The Widowmaker Unleashed: Volume 3 of the Widowmaker Trilogy Page 3

  They reached the vehicle. “Where to now?” asked Kinoshita.

  “Let's go home,” said Nighthawk. Suddenly he smiled. “Let's go home,” he said again.

  “What's so funny?”

  “I just realized that I've never had one before.” He looked down the road. “It's about time. Let's go home.” Then he nodded. “Yeah, I like the sound of it.”

  5.

  Knowing what a perfectionist the second clone had been, Kinoshita expected Nighthawk to spend weeks, perhaps months, of intensive effort on the house until it exactly suited his tastes, but instead the older man bought some nondescript furniture and paid no further attention to the interior, except to spend one afternoon building a set of bookcases.

  “No one reads books anymore,” protested Kinoshita as he watched Nighthawk carefully creating the shelves.

  “I do.”

  “That's silly. You can call up any book ever written on your computer.”

  “I don't have a computer.”

  “Then we'll buy one the next time we go into town.”

  “I don't like computers. I like the heft and feel and smell of a book.”

  “Do you know how much they cost?” demanded Kinoshita.

  “I've got thousands of them stashed all over the Frontier,” answered Nighthawk. “Damned near every place I've ever lived. I'll send for them one of these days.”

  “I think we'd better get you a computer anyway.”

  “Can it chop wood, or plant flowers, or light a fire?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I don't want it and I don't need it,” said Nighthawk decisively.

  “Don't you want to know what's going on in the galaxy?” asked Kinoshita.

  “Absolutely not. I'm retired, remember?”

  “Are you retired from bounty hunting or from life?”

  “A little of each, I think.”

  “You're getting into a rut.”

  “It's a rut I like.”

  And it was a pleasant enough rut. Every morning Nighthawk rose, forced himself to have breakfast—a meal he detested—and then spent the better part of an hour chopping wood. The house had both solar and nuclear heating systems, but Nighthawk enjoyed sitting by a fire, and he refused to sit in front of an artificial one.

  At least, that was the reason he gave, and it was probably a valid one—but Kinoshita also noticed that he was adding muscle to his spare frame almost daily.

  He also fetched a few gallons of water from the river each day, and Kinoshita knew that was to regain strength in his legs, since the house had three different water sources.

  In the afternoons he went out hunting. The first five days he came back empty-handed, but after that he never failed to bring back something for the pot. There were some large herbivores in the nearby woods, 500-pounders, but Nighthawk invariably brought home the amazingly quick, shifty little five-pound rabbit-like creatures that lived near the river. They made decent enough eating, but what it meant to Kinoshita was that the Widowmaker's aim and reflexes were back.

  “Not bad,” said Kinoshita, looking up from his most recent dinner. They took turns cooking, and this meal had been prepared by Nighthawk.

  “I like the sauce,” replied Nighthawk. “An Emran showed me how to make it, back on Silverdew.”

  “Still,” continued Kinoshita, “don't you get a little tired of eating the same thing every day?”

  “I ate the same thing every day for decades.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Soya products,” answered Nighthawk. “Oh, they all taste different, but they're essentially the same thing.” He paused. “You set foot on a couple of hundred different worlds with different gravities and atmospheres, your body has enough adjusting to do. There's no sense overloading it with alien food, too.”

  “You were a careful man.”

  “Careless young men don't live to be careless old men, not in my profession.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Soya food?”

  “No. Your profession.”

  Nighthawk shook his head. “Not at all.”

  “It doesn't make sense,” said Kinoshita. “You were the best there ever was.”

  “Oh, I doubt it.”

  “Who was better?”

  Nighthawk lowered his head in thought for a moment, then looked up. “They say there was nobody as good as Peacemaker MacDougal and the Angel. And whoever killed Conrad Bland back on Walpurgis III had to be pretty good, too, considering the odds.”

  “That was thousands of years ago!” protested Kinoshita.

  “I wasn't aware there was a time limit on being the best,” responded Nighthawk with a wry smile. “You know, there was a carnival performer—I don't know if he really existed—who was supposed to be the best shot who ever lived. Can't recall his name—Singer, Jumper, something like that.”

  “Billybuck Dancer?”

  “Yeah, that was it.”

  “I saw a statue of him, back on Kargennian II,” said Kinoshita. “It's covered with birdshit and graffiti, and part of it's crumbled away, but I could still make out the name at the base. Still, you can't help wondering how good he'd have been against something that could shoot back.”

  “Who knows?” answered Nighthawk. “Legend has it that he got killed in a gunfight.” He paused. “Of course, sooner or later we all do.”

  “Not you,” said Kinoshita adamantly.

  “Even me.”

  “Not a chance. I've seen you in action.”

  “You saw me at 23 and 38. I'm 62 now.”

  “I've been watching you get yourself into shape,” said Kinoshita. “You're almost ready.”

  Nighthawk shook his head. “You know the difference between a kid like Johnny Trouble and me? He's too young to know he can be killed. He never thinks about it. When he's in a fight, images of what could happen don't flash through his mind and make him pause. That's why all the killers out here are young. Once you realize that you can lose your life, you also start realizing just how precious it is. That makes you think, and thinking makes you hesitate, and you know what happens to he who hesitates.”

  “I spent months with your second clone,” said Kinoshita, unimpressed. “He was physically 38, but he had your memories. Mentally and emotionally he was 62. So why didn't he hesitate?”

  “You'd have to ask him.”

  “I'm asking you. It's the same thing.”

  “Not quite. He was in perfect health, and he knew that they'd develop the cure for eplasia before he was riddled with it.”

  “Apples and oranges,” protested Kinoshita. “He was 62 mentally, and he didn't hesitate.”

  “He had special knowledge.

  “What special knowledge?”

  “He knew that when he was in his 50s, he was still taking out 22-year-old kids. Very few 38-year-olds have the absolute knowledge that they won't lose a nanosecond off their reflexes for another decade or more.” Nighthawk sighed. “But I'm 62, and I've been frozen for a century, and half my skin is artificial, and I know I'll never again be what I was.”

  “Okay, I concede,” said Kinoshita. “But you still haven't really answered me: do you miss the excitement?”

  “Nothing very exciting about hunting down scum. You were a lawman. Did you find it exciting?”

  “No, but...”

  “But what?”

  “But I wasn't the Widowmaker.”

  “Well, I'm not either. I'm just Jefferson Nighthawk.”

  “I don't understand you at all. When you're the best at something...”

  “You know what I was the best at?” said Nighthawk irritably. “I was the best at scaring women and children. I'd walk down the street, and they'd see my skin flaking off in front of their eyes, my bones jutting through it, and I'd give them nightmares for months to come.” He paused. “After a while I started wearing gloves and a mask, so no one would have to see the effects of my disease. But word had gotten out. Young men didn't have to prove
how tough they were by going up against me; now they proved it by trying to steal my mask so they could look at my face without getting sick—and not a hell of a lot of them were able to.” Nighthawk's face twisted into a grimace as he paused for breath. “That's the Widowmaker's legacy—along with hundreds of terrified women and children, I could make strong men sick to their stomachs just by walking into a room.”

  “I'm sorry,” said Kinoshita. “I hadn't realized...”

  “It's all right,” replied Nighthawk. “It's over now. And so is the Widowmaker.”

  “What made you finally choose to freeze yourself?”

  “A doctor out on Binder X gave me six weeks to live, eight at the outside. I'd grown accustomed to scaring everyone who saw me, but I wasn't ready to die. He suggested that since I was sitting on a few million credits I check myself into the cryonics lab on Deluros VIII and wait for a cure. He thought it was maybe 40 years off; he was 72 years short. Must be one hell of a disease.”

  “It was.”

  “I hope my clone got cured.”

  “He had enough money. I'm sure he did.” Kinoshita paused. “Do you really plan to find him?”

  Nighthawk shook his head. “What for? If he wanted to see me, he'd have left word. He did what he was created to do. If he wants to create a new identity and be left alone, I'll honor his wishes.”

  Nighthawk got up, cleaned off the table, and went outside to sit on a rocking chair.

  “Lots of stars out tonight,” he remarked when Kinoshita finally joined him.

  Kinoshita looked up. “Lots of worlds.” He paused. “I'll bet some of them are pretty interesting.”

  “I've seen a lot of worlds,” said Nighthawk. “This one'll do as well as any.”

  “Are you just going to chop wood and hunt and fish all day, every day, forever?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Sounds boring as hell to me.”

  “Well, I'll be reading, too.”

  “How exciting.”

  “It's about all the excitement I can handle these days,” said Nighthawk with a smile.

  “And that's really all you plan to do?”

  “Well, I've been thinking of joining a church.”

  Kinoshita laughed out loud. “You? The man who's sent a couple of hundred men and aliens straight to hell?”

  “Yeah, me.”

  “Any particular religion?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then why join?” persisted Kinoshita.

  “Best place I can think of to meet a nice, middle-aged widow woman.”

  “You want to get married?”

  “I've lived alone all my life,” answered Nighthawk. “I can't see much to recommend it.”

  “Aren't you a little old to change?”

  Nighthawk shrugged. “Mankind adapts; that's what we do better than any other species.” He leaned back on his chair. “I might be a little old to be sporting a young man's passion, but that doesn't mean I don't want to spend my final years with someone I care for.” He paused and turned to his companion. “Nothing personal, but you aren't what I have in mind.”

  “I think I can live without being lusted after by the Widowmaker,” answered Kinoshita with a laugh. “But if I can ask: why a church?”

  “I've spent a lot of time in bars and drug dens and whorehouses and gambling parlors, and I haven't seen an awful lot of women my age in them.”

  “Did you ever consider marrying a young one?”

  Nighthawk shook his head. “Never once.”

  “Why not?”

  “It's annoying enough having to put up with your less-than-subtle hints that I should go back to being the Widowmaker. I don't need some 20-year-old wife looking for that same vicarious excitement.”

  “I'm not looking for vicarious excitement,” said Kinoshita defensively.

  “If you say so,” answered Nighthawk, closing his eyes and rocking gently in his chair.

  They sat in silence for almost half an hour. Then Kinoshita gently nudged him.

  “Jefferson!” he whispered. “There's a Nightkiller about 200 yards away, just beside that big tree.”

  “I know,” answered Nighthawk softly. “I've been watching him for about ten minutes now. Looks more canine than feline, despite the fact that it can climb trees.”

  “Do you want to borrow my Burner or my Screecher?” asked Kinoshita.

  “He's not bothering anyone,” said Nighthawk. “And I'm tired of killing.”

  The Nightkiller, alerted by the sound of their voices, glared at them for a moment, then slunk off into the darkness.

  “I hope he remembers you gave him a pass,” said Kinoshita.

  “He won't bother us.”

  “You think not?”

  “We're not native to this world. He doesn't recognize us as prey.”

  “He may recognize you as a competitor,” suggested Kinoshita.

  “There's food enough for all of us.”

  “He's only an animal. He may not be able to reason it out.”

  “Then I'll worry about it when the time comes.”

  Kinoshita looked at the old man, who had closed his eyes again and was rocking gently in his chair.

  You were the greatest. I suppose if you want to spend the rest of your life stuck on this backwater world, that's not too much to ask, given all that you've accomplished. Who am I to insist that you keep bucking the odds until they finally catch up with you? I won't call you Widowmaker again.

  6.

  Kinoshita was awakened the next morning by the sound of the older man chopping wood.

  “Good morning,” said Nighthawk as Kinoshita stepped outside, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun.

  “You didn't wake me for breakfast.”

  “We'll eat in town. I've got some supplies to buy.”

  “Supplies?”

  “Spices for the kitchen, seeds for the garden. Maybe a couple of new tunics; the ones I've got are getting a bit tight in the shoulders.”

  “Let me shave and shower and I'll be right with you.”

  “Tell you what,” said Nighthawk. “I can use a little exercise.” He buried his ax in a tree stump. “I'll start walking. You can pick me up along the way.”

  “Whatever you say,” answered Kinoshita, idly wondering how many men Nighthawk's age could chop wood for an hour and then walk five miles into town.

  Kinoshita took a long, leisurely, hot shower, atomized the hairs on his face, had a quick cup of coffee, and then set out for town in their vehicle. He caught up with Nighthawk after four miles.

  “I thought maybe you'd gone back to sleep,” said the older man as he climbed onto the passenger's seat.

  “You said you wanted some exercise,” replied Kinoshita defensively. He looked over. “Your shirt's drenched. I didn't think you could work up that kind of a sweat from walking along a tree-shaded dirt road.”

  “Actually, I jogged for a couple of miles.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah.” A guilty smile. “I didn't want anyone to see me in case I couldn't make it.”

  “You're getting into shape, no question about it,” said Kinoshita. “Forgive me for asking, but just what are you getting into shape for?”

  “I depended on my body for half a century, and it never betrayed me, never let me down,” answered Nighthawk. “I never worried about stamina, or overweight, or blood pressure, or diabetes, or anything else. Then it proved as frail as everyone else's, and now that I've got a second chance, I plan to keep it in as good a condition as I can.” He looked across at Kinoshita. “That's it. No hidden agenda, no secret goal. I've been deathly ill; now I just want to stay healthy.”

  “No argument,” came the answer. “I just wonder, since you're becoming such a fanatic on the subject, why you haven't nagged me to get in better shape?”

  “Your health is your own business, not mine.”

  “Now that sounds like the Nighthawk I used to know,” said Kinoshita in satisfied tones.


  “No reason why it shouldn't. We're the same.”

  They entered the town, and came to a stop in front of a farm supply store.

  “You need me to help you carry anything?” asked Kinoshita as Nighthawk climbed out. The older man merely stared at him. “Sorry. Silly question.”

  Nighthawk entered the store and began looking at various displays.

  “Morning, Mr. Nighthawk,” said the clerk.

  “Good morning, Jacob.”

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  “Maybe. There's a brilliant yellow flower that grows on Greenwillow.”

  “Greenwillow?” repeated Jacob. “Give me a sec.” He activated his computer. “Greenwillow.”

  “Greenwillow,” repeated the machine. “Official name: Sunderman II. Location: the Inner Frontier.”

  “All right, Sunderman II. Yellow flower. Show me what you've got.”

  Holograms of fourteen flowers, all yellow, appeared in the air above the computer.

  “Is it any of these, Mr. Nighthawk?” asked Jacob.

  “Third from the left,” answered Nighthawk. Jacob pointed to one. “No, my left.”

  “Okay, got it.” Jacob uttered a brief command to the computer, read a screen, and looked up. “The local name for it is the Sunspot.”

  “Right,” said Nighthawk. “That's it. How soon can you get me some?”

  “How many?”

  “Four or five dozen.”

  “First let me check and make sure it can survive in our soil.” He spoke briefly to the machine. “Yes, it can take our gravity and soil. The atmosphere's no problem; neither is the water.” He paused as more information appeared. “They're perennials, but a freeze, even a mild one, will wipe ‘em out.”

  “Order them.”

  “Don't you want to know what the price is, Mr. Nighthawk?” asked Jacob.

  “I'm sure you won't jack it up,” said Nighthawk. “Just bill my account.”

  “All right. They'll be here in about a week. Can I help you with anything else?”

  “Not today. I've still got to get over to the grocer's and then meet my friend.”

  “By the way, I saw Johnny Trouble walking around this morning,” said the clerk. “I'd be careful. He seems to have taken a real dislike to you.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” said Nighthawk.