by Mike Resnick
“You know why I'm here?” responded Kinoshita.
“I haven't the slightest idea.”
“The doctors are afraid you're going to work yourself to the point of physical collapse, and that your system has had so many shocks it might not be able to stand another.”
“And you find that amusing, do you?” asked Nighthawk, continuing to raise and lower the weights. “Did my clones ever comment on your sense of humor?”
“What's amusing is that they asked me to speak to you. You have no family or close friends, and no one really knows you—and at least I knew your clones.” He chuckled. “As if anyone who knew them would even try to talk you out of something you wanted to do.”
“So you're not going to try?”
“Hey, I'm a fan,” Kinoshita assured him. “Whatever you want to do is okay with me.”
“Then why did you agree to come?”
“I figured if I didn't, they'd just get someone else who doesn't know that you don't argue with the Widowmaker.” He grinned. “The hospital's got enough patients. They don't need another one.”
“You're brighter than you look,” said Nighthawk.
“Thanks.”
“That wasn't necessarily a compliment.”
* * * *
Kinoshita stared approvingly at Nighthawk, who stood before a mirror, inspecting his face. The cheekbones still protruded where the flesh had been removed and not yet replaced, but the rest appeared to be reasonably healthy.
“Not bad,” said Kinoshita. “A little older, a few more lines, but unquestionably Jefferson Nighthawk.”
“A lot of it's second-generation Nighthawk. They took some skin scrapings, put them in a nutrient solution, did God knows what miracles to them, and then gave me new eyelids and a new nose. And my left ear's artificial, too.”
“You can hardly call them artificial, if they've got your DNA.”
“They aren't the ones I was born with,” said Nighthawk. “What would you call them?”
“Improvements,” answered Kinoshita promptly.
“Not really,” said Nighthawk. “A while back there was a killer on the Inner Frontier called the One-Armed Bandit. Had a prosthetic arm that doubled as a laser rifle. Now, he had an improvement. All I've got are second-generation facial features. My eyes can't see into the infra-red spectrum, my ears can't hear ultrasonic radio waves, my nose can't pick up the nurses’ perfume. The only difference is that this week most of the staff doesn't wince when they look at my face.”
“Don't belittle it,” said Kinoshita. “That's a hell of a difference.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“Besides, if you want ‘improvements', you can always get them. You're a rich man.”
Nighthawk sighed. “I don't think my body can handle too many more operations. I'm not 25 any more, or even 50.”
“And when you get right down to it, very few gardeners need a laser rifle instead of a green thumb.”
“Point taken.”
“So where do we plan to settle down and do our gardening?”
“We?”
Kinoshita nodded. “I used to think I was pretty good at my job until they hired me to train you—or, rather, your clones. I knew in less than a minute that I'd never seen anything like you, that I could work the rest of my life and never measure up. For a while it did pretty serious things to my ego, but then I saw what kind of work ethic was required to reach that level of accomplishment.” He paused and sighed deeply. “I'm not made that way. I can admire what you do without aspiring to it—or without being willing to make the sacrifices you make to achieve it. So I'm willing to carry your bags, or hoe your garden, or answer your door, or do anything else to stay close enough to you to remind me why I'm not a lawman or a bounty hunter any more. I figure I'll live a lot longer this way.”
“I don't remember saying that I wanted company.”
“You don't know it, but you owe me,” said Kinoshita. “I sacrificed a lot for you—a whole career.”
“I thought you wanted to live to a ripe old age. That's not in the cards for most lawmen.”
“I could have made a substantial living as a trainer of lawmen, but your goddamned lawyers blacklisted me after I refused to turn your money over to them—which is probably the only reason you're alive today.”
Nighthawk stared at him for a long moment. “All right,” he said at last. “You're hired.”
“As what?”
“Whatever I need: bodyguard, manservant, cook.”
Kinoshita suddenly looked uncomfortable. “So what do I do now?” he asked awkwardly.
Nighthawk considered for a moment. “Right now I need a barber. Give me a shave.”
“A shave?” repeated Kinoshita, surprised.
“Right. If my face isn't attached properly, I want to know about it before I leave for the Frontier.”
* * * *
“You all packed?” asked Kinoshita, entering the hospital room for the last time.
“I don't have any possessions,” replied Nighthawk. “I gave them all away a century ago.”
Kinoshita laid a light blue outfit down on the bed. “I brought this for you.”
Nighthawk made no attempt to hide his distaste. “Ugly,” he muttered disapprovingly.
“It's the style—and besides, you'd look silly walking down the street in a hospital gown.”
Nighthawk took off his gown and began getting dressed.
“Very impressive,” said Kinoshita, looking at his lean, hard body. “You look like a heavyweight freehand fighter who's starved himself down to middleweight for a money fight. The muscles are there, but everything else is gone.”
“I'll put the rest of my weight back on,” Nighthawk assured him. “They didn't give me enough calories to compensate for all the exercising I did.”
“Why didn't you ask for more?”
“I did. Once.”
“And?”
“They didn't bring it.”
“Why didn't you complain?”
“I don't beg,” said Nighthawk, fastening his tunic. He straightened up. “How do I look?’
“Like an older version of the two clones,” said Kinoshita. Suddenly he grinned. “I can't imagine why.”
“Your sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired.”
“By the way, I didn't bring you any weapons,” said Kinoshita. “They're illegal on Deluros.”
“What do I want a weapon for?”
“You're the Widowmaker.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“You are what you are.”
“I think I prefer your humor to your philosophy.” Nighthawk walked to the door and stepped out into the corridor. “Okay, let's go see what the galaxy looks like after all this time.”
4.
It was a little house, small and neat, with white-painted walls, a green roof, a brick chimney, and an old-fashioned veranda with a swing and a rocking chair on it. Nighthawk knew the moment his vehicle pulled up in front of the house that he was going to buy it.
“But it's all trees and ravines,” protested Kinoshita. “These are not the most productive two hundred acres I've ever seen. Even if you clear them, you can't farm them.”
“Then we won't have to work very hard growing things, will we?” responded Nighthawk. He walked around to the side of the house. “We'll put a little pond right here, I think, and stick a few fish in it.”
“We passed a river a mile back. It looked like there'd be good fishing there.”
“Those fish are for eating. These will be for looking at.” Nighthawk continued walking, then came to a stop near the corner of the house. “The garden'll be right here,” he said, outlining a space with his hand.
“That's maybe ten feet by twenty,” noted Kinoshita glumly. “Maybe less.”
“It's big enough for me.” He paused. “How deep did they say the well was?”
“Sixty feet.”
“Okay,” said Nighthawk. “Buy it.”
“Don't you want t
o see the inside?” asked Kinoshita, surprised.
“One house is pretty much like another. If something needs fixing or changing, we'll fix or change it. Besides, I plan to spend most of my time sitting out here on the veranda.”
“But—”
“Do it,” said Nighthawk so softly that Kinoshita barely heard him and so firmly that all thoughts of protest vanished from the smaller man's mind. Nighthawk walked back to the vehicle. “Drop me at that bar back in town. I'll wait for you there while you take care of the details.”
“Do you want a mortgage?”
Nighthawk shook his head. “Buy it outright. I don't like being beholden to anyone.”
Kinoshita began driving the vehicle back down the winding, unpaved road. “I wish I knew what you find so charming about dirt roads and ancient houses. Hell, this planet doesn't even have fusion power yet! I thought we were buying a gentleman's farm on Pollux IV or some other major world, not a shack on some little dirtball nobody's ever heard of.”
“I've seen my share of worlds. This one'll do.”
“Tell me that when we run out of water, or the roof collapses from the snow.”
“No one says you have to stay here,” replied Nighthawk. “Take a third of the money and leave.”
“And go where?” demanded Kinoshita.
“Someplace you like better.”
“Not a chance,” said Kinoshita adamantly. “I'm staying with you.”
“Then shut up and drive. I'm an old man, and I haven't got the energy to argue.”
They drove the next six miles in silence and finally reached the small town that had sprung up around Churchill II's primitive landing field. Then Kinoshita pulled to a stop in front of a nondescript tavern.
“It shouldn't take more than about ten minutes to transfer the funds, and maybe another five to transfer the title. I'll be back in 15 or 20 minutes unless there's a hitch.”
“I'll be here,” said Nighthawk, getting out of the vehicle and walking into the tavern.
Force of habit made him pick out a table in the darkest corner of the room, and to sit with his back to the wall, so that he could see the doorway and the windows.
The table glowed and came to life. A holograph listing all the drinks available hovered in front of him, and a mechanical voice asked him to make a selection.
“Beer.”
“We have 284 brands from 73 worlds. You must be more specific.”
“Have you got any local brews?”
“There are no breweries on Churchill II.”
“Then select one for me.”
“I am not programmed to perform that function.”
“You can't randomize?”
“No I cannot, sir. If I were to select a brand you do not like, there is a 57% probability that you would refuse to pay for it. Our profit margin is 42%. If I randomize for you, I must randomize for everyone—and if I select beer for everybody, the mathematical likelihood is that we will lose money on more than half our transactions.”
“All right,” said Nighthawk. “Give me whatever you've sold the most of today.”
An instant later the top of the table irised right in front of him, and a tall glass of beer appeared just before the surface became solid again.
“That will be four credits, or one Maria Teresa dollar, or five New London shillings, or...”
Nighthawk pressed his hand down on the table. “Read my thumbprint and bill my account on Deluros VIII.”
“Reading ... done.” The mechanical voice was silent for a moment. Then: “Potential error.”
“What's the problem?”
“You are Jefferson Nighthawk?”
“That's right.”
“According to the Master Credit Computer on Deluros VIII, you are 174 years old. My data banks tell me that no human, even of mutated stock, has ever lived past 147 years.”
“Well, now you'll have something to add to your data banks, won't you?”
“Have I your permission to read your retinagram?”
“Seems like a lot of trouble for four credits.”
“Have I your permission to read your retinagram?” repeated the machine emotionlessly.
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“Reading ... checking ... cross-checking ... confirming. You are Jefferson Nighthawk.”
“Fancy that,” said Nighthawk, finally picking up his beer and taking a long swallow.
He sat in silence, observing his surroundings with an expert eye. Three middle-aged men sat at a table near the door, eating sandwiches they had brought with them and drinking beer. A young man whose clothes were too bright and whose weapon was too new and shiny stood at the bar, drinking some blue concoction. As he did so, the ice cubes, which were obviously not made of water, chimed musically. A woman sat as far from the men as possible, staring severely at the small glass in front of her.
Nighthawk nursed his beer, relishing the feel of the place, of not being on Deluros with its mile-high buildings and its 33 billion inhabitants. A small insect began crawling across the table. He considered killing it, then changed his mind, leaned back, and waited a few seconds for the table to sense, pinpoint and atomize it.
The young man glanced over, momentarily attracted by the power surge in the table, and their eyes met. Nighthawk stared at him, calm and unblinking, and soon the young man frowned and turned away uncomfortably, as if he was not used to having people meet his gaze.
“Let's have something to watch!” snapped the young man.
“I possess a library of 1,652 sporting events, 3,566 dramatic entertainments, 402 documentaries...”
“There must have been a championship fight somewhere in the Oligarchy last week. Let's have it.”
Instantly a life-sized holograph of two almost-naked men, their hands and feet heavily taped, appeared above the bar. They began circling each other, feinting and punching, throwing an occasional kick.
The fight was a dull one, with each party showing too much respect for the other's ability, and Nighthawk was glad when it ended some ten minutes later and the images vanished.
“Another,” said the young man.
Nighthawk, who had no desire to watch another match, was about to get up and leave the tavern when Kinoshita walked through the doorway, looked around until he spotted him, and then walked over to his table.
“Any problems?” asked Nighthawk.
“None,” answered Kinoshita. “Everything went smoothly. You now own an exceptionally ugly house on 200 useless acres. I hope you're thrilled.”
“Satisfied, anyway.”
“Since we're in a tavern, I suppose we might as well celebrate with a drink.”
“Be my guest.”
“What kind of beer did you have?”
Nighthawk shrugged. “Beats me.”
“Any good?”
“It's decent enough.”
“Two more beers,” ordered Kinoshita.
“Cancel that,” said Nighthawk as the table glowed with artificial life again.
“Canceled,” said a mechanical voice.
“Make that one beer, same kind, and give me whatever that young man at the bar had. The blue drink that seemed to play a melody.”
The young man suddenly looked up. “Cancel that,” he said, swaggering over to the table.
“Have you got a problem, son?” asked Kinoshita.
“Who told you that you could order my drink, old man?” said the young man, never taking his eyes from Nighthawk.
“Do you know who you're talking to?” demanded Kinoshita.
“An old man who ordered something that's not his,” came the answer. “Do you know who you're talking to? I'm Johnny Trouble.” He continued staring at Nighthawk. “Ever hear of me?”
“I've heard of four or five Johnny Troubles.”
“Yeah?” said Johnny Trouble, surprised.
Nighthawk nodded. “And a couple of Billy Troubles, too. They were all much deeper into the Frontier.”
“How come I never
heard of ‘em?”
“It was before your time,” said Nighthawk. He paused, then added: “And they all died young.”
“Well, I'm Johnny Trouble now, and there's only one of me.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Take my word for it, one's enough,” said Johnny Trouble. “Maybe you heard that the Widowmaker showed up a couple of years ago. I made him back down.” Nighthawk found that thought amusing, and the young man glared at him suspiciously. “What are you smiling about?”
“I'm just happy that a man of your caliber is protecting my new world,” replied Nighthawk easily. “Now can I order my drink?”
“I'm the guy who created it. It's mine. No one orders it without my permission.”
“Whatever makes you happy,” said Nighthawk. “May I have your permission?”
“What's it worth to you?”
Nighthawk sighed deeply. “Not as much as you think,” he replied, getting slowly to his feet and holding his hands out from his body in plain view. “We don't want any trouble. We'll take our business elsewhere.”
Kinoshita sat there, stunned.
“Come on, Ito,” said Nighthawk. “We've upset this gentleman enough already.”
Kinoshita stood up and followed Nighthawk to the door, while the young man, smiling smugly, stood in the center of the floor, hands on hips, watching them go.
“Are you all right?” asked Kinoshita when they were both outside and the door had shut behind them.
“Yeah, I'm fine.”
“I wonder. The Nighthawks I knew would have taken that kid's gun away and pistol-whipped him with it.”
“The Nighthawks you knew were 23 and 38 years old. I'm an old man, and I've been dead for more than a century. It doesn't take that much of an effort to step aside when someone like that kid in there is feeling his testosterone.”
“What if he'd pulled his gun?”
“He'd have killed me. I'm unarmed—and even if I was packed, I haven't held a weapon in my hands in 112 years. It wouldn't have been much of a contest.”
“So you're just going to withdraw from the world, and back down whenever someone challenges you?”
“I'm 62 years old. It's the best way I know to make it to 72.”
“I can't believe I'm speaking to the Widowmaker.”
“You're not,” said Nighthawk firmly. “Not any more.”
