III. Signal Dissonance
Every time Spike picked up the comm. to call Vicious, he couldn't think of anything to say besides "What are you trying to pull?" All the way back to the tower – on foot, so he could think and not be bothered by train passengers or cabbies – he shuffled the comm. in and out of his coat pocket, until he found himself at the double glass doors. They hissed open to admit him; a quick check with the lobby guard revealed that Vicious had left hours ago and not yet returned.
He rode the elevator to the library, where he'd taken up a sort of residence over the past few months. His apartment – tiny, up four flights of stairs, and constantly rattled by the sound of the passing monorail – would no doubt be tossed for valuables and re-rented before long. He hadn't paid the landlady since she opened his door to the ISSP; while they found nothing of interest or value, it was the principle of the thing. And the Syndicate had steamrooms and showers and the sprawling expanse of the library, with its overstuffed couches and low-slung coffee tables and books – some of them centuries old. He retrieved the copy of Faust from the cushions of a Victorian-style armchair, put his feet up on the ottoman, and settled in to wait for Vicious to come looking for information.
At six in the morning, the smell of coffee mitigated the unpleasant, sharp shake of his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Vicious, grim and tired, holding two mugs. "What happened?" he growled.
"Yo." Spike yawned, prolonging the moment of torture with an inward smile. Clearly, Vicious had been up all night.
"Your failure to contact me was rather disturbing." Terse and formal.
"The errand had the potential to be unpleasant." Spike dropped his boots to the floor, groaning as his knees protested and his shoulder began to ache again. "But she wasn't going anywhere."
"You're sure?" Vicious fixed him with a penetrating glare.
"She hadn't moved from the couch since you left." He inhaled steam and frowned. "Thanks for the coffee. Does this mean you want me to stay awake?"
Vicious sighed. "What did she say to you?"
Spike weighed his options. "She said you fought. I could see that for myself. Classy."
"What happens between Julia and I is my business," Vicious muttered.
"No, when you send me to her house with an order to kill her if she's leaving, that pretty much makes it my business. If you wanted to keep it private you should have gone yourself." Spike looked away, wanting to ask the implicit question, but sure he didn't want to hear the answer.
"I didn't think you would consider it a conflict of interests," Vicious replied darkly.
"Well, it was. You said you told her too much, and if this were really an issue of the Syndicate's security, an order to eliminate her should have come from the Van. Except, of course, that it would have implicated you at the same time."
Vicious looked up through strands of gray hair and his eyes widened. "And what would you do about that?"
"Nothing, which is where the conflict of interest comes in. I covered your ass. I had to wonder if what you really wanted was for me to take the blame, and not just make the problem go away." There, it was out.
Vicious sipped his coffee. He set the mug down with exaggerated care in the center of a coaster and shook his head. "I didn't intend that. I hoped you would be able to convince her to stay."
"She didn't need convincing. But all the same, you stacked the odds when you told her she could go."
The gray glare returned. "She said that?"
"I want to know if you said it," Spike replied. He was surprised when Vicious nodded. "So you told her to go, and then sent me to kill her if she did? What is this, gangster high school?" He stood and paced to the window. "Julia is my friend. And your lover. I don't like being played."
"You should not be thinking about being played, Spike," Vicious said in a low voice filled with disdain. "You should be thinking about the Syndicate, and our responsibilities."
Spike rounded on him. "No, you should have been thinking about that when you ran off your mouth."
Vicious drew himself up to full height and advanced on his partner. "I am aware of that, and I dealt with it. You're as bad as she was, I swear. Can't you comprehend that all these personal relationships don't trump our duty?"
Spike didn't back down. "By your reasoning, I should report you for talking out of school. But you counted on my relationship with you to keep me from doing just that. You counted on my relationship with you to make me want to convince Julia to stay before I put a bullet in her head. What I can't figure out is how you could smack her around, but you didn't want to be the triggerman - unless you think you're above the rules you're spouting."
Vicious' hand went to the hilt of his katana. Spike couldn't help smirking. "You'd kill me, but not her?" he prodded. "Looks like you're letting your relationship get in the way of your principles."
"A mistake I won't make again," he snarled in reply, and stalked out of the room.
Spike waited until the door closed to relax, stretching his fingers out. He'd wanted a good fight, he realized after the opportunity had passed. He poured the coffee into the ficus tree planter next to the window, eased into the chair, and dropped his head into his hands. Unbidden, he saw Julia's face on the backs of his eyelids, the trails from her tears spiderwebbed across white cheeks, and he rubbed at the spot where she'd laid her hand on his jaw. In the two years since they'd first locked eyes in the pool hall, his attraction to her had faded into memory; he tried to push its resurgence from his mind, but her face stayed there, his jaw tingled, and he felt a slow burn of anger when he remembered the bruises on her arm. He twisted so his weight was on his uninjured shoulder, a leg hanging over the arm of the chair, and with a mighty sigh, went back to sleep.
***
Julia lay half-asleep for a good half hour after the alarm trilled at 9:00, letting her dream of a long train ride through darkness fade into subconscious. She put little stock in the way her mind tried to sort out questions during sleep; even so, she recognized the significance of the endless night, the repetitive motion, and the vague scenery that flashed by the windows of the empty passenger car. A journey away from the Syndicate would be one without rest, without a final destination, without a home. She had spent the first twenty years of her life on just such a journey, and had found a home, purpose and respect with the Red Dragons. Her relationship with Vicious began as a product of her ambition and quest for acceptance. She grew to love what he represented - precision, determination, leadership. She had indeed had her pick of the men around her, and despite Mao and Annie's private counsel that love between Syndicate members would create hard choices - "signal dissonance", Mao had said - she'd believed her life with Vicious above the plane of jealousy and suspicion.
Spike's visit the night before horrified her in principle, but in the daylight she wondered if Vicious had sent him precisely because Spike wouldn't have been able to pull the trigger if it came to it. Spike's interest in her was no secret in the early days of her life in Tharsis City, though his seemingly good-natured acquiescence to her choice of his partner only underscored her reason for it. He was powerful, loyal, driven by the goal of completion - but he seemed to lack the ambition to control his own destiny. He remained young while the men around him pursued the trappings of adulthood.
In their line of work, a moral compass was more often a liability than an advantage. But last night, Spike's had saved her from that endless train ride. In truth, she had planned to leave. She had made the very mistake Vicious accused her of: she believed that, given their status as lovers, he would really let her leave without consequence. In the light of day, the folly was obvious.
So she rose, dressed in somber gray, and left her apartment to be the woman Vicious wanted. During the drive to the tower, she rehearsed a cool and unconcerned smile, played out scenarios in which Vicious touched her and she did not flinch, and reminded herself all along that only death or the train ride in her dream awaited if she could not pull it off. By the time she parked the red convertible, it had become just another mission, her specialty, the one where she was simple and beguiling and dangerous. Her mark was her own lover; the reward, her life.
"Women are all liars," she whispered to herself, and the Syndicate doors slid open as though it were an incantation.
Every time Spike picked up the comm. to call Vicious, he couldn't think of anything to say besides "What are you trying to pull?" All the way back to the tower – on foot, so he could think and not be bothered by train passengers or cabbies – he shuffled the comm. in and out of his coat pocket, until he found himself at the double glass doors. They hissed open to admit him; a quick check with the lobby guard revealed that Vicious had left hours ago and not yet returned.
He rode the elevator to the library, where he'd taken up a sort of residence over the past few months. His apartment – tiny, up four flights of stairs, and constantly rattled by the sound of the passing monorail – would no doubt be tossed for valuables and re-rented before long. He hadn't paid the landlady since she opened his door to the ISSP; while they found nothing of interest or value, it was the principle of the thing. And the Syndicate had steamrooms and showers and the sprawling expanse of the library, with its overstuffed couches and low-slung coffee tables and books – some of them centuries old. He retrieved the copy of Faust from the cushions of a Victorian-style armchair, put his feet up on the ottoman, and settled in to wait for Vicious to come looking for information.
At six in the morning, the smell of coffee mitigated the unpleasant, sharp shake of his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Vicious, grim and tired, holding two mugs. "What happened?" he growled.
"Yo." Spike yawned, prolonging the moment of torture with an inward smile. Clearly, Vicious had been up all night.
"Your failure to contact me was rather disturbing." Terse and formal.
"The errand had the potential to be unpleasant." Spike dropped his boots to the floor, groaning as his knees protested and his shoulder began to ache again. "But she wasn't going anywhere."
"You're sure?" Vicious fixed him with a penetrating glare.
"She hadn't moved from the couch since you left." He inhaled steam and frowned. "Thanks for the coffee. Does this mean you want me to stay awake?"
Vicious sighed. "What did she say to you?"
Spike weighed his options. "She said you fought. I could see that for myself. Classy."
"What happens between Julia and I is my business," Vicious muttered.
"No, when you send me to her house with an order to kill her if she's leaving, that pretty much makes it my business. If you wanted to keep it private you should have gone yourself." Spike looked away, wanting to ask the implicit question, but sure he didn't want to hear the answer.
"I didn't think you would consider it a conflict of interests," Vicious replied darkly.
"Well, it was. You said you told her too much, and if this were really an issue of the Syndicate's security, an order to eliminate her should have come from the Van. Except, of course, that it would have implicated you at the same time."
Vicious looked up through strands of gray hair and his eyes widened. "And what would you do about that?"
"Nothing, which is where the conflict of interest comes in. I covered your ass. I had to wonder if what you really wanted was for me to take the blame, and not just make the problem go away." There, it was out.
Vicious sipped his coffee. He set the mug down with exaggerated care in the center of a coaster and shook his head. "I didn't intend that. I hoped you would be able to convince her to stay."
"She didn't need convincing. But all the same, you stacked the odds when you told her she could go."
The gray glare returned. "She said that?"
"I want to know if you said it," Spike replied. He was surprised when Vicious nodded. "So you told her to go, and then sent me to kill her if she did? What is this, gangster high school?" He stood and paced to the window. "Julia is my friend. And your lover. I don't like being played."
"You should not be thinking about being played, Spike," Vicious said in a low voice filled with disdain. "You should be thinking about the Syndicate, and our responsibilities."
Spike rounded on him. "No, you should have been thinking about that when you ran off your mouth."
Vicious drew himself up to full height and advanced on his partner. "I am aware of that, and I dealt with it. You're as bad as she was, I swear. Can't you comprehend that all these personal relationships don't trump our duty?"
Spike didn't back down. "By your reasoning, I should report you for talking out of school. But you counted on my relationship with you to keep me from doing just that. You counted on my relationship with you to make me want to convince Julia to stay before I put a bullet in her head. What I can't figure out is how you could smack her around, but you didn't want to be the triggerman - unless you think you're above the rules you're spouting."
Vicious' hand went to the hilt of his katana. Spike couldn't help smirking. "You'd kill me, but not her?" he prodded. "Looks like you're letting your relationship get in the way of your principles."
"A mistake I won't make again," he snarled in reply, and stalked out of the room.
Spike waited until the door closed to relax, stretching his fingers out. He'd wanted a good fight, he realized after the opportunity had passed. He poured the coffee into the ficus tree planter next to the window, eased into the chair, and dropped his head into his hands. Unbidden, he saw Julia's face on the backs of his eyelids, the trails from her tears spiderwebbed across white cheeks, and he rubbed at the spot where she'd laid her hand on his jaw. In the two years since they'd first locked eyes in the pool hall, his attraction to her had faded into memory; he tried to push its resurgence from his mind, but her face stayed there, his jaw tingled, and he felt a slow burn of anger when he remembered the bruises on her arm. He twisted so his weight was on his uninjured shoulder, a leg hanging over the arm of the chair, and with a mighty sigh, went back to sleep.
***
Julia lay half-asleep for a good half hour after the alarm trilled at 9:00, letting her dream of a long train ride through darkness fade into subconscious. She put little stock in the way her mind tried to sort out questions during sleep; even so, she recognized the significance of the endless night, the repetitive motion, and the vague scenery that flashed by the windows of the empty passenger car. A journey away from the Syndicate would be one without rest, without a final destination, without a home. She had spent the first twenty years of her life on just such a journey, and had found a home, purpose and respect with the Red Dragons. Her relationship with Vicious began as a product of her ambition and quest for acceptance. She grew to love what he represented - precision, determination, leadership. She had indeed had her pick of the men around her, and despite Mao and Annie's private counsel that love between Syndicate members would create hard choices - "signal dissonance", Mao had said - she'd believed her life with Vicious above the plane of jealousy and suspicion.
Spike's visit the night before horrified her in principle, but in the daylight she wondered if Vicious had sent him precisely because Spike wouldn't have been able to pull the trigger if it came to it. Spike's interest in her was no secret in the early days of her life in Tharsis City, though his seemingly good-natured acquiescence to her choice of his partner only underscored her reason for it. He was powerful, loyal, driven by the goal of completion - but he seemed to lack the ambition to control his own destiny. He remained young while the men around him pursued the trappings of adulthood.
In their line of work, a moral compass was more often a liability than an advantage. But last night, Spike's had saved her from that endless train ride. In truth, she had planned to leave. She had made the very mistake Vicious accused her of: she believed that, given their status as lovers, he would really let her leave without consequence. In the light of day, the folly was obvious.
So she rose, dressed in somber gray, and left her apartment to be the woman Vicious wanted. During the drive to the tower, she rehearsed a cool and unconcerned smile, played out scenarios in which Vicious touched her and she did not flinch, and reminded herself all along that only death or the train ride in her dream awaited if she could not pull it off. By the time she parked the red convertible, it had become just another mission, her specialty, the one where she was simple and beguiling and dangerous. Her mark was her own lover; the reward, her life.
"Women are all liars," she whispered to herself, and the Syndicate doors slid open as though it were an incantation.