The Usual Disclaimer Notice: I still don't own Cowboy Bebop, Bandai/Sunrise does (no one took the hint about my birthday). I'm still poor, so suing me would be like trying to get blood from a turnip.
Author's Note: Sorry this took so long to write. I had to do some research, and then I caught bronchitis (which put a serious damper on my will to do anything but lie in bed for about a week), and got a serious case of writer's block to go along with it. "The Flower Duet" or "Viens Mallika" is from Act 1 of Léo Delibes' opera Lakmé, and is the theme song of the British Airways commercials. Other than that, there's no point to this Author's Note except to show off the fact that I can now type accents...and to thank my beta reader for his insights on the inner thoughts of men… ^___^ Anyway, in this chapter, Spike learns that he is not as smart as he thinks he is:
OTHER CHOICES (PART 8)
As far as Spike knew, everything was going as planned, and that was his problem: he didn't know everything. Mao had been informed of both the exact time that Jet planned to turn him in, and of the frequency of the rice grain sized GPS transmitter that Jet had placed in his left earlobe. However, Spike hadn't counted on being sedated by the police. Surely that wasn't part of ISSP standard operating procedure? He had awakened from the drug-induced sleep to find himself blindfolded and hanging by his wrists. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, no idea if the transmitter had been found, no idea if he were still in Utopia City, and no idea how long he had been awake.
Spike chuckled low in his throat. As far as plans went, he finally had to admit to himself that this really wasn't one of his better ones. He stood on his toes causing the rope that held his wrists in the air behind him to slacken a little, slightly relieving the strain on his shoulders. The slack allowed him to lower his arms some, but standing on tiptoe for extended periods caused his calves to cramp, forcing him to choose between pains. All and all, it was quite an uncomfortable way to spend an evening, he thought, as he shifted his bare feet back to the cold concrete again. His nosed itched, and damn it! To top it all off, he needed a cigarette! However, a little discomfort was nothing if it helped to catch the bastard that had ordered the hit on his cohort. He had to believe that whomever Mao sent to collect him would be here soon, that some measure of justice or retribution or whatever was going to be meted out before long; no other thought calmed the fear that was trying to overwhelm him. He laughed at himself again.
Noises. Spike craned his neck toward the sounds of footsteps and a bulky item being dragged across the bare concrete floor. Then came the sound of a large sliding type door - the kind found in larger warehouses and storage facilities – opening, and a cold breeze; and Spike could tell that there were now several people in the room with him. "Um... Hello," he said as the dragging noises continued. No one answered him. Whoever they were, they sounded very efficient. The noises stopped, and the door closed. Spike listened for signs of life, but heard nothing. Perhaps they intended to leave him hanging with his thoughts for a little while longer.
***
Spike leaned against one of the large windows on the bridge, watching as the dark shadow of the Bebop raced ahead of the actual ship across the rocky and barren Utopia Planitia. Potato-shaped Phobos was rising over the Utopia Crater for the third and last time of the day. He and Jet had decided to land in Utopia City instead of Tharsis because it was the home base of the White Tigers; and as such, not only would it be that much harder for Mao's enemy to retrieve him, but it would be easy for Mao to track any Red Dragon activity in the area. The old fishing ship slowed as it met the Utopia Crater air wall: the air that was not thrust into the sky spilled over the sides of the crater like a waterfall. Spike watched as the sky changed instantly from a hazy orange-pink to a hazy blue-orange-pink, and the landscape from rusty rock strewn hell to park-like paradise. This will all be over soon, Spike thought as he watched Utopia City unfurl before the windows. He let his mind wander back over the last week and a half, and the strange circumstances that had brought him to this point.
"Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?" Jet asked Spike's back as the Bebop touched down in Utopia's famous Grand Central Canal. Spike watched Jet's image in the window as the bounty hunter piloted his ship through the smaller, dirtier canali that led to the less desirable neighborhoods of Utopia.
"No, I don't want to do this, but it's the easiest way," Spike told Jet's reflection once again. He had argued with both Mao and Jet about the merits of his plan several times before the Bebop had made it to the Mars gate, and neither of them had been able to come up with anything better, although Mao had insisted on a miniature GPS transmitter before he would go along with Spike's plan. Spike watched as Jet's reflection shook its head in exasperation.
"I still think that there are too many things that could go wrong," the older man said as he began ticking off his points on his mechanical fingers. "One: the money really could be untraceable. Two: this enemy could find and disable the transmitter, leaving your people with no way to find you. Three: he could easily kill you, and then just send various pieces of your body to your boss in order to string him along. After all, he's already killed four of your friends. But hey, it's not my life. I'm just going along to pick up a bounty or two."
"You really are a mother hen, aren't you?" Spike turned and snorted as he left his place by the window. "Look, the kind of person who can afford to put an untraceable 8 million woolong bounty on you is totally different from the average thug who would sew you into a bag of starving rats. This person wants something from Mao, and he knows that keeping me alive is the best way to get it. The minute Mao thinks I'm dead, he'd be on his enemy's ass like white on rice."
"You're assuming that Mao can find out who this person is," Jet said pessimistically.
"You don't know Mao. He's a lot like you in a way: he doesn't give up once he starts something. Look, the enemy has no reason to believe that Mao even knows about the bounty, let alone that Mao would be trying to find him through it. Hell, the enemy has no reason to believe that I would know about the bounty or that I'm being tracked by a GPS transmitter. You're worrying over nothing."
"I'm not worried, I just hate half-assed plans." Spike smirked at that statement. "What happens when Mao gives the enemy what he wants, and he no longer needs you?"
"Mao'll never give the enemy what he wants," Spike answered confidently. "He'll have rescued me before it ever gets to that point, or I'll be dead. Either way, it'll be over."
"Like I said before, it's your life, I'm just along for the ride," Jet said, giving in, as they came to rest at a shabby dock near the center of the city and the ship's engines powered down. "So, you ever do that rat thing?" he asked casually over his shoulder.
"Only once. I hated doing it… too messy. It's really an effective threat though, especially if you can find enough rats. I mean, who'd want to be eaten alive by rats?" Spike watched as a look of disgust cross the bounty hunter's features. Spike had to laugh at him. "Hey, the guy deserved it. He was a real sleazeball; the type who'd sell his grandmother if he thought he could make some money from her."
"Let's get this show on the road," Jet said grimly. "The quicker you are off my ship, the better off I'll be."
The police station was a short, silent flight from the Bebop's dock in the Hammerhead. Spike adjusted the flex-cuffs on his wrists as Jet sat the old tug down in the parking lot. "Remember that you are supposed to act like you don't know what's going on," Jet growled as he turned to give Spike one last lecture. "Don't get cocky and give yourself away."
"Yes Mom," Spike smirked.
Jet narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his nose at Spike before laughing. "Smart ass." Spike laughed back before sobering.
"I know you won't accept anything from the Syndicate, but if I don't get a chance to tell you later, thanks for all of your help," he said quietly.
"I'm not doing this for you kid, remember? I'll be watching the transmitter frequency, just in case I can pick up a bounty or two." Spike looked sidelong at the bounty hunter and smirked.
"Whatever. Mao has the transmitter frequency, and he is tracking bank transactions and Dragon activity in the area. You have nothing to lose sleep about except how you're going to spend all those extra woolongs I've earned you," Spike said watching as Jet's features hardened into his bounty hunter persona.
"I won't tell you how to conduct your Syndicate business, and you don't tell me what to worry about, okay?" he said, drawing his gun and pushing Spike none to gently out of the Hammerhead. "Let's do this."
***
Spike lost track of how many times he shifted between standing on his toes and standing flat. He began whistling "The Flower Duet" quietly, to distract himself from his discomfort. He really hated opera, but couldn't have helped but gain at least an appreciation for the art form through osmosis from all the time he'd spent in Mao's service. Still, the "Flower Duet" was the only thing he knew relatively by heart, and trying to whistle all of the notes took his mind off the fact that not only was the itch across the bridge of his nose driving him crazy, but that he needed a cigarette in the worst way.
The sliding door opened, and the blast of cold air caught him by surprise. He stopped whistling and began trying to count the people entering the room with him. He could hear at least four different sets of footsteps. They closed the door again. There was the sound of a visu-phone being dialed, the connection being made.
"Ah, Spike Spiegel. I've been wanting to talk to you for a very long time," an urbane, refined voice said, as Spike turned his head toward the sound. Had he heard this voice before? The tone, despite being compressed by the visu-phone, was definitely that of a Vip.
"You've gone through a lot of unnecessary trouble then. After all, my number is in the Tharsis phonebook," Spike said sarcastically. The voice on the phone chuckled.
"My sources told me to expect someone with a biting wit. I'm glad to see that it's true."
"Who are you?" Spike growled, losing patience, but remembering that he was supposed to have no idea what was going on. "What do you want from me?" The voice tsked.
"You are hanging in a strappado, blindfolded, surrounded by potential enemies, and yet you still demand answers. I can see that Mao has indulged this lack of respect in you; however, you are in the presence of an elder, so it would be wise of you to question less and listen more," there was a smile in that cultured voice.
"Strappado?" Spike didn't know the word, but it sounded ominous.
"A very ancient and straightforward torture device, Spike. If we were both in Tharsis, I would've had something a little more elaborate waiting for you; but sometimes, the old, simple ways are best."
"So, you're going to torture me," Spike said matter of factly, not letting any of the dread he was feeling creep into his voice. "What do you hope to gain from this? I'm just an ordinary Black Coat." Spike hoped to keep the man talking; he had already learned that he was still in Utopia, and of course, the word "strappado". The Vip laughed again, and Spike was almost sure that he had heard that voice somewhere before.
"Let me tell you a little story, Spike. Once upon a time, a boy was born in the slums of Tharsis. His father was unknown, and his mother was of no consequence: a drug addict who was found dead shortly after the birth of her child. His grandmother, a poor, but decent woman, raised him, working three jobs just to keep them both fed. She waitressed during the day, cleaned offices at night, and was a seamstress in what little spare time she had in between. Still, she doted on the boy, taking him everywhere with her when he was young, sending him to the best school she could afford when he grew a little older. One night, when the little boy was about eight or nine, she didn't come home from cleaning one of those downtown high-rise office buildings. Maybe it was a heart attack, maybe she found some information in one those offices that she shouldn't have, or maybe it was a robbery gone wrong. Whatever the reason, our little boy was now truly an orphan."
"Eight," Spike whispered to himself. He felt a knot of anger clinch in his stomach. There were only six people alive now whom he had ever trusted with the true story. This stranger was definitely not one of them. Everyone else believed the lies in his official dossier: his grandmother had died before he was born; his parents had been killed in an auto accident. He had told those lies so often when he was younger that they had almost become his reality, he could recite them in his sleep. Who could have told this man the truth?
"And so the little boy came under the auspices of the Tharsis Department of Human Services. Two years later, he ran away from an under funded group home and landed in the streets, disappearing from the official records. He became quite the pickpocket, a real slight of hand artist, using the money he "liberated" to buy himself food and to watch old Bruce Lee movies and for lessons in Jeet Kune Do so he could protect himself from bullies. His determination impressed a low level Red Dragon cohort working in the area, and they made him their errand boy, lookout, and all around mascot; in return for these services they protected him from the drug dealers, the pimps and the baby rapers. You could say that our little boy had as good a life as it gets in the streets."
Spike felt himself grow cold. Someone he trusted very much had betrayed him. It was horrible to hear the story of his life from someone else's perspective. Horrible and fascinating at the same time, and he wanted the man to stop. He said nothing, however. Never show an enemy a weakness.
"One day, when our boy was about thirteen, he picked the wrong pocket during an uptown street festival, or the right one, depending on the point of view. The man turned out to be James "Jimmy" Doohan, the famous ship designer and mechanic. He was here on Mars testing his latest design for an asteroid racer. For reasons known only to him, the mechanic took the boy in as an apprentice, and back to Earth. And the boy thrived, becoming an excellent pilot, and a pretty fair mechanic himself. There was only one small obstacle to our protagonist's happiness: he and Doohan were much too alike personality-wise to get along on a daily basis. So at seventeen, the boy came back to Mars, hooked up with a few of his former Red Dragon friends, and took the Red Dragon oaths. He rose very quickly through the ranks: the qualities that had attracted that low level cohort and Jimmy Doohan, also attracted the elders in the Dragon ranks, and soon, our boy found himself leading one of the most important cohorts in the Clan, a cohort answerable to only Mao Yenrai."
"Is there a point to this?" Spike forced himself to ask in an apathetic tone of voice. There was a gap in the story, a piece missing, and Spike was glad that it seemed that the man didn't know everything about him. The fact that someone had betrayed him hurt enough as it was. There was a burst of static from the phone, and then came a cultivated sounding chuckle. "What's so funny?"
"You said that you were an ordinary Black Coat. A street urchin, unrelated to the founding families, who rises to become the heir presumptive of the most powerful Syndicate in the Solar System; I don't think ordinary is the word I would use." Spike laughed coldly.
"It's a good story but a little melodramatic don't you think," Spike said in order to puncture his tormentor's pride, but his heart wasn't in it. His mind kept coming back to the fact that someone had betrayed him. "Unfortunately, you're misinformed. My grandmother died before I was born and my parents died in an accident. Like I said, I'm just a Black Coat. Mao hasn't named an heir, yet, and if he has, it probably wouldn't be me."
"No, Spike, I'm not misinformed; but I wouldn't be surprised if Mao hasn't told you yet. He does like to keep secrets. For instance, did you know that he is conducting peace negotiations with the White Tigers? Peace? With the Tigers, of all Clans? Mao is a beast who has lost his fangs, and he is seeking to defang the Red Dragon along with him. Secrets like that are going to be his undoing."
"The Van must approve of what he's doing; it's not for likes of us to question the will of the Van," Spike said as he shifted to his toes and lowered his arms. "And Mao is not as toothless as you seem to think he is. If you think torturing me is going to persuade him to do whatever it is that you want, then you've got another thought coming." Again, the Vip chuckled.
"I think nothing of the sort, Spike. Mao has grown weak; and while he does have a soft spot for you, he is not going to lose face twice over a 'Black Coat,' especially one who is not even his acknowledged heir yet. And as for the Van, they were old men before they left the Earth, they are just symbols now."
"If that's true, why are you doing this?"
"You're to become an object lesson," the voice smiled again. "I hope you understand that it's not personal. My torturing you says to Mao that I can find and take anything I want from him; his heir, his position, anything at all. It's just a matter of time." Spike smirked to himself. Mao wasn't as fangless as this Vip thought. The leader of the Red Dragon was going to take this upstart elder down hard. "Hickman, give our guest 15cc's of Anastazorphylline, please. It's getting late here in Tharsis, and I'm sure that Mao will want to know that we've found his missing heir."
Two pairs of hands grabbed his shoulders, and someone began rolling up his right sleeve. Spike relaxed, letting his bones become like water. The man on his right, Hickman perhaps, remarked: "You know, it's going to be hard to stick him with his arms tied behind him like this."
"Did I hire you to do a job, or to complain?" the Vip asked. Spike felt his smirk come out again. These men were hired muscle, not members of the Clan; he had no obligation to any of them. He visualized in his mind's eye what position the needle bearer was in and kicked with all of the force he could muster toward where the man's knee should be. He was rewarded with a crunch of bone and a scream of pain as the man went down. He was rushed by the other hired hands. There were four others, he had miscounted at first. He was blindfolded and his hands were tied behind him, so he let his body absorb the blows, not really trying to fight back. "ENOUGH," the Vip screamed through the phone, his voice losing its annoying polish. The blows stopped raining down upon him. Hickman could still be heard, moaning on the floor. "What did that gain you Spike?" Spike licked the iron tasting blood from his busted lip and smiled toward the general direction of the visu-phone before answering.
"Nothing, but it felt good," Spike smirked. In truth, he had found out how many hired thugs were in the room with him, and now there was one less man for Mao's forces to deal with when they arrived. The Vip laughed. Someone poked the needle none to gently in the vein at the crook of his elbow, pumping whatever drug they were they were using in. Spike thought that he could actually feel the liquid burn its way through his veins.
"Are you ready, Spike?" the Vip asked. "Now the fun really begins. Haul him up." The rope that held his arms in the air began to tighten. Suddenly he was in the air, rising higher and higher, dangling from his wrists, which were forced by his body weight higher behind his back. His lungs couldn't expand properly with his arms held in this position, and he began to pant. "The strappado was used in medieval times to torture confessions from witches. All that was needed was rope and a high beam or tree. The person was raised in the air by his or her wrists and dropped, sometimes as much as 20 feet or more. The rope lost slack just before the witch hit the ground, and the resulting jerk caused his or her body weight to eventually dislocate both shoulders. Then, there's squassation, which adds weights to the witch's body before being dropped, but we have all night to talk about that. Now," there was an audible sneer in the Vip's voice, "let's see that smirk you are so famous for, Spike; we do want Mao to recognize you."
"Fuck you," Spike gasped. The Vip laughed as Spike fell through space.
The breathless scream that struggled passed Spike's clinched teeth as he reached the end of the rope was nothing that he recognized as his own.