A Gathering of Widowmakers (The Widowmaker #4) (4 page)

"Not any more—or do I
look
like a foolish and pigheaded young man?"

As if by mutual consent they went for their weapons. Jeff's burner ripped through Newman's torso, melted his prosthetic hand, and incinerated most of his left ear. Newman, the tiniest fraction of a second slower, fired a blast of solid sound into the air as his screecher flew out of his hand.

Kinoshita raced forward and dropped to one knee to examine Newman. He was alive, his breathing and pulse erratic, the trunk of his body covered with third-degree burns, an unknown amount of damage to his internal organs, blood seeping out through the cauterized flesh on what remained of his ear.

"You son of a bitch!" roared Pickett, picking up Newman's sonic pistol and aiming it at Jeff. The young man was too fast and too accurate, and an instant later Jubal Pickett fell to the ground, dead.

"Shit!" muttered Jeff disgustedly. "None of this was necessary! He knew he couldn't beat me. And the old man . . ." He shook his head and shrugged, then walked over and hefted Pickett's corpse to his shoulder. "We might as well get back to the spaceport with him and drop him off at the bounty station on Binder X." He paused and stared at the badly-wounded clone. "Newman will keep. I'll put in a call for an ambulance on the way to the ship." Kinoshita remained kneeling beside Newman. "Are you coming or not?"

"Not," said Kinoshita.

"If I leave, I'm not coming back for you."

"I don't expect you to."

Jeff stared at him. "I'm sorry it has to end like this. I'll miss you."

Kinoshita looked up at the young man. "I'll miss you too," he said sincerely.

"I thought you were sworn to serve the Widowmaker."

I am,
thought Kinoshita.
And after I get Newman to the hospital or the cemetery, that's what I plan to do.

4.

The still-attractive middle-aged woman stood above Nighthawk as he knelt in the dirt.

"Why don't you just give up?" she asked.

"It's not my nature to give up," he replied.

"Every expert you've spoken to has told you that roses won't grow on Goldenhue."

"If I paid attention to what people said I could and couldn't do, I'd have died a century and a half ago."

"You've been working all morning," she said. "Won't you at least come in for a beer?"

He considered it, then rose slowly to his feet. "Yeah, I think I will. I'm getting a little old for all this kneeling." Nighthawk stretched to loosen the knotted muscles in his back, then stared ruefully at the drooping leaves and branches. "One of these days they're going to blossom."

"Why don't you take the afternoon off?" she suggested.

"Do I look
that
tired?" asked Nighthawk.

"You don't look tired at all. You look frustrated."

"I am," he replied. "Stupid roses."

"How stupid can they be?" she asked with a smile. "After all, they're winning."

"You know, you're the only person I've ever met who can talk to me like that." Suddenly he returned her smile. "That's probably why I let you stick around."

"Stick around?" she repeated sardonically. "That's as interesting a euphemism for marriage as I've heard."

He followed her past the bird feeders that were scattered around the yard, then into the house. They went to the kitchen where she opened two canisters and handed one to him.

"Thanks," he said. "It was probably time to knock off anyway. I saw a ship coming down about an hour ago."

"So?"

"It might be the books I ordered from that dealer on Antares III. If it is, I don't want to be covered with dirt and sweat when I open the package."

"You could wait until you've showered." He simply stared at her. "No," she amended. "I guess you couldn't."

"One of them was published when we were still Earthbound," said Nighthawk.

"You could just have your computer tie into the library . . ."

"I read
books
, not electronic impulses or holographs."

"It would be less expensive."

"If we need more money, I'll go out and get it."

She had no argument for that, so she changed the subject, and they spent the next few minutes discussing the birds they'd seen at the various feeders that morning and making plans for their next birdwatching excursion to the planet's rain forest a thousand miles to the south, when Nighthawk saw a vehicle approaching the house.

"Looks like my books are here," he said. Suddenly he frowned. "Shit!"

"What is it?" asked Sarah, peering out the window.

"Someone I hadn't expected to see again."

"Bad news?"

"These days any news that can find me is probably bad news." He got to his feet and walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped out onto the broad veranda.

The aircar stopped in front of him, and Ito Kinoshita stepped out.

"What the hell are you doing here?" said Nighthawk.

"I'm delighted to see you too," replied Kinoshita wryly.

"I'd love to think this is a social call, but you don't make social calls and I don't accept them."

Kinoshita pulled his luggage out of the aircar and set it on the ground. "Have you still got that extra room?"

Nighthawk looked surprised. "He fired you?"

Kinoshita shook his head. "I left."

"Why?"

"Because it's my function in life to serve the Widowmaker."

"You're a little confused. The Widowmaker's out there somewhere." Nighthawk waved a hand toward the sky.

"That's what we have to talk about."

The woman stepped out onto the porch. "Hello, Ito." She walked over to him and gave him a hug. "How nice to see you again."

"I've missed you, Sarah," said Kinoshita.

Her gaze fell on his luggage. "How long will you be staying with us?"

"That's a matter of some debate," said Nighthawk.

Sarah studied his expression for a moment. "I'll leave you two to sort it out," she said. Before she went back inside the house, she turned to Kinoshita. "He's retired, and he's staying retired."

"You heard the lady," said Nighthawk as the door closed behind her.

"Do I have to stand out here in the sun, or are you going to invite me to sit on the veranda?"

"Do whichever you please."

"I see you're as gracious as ever." Kinoshita climbed the three stairs, walked over to a wicker chair, and sat down. "We've got a problem."

"
You've
got a problem," said Nighthawk. "My only problem is feeding you until you leave."

"Are you going to let me tell you about it?"

Nighthawk looked amused. "Has anyone ever stopped you from talking?"

"Let me get right to the point," said Kinoshita. "He's out of control."

"That doesn't sound like the kid I trained," said Nighthawk. "What did he do?"

"He may have killed an innocent man."

"Collateral damage?"

Kinoshita shook his head. "No, it wasn't collateral damage. He's you at age twenty-four. He hits what he aims at."

"Was there paper on the man he killed?"

"Two million credits."

Nighthawk frowned. "Well, then?"

"I told you: the man may have been innocent."

"They don't offer that kind of money until they're sure," said Nighthawk.

"Look, it's a long story," replied Kinoshita. "Maybe I'd better start at the beginning."

"Don't bother. There was paper on a man. Jeff killed him. End of story."

"Goddammit, Jefferson, you sound just like him!" said Kinoshita. "Let me explain! I didn't come all this way without a reason."

Nighthawk stared at him for a long moment, then walked over to a wooden rocker and sat down. "All right—talk."

"You taught him well, Jefferson," began Kinoshita. "I've been traveling with him since you sent him out, and he's everything you must have been at twenty-for or twenty-five. He's got the quickest reactions I've ever seen, he's as good with his hands or weapons as you were, his eyesight is unbelievable, and he's totally fearless. He's taken the Kimani Twins, and Jimmy Three-Eyes, and—"

"Okay, he's good. Get on with it."

"He's good because he has all the natural gifts he needs, and because you trained him to do what the job requires." He paused. "But you sent him out too soon."

"Explain."

"He sees everything in black and white. There are no grays in his world. If there's paper on a man, the man is to be killed, no questions asked."

"You stop to ask questions in this business, you don't celebrate too many birthdays."

"In general I agree with you, but there are always exceptions."

"I assume you're about to tell me of one."

Kinoshita nodded. "He went after Jubal Pickett, and he found him."

"Pickett, Pickett . . ." said Nighthawk. "Didn't he kill his wife and kids and a couple of dozen others?"

"He didn't have any kids. He was found guilty of killing his wife and eighteen other men, women and children. After the paper was issued on him, he was accused of killing a lawman and two bounty hunters who tracked him down."

"Sounds like just the kind of man Jeff should go after," remarked Nighthawk.

"I agree," said Kinoshita. "That's exactly what he sounded like."

"But?"

"But an unimpeachable source told us that he'd been set up by some greedy politicians on his home planet, that the whole thing was a scam to appropriate his property."

"Easy to say," noted Nighthawk.

"This source could prove at least part of it, which certainly cast doubt on the rest."

"I take it Jeff didn't listen to him."

"Jeff put him in the hospital and killed Pickett."

"Obviously your unimpeachable source wasn't very convincing."

"I don't think Jeff gives a damn whether Pickett was guilty or not," said Kinoshita. "There was paper on him, and that was all Jeff cared about."

"These things happen," said Nighthawk.

"That's all you've got to say about it?" demanded Kinoshita angrily. "It happened once. It could happen again, or ten more times!"

"It's possible," agreed Nighthawk. "Not likely, but possible."

"That isn't what you created him for. You've got talk to him, explain why what he did was wrong. There's no way that he's going to listen to me."

"Forget it," said Nighthawk, as Sarah brought out a beer for Kinoshita. "Stick around," he told her. "Ito's talking about our whatever-the-hell-he-is."

"You mean Jeff?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Is he all right?"

"He seems to be."

"He's
physically
all right," said Kinoshita. "Jefferson taught him how to kill, and he's the best I ever saw at it. Now he's got to teach him
when
to kill and when not to."

"What did he do?" asked Sarah.

"He made a mistake," said Kinoshita.

"He
may
have made a mistake," corrected Nighthawk.

"Who did he kill?" asked Sarah.

"It's not important," said Nighthawk. "That's not why Kinoshita's here."

"What are you getting at?" asked Sarah.

"You didn't come halfway across the galaxy just because the kid killed a man with paper on him," said Nighthawk. "That's exactly what I trained him to do, so it's got to be something more."

"You're as sharp as you ever were," said Kinoshita admiringly.

"Whatever the reason, you're wasting your time here. If it was all that important, go find the clone who survived that mess on Pericles and get him to talk to—" Nighthawk stopped in mid-sentence, as a look of comprehension suddenly crossed his face.

"What is it?" said Sarah, puzzled.

"That's the only thing that could bring you here," said Nighthawk. "Is he dead?"

"Is
who
dead?" demanded Sarah.

"The clone I've never seen." He turned back to Kinoshita. "Is he?"

"Not quite," answered Kinoshita. "He's calling himself Jason Newman these days. He'll be in the hospital on Giancola II for a long time. They're growing him a new spleen and liver, and he'll need some cosmetic surgery, and a new ear, but he'll live."

"And he was me at what—maybe forty?"

"Somewhere around there, maybe a couple of years older."

"If he couldn't stop the kid, what makes you think I can? I'm an old man, in case you hadn't noticed."

"He'll listen to you."

"And if he doesn't?"

"You're his creator. You'll seem like a god to him—and people don't kill their gods."

"I'll bet that line got a lot of laughs on Golgotha," replied Nighthawk grimly.

"I'm serious, Jefferson," said Kinoshita. "I serve the Widowmaker. There were three versions of him in the galaxy. One's been shot all to hell and is in the hospital, and one's disqualified himself from the job." He stared at Nighthawk. "Like it or not, you're the Widowmaker again."

"The hell I am. I'm sorry about what happened, but it's not my problem."

"Excuse me, Jefferson," said Sarah, "but you're wrong."

He turned to her with a puzzled expression on his face. "What are you talking about?"

"A clone of Jefferson Nighthawk who gave his hand, his face, his very identity, to keep you alive while they were trying to find a cure for your disease is fighting for his life in a hospital, put there by another clone of Jefferson Nighthawk, who killed a man he was told was innocent. Jason Newman was created to raise enough money to keep you alive while medical science was developing a cure for your disease; you were cryogenically frozen at the time, and had nothing to do with that decision. But the younger clone, the one who put him in the hospital and killed an innocent man, is entirely your creation. You owe it to—"

"To the galaxy?" he interrupted sardonically. "I've paid the galaxy in full a hundred times, and Jeff has been paying interest on it since I sent him out."

"I was going to say that you owe it to the clone who's in the hospital," said Sarah. "The one who risked his life to save an innocent man from your creation. If that's not your problem, whose is it?"

"The kid is just doing what I taught him to do," repeated Nighthawk stubbornly.

"And Jason Newman—what was
he
doing?" said Sarah. "I know, it might never happen again. But it might also happen tomorrow, and next week."