by Mike Resnick
“Haven't you figured it out yet?” said Nighthawk. “Nobody who is willing to face these odds without a reason is in touch with reality—and Cassandra and I are only ones who've got a reason.”
Well, at least it pleases you to think you have one, concluded Kinoshita.
Nighthawk looked up and saw a tall man approaching him. “Here comes another loser.”
“That's a bit of a snap judgment, don't you think?”
“Look at his powerpack,” said Nighthawk. “It's flashing on empty.”
“I never noticed.”
“It's not your business to notice.”
Kinoshita stared at Nighthawk for a long moment. On the other hand, we're probably a hell of a lot better off taking three dozen madmen to Pericles than three dozen losers. I wish there was a third alternative ... but the madmen and the losers constitute all the pieces. The sane ones own the game.
29.
Kinoshita broke the silence aboard the ship.
“Pallas Athene reports that she and her team have landed,” he announced.
“No problems?” asked Nighthawk.
“There don't seem to be any.”
“What about the others?”
“No word from Friday and Melisande yet.”
“How about Big Johann?”
Kinoshita shook his head. “Not a word. Do you want me to land?”
“No. Not until everyone else is down.”
“I still don't see why we didn't all go in one ship,” complained Blue Eyes.
“Why not just wave a flag and tell them we've come to assassinate the governor?” said Nighthawk wryly.
“We could have come as tourists on a spaceliner,” said Blue Eyes defensively.
“Three dozen tourists from Sylene?”
“If we all had our passports and visas in order...” began the dragon without much conviction.
“I assume computers haven't gotten any stupider during the past century, and the ones I knew would have flashed every alarm they had if they'd been confronted by half as many tourists from a planet that is known to be sympathetic to Ibn ben Khalid,” said Nighthawk. “Add to that that there probably haven't been ten tourists from Sylene in the past century, and—”
“Okay, okay,” said Blue Eyes. “I get the picture.”
Kinoshita looked up. “I just heard from Friday. He's on the ground. No problems.”
“Good,” said Nighthawk. “That leaves Big Johann's and Tuesday Eddie's groups.” He checked his timepiece. “They should report any minute.”
Nighthawk walked to the galley and poured himself a soft drink.
“Some ship!” muttered Blue Eyes, joining him. “Not a drop of booze on it.”
“Liquor and action don't mix.”
“Maybe they don't mix for your metabolism, but I find that a good Alphard brandy puts a fine edge on me.”
“Then you'll have to make do without your edge,” said Nighthawk.
“Your sympathy is appreciated,” was the dragon's sardonic reply.
Nighthawk ignored him, finished his drink, tossed the container in an atomizer, and then returned to the control room.
“How are you holding up?” he asked of the girl sitting silently in a corner.
“I'm fine,” said Cassandra. “Just anxious.”
“You've waited this long,” said Nighthawk. “You can wait another hour or two.”
“I know.”
“Well, I don't know,” said Blue Eyes, joining them. “Why can't we land now?”
“Because I say so,” replied Nighthawk.
“Look, you're the Widowmaker. You're the boss, and you're probably the only advantage we have—but so far you haven't told us what the hell is going on.”
“Everyone knows what they have to do.”
“But they don't know why,” said the dragon. “If there's a master plan, and there'd damned well better be, no one knows it but you.”
“Then no one can tell Cassius Hill what it is, can they?” said Nighthawk.
“You still think I'd tell him, just because I'm not human?” demanded Blue Eyes. “That I'd betray you because you are? Take a good look at Hill, Widowmaker—he's human too! Why would I betray one of you to the other?”
“I never said you would.”
“You sure act like it,” grumbled Blue Eyes.
“I haven't told anyone except Cassandra, and I only told her because someone has to coordinate things if I go down.”
“But if you don't think there's a traitor...?” began Blue Eyes.
“I don't think so,” Nighthawk confirmed. “But I could be wrong. If I don't tell any of you my plans, then it doesn't matter, does it?”
“Except that you could still be shot in the back.”
“You tell me a surefire way to prevent that, and I'll listen.”
Kinoshita stood up. “Big Johann has landed. But he's almost three miles off target.”
Nighthawk sat down in the captain's chair. “All right. We'll give him an extra forty minutes. Get in touch with Pallas Athene and tell her to adjust her schedule.”
“Will do,” said Kinoshita. “There's no word from Tuesday Eddie yet.”
“Let's assume he's being cautious rather than stupid.”
“How will you know the difference?” asked Blue Eyes.
“If he's being cautious, he'll report in eventually. If he's been stupid, then he's dead already and we're not going to hear from him.”
“How long are we willing to wait for Tuesday Eddie?” asked Kinoshita.
Nighthawk considered the question. “Ordinarily I'd say ten more minutes and then we move without him. But since we're giving Big Johann forty minutes, we might as well give the same to Tuesday Eddie.” He paused. “Stupid name.”
“He was born on a Tuesday, got married on a Tuesday, had his first son on a Tuesday, got divorced on a Tuesday, and killed his first man on a Tuesday,” said Blue Eyes. “So he finally took it as his name.”
“What's today?” asked Nighthawk.
“Monday.”
“For another hour or so. Let's hope he doesn't hit for the cycle and die on a Tuesday.”
“I thought you were supposed to be the optimist.”
“I'm a realist. Sometimes it's the same thing; sometimes it's not. Tonight it's not.”
“He's checking in...” said Kinoshita.
“He made it?”
Kinoshita shook his head. “He's been denied landing clearance.”
“Why?”
“No reason.”
“Can he get low enough to dump a shuttle before he cuts out?” asked Nighthawk.
Kinoshita put the question to Tuesday Eddie.
“He says he doesn't think so. Too many sensors covering him. Do you want him to open fire?”
“Hell no!” snapped Nighthawk. “They'd blow him out of the sky in five seconds.”
“He wants to know what to do.”
“Tell him to break out of orbit, then try about 400 miles south. If he gets through, have him try to fly under the sensors and get back to his rendezvous point.”
“It can't be done,” said Kinoshita.
“Sure it can, if he's a good enough pilot. They can't spot anything flying less than 80 feet above the ground.”
“Who the hell told you that?” asked Blue Eyes.
“Nobody had to tell me. I know—oh, shit!” Nighthawk grimaced. “Let me guess: they've perfected them during the past century, right?”
Kinoshita nodded.
“All right. Tell him to fake engine trouble and make an emergency landing. They'll never buy it, but if he thinks he can take them out, have him do it. Otherwise, fuck around with the engine for half an hour and take off for Sylene.”
Kinoshita transmitted the message. “We probably won't hear from them again. Even if they pull it off, they're not going to break radio silence to announce that they've just taken out a squad of Hill's men.”
“Right,” said Nighthawk. “Okay, let me know when Big Johann's in place, and then we'
ll get this show on the road.”
“Message incoming from Melisande.”
“What does she want?”
“Friday's planted his bombs and wants to know when he can set them off.”
“Not until I say so.”
“She says he doesn't want to wait.”
Nighthawk walked over to the console. “Put him on.” He leaned over it. “Listen to me—this is Nighthawk.” A moment later Friday's voice muttered an acknowledgment. “I didn't create this plan so you could go off and do what you want. If a single explosive is detonated before I give the word, I'll personally hunt you down and kill you before I leave this planet. Do you understand?”
Friday muttered a protest.
“They'll be just as dead if you wait another hour. The only difference is, you might live through this so you can kill more Men. Think about it.”
He broke the connection and returned to his seat.
“Can you trust him?” asked Cassandra.
“Probably.”
“He's afraid of you, right?” said Blue Eyes. “He knows you can kill him.”
“He doesn't know any such thing,” replied Nighthawk. “But if he kills me, there will be no one to lead him against more Men—and he favors quantity over quality.”
“And he's out there with an empathic prostitute,” said Cassandra. “And you're here with an alien bartender and a woman who's been masquerading as a man.” She smiled wryly at him. “You put together some crew, Widowmaker.”
He shrugged. “You work with what you've got.”
And then, to the surprise of everyone, even those who knew him best, he settled back in his chair, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
It was Kinoshita who gently touched his shoulder half an hour later.
“What is it?” asked Nighthawk, as alert as if he'd been awake the entire time.
“Big Johann's in position.”
“Then it's time. Get landing coordinates from the spaceport.”
“Got ‘em,” said Kinoshita a moment later. “But they're asking questions.”
“I'll take it from here,” said Nighthawk, walking over to the console.
“I require your name and the name and registration number of your ship,” said a mechanical voice.
“This is Jefferson Nighthawk. My ship has no name. Its registration number is BD711507JH, and we're 2 days out from Sylene.”
“Purpose of visit?”
“I was commissioned by Governor Cassius Hill to find and return his daughter, Cassandra. I've accomplished my mission. She's onboard with me.”
“I must check this out.”
“Let me land while you're checking it,” said Nighthawk. “I'm very low on fuel.”
Pause.
“You may land if you will first transmit a live image of Cassandra Hill.”
“No problem. Cassandra, step over here near the holo transmitter.” It was Nighthawk's turn to pause. “Got it?”
“Image received. You have permission to land. I have loaded the coordinates into your navigational computer.”
“Thanks.” Nighthawk cut the transmission. “Well, that's that.”
“They'll be waiting for us with half the army!” protested Blue Eyes. “How long do you think it'll take them to find out that Hill wants her dead, not returned?”
“All night,” said Nighthawk. “Why do you think we waited for Big Johann to get into position? He's jamming all transmissions to and from the Governor's mansion.”
Suddenly Blue Eyes grinned. “You mean they can't contact him to tell him we're here?”
“That's the general idea.”
“And I thought you were sending Big Johann out to wipe out some enemy squad.”
“I know you did,” said Nighthawk. “That's why I'm running this operation and you're not.” He turned to Kinoshita. “How long before we touch down?”
“Maybe five minutes, maybe six.”
“Are you packed?”
“Sonic pistol and laser pistol,” said Kinoshita, touching the butt of each.
“Fully charged?”
“They'd better be.”
“Double-check before we land.” Nighthawk walked over to Blue Eyes. “Are your weapons in order?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you know how to use them.”
“Put me to the test,” said the dragon.
“I don't have to. Cassius Hill will.”
Nighthawk walked to a bulkhead, softly uttered its lock's combination, and waited while it slid back to reveal a very odd-looking weapon, half-pistol, half-rifle, with a large power-pack and an unfamiliar configuration.
“What the hell is that?” asked Blue Eyes.
“A molecular imploder.”
“I thought they were illegal everywhere in the galaxy!”
Nighthawk merely stared at him.
“Where did you get it?” continued the dragon.
“I had Pallas Athene pick it up for me.” He paused. “She's a resourceful lady.”
“Can these babies really do what I've heard?”
“Depends on what you've heard.”
“That they turn everything they hit—people, buildings, vehicles—into jelly.”
“You've heard right.”
“You'll slaughter them.”
“This isn't a gentleman's contest, and it's not my intention to give the enemy an even chance,” said Nighthawk. “Does that answer your next couple of questions?”
“You don't have to bite my head off,” said Blue Eyes.
“Look,” replied Nighthawk irritably, “I'm about to go into action against overwhelming odds. The likeliest outcome is that we'll all be killed. Even if we aren't, I'm going to blow away a lot of innocent men to get to one guilty one. So forgive me if I'm not in a friendly mood, okay?”
“All right, all right,” said Blue Eyes, backing away. “Just remember who the enemy is.”
Nighthawk turned to Cassandra. “You set?”
She patted each of her weapons.
“All right, Ito,” he said. “Land the ship and let's get this show on the road.”
30.
Nighthawk emerged from the ship and surveyed his surroundings, the molecular imploder held carefully in his hands. A moment later he was joined by Cassandra, Kinoshita and Blue Eyes.
“Well?” asked the dragon.
“There probably aren't more than a dozen people here at this hour,” replied Nighthawk. “See the west-facing section of the building?”
“Yes.”
“It's yours.”
“Mine?” asked Blue Eyes.
“Kill everyone in it.”
“What about just taking them prisoner?”
“If you'd rather.”
“They're not my enemies,” said the dragon.
“Tell me that after one of them identifies you,” said Nighthawk.
“I'll play it by ear.”
“Do whatever you want,” said Nighthawk. “But if any of them gets a message out, I won't wait for Hill's men to kill you. I'll do it myself.”
“You could be a little more pleasant, you know,” complained Blue Eyes.
“You could be a little more competent. We all have our shortcomings.”
Blue Eyes glared at him, then pulled his laser pistol out of its holster and headed off in the direction Nighthawk had indicated.
“Well,” said Nighthawk, “maybe he'll kill them and maybe he won't, but just to be on the safe side...”
He aimed the molecular imploder at the radio transmitting tower. The metal turned to liquid and formed a large puddle on the roof of the spaceport. Inside the building a handful of men and women started moving rapidly, scurrying from desk to desk, trying to determine the cause of the problem, but as yet no one had looked out on the landing strip.
“Okay,” said Nighthawk. “Ito, you've got the cargo area. Cassandra, go around to the exit and kill anyone who tries to get out.”
They both acknowledged his orders with terse nods and went abou
t their business, while Nighthawk approached the building. When he was some ten yards away he slung the imploder over a shoulder, withdrew a pair of pistols, and boldly entered the spaceport.
“Who the hell are—?” began a uniformed guard. He was dead before he could complete the sentence.
Nighthawk heard a slight noise behind him, spun around, and dropped two more guards with bursts of solid light. He heard agonized screams from the west end of the building, and assumed Blue Eyes was either a lousy marksman or a bit of a sadist, or perhaps both.
He carefully searched the Customs area. It seemed empty. He then began walking toward the cargo area to see how Kinoshita was doing when a laser beam whizzed by him, burning the lobe of his left ear. He threw himself to the floor, shattered the one dim light with his sonic pistol, and then tried to pinpoint the source of the laser fire.
For a long moment all was stillness and silence. He knew that all he had to do was entice his unseen opponent into firing once, and he'd know his position ... but the opponent knew it too, and seemed content to outwait him. Nighthawk threw one of his knives noisily across the room, hoping to draw laser fire, but there was no response. Suddenly a brass cartridge rolled across the floor in his direction, and he resisted the urge to pull a weapon and blow it away.
Finally he began crawling across the room on his belly, hoping he could come across some sign—heavy breathing, the rubbing of a leather holster against a crisp military tunic, something—that would pinpoint his opponent's location. After a couple of minutes he half-expected to wind up in his enemy's lap, and finally he stopped, convinced that that strategy could be suicidal.
He examined his weapons: laser pistol, sonic pistol, bullet pistol, knives, looking for a tactic, an edge. Finally he found one.
He placed his laser pistol on the floor, and silently removed its powerpack. He pressed the “charge” button, but because the pistol was fully charged, the button immediately popped back out. He pressed the button again, withdrew a knife, and used it to hold the button in place, then carefully crawled about twenty feet away and waited.
It took exactly two minutes and twenty-six seconds for the pistol to overload. Then it exploded with a bright flash of light, and Nighthawk's opponent instantly fired at the light. Nighthawk pinpointed the source of the firepower and shot at it with his sonic pistol. There was a scream, then silence.
“Light,” muttered Nighthawk, and instantly two dim bulbs came to life.