by Mike Resnick
“I'll go to the one that cured you.”
Nighthawk shook his head. “That's on Deluros, and we can't know that Egan and his friend have kept their silence. You're illegal, remember?” Nighthawk paused in thought. “No, go to a world named Safe Harbor. I've never been there, but I'm told that they've got a hell of a medical facility—and that they have no use for the Oligarchy. If they find out you're a clone, they'll probably work all the harder to keep you alive.”
“How come you didn't use it?” asked Jeff.
“There was no cure back then. I had to go to Deluros VIII to get frozen and wait for a cure.”
“Okay, I'll watch for it. Just a simple rash, right?”
“Right.”
Nighthawk leaned back comfortably on his chair. “Okay, it's finally done.”
“What is?”
“Your education. That was the last thing I had to tell you.”
“I'll be leaving in the morning,” said Jeff. “Will you and Sarah and Ito be staying here after I leave?”
“I don't think so,” said Nighthawk. “It's really not much of a world. I think we'll try settling on Tallgrass. They say it's a lot prettier.”
“I'll check in with you from time to time.”
“Please do. I'd like to keep up with who I've killed recently.”
31.
Tallgrass was pretty and green and temperate, with a pair of Tradertowns, a handful of farms, one large gold mine, and not much else. They bought a small home a few miles out from the larger Tradertown.
Nighthawk and Sarah spent a month remodeling it and putting it in order, while Kinoshita traveled to Nelson 23 with the clone, who captured three of the four Jimana Sisters while killing the fourth.
“You know,” said Sarah when they had finished working on the house, “I think I'm going to like this world even better than Tumbleweed.”
“You're supposed to,” replied Nighthawk. “That's why we moved here.”
“You know what it doesn't have?” she continued. “A restaurant.”
“You don't have to work,” said Nighthawk. “I've still got a couple of million credits left, and nothing to spend it on.”
“Look,” she said, “you spent your whole life hunting down killers and rapists and the like, and now you want to rest. That's fine. But I enjoy working, and I'm good at what I do.”
“I didn't say you couldn't work,” replied Nighthawk quickly. “I said you didn't have to. I don't own you; you're free to do whatever you want to do. If you want to start a restaurant, start one. I'll be your best customer.”
“Good. There's an empty storefront in town. I want to take a look at it. If there's room in the back for a kitchen, it's just about the right size.”
“All right,” said Nighthawk. “Let's go take a look at it.”
They drove down the winding dirt road to the Tradertown and parked in front of the empty building.
“The realtor gave me the entry code,” said Sarah, walking up to the door and uttering a seven-digit number. The door irised, and the two of them walked into the storefront.
“It looks smaller than the one you had on Tumbleweed,” remarked Nighthawk.
“It is,” she replied. “But I had an oversized kitchen there. I can accomplish the same here with half the space. Then, if we break through this wall"—she indicated the wall in question—"we could have, let me see, oh, probably six tables for two, four or five for four, and one for six. And of course we could push them together for larger parties.” She began walking around the empty room. “Let's see. We'll need public restrooms, and they'll take up some space, and—”
A single shot rang out, and the plate glass front window shattered.
Nighthawk raced across the room and unceremoniously threw Sarah to the floor as a laser beam burned a hole in the wall directly behind where she had been standing.
“What's happening?” she asked, confused.
“Quiet!” he whispered. “And don't move.”
Ten more bullets ripped into the walls, and a pair of laser beams began sweeping the room at waist height.
“Who is it?” demanded Sarah. “Nobody here knows us. There must be some mistake!”
“People don't shoot at me by mistake,” muttered Nighthawk, slithering across the glass-covered floor on his stomach.
He raised his head a few inches, then ducked as one of the lasers sought him out.
“Come on out, Widowmaker!” yelled a voice. “We know you're in there!”
“Sarah, can you get to the back door?”
She nodded.
“Do it,” instructed Nighthawk. “But don't go out, just in case there are more of them waiting back there for us. Let me know when you've made it and I'll join you.”
Sarah crawled to the rear entrance, and Nighthawk got there a moment later.
“What now?”
“We're dead meat if we stay here,” he said. “Those lasers will have the place in flames in another minute.” He pulled out his own burner. “I'm going out first. If you don't hear my gun hum, count to five and come out after me.”
“And if I do hear shooting?”
He withdrew his Screecher and handed it to her. “Then do the best you can.” He paused. “I don't think they're back there, though, or there'd have been gunfire from that direction too. If no one's waiting for us out back, hide in the first building you come to.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What I thought I was all through doing,” he said bitterly.
He edged out the back door, burner in hand. She waited, didn't hear the hum of burners firing, and followed him. No one shot at her, and she headed off to her right, while he began moving left in a crouching trot, keeping to the shadows of buildings wherever he could.
When he'd gone to the end of the block, he sneaked a look back and saw that the building was indeed in flames. Three men were standing in the street in front of it, two armed with burners, one with a bullet gun, obviously waiting for him to come running out of the smoking storefront.
Nighthawk edged around the corner. He was perhaps forty yards from them now, and they still hadn't seen him. He saw frenzied activity at the far end of the Tradertown, some three blocks away, and knew he'd have to move quickly before the firefighters ran head-first into the three would-be killers.
Nighthawk fired his burner, and one of the three men dropped to the ground. The other two turned to face him, and he fired again. The man with the bullet gun spun around, his gun flying into the burning building, then fell to his knees, blood gushing out of his midsection.
The third man hastily fired at Nighthawk and missed. Nighthawk burned his gun hand away, then melted his burner where it lay on the street before he could reach it with his remaining hand.
“Who are you?” demanded Nighthawk coldly. “What do you want from me?”
“We came to kill you, you bastard!” grated the man with one hand.
“You made a mistake,” said Nighthawk coldly. “I'm not the Widowmaker. He's off hunting scum like you.”
“Fuck him!” spat the man. “You're the one who killed our brother on Bolingbroke!”
“Bolingbroke?” repeated Nighthawk. “That's what this is about?”
“We know you've come back from wherever you were hiding all those years. You've killed people all over the Frontier, and now you think you can hide from us by letting some other guy call himself the Widowmaker! Well, it's not going to work! You're a dead man!” The man reached into a pocket for a tiny pistol, and Nighthawk fired and killed him before he could bring it into play.
The man who had been kneeling suddenly fell over on his side, also dead.
“Shit!” muttered Nighthawk. “I created a Widowmaker, gave him my genes and my skill and my name, and sent him out to take my place.” He stared disgustedly at the three corpses. “This wasn't supposed to happen!”
32.
Nighthawk sat in a bar on Keepsake, a grubby little Frontier world. He'd been there for two hours,
silent, sullen, unwilling to speak to any of the men and women around him.
As he was downing yet another drink, there was a commotion at the doorway.
“He killed Red Devil Korbite!” exclaimed one of the men.
“I'm buying for the house,” said a familiar voice. “To law and order—may it always be short-handed and in need of bounty hunters!”
Nighthawk looked up. “I was in need of a bounty hunter last week,” he said, slurring his words slightly. “Where the hell were you?”
Jeff entered the tavern and approached Nighthawk. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you. I heard Korbite was on Keepsake.”
“He was. I'll buy you a drink to celebrate his timely demise.”
“I don't give a shit what you're celebrating,” said Nighthawk. “Sarah was almost killed last week.”
Jeff's demeanor was instantly serious. “She was? Is she all right?”
“She's all right.”
“Who did it? I'll take care of—”
“I already took care of them,” said Nighthawk.
“Good. Then it's over.”
“It's not over,” said Nighthawk bitterly. “It's never over. I created you, and they're still coming after me.”
“I thought you said they were after her.”
“She was with me,” said Nighthawk. “Not the safest place to be these days.”
“I'm sorry to hear about it,” said Jeff, “but what do you expect me to do?”
“I want you back on—” Nighthawk stopped, suddenly aware of the crowd. “I want you back on my new world, and I want you to stay there until I know no one else is looking for me.”
“Don't be ridiculous. That could take years!”
“You're a young man. You've got years to spare.”
“I've got more important things to do.”
“I created you!” snapped Nighthawk. “I'm your goddamned god! What's more important than protecting me?”
“How many men have you killed since they woke you up?” shot back Jeff. “You can protect yourself.”
“I don't have to protect myself. That's what you're for!”
“I'm not a fucking puppet!” yelled Jeff. “I'm my own man. You don't pull my strings!”
“Listen, kid,” said Nighthawk, “I created you, and I can un-create you.”
Jeff laughed contemptuously. “Are you threatening me, old man?”
“You bet your ass I'm threatening you. I'm not going to have Sarah killed, or be assassinated myself, because you're too busy chasing glory and big rewards. Everything you are you owe to me. That ought to be worth a little loyalty.”
Suddenly the young man stared sharply at Nighthawk. “How long have you been drinking?”
“None of your business.”
“I thought you could hold your liquor,” said Jeff. “I guess I was wrong. You're not making any sense.”
“You think it makes sense to turn your back on Sarah and me when I tell you we need you?”
“Look,” said Jeff soothingly. “We can work this out. You're drunk now, and not thinking clearly. You can sleep it off in my ship, and we'll talk in the morning.”
“I don't want your ship or your sympathy!” said Nighthawk. “I just want you to remember who put you here and who you owe for it!”
“I'm sorry you got old, and I'm sorry you've made enemies—but they go with the territory. There'll be people wanting to kill Jefferson Nighthawk as long as Jefferson Nighthawk's alive. Why don't you take a new name and maybe get a new face? It wouldn't be the first time someone's done that,” he added meaningfully.
“I've spent enough of my time in hospitals. I just want to spend the rest of it in peace.”
“Then go where they can't find you,” Jeff shot back. “But don't drag me into it. You created me for a purpose, and I'm fulfilling it.”
“The hell you are.”
“I'm here to bring in the worst of the bad guys, the ones no one else can take—not to protect a broken-down old man whose past is starting to catch up with him.”
“So that's what you think I am—a broken-down old man?”
“Look, I'm sorry I said it, okay?” said Jeff. “Just back off and calm down.”
“This is a broken-down old man who taught you everything you know, and can still take you in a fair fight.”
“Fine,” said Jeff. “You can take me. Now try to calm down.”
“Don't you give me orders!” bellowed Nighthawk. Before Jeff could react, he reached out and landed a heavy right to the young man's jaw.
Jeff fell to the floor, rolled once, and came up with guns in both hands. He found himself looking down the barrel of Nighthawk's burner.
“Put ‘em back where you got ‘em,” said Nighthawk. “Very slowly.”
Jeff did as he was ordered.
“If you want to pull ‘em out again, just say the word and we'll step out into the street.”
“I don't want to kill you,” said the young man. “You're like a father to me. More than a father.”
“Funny,” said Nighthawk. “You don't feel like a son to me.”
“I'm sorry about that.”
“You come back with me or you're going to be a lot sorrier.”
“What the hell,” said Jeff. “If it means that much to you...”
“It does.”
“Then I'll come.” He extended his hand. “Friends again?”
“Why not?” agreed Nighthawk, taking the young man's hand.
Jeff instantly pulled, twisted, and threw all his weight behind it. Nighthawk flew through the air and landed heavily on his back. He tried to reach for his burner, but Jeff was too quick for him, and planted his foot on the older man's right hand.
“You're drunk,” said Jeff, pointing a Screecher at him. “That's the only reason I'm letting you live.” He squatted down and removed Nighthawk's burner. “I know you always keep a knife in each boot. Reach for either of them and I'll blow both of your legs away.”
Nighthawk glared at him, but said nothing.
“All right,” continued Jeff. “Now I want you to listen very carefully to me, old man, because I'm only going to say this once. I'm the Widowmaker. If you ever try to give me orders again, I'll kill you. If you try to publicly humiliate me again the way you did today, I'll kill you. If you follow me, I'll kill you. Do you understand?”
Nighthawk still made no reply.
“I'm leaving now,” said Jeff. “I'm going out after Consuela Blood, and if you're here when I get back, I'll kill you.”
He stepped away, tucked Nighthawk's burner into his belt, and backed toward the door as Nighthawk slowly got to his feet.
“You're going to regret that,” said the older man.
“Just remember what I said,” replied Jeff. “If you're still here, I'll kill you.”
“I'll be waiting,” promised Nighthawk.
33.
The clone returned to Keepsake nine days later, with Consuela Blood's preserved body in his cargo hold. Even before he left the landing field—no one would dignify the little strip of barren ground by calling it a spaceport—he noticed the crowd.
“What's going on?” he asked one of the bystanders who lined his way to the tavern.
“Everyone's here to see the shoot-out.”
“What shoot-out?”
“You and the old man,” replied another member of the crowd.
“Nighthawk?” replied Jeff. “He's sobered up and gone home by now.”
“The hell he has. He's waiting for you, just like he said he would.”
“That's suicidal,” said Jeff, never slowing his pace as he approached the tavern. “I'm everything he used to be. He hasn't got a chance.”
“He thinks he has.”
“He was drunk. Once his brain starts working, he'll realize that there's only one way it could end.”
“I'm telling you, he's waiting for you.”
“How could he be that—?”
The young man b
roke off in mid-sentence as Nighthawk stepped out into the street.
“Why aren't you home with Sarah?”
“I've got business here,” said Nighthawk.
“Have you been drinking again?”
“Not a drop.”
Jeff frowned. “You remember what I said I'd do if you were still here?”
“I remember,” said Nighthawk.
“It doesn't have to be like this. I still owe you something. You can leave right now, and I won't stop you.”
“The Widowmaker doesn't cut and run from anyone.”
“You're not the Widowmaker any more,” said Jeff. “I am.”
“I say the survivor is,” said Nighthawk, crouching as he pulled out his burner.
He was fast, almost as fast as he'd been a century ago—but the clone was faster. Jeff fired his Screecher once, and Nighthawk literally flew back through the air, landed with a thud, and lay still.
Jeff walked over and looked down at the old man. Blood gushed out of his nostrils and ears, and his face was already miscolored where dozens of tiny veins had burst under the onslaught of solid sound.
Finally Jeff looked up at the crowd.
“You all saw it,” he said. “He went for his weapon first. It was self defense.”
“More than that,” mused an elderly bystander. “It was inevitable.”
34.
Sarah and Kinoshita picked up the body and took it back to Tallgrass for burial. And when they brought it home, instead of taking it to the cemetery where the headstone was already planted, they laid it on its bed and kept watch over it.
Finally, after two days, an eyelid flickered.
“Where am I?” whispered Nighthawk.
“You're home,” said Sarah.
“I can't hear you.”
“You're home!” Sarah half-shouted.
“God, I feel awful.”
“You should feel awful,” said Kinoshita, raising his voice. “You were nailed by a Screecher at near-fatal force.”