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 that 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."
)
