V. As Good a Day as Any
Spike aimed a heel-kick at the ottoman when the comm. went blank, but checked himself and jabbed in Vicious' number instead. He got messaging immediately and drummed his fingers through the instructions for leaving a voice message, a video message, or a callback code. When the buzz sounded, he realized he wasn't sure why he had tried to reach Vicious in the first place, so he spat a terse "Call me back!" at the camera and disconnected.
He had no intention of saying anything about Julia's strange comment - that was certain. But it dawned on him as he sat hunched over in the chair, cradling the comm. in both hands, that he was afraid Vicious had taken his goading too literally and might be taking Julia for a last ride. He pulled himself up, looked down at his rumpled, bloody suit, and weighed waiting for Vicious against returning to his apartment. He didn't have to choose, though - the door to the library swung open and Vicious swept in.
"What?" he barked, though he seemed far less irritated than he'd been when he left.
"Going to Ganymede?"
Vicious fixed him with a blank stare. "Yes. I don't need your assistance."
"What's on Ganymede?" Spike knew, but wanted to hear it from the man himself.
"The Red Eye we need for tomorrow, and a chance for Julia to make up for the loss of the first delivery." Vicious paused. "How did you know?"
"I called Julia to make sure she was all right," Spike replied evenly. "She said she was packing to go with you."
Vicious nodded. "That's why you don't need to go. She's going to help me identify the manufacturer." He seemed about to say more, but closed his mouth and looked Spike up and down. "You look awful," he concluded.
"I feel worse. But if you don't need me, I'll go home and do something about it." Spike picked up his coat and pulled it on gingerly.
He waited for Vicious to leave the room before following. They rode the elevator down without speaking; as was usually the case with their disagreements, reparations were neither offered nor necessary. But as they parted at the doors of the tower, Spike called after his partner.
"Hey, Vicious?"
Vicious stopped but did not turn.
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Spike hoped the meaning was clear; he didn't know how else to voice his suspicions without giving away the conversation he'd had with Julia.
"You mean 'anything you didn't do'?" Vicious replied.
"You got it." Spike stood watching as Vicious continued down the sidewalk to the warehouse that served as a hangar for Syndicate zipcrafts; he lit a cigarette and smoked until the little gray fighter rolled out and lifted off before heading in the same direction. It was as good a day as any, he decided, to move out of the slums.
***
Julia had just finished packing the last of her kit when she heard the whoosh of Vicious' zipcraft outside her window. The ceiling fan swayed as it landed on the roof of the building, and she shouldered the bag, taking her coat and sunglasses before locking up. She opened the fire escape, ignoring the momentary blare of the alarm, and headed up to the roof access where he stood with the door open, peering down into the dark stairwell.
"Getting impatient?" she asked as she put on her shades.
"You were late." He took her bag and waited for her to climb into the cockpit.
"I had a little trouble packing without much of a plan to work from," she told him as he boarded behind her, "so I just brought everything."
He appraised her black leather ensemble over his shoulder before entering a flight plan into the console. "You probably didn't need anything except what you're wearing," he said with a smirk. "But I'm glad you're prepared anyway."
They lifted off, the shudder of the thrusters smoothing out into a steady hum, and ascended through the atmosphere toward the gate.
***
Spike heaved a sigh and then chuckled at the rusted padlock holding his apartment door closed. This game with Rina never failed to amuse him. He pulled the Jericho out of his waistband, shielded his eyes with a forearm, and squeezed off two shots. He heard the clunk of the lock falling to the floor, and then the slam of a door down the hallway. He lowered his arm to see Rina barreling toward him with alarming speed; she had a frying pan in one hand and a murderous glower on her face. He rested a finger on the door latch, and just as she reached where he stood, he depressed it, pushed the door open, and ducked inside. From the hall, he heard scuffling, a clatter, and then a stream of expletives. He poked his head back out, cringing at the sight of his 60-year-old landlady with her housedress up around her waist as she sprawled on the floor, and then slammed the door shut, throwing the deadbolt.
"You PIECE of SHIT BASTARD!" she screamed from the other side of the door, "I'm gonna lock your ass in there so you can starve!"
"All right," he called back mildly.
"I am not KIDDING!" she bellowed.
"Neither am I." He tried to keep the laughter out of his voice. He heard the whish and rattle of the chain, and the soft snick of a new lock being applied.
He looked around, unhurried. No doubt she'd give him a few hours to get hungry and then stand outside the door offering to let him out if he paid - at least, that was what she'd done the last two times. He retrieved his only suitcase - from the only shelf of the only closet in the apartment - and set to work, stuffing clothing, books, ammunition, a half-dozen cartons of cigarettes, and his pool cue inside. It wouldn't close unless he sat on the lid, and the two latches made a brittle creaking sound when he stood up after closing them.
He made another sweep of the room, but there wasn't much left to speak of. Beer and soda in the fridge - he opened a Pippu and downed it while scribbling "Have a drink on me" on the back of an envelope. He attached the envelope to the refrigerator door with a "Help stop crime" magnet the ISSP lackeys had seen fit to leave behind.
Satisfied with his staging, he pulled a sheet off the bed and tied it through the handle of the suitcase. He lugged the suitcase and sheet over to the window, slid it open, and shimmied his way out to the fire escape with the free corner of the sheet in his hand. After a failed first try, he managed to jump high enough to grab hold of the storm drain around the roof of the building, and concentrated on ignoring the pain in his shoulder while he pulled himself up.
He lay flat on his back on the roof. Looking left, he saw the Swordfish II parked next to the access stairs; to his right, he saw patches of Martian sky, the glinting squares of taller buildings' windows, and far off, the winking lights of projected glowboards where the approach rings led to the gate. "Come home safe," he whispered, blinking the blackness out of his peripheral vision as the pain subsided.
He gave a mighty tug on the sheet, pulling the suitcase up onto the roof with him, and dragged it behind him to the waiting Mono-racer. After a dodgy short-start liftoff, the building grew smaller and smaller beneath him, and he laughed out loud as he thought of Rina, opening the door later tonight to find him utterly gone.
***
Julia stretched her legs on either side of Vicious' pilot seat, settling in for the flight. She was pleased he had taken the fighter; a modified Mono- racer, it had only the control position and a jumpseat directly behind, and he'd have little opportunity to manhandle her for the duration of the trip. Sure, they'd found a few creative positions in it before, but the effort wasn't worth the reward, and it had been a year or so since he'd tried anything in the craft.
She watched the glowboards glide past as each guide ring drew near and then slid behind them. Spike's call had delivered the clarity she sought: his face reminded her that there had been good times with Vicious, and at the same time she realized those good times almost always included his gangly partner. In turn, this reminded her of Annie and Mao, her first months in Tharsis City, and how the Red Dragons had made a place for her spirit and skills. Leaving Vicious would mean leaving Spike, Annie, Lin and Mao - the only family she had known since her parents made one false step and found themselves in the hands of the ISSP. Julia had never known why they were constantly on the move, and as a child it hadn't occurred to her to wonder. It was an ISSP officer who'd described to her how their constant "vacation" from planet to satellite to moon had really been an elaborate smuggling route; she'd waited until he went to the bathroom and bolted from the station, disappearing into the Venusian thunderstorm with the clothing on her back and the concealed satchel of cash her mother had given her when the lights of the cop crafts surrounded them.
Eight years later, she met Spike and Vicious in a pool hall with an exit sign that read "Better luck next time". They vied for her affection and she played them off one another, but despite their obvious Syndicate trappings, they were neither rough nor crude, and by the end of the evening they had offered her a place to stay with Annie. Reaching deep, she could still recall the overwhelming relief when the two young men bid her goodnight, asking no payment or favor. She'd sat up with Annie most of that night, telling her story, embellishing a little but drawn by the older woman's open countenance and smooth, low voice. She stayed only a week before Mao himself came and asked her to run an errand for him. Perhaps she associated the life of organized crime with her childhood; certainly, she viewed the police as the people responsible for her years scraping out a living, a child doing the work of a jaded woman. Whatever the reason, life in the Syndicate felt right, and she knew now that family, no matter their shortcomings, was better than living alone again.
The gate announcement crackled over the ship's comm. Familiar safety warnings in different languages, the toll request, and the metallic voice acknowledging their payment washed over her and she closed her eyes, hoping for sleep. She drifted off with the picture in her mind of Spike and Vicious, young men then, turning simultaneously to stare at her across the smoky room, and she clung to the image like a lifeline that would keep her from drowning.
Spike aimed a heel-kick at the ottoman when the comm. went blank, but checked himself and jabbed in Vicious' number instead. He got messaging immediately and drummed his fingers through the instructions for leaving a voice message, a video message, or a callback code. When the buzz sounded, he realized he wasn't sure why he had tried to reach Vicious in the first place, so he spat a terse "Call me back!" at the camera and disconnected.
He had no intention of saying anything about Julia's strange comment - that was certain. But it dawned on him as he sat hunched over in the chair, cradling the comm. in both hands, that he was afraid Vicious had taken his goading too literally and might be taking Julia for a last ride. He pulled himself up, looked down at his rumpled, bloody suit, and weighed waiting for Vicious against returning to his apartment. He didn't have to choose, though - the door to the library swung open and Vicious swept in.
"What?" he barked, though he seemed far less irritated than he'd been when he left.
"Going to Ganymede?"
Vicious fixed him with a blank stare. "Yes. I don't need your assistance."
"What's on Ganymede?" Spike knew, but wanted to hear it from the man himself.
"The Red Eye we need for tomorrow, and a chance for Julia to make up for the loss of the first delivery." Vicious paused. "How did you know?"
"I called Julia to make sure she was all right," Spike replied evenly. "She said she was packing to go with you."
Vicious nodded. "That's why you don't need to go. She's going to help me identify the manufacturer." He seemed about to say more, but closed his mouth and looked Spike up and down. "You look awful," he concluded.
"I feel worse. But if you don't need me, I'll go home and do something about it." Spike picked up his coat and pulled it on gingerly.
He waited for Vicious to leave the room before following. They rode the elevator down without speaking; as was usually the case with their disagreements, reparations were neither offered nor necessary. But as they parted at the doors of the tower, Spike called after his partner.
"Hey, Vicious?"
Vicious stopped but did not turn.
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Spike hoped the meaning was clear; he didn't know how else to voice his suspicions without giving away the conversation he'd had with Julia.
"You mean 'anything you didn't do'?" Vicious replied.
"You got it." Spike stood watching as Vicious continued down the sidewalk to the warehouse that served as a hangar for Syndicate zipcrafts; he lit a cigarette and smoked until the little gray fighter rolled out and lifted off before heading in the same direction. It was as good a day as any, he decided, to move out of the slums.
***
Julia had just finished packing the last of her kit when she heard the whoosh of Vicious' zipcraft outside her window. The ceiling fan swayed as it landed on the roof of the building, and she shouldered the bag, taking her coat and sunglasses before locking up. She opened the fire escape, ignoring the momentary blare of the alarm, and headed up to the roof access where he stood with the door open, peering down into the dark stairwell.
"Getting impatient?" she asked as she put on her shades.
"You were late." He took her bag and waited for her to climb into the cockpit.
"I had a little trouble packing without much of a plan to work from," she told him as he boarded behind her, "so I just brought everything."
He appraised her black leather ensemble over his shoulder before entering a flight plan into the console. "You probably didn't need anything except what you're wearing," he said with a smirk. "But I'm glad you're prepared anyway."
They lifted off, the shudder of the thrusters smoothing out into a steady hum, and ascended through the atmosphere toward the gate.
***
Spike heaved a sigh and then chuckled at the rusted padlock holding his apartment door closed. This game with Rina never failed to amuse him. He pulled the Jericho out of his waistband, shielded his eyes with a forearm, and squeezed off two shots. He heard the clunk of the lock falling to the floor, and then the slam of a door down the hallway. He lowered his arm to see Rina barreling toward him with alarming speed; she had a frying pan in one hand and a murderous glower on her face. He rested a finger on the door latch, and just as she reached where he stood, he depressed it, pushed the door open, and ducked inside. From the hall, he heard scuffling, a clatter, and then a stream of expletives. He poked his head back out, cringing at the sight of his 60-year-old landlady with her housedress up around her waist as she sprawled on the floor, and then slammed the door shut, throwing the deadbolt.
"You PIECE of SHIT BASTARD!" she screamed from the other side of the door, "I'm gonna lock your ass in there so you can starve!"
"All right," he called back mildly.
"I am not KIDDING!" she bellowed.
"Neither am I." He tried to keep the laughter out of his voice. He heard the whish and rattle of the chain, and the soft snick of a new lock being applied.
He looked around, unhurried. No doubt she'd give him a few hours to get hungry and then stand outside the door offering to let him out if he paid - at least, that was what she'd done the last two times. He retrieved his only suitcase - from the only shelf of the only closet in the apartment - and set to work, stuffing clothing, books, ammunition, a half-dozen cartons of cigarettes, and his pool cue inside. It wouldn't close unless he sat on the lid, and the two latches made a brittle creaking sound when he stood up after closing them.
He made another sweep of the room, but there wasn't much left to speak of. Beer and soda in the fridge - he opened a Pippu and downed it while scribbling "Have a drink on me" on the back of an envelope. He attached the envelope to the refrigerator door with a "Help stop crime" magnet the ISSP lackeys had seen fit to leave behind.
Satisfied with his staging, he pulled a sheet off the bed and tied it through the handle of the suitcase. He lugged the suitcase and sheet over to the window, slid it open, and shimmied his way out to the fire escape with the free corner of the sheet in his hand. After a failed first try, he managed to jump high enough to grab hold of the storm drain around the roof of the building, and concentrated on ignoring the pain in his shoulder while he pulled himself up.
He lay flat on his back on the roof. Looking left, he saw the Swordfish II parked next to the access stairs; to his right, he saw patches of Martian sky, the glinting squares of taller buildings' windows, and far off, the winking lights of projected glowboards where the approach rings led to the gate. "Come home safe," he whispered, blinking the blackness out of his peripheral vision as the pain subsided.
He gave a mighty tug on the sheet, pulling the suitcase up onto the roof with him, and dragged it behind him to the waiting Mono-racer. After a dodgy short-start liftoff, the building grew smaller and smaller beneath him, and he laughed out loud as he thought of Rina, opening the door later tonight to find him utterly gone.
***
Julia stretched her legs on either side of Vicious' pilot seat, settling in for the flight. She was pleased he had taken the fighter; a modified Mono- racer, it had only the control position and a jumpseat directly behind, and he'd have little opportunity to manhandle her for the duration of the trip. Sure, they'd found a few creative positions in it before, but the effort wasn't worth the reward, and it had been a year or so since he'd tried anything in the craft.
She watched the glowboards glide past as each guide ring drew near and then slid behind them. Spike's call had delivered the clarity she sought: his face reminded her that there had been good times with Vicious, and at the same time she realized those good times almost always included his gangly partner. In turn, this reminded her of Annie and Mao, her first months in Tharsis City, and how the Red Dragons had made a place for her spirit and skills. Leaving Vicious would mean leaving Spike, Annie, Lin and Mao - the only family she had known since her parents made one false step and found themselves in the hands of the ISSP. Julia had never known why they were constantly on the move, and as a child it hadn't occurred to her to wonder. It was an ISSP officer who'd described to her how their constant "vacation" from planet to satellite to moon had really been an elaborate smuggling route; she'd waited until he went to the bathroom and bolted from the station, disappearing into the Venusian thunderstorm with the clothing on her back and the concealed satchel of cash her mother had given her when the lights of the cop crafts surrounded them.
Eight years later, she met Spike and Vicious in a pool hall with an exit sign that read "Better luck next time". They vied for her affection and she played them off one another, but despite their obvious Syndicate trappings, they were neither rough nor crude, and by the end of the evening they had offered her a place to stay with Annie. Reaching deep, she could still recall the overwhelming relief when the two young men bid her goodnight, asking no payment or favor. She'd sat up with Annie most of that night, telling her story, embellishing a little but drawn by the older woman's open countenance and smooth, low voice. She stayed only a week before Mao himself came and asked her to run an errand for him. Perhaps she associated the life of organized crime with her childhood; certainly, she viewed the police as the people responsible for her years scraping out a living, a child doing the work of a jaded woman. Whatever the reason, life in the Syndicate felt right, and she knew now that family, no matter their shortcomings, was better than living alone again.
The gate announcement crackled over the ship's comm. Familiar safety warnings in different languages, the toll request, and the metallic voice acknowledging their payment washed over her and she closed her eyes, hoping for sleep. She drifted off with the picture in her mind of Spike and Vicious, young men then, turning simultaneously to stare at her across the smoky room, and she clung to the image like a lifeline that would keep her from drowning.