The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (2 page)

"I've been stabbed more than once,” replied Nighthawk.

"Well, yes, I suppose you have,” continued Egan uneasily. “At any rate, we have been in contact with them, and they say that they can supply some of your blood cells from the blade. In all likelihood they'll be contaminated, but we have ways of purifying them."

"You still haven't answered my question: if you make my clone from these blood cells, will he have the disease?"

"Almost certainly not, since
you
didn't have it at that age. However, he will be susceptible to
eplasia
, and will very likely contract it as he grows older, just as you did."

Nighthawk frowned. “This disease rots my flesh off my bones. I look like a child's worst nightmare. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy; how can I give it to someone who's even closer to me than a son?"

"He's just a shadow, a copy of the original,” said Dinnisen. “His sole purpose, the only reason he will be brought into existence, is so that
you
can remain alive until a cure is found."

"Consider it this way,” added Egan. “If you give your permission to create a clone, you may both survive long enough for us to develop a cure. If not, one of you will surely die and the other will never be born."

"It's an easy choice when you put it that way,” admitted Nighthawk. He sighed deeply. “God, I'm tired. You'd think I'd have a little more energy after a hundred-year nap."

"I anticipated that,” said Dinnisen, producing a pocket computer. “I've got a copy of the Solio II agreement here, as well permission for us to create the clone. Your thumbprint is all that we need to make them legal and binding.” He paused and smiled. “Then we'll put you back into DeepSleep."

"How soon will the clone be ready?” asked Nighthawk, struggling helplessly to lift his hand. Finally Egan helped him place his shriveled thumb on the surface of the lawyer's computer.

"If we accelerate the process, perhaps a month."

"That fast?"

"I told you: we've made enormous progress in the field of bio-engineering."

Nighthawk nodded, then looked up at the medic. “I need some food."

"No, you don't,” said Egan. “Now that you've satisfied the legalities, there's no need for you to remain awake."

"And find me a bed,” continued Nighthawk.

"I don't think you are listening to me...” began Egan.

"In a month you're going to have a perfect, 22-year-old, disease-free replica of me, right?” asked Nighthawk.

"Yes."

"Are
you
going to teach him how to kill?"

"No,” said Egan, surprised.

"How about you?” said Nighthawk, turning to Dinnisen.

"Of course not,” replied Dinnisen.

"Then it's up to me."

"I'm afraid not,” said Egan. “You probably can't live for a month, and I can't put you back into DeepSleep until the clone is ready and then awaken you—the process of starting and stopping your metabolism would be harder on you than just keeping you awake."

"You can't send him out there without any training!” snapped Nighthawk.

"We have no choice,” said Egan. “You are in no condition to train him."

"He won't last a week,” mumbled Nighthawk, his eyelids drooping, his speech slurring. “You've killed us both."

Suddenly he lost consciousness, and Egan straightened the bedding beneath him.

"Well, that's your client,” he said. “What do you think of him?"

"I don't think I'd have liked meeting him when he was young and healthy."

"That's too bad,” said Egan, touching a button that caused the transluscent cover to lock into place. “Because that's precisely what you're going to do in about a month."

"I'll be meeting the duplicate, not the original,” replied Dinnisen. “He won't be carrying any of Nighthawk's grudges, just his skills."

"His
potential
skills,” noted Egan. “Nighthawk was right about that."

"They'll be enough,” said Dinnisen. “Why do you think Solio wanted
him
, when there are so many other killers and bounty hunters to be had?” He looked down at the diseased body. “When Jefferson Nighthawk was 22 years old, he had already killed more than
30
men. Gun, knife, freehand, there wasn't a man alive who could touch him. The instincts will be there, all right."

"Instincts aren't skills,” said Egan. “What if you're wrong?"

"We've fulfilled our end of the contract. We'd rather have all seven million, but half is better than nothing."

Egan studied Nighthawk's face for a long moment. “Have you considered what might happen if you're right?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What if the clone's every bit as efficient a killer as the original was?"

Dinnisen looked puzzled. “That's what we're hoping for."

"How will you control him then?"

"The original Widowmaker repressed all his emotions. This one won't have any reason to—and loyalty has an emotional basis."

"Have you considered the fact that you'll only have a few weeks to give him a moral and ethical code of behavior at the same time you're teaching him a hundred ways to kill?"

"
I'm
not teaching him anything,” answered Dinnisen defensively. “I'm just a solicitor. I'll be hiring specialists—not just specialists in killing, but in behavior as well. How difficult can it be?"

"I'll bet Pandora said those very words just before she opened the box,” replied Egan as the drawer containing Jefferson Nighthawk slide silently back into place.

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The jungle planet of Karamojo was the jewel of the Quinellus Cluster. A fierce, primitive world, it was a hunter's paradise, overflowing with enormous horned grass eaters and deadly carnivores.

The Oligarchy, having seen what happened to such over-exploited worlds as Peponi and Karimon, had declared Karamojo off-limits for colonization. Instead, it became an exclusive planet for sportsmen, and hunting licenses were strictly limited. It took an awful lot of money, or clout, or both, just to land on Karamojo, and even more to be allowed to hunt there.

Afficionados said that the fishing was better on Hemingway, out in the Spiral Arm, but everyone agreed there was no better hunting to be found anywhere. It made the men who visited the planet willing to put up with its hardships: swarms of deadly insects, an atmosphere so thin that a hunter's blood had to be medically oxygenated every fifth day, a temperature that rarely dipped below 30 degrees Celsius even at night, a landscape that made adrenaline pills all but mandatory.

Only nineteen hunters in the planet's history had been granted permanent licenses. One was the fabled Fuentes, considered by most experts to be the best hunter who had ever lived. Another was Nicobar Lane, whose trophies filled museums across the galaxy.

And yet another was Jefferson Nighthawk, known as the Widowmaker.

It had taken almost a day for Nighthawk and his companion, a small, balding man named Ito Kinoshita, to clear customs. His fingerprints checked out. So did his retinagram and his voiceprint. Preliminary DNA tests seemed also to confirm his identity—but he was more than 150 years old, and the man who bore his name was clearly under 25, and hence a clone.

Finally the authorities decided that a clone had the right to use the original's license, and he and Kinoshita disappeared into the endless alien bush for four days. When they emerged, it was with the carcasses of two enormous Demoncats, the 700-pound catlike carnivores that preyed on the huge herds.

Kinoshita drove their safari vehicle toward Pondoro Outpost, a luxurious fortress in the middle of the bush where tired, wealthy hunters could relax in comfort. The outpost contained a restaurant, a tavern, an infirmary, a weapons and ammunition shop, a map shop, a taxidermist, and one hundred chalets which could hold up to four hundred Men. There were only three such outposts on the planet—Pondoro, Corbett and Selous—and at no time were more than fifteen hundred humans hunting or relaxing on a planet that possessed almost twice Earth's surface area.

Upon reaching the outpost, they unloaded their Demoncats at the taxidermy shop, retired to their chalet to bath, shave and change into fresh clothes, and then met at the restaurant for dinner. The menu consisted of imported game meats, as there was something about the indigenous Karamojo animals that humans couldn't metabolize.

Then they headed over to Six-Finger Blue's, the tavern run by a huge human mutant whose skin was tinted a striking shade of blue. His left hand ended in a shapeless mass of bone, while his right possessed six long, multi-jointed, snakelike fingers. He had been a fixture on Karamojo for the better part of thirty years; if he had ever left the planet during that time, no one could remember it.

Blue himself was no hunter, but he believed in creating an ambience that would appeal to his clients, and so the heads of Demoncats, Fire Lizards, Battletanks, Silverskins, and half a dozen other local species were stuffed and mounted on the walls, making the tavern look far more like a rustic hunting lodge than a bar from the 52nd Century of the Galactic Era.

Blue kept a colorful blue-red-and-gold Screechowl in a large cage over the bar. Customers were encouraged to feed it, and a small supply of live lizards was always handy. Just beyond the cage was a computer readout, constantly being updated, of the current exchange rates in credits, Maria Theresa dollars, Far London pounds, and half a dozen other currencies.

One wall was lined with a discreet set of holographic screens, as remote cameras stationed all over the area flashed scenes of animals and where they could be found. A few short-timers, men and woman in for one-day safaris, watched the screens intently. Whenever the animal they were looking for came up, they went out after it. There was no such thing as a white hunter or a guide, not in an age when the safari vehicle could read spoor and track game on its own.

Upon reaching the table, Kinoshita moved the chairs, then sat down and gestured for his young companion to do the same.

"You're through rearranging the table?” asked Nighthawk, staring at him curiously.

"Never sit with your back to a door or a window."

"I don't have any enemies yet,” replied Nighthawk.

"You don't have any friends, and where you're going, that's more important."

Nighthawk shrugged and took a seat.

An alien servant, humanoid in form and speaking Terran with a harsh accent, approached them and asked for their drink orders.

"A pair of Dust Whores,” said Kinoshita.

The alien nodded and walked away.

"Dust Whores?” repeated Nighthawk.

"You'll like them,” Kinoshita assured him.

Nighthawk shrugged and looked around the room. “Interesting place. Feels exactly like a hunting lodge should."

Kinoshita nodded in agreement. “There's a place just like this on Last Chance."

Nighthawk shook his head. “No, it's on Binder X."

Kinoshita smiled. “You're right, of course. My mistake."

Well, your memory—or whoever's memory you've got—is functioning perfectly, you poor bastard.

The alien waiter returned with the drinks. Nighthawk stared at his dubiously.

"They're good,” Kinoshita assured him.

"They're green,” he replied.

"Trust me, Jeff,” said Kinoshita. “You'll love it."

Nighthawk reached out for a glass, brought it slowly to his lips, and took a sip.

"Cinnamon,” he said at last. “And Borillian rum. And something else I can't quite put my finger on."

"It's a fruit they grow on New Kenya. It's not quite an orange or a tangerine, but it's in the citrus family—as much as an alien fruit
can
be, anyway. They wait until it ferments, then process and bottle it."

"Good,” said Nighthawk, taking another sip. “I like it."

Of course you like it. The real Widowmaker was practically addicted to these things.

Nighthawk downed his drink, then looked across the table at his companion.

"Are we going out again tomorrow?” he asked.

"No, I don't think so. We wanted to see how good you were with your weapons after a month of training. We saw."

"Too bad,” said Nighthawk. “It was fun."

"You think being charged by a Demoncat is fun?"

"Well, it's certainly not dangerous,” came the answer. “Not when I've got a rifle in my hands."

"The taxidermist probably agrees with you,” remarked Kinoshita.

"I beg your pardon?"

"When I brought the carcasses in, he said that you didn't just shoot them in the
eye
to avoid damaging the heads, you shot them in the
pupil
."

"Like you told me when we started, it's just like pointing your finger."

"I lied,” said Kinoshita. “But you seem to have turned it into the truth."

A disarming boyish smile crossed Nighthawk's face. “I did, didn't I?"

Kinoshita nodded. “You did."

"Damn!” said the young man happily. “That calls for another drink!” He signaled to the alien waiter. “Two more Dust Whores.” Then he turned back to Kinoshita. “So what do we do next?"

"Nothing,” said Kinoshita. “Today is your graduation."

"Wasn't much of an exam,” said Nighthawk.

It hasn't started yet.
Aloud, he said, “You'd be surprised how many men have been killed by Demoncats. You had less than half a second to aim and fire, you know."

"
You
were the one who wanted to go into heavy cover after them,” noted Nighthawk.

"I wanted to test your reactions under the harshest field conditions,” said Kinoshita.

"Do you do this a lot?"

"Go into thick bush after Demoncats? No, thank God!"

"I meant train men to fight."

"You're the first."

"What
do
you do, then?"

"A little of this, a little of that,” replied Kinoshita noncommittally.

"Have you ever been a lawman or a bounty hunter?” persisted Nighthawk.

"Both."

"And a soldier?"

"A long time ago."

"What about an outlaw?” asked Nighthawk.

"I give up,” said Kinoshita. “What
about
an outlaw?"