DISCLAIMER: I don't own Cowboy Bebop; Sunrise Inc. does. I do, however, own this original story.
Life in the Fast Lane
By the Lady Razorsharp
Part 6: Red-Eyed Coyote
He
said, "Call the doctor. I think I'm gonna
crash."
"The doctor say he's comin',
but you gotta pay him cash."
They went rushin' down that freeway,
Messed around and got lost
They didn't know they were just dyin' to get off
--The Eagles
"I'll catch up with you later. First I'm gonna go see Old Man Bull."
"Do you think you can really trust that old codger?"
As much as Spike liked and respected Laughing Bull, he was beginning to think that maybe Jet was right this time. Spike had been sitting in Bull's teepee for over an hour now, watching as the old man sifted a pile of fine sand through his gnarled fingers. The sand had made four distinct puddles on the mat, which Spike guessed held some significance, but at this point, he didn't much care.
Besides, whatever Bull put in his peace pipe was giving Spike a serious case of the munchies. On top of going without supper the night before and swiping the last can of Tsingtao for breakfast, it wasn't a good situation.
"This is real mystical and all," Spike began, "but you got anything to eat around here?" His stomach let out an angry growl, adding its own two cents to the discussion. When even that elicited no response from the old man, Spike let out a puff of smoke. "I see."
Bull's voice was warm and flat, like the sun-baked Martian soil where he pitched his teepee. "You will find the red-eyed coyote in the zona norte at the far end of town. That is what I see." The sand continued to drift through Bull's fingers; now that Spike thought about it (or it could have just been the ganja), the noise sounded vaguely like words whispered just out of hearing. "You, Swimming Bird, will meet a woman. You will be hunted by this woman, and then…death."
Swimming Bird. Spike sort of liked the name Laughing Bull had given him after fishing him out of the canal as a gangly young boy. When Spike brought Jet to see the old man—for another time they needed help from a higher source than 'Big Shot'—Bull had called Jet 'Running Rock'. Jet's consternation at the name made Spike wonder if the two had met before, but Jet didn't act like he wanted to talk about it.
Spike smiled; he should have remembered that Bull and his 'sources' only operated on their own timeline, not his. "One more time," he breathed in response to Bull's prophecy.
Bull's eyes were deep pools of shadow in the confines of the teepee. He flicked his gaze toward his young friend. "What's that?"
"I was killed once before—by a woman." Spike handed back the pipe, then stood against the protest of stiff muscles.
"You take women too lightly, my friend," Bull observed, ever the voice of experience.
Spike reached for the tent flap. "On the contrary..." He bent to duck through the door. "Catch ya later."
As he walked back to the Swordfish II, Spike felt more than heard Bull's benediction: "Wankantanka guide his spirit."
~******~
The actual trip to TJ took three days, what with asteroid- and planet-hopping to throw off unwelcome attention. After arriving at the run-down TJ spaceport, Katia watched the cargo ships docking at the freighter stop while Asimov rented a car under an assumed name.
"Look at that one," Katia murmured, pointing at one of the freighters as Asimov stepped up beside her. The long, wedge-shaped craft was decorated on the side with a brightly colored painting of a woman in flowing robes. "I never knew cargo ships could be that beautiful."
Asimov caught Katia's arm above the elbow. "In case you've forgotten, we're here to unload this stuff, not gawk at scenery. Let's go."
With a sigh, Katia let herself be guided to the sleek little conveyance. Once inside, she turned her face to the window; if he was going to keep up his silence—broken only by curt instructions since they arrived—then so would she.
Asimov had been doing Bloody Eye twice and three times a day since the night of the shootout, and as a result, his emotions were swinging wildly; one moment he was a rabid wolf, the next he was sicker than a dog. The worst had come when Asimov, dripping sweat and goggling like a madman, had demanded she come to bed with him. When she refused, he had pulled her to the bed by her hair. Frightened out of her wits, she had lain there like a statue, her eyes clamped shut and praying for it to be over quickly.
Still, she was worried. This was her life now, and if something happened to him, she would be alone. Tears sprang to her eyes despite the mistreatment of the past few days. At least if she was with him, she mused, there was still a chance that they could work it out. Being without him would be the worst thing of all.
The car nosed through the streets of TJ, passing crowds of people tanned from the UV rays coming through the dome. A group of children ran past the car, tossing a ball between them. A man selling snacks from bags strung on a pole ambled down the street, the white satchels bobbing to and fro. Somewhere, a voice bellowed, "THIEF!" Moments later, a thin, fleet-footed teenager scurried past the car, his pockets bulging and a doughnut in his teeth. Katia felt a keen sense of déjà vu; the people of TJ were much like those of Io, just trying to eke out some semblance of a life.
Asimov pulled the car into a side street, and then popped the gull-wing doors. "Get out." Katia did as she was told, wincing at the pressure of Asimov's hand around her wrist as he led her down the street to a run-down bar. El Rey, proclaimed a flickering neon sign above the door.
Looks like the king has left the building, Katia thought, as she followed Asimov through the swinging doors. Feeling eyes on her, she glanced to her left; a trio of grizzled old men gawked at her as if she was the first woman they'd seen in decades. Sorry, I'm taken, she thought, primly placing her hand on the swell of her 'belly'. From the looks on their faces, it seemed as if even the one with the hearing aid got the message loud and clear.
His spurs chiming against the legs of the stool, Asimov sat down and drummed his knuckles on the bar. "Gimme a beer," he rasped.
"And I'll have a Bloody Mary," Katia added, speaking the code phrase. "In fact, make it a double."
The bartender, a pasty-white apparition in the dingy light, filled a frosty mug with beer and set it in front of Asimov. "I've got the vodka, but I'm afraid I'm fresh out of tomato juice."
Asimov reached into his pocket. "I'm sure there's at least ONE can in the back."
Katia saw the flash of the vial reflect in the bartender's pupils. "I'll check," the ghostly man deadpanned, turning to go into the storeroom with Asimov casually following a few steps behind.
The geezers in the corner were still staring at her, so Katia decided to amuse herself while she was waiting for Asimov to return. Turning slightly toward the group, Katia leaned forward and took a mouthful of foam from Asimov's beer. She could feel her breasts bulging over the low-cut neckline of her dress, and she suppressed a smile as the old coots whined like starving dogs. Men were so predictable.
There was a scuffle of boots on the cobbles outside, as well as a series of thumps from the storeroom. The bartender's mangy cat, which had been lying asleep on the bar, leapt to its feet with a demonic snarl. With the hair rising on the back of her neck, Katia surrendered to instinct and threw herself down behind the bar. An instant later, the windows exploded as half a dozen syndicate goons crashed through, guns blazing.
Asimov! Katia knew she couldn't spare a moment looking for him, or risk being shot herself. Twisting up and behind her, she squeezed off two shots over her shoulder. The bottles on display above the bar showered her with broken glass, and Katia desperately tried to hide, keep from getting cut to ribbons, and buy enough time for Asimov to get back all at once.
If he's still alive, said a tiny voice in her head, calling up the pictures of her dream.
Shut up! She shoved the images back, hard, and continued firing. No doubt this was the 'retrieval squad' that the syndicate had sent out to reclaim their stolen Bloody Eye, and she clutched her cargo all the harder. The Bloody Eye, as dangerous as it was, held the key to their new life, and she would be damned before she gave that up without a fight.
Gunfire had destroyed the pressurized spigot; bullets were flying through air humid with a fine mist of beer. As one of the desperadoes jumped through the broken front window, another with bloody holes in his back fell out the storeroom door, a wild-eyed Asimov right behind him. Katia's relief at seeing Asimov alive was short lived, as a tall skinny guy came at him with guns blazing. His perception teased to a fever pitch, Asimov seemed to see the man's moves before he made them. With a feral grin, Asimov jammed the syndie's gun back in his own face and shot him through the right eye. Blood, bone, and brains splattered everywhere, and Asimov let the body fall to the floor.
There was no time to react to the gory sight, however, since Katia saw another syndicate goon taking aim at Asimov's back. Her gun barked twice from her hiding place behind the bar, and the guy toppled over with a strangled scream. A movement at the window caught her eye, but she was too late to even scream as the last goon standing squeezed off a shot. With blinding speed that Katia knew was born of heightened senses, Asimov ducked to avoid the bullet, which thunked harmlessly into the already shattered wood of the bar. Asimov's gun boomed at close range, and the shooter fell backwards onto the street.
"Asimov," Katia hissed. "Asimov, we have to get out of here!"
Glancing left and right at the bodies of the syndies he had dispatched, Asimov began to laugh. "Holy shit." He continued to laugh, boots clinking against the sparkling drifts of glass on the floor. "Look at all these bastards, Kati. We killed them." He swayed drunkenly, grinning. "That'll teach them to fuck with us, eh?"
Katia struggled to her feet and moved toward the still snickering Asimov, keeping her gun trained on the bodies for anyone who might be playing possum. "Come on," she said sternly. "You'll be sick soon, and I don't want us stuck here when that happens." She grabbed Asimov's hand and kept her pistol in the other, threading her way through the carnage with Asimov cackling like an idiot the whole way. He was in no shape to drive, so she threw him in the passenger seat and slid in to the right-hand drive beside him.
After a moment, Asimov stopped laughing and doubled over with his arms around his middle. "Kati," he moaned, "Kati, we gotta stop."
No matter how much his behavior on the Bloody Eye frightened her, Katia couldn't bring herself to abandon him. She smoothed back his sweaty hair from his face as he began to sway back and forth like an ill child. "We will. There's a gas station up ahead, we can stop there for a minute. You'll feel better soon."
Just a little while longer, she told herself, as they pulled into the gas station. Then we'll go to Mars, and everything will be all right.
~******~
Jet stood in the middle of the bar, surveying the aftermath of a symphony of destruction. From his cursory look around, Jet could see that whatever had hit this place had hit it hard, like a tornado coming out of the sky without warning. Grimacing at the stiffening bodies scattered around the room, he stepped over a cat licking up a puddle of spilled beer and sat down at the bar. He checked his watch: 11:05 am. This bar looked like the kind of establishment that was open at 5—any 5. He peered over the bar and found an undamaged bottle of tequila.
"Presidente, huh?" He hefted the pristine bottle and pulled the cork. "Think I'll have some--on the house." With a chuckle at his own half-joke, Jet took a swig of the expensive liquor. The sound of tires squealing outside made him turn around, and he glanced at the door. "Hmm?"
As Jet ducked out of sight behind the bar, two guys in shades and cowboy hats walked in with guns drawn. They, too, surveyed the devastation, and had much the same reaction as Jet.
Holstering his gun, the short vaquero whistled in awe. "Damn. Just look at this place. Asimov went berserk."
The second vaquero, a scrawny man who stood a head taller than his partner, faced the windows and leaned his elbows on the bar. "No joke. We gotta take care of him before the cops move in."
Behind the bar, Jet stilled his breathing so he could pick up every word. He tightened his grip on the neck of the bottle.
"Maybe we should just let the cops deal with him," the first guy was saying. "As long as he's using that Red Eye on himself, you can't beat him."
His compatriot shook his head. "We got to. If we don't get that Bloody Eye back, we'll all be twisting in the wind."
"Mebbe so, eh?" The first guy shrugged. The thought of facing off with someone fragged out on Bloody Eye wasn't too appealing, but the alternative would make dealing with Asimov look like a croquet match.
As silent as the cat still licking the puddle on the floor, Jet stepped out from behind the bar and tapped the second guy on the shoulder. "Yo."
The guy had barely enough time to let out a confused "Uhhh?" when Jet whacked him in the head with the tequila bottle, the force of the blow breaking the bottle in half. As the man went down with lights out, the first guy uttered a weak scream and tried to scramble away, but Jet grabbed the fleeing vaquero and put him in a headlock. The jagged edge of the broken bottle in Jet's hand loomed close to the man's face as Jet tightened his grip.
"Tell me some more," Jet prompted, grinning wolfishly.
~******~
Flying over the TJ farmland, Spike glanced at the placidly grazing Holsteins. He supposed he should appreciate the pastoral scene of rolling hills and quaint farms complete with red barns and checkerboard silos, but all he could see were hamburgers on legs. "Man, I'm starving," he moaned.
As if to share in his misery, the Swordfish II began to beep a 'low fuel' warning, and Spike patted the screen lovingly. "So you're hungry too, huh baby?" Unlike his own grinding stomach, which could go without food for at least a few hours longer, the Sworfish II's gas tank would not brook running on empty; besides, it might jack up the injection, and Spike didn't have the woolongs or the time for a trip to Doohan's. There was a gas station up ahead that didn't look too busy, and he had just enough left on his cash card for a full tank. No sense in both of us going hungry, Spike mused as he brought the Swordfish II in for a landing.
The Tsingtao was getting to him, though, so he decided to make a pit stop of his own. After completing the shutdown sequence, Spike popped the canopy and swung down from the cockpit, then headed toward the men's room. As he pushed open the graffiti-scrawled door to one of the stalls, the eerie tune he was whistling echoed from the worn walls.
~******~
Asimov was making odd hmph, hmph noises as Katia finally pulled into a parking spot next to a sleek, faded-red fighter at the gas station. "Go on," she nodded, popping the gull-wing doors. Asimov bolted without a word, banging his head against the door.
"I'll go buy us some food," she called after him. "I know you'll be hungry." Especially since your stomach will be empty in a minute, she sighed, as she watched Asimov stumble away across the concrete toward the toilet block.
This is the last time, she repeated to herself, shutting the doors and walking over to the bank of vending machines. Sliding her cash card into the machine, Katia punched the code for Asimov's favorite chocolate bar. We're going to get out of here. We're going to make it to Mars. We just have to do this one little thing, and then we can be free.
Her fingers tapped the buttons for cup ramen, a preheated hot dog, canned coffee, sugar buns and tomato juice. She took a paper bag from a complimentary stash to hold her purchases, and continued her way down the bank of machines with her thoughts ringing in her ears. The last time. Mars. We can be free.
~******~
Even through the red haze of vertigo that twisted at him, Asimov took one look at the battered stalls and knew he didn't want to put his face in one of the scrungy toilets. He ended up letting fly into one of the sinks, gripping the edge of the chipped counter for dear life as his stomach turned inside out. Sweat trickled down his back and the sides of his face, and he squeezed his eyes shut behind his sunglasses. Mercifully, the heaves stopped after a few moments, allowing him to catch his breath. He grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and wiped his mouth with it, gasping and grunting.
'Can you die from doing Bloody Eye?' she asked, Asimov thought bitterly. I just wish I would sometimes, dollinka. Then this would be over and you'd be free. Even if you went back to that dirty hole I found you in, you'd be better off than you are with me.
Pulling down his sunglasses, Asimov checked his eyes in the mirror. The irises were their normal size, but the pupils were still a little dilated with the effects of the Bloody Eye, and lingering traces of redness at the corners of his eyes underlined that fact. Even so, the ache was beginning to gnaw at him again. The vial in his pocket sang a siren song that promised release from the guilt and the pain and the sickness. Please, no more, one half of his brain screamed, while the other tried to drown it out with a buzzing that sounded like yesyesyesyesyes!
As he stood there listening to the turmoil in his own head, a toilet flushed in one of the stalls behind him. With a startled gasp, Asimov pulled his sunglasses back up to hide his bloodshot eyes. He reached into his coat pocket—not for the familiar smooth capsule of the drug, but toward the cold steel of his gun.
A tall, thin man in a cheap blue suit ambled out of the stall, and both men tensed imperceptibly. From under his unruly mop of greenish hair, the man swept his mismatched garnet eyes over Asimov. With the gun firmly in his grip, Asimov waited.
After a few heartbeats, the man stepped up next to him and began to wash his long-fingered hands. "You know," the stranger said, eyes on his task, "it's better to just leave the water running." He turned off the faucet and snagged a paper towel to dry his hands, and then stuffed the damp paper into his back pocket. "So you don't clog the drain," he threw over his shoulder as he walked out, whistling a haunting little tune as he cleared the doorjamb.
Asimov let out the breath he had been holding. He was sure those lanky limbs were much stronger—and quicker—than the man's laid-back drawl suggested, and the garnet eyes had flickered with recognition before going stone cold. Danger here, his aura had whispered against Asimov's blazing brain.
If I see him again, Asimov thought, letting go of his gun and reaching for the vial of Bloody Eye, I'll kill him.
~******~
Katia was on her way back from the vending machines when she collided with a tall, thin man in a cheap blue suit. "Oh!" she yelped, as the man's elbow caught the bag. The groceries tumbled out onto the pavement as the bag slipped from her hands.
"Oops!" The man turned and caught some of the items before they hit the ground, then stooped and gathered the rest scattered at Katia's feet.
"Sorry," Katia found herself saying. I guess I wasn't watching where I was going. I'm probably thinking too much.
The man—whose hair was an odd shade of green, she noticed—replaced Katia's purchases in her bag. Katia held the bag to her, determined that nothing get away again. "Thank you," she smiled, as the stranger nodded and began to walk away. Her smile turned to a frown, though, as she noticed that there was considerably more room in the bag than before the collision. "Uh, excuse me," she snapped at the stranger's retreating back.
"Humm?" The man turned around, innocent as an angel—one with cheeks bulging out like a chipmunk, anyway. At Katia's stormy frown, the man untangled the pre-heated hot dog from his mouth.
"Mmph. Hot dog," he muttered, gazing mournfully at the slightly damp morsel. So close, and yet so far, said the expression on his lean face.
Katia was a little disgusted, but he reminded her of a rawboned stray, and she didn't have in her heart to be cruel. "Yeah, I can see that," she sighed, standing. "Just keep it." With her permission given, the man wolfed down the hot dog, grinning like an idiot and making noises of joy. How long has it been since he's had a good meal? Katia wondered. She caught herself; it wouldn't do to go around picking up strays, no matter how thin or lost they seemed. Asimov. Think of Asimov, he's the one that needs you.
To Katia's surprise, the man pulled out three boxes of food from inside his blue jacket. So that was it--he was an expert pickpocket. She ran back over the sequence of events: the bump, the scoop, the quick, long-fingered hands that mesmerized her with their grace and economy of movement. Katia sat stunned as the man continued to favor her with his Cheshire-cat smile. After a moment, she, too, smiled and gave a little laugh.
The man chuckled, one hand behind his tousled green head. "Sorry," he apologized in a smooth baritone voice, his garnet eyes twinkling with mischief. "My stomach just kind of took over my brain. It happens sometimes."
"Really?" Katia gave him a grin that said uh huh, tell me another one! They laughed together, and Katia felt her weariness lift for just a moment.
~******~
God, she's pretty, Spike thought to himself as he attached the fuel coupler to the Swordfish II. He stole another glance at the olive-skinned woman out of the corner of his eye and decided that the voluptuousness of pregnancy looked well on her. Not beautiful like Julia, but still pretty.
For her part, the woman seemed to have been sizing him up as well, as she walked to the car and put her purchases in the back seat. "Nice ship," she nodded toward the MONO racer.
Spike smiled. "Yeah, it's a real blast from the past. I've had it for ten years." Doohan hadn't actually come right out and given Spike the Swordfish II, but when Spike had gotten his pilot's license at 17, Doohan had told him to take care of the MONO racer. So far, he hadn't asked for it back yet. Pilot and machine were irrevocably tied together, and Spike knew that Doohan, being a flyboy himself, would never violate that relationship.
"It looks like it's been around," the woman said, and with a sudden rush of heat, Spike realized she wasn't just talking about the machine.
She's really pretty. "Guess you could say we've done some traveling," he nodded. Despite his conscience's warnings to the contrary, he couldn't stop himself from flirting with her. "I'm actually a traveling performer," he said, doing a little slight-of-hand and making a cigarette appear in his fingers.
Her laugh was musical and throaty. "I can't tell when you're joking and when you're not."
A rueful laugh spluttered from Spike. "Yeah, I hear that a lot!"
The woman's voice turned dreamy. "Ever been to Mars?"
"I was born on Mars," he heard himself say. To a mother I never knew and a father I barely remember, he added silently.
"I hear they have everything there," the woman went on in richly accented words. "Not like here. There are parks and festivals, and people are happy there." She glanced at Spike for confirmation. "It must be a great place to live."
Spike rolled his eyes; if she thought Mars was paradise, she could have it. "Sure, if you're rich."
"Then I'm sure we will be quite happy," the woman murmured serenely, resting her hand on her rounded belly.
The meter on the fuel pump clicked off, and suddenly everything clicked into place in Spike's mind as well. Something about the guy in the bathroom had set his brain to whirring, and he finally knew what it was. The guy wearing sunglasses inside and spewing his guts into the sink was clearly in the throes of a Bloody Eye withdrawal. Spike had seen people like him back in the day, when he and Vicious headed up a cohort that raided upstart drug dens. Asimov Solenson, the guy who ripped off a whole shitload of Bloody Eye three days ago. That made this woman the 'sweet thing' Jet was talking about. Damn.
His face having lost all traces of the jester he was just a moment ago, Spike gazed at her with intense garnet eyes. "So," he grated, "you're planning on escaping to Mars, eh?"
The woman's head snapped up. "Huh?"
Spike kept his eyes on the worn metal of his MONO racer's wing. "Go ahead and run. But how far do you think you'll get?"
The woman bristled. "Who are you?!" she hissed at him.
Spike swung around to face the woman with a flourish. The jester's grin had been replaced with the wolfish smile of a predator on the scent. "I'm just an old-fashioned cowboy."
"You're a bounty hunter," the woman spat, her voice full of cold fury.
Spike put his conjured cigarette between his teeth. "Yeah, that's right."
"And you are after us."
"Your boyfriend is sick." Spike was in full bounty hunter mode, biting off each word and spitting at her. "He's a small fry; I don't bother with his type."
The woman's eyes flicked to the side for an instant. "A wise decision," she murmured, as Spike thumbed his lighter to life.
The cigarette had barely caught when a pair of hands clamped around Spike's throat, and both cigarette and lighter fell to the asphalt. Clawing at the hands that cut off his oxygen, Spike kicked and strained with the effort to escape.
A wild, raspy voice was in Spike's ear: "NOW who's the small fry?"
Precious seconds ticked by, and still the hands continued to crush the life out of him. Stars burst in Spike's vision, and he felt himself going limp. Julia…
"Yeahhhh," his attacker groaned obscenely, as the world drained of all its color in Spike's field of vision. He was barely aware that the woman stepped forward, her mouth moving in syllables he could only half-understand.
"Asimov!" she shouted sternly. "That's enough! Let him go!"
As if her voice had been the magic key to unlock the iron grip, the hands broke away. With the first quick breath of oxygen, color and sensation flooded back into Spike's brain. Though he landed awkwardly in a sitting position, Spike's pickpocket instincts kicked in, and his hands swiped through Asimov's coat on their way down. The world tilted, and Spike found himself lying flat on his back on the pavement, watching blearily as Asimov and the woman jumped into the car.
The woman glanced back at Spike, holding his gaze as he hovered at the edge of unconsciousness. "Adios, cowboy," she said softly, and Spike slipped into darkness.
