A short chapter this time (everyone is relieved, I'm sure). Rated PG13 for language.

To my reviewers: I've said this before, but it's still true ~ your enthusiasm for this story is what keeps me going, even knowing how much I still have to write. Thanks for taking your time to encourage me.

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Spike noticed the car as it cruised by, but only in the way any street kid noticed a car, especially a big one like that – did it seem to be looking for someone? were there guns peeping from open windows? But since it posed no apparent threat and didn't rouse his survival instincts, he dismissed it from his mind as none of his business and went on with what he was doing, which, at that moment, was showing some of his buddies a new magic trick. Even when it stopped a little way up the street, in front of Wong's Grocery, and a man got out of the back, Spike paid no attention except to note instinctively that it was happening. But something familiar about the man prompted him to turn his head as the car drove off and the man turned to go up the alley between Wong's and the shoe store. A breeze blew pale hair over the collar of the man's long coat, and Spike knew who it was.

He could barely contain his enthusiasm long enough to find a way to get rid of his buddies and run up that alley. He hadn't seen Vicious in months! Not since the day Vicious told him he was going to get a job.

His friend hadn't changed a bit. His clothes were better, but that was about it. He'd cleared a crate, turned it on one end, and was sitting on it with his long legs stretched out, slouched and looking as he always did, as if he owned the place. As Spike came trotting up, he smiled at Spike's grin. But, again as always, he didn't waste time with greetings. "Anyone see you come in here?"

"Naw," Spike said, although truthfully, he hadn't checked.

He vaulted up onto a trash bin, which put him eye-to-eye with Vicious, and Vicious said, "You've gotten taller."

"Yeah. Did you get that job?"

"Yes."

"They must pay well. Those are some fancy clothes." Not flashy – Vicious didn't go for flashy – but Spike could see they were fine quality. Then he looked closer at what the long black duster had concealed while Vicious had been walking into the alley. "What's that?"

"A katana."

"Looks like a sword."

"A katana is a sword."

"You bought a sword?"

"With my first paycheck."

"Cool."

"What did you think I was going to do? Blow it on women and drink?"

Spike laughed. "No, but a sword? What do you need that for? You have a gun."

"I don't need it. I wanted it."

"Why?"

Vicious shrugged one shoulder. "It's a more elegant weapon. It takes more skill to use it well, too. Anyone can fire a gun. A few people can even hit something when they fire. But almost nobody can use one of these right."

"Can you?"

Vicious' lips twitched. "Well, I'm learning. What about you? Still at the spaceport?"

"You're not going to believe this..."

"You quit and went to work at Wong's."

Spike laughed again. "No, jerk-off." He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, then said as coolly as he could, "Doohan let me fly the Swordfish."

Surprising Vicious was difficult, but that did it. "You're shitting me."

"I swear. She was tethered to the Octalis, naturally, but I was still flying her."

"Doohan's crazy."

"He is not. He knows a good pilot when he sees one."

"You just turned thirteen, you ass. If you get caught, you're both going to jail, you and Doohan."

Spike just grinned. "We didn't get caught," he pointed out.

Vicious chuckled. "So... how did you do?"

"Great, of course. I'm a natural."

"You're a natural bullshitter, and a cocky one, too."

"It wasn't that big a deal," Spike admitted.

But Vicious knew him better than anyone else. "It was a big deal to you. It's a good feeling, to do what you were meant to do."

"Yeah. Just like that."

The two were silent for a moment, Spike reliving those euphoric moments. Then he said, "You going to tell me what damned fool hired you?"

"I'm working for the Red Dragons."

The cigarette dropped out of Spike's mouth and hit the alley floor with a sprinkling of sparks. "The syndicate? How did you get in? You know somebody?"

"I did, once, a long time ago."

"So...." Spike struggled to stay cool and not look as impressed as he felt. "How is it? Do you like it?"

"Yeah, I do. It suits me. Not as well as flying suits you, I don't think. But it'll get better."

Another moment of silence passed while Spike took this in. He couldn't ask the obvious questions, because nobody ever asked a syndicate man what he did. That was a one-way ticket to oblivion. So he controlled his curiosity and dug for another cigarette. He pulled the pack out empty. "Well, shit."

Vicious reached into an inside pocket, took out an unopened pack, and tossed it at him. "I told you I was getting a job to keep you in cigarettes. Did you think I forgot?"

Warmed to the core, Spike caught the toss left-handed and said, "You never forget anything. I just figured that katana thing ate up all the cigarette money."

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Two blocks away, Barbara Spiegel called on her shattered self-discipline, forced her long, rapid stride to slow to a normal walk, and brought her breathing and heartrate back into line. Against the curve of her lower back, under her light jacket, her Glock felt as if it were burning her skin, so badly did she feel the need to draw it.

She'd just passed an alley on her way home and seen her two sons chatting like old friends.

That Spike had lied to her was no surprise. Infuriating, yes, but not surprising. He was a boy, so lying to his mother was as natural as breathing. But she'd thought she was safe from Vicious by now. She'd been forced to keep her inquiries extremely discreet, even to the extent of dying her hair a darker blonde so no one would connect the boy's coloring to her, but she'd learned that no one had seen Vicious in the neighborhood for a long time. She'd also heard he'd joined the Red Dragons, which should have kept him too busy to wander in this direction. Nor had Spike made any excuses for being late that weren't covered by him doing things out at the spaceport.

She went up the stairs to their apartment, responding with an automatic smile to Mrs. Peinot as they passed, tugging out her keycard, doing all the things she normally did. Not until she set her sack of groceries on the table did she allow herself to switch off automatic and begin to think.

The major question in her mind was, what did Vicious want with Spike? Spike was too young for him just to want friendship. What could a thirteen year old boy offer, as a friend, to a boy of seventeen with eyes that looked forty? Nor, remembering those eyes, did Barbara believe that it was some kind of family affection or pull of mutual blood. She didn't even really think Vicious was doing it to get even with her for abandoning him. He'd seemed sincerely indifferent to that.

It bothered her when she didn't understand something, especially when that something made her want to draw her gun.

She pulled out the Glock and set it on the table, staring at it, using it to focus her thoughts. But logic wasn't helping her. She knew too little about Vicious to draw any real conclusions. Still, her instincts were telling her, screaming at her, that this situation was dangerous. So strong was her gut feeling that when she picked up the weapon and sighted down the barrel, she could easily see Vicious' temple as her target. That it might seem unnatural for a woman to want to kill her own son crossed her mind only to be flicked away contemptuously. Vicious was dangerous, to her and to Spike. This was self-defense.

Still.... The gun lowered as if on its own. He was her son. She was largely responsible for creating the circumstances that had made him so dangerous. No matter how she tried to convince herself that she was being stupidly sentimental to think that way, the feeling remained. Even more strong was the reluctance to put a bullet into a face that reminded her so strongly of Eddie. If there was any part of her that had once been able to feel love for a man, it belonged to Eddie.

Any capacity to love that still survived in her now, however, belonged to Spike. What she had seen in that alley scared her more than anything had since the day she'd awakened in a hospital bed, unsure if she'd be able to move her legs again. The two of them had looked so familiar with each other. Spike had been leaning forward, eager, as he did when happily interested in something, and opposite him, Vicious had sat like a dark, evil crow. Luring him, luring Spike... but to what? Maybe the Red Dragons. Maybe he thought bringing them the son of the She-Wolf would earn him a leg up in the organization. He'd be right, too. But if Spike went into the syndicates, it would be under her aegis, not Vicious'. He was her son. Vicious had no right to him.

She was surprised to feel the bite of her fingernails in her palm. She opened her hand, forced herself once more to control her breathing, and put the gun back where it belonged. She wasn't accustomed to feeling panic, but that didn't mean she would give into it.

The obvious and easy solution to this problem wouldn't work. She couldn't kill Vicious. The Dragons might learn of it, and then nothing, not even her services to them in the past, would save her. Nor could she stand back and allow Vicious to do whatever it was he planned with Spike.

She had to run.

Twenty minutes later she was entering a liquor store, disguised in a drab brown wig, dark-framed clunky glasses, and a shirtwaist dress which made her as inconspicuous as a lamppost on the street. But Richie recognized her as soon as she took the glasses off. "I'm looking for a '52 Blackrock brandy," she said. "It's a special occasion."

For a moment she thought Richie might deny her, but he owed her. He nodded once and said, "We don't get much call for any kind of brandy, ma'am. But I might have some in the back." He gestured a clerk to take over behind the counter. "Not Blackrock, though, I'm afraid. But come take a look, maybe you'll see something just as good."

"Thanks." She smiled, and Richie relaxed. A little. His shoulders were still stiff and tense as he led her to the storeroom and, from there, into the secret room which all syndicate fronts seemed to have. Richie's hideaway was smaller than most, barely big enough for both of them and the desk, chair and safe which were the only furniture.

He shut the door behind her, and as the lock clicked into place, he grunted, "This a social visit?"

"I don't make social visits, you know that. Not even to old friends."

"You're calling in your marker."

"That's right."

"Word is, you've been doing that for a while now. I figured you'd get to me. What do you need? If I have it, you know you'll get it." This was said in a resigned tone.

"Oh, you have it. And it's real simple. I need a new identity."

Richie relaxed fully now. "Is that all? Yeah, I can do that. New face, too?"

"No, we'll keep this simple. Just a new name, papers, for me and my son. Keep the same first names, change the last. Here's all the information you'll need." She handed him a disk. "And we need a new place to live, too. Away from Tharsis. Someplace else, maybe Alva City. I'll pay you the going rate, Richie."

"No need."

She smiled again, then let the smile fade. "The thing is, I need it fast. And it's got to be first class. Not the cheap stuff."

"Naturally. Only the best for you."

"And there's one more thing I need from you, too. Silence. No one can know about this."

"No problem." Richie looked nervous again. "You think I'd cross you?"

"I like to think you wouldn't."

"But after this, we're square?"

"We're square."

"OK. Come back Tuesday morning, two AM. The back door will be open. I'll have everything you need then."

"You're a prince."

"Yeah, right."

Spike noticed something odd about her that night, but when he asked, she just told him she had a headache. He dismissed it as a woman-thing and forgot about it, which was exactly what her tone of voice had been meant to make him think. She didn't tell him they were moving, because despite her watching him more closely, he might yet meet with Vicious and spill it all. Besides, the very thought of telling him gave her a headache for real. He was going to have a fit. Giving up the job in the spaceport would be the worst. Maybe Richie would find her a place near another spaceport – Mars had enough of them. Even if he did, she dreaded the temper tantrum Spike would pitch, especially when she couldn't possibly explain anything to him, and she truly hated to drag him yet again away from his friends and a home that had become familiar. But she had no choice.

The weekend passed, and Monday crossed into Tuesday. She couldn't go in disguise, because Spike was a light sleeper, and if he woke and saw her, there would be no way to explain. So she just dressed in simple black, with a cap to hide her hair, and let herself out quietly. An hour before she was supposed to arrive, she was hidden near the dark liquor store, watching, but seeing nothing except Richie's arrival with a briefcase. Exactly at two, she let herself through the back door. She used every precaution, but Richie was being honest. There was no trap, no problem.

He was waiting for her in the secret room, the papers laid out on the desk. She examined them carefully. Richie had been smart enough to give her an innocuous last name that did not begin with an S ("I figured you didn't have any monogrammed towels," he commented wryly), and the apartment he'd secured was in a neighborhood where she could easily disappear. Her most minute examination found no flaws in the paper or the holographs. Richie could have made a fortune with his skills. Had, probably, but had spent it all on the ponies, which was why he was still small-time. "These are good, Richie. You're a real artist," she said, straightening.

"What, you forgot? I'm the best."

She chuckled. "I haven't been away that long. You sure you don't want money for these? They're perfect."

"Like I said, this'll square us up. That's all I want. Here, you have to sign these before I seal them," he said, reaching for a pen from the desk.

"I have one, thanks." She took the silver stylus from her pocket and signed everything with her new name, then toyed with it while Richie finished his work. Compulsively neat, he folded the papers precisely and put them all into a leather portfolio. As he pressed the seal, she leaned over. "Wait, Richie. We forgot one thing."

"What?" he demanded, annoyed. He was a perfectionist, he knew he hadn't forgotten anything.

But his hand was spread on the portfolio. "Nothing, just a stray thought, never mind," she said, and tapped the stylus on the skin of his wrist as she reached for the papers.

The poison worked fast. Richie barely had time to realize that something was wrong, just time enough to get a startled expression on his silly face. Then he lost all motor control and collapsed like a rag doll. She waited until his heart and lungs gave up the struggle to work and his eyes glazed over as the blood congealed in his brain, and the whole thing took less than thirty seconds. Then she bent to close his eyes with her fingertips. "All square, Richie."

Moments later she was on the street again, a shadow in the shadows, going home. The secret room was soundproofed and sealed. It would be a long time before the recycled air announced to anyone that a body was in there. By then Richie's disappearance would have been noticed and he would have been replaced, and the new owner would eventually, resignedly, clean up the mess. That would give her all the time she needed, and no chance that Vicious could trace her.

She had no regrets over Richie. She never had regrets over any of her kills, but even if she'd been inclined that way, Richie had been necessary. He was a coward. If Vicious had found him, all he had to do was wave a blowtorch once over the hairs of Richie's hand, and Richie would have given every detail away. Would Vicious have found him? Maybe not. But if he was as much Eddie's son as he appeared, he was already making comrades in the Dragons, establishing a network which might have led him to Richie. Unlikely, but she wasn't taking the smallest chance.