The Widowmaker Unleashed: Volume 3 of the Widowmaker Trilogy Read online

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  Fictionwise

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  Copyright ©1998 by Mike Resnick

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  To Carol, as always

  And to Ed Elbert:

  friend,

  producer,

  keeper of promises

  1.

  The emaciated figure, its flesh hideously disfigured by the ravages of a virulent skin disease, lay perfectly still. Patches of shining white cheekbone protruded through the flesh of the face, knuckles pierced the skin of the hands, and even where the skin remained intact it looked like there was some malignancy crawling across it and discoloring it.

  Suddenly a finger twitched. An eyelid flickered. The breathing, though weak, became more regular, and finally Jefferson Nighthawk opened his eyes.

  “I'm starving!” he croaked.

  “Of course you are,” said the man in the white outfit. “You haven't eaten in more than a century.”

  “Am I cured, or did I just run out of money?”

  The man in white smiled. “You're not cured yet,” he said. “I just brought you out of the deep freeze. But we finally can cure you, and we will in the coming weeks.”

  Nighthawk closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “Thank God!”

  The man looked amused. “I thought the Widowmaker didn't believe in God.”

  “I believe in anyone or anything that keeps me alive,” rasped Nighthawk.

  The man in white leaned over him. “Do you remember my name?” he asked.

  “Gilbert something.”

  “Gilbert Egan. I'm your physician. Or, to be more accurate, I've been your most recent attending physician while you were cryogenically frozen. In the coming days, you'll be in the hands of specialists.”

  “Help me up,” said Nighthawk, reaching a hand weakly in Egan's direction.

  “That wouldn't be a good idea, Mr. Nighthawk,” said Egan. “Your body is riddled with eplasia, and you haven't used your muscles in ... let me see ... 112 years.”

  “So it's 5106?”

  “5106 Galactic Era,” Egan confirmed.

  “And my clone's been out there for five years?”

  “Actually, your first clone died a few months after they created him.”

  “My first clone?”

  Egan nodded. “They created a second clone two years later.”

  “I don't remember.”

  “I wouldn't allow them to wake you for that one. You were too weak. I felt we could only revive you one more time. This is it.”

  “This second clone—did he die too?”

  “Nobody knows. I have a feeling he's still alive somewhere out on the Rim, probably with a new name and a new face.” Egan paused. “But he accomplished his purpose. He sent back enough money to keep you alive until the cure for your disease was discovered.”

  “I'll thank him when I see him.”

  Egan smiled and shook his head. “People have been looking for him for three years. You'll never find him.”

  “If I need to find him, I will,” replied Nighthawk with certainty. Suddenly his body went limp. “What's the matter?” he asked, puzzled. “I've been awake for maybe two minutes and I'm exhausted.”

  “As I said, except for one five-minute interlude a few years ago, you've been in deep freeze for more than a century. All of your muscles have atrophied. Once we get you healthy again, you've got a lot of work to do with the physical therapist.”

  “Why am I so damned hungry?”

  “All we did was slow your metabolism down to a crawl. We didn't stop it, or you'd have died. And no matter how slow it was, eventually you digested everything in your stomach. From time to time—actually, about every sixth year—we've fed you intravenously to keep you alive ... but there's a difference between being alive and not being hungry.”

  “So can I get something to eat?”

  “Not for a few days. We have to be sure your digestive system is functioning properly. A meal right now could kill you. As soon as you're moved to the hospital, we'll inject some proteins and carbohydrates directly into your bloodstream, enough to keep you going for a couple of days.”

  “Then what?”

  “The doctors perform their magic and eradicate all traces of eplasia from your system—and then, since you still look like something from a child's worst nightmare, you'll undergo a month or more of reconstructive cosmetic surgery.”

  “How soon before I'm out of here and on my own?”

  Egan shrugged. “That's up to you—two months, four months, a year, whatever it takes.”

  Nighthawk was silent for a moment. Then he spoke again: “There was another man last time you woke me.”

  “Yes,” answered Egan. “Marcus Dinnisen. Your attorney.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Who knows?”

  “I want to know. His firm is in charge of my money.”

  “Not any more. Your second clone sent five million credits back with Ito Kinoshita and instructed him to pay it directly to us as we required it, rather than to allow the money to pass through Mr. Dinnisen's law firm.”

  “Were they robbing me?”

  “I don't think so. It's just that your clone was not the most trusting soul I've ever encountered.” Suddenly Egan smiled. “We were able to imprint your personality and memories on him.”

  “Who is this Kinoshita?” asked Nighthawk. “I never heard of him.”

  “He trained your first clone. The second one didn't really require any training, but Kinoshita accompanied him on his mission.”

  “Is he still around?”

  “I believe so.”

  “And he's still got my money?”

  “No. He deposited it in his own bank with instructions that they were to continue making payments to us, and were to release whatever remained only to you after you were cured.”

  “He sounds like a good man,” said Nighthawk. “Pass the word that I want to see him after all this surgery is done.”

  “I'll contact him now. Your recovery will be a long, painful process. You could use a friend in the weeks to come.”

  “Just do what I said,” replied Nighthawk, fighting back a surge of nausea and dizziness.

  “Whatever you say.”

  “That's what I say.”

  “And now, if we have nothing further to discuss, I think it's time I transferred you to the hospital.”

  “Good,” said Nighthawk. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can do the two things I most want to do.”

  “What are they?” asked Egan curiously.

  “Eat without getting sick, and look in a mirror without flinching.”

  2.

  The small man entered the hospital room and walked to the foot of Nighthawk's bed. There were half a dozen tubes running into the old man's body, some dripping medication, some supplying nourishment, one delivering the recently-synthesized enzyme that would finally trigger the cure to his eplasia.

  “Who the hell are you?” demanded Nighthawk.

  “My name is Ito Kinoshita.”

  Nighthawk instinctively extended a hand, saw the bones of his knuckles protruding through the rotted skin, and pulled it back, hiding it beneath the light blanket tha
t covered him. “I'm told I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  Kinoshita shook his head. “It was a pleasure to work with you.” He paused. “Well, a version of you.”

  “You worked with both clones?”

  “Not really. All I did with the first one was train him as best I could, and then they sent him out alone.” Kinoshita frowned. “I warned them that he wasn't ready, but they wouldn't listen.”

  “Killed the first day out?” suggested Nighthawk.

  “No, he was you at age 23. He had your abilities, your instincts. Nobody could kill him.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Innocence. Ignorance. Hormones.” Kinoshita shrugged. “You name it.”

  “I don't understand,” said Nighthawk.

  “Physically he was 23. But in actuality he was two months old. He had your skills, but not your experience. He didn't know who to trust and who not to, he couldn't spot a woman who was using him or a man who was conning him, and it cost him his life. He lasted a lot longer than I thought he would—long enough to fulfill his mission—but he was doomed from the day they created him.”

  “If he did what he was supposed to do, why was there a second clone?”

  “Inflation,” answered Kinoshita. “The money the first clone was paid bought you two extra years, but it took longer to come up with the cure for your disease, and the planet's inflation rate is running at 22 percent. There was nothing in the initial agreement that allowed your attorneys to dip into capital, and the medics wouldn't give them permission to awaken you. When the interest could no longer pay the bills, that would be the end of it—so they had to accept another commission on your behalf or you'd have been turned out.”

  “Tell me about the second clone,” said Nighthawk. “You traveled with him?”

  “By the time they created him, they'd found a way to give him all your memories.” Kinoshita looked into the past and smiled. “There was never anything like him—except you, of course,” he added hastily. “I remember once he was surrounded by a couple of hundred angry men on a planet called Cellestra. All I could think of was that those men were in a lot more trouble than they realized.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I've no idea. If he survived, he was going to go out to the Rim.”

  “If he survived?”

  “We found a lot of evidence pointing to his death,” said Kinoshita. “But he was so ... so indestructible that I think he must have planted it to hide his tracks.”

  “And he gave you some money before that?”

  “More than ‘some',” answered Kinoshita. “It's been keeping you alive for almost three years. Once you're out of the hospital, what remains of the principal is entirely yours.”

  “What do I owe you for your services?”

  “I don't want anything. It was an honor to serve the Widowmaker.” He looked meaningfully at Nighthawk. “It will be again, if you'll let me.”

  “The Widowmaker's history,” said Nighthawk. “I'm a 62-year-old man who's been on ice for more than a century. I don't know what this era is like.”

  “Neither did your clone, sir—but he adjusted.”

  “He had a mission,” came the answer. “Me, I just want to enjoy being alive and healthy.”

  “What do you plan to do?”

  Nighthawk shrugged. “Probably find some quiet backwater world and buy a few acres. Get myself a wife. Maybe grow some flowers. Catch up on my reading.”

  “A man like you?” said Kinoshita. “I don't believe it.”

  “What you believe is of no concern to me. I've been dying for a century and a quarter, and suddenly I've been given life and some semblance of health. I plan to spend the remainder of my years reveling in that gift.”

  “Well, I'm sure you mean it now...”

  “You don't even know me,” said Nighthawk. “What do you think gives you an insight into my plans?”

  “I know you better than you think,” responded Kinoshita. “I spent months with your second clone. Physically he was in his late thirties, but he had all the memories you have now—or, rather, that you had prior to waking up this last time. His foibles, his personality, his mind—they were all yours. He wasn't just like you. He was you.” Kinoshita paused again. “And he had a partnership with Death the way most priests think they have with God. You may think you want flowers, but they're not for the Widowmaker.”

  “I told you...”

  “I know what you told me. But you're the best there is, maybe the best there ever was. You were never an outlaw. You were a lawman and a bounty hunter. The men you killed deserved to die, and you never broke the law. I don't think you can turn your back on your God-given talent. It might even be sinful to contemplate it.”

  “Mr. Kinoshita...” began Nighthawk.

  “Ito.”

  “Ito, then,” he continued. “I can barely hold a fork in my hand, let alone a Burner or a Screecher. The bathroom's maybe twelve feet from my bed; I can't walk to it without help. I've been talking to you for about ten minutes; it's probably the longest I've been able to stay awake since they unfroze me. Whatever talent I once had is gone, and a 62-year-old cripple with atrophied muscles isn't likely to get it back.”

  “You'll get it back,” said Kinoshita with total confidence. “After all, you're the Widowmaker.”

  “I've made enough widows for one lifetime,” said Nighthawk, leaning his head back on his pillow and closing his eyes. “I don't want to hear that word again.”

  “Whatever you say,” replied Kinoshita. He watched the old man's chest rising and falling rhythmically, then added softly: “But you can't stop being what you are.”

  3.

  Nighthawk wiped the sweat from his face without breaking stride.

  “Faster,” he said.

  The doctor looked up from the treadmill controls. “I think you've done enough for one day, Mr. Nighthawk.”

  “You heard me.”

  “But—”

  “Faster,” he repeated.

  The doctor shrugged and increased the speed. “The galaxy can wait an extra few weeks for the Widowmaker to make his reappearance,” she said. “You're pushing yourself too hard.”

  “If I can keep pace, then I'm not pushing too hard. And if I can't, I'll fall off the damned thing soon enough and then you can say that you told me so.”

  “But what's the rush?”

  “If you'd been lying flat on your back for a century, wouldn't you be in a hurry?” shot back Nighthawk.

  “It's not as if you're in some kind of a race,” she noted.

  “All my life I had certain physical skills,” said Nighthawk, forcing his legs to keep up with the treadmill. “During the past few years—make that the last few years before I submitted myself to the freezing process—I watched them desert me, one by one. I want them back.”

  “You're 62 years old. Surely you don't plan on being a bounty hunter again.”

  “I don't plan on ever firing another weapon again if I can help it.”

  “Then I don't see—”

  “I want to know that I can if I have to.”

  “Then you should be practicing at a target range, not a treadmill.”

  “I also used to walk for miles. Maybe I'll never walk further than from here to the front door of this place, but I'm not willing to give up that skill just because it's not vital to my existence. Why bother to read? You can live just as long without it. Why listen to music? It never increased anyone's lifespan.” He paused, as more sweat poured down his face. “I want to be Jefferson Nighthawk again, not just some undernourished ghost who's pretending to be him. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “Of course it does,” she responded. “But I still don't see why you can't become the Jefferson Nighthawk you used to be in easy, reasonable stages, rather than risk hurting yourself. You're not fit.”

  “Because I admire excellence,” said Nighthawk.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” she asked, confused. />
  “When I was the Widowmaker, I wasn't just a competent bounty hunter. I wasn't just good with my weapons. I was the best! I worked at what I did and what I was until I couldn't get any better. That's the way I'm made, and I won't settle for being anything less than the best 62-year-old Jefferson Nighthawk I can be.”

  “That's what I'm trying to help you be.”

  He shook his head, starting to pant from the exertion. “No. You're trying to help me be a reasonably fit and healthy old man. I'm trying to be Jefferson Nighthawk"—he gasped for breath—"and Jefferson Nighthawk doesn't settle.”

  “He may not settle, but he gets red in the face, and his blood pressure gets too high, and he gets tired,” said the doctor. “Let me turn off the treadmill.”

  “Don't touch it,” said Nighthawk in a voice that had convinced more than one outlaw that surrender was the better part of valor.

  “All right,” she said, walking to the door. “If I don't hear you fall off, I'll be back in five minutes.”

  “Ten,” he grated as she left.

  * * * *

  “I thought you were going to raise flowers,” remarked Kinoshita as he entered Nighthawk's room.

  “I am.”

  “So why are you lifting weights?”

  Nighthawk allowed himself the luxury of a smile. “You can never tell how deep the roots might be.”

  Kinoshita stared at the weights. “What are you up to now?”

  “40 pounds in each hand.”

  “Not bad.”

  “Not good.”

  “You've only been awake a month,” said Kinoshita. “They spent three weeks curing your eplasia, and you've already undergone the first of your cosmetic surgeries. Given what you've undergone just since they brought you back, I'm surprised you can lift five pounds in each hand, let alone 40.”

  “The last surgery is scheduled for five weeks from today,” said Nighthawk. “I plan to be in good enough shape to leave this place the day they finish.”

  “Are you talking about killing shape or walking-out shape?”

  “They're one and the same.”

  Kinoshita sat down and grinned.

  “What's so funny?” demanded Nighthawk.