Vicious settled onto a wobbly metal chair to watch Sam training Spike, in a corner by the boxing ring where he wasn't in their line of sight. By now he was so accustomed to the gym's noise and smells that he no longer questioned why Sam would practice his art in this barely-controlled chaos instead of the peace of a dojo. He glanced sidelong at some of the new men who briefly stared at him – probably for the sword at his side or the bird on his shoulder – then ignored them. He wasn't here to fight. None of them stared long; more experienced patrons of the gym quickly warned them that Vicious wasn't a good man to irritate.

He had brought Spike to Sam more than three months ago, and since then he had left the two alone. This was the first time he'd even come to observe. Crys' words sometimes floated into his mind now, as Rafe's did, and because of what she'd once said – Baby, you make people nervous just by the way you look, so how good do you think they're going to do if they know you're watching them? – he'd left Spike to learn from Sam, and from other experts, without his supervision. He had to trust the kid.

Watching now, however, he wondered if he'd been wrong. Whatever Spike was doing, it was like nothing Vicious had ever learned from Sam, although it did seem to suit Spike's gangly flexibility. Still, his intention had been to see Spike learn to fight, to defend himself. This looked more like dancing, and not even Crys' encouragement had ever made him comfortable with that so-called art.

Naturally, Sam knew he was there, even if Spike didn't. Sam sent Spike off in another direction when the lesson was over, then wrapped a towel around his neck, strode over, and sat next to Vicious, who said, "I suppose you are going to explain all that?"

"Have I ever explained myself to my students?"

Vicious' lips twitched at the reminder of his former pupil status. "I wish you to enlighten my ignorance, sensei."

"My new pupil does not know the meaning of discipline."

"I thought, if anyone could teach him that, it would be you."

"He is one of the few students I have had who is as stubborn as you were."

"If he's disrespectful, you may punish him."

"If I need you to tell me how to teach, I will retire now."

Vicious accepted the rebuke with a nod. "I apologize."

"Being a leader of men has made you arrogant. Perhaps you should become a pupil again."

"I might do that. But tell me about Spike. And this time, I promise my attention."

Sam thought for a moment. "Your friend works hard. Very hard. I have no complaints about that. He is willing to learn, and learns quickly. And he is respectful," he added dryly. "However, his energies are scattered. They are like blossoms in a twisting wind. He will not be confined to any one discipline. He is not like you. He will not focus on a goal and achieve it."

Vicious knew better than to ask if Sam had given up on Spike. "So what have you decided to do with him?"

"I have found another way to guide him." Sam settled in the chair, running the towel thoroughly over his face. "I have turned to an ancient discipline from Earth which is, at least on the surface, no discipline at all, but a combination of many. There is a purpose and a direction, but this is not apparent to the beginning student, and by the time your friend sees it, he will be ready to accept it. This also has the advantage of making use of the unorthodox ninja-style training which he has already received."

"So, how does this discipline, that is no discipline, work?"

"You are like your sword, but your friend is like water."

"I see," Vicious said after a long moment.

"Do you? Because until you do, until you know that he can be guided but never driven, you will never be able to control him."

"I will strive to keep your words in my mind at all times."

Sam rose. "You have always been a good student," he said, and went back to the mat for his next pupil.

Vicious tried to reconcile this new image of Spike with the one he'd been given by Spike's firearms instructor. Taylor had described Spike as disciplined and incredibly focused, just the opposite of Sam's description. But when Vicious pondered his talk with Taylor, he recalled that the arms instructor had marveled at how many different weapons with which Spike had become proficient, and how Spike, although good at target shooting, truly excelled when presented with moving targets and street sims. Blossoms in a twisting wind. Yes, it made sense.

Spike appeared, flushed from his exertions, but his step still showing energy. "Hey, Sam said you were here. Come to check on me?"

"Yes. I checked with Taylor and Choy, too. They all say you're an unmanageable brat, and they give up on you."

"Yeah?" Spike flopped into the chair next to him and stretched out. "That's a shame."

"You have no shame."

"Not a drop."

"Get your coat. We're going to pay a visit to some friends of mine."

Spike leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking at him. "It's time?"

Vicious gave a single nod. "If you survive it, come look me up. You know where I live."

Rafe had been free to tell Vicious about the dangers of the syndicate's initiations, but Vicious, known to be Spike's sponsor, was not free to do the same. The single phrase was the only warning he could give.

Spike didn't miss it. His insouciance was completely gone as he rose. "Well, let's get going."

 

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

 

Initiation, Vicious had called it. Like it was some stupid frat thing, Spike thought, instead of a kind of extended gauntlet – learning the territory like the back of his hand, understanding the unwritten rules and code of honor, memorizing the details of the profitably illegal activities – everything about the syndicate that a rookie needed to know. Not to mention having every one of his physical skills, from weapons to martial arts to aerial combat, tested by guys determined to beat the shit out of him if he didn't stay sharp.

He hadn't been home in three weeks, and his bed had never looked so good.

Spike fell on it, fully clothed, face down, one arm hanging off the side, fingertips brushing the floor, and groaned with relief. Compared to these syndicate guys, his mother and Doohan had been gentle, and Mr. Thermopolis a cupcake. He was sure that the only reason he was still in one piece was that Sam's training had toughened him and increased his awareness and agility.

He wondered, idly, on the brink of sleep already, if Vicious was worried about him. Naw. He's not the worrying kind. He smiled, settled his face into the plumpest part of the pillow, and drifted off to sleep.

He wasn't sure when he woke up. The apartment's one small window told him only that it was after dark. Groggy, eyes still nearly closed, he rolled off the bed, cursing in a low, steady stream at all the stiff and painful places on his body that protested this new position. Even his brain hurt, packed full of the facts that had been crammed into it.

He linked his hands and stretched them over his head, toward the ceiling, pulling all his muscles into line. Then he brought the hands down and collapsed into the pose of an arthritic old man. Shit. I'm starving. He hobbled toward the tiny kitchen.

This apartment Vicious had found him was clean, solid, and affordable, but without luxuries, and the kitchen was a mere alcove off the main room. The appliances were half-sized. Even as he reached down to open the stunted refrigerator, he recalled that he hadn't been home in more than three weeks. Whatever was in there probably had a life of its own by now. But he was hungry enough to eat it anyway, unless it actually ate him first. Holding his nose, braced for whatever he might find, he pulled the handle.

What greeted his gaze was no pile of gooey mold, but a large pyramid of freeze-sealed sandwiches bursting with meat, cheese, and vegetables. On the lower shelf were six neat covered dishes, also sealed. In front of the sandwiches was a folded vid-card. Thinking that Vicious was being unusually kind, he picked up the note and opened it. No Vicious spoke to him from the thin card, but Vicious' woman, Crys. Her hair was an electric blue that made him close his eyes, but her husky voice was nice on the ears.

"Hey, Spike," she said cheerfully. "Those bastards probably worked your ass off, and I know Vicious wouldn't think that you might actually want to eat after being a slave for weeks. So I brought this stuff by. There's some other stuff in the cupboard. Oh, and by the way, I cleaned the place. You're a pig. Cute, but a pig."

Grinning, he straightened and looked around, seeing for the first time that, yeah, the kitchen was sparkling clean. Gleefully, he grabbed two of the sandwiches, pulled the tape on the seals, and put them on a plate while they warmed. The dishes were some kind of casseroles. He wasn't sure what was in them, but when he pulled the tape on one and lifted the lid, it smelled like ambrosia to him. A quick peek into the cupboard showed him cereal, powdered milk, flash-frozen entree boxes, cans of fruit and vegetables, red wine, and a case of beer. He grabbed three cans of beer, not caring that it was warm, and the casserole and sandwiches. Balancing them like a waiter, he carried them to the couch, sat down, and began methodically and swiftly to eat every last crumb.

With his stomach comfortably full, he stretched out on the couch, sleepy again. He gave thought to picking up the mess he'd just made, in honor of Crys, but decided it was too much trouble. Besides, she'd be the first one to agree he needed his sleep.

He was just drifting off when the phone rang. Snarling, he clawed himself upright. Then he stopped, puzzled. Ring. He didn't have a phone.

Ring. Whoever was calling wasn't giving up. He rose, determined to find which of his neighbors had such a persistent caller. When that guy gets home, Spike fumed, I'm going to kick his ass. But damn, it sounded as if it were coming from his own bedroom.

That couldn't be. Still, he went to look, peeking around the door. And there it was. A phone with a vid screen, flashing away, ringing and still ringing.

What the hell...? He picked it up as if it were an insect he needed to dispose of, then flipped open the vid. The rude greeting rising in his throat froze there. He knew that face. The man's name was Rudy, and he worked for Kito. Spike had never spoken to him before, but that face, along with every other upper level face in the Dragons, had been pounded into his head during these past weeks.

Nor did Rudy waste words, either on how long it had taken Spike to pick up the phone, nor on the expression of mixed respect and horror on Spike's face as he swallowed the words he'd almost uttered. "Spike. We've got a little job for you. Come to the warehouse on Industrial. Know it?"

"Yeah."

"You have a ride two blocks north. Get moving." The screen went black.

"Now?" Spike said to the dead phone. But he got moving, and fast. This was his first syndicate job, and Vicious had told him the price of failure. Five seconds worth of screwing up will take you twenty years to live down.

 

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

 

Spike's ride was a skinny, nervous man named Durrett. He was no rookie, although he was still low in the ranks. Lounging beside him, Spike soon had a sense of why the man had failed to rise, despite being at least ten years older than he. Durrett drove like an old woman and talked incessantly, the whole way there. He began even as Spike slid into the seat.

"This is pretty much routine. We're riding shotgun on a truck moving stuff from the spaceport. I don't know where it's going, of course. Need to know. And we don't need to know,"

"Probably one of the centers downtown, depending on what the cargo is."

"That's another thing we don't need to know. We aren't supposed to go into the cargo hold. Which is behind a holograph front of some kind, of course. But locked. They always are. We aren't expecting any trouble, or they wouldn't be sending just us, naturally."

"Unless it's an expendable cargo."

"There's no such thing," Durrett said.

Spike didn't reply. The man obviously didn't recognize sarcasm when he heard it.

Durrett kept on. "If we go to one of the east side centers, we'll be close to White Tigers territory. We'll need to stay alert, ready for anything."

"Yeah."

"I don't think you're taking this seriously."

"Sure I am. Got a cigarette?"

Durrett fished in his jacket and drew forth a pack, shaking out a few for Spike. "We should discuss strategy."

"Sure, whatever you want." He then listened with as little attention as possible while Durrett spun various scenarios and plans to cope with them. Spike preferred to take things as they came. In his experience, you could make up little plans all day long, and then something would come up that you hadn't thought of anyway.

"Of course, I've done this kind of job half a dozen times, at least, and nothing ever went wrong," Durrett was still droning on as they turned into the lot before the warehouse. "But no harm in being prepared." The only occupant of the lot was a large cargo truck under one of the security lights, with three men standing at the driver's door. "Well, we're here."

"Yeah, I see that." Spike was gazing upward, to where a sharp-looking zip craft was cleaving the sky. He could see the towers of the spaceport over the roof of the warehouse. It seemed a million miles away from where he was now.

He shook off the twinge of nostalgia and climbed out of the car with apparent confidence, but keeping behind the door just in case. He studied the three men, recognized one, and relaxed. He'd been taught the faces of upper level syndicate men, but, following Vicious' example, he'd also done a little extra homework, and he knew the faces of a lot of the lower level men as well. He might not plan, but he did prepare.

Two of the men, including the one Spike recognized, opened the back doors of the truck, revealing an innocuous-looking pile of crates labeled with the name of a popular dog food. They ushered Spike and Durrett up into the cramped space. The third man climbed into the driver's seat, and Spike heard the engine fire up even as the doors closed in their faces, leaving them in utter darkness. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

As the truck lurched forward and turned out of the lot, he gave a long pull, dragging the taste into his lungs. In the glow, he saw Durrett frown. "We're not supposed to do that."

Spike smiled cheerfully at him and blew smoke in his general direction. The heavy silence from Durrett said he hoped he'd never have to work with Spike again, but at least he shut up.

They stayed on their feet, braced against the bumping and swaying of the truck, which made a series of turns, then picked up speed as it came onto the highway. After a short, mercifully smooth, but oddly short ride, it turned off and began bumping along city streets. Ten minutes later, however, it was back on the highway again.

Spike's dawning suspicion at the shortness of the first leg of the trip on the highway became stronger. "You know what, Durrett? I think we're off course."

"What do you mean?"

He didn't answer, but he took out his gun and checked it.

Durrett snorted. "Off course. Yeah. So, just where do you think we're going?"

"Damned if I know, but I don't think it's toward any Red Dragon place."

"And you're the big expert on geography."

"Just call me paranoid." Spike had already dismissed Durrett from his mind, which was occupied with reviewing what he remembered of the turns the truck had made. Yup. Definitely off course.

"I suppose you think we're being hijacked?"

He could almost hear Durrett rolling his eyes. "It could be that we're just going someplace new. But I think it would be a good idea to find out, don't you?"

"How?"

"To start with," Spike said, pulling out two of the crates and shoving them into a V shape, "you might want to get behind these for cover. It isn't much, but it's all we've got."

"What are you planning?" Durrett yelped. "What do you mean, cover? What are you going to do?"

He shoved his gun into his pants and opened one of the doors. "I'm going out."

"What?"

"Close the door behind me." He gripped the door handle with both hands, pushed off enough to let momentum swing it open, and then kicked out and around it. He recalled that beside each door was a narrow metal ladder, and he grabbed the one on this side and hung on, feet nearly dragging on the ground, as the door swung back into place again.

Durrett caught it, staring at him. "Get back in here! We're not supposed to show ourselves! Spike! You're nuts!"

"That's what they say." Spike got his feet on the rungs.

"If someone sees you, it's all over. We're both going to get shot. Or worse. Get back in here! I'm the senior man on this crew, and I'm ordering you to get back inside!"

Spike cupped his ear and mimed, Sorry, can't hear you with all this road noise.

Durrett gaped at him, then snarled, "Fine. It's your ass. I'm not taking any responsibility for this."

Ignoring him, Spike climbed, and seconds later was crouched on the top of the truck. Under him, he felt the door close and latch. Durrett at least got that right – he'd closed it without banging it.

Looking around, Spike saw his instincts had not failed him. They were too far east of the spaceport. He got flat onto his stomach and crawled forward almost to the cab. They were easing down a long, narrow street, hardly more than an alley, not far from the District. They'd definitely crossed into White Tiger territory. He knew his life should be passing in front of his eyes right about now, but instead, he felt the familiar surge of excitement, the heightening of the senses, that he got before a race. He drew his gun and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Two more blocks, and the truck slowed, turned into a street between two tenement buildings, and stopped in a tiny courtyard. Spike's skin prickled at the place. There were three different ways to enter the courtyard besides the one they'd just used. The other three were meant for humans, not vehicles. The area was only lit by two grimy security spotlights, probably put up when the buildings were new, twenty years ago, so whatever enemies might be in those spaces were well hidden by impenetrable black shadows.

But when the seven men emerged from the opening opposite, the way they fanned out told him they weren't expecting help from the other gaps. Spike relaxed a little and eyed his opponents. One, apparently the leader, wore a suit that had once been tailored nicely for him, but now strained over a slight pot belly. He  stood back, clearly expecting the others to do the work here.

Five of the other men were nothing but muscle, but the sixth, who directed them to fan out, got Spike's attention. He was a lean, dark man, perhaps about 30, his hair cut in a thick bristle, with a bony face dominated by a beak of a nose. His eyes glanced keenly around, making Spike feel naked even lying invisible on top of the truck, and his movements were balanced and had a controlled physical energy that, when called on, would be swift and deadly.

The driver got out and spoke to the potbellied leader. "Here you go, Gabriel. Delivered as promised."

Gabriel turned to the man with the sharp eyes. "Check it out, Tripper."

"How many in the back?" Tripper's voice was younger than his face, almost a boy's voice, but even and calm.

"Two," the driver said. "One's a rookie, the other one's nearly as green."

Tripper studied him a moment, unblinking as a cat. "You're sweating, Xiu."

"No AC in the truck."

"And you look nervous."

"I am. You have to make this look real. But I want to get out of this in one piece, all right?"

"Let's see if it's worth it, first." Tripper gestured the other five forward. Xiu stepped back, well out of their way, as one man searched the cab and the other four yanked open the rear doors. They weren't dumb enough to stand in the opening, so the hail of bullets that Durrett greeted them with did no damage. But Spike had to hand it to Durrett – it sure did sound like two men firing. The leader, Gabriel, drew a gun from behind his back and began edging along the side of the truck.

Xiu put his hands in his pockets as the Tigers fired back, something Spike barely registered as he pushed back hard and rolled. He came up on one knee at the end of the truck, right above the firefight. Two shots took out two men before they even knew what hit them, and Spike dropped flat as return fire zinged past him, spanging from the metal.

Under his body, the truck vibrated. He looked over his shoulder and saw the fifth goon just scrambling onto the roof of the cab, freeing a hand to reach for his gun. As Spike rolled and fired at him, another movement from the driver caught his eye. Xiu, watching Tripper's back, was slowly drawing one of his hands out of his pocket, and whatever was in it was too small to be a gun.

"Shit!" Spike half-scrambled, half-fell down the ladder, kicking aside one of the goons before the man could get a shot off. "Durrett!! Get your ass out of there!"

Durrett didn't ask why. He leaped and rolled, sprang to his feet with surprising agility, and followed Spike toward a dumpster. The two of them dived behind it even as the bomb in the truck exploded. The dumpster was blown backward. Luckily, it struck the wall at an angle so that it made a small triangular shelter instead of squashing them. A huge wave of flame enveloped them, dumpster and all, but only for seconds. Amateur job, Spike thought. Good thing, or they wouldn't find enough of us to scrape up.

Beside him, Durrett was curled fetus-style, face in his hands, shaking. Spike reloaded swiftly. His hearing was coming back enough for him to hear the quiet snick of the chamber. He put his head out, eyes wide and wary.

The front of the truck was a black and twisted pile, although the back was almost intact, except, of course, for the holograph. On the ground next to what was left of the cab were two fine leather shoes, and the boss who'd worn them was in bloody pieces a few feet away. The driver was down, apparently too much of an amateur to know the effect of the explosion he'd set off. All the goons were down, as well. Two were intact, but they were the two he'd shot. The other three weren't going to give anyone trouble again.

There was no sign of Tripper.

A glint of movement flicked at the corner of his vision. He jerked his head to the side, heard the bullet pass as it nearly singed his ear. It blasted into the dumpster, peppering his face with a spray of paint and rust flakes.

He was already looking back out, searching for Tripper. Dammit, why did it have to be that one left standing?

Bullets rattled the dumpster, most of them penetrating the metal, but none getting all the way through. Spike kicked Durrett. "Get up, asshole. You've still got your gun. Give me some cover."

Still shaking, wild-eyed, Durrett lurched onto his knees and scrambled to the opposite end of the dumpster. He stuck his head out, then yanked it back to dodge the answering hail of bullets. Meanwhile, hoping Tripper had mistaken Durrett's dark hair for his own, Spike spider-crawled to the next cover, one of the alleys leading into the yard. He barely noticed that he could have bolted from the scene from there. It wasn't an option. He wanted Tripper – though he had to admit hoping that the man was wounded and putting up a death-stand.

Bullets strafed behind him as Tripper realized what Spike was doing, but Durrett's training had mastered his fear now, and he rose and fired toward the gun muzzle flashes in the alley opposite Spike's hiding place. Tripper loosed a short volley at him, to get him down again, then jacked in another chamber and fired at Spike, so quickly that Spike didn't even get a chance to dart behind the truck as he'd planned.

For a moment, no one was shooting, and in the sudden silence, Spike heard the ticking sound of hot metal, the crackle of flames, and a man groaning. Not Tripper, unfortunately, but Xiu. If I get out of this, he thought in silent, you and I are going to have a little talk, you fucking traitor.

"Hey!" It was Tripper. "Why don't you call off your rookie, and you and me can settle this like men?"

Spike said, "I am the rookie."

There was a short silence. "The offer still stands, rookie. You and me, step out into the light, see who's best."

Spike snorted. "Yeah. I can see you playing all fair and square."

Tripper laughed. From the west came the wail of police cars. "What's your name, rookie?"

"Spike."

"You're good. Maybe I'll see you again sometime."

"Don't you leave, you damned coward!"

"Too much paperwork with cops. You should get out, too, unless you fancy a life in jail. This is our turf. The cops belong to us here."

"Gee, thanks for the warning. You're all heart."

There was no answer. Tripper was gone. Spike could sense his absence, like a darker hole in the shadows of the alley opposite him. He knew it might be foolish, but he trusted his instincts and emerged, going to where Xiu lay on the ground, running not because he feared a bullet, but because he wanted to be out of here before the cops arrived. He bent over Xiu, seeing that truck shrapnel had buried itself in the man's chest. He wanted an answer, but even as he knelt to get it, Xiu's eyes glazed over and his lungs gave up the struggle.

Durrett called to him from behind the dumpster. "Spike! We've got to get out of here!"

"Yeah, yeah. Coming." They ran up the nearest alley, and as they approached the end, seeing they'd be coming onto a busy street, they tucked their guns away and slowed to a normal walk, merging unnoticed into the crowd.

After a moment, Spike said, "What the hell happened back there?"

"Dunno," Durrett said. "Revenge, maybe. Or he was told to do it. I don't have a clue, and I don't think we'll ever find out, either. Anyone who knows isn't going to tell us."

"Why should they?" Spike said bitterly. "We're only the guys who almost got our asses shot off."

To his utter surprise, Durrett laughed.

---

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