II. Threading the Needle
The walk from the Hangman's Bar to Julia's apartment took Spike through a no-man's-land warehouse district where the White Tigers and Red Dragons kept an uneasy cease-fire. The huge buildings, hastily constructed of steel girders and corrugated sheet metal skins, were all owned by third- or fourth-generation enterprising families who had snapped up the real estate back in the early 20's, when Tharsis City was just a port for the delivery of materials to be distributed to other colonies on Mars. They hired their own security, usually of the low-tech, high-caliber variety, and in some ways they had as much power as the Syndicates by virtue of the sheer volume of property they had amassed. Of course, the security forces had time on their hands, what with the Syndicates' disinterest in the property, and many of them did business with both factions, distributing contraband weapons, drugs and regulated materials to the highest bidders.
Spike knew that Vicious had purchased Julia's apartment for her, away from the Red Dragon high rise and out of convenient reach of the White Tiger street posses, as much for his own benefit as for her safety. Its location was unknown by many of the lower-ranking Red Dragons, making it a de facto safe house and private oasis. Spike had been there before with Vicious, but never by himself, and he hesitated as he rounded the corner from the industrial area where it opened out into a sort of tenement suburbia. He lit a cigarette and reviewed the shop signs from his vantage point, finally spotting the bakery near the stairs that led up to her home. He finished the smoke, knowing she'd shoo him out with it, and ground it out beneath a round steel toe before crossing the street.
Her lights were on, though he had seen no movement in the five minutes he spent thinking and smoking. This whole thing, he had concluded, stunk. Vicious telling Julia anything beyond what she should have known - especially considering how much she knew anyway, having risen through the ranks with alarming speed - didn't sit well at all. Spike wondered if it was really Vicious who had made the mistake here, if he had frightened her with his long-term goals of Red Dragon mastery and the elimination of the White Tigers altogether. It was a point on which Vicious and Spike had virulently disagreed: Spike felt that competition was necessary to maintain power over the general populace and the ISSP. More to the point, though he kept it to himself, he didn't think a life without competition would suit him very well. Where Vicious seemed to thrive on success and the growth of power, driven by ever-greater control over his subordinates and territory, Spike relished the skirmishes and languished in boredom without something combative to do. In the back of his mind, he knew that if Vicious' plans came to fruition, he'd probably go back to Mono-racing and remain a mere figurehead in the organization. If repetitive work was boring, business was skull-crushingly dull.
That Vicious would succeed Mao Yenrai as the leader of the Red Dragons was in little doubt. The Van, concerned with business and finance and social niceties, understood little of the street element of the rivalry. So long as Vicious could continue to inspire fear in the public and the White Tigers, his ascension simply made good business sense. And that Spike - his partner and equal in street skills - would rise with him was also guaranteed. Mao had tried often to convince Spike of his importance in the grand scheme, but the young Dragon's nature made him ill suited for the highest position. Fiercely loyal, but content to be brawn, he harbored no animosity about the second-place finish. It was perhaps the only competition he did not find compelling, and so he gave it little thought.
But for the first time in a long time, he allowed it to enter his mind as he mounted the stairs to Julia's. Vicious could have dealt with this himself; he was certainly better informed in the matter. Spike couldn't help wondering if this was a test of some sort, a challenge to his will. Julia was a formidable opponent and, as much as could be allowed given the nature of their trio, a close friend. Had his blind eye to anything beyond the execution of each mission made Vicious question his loyalty as a partner? He realized with trepidation that he was being asked to choose between his two comrades.
His unease only increased when he reached Julia's door. It stood open by at least a foot, lights on, no sound inside. Had she gone already? Out of habit, he backed up to the doorjamb and darted a look around the corner with one hand on his gun, but she was sitting on the couch, her back to him, unmoving.
He felt a sickening jolt in the pit of his stomach at the sight. She never turned her back on an open door, any more than he or Vicious or any other trained fighter would. And she was so still - as he took in the room, everything in place, no evidence of preparations for departure, he feared she might already be dead. Had Vicious gotten really angry and killed her? Had Spike simply been sent to discover a body, or worse, to be blamed for it?
He swallowed hard and pushed the door open another foot or so, heart hammering in his ears. As he crossed the yards to the couch, he heard a click beneath one boot and stopped short, hand on his gun again. Bending to retrieve the object, he saw Julia stir slightly, and his eyes were on her as his fingers found the round metal object. He palmed it, but did not look, instead coming around cautiously in a wide arc so she would see it was him, hopefully before she trained her weapon on his chest.
But she remained still; no doubt in her peripheral vision she could see the tall figure with greenish-black hair. She had no weapon, he noted, spotting her Beretta on the table beside the coat stand. If Vicious' behavior was odd, this was even stranger.
"Julia?" he asked in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone. "Hey, are you all right?"
By now he could see her fully. She sat stock-still on the couch, her arms folded across her midriff. Just above the elbow, her left arm showed the angry purple and red bruising of a rough restraint. So it came to a physical confrontation, he thought to himself - and for a moment he entertained the notion that he had been too sentimental about this whole thing. Vicious was not the type to harm a comrade unless a training exercise or disagreement of serious proportion were involved. It meant unnecessary exertion, and he much preferred to let his logic and implicit power win an argument for him. This must have been a serious row, all right.
He felt a pang of worry when she continued to stare straight ahead. Her eyes shone though no evidence of tears marred her face. He knelt in front of her, where she could not avoid seeing him without looking away, and tried again.
"Julia? I could have been anyone. You're pretty badly unprepared."
He thought his tone was gentle, but her face tightened as she finally looked at him. "I don't need it from you, too," she spat out.
"Whoa," he replied. "I'm not sure what I just gave you, but I only meant I was worried about you."
"No doubt here to tell me I almost got you killed." It was a matter of fact statement, the vitriol gone, replaced by something like resignation.
I'm sure you will think of something, Vicious had said. She didn't seem to be going anywhere, so maybe she'd just given him his opening. But it seemed unfair to take advantage of her when she was already clearly shaken, and so he shook his head.
"No, that's not why I'm here." He looked again at the bruise on her arm. "Vicious said you had a fight. I was concerned."
Her eyes welled, but she kept her composure. "So you think I've gone soft too?"
"I don't know what I think." It was true, and this seemed to break through whatever barrier she had been constructing. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
"How can I not worry for him if I love him?" she blurted out, and then the sobs began.
He didn't know what else to do; he'd rarely been confronted by a crying woman. So he did what Annie used to do when he'd come into her shop battered and spooked, and took Julia's hands in his own. When she reluctantly moved her arms, he saw the bare skin of her stomach where a button was missing from her blouse, and remembered the disc he still held in his right hand.
"Hey," he said in a low voice, "I'm not here to yell at you. It looks like you've had your quota of that for today anyhow."
Now the tears came in earnest, and he sat awkwardly on his haunches, his thighs going numb in protest, afraid to move. She didn't offer anything more by way of explanation, averting her eyes from his puzzled gaze. When he realized he would fall over if he didn't do something else, he spotted her needlework on the side table next to the couch.
"Let me fix this for you," he said a bit too brightly, and let go of one of her hands to pick up the needle. The needlepoint frame clattered to the floor, suspended by thread, and he felt his face flush hot. She slipped her other hand free and touched his forearm briefly before she picked up the frame and tore the thread with her teeth. She tied a stopknot at the end and held out her free hand, but he shook his head and took the needle from her. "No different than stitches," he said, and held up the button.
She relinquished the needle and let her hands drop to her sides, still avoiding his eyes. The missing button was the second from the bottom, and he realized he would have better luck with the repair if the bottom one were loose. And though he had wielded a weapon beside her for years, he found himself confused and small at the thought of crossing that boundary.
Her refusal to look at him forced his decision: he took the edges of the shirt gingerly and undid that terrifying bottom button, unable to miss the white skin beneath or the fine hairs that made it look almost like suede. Cybernetic precision, he thought to himself - that damned right eye always perfectly in focus, leaving his simple human one to catch up in his brain.
But now he was down to a task he knew well, and he found fabric far less resistant than skin to the needle. He gave the button a good tug after a few whisks of the thread, judged it sturdy, and fastened her blouse again, all the while concentrating on the pattern of the cloth. So it was a jolt, when he set the needle down and looked into her face again, to see that Julia had fixed him with an immobile stare, like someone seeing a strange animal for the first time.
Despite a proclivity for keeping his mouth shut, the silence was making him a nervous wreck. Something was not what it seemed. "What happened here?" he urged, and rose to sit on the couch next to her.
This bit of distance seemed to help; she could stare straight ahead without having to avoid him. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally said in a whisper, "He told me to leave."
The alarm bell rang clear in Spike's head. "Vicious did?" he asked incredulously, trying to fit this information into the scenarios he'd cooked up down on the street. She nodded and hiccupped, looking down at the buttons on her blouse as though willing her body not to betray her. "He told me if I couldn't treat business like business, this was my one chance to get out."
It was the last thing Spike had expected. His head hurt from the earlier injuries and the Chianti and the effort of trying to piece this together, and he dropped his face into his hands, rubbing his temples in an attempt to stop the pounding.
"Why are you here, Spike?" He could tell she had turned to face him now, greater physical distance between them but her gaze on his profile. "Did he send you to come and convince me to stay?" He did not answer. She went on, shakily, as much to herself as to him. "He could have done that himself. If he didn't want me to go he could have admitted it. It's not like I would chastise him for being soft, the way he did me..."
The words were out before he could stop them. "Yeah, he sent me to stop you from going. With a bullet, if it looked like I couldn't persuade you."
It hung there suspended between them like a fragile object in mid-fall - dread flooded Spike's gut as he realized that this admission could easily cost him his life, whether at Julia's hand or Vicious', and she sucked in a breath as the mental image of him - coming through the door with his hand on his gun - clashed with his tender actions of a moment earlier.
"What are you going to do to me?" she asked him, her voice tight and steady. He furrowed his brow at her.
"I... What am I going to do to you?" He shook his head. "I think, at this point, it's more a question of what you're going to do to me. Or what you're going to tell Vicious about me." The pain in his gut dialed up a degree. "I'm confused. He said you wanted out."
Rage replaced her sadness and Spike felt considerable relief that he was talking to the Julia he knew again. "He treated me like a child, as much as told me I was holding him back, and then promised me I could leave tonight without retribution if I couldn't grow up and... and... I don't know what. Be a man, I suppose." She stood up and paced to the sink, picking up the broken pieces of the mug that had dropped earlier - pieces Spike had not noticed before.
"Did he hit you?" Spike knew it sounded clichéd, but now his brain was in overdrive, working to explain how he and Julia had come to be in this spot. "Did you hit him?"
She smirked. "I think it would have been better if he had." And then the smirk faded as she came back to sit down on the couch. "Leave it to me to fall in love with a man who'd as soon have me rubbed out as just break up with me. Everything's such a ceremony with him." She looked Spike up and down for the first time. "Not to make light of it, for example, but you look pretty good for nearly dead, Spike."
He wasn't sure how they had gotten back to "normal" so quickly, but he didn't want to rock the boat for fear of sinking it. So he gave her a smirk of his own and scoffed, "I have nine lives, but I didn't have to spend one tonight."
She stared off toward the bedroom door for a few moments and then turned to him, grabbing his wrist. "Can I trust you?" She looked ten years younger, and scared all of a sudden.
He blinked, and before he could answer, she went on, "I'm sorry. What a stupid question. You're probably the only person I can trust right now."
He nodded. "I admit I'm a little worried about whether I can trust you, though." He gave her a sheepish smile. "A better way to say that would be that I have no idea who I can trust." For a man who fit comfortably into his Syndicate niche, that was a worry he rarely addressed unless he was in enemy territory.
If his first comment stung, she didn't show it - she just tightened her grip on his wrist and brought the other hand up to his face.
"Thank you," she told him evenly. "For fixing my button. And for not shooting me. But I think you had better go on home." She stood, pulling him up with her. "I have a lot of thinking to do."
He squeezed her hand, still unsure of what had just transpired. "Do me a favor, though," he said, "and don't pack any bags."
She let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. "No, I hadn't planned on it. But you did a good job of making that decision final, anyway."
He turned to go, the tips of her fingers trailing through his own, and looked back one more time before he pulled her door closed behind him.
The walk from the Hangman's Bar to Julia's apartment took Spike through a no-man's-land warehouse district where the White Tigers and Red Dragons kept an uneasy cease-fire. The huge buildings, hastily constructed of steel girders and corrugated sheet metal skins, were all owned by third- or fourth-generation enterprising families who had snapped up the real estate back in the early 20's, when Tharsis City was just a port for the delivery of materials to be distributed to other colonies on Mars. They hired their own security, usually of the low-tech, high-caliber variety, and in some ways they had as much power as the Syndicates by virtue of the sheer volume of property they had amassed. Of course, the security forces had time on their hands, what with the Syndicates' disinterest in the property, and many of them did business with both factions, distributing contraband weapons, drugs and regulated materials to the highest bidders.
Spike knew that Vicious had purchased Julia's apartment for her, away from the Red Dragon high rise and out of convenient reach of the White Tiger street posses, as much for his own benefit as for her safety. Its location was unknown by many of the lower-ranking Red Dragons, making it a de facto safe house and private oasis. Spike had been there before with Vicious, but never by himself, and he hesitated as he rounded the corner from the industrial area where it opened out into a sort of tenement suburbia. He lit a cigarette and reviewed the shop signs from his vantage point, finally spotting the bakery near the stairs that led up to her home. He finished the smoke, knowing she'd shoo him out with it, and ground it out beneath a round steel toe before crossing the street.
Her lights were on, though he had seen no movement in the five minutes he spent thinking and smoking. This whole thing, he had concluded, stunk. Vicious telling Julia anything beyond what she should have known - especially considering how much she knew anyway, having risen through the ranks with alarming speed - didn't sit well at all. Spike wondered if it was really Vicious who had made the mistake here, if he had frightened her with his long-term goals of Red Dragon mastery and the elimination of the White Tigers altogether. It was a point on which Vicious and Spike had virulently disagreed: Spike felt that competition was necessary to maintain power over the general populace and the ISSP. More to the point, though he kept it to himself, he didn't think a life without competition would suit him very well. Where Vicious seemed to thrive on success and the growth of power, driven by ever-greater control over his subordinates and territory, Spike relished the skirmishes and languished in boredom without something combative to do. In the back of his mind, he knew that if Vicious' plans came to fruition, he'd probably go back to Mono-racing and remain a mere figurehead in the organization. If repetitive work was boring, business was skull-crushingly dull.
That Vicious would succeed Mao Yenrai as the leader of the Red Dragons was in little doubt. The Van, concerned with business and finance and social niceties, understood little of the street element of the rivalry. So long as Vicious could continue to inspire fear in the public and the White Tigers, his ascension simply made good business sense. And that Spike - his partner and equal in street skills - would rise with him was also guaranteed. Mao had tried often to convince Spike of his importance in the grand scheme, but the young Dragon's nature made him ill suited for the highest position. Fiercely loyal, but content to be brawn, he harbored no animosity about the second-place finish. It was perhaps the only competition he did not find compelling, and so he gave it little thought.
But for the first time in a long time, he allowed it to enter his mind as he mounted the stairs to Julia's. Vicious could have dealt with this himself; he was certainly better informed in the matter. Spike couldn't help wondering if this was a test of some sort, a challenge to his will. Julia was a formidable opponent and, as much as could be allowed given the nature of their trio, a close friend. Had his blind eye to anything beyond the execution of each mission made Vicious question his loyalty as a partner? He realized with trepidation that he was being asked to choose between his two comrades.
His unease only increased when he reached Julia's door. It stood open by at least a foot, lights on, no sound inside. Had she gone already? Out of habit, he backed up to the doorjamb and darted a look around the corner with one hand on his gun, but she was sitting on the couch, her back to him, unmoving.
He felt a sickening jolt in the pit of his stomach at the sight. She never turned her back on an open door, any more than he or Vicious or any other trained fighter would. And she was so still - as he took in the room, everything in place, no evidence of preparations for departure, he feared she might already be dead. Had Vicious gotten really angry and killed her? Had Spike simply been sent to discover a body, or worse, to be blamed for it?
He swallowed hard and pushed the door open another foot or so, heart hammering in his ears. As he crossed the yards to the couch, he heard a click beneath one boot and stopped short, hand on his gun again. Bending to retrieve the object, he saw Julia stir slightly, and his eyes were on her as his fingers found the round metal object. He palmed it, but did not look, instead coming around cautiously in a wide arc so she would see it was him, hopefully before she trained her weapon on his chest.
But she remained still; no doubt in her peripheral vision she could see the tall figure with greenish-black hair. She had no weapon, he noted, spotting her Beretta on the table beside the coat stand. If Vicious' behavior was odd, this was even stranger.
"Julia?" he asked in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone. "Hey, are you all right?"
By now he could see her fully. She sat stock-still on the couch, her arms folded across her midriff. Just above the elbow, her left arm showed the angry purple and red bruising of a rough restraint. So it came to a physical confrontation, he thought to himself - and for a moment he entertained the notion that he had been too sentimental about this whole thing. Vicious was not the type to harm a comrade unless a training exercise or disagreement of serious proportion were involved. It meant unnecessary exertion, and he much preferred to let his logic and implicit power win an argument for him. This must have been a serious row, all right.
He felt a pang of worry when she continued to stare straight ahead. Her eyes shone though no evidence of tears marred her face. He knelt in front of her, where she could not avoid seeing him without looking away, and tried again.
"Julia? I could have been anyone. You're pretty badly unprepared."
He thought his tone was gentle, but her face tightened as she finally looked at him. "I don't need it from you, too," she spat out.
"Whoa," he replied. "I'm not sure what I just gave you, but I only meant I was worried about you."
"No doubt here to tell me I almost got you killed." It was a matter of fact statement, the vitriol gone, replaced by something like resignation.
I'm sure you will think of something, Vicious had said. She didn't seem to be going anywhere, so maybe she'd just given him his opening. But it seemed unfair to take advantage of her when she was already clearly shaken, and so he shook his head.
"No, that's not why I'm here." He looked again at the bruise on her arm. "Vicious said you had a fight. I was concerned."
Her eyes welled, but she kept her composure. "So you think I've gone soft too?"
"I don't know what I think." It was true, and this seemed to break through whatever barrier she had been constructing. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
"How can I not worry for him if I love him?" she blurted out, and then the sobs began.
He didn't know what else to do; he'd rarely been confronted by a crying woman. So he did what Annie used to do when he'd come into her shop battered and spooked, and took Julia's hands in his own. When she reluctantly moved her arms, he saw the bare skin of her stomach where a button was missing from her blouse, and remembered the disc he still held in his right hand.
"Hey," he said in a low voice, "I'm not here to yell at you. It looks like you've had your quota of that for today anyhow."
Now the tears came in earnest, and he sat awkwardly on his haunches, his thighs going numb in protest, afraid to move. She didn't offer anything more by way of explanation, averting her eyes from his puzzled gaze. When he realized he would fall over if he didn't do something else, he spotted her needlework on the side table next to the couch.
"Let me fix this for you," he said a bit too brightly, and let go of one of her hands to pick up the needle. The needlepoint frame clattered to the floor, suspended by thread, and he felt his face flush hot. She slipped her other hand free and touched his forearm briefly before she picked up the frame and tore the thread with her teeth. She tied a stopknot at the end and held out her free hand, but he shook his head and took the needle from her. "No different than stitches," he said, and held up the button.
She relinquished the needle and let her hands drop to her sides, still avoiding his eyes. The missing button was the second from the bottom, and he realized he would have better luck with the repair if the bottom one were loose. And though he had wielded a weapon beside her for years, he found himself confused and small at the thought of crossing that boundary.
Her refusal to look at him forced his decision: he took the edges of the shirt gingerly and undid that terrifying bottom button, unable to miss the white skin beneath or the fine hairs that made it look almost like suede. Cybernetic precision, he thought to himself - that damned right eye always perfectly in focus, leaving his simple human one to catch up in his brain.
But now he was down to a task he knew well, and he found fabric far less resistant than skin to the needle. He gave the button a good tug after a few whisks of the thread, judged it sturdy, and fastened her blouse again, all the while concentrating on the pattern of the cloth. So it was a jolt, when he set the needle down and looked into her face again, to see that Julia had fixed him with an immobile stare, like someone seeing a strange animal for the first time.
Despite a proclivity for keeping his mouth shut, the silence was making him a nervous wreck. Something was not what it seemed. "What happened here?" he urged, and rose to sit on the couch next to her.
This bit of distance seemed to help; she could stare straight ahead without having to avoid him. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally said in a whisper, "He told me to leave."
The alarm bell rang clear in Spike's head. "Vicious did?" he asked incredulously, trying to fit this information into the scenarios he'd cooked up down on the street. She nodded and hiccupped, looking down at the buttons on her blouse as though willing her body not to betray her. "He told me if I couldn't treat business like business, this was my one chance to get out."
It was the last thing Spike had expected. His head hurt from the earlier injuries and the Chianti and the effort of trying to piece this together, and he dropped his face into his hands, rubbing his temples in an attempt to stop the pounding.
"Why are you here, Spike?" He could tell she had turned to face him now, greater physical distance between them but her gaze on his profile. "Did he send you to come and convince me to stay?" He did not answer. She went on, shakily, as much to herself as to him. "He could have done that himself. If he didn't want me to go he could have admitted it. It's not like I would chastise him for being soft, the way he did me..."
The words were out before he could stop them. "Yeah, he sent me to stop you from going. With a bullet, if it looked like I couldn't persuade you."
It hung there suspended between them like a fragile object in mid-fall - dread flooded Spike's gut as he realized that this admission could easily cost him his life, whether at Julia's hand or Vicious', and she sucked in a breath as the mental image of him - coming through the door with his hand on his gun - clashed with his tender actions of a moment earlier.
"What are you going to do to me?" she asked him, her voice tight and steady. He furrowed his brow at her.
"I... What am I going to do to you?" He shook his head. "I think, at this point, it's more a question of what you're going to do to me. Or what you're going to tell Vicious about me." The pain in his gut dialed up a degree. "I'm confused. He said you wanted out."
Rage replaced her sadness and Spike felt considerable relief that he was talking to the Julia he knew again. "He treated me like a child, as much as told me I was holding him back, and then promised me I could leave tonight without retribution if I couldn't grow up and... and... I don't know what. Be a man, I suppose." She stood up and paced to the sink, picking up the broken pieces of the mug that had dropped earlier - pieces Spike had not noticed before.
"Did he hit you?" Spike knew it sounded clichéd, but now his brain was in overdrive, working to explain how he and Julia had come to be in this spot. "Did you hit him?"
She smirked. "I think it would have been better if he had." And then the smirk faded as she came back to sit down on the couch. "Leave it to me to fall in love with a man who'd as soon have me rubbed out as just break up with me. Everything's such a ceremony with him." She looked Spike up and down for the first time. "Not to make light of it, for example, but you look pretty good for nearly dead, Spike."
He wasn't sure how they had gotten back to "normal" so quickly, but he didn't want to rock the boat for fear of sinking it. So he gave her a smirk of his own and scoffed, "I have nine lives, but I didn't have to spend one tonight."
She stared off toward the bedroom door for a few moments and then turned to him, grabbing his wrist. "Can I trust you?" She looked ten years younger, and scared all of a sudden.
He blinked, and before he could answer, she went on, "I'm sorry. What a stupid question. You're probably the only person I can trust right now."
He nodded. "I admit I'm a little worried about whether I can trust you, though." He gave her a sheepish smile. "A better way to say that would be that I have no idea who I can trust." For a man who fit comfortably into his Syndicate niche, that was a worry he rarely addressed unless he was in enemy territory.
If his first comment stung, she didn't show it - she just tightened her grip on his wrist and brought the other hand up to his face.
"Thank you," she told him evenly. "For fixing my button. And for not shooting me. But I think you had better go on home." She stood, pulling him up with her. "I have a lot of thinking to do."
He squeezed her hand, still unsure of what had just transpired. "Do me a favor, though," he said, "and don't pack any bags."
She let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. "No, I hadn't planned on it. But you did a good job of making that decision final, anyway."
He turned to go, the tips of her fingers trailing through his own, and looked back one more time before he pulled her door closed behind him.