's silly!” protested Kinoshita. “The Republic and the Democracy each lasted for over two millennia, and their currency was always honored by their successors.”

  “Well, then,” said Nighthawk, “just accept the fact that Frontier folk haven't got much use for or faith in whoever's ruling the galaxy this month.” He paused, blinking furiously, and turned to Sarah. “Give me another pill. Everyone's getting blurry again.”

  She did as he asked, and a moment later he was sleeping peacefully, while she sat down next to him, clasping his limp right hand in her own smaller ones.

  It was ten hours later when he woke again, this time feeling physically healthy but starving. He and Sarah vanished into the galley for half an hour, and when he re-emerged, sated, Kinoshita announced that they had not been followed and were now approaching Thaddeus.

  They landed within an hour, summoned a robotic cart, and had it unload their luggage.

  “Where to?” asked Nighthawk.

  “I must take your luggage through Customs,” replied the robot. “If you'll head 17 degrees to the northeast, you will come to the Immigration Station, where you will be processed. You can pick up your things once you have passed through.”

  “Thanks,” said Nighthawk. They headed off in the direction the robot had indicated until they came to Immigration, a small, computerized station that was able to handle only one person at a time.

  Nighthawk stepped forward.

  “Name?” asked the computer.

  “Jefferson Nighthawk.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Retired.”

  “Purpose of visit?”

  “Tourism.”

  “Thaddeus is an agricultural and mining world with no tourist industry.”

  “It's also possible that I might choose to become a permanent resident of Thaddeus.”

  “Alone, or with the other members of your party?”

  “With my party.”

  “I must access your primary bank account to ascertain that you have sufficient funds so you will not become a burden to the Thaddeus economy.”

  “My primary account is on Deluros VIII, but it's in credits,” answered Nighthawk. “I do have some accounts in Far London pounds, if you'd prefer.”

  “With your permission, I will access all of them.”

  “Fine.”

  The computer read the microscopic account numbers on Nighthawk's passport, paused for some ten or twelve seconds, and then returned the passport.

  “I am pleased to welcome you to Thaddeus.”

  “I'll need a map and a list of hotels, restaurants, and realtors.”

  “Processing your request ... done.” The map and lists suddenly appeared. “Here you are.”

  “Thanks.”

  Nighthawk walked through the station and waited for Sarah and Kinoshita to join him. They rented an airbus and drove it to the nearby town, then registered in the hotel—a room for Kinoshita, a suite for Nighthawk and Sarah.

  “I should contact my son and tell him where I am,” she remarked as they finished unpacking.

  “Wait.”

  “Why?”

  “Let's make sure we like it here first.”

  “All right—but we left Tumbleweed in such a hurry that I never told him we were going.”

  “He's half a galaxy away, and he contacts you about once every ten days—and only to ask for money. He can wait for a week or so.”

  She sighed. “I suppose so.”

  Nighthawk got to his feet. “I'd like a beer. You want to join me? I'll order from room service.”

  “I think I'd rather take a bath,” she replied. “We were cooped up in that stuffy little ship for a long time.”

  He shrugged. “As you wish. I think I'll go down to the bar. I'll be back in time for dinner.”

  He left, took the airlift down to the main floor, and entered the hotel's bar, where he ordered a beer and took it over to an empty table. While he was wondering whether to call Kinoshita and treat him to a drink, a young ma
n, dressed in brilliant colors, walked up.

  “You're him, ain't you?” said the young man.

  “I'm me,” said Nighthawk.

  “You can't fool me,” said the young man. “I've seen your holo a hundred times. You're older, but you're him. You're the Widowmaker.”

  “You want an autograph, right?” said Nighthawk sardonically.

  “I want to be the man who killed the Widowmaker.”

  “You and ten thousand others,” said Nighthawk. “Go home, son, while you still can.”

  “You're afraid to face me, right?”

  “Okay, I'm afraid to face you. You made the Widowmaker back down. Now go away.”

  “Goddamn!” said the young man. “You really are afraid to face me, aren't you?”

  “Right as rain, kid. Now leave me alone.”

  The young man was silent for a moment, lost in thought. Finally he spoke again: “No, I got to fight you. If I tell people you backed down, they'll never believe me. But if I kill you, they'll have to believe me.”

  “I'm not fighting anyone,” said Nighthawk. “Beat it. Or sit down and I'll buy you a beer.”

  “Oh, you'll fight me, Widowmaker,” said the young man confidently.

  “You think so, do you?”

  “I saw the woman you came in with. You'll fight me now, or you'll fight me after I kill her, but one way or the other you'll—”

  He was dead, his forehead a bubbling, smoking goo, before he could get out the final words.

  Nighthawk was on his feet instantly, looking around for other challengers. There were eight men and a woman in the bar. None seemed disposed to go for their weapons.

  “He called me out,” said Nighthawk. “I tried to send him on his way.

  “We all heard, Widowmaker,” replied the nearest man.

  “You know who I am?”

  “He wasn't exactly trying to keep it a secret.” The man looked down at the corpse. “Still, that wasn't what I'd call self-defense. He never knew what hit him.”

  “That's what will happen to anyone who threatens the woman I travel with,” said Nighthawk. “You might pass the word.”

  As he walked out the door and took the airlift back to his suite, he knew that word of the incident would spread, and from now on every young punk out to make a reputation would goad him into a fight by threatening Sarah.

  Something had to be done—and by the time he got off the airlift, he knew what that something was.

  22.

  “I want you to stay in the suite until word gets out that I've left the planet,” said Nighthawk. “Order your meals here. Don't go outside for any reason. Then, after a couple of days, pack up and book passage to Serengeti.”

  “The zoo world?”

  “Right. Go to the Western continent. There's only one lodge there, so you'll be easy for me to find.” He frowned. “At least, there used to only be one lodge. It's been a long time since I was there.” He paused. “Don't worry if I don't show up right away. It could be a couple of months.”

  “Where will you be in the meantime?”

  “I have work to do.”

  “Why can't I come with you?”

  “Don't make me answer that,” said Nighthawk. “It'll just hurt your feelings.”

  “I want to know.”

  He looked into her eyes. “You'd be in the way.”

  “Oh, Jesus—who are you going to kill?”

  “Just do what I ask, all right?”

  She wasn't happy, but finally she stopped arguing and agreed.

  * * * *

  Three men sat in a lobby at the Newton II spaceport. They all wore weapons, as almost everyone did on the Inner Frontier, but they were relaxed, drinks in hand, joking with one another.

  Jefferson Nighthawk approached them from behind. None of the three paid him any attention. He pulled out his projectile pistol and swiftly and efficiently put a bullet into each of their heads.

  A woman screamed. A number of people ducked, or threw themselves to the floor. Two spaceport security men raced over, weapons in hand.

  Nighthawk held up his passport and his ancient but still-valid license. “My name is Jefferson Nighthawk, and I'm a licensed bounty hunter. There was paper on these three men.” He produced hard copies of the Wanted posters.

  “Sonofabitch!” exclaimed one of the security men. “The Widowmaker—in my spaceport!”

  The second security man checked the holographs against the dead men's faces and IDs.

  “It's them, all right.”

  Nighthawk turned to the small man who was standing some fifty feet away.

  “Get the body bags and put ‘em on ice.”

  Kinoshita nodded and went about his work.

  * * * *

  Her name was Jenny the Dart, and she was a freelance assassin whose weapon of choice was a tailor-made pistol that shot poison darts with deadly accuracy.

  She was just emerging from a chic restaurant on Roosevelt III when she found herself facing Jefferson Nighthawk.

  “Hello, Jenny,” he said.

  “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “No reason why you should.”

  “What do you want with me?” she demanded.

  “You've killed seventeen innocent men and woman, Jenny,” said Nighthawk.

  “Innocent of what?” she said contemptuously.

  “That's not for me to answer. You're worth two million credits dead or alive. The choice is yours.”

  She made the wrong choice, and fell lifeless to the pavement less than a second later.

  “Ito! Take care of her.”

  * * * *

  He called himself Will Shakespeare, which was a pretty impressive name for a man who had never learned to read or write. But he knew that everyone respected Shakespeare, even though he'd been dead for more than six millennia, and he decided that they'd respect anyone who wore his name.

  Of course, the fact that he killed more than 50 Men and aliens didn't hurt, either.

  He was after Number 51 when a tall, slender, gray-haired man blocked his way.

  “Who the hell are you?” demanded Will.

  “Francis Bacon,” said Nighthawk.

  “Step aside, old man.”

  “I'm afraid I can't do that. I'm pissed at you for stealing all my plays.”

  Will Shakespeare was still trying to figure out what Francis Bacon was talking about when the laser burned a smoking hole in his chest.

  * * * *

  The last of them bore the simplest name and the biggest reward. It was an alien known simply as Bug, and it wore no weapons at all. Instead, it killed with the natural fluids of its body, spitting them as far as thirty feet with enormous force and accuracy, then watching as they instantly ate into flesh and bone until all was swiftly dissolved.

  Nighthawk found Bug in the squalid Alien Quarter on Pretorius V, making its rounds of the quarter, exacting tribute from the other aliens for not killing them this month.

  He approached Bug directly and silently, which had always worked up to this point, for the killers he approached had no reason to be apprehensive about his presence, and were totally secure in their gifts.

  But Bug knew that Men didn't enter the Alien Quarter without a reason—and the only reason a Man would approach him was the four million credit reward. Bug waited until Nighthawk was twenty feet away, then ejected a stream of deadly spittle from its mouth. Nighthawk had been quicker in his youth, but he was still fast enough to throw himself to the ground beneath the alien's saliva, pulling out his burner and firing it as he fell.

  It was a fatal shot—but Bug's race possessed exceptional vitality, and even though he knew he would soon be dead, he still had enough strength to raise himself on what passed for his knees, face Nighthawk, and eject another lethal stream.

  Nighthawk was ready, and turned it to steam even as it flew toward him, then burned out Bug's eyes, just in case it had the strength to spit once more before it died.

  It was an intelligent maneuver, fo
r Bug didn't collapse for another thirty seconds.

  Nighthawk got to his feet and surveyed his surroundings. Dozens of aliens of all races were staring at him, but none was approaching.

  “Ito! Get this garbage off the street.”

  * * * *

  They were eleven days out of Thaddeus, and were on their way to the Binder X bounty station to turn in the bodies and collect the rewards.

  “Six bodies, fifteen million credits,” intoned Kinoshita. “That's a lot of money.”

  “I need a lot of money.”

  “Now that you're the Widowmaker again, it seems to me that you can get money whenever you want it.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you that I'm not the Widowmaker?”

  “After these last two weeks?” said Kinoshita. “One hell of a lot more times than you have, and then I still won't believe you.”

  “You're a fool.”

  If I'm a fool for thinking that the Widowmaker is back in business and has just killed six outlaws for the bounties, thought Kinoshita, just what does than make YOU?

  23.

  “Okay, you've got your money,” said Kinoshita as their ship reached light speed and left the Binder system far behind them. “What now?”

  “Now I spend it.”

  Kinoshita blinked rapidly. “All of it?”

  “That's right.”

  “You must be buying Sarah one hell of a present.”

  “A very ephemeral one,” answered Nighthawk.

  “So where are we going?”

  “I know where I'm going. I don't know if you'll want to come along.”

  “I told you before,” replied Kinoshita. “I go where the Widowmaker goes.”

  “And I told you: I'm not the Widowmaker.”

  “All right,” said Kinoshita. “I go where you go. Do you like that better?”

  “You may change your mind.”

  “Try me.”

  “I'm going to Deluros.”

  “Deluros?” repeated Kinoshita, surprised. “What the hell is there to do on Deluros?” He looked sharply at Nighthawk. “Are you going back to kill your lawyer?”

  Nighthawk smiled. “You know, that's a tempting thought—but no.”

  “What then?”

  “I can't tell you.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because you and I have always been lawmen, and I'm going to commit a felony—probably several of them. If I'm captured, I know I can't be broken. You're a good man, Ito, but I don't know that with the right combination of torture and drugs, you won't talk.” He paused. “And since I can't tell you my reasons for going to Deluros, I officially release you from whatever duty or fealty you feel you owe me.”