It was raining on Mars.

Spike tilted his head back and let the drops of water tumble onto his forehead, roll down his cheeks, and soak his hair. He was conscious of Vicious' bemused look, even of the impatient edge in it, but he didn't care. "Do you know how long it's been since I've felt rain?"

"Too long, obviously."

The transition from the wanderer had begun in the familiar structures and noises of the Tharsis City spaceport, and soaked into his spirit, as saturating as the rain, during the taxi drive through the unchanged, coarsely tumbled streets of the District. He was home. "Yeah. Way too long." He lowered his head and grinned at Vicious. Nothing was really funny, but his spirits were on a high that had to come out somehow. He was home again. The artificial gravity and atmosphere of Mars were supposed to make the planet seem like Earth, but mixing the elements in the proper proportions didn't make it Earth, and to Spike, that made it home. His body settled into Mars, cell by cell, muscle and bone and gut, as if he were rediscovering himself.

Vicious stood hunched against the wet in nearly the same position as that preposterous bird on his shoulder. He was like a dark slice in the browns and greys of the city, self-contained, immovable. He said, "Rafe once told me that a man has a place where his heart dwells, and if he moves too far from that place, he breaks himself apart."

"I wish I could have met that guy." Water dripped from Spike's bangs in an unsteady stream. He licked it. "Where's your heart's place, Vicious? Here on Mars?"

"Nowhere." Vicious gestured toward the run-down little magazine store where the taxi had dropped them. "You want to go in, or you want to just stand out here and drown?"

The patter of running feet made both of them tense, then relax again as they recognized a child's footsteps. A girl about eight years old, wearing a faded yellow raincoat and absurdly large rubber boots, was coming up to them. She stopped and thrust her hand into the raincoat, and Spike heard the tiny, soft hiss of Vicious' sword being loosened in its scabbard. But the girl drew out only a bunch of red roses, the stems wrapped in butcher's paper. "Buy some flowers, Mister?" she asked Spike, sizing up the most likely sucker with the ease of long experience.

"Sure." Spike dug in his pocket and produced a handful of coins. "How many will this much buy?"

She gravely inspected his wealth. "Two."

"Then give me two." He could almost feel Vicious' contempt, but he didn't care that he was being cheated. She was a cute kid, and he was on Mars again. He took the two roses and handed one back to the girl. At her startled look, he said, "I always try to give a flower to every pretty girl I see."

She took it, beamed, and dashed away again, splashing through the puddles.

Vicious said, "You're an idiot. What are you going to do with the other one? Eat it?"

Spike twirled it between his fingers, lifted his brows, and smiled. "You did say we were going to visit a lady, right?"

"A woman," Vicious corrected, and thrust open the door of the shop.

Even the ordinary tinkling of the shop's bell reinforced Spike's feeling of being home again. He followed Vicious out of the rain and looked past him down a short corridor formed by two racks of magazines. At the end was a counter on which sat an ashtray, an antique cash register, and a small vid unit. Just in front of the counter, a plump, sturdy woman was twisting the arm of a scrawny old man. She turned and, with brisk efficiency, used the arm-hold to hustle the man towards the door. When Spike and Vicious entered, both man and woman looked up and grinned, and the woman released him. "OK, CheapShot, you get off easy this time. I've got company!" she said.

"My luck is in," the skinny man said, brushing the sleeves of his threadbare jacket back into place. "How you doin', Vicious?"

"Fine."

The man sauntered by them with a wave. As he touched the door handle, Vicious said quietly, "Give it back, CheapShot."

CheapShot made a wry face, turned, reached into the inside of the jacket, and produced Spike's wallet. "What, this?"

"You have anything else that belongs to one of us?" Vicious asked, still quietly. Spike, gawking – he'd never felt the hand that had so easily picked his pocket – snatched his wallet back and counted the money.

"Naw," the thief answered. "Just keeping my hand in, so to speak. And making sure your eye is as good as ever."

Vicious made a noncommittal sound. Taking that for approval, CheapShot went out into the rain, scampering to get under the nearest awning. Vicious said, "Annie, this is Spike. He's a friend of mine."

Annie studied Spike shrewdly. "He's just a kid. How old is he?"

"He's my age," Vicious lied smoothly.

"A lot of good that does, when nobody knows how old you are." Annie seemed to find that funny. "Is he old enough to drink?"

"Yes ma'am," Spike said, and handed her the rose.

She took it and shook her head with a doubtful but resigned smile, the kind that said she'd heard it all before, so often that amusement was all she had left for it. But she went behind the counter and set the flower down carefully, as if it were fragile. Then she pulled out a bottle of whiskey and filled three shot glasses. Hoisting hers, she said dryly, "To friendship." After draining the glass, she eyed Spike again. "We don't get a lot of that around here. You must be something special. You're the first guy Vicious has ever brought here and called a friend."

"Really? Well, I'm nothing special." He arranged his lanky body on the stool and took a second sip of the whiskey. Smooth, smoother than any he'd ever tasted before, the liquid glided down his throat and warmed his gut with only enough burn to remind him that he was drinking alcohol, unexpectedly rich for this dingy little store.

"So. You gonna work for Vicious here?"

"That's the plan."

"If you want some good advice, you'll change your mind about that and run outta here like the devil was after you. Vicious is nothing but trouble."

Vicious leaned on the counter and offered her his glass for a refill, which she cheerfully provided.

Spike felt she was telling him the truth as she saw it, telling him bluntly and even offensively, but Vicious wasn't offended. "Think I'll stick around and see what kind of trouble," he said.

"Ha. The worst. You'll get yourself killed."

"I'll take my chances."

"Yeah, I kinda figured you for the type who won't listen to your elders. Or anyone else, for that matter. You've got that kind of face."

He grinned. "Maybe that's a good thing."

She said to Vicious, "He's a smart ass, isn't he?"

Vicious said, "Sometimes."

She sighed and shook her head. "What do you want?"

"Let's see what appeals to him."

She rolled her eyes. "Right. Put up the sign, then, and lock the door, and we'll do some business. Kito getting this?"

"No. It's on my tab."

Spike watched from his stool, puzzled, while Annie disappeared through a door in the back and Vicious went to the front of the store, locked the door, and turned the "Open" sign around to "Closed". He waited for some kind of explanation, but Vicious just sat back down, hands quiet on the counter. Spike resisted fidgeting and resisted even harder asking any questions.

Annie finally returned with a stack of plain cardboard boxes. She set them on the stool, put one on the counter, and opened it. Spike wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but in a place like this, from a woman like this one, a gun would have been low on his list. Yet there, in the plain cardboard box, in a velvet bed, gleamed the clean metal of an automatic.

This store was a front, Spike thought, and this woman was the planet's least likely arms dealer.

"H&K," Annie announced, tapping the edge of the box. She didn't put a finger on the polished metal. "That's probably best for starters."

Spike let out his breath. Here was an area where he could finally hold his own. "Standard ISSP issue," he shrugged, making it sound like an insult. "Not bad. Reliable, but not much class."

"Where I come from, reliable is a good thing," Annie grumbled. But she closed it and set the rest of the boxes on the counter, opening them all, one after another. They all contained weapons, automatics and revolvers. "Take your pick then, wise guy."

Spike glanced at Vicious, but Vicious looked, if anything, slightly bored. Spike turned back to the guns, unable to suppress a flicker of greed. They were beautiful.

Vicious said, "You can handle them. Find one that suits you. You'll be needing it."

Spike picked up and handled every one, working the action, sighting, squeezing the triggers. He was tempted by a Colt similar to the one Vicious carried, but a boyish need to be different moved him instead to an old-fashioned Beretta 92 with a slide-mounted safety and a mahogany grip that nestled into his palm as if made for him. "This one."

Annie nodded. "It's chambered for 9mm," she said, and set a narrow box of ammunition on the counter. "Now quit playing with it and put it away, and the two of you get out of here. You're costing me customers, making me keep the place closed."

 

~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ :~

 

Julia's grandmother, Sarah St. Clair, didn't get around much, even with her cane, but she got around enough to keep an inconveniently close eye on her granddaughter. Julia was always prepared for that, however, and trotted downstairs with her jacket zipped to her chin, her hair in a girlish ponytail, and not the faintest trace of make-up on her face. Sure enough, just as she reached the bottom step, she heard the tap of her grandmother's cane and then the usual questions. "Julie? You going out? Not with those bad kids, right?"

Her grandmother was the only person who still called her Julie. "No, Granma, not with anyone," she said as her grandmother tapped to a stop before her. "I'm just going out to do some shopping. Do you need anything?"

Sarah's pointy, pixyish face wrinkled into a pleased smile. "If you can find some, I'd love a couple of oranges, Honey."

"I'll see what I can do. Be back in a couple of hours." She smiled. "You know how I am when I start window shopping."

"Indeed I do. I wish we had enough money to afford to get you more of those pretty things, dear."

She bent and kissed the cool cheek, still baby-soft despite the years. "I have a little cash if I see something I can't live without. Don't you worry about it."

Her grandmother smiled and said, as she always did, "You be careful out there. Don't talk to strangers."

Half a mile from the house, Julia slipped into a public bathroom, opened her purse, and pulled out lipstick, mascara, foundation, blush, and eyeliner, which she lined up on the shelf like a little row of soldiers. As each was applied, it was dropped back into the purse. Also into the purse went the cute ribbon that held up her ponytail, and her golden hair fell heavily onto her shoulders and down her back. Last, she unzipped and opened the jacket, revealing a halter top that dipped enough in front to show some, but not too much, cleavage.

Then she stepped back into the street. Gone was recent high-school graduate and current store clerk Julie St. Clair, cute and sweet and a little vapid. In her place was cool, wild Julia, no last name, a young woman whose natural reserve turned into a regal pride once the restraining mantle of duty to her grandmother was cast aside.

She would get the oranges. She had connections, it wouldn't be hard, and little favors like this assuaged her conscience for the deception she practiced on her grandmother. But her conscience didn't need any more than this token nod. Her Granma was from another era in more than just years, and she was blind to what the streets of the city had become since she'd originally settled in the neighborhood.  She would stay blind to it, too, most likely, since her immediate neighbors were all much like her, and her only contact with the rest of the city came through Julia. She kept her grandmother innocent, but Julia herself found the streets and the "bad kids" exciting, something she knew better than to even try to explain to the gentle old lady.

At this time of day, most of the crowd would be gathering at Trixie's, where vinyl booths around scarred, stained tables could be occupied by noisy teenagers for the price of a few sandwiches and a round of malteds or soft drinks. The appeal of Trixie's was not the food, and certainly not the drinks, but that it was on the south end of a block otherwise occupied by a series of shops and restaurants primarily given over to more "adult" pursuits: pornography, booze, and, if rumor didn't lie, secret gambling. The choice corner lot at the north end of the block was occupied by a pool hall, and this was the hallowed ground on which Julia and all her friends wanted to tread. The frosted glass doors were guarded by a succession of bouncers who were masters at spotting a teen, no matter how good the disguise. No one Julia knew had ever done more than glimpse the inside.

Now, as she strode past the pool hall, she glanced over, as always, and managed to catch a quick peek at the smoke-filled interior as someone came out. She could hear the buzz of conversation, the clink of glasses, the chocking sound of the wooden balls. All of it seemed mysterious, fascinating, and tantalizingly adult.

She was so absorbed in the fantasy of walking into the place, that the man who had come out had stared at her for several seconds before she felt his eyes on her. She gave him a cool stare back, one she had perfected long ago to protect her from "mashers" (as her grandmother called them). At the same time, she got a good look at him and was almost sorry she'd automatically turned on the ice. He was handsome, only about ten years her senior, with broad shoulders held back in the cocky way that showed he was used to being admired. He had long black hair that seemed to blend onto the shoulders of a black leather jacket, and knee-high black leather boots of the biker variety, but he wasn't the kind of ostentatious fool who dressed as if for a funeral. The rest of his clothes were ordinary, blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt.

He returned her stare without expression, taking his eyes from her only long enough to light a cigarette. If he admired her looks – and a lot of guys did – he wasn't being obvious about it. He was looking at her as if she were a car or something. Piqued, she turned her head away and kept walking.

By the time she left Trixie's an hour later she had nearly forgotten him, and she started uptown to find a grocery store that might have some oranges in stock. So when she heard the roar of a motorcycle, she edged further from the street, in case it hit a puddle. Instead, it stopped right next to her, the growl of its engine idling down to a throaty purr. Straddling it was the guy from the pool hall, pushing sunglasses up onto the top of his head to study her with the same cool, assessing stare as before. She returned it. A slow smile curved his mouth. "I didn't think you'd ever leave that bunch of little kids," he said.

"They're my friends."

He turned off the engine. In the abrupt silence, punctuated only by the ticking of the cooling metal, he asked her to repeat what she'd just said.

"I said, they're my friends. They aren't 'little kids'."

"Depends on your definition of a kid, I suppose. You've got a gorgeous voice. I love it. It's low and sexy, but musical, too. A lullaby voice."

She was torn between being offended at a stranger talking to her so intimately, and being flattered. Others had said she had a nice voice, but no one had ever described it like that. She hesitated, then said stiffly, "Thank you, but you're getting very personal for someone I don't know."

"The name is Quentin. Just Quentin. The people I work for don't ask for last names."

She knew what that meant. This guy was with one of the syndicates. She could almost hear her grandmother's horror, and knew she should run away. But Quentin-Just-Quentin fascinated her. He had chiseled features and intelligent dark eyes, and she couldn't seem to resist.

But she had to resist. Shaking herself mentally, she said, "I think I'd better get home."

"It's rude not to tell me your name, since I told you mine."

She stopped, hesitated, and turned. "Julia."

"Pretty name. Want to go for a ride?" At her expression, he held up both gloved hands, palms out. "I swear, just a ride, pretty Julia. I won't lay a hand on you, and I'll bring you right back here. Or anywhere else you want to go."

She knew she shouldn't. Partly to discourage him with the purely mundane nature of her errand, she said, "I have to go buy some oranges. For my grandmother."

"Well, I know where we can get some. Fresh picked."

"I'm sure you do."

He laughed. He had a great laugh, rich and uninhibited. "I do. Come ride with me. We'll get some oranges, go shoot a little pool, and then I'll take you home. That's it, promise."

Shoot a little pool? The temptation level rose sharply. "Right," she said dryly, fighting it but feeling herself losing.

"OK, if you don't believe me, here." He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gun. She recoiled a step, and he flipped it so the handle was toward her. "Take it, it won't bite. The safety's on. Right here," he said, pointing. "If you decide you want to shoot me, just push that, then point and pull the trigger."

Defiantly, she took it, and was startled by how heavy it was. She pushed the safety off and pointed it at him.

Quentin stared at her coolly. "Don't get your finger anywhere near that trigger," he said, "unless you want to kill me."

She put the safety back on and put the gun in her purse. He gestured to the back of the bike, and she climbed on, putting her arms around him. He smelled like leather and smoke, and she felt giddy. "You're going to have to teach me how to play pool," she said.

He grinned over his shoulder. "I'd like to teach you a lot of things your little friends don't know about. But for today, it'll just be oranges and pool. Whaddya think?"

She shrugged casually. He kicked the bike into action.

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