With Spike having been "blooded" and now officially a part of the syndicate, Vicious was free to claim him as one of his own. He picked Spike up at the spaceport, brought him to his own apartment, and they sat down together to go over the events of the botched delivery. Vicious listened to Spike's account without comment and almost without interruption, except to clarify an occasional point. When Spike fell silent, he rose, went to his kitchen, and brought out another two cans of beer, giving both to Spike.
"What did Durrett mean, that Xiu might have been told to blow that truck?" Spike asked suddenly.
"It's one way to get to someone who's hard to reach. Gabriel was the son of the Tigers' capo for Tharsis. I guess he decided to go into business for himself, and maybe someone took advantage of it. But maybe it wasn't that at all. Maybe Xiu just hated him for some reason, and got revenge."
"I'm probably never going to know, am I?"
"Get used to it."
He watched Spike's face, approving the way Spike thought it over for a moment and then dismissed it. Then Vicious sat back, stretched his legs out, and said, "So, all very exciting. How do you feel?" He asked the question casually, giving no hint of how long he'd been waiting to ask it, and hearing Rafe in his mind: ...if you feel anything at all except satisfaction from a job done, then you haven't got what it takes to do this kind of work...
Spike grimaced. "What do you mean, how do I feel? I know you're not concerned about my health."
"You were just in a firefight, your first day on the job. You killed at least two men. How do you feel about all that?"
"What a dumb question. It's not like I'm a virgin, Vicious. I got the job done. I feel like I'm glad to be alive and drinking up all your beer. What else do you want to hear?"
A subtle tension drained away from his shoulders. Vicious slowly smiled. "That sounded pretty good to me."
Spike grumbled, "I wish I could have gotten that Tripper, though."
"No, you don't. Better that he's alive. Every man needs a good enemy."
"Rafe tell you that?"
"What makes you think it was Rafe?"
"The way you say it. I can always tell when you're thinking about him. I still wish I could have met the guy. You got any food around here? I'm starving."
~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ :~
The recoil of the automatic jarred Julia's arm all the way back to the shoulder. Quentin's own gun was bigger, heavier, and stronger than the .22 she'd begun with.
"Loosen up, babe," Quentin said. "Don't grip it like an enemy. Hold it like a lover."
She smiled at the drawl with which he spoke that last word ("lovaaaah"), but she focused her attention, aimed, and tried again.
Quentin whooped as he brought the target up on the monitor. "Look at that spread! I tell you, you're a natural."
She had to admit to being impressed with herself. Five out of six had hit the target, and the spread was barely the width of her open hand. She smiled, satisfied, and eyed the gun. "I wish I could carry one of these. But it's too heavy."
"Yeah, it'd weigh down your fancy little purse. I'll get you a Glock. It's lighter, but carries plenty of punch. We'll get you a nice one, engrave your name on it."
She stripped off the protective ear covers and shook out her hair. "Don't be silly. I don't want my name on it. I just want something simple. Practical."
He tickled her ear. "That's not what you said when I gave you those earrings."
"Jewelry is different," she smiled.
"Sure you don't want to practice any more today?"
"I told you, I have to be home by one. Granma's taking me to see a friend."
"Is it that late? OK, come on, I'll get you home on time."
He was respectful about her grandmother, and treated the old woman with courtesy. She wished Granma would treat him the same. But she didn't like him, she didn't like his "noisy bike", and she didn't like his lifestyle. There was something wrong, she maintained, with a young man who always seemed to have money yet was never at work during normal working hours.
Julia agreed that Quentin wasn't a respectable young man. Where she and her grandmother differed was that Julia didn't find anything wrong with that. That edge, that sense of underlying danger, were exciting to her, in a way Granma was probably too old to understand anymore. She did wish she could tell her grandmother about Quentin teaching her to shoot, though. After all, she'd asked him for lessons mainly to help keep her grandmother safe on the darker streets which were slowly creeping into the area of their neighborhood, surrounding it. But Sarah St. Clair didn't approve of guns for any reason, nor of men who used them.
Sarah was waiting in the doorway when they arrived, leaning on her cane. Quentin cut off the motorcycle's engine, swung off, and helped Julia to dismount. "Afternoon, Mrs. St. Clair," he said cheerfully to Sarah.
Sarah rewarded him with a curt nod, nothing more. Julia said nothing. She'd long ago given up apologizing for her grandmother, and Quentin really didn't care, anyway. "See ya." He gave her a light kiss, waved at Sarah, got back on the bike, and was gone, throttling easily up the street.
"Where have you been?" Sarah asked her as Julia came up the steps. Now that Quentin was gone, she relaxed her back and allowed herself to lean a little more heavily on her cane.
"Just riding around. Granma, are you all right? You don't look well."
Her concern softened Sarah's expression. "I'm fine, honey. Just worried about you."
"You don't have to worry. I know you don't like him, but Quentin takes good care of me."
"Yes, I bet he does. Julie, honey, you might like that boy, and I can see why. But trust me, he's putting your feet on the wrong path, a path that's going to end bad for you."
Julia went past her and snagged the car keys from the hook. "I'm 18 years old. That's old enough to know what I'm doing."
"No, it's just old enough so you think you know what you're doing."
Julia laughed. "If you spend our whole visit talking to Annie about me and what a bad girl I am, like you did last time, I swear I'll pick you up and carry you back to the car. Here, put your coat on. It's cold." She settled the heavy cloth on her grandmother's thin shoulders. "Where are the presents for Annie and Henry?"
"In the car already." Sarah's frown lightened. She loved Christmas, loved giving presents to her friends and relatives. She saved all year long from her small income to get nice gifts for her friends and family.
At the magazine store, with the sign flipped to "Closed" and the blinds drawn, Annie and Henry accepted their presents and oohed and ahhed over the pretty wrapping job Sarah had done. Henry took Sarah's coat, but when Julia was about to hand him her own, he gave her a quick, meaningful glance and gestured with a slight tilt of his head for her to follow him. She carried her own coat to the back of the store, her fingers gripping it tightly. Henry wouldn't want to talk secretly to her unless something was wrong and he wanted to keep it from Granma. She drew a long breath to calm herself as she hung the coat on a hook. "What is it, Henry? What's going on?" she said, proud that her voice stayed low and didn't shake.
"I'm... worried about your grandmother." Henry was a man whose habitual expression was a serene smile, so this serious opening made Julia look back sharply at her grandmother. Henry went on, "Maybe you don't see it, since you're with her every day. But she's noticeably thinner, more pale, more fragile than the last time she was here. When was the last time she saw a doctor?"
Julia was so upset, she could barely get her words out. "I-I don't know. You know how Granma is. She hates doctors. She says they just make you sicker."
"Get her to one," Henry ordered. Then he put a hand on her shoulder. "It's probably nothing, Julia. Don't worry. But do get her into the clinic for a check up."
"I will. I'll find a way."
She bit her lip, and Henry squeezed her shoulder. Her expression was casual again when they rejoined Annie and Sarah. Sarah said at once, "What were you two discussing so seriously back there?"
Henry promptly replied. "Julia's new boyfriend, of course."
"Well, I hope you told her to dump him. Worthless hoodlum. I think he works for the syndicate."
Annie and Henry exchanged glances, and Annie said, "Oh, never mind all that! I want to open my present."
~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ :~
Julia never got the chance to take her grandmother, reluctantly or not, to the clinic. She didn't want to bring up the subject over Christmas. In January, four days after the new year began, Sarah collapsed in the kitchen, while making them breakfast. Her heart had finally failed her, and she died in the hospital the following day, her tiny hand resting in Julia's.
The funeral was well attended. Sarah had had many friends. Julia got several offers of help with settling the estate and finding a place to live, since the house had to be sold. She thanked each person with sincere gratitude, but turned each offer down. She was determined to run her own life now.
When she finally got a chance to talk to Quentin, he let her talk it all out without interruption or comment. In his apartment, sitting on the floor, she told him all of it, including her efforts to sell the house. He had wrapped his arms and legs around her from behind, rested his chin on her shoulder, and just listened. When she wound down, his first words, after a slight pause, were, "Why don't you move in with me?"
She couldn't believe Quentin, like everyone else, wanted to tell her what to do. "Move in with you? You don't want me hanging around here all the time," she smiled.
"Actually, I think it would be good for me. You might do the lady-things, like putting curtains on the windows."
Her lips twitched. "You could use some curtains."
"And I could find work for you. You wouldn't have to get a lousy job in that neighborhood, bagging groceries or something."
She turned her head away and said quietly, "You're talking about syndicate work."
"Well, sure. But nothing you won't like. Come on." He nuzzled her neck. "Rescue me from my lonely existence. I bet I can even find someone to buy that house off you."
"A syndicate man? Just what all of Granma's friends would like," she laughed. She sat up, moving a few inches away from him, casually. "I was thinking about getting a place of my own. Something I can afford. I don't need anything big or fancy."
He frowned. "You tired of me, babe?"
"No! That's not what I meant. I'd just like to try being on my own for a while."
After a moment, Quentin said, "If you want to do that, I'll help you. If I can. But I don't like it."
"Why not? I can take care of myself."
"Shit, babe. Have you looked in a mirror lately? You're the prettiest little angel fish that ever swam out into the sea, and you are going to be surrounded by sharks in about three flaps of your fins. And then what? You don't know anything or anybody. You're a baby still. They'll eat you alive."
She glared at him.
"It's just the truth." He took her chin in his hand and kissed her, gently. "Stay with me. I'll keep the sharks off and teach you about swimming in this big, bad ocean. After you get your bearings, if you want to leave, then all right. I won't let you go easy, but I won't force you to stay, either."
She thought about it for a while, letting him wait. His patience convinced her that he meant all he'd said. When he lied – and he'd lied to her many times – he got restless quickly. "I don't know," she murmured.
He put his arms around her waist and nipped her earlobe. "Now you're teasing me. Look at that smile. I knew it."
She laughed. "All right, but if you start taking me for granted, I'm leaving. And I'm taking my curtains with me."
He chuckled, but he was sober when he said, "A man would have to be crazy to take a girl like you for granted."
~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ :~
Spike slid his gun out of his belt, fingers checking it automatically as he looked around the wall. Before him, Vicious hunched his shoulders, peering into the gloom. Fog from the water obscured even the nearby warehouses. On either side of Vicious stood the tall goons he seemed to favor, alert as Dobermans, but it was to Spike that he spoke. "What do you see?" he asked in a quiet voice – not a whisper, because a whisper carried far.
In the same quiet voice, Spike said, "Three on the right, four, maybe five to the left behind the security fence. Not too smart," he smiled. Even if they'd left the fence door ajar, it would delay them by seconds. Plenty of time to do some damage.
"Still – don't let me get killed."
"I've got your back." He wasn't as confident as he sounded, but he reminded himself that the enemy couldn't see any better than he could.
Flanked by his goons, Vicious walked from the shadows and into the parking lot. His black duster, a much fancier version than the one he'd worn when they were kids, cut his lean silhouette into an even more elusive target. Across the lot, a kicked stone clattered, loud in the fog. Vicious kept walking, never breaking stride, until he was in the center of the lot.
Coming to meet him was a fat man in a black suit, flanked by two goons so much like Vicious' own men that Spike idly wondered, amused, if there was a factory somewhere that was churning them out to order. The fat man was already talking, his nervousness evident in his voice. "I don't know who you are, but I said I would deal only with Mao Yenrai."
Vicious' quiet voice held no tension, no emotion at all. "Mao Yenrai doesn't stoop to small fry like you."
"Small fry? My harbor business alone is...."
"You're small fry. And you're a liar."
"Listen, you!" snapped the man. At the tone, all four goons tensed. The man at once relaxed away from Vicious, lifting a cautioning hand. The goons stood down.
"I speak for Mao Yenrai in this," said Vicious coolly. He hadn't moved at all.
"What's your name? Who are you?"
Vicious allowed a heartbeat's pause, for the effect. "Vicious."
"You're Vicious?"
"Yes."
"You're younger than I thought you'd be. Where's your friend?" His eyes flicked past Vicious, searching the darkness.
Spike grinned. He was getting a reputation. On Vicious' coattails, yes, but that wasn't bad for less than a year in the syndicate.
"Are we here to chitchat?"
"No." The fat man self-consciously straightened his coat. "Here's my offer. I..."
"You've already received an offer."
"An outrageous one! Surely not meant to be taken seriously. I assumed that was meant only to open negotiations."
"There are no negotiations. That is the offer."
"Eighty percent? I wouldn't have control over my own companies! That's ridiculous!"
"That's the offer."
"I'm offering forty-five."
"Not good enough."
"It's good enough for the White Tigers," the fat man snapped.
Spike prepared himself, not by tensing, but by opening his mind and senses to everything around him, as Sam had taught him. The gun became a part of his arm, weighing nothing.
Vicious remained silent. Tension built in the air, at first like the fog, then with more weight.
The fat man turned his nerves into anger. "So what do you think about that? Your precious Mao Yenrai can't touch me if I make a deal with the Tigers."
"I think that you've already made that deal."
"Don't be stupid. If I had, why would I be here now?"
"That's a good question. I suspect that the Tigers made that part of your deal. They want to make a statement, draw a boundary line." Again, the heartbeat's pause. "But you just crossed a different boundary line."
The fat man stepped back.
Vicious' men, Spike included, were trained to ignore anyone within striking distance of Vicious. Vicious could handle himself. Their job was to make sure that the flanks were covered. Spike always loved to watch the action go down, not out of any bloodthirstiness, but because he admired the clean, deadly efficiency.
And it went down fast. In a couple of moves almost too fast for the eye to follow, even when they were expected, Vicious took one step forward, drew his sword, and slashed twice, killing both of the fat man's bodyguards before they even knew what was happening. At the same time, Vicious' own men spun toward where they knew the White Tigers were hiding, laying down a covering fire.
Spike's job was to handle surprises, and the Tigers had one. He'd been expecting them to rush from their cover behind the security fence, now that their secrecy was blown. They did, but behind a metal shield. Beneath the rim of shield, and behind it, Spike saw small wheels. He didn't stop to wonder what it was, he just fell flat, aimed, and fired. His first shot ricocheted off the shield, but the rest of them went under it, destroying a few ankles and all the little wheels by the time they got smart enough to set the shield on the ground.
Bullets zinged his way, but Spike was already moving, grabbing the leather strap he'd placed there a few days ago to get him quickly to the window on the second floor. From there, his targets were a blur in the fog, but they obligingly kept firing at where he'd just been. He fired at their flashes, the shield dropped, and then Vicious' other two men split up. One ran to finish off the Tigers that had been on their right, and the other knelt and began shooting through the security fence.
A man stepped out of the shadows, staying close to the wall. Spike smiled, grimly satisfied. He knew that shape, even in the dimness of the fog. Tripper. This was the third time he'd run across the other man since their first meeting, and each time, he hadn't been able to end it. Now he had his chance.
He took careful aim, but before he could fire, Tripper reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and put his hand to his mouth. Grimacing, Spike changed his aim as Tripper lobbed the object outward. Spike followed the arc and squeezed the trigger. The grenade took the hit without exploding, but its course altered drastically. It fell behind the fence and exploded with a wave of red and orange smoke.
Tripper drew back into the shadows. Cursing, Spike scrambled down the wall and raced toward the ruins of the fence, leaping through the gap where the chain link had been forced out and down by the force of the grenade. "Tripper!! Get your ass back here!"
But there was no sign of the man. Spike turned.
The fat man and Vicious faced each other in the parking lot. The fat man had somehow found the courage to draw a weapon, a derringer. At that range, even such a small popgun could kill, but his hand was shaking too hard to aim. Vicious held the sword out, wielding the long steel as easily as Spike did his gun, the point an inch from the fat man's neck. Past them, Vicious' man emerged from where one contingent of the Tigers had been, and near Spike, the other was calmly checking the bodies, putting a bullet into the brain of every man who still had a head and hands.
Vicious said to the fat man, "Go ahead. Do it."
The fat man's hands shook even harder. He dropped the little gun and raised them. "Don't kill me," he sobbed.
"Are negotiations over?"
"Yes! He can have whatever he wants!"
"That sounds reasonable." The blade flicked, and blood spurted from the man's cheek. He fell back, clutching his face. "Don't forget," Vicious said, "we have a deal."
The two goons flanked him again, and Spike stepped back through the fence casually. The fat man looked wildly around, then turned and ran.
Vicious bent and cleaned the sword thoroughly on the coat of one of his victims, then slid it into the sheath. The fat man's racing footsteps and sobs echoed in the fog. Vicious said, "Good work."
That, from him, was high praise. Spike exchanged pleased looks with the two goons.
~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ :~
Two days later, Spike was playing pool with Vicious, beating him as usual, when a man approached them. Glasses reflected the hazy light of the pool hall, hiding his eyes, but despite them, he was no accountant type. He was broad-shouldered, fit, and walked with assurance. From his expression, and by the way they made way for him, like water splitting on the prow of a boat, the crowd might not have existed. Spike studied him, trying to get the name from his memory, but it had been too long since he'd studied, and it eluded him.
Vicious, however, knew him. Vicious never forgot anything. He straightened, setting aside the pool cue. "Stryker."
"Vicious. You're wanted. You and your buddy."
"When?"
"Tonight, at the house. At 6:30."
"We'll be there."
Stryker turned and walked out with the same assurance with which he'd entered. Spike managed to say, "Stryker. Doesn't he work for Mao Yenrai?"
"Yes." Vicious picked up the cue again.
"We're going to Mao Yenrai's house?"
"If you're my buddy, yes, I guess we are." He shot three balls in succession, smoothly.
That was one of the few games Spike ever lost to him.
~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ :~
In a city on a terraformed planet, space was always at a premium. Office buildings rose a hundred stories or more, apartment buildings at least twenty stories, and, downtown, sometimes as high as the office buildings. Private residences were tall and narrow. Only the extremely wealthy could afford to spread out their homes and surround them with landscaped grounds. Mao Yenrai's home didn't just spread out, it sprawled, and in the evening light, the wall that encompassed the estate looked vast enough to hold the entire District. Spike pursed his lips in a soundless whistle as, once they'd passed through several layers of security, they were escorted into a flagged courtyard with a fountain in the middle. The water leaped and gurgled from a basket held in the claws of an Oriental dragon carved from veined marble.
The flagstones made a path around the house. The guard led them to the right and around to the back, and it was a long walk. Behind the house was a terraced garden, something Spike had never seen except in books. At one end of the first terrace, caterers were laying food out on long tables. It seemed Mao Yenrai was about to have a party. Remembering Vicious' wry and amusing account of the first party he'd attended here, Spike allowed his own nerves to settle.
The man who came to greet them was short, trim, and unassuming, but Spike knew him, even if he'd never seen him in the flesh before. Mao Yenrai greeted Vicious like a friend, smiling and gracious. Like Vicious, he had a soft, quiet voice, but his was pleasant, almost sweet. After exchanging a few casual words with Vicious, he said, "And this is Spike?"
Spike said, "That's me. Nice place you've got here."
"I'm so glad you like it."
As if. "Who wouldn't?" He plucked a couple of the plum tomatoes from one of the trays on the nearest table, juggled them idly, then realized that both Vicious and Mao were staring at him. "Is it OK?" he asked the latter. "I'm starving."
"By all means."
He juggled them a few more times, then flipped them up and caught them in his mouth. They were juicy and sweet, and he couldn't help closing his eyes for just a moment to enjoy the flavor. When he opened them again, Vicious was looking at him sidelong, his expression completely inscrutable. But Mao Yenrai was smiling. Spike suddenly felt self-conscious. "I wouldn't try that with a chicken, mind you," he said.
"I'm relieved to hear it," Mao said, and Spike grinned. Mao turned his attention back to Vicious, but in a way that subtly included Spike as well. "I wanted you to know, first, that your negotiations two nights ago were completely successful. Mr. Sewell has semi-retired – to our regret, of course. But he will stay on in an advisory role. His CEO will take his place, and that gentleman should deal well with us."
Vicious nodded, only a slight lightening of his expression showing that he was pleased.
Mao went on, "But now we have another problem that I would like you to handle. I have asked you here because I want this taken care of in complete secrecy. You will understand when I explain."
"That won't be a problem."
"Good. Walk with me." He led them down to the next terrace, speaking as they went. "The White Tigers were understandably upset with the result of your negotiations. Not just because of the loss of Mr. Sewell's harbor businesses, however. Do you recall that weapon they wheeled out?"
Vicious glanced at Spike, who said, "The one I shot at? Sorry, I didn't mean to let it get all blown to hell."
"There was enough left for my people to recognize it. It's a new kind of broad-range sonic cannon being developed by an R&D lab on Hadrian Asteroid, a lab that is indirectly funded by us. Had it gone off, it would have rendered all of you unconscious. Its range can be narrow, but it can effectively work on an area approximately four city blocks square. Theoretically."
"Theoretically?" Vicious asked.
"It is still in the development stage."
"But Tripper and his gang had a prototype?" Vicious said it as if it were not really a question.
"It was a prototype, yes. But not one of our making."
"Then there is a spy at the lab, someone who sold them the plans and specs."
"Something actually far worse. That weapon is only one of several projects at the lab, and not the most dangerous or vital. So naturally, we investigated the lab and everyone in it, thoroughly, after your incident. And we found something much more interesting – and disturbing – than a spy."
Vicious was swift to guess. "A spy satellite. Hadrian is just barely large enough to orbit one. It's shielded, I assume."
"Very well shielded, and not only against detection. Standard weaponry won't work on it, won't even see it. It will need to be taken care of manually." He smiled. "Can you space walk?"
Spike gave Vicious a moment to answer, and when he didn't, he said, "I can. No problem. Do we provide our own explosives?"
Mao turned a surprised look on him, then glanced back at Vicious. Vicious nodded, and Mao said to both of them, "We will give you everything you need. How soon can you be ready to leave?"
"Now," Vicious said.
"As soon as you pack the spacesuit for us," Spike grinned.
"Mr. Stryker will see to you." It was a dismissal, polite but final, punctuated by Stryker's presence behind them. Spike had never even heard the big man approach – which was something to be said against grass, he supposed.
In the car again, Vicious looked at him and said, "You're insane. You talked to that man as if he were one of your District buddies, and with a single glance, he could have had you ground up for dog food. Alive."
"Yeah, well, I didn't figure he liked the shrinking violet type, or he'd have ground you up long ago."
Vicious was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, he shifted the subject. "Where did you learn to space walk? Doohan?"
"Yup. That old man didn't do any hard work when I was with him. Zipping up a space suit was hard work for him, so anytime we had a repair, guess who got to put on the old magnetic boots?"
"I'll have to remember to thank him. Otherwise I'd have to be learning it right now."
"Are we taking your Blackhawk?"
"Yes. It's got enough room, and there's no reason to take both zips."
"Then, since I'm such a big help, can I drive?"
"No."
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