The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (4 page)

"I always was."

"I know, but—"

"You don't know anything,” said Nighthawk angrily. “You think I was created in a laboratory just to kill someone on Solio II."

"You were, Jeff,” said Kinoshita. “We've never hid that from you."

"
I'll
decide what I was created for,” said Nighthawk in low tones. “I'm a man, just like you.” He stared unblinking into Kinoshita's eyes. It was not a pleasant stare.
"Don't you ever forget it."

Well, now I know what got you so riled.

"You saw what I did to those two,” continued Nighthawk, gesturing toward the corpses and downing his drink with a single swallow. “I could get to where I like killing things."

He got to his feet and stalked out of Six-Finger Blue's, heading toward his chalet.

Kinoshita watched him go.

Yeah, no question about it; you're the Widowmaker, all right. You just needed to get your blood up.
Kinoshita smiled a strangely satisfied smile.
I guess maybe we made you tough enough after all.

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Solio II wasn't much of a world, not for a young man who had been born two months earlier on Deluros VIII and whose head was full of memories of glittering worlds he had never been to. There were less than a million inhabitants: about 800,000 were human, the rest aliens of various species.

The planet's primary business was trade. It served as one of the handful of transitional worlds, officially part of the Frontier but in reality acting as economic conduit between the mining and farming worlds of the Inner Frontier and the conspicuous consumers of the Oligarchy. It was said that Solio II was the Breadbasket To A Thousand Worlds, though it was a supplier rather than a breadbasket, and it traded with closer to 300 worlds than a thousand, which was still not exactly a trifling number.

The Solio system had been ruled by dictators for the past half century. The most recent, Winslow Trelaine, had been in office for almost eight years before his assassination. He was the fourth governor in the past half century to die violently; governors of Solio II had a habit of not surviving long enough to retire.

Colonel James Hernandez, the government's Chief of Security, had made the initial contact with Nighthawk's legal representatives, and it was to his office that the young man reported when he finally touched down on Solio II.

Hernandez was a tall, lean man with thick black hair, an aquiline nose, a narrow jaw, and dark brown eyes. His chest was covered by row upon row of medals, despite the fact that the Solio system had never gone to war with anyone. A stack of orders was piled neatly on one corner of his desk, awaiting his signature—although his computer, which hovered above the left side of the desk, was quite capable of duplicating his signature thousands of times per minute.

The rest of the office was spotless, as if he'd just completed inspection. Every cabinet top was pristine, every painting was hung at the perfect angle to the floor, the various holoscreens were arranged by size. Nighthawk imagined that a speck of dust would be treated as an enemy invasion.

Hernandez got to his feet, his eyes appraising the young man who had entered his office. “Welcome to Solio, Mr. Nighthawk. May I offer you something to drink?"

"Later, perhaps."

"A cigar? Imported all the way from Aldebaran XII."

Nighthawk shook his head. “No, thanks."

"I must tell you that I can hardly believe I'm here speaking with the Widowmaker himself!” said Hernandez enthusiastically. “You were one of my heroes when I was a boy. I think I read everything ever written about you. In fact,” he added with a smile, “you might say that
you
are the reason that I became what I am."

"I'm sure the Widowmaker would be flattered to know that,” said Nighthawk in carefully measured tones as he sat down opposite Hernandez on a straight-backed chrome chair. “But I am not him."

Hernandez frowned. “I beg your pardon?"

"The Widowmaker is currently on Deluros VIII, awaiting a cure for the disease that afflicts him. My name is Jefferson Nighthawk, and I'm just someone who's here to do a job."

"Nonsense!” said Hernandez, genuinely amused. “Do you think we haven't heard of your exploits on Karamojo? You killed Undertaker McNair with your bare hands.” He paused, staring at Nighthawk. “You're the Widowmaker, all right."

Nighthawk shrugged. “Call me what you want. It's just a name.” He learned forward intently. “But remember that you're dealing with
me
, not
him
."

"Certainly,” said Hernandez, studying him carefully for a moment. Finally he turned and lit a thin cigar. “Mr. Nighthawk, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions that are not related to your mission here?"

"What kind of questions?"

"You're the first clone I've ever met,” continued Hernandez, taking a puff of his cigar, “and I'm naturally curious about you. For example, I know that you didn't exist two months ago. How did you learn to speak the language so rapidly?"

"You make me sound like a freak,” said Nighthawk, openly annoyed. “I'm a flesh-and-blood man, just like you."

"No offense intended,” said Hernandez smoothly. “It's just that I will almost certainly never have the opportunity to speak to another clone. It is said that there are less than 500 of you in the galaxy. Your creation is outlawed on almost every world in the Oligarchy. We had to cash a lot of political IOUs to get you made.” He paused. “So it's only natural that I take advantage of the opportunity while you're here."

Nighthawk stared coldly at him for a long moment, then forced himself to relax. “I was given intensive sleep therapy,” he replied at last.

"I know we've made great strides in sleep therapy,” said Hernandez. “But I can't imagine anyone could master colloquial Terran that quickly. Did they perhaps start teaching it before you were ... ah ... fully formed?"

"I don't know,” said Nighthawk.

"Fascinating! Did they use the same means to teach you to use the physical attributes you so obviously possess?” A tiny bit of ash fell on the desk; Hernandez meticulously ran miniaturized vac over it.

"I suppose so. I also worked out with Ito Kinoshita."

"Kinoshita,” repeated Hernandez. “I've heard of him. A formidable man."

"A friend,” said Nighthawk.

"Far preferable to having him for an enemy,” agreed Hernandez.

Nighthawk learned forward intently. “Now let me ask you a question."

"Certainly,” replied Hernandez. He noticed that his cigar had gone out and lit it again.

"Why me?” demanded Nighthawk. “You could have hired Kinoshita, or someone like him. Why did you spend all those IOUs and all that money for
me
?"

"I think the answer's obvious,” said Hernandez. “You are the greatest manhunter in the history of the Inner Frontier. Greater than Peacemaker MacDougal, greater than Sebastian Cain, greater than any of the legendary lawmen and bounty hunters.” He paused. “Winslow Trelaine was a good leader and a dear friend; he deserves to be avenged by the best."

"I've done my homework, Colonel Hernandez,” said Nighthawk. “Winslow Trelaine was a dictator who grew fat at the public trough."

Hernandez chuckled. “You sound as if you were contradicting me."

"Wasn't I?"

"Not at all,” said Hernandez. “Do you think only democratically-elected leaders can attain greatness? Let me suggest that how one reaches power has nothing to do with how one exercises it."

"I think it does."

"And well you should,” replied Hernandez. “You speak with the innocence and idealism of youth, and I can appreciate that."

"I'm not that young."

An amused smile crossed Hernandez’ face. “We'll discuss it again when you're a year old."

"Are you
trying
to insult me?” asked Nighthawk, an ominous note in his voice.

"Not at all,” Hernandez assured him. “I'm the reason you exist. Of all the men that I could have had, I chose to create you. Why would I insult you?"

"
You
didn't create me."

"Oh, I didn't take the skin scrapings and fill the test tubes and prepare the nutrient solutions or whatever it is they do, but you exist for one reason and one reason only: because I threatened some politicians, bribed others, and paid an inordinate amount of money to your legal representatives for the sole purpose of creating a young, healthy Jefferson Nighthawk to hunt down the assassin of Winslow Trelaine.” Hernandez stared at him. “Don't tell me they also gave you the Book of Genesis during your sleep therapy."

Nighthawk stared at him but said nothing.

Finally Hernandez shook his head. “We've obviously gotten off on the wrong foot. Perhaps we should talk about what you plan to do now that you're here."

Nighthawk waited for the tension to flow out of his body. “I'll have that drink now,” he said at last.

Hernandez crossed the office to an ornate cabinet and pulled out an oddly-shaped bottle and two large crystal glasses. “Cygnian cognac,” he announced. “The best there is."

"I've never had any."

"Well, you're starting at the top,” said Hernandez. “From this day forward, every cognac you drink will be a disappointment, for the memory of this will never leave you."

Nighthawk took a sip, resisted the urge to ask for a Dust Whore, and forced a smile to his face. “Very good,” he said.

Hernandez took a small sip from his own glass. “Wait for the aftertaste,” he said.

Nighthawk waited what seemed an appropriate amount of time, then nodded his head in agreement.

"And now,” continued Hernandez, “I think it's time to get down to business."

"That's what I'm here for."

"As you know, Winslow Trelaine was assassinated nine weeks ago.” Hernandez grimaced. “He was killed with a solid beam of light from the muzzle of a laser rifle, fired at a distance of approximately 200 meters."

"Where did it happen?” asked Nighthawk.

"Ironically, as he was getting out of the car to attend the opera."

"Ironically?” repeated Nighthawk.

"Winslow
hated
the opera,” said Hernandez with a smile. “He was there to make peace between two feuding factions among his supporters."

"Could one of them have done it?"

"Not a chance,” replied Hernandez with absolute certainty. “We had all of them under surveillance."

"Could one of them have commissioned it?” persisted Nighthawk.

"One of them
did
,” answered Hernandez. “They knew he'd be attending the opera that night, though his loathing for it was well documented. They even knew which government vehicle he'd be arriving in.” He paused. “That information could only have come from an insider."

"Was this the first attempt on his life?"

"The third."

"Tell me about the first two,” said Nighthawk.

Hernandez sighed. “I would love to tell you that my quick-witted security staff anticipated and thwarted them, but the fact of the matter is that both attempts were thoroughly botched or they might well have succeeded."

"I assume you captured the perpetrators?"

"The
would-be
perpetrators,” Hernandez corrected him. “Yes, we caught them both."

"I assume they had no connection to the assassin who succeeded?"

"Not as far as we can tell,” agreed Hernandez. “Both were members of the lunatic fringe. Well,
different
lunatic fringes. One wanted to help the sales of his book, which was a dismal critical and commercial failure. The other thought Trelaine and his entire administration were puppets of some alien race and was preparing to enslave the planet for his dark masters."

"Is either one alive?” asked Nighthawk.

Hernandez shook his head. “Both were executed. Besides, as I said, they acted alone—and they were crazy. This was a meticulously-planned political assassination."

"And there are no leads at all?"

"None."

"Well,” said Nighthawk thoughtfully, “there's no sense questioning Trelaine's cabinet or his personal friends, at least not yet. They'll all deny everything, whether they're telling the truth or not, and I don't suppose I have the authority to ... ah ...
extract
the information I need?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Pity.” Nighthawk followed Hernandez's gaze, saw that it had come to rest on his almost-untouched glass of cognac, and forced himself to take another sip. “Well, Trelaine was obviously killed by a hired gun. Who's the likeliest?"

The smile returned to Hernandez’ face.

"Did I say something funny?” asked Nighthawk.

"Not at all. I am just pleased to see that you are reasoning like the Widowmaker."

Nighthawk sighed and placed the glass down on the edge of the desk. “All right. Who am I looking for?"

"I will give you his name in a moment,” said Hernandez. “But first, I want it made clear that I am not accusing him of murder. I am not saying that he pulled the trigger.” He paused. “But out here killers and bandits tend to be territorial. If this man didn't take the commission himself, he undoubtedly approved whoever did take it."

"Fine,” said Nighthawk. “Who is he?"

"Have you ever heard of the Marquis of Queensbury?"

Nighthawk shook his head. “No."

"He is the most lethal man within hundreds—perhaps thousands—of light years,” said Hernandez, not without a tiny note of admiration. “Present company excepted, I hope. Anyway, armed or unarmed, you couldn't ask for a more formidable opponent. Further, having built a criminal empire, he has demonstrated remarkable skill at running it."

"Have you any idea where he might be?” asked Nighthawk.

"I know precisely where he is."

Nighthawk frowned. “Then why haven't you—?"

"It's not that simple,” interrupted Hernandez. “Most of the Frontier worlds not only make their laws in a haphazard fashion, when they have any laws at all—but almost all of them lack extradition treaties with each other. That's why bounty hunters flourish out here."

"So he's on a world that won't extradite him?"

"He's on a world that hasn't seen a lawman or a law since the first Man set foot on it eight centuries ago."