by Mike Resnick
“When I'm not being Cassandra Hill.”
He smiled. “At least I'm always Jefferson Nighthawk, even if I don't always know which Jefferson Nighthawk I am.”
She laughed again. “You're just not what I expected the Widowmaker to be like.”
“You haven't seen the Widowmaker yet. Just Nighthawk.”
“Aren't you one and the same?”
“No,” he said. “I'm always Nighthawk. I'm only the Widowmaker when I have to be.”
“With all our identities, I'm surprised the room doesn't feel more crowded,” said Cassandra.
He smiled at her. “You're all right, Hill. I'm glad we're going after your father instead.”
“I'm pleased you should think so.”
He uttered a statement that was totally incomprehensible to her.
“Would you repeat that, please?” she asked.
He did so.
“What was that?”
“A compliment,” said Nighthawk.
“In Canphorian?”
“Lodinese.”
“You speak Lodinese too?”
“A little.”
“You're a man of many accomplishments.”
“I've tried to be,” he said. “It's ironic that I'll only be remembered for one of them.”
“It's the one that topples empires,” she noted.
He shook his head emphatically. “Empires don't fall because the emperor dies. There's always another one eager to take his place. They fall, when they fall, because they're too corrupt not to fall.”
“So you don't think my father's little empire will come tumbling down?”
“Maybe so, maybe not,” answered Nighthawk. “It depends on the nature of the empire. Personally, I'll be satisfied if he has enough money to keep my progenitor alive.”
“He has that, and more.”
“We'll see.”
“You don't believe me?”
“It's nothing personal. I don't believe anyone. Ever. That's how I lived to be 62.”
“You don't look 62.”
He smiled ruefully. “One of me does.”
“That one's not getting any younger or any healthier,” she said. “How soon do you think you can contact my father?”
“A few weeks, maybe a month.”
“That's too long. I can have my army assembled here in less than two weeks.”
“I told you before: I don't want your army.”
“I know what you told me. But they're loyal and motivated. Surely you can find some way to use them.”
“They'd just be cannon fodder,” responded Nighthawk. “I'm a killer, not a general. I don't need them.”
“But—”
“You really want to make them useful to us?” he interrupted her. “Have them assemble, publicly and noisily, on some world halfway across the Frontier. Maybe we can draw a few of your father's divisions out there to keep an eye on them. It might make our escape—assuming we live long enough to attempt an escape—easier.” He paused. “But first, let's see if your father is dumb enough to come out here, before we do it the hard way.”
“He'll come,” she said firmly.
“Don't bet your last credit on it,” said Nighthawk. “He didn't get where he is by being stupid.”
“He paid whatever it cost to create you, just to rescue me,” she said. “Of course he'll come. All this waiting is useless.”
“You've waited this long to get to him,” said Nighthawk. “Wait a few weeks more.”
“No,” she said. “It's time.”
“You're sure?”
“I know him.”
Personally, maybe. But I know him generically. And I've got a bad feeling about this.
“Okay,” said Nighthawk aloud. “I'll contact him this afternoon.”
“Good!” she said. “Now you can do me another favor.”
“I'm not in the favor business.”
“You won't mind this one,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Pour us each a drink, and then translate some of Tanblixt's poems for me.”
“You have a translation right there on the shelf,” said Nighthawk, walking across the room to the bar, selecting a 30-year-old Cygnian cognac, filling a pair of glasses, and handing one to her.
“I'd like to hear how you translate it.”
“You're sure?”
She nodded. “And I like the way your voice sounds—possibly because I've yet to hear you threaten my life.”
He stared at her and made no reply. Finally he took a sip of his drink, and a moment later he was reciting an intricate rhyming triplet about the incredible light refraction at sunset on Canphor VII.
21.
Nighthawk was sitting at a table in the bar, nursing a drink before making his transmission to Cassius Hill, when Ito Kinoshita entered and sat down next to him.
“What's up?” asked Nighthawk.
“I thought maybe you might tell me,” replied Kinoshita. “We've been sitting around for days, waiting for action.” He signaled for a beer, and took a long swallow when it arrived. “I think Friday may blow up the town this week, just to keep his hand in.”
“I'll have work for him soon.”
“And the rest of us?” asked Kinoshita.
“Are you that anxious to go out and shoot people?” asked Nighthawk.
“I'm anxious to stop feeling useless. We all are. We know why you originally assembled us ... but we've found Ibn ben Khalid, so do we serve any further purpose?”
“A bigger one.”
“Would you care to enlighten me?”
“Soon,” said Nighthawk. “I have to speak to Cassandra's father first.”
“Cassius Hill?” said Kinoshita sharply.
“That's right.”
“Are you going to turn her over to him?”
Nighthawk shook his head. “If things were that simple, I wouldn't need you and the others.”
“But he's your employer!”
“I'm sure it pleases him to think so,” answered Nighthawk. “I don't plan to do anything to spoil the illusion.”
Kinoshita stared at him for a long moment. “You've thrown in with her, haven't you?”
“In a way.”
“In what way?” demanded Kinoshita, lighting a smokeless Altairian cigar. “Either you're with her or you're against her. It's as simple as that.”
“Nothing's ever as simple as that,” said Nighthawk.
“Just what have you got in mind?”
“I'm going to try to draw him out here to Sylene, hopefully with a huge cash box,” said Nighthawk calmly. “If he comes, I'll kill him.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I never kid about business.”
“You think he'll come alone, or with just one or two bodyguards?” scoffed Kinoshita. “Hell, he'll come with a whole division, and he won't get out of his ship until they've searched every inch of the landing field and secured his route to wherever you plan to meet him.”
“I'd expect no less of a man who's been in power as long as Cassius Hill,” agreed Nighthawk.
“Well, then?”
“I'll ask if he has the money with him, and Melisande will know if he's lying or not. If he's brought it along and left it in the ship, I'm sure Friday can rig something that will wipe out most of his landing party and maybe his ship's motive power while leaving the interior of the ship intact.”
“And if he's got it with him?”
“Then you and I and Blue Eyes will figure out how to separate him from it.”
Kinoshita snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“You don't believe in long, intricate plans, do you?”
“The more intricate a plan is, the more likely it is to go wrong,” answered Nighthawk. “Just like a machine. The more moving parts, the more likelihood of failure.” Suddenly he sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, Hill himself is one more moving part than we need. That's why I'm uneasy.”
&n
bsp; “I don't follow you.”
“If I'm attacking his headquarters, even with just my hand-picked crew of five, I'm in control of things. I decide when we approach, how we get in, when we use force, when we retreat, whether we complete our mission or abort it. But if he comes here with his men, however many or few, he can disrupt the most carefully-laid of plans.”
“Seems to me we'll save a lot of lives if he comes here.”
“Maybe.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you are not the most loquacious fellow in the world?”
“You did,” answered Nighthawk. “Every time we were alone together on the ship.”
“Well, I was right.”
“Probably. Now I want you to do me a favor.”
“What is it?”
“Tell Friday to get ready to travel.”
“Just Friday?”
“Melisande, too.”
“Now I'm confused,” said Kinoshita. “I thought Hill was coming here, to Sylene.”
“He's being invited. If he comes, fine. If not, I want them ready to go to Pericles V.”
“Just them?” asked Kinoshita, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice.
“Just to talk,” said Nighthawk. “I'm not going to war. Yet.”
“Why not Blue Eyes or me?”
“She can tell me if he's lying, and Friday can blow up the whole goddamned planet if they kill me. I need you and Blue Eyes for other things.”
“You're sure?”
“I'm sure.” Nighthawk gestured toward the door. “You might as well start hunting them down.”
Kinoshita downed his drink and walked to the door. Once there, he turned to face Nighthawk again.
“I hope to hell you know what you're doing,” he said. “We've got the girl and Ibn ben Khalid in one package. That is what we came out here for, isn't it?”
“We came out here to secure the Widowmaker's future,” said Nighthawk. “Since I'm his shadow, I'm best qualified to decide how to do it.”
“I just keep wondering if you have your priorities straight. That's a very attractive woman, and you're just a couple of months old.”
Nighthawk tapped his left temple with a forefinger. “I'm 62 up here,” he said, and then slapped his chest. “And I'm 38 everywhere else. If I was going to lose my head over the first woman I see, like the previous clone did, I'd be sneaking into Melisande's bed every night.”
Kinoshita stared at him for a long moment, then turned and left, muttering to himself. Nighthawk watched him walk away, then finished his drink, got to his feet, and headed off to Cassandra's subspace transmitter.
22.
“You'd better scram,” said Nighthawk as he seated himself before the video transmission camera. “If he sees you, I'm going to have a hard time explaining why he's got to come out here with ransom money.”
She nodded. “All right. And Jefferson?”
“Yes?”
“Be very careful. I don't think you can imagine how dangerous he is.”
“I've faced dangerous men before,” said Nighthawk.
“They were dangerous because they had guns. He's more dangerous because he's the man who pays for the bullets.”
“Noted. Now leave.”
She walked out the door, and a moment later he had contacted the governor's mansion on Pericles V.
“Name?” asked the bearded secretary at the other end.
“Jefferson Nighthawk.”
“Where is your message originating from?”
“Sylene IV.”
“And the purpose of this transmission?”
“I want to speak to Cassius Hill.”
“That's quite impossible.”
“You just tell him who's calling, Sonny,” said Nighthawk. “I guarantee he'll want to speak to me.”
“I have instructions not to interrupt him, Mr. Nighthawk,” said the secretary.
“That's up to you,” said Nighthawk with a shrug. “But when he fires you for not putting my call through, remember that you were warned.”
The secretary stared nervously at Nighthawk's hologram. “What, exactly, do you wish to speak to Governor Hill about?”
“That's none of your business,” said Nighthawk. “Just get him.”
“I have to tell him something besides your name!” said the secretary.
“It's your funeral,” said Nighthawk, reaching out to deactivate the subspace tightbeam.
"Wait!" shouted the secretary suddenly.
Nighthawk froze.
“I'll see what I can do. Please stay where you are.”
The screen went blank for a full minute, and then the secretary's image was replaced by that of a man in his mid-fifties, gray-haired and gray-eyed, with hard lines running down his face and jaw.
“Mr. Nighthawk,” he said. “We meet at last.” He puffed on a New Kentucky cigar, filling the air with clouds of white smoke. “Please forgive my fool of a secretary.”
“It wasn't his fault,” replied Nighthawk. “He has no idea who I am.”
“I fired him anyway.”
Nighthawk shrugged. “You do what you have to do. It's no skin off my ass.”
“Good.”
“What's good about it?”
“I don't tell you how to do your job,” said Hill. “I don't want you telling me how to do mine.”
“No problem,” said Nighthawk. “Your job is a matter of complete indifference to me.”
“Fine,” said Hill. “Now let's talk about your job. I assume that's why you contacted me?”
“That's right.”
“Well? Have you found him?”
Nighthawk nodded. “And her.”
“Well, of course if you found him you'd find her too,” said Hill. He puffed thoughtfully on his cigar for a long moment. “Is he dead?”
“No.”
“Shit.” Another puff. “I thought you were under orders to kill him. What went wrong?”
“I was under orders to bring your daughter back alive and well,” answered Nighthawk. “I assumed that took precedence.”
“Never assume a damned thing, Mr. Nighthawk,” said Hill angrily. “All right. Where are they?”
“Not far.”
“How far?”
“I don't think you really want me to say, just in case this is being monitored.”
“What the fuck do I care if it's being monitored?” demanded Hill. “Where the hell are they?”
“Are you going to listen to me, or are you going to bluster?” asked Nighthawk.
Hill glared at him, then nodded his head. “Okay, Mr. Nighthawk, you have the floor. Make use of it.”
“He wants to deal.”
“Ibn ben Khalid?” asked Hill sharply
“That's who we're talking about, isn't it?”
“Continue.”
What do I need? Five million for the cryonics lab back on Deluros VIII, another million for my own medical treatment, more to live on...
“He'll turn her over to you for eight million credits, or its equivalent in Maria Theresa dollars.”
“Eight million credits!” exploded Hill. “What does he think I'm made of—money?”
“He thinks you're a loving father who will pay to have his daughter returned unharmed.”
“He wants small unmarked bills, no doubt,” said Hill sardonically.
“He didn't say. But there's a condition.”
“There always is. Out with it.”
“He wants you to deliver the money in person.”
“So he can blow me away the second I get off my ship,” said Hill. “I know he's a bastard, but I never thought he was such a transparent bastard.”
“That's where I come in,” said Nighthawk.
“Explain.”
“I'm the guarantor of the transaction. I guarantee your safety, I guarantee your daughter's safety, and I guarantee that you're not paying him off in bogus bills.”
“Not good enough,” said Hill. “He's got a million men.”
“
Not on Sylene IV, he doesn't,” said Nighthawk.
“Is that where they are—him and my daughter?”
“No,” said Nighthawk. “You come here. I make sure the money's real, and that you're not dragging an army or navy behind you, and then I take you to them.”
“What's to stop him from killing both of us?” demanded Hill.
“Me.”
“Still not good enough,” said Hill, noting that his cigar had gone out and relighting it. “You may be the best, but when all is said and done, you're just one man. He's got a million of them.”
Nighthawk caught himself just as he was about to say, in reassuring tones, “Spread all across the Frontier.” No sense letting him think there are so few men here he can march right in with his own forces. Instead he said, “I've arranged for you to meet him with no one else present. If he reneges, we won't go in. Believe me, he wants his ransom money as much as you want your daughter.”
“I don't doubt it,” said Hill. “But I don't like the feel of this. Too many things can go wrong.”
“Nothing will. That's what you created me for.”
“I created you to kill Ibn ben Khalid and bring my daughter back to me!” snapped Hill. “And from where I'm sitting, you've failed.”
“I can kill him tomorrow and bring you back a corpse, if that's what it takes to make you happy,” said Nighthawk.
Hill glared at Nighthawk's image again, then lowered his head in thought. He looked up a moment later. “What does he need eight million credits for?”
“What does anyone need eight million credits for?”
“Is he buying guns for his army?”
“I've seen them,” said Nighthawk. “And believe me, they've got guns.”
“Payroll, then?”
“This is a revolution, Governor Hill. His army doesn't want money, just blood—yours.”
Hill puffed away at his cigar without saying anything, and finally Nighthawk spoke again:
“It's up to you, Governor Hill. What do you want to do?”
There was still no answer.
“Do you want me to set up a meet with Ibn ben Khalid or not?” continued Nighthawk.
“There are too many intangibles,” said Hill at last.
This time it was Nighthawk's turn to stare silently at the Governor's image, waiting for him to clarify his meaning.
“Too many ways to walk into a trap. Too many ways to lose the money without getting what I want.”