The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy by Mike Resnick Page B
Authors: Mike Resnick
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there?"
"Offhand, I can think of hundreds,” said Nighthawk. “Why is life held so cheaply on the Frontier?"
"Probably because it is the Frontier. Life is never very expensive on the furthest borders of civilization."
"You people have pasts and futures. Don't you want to hang on to them?"
" You have a past and a future too,” she pointed out. “Why should anyone else's attitude puzzle you?"
He shook his head. “I have no past, and my future is, at best, uncertain."
"How can you have no past?” she demanded.
He merely stared at her.
Suddenly her dark eyes widened. “Of course! You're a clone!"
He nodded an affirmative.
"Remarkable! I've never seen one before.” She got to her feet and approached him. “And that explains why you are so young.” She reached out a hand. “May I touch you?"
He shrugged and made no reply as she ran her fingers over his face and neck.
"Remarkable!” she said again. “You feel human."
"I am human."
"I mean that there is nothing artificial about you."
"That goes with being human."
She stared at him, obviously fascinated. “And who were you, Jefferson Nighthawk? A mass murderer? A decorated soldier? A celebrated lawman?"
"I am ... I was ... the Widowmaker."
"Ah! A bounty hunter!"
"And a lawman."
"Perhaps, but that is not why we all remember you.” She returned to her chair. “So I am to be killed by the Widowmaker!"
"I told you, I just want to talk."
She closed her eyes and nodded her head. “Of course you do. Poor little clone, with all the Widowmaker's skills and none of his experiences. He chose to become a killer, was probably driven to it, doubtless reveled in it. But you were created to become one, ordered to be one. No one ever asked you if you wanted to kill, did they? No one ever thought you might have other goals and desires."
Nighthawk exhaled deeply. “You understand."
"Certainly I do. Even among the outcasts and misfits who inhabit the Frontier, you are different, as I am. You were given certain physical attributes that you did not ask for, as was I. You find yourself an outsider in a galaxy of outsiders, as do I. How could I not understand?"
"What do you mean?” asked Nighthawk. “You look normal to me."
"Never trust the eye, which sees only the facade and never the truth,” she replied. “You appear perfectly normal to me, too—and yet you are the Widowmaker, and how many men did he kill? Two hundred? Three hundred?"
"A lot."
"But less than me,” she said proudly.
He frowned. “You've killed three hundred men?"
"More. And before this day is over, I will add to that total."
"We have nothing to fight about,” said Nighthawk. “As you pointed out, we're two of a kind."
"What I didn't point out is that I'm as territorial as the Marquis, and you have invaded my home."
"I'll tell him I couldn't find you."
"Poor clone,” she said with mock sympathy. “ You may need a friend and confidant, but I do not. My life was not forced upon me; I have chosen to be an outlaw and a killer. You will not leave here alive."
"This is stupid!” he protested. “I'm offering you your life! I could kill you in two seconds if I wanted to!"
"Try,” she said, amused.
"Don't push me!"
" Push you?” she repeated with a laugh. “I challenge you, Widowmaker!"
"I don't want to kill you."
"But I want to kill you ."
"You're not carrying any weapons. This is murder."
"Do you really think the Marquis would want me dead if I were harmless?” responded Spanish Lace. “I don't carry my weapons like you lesser beings. I am a weapon."
Nighthawk faced her and reached for his laser pistol. It leaped out of his holster before he could touch it and hovered, tantalizingly, about four feet away from him.
"What the hell?” he exclaimed.
"What is the loss one weapon to a man like you?” she said, still amused. “Try another."
He reached for his sonic pistol. He closed his fingers on the handle and pulled. Nothing happened. He tightened his grip and yanked.
"Offhand, I can think of hundreds,” said Nighthawk. “Why is life held so cheaply on the Frontier?"
"Probably because it is the Frontier. Life is never very expensive on the furthest borders of civilization."
"You people have pasts and futures. Don't you want to hang on to them?"
" You have a past and a future too,” she pointed out. “Why should anyone else's attitude puzzle you?"
He shook his head. “I have no past, and my future is, at best, uncertain."
"How can you have no past?” she demanded.
He merely stared at her.
Suddenly her dark eyes widened. “Of course! You're a clone!"
He nodded an affirmative.
"Remarkable! I've never seen one before.” She got to her feet and approached him. “And that explains why you are so young.” She reached out a hand. “May I touch you?"
He shrugged and made no reply as she ran her fingers over his face and neck.
"Remarkable!” she said again. “You feel human."
"I am human."
"I mean that there is nothing artificial about you."
"That goes with being human."
She stared at him, obviously fascinated. “And who were you, Jefferson Nighthawk? A mass murderer? A decorated soldier? A celebrated lawman?"
"I am ... I was ... the Widowmaker."
"Ah! A bounty hunter!"
"And a lawman."
"Perhaps, but that is not why we all remember you.” She returned to her chair. “So I am to be killed by the Widowmaker!"
"I told you, I just want to talk."
She closed her eyes and nodded her head. “Of course you do. Poor little clone, with all the Widowmaker's skills and none of his experiences. He chose to become a killer, was probably driven to it, doubtless reveled in it. But you were created to become one, ordered to be one. No one ever asked you if you wanted to kill, did they? No one ever thought you might have other goals and desires."
Nighthawk exhaled deeply. “You understand."
"Certainly I do. Even among the outcasts and misfits who inhabit the Frontier, you are different, as I am. You were given certain physical attributes that you did not ask for, as was I. You find yourself an outsider in a galaxy of outsiders, as do I. How could I not understand?"
"What do you mean?” asked Nighthawk. “You look normal to me."
"Never trust the eye, which sees only the facade and never the truth,” she replied. “You appear perfectly normal to me, too—and yet you are the Widowmaker, and how many men did he kill? Two hundred? Three hundred?"
"A lot."
"But less than me,” she said proudly.
He frowned. “You've killed three hundred men?"
"More. And before this day is over, I will add to that total."
"We have nothing to fight about,” said Nighthawk. “As you pointed out, we're two of a kind."
"What I didn't point out is that I'm as territorial as the Marquis, and you have invaded my home."
"I'll tell him I couldn't find you."
"Poor clone,” she said with mock sympathy. “ You may need a friend and confidant, but I do not. My life was not forced upon me; I have chosen to be an outlaw and a killer. You will not leave here alive."
"This is stupid!” he protested. “I'm offering you your life! I could kill you in two seconds if I wanted to!"
"Try,” she said, amused.
"Don't push me!"
" Push you?” she repeated with a laugh. “I challenge you, Widowmaker!"
"I don't want to kill you."
"But I want to kill you ."
"You're not carrying any weapons. This is murder."
"Do you really think the Marquis would want me dead if I were harmless?” responded Spanish Lace. “I don't carry my weapons like you lesser beings. I am a weapon."
Nighthawk faced her and reached for his laser pistol. It leaped out of his holster before he could touch it and hovered, tantalizingly, about four feet away from him.
"What the hell?” he exclaimed.
"What is the loss one weapon to a man like you?” she said, still amused. “Try another."
He reached for his sonic pistol. He closed his fingers on the handle and pulled. Nothing happened. He tightened his grip and yanked.
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