Prologue
1
The inevitable collapse of AkitaHartz Insurance began with a veritable bang. For six months, the Mars-based firm struggled like a patient stricken with a terminal disease, clinging desperately, however hopelessly, to life. During that time, the employees sat on their heels, wondering not 'if' but 'when', as is the case when inevitability is understood. The firm filed for bankruptcy even sooner than most expected, leaving more than five hundred dedicated employees jobless in a city where work was nearly impossible to obtain.
Firm broker Brad Artest knew better than to curse the expected. Sometimes things happen and there really is nothing that can be done. Simply put, the past cannot be altered. All he could do was look back and see how the downward spiral had begun. It isn't always easy to discern a single reason for any one course taken along the path of history. However, one can always reflect on circumstances that might lead to rationalization.
In the case of AkitaHartz Insurance, Artest had built a cause-and-effect theory based on the foundation of three primary events. First of all, nine weeks prior to the firm's downfall, came the so-called "veritable bang." The CEO of the firm, a wealthy gentleman by the name of Gideon Kane, was caught in the crossfire of a local turf war, set in motion by a drug deal gone sour. With Kane out of the picture, really a staple of success for the entire organization, many longtime customers began to break their ties with AkitaHartz.
And thus, the very foundation of the firm began to crumble.
The second event, in a bizarre twist of fate every bit as disheartening as the first, was the unexpected lawsuit slapped on the company by the government of Mars itself. Brad wasn't an attorney. He really didn't understand the intricacies of the suit, only that money had changed hands, illegally, and the government wasn't happy about it. Nearly two thirds of the firm's employees lost their jobs during that debacle. Artest did know that outright bankruptcy was a direct result of the legal troubles.
The third was something impossibly sickening to swallow. It was something that had been difficult to see, something damn near impossible to understand. The whole ugly ordeal didn't really make much sense, but in actuality, while Gideon's death had seemed a "veritable bang," it was no more than a lame whimper in the grand scheme of things. Artest was eventually drawn to the bottle, in a bar where he surrendered his soul.
2
To the Jack Ryan Memorial Hospital staff, he was known as simply as John Doe. They had cared for him for the better part of two months, most of which he'd spent in intensive care. More recently, once the true threat to his life had passed, he'd been moved to a private room on the sixth floor. He had his own private nurse, a young woman named Darby Jones, responsible for his nourishment and medications, who bathed him and changed his sheets and checked his vitals; she'd practically observed him in every way throughout his tenure. She was fascinated by the man, a man she didn't know and perhaps never would. She wished she could sit down and talk with him, visit the individual beyond the patient. Comatose patients really were a drag, because while various conditions might hint at the man's lifestyle, you could never get clear picture of whom a person really was without decent, one-on-one conversation. She only knew that he'd been dumped off on the hospital doorstep more than two months ago, the day he was admitted. He'd been a bloodied mess of a man, cut up badly by way of what had to be some kind of blade, without any form of identification. Fingerprints, dental records, and even DNA tests had turned up dry, and thus "John Doe" came into her life. While she had other patients she would tend over the course of her day, no one quite grabbed her like he did. Mid-twenties, tall, dark, handsome, a man whom no doubt kept himself in great physical condition. He possessed everything in the physical aspects of a man she found attractive. But the question remained: who was he? More so, just who had he pissed off to wind up in this terrible predicament? She doubted she would ever know.
3
She was thinking about him again.
Sometimes, when she thought back to the kind of man he had been, Faye was relieved it was over. He'd just been a giant pain in the ass, and she had never denied herself the opportunity of telling him so before he'd rushed off to meet death. The memory should have given her a little bit of a boost. She always told herself she was better off without him. Of course she was. Faye didn't need such an arrogant prick telling her what a bitch she was whenever he felt like it. There was a certain, just freedom about it, and the thought of it should have brought peace to her heart.
Why then, she wondered, did it feel as though the weight of the universe was draped over her shoulders? Why was there no peace, as if a void had worked its way almost violently into the depths of her very soul? Her heart pounded at the very mention of his name, and she didn't like it. The storm raged endlessly inside her mind, and that only gave her a migraine.
But, what could she possibly do? She could leave, go somewhere where the memory might leave her be; she'd actually been considering it for some time now. Jet would understand. Might even appreciate the silence. Still, she didn't see how. The thought of departure gnawed at her conscience. Jet had lost a friend, too. Faye had to make sure he would be okay before she up and disappeared.
Shit, Faye thought, closing her eyes. Since when was I ever sympathetic? Jet's a big boy. He can take care of himself. Besides, I've got my own problems without having to worry about that old coot. No matter how hard she tried, Faye could not convince herself to run away. Jet had given her a place to stay. As much as she hated to admit it—and by God, she would rather die than tell Jet the truth—she truly appreciated all he had ever done for her. She knew if she ever breathed a word of her feelings, he would never let her live it down. The young woman sighed and set down her fork.
"Hey, nobody's forcin' that shit down your throat."
"Huh?" Faye looked up to see him staring at her, and blushed. "Oh. It's not that. I was just thinking, that's all."
He arched his brow. "Oh? About what?"
"Hard to say, really." Her slender fingers played gently along the tabletop.
"Come on. We've been working together a long time. You can tell me."
"That's just it," Faye replied. The look she gave him was a warning: Let it drop, old man. Jet smirked and shoveled a bite into his mouth. She lay her head lightly against the back of her right hand, her elbow planted firmly to the tabletop. She knew he was still watching as she finally scooped up her fork her fork again and took bite of her own.
"See, it ain't so bad."
"Yeah, I guess not." Faye had to smile. Somehow, Jet found a way to cheer her up despite the massive crater left in her weary heart, despite the loss she so utterly regretted. She ate the rest of her meal in silence and then helped Jet to clear the table and clean the kitchen. It was so boring around the ship these days, without Ed to create the weirdness that she had grown to enjoy, and without Spike to do those insensitive things Spike was undoubtedly born to do.
When that was done, the two retired to the living room where they switched on the television and took in the daily events of the Jupiter colonies. Ganymede seemed to have had the most interesting day, as leftovers from the Red Dragon syndicate had raided a quick shop in an effort to gun down someone who had attempted to evade them. The story really didn't surprise Faye. After all, the syndicate had been struggling to remain on its feet for the past two months, since the collapse of their funds, and all the internal turmoil that she thought perhaps she understood quite well. Even Jet acted as though he had some inkling of the situation as they stared angrily at the set.
And why wouldn't he? she thought. It only makes sense, after what Spike did. He's the reason for all this. He has to be. He couldn't have surrendered his life for nothing. He wouldn't just die for nothing.
At least, that's what she kept telling herself. It was possible that Spike had simply gone to avenge Julia's death and failed. Maybe it was something else entirely that had brought shame to the Red Dragon. It was really more enjoyable, after all the horrible things she and Jet had gone through, to think that Spike had actually had something to do with the whole shebang. As far as timing went, it sure as hell made sense. Spike had gone to face Vicious. While it had been a foolish endeavor, at least she understood why Spike thought he had to go, and in the end, Vicious had fallen. She knew that much: Vicious was dead. An intriguing yet terrible man had been wiped from existence, and Faye would have gladly spit on his grave if given the chance. He was the reason, after all; it was because of him Spike had been forced to go back.
"Shit," Faye muttered, and plucked a cigarette from the near-empty pack on the coffee table. Her eyes never left the screen, which presently was showing a scene from the Ganymede quick shop, where medics were pulling a half a dozen stretchers from the chaos, covered with white sheets stained red. She shuddered. Well, Spike couldn't have stopped this if he'd wanted to.
"Eleven dead," Jet muttered, reading the ticker at the bottom of the screen. "What a waste." Names of suspects were also released, as the reporter had indicated at the beginning of the broadcast. Neither Faye nor Jet recognized the names, though three of the four killers were reported dead, and they were thought to be members of the Red Dragon syndicate.
Jet shut off the television. "So?"
"So what?" Faye cast the old man a sidelong glance.
"What do you want to do?"
"You mean about the syndicate?"
He nodded. "Among other things."
Faye grunted. "Yeah? Fuck that." From the beginning they had known it was Spike's choice to go after Vicious. Together they had decided that no matter what, it would be a decision they would simply have to live with. For them, Spike had surrendered his life when he had gone off to complete his mission. That had been enough. They were through with his shit from then on. It was over. Yet neither had expected the great loneliness that had transpired because of their lost comrade. After all, he had been a comrade.
"I'm serious, Faye."
"Me too. And I say to hell with it." He eyed her for a moment, and she looked away, heaving a thick cloud of smoke into the already musty air. "I'm through banging heads with those bastards. It only leads to trouble."
"Yeah, you're right." He reached for a smoke.
"You're damn right I'm right."
"I know."
"I miss him."
"Me too."
They shared a look. It was the kind of exchange that left both numb and wishing they were anywhere but together, wallowing alone in the sadness that neither of them knew quite how to share. It was discomforting to say the least, and when Faye was uncomfortable about anything, she typically left the room. But now she didn't. She had already decided she couldn't do that to Jet, not now. He deserved a little respect for everything that he'd done for her, for Spike, for Ed and Ein. Of course he deserved respect. He was the one who had held the Bebop together through it all, even if no one else had realized it. Faye did now, after a couple of months contemplating the loss of Spike, and it gave her courage that she never knew she possessed.
I miss him, she had said. Hell yeah, she missed him, and it was probably pretty apparent to Jet, too. It was already hard enough to keep her thoughts to herself, after all the time they had been teammates. Now she was making the mistake of revealing her little confessions even when her heart didn't want anyone else to know. So much for keeping secrets. Then again, was it really all that big a secret? She was pretty sure he knew about the uncomfortable moment she had shared with Spike before he'd left the ship for the final time. That was pretty damn apparent, wasn't it? Gunfire typically alerts people to uncomfortable situations.
"I miss him a lot," she said finally, and stubbed out her cigarette.
Jet closed his eyes and nodded. "I know."
4
"Mr. Artest?"
Brad turned a lazy eye in the direction of the gruff voice, and saw a body to match. A man the size of a bull loomed over him, dressed in a black trench coat that barely concealed his massive bulk, the rim of his hat was pulled low so to shroud his eyes in shadow. "That's me," the young man said, touching his lips to the glass once more.
The big man introduced himself. "Connor." The two shook hands. "You're a shareholder of AkitaHartz Insurance."
Artest blinked. Nobody had ever approached him before, when the business had actually been in operation. What the hell did this bozo want? "Twenty-fucking-percent. As you know, twenty percent of nothing is nothing."
"I'm not here for money, sir," the big man replied. He leaned forward, lowering his voice considerably as he looked into Brad's eyes. "I just need a minute of your time."
Brad Artest rolled his eyes and gestured for the chair across the table. "Have a seat," he said. "But make it quick. My minutes are better spent wasted, if you know what I mean." He found his comment to be tumultuously funny. It evoked nothing more than a annoyed glare from the big man, but he was too drunk to really care. "Get on with it then. Don't expect I'll be able to help."
The man nodded after a moment and took a seat across from him. "I need information on a man you know. Used to sit in with the AkitaHartz board of trustees."
The board of trustees? What the hell does this guy want? Brad leaned back, considering the bigger man for several seconds, and slid his glass away. "There were six board members other than myself. You're gonna have to give me a name."
"This man wasn't a board member," the big man replied, shifting his eyes slowly about the room. There weren't many other customers, and no one seemed to be paying much attention to either man. Satisfied, Connor leaned forward. Now his voice was little more than a whisper. Brad wondered about the secrecy of the exchange, but he didn't say anything. He went for another drink, but paused when his big friend continued. "He was a little weasel of a man—short, thin as a rail, pale. Mid-forties. Looked like a druggie, long, jet-black hair. Ponytail."
"Shit," Brad muttered as a wave of realization struck home. His eyes turned immediately up to the big man across from him. "You're talkin' about Cyrus Cole."
"That's him."
The young broker slid his glass aside. "Whadaya wanna know?"
5
Keeping up with the Father-person was proving to be harder work than Edward had anticipated. It didn't help that she'd found life on the Bebop to be far kinder to her than it was out here. Actually, she'd mulled over a return to Jet-person's ship for some time, though that could prove difficult if she couldn't establish contact. She did her best to keep up with the Father-person and McIntyre-person, but it was a difficult task. At least she had Ein to keep her company, and while he only reminded her of good times spent back with her friends on the Bebop, such memories were never a bad thing. She only had to remind herself it had been her decision to leave.
That never stopped her from thinking back to the others. She hoped Faye-Faye had found happiness back home. After she'd left, Edward had decided that her time on the Bebop was over, and she and Ein had set out to find her own.
While she never regretted her decision, she knew she would always miss the life of a bounty hunter. She might not have been the best, and the others might not have shown it, but her presence had been appreciated for the little things she was able to do, things that they would never have been able to accomplish without her.
Here, with the Father-person, there really wasn't much she could do. Tomato had run out of juice ages ago, and Edward couldn't stand life without her laptop. Life on the road was harsh, and while Ein was a worthy companion, he wasn't the most talkative of her friends, and the Father-person was too busy to offer her the attention a girl her age so desperately needed. She wondered if life had ever been that way to Faye, but she could easily remember the girl from the video tape from nearly a century ago, and she realized that couldn't possibly be the case. The girl in the tape, the younger version of Faye-Faye, had been so happy. That was more than Edward could say now.
Maybe, just maybe, Faye-Faye could use a visitor. The thought encouraged her, and more than once she had been all packed up and ready to go, only to decide against such a journey. After all, she wasn't quite sure where her friend was.
Oh well. Edward knew that sometimes, this was just the way life was. She'd made her decision, and for now, this was just how it was going to have to be.
6
"Well done, Mr. Fujita. Very well done indeed." Nicholai was a tall man with a long, black hooded cape draped over his shoulders, clasped around his neck by a silver chain. He smirked, as revealed by the candle that lit only the bottom half of the man's pale face. He peered down at the briefcase, filled with twelve hundred brand new, crisp 5000-wulong bills. A moment later, pale hands moved to close the case and set it on the floor at his feet. Then he peered back up to the suit sitting in front of him. "With the Cole family out of the way, the syndicate can return to business. You have certainly earned your pay."
Nicholai nodded. He didn't say anything. Nicholai never said anything. In his business, people really didn't need to hear his voice before they died. He looked from the businessman to the two cronies at his side. Both big men, bodyguards. Heavily armed.
"So, I trust you're interested in another job?"
Another nod. Another smirk.
"Very good, very good. And I have just the proposition for you." The businessman took a bite of his steak and sipped from his glass of white wine. He waved his knife at the assassin. "A few of Mao's faithful dogs. I want them found and eliminated. Quick and efficient, like." Nicholai simply stared at the man. The silence was apparently a bit too much for his employer to take, as he leaned forward, sliding a manilla envelope slowly across the desktop. "Good pay, as always." The man in black simply stared. He could see the other squirm beneath his emotionless stare. The feeling gave Nicholai a sense of power. "Job's yours if you want it. There are other assassins, if you don't…" Nicholai brushed aside his cape to reveal the katana beneath. He thumbed the crossguard of the blade, lifting it an inch out of the sheath. The businessman gazed quietly at the weapon.
Suddenly, the killer threw out his left hand, flinging something into the air. There was a sudden and brief whisking sound, which ended quickly with two sudden smacks, almost like the sound of a finger being flicked against flesh. He was so deceptively fast, no one could respond before both of the man's cronies had fallen, twin, three-inch blades lodged in their throats."What the hell are you doing!" the businessman demanded, having somehow maintained his composure, showing enough arrogance to reveal he wasn't quite frightened by the lethal turn of events. It was so humorous that Nicholai had to smile again.
Soon, as the gurgling sound of men drowning in their own blood faded, the assassin pulled his katana free. He brought the blade of the weapon up so his target could see it gleam against the candlelight, only to enrage the businessman.
"Put that thing away! I paid you!"
"You paid Nicholai to do a job," came a voice from the dead. He could see the other's eyes widened as he stiffened in his chair. Nicholai wondered if he'd pissed his pants as a result of the shock. That would've been pretty funny. "He's no longer contractually obligated to you. Which means, old friend, the playing field is open."
"You!" The businessman was shaking, but somehow, he did remarkably well to keep a level voice. Nicholai was impressed. "You can't be serious. The syndicate is teetering on a ledge. The last thing it needs is to change hands now…"
The figure of a man appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by light in the hallway beyond. "Don't play me for a fool, Chan. I am the stability of the syndicate."
"The hell you are. You're the reason for its downfall."
"So like a vulture you swoop down in the darkest of hours to seize a tarnished prize? You're no more than an accountant with an attitude." The shadow of a man approached the desk, and Nicholai stepped aside, bowing his head. "What good is a dog without teeth? I am a tiger, one whose bite is as great as its voice."
"You can't kill me, Vicious."
"On the contrary, old friend." The man drew his blade.
"I control all the funds of the syndicate. I know the business better than anyone." Chan shot a look to the assassin. By the look on his face, Nicholai saw that he understood. He now knew the true reason the contract had been accepted. So like Vicious, to play the field in such a way. "I'm more valuable than anyone left in the syndicate."
Vicious smirked. "Not to me, Chan. To me, you are so much more valuable as a corpse." He lifted the sword. The accountant opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came; he was so frightened his lungs refused to work. An instant later, Vicious expertly swiped the blade through the man's skull. Wiping the blood from the weapon onto his victim's shirt, Vicious shot a look to Nicholai, a man with whom he had served in combat. Perhaps a man as deadly as anyone alive.
"Well done, Mr. Fujita," he murmured as he sheathed his sword, wearing a smirk calculated to mock the dead. Nicholai bowed once more with respectful. "Very well done indeed."