by Mike Resnick
“Actually, he's a lot more than a kidnapper,” answered Blue Eyes. “I assume you're referring to Cassius Hill's daughter.”
“They say he's holding her for ransom,” continued Kinoshita. “That sure sounds like a common kidnapper to me.”
“There's nothing common about him,” said the dragon.
“I say he's a kidnapper and a murderer!” shouted Kinoshita, wondering just how far he could go before someone simply pulled a weapon and shot him.
“True,” said Nighthawk. “But those aren't necessarily bad things to be when you're fighting for a just cause.”
“When is murder ever good?” demanded Kinoshita.
“When your enemy is even worse,” answered Nighthawk. “Maybe it's not pretty, but you do what you have to do.”
“Let's not lose our tempers,” said the dragon. “Ibn ben Khalid has never wronged anyone at this table.”
“Damned right,” chimed in Nighthawk. “And if he was here right now, I'd tell him so.” Damn! I wish I could look at some other faces in here. Are we loud enough, Melisande? Are they reacting?
“In fact,” added Blue Eyes, “I can tell you all a story about Ibn ben Khalid to prove my point.”
“Spare us another of your meandering stories,” said Nicholas.
“Yeah,” added Kinoshita. “I don't need to hear you apologize for him.”
“As you wish,” said the dragon with a shrug that made every scale on his body shimmer.
Thanks a lot, pal. Don't overplay your goddamned role, okay? We need all the information we can get.
“So, Mr. Nighthawk, where do you come from and what do you do?”
“I come from out there,” answered Nighthawk, waving his hand carelessly in a motion that encompassed roughly half the galaxy. “And I'm a troubleshooter.”
“Trouble walks in and you shoot it?” asked Blue Eyes with another reptilian grin.
“That's perhaps a bit too literal,” said Nighthawk. “I fix problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
“What kind have you got?”
Blue Eyes sighed deeply. “It's been a long time since I've been with a lady dragon.”
Nighthawk chuckled. “That kind isn't exactly in my line.”
“I had a feeling it wasn't,” replied Blue Eyes ruefully. He turned to Nicholas, who was pouring himself another drink. “Hey, go easy on that stuff. You've had half a bottle already.”
Nicholas got up and staggered off without a word. Then, just in case his indignation had been missed or misinterpreted, he walked back, picked up his chair, tried to remember where he'd gotten it from, suddenly looked very confused, and sat down on it again.
“Did you have a nice trip?” asked Blue Eyes.
“Not bad, not bad,” replied Nicholas. Suddenly he leaned forward until his head was on the table, and began snoring.
“I guess that's the end of today's language lesson,” said Blue Eyes. Suddenly he uttered a totally incomprehensible sentence in his native tongue. “Just so you can tell him what he missed.” He turned to Kinoshita. “I haven't yet asked you what you do, Mr. Kinoshita.”
Kinoshita jerked a thumb in Nighthawk's direction. “I'm with him,” he said. “Until he decides to get us both killed by Ibn ben Khalid.”
“I'm not going up against him,” said Nighthawk. “Hell, I'm on his side.”
“That's what I meant,” said Kinoshita. “You can't trust a killer.”
“I'd watch what I said about him if I were you,” said Nighthawk ominously.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Blue Eyes, rising to his feet, “I will not permit any altercations in this establishment.”
Kinoshita made a vague gesture with his hand which could have meant anything from defiance to acquiescence, then also stood up.
“Okay, I know when I'm not wanted. I'm out of here.” He turned and started walking to the door.
“Has he got a place to sleep?” asked Blue Eyes.
“That's not your problem,” replied Nighthawk.
“You're absolutely right.” He sat down again, staring at Nighthawk through his pale blue eyes. “I like you, Mr. Nighthawk. Tell me some more about yourself.”
“There's not much to tell.”
“Oh, I think there is. There's something about the way you carry yourself, something about the way you choose your words ... something dangerous. Forgive an indelicate question, but how many men have you killed?”
“Forgive an indelicate answer, but go fuck yourself.”
“I can, you know,” answered Blue Eyes. “That's why I haven't spent my savings on a lady dragon.”
“I don't want to destroy your self-confidence, but whether you can actually fuck yourself or not is a matter of complete indifference to me.”
The dragon hooted his laughter again. He made a brief signal with his hand, and a moment later the bartender brought over a spherical bottle and a tall, thin glass. Blue Eyes opened the bottle, filled the glass halfway, then reached for the whiskey and filled it to the top. It began smoking and sizzling.
“I thought you didn't drink with the customers,” noted Nighthawk.
“You were a customer when I said that. Now you're a friend.”
“What is that stuff?”
“I suppose it really needs a name, doesn't it?” said Blue Eyes thoughtfully. “I first encountered it in the Deneb system. A mixture of Bilotei rum—it isn't really rum at all, but that's what they call it—and pure Sirian whiskey. Wonderful stuff.” He took a sip. As he did so his eyes rolled back until only the whites showed, but Nighthawk couldn't tell if that was a reaction to the concoction or an inadvertent physical reaction caused by swallowing. “I think we'll name it after you, Mr. Nighthawk.”
“A Nighthawk?”
“A Widowmaker.”
“The Widowmaker died a century ago.”
“All the more reason to find ways to keep his memory alive.” He took another sip. “Though of course there are more meaningful ways.”
“Oh?”
“That is, if your skills lie in the same direction.”
“It's possible.”
“How long will you be on Sylene, Mr. Nighthawk?”
Nighthawk shrugged. “How long do you want me to be here?”
“Another day, perhaps two, while I check you out.”
“You won't be able to.”
“Why not, pray tell?”
“I took this name less than a year ago. At the same time, I had laser surgery on my retinas and I had fingerprint grafts. I'm not on file anywhere, not with the Oligarchy, not with anyone else.”
“A man who's not on file with the Oligarchy?” repeated the dragon. He threw back his head and hooted.
“What's so funny?”
He hooted once more, then finally managed to control himself. “What could possibly say more about your skills than that?”
7.
“Well?” demanded Nighthawk.
They were back on the ship, sipping coffee made from hybrid beans that had been imported from the green slopes of Peponi's mountains.
“Most of them didn't react at all,” answered Melisande. “They couldn't care less about Ibn ben Khalid.”
“Who did care?”
“The one you call Nicholas Jory,” she replied. “Every time Ito would slander Khalid, it was all he could do to keep from showing his rage.”
“Is there any way you can tell if he simply admires Khalid or if he knows something more, like where he is or how to reach him?”
She shook her head. “No, he was drinking too heavily. It was just rage.”
“What else could it have been?” asked Kinoshita curiously.
“Fear. Worry. Concern. Either at the thought of you going after Khalid—”
“That's silly. He's got an army to protect him.”
“—or the mention of Cassandra Hill, who could conceivably be stolen back from him.”
“Ah,” acknowledged Kinoshita, nodding. “What about Blue Eyes?”
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“I can't read aliens well enough to tell you with any degree of certainty.”
“He seemed just like us beneath the admittedly hideous surface.”
“Absolutely not!” she responded. “Never make that assumption. What you saw was protective coloration. He has very little more in common with you than an insect does.” She turned to Nighthawk. “So what is your next step?”
“I wait for Blue Eyes to check me out while I'm doing the same to him, and when he finds out that what I've told him is true—he can't find me in any computer in the Oligarchy—then I hope he'll try to recruit me.”
“Oh, there's no question he wants to recruit you,” agreed Kinoshita. “But for what? I think rum-running is at least as likely as serving in Ibn ben Khalid's army, such as it is.”
“Probably you're right,” said Nighthawk. “That's why we're not about to put all our eggs in one basket.” He turned to Melisande. “I passed the local jail on the way back to the ship. There can't be ten cells there, and I'm sure they're not all occupied. Have the ship's computer print you up some credentials saying that you're with some charitable organization. Then buy some desserts at a local bakery, take ‘em over to the jail, and explain that they're for the prisoners. The guards will want to harass you—until you give ‘em a couple of cakes or pies, that is. Then they'll let you through.”
“But my credentials are no good. Anyone can print them up.”
“Right. And the guards will check anyone who wants something—but why should they check on someone who's giving things away?”
“And if I'm jailed?”
“Kinoshita will be right outside. If you're not out in an hour, he'll pay your bail or pay off any guards who need it in order to get you released.”
“All right,” said Melisande. “Once I'm in, what do I do?”
“Simple. Give a present to each prisoner, and mention Ibn ben Khalid and Cassandra Hill to each of them. Then remember if anyone reacts.”
“Why?”
“Do you know where they are?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, neither do I. But if you get the kind of reaction from one of the prisoners that convinces you he knows, we'll spring him and take him with us.”
“I thought I was what you needed.”
“What I need is protection and insurance, and I plan to get all I can of both.”
“What will you be doing in the meantime?”
“Sleeping,” answered Nighthawk.
“Sleeping?” she repeated, half-amused and half-outraged.
“Who knows when I'll get another chance? In this business, you grab it when you can. The computer can put together Blue Eyes’ profile for me while I'm asleep.”
“If Melisande finds what you're looking for, do you want me to bail him out?” asked Kinoshita.
Nighthawk shook his head. “No, that'll be my decision.”
“Why? Look at the time I could save you.”
“Because if we guess wrong and he winds up trying to shoot us or warn Ibn ben Khalid, I'd hate to have to kill you for getting us into such a jam.”
“Right,” said Kinoshita promptly. “Your call.”
“I'm glad we see eye to eye on things,” said Nighthawk dryly.
8.
As Nighthawk walked back to the Blue Dragon, he got the distinct impression that he was being followed. He knew enough not to turn and look directly, but he could see swift, subtle reflections of motion in the store windows and on the metal doors of vehicles that he passed.
If someone wanted to kill him, they would have fired their weapons already, so he assumed that his shadow either wanted to talk with him or find out where he was going. And since there wasn't much doubt where he was going—it was the only place he'd gone the night before when he'd left the ship, and it was nighttime again—he decided that his tail wanted to talk.
The only question remaining was: make it easy, or make it hard? If they were recruiting a killer, he'd be well-advised to duck into an alley—or whatever passed for alleys in this crazy-quilt checkerboard of human and alien streets—and lie in wait for his tracker, disarm him, possibly rough him up a little, and then find out who sent him. It would be an impressive display.
But he was pretty sure Ibn ben Khalid had more killers than he knew what to do with. This was juvenile thinking, the kind the younger Widowmaker clone was prey to.
No, the more he thought about it—and he thought very rapidly, given the circumstances—the more he was convinced that someone simply wanted to talk to him. Now, why someone should want to talk to Jefferson Nighthawk—for the Widowmaker had been dead a century, and no one here knew otherwise—was a mystery to him, but one he decided to solve.
He came to an alien restaurant that catered to Canphorites and Lodinites, looked in the window until he saw another flash of motion reflected in it, and then entered. The headwaiter, a furry orange marsupial of the Kragan race, looked terribly distressed when confronted by a Man, but managed to control itself long enough to lead Nighthawk to a table.
“We are pleased to serve you,” it said into a T-pack that translated its voice into cold, unemotional Terran words and tones, “but I must advise you that you will be unable to metabolize most of the items on our menu.”
“I'm game if you are,” responded Nighthawk.
The Kragan listened to the translated words, then uttered a squawk loud enough to attract attention from the nearby tables—those few that weren't already staring at Nighthawk with hostility.
“I am not a game meat!” said the little marsupial. “You cannot eat me! We cannot eat each other!”
“Bad translation,” said Nighthawk. “You really should learn to speak Terran.”
“I suppose it never occurred to you to speak Kragan.”
“No, it never did. I don't want your money; you want mine. That means you must make the accommodation.”
The Kragan stared at him for a long moment. “You do not wish to eat me?”
“It will cheer you no end to know that I find the thought totally repugnant.”
“Good,” said the Kragan. “What will you order?”
“Just water for the moment. I'll be joined very shortly, and then you can explain your menu to us.”
“I see no other human,” remarked the Kragan.
“I didn't say it was a human.”
“Then what is it, so I can be alert for it when it enters?”
“That's not your concern,” replied Nighthawk. “Whatever it is, it will find me.”
“True,” agreed the Kragan. “If you have an instinct for protective coloration, it is not functioning.”
“Thank you for that observation. Now please get my water and then leave me alone.”
“There is one more thing I must tell you,” said the Kragan. “We do not accept Oligarchy credits.”
Nighthawk pulled out a handful of gold Maria Theresa dollars and laid them on the table.
“Good enough?” he asked.
The Kragan looked, blinked, wrinkled its nostrils—which was as close as it could come to a satisfied smile—and left to get Nighthawk his glass of water. When it came back, it placed the water down on the table and reached for the dollars.
Nighthawk slapped its furry hand.
“Not until after I've ordered and eaten,” he said.
“How do I know you won't pick up all the dollars and walk out with them?” asked the Kragan in what Nighthawk was sure were petulant tones prior to the T-pack's translating them into a dull monotone.
“How do I know you won't poison me?” he shot back.
The Kragan stared at him for a long moment, as if this was a fascinating new idea that bore serious consideration, and then waddled off.
Nighthawk sipped his water and looked around. There were seventeen Canphorites, eight Lodinites, a couple of Kragans, all trying very hard to pretend there wasn't a Man in their midst. One small Lodinite child, perhaps four years old and only two-thirds grown, stared at him openly
, as if he'd never seen a man before. He had, of course, but Nighthawk thought it was a fair bet that he'd never seen one inside an alien restaurant.
Finally he looked up at the walls. His first impression was that they were covered with works of non-representational art—but as he studied them more carefully, he saw certain themes and color schemes reappearing time and again, and decided they were probably very representational to the beings that frequented this restaurant.
Suddenly a tall alien—sleek, red, humanoid, almost gleaming in the dull light of the restaurant—entered and walked directly to Nighthawk's table.
“May I join you?” it asked in harsh, grating syllables.
Nighthawk nodded. “I assume you got tired of waiting for me to come out.”
It was the alien's turn to nod. Its ears, though no larger than a man's, flopped wildly with the motion, reminding Nighthawk of nothing more than the recreations he had seen of African elephants.
“Why are you here?” asked the alien. “You cannot consume this food without becoming ill.”
“I thought you'd rather speak to me here than at the Blue Dragon. But if I'm wrong, we can go there right now.” He half-rose from his chair.
“You are not wrong.”
Nighthawk settled back down. “Have you got a name?”
“Everyone has a name, Jefferson Nighthawk.”
“Would you care to tell me what it is?”
“In due time.”
“All right, then—at least tell me what race you are?”
“It is I who shall ask the questions,” said the alien.
“That's a matter of some debate,” replied Nighthawk calmly. “It is I who has his gun trained on your belly beneath this lovely table.”
The alien tensed, but chose not to verify the statement by looking.
“You cannot pronounce my name, but another Man I worked with many years ago called me Friday, and that is the name I use when dealing with Men. I am a member of the Projasti people of Czhimerich, which Men call Marius II.”
“And I'm Jefferson Nighthawk, as you already seem to know. Now state your business, Friday.”
“You are the Widowmaker,” said Friday. “You are the most remarkable of all Men, for your appearance has not changed in more than one hundred Standard years.”