by Mike Resnick
He got into the vehicle and took off for town. He decided not to park at his office—there was no sense announcing his identity to whoever might be looking for him—so he parked well past the Sand Castle and began walking slowly down the street. He looked into the restaurant to see if the men who had so frightened Sarah were there, but there was just a pair of elderly women having tea.
Finally he walked to Tavern Row, a stretch of the street that held three taverns in a row, and looked into the first. Things seemed pretty dull—a few drinkers, a couple of men and a Canphorite playing jabob. The second tavern hadn't even opened for business yet.
He walked into the third, which was relatively crowded for this early in the day, and saw two elegantly-tailored gray-clad men standing at the bar, each wearing tight-fitting custom-made gloves. Even though they were motionless, there was a certain grace about them, a potential that was immediately evident.
Nighthawk walked to a table, sat down, ordered a beer off the holographic menu, and studied the two men.
“Your name Nighthawk?” asked one of the men, staring at him in the mirror behind the bar.
“That's right.”
“Then I insist that you let us pick up the tab for that beer.”
“Whatever makes you happy,” answered Nighthawk.
“I think it'd make us happy to join you at your table.”
“Be my guest.”
“Thanks. We will.”
The two men walked over and sat down on each side of him.
“I'm Mr. Dark,” said the one who had been speaking. “This is my friend, Mr. Night.”
“Night and Nighthawk,” offered Mr. Night. “Maybe we're related.”
“Anything's possible.”
“No, there are certain things that aren't possible,” said Mr. Night. “Would you like an example?”
“If you insist.”
“It's not possible that you can survive a fight with us.”
“If you say so.”
“You're allowed to disagree,” said Mr. Dark, dabbing at his mouth with a silk handkerchief. “In fact, you could come out into the street and disagree with us right now, if you're so inclined.”
Nighthawk held his arms out from his body. “I certainly can't survive a fight while I'm unarmed.”
“I've heard stories that you're just as good without a weapon.”
“I might have been once, but that was a long time ago. You wouldn't get much pleasure giving a beating to a feeble old man like me.”
“No one else in this town seems to think you're all that feeble.”
“That's because they hope you'll come after me instead of them,” said Nighthawk with a smile.
“And that's just what we've done.”
“I can't imagine why.”
“Surely you're kidding!” said Mr. Dark.
“Not at all,” said Nighthawk. “If you win, they'll say you can kill a tired old man, and if you lose, they'll say you can't. Either way, what good will it do you?”
“I have a feeling that Mr. Nighthawk doesn't take us seriously, Mr. Dark,” said Mr. Night.
“Perhaps he needs a demonstration, Mr. Night,” suggested Mr. Dark.
Before Nighthawk could respond, they had each whipped out their burners and melted off the tops of some fifty bottles of bar stock without their beams of deadly light hitting anything else or doing any damage to the rest of the place. The entire demonstration took less than two seconds from start to finish.
“What do you think, Mr. Nighthawk?” asked Mr. Dark as customers who had thrown themselves to the floor began getting up and looking around, trying to figure out exactly what had happened.
“I think we'll probably have to add all that to your bar bill.”
“He's still not taking us seriously, Mr. Night,” said Mr. Dark.
“I suppose the only way to get his attention is to break some laws, Mr. Dark,” replied his companion.
“Or possibly kill a friend or two of his,” agreed Mr. Dark. He turned to Nighthawk. “I wonder: Does a man like you have any friends?”
“Not many,” admitted Nighthawk. “But you know that. It goes with the territory.”
“True,” answered Mr. Dark.
“Just out of curiosity, who sent you?” asked Nighthawk.
“No one,” said Mr. Night.
“Then why are you here?” continued Nighthawk. “What did I ever do to you?”
“You got here first.”
Nighthawk nodded thoughtfully. “Good answer.”
“I'm glad you approve,” said Mr. Night. “Perhaps you'll show your appreciation by taking us up on our offer.”
“Not right now.”
“Sooner or later you'll have to, you know,” said Mr. Dark.
“Later, I think.”
“If you're frightened, you might consider calling just one of us out,” said Mr. Night. “Either one of us. It makes no difference.”
“Will the other want to give up all credit for killing the Widowmaker?” asked Nighthawk.
“We're a team, Mr. Nighthawk,” said Mr. Dark. “We share in all things.”
“That must startle your ladyfriends from time to time,” suggested Nighthawk.
“We don't have any ladyfriends.”
“Oh?”
“Like I said, we're a team. Each of us is all the other needs.”
Mr. Night stared at Nighthawk. “I think he disapproves of us, Mr. Dark.”
“Probably, Mr. Night,” agreed Mr. Dark. He turned to Nighthawk. “The cemeteries are filled with men who disapproved of us.”
“I don't doubt it,” said Nighthawk. His hand, which had been resting on his knee, slipped gently down to the top of his boot, where his knife was concealed. He considered pulling it out, but knew he wasn't fast enough to kill them both, or probably even one, before they shot him, not even with the element of surprise in his favor. When he was 20, or 30, he'd have tried; at 40, probably ... but not now.
They didn't frighten him the way they terrified Sarah. He'd been dealing with men like this all his life. He wasn't afraid to face them, and he wasn't afraid to die—but he couldn't see any reason to throw his life away, and he knew that's what he'd be doing if he took them on. He would never admit it to them, but their demonstration of their skills had been that impressive. In his youth he might have been the tiniest fraction of a second faster, the slightest degree more accurate ... but his youth was farther in the past than most men's, and he was realist enough to know that he couldn't take Mr. Dark or Mr. Night today, not even if he were armed and facing them on his own terms.
“I suppose we could try to humiliate him in front of all the people here who seem to worship him,” said Mr. Dark.
“I don't know,” replied Mr. Night. “Mr. Nighthawk strikes me as a man who has no quality of shame. I don't think he can be humiliated.”
“Perhaps you're right,” agreed Mr. Dark. “Of course, we'll never know until we try.”
“He is the only lawman on Tumbleweed,” noted Mr. Night. “Maybe we should break some laws and see what happens.”
“He'd probably have to arrest us,” said Mr. Dark.
“Really?” said Mr. Night, pulling out his Screecher and aiming it at the huge mirror behind the bar. He pulled the trigger and the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces. “You mean he might want to arrest me for something as innocent and fun-loving as that?”
“You never can tell,” said Mr. Dark as pandemonium ensued and the bartender and all the customers fled into the street.
“He hasn't arrested me yet,” said Mr. Night. “Maybe if I shot some innocent bystanders...”
“Oh, I don't think that will be necessary, will it, Mr. Nighthawk?” said Mr. Dark. “I think you'll go home, confront your demons, and face us later today, won't you?”
“I'd say it's a pretty strong possibility,” said Nighthawk.
“I think it would be a good idea,” continued Mr. Dark. “Because as you may well have guessed, we do have ways of gettin
g the locals to tell us where you live. If we have to go to the trouble of seeking you out at your home, we'll probably be in such a foul mood that we'll burn it down and kill anyone who runs out of it.”
“We mean anyone beside yourself, of course,” added Mr. Night.
“Just out of curiosity, did you two burn down a house I had back on Churchill II?” asked Nighthawk.
“Someone has appropriated our methods?” said Mr. Dark, feigning shock. “I'm appalled.”
“Of course it wasn't us,” said Mr. Night. “The proof of it is that you're still alive.”
Nighthawk got to his feet. “I assume you're not going anywhere?”
“Not until we do what we came here to do,” answered Mr. Dark.
“I'll see you later, then.”
“May I ask a question?”
“Be my guest.”
“Why did you come here unarmed?”
“I like to scout out the opposition,” said Nighthawk.
“And?”
“And now that I know I can beat you,” he lied, “I'm going home to get my weapons.”
For just a moment Mr. Dark looked unsure of himself. “Maybe we should kill you now.”
“Maybe,” agreed Nighthawk. “But you won't. How would it sound—two amateurs shoot down the king when he's not armed?”
“Leave,” said Mr. Night. “We'll be waiting for you.”
Nighthawk walked to the door, then out into the street and toward his vehicle. When he reached it he entered it and drove it to Sarah's house, where Sarah and Kinoshita were waiting for him.
“I half-expected never to see you again,” she said.
“I told you I'd be back.”
“I contacted Ito and asked him to come out here. I hope that if I can't talk you into leaving, maybe he can.”
“I've checked them out,” said Kinoshita. “They hire out as a team. They've killed 38 men between them.”
“I can believe that,” said Nighthawk. “They're pretty good. Almost as good as I used to be.” He smiled wryly. “They gave me a demonstration.”
“Can you take them?”
“Not a chance.”
“Can we take them?” persisted Kinoshita.
Nighthawk shook his head. “Don't come back with me. You'd just be cannon fodder.”
“Well, if you know you can't beat them, let's get the hell off the planet,” said Sarah.
Nighthawk looked at her for a long moment. “I'm tired of running. It's not my nature.”
“But you admit they'll kill you.”
“If I run, they'll just shoot up Tumbleweed. A lot of innocent people will die.”
“The hell they will,” said Sarah. “They want you, not Tumbleweed.”
“Look,” he said. “I'm not anxious to die. I've avoided fights before for what I thought were good reasons, and I wish I could avoid this one—but if I run, they'll follow me to the next world. And if they don't, then just about the time we build a house and decide to stay, someone just as deadly will show up. I want to live in peace, but I've already deserted Churchill and Pondoro; I'm not going to keep running the rest of my life. I had hoped I could live another twenty or thirty years, but if I can't, I can't. I've lived with Death for a long time; I'm not afraid of it. And who knows? Maybe they're not as good as they think, and maybe I'm better than you think.”
He stared defiantly at Sarah. From somewhere behind him he heard Kinoshita's voice mutter “Jefferson, I'm sorry!” but before he could turn around, a gun barrel came down hard on his head, and he fell, unconscious, to the floor.
21.
Nighthawk opened his eyes, saw three Sarahs standing in front of him, and closed them again.
“He's awake,” he heard her say.
“Good,” said Kinoshita. “For a minute there I was afraid I'd done him some real harm.”
Nighthawk re-opened his left eye and was able to focus it just enough to see that he was inside his spaceship.
“What the hell happened?” he mumbled, trying to get to his feet, only to find that he was bonded to a chair.
“I saved your life,” said Kinoshita. “Of course, you may not view it that way, so I thought it might be best to restrain you until I could explain.”
“What did you hit me with?” asked Nighthawk. “It felt like a piano.”
“The barrel of a laser rifle,” said Kinoshita. “Good thing you're a rich man. That was a damned valuable weapon that will never work again.”
“Here,” said Sarah, placing a small pill in his mouth and holding a cup of water to his lips. “Swallow.”
Nighthawk did as she said, and found, to his amazement, that his pain subsided and his vision cleared within half a minute.
“Better?” she asked.
He nodded, half expecting the motion to set off new agonies within his skull, but there was no discomfort.
“Okay,” said Kinoshita, uttering a code that released the bonds. “You're free now.”
“Why did you do it?” asked Nighthawk, tenderly touching the lump on the back of his head.
“You were about to commit suicide, remember?”
“I might have won.”
“We both know you wouldn't have.”
“It makes no difference,” snapped Nighthawk. “You had no right—” He stood up, was overcome by alternating waves of nausea and dizziness, and collapsed back onto his chair.
“Careful,” said Kinoshita. “That was a hell of a concussion. It'd be a good idea not to make any sudden movements for the next couple of days.”
Nighthawk was silent for a moment, until the dizziness passed.
“Where are we heading?” he asked.
“I don't know,” answered Kinoshita. “As soon as I make sure that your two friends aren't on our tail, we can discuss a location.”
“You just tell us where to drop you,” said Nighthawk. “We'll take it from there.”
“No chance,” said Kinoshita firmly. “We're partners, remember?”
“The hell we are. Partners don't whack partners with rifle barrels.”
“That's some fucking gratitude after I stop you from getting your damned head blown off,” said Kinoshita.
“Gratitude be damned,” said Nighthawk. “You've been skirting the subject ever since I got out of the hospital, and now I want a straight answer or we part ways. Why have you attached yourself to me?”
Kinoshita stared at him for a long moment, trying to make up his mind.
“All right,” he said at last. “I made a promise.”
“To who?”
“To the Widowmaker.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Nighthawk. “I'm the Widowmaker.”
“You weren't when I made it.”
“Explain.”
“It was on Pericles, just after your second clone killed Cassius Hill,” said Kinoshita. “He gave me the money that would keep you alive.”
“I know that.”
“There was more, though. He knew you'd be an old man, and possibly a sick one—certainly one who was a century out of date. He asked me to watch over you, and I promised him that I would.”
“Bullshit.”
“I swear it's the truth.”
“He had to know that even at 62 I could take you without drawing a deep breath. There's no way he would have asked you to protect me.”
“I didn't say protect,” shot back Kinoshita. “I trained the first clone, and I fought for the second. I've done whatever you've asked me to do. I serve the Widowmaker; this little incident on Tumbleweed is one of the very few times any of you have needed protection.” He paused. “Now that the clone has changed his face and his name, and you're back on the Frontier, you're the Widowmaker again, and you're the man to whom I owe my allegiance.”
“Are you in touch with this clone?”
“Not directly. I leave messages at a blind electronic address. I assume he picks them up.”
Nighthawk sat in silence, considering what he'd heard. Finally he looked a
t Kinoshita and spoke: “You serve the Widowmaker?”
“That's right.”
“And that's me?”
“Yes.”
“Then I want you to contact my clone and tell him that if he's not willing to be the Widowmaker any more, you're through leaving messages for him.”
“But—”
“If he's not the Widowmaker and I am, then your loyalty is to me, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then tell him you're all through sending messages. Wherever we wind up, I don't want anyone to know, not even him.”
“You insist?”
“I do.” He turned to Sarah. “Did you know about this?”
“No,” she replied. “I'm as surprised as you are.”
He looked at Kinoshita. “Okay, make up your mind: are you serving me or him?”
“Despite your frequent protestations to the contrary, you're the Widowmaker again. I'm your man.”
“Tell him I ordered you to cut off communications. No sense having him blame you for it.”
Kinoshita nodded in assent.
“Maybe he'll seek you out himself, now that he can't keep tabs on you through Ito,” suggested Sarah.
“He won't.”
“How do you know?”
“It's difficult to explain,” said Nighthawk. “Without me, there'd be no him. The reverse isn't true. I don't mind the thought of meeting him; he's very much like a son from my viewpoint. But from his, I'm almost a god; he was created in my image, with my memories, for the sole purpose of keeping me alive. That was his mission, his only reason for existence.” He sighed and shook his head. “No, he won't want to meet me in person.” He glanced at Kinoshita. “Will he?”
“No, he absolutely refuses.” Suddenly he smiled. “You should be grateful that he's the one I'm in contact with.”
“Why?”
“I'm told the first clone was less religious, so to speak. He wanted to kill you.”
“Still why?”
Kinoshita shrugged. “I don't know. My guess is that he felt like a shadow, or a surrogate, and the only way he could feel like a true human being was to be the only Nighthawk.”
“That doesn't make sense. I can see why the second clone feels the way he does, but even when I was a young man, I don't think I was as stupid as you make the first clone sound.”