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6.

The Marquis proved to be a man of his word. Whatever Nighthawk asked for, he received, and payment was never requested.

Nighthawk spent a couple of days exploring the city of Klondike. He visited each of its four restaurants, all of its many bars and casinos and brothels. The drug dens he avoided; his borrowed memories were increasingly vague as they were replaced with his own experiences, but those that remained told him that nothing good or useful ever came of drugs or users.

Most of his time, though, was spent in the Marquis' casino, where he was on call for anything the Marquis might want. Lizard Malloy stuck close to him, as if he were the little man's only protection in this hostile environment, and in exchange for offering that protection Nighthawk picked his mind, learning the names and dubious accomplishments of most of the men and woman who worked for the Marquis.

There was another reason for spending time in the casino, and Malloy was quick to spot it.

"Don't even think about her," he said as Nighthawk watched the Pearl of Maracaibo undulating atop her floating platform.

"Last time I thought about her, it got me a job with the Marquis," replied Nighthawk.

"All the more reason not to push your luck twice," said Malloy.

"I wonder what she sees in him?"

"You mean, besides the fact that he's ten feet tall and owns forty or fifty worlds?" asked Malloy.

"He's not that tall, and he only owns eleven worlds."

"Well, that makes all the difference in the universe," said Malloy sardonically.

"Where does she come from?"

"I don't know."

"Find out for me, by tomorrow," said Nighthawk, smiling up at the Pearl of Maracaibo as she finished her dance.

"You got yourself a serious death wish, you know that?" said Malloy.

"Just do it."

Malloy shrugged and fell silent. A moment later one of the Marquis' men approached Nighthawk and took him to the office.

"What's up?" asked Nighthawk as he sat down opposite the Marquis.

"We've got a little problem over on Yukon that I want you to clean up."

"Oh?"

The Marquis nodded. "Seems someone has set up shop there without my permission. I sent an emissary to explain that this was a breach of etiquette, and she killed him on the spot. We can't allow her to get away with that. Too many other people might start flexing their muscles."

"'She'?" repeated Nighthawk.

"Name's Spanish Lace."

"Sounds intriguing."

"There's nothing intriguing about her. She's operating on my territory without a permit. That's against the law."

"Your law?"

"You know of any other?" said the Marquis.

"Not on Yukon and Tundra," admitted Nighthawk.

"Well, then, that's your job."

"I'm not quite clear," said Nighthawk. "Do you want me to sell her a permit to operate, or run her off?"

"I want you to kill her," said the Marquis. "And then I want you to take what's left of her and nail her to a cross or hang her from a tree—anything out in the open—as a warning to anyone else who might be having similar ideas."

"There are only a few thousand people on Yukon," noted Nighthawk. "How many are likely to see her stretched out on a cross or spinning slowly in the wind?"

"It's cold there. She'll keep."

"Why not just charge her a couple of million credits and send her packing?" suggested Nighthawk.

"I'm going to answer you this time," said the Marquis, "because you've just started working for me and you don't know that I have a reason for everything I do. You haven't learned that you never question one of my orders; that's the same as arguing with me, and I won't tolerate that in an employee." He paused. "If you ever question another order, you'd better have a nice cemetery plot picked out. I don't care how good you are, I'll kill you on the spot—and if I can't, I've got two hundred men who'll see to it that you don't live long enough to leave Klondike."

Nighthawk simply stared at him without saying a word.

"All right," continued the Marquis. "If you fine her and chase her off Yukon, you'll have made a powerful enemy who'll think that I have wrongly humiliated her and appropriated her money, though of course I have every right to whatever money is brought to one of my worlds. If, on the other hand, you kill her, we'll have at least as much of her money, probably even more, and we won't have a bitter and successful woman out there"—his vague wave encompassed half the galaxy—"plotting out ways to get her money back and to punish me for appropriating it."

"So you don't really care whether anyone ever sees the body . . ."

"Certainly I do, but that isn't my primary purpose for killing her." The Marquis paused. "Any more questions?"

"What's her line, and how many men has she got?"

"Spanish Lace? It all depends on which world you ask that question. She doesn't believe in specialization. She's a bank robber, an arsonist, an extortionist, an assassin. She usually works alone, but she may have brought a little protection along."

"She's an assassin, you say?"

"Don't look so interested. She had nothing to do with Trelaine."

"How do you know?"

"Nothing goes on in this sector that I don't know."

"All right," said Nighthawk. "When do you want me to leave?"

"Immediately. Why else would I be telling you all this?"

"Where will I find her?"

"I've already had the landing coordinates fed into your ship's computer. Take that little snake-skinned bastard Malloy along with you. He's been to Yukon before; maybe he can be of some use to you." The Marquis chuckled. "At least he won't block your vision or get in your line of fire. I don't think I've ever seen a bigger coward."

"That's probably why he'll outlive us both," replied Nighthawk.

"It's possible—but you have to consider the quality of his life."

"He considers the quality of his death," said Nighthawk with a smile. "Hasn't found one that lives up to his high standards yet."

"Somebody should explain to him that very few of us fuck ourselves to death," said the Marquis.

"I'll try to remember that."

"Especially when you're around Melisande," added the Marquis meaningfully.

"I'm not going to get myself killed over a blue-skinned mutant," said Nighthawk.

"Nothing personal," replied the Marquis. "I like you, I really do. But you were put together in a lab three months ago. How the hell do I know what you will or won't get killed over?"

"I'm as much a man as you are!" snapped Nighthawk heatedly.

"If you weren't, I wouldn't worry about your doing something stupid because of Melisande."

The answer seemed to mollify Nighthawk, and he visibly relaxed.

"Now that you've made up your mind not to kill me, get the hell out of here and go kill the person you're being paid to kill," said the Marquis.

Nighthawk nodded and got to his feet.

"Cigar?"

"I still haven't decided if I like them," answered Nighthawk.

"By the same token, you really can't know if you like blue-skinned ladies, can you?" asked the Marquis meaningfully.

"Don't start on me again!" snapped Nighthawk. "There's more to me than just a killing machine!"

"And you'll kill me to prove it?"

Nighthawk glared at him for a moment, then turned and left the office.

He hunted up Malloy, got into a spacesuit and found one for his companion. Then they made their way across the ice fields to the spaceport. Within an hour they were ensconced in the pilot's cabin of Nighthawk's ship, leaving Tundra behind them and heading for Yukon.

"I hate traveling within a solar system!" complained Malloy, looking at a viewscreen. "It takes longer to go from one world to another than from one star to another."

"Can't do light speeds within a system," answered Nighthawk. "You know that."

"Yeah, but I don't have to like it."

"Find some way to occupy yourself. Like telling me about Melisande, for instance."

"I found out what you wanted to know," said Malloy. "She comes from Greenveldt."

"That's a Frontier world?"

"Right."

"Are all the colonists on Greenveldt blue-skinned?" asked Nighthawk.

Malloy shook his head. "She didn't evolve, she mutated."

"Explain."

"She's a sport—there's just one of her."

"I like that," said Nighthawk.

"You do? Why?"

"Let's just say I have a certain compassion for people who are one of a kind."

"Then you ought to love Spanish Lace," said Malloy. "There ain't ever been anyone like her."

Nighthawk checked his navigational computer and found that he had almost forty minutes before the ship entered Yukon's orbit. "We've got time," he said. "Fill me in."

"Didn't the Marquis tell you?"

"Just that she's moved in on his territory, and he wants her off."

"He didn't tell you that she's killed the last three men who had your job?"

"No."

"Or that she's not quite human?"

"Explain," said Nighthawk.

"She looks pretty much like a normal human woman," said Malloy. "But I've heard stories about her. She's got powers that no human ever had."

"For instance?"

"I don't know."

"So it could just be bullshit."

"If it was, would the Marquis' last three hired guns be dead?"

"Go on," said Nighthawk. "I need details."

"Nobody knows any. She's robbed some banks back in the Oligarchy, I know that. And they say she killed Jumbo Willoughby with her bare hands. Oh, and there was that affair on Terrazane—"

"What affair?"

"Somebody blew up the whole parliament. Killed about three hundred men and women. Nobody ever proved anything, but they say it was her doing, that if she didn't set off the bomb herself she at least arranged for it to go off."

"She sounds interesting."

"What she is is deadly," said Malloy devoutly.

"Don't worry—you won't have to meet her."

"No way. I'll be at your side."

Nighthawk stared at him. "You don't have to."

"I don't care. I'm coming with you."

"I'd have thought you'd be happier keeping out of the line of fire."

"I'm supposed to wait in the ship or some bar, wondering who's going to come to meet me, you or the worst killer on the planet?" demanded Malloy. "No, thanks! First time a door or a hatch opened, I'd be wound so tight I'd probably explode."

"To hell with your reasons," said Nighthawk. "I thank you for your loyalty." He paused. "It's strange, but you're just about the only friend I've got."

"I'm not your friend," said Malloy. Nighthawk started to protest, but Malloy raised his hand for silence. "But let's pretend that I am for a minute, so I can give you a piece of friendly advice." Nighthawk stared silently at him, and he continued. "I know you've never had a mother or a family, and you've probably never even had a woman, let alone lived with one. I know you're probably looking for people to talk to and drink with at the same time you're hunting for victims. Well, let me tell you something, something the first Jefferson Nighthawk must have known to have lived so long: out here on the Frontier, you must never mistake self-interest for friendship. They're a harder breed out here than back in the Oligarchy. They came out here for a reason, and they stay out here for a reason, and friendship isn't it. So be as cordial as you like, Widowmaker, and most people will be cordial right back at you because of who you are and what you can do if you get mad at 'em—but never think that a cordial overture out here will lead to friendship. If it leads to another day's survival, that's enough."

Nighthawk considered what Malloy said for a long moment, then shook his head. "I don't buy that. You're too cynical by half."

"You were created solely to kill people, and I'm cynical?" said Malloy sarcastically.

"Killing is what I do," said Nighthawk. "It's not what Iam."

"Not yet," agreed Malloy. "But you'll grow into it. Or die."

They fell silent for a few minutes, and then Malloy spoke again.

"What's he paying you to go up against her?"

"Nothing."

"You're facing Spanish Lace for free?" demanded Malloy.

"Not exactly," answered Nighthawk. "He's paying me a ton of money to do a job. This is part of the job description. Probably today I'm being underpaid; yesterday and tomorrow I'll be overpaid. It evens out in the end."

"That depends on when the end comes," noted Malloy.

"If you can tell me what to prepare for, maybe it won't come too soon," suggested Nighthawk.

"I don't know her powers. I just know that a couple of times they had her dead to rights, but she's still alive and everyone who's ever tried to kill her is dead."

"Maybe she's just good with her weapons," offered Nighthawk.

Malloy shook his head again. "She's faced odds even you wouldn't face, Widowmaker."

"She comes of human stock. Just how many strange talents can she have?"

"Enough," said Malloy unhappily, as the ship entered Yukon's frigid atmosphere.

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Framed