Back to Jet! He is about to get some intriguing and dangerous information. This chapter is by TianNing.
Again, we don't own the Bebop characters, including Bob. Although the overall story is rated PG13, this chapter is PG.
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More than two hours had dragged by since Jet had stationed himself across the street from the gutted Red Dragon headquarters. Hands in his pockets, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, the sole of his foot propped against the wall, he hoped he looked like just another of the casual gawkers camped there. So far, no one he recognized had shown up at the site.
There was no reason to be so edgy, he told himself. The Red Dragons were finished, buried in that smoking rubble. There was no one left to care if he poked around for information about Spike's death.
"Can't stay on this line. Too risky." Bob's last transmission echoed in his head. Old instincts tugged at him; adrenaline tightened his gut. It was a hunt, like any other. He flicked his cigarette butt onto the street. If prey would not come to him here, then he'd move closer to the watering hole.
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"Mr. Black," the bounty clerk's round, bespectacled face was all practiced sincerity. "I was sorry to hear about your partner."
"Yeah," Jet glanced at the other clerks and officers shuffling paperwork at their desks and wished the clerk hadn't greeted him that way. He glanced down at his hands, spread across the desk, then fixed the man's gaze and spoke quietly. "Look, Ernie, I wonder if you could answer a couple of questions for me."
"About the attack?" Ernie asked too loudly. "There's not much to tell that hasn't already been told a hundred times on the news. He pretty much sprayed the place with."
"Not that," Jet interrupted, lowering his voice still more in the hope that Ernie might do the same. "I mean about the body. And the service. He had no next of kin that I know about. And I just wanted to make sure he wastaken care of."
"Oh, that!" said Ernie, leaning back with a stricken look. "I'm sorry, Mr. Black. I didn't mean to be insensitive." He fiddled with his pen, but didn't offer any information."
"Well?" Jet said at last. "Any public information?" He glanced surreptitiously at the other clerks from under his brows, and noticed that a couple of them were looking over. Whether from boredom or interest, he could not tell.
"Oh! Let me ask the supervisor," Ernie rose, scraping the legs of his chair across the floor with a screech that made the other clerks cringe and send him withering looks. "She'll know more than I do."
"Uh" Jet was already regretting coming here. "That's okay, Ernie. I'll just"
"It'll only take a second," Ernie bustled off. "Just wait right there."
Jet rolled his eyes and shuffled uncomfortably, uncertain whether he would draw more attention now by staying or leaving. He gazed idly over the heads of the clerks, wondering if anyone had taken undue notice of him. It had been a while since he had been so conscious of his distrust in anything ISSP.
Ernie was back, waving a sheet of paper. "Mr. Spiegel was buried this morning before sunrise, Mr. Black," he called across the room, making Jet wince. "Here's all the information we have."
Jet stared for a moment as the words registered. "Thismorning? That's impossible. The body's barely cold. They can't have had time for a thorough autopsy."
"I only deliver the message, Mr. Black," said Ernie, puffing defensively. "The ISSP prides itself on efficiency. I'm sure whatever data forensics needed was taken promptly. Your partner took a lot of bodies with him, many with no known next of kin. I'm sure you know how expensive and time-consuming it is to dig graves in this rock-hard area. Time is money, Mr. Black." He blinked up at Jet. "Here's the address and the plot number, if you wish to pay your respects." He folded the sheet into thirds, creased the edges, and thrust it over his desk to Jet.
Jet unfolded the paper and read it. "The pauper's cemetery!" A flush of anger heated his ears. "They could have at least waited to see if anyone came to claim him."
"I don't make the rules or give the orders, Mr. Black," said Ernie. "I'm afraid this the best I can do. If you wish to file a complaint," he pulled out the pen perched behind his ear and pointed with it, "that office is three doors down the hall to the left."
Jet looked up from the page to see that more of the clerks were staring now. "Thanks," he snapped, then spun on his heel to leave. As he stumped down to the street, Jet refused to look over his shoulder, and tried to convince himself that no eyes were following his back.
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The headstone was distressingly simple. "S. Spiegel. 2042 - 2071." Hot, dry wind nipped at the rectangle of half-yellowed sod they had dropped over the fresh grave, which looked no different from a dozen others in the same row. The place was practically deserted. There was only the unshaven caretaker at the gate, whose eyes followed him with a sullen, disinterested gaze, and a teenage girl wandering from grave to grave, scattering flower petals over the newest ones. Jet watched her for a moment, wondering who had hired her to perform this lonely Martian ritual. Even from a distance, she looked bored.
He leaned heavily against his crutch and stared down, unfeeling, at the stone. "Hey, Spike," he murmured. "Hope you found her on the other side, buddy. Hope at least one of us is happy."
He heard the scuff of the girl's feet before he saw that she had made her way to this row of graves. She briefly made eye contact. "Hey, Mister," she said, nodding towards the grave. "Mind if I do my job?"
He stepped back, allowing her to toss petals onto the grave, then moved forward again as she sauntered on along the row. Kind of a nice tradition. The white and yellow petals jumped slightly in the breeze, then began to blow away down the walk. Orange. There was something orange emerging from the petals as they flashed away in the wind. His breath stuck in his throat as he recognized the bit of orange paper, folded into the shape of a crane.
Without turning his head, he strained his eyes as far as he could to either side. No one. Slowly he bent down, snatched the crane just as the wind began to tumble it across the turf, and crushed it into his palm, unwilling to unfold it where he might be seen. It was the old signal that a small fraternity of ISSP cops--those not on syndicate payroll--used to communicate only when open contact was very dangerous. He looked after the girl, but she seemed oblivious to the significance of the paper crane someone had paid her to deliver. Her posture suggested only that she was intent on finishing her rounds and getting out of there.
He stared down at the grave with a growing feeling of unease. Slowly, carefully, he went down on one knee beside it, and while one hand scattered the fleeing petals back onto the grave, the other dug surreptitiously at the edge of the sod. The soil underneath was loose for about an inch before he met resistance. His fingertips searched for a moment, but found the same thing as far as they reached. Slowly he rose, flicked the dirt from his fingers, and with the end of his crutch, tamped the sod back down. Under the thin cover of loose soil lay solid Martian rock that had never been disturbed.
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Jet squinted down at the address on the unfolded bit of orange paper as he crossed the street. Could have picked a cheaper place, he thought, doffing his hat and sunglasses at the door. The place was all leather, brass, and smoked mirrors. There were few patrons at this early afternoon hour, but he felt their attention turned on him almost before his eyes had adjusted to the dark. He straightened and tried not to limp as he moved towards the familiar face in the back corner booth.
"You came all the way from Ganymede just to see me?" Jet grinned as he gripped Bob's hand.
"Don't flatter yourself," Bob returned with a weary smile. "I'm finally cashing in some vacation days. God knows I need it."
"Sure looks that way."
"Wish I could enjoy the time off," said Bob. He swigged the dregs of the pint he'd apparently been nursing for a while, and waved at the seat across the table. "Join me?" When Jet had settled, he added quietly, "No one followed me. The place is clean."
"That's an understatement," said Jet, scanning the expensive light fixtures. "A little fancier than your usual hangouts, isn't it? Good thing you're buying."
"Upscale is safer around Tharsis." He shrugged. "And if anyone was trying to find me, this would be the last place they'd look."
"Why should you be looking over your shoulder?" asked Jet, as he gestured to the waiter for another pint for Bob, and one for himself. "Things ought to be quieting down over the next few weeks after what just happened uptown."
"You wish," said Bob. "Things are just starting to get ugly. And like it or not, a lot of the focus is on you."
Jet grinned humorlessly. "I'm flattered." He tapped his cigarette against the table before lighting it. "I never knew you had such delusions of my grandeur."
"You can kid around, but you'd better listen to me," said Bob. He pointed at the cigarette and asked almost plaintively. "You got another one of those?" Jet shook another cigarette out towards Bob. "Thanks. I quit, so I haven't got any on me."
"You, too, huh?" Jet flicked a matchbook across the table, and watched Bob strike up. He hoped he was imagining the slight tremor of Bob's hands. "Won't guarantee you a longer life, you know."
Bob sent a sympathetic glance over a puff of smoke as he shook out the match. "Sorry about Fad."
"Ah, well." Jet waved his fingers dismissively, not wanting to revisit that painful memory just now. "Gotta die of something. So. What've you got for me?"
"The past two days have been busy for the syndicates. Shouldn't come as any surprise to you."
"Guess the old ISSP guard must be pretty nervous right now."
"You have no idea. After the Dragons took such a major hit, the lesser clans moved in quick to see what ISSP action they could score. Turns out they're not interested in the old ISSP whores. They want new blood that won't turn around and bite them in the butt. I've been approached twice already. 'Course I couldn't refuse outright. Not and avoid ending up on their List."
Jet shook his head ruefully. "Time off sounds like a good idea right now, eh?"
The waiter set two pints in front of them, and slid silently away. Bob watched until he was out of earshot.
"I'm not the only one. There's a lot of hungry cops out there right now who lost a steady source of income for just looking the other way. Lot of deals being struck now that neither of us likes to see."
"Is that what this is about?" asked Jet, relaxing. Somehow, the idea of bailing Bob out of trouble seemed a lot less dangerous than what he'd been imagining. "You need a cover to help you avoid syndicate entanglements." He gave a short laugh. "Is that why you said this was about my partner? Don't tell me you're interested in bounties!"
"Oh, right." Bob's tired face could muster little more than a tightening of his lips. "Just call me Cowboy Bob." He ran his thumb along the rim of his glass and grew serious. "Come on, Jet. You know I wouldn't bait you like that. When I said it was about your partner, I meant it. There's something weird going on. Really weird. As inI have some pretty good evidence that your friend is alive."
Jet stared at him for a moment. "That's ridiculous. You saw the vids."
"Yeah, I did. Never seen anyone run with a body bag before."
The grainy video image suddenly replayed in Jet's head. Cops running with the body bag in the background. Not exactly typical S.O.P. for handling a corpse that had been dead for nearly two hours. He silently smacked himself for not consciously registering it before, but said only, "That doesn't prove anything."
"I don't expect you to believe me just from that. But trust me, he's not in that grave you went to today."
"I already know that much."
Bob fixed him with a long stare. "So you already have a hunch about this."
"Yeah, I have a hunch his body's of some use to someone." Jet rolled the tip of his cigarette against the bottom of the ashtray. "That's creepy enough."
"Dead or alive, he's in an ISSP cryo tank somewhere," said Bob. "The brass who already had cushy deals with the Red Dragons know he's valuable. In fact, a lot of them think your buddy's little stunt was an attempt to take over the clan."
Jet rolled his eyes sideways. "Are we talking about the same guy here? Don't get me wrong. You couldn't have a better man at your back in a fight. But to say Spike was too lazy to take on that kind of responsibility would bea major understatement."
"Whatever." Bob took a long draught of his beer. "But that might not matter to the guys who want him alive. All they know is what they hear from the surviving young blood of the Dragons. Your pal seems to be some kind of icon to them. Word is they've been waiting for years for him to come back. There's even evidence that he had inside support when he went in for that last shootout. No one wanted that new guy who assassinated the Van to be head of the Dragons, and your partner was their only hope to take him out--and then take over."
Jet laughed under his breath. "Come on. Spike and I kept to ourselves a lot, but I would have known about that. The Dragons thought he was dead until he blasted in and took out their leader."
"The Dragons knew he was coming, and so did the ISSP." Bob's face was serious, and his voice stern. "Once he showed up, he was marked. They wanted him. They took him. The ISSP Dragon whores aren't interested in seeing their system fall apart, and they don't want to have to negotiate new deals. Hell, a lot of them think they're going to end up poured into the foundation of one of those nice, new highrises going up all over town with laundered syndicate money. These old guys are desperate to save their asses. If they can let the young Dragons know their hero is alive and ready to take over--and if they can make the other syndicates believe it--they at least buy themselves some time. Your buddy is their best hope."
"They'd be disappointed, even if he wasn't a corpse," he said. "That was one guy who had no interest in power over anything but himself." He suddenly found that he was unwilling to say Spike's name aloud.
"I'm telling you that doesn't make any difference to them. They just need him as a front man. And if he doesn't want to cooperateI don't have to tell you they have their own ways of getting what they want." Bob fixed him with a hard stare. "As in hostages. Are you catching my drift here, Jet?"
Jet shook his head in disbelief. "Aw, Bob. I've never known you to buy into conspiracy theories. This could just be a story cooked up by what's left of the Dragons to keep the other syndicate clans off balance and guessing about where they stand with the ISSP."
"I wish it was," said Bob. "But I doubt it. I have something else to give you."
Jet traced a line in the condensation on his glass, but did not react.
Bob leaned forward until his collarbone was pressed against the edge of the table. Even in this light, he looked more haggard than Jet had ever seen him. "Have a peanut," he said, pushing the bowl towards Jet. "The little black ones are pretty good."
Jet reached into the bowl, took a small handful of nuts, tossed a few into his mouth and smoothly pocketed the tiny, black disk he had pinned between his ring and pinkie fingers.
"Right from Baum to you," said Bob, his voice low. "Dangerous shit."
"And Baum wanted me to have it? Why the hell is he dragging me into this?"
"I already told you," Bob sighed wearily. "You're already in. Just have a look at that when you get back to your ship."
"You going to at least tell me where it came from?"
Bob sighed impatiently. "Remember Baum's computer geek? That annoying little guy from New Seattle?"
"Cecil?" Jet gave a slight wince. "Ugh. Yeah, he's kind ofunforgettable."
"Well, once in a while he does hit pay dirt. A few months ago, all the P.C.'s on the fourth floor started crashing every day or two. Real pain in the ass. Cecil was running around like a headless chicken, trying to fix the problems, reinstalling hard drives, the whole nine yards. Nothing seemed to fix it." Bob paused and took a deep drag on his cigarette. "Seems he was working really late in the accounting office one night--no one else in the office--when some of the machines started working like mad, with no obvious software running. Cecil didn't think anyone could have hacked in through his firewalls. He figured someone on the inside was making a few bucks on the side sending spam or something. But once he managed to get in and download some of what was passing through the machines, he nearly shit his pants.
"Someone had set up the desktops to rout data back and forth from ISSP to Dragon headquarters every night after everyone had supposedly gone home. When Cecil reported it to Baum, he took Cecil off all his other duties and had him do nothing but download and decrypt everything he could intercept."
"If the Dragons hadn't wanted these files found and decrypted, you wouldn't have them."
"Maybe," he spat a narrow stream of smoke . "But you're in there, Jet. And Harvey wants you to watch your back."
"Nice to know he still cares after all these years," said Jet sourly.
"He cares about all us old-timers, in his own tight-assed way," said Bob. "If the stuff on that disk is real, then whatever is left of the Dragons knows about you. You're seen as a threat to them."
"Why the hell didn't Baum contact me himself?"
"And get his hands dirty?" Bob gave a wry laugh. "You know him better than that. He knew I could get these to you without drawing any extra attention to you. And so far, no one seems to be watching little ol' Bob."
"Seems like a lot of trouble to go to, chasing around a dead man."
Bob lowered his voice still more. "The files on that disk should at least get you wondering about that."
Jet snorted. "Medical records are easy to fake."
"Well, you're the one with the fancy college degree in forensics," Bob tapped the long column of ashes off his cigarette. "You figure it out."
For a moment, Jet watched his old comrade shadowed against the mirrors. Crouched in the darkness against the big, leather seat, the rangy cop looked shrunken. Jet briefly wondered if he looked as old as Bob. He searched for something that might shore up his friend's spirits, but found nothing to say.
Bob gave a long sigh and raked knobby fingers through his hair. "Fifteen years to retirement. Long time to be looking over your shoulder." He glanced up at Jet with his familiar spark of humor. "You taking applications yet? Maybe I need a career change, after all."
Jet raised an eyebrow and feigned seriousness. "Let's see how your application looks first. If you can take regular five week intervals on the wagon because you're out of cashand stand my cooking every night," he grinned. "you're in."
"Gah!" Bob grimaced. "Just lost my taste for adventure!" His mood had lightened with the very act of giving over the disk. "Months in space with nothing to look at but you!"
Jet's grin relaxed and he looked down at his pint. "Yeah, it's a great life."
Bob took a swig of beer and lipped the foam from his moustache. "Maybe you should take some time off, too," he said. "Just lie low for a while, 'til things cool off, you know? Who knows? After all this, maybe you'll quit chasing bounties and come back to the force."
"Nah." Jet's mind was elsewhere now, roving the empty halls of the Bebop, and not liking it. "If I change my line of work now, it won't be going back to the past."
"I figured," Bob set down his pint with a resigned half smile. "Until you try, I guess you never know what kind of new tricks you can teach an old Black Dog."
"For the moment," Jet patted the hip pocket into which he had slipped the disk. "I'll stick to the old ones."
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Magnify. Jet typed in the command. Enhance. Play. For the third time, he watched disembodied hands lift Spike into the bag. Once again he noted how loose the face, how flexible the neck and shoulders.
From the first file on the disk Bob had given him--a closed-circuit video of Spike's initial charge through the Dragon's headquarters, and a long-distance view of the final battle--he knew that his partner had been completely exhausted at the end, just before the sword had sliced through his belly. Before that final blow, both combatants had been so spent that they were barely able to stand and hold their weapons steady. Yet nearly three hours after the battle, when Spike was zipped into the bag, the body was still supple. It didn't make sense in the hot Martian atmosphere that such depleted muscles wouldn't have gone more quickly into rigor mortis.
He had been almost loathe to open the other files after seeing that one. What would he do if there really was evidence that Spike was alive? He wasn't sure what he knew or believed any more. For all he knew, Spike really had gone to take over the Dragon Clan. And what then? What could be gained by his knowing all this?
He clicked back to the main menu and scrolled across dozens of documents. File name cryo.dv. Big file. That might yield something. Fidgeting with his cigarette, he waited while the viewing program loaded. Play.
It was another closed-circuit video, but of better quality than the one from the Dragon headquarters camera. It looked like a hospital or lab. Slowly, the camera panned to the center of the room, scanning over an impressive array of high tech medical equipment. Gradually, a large, bluish tank came into view. An Asian-looking man in a lab coat was standing by the tank and talking into a palm recorder. Magnify. Enhance. Before the camera began to pan in the other direction, Jet saw that the object floating in the tank was longer than the guy in the lab coat and couldn't be mistaken for anything but a naked human body.
The scene switched to the view from another surveillance camera, this one closer to the cryo tank, and scanning back and forth from a different angle. As the camera's eye glided past the cloudy blue fluid in the tank he saw the vague outline of a face. He could not deny that it did bear an uncanny resemblance to Spike. Sensors and wires bristled from every surface and orifice of the floating body, and the computer monitors above the tank, their specifics unreadable at this distance, pulsed with the rhythms of life. In a moment, the tank and its monitors were lost to the panning camera's line of sight.
"Holy shit," he breathed, considering all the reasons anyone might have gone to so much trouble to fake this so convincingly, and finding none of them very plausible. Still, this would be exactly what the Dragons would want the Monsoons and Tigers to see if they were sending a message that they were still alive and strong. The supposed Dragon icon was in safe storage, alive and in recovery, with an army of loyal young Dragons ready to follow him.
He'd already viewed several hours worth of background information, and now knew the name of the white-haired upstart who had taken out Spike. Vicious. He'd heard Spike say the name a few times. It was the only subject that could elicit true venom in his usually taciturn partner.
He leaned back and tapped at the keyboard, re-opening another file--discomfitingly labeled leverage.doc--he had already studied well. As Bob had intimated, his picture and bio were there, along with Faye's and Ed's and a number of others he didn't know. A few were under surveillance. Some had contracts out on them. Most were recently dead. He no longer wondered at Bob's nervousness about being the disk's courier.
Julia had her own file. He finally was able to put a face to that name, and had been more than a little stunned when the blonde beauty had stared blankly out at him from the screen. Instantly, his dream returned to him, and though the selkie in it had not had a face, it seemed that hers would have fit perfectly.
He scrolled down to the line reading "Status: Deceased." Which faction had killed her? Hit men from the new Dragon leader--that "Vicious" character? Had it been Spike's own followers--posing as the other side--hoping to fan Spike's hatred into full flame? Had it been a simple case of revenge? Or had they removed Julia as a possible obstacle to Spike's willingness to take control of the clan? He supposed if that were the case, then Faye, Ed and even he himself might fall into the same category. The megabytes of files held no answers.
He leaned back, bathed in the blue light of the screen, and rubbed his eyes wearily. Quit. As he typed the command, his lips drew back taut. No, not quit. Seems like something's just starting, after all.
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Alone on the viewing deck, he gazed blearily out at the reddish crescent of Mars' horizon. It probably wasn't safe for him to stay here. Whatever was happening was going on below him right now, perhaps in Tharsis, perhaps in one of the outposts. If whoever had Spike's body knew he had been sniffing around, it wouldn't take them long to find him. And not just him. Ed was wandering around somewhere back on Earth, and Faye was off causing trouble only God knew where.
"They left," he said aloud, crushing his cigarette against the ashtray at his hip. "If they want to be on their own, then it's not my job to look after them." But even as his words fell into the silence, the inside of his head argued with him. They're your friends. They need your protection. You're the only one who can warn them.
"Screw 'em," he told himself aloud. "They don't want your help, and they don't want to be protected. Why do you think they left in the first place? Faye said it loud and clear: to get out from under your overprotective smothering."
You know the right thing to do.
A flash of his dream returned again, more a feeling than an image. Laughing Bull. He grinned widely in the darkness. You really have gone off the deep end, he told himself. Ever since you were a kid, you didn't trust the old man. Why on earth are you thinking of him now?
He closed his eyes and remembered that time years ago when he and Spike had gotten drunk and started telling stories. He'd told Spike about the old shaman who had been a fixture in the Canadian hills where he'd spent much of his childhood and youth. Intrigued by the stories, Spike had insisted on gambling--with an introduction to the old man as the prize--and Jet had lost the bet. Grumbling all the way to Bull's asteroid, and warning Spike not to believe the mumbo jumbo he was about to hear, he had later watched, bemused, as the two had talked through the night and hit it off like old school chums. He was almost sorry he'd introduced them after that, since Spike had then taken to asking the old man for mystic guidance on everything from bounty hunts to gambling debts. It was just foolishness. He momentarily wondered just how much responsibility old Bull might bear for Spike's last stunt.
Go to Laughing Bull.
Jet smacked the palms of his hands against his face, and slowly dragged them down over his eyes. "Why the hell not?" he asked the window. "Nothing else is making sense right now, so why not go all the way? Maybe I should do a Rain Dance before I leave to wash away my trail." He gave a great, roaring groan as he rose, then went to the bridge to set course for that lonely asteroid he could find in his sleep.