author's note: sorry for the long wait! I had some real life issues to resolve, but from here on out I will do my best to update weekly. Reading your comments makes me so excited to write, so thank you very much! Without further ado, I hope you enjoy this chapter...
iv. black orpheus
Faye shouldered her duffel bag and trailed behind Spike as they entered the Bebop. The old metallic smell of machinery and musty upholstery filled her nostrils immediately as they walked into the living room, and as her vision adjusted to the gloom, her eyes widened in amazement.
Every surface was cluttered with bonsai; hulking shrub-sized trees, tiny feathery creations, twisted roots, pots overflowing with foliage and leaves trailing across the pipes and wires criss-crossing the ship. Clearly, the absence of shipmates had allowed Jet's hobby to reach new and obsessive heights.
"Whoa," Faye breathed, running her fingers across the leathery branches of a nearby tree. Spike nodded.
"It's a real pain in the ass watering everything, let me tell you," he said, finding a rusted watering can nearby and poking the soil of a particularly hearty specimen before trickling water into its roots. "Finicky little sons of bitches, too, they die if they don't have enough water and they die if they have too much water. Jet left me detailed instructions, but, you know, I've never really been - "
"The delicate, cautious type, yes," Faye interrupted. "Right. Obviously," she finished wearily as Spike wove between the rows of trees, carefully testing the moisture of every plant and pruning errant branches here and there. He shot her a nasty look before moving on to the next cluster of plants on the metal staircase.
"So, uh, should I just...put this in my old room?" Faye asked, nudging her duffel bag with her toe. Spike glanced up at her from between two spindly branches.
"Yeah, or you can take Jet's, I guess." He straightened up and tucked a pair of pruning shears into his back pocket, dusting off his large hands. "You're not tired, are you? I wanted to get some planning done after we take off. I'll make some coffee."
"Nah," Faye muttered, dragging her bag behind her as she walked down the hallway to her old room. When she reached the heavy metal door, she took a deep breath before pushing it open, feeling as though she was about to dive underwater.
Apparently, Jet had been using her bedroom for extra storage space. The floor was covered with unfamiliar boxes and broken bits of machinery, although she spotted forgotten tubes of her lipstick and lint-covered pairs of lacy underwear. The old VCR player and television sat huddled at the foot of her bunk, and everything was covered with a blanket of white dust. She edged through the clutter to sink onto the hard mattress, and a layer of dog hair and dust billowed up in a cloud from the bedding. Sneezing violently, she dumped her duffel bag on the corner of her bed and sat for a moment, wiping her nose on her sweater sleeve.
Why do you have to go? Where are you going? What are you going to do, just throw your life away like it was nothing?
"Hey," Spike was calling from the hallway, "you about ready? Hurry up already, I wanna take off."
Faye glanced up to see Spike standing in her doorway, still shirtless and clutching a pot of coffee that smelled charbroiled.
"Geez, Spike, I could have been naked in here, you know," she snapped. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to knock first?"
Spike made a spluttering sound of exasperation, and she stood up abruptly and brushed past him before he could see her face.
As the Bebop hummed through the last wisps of Ganymede's atmosphere, Faye poured herself a steaming mug of bitter coffee and curled up in a corner of the old yellow couch in the living room. Spike clanged around in the control room, setting their course to Mars and checking the fuel tanks, and Faye could hear him cursing periodically as alarms bleeped and levers screeched in rusty protest. The Bebop, like its owner, was suffering from serious internal ailments.
Sometime during the last year, Faye seemed to have lost her space legs, and the vibration of the metal floor and the flashes of light whizzing past the portholes made her stomach lurch dangerously. The couch was mustier and smellier than she remembered, too. Pressing two fingers to her mouth, she willed herself to breathe deeply until the nausea passed. After a few minutes, she noticed that the clanks and clunks from upstairs had abetted, and she glanced up to see Spike walking into the living room, wiping his oily hands on an old rag and yawning.
"Damn piece of junk. I've been telling Jet he needs to scrap the thing and start over, but - what's wrong with you?" Spike said, glancing towards the couch. Faye emitted a quiet groan and shook her head, and he grinned down at her. "You're not seasick already, are you? Geez. Hold on, I have something for that."
Faye shook her head fervently, knowing exactly what Spike's brand of medicine entailed, but he had already disappeared down the hall, his bad leg making a whispery sound as it dragged against the floor. He came back clutching his wooden medicine box under one arm and buttoning his yellow shirt with the other hand.
"Here, this will set you straight," he muttered, perching on the arm of the couch and digging through the box. Pungent herbal smells wafted from the box, and Faye winced as bile crept up her throat. After a moment of rummaging, Spike pulled out a baggie of shimmering black powder. He opened the baggie and pinched out about a tablespoon of its contents, depositing it into his large palm.
"No lizards, please," Faye croaked, but Spike ignored her and deftly tipped the powder into her coffee cup. The mixture fizzed and burbled.
"It's not lizards, but it'll do the trick. Drink up already. I wanna get some work done."
Faye glared at him and sipped hesitantly. Actually, it tasted fine; a little chocolatey, and after an experimental pause she felt much better. Spike watched as she downed the rest of it, fidgeting with a lighter and jiggling his long legs.
"Better?"
Faye nodded. "Yeah. I don't want to know what it was." She glanced at him and saw that he had missed a button and fastened his shirt wrong, and before she thought too much about it she reached towards him and touched the empty buttonhole, her fingers brushing the warm skin of his hard stomach.
"You did it wrong," she said flatly. He looked up at her in surprise, and Faye felt her palms sweating as their eyes met.
"Oh," he said mildly, unfastening the offending buttons and redoing them. Faye looked away and cleared her throat, covertly wiping her clammy hands on the couch cushions.
"Anyways," Spike said as though nothing had happened, retrieving his battered notebook from his pants pocket. He slapped it onto the coffee table, shoving a few bonsai plants out of the way. Faye tucked her hair behind her ears and waited.
"Let's get to work, then," he continued, squinting down at his scrawled notes. "Here's what I've got so far. We know that Sheila Taborn is dead." Faye nodded. "We know that this guy Arthur Rosario, the judge, we know that his prints are all over her apartment and her doorknob. And we know that he's a legendary slime ball."
"Do we?" Faye asked, peering down at his notebook. Spike's handwriting was so bad that she couldn't make out a single letter.
"Big time," Spike said grimly. "I did a little digging today and found quite a few complaints against him, mostly by young female pianists. Nasty comments, a few gropes here and there, bias towards the competitors he's sleeping with. You know the drill."
"Blech." Faye knew the type, all right. The piano teacher who stood too close, peeked down blouses, rubbed backs just a little too gently.
"Right, and it seems like these murder charges are coming as no surprise. Only problem is, we really don't have a leg to stand on. Rosario's alibi is golden."
"So what do we do?" Faye asked, pulling out a cigarette and hunting around on the plant-cluttered table for a lighter. "Track him down? Make him talk? Doesn't seem too hard. He's gotta be the guy, right?" Her fingers closed around the lighter, and she grabbed it and lit her cigarette, taking a long drag and blowing a tendril of smoke up towards the metal fan.
"No way. This guy's got syndicate protection. 24/7 muscle around him, and I'm sure it's amped up since the charges." Spike pulled out a newspaper clipping and shoved it under her nose triumphantly. "This is what we do."
Faye snatched it out of his hands and held it at arm's length, scanning it rapidly. It was a small blurb in the Tharsis Times arts section, announcing the 2071 finalists in the Alba City International Piano Competition. Grainy black-and-white headshots appeared next to each of the ten finalists, along with a brief biography. The murdered pianist Sheila Taborn was included in the list, beaming happily out from the newsprint.
"So?" Faye remarked after a pause, raising her eyebrows. "What's this supposed to mean?"
"Don't you see?" Spike groused, plucking the article from her hands. "What it means is that somewhere in this list of finalists is our ticket to getting close to Rosario."
Faye shrugged. "How's that?"
"Think about it," Spike urged, gesturing towards the article. "Nine of these pianists lost last year. One of them is dead, Sheila, but the rest? I'd bet anything that they'll be applying again this year. There's no rule against re-entering year after year, and I'd imagine more than a few of them have an axe to grind with Rosario and the other judges."
Faye ground out her cigarette in a nearby bonsai pot and pursed her lips.
"I mean..." she said slowly, chewing on the inside of her cheek, "yeah...yeah, I guess that does check out." The plan began to dawn on her in stages, and the old thrill of a successful bounty hunt tingled around the edges of her consciousness. "Okay. Yeah. Yeah! So we just gotta...what. Bribe someone? Call them all up and see if one of 'em will let us...um...pretend to be their manager? Or, you could be the manager. I'd be more of a artist rep type, personally, I suppose..." she mused, exhilarated by how quickly the ideas were coming together.
"Bingo," Spike said, nodding. "That's...uh...exactly what I had in mind too," he continued, leaning back into the couch cushions and exhaling. They were quiet for a moment, Faye's mind working furiously, and when her communicator buzzed loudly in her sweater they both started slightly. Faye yanked the communicator out of her pocket and glanced down at the number. Benjy.
"Ah, hold on a sec," she said vaguely, scuttling off the couch and down the hallway. She flipped open the screen and turned away from Spike as Benjy's face filled the screen. He smiled widely at the sight of her, his blue eyes crinkling boyishly.
"Hey, Benjy," she said quietly, tilting the screen so that Benjy only saw blank wall behind her.
"Babe! I miss you so much," he crooned. "How's it going? You didn't answer my messages. I was worried," he said, furrowing his brow.
"Sorry," Faye said, lowering her voice and retreating farther down the echoing hallway, "I was, uh...really really tied up earlier. At the hospital," she added virtuously.
Benjy nodded, his eyes wide and soulful. "How's he doing?"
"Well," Faye said, "he, um, he's very ill. It's looking very, very bad, in fact. I might have to stay longer than I expected."
Benjy sighed in a gust of noisy air. "All right. Do what you need to do."
"How's everything?" Faye asked, eyes darting over the screen to ensure that the hallway was still Spike-free. "How's work?"
"Work's fine," Benjy answered solemnly, "but I'm really worried about Mama. She's not feeling well today."
Probably the six bottles of champagne the other night, Faye thought to herself, trying to arrange her facial features into the correct expression of pity.
"Oh no. Poor Ethel. Hope she feels better soon."
"Yeah," Benjy said, "probably just the flu, but I dunno. I think that restaurant put something in the food. Are you feeling okay?"
Faye heard Spike's footsteps approaching. "I feel fine. Listen, Benjy, the nurses are calling, I think I need to go in and uh, sign something. I'll talk to you later," she finished in a rush, slamming the screen shut before Benjy replied, just as Spike limped down the hallway.
"You done gabbing with Casanova there?"
Faye gave him a dirty look as he leaned against the wall, running his hands through his wild hair.
"Listen, Spike, just because you've never managed to keep a functional relationship alive - "
She froze mid-sentence, horrified, and Spike looked away and chuckled darkly.
"Nice. Thanks."
"I didn't mean anything," she said swiftly, but he waved a hand dismissively and turned to go, stalking towards his bedroom.
"Don't worry. Sounds like you guys have a great thing going. They say honesty is key, you know?"
Faye cursed under her breath and stood awkwardly for a minute, leaning her forehead against the cool metal wall of the hallway.
If you only knew.
2071
They say that certain things stay in your muscles. Riding a bike. The walking route you took every day to get home from school. The bone-rattling feeling of firing a gun for the first time, a violent bucking eruption. Launching into a handstand. Playing the piano.
Faye fired up the Redtail, her hands shaking from fatigue and adrenaline. She didn't have the energy to find a map, or to ask someone for directions. It was a beautiful night to fly, at least: the night of the Lyrid meteor shower. Sparkling rain falling from the constellation Lyra, Orpheus's enchanted harp that played music so sweet that even the rocks and bushes clustered around to listen.
Faye piloted her zipcraft expertly, darting between flaming chunks of rock and humming a fragment of a Schumann piece over and over, wishing she could remember the next phrase of melody. Two small cardboard boxes sat beside her in the passenger seat, and she looked down occasionally to make sure they were secured. Jet's number flashed on her buzzing communicator over and over, and she ignored the calls until the screen went dark.
When had she last been in Old Shanghai? She had no idea. Her memory was still fogged, only occasionally granting her crystal-clear bursts of comprehension and recollection. She dodged a large meteor and steered the craft towards Earth's gates, scrabbling around in her glove compartment for some loose Woolongs to pay the gate toll.
Was she supposed to go to school in Shanghai? Yeah. That seemed right. The Shanghai Conservatory of Music. Right in the heart of the city. And one day - walking to her audition, perhaps, with her mother, nervously rehearsing her interview speech in her head as her mom fussed with her dress and fixed her hair until Faye swatted her away - she remembered passing a beautiful temple, and hearing the monks chanting, and the bells ringing, and the smoky incense snaking over the garden of yellow snapdragons.
Once Faye passed the Earth gates, her hands took over, and she let her mind go mercifully blank. It was like playing a concerto, really; once you got onstage, the orchestra and the audience and the anxiety all fell away until it was just you and the music and the glittering stars.
After Spike disappeared into his bedroom, Faye snuck back into the living room and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. She powered up the computer and pulled up the article that Spike had showed her earlier. She read the article more carefully this time, and a headshot that she hadn't noticed before leapt out at her. Frowning, she leaned closer, studying the contestant with the dark curly hair and interesting violet eyes until it hit her: the Beethoven pianist! The woman from the restaurant the other night. Faye clasped her hands together in satisfaction and quickly read the woman's biography. Her name was Louisa Cortez, she was born on Venus, and she had been a child prodigy, trotted around the solar system talk shows during her formative years like a show pony. Faye felt an upwelling of sympathy for Louisa. Child prodigies were generally doomed to unhappy adulthoods once the novelty of their youth faded, and Louisa seemed like no exception.
Sticking an unlit cigarette between her teeth and gnawing on it distractedly, Faye looked up Le Poivre Noir's website and found their phone number. She punched the number into her communicator excitedly, wondering what time it was on Ganymede. She counted eleven rings, holding her breath, and right when she had given up hope she heard a click on the end of the line as someone picked up.
"Le Poivre Noir. How may we be of service?" drawled a French-accented voice. The static was so thick that Faye could barely understand the man, but she cranked up the volume and pressed on.
"Hi there. I was wondering if you could give me the information of your pianist? I'm looking to book her for a private engagement," Faye asked in her best rich-lady voice: plummy and smooth and husky. There was a pause on the line.
"We do not ordinarily give out the information of our employees," the man replied, sounding bored, and Faye rolled her eyes.
"Listen, monsieur. My mother got terrible food poisoning from your lobsters the other night, and I'll go to the papers whenever I feel like it," she said, inspecting her nails.
"Are you threatening me?" the man asked incredulously.
"I sure am," Faye replied cheerfully, crossing her fingers. She heard the distant sound of papers shuffling.
"Very well, then, madam," the man huffed. "Here is the number of Mademoiselle Cortez."
He recited the number, and Faye scrawled it down on the back of a fast-food wrapper.
"Thanks very much," she told him sweetly before hanging up the phone quickly. She dialed in Louisa's number next, her heart pounding, and Louisa picked up almost immediately.
"H'llo?" Louisa said, sounding sleepy.
"Hi!" Faye said brightly, realizing too late that she should have gotten her question straight before calling. "This is Faye Va- um, Leung."
"Hi, Faye," Louisa replied. "Do I know you?"
"No," Faye answered, "well, a little. I gave you a light at the Poivre Noir the other night, remember?"
"Er...oh, right, sure," Louisa said, her voice growing warmer, "yeah, thanks, Faye. What's up?"
Faye decided it was best to skip the small talk.
"Did you know Sheila Taborn?"
Silence. Faye ripped off a hangnail while she waited, and she heard Louisa draw in a long breath.
"I did. Why are you asking?"
"I'd like to catch the man who killed her," Faye said hurriedly. "I'm working with a...private investigator, and we'd like to work in tandem with someone who's planning on entering this year's Alba City. We thought that you might be one of those people."
"I am, yeah," Louisa said warily. "And what exactly do you want from me?"
"Access to Rosario. Basically, my...partner and I would like to act as your managers during the competition. If you get in."
"Huh."
Another long pause. Faye tapped her fingers against the desk, listening to Louisa's breathing.
"We have money. If you're in, I'll wire you half of it tonight. And if Rosario's the guy who did it, we really want him behind bars."
"Oh man. I don't know. I'd love to help you, but...this competition could really turn things around for me," Louisa said uncertainly. "I don't want to get mixed up in anything..."
"I hear you. We're not asking you to sacrifice your spot or anything. Believe me, I know how nuts these contests are. We just want to get closer to Rosario to see what he's up to."
"I can't fucking stand that bastard," Louisa said suddenly. "He's a creep. They think he did it? I bet he did," she continued. "You know what? Okay. Sure. Screw it. If he had anything to do with Sheila, then...yeah."
"Application deadline's in two weeks, right?" Faye asked, keeping her voice calm. "Good luck, then. I'll be in touch if you get in. I'm sure you will. That Pathetique you played was amazing."
Louisa laughed. "Thanks. I'm...not sure about this."
"Don't worry. And listen, we never had this conversation. Delete my number and forget about this."
"Duh," Louisa said before she hung up the phone.
Faye emitted a yelp of happiness as she threw the communicator against the table. She stood up and stretched her slender arms overhead, reveling in the victory and walking over towards the large bay windows to stare at the endless stars drifting past. A smile spread across her face as she imagined the satisfaction of telling Spike about her success. For a moment, she debated barging into his room and waking him up to tell him, but she realized all at once that she was absolutely exhausted. Mars's horizon glowed in the distance, painting the blackness of the sky with a pale tinge of icy blue dawn.
The thought of sleeping in her cluttered, dusty bedroom was depressing, so Faye ventured into the attic and dug around for a while until she found a relatively clean quilt wedged behind an ancient case of dog food. She made a mental note of where it was for future snack times, and headed back into the living room with the intention of making herself a bed on the couch. Without the sounds of Jet and Ed and Ein scuffling around, the ship was deadly quiet.
Against her better judgement, she stopped in front of Spike's closed door and listened carefully for signs of life. Slowly, slowly, she nudged the door open a crack. Spike was out cold, sleeping on his side in his sweatpants. His blanket was crumpled on the floor, and his thin face looked drawn with worry. Faye watched him for a few minutes before tearing her eyes away and gazing curiously around his room. A few snapshots were stacked on his nightstand, but Faye was too far away to see the inhabitants of the photos. A half-empty bottle of Suntory whiskey sat underneath his bead, and his dirty clothes lay scattered around the room.
Spike rolled over and stirred slightly, and Faye froze, trying to make her breathing silent. She edged backwards and closed the door gently before padding lightly back into the living room. She flopped onto the couch and pulled the wool blanket over herself, and once her eyes drooped shut she fell asleep immediately.
"Faye."
An urgent voice wove through her dreams, but she was in a math test, sitting in her old high school home room, and she couldn't remember anything about trigonometry.
"Faye. Wake up."
"Mmmm," she groaned, rolling away from the yellow sunlight streaming through her closed eyelids. In her dream, she erased a wrong answer and forgot how to use a calculator. A hand shook her shoulder insistently and she opened her eyes grumpily to see Spike standing overhead, his face intense and serious as he hovered over her.
"What?" Faye hissed, feeling sweaty and out of sorts from having slept in her clothes. She grew suddenly self-conscious of her unwashed face and unbrushed teeth, and she sat up and scooted away from Spike. "Oh!" she cried, remembering last night's achievement. "I got us a pianist."
Spike didn't respond, and Faye huffed in annoyance. "Did you even hear what I said? I got us a pianist!"
"Good," Spike replied uncomprehendingly. "We've landed in Alba City. We need to go see Jet. They just called. We need to go right now."
An ice cube slid into Faye's stomach. "Is he - did something happen?"
Spike sighed heavily and shoved his feet into his boots, gathering up his keys and a few crumpled Woolongs from between the bonsai trees.
"He took a bad turn overnight. The infection is spreading to his lungs and brain. Go get ready. There might not be much time."
Panic rose in Faye's chest, and she nodded and leapt from the couch. Through the windows, she could see the calm turquoise waters of Alba Bay, and she heard the gentle murmur of city traffic filtering in from the distant freeway. The ocean lapped against the hull, and even through the closed windows and doors she could smell the saltwater outside.
"And you might want to check the paper. There's been another murder," Spike called to her as she rushed into the bathroom to splash water on her face and gargle some mouthwash. "A 19 year old. You'll never guess what contest she was about to enter."
